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blitzturtles · 2 years

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Dig that prompt list. Super worried for the new episodes tho so maybe some Harringrove with feeling your partners pulse??? 🖤🖤🖤

ough i hope ur alright after vol 2 lol 💕💕💕 here's a lil fluff, cuz we all deserve some rn

“Would you stop squirming, I’m supposed to be checking your resting heart rate.”

“I’m plenty restful,” Billy mutters, shifting in his seat again, eyes downcast and pouting like a petulant toddler.

Steve huffs, adjusting his loose grip on Billy’s wrist. His pulse jumps under Steve’s fingers, and the muscles in his forearm twitch. “Right.”

It’s like this every time. Every goddamn day since Billy got out of the hospital. It should be getting under Steve’s skin by now, but it’s weirdly getting easier to deal with. Like Billy’s growing on him or something.

It was rocky at first. He knew it would be when he volunteered to take Billy in, but Max wouldn’t stop fretting over what was going to happen to her brother and Steve couldn’t stand the sad eyes anymore. It took some convincing, for some goddamn reason Steve couldn’t stop the words from falling out of his face when she told him no, like he actually wanted to do this. But he argued for in favor for so long he almost convinced himself as much as he convinced her.

And so here he is. Responsible for Billy Hargrove’s stubborn ass. Making sure he takes his meds and does his exercises, inspecting his shiny new scars for any signs of complications—whatever that means, half the shit the doctor told him went right over his head—and checking his stupid pulse because his stupid heart got fucked up by the stupid Mind Flayer, and now… And now Steve has to worry about him. Him and his damaged heart.

“It’s too high again,” Steve sighs.

“I’m tellin’ you, I feel fine. It’s fine.”

“Yeah my Uncle was fine too. Right up until he died of a heart attack when he was, like, fourty.”

“Jesus, Harrington.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, stop saying.” Billy pulls his arm away, tucking it close to his side, away from Steve.

Steve flexes his fingers, trying to subtly shake the weird feeling of loss. His palm is cold. Empty. He’s suddenly too aware of his own pulse thrumming, a poor replacement for the heady warmth of Billy’s skin.

Christ, he needs to stop. He really needs to stop. Billy took a risk trusting Steve with his care—something that still shocks Steve if he thinks about it too long—and Steve can’t fuck that up by perving on him while he’s supposed to be helping.

He’s not sure how to stop though. Billy started muscling his way into Steve’s space the second he got to Hawkins, but it was never like this. Quiet. Back when he was being annoying Steve was focused on that. Distracted by Billy being an asshole. Not sitting on their beat-up old couch holding his hand and his heart and trying desperately to keep the numbers in his brain when all his brain wants to do is remind him that Billy’s knee is touching his and he could be counting the freckles on Billy’s nose instead of his heartbeats.

Steve lets his head fall back against the cushions and stares at the ceiling. There’s a stain in the corner that looks like a whale.

“Fine. D’you wanna watch a movie or something?”

The next day is, to nobody’s surprise, no different.

Steve checks and double-checks the pamphlets he was given, just to make sure he isn’t misremembering what a healthy heart is supposed to sound like.

He wasn’t. Billy’s heartbeat is definitely racing. Again. Still? Maybe it’s been like this the whole time, thundering under the metal plate keeping Billy’s ribs in place, thumping so hard Steve doesn’t need to touch Billy to know how fast it is because he can see it.

He touches him anyways.

“Are you drinking buckets of coffee while I’m not looking? Jesus Christ, Hargrove.”

“Yes. Obviously. I’m surprised you haven’t caught me yet.”

Billy picks at a thread hanging loose from the bottom of his cutoff shorts. His other hand hangs limply in Steve’s grip. He stares at his own wrist with a furrowed brow.

“Very funny, smartass. I think I might have to call the doc, this isn’t—”

“I don’t need another fucking check-up.”

“Your BPM says you do.”

“Oh excuse me, Nurse Harrington.”

Steve blows out a breath. “C’mon, man. It could be something serious, don’t you wanna know?”

“I do know. I know that an appointment would be a waste of everyone’s goddamn time.”

“You—” Steve gestures helplessly with his free hand, fingers tuat and curled with frustration. “This isn’t normal, Billy!”

“It’s—”

“No, no, shut the fuck up, just—” Before he can actually think it through he pulls Billy’s hand towards him and holds it to his chest, wrangling him into position while Billy stares at him in blank shock. “This is what a normal heartbeat is supposed to feel like, alright?”

Billy’s palm is flat against his sternum, a warm weight between his chest and his hands, ragged, bitten down thumbnail catching on the material of Steve’s shirt. Crystal blue eyes bore into him, wide and unblinking.

He really should have thought this through.

No matter how much he tries to will his heart to stay steady, the longer Billy looks at him the more it trips over itself. The longer he stays, touching Steve’s chest, letting him hold his hand, the more anticipation threads itself around his lungs, taut and hopelessly tangled.

“...Is it?” Billy raises his eyebrows.

“Um.”

He should definitely probably be panicking right now. And he is, a little, except Billy’s sitting so close and he’s not moving away, and the look on his face is curiosity more than anything else. There’s something tickling Steve’s brain that he can’t quite pin down. It’s distracting enough to keep him from hitting solid ground, keep him looking up at least, ignoring the weird, awkward reality that he’s pushed a boundary that he told himself he wouldn’t.

Except Billy isn’t pulling away.

He’s…

Oh, wait.

Wait a second.

“Oh my god.”

Billy blinks at him. “What.”

“Do I make you nervous?”

“What?”

There’s an unmistakable pink tinge spreading under Billy’s freckles, and Steve grins. “Holy shit, that’s why, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off, Harrington.” There’s no heat to it.

“All this time I was worried about your health and it turns out you just have a crush on me, oh my god.”

“I—”

“Dude, that’s adorable.”

Billy lets out an embarrassed huff, “Shut up.” His gaze drops to his hand, still trapped against Steve’s chest. When he glances back up there’s something tentative about the way he does it. He opens his mouth. A beat passes. He closes it again.

“The answer is yes,” Steve says gently.

“You…”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“So…do you think you and your heart can handle doing something about this, or—”

Billy’s nails dig in as he lunges forward, crashing his mouth into Steve’s. It’s messy and enthusiastic, as much an oh god finally as a yes I can, Harrington, shut the fuck up. By the time they come up for air Billy is straddling Steve’s thighs, gripping the front of his shirt like his life depends on it.

And it turns out Billy’s heart is just fine. Especially when he has Steve taking care of it.

~~tag list ppls @growup-thatbeautiful @spreckle 💕💕

#fic rec

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blitzturtles · 2 years

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Title: Equal (Ao3) Rating: Teen and Up Fandom: OFMD, Our Flag Means Death Pairing(s): Steddyhands, Stizzy, Blackhands Summary: For a prompt on the kink meme: Ed loves both Stede and Izzy. Izzy loves both Stede and Ed, but believes that Stede only loves Ed, as is only with Izzy as a means of appeasing their shared lover.

Izzy is injured protecting Stede during a raid (Ed doesn't ask him to do so, he does so of his own volition). The wound isn't lethal, but it is fairly serious (a through-and-through gunshot wound, a stab wound to a non-vital area, etc.). Izzy tends to it, and then hides it while it is healing--going about his everyday tasks like nothing is out of the ordinary. He's able to hide it for a while, until something happens to divulge the existence of the wound to Stede and Ed.

Notes: Set a bit into the future wherein Steddyhands is an (poorly) established throuple.

Full prompt: Ed loves both Stede and Izzy. Izzy loves both Stede and Ed, but believes that Stede only loves Ed, as is only with Izzy as a means of appeasing their shared lover.

Stede doesn't even know where to begin... should he be more horrified at the fact that Izzy was injured and hid it, or that he thought Stede wouldn't care one way or another?

Content Warning: medical use of opium and blink-and-you'll-miss-it references to PTSD. (Izzy doesn't like being drugged, even if it's for his own benefit.)

The wound isn’t the worst Izzy’s ever received, just a small gash to the side from a well timed blade. It’s shameful, really. He should have had enough time to parry the attack with his own sword, but he had leapt into action without thought, seeing Stede fucking Bonnet come so close to his own demise. Whatever their relationship—and all the turmoil that encompasses—Izzy happens to have a soft spot for the bastard, and so, here he is, hiding away in his quarters, tending to a wound he never should have received.

He had stolen supplies from Roach’s kitchen, which, in itself, is a good way to wind up injured. Some part of him is convinced that the cook is aware. Roach always seems to know when someone’s snooped through the galley, yet here Izzy is, with a needle and thread and no Roach in sight, left to his own devices, just the way that he prefers. Edward tends to get fussy, and Bonnet… Bonnet tolerates him on the best of days. Izzy’s a living compromise between Ed and Stede and nothing more, so he stitches himself with no more than a shot of rum and his own belt lodged between his teeth.

He does just fine like that for days. The stitches hold for the most part. He keeps his side wrapped with makeshift bandages, torn from an old shirt of his. (Of Ed’s, really.) They do well to protect the wound when he happens to twist the wrong way or brush his arm up against it. It’s not until they hit a storm that it becomes something of a problem. And then a massive fucking disaster.

Izzy hates storms on the best of days. They rock the boat violently, making his stomach turn, but he hasn’t sailed this long to be outdone by a bit of rain. He shouts orders over the thunder, busies himself when the crew proves to be as useless as ever. He’s midway through tying off a knot when a particularly vicious wave knocks him off balance, sends him careening into the railing. Under any other circumstances, Izzy would have let out a grunt and pushed himself off once it was safe enough to do so. He would have gone on with his duties until they were safely through the storm, and then he would have gone down to his quarters to wait out the nausea. Now, now he crumbles.

There are a few things that go through his mind all at once. He’s in an incredibly dangerous position, given the way The Revenge is rocking. He could go over so damn easily, and there would be not a thing he could do to stop it. Not when he has one hand grasping desperately at his side, and the other barely able to close in around the wood of the railing. His hold is too weak, and he thinks he hears screaming. It lasts for only a second or two before he’s biting down on his tongue, chewing it relentlessly in an effort to distract and silence himself.

He tries to move, to get to his feet, to do anything, but his body won’t cooperate. He can’t get his feet underneath himself. The rain pelts down on him, mixes with the blood that’s beginning to stain his hand, and fuck. Those stitches are as good as gone. He’s bleeding freely, head growing more woozy as the seconds tick by, and the pain is somehow worse than when he first took that godforsaken cutlass to his side.

