[There's a bottomless hole in Edward's chest, and it eats everything.
It razes through ships and ports, meat and moonshine, swallows pleading and devours every inch of ocean until there's nothing left. Until the fire starts to feel cold and the meat is tasteless and the violence makes him sick to his stomach. Even the grog, he thinks, taking another swig, is harder pressed to do it's job.
Even Izzy, by some miracle, avoided him for a week after he received the news. The crew all watched him with wary eyes when he finally emerged from the captain's quarters, hair tangled around his face like briar, black mask streaked, and held their breath waiting for him to explode. Blackbeard, on a timer. He can still feel it ticking down inside. He's more reckless, knowing it's there.
He's halfway gone when Stede steps out in front of him, and he has to assume it's his sick, substance riddled brain playing tricks. That doesn't make it any less of a gut punch. The gasp he emits into the cold night air would be embarrassing, but there's no one to hear it, because he can't be here there's no fucking way, and Blackbeard shutters his eyes and draws himself up as much as he can when his insides are sloshing about like heavy finery in ocean water.]
I'm not afraid of a ghost. Get fucked.
[Blackbeard is a coat that gets heavier to wear every day, but it's better than the chill that seeps down his back the longer he takes in the details he had forgotten, each styled curl of hair and soft line on Stede's face. All the parts that make a sum of a man who didn't want him, and didn't say goodbye. It hurts. He takes another drink.]
the temptation to just make this that one Korg line
It razes through ships and ports, meat and moonshine, swallows pleading and devours every inch of ocean until there's nothing left. Until the fire starts to feel cold and the meat is tasteless and the violence makes him sick to his stomach. Even the grog, he thinks, taking another swig, is harder pressed to do it's job.
Even Izzy, by some miracle, avoided him for a week after he received the news. The crew all watched him with wary eyes when he finally emerged from the captain's quarters, hair tangled around his face like briar, black mask streaked, and held their breath waiting for him to explode. Blackbeard, on a timer. He can still feel it ticking down inside. He's more reckless, knowing it's there.
He's halfway gone when Stede steps out in front of him, and he has to assume it's his sick, substance riddled brain playing tricks. That doesn't make it any less of a gut punch. The gasp he emits into the cold night air would be embarrassing, but there's no one to hear it, because he can't be here there's no fucking way, and Blackbeard shutters his eyes and draws himself up as much as he can when his insides are sloshing about like heavy finery in ocean water.]
I'm not afraid of a ghost. Get fucked.
[Blackbeard is a coat that gets heavier to wear every day, but it's better than the chill that seeps down his back the longer he takes in the details he had forgotten, each styled curl of hair and soft line on Stede's face. All the parts that make a sum of a man who didn't want him, and didn't say goodbye. It hurts. He takes another drink.]