#tcrw tag

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WIP Folder Game

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

tagged by @laufire 💛💛💛

the words "in progress" mean very different things for each work on this list lmfao. they're listed in alphabetical order.

amari unrequited fic

brain damage in d minor

diplomatic relations

in vera

parrotfic blank verse

the silvermiranda revenge sex fic

through his stomach

to cross running water

literally all of them are for either black sails or fpa sdlskjfd listen. I know what I'm about.

zero pressure at all tagging @asterofthevoid @kaphkas @boasamishipper @grasslandgirl @jaynovz

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[image description: gifs juxtaposing two scenes from Black Sails. the gifs alternate between Eleanor talking to Miranda in her house and Silver talking to Flint on the hilltop where they train.

Eleanor says, "Do you know what [Captain Flint] told me about you?"

Silver says, "I have no story to tell."

Miranda puts her hands on her hips and says, "What's that?"

Silver says, "It all might seem as though I'm trying to conceal something from you, but..."

Eleanor says, "Nothing."

Silver says, "truth is... there is no story to tell."

Eleanor says, "When I ask him, all I get is a shrug or a laugh."

Flint says, "No one's past is that unremarkable."

Miranda pours a kettle with a terse smile while Eleanor (offscreen) says, "Or an innocent suggestion that he has a longtime companion. Her name is Barlow and nothing more."

Silver says, "Not unremarkable, just..."

Eleanor says, "Is that possible? Is it possible that you're so unremarkable as to resist any further description than that?"

Silver says, "without relevance."

Miranda says, "Certainly possible."

Flint looks puzzled while Silver (offscreen) says, "A long time ago, I absolved myself from the obligation of finding any."

end id]

BLACK SAILS XI. ● XXXVII.

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hrrk early miranda scenes making me wanna revisit tcrw soooooo bad

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to cross running water is a very intriguing title i would like to know more <3

g-d okay so tcrw is my behemoth black sails canon retelling where everything is the same except flint is a vampire

thomas was also a vampire but miranda is human. she's flint's only food source because he has a whole Thing about not drinking from his crew (partially because he doesn't want anyone to KNOW that he's a vampire, and partially because drinking someone's blood releases this sort of aphrodisiac venom that makes it feel Really Really Good to the human so that they're more willing to let you drink their blood again and flint is. closeted. lmao. he's in the gay closet AND the vampire closet)

I plan to alternate back and forth between miranda's pov and flint's pov until miranda dies, and from there I'm not sure if I should introduce silver's pov as well or just ride it out to the end in flint's pov

this was the first black sails fic I started writing but it's such a huge undertaking. I started hagfic to avoid working on it lmao

g-d okay I spent way too long trying to decide on an excerpt to share so just. here you go:

“—with his teeth!”

“The fucking accountant?”

“Sounds like a load of shit if you ask me.”

“Good thing nobody asked you, then.”

“We’re really talking about Dufresne? That whiny little bitch with a face like a fat tit?”

“Don’t say that too loud or it’ll be your throat he’s chomping out next.”

“Boys—Mr. Dufresne is our brother, and he fought valiantly today, by any means necessary, protecting your lives and the lives of everyone else on this crew. So if I’m gonna hear you speaking about him, it’ll be with the respect he’s earned. Am I understood?”

“Sorry, Billy.”

“Yeah, all right, sorry.”

“I heard he drank up the blood, the madman. That’s the real nuts, ain’t it?”

“Maybe he’s a proper pirate after all.”

Flint doesn’t even realize he’d stopped walking until he meets his boatswain’s eyes emerging from the mess. He tries his best to look as though he hadn’t been eavesdropping, but some stray concern must remain fixed in his brow, because Billy offers him an appeasing nod and a simple, “The men love a good story; you know how it is,” before he continues on his way.

The question of the story’s truth withers on Flint’s tongue. Likely it’s exaggerated, but to what degree Flint cannot say. It doesn’t matter, really: it’s true if they believe it. How they feel about it, though, that’s the real measure. Flint doesn’t linger long enough to hear if the awe will give way to disgust, can’t much stomach the thought of standing stupidly by the door to hear his men condemn or commend their crewmate sinking his teeth into another man’s throat, tearing it out, lapping up the blood. The scorn and the approval sicken him alike.