There are hands on him. One set, then two. They seem to be looking for something with the way they pat him down from his shoulders to his hips, and he tries not to yelp when one hand comes to rest over his own. He can hear voices in the wind, shouting back and forth, and then he’s moving against his will, body no longer doing as he asks of it. Later, he’ll be mortified for having to be carried off deck in such a way. All he does now is allow his eyelids to slide shut.

The next time Izzy comes to, it’s to hushed shouting. The sort of whispered yelling that’s always made him wonder what the fucking point is. He can’t make out the actual words, not with the way blood pulses in his ears, and his vision is blurry when he opens his eyes. He barely makes out the shape of two different figures, but his surroundings are lost on him.

One voice must forget their attempts to be quiet because Izzy’s wincing when it shouts, “He’s awake!”

Both figures descend on him then, touching him, speaking to him. They ask so many questions that it makes his head spin, and he can’t keep up with any of it. It takes him entirely too long to realize that he’s been drugged stupid. His mind isn’t only sluggish from sleep and blood loss, but laudanum as well. He pushes down the panic that spikes in his chest. He’s fine, he’s fine.

“Iz,” Ed’s voice cuts through the mantra in Izzy’s head. It startles him, causes Izzy to jump back slightly, and that pulls a groan as a dull tearing sensation blossoms across his side. “Easy, easy,” Ed says, hand coming to rest on Izzy’s shoulder. “It’s just us. Just Ed and Stede, yeah?”

There’s more talking. To him, over him, he doesn’t know. It’s not until Stede’s face is directly in front of his, eyes looking like they do whenever he and Edward fight. “Dear boy, why wouldn’t you tell us?” He asks like the answer isn’t obvious. The pet name twists Izzy’s insides unfairly. He knows it’s only performative, but he wishes it were real.

“Didn’t think you’d care,” Izzy says honestly because that’s what laudanum does to him, takes away the filter that no one thinks he possesses.

Stede suddenly looks pained as he asks, “Why ever not?”

Izzy shrugs, winces, puffs out an irritated breath at his body’s own limitations. He’s never been good at accepting those. “You,” he starts, pointing to Stede with unnecessary emphasis. He folds his index finger in and jabs his thumb at himself, “Tolerate me.” It’s obvious, isn’t it? Were they supposed to pretend that that isn’t the truth? For what, Stede’s delicate gentlemanly sensibilities? As if Izzy could be bothered with such a thing.

“Oh, oh Israel—”

“Mate, that’s not—”

Ed and Stede both go quiet before either of them can finish their sentences. They look to one another, blurry features going through a series of complicated expressions that leave Izzy with a pang in his chest.

“Perhaps we should have this conversation when you’re feeling a bit more like yourself,” Stede says after what feels like an eternity and no time at all. He speaks slowly, like Izzy might not understand him otherwise, and it would irritate Izzy, if he were capable of such a thing at the moment.

All Izzy does is shrug again. It hurts like the first time, but he doesn’t have the words to form a reasonable response. More importantly, he doesn’t think he can trust himself to speak, which must be a good sign. The laudanum is beginning to wear off.

“Get some rest, Iz,” Edward says in a way that probably isn’t meant to be interpreted as an order, but it’s the only way Izzy finds peace in the darkness that encompasses him when he closes his eyes.

The second time Izzy awakens, it’s to pain blooming across his side, spreading outward in every direction, wrapping around his ribs, squeezing, pulsing. It takes his breath away and pulls a hiss out of him. The opium is almost completely out of his system, and he swears the wound hurts worse than it has yet, which seems impossible and nonsensical all at once. It should be better, yet here he is, agony coursing through his torso.

He lays there like that for several minutes, forcing himself to breathe through the pain. He’s done this before, and he’s certain he’ll do it again. Such is the life of a pirate, and he just happens to have a bit of a death wish. It’s not a conscious one, but he’s long been made aware of its existence.

Another few minutes pass before he forces himself to begin the arduous process of sitting up. It’s damn near impossible when half of his abdominal muscles are screaming their protest, and he nearly falls back to the bed when two hands suddenly materialize from nowhere and catch him by the back of his head and between his shoulders.

“Easy, Iz,” Ed’s familiar voice filters in with a worried edge to it. His face appears in Izzy’s line of vision, and his brows are scrunched together.

Izzy huffs, less at Edward and more at himself. He allows Ed to lower him back down against the bed. The Captains’ bed that he so rarely spends his nights in, choosing instead to stay in his own quarters. It’s easier that way, less humiliating to think that Bonnet is merely tolerating Izzy’s existence in Bonnet’s fancy fucking bed. Admittedly, it’s the softest thing Izzy’s ever laid on, and it’s a welcomed relief to a body that feels like it’s been keelhauled.

“You’ve got yourself a nasty infection,” Ed explains without needing to be prompted. “You’re lucky you aren’t dead.” His tone is monotonous, impossible to read, but his eyes—his eyes always give him away. Edward’s never been able to lie to Izzy for long. He isn’t disappointed as Izzy’s Captain; he’s worried as Izzy’s lover, and that makes Izzy’s already gnarled insides feel that much more twisted up.

“Indeed,” Bonnet cuts in, “We were quite worried about you.” He pauses, lips pursing like he wants to say something more, but whatever it is, he lets it go.

Izzy has half a mind to say something himself, but he bites his tongue. There’s no need to be cruel when Bonnet’s donated his time and his bed for Izzy’s wellbeing. He’ll be up and moving in no time, making his way back to his own cabin to sleep off the rest of this infection. With any luck, they won’t hit another storm before he’s healed, and they can all forget this whole thing happened.

“Israel.”

Goddammit.

“What?”

“I do believe the two of us have some words that need to be said,” Stede starts, voice taking on that idiotically determined tone that he gets when he’s made up his mind about something. It means that Izzy isn’t getting out of this, not that he has a choice, being stuck in bed and all.

“If you insist.”

“I do,” Stede pauses, looks to Ed. Ed nods his encouragement, and Stede takes a deep breath. “I find it very concerning that you thought that we wouldn’t be worried.”

“Not ‘we’,” Izzy says with a hiss as he tries to adjust himself to better look at the two. He hates this. Hates lying down while the two of them stand there. It’s awkward and unbalanced. It makes him feel exposed, put on the spot. He has nowhere to run, and everyone in this bloody room knows it.

“I, then,” Stede amends with surprisingly little hesitation, as if he expected Izzy to correct him. “I find it more alarming that you believe I, what was it, 'tolerate' you?”

Izzy could die. Right here, on this very spot, and he would be fine with that if it meant that he could get out of this conversation. He doesn’t need Bonnet’s false fucking reassurances. He doesn’t need to be lied to. He’s had enough of that in his life, especially when it comes to these two. The last thing he needs is for Bonnet to try to reassure him like his sensibilities are that fucking delicate.

“Bonnet.”

“Stede,” Ed and Stede say at the same time.

“Stede. It’s fine. I understand the arrangement,” he motions vaguely between the three of them, “I don’t need it explained to me.”

“No, no, I don’t think that you do, actually,” Stede’s voice takes on an edge to it. Something almost dangerous. He sounds—angry? Izzy must be imagining it. “You are part of us. Both of us, and am I correct in my assumption that you were injured in that last raid?”

Izzy grits his teeth, but he answers, “Yes.”

“Protecting me?”

“Yes.”

“And you think that I wouldn’t care?”

“I don’t need your fucking pity,” Izzy snaps, and that does it. Stede’s determined expression falls away, and he looks helplessly at Ed, who shrugs in turn.

“Toldja he’s stubborn.”

Izzy’s frown only grows, and he considers a few choice words. They’re on the tip of his tongue, locked and loaded, but they’re swallowed in an instant as Stede leans down and presses his lips to Izzy’s. It’s a short kiss. It’s far from the aggressive, teeth gnashing kisses he’s gotten out of Stede in the past, usually initiated by himself in a moment of petulance. It’s certainly nothing like the kisses he gets from Ed, arguably far more passionate or aggressive—or both.

“What the fuck?” Izzy asks when he comes up short of any other reply.

“I don’t tolerate you, Israel. In fact,” he pauses, eyes sliding sideways to look at Edward, “I’m rather fond of you.”

Oh.

What?

“It’s true, Iz,” Ed adds, probably because Izzy’s more likely to listen to him.

“Oh.”

What the fuck is he supposed to do with that?

Rather than speak again—and thank fuck for small favors—Stede chooses that moment to kiss him once more. This time he lingers, pressing into the kiss. It’s gentle, but there’s some urgency there. A desire to communicate with actions what he’s so clearly failed to do with words. Izzy responds after a beat of hesitation, pressing back into the kiss. He tries to reach up with his hands, to grab onto Bonnet’s stupid fucking fancy coat, but his body won’t cooperate.

Stede breaks the kiss. One of his hands strokes Izzy’s hair back from his face. It’s slick with sweat, and Stede’s hand is cool against his forehead. Izzy unashamedly leans into the touch, and Stede allows his hand to linger there before he speaks up.

“Understand now?”

“Yes.”

Stede beams at him, and God help him, Izzy gives the faintest of smiles in return.

One voice must forget their attempts to be quiet because Izzy’s wincing when it shouts, “He’s awake!”

“Didn’t think you’d care,” Izzy says honestly because that’s what laudanum does to him, takes away the filter that no one thinks he possesses.

Stede suddenly looks pained as he asks, “Why ever not?”

“Oh, oh Israel—”

“Mate, that’s not—”

“Easy, Iz,” Ed’s familiar voice filters in with a worried edge to it. His face appears in Izzy’s line of vision, and his brows are scrunched together.

“Indeed,” Bonnet cuts in, “We were quite worried about you.” He pauses, lips pursing like he wants to say something more, but whatever it is, he lets it go.

“Israel.”

Goddammit.

“What?”

“If you insist.”

“I do,” Stede pauses, looks to Ed. Ed nods his encouragement, and Stede takes a deep breath. “I find it very concerning that you thought that we wouldn’t be worried.”

“I, then,” Stede amends with surprisingly little hesitation, as if he expected Izzy to correct him. “I find it more alarming that you believe I, what was it, 'tolerate' you?”

“Bonnet.”

“Stede,” Ed and Stede say at the same time.

