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delphiTitle: Starstruck
Fandom: Our Flag Means Death
Relationship: Fang/Izzy Hands
Rating: General
Word Count: 400
Content Info: Genderplay
Summary: Fang is favoured with a kiss from his favourite performer.
Notes: Written for the 2025 Kiss Fang Weekend on Bluesky. Prompt: Kiss Fang. Also available on AO3.
Everyone on the ship loves watching her perform. That’s a fact. But Fang…well, he reckons he’s her number one fan.
After all, he knew her before she was famous. She didn’t have her stage name back then, or her fancy look, but still. He was there for those good nights aboard the Queen Anne, or the Falcon before that. For the voice different from the others, floating on top of the chorus of “Haul on the Bowline” or the refrain of “Henry Martin.” For that solo of “Between the Ox and Grey Donkey” a great many Christmases ago that first got him falling in love a little.
So he reckons that’s why he’s earned the privilege of being the one to escort her back to her cabin at the end of the night. His cheeks glow with it, and his chest is full to bursting with that feeling of wanting and waiting and slip-sliding up to the edge of something sweet.
She’s holding his arm like the lady she is, looking so glamorous. He can hardly take his eyes off her, painted up like a proper actress as she is, all glittering gold and dark pink against black. Her waist is cinched, a long black scarf hanging from her belt and swishing like a fancy skirt as she walks.
“You were wonderful tonight,” he says breathlessly.
“Come off it.” Her voice is still her singing one, softer around the edges of the familiar rebuke. She tightens her hold on him, her hand warm and firm around his bicep.
“You were,” he insists. “Calypso drown me if I tell a lie.”
“Yeah?”
“Wonderful,” he says again, groping after words that would be as good as throwing flowers on-stage, “and gorgeous, and a tour de force—”
“Fang?” she says.
“Yes?”
“Shut up.” And with that she leans back against the bulkhead, pulling him with her.
They share and share alike on this ship, but Fang knows—his besotted gaze fixed on her curving lips—that no one else has gotten to kiss her tonight. The pretty pink paint’s still perfect, and it would almost be a shame to smudge it.
Almost.
She puts her hand on the back of his neck and draws him down, her eyes closing in a flutter of kohl and glitter. And Fang goes gladly, his mouth meeting hers, finding another way to convey his heartfelt admiration.
Fandom: Our Flag Means Death
Relationship: Fang/Izzy Hands
Rating: General
Word Count: 400
Content Info: Genderplay
Summary: Fang is favoured with a kiss from his favourite performer.
Notes: Written for the 2025 Kiss Fang Weekend on Bluesky. Prompt: Kiss Fang. Also available on AO3.
Everyone on the ship loves watching her perform. That’s a fact. But Fang…well, he reckons he’s her number one fan.
After all, he knew her before she was famous. She didn’t have her stage name back then, or her fancy look, but still. He was there for those good nights aboard the Queen Anne, or the Falcon before that. For the voice different from the others, floating on top of the chorus of “Haul on the Bowline” or the refrain of “Henry Martin.” For that solo of “Between the Ox and Grey Donkey” a great many Christmases ago that first got him falling in love a little.
So he reckons that’s why he’s earned the privilege of being the one to escort her back to her cabin at the end of the night. His cheeks glow with it, and his chest is full to bursting with that feeling of wanting and waiting and slip-sliding up to the edge of something sweet.
She’s holding his arm like the lady she is, looking so glamorous. He can hardly take his eyes off her, painted up like a proper actress as she is, all glittering gold and dark pink against black. Her waist is cinched, a long black scarf hanging from her belt and swishing like a fancy skirt as she walks.
“You were wonderful tonight,” he says breathlessly.
“Come off it.” Her voice is still her singing one, softer around the edges of the familiar rebuke. She tightens her hold on him, her hand warm and firm around his bicep.
“You were,” he insists. “Calypso drown me if I tell a lie.”
“Yeah?”
“Wonderful,” he says again, groping after words that would be as good as throwing flowers on-stage, “and gorgeous, and a tour de force—”
“Fang?” she says.
“Yes?”
“Shut up.” And with that she leans back against the bulkhead, pulling him with her.
They share and share alike on this ship, but Fang knows—his besotted gaze fixed on her curving lips—that no one else has gotten to kiss her tonight. The pretty pink paint’s still perfect, and it would almost be a shame to smudge it.
Almost.
She puts her hand on the back of his neck and draws him down, her eyes closing in a flutter of kohl and glitter. And Fang goes gladly, his mouth meeting hers, finding another way to convey his heartfelt admiration.