Flint returns to his cabin, hoping perhaps to bolt the door and sit staring at his maps until the ink runs and none of it makes sense anymore, until nothing can penetrate the pulsing red haze that fills the space between his brain and his skull. He’s aware, vaguely, that his stomach feels wretchedly empty, but to swallow down a mouthful of blood—even the rich, sweet gift from Miranda—seems an insurmountable task.

But none of that bears fruit anyway, because when he opens the door, it’s to find Mr. Dufresne poring over the books for what Flint is sure must be the dozenth time since the battle concluded. The sound nearly startles the poor boy out of his skin; Mr. Dufresne whips his head up to meet Flint’s eyes as though each footstep were cannon fire. Between the haunted expression and the spare flake of dried blood on his chin, Flint is relieved of all doubt about what exactly Mr. Dufresne endured today.

“My apologies, Captain,” Dufresne says, “I was just finishing up—”

“It’s no matter, Mr. Dufresne.” Flint takes his seat opposite Dufresne, offers him a compassionate smile. “I understand why one might bury himself in work to avoid facing the rabid throng of his crewmates; even their support may be overwhelming.”

Dufresne appears flummoxed—bashful, even. He looks so young.

“From what I’ve heard, the men are impressed,” Flint says. He pauses for effect before he adds, “As am I.”

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wip title meme tagged by @jaynovz my beloved 🫀

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

okay my document titles are USUALLY just the title of the whole piece so they don't tend to be particularly silly or eye-catching in terms of "oh hey I like that trope" or w/e. anyway.

currently active wips:

parrotfic blank verse

through his stomach

back-burner wips:

to cross running water

brain damage in d minor

diplomatic relations

say it out loud

ugh six people is a lot of people to tag hhhh I'll just go w @grasslandgirl and @boasamishipper

[lichfucker]

[image description: a tweet by @ planetgraves that says, "(Jealous of the blood in your veins) So it gets to be with you all of the time and I don't" end id]

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g-d I started thinking abt tcrw a year ago. I was down here in de sitting on the porch typing frantically on my phone about miranda bleeding into a bottle for flint to drink.

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13, 30, 2q for the fanfic ask game

13. Is there a trope you wouldn’t write if it was the last trope on earth?

high school au, probably sdlkffsff I loved them when I was in high school but I am 25 now lmfao I want these people to have lives and baggage and not be fourteen. especially if it's like a no-magic/powers au for a property that otherwise has those elements. also if I ever wrote smut there are plenty of kinks I'd avoid but that's neither here nor there

30. Tell us an idea for a longfic you want to write in the future.

I have very grandiose plans for a dimension 20 fantasy high fic about gorthalax the insatiable (an archfiend from the nine hells) becoming the school bloodrush coach (like football but on concrete and there's magic) that follows the plot and pacing of the first season of ted lasso. like I literally have an outline written the way I'd write story beats for an episode of tv. I know this sounds contradictory to what I just said about disliking high school aus but the original property IS set at a high school and these characters are SUPPOSED to be fourteen. and I'd be focusing a lot on the adults anyway sdlfjkd

and then of course there's to cross running water, my black sails canon retelling where everything is the same but flint is a vampire. I got stuck on that one so I started writing through his stomach instead and now tcrw has completely taken the backseat

2. Do you participate in any writing events or challenges throughout the year? If so, what do you like about them?

I don't, honestly! I think the idea of them is fun but I'm so particular about when and how and what I write. I don't think I could stand to be beholden to somebody else's prompts and deadlines, you know what I mean?

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the thing about writing flint is that he is so tired. he is tired in every scene, and this is because he is tired.

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g-d I'm thinking abt tcrw again 😭😭😭 fic that will kill me in real life

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hm do you think boats have the same rules as houses re: vampires needing permission to enter

like would vampire flint need permission before boarding another vessel? or is boarding it fine but entering the captain's cabin forbidden until he has taken ownership of said vessel? vampiracy is so complicated

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I was really trying to write tcrw in order but I just. needed to write the counting scene today. and I am making it as drawn-out and obscene as possible. these characters are NEVER going to speak of this ever again.