“Stede. It’s fine. I understand the arrangement,” he motions vaguely between the three of them, “I don’t need it explained to me.”

Izzy grits his teeth, but he answers, “Yes.”

“Protecting me?”

“Yes.”

“And you think that I wouldn’t care?”

“I don’t need your fucking pity,” Izzy snaps, and that does it. Stede’s determined expression falls away, and he looks helplessly at Ed, who shrugs in turn.

“Toldja he’s stubborn.”

“What the fuck?” Izzy asks when he comes up short of any other reply.

“I don’t tolerate you, Israel. In fact,” he pauses, eyes sliding sideways to look at Edward, “I’m rather fond of you.”

Oh.

What?

“It’s true, Iz,” Ed adds, probably because Izzy’s more likely to listen to him.

“Oh.”

What the fuck is he supposed to do with that?

“Understand now?”

“Yes.”

Stede beams at him, and God help him, Izzy gives the faintest of smiles in return.

#steddyhands #stizzy #blackhands #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #gentlehands #our flag means death #ofmd #stede bonnet #blackbeard #edward teach #izzy hands #blitzwrites #blitz

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blitzturtles · 2 years

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Title: Your Light In The Windowpane Said Come On In (Ao3) Rating: Teen and Up Fandom: OFMD, Our Flag Means Death Pairing(s): Steddyhands, Stizzy Summary: For a prompt on the kink meme: Izzy is sick. Everyone assumes that he'll either attempt to power through until he keels over or that he'll hide himself away in some dark corner of the ship until it passes. Neither occurs. Instead, Izzy bundles himself up in Stede's bed, surrounded by Stede's scent, and decides to take a much-deserved nap. Stede thinks it's the cutest thing in the entire world.

Notes: Set a bit into the future wherein Steddyhands is an established throuple.

I was about halfway through writing this when I realized it had already been filled.

Title from "Victory" by Trampled By Turtles.

CW: light emetophobia.

Izzy hears the whispers. The crew isn’t exactly subtle about their speculations. He’s certain Lucius doesn’t actually know how to lower his voice, and the rest of them aren’t doing much better. They’ve noticed that something is off, and it’s apparently more interesting to talk about what’s wrong with Izzy than it is for any of them to do their goddamn chores.

He ignores the lot of them, choosing to focus on the task at hand. If he can just get through until lunch, then he can make himself scarce. He’s already done the most vital of the day’s tasks. The ship will survive even if the entire crew were to sit on their asses for the remainder of the day (as he strongly suspects that they will. Ed and Stede have been caught up in one another all morning long, so Izzy doubts there will be many orders given in his absence.)

The problem with focusing is, well, the focusing. His eyes tend to cross every time he looks at the knot in his hands, a consequence of both the dizziness and the bone-deep exhaustion that settled over him no more than an hour ago. The heat from the day’s sun doesn’t help. It bears down on him, making him sincerely reconsider his wardrobe for the first time in years.

His skin is sticky with sweat, and his hair is slick with it. To say he’s overheated would be an understatement, and that’s to say nothing of the rest of his symptoms, the most concerning of which is the nausea. The last thing he wants to do is run for the railing in front of the entire fucking crew. He’ll never hear the end of it, but the heat isn’t helping that either. It’s cooking him in his leathers, making his stomach churn more violently the longer the hour drags out.

By the time Roach calls for lunch, Izzy’s at his limit. He knows he could push through, if he really had to. He’s worked through worse; gunshot wounds, stabbings, storms the likes of which The Revenge has yet to see (and thank God for small favors), the sort of headaches that threaten to split his skull apart, food poisonings, regular poisonings… certain amputations. Ed had once joked that Izzy was a bit like a cockroach—damn near indestructible and always lurking.

“Thank fuck,” Izzy grumbles, more to himself than anyone else. It’s a near fatal mistake as his guts violently twist, and he almost loses the contents of his stomach (nothing more than a bit of water and a bite of hardtack) all over the deck. He clamps a hand over his mouth and twists around, away from the crew, and waits for the nausea to pass before he risks dropping his hand again. If anyone notices, they don’t say anything, but, then, they’re probably all more concerned with food than whatever Izzy is up to. He’s not yelling at them, and they’re more likely to take advantage of that than question it.

He waits a bit longer. Both so his stomach will settle further, and so that the rest of the crew files down to try to stake their claim at the front of the line. Truly, the whole bunch turns into children when it comes to food. As if the last of whatever’s in Roach’s pot isn’t better than the best Izzy ever got on The Queen Anne.

The only stragglers are the Swede and Frenchie, and Izzy only just manages to catch the words Frenchie says, “Y’know, like a cat,” and, for some godforsaken reason, the two look directly at him. The Swede nods after a moment, and they both go on their way as if the whole thing weren’t weird. Izzy shrugs. He expects more bizarre shit out of the crew at any given moment. He can’t get hung up over every little eccentricity.

His stomach rolls painfully, and he’s reminded of his plan to escape. He makes his way toward his own quarters, pauses, reroutes himself. His room is small, stuffy. The single cot inside is far from comfortable. Worse, the only clothes he has are different versions of his everyday getup, and, frankly, he wants something more than that. Something light and airy and soft against his chafed skin.

He pushes open the door to the Captains’ quarters. It’s brighter than he expects, thanks to the light coming in through the windows. Whoever rolled out of bed last (Ed) hadn't bothered to close either set of curtains. Izzy can’t help being drawn inward. He barely remembers to kick the door shut behind him as he makes his way to the bed nook, only stopping short when he remembers the heat beneath his skin and the nausea in his belly. As tempting as it is to crawl into bed like this, he knows he’ll regret it the next time he manages to peel his eyes open. He’d be lucky if he managed to avoid sun sickness, and that would be on top of whatever he’s already dealing with.

With a heaved sigh, Izzy makes his way to Stede's wardrobe, fingers fumbling with his vest all the way. It feels like a monumental task, certainly far more difficult than it ought to be, but he’s dead tired and his bones ache, deep and constant. Without much to distract himself with, his head is going much the same way, starting at the crown of his skull and spreading outward in all directions. It’s only a matter of time before it’s all encompassing, and he would very much like to be asleep before that happens.

He sheds the rest of his clothes in a slow, clumsy process that takes entirely too long and leaves him stark naked. It’s almost instantaneous the way his skin ripples with goose flesh and chills grip him. He hadn’t expected to swing so abruptly from overheated to freezing. The cabin isn’t exactly cool by any means, yet his body protests being exposed. The sweat drying on his skin only worsens the shivering that racks his body, and the nausea crawls up his throat dangerously. Rather than acknowledge it, he focuses his attention on the wardrobe.

The robe he chooses is deceptively simple. The pattern on it is only a shade or two darker than the rest of it, making it appear solid when it, in fact, isn’t. It’s what drew his attention to it the first time he saw it, and it’s what draws him to it now.

It’s too big on him, easily swallowing his frame. It’s tailored specifically to Stede’s body, which means its shoulders are wider, and the length of it reaches well past Izzy’s knees. He pulls it tight against him, uncaring that he’s dirtying the expensive fabric. He’ll wash it later, when no one’s paying attention. For now, all he cares about is its warmth and familiarity.

What Izzy won’t readily admit to is that he sought to raid Stede’s wardrobe for more than the texture and weight of the fabrics inside. Every square centimeter of every piece of clothing smells like Stede, like lavender soap and expensive hair products and sea salt. It’s familiar, comforting. For a moment, he forgets about his nausea and the pain in his joints.

The reprieve only lasts for so long before reality slams back into him in the form of a stabbing pain just above his right eye. It feels like a pick being driven into his skull. His foot chooses that moment to make itself known, and it’s all the convincing he needs to crawl into bed and curl up lest they get much worse.

The bed is a mess, with pillows and blankets strewn about. Izzy can’t sort out which direction Ed must have been lying in, but he knows for sure that it had to be Edward. He’s the only one of the three of them that doesn’t bother making the bed upon waking up. That and Stede always closes the curtains.

Izzy crawls under the blankets and grabs for one of the pillows. He shoves his face into it, inhaling deeply and focusing on the scents that mix together. They’ve become so similar now that he can barely differentiate the two. Edward and Stede use the same shampoos, wash with the same soaps. They constantly share clothes between them (not unlike the decades long habit between Ed and Izzy.) It goes without saying that their scents are almost completely intertwined, but Izzy’s known Edward for decades, and he’s had plenty of time to grow intimately familiar with Stede’s distinct smell over the last several months.

It’s only a matter of minutes until Izzy’s eyelids grow too heavy to bother keeping them open anymore. He curls into the sheets, fingers gripping tightly. His face remains pressed into the pillow, and he puffs out a quiet sigh when his stomach finally settles and the ache in his body gives way to weightlessness.

The next time Izzy wakes, it’s to quiet whispers, one voice shushing the other, then silence. He squints against the light coming in through the windows, wishes he’d had the good since to pull the curtains. His head is pounding viciously, and the light is only making it worse. The uneasiness in his stomach is impossible to ignore with his guts roiling and his mouth watering. He has barely enough time to lean over the side of the bed.

Someone’s speaking. Whispered words of soft reassurances that mean nothing, and there’s a bucket shoved under his chin that he only notices when it’s being pulled away, replaced quickly with a cup of water.

There are also hands in his hair, brushing it back and away from his face in long, gentle strokes that are wholly unnecessary. His hair is stuck in place by drying sweat. It’s not at risk of being in the way should his stomach rebel again, but he can’t help leaning into the touch.

“Drink, Israel,” someone says in a voice that’s entirely too familiar.

Izzy considers telling Stede to fuck off, but he doesn’t have it in him. Instead, he does as told, taking several, large gulps of water. It’s only sheer willpower that keeps him from downing the rest of it. He knows what will inevitably happen if he does.

He moves to lie back down, grumbling all the way when calloused fingers move from his hair to his shoulders. They support his weight as he shifts, settling back into the absurdly soft mattress that’s admittedly grown on him over time.

Half a dozen questions run through his mind just as Ed takes up stroking through his hair once more. It’s enough to nearly fry whatever is left of his brain, but he has just enough wherewithal to ask, “Why?” He frowns at his own voice, at how brutalized it sounds, though he’s far more irritated by the half-formed question. It’s all he can muster up with the way his head continues to throb viciously.

“Overheard the crew, mate. Said you looked like shit,” Ed pauses, then adds, “They weren’t wrong.”

