#izzy has spoken

[officialkarinuzumaki]

NEW MCR POST!!! 🚨🚨🚨THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!!!!! 📢📢📢

What does it mean?

[msizzydizzy]

Marriage Anon saw Ask Me Anything and said “more like Ask 👏 Me 👏 Out.”

Get that bag Queen!

There's an urban legend out there about me having rizz, don't believe it!!! I need two shots of jagger meister before I can look at a woman without fainting!!!

[harrygoeswest]

Secret Santa

At your yearly Secret Santa draw at work, you draw Harry's name.

Terms and conditions (TWs): a lot bit sweet and a little bit spicy. Penetration not included.

Word Count: 7,999

A/N: Hello hellooooo. Look at me posting a Christmas fic on the 1st December! I've been feeling very Christmassy this year so if I can get my shit together there will hopefully be another, totally unrelated, one in a couple of weeks time. Love you all, and thank you for always coming back when I decide to post something <3

~~~

“Alright, everyone gather ‘round.”

I look up over the top of my cubicle to the common area. Charles, the office manager, is standing on the coffee table—that is unlikely to hold his weight for much longer—with a plastic bowl in hand and a cheap Santa hat on his big bald head. It’s not even the end of November yet.

And yes, we do have to call him Charles. Not Charlie, because ‘adding one extra syllable is stupid and unnecessary for a nickname’.

“It’s that time of year,” he says, grinning like a buffoon.

Trying to shove down my sigh, I push away from my desk and wander around the other cubicles to where the rest of the team is congregating by Charles.

“Are we all here?” he asks impatiently.

We’re not a very big office—ten of us total, including our illustrious leader, and a supervisor.

Looking around, it seems the supervisor himself is the only one missing.

Izzy, my partner in crime in this corporate hellhole, nudges my hip with her own from beside me. I bump her back.

“Are we doing secret Santa?” she asks.

“Certainly looks like it,” I mumble, and start picking at my nails.

“Why are we only nine,” Charles muses, doing another head count. “Oh—Harry! Come on!”

“Sorry!” Harry, the missing supervisor, calls back from some hidden place in the office. 

“Time is money, mate!”

I rub a hand down my face, failing to hide my weariness.

A second later, a lanky frame hurries to join the group, wearing form-fitting pressed grey trousers and a black cable knit jumper. Something is different about him where he stands a head above the rest of us. Something I’m trying to hide my shock at.

“Oh my God, Harry—,” Izzy blurts, “where’s your hair?!”

The group titters with laughter at Izzy’s shrill horror. Even I let out a snort.

Indeed, Harry’s once voluminous curls have been shorn to a neat buzz cut. Annoyingly, while I never would have pegged him as a sexy bald, he wears it well. What I’m struggling with is why he’d choose to do it in winter.

“I’ve made a hairshirt out of it,” he deadpans.

From the practical cricket noises following his declaration, I’ll assume no one in our office knows what the fuck a hairshirt is.

hair shirt

in American English

NOUN

1. a garment of coarse haircloth, worn next to the skin as a penance by ascetics and penitents

2. self-imposed punishment, suffering, sacrifice, or penance

“It’s now hanging pride of place in my lounge.” Charles grins. “Anyway, we’re doing secret Santa for our Christmas meal this year, which is on the fifteenth of December. Times are tight, I know,” spoken like a man who has never known what it’s like to be clawing his way to payday to make ends meet, “so the cap is a tenner. It’s just a bit of fun, alright? Let’s go.”

He holds the bowl out, and one by one we pluck out a folded scrap of paper. I’m not last, which means there’s still a selection of three by the time I get there. I pick one at random, sure to hate whoever I get.

I know I won’t be lucky enough to draw Izzy again like I did last year, but I suppose as long as I don’t get Charles, I’ll be satisfied.

HARRY

Motherfucker.

I’ve already started moving back to my desk so I can’t feign innocence and try and swap the name. The second-worst name I could’ve drawn—that of the supervisor. And a more-than-occasional object of my affection.

Is it inappropriate to have a crush on your supervisor? Not really. I’m sure lots of women fancy their seniors in the workplace. I’m all for women in senior positions, but there is something inherently attractive about men in power—not including Donald Trump. Ew. Add to the fact that said man is already hot shit and (I’m talking about Harry again), well, it’s a lost cause. Never mind the fact that we were both asked to interview for the supervisor role when the last one left and I turned it down.

Harry and I used to be cubicle neighbours who shared coffee breaks and threw scrunched-up notes to one another over the wall. Once we had a cat GIF email chain going that spanned 134 emails over twelve days. Now he sits at the other side of the floor in a private office where the door is always closed and we don’t make coffee for each other anymore. We definitely don’t send endless cat GIFs to one another.

I add the slip of paper with his name on it between a document I’ve finished with, and stick the whole thing in the shredder.

~

Later that afternoon, around three o’clock—when I hit a motivational wall and have to take a walk around the office for a change of scenery—I’m standing at the photocopier scanning an abhorrent amount of paper. I really wish the people who worked here could learn to be a little greener.

“So, who’d you get?”

I look up from my scanning to find Harry leaning over the printer, looking boyish and handsome all at the same time. There’s a delighted little gleam in his pretty green eyes, and I have to wonder when I last saw him looking so… mischievous.

“Wouldn’t telling you defeat the entire purpose of a secret Santa?” I retort.

“Yeah, but this is me. I can’t keep secrets and I’m bursting to tell someone mine.”

“Please don’t tell me who you have, Harry. Not again.” Because he told me who he’d drawn last year and then Izzy also let slip who she had as well, and by the end of the day I’d worked out who everyone had. “Also, if you’re so rubbish at keeping secrets, I’m definitely not telling you.”

He pouts. “You’re no fun anymore.”

I try not to let it show how much that comment bothers me. Especially that it came from him. “Apparently not.”

“Is it me?”

“No.” I say as calmly as I can manage. Of course he’d choose himself first, and the name I happen to have picked out.

“Izzy again?”

“No.”

Harry then proceeds to list off every name in the office, to which I pointedly reply with no, each and every time.

“But I’ve said everyone’s names.”

“Exactly.”

He sighs. “Fine. Do you know what you’re going to get for yours?”

“No.” And it was a painful truth. A year ago, if I’d have picked Harry’s name out I would have been over the damn moon. Now, it feels awkward and weird to be buying for the good-looking supervisor who used to be my friend. “Do you?”

“I have a few ideas for mine.” He grins.

Lucky for some.

“Well, that’s good,” I answer noncommittally.

I start to move away from him, but I’m stopped by a hand around my elbow.

“Hey,” he coaxes, and I meet his frowny gaze. “You good?”

If this were my friend of a year ago, I’d tell him it’s Friday, I’m bored and want to go to the pub to start my weekend early. But because he’s my supervisor now and I don’t know where to draw the line, I decide to keep the line very low and say, “All fine. Just tired.”

His frown doesn’t ease when I make a poor attempt at a smile. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, yeah?”

Nope. “Yeah, of course.”

“Alright,” he releases my arm. “Well, if you’re really stuck on what to get your secret Santa person, you could look in the magazine I’ve left on your desk.”

I raise a brow at him and he grins again, all white teeth and dimples.

Ugh.

“Is it inappropriate?” I ask, feeling nervous.

He feigns offence. “Of course not, that would be very wrong.”

I narrow my gaze but start to move back to my desk again. “Yes, it would. But I appreciate the help.”

“Any time!”

In my cubicle I find a company magazine on my desk, tabbed two-thirds of the way back. The page opens to a website specifically for Secret Santa gifts. With a sigh, I follow the link and start mindlessly scrolling through the options. There’s everything from oversized mugs to slippers and swear socks, whiskey cubes to coffee table books, candles and incense to bath sets and body creams. I am not short on options.

None of this really feels appropriate for Harry.

Still, since I’m bored out of my mind and have nothing better to do, I waste a good thirty minutes more scrolling mindlessly. Even though I’m struggling to find something for Harry, I do manage to find a present for Izzy—bed socks with cats all over them—and for my mother—a Lazy Susan.

I’m about to give up my search for something fun for Harry and think I’ll just stop by the crafty beer place down the road from my flat—he said he liked a certain one once—when I spot it: The Holy Grail of Secret Santa gifts.

I don’t even hesitate, adding it to my online basket before I can talk myself out of it. It’s only a couple of quid, so I can get him something else as well.

I spend the rest of the day feeling oddly smug, and when five o’clock rolls around I snatch my things up and head straight for the shop that sells the craft ale Harry likes. Then I walk to the pub to meet Izzy.

~

Our office Christmas meal is held in a tapas restaurant around the corner from the building we work in a couple of weeks later. I’ve never particularly cared where we eat—I’ll always find something—but I do struggle to marry up Spanish cuisine with the festive period. Apparently the general consensus was that no one really wanted a traditional Christmas dinner because they’d be getting that on the 25th December. I’ve always just thought of it as a roast dinner on acid but what do I know?

Our dress code for this year is ugly Christmas jumpers, so our table is crowded with colleagues wearing everything from traditional 70s muted-tone cable knits to Charles at the head of the table in a bright red jumper with a light-up Christmas tree on it. I do have a little giggle every time I look at him. It’s awful.

I’m somewhere in the middle of the long banquet-style table, sandwiched between Izzy and Craig, the new guy in marketing. He only started on Monday, has spent the entire week looking like a startled otter, and is already dangerously close to crossing the line from tipsy to drunk. He doesn’t look old enough to be tipsy but I keep that to myself. I’ve been subtly adding more food to his plate anytime it looks close to empty and I don’t know if he genuinely hasn’t noticed or is too polite to say anything because he just keeps on hoovering it up. Also, the dangerous thing about tapas is you always think you’ve eaten more than you actually have, and end up hungry again when you get home. Or, I do, anyway.

“Are we all about finished?” Charles’s voice booms from the end of the table.

There’s ten of us here in all, so his volume also attracts the attention of every other patron in the restaurant.

As if we’re not raucous enough already.

A chorus of mumbled yeses echoes around the table.

Charles claps his hands together. “Excellent! Harry, bring the bag.”

Pink-cheeked, Harry manoeuvres his way out of his seat directly opposite me—I’ve been avoiding looking at him for most of the night in favour of Izzy—and locates the bag with everyone’s Secret Santa gifts inside.

When we got here, Charles was waiting by the door with a large gift bag—you know the ones children get on Christmas morning? This one’s got Peppa Pig on it, which was comical in itself—that we were promptly instructed to leave our gifts inside as subtly as possible. 

Harry places Peppa Pig on Charles’s chair and waits like a faithful servant for his next instructions.

The next five minutes are spent watching Harry flit up and down either side of our long table as he drops presents into laps, a true Christmas elf. 

“Nicely wrapped,” he comments as he places mine in front of me.

I pull a face while Izzy chuckles beside me, and inspect it for a moment. It’s two presents taped together—one tiny and solid, no bigger than a credit card. Hey, wouldn’t that be a nice gift. The other is bigger and heavier—a cubic box. I desperately want to shake it but it feels like it could be breakable.

Izzy just has one—short and cylindrical and, again, heavy. But it’s slightly smaller than mine. I don’t know why that makes me smug. Bigger doesn’t always mean better. In most circumstances anyway. I’m not sure anyone has ever said that about a penis.

“Alright everyone,” Charles barks when the last gift is given out, “start unwrapping.”

A little shiver runs down my spine.

Here’s the thing about me—I love getting presents. Whoever decides to marry me one day needs to be a giver, because I get a little thrill any time I open up a gift. I think I’m equally as generous, but this is exciting for me.

What’s not exciting is that attention keeps flicking around the table. I don’t like being the centre of attention. A hard line to balance. Basically, I’m sitting here slowly picking apart my gifts while trying to keep the joyous little smile my lips are itching to make off my face.

I open the big present first, which seems to be the opposite of what everyone else does. I’m also trying to be subtle about watching Harry open his gifts.

God, this is torture.

The big present evokes a barking laugh out of me.

It’s well-known in the office that I’m a lover of Tesco, in any form. Primarily a Big Tesco or a Tesco Meal Deal. The big gift is a mug that just says ‘Tesco Value Secret Santa Mug’ in the supermarket’s old branding.