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[image description:

first is text that says, "Everyone is a monster to someone. Since you are so convinced that I am yours, I will be it."

second is a close-up of the angel's face from the Cabanel painting "Fallen Angel."

third is text that says, "If they want a monster so badly they ought to be provided with one."

end id]

1. Black Sails (2014-2017) - XVIII / 2. Fallen Angel (detail) - Alexandre Cabanel / 3. Alias Grace - Margaret Atwood

[lichfucker]

hi and hello! I would love to hear anything you wish to share about "to cross running water"; seeing you tag things for it/talk about it on my dash is always so cool <3

ty for indulging me lskdfsdf g-d where do I even start

'to cross running water' is my black sails vampire fic because I only write vampire fics anymore. some vampire lore says that they can't cross running water, so if you wanna get away from a vampire you basically just need to lead them to a river and then leave them stranded on the other side, which I thought was very cheeky considering. flint is a pirate. literally all he does is cross running water.

I'm hewing pretty closely to canon with it; it's not a full genre/plot swap, it's literally just "black sails but what if flint were a vampire."

I've been alternating back and forth between flint's pov and miranda's pov. and then of course once she dies it'll be all flint all the time lmao. flint is a vampire and thomas had also been a vampire but miranda is human. she is flint's shelter, she is his haven, her blood is what fuels and sustains him. it has the very fun effect of taking her already incredible isolation in canon and cranking it all the way up. miranda is horrifically alone, the bearer of more awful secrets than anyone can fathom, and there's only so much longer she can hang onto this powerlessness before something breaks.

and flint is... a beast. flint is a monster. he's the thing good men fear, what they tell their children to fear. he's been deemed an abomination for so many reasons, in so many ways. he has a primal rage, an insatiable bloodlust, a conviction that he is meant to lead and to rule. he is the man who cannot die, who can only be unmade in sunlight. all the interplay of dark and light, the thematic resonance of night and day. all of that is canon. I'm just adding fangs.

tcrw is also slowburn silverflint because of course it is lmao. I'm writing it in order because I Need To but uhh I have some plans for later scenes that are. the closest I will ever come in my life to writing smut. so. there's that. I just think that the eroticism of the vampire figure is important, and every vampire fic I've written approaches it differently. this one meets it head-on.

mmm I posted the whole first miranda section a little while ago... since you so patiently sat through this infodump I'll give you a bit from the first flint section :3

It's far from the most depraved thing Flint has done today but wringing Singleton’s blood out of his shirt only to lick it back up is certainly undignified. He takes no pride in wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand before all but shoving his entire fist into his mouth, but in the privacy of his cabin, hunger so putrid and bellowing it rots in him, he finds he cannot truly feel ashamed of it, either.

He does what he must. Hunger alone won’t kill him, his infernal constitution made of sterner stuff, but he needs the strength. It’s a horrid combination, endurance and enfeeblement, the knowledge that he could be utterly hollowed out and still he must crawl his way through every rotation of the Earth, dragging his pathetic body ever closer to the end of time, his only true hope at final oblivion save for the business end of a wooden stake. But until such a fate becomes inevitable he will do what he can to avoid it, even if it means slurping Singleton’s blood off of each finger with indulgent obscenity. He feels invigorated with it, however slight the nutrition from feeding like this, and the adrenaline still thrums through him, all abuzz with the satisfaction of a good fight. Flint enjoys fighting in the sun. That enfeeblement he so dreads, the sun is its ultimate benefactor, its rays draping weakness across his shoulders like a heavy cloak, weighing him down. He’s known of others, throughout the years, who are flayed alive by the daylight, or whose skin breaks out in unbearable burns and blisters (Thomas, in particular, glittered in the sun as though his skin were made of crushed diamonds while ghastly red welts that stung and hissed were bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to burst), but Flint is merely dampened by it, his preternatural strength and speed made natural. It humanizes him. A daylit skirmish presents a challenge, his muscles heavy and his reflexes sluggish; he has no biological advantage, only his skill and his drive. Such a fight is as close to fair as one could ever be—and still Flint has yet to be bested. Still his might reigns supreme. At his weakest he is still the pinnacle of them. When will it be enough? When will they learn? Thomas’ voice, in that almost paternalistic way, slinks out of the depths of Flint’s mind, beseeching, What have you got to prove? Well, everything, it would seem. It was Singleton today. It’ll be someone else tomorrow. The ever-constant threat of mutiny breathes hot on his neck like a slobbering dog. If they’re going to be dogs, my sweet, I will show them the wolf. Miranda hates to be cooped up in that little house, stranded on the island for weeks at a time, but she hates even more to see him like this, the lengths he must go to secure any sort of existence for her. At least locked away in the interior she does not have to see the animal in him. The new cook saw it today. Everyone saw it, to be sure, Flint’s captive and captivated audience, but Mr. Silver saw it for the first time today. Mr. Silver recognized it today. Flint stood there, quaking, snarling, drenched in his soon-to-be lunch, and he caught Mr. Silver in his teeth, held him in place as those ice-blue eyes reckoned with the beast before him.