“Actually, I believe they are under the impression that you’re dying,” Stede adds before Izzy can tell Edward to go fuck himself.

“Yeah, like a cat,” Edward adds, and Izzy tries to parse that out, he really does, but he doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s the second time he’s heard those exact words, and he still doesn’t have a clue as to what the fuck they mean.

“Ah, what Ed means is that Frenchie informed us that cats often go off to die alone. Of course, he says that has something to do with their nine lives and something about transformations,” Stede’s brows draw together in obvious confusion. Good, at least Izzy isn’t alone. “But I believe the sentiment is the same.”

“‘m not dying,” Izzy says with a scowl that falls short of displaying any real ire.

“No, no, of course not. We just—” Stede flounders for the words, but Ed cuts him off.

“We wanted to check on you.” Ed shrugs in a way that’s almost dismissive. Almost. His eyes give him away, the same way they always have. He’s worried. Seeing Izzy hasn’t done much to soothe whatever anxiety he’s feeling, and it makes Izzy feel a guilty sort of uneasiness.

“‘m fine,” fucking fantastic, really. It’s not like someone’s driving a train through his skull, or his stomach isn’t attempting to turn itself inside out.

Ed snorts, “And I’m a fucking mermaid.” He pauses, “We’re just worried about you, Iz. Let us, yeah?”

Izzy waves at them weakly with his scarred hand. He can’t exactly stop them on his good days, never mind when he feels this poorly. What’s a man to do other than give up? He knows when to spare his dignity and admit defeat. Sometimes.

Stede grabs his hand gently and presses a kiss to the back of it. “Thank you, dear boy,” and Christ, if Izzy weren’t already flushed, he certainly would be now. He still doesn’t know how to handle their affection. It’s one thing seeing them with each other. Sickly sweet and obnoxious. It’s another when they turn it on him, back him into a corner that he can’t get out of, and right now he’s especially fucked.

“Whatever,” Izzy breathes out. “I’m going back to sleep, though.”

“That’s quite alright with us,” Stede says simply, and Ed echoes the sentiment.

Izzy bundles himself back into the blankets. His skin is still too cold, though he knows it’s from the fever he’s running. Logic doesn’t make him any more comfortable, but being surrounded by softness and familiar scents does.

His eyelids slide shut, and he begins to drift almost immediately.

“Rather cute, hm?” He hears Stede say just before consciousness swallows him completely. He doesn’t know what the man is on about now, but he’ll just have to ask about it later.

#steddyhands #blackhands #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #stizzy #ofmd #our flag means death #stede bonnet #edward teach #blackbeard #izzy hands #israel hands #blitzwrites #blitz

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blitzturtles · 2 years

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Title: Salt (Ao3) Rating: Teen and Up Fandom: OFMD, Our Flag Means Death Pairing(s): Steddyhands, Stizzy Summary: “Doesn’t hurt so bad,” Bonnet says, words largely (blessedly) muffled by the cloth stuffed into his mouth. He looks dazed, eyes failing to fixate on any particular point, and he keeps wandering around the cabin, fingers grazing this and that only for him to spin around and open his maw to make some other useless observation like he isn’t actively losing blood from the now gaping hole in his mouth.

Notes: The prompt my wife gave me was 'salt', hence the title. Content warnings for medical use of opium and some mild tooth trauma. Also, they're all super married.

“Doesn’t hurt so bad,” Bonnet says, words largely (blessedly) muffled by the cloth stuffed into his mouth. He looks dazed, eyes failing to fixate on any particular point, and he keeps wandering around the cabin, fingers grazing this and that only for him to spin around and open his maw to make some other useless observation like he isn’t actively losing blood from the now gaping hole in his mouth.

Izzy grabs him by the jaw, none too gently, “That’s because of the laudanum. Open,” and, to his surprise, Stede does. Without any biting remarks or stupid comments, even. Izzy should savor the moment, but he has a job to do, and unfortunately, that job is seeing to his idiotic husband while his other husband gets to do all the fun stuff like threatening hostages and procuring spoils for himself. It’s entirely unfair, and he’s certain it’s some sort of punishment for last night when he—Izzy shakes his head. No point getting riled up now.

Izzy pulls the bloodied cloth out from between Stede’s lips and reaches back to grab a glass of what looks to be water off the nearby table. “Gargle this, don’t swallow.”

It’s his own fucking fault that he ends up coated in salt water a moment later when Stede spits it out like a petulant child being forced to drink medicine. It takes all of his willpower to not dump the rest of it over Stede’s head. Instead, he wipes at his face and motions toward the glass, “Try again.”

The second attempt goes better than the first. Bonnet doesn’t spew salt water all over him, so Izzy counts it as some sort of win. Not a very good one, but he’ll take what he can get.

“Now spit it ba—in the cup!” Izzy’s quick to yank the glass from Stede’s hand and get it underneath his chin before the man can make too much of a mess of himself.

“Sorry,” Stede says without sounding sorry at all.

“Whatever, here,” Izzy forces Stede’s jaw open once more and crams the cloth back into place. “Bite down and hold it.” Hopefully that’s a simple enough command for even Bonnet to follow, but he’s not all that optimistic.

Rather than leaving Stede to his own devices, Izzy grabs at his upper arm and leads Stede over to the sofa. “Sit, and stay put for two fucking minutes,” and he’s gone and out of the room before Stede can try to respond.

It doesn’t take him long to find and wet another cloth, this time with the coldest water he can find. He returns to the Captains’ quarters to find Stede stretched out on the sofa, legs kicked up and his arm tucked under his head. He’s staring up at the ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, and the cloth is still in his mouth, much to Izzy’s relief.

“What’s that for?” Stede asks once his senses catch up to him, and he (belatedly) takes note of the footsteps approaching him.

“Your eyes,” Izzy says easily. He approaches the sofa and moves to lay the cloth out over Stede’s face once he closes his eyes. “That broken nose of yours is going to come with two black eyes.” Truthfully, the bruising has already begun to develop, and there’s swelling on the lids that will undoubtedly be much worse in the morning.

On second thought, Edward might be having a different sort of fun. The very sort that Izzy wishes he could participate in right now. He wouldn’t have any qualms about running the bastards through that thought to touch one of his Captains, but he supposes that’s what the rest of the crew can make themselves good for. If only for today. Izzy can go back to the maiming and killing himself when he isn’t busy babying Stede.

“Fucking—don’t—” Izzy snatches Stede’s hand away from his face before he can do anymore damage to himself.

“But I can’t see it.”

“And you don’t fucking need to,” Izzy growls, exasperation getting the better of him. Ed really would be better at this. “You’re going to be one big, swollen fucking bruise tomorrow, but it will heal. If you leave it the fuck alone.”

Stede pouts up at him, which looks frankly ridiculous with the one cloth covering his eyes and the other hanging out of his mouth. It’s a shame the boy isn't here to capture the image on paper. Izzy would love to have it to show Bonnet when he’s more lucid.

The door creaks open, and Izzy barely pays it any mind as he adjusts the cloth in Stede’s mouth and pushes at the bottom of his jaw, checking that there’s at least some pressure being applied.

“You look entirely too satisfied with yourself,” Ed remarks from the doorway. He leans against it a moment, taking the scene in, as if he isn’t, himself, quite a sight, what with blood streaking across his face and his hair in disarray around his head. It’s a good look on him, and Izzy isn’t ashamed to let his gaze linger.

“Yeah, well, you fucking stuck me with him,” Izzy shrugs like he hadn’t made that vow himself in front of God and everyone some six months ago. Christ, what the fuck is his life?

“‘Him’ is listening,” Stede points out, voice still muted.

“We know.”

“Don’t care.”

The pouting returns, and Izzy actually snorts out a laugh at the sight of it. Edward shoots him a semi-judgmental look that Izzy’s content to ignore. It’s not Ed that’s been dealing with a fucked up Bonnet. Stede had been a blubbering mess before the laudanum, and he’s been a nuisance since. Unable—or unwilling—to sit still for any length of time. This is the longest so far. The opium must really be setting in.

“Shoulda put him in bed first,” Ed points out as he comes to crouch down at Stede’s side. Izzy shoots him an unimpressed look. They both know how Ed’s knee will protest later, but it’s wasted breath to say anything about it now. “I don’t think he’s gonna move anytime soon.”

“Probably not,” Izzy shrugs. He looks back down at Stede and notices the way he’s settled more thoroughly. His body is relaxed, melting into the cushions, and his breathing is slower. He looks back at Edward, contemplating a moment, but his curiosity gets the better of him. “What about those two—” He waves a hand. An assortment of colorful words come to mind, and he eventually settles on, “Fuckwits?”

“Jim.”

“Ah,” good choice.

“I had a go at them first,” Ed adds with a shrug of his own.

“Good,” is all Izzy has to say to that. At least one of them should have gotten the opportunity.

“I’ll tell you all about it later,” Ed promises as he moves to try to unfold himself. Izzy doesn’t hesitate in offering him a hand up. “Thanks. For taking care of him.”

Izzy hums dismissively. The index and middle fingers of his free hand find his cravat, and he brushes over the two rings tied into the fabric. He doesn’t say anything else, but, then, he doesn’t really need to, does he?

#steddyhands #stizzy #blackhands #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #edizzy #ofmd #our flag means death #edward teach #blackbeard #izzy hands #israel hands #stede bonnet #blitzwrites #blitz

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blitzturtles · 2 years

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Title: End Scene (Ao3) Rating: Mature Fandom: OFMD, Our Flag Means Death Pairing(s): Ed/Izzy Summary: For a prompt on the kink meme: Something where Izzy and Ed are doing their 'usual', ya know the bad bdsm thing we expect from them, when Izzy suddenly asks Ed to stop. For whatever reason - Ed's finally gone too far, something in Izzy realizes it's all gone too far/it's not what he wants, he's finally hit a breaking point, etc. - he asks (in a quiet broken voice) Ed to stop. Whether you wanna go full dark!Edward/Blackbeard and he doesn't stop, or Ed's shocked and actually does and either comforts him or is scared of how far they've gone is up to you.

Notes: I have literally zero idea as to when this is set. Prompt found here.

Content Warnings: PTSD, panic attacks, subdrop, questionable BDSM practices...

The shift is abrupt. There’s no warning. One moment, he’s floating, mind a hazy thing without coherent thought, the next, he’s falling too quickly for him to recover. His breathing comes in short, desperate gasps, and he reaches for something—anything—to hold onto. His hands are bound together, held above his head, and he knows that what comes next is a sinking darkness that will swallow him whole.