“Nice,” I mumble. I’m grinning like an idiot. I genuinely love that mug.

“Someone knows you well,” Izzy says with a nudge. 

She’s already opened her gift—a candle that apparently smells like mashed potato.

It’s disgusting.

“Someone doesn’t know you at all,” I say, nodding at the glass jar with a cork lid in front of her.

“Or they know me well enough to know I hate these candles and find it funny,” she retorts.

I snicker and pick open the wrapping on my smaller gift. I tug it out from the opened end, and with every new inch revealed, my mouth opens a little further.

I look up at Harry, whose expression is the mirror image of mine.

“You are joking,” Izzy says, and follows it up with a loud cackle.

~

Approximately 1 Year Earlier…

“Are you sure you don’t have me for Secret Santa?” Harry asks, pouting at me around the edge of our cubicles.

“Yes, Harry, I’m sure.”

I picked Izzy this year, who is the best person I could’ve possibly got as my favourite work colleague. Harry is a very close second, but I’d never tell him that.

“But you know who does have me,” he says matter of factly.

I do. In an office of ten people, I have managed to work out exactly who has who, only because Izzy told me who she has, and Harry has already told me he picked out the woman in Human Resources. I’ve deduced from there everyone else’s picks, including that I must be Charles’s. I suppress a shudder at the thought of what he might give me.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because I know what I want from them and I need you to subtly suggest it to them.”

“Oh, Jesus,” I mutter. “What is it?”

Harry rolls his chair around the cubicle partition, phone in hand. “Funny you should bring up Jesus, actually.”

He puts his phone on the desk in front of me, and at the same time he rests his chin on my shoulder.

He.

Rests.

His.

Chin.

On.

My.

Shoulder.

I try not to outwardly react to it, even though it’s setting off every single butterfly living in my stomach. I haven’t had sex in far too long if the simplest thing has me heating up this way

Christ.

Anyway, I finally look at Harry’s phone, and it makes me laugh.

Hysterically.

Honestly, I can’t stop.

I’m crying by the time I recover.

“Grow Your Own Jesus?” I sputter out, still tittering.

“Yeah!” He sits back and grins.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I kinda feel I’m lacking a little faith in my life.” He shrugs, but that toothy grin is still all there, along with his dimples and shiny green eyes.

How this man is single, I don’t know.

“Shut up, Harry.”

“Just drop a hint for us, yeah?” He starts rolling away, but not before he drops me a little wink.

A wink.

I’m in so much trouble.

~

I stare at the ‘Grow Your Own Jesus’ in my hands, then at the matching one in Harry’s.

“You remembered?” Harry asks, clearly fighting a smile himself.

“So did you,” I accuse.

“Well, I just kind of hoped if you didn’t want yours that I could have it.”

I gasp and hold the small cardboard box to my chest. “No. He’s mine.”

“Wait,” Craig pipes in from beside me, “did you two get the same thing?”

“They got each other the same thing,” Izzy corrects. “The same weird thing.”

“It’s an inside joke—you wouldn’t get it.” Harry pretends to flip his now non-existent hair.

Izzy sticks her tongue out at him.

“I’m going to grow him in my Tesco mug,” I decide.

Harry quips, “At work, I hope.”

“Obviously. Pride of place on my desk.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” he says proudly.

“And what about yours?”

“Oh,” Harry pats the box on the table, “he’s coming to bed with me.”

A laugh bubbles out of me.

“Ew.” Izzy’s nose wrinkles.

~

After dinner is settled, we head out of the restaurant and to a pub near Soho Square. A couple of people drop off and head home, but Craig is still soldiering on, bless him. He’s more stable when in motion than when stationary, and as soon as we find a group of tables together, we shove him in the corner.

Charles offers to buy a final round before he heads home for the night, and when Craig asks for another beer, I make sure Charles comes back with a non-alcoholic one.

“Why are you so protective over the new kid?” Harry asks as he sandwiches himself between me and another colleague.

“I’m not,” I retort. “I just don’t trust anyone else to look after him if he’s too plastered to get home by himself.”

“That still seems quite protective,” he argues.

“Well, put yourself in his shoes for a second. It’s your first real job, you’re young, you have one too many drinks on a night out with your new colleagues and you’re left to your own devices when everyone decides to call it a night. Maybe you take a walk along the river to sober up, and the next thing you know, you’re toppling over the wall and drowning in the Thames.”

We’re silent for a moment. Harry is just…staring at me, probably wondering where that came from. To be honest, so am I.

“That escalated quickly,” he says after a bit.

“But am I right?”

“I doubt it.”

“Ugh, go away.”

“I don’t want to go away.”

“Well, don’t ask stupid questions. We should be looking after him as the newbie. He won’t come back if we treat him like shit. You, as the supervisor, should recognise that.”

Harry lifts his hands in defence. “Alright. Point taken.”

“Are Mum and Dad fighting?” Craig asks loudly, sitting on the other side of Izzy now.

Izzy pats his arm. “I’ve heard Mum and Dad fight, Craigy-boy, and it doesn’t sound like this.”

“We’re not fighting,” I assure him, although I’m not sure how I feel about being referred to as Mum next to Harry’s Dad. “We’re having a discussion.”

“Sounds like you’re fighting,” Craig mutters and sinks further into the corner of the bench we’re crowded on.

 I take a sip of my drink just to keep my hands and mouth busy. Harry nudges me with his elbow, and when I meet his gaze he winks at me.

Winks.

At.

Me.

I’m not sure if the dreams that wink is sure to feature in will be welcomed, or if they’ll be nightmares.

Charles eventually calls it a night, with a shiver-inducing parting comment that he “needs to give his wife the good lovin’.” The rest of us thankfully don’t dissolve into chaos—I’m not drunk enough to be patient over making sure multiple people make it home alive and safe.

It’s only just gone midnight by the time I decide to call it quits. It seems no one else has been keeping an eye on Craig’s drinking habits, because the poor kid can barely stand or keep his eyes open.

“Alright, Craig, where’s home?” I ask as Izzy and I bundle his lanky frame into a particularly nice wool coat.

He mutters something inaudible and I let out an impatient sigh. “Say again?”

He repeats himself, and I think he says Lewisham. “Lewisham?” I clarify.

Craig nods.

“Couldn’t be a little closer, aye?” I grumble.

“You’re not taking him home, are you?” Harry asks, a little tug between his brow.

“I’m not leaving him by himself, H,” I remind him. “I wanted him to sober up and no one else listened, so yes, I’m going to make sure he gets home safe.”

“How? The tube is closed and the bus will take hours.”

“Well, I’ll just have to get an extortionate taxi and deal with it on Monday, won’t I?”

“Don’t you live in Tulse Hill?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Lewisham is farther out of the way than Tulse Hill.”

“Not really,” I argue.

“I’m coming with you.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t be daft.”

“I’m not being daft,” he insists. “By the time you manage to find a taxi willing to take you that far and actually get there, it’ll be close to two o’clock. And then you’ve got to get home from there. That’s pushing three in the morning. And while I admire your determination and independence and your incessant need to help the new kid, I am not willing to let you travel around London alone on a Friday night, whether you like it or not.”

We’re all quiet for a second—I actually think Craig is asleep on my shoulder now—and then Izzy very quietly whispers, “Damn.”

Sensing defeat, I release a pent up breath. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Harry concedes, “I’ll search for a taxi, shall I?”

“If you want,” I mutter.

We start walking, if only to find somewhere for Craig to sit down while he snoozes, and then say goodbye to Izzy, who’s boyfriend is waiting nearby to pick her up.

It’s cold and a little windy tonight. My cheeks feel frostbitten and my nose is painfully numb. I pull my woolly hat down lower to cover my ears and my scarf up higher to my nose, so all that’s visible is my eyes.

I catch Harry’s gaze, and he offers me a tentative smile. I smile back but I’m not sure if he can tell.

A taxi pulls up some minutes later, and we wake Craig up only so he can tell the driver his address. He falls straight back to sleep again, head pressed against the window.

I’m sandwiched in the middle back seat between the two men. Harry is somewhat bulkier than Craig. I can feel his thigh against mine. It’s warm, which is nice. I feel like I need the body heat.

The drive is relatively quiet, except Harry makes light conversation with the driver while I am also trying not to pass out on someone’s shoulder.

When we finally arrive at Craig’s house, the streets are eerily quiet. Harry makes me stay in the car while he wrangles Craig into his home. I move over into Craig’s vacated seat and watch out the window, a little entertained by the sight.

“Am I dropping you off somewhere else, love?” The taxi driver asks, breaking the quiet.

“Yes, it’s in Tulse Hill, is that okay?”

“No problem at all.”

“Do you know approximately how much it’ll be? And do you take card?”

“By the end of the journey, when I’ve dropped your friend off in Battersea, it’ll probably be over a hundred. But your mate has settled it already.”

“Wait, you’re taking Harry to Battersea?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I thought Harry lived in Brixton. Battersea is an even longer journey.

I rub my tired eyes.

Harry slides back into the backseat and eyes the empty middle seat now I’ve moved over, but he doesn’t say anything.

“When did you move to Battersea?” I ask quietly once the car is moving again.

Harry clears his throat, “Few months ago.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

He turns a look on me that I can’t decipher, so I decide to let it go. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.

We’re quiet again, and I decide this time around I hate the silence in the car. I hate that Harry and I don’t talk about our lives with each other anymore now that he’s in a more senior role. I hate that he doesn’t really feel like my friend anymore. And I especially hate that this is mostly my fault because I don’t know where the boundary line is.

I lean forward and ask the driver, “How long will it take to get from my house to Harry’s?”

I can feel Harry’s eyes on me but I ignore him.

“Another half an hour, probably?”

I can’t help it, I grind my teeth together as I slump back into my seat. I’ve been avoiding looking at the time, but I look now, and it’s nearly half-past two. 

My bones feel tired.

“It’s fine, you know,” Harry’s voice is like whiskey when he speaks, all low and honeyed.

“It’s not fine. You could be home and in bed by now.”

“So could you if you didn’t have the need to mother everyone.”

I don’t know what possesses me to do it—whether it’s the weariness or the level of alcohol in me—but I don’t retort with words.

I just stick my tongue out at him.

Harry laughs and shakes his head at me, turning that smile on his lap.

It’s that smile that forces me to say it, because no matter how much we bicker, I can never really be mad at him. “Why don’t you just stay at mine and go home in the morning when the tube is open again?”

His gaze snaps to me again. “Seriously?”

I don’t know where my confidence has come from. “Do you think I’d offer if I didn’t mean it?”

“But…your flat is tiny. Last I remember, you don’t even have a sofa.”

“I don’t,” I admit. “But I have a king bed. I can erect a pillow wall.”

He gives me a funny look. “I am not sober enough to listen to you use the word erect right now.”

I snort. “Seriously though. It’s so late and I’m tired and I don’t like this already, and for the sake of all our bank balances, just…just stay.”

He stares at me for a while. “I don’t have anything to wear to bed.”

I look at him, in his silly jumper and slacks and woolly hat. “I’ve got a big t-shirt I wear on my lazy days. You can borrow that.”

“How big?”

“Like, triple-XL.”

He purses his lips. “Maybe.”

“Come on, Harry. I’ll put it in the dryer real fast to warm it up, and I’ll even make you breakfast in the morning.”

His mouth twitches again, nostrils flaring as he wards off another smile. “Why are you pushing this so hard?”

“Because you didn’t have to come out all this way with me and you did it anyway.”

“Of course I did, I’m not leaving you alone with a drunk kid and a taxi driver.” He glances at the driver. “No offence, mate.”

“None taken,” he replies.

“Is there still a charge if we cut the journey short?” I ask him.

“No, you’re on a meter. If it helps make your decision any easier, I’m going home straight after this job.”

“See!” I gesture at the poor bloke in the front who we’ve subjected to this torture. “Let the man go home to his family, Harry.”

I can see the driver’s shoulders shaking, but he never says a peep.

“Alright, alright. Fine. I’ll stay at yours.”