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Miranda does not like to be a kept woman, and James does not like to keep her. He does like for her to be alive, however, his last bastion of both sanity and sustenance, and so he must insist that when he is off at sea she not stray beyond the bounds of the quaint home in the interior that is their haven.

Most of his kind conduct their reigns of terror from exalted castles and luxurious if not lonely manors. Well, if he’d wanted one of those he could have taken the fort at any time in the last ten years, or even the Guthries’ mansion in town. Instead he chose a farmhouse in the interior. The grand estates of titled aristocracy are tainted now, anyway. For all its thematic incongruity the farmhouse maintains that desolate slowness, that disconnected imposition, of a mountaintop keep looming over the subjugated masses, where no one ever goes and nothing ever changes. It’s a fitting place to rule, in its way. Nassau is an atypical kingdom; it seems fair, then, that its prince would rule from an atypical palace.

… But James doesn’t rule from the interior. He rules from the helm of the fucking Walrus.

Miranda scowls as she pricks her fingertip with one of her sewing needles, watching the blood drip into the slim neck of a bottle that once contained rum but now holds about three weeks’ worth of blood. She lets out a small amount every day, scant enough that she doesn’t hurt for its absence, until she’s collected enough to tide James over while he’s at sea and cannot take from her directly. (He won’t drink from his crew; he thinks it a noble choice, a source of pride. His pride and his shame in equal measure have always been misplaced.) There are more efficient ways to do it, Miranda knows, than pricking her finger and allowing the blood to collect drop by miniscule drop with agonizing lethargy, but she’s so horrifically bored in this godforsaken house that she will cling to anything that will pass the time, any excuse to artificially extend an activity as long as it can possibly go, so that she has less time free to drift about the house like a spectre, waiting for something to breach the barrier of isolation James built to keep her contained.

He had said it was to keep them out, she knows. She also knows that he doesn’t mind at all it serves just as well to keep her in.

Warm sunlight pours in through the open window and spills across the table. She shifts her wrist to catch the light like she may cradle it in her palm. It glints off the thick crimson bead on the end of her finger, dazzling like precious gems. She’d owned a pair of earrings like this, once: tear-shaped rubies lain in silver, a gift from Thomas early in their courtship. She had brought them with what meager luggage she took to the New World, what sparse remnants she imagined would be a comfort, a tether, a monument—but as the days dragged on aboard that ship, crossing a threshold irrevocable, she came to find that some things simply hurt too much to hold onto, that the tighter she clung the deeper they gouged into her hands, so she gave them to James to do with as he saw fit once they arrived in New Providence, figuring that he understood the island’s machinations far better than she and could extract the most value from them. He used them to purchase this house.

It's not lost on Miranda, the warmth accompanying the light. Even after a decade in the balmy tropics, a gently warm day is still a novel delight. She finds she has more of such days when James is gone. She’s not forgotten London’s dreary chill and gloom; James wears it like a shroud. He carries it with him, the coldness, the grey. The sea saps the heat out of a body with astonishing speed, even here, in this climate; she imagines James a creature of the deep, having wriggled up from the water some centuries ago already fully-formed, all the warmth expected of human skin long since claimed by the waves—and now he, like the sea that raised him, saps the heat out of a room merely by darkening its doorway.

And then she shoves that wretched thought into a box and buries it in the garden. What would Thomas say if he could hear her now? What shock and betrayal would befall him to know that Miranda’s days are warmer when James is not around? She aches in apology.

She rescinds her hand from the gathered pool of daylight and squeezes the tip of her finger over the lip of the bottle, hurrying the drops along in a way she rarely bothers to do anymore. She watches the liquid as it dribbles out, rich red turned inky black through the green glass, and she loves him. What an act of multitasking. She watches and she loves. James is what remains of her heart, and she of his. Of course she loves him—who in their right mind would do all of this for someone they did not love?

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you'll pry alternating pov from my cold dead hands