The air around him turns frigid, and he expects to hit the water any second now. The pain he feels instead is not his body breaking the water’s surface, but something else entirely. It ripples across his back, pulls a silent cry from his deprived lungs. It’s all consuming in the way it spreads outward and over and through him.

Reality slams back into him, and he remembers where he is. The panic doesn’t cease. He still can’t get a lungful of air, and there’s a burning prickle at the back of his eyes with a familiar wetness already trailing his cheeks. He tugs at his wrists again, a pathetic attempt with no real drive behind it. He can’t summon the energy to really fight.

“Stop,” he breathes, voice raspier than it’s ever been. He can hardly believe it’s his own. It sounds so weak, so pathetic… For a moment, he considers clamping his mouth shut. To take this punishment like a man, but his heart is racing, his chest too tight, the edges of his vision have blackened. Whatever’s left of his sanity snaps with the next strike that falls across abused flesh.

“Edward!” He tries again with unrestrained urgency. He can’t be certain that he’s been heard, hopes that he isn’t being ignored. The whip lands across an existing welt, and he screams without a sound. He yanks at his wrists frantically, forcing the ropes to dig into bruises both old and new. He’s babbling now, a litany of desperation, “—Ed, please stop, please.” It's quiet, broken, barely audible to even Izzy's ears.

The sound of a knife being drawn startles him into gasping in a breath, and, still, it does nothing to ease the searing agony that has wrapped around his lungs. He half-expects the blade to be pressed to his throat, to bite into the thin skin that covers his jugular. Never has he interrupted his Captain during one of these sessions of theirs. He’s always taken every crack of the whip, every smack of Edward’s hand, every bite of iron from the very knife now pressing against his wrists.

“—Izzy, Izzy, man, c’mon,” Edward’s voice filters in through the frenzied thoughts. His hands are on Izzy’s wrists, rubbing sensation back into his fingers. The ropes are long gone, cast aside like something offensive. “Israel,” the name comes out firm yet free of any harshness. One of Ed's hands catches Izzy’s jaw, and Edward wrenches Izzy’s head to the side.

Izzy looks at Edward, unwilling to defy his Captain further, but his eyes are wide, frantic, bordering on a sort of ferality that’s typically reserved for bloody battles. He opens his mouth, working his jaw several times, but nothing worth being spoken falls from his lips. All he manages are distressed, whispered apologies.

His body moves without his input, shifting from his stomach to his side. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s Edward manhandling him so that Izzy isn’t straining to look at his Captain. It’s all Izzy can do to keep his eyes open when he wants nothing more than to squeeze them shut against the tears that have yet to stop.

“Iz,” Edward says with a soft sort of awe to his tone. There’s alarm in his gaze, and one of his hands finds its way into Izzy’s hair. “You’re alright now, mate,” Edward says as if he’s trying to convince both of them. With a bit more confidence, he adds, “Not gonna hurt you anymore.”

Izzy doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Every muscle in his body is stiff, every tendon pulled tight. His body wants to run, to get away, but he’s frozen. Unable to move no matter how desperately he wants to. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, half-formed, half-mad. He stops processing Edward’s touch, Edward’s voice, Edward’s smell… Edward.

“Fuck, shit.”

Izzy flinches.

There’s more curses from above him before he’s being maneuvered again. This time so that his head is resting on something, and it takes him entirely too long to piece together what. The thigh beneath him is stretched out to match its mate. A flash of clarity runs through his mind; Ed can’t bend his bad knee.

And then, Ed.

He gasps on his next breath, feeling like a man being pulled out of the sea’s unforgiving grasp. His head is pounding, stomach churning. It’s like they’ve just gone through a bad storm only for him to get tossed over the railing by a particularly brutal wave.

“Shit, Iz,” Edward breathes above him, his own voice a near whisper. His hand is back in Izzy’s hair, combing it back from his face and into a poor attempt at Izzy’s usual style. “You with me?”

No.

Yes.

He wishes he wasn’t. He nods anyway.

“Good,” Ed breathes. “Good, stay with me, alright?” He pauses, waiting for something, but he sighs after a moment. Izzy misses the cue, only recognizes it for what it was after it’s already passed. “You’re alright, Iz. Not gonna let anything happen to you, okay?”

Belatedly, Izzy thinks that Edward sounds like he’s been caught up in the waves himself. Out of breath, a bit shaky. His hand in Izzy’s hair is unsteady. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong, and it feels like it’s Izzy’s fault. Like Ed wouldn’t be here, in this situation, if not for Izzy fucking everything up in the first place. As if Izzy isn’t a seasoned professional more than capable of handling whatever nature—or his Captain—throws at him.

Something squeezes the back of his neck, just firm enough to catch his attention, drawing him out of the spiral he’s rapidly working towards. It takes all of his energy to focus on Ed, to try—and widely fail at—silencing the cacophony of nonsense in his head. It’s repetitive, unending, miserable.

“Stay with me,” Edward says again, in a tone that sounds so much more like Blackbeard than Ed. It’s an order; one that Izzy isn’t meant to question or ignore, so he tries. He does his best to focus on something small—the hand in his hair, the texture of Ed’s skin under his cheek. It’s a damn near impossible task.

Ed, for his part, doesn’t stop talking, nor does his hand leave Izzy’s hair. The words are a repetitive mixture of reassurances and promises that sound wrong coming from Edward, particularly in that uncertain tone, but he doesn’t stop, and, God help him, Izzy clings to every word like they’ll be the last he ever hears.

Exhaustion begins to take hold, gripping Izzy so tightly that he almost forgets about how poorly he feels. The room is still too cold, causing him to shiver. Every movement pulls at the skin surrounding the welts on his back. The combination of the two makes the nausea worse. He’s thirsty, mouth drier than he ever remembers it being, and his eyes still burn from the tears that continue to run down his face. He doesn’t know what to do to make it all stop. Sleep would be a welcomed reprieve, but his eyes refuse to stay closed for longer than a second or two at a time.

“You’re too good for me, Iz,” Ed whispers, and it triggers something in Izzy. He grasps at every word, holding them close to his chest, but there’s one that stings in a way that makes him feel worse. It twists the whole meaning of what Ed says, turns it into something poisonous, and it’s not Izzy that Edward is feeding that toxin to.

Izzy reaches up to grab at the hand in his hair. He squeezes it tight. There are so many things he could say, yet nothing comes out no matter how hard he tries. Ed’s gone quiet above him, evidently waiting. The pressure of it nearly splits Izzy in half. He can’t handle much more. He’s too raw already, body and mind torn open just the same as his back. It’s not even the only part of him that hurts. His joints ache, though none as terribly as his bad hip, which comes from lying on his side for too long. He feels ill, like he’s caught something that’s causing him to be too cold when he knows he’s sweating from what must be a fever.

“You’re always so good for me,” Ed continues in a voice that’s only barely audible now. “In here, like this. You’re perfect, Iz.” And oh, does that do something to Izzy’s brain. Short circuits it, is what it does. There’s a tiny warmth in his chest; it’s blink-and-you-miss-it, but it’s there. “Oh, heh, you like that?”

Izzy feels his face heat up. He hadn’t realized he’d reacted at all, but there he is, practically preening under the little bit of praise like a child chasing after daddy’s approval. It’s embarrassing. And utterly pathetic. He turns his head, tries to bury his face in Ed’s thigh.

Ed barks out a short laugh that startles them both. “Sorry, sorry,” he’s quick to say. “It’s just—cute ‘s all.”

If Izzy weren’t red before, he definitely is now. Of all the things Israel Hands has been called in his life—bastard, asshole, fucker, prick—never once has anyone thought to call him—or anything he does—cute. He’s way too goddamn old for someone to start now, but who is he to question his Captain?

Ed shakes Izzy’s hand loose and goes back to petting his hair. “I mean it, y’know? You’re amazing like this. You take everything so fucking well, Iz.”

The blush spreads from Izzy’s cheeks to his ears and down his neck. He’s starting to reconsider his opinion on drowning. It might be a small blessing right about now. Praise for a job well done is one thing. He can handle that, rare as it is, but this? This is overwhelming, devastating, unbearable. It’s too much all at once, but Ed doesn’t stop. In fact, he uses the hand in Izzy’s hair to force his head back and his face up. Worse, he bends down and plants a kiss right on Izzy’s forehead.

“You’re mine, Israel Hands,” he uses his free hand to tap the tattoo on Izzy’s cheek and then the ring still tied around his neck. Even Ed doesn’t try to take it off Izzy. If his First Mate wants to leave it on, then so be it. “And I don’t fucking take scraps.”

Before Izzy has a chance to recover from that little proclamation, Ed’s already moving again, this time wiping at the tear tracks on Izzy’s face.

“Should probably get you some fucking water. You gotta be dying,” somewhere between the crying, the sweating, and the general intensity of what they had been up to before everything went south. Ed makes a move to slide out from under Izzy, but Izzy’s quick to grab at his leg, digging nails into tattooed flesh.

“Ow, shit, okay, got it,” Ed rubs at his leg when Izzy relaxes his hold. “You gotta cut those.”

“You like them,” Izzy snarks, surprising both of them when he finally, finally speaks. His throat is notably sore for not having been choked out. It has to be the crying. Or maybe the screaming. He’s almost forgotten about that entirely. The whole thing is becoming a distant memory, too far removed from the easy place he’s falling into now.

Ed snorts, “If you say so.”

“I do,” Izzy says without pause.

“Fuck off.”

“No.”

It’s odd—yet comforting—the way they fall back into this banter. He’s reminded vaguely of when they were boys, still young enough to be green around the ears. The ghost of another memory brushes against his conscious mind, but he stomps it down before it can sour the image of Ed. Hair dark as the depths of the ocean, beard more stubble than anything remotely impressive, eyes bright and eager. It’s a shame that there is no portrait of that Ed, though it’s probably for the best. It’s a marvelous mental image, one that Izzy can appreciate in its entirety, but it doesn’t exactly paint the picture of Blackbeard.

They lapse into silence then. Izzy stares off at the far wall, still not quite trusting his eyes to not betray him the moment he tries to close them. It’s amazing what you can see when your eyes are closed. Edward’s hand works through his hair, over and over, without pause. Neither dares move much more than that. Ed, for reasons Izzy doesn’t understand, and Izzy, because he’s slowly slipping further into a warm, foggy state, so much so that Ed damn near startles him when he speaks again,

“I need to at least clean your back. Can’t leave it like that, man.”