“Good.”

Great.

Excellent.

Harry is staying the night at my place. 

In my bed.

I hope I didn’t leave the flat in a mess.

~

By the time we’re dropped off at my flat, I’m a practical zombie.

I let us inside, feet like lead, and Harry follows with just as much enthusiasm. Locking the door behind us, I dig through my drawers for the t-shirt I promised and toss it in the dryer for a few minutes. I clean my teeth, and then give Harry the t-shirt. While he changes in the bathroom, I quickly change into a matching festive jersey pyjama set. Feeling sexy is the last thing I’m trying to achieve. If anything, I just want to be warm—the flat is freezing.

Once changed, I set about making that pillow wall I promised.

When Harry emerges, I’m midway through taking my makeup off.

Looking at him, I can’t help but giggle.

“When you said you had a triple-XL t-shirt, I thought you just meant a plain one. Or, like, one with some generic wording on it. Not this,” he points at his chest.

I admire him in my pink t-shirt, which depicts Salem from Sabrina the Teenage Witch surrounded by cake and the words ‘I eat when I’m upset’. “I think pink suits you.”

Harry’s eyes narrow at me, and he moves around the bed to the side I’m not perched on. He studies my pillow wall for a while. “Do you think I’ve got the lurgy or something?”

“The lurgy?” I chortle. “No, I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I don’t think it’s me we need to worry about being uncomfortable here.”

“I’ll be fine,” I insist with a grin as I finish the last of my makeup removal, “as long as you stay on your side of the wall.”

“I would also be fine. I don’t think we need the wall at all.”

“And why is that?” I ask, tossing my used wipes in the small bin next to my bed. I slip under the covers, and Harry, with his hairy, toned legs, does the same. It’s still weird seeing him with a buzz cut.

“Because it’s half an inch tall. You couldn’t stop an ant from getting over it.”

I gasp, and reach over to smack his arm. “How dare you. Ants can vertically climb.”

“Are you sure?” Harry retaliates by smacking me too, except he completely misses and ends up whacking my boob instead.

“Ow.”

He’s already pulled his hand away and is covering his mouth, eyes wide with shock. “I’m so sorry.”

“You should be!” I hiss, rubbing the assaulted breast in question.

“I didn’t mean to. I was aiming for your arm.”

“Well, your aim is terrible.”

He rolls onto his side, giving me his best puppy dog eyes. “I really am sorry.”

“Sure you are.”

“I am! But this does prove my point that the wall is useless,” he reasons.

“Fine.” I snatch the cushion at the top of the pile and toss it at the foot of the bed. “Collapse the wall if you must.”

He grins, all pretty and green-eyed, and tugs the next pillow down the row up underneath his head. “Much better.”

Sighing, I say, “Go to sleep, Harry.”

“Yes, boss.”

I shut my eyes, burrowing into the pillows, and wait for sleep to claim me.

And I wait. 

And I wait.

Unfortunately, I am far too aware of Harry’s presence beside me.

I’m thinking about the fact that he’s currently wearing my favourite t-shirt and the shameful part of me probably won’t wash it for ages. Maybe an even worse part of me will put it on as soon as he leaves my flat tomorrow.

Fuck this crush.

Why did I think it would be a good idea to let him stay here? In my bed? In my t-shirt?

I really hate myself sometimes.

“I can hear your brain whirring,” Harry says into the silent space between us.

“It worked overtime today, the fans are cooling down.”

He snickers, and then it’s quiet again. “Can I tell you a secret?” He asks after another minute.

I open my eyes to find him watching me. It’s a little unnerving but I can’t say I hate the attention. “A secret?”

“Yeah. I haven’t told anyone yet.”

I study his face in the dark room. “Okay.”

He wets his lips with his tongue first. “I gave my notice today.”

“What? You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“End of January.”

I can’t be sure, but I think I might be about to enter crisis mode. Harry is leaving. Harry, who I’ve seen almost every day for three years, is leaving.

I let him tell me about this new job—how it’s the same position but more money in a bigger company with better benefits.

For a second I don’t know what to say, but I eventually manage to come up with, “Well, congratulations, H. Sounds amazing.”

“Thank you.” He smiles. “Are you going to miss me?”

I pretend to think about it. “No, probably not.”

He gasps. “How rude.”

I giggle. “Of course I’m going to miss you.” Probably too fucking much. Like, crying into my cornflakes every morning for the foreseeable future. That much.

“Good. I’m gonna miss you, too.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I have missed you.”

I frown. “What do you mean? We see each other everyday.”

“It’s not the same, though.”

I know what he means, but I’m too much of a wimp to admit it. Or maybe I just want to hear it come out of his mouth, because it’s been swirling around my head for months and months. “How?”

“We used to go out together, you know, me and you and Izzy and her bloke. We had a good friendship going, right? And I think I kind of fucked that up by taking that supervisor role this year.”

“Yeah, but your career is your career, Harry. You did what was right for you.”

“Maybe, but I still hated knowing I’d drawn a line somewhere.”

Funny. I thought I was the one who’d drawn the line. “Well, we’re not going to see you at all now.”

He frowns. “Don’t say that. We can still have Friday night pub time.”

“I’m not sure, H,” my tone is teasing, “you’re joining the big boys now. You’re more important than we are, you’ll forget about us in a month.”

“Don’t,” he whines, throwing me that puppy look again. “I won’t.”

“Sure.”

“I’d never forget you.”

“I’m sure you say that to all your old work friends. Soon it’ll be new ones with new pubs to visit on a Friday night, and we’ll just be a minor blip in your career path.”

“Stop iiiiit,” Harry growls, and the next thing I know, he’s reaching across the divide we made and wrapping himself around my waist, his face in my neck.

I don’t know how to immediately react, stunted into stiff silence.

“You are not a blip,” he insists, squeezing me closer to him.

“You say that now,” I mutter.

“You’re not,” he snaps, then a second later asks, “Why aren’t you hugging me back?”

Tentatively, I loop my arms around his shoulders. I don’t know where to put my hands initially, but one ends up on the back of his neck and the other between his shoulder blades.

“Better,” he says, face still shoved into my neck.

We’re back to silence again for a moment, but my mind is racing. This is not how I expected to end my night at all. Not with a man in my bed and definitely not hugging said man. Who I’ve happened to fancy for far too long.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s a good thing that Harry is leaving. Maybe now I can take time to get over the stupid crush I have on him and start behaving like a normal woman in her late twenties, rather than the perpetually single saddo that I’ve become.

Yes. I’m determined to turn it into a positive.

There will be no crying into my cornflakes.

“This is nice,” Harry whispers.

“Yeah,” is all I can come up with.

“You’re very comfortable.”

Seriously? I want to roll my eyes. “Thank you.”

“I don’t want to move.”

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. DON’T. PANIC. “You don’t have to.”

“Yeah?”

I swear there’s something blaring in my head. “Sure.”

With that ringing endorsement, he snuggles closer and pulls me flush against his front.

This is fine. Absolutely fine. Nothing to worry about here. No siree.

Except, then, his hand finds the back of my thigh, and he pulls it over his. With a pat for good measure, he lets out a satisfied sigh.

“This might be the most comfortable I’ve ever been.”

Great. “That’s nice,” I squeak.

And it is nice, in a way.

It’s nice to be held in the embrace of another warm body.

It’s nice not to spend the night alone.

It’s nice to feel someone else’s breath on my neck that isn’t just my own reverberating back into my face from my pillow.

The tantric tickle of Harry’s fingers on the back of my legs is nice, too.

Really nice.

It’s so nice, in fact, that I…

I fall asleep.

~

I wake up plastered to Harry’s chest. Harry’s chest, that is still covered in my favourite t-shirt. God, that’s pleasing.

It’ll smell like him now.

#winning

I think I’m the first one to rise, which means I have the opportunity to sneak off and start breakfast, but then I feel a warm palm against the skin of my lower back, circling, and I realise I’m not the first over the finish line into consciousness. I also feel a slight chill against my sternum and I think one of the buttons on my pyjama shirt might have popped open, which means there’s definitely the potential for a peep at some boobage.

“Morning sleeping beauty,” Harry’s voice sounds like gravel.

“Hi,” I choke out.

“Sleep well?”

I slept amazingly. Dare I say it’s the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. Maybe even months.

Fuck it, it’s the best sleep I’ve ever had.

But all I actually say is, “Yep. Did you?”

He hums, his hold on me tightening. “Like a baby.”

I like that far too much. “That’s good. How…did we get like this?”

“You on top of me?” He asks and gives me another squeeze. “No idea.”

“I am not on top of you.”

“You kind of are. But I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“You’re comfortable?”

“I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. It’s like when you have a cat on top of you—you don’t move the cat.”

I look up at him for the first time, then. He’s still sleepy-eyed, but he’s more awake than I am and he looks so soft, and so happy. “Do you need me to move, Harry?”

“Absolutely not.” He follows this comment up with a lazy grin that has my insides turning to mush. He’s always been a little bit infectious, like a good drug, and so I can’t help but smile back at him.

He lifts a hand to my face then, still holding my gaze, with his finger under my chin while he gingerly wipes his thumb in the corner of each of my eyes in turn. When I throw him a questioning look, he responds with a simple, “Eye goo.”

I want to be disgusted by that, but I’m not. Not in the slightest. If anything, it’s making this crush I was so determined to get rid of yesterday even worse. And, because I can’t help myself, I gingerly reach my hand up to his face and do the same thing, wiping the dried moisture from the corners of his eyes.

We stay like that, staring at each other with lingering touches on each other’s faces. I don’t know what we’re doing. I’m terrified and nervous and excited all at once.

My heart is telling me he’s into this the same way I am, but my head is telling me I’m overthinking it and it doesn’t mean anything.

Now, call me fucking crazy, but people who aren’t into each other don’t touch one another the way we are.

I tell my head to shut the fuck up.

Tipping my head back slightly, it causes Harry’s light grip to adjust, until his hand all but swallows my cheek.

He lowers his head, and I know, I just know I’m not imagining the pull between us anymore. My breathing becomes laboured, chest heaving with every inch his mouth gets closer to mine.

When our mouths meet I’m dizzy, but I hold onto the shred of sanity I have left, if only to enjoy the moment while it’s here.

It’s exploratory at first—a simple taste of one another. Harry’s mouth is soft and gentle. He takes his time, like he’s learning me. His hands are doing the same thing, cautiously roaming my face, my arms and my back.

I don’t know what to do with my hands, because I want to touch him everywhere. Start with his chest, and for the first time ever I wish for the absence of my damn t-shirt on him. Move to his arms just to trace the definition of his muscles and the lines of his strong veins.

He’s so…delicious. Always has been, hair or no. And the permission to touch him in any capacity has me feeling drunk. I feel more out of sorts now than I did last night.

Harry’s grip moves to the back of my legs, and he drags me over his body so that I’m straddling him.

The new position has trepidation rendering my limbs frozen, and I have to force myself to move, to keep touching him. I can feel his length between my legs—not completely hard but certainly working its way there.

“Is this okay?” Harry asks against my lips, voice hushed but still loud in the quiet room. His hands dance over my hips and thighs, like he wants to touch other places but is worried of crossing that line.

“Yes,” I breathe in answer. 

He resumes his ministrations, becoming braver now with the use of his mouth, and in turn I do too.

My hands finally slip underneath the cotton t-shirt to feel the taut skin of his abdomen, fingertips following every dip and curve. In return, Harry slides his up my shirt, taking the weight of my breasts in his hands.

“They’re so soft,” he comments, and for some reason I like that so much that I kiss him deeper.

Our tongues are involved now, licking and nipping and tasting the other where we can.

“I want to take your shirt off,” I admit.

“You mean your shirt?” He teases, and moves into a sitting position with absolutely no effort.

“Both,” I tell him.

He grins, kissing me again while I ease the cotton up his body, until we have to break apart so I can remove it completely. 

Harry’s body is…perfect. I knew it would be—toned lines, masculine, pronounced muscles. I want to lick it.

I’m kissing him again, if only to stop myself from lapping at his golden skin.

