[ Who even gets mail anymore? The envelope is a cheerful pink and red, and inside is a card from a "Secret Admirer" with a photo of a blonde woman from behind. She's smirking over her shoulder at the camera, her legs spread just enough to tease a sleek metal vibrator between her legs, her panties already wet with arousal.
He'd spent a good amount of time staring at the picture when he got it. Who fucking wouldn't? He's never seen this woman before, but it kind of seems like something that would happen in Duplicity, so that fact doesn't bother him much. So he decides to keep the picture on him, just in case.
It's only a short while later that he sees a woman he's definitely never met who is definitely still familiar about to get onto the elevator in the Up housing. Since he absolutely is not about to miss this opportunity, he immediately raises his voice. ]
[It's not all that late; and this is one of the seedier, less pretty bars in the Up, close enough to her office that she can go for a quick drink after work, before she heads home, and definitely somewhere that has low lights, shitty music, and cheaper beer.
She's sitting and having a drink when someone next to her - a local, probably, one of the Rubies or the other gang, Daphne doesn't know or care, starts to give her grief. Pretty pampered Dominant like you, and Daphne is doing her best, god knows. His hand is suddenly on her thigh.
But the Rage is inside of her, all the time, and sometimes-
-if she was a normal woman, she would dress him down, and then get out. If she were a normal woman, she might slap him, or leave.
She's not a normal woman.
The movement is fast enough that it's hard to follow, the smell of blood thick in her nose as she rams his head against the bar, once, twice, and wood cracking. He doesn't die because she makes sure it's the top of his head - the hardest part - that smashes into the wood, but there's blood everywhere.
Someone screams.
Someone tries to pull her away and her first reaction is turn and slice them open, only she's barely stopped by a single rational thought; the smell of the person pulling her back by her midriff.
The cold hits her better than anything else, calms her down better than anything else.]
Put me down.
[There's a very light growl in her voice. There's some blood on her hand, but none of it is hers.]
[ He learned from Anne almost immediately where to find the best drinking between the Up and the Down. And when not the best, at least more like what they're used to. It's easier to be the thieves they are in places like this, with so many people distracted and struggling for their own resources. He's never actually considered himself lucky to be in a place like this, though, until it happens to coincide with some truly spectacular bloodletting from the woman who remains a tigress in his memory.
Hard not to let her finish, honestly - but this kind of thing brings guards very quickly. Even in the seediest places, you can never be sure who might be drawn to the violence. So he doesn't put her down until he can get her to the shadow of the wall, and shove her up against it, putting his body between hers and the entrance to the bar. It's pretty fucking obvious that she could defend herself if she has to, but he'd prefer if they weren't fucking bothered.
He looks behind them, and then back at her, eyes narrow. ]
What the fuck are you trying to do? Get tossed into Fuck Jail?
[ He doesn't think anything of seeing Daphne on Charles' list. She's on his, she sat pretty at this very counter while he ate her out. Fair enough. What surprises him is pulling up hers, to find that Charles is the only one who's earned himself a star besides her devoted Submissive. He glares down at the device for a minute before clicking it off, taking another bite of the sandwich in his hand and glaring across the room at the man in question instead.
Jack knows what this feeling is. He knows it well. Thought that Duplicity had freed him of it. It's both hot and nauseating, curling in knots in his gut and spreading up into his throat like thorny vines. It's painful when it's got no fucking right to be, because Charles isn't his to keep. So, it's not his business being jealous.
And yet, here he is, shaking his head at himself for letting this escalate so quickly, to the point where there is nothing he can say in his own head to delude himself into thinking this is anything but what it is. Charles has about shattered whatever guard Jack had up already, so maybe he'll clock him and make a fool out of him if he says anything, but he just can't help himself. There's a smarter angle to take, a concern more pressing than his own personal feelings about it. ]
Chaz. She isn't going to become another Eleanor for you, is she? Because I must tell you upfront, that I simply do not have the time to clean up after you if you want to play that game again.
