1 - 20 of 26 Works by nasri
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David has always been a jealous man. So it is to be expected, though he would never admit to it aloud, that when he first sets eyes on Eoin McGonigal, his honest reaction is vile envy.
"You're alive," David manages.
"So are you," Eoin says. "I take it your parachute survived the drop this time, sir."
OR: Eoin survived the fall, Eve did not, and David will go mad if he has to spend one more day in a prison camp.
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Maybe it’s only right that he finds himself in Belfast, a city tense with the start of something that promises bloodshed. His da, God rest his sweet soul, was a life-long Orange Order man, so this should be the perfect opportunity: the war Paddy was born ready for and something to fucking do.
The trouble of it is, Paddy hates the RUC, and he’s already been barred from most of the pubs in East Belfast.
OR: Paddy Mayne doesn’t care for sectarian politics, at least, not until he meets a certain Catholic boy who loves to court trouble.
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Despite the uncertainty of war, most mornings tend to feel like a repeat of the last. Edwin still does not believe in God, but he is starting to come around to the idea of purgatory.
OR: Charles Rowland is loyal and brave, a consummate soldier, and Edwin will do anything to keep him alive.
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Thomas is no stranger to maggots, and frankly, they’re easier to get rid of than weevils. He knocks the bread firmly against his open palm, watching as they rain down onto the wooden plate.
"Unfortunately for us both, Captain Vane, my value has been vastly over estimated." Thomas holds the loaf up to the torch light, inspecting his work.
OR: Thomas Hamilton, not Abigail Ashe, is the prize Captain Low intended to ransom.
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Thomas never thought he would return to Ashbourne, but his father always had the last word, one way or another. Alfred Hamilton died of a heart attack in the early hours of the morning, alone in his cold tomb of a house, leaving the entire mess to him.
OR: James Flint breaks into an old manor house and Thomas Hamilton falls in love.
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Major Hamilton introduces himself as Thomas.
He has on a clean pressed uniform, his hair is swept back with pomade, and when he holds out his hand in greeting, James knows on sight that he has never seen a day in battle.
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"How did you get them?" Vane asks, as Thomas drops the keys into his open palm. Behind him, he can see the distant glow of firelight, small but spreading, and he thinks he already knows the answer.
Thomas smiles. "Kerosine."
His hair falls into his eyes, white blonde from the Savannah sunlight, and for a moment he sees the ghost of Eleanor Guthrie at eighteen years old, baring her teeth in a grin.
OR: There is no Woodes Rogers to save Eleanor Guthrie's life. There are no men to repair the fort. Charles Vane comes up with a new way to recruit workers to Nassau.
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“Hey, kid, how do you feel about going home with my friend Mr. Rogers here, so he can make sure you get there safe?” Tony says, his eyes on his phone, quickly thumbing through a series of commands.
Steve’s head snaps in his direction and Tony glances up at him with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. “You said you live in Queens.”
“I said I live in Brooklyn.”
Peter watches him, biting at his winter chapped lips. "It's okay. I like taking the subway home."
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“Iz, Izzy, mate, look.” He’s holding a flier in his hand, drawn on the back of old card stock and partially ruined by the summer rain. Through the drips of black, he reads, The Travelling Symphony presents: Hamlet.
He’s heard rumours of them, of course. A pack of fucking thespians that travel like clockwork through the major settlements, following the same path each season. It’s a wonder they’ve survived this long.
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Mary is busy bathing Louis and Izzy wishes he had sails to mind for all that he hates standing idle. He sighs out a single breath and asks, “Do you want to learn how to navigate by the stars?”
It’s an echo of the same offer he’d make to any boy on a ship that was scared at the prospect of a night on deck. Alma looks up at him, serious and attentive. “You’d teach me?”
Series
- Part 2 of that our stars should divide
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Izzy is fifteen years old and he’s used to the sound of children crying. He could never quite escape it in the workhouse, even after they threatened kids with a switch to the back if they were caught at it often enough.
But the boy he finds tucked into the base of an oak tree isn’t an orphan or a child from the streets. He’s a little boy in men’s clothing, tailored silk and linen, pale with ruddy cheeks and red marks around his wrists.
“Are you hurt?” He asks.
Series
- Part 1 of that our stars should divide
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Izzy is always the first one to arrive at the pub, signing off on shipments and taking stock, and if Edward shows up it will be just before last call, when Izzy is dead on his feet and can’t say no to a single thing. Truthfully, though, he rarely can.
Every day starts and ends exactly the same way, until a particularly chatty history professor begins sharing his morning commute.
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bright gold and render lead by nasri
Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Iron Man (Movies)
23 Jan 2022
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Tony Stark is newly sixteen, with chapped lips and a gram and a half of cocaine in his system, the first time he meets the Winter Soldier.
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“It won’t be the same, coming back to visit instead of just being here, you know? Being home.”
“It’ll be home again,” Tony says. His voice sounds strained, tense, like he’s trying to win an argument he knows he has a chance of losing.
“Probably,” Peter agrees. “But not like this. Because it won’t be mine in a few years. It’ll belong to some other kid from Forest Hills.”
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Tony laughs as he settles back against the bench. “I came out here ‘cause Rogers is best in a fight, always knows just how to finish them. But he’s a poor negotiator.”
“We in some sort of trouble that needs negotiating?” Bucky asks.
He can see Tony’s smile in the slow way it comes to meet his eyes. “Yeah, Buck. You are.”
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Somewhere between laying on the crumbling permafrost in Sokovia and finding himself alone on the cold hard ground of a Siberian bunker, Tony made the choice to stop thinking about the future. He no longer loses sleep over the delicate variables of earth’s existence. He doesn’t dream of a suit of armor around the world.
He does dream of Captain America, from time to time, holding his shield to the base of his throat and pushing. He’s always slow about it and Tony wakes screaming.
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There’s a lot that could send Dean Winchester to hell. The list probably starts with gluttony and all-you-can-eat western buffets, traversing wrath and rage and bar fights and steady trigger fingers and ending somewhere here, with his little brother staring up at him in invitation.
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He figured most men died with a bullet through their rib cage, that’s what he heard anyway from the Brits who made it back. But once his cards were laid, Dean knew with absolutely certainty that he wouldn’t die with a body left to bury.
And he was right, in a way, because nothing gets buried in Siberia.
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It’s between the flicker of her silver plated lighter and Ellen’s first inhale that Dean sees him. His hair is long, longer than their father would have ever allowed it, styled back behind his ears and sun-streaked auburn. Adrenaline tunnels Dean’s vision with each inhale and dulls the sound of Ellen’s voice until all he can think is that Sammy’s childhood wish came true, because he has a solid few inches on Dean in each damn direction.
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Mitchell is one in a long line of momentary obsessions and Anders always gets what he wants.