Izzy waves a non-committal hand. He’d prefer Edward to stay exactly where he is, but he won’t fight Ed on this, doesn’t have it in him.

Ed slides out from underneath him, easily replacing his thigh with his hand and then a pillow. Izzy barely hears his footsteps as he walks away, disappearing long enough to grab soap, water, and a cloth.

“On your stomach, Iz,” Ed prods at him gently, encouraging Izzy to roll back onto his belly. It takes a bit more poking to get him there, but he manages in the end. Ed sets the bowl of water on the bedside table before climbing onto the bed. He crawls up Izzy’s legs, straddles his hips.

There’s a pause where Ed does nothing, and Izzy does his best to not think about what that might mean. The cloth, already damp, touches down a moment later, and he barely bites back a yelp. It’s ridiculous. He’s taken worse with less complaint, and here he is with renewed tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“Easy, Iz,” Edward murmurs, and even in spite of his words, his next touch is somehow softer, slower. The kindness is almost worse. It’s too much, mentally and physically. Damn near overwhelming, and it burns up his renewed resolve to keep quiet. Edward, for his part, says nothing.

With the blood and sweat wiped away, Ed goes back around with the cloth again. This time it’s been soaped up, and Ed is just as careful as he was before.

By the time Ed is done wiping away the suds, Izzy’s back is on fire in a way that he’s not particularly enjoying, and that’s so jarring compared to how this typically works, that he doesn’t know what to do with himself other than try to remove his thoughts from his body. He’s done it before, separating the two. It’s a practiced skill that he’s unfortunately been forced into developing. It’s how he misses the way Ed wipes down one arm with a fresh cloth, though he’s snapped back into his body abruptly when Edward carefully works the cloth over each of the fingers on his typically gloved hand, mindful of the webbed scar tissue.

“Edward—”

“Just go with it, Izzy,” Ed says in a hushed voice. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, merely moves onto Izzy’s other arm. It’s a reach to get the whole thing, but Ed manages the way he manages to do everything else.

By the time Ed gets to his legs, Izzy’s eyes have begun to droop, and his head has slowly shifted from a dissociative fogginess to something fuzzy, not quite as unattached, yet calm, relaxed. There’s not much going on between his ears. His body feels unnaturally heavy, limbs weighed down with lead. He doesn’t know how Ed can move him around like he’s a ragdoll when he’s all deadweight.

Izzy’s eyes burn for a whole new reason as exhaustion ebbs inward, wrapping around him like a vice. He hears Ed above him, talking about something and nothing. He thinks he can pick out individual words, bits and phrases, but none of them go together.

Ed sprawls out beside him once he’s finished, tangles their legs together in lieu of wrapping an arm around Izzy’s waist. He presses their foreheads together, causing Izzy to briefly open his eyes, but they slide shut almost immediately. It’s too hard to keep them open, and Ed says nothing as he wipes at the mostly dry tears on Izzy’s face. It’s the last thing Izzy processes before sleep finally takes him.

#blackhands #edward teach #blackbeard #israel hands #izzy hands #ofmd #our flag means death #blitzwrites #blitz

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blitzturtles · 2 years

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Title: Rum (Ao3) Rating: Teen and Up Fandom: OFMD, Our Flag Means Death Pairing(s): Steddyhands Summary: “Is he typically this…” Stede motions vaguely with his free hand. He can’t find the words to express what he means, or, rather, the words don’t exactly fit because ‘affectionate’ is not a descriptor he would have used for Israel Hands under any other circumstance.

“Is he typically this…” Stede motions vaguely with his free hand. He can’t find the words to express what he means, or, rather, the words don’t exactly fit because ‘affectionate’ is not a descriptor he would have used for Israel Hands under any other circumstance.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Ed says with a laugh, “Wait until you try to get up.”

Stede pauses, momentarily considering that. He has no real urgent need to move, but he has a feeling that Ed is right. It would be fairly difficult to dislodge Izzy in his current state. Between the way he’s attached himself to Stede’s side—tucked firmly into place with his head nuzzling against Stede’s neck—, and the fact that Izzy’s fairly drunk… Well, Stede may just have to accept his fate.

“You have experience with these matters, I take it,” it’s not really a question, more an acknowledgement. He can already picture it, hard as it would have been before tonight. He’s certainly never imagined Izzy being the cuddly sort before, but now he can see it. Izzy pressed against Ed, doing his damnedest to try to burrow his way under Ed’s skin. (Really, it’s as if he can’t get close enough.)

“Since he was, oh, I don’t know, sixteen?” Ed snorts at the memory that must pop into his head. “He denies that he gets like this, but he always has. At least when rum is involved.”

“Sixteen,” Stede repeats, a bit of awe finding its way into his voice. He had known the two were together for a very, very long time, but it’s… Well, it’s difficult to imagine Izzy ever being sixteen. Part of Stede had been convinced that Izzy was simply born to the world, a fully formed, grumpy bastard of a man.

“Yeah, mate. Shoulda seen him. Used to keep his hair kinda long. Was real pretty, y’know, and he might be small, but, back then? He was smaller, and he was just limbs. No meat.”

Whatever part of Stede that had been convinced that Izzy had tuned them out—or even fallen asleep—is quickly corrected when Izzy flips Ed the bird.

“He’s a fucking liar,” Izzy mutters as he moves impossibly closer.

Ah, so his vocabulary hasn’t changed, at least.

“About what, Iz? You being a wee lad, or the fact that you were pretty?”

“Were?” Stede asks at the same time Izzy snaps, “Fuck off.” It’s precisely then that Izzy goes rigid against him, though he doesn’t pull away.

Ed snorts, “You’re right. No ‘were’ about it, huh?”

Stede feels the heat of Izzy’s cheeks against his neck, and he has to bite his lip to keep from reacting. He’s somewhere between a startled breath and a laugh, and he knows Izzy wouldn’t appreciate either.

“Twat,” Izzy grumbles.

Stede rubs at his arm with one hand. “He isn’t exactly wrong, darling,” the pet name slips out before he can think better of it, but there’s no knife to his throat. Then, he’s not sure Izzy’s coordinated enough to stab him right now. He might just do it later.

“Twats,” comes Izzy’s amended reply. It has Ed peeling with laughter, and Stede doing his best to do anything but.

#steddyhands #stizzy #blackhands #gentlebeard #blackbonnet #ofmd #our flag means death #stede bonnet #izzy hands #edward teach #blackbeard #blitzwrites #blitz

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blitzturtles · 2 years

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hi! i'm not sure if youre still into jojo but your work about bruno suffering from epilepsy and seizures is one of my favorites! i love the spin off as well and it's really well written (this is from the perspective of someone who's boyfriend has microseizures) and look at it as really good representation. do you ever plan on completing it some day?

Ah, so sorry I missed this! I never got a notif! Thank you so much! That's been one of my favorites to write, and I do still have a JoJo spark. I'm hoping to rewrite most of the last chapter one of these days. OneNote ate it and all of my other JJBA works, so I think I've just been frustrated/bent about that whole affair (and been in a bit of a writing slump in general, tbqh). But definitely want to get it done one of these days!

Thank you again, and I really hope you have a lovely week!

#anon #blitz

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blitzturtles · 2 years

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Title: Repercussions (Ao3)

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death / OFMD

Pairing(s): Steddyhands

Summary: For a prompt on the kink meme: Izzy is not okay following the loss of his toe. This can manifest in any number of ways: difficulty maintaining his balance, pain, phantom pain, maybe even an infection because the wound never healed correctly? Whether you want to go mild or more extreme, I'm not picky.

I just want Izzy hurting and a guilt-ridden Ed (+Stede) to take care of him, above Izzy's protests that caring for him like this is 'beneath him.

Notes: Set a bit into the future wherein Steddyhands is an established throuple. Prompt found here.

Thank you so much to my two betas Nordic_Witch_of_the_Books and tortellini!

Trigger/content warnings for mentions of drug use (for medical purposes), the toe thingTM, descriptions of injury, and home surgery.

Izzy’s pulled from a restless sleep by a searing, pulsing pain. Fire licks at the sole of his foot, spreading inward, deep into the flesh. His foot contracts in response, toes curling painfully. His back arches off of the bed, and his fingers grasp at the sheets beneath him so desperately that he thinks he might just tear right through them. It’s little consolation for the pain that blossoms from the mess of healing tissue that makes up the space where his little toe had once been.

Belatedly, he thinks of his leathers, of something he can bite into. It won’t detract from the pain, but it would keep him quiet, and that’s a precious ability that he’s lacking at the moment. No matter how hard he tries to swallow down the sounds that bubble up his throat, they still manage to escape, muffled yet undeniable.

His only relief is knowing that he is alone. There is no warmth to his left nor to his right, and the cabin is eerily silent, save for his own pained noises. If he were anything other than utterly alone right now, he would have already been made aware of it. Thank God for small favors.

With tremendous effort, he forces himself to sit up, hands grasping at his calf, as if he can massage away the worst of the pain. If he can at least stop the cramping, then maybe the rest will be more manageable.

Except it doesn’t help at all.

His foot seizes up again, forcing his toes to flex downward until it feels as though they couldn’t possibly be wrenched back into place. Even in its absence, the stub of flesh attempts to tighten, and it’s a burning, sucking, agonizing sensation that feels endless, ricocheting throughout his foot and up his leg. He feels it in his hips, for fuck’s sake, and it’s all he can do to bite into the meaty flesh between his thumb and forefinger and cry until his face is a mess of snot and tears. His cheeks are red, eyes puffy and bloodshot. He knows what he must look like, and, again, he finds solace in being left to his misery on his own. The thought of the Captain—or worse, Stede—seeing him like this makes his already nauseated stomach churn violently.

And, because he’s never really been a good man or a particularly godly one, at that, God forsakes him in that moment when the door to the cabin opens and a cheery voice starts in on him, grating his already frayed nerves in an impossible way.

“Good morn—oh, oh dear.”

“Out,” Izzy tries to say—or growl. He fails at both.

“No,” Stede answers, “No, I don’t think so.” He makes his way to the bed, only pausing long enough to deposit a tray he had been holding. Izzy takes note of the food piled on it, and the nausea somehow worsens, like his stomach is crawling up through his throat to try and deposit itself onto his lap before he can do anything about it.