I’m kissing the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—ever known.

I can feel him toying with the buttons on my pyjama top, slowly coaxing each one free. When the last one is done, he slips the garment over my shoulders until we’re in matching states of undress. His large hands cup my boobs, thumbs rubbing against my nipples.

A sharp bolt of pleasure zips through me, straight to the pulsing core between my legs. With an involuntary rock of my hips, I moan into his mouth.

“Oh, shit,” he groans, “did you like that?”

I can only nod, and then whine when he does it again. Helpless to the taste of him, I loop my arms around his neck. Our bodies are flush together, tongues tangled, and my centre is lined up right over his cock. His cock that is now fully hard.

I start rocking my hips in a rhythm if only to find some friction for the need growing in my lower belly.

Harry’s grip moves from my tits to my arse, squeezing tightly and encouraging my movements. “If you keep doing that I’m going to embarrass myself and make a mess in my boxers, but I don’t want you to stop.”

“Please don’t make me stop,” I beg.

“You better not stop.”

So I don’t. I keep rocking, keep kissing, keep touching.

Every roll of my hips is ecstasy and I can feel the bubble growing inside me, pushing to the surface. The heat in my body expands, not just inside me but across my back and my arms and my chest. I haven’t had any physical contact for a while, and the intimacy of this, with Harry, is setting off every single one of my nerve endings.

“I want to see you come,” he tells me.

I grip the back of Harry’s neck, and for the first time since we started kissing, he moves his mouth. He kisses my cheek, then my neck, my throat, my chest, and then he finally pulls my nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking while squeezing my breast, and, well…

I go off.

My orgasm crests in the least subtle manner—loud and hard. My core is pulsing and my legs are shaking. My body is on fire—in fact, I’m sure I can feel a bead of sweat dripping between my cleavage.

Harry’s mouth is on mine again, warm and wet and sultry, and I cling to him like I’ve got nothing else in the world.

“You’re so pretty,” Harry whispers against my lips.

My face flushes, as if I’m not already burning up, but I still manage to say, “So are you.”

He kisses me hard but chaste. “I’ve wanted to see you like that for a while.”

“Like what?” I ask, still panting.

“Undone. By me, specifically.”

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. “What?”

He laughs, and his thumb strokes my cheek, “I’ve always thought you’re sexy as fuck.”

“No you haven’t.”

“I bloody have,” he insists. “I thought you knew that.”

I scoff. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, I’ll keep telling you until you believe me. Now, I’m pretty sure I was promised breakfast?”

I give him a questioning look. “But what about…you?” I ask, and throw a pointed look at the space where our crotches meet.

“I don't believe in transactional pleasure,” he tells me, then kisses me again. “I just hope we can do this again.”

“What, sleepover?”

He laughs. “Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. But I was also hoping there might be some dating involved.”

I gawk at him. “You want to date me?”

“Indefinitely.”

Well, shit.

[asgardian--angels]

Izzy Discourse Masterpost

Hey all, given the amount of awful splintering and wank happening in ofmd fandom rn regarding Izzy's death, including the flat-out immature and unacceptable harassment of David Jenkins and Co, I wanted to just make this one all-encompassing post to address the various grievances and complaints I've seen (almost entirely on Twitter). If I've missed anything, please feel free to add on. I'm putting most of this under a read-more for length.

Please be aware, I say all of this as an Izzy fan. I've loved his character since season 1, and while I was sad to see him go, I completely understand and support David & Co's reasons for concluding his arc, and I think it was done respectfully in a way fitting to his character. So let's break down some of the takes I've seen. I am not referencing specific posts or people here, I just want to address the general themes that I keep seeing about why some people are upset.

Izzy's death served no narrative purpose.

Look, this is one that I'm sure fans will debate for the rest of the hiatus. It's completely within your right to disagree with this writing choice, but Izzy's death did serve a narrative purpose in the story that David Jenkins is telling - and he has spoken to this end in several interviews already. I can only summarize here, and fans may find other perspectives in time as well. What we need to remember is that Our Flag Means Death is, at the end of the day, Ed and Stede's love story. That has been made abundantly, explicitly clear. The show has been fantastic at fleshing out the other supporting characters, but that's what they are - supporting characters. They often have their own subplots but ultimately the narrative seeks to move Ed and Stede's story forward and they are tools to spur Ed and Stede's growth or mirror their struggles. Izzy has been a wonderfully complex, multifaceted character but we must remember that all characters are vessels through which stories are told, lessons are imparted, and metaphors are established. He's not a real person who 'deserves' any particular fate. David said he's always intended for Izzy to die at the end of his arc.

Firstly, Izzy (now canonically, through his own dying words) represents part of Blackbeard. He enabled and encouraged Ed's darker side, they were mutually toxic forces to each other. Ed is attempting to cope with and move on from this phase of his life, and like Stede in season 1, set out a free man, unshackled by expectations and loose ends of those he's hurt and been hurt by (though we realize this is an ongoing process that takes time). This lovely gifset sums it up nicely, with Izzy being the Mary parallel, and making s2 mirror s1. Blackbeard is both Ed and Izzy; Ed cannot be free of Blackbeard while Izzy is in his life, and when Izzy is gone he will never truly be Blackbeard again. They are each other's rotting leg!! Yet, they love each other - and David has said that for Ed, this has developed into a mentor and father relationship, and where Ed has previously despised his father figures (his actual father, Hornigold) he does not want to lose Izzy. This time, Izzy brings out Ed, not Blackbeard - and that's where we get the callback to 'there he is', bringing their impact on each other full circle, freeing Ed, getting approval of sorts that he never had, to be soft, to be loved (and there are parallels to Zheng and Auntie here as well that others have made) from that force that drove him to stay in line all this time. David has said in multiple interviews now that he was going for the idea of the mentor/father figure dying and the hero living on and trying to do justice to them.

From Izzy's side, Izzy cannot be free while Edward remains either (Mary cannot find peace while Stede remains). The scar never truly healed, the leg will always be a reminder. At this point the argument becomes 'yes, but why did he have to die? Why not just sail off with the crew of the Revenge?' David has stated that he feels they've done everything they can with, and for, Izzy; he's come leagues from season 1, he's found community, he's found hope, he's found new parts of himself, and he's made good memories. He's found worth outside of what he can be to others. That's more than most pirates could hope for. Where would his character go from there, when the Golden Age of Piracy he belongs to has burned to the ground? Would he stay around and whittle on the Revenge? If he were a real person, yes, that would be lovely, and he'd deserve all the quiet peaceful happiness in the world. But as I explain several points below, he's not interested in being a captain. He's not up for the hard physical labor of regular crew, and he's extremely overqualified for that besides. He has served his narrative purpose, and symbolically, to enter a new age, everything must go. He's connected to the old age of piracy, to the Republic of Pirates, that is now demolished. To him, fighting for what he believes in, for the family he's found, bringing down an army of British twats in the process, is how he should go. It's a pirate's death, and as Izzy's said, he's a pirate - unlike Blackbeard who's succeeding in breaking away from piracy, Izzy never wanted to stop being a pirate, throughout his arc. To me, that's why Izzy remains trapped in the narrative, trapped in history, whereas Ed and Stede will escape history. They leave piracy, and canon, behind, while Izzy was content to remain a pirate and face a pirate's fate.

Burying him on land, right next to Ed and Stede's beach house, shows that his sacrifice was not in vain - they start this new life together, thanks to Izzy's mentorship, his role in their lives that sometimes for worse, sometimes for better, made their love what it was and made their breakaway possible. The new age is built on the foundations of the old age, and is stronger for it.

As we're well aware by now, David tweeted that there's no version of ofmd without Izzy. Whether that's literal or not, symbolically it's true. Izzy's arc of growth affected everyone on the Revenge. Jim fondly remembered fighting for a time when life meant something on that ship; the crew helped give Izzy new meaning in life, and he helped them in return. When he dies, they mourn and have a funeral; that wouldn't have happened under Blackbeard's watch in episode 2. His life meant something to them. He influenced Ed and Stede immensely, and they will take that with them. As David's said, they're all a family, and Izzy was a part of that family, and his loss unites them and brings them closer to continue to fight for that family they've built. It's a tragic, sudden death of someone they've all grown to care for, and that steels their reserve to keep the torch lit. They literally sail off into the sunset to hunt down Ricky to avenge Izzy; he will always be a part of this show. And, of course, with the brief appearance of seagull Buttons, the door is left open for anything.

If this was The Izzy Show, then sure, we'd be content to see him simply engaged in shenanigans every episode. But the plot, and therefore the characters, need to keep moving forward, and Izzy got his growth and development. He got what he needed for his character to have closure, and he served his symbolic narrative purpose in Ed's (and Stede's) story. You may have your own ideas and perspectives, and that's great - that's what fandom is for. But we cannot say his death was pointless when David Jenkins and the writers clearly had a well-defined motive for pushing the narrative in this direction. I actually think the narrative around Ed and Izzy is the most well-developed in the entire show. I for one am so happy we got such an interesting and complex character, and had the brilliant Con O'Neill to portray him.

Izzy's growth & healing arc was rendered pointless by his death.

As this post so eloquently puts it, it's pretty bleak to have the outlook that taking steps to heal and find meaning in life is worthless if it's later lost. Seeking happiness and self-actualization is worthwhile for its own sake; no one knows what's down the road, and we all die eventually. Find meaning in life now. Would you rather have had Izzy not miss with his bullet in ep2? He was given the chance to experience joy, freedom, and hope for the first time in potentially a long time, and when he died he did so with those happy memories. As mentioned, Izzy's death was decided long beforehand given the narrative, and the point of storytelling is to make you feel emotions. We were given impetus to connect and relate to Izzy's character through his process of healing, so when he did die, we felt it keenly. That's how stories work actually! We felt what Ed felt. It moved us. It's not a bad thing that Izzy's arc made him more likeable to fans before his death. It's not a bad thing to lose a beloved character - guess what, it happens constantly in stories - and it's not bad to grieve over it either, but to say that it made his journey pointless is just not true. People saying that Con must be upset that they snatched his character away from him after getting to develop him so much - again I say, would you rather him have died in ep 2 before he had the chance to grow? Or how about in s1, when the crew tried to mutiny? How'd you feel when Stede killed him in his dream, in the very first scene of the season? I think Con's probably glad for the opportunity to have explored this character so much in season 2. Ask him if he thinks it was pointless.

Killing off Izzy was bad for queer rep/burying your gays/"Izzy was the queer heart of the show"

I'm putting 'bury your gays' on the top shelf so people can't use it when it doesn't actually apply. Most of the main cast of characters in this show are queer, and it's a show about pirates with a good amount of violence. Ergo, chances are a queer character will die in the course of Things Happening In Stories. Izzy didn't die because he was queer, and he wasn't the token queer rep. Please turn your attention to the boatloads (literally) of queer characters that are happy and thriving (how about the LuPete wedding immediately afterwards??). As for Izzy being the "queer heart of the show," this is literally the Ed and Stede show. You know, the two queer leads whose queer love the show revolves around, per David Jenkins himself. I'm glad folks connected with and derived joy from Izzy's growth and especially his performance in Calypso's birthday, but he is not the main character of the show. The queer heart of the show is in fact, the entire show, all of their characters and the community & found family they create aboard the Revenge. Not to mention the fan community as well. Izzy was never carrying the show's representation on his back, and frankly that's an absurdly wild take to have (esp when he spent most of s1 actively working against the main queer relationships in the show, attempting to maintain the oppressive status quo of pirate society).

It was bad and irresponsible to have a suicidal character die

Are we forgetting the entire first half of the season where Ed, who was suicidal, kept trying to passively kill himself because he felt he was an unlovable monster, only to be shown that he is in fact loved unconditionally and it gives him the strength to fight for life and triumph against his own self-doubt? The show has spent quite a lot of effort telling viewers that despite feeling damaged or broken you are worthy of love and that you are loved even if it may be hard to see it when you're in a bad place. That you don't need to be fully healed to deserve love and care, and that love and support will help you along your journey. It's incredibly wild to disregard this major plot point and fundamental message of s2 to try and spin this the opposite way for Izzy's character.

