princessprouvaire:

Jack Rackham appreciation week. Wednesday/Thursday: Favourite Relationship/Facial hair appreciation. 

A Jack/Anne pre-relationship ficlet in which Jack gets a rare moment alone, and facial hair is addressed.

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Rain beat down on the window panes, rattling the glass as the ship shook gently. The sky had gotten so dark that he’d been forced to light several candles around the mirror, even though it was hardly halfway through the day. Charles had let him take use of his cabin on the Ranger from time to time, allowing relative peace and privacy when needed, at times such as this. And so, with a cracked mirror propped up against a pile of rather splendid looking leather books he was sure Charles had never even opened, let alone read, trinkets left by the ill-fated last captain of the Ranger, he got to work.

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brightbluedot:

Flinthamilton, 3K, a triptych in which I care so much about these two and the institution of marriage. (A little nsfw under the cut, but if you’re looking for porn, this will waste your time.)

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buildarocketboys:

Written after discussing Thomas’s pre-canon trauma/abuse from being Alfred Hamilton’s son with @copper-toned. Warning for PTSD, panic attacks, mentions of past child abuse and neglect. 

One of Thomas’s salon attendees says something that triggers a panic attack. James goes to find him and, hopefully, comfort him.

(Here) on ao3

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Thomas’s salon was officially over, but there were still
several knots of people around the room, discussing the points brought up in
the salon and making small talk.

James preferred to hang back and let the conversation go on
around him – he wasn’t much good at moving in these circles. He supposed he
could leave, but Thomas had asked him, with a smile, whether he would stay on
after the meeting and discuss it with him over a nightcap. It was the smile
that he couldn’t refuse, most of all – he wasn’t sure he would have much to add
to the conversation, but he could hardly bear to see that smile falter.

It faltered now. Thomas was from the other side of the room from
him, but the gentleman to whom he was speaking was just close enough for James
to hear him say, “Honestly, I’ve got half a mind to lock him up in his bedroom
until he’s 18!”

Thomas’s face seemed to shutter; it was if a light had gone
out. He cleared his throat. “Would you excuse me for a moment, sir?” he said,
and his voice seemed tighter than usual, as if Thomas was fighting to control
it. Perhaps nobody but he and Miranda noticed, but as Thomas left the room,
James’s eyes followed him with concern. He glanced at Miranda, who had rejoined
the conversation to smooth over her husband’s sudden absence, ever the gracious
hostess – but she caught James’s eye for a split second and the concern he saw
there echoed James’s own.

James looked at the door through which Thomas had just left,
hesitating – but it wasn’t as if he was talking to anybody, and hopefully his
presence wouldn’t be unwelcome – he knew it had never been before, anyway. He
slipped out the door without anybody noticing (save, perhaps, Miranda) and out
into the corridor, trying to discern where Thomas might have gone. He made his
way along the corridor and heard – a noise – coming from the slightly ajar door
of Thomas’s study.

“Thomas?” said James gently, tapping lightly on the door.
There was no response except his breath hitching and releasing, hitching and
releasing, as if he was trying to get it under control. James felt his stomach
churn. He peered into the gloom, but could see no one, and realised – Thomas must
be behind (or underneath?) his desk.

“Can I come in?” asked James gently, hovering on the
threshold. Perhaps he should go, pretend he had never heard – perhaps Thomas
would prefer to be alone, prefer not to suffer the indignity of his liaison
finding him crying, but God, he was crying, and James couldn’t just leave
him.

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