“Your foot, I take it?” Stede asks as he gets close enough to see the bandages that are still wrapped around Izzy’s foot. Izzy isn’t holding it, hands still grasped firmly at his calf, but it’s an easy enough assumption to make. The damn thing won’t heal. Roach had to open it back up to cut infection out of it, and it’s been a nightmare ever since. Not that it had been going all that well before. An infection, particularly when it’s pressed up against exposed bone, is fucking excruciating. To the point that Izzy hadn’t been able to walk for a time.

“Brilliant fucking guess,” Izzy snarls. He doesn’t mean it, not really, but he hurts. He’s been shot, stabbed, damn near gutted, and somehow this is worse. An unending sort of misery that offers no reprieve. He could laugh, thinking back on it. He wonders if the Kraken had an inkling of an idea of what he truly inflicted upon his First Mate, and he can already see the way Ed would flinch away at such an accusation. It brings the bile back up his gullet.

Stede hums quietly, but otherwise doesn’t respond to the vitriol Izzy spits at him. He’s long since gotten used to the prickly parts of Izzy (which happen to be all of Izzy’s parts). “I can go get—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Izzy means it to come out more threatening than it does. As it stands, it sounds more like a plea spoken between inhaled gasps and choked off sobs. For a moment, he is nothing but pain, mind whited out with it, and it’s all he can think about until Stede speaks up again.

“He’s going to find out sooner rather than later,” Stede says, but he doesn’t push the issue. “May I?” He indicates to Izzy’s leg, and there’s a moment where Izzy considers telling him to fuck off. He doesn’t want to be seen right now, much less touched. There’s a chance that any movement might make his foot worse, and he’s terrified at the sheer prospect of that.

Instead of rejection, Izzy gives a helpless, half-shoulder shrug. Stede’s helped in the past. Always seems to know where to put his stupidly soft hands. There’s not much Izzy has to lose here. He’s in Hell already, and his dignity is casually floating to the bottom of the ocean with every tear that he sheds.

“Right then,” Stede moves to slide onto the edge of the bed, careful to not bounce the mattress. The last thing Izzy needs is for his leg to be jostled.

Carefully, Stede reaches out with his hands and places them just below Izzy’s. His thumbs press into either side of Izzy’s calf and work small circles. It’s not the root of the problem, his leg, but the whole thing is a tangle of triggers. The nerve pain comes from the missing toe. Both the stump of it and the non-existent hurt equally, and they cause the rest of his foot to tense horrifically. That same tension extends up his leg, though part of the pain he experiences in his leg is from improper care. Apparently there’s an actual science behind the length of a cane, and using the wrong height has caused a domino effect where his legs each tried to compensate for his injury in different, rather unhealthy ways. In short, it’s his own fucking fault he’s like this.

“None of that, now,” Stede whispers, fingers working bloody magic as they go. It’s enough to get the muscles to relax a touch.

“Wha—?” Izzy croaks, confusion evident on his face.

Stede pauses in his ministrations long enough to wipe at the tears tracking down Izzy’s cheeks. “You’re upsetting yourself with whatever nonsense is going on in here,” he taps Izzy on the brow, right between his eyes. It’s a distraction, and it works. For a moment, but then Izzy is jerking backwards, pulling his leg with him and trying to press it as close to his chest as he can. A litany of curses fall from his mouth.

“—Easy, Israel, breathe. Just like that, there’s a love,” Stede says in a quiet murmur. He’s somehow gotten behind Izzy, using himself to prop Izzy up with Izzy’s back against his chest. Izzy doesn’t remember moving or being moved, but the agony is only now beginning to subside, allowing him to think beyond the throb of his foot.

Instinct is what Izzy will blame later, should anyone ask about the way he curls into Stede, body turning just sideways enough to tuck his head into the other man’s neck. He smears tears and snot across Stede’s collar, but Stede doesn’t hesitate to bring a hand up to the back of Izzy’s head, cradling it gently in his grasp.

Stede’s still whispering gentle nothings. Quiet assurances and promises that he likely can’t keep. Izzy doesn’t call him on it, can’t be bothered to be argumentative in this state. It’s been months of this, and he’s just so goddamn tired. He’s too old for this, body unwilling to handle such a simple injury (he can hear Stede protesting to Izzy framing it that way. Any time an injury gets infected, it’s far from simple. It can be a death sentence in their world).

Stop crying. It’s just the pinky.

Izzy flinches at the memory. The manic glee of having Blackbeard back had only driven him so far, about as far as it took him to realize that he hadn’t gotten Blackbeard back at all. He’d unleashed something far worse, and it’s precisely why he refuses to share in this Hell with Ed.

But, then, life has never cooperated with him. He’s always had to wring everything out of it with his bare hands and the occasional teeth. It’s why Ed barges in, unannounced, and face only barely hiding the mild alarm he must be feeling at having Stede disappear for so long without warning.

Izzy doesn’t need to see to know the exact moment that Edward freezes. He comes to a stuttering stop, damn near tripping himself over his bad knee in the process, and Izzy can hear the way it grinds the same way he can hear Ed bite back a grunt.

“Iz?”

Izzy curses, hands immediately wiping at his face as quickly as he can. Fuck the pain. He’s not ruining Ed’s day over this shit. He can push past it, get himself up and moving and out on deck like usual. He doesn’t need Bonnet to baby him, and he doesn’t need to be blubbering like a child over an old wound, even if it does hurt worse now than it had at the time he’d gotten it.

“No, wait—Iz, Izzy,” Ed’s surprisingly fast, given his knee, already across the room in what seems like three steps at most. He’s pulling at Izzy’s wrists—gently, so as to not inflict anymore pain on him—and doing his best to put himself in Izzy’s line of vision. Whatever expression he’s going for, it fails to hide the horror in Ed’s eyes. The guilt. It’s so obvious that Izzy thinks anyone would see it. “Look at me, Iz. What can we do?” What can I do? How can I repent?

“I don’t know,” Izzy breathes, and he means it. He doesn’t know. Everything is fire, burning him from the inside out, and his leg is pulled too tight, drawing his foot along with it. He wants nothing more than for them to leave.

“Laudanum?”

“No,” Izzy answers immediately. The shit makes everything but the pain worse, and, while it takes that away, it’s not worth it. He can’t do it. He’ll be sick for days the moment he stops taking it, and that brings about its own sort of agony.

“Rum? We’ve got great shit from that last raid.” Izzy knows that already. He’s not entirely useless like this. He can still do inventory, and he knows damn well that that rum had been squirreled away by the two Captains for better times. For celebration and not for relief, yet Ed doesn’t even wait for an answer before he goes to pull it out of its hiding place.

Izzy’s trying his best to work up some sort of response, one that’s at least half-expletives, but Stede’s rubbing up and down his arm with one hand and gently scratching at his scalp with the nails of his other. It’s enough to get him to relax some, though he tenses only seconds later as another wave of pain passes through him.

Ed comes back with the bottle in hand, and he holds it to Izzy’s lips despite the already dying protests. Izzy never has been able to deny Ed for long.

“There you go, keep going, love,” Ed says, voice so quiet and sweet that it kills Izzy a little inside. He doesn’t know how to handle this, and it’s been months since the three of them became three and not two. The pet names are something else entirely; Izzy doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to those, but it does a good job of drawing him out of his own head for a moment.

Izzy’s vaguely aware of the fact that he hasn’t stopped crying. There are new tears replacing those that he attempted to wipe away. Neither Captain draws attention to it.

“Ed, darling, trade with me?” Stede asks from above Izzy. He presses his cheek against the top of Izzy’s head before pressing a gentle kiss over the same spot. He moves then, shifting so Ed can slide in right behind him and let Izzy rest against his chest. Stede returns to the foot of the bed to once more take Izzy’s leg between his hands.

Silence passes between them, with the only exception being the tiny, hiccupping breaths and the occasional gasp from Izzy. Stede redoubles his efforts from earlier, fingers working into the meat of Izzy’s calf. Ed’s fingers find their way into Izzy’s hair, working through the strands that have grown out over the last few months. Izzy’s grumbled about a haircut more than once, but Ed’s yet to help him with it.

“I’m sorry,” Ed breathes against the top of Izzy’s head. “I’m sorry. I—” He chokes up, unable to say much else, though Izzy can imagine it would be a repetitive, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, if Izzy were to allow it.

Izzy shakes his head, unable to vocalize a response. Ed doesn’t owe him anything. He shouldn’t be in here right now. The same could be said about Stede. Izzy doesn’t need this. He can handle himself.

“You think too much,” Ed says in a quiet little whisper. He almost sounds like he could laugh, if he weren’t on the verge of shedding tears of his own.

“Ah, I’m afraid I already told him as much. He didn’t quite listen to me, though, did he?” It might have been a complaint, if Stede’s tone weren’t sickeningly fond. Izzy can barely stand it, the two of them talking over him like this, each determined to distract him from the burning in his foot and leg.

“Don’t think he ever does, mate,” and this time Ed actually does laugh. It’s a quiet, short-lived thing, but Izzy finds himself pressing closer to Ed, trying to absorb the rumble of his chest into his own being.

“What a shame,” Stede answers dramatically, but he hasn’t stopped with Izzy’s leg. It’s actually beginning to relax more and more, causing the tendons in his foot to do the same.

Izzy takes another swig from the bottle and flips the both of them his middle finger. One to share between the two. He gets laughter out of both of them. It’s—nice. The whole thing. Once you get past the burning, nauseating pain. They rarely get moments like these. With the three of them together, wrapped around each other. Izzy hates the reason behind it, but he can't bring himself to really resent the time spent with his two Captains.

#steddyhands #blackhands #stizzy #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #steddy hands #ofmd #our flag means death #stede bonnet #edward teach #blackbeard #izzy hands #israel hands #blitzwrites #blitz

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blitzturtles · 2 years

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Title: Messy (Ao3)

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death / OFMD

Pairing(s): Too many... Everyone/Izzy, Steddyhands, Lucius/Izzy, Jim/Izzy, Fang/Ivan/Izzy, Frenchie/Izzy, Roach/Izzy

Summary: For a prompt on the kink meme: After a raid, Izzy is messy. Maybe some gunpowder on his face but mostly blood. Other people's blood primarily but maybe he did get a minor cut. Izzy is aware he's a mess, personally doesn't see it as an issue. It's a risk of the trade. But he does make an effort when his bf comes up to lay a kiss on him. A brief effort before happily reciprocating.