Secondly, where are people getting 'Izzy is suicidal' from? Are we going back all the way to episode 2, when he's at his lowest point and fails at his suicide attempt, only to be figuratively reborn after removing the metaphorical rotten leg? By the time of the finale he's shown to be in a good place, thanks to the arc of healing and growth he's gotten, through the support of the Revenge crew and his 'breakup' with Blackbeard allowing him to find his own way in life, realizing he doesn't need a purpose to have value and enjoying his time on the Revenge and the bonds he's made with Stede and the crew. He is, in the words of Ivan, "the most open and available I've ever seen him" by the finale. To take episode 2 as evidence he's suicidal is to erase his whole season of growth, which is an ironic thing to do in the context of these arguments. There's no canon evidence Izzy Hands was suicidal post-'Fun and Games'.

As for 'irresponsible,' once again I say, David Jenkins is not your therapist, he's not 'Dad,' and has no responsibility to tell his story any other way than he intended to tell it. Please find media that gives you what you want or need, and if the death of a fictional character causes you this much distress please seek help. I mean this kindly but seriously.

Killing off Izzy was ableist/bad for disability rep.

I point once again to the rest of the characters, several of which are disabled in varied ways. There are literally multiple other amputee characters specifically. It's not good storytelling to wholly avoid killing off any character that is disabled/queer/poc/female or [insert marginalized group here], especially when a) it makes sense narratively, and b) there's plenty of representation of these groups in the media in question. The answer isn't making such characters invincible and immortal, it's increasing the number of these characters in shows so it's not devastating when some do die in the course of natural storytelling.

OFMD was my comfort show/safe space show, now it's ruined for me

I am not trying to be insensitive here when I say that's a problem that is yours and nobody else's. David Jenkins created this show with a three-season vision and a story in mind, and he is telling that story to the best of his ability the way he wants to. It's already been said that he and the crew did not anticipate the fandom becoming as large and passionate as it has. The plot of the show was never intended to be 'fan service,' and it's ironic that there were people complaining this season that there's been too many fanservice tropes, up until David and the rest of the writers room made a narrative decision they did not like, then the complaints changed to not coddling the fans enough.

We as viewers can derive joy from this show, it can be a comfort to us, it can be important to us. But it was not designed specifically for that purpose, therefore it cannot fail in that respect. We do not have the right to harass writers for not steering the ship in the direction we want - it's their work of art, and we can choose to either come along for the ride or not. It's rare to see creators actually given the chance to tell their story the way they intend (budget cuts aside), so let him do that. He should not cater to fans, or cave and change the story to appease us. Respect his right to create his art, and remember you have the right to create your own. That's what fanfiction is for - write fix-its to your heart's content, but keep these realms separate. David Jenkins and Co hold zero, and I mean zero, responsibility to you. He could not please everyone no matter what he did, it would be fruitless to try, and it would certainly compromise the quality of the story he set out to tell.

You are absolutely allowed to dislike choices made in any show. Curate your media experience. If this show no longer brings you joy, stop watching. But it was never David's purpose nor responsibility to juggle the mental health of millions of fans. Trying to put that on him will only make him less enthusiastic about interacting with fans or continuing to make this show. This isn't rocket science. You're responsible for yourself, not this guy you call 'Dad' that you've developed a parasocial-therapist relationship with.

Izzy should have become captain of the Revenge.

Really?? Firstly, we did actually get that already in s1. He was tyrannical and the crew mutinied. But even if you think 'well after his character arc he'd be better suited to it,' it goes against the point of this arc. He's found value in not having a distinct role or purpose on the ship, decoupling his worth from the job he's expected to perform. He's found his place amongst the crew, not commanding it. There's no narrative reason to put him in charge when he's expressed no further interest in slotting himself back into a role full of pressure and expectations.

Con O'Neill was only told halfway through filming, it's cruel to just kill off the character he loves so much.

Guys, he's an actor. More than that, an actor with a theater background. I think he's used to characters dying. You don't need to look out for him. Con and David spoke one on one about it at length so they were on the same page, and David even said that Con took it well. I'm sure Con had input, just as other members of the cast have influenced their characters' stories, costumes, backstories, etc. Do you really think David Jenkins hurt Con's feelings or something? The writers (remember, it's not just David, it's a whole team of hard-working people coming up with these ideas) gave Con such a chance to shine this season, really developing Izzy beyond what he was given in s1 and letting Con show off his full acting range. Why are you only focusing on the destination rather than the journey? Sure, Con's probably sad to see Izzy go, but please do not project your distress onto him or try and accuse David & Co of being 'cruel' to their cast. That's really ridiculous. It's constantly evident how close they all are.

More importantly, do you actually, seriously think that Con O'Neill would want fans to harass each other or the writers over his character? The man who preaches being kind above all? There is no better way to make an actor uncomfortable about a show and its fanbase than to start treating fictional characters like they're more important than real people. He would not want you to bully people over Izzy Hands, and it's mind-boggling that some of you have convinced yourself otherwise.

Lastly, I just want to talk about the fact that some people are holding OFMD to absurdly high expectations.

Our Flag Means Death has been a pioneer series for its diverse representation, earnest storytelling, and themes of hope, community, and love. It's fine to discuss aspects of the show with a critical eye, but so much of the discourse has truly felt like folks are trying to find fault in a show that is leagues ahead of the average tv series that we still enjoy. How many fan favorites are killed off all the time? How many plotlines are scrapped, or drawn out without closure, or contradicted the very next season? How many shows are indifferent or actively hostile towards their fanbase? How many have any queer characters, or actually do bury them? The bar's so low, and OFMD has risen above to give us so much. Some are holding the show to astronomical expectations, waiting for it to fall from the pedestal it's been placed on. If something you don't like happens in the show, it's not suddenly ruined or demoted to being ~just as bad as those other shows~. Give them some breathing room, have some perspective on how progressive the show is, and that perfection is impossible, especially meeting every single viewer's idea of it. This is basically a repeat of the recent Good Omens drama, with an absurd number of people harassing Neil Gaiman for breaking up Aziraphale and Crowley and leaving the second of three acts on a very predictable cliffhanger. Let stories be told, let them unfold as they may, and you are free to leave anytime. It's so wonderful that more queer love stories are becoming popular and even mainstream, but let's not shoot ourselves in the foot by tearing them down when they don't go exactly the way you want it, which often seems to mean no drama, no character deaths, and therefore no conflict or even plot!

Just, please be civil human beings, and while this seems to be a difficult thing for so many fandoms to do, just keep your fan opinions in the fan space. Never bring your grievances to the writers, never bully them and persecute them for telling a story that you opted into viewing. That's something that goes entirely against everything this show, and this cast and crew, have imparted onto us - the importance of kindness, support, community, and love. I'll say it again because it bears repeating: the fate of a fictional character is never more important than how you treat real people. Just be kind in real life, which includes the internet. Thanks.

Now please, let's work together to ensure we get a season 3. There's so much more story to be told, and if you want to see Izzy back, whether that's as flashbacks, as a ghost haunting the inn, or in the gravy basket, we'll need more episodes! #RenewAsACrew

[bowieandqueen11]

Love For You / Izzy Hands Imagine

Request: I just found your ao3 account a few days ago and your writing style is excellent! Legitimately some of the most visual and evocative writing I've seen on that website, and I've been devouring your izzy hands fics since I caught up on season two! Can I request another izzy x reader post-amputation and just the reader caring for him while he's pining hard? Maybe the reader has some medical experience so they've been able to help him a little better than the rest of the crew, making sure he's taking time to heal in a difficult moment (physically as well as emotionally, god knows he needs that.) Letting him know he's loved and him realizing he hasn't...heard someone say that to him or treat him this gently in a long time

Thank you so much that's so kind of you to say, it's so lovely people finding me from AO3!! Honestly one of the best feelings, and goodness knows Izzy needs this :)

Okay so I haven't been able to watch the new season so all my knowledge is coming from Tumblr gifs and posts, so I really hope this isn't too ooc my lovely!! Anyway let's get this man some comfort!

I spent all day writing this, so all comments are much appreciated! Thank you! :)

Warning: mentions of blood/injury, mentions of physical abuse, mention of smoking, kissing and some strong language!

(I do not own OFMD or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @goodsirs.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Something monstrous seemed to be creeping up the shuddering walls.

No, it wasn't the stifling silence that had seemed to envelop those of Blackbeard's crew still left, hiding their heads between their legs and closing their eyes as they felt the quicksand drain out through the fingers. Nor was it the creaking organ snore of Wee John thrumming up the timber; the rest of your usually upbeat crew grew despondent as they wracked their brains together and came up with a way to save you all from imminent demise, having flopped onto their sides and fallen into fitful sleeps just before sunset. Sadly it wasn't even the feel of Lucius' finger stroking yours through the cold grates of your jail, his smile lost and forlorn as he thumped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as well, feeling even more entrapped in himself than you did.

It was, in fact, the hard glare Izzy Hands was shooting into the side of your face. He hadn't spoken a word since Stede had left, choosing instead to let out the odd sniffle from his corner bucket and busy himself by watching you like a man possessed: like something wild, something smothering itself in the shadows to stop its howling heart from devouring the light around itself. From tearing his dagger out of his scabbard and devouring his heart himself with clawed hooks. He looked ghastly, and he looked gargantuan as the life seemed to convulse within him, leeching out and darting its tongue around the creaking wood until it filled up the room and began to fill your heart up with a hope you thought had been lost weeks ago.

He looked beautiful and proud and defeated and assured in spite of it all, and you were finally beginning to understand why Zheng Yi Sao had locked him away in this cage.

And in a way, it terrified you that this cataclysmic, lucent shadow was creeping its merry way straight for you.

The tenebrosity was quickly broken by Izzy's shining eyes gliding across the bridge of your nose to land instead on your top lip. He wasn't entirely sure why exactly he was feeling so timid. It wasn't as if Frenchie was still awake, as he was too busy hugging his free arm around the remaining muscle of Izzy's thigh and burying his head into the muscle with a soft murmur of contentment. Yet the idea of being caught leering at you like a dopey boy was enough to make him judder with embarrassment, and enough to send Frenchie's head keeling sideways so his lips were rammed up against his trousers.

Thankfully, it was exactly Frenchie's floppy head that gave away the fact that he was fast asleep, and allowed you to steal Izzy away for yourself. With a gentle lift, you were quick to replace your friend's cheek with your own hand, giving the side of Izzy's thigh a reassuring squeeze.

'You look like you're bearing the weight of the world on your shoulders', you sighed as you took in Izzy's harrowing form. It wasn't his paleness that worried you, or the redness that cracked and splintered around his irises. It was the way he was watching you, eyes trained steadily on your face for the last hour and a half, as if he were doing his best to memorise everything he could before he ran out of time. As if he would never have the chance to look at you again.

The edges of his lips curled up, and he thumped his head back against the wall. 'Me? I'm feeling fucking fantastic. Never been better. Why do you ask?'

'Well', you began as softly as you could, straining to reach the vials in your hip knapsack to retrieve some salve for the scarring that had begun to pucker around his skin. 'We are about to be executed. I guess I just wanted you to know this is a safe space to let it all out before we are. A confessional of sorts, if a little makeshift.'

He wet his bottom lip as his eyes darted down to you, confused.

You pointedly looked him in the eyes, before unscrewing the vial and dipping your pointer finger in. Making sure he didn't seem too uncomfortable, you leant forwards as innocuously as you could, trying not to startle him anymore than he already had been. With a swipe, you began to rub the herb mixture around the sore looking welts left around his cut leg, making a point to run your fingertips soothingly over the goose-bumps that began to rise at the feel of you against him.

'I wanted you to know- to know that you're always safe around your crew.' You did your best not to let your voice tremble, no matter how much your throat tried to choke you. You turned your head back down to his leg, trying to hide the fact that your mouth was crumpling in on itself.

He winced as your hand brushed against a tender point, and you ran the back of your knuckles over his skin in apology. He felt like he was burning alive: a fire blazing so furiously in the pit of his stomach he was sure it was gushing out, swinging around the room and warning everyone of his impending falter as he fell upon the crags of your fingers below. He had no idea how, in all the seas, you couldn't possibly see how ecstatically devastated he was to be sitting here with you.

He didn't mind dying. He wasn't scared of it. As long as you were there to enhalo his misty light in the end. As long as you were there to love him until his last breath. As long as, no matter what form he took, you were still enclosed around his heart.

