Hes A Handful, Jan, But Somehow Hes Proven To Be A Handful Anne Doesnt Mind. Hes Like The Sea Breeze:

He’s a handful, Jan, but somehow he’s proven to be a handful Anne doesn’t mind. He’s like the sea breeze: light, playful, whimsical. A breath of fresh air, he fills sails and lungs and joyful songs, flitting to and fro in his fancy. What is must be like to live so light of heart, Anne can’t even begin to guess.

Talk of chains and walls and worser fates bring to mind an spook story that she damned near tells—a rarity, especially away from the quiet of a sleeping ship—when he takes possession of her wrist and pulls her into the sea beside him as if she weren’t trying to keep her good boots dry, the prick! She lets out a disbelieving laugh (could’ve passed for a scoff if that ghost of a smile weren’t haunting her face) and shoves him to land arse-first in the water.

“Speak for yerself! The world could do with fewer menaces like you.” There’s no steel in her words, no venom, not even so much as a barb: the curse of her self-imposed contrarian streak rears its head most often as contradictions between word and fact. She would miss him if he were to go. More people could stand to follow in his way.

A world without Jan would be a poorer world indeed—but that’s a thing she can’t say. (It reeks of the exact sort of wanton fuckery she’s only just convinced the crew is outside of her nature. The kind of frivolous idiot shite steeped in sentimentality that they claim women are solely so prone to. A reason to cast Anne out of their company.) She settles for a smile and leans towards him, offering him a hand up. She has to hope it’s sufficient, being very nearly as rare as a compliment from her.

“I only meant—t’ain’t so bad, to go a-pirating again. Even if it is with some dick-shit gang of Dutchmen.” A frequent term of almost-endearment Anne liked to use. She’s hardly a woman famous for love of any flag that wasn’t black and boned, after all. “At least we’re none of us fucking English, hey?”

@neverhangd said : 'i know there are worse ways to stay alive.' to Jan

SHE IS THE FLAME WHICH DRAWS HIM IN time and time again akin to a moth fluttering around a candle. He can't help it, it is the red hair. Her words capture his attention as he spins around; his feet stuck in the wet sand of the beach nearly causing him to topple over as he does. ❝ Exactly ! You could be chained to a wall by a vengeful king for example ! ❞ JOY IS INFECTIOUS, even when Anne seems immune to it some days.

He reaches out to her and pulls her forward into the gentle waves of the water with him. Resistance is not an option. What is the going to do ? waste hollow threats and perfectly fine breath on him ? She couldn't kill him even if she tried. ❝ Or you could live in a world without music. That would mean you would live without me, I suppose. A horrible thought. ❞

I LOVE. having multiple threads with my rp partners !! it’s like on some days i feel like writing long stuff, on others i feel more like writing short stuff, sometimes i’d rather write some intense situations, and other times i’m more in the mood for lighthearted topics. having several different types of threads with a person enables me to keep rping with them even if i’m stuck @ a reply for another thread we’re having !! it’s great, honestly !? if you wanna have 1 more thread or 20 more threads /w me that’s 10/10 👌👌👌👌 just write that starter or send an ic ask & we’ll go from there or hmu for plotting k man i love threads i love writing all the things

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I don’t know what the fuck to think of him. By rights, I should be dead. Stowed aboard, challenged his authority—all while already halfway to death, mind—to say nothing of breaking his nose…anyone else would’ve told me to catch their bullet with my teeth, and there he is debating how long to wait before untying me. He knows enough about me to know my father, and worse, he knows Andy even existed. Even without the details, that’s pretty damming.

I’m impressed—gobsmacked, more like—but somehow I doubt he’d care much if that factors in. Sort of a given when you’re in his position, ain’t it?

…more. for the fun of it.

He’s going to goddamn ruin me if I’m not careful about this. You’d reaaaaallyyyyy think I would’ve learned by now that falling for pirates doesn’t end well, but here we are. It’s fine. I keep a lid on this, and it’s fine. It goes away. Eventually I can make eye contact and breathe at the same time. I lucked out his face is so messed up. Gives me a plausible reason to be caught staring. And…not even close to staring. Just don’t think about him. And don’t get caught alone with him. That way I don’t say anything stupid and I stay aboard in an officer’s position. Try not to imagine other positions to get caught in. Oooooh, this is going to be a problem.

…

The things I would do to get at that man’s cock….

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Always a fucking magistrate, ain’t it? Shit like this doesn’t happen to lawyers. Maybe that’s because they’re smarter. Huh. …why’s he looking at my neck like that?

The smile on Tryck’s lips is one she’s seen a few times to date, and it never ends well for the person he’s smiling at. It’s supposed to mean mischief, but in reality, it just means the blue fuck’s a-scheming again. Honestly—all this work just to get a rise out of her? There’s got to be someone more entertaining than her to fluster; certainly there are others that can at least lob back a halfway decent flirtation or two, unlike her. So why someone with Tryck’s wiles—his looks, sure, fine, but more importantly his cunning, his confidence, the bright magnetism of his personality—would be so stuck on her is a mystery, at least to her.

Rough waters make for rough crews, and rough crews for rough living. Anne hadn’t led a life that wasn’t rough in almost a decade, experiencing her softest time to date with a fucking parasite lodged behind her eye. Time spent at the hands of smaller, crueler men and made a small, cruel crumple of the woman sitting beside Tryck now.

Lord Almighty, but he likes to dance about, don’t he? He eats his food and shrugs as he talks—honest, she isn’t a prude. She’s fucked before! Plenty of times! Maybe what they say about bards is true, though, and he’s looking to make a notch of her yet.

He’ll be sorely disappointed if so.

“‘Friad ye’ll need more’n a blanket and a bottle of the swill we keep here t’get me in your bunk. I en’t the camp whore anymore’n I were the captain’s whore. It’ll be you and yer hand tonight, I fear, ‘less ye ply that pretty tongue of yers to someone else’s ear.”

For the briefest of moments, it looks like the discomfort’s done with, like she can cajole him into debating the relative merit of making eyes at a few party members like they’re still among the city crowds—and then Tryck opens his mouth again and Anne actually groans out loud. She was going to pick on the wizard or the elf next, but noooo, she’s trapped in a hell of her own creation. Damn her idiot tongue!

She wouldn’t mind Tryck’s teasing if it didn’t feel so…pointed. He gave it out to everyone, sure, but somehow when it turned on her it made her an idiot. It sometimes seemed more intentional than playful, but toward what intention, Anne couldn’t even begin to guess.

“—Fuck’s sake. Ye’re exhausting, ye know that? Ye asked me t’move over, I moved over! What more of an answer are ye looking for?” As if she didn’t know. Although there is reason to doubt that she knew the answer regardless.