Notes: Decided to take a whack at the kink meme 5 (crew) + 1 (captains) style. Prompt found here. I didn't follow it exactly, but I hope OP still likes it! Trigger Warnings: canon typical violence and blood!

I. Lucius

It’s a near thing, the way the blade comes down on Lucius. He’s on the ground, having lost his footing in his attempt to backpedal, and he’s pressed against the railing, unable to do anything other than look on in terror as death lunges at him.

His eyes squeeze shut, a desperate attempt to block out reality, but the blow never comes. Instead, he hears the sound of another sword meeting the first, and he manages to stir up just enough courage to open his eyes and see Izzy crouched in front of him, his sword holding against the blade still pointed in Lucius’ direction. He lets out a startled squeak, but it takes only seconds for Izzy to gain the upper hand and push back, forcing the other man away from Lucius.

The rest is a blur of movement. Izzy parries a blow and runs his sword right through the man’s chest. He yanks backward without a second thought, blood spraying across his face. He spares the dead man only a moment more of his attention—to ensure that he’s truly dead—before Izzy turns back to Lucius.

It occurs to Lucius, rather belatedly, that Izzy is talking to him, but it doesn’t matter. Not with the way that his heart hammers away in his chest, and his blood pounds in his ears. It’s pure adrenaline that has him surging forward, nearly knocking Izzy off his feet.

In an instant, Lucius’ lips are on Izzy’s, pushing hard enough to feel teeth behind the lips in a desperate desire to convey all his gratitude and appreciation into one, simple kiss.

They break apart after a moment. Izzy looks a little stunned, but then he’s shrugging it off with a half-smirk forming on his face.

Lucius has just enough wherewithal to reach up and wipe at the wet sensation left on his lips, noting the red smear that comes away onto his hand. He pulls a face and tries not to gag at the realization of what, exactly, it is that he’s just gotten all over himself.

II. Jim

Jim’s never seen Izzy in a battle without his sword in hand. It is to Izzy what their knives are to them, but Izzy’s surprisingly adaptable, already pulling a blade from his boot before Jim can intervene. They watch as he makes quick work with it, jamming it into one assailant’s guts and twisting.

There’s a brief moment where Jim’s body lurches on instinct, where they worry Izzy won’t be prepared for the next attack that comes down on him, but Izzy’s quick to yank his knife and plunge it into the neck of the next man that makes an attempt on his life. The third man goes down much the same way, but the blade sticks. Jim sees a flash of something in Izzy’s eyes, but he’s moving, dodging, sliding out of range, though only just barely. The man is slower, but he’s a hell of a lot bigger, and Izzy’s just left his flank open.

Jim doesn’t so much as bat an eye before they unleash one of their own knives into the oversized bastard and watch him fall.

Izzy spins on his heels, eyes searching. Jim grins back at him,

“Impressive, Hands.”

“I’ll show you impressive,” Izzy mutters, more to himself than to Jim, but their grin only widens in response. Izzy’s cute when he’s being petulant, pouting like a child and grumbling irritably.

“Yeah?”

They see the moment Izzy picks up on the insinuation, eyes widening slightly. He’s almost certainly blushing under all the blood smeared across his face.

“Fuck you.”

Jim snorts, but they just tug Izzy towards them by his cravat and kiss him, unconcerned with the blood and grime that smears across their nose and cheeks and lips. It’s worth it to see the look on Izzy’s face when they break apart for air; Izzy’s never been one for public displays of affection, after all.

III. Frenchie

It’s not that Frenchie can’t fight. It’s very much that he doesn’t want to, which is why he happily volunteers to stay behind on The Revenge while the rest of the crew opts to board the obviously wayward ship.

He’s busy picking at his lute when Izzy seemingly appears out of nowhere, face a mess of blood and gunpowder. His lip is split, and his limp is more pronounced than Frenchie’s seen it in a long while.

Frenchie rushes forward, hands hesitating on either side of Izzy’s face a moment. His eyes must betray his alarm, because Izzy immediately says,

“It’s not mine.”

“You sure?” Frenchie asks, brows furrowed as he tries to take inventory of any damage, but it’s impossible to see anything under the thick layer of—Christ, is that a chunk of— He shakes his head, unwilling to think too hard on it. At least that isn’t Izzy’s.

Izzy runs his tongue over the cut on his lip and shrugs, “Maybe a little.”

“A little,” Frenchie echoes.

Izzy huffs at him.

“Alright, alright. That’s good, I guess?” Frenchie’s still, quite frankly, alarmed by the amount of blood. He’s not sure he can get past that.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Izzy reaches up with his sleeve—torn as it is—and wipes at the blood until there’s at least some skin showing through underneath. “Better?”

“Not really, no.”

Izzy growls something that sounds suspiciously like ‘fuck off’ as he moves to brush past Frenchie, but Frenchie grabs him by the elbow and turns him back around. Before he can think too hard about it, he leans inward and kisses Izzy, feeling him relax under his hold.

“C’mon,” Frenchie breathes when they break apart, “Let me look at that lip and your foot.”

“I need—”

“The Captains can handle it.”

Izzy eyes him for a moment then motions vaguely in the direction of the crew’s quarters.

Frenchie bites back a grin.

IV. Ivan & Fang

Fang spots him first. His eyes go wide, and he motions immediately to Ivan, who is quick to pick up on Fang’s concern. It’s not hard to pinpoint the cause, not when Izzy’s surrounded by three men with crimson streaking across his face. He looks borderline feral as he goads one of the men into attacking him.

With Ivan and Fang working together, it takes no time at all before they cut themselves a path to Izzy, who by now has somehow picked up a fourth enemy to antagonize.

“Really wish he wouldn’t do that,” Fang calls as he unloads his gun into the last man standing between them and the men crowding Izzy.

Ivan doesn’t answer, but the look he gives says it all. He couldn’t possibly agree more, but he knows it’s pointless to say anything to Izzy about it, so, instead, the two work together to call attention to themselves, making the fight close enough to fair that it only takes the three of them seconds to dispatch all four men. They take down another three as the fight comes to a close, the rest of the opposing crew—all four of them—have apparently chosen the smart route and have surrendered. Their bellies are to the ground, face pressed into the deck. It leaves Ivan and Fang with only one concern.

Fang crowds Izzy from the front, while Ivan moves in from the back. Their eyes are searching, looking for obvious tears in Izzy’s clothes.

“You alright, Boss?”

“Fine,” Izzy answers, a bit short.

“You don’t exactly look fine.”

Izzy’s face scrunches up, and he tries to shove past Fang. The larger man doesn’t let him go so easily, finds Izzy’s waist and hooks his arm around it so he can pull him backwards. Izzy flails dangerously, sword still in one hand, but Fang pays it no more mind than he had earlier.

“Easy, Boss, we just—”

“If you don’t let me go, I’ll fucking gut you, I swear—”

Rather than letting Izzy finish that particularly charming threat, Ivan decides the only thing to do about it is to silence Izzy entirely with a kiss. It works to also stun him, which leaves him quiet and subdued enough for Ivan and Fang to resume fussing over him.

“Would you two—it’s not even mine!” Izzy hisses. He reaches up to rub at his face with his ungloved hand. The attempt really only does so much, mostly spread the mess around more.

Fang turns Izzy in his hold, makes their First Mate face him, and uses his sleeve to clean the mess up enough that he’s satisfied by the lack of injury.

“See! Fucking—”

It’s Fang’s turn to cut Izzy off with a kiss, and he does so without hesitation.

V. Roach

Roach spots Izzy before Izzy spots Roach, and what a sight it is. There’s a grin on Izzy’s face, splitting crimson with bright white. His eyes are wild, hair completely disheveled. Blood runs down his jaw, matting his goatee, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. Not until Roach is suddenly standing right in front of him.

“Shit,” Izzy almost startles. Almost. He tries to wipe some of the blood away with his sleeve a second before Roach catches Izzy’s hand in one of his own,

“Don’t.”

Rather than letting Izzy answer, Roach surges closer, pressing his lips against Izzy’s in a bruising sort of kiss. Izzy answers it in stride, only pulling back when Roach does. Roach grins at him in the same, manic way that Izzy had been moments before,

“Beautiful.”

If Izzy turns red, it’s impossible to tell.

+1. Ed & Stede

Ed’s too far away when it happens, when the cutlass comes down over Stede’s shoulder. Ed calls out for him, tries to get him to turn around, but everything is chaos and noise. What’s one more shout among dozens? He runs, knowing full well that he’ll be too late, sees the whole thing play out before it even happens.

Except that Izzy is suddenly there, blocking the blow just as Stede jumps and turns into what would have certainly been a fatal hit.

Izzy doesn’t need but a second to slit the fucker’s throat, having gotten the jump on him, and that’s the thing about Izzy. He’s as fast as he is deadly, and he doesn’t take kindly to insults. Insults like an attempt on one of his Captains’ lives.

Stede inhales a sharp, startled sound. It’s inaudible to Ed’s ears, but he imagines it, knows exactly what it sounds like, and he can imagine the sorts of words that follow it up. Ones that are entirely too polite compared to what Ed would have to say if their situations were reversed.

He gets to Izzy first, sheerly by virtue of the fact that he’s closer, and Izzy is positively dripping with blood, from his hairline to his jaw and beyond. His clothes are probably soaking through now, and he’s seething. Probably pissed that the whole thing is over too soon.

Ed grabs him by his face, hands clamped down on either side of his jaw, and he pulls Izzy into a kiss that’s more teeth than anything else. He couldn’t care less about the copper that tinges his tongue. It doesn’t matter anymore than the blood that stains his beard.

Izzy goes pliant in his hold. All the murderous rage forgotten in an instant, and Ed softens the kiss before he feels something—or, rather, someone—tapping on his shoulder.

“If I may,” Stede says when Ed breaks the kiss to turn toward him. There’s a flash of that homicidal drive of Izzy’s at being interrupted, but it’s quickly forgotten when Stede takes Ed’s place, hands cradling Izzy’s face.

Later, Stede will regret the lack of hesitation on his part, but he’s too caught up in the moment now to care.

#steddyhands #blackhands #stizzy #ofmd #our flag means death #steddy hands #do any of the other ships have names?#lucius x izzy #frenchie x izzy #roach x izzy #jim x izzy #fang x ivan x izzy #blitzwrites #blitz

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