'Who says I have anything to confess?', he glanced at you with heavy eyelashes, eyes bleary but sharp as he started straight into your soul. I don't have to confess it, he thought, it's so fucking painfully obvious.

How could he confess something so inexplicable? Something that wrapped around all of his bones, that wormed its way into parts of himself he thought long numb: long lost. How could someone ever articulate the feeling of life itself? It was insurmountable, far too transcendent, too impetuous for mortals to to unsnarl into words.

'Oh Izzy', you said, mouth falling into a frown at the way his hips reflexively bucked up at the feel of a new cream being slathered around his leg to try and numb the pain. He moaned, trying to mask the sound by clenching his fist into his mouth and biting desperately into his knuckles. One more touch, and he was about to fall apart. 'Your eyes are drowning in so many regrets I can barely see the stars in them anymore.'

He huffed out a laugh, looking at you with incredulous, wild eyes. He willed his hand to stop shaking as he let it rest, still clenched, by his quivering chin. 'Not in my eyes. You never could. That's not possible. Not me.'

'I could.' You were quick to reply. 'I always could. You're our guiding light, Israel Hands.'

Oh boy, if he wasn't devastated before he sure was now. His face fell immediately, and for a moment you felt your heart ache with a sore regret at the silvery tears that began to cloud in the crinkles of his eyes. But then he does something that surprised even you.

The way he opened his legs up was almost miniscule: too small for anyone who didn't know this man's quirks and intricacies and giveaways to notice, but a well aimed shot that sent a rush of heat prickling up your cheeks. Before he changed his mind and retreated into himself again, you were quick to scoot your backside over and come to rest far too intimately between the tightening leather of his inner thighs.

'You can't be surprised that we care about you', he started after a moment of comfortable silence, leaning the side of your head to rest gingerly on his intact leg. 'That the whole crew has always cared about you. Look, someone even got you a mop-', you gestured to his side, trying to make him laugh before the sun rises, and thankfully you succeeded.

He shook his head out as if trying to refocus himself as his chuckle died out in his chest. He didn't want to laugh right now. He wanted to focus on the weight on his leg: on the feel of your nose brushing on the length of seam running up to his groin. He blinked back heavy tears that spread along his lashes, sniffling coarsely. He probably should laugh, he thought. He should be fucking howling, spitting, going rabid at the irony that the one thing he had been yearning his whole life was lying right there on his lap, and he only had a few hours left in his pathetic life to savour it.

'How are you doing, by the way? Seriously', you jolt your head up to watch him quizzically. He did his best not to meet your eye, choosing instead to stare at the black grains above Jim's slumped head. 'After, you know, everything that happened with Ed-'

'You don't need to worry about me', he sniffed, but his hand twitched as he lifted it up to rest on his thigh, just above the top of your head. 'It's my job to worry about all of you. Not the other way round.'

'When are you going to get it through your thick skull that we want to worry about you. This isn't some kind of weird mandate or self-preservation tactic on our part Izzy. You may be a fucking idiot, but you're our fucking idiot. Let us take care of you too, like you've been looking out for us.'

He squeezed his eyes shut, his head beginning to shake furiously enough to send his stray silver locks clambering over his eyes. He was glad for their cover, so he wouldn't have to see the way you had lurched forward: the way you were pleading with him with your eyes, as you rose onto your knees and pressed your hands firmly around his waist, just where the joint of his legs met the soft squish of his tummy.

'Don't you shake your head at me. We all know you've been trying to direct Blackbeard's anger your way. We do!' You cocked your head, trying to follow his face as he squirmed in your grasp. Losing your patience, you gripped his jaw with your thumb and pointer finger, directing Izzy's widening eyes back your way. 'We do, Izzy. We know what you've been doing for us. What you've been sacrificing. And I'm sorry - I'm sorry that none of this is fair. I'm sorry that any of this happened at all.'

One. Two. You tapped your finger a third time, your fingernail swirling over the fine nuances of the holster running over his sawed leg.

It had always been your little secret: a shared confidence, between you and Izzy. One tap. Two. Three on each other's arms after battles, three taps there on your shoulder before you went down to your bunk, three fleeting touches burning at the back of his spine to let him know that you were alright: to let him know that he was alright.

You only stopped when you heard a brisk inhale: a sharp whistle that broke through your indulgent repose and made Roach roll over. Thankfully, a moment later, the cook's arm was splayed out across the floor again, and his leg kicked out backwards with a swift jolt up poor Button's behind. Izzy, though. Izzy, despite the surprising tenderness of the moment, was almost smouldering. The muscle by the side of his femur began to writhe underneath just the point of your fingertip, the feeling of just your warmth making him feel too feeble. Too needy to even control the rest of his body; he desperately tried to reach out a hand to shove your shoulder back and push you away, but his mind was too busy swimming with the concentration of trying to remember how to inhale.

The sharp breaths he dragged in painfully were starting to worry you, as were the wracks of his spine as he seemed to writhe backwards and forwards, back arching off the wall before collapsing back down on itself painfully again.

He felt your hand clench around his back, guiding him to sit still again. You were close, far too close - your noses almost touching, as you took a risk and used your free hand to slowly.... god, so fucking slowly he felt like he was going to split in half. He looked like a wounded animal: something terrified of being hurt as his eyes stayed trained on your approaching fingers, face wary until your fingertips touched his hair and tucked it behind his ear.

And then he felt that warmth. That warmth against the shell of his ear. He bit down hard enough on his lip to draw blood, and for once, he was glad for the taste. It was comforting. Familiar. Deserved. He wasn't one for the fucking heartache of tenderness. And god, how his heart ached.

'Come on,' you nestled yourself between his legs again and perched your elbow up on his left leg. 'People must have cared about you before. Might as well get it all out in the open. Be honest with each other now.'

He paused, before the stubbornness wormed its way in again. 'No, they haven't-'

'Well, what about your parents? Your parents must have been kind. Besides, the crew obviously cares about you. I obviously care about you. Stop being so pig-headed.''

He startled you with a laugh: he seemed to choke on it, his teeth baring as he barked it out, yet he still couldn't seem to look at you quite yet. That's alright. You had an eternity left in these few hours.

Kindness?

He couldn't remember a time before joining Stede's crew that he had ever felt such a thing, let alone let it fester in the crevices of his ribcage until he felt the dreaded thing was going to claw its way out. Perhaps, if he let himself fester in the silence for a moment, an image of his mother would squirm its way out of his long repressed memories. Clawing and scratching and digging her pointed nails to dig her way out. No, his mother had never offered him a jot of comfort. She could stay buried in that coffin he had stuffed her down into, instead of rotting inside of him. He had enough barnacles to scrape off his body as it was.

It wasn't as if he had any surprisingly sweet memories of his life before. His mother had never been one for grace: her words always bit at his brain like a frenzied tempest, his actions never good enough. Once, when he was six years old, he had tottered up before the sun rose and followed his older brother down to the docks, trying to please his mother. Even so young, he had spent most of his years yearning to be seen as anything but the 'nuisance' or 'pest' his mother used to spit at his feet, and yearned to return with a line full of fish to please her. To help her with the chores that she always yammered his father had left her to rot with. Had left him. That he rotted away her youth. When he came slinking into the doorway, a nervous smile twitching at his ruddy cheeks, his mother had taken one look at the muddy, damp fringes of his trousers and had slapped him clean across the face for his troubles.

Another part of him remembered her warmth. The same that radiated off your palm as you spread your fingers across his knee; the way she would sometimes scutter into his bed at night, and he could smell the harsh sting of alcohol on her breath as she curled up and hugged him close against her chest. Of the way she would sometimes let him sit on her knee once the three of them had returned home after service, and she would brush back his growing hair and he would curl himself up to chase the stray ray of sunlight that glowed against her neck.

It had left him a Gordian mess of a man. Simultaneously spending his life seeking any kind of validation, any kind of affection, while his stubborn self-preservation did its best to push everyone away.And yet here you came, watching him with those sweet, sad eyes. Swinging the sword to undo him.

'I don't remember much about them', he replied curtly, but not unkindly. 'My father left us when I was young. I was... mainly left to my own devices.'

You nod slowly, letting his words thinking in. Letting the misery drenching every seething heave of his tongue wash over your head. 'Well', you began to rub your thumb in circles against his trousers, 'at least you have us here now. One good thing to add to the pile.'

There we go. The knot's slowly being undone.

You tried to smile, but the intensity of his gaze falling on you again unsettled you.

'You're right.' His voice was far too earnest for his own good. 'I have had one good thing in my life. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.'

You nearly jolted when you felt his hand smack down on top of yours. He had closed his eyes to try and hide himself from his discomfort, but his gloved fingers still slid between yours and squeezed despite himself. Once he was assured they were firmly intertwined: his own grasping tight enough to bust the leather at the stitching, he dared himself to finish his train of thought before he lost his nerve.

'I do... I do care about the crew. None of this was their fault, and they shouldn't have been fucking blamed for it. But I- I, I care about someone else far more than all of this twatty lot put together.'

It's a whisper into the darkness. A despairing yell of defiance against the solitude. A smothered light, long lingering and far longer forgotten. A spark of hope against the threat of ruination. It was a silver tear, glinting like starlight against his iris and falling with a content plop onto the back of your hand.

'I-I-', he stuttered out, clenching his teeth as he wills himself not to cry. 'I-'

The words refused to unlatch from his throat. Luckily, you were adept enough to notice the longing that drew a sad ache across his face.

'Izzy, I-'

'Let me finish', he stumbled out, his whole face now contorting as he struggled with the weight of it all. His bottom lip began to wobble against his will, face falling in on itself.

'I have-I have... love. For you. 'What I'm trying to say is'-, he shakes his head, chiding himself.

'Izzy, I know, it's alright. I know. I understand.' You grabbed tighter onto the back of your hand, enveloping it with your free one until his stopped shaking, begging him to realise you could see him.

'No-. No. If I don't say it now, I'm worried I never will.'

'Take your time, take your time. We have all the time in the world'. A sob finally gasped out from Izzy, chest heaving as he felt you draw his hands up towards your mouth. Still safe. Still warm. Still firmly cupped between your own, but the feel of your lips brushing against his knuckles was enough to send him reeling. The gentle peck that followed, though, was enough to finally let him break free.

A tentative finger reached out, checking for any signs of repulsion before landing awkwardly to point into the blade of your shoulder. He seemed to freeze: immobile marble frozen in fear as he seemed unaware as to what to next. After a few wary blinks, he clumsily spent a few seconds trying to manoeuvre the rest of his arm to cross across your back, before tugging your torso to lean closer towards him.

For a moment, it finally seems as if the world has skittered upright on his axis again. It felt normal. It felt right, feeling him grow comfortable with affection again as he melted, for the second time that week, into your hug. For his sake, as he burrowed his head into the pulse point of your neck until his stubble began to tickle your collar bone, you pretended not to hear the maimed whimpers that struggled past his closed lips.

The only time he moved was to raise his head up towards your nose, bumping it playfully against the tip of your own. Then another graze. A rub, and then another one, his eyes the whole time languidly drawn down to stare at your cupid's bow, until he slowly brought himself down to breathe unsteadily against your mouth. After a final moment of contemplation, he blinked placidly before closing his eyes and tilting his head to close the miniscule distance between the two of you.

His jaw was tense as you ran your finger down it, so busy trying to commit to his memory the pressure of your lips against his bottom one that he was forgetting to breath. But he didn't pull away. In fact, his hand clamped around your neck, digging almost painfully into your back as he stumblingly latched onto you, forcing himself further against your opening mouth. His hand found solace by cupping the back of your skull, chest squeezed against your breasts as he opened his lips and almost devoured you whole.

A loud 'awww!' erupted from your side, making the two of you jolt apart. The only problem was, Izzy's bottom lip had been rather firmly attached to yours. This meant that as you drew back, Izzy, in his stubborn unwillingness to let you go, let his bottom lip drag down along your inner mouth until a line of saliva connected your bottom lips, which only made the person the other side of the brig giggle even louder.

'You guys are cute', Black Pete yawned with a wakening stretch.

'Yes!', Roach chimed in as he teddy bear rolled his lanky legs round in front of him. 'I swear!', he continues, ostentatiously wiping his finger underneath his eye, 'I must be crying! I'm two seconds away from going up there and commencing our escape myself.'

With a tilt of your head that hit Izzy's chin, you looked at the cook incredulously. Izzy only gazed down at you past the crook of his nose, wonderstruck as the he let the words wash over his head.

'You. You really think you can take on all those very competent pirates up there.'

'Of course!'

'You cried for twenty minutes earlier about soup!'

Roach waved his hand unconvincingly in front of his face. 'Broth, it was broth! But I'm great with knives, remember! I have one hidden in my underwear right now!'

'Why... why is it in your underwear?', Oluwande piped in as he rested his head on the side of a barrel.

'Yeah, you weren't captured', Archie added, shuffling her own head off Jim's shoulder to look out past the bars. 'Why isn't it, I don't know, in your pocket or something.'

Even though Roach has opened his mouth to answer, his train of thought is broken by the tired grumble of another one of your friends. 'I hate to admit it, but that was actually very sweet', Lucius chimed in, twisting his lips into a shit-eating grin as he eyed the both of you up, another cigarette now firmly tucked in and freshly lit between his fingers as he took a drag.

'Is everyone on this fucking boat awake?!', Izzy cried, wrapping a hand protectively around your shoulder joint.

You snorted, burying your head protectively against the soft skin of his bellybutton. The sound of the crew beginning to argue with an increasingly impatient Izzy was like music to your ears; the monster was beginning to retreat.

No longer did it hang and shake and pierce the walls with its talons until it bled umbras. It retreated: chased away by the comely love of your crew. Of your family. Of the man who held you protectively against him, blinding you with his tender love.

[blakbonnet]

I do wanna be clear that Stede was fucked after that first kill and we see from Izzy and Ed's reactions that you have to be a true maniac (Ned, the English) to enjoy it but the second one comes a lot more naturally to him, and that is partly tied with the applause he gets and partly with the last few months having shown him that killing is a necessary part of the world of piracy he so idealises. It's not ooc for stede to kill and to kinda be swept up in the fame of it all - it's how Ricky got inside his circle too. Stede is very prone to flattery, it doesn't even have to be the good kind. It's his growth as a character, the next stage for him to know to pick his enemies, and what he's wanted all along is to be taken seriously in this world. This man has never had a kind word spoken to him most of his life, of course he wants the infamy and the emotional riches of people patting him on the back and having his face tattooed on their bodies. Of course he wants to be a proper pirate, he's always said that, we've always known that.

[jaskierx]

i am absolutely sick of people minimising certain characters' and actors' disabilities and acting like they're the sole arbiter of who is 'disabled enough' to count.

lucius, jackie, and izzy have all experienced amputation and use prosthetics. you don't get to decide which of them count as disabled. you don't get to make it into a debate over who has it worst.

pete has a speech impediment and facial scarring. his actor, an actual real human being, has a speech impediment and facial scarring. matt maher has spoken publicly about how this has affected his career.

it is ableist to act as if lucius and jackie's disabilities are trivial or non-existent. it is incredibly fucking ableist to minimise matt maher's real life disability. it is absolutely ridiculous to do this just because you want your blorbo to win the 'most disabled' competition you've entered him into for some reason

[marksbear]

MULTI FANDOM MALE READER SCENARIOS 

It’s been a while since I done one of these, but I think it’ll be good for me to practice more at writing different characters and such so enjoy!

The fact is I had more tags to share 😭

-Miguel O’Hara biting your neck harshly to get your attention when he feeling jealous. Or marking you as his.

-Izzy Hands always lightly taking your hand and helping you either up the steps or down the steps. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it most time. Everyone in the ship always notices it but doesn’t say anything.

^^Ofmd

-Bob taking off his glasses and putting them on you then starts to compliment you how good and cute you look.

^^Top gun!

-Matt Murdock tracing your face in morning when he thinks your still sleep. He also traces your face anytime your two are arguing because he wants to see your emotions.

^^Marvel

-You and The Corinthian driving around during late nights with his hand on your thigh as he drives you around.

^^DC

-Tony stark buying you whatever you want or even dream of. It can be jewelry all the way to new houses and cars.

^^Marvel

-Bruce Wayne and you being a power couple throughout Gotham. Lots of magazines and headline about you two.

^^DC

-Teaching Adam Warlock about feelings about like having a crush or being in love.

^^Marvel

-You and Doom head being an unstoppable duo anytime you two are paired up in a game.

^^Rob Zombie movie 31

-You and Richard Madden making fun of each other accents in interviews for the newest movie you two are in.

^^Actor

-You and Hobie Brown making out in a middle of Miguel’s rant.

^^Marvel

-Homelander wrapping his arms around you as you two makeout and he slowly rises from the ground bringing you in the air with him.

^^The Boys

-You we’re very close with Love to the point all lot of people thought you two were dating. Joe was furious so he started to stalk you planing to murder, but all that stalking for weeks slowly became to months and he slowly started to catch feelings.

^^YOU

-Benedict Bridgeton being so in love with you, but he so scared that his family would disown him as well as everyone around town.

^^Bridgeton

-You and Benedict sneaking off during ball’s and random events to be with each other alone.

^^Bridgeton

-Imagine sitting down in the bleachers waiting for Mark to be done with his track meet.

^^Author/ Me

-Playing with Dutch Van der linde hair during a camp meeting and he tries to stay focus but he can’t.

^^RD2

-You and Larry smoking as you two listen to Sal play the guitar.

^^Sally Face

-Ted feeling ashamed after he realized that he caugt feelings for you even though your a player.

^^Ted Lasso

-When Dean first met you y’all both were very young. You were reckless and carefree while Dean was taking care of Sam and brought him along while you two hanged out. And he caught feelings, but he was confused about why he had feelings for a man so he kept it to himself.

^^SPN

-Helping Mark walk without his leg brace or crutches.

^^Author/Me

-Stu Marcher giving you neck kisses in the middle of class. And most of the time teachers sees him and gives you both detention.

^^Slashers

-Hannibal Lecter leaving bite marks all over your neck and shoulders.

^^Slashers

-Roy Kent being soft spoken and quiet anytime he’s with you.

^^Ted Lasso

-Larry Trainor slowly warmed up to you being his boyfriend so he lets you touch his skin underneath the bandages.

^^DC

-Anytime before a fight Arthur asks you to hold his hands. He says it’s for a good luck, but he’s just really stressed and tense.

^^Peaky blinders

-Steven Grant still being so shy and quiet with you even though you two has been dating for years.

^^Marvel

-Bringing Namor gifts like flowers, jewelry and even little things like a picture of yourself or a padlock necklace. He cherishes all of them and keeps them safe.

^^Marvel

-Meeting Namor on the beach at night almost every night.

^^Marvel

-Bobby and Athena inviting you into their relationship. They both didn’t cheat on each other to find about their feelings for you they just kinda knew one day and talked it out and for a while and a lot of thought they asked would you be willing to date them.

^^9-1-1

-Being a rich man while Steven is your trophy husband.

^^Marvel

-Dying your hair with mark.

^^Author/Me

-Watching Mark stay up all night writing just for him to randomly stop to watch a movie.

^^Author/Me

-Lee and Maren catching you eating a person right in the middle of a dark and empty road.

^^Bones and All

-Being a different love interest for Elio and being heartbroken once he chose Oliver over you.

^^Call me by your name

-Imagine rejecting Derek Shepheard after finding out he has a wife.

^^Greys anatomy 

-Rue hugging and crying on you tight after she relapsed.And you being her favorite person ever since what happened with Jules and Elliot.

^^Euphoria

-Being a father figure to Rue.

^^Euphoria

-Imagine being Maddy Perez brother and finding out Nate pulled a gun on her so you pulled up to his house barged in and looked for him and beat the shit out of him.

^^Euphoria

-Billy Hargrove acting like he hates the nickname “Curls.” Or “Curly.” But when you say it he loves it.

^^Stranger things

THE END

[biceratops7]

*Wakes up in a cold sweat*

Ed and Stede give eachother exactly what they need. It’s the way Ed looks at Stede and the way Stede says Ed’s name. They share these rituals together in a way neither dreamed possible.

There is a running visual motif of Stede being looked at. In these moments we’re placed (literally, talking about the camera here) in his point of view, where we can feel how… confronting it all is for him. His father glaring down at him with dissatisfaction that’s long since boiled into anger. His wife staring at him in an awkward silence like the frustration of being lost in emotional translation isn’t even worth a comment anymore. Nigel’s mocking gaze, Izzy’s calculated focus, It’s all to make you feel how unflinchingly exposed he is… but not vulnerable. He doesn’t get that because in order to be so you need to be understood. Stede lives with all eyes on him, but is not seen.

Then there’s Edward, who essentially has the same crushing issue but with a different presentation. His motif is his name, and what the other characters choose to call him is indicative of if they know him, or just know of him. Blackbeard is what he answers to most, but it’s not something he identifies with in the present, at best he has a very complicated relationship with the person that name represents. The greatest sailor who ever lived, the devil pYrate, a persona he perfected that has flown to the tallest mountains dragging Ed behind him. The only characters that call him Ed/ Edward unprompted or unironically are Stede, and interestingly… Izzy. We’ll come back to that later.

Now here comes Ed, sauntering out of the hell fire and into Stede’s life like the patron Saint of leather daddies. And here we see that same familiar pov shot, and boy does Ed fucking LOOK at him. The last sight Stede sees before he conks the fuck out is this beautiful man who’s heard so much about him at his… well, Stede-iest, and is gazing at him like the loveliest thing in the world right now would be to know him even more. Ed’s heart eyes are no joke, they’re famous for a reason. Each time he looks at Stede, it is giving, it is wanting, it is a deliberate act of love.

Of course in the same sense Stede fills the hole in Ed’s life as well (not that one shut up), the desire not to be revered, but beloved, known. To just be… Edward.

Stede used to have no noteworthy opinion on the matter of Blackbeard, enthralled by the legends as anyone else… until he met him, saw this kind and excitable man who loved all the things everyone else found silly. And suddenly now it’s none of his business. Stede doesn’t push, gets offended when information is revealed to him without Ed’s consent. He treasures all the ways he can get to know Ed, and holds space for whenever he can’t. He still admires Blackbeard sure, but only because he’s one of many facets that create someone far more interesting: Edward. From Stede, Ed’s real name is spoken with love, playfulness, simple familiarity, returning the warmth of the way Ed looks at him like another fine thing he deserves. Even when he’s not actually around to hear it, the natural thought process in Stede remains.

I think it adds nuance and depth to each relationship that this is presented in foil with Izzy, because Izzy uses Ed’s real name as a commodity. It has value only as a threshold of hierarchy for Blackbeard’s inner circle, which as the previously sole member, Izzy is preoccupied with keeping exclusive. He’s possessive of a concept, and the more he learns just how different “Ed” is from it, the more the simple notion of Ed becomes ridiculous. Though both call him “Edward”, it’s only Stede that does so as an unconscious demonstration that he accepts Ed’s autonomy of personhood and is adoring of whomever that is.

The last time we hear Izzy say “Edward”, it’s mocking. To him the name now only represents the pitiful death of a greater ideal “Ed” decidedly is not. The last time Stede says it, it’s when he’s confessing to Mary that he loves him. One instance treats Ed’s name as a mask of his true self, and an inferior one at that, and the other is quite literally revealing.

The image he holds when he tells Mary he’s in love is Edward looking up at him smiling, breaking bread, completely un-pedestaled and joyful to be so. And Stede knows understanding now, being wanted, vulnerability, comfort. He calls those all Ed.

[officialkarinuzumaki]

If you see me on here posting at weird times during the night it’s because I’m up feeding my baby lol

[msizzydizzy]

Somebody kill me, my period just punched me in the face

[follows-the-bees]

I've seen several people compare these two scenes of Ed hiding (his heart) the silk and wedding topper when Stede and Izzy walk in.

I want to deep dive into these similar moments and all that it reveals about Ed's differing relationship with Stede and Izzy here.

First, Stede walks into the room to check on Ed because he noticed Ed was upset. (This starts off positive.) Ed immediately hides the silk in his jacket over his heart as Stede walks right into Ed's space. While Ed does quickly hide the silk, he still turns to face Stede almost the whole time.

In the first moonlight scene, Stede sees and comments on the silk. He also asks permission to touch it, slowly reaching forward while looking at Ed and gently taking it from him: leaving room for Ed to make a decision. Ed could hide it again, or tell Stede no, but he lets Stede take it, and it slowly slips through his fingers into the trusting hands of Stede.

His heart, his love is returned to that same hiding spot but this time on the outside for all to see — no longer hidden — with tender care, kind words, and a soft smile.

These scenes are an extension of the "fancy a fine fabric" from their first meeting. We see how much has developed over time. How all of this is Ed opening up, becoming vulnerable, Stede enters his space both times are positive and Ed silently allows him.

All of these moments are an accumulation of their growing trust and love for each other. Stede and Ed are comfortable in each other's space.

Ed's opening himself up to it for the first time, being vulnerable and showing his heart.

Now let's look at the scene in 2x1 with the cake toppers.

Ed is hidden away in the captain's quarters, his back turned toward the door when Izzy appears behind him, one of the many instances where he just shows up quietly like a cat. Unlike with Stede, Ed doesn't turn around or toward him right away. He hides the Stede-similar wedding topper in the same hiding spot, over his heart, before inquiring if the crew got cake. And only looking at Izzy in short spurts. He then turns his back again and hides his feelings in another way: rhino horn and then kicking Izzy out of his space.

Later that day, Ed hides his heart, his feelings for Stede, by dropping the wedding topper off the ship and into the ocean, watching it sink into the water. Reminiscent of how he feels: just treading water. Izzy, in fact — no one else, is privy to seeing this.

The equivalent of the moonlight scene — Ed's feelings being spoken about more openly (yet, not by Ed) and on display — happens later in this episode. Once again, Izzy is talking to Ed in the captain's quarters, but he accidentally says "talk it through" causing the unspoken topic to rear its head.

After all the build up of this episode, Ed is at a breaking point and he carries this conversation onto the deck, into public. And by the end, after waving around a gun and acting manic in order to get Izzy to crack, gun ready for just the glimpse of a moment Izzy finally says Stede's name, Ed shoots Izzy in the leg.

This is a very different outcome than the first time. Both items are about Stede, but one is allowed to be nurtured by Stede, Ed allows his vulnerability to be seen by the object of his feelings.

In the second one, his space is being invaded again but it is in a negative way. And Ed acts accordingly to this negativity, to his feelings being prodded and probed. This wonderful analysis goes into more detail about the manic Ed, shooting Izzy scene, and Ed's headspace. Unlike proudly wearing his heart (silk) over his heart, he shoots Izzy when his vulnerability is public. As that same analysis describes, he doesn't shoot Izzy for saying Stede's name, but invading his space and making him confront his emotions.

All traces of his heart: both the silk and the wedding topper, are thrown off the ship, never to be seen again. But when Ed and Stede reunite, those are no longer needed. They have each other. And both are still present, alluded to in other ways: Stede's red shirt, Ed looking at Stede during LuPete's wedding, and especially during the lighting (red, purple, and yellow) in Calypso's Birthday.

Ed keeps all of his feelings hidden. Yes, the whole crew is aware of Stede and Ed's love for each other, but Ed never actually tells anyone his feelings for Stede. (Stede on the other hand waxes poetic about Ed to anyone who will listen.) Even when Lucius talks to him about Stede, Ed tells him that it is a fictional character who is having a hard time. When Anne and Mary tease them about if they had sex yet, he becomes defensive and says it's private.

All of his moments with Stede are in private, in the captain's quarters, auxiliary wardrobe, on deck, or on the beach. The first time we see them do anything in public is at the very end of S2 when everything comes to a head and they are reunited.

These two scenes show Ed hiding his love and then his love being put on display (one by the person he is in love with and the other by someone he loves but not romantically). The contrasting positive versus negative show how very different the outcomes are when one grows naturally and the other is forced. (As well the forming of a relationship versus the ending of one.) And we see how Ed, who always thought his feelings should/need to be kept secret, handles his secret feeling when made public. All until the growth at the end of season two, where they are in full sunlight, in public, on the beach - on land, grounded (he's not an impossible bird) but still adjacent to the sea (mermen.)

[harrygoeswest]

Secret Santa - Sneak Peek

Coming Sunday 1st December @ 9pm GMT

Charles grins. “Anyway, we’re doing secret Santa for our Christmas meal this year, which is on the fifteenth of December. Times are tight, I know,” spoken like a man who has never known what it’s like to be clawing his way to payday to make ends meet, “so the cap is a tenner. It’s just a bit of fun, alright? Let’s go.”

He holds the bowl out, and one by one we pluck out a folded scrap of paper. I’m not last, which means there’s still a selection of three by the time I get there. I pick one at random, sure to hate whoever I get.

I know I won’t be lucky enough to draw Izzy again like I did last year, but I suppose as long as I don’t get Charles, I’ll be satisfied.

HARRY

Motherfucker.

I’ve already started moving back to my desk so I can’t feign innocence and try and swap the name. The second-worst name I could’ve drawn—that of the supervisor. And a more-than-occasional object of my affection.

Is it inappropriate to have a crush on your supervisor? Not really. I’m sure lots of women fancy their seniors in the workplace. I’m all for women in senior positions, but there is something inherently attractive about men in power—not including Donald Trump. Ew. Add to the fact that said man is already hot shit and (I’m talking about Harry again), well, it’s a lost cause. Never mind the fact that we were both asked to interview for the supervisor role when the last one left and I turned it down.

Harry and I used to be cubicle neighbours who shared coffee breaks and threw scrunched-up notes to one another over the wall. Once we had a cat GIF email chain going that spanned 134 emails over twelve days. Now he sits at the other side of the floor in a private office where the door is always closed and we don’t make coffee for each other anymore. We definitely don’t send endless cat GIFs to one another.

I add the slip of paper with his name on it between a document I’ve finished with, and stick the whole thing in the shredder.

[jellybeanium124]

Are we supposed to agree with Jim?

This is a question that has been circling my mind ever since I watched 2x02. Are we supposed to be like "yeah! Izzy was Ed's friend! Izzy did some fucked up shit but Ed shooting him was too far." Because recently I've been seeing posts going around saying "no, he wasn't Ed's friend, Jim. You just don't know all the context."

And I agree! Izzy wasn't Ed's friend. That's made pretty clear in season one. But has the show changed its tune?

Jim is never positioned as in the wrong for their anger towards Ed this season. The show frames them as correct for being angry and wary of Ed, and like, yeah, they have every right to be! But this one damn line...

It gets me thinking about s1, and the times when Izzy said things that weren't true. Maybe they weren't necessarily framed as lies in 1x04 and such, but by the time we get to the end of the season Izzy has graduated from "angry little bastard man" to "full on antagonist," and you don't trust antagonists who do evil shit to the heroes. But Jim's not an antagonist! They're one of the deuteragonists! Not a single thing they've ever done in the show has been "bad."

And I can't ignore doyalist factors too. We know Vico and Con are friends, and Vico has posted/spoken before about an imagined Jim & Izzy friendship arc. This never happened in the show, but it probably affected their choices, right? I can't know for sure, but I feel comfortable guessing that Vico was probably imagining that Jim & Izzy bonding had happened between seasons when they said this. Or anything else about Izzy.

It just feels like such a weird line to put in the show if it's not meant to be taken at face value. Casual viewers probably don't remember that Jim was even gone during 1x08 and 1x09. I'd guess a casual viewer's response to this line would be thinking about how Ed and Izzy started the show in what seemed to be a somewhat functional relationship, and now it's been brought to this.

I don't have a very good conclusion for this post. I have no idea what to make of this line. Agreeing with Jim doesn't make any sense, but Jim thinking they're friends doesn't make any sense either. It doesn't make any damn sense.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Peter comforting Tony's daughter at the funerals please I need this

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

No one who was present will ever forget the horrific scream that came from you when Pepper told you the tragic news: your father, Tony Stark, was dead.

You hadn’t been able to say goodbye to him. He had already taken his last breath when you arrived on the scene. All you were able to do was crumble by his side and cry all the tears in your body until someone forcefully took you away.

A few sleepless nights later, you stood by Pepper and Morgan on the wooden deck, watching the wreath floating adrift on the water. Proof that Tony Stark has a heart, it reads.

Beside you, Morgan didn't seem to understand what was going on, why everyone was dressed in black and watching an arrangement of flowers float away. Mostly, she didn’t understand why her dad was not there. It was sad to see.

Happy was right behind you, followed by Rhodey and Steve, then May and Peter. Peter. He was holding his tears, pained from losing his mentor.

When the wreath was no longer in sight, people slowly dissipated, heading back inside the Stark residence. You stayed, unable to move your feet, your eyes were glued on the water before you. Why did you leave me? Why did you sacrifice yourself?

You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you as Peter approached. You and him hadn’t spoken since the last battle.

He cleared his throat. ‘’Hi. I know you’re probably tired of hearing this, but I’m sorry for your loss, Y/N.’’ You didn’t turn around, but Peter knew you were listening. ‘’Your dad was an admirable person. I’m not talking about his sacrifice. He was— He’s been an excellent mentor to me. And, in a way, a great father figure in my life.’’ Peter breathed in. He was about to tell you something he hadn’t told anyone. Not even his best friend Ned, who he always tells everything to. ‘’I was with him when he died. He told me—'' Peter stopped himself, feeling choked by the emotions in his throat.

When you arrived on the scene, you didn’t acknowledge Peter or anyone else around. Your eyes were focused on your father laying on the ground, unalive.

''Want to know what he told me?’’ Peter continued, not waiting for your answer. ‘’He…he said to go to you and feel the feelings he once forbid us to have.''

After a lot of deep thinking, Tony had come to the realization that forbidding your relationship had been wrong of him. He didn’t like it, but Peter was a good guy. He was kind, caring, honorable and very protective of the ones he loved. If there was anyone Tony could trust to take good care of his daughter, it was Peter.

Slowly, your eyes traveled to Peter. They welled with tears again, but this time Peter was there to wrap his arms around you, pull you against him and provide you comfort. You buried your face in his chest, staining — and ruining — his shirt with your mascara-tears, but it was the last of his worries.

Your slim fingers grabbed his white button up, clutching at it as you cried.

Your father’s words meant so much to you — you and Peter. You remembered the look of rage on his face when he caught you kissing in the lobby. It had just been a simple kiss goodbye, but Tony reacted like he had caught you doing something compromising in bed. He had yelled at Peter and banned him from the tower for weeks with a threat of kicking him out of the Avengers if he were to kiss you again.

Like any angsty teenager, you told him you hated him and blasted Taylor Swift’s Love Story in your bedroom.

You never thought he would change his mind about Peter, but Tony Stark was a surprising man.

Peter kissed the top of your head, holding you tight. 

—

Marvel taglist: @xenasolos @chrizzierbsstuff @ayamenimthiriel @alina02 @turtleshavesoulmates @staygoldsquatchling02 @daemonslittlebitch  @wetwilliam02 @haileyismoo @manofworm @rhydianissuperior @supersanelyromantic @nicangel13 @mxxny-lupin  @sweeterheartxamerica @viridwityy @izzy-laufeyson @kenzi-woycehoski @arunaposeidondottie @liidiaaag @katsukis1wife  @amithesimpoffandoms  @acornacreacure @chaotic-fangirl-blog  @hawkegfs @mommyruuetrue @youdontneedtoknowthisinformation  @aabananaa @starrrslove  @angeliod @nmedina8611 @1stevelacyfan  @yourfavdummy @laylasbunbunny

All and more taglist: @spiokybirdstarfish @kenqki @liidiaaag @hawkegfs  @gillybear17  @areaderinlove @acornacreacure @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @rosie-cameron @Caxddce @laylasbunbunny 

[desidov]

Shout-out to the members of the Dropout (@dropoutdottv @dimension20official) crew who have spoken out in defense of the Palestinian people: Ally Beardsley, Erika Ishii, Aabria Iyengar, Brennan Lee Mulligan, Izzy Roland, and Rekha Shankar. The evidence South Africa has presented to the International Court of Justice is undeniable: Israel must be held accountable for their knowing murder of over 23 thousand civilians and attempt to destroy all Palestinian culture, history, and families. Thank you for using your platform as a voice for justice, and I ask every content creator to please consider doing the same.