[ Does he know about the leak, even? Quite possible he's been smoking and staring at the sea through the window the entire time Jack's been looking at this shit. ]
[ Listen, smoking and gazing at the sea is a perfectly reasonable thing for a sailor to be doing, and in fact he is and has been. Not in the brooding, sulking way it has been; he's just letting his mind wander toward the warmer months, when they might just be ready to sail again.
So he's definitely not expecting Jack to bring Eleanor Guthrie up out of fucking nowhere. ]
What are you talking about?
[ He doesn't stub the cigarette out but Jack has his attention now; Charles looks over at him with a furrowed brow. It's not like he's been keeping Daphne a secret, but he definitely hasn't discussed her with Jack before now. ]
[The problem with cats: they like to play with their food.
In the grand scheme of metaphor, it could be that simple, except it's simpler still: sometimes, Daphne is a bit of a bitch. She's relentlessly, regularly, and almost absurdly kind to children, the elderly, and idiots, so what ends up happening is that she turns on a dime even to those she likes.
And it's also not that simple, either. She just has a cat's curiosity and a thrill at attention, so when she hears of a new submissive, a man with strong cheekbones and a nose like a blade, fighting in the arena, she turns up because she knows who it is. She scans the fight - it's another submissive he's fighting next, some local with a pretty face and a brutal body, and she can't quite help herself. To begin, she's never seen him fight, and she wants to. She wants to reassure herself that he really could be what she sees in him - a kindred spirit, something wild and untamed.
She sees Charles getting ready, and she's not sure if it's the desire to see if Charles will be jealous, or just to rile him up at the thought of her trying to make him that way, but she raises up on her tiptoes to flirt, her smile pretty, her dimples showing, as she touches the other submissive on the arm and tells him something soft in his ear.
Whatever she says has him flush and her smile turns a little predatory, and she settles back to find a spot to watch the fight.
Whenever it ends, whoever wins, she's waiting for Charles.]
[ There isn't a woman on New Providence Island who can be trusted not to fuck with a man's head if given half an incentive, so it doesn't escape him, what Daphne is doing. But that doesn't mean he's immune to its effects. Just knowing that she's even trying to fuck with him is enough to make his eyes narrow - but there's no snarling or snapping of teeth, even if his lip curls for just a moment like he might.
If she wants a show, she'll get it.
He lets the other man, fired up by the attention, come to him; the first punch thrown is dodged, and the second punch thrown is Vane's, with his whole body behind it, a vicious hook that sends his opponent to the ground. To Pretty Boy's credit, he rolls right back to his feet and launches into him, getting two into his stomach before Vane cracks an elbow across his face, and what certainly wasn't likely to be a polite little boxing match dissolves quite quickly into a brawl.
Vane fights ugly. It's one of the first things to notice, because he makes it clear quite quickly: go down and stay down. There's only one king on this mountain. But even if he's not above taking cheap shots to get the upper hand, the way he throws his whole body into every assault and so rarely bothers to defend speaks to a deeply primal form of dominance - the kind rooted in survival. ]
[ He’s half expecting to wake up and find that it was all a dream. Charles’ return, his fraught and emotional conversation with Irving in which no amount of reassurance could ever be enough, given the newness and the shock, the heady cocktail of excitement and dread and desire and grief that he’d gulped down on an empty stomach, leaving him frazzled and out of control in a way he often is, but rarely shows.
The headache Jack wakes up with proves him wrong. Irving’s desperate need to put as many marks on him that morning as possible, scratches down his back and bruises sucked into his collar, while incredibly hot and far too easy to encourage, only confirms it.
So what does Jack do, when the time finally comes to get out of bed? He goes to the Neptune, as he’s done almost every morning for the past few weeks, leading up to their big opening. Decisions to make, training to do. He’s usually the kind of person to face his problems head on, to make a plan and execute as soon as he can so that he can find a position that suits him better, but this isn’t a problem. Charles Vane, despite what Jack might have said about him in his deepest pits with Eleanor or his surly opium binges, isn’t a problem. He's a relief, a glass of water for a man trying desperately to deny his thirst. No, never a problem, but certainly a situation, and a delicate one at that, so Jack takes his time to make sure his head is on straight before he does anything. As straight as it can be.
Life was so much easier when Anne’s were the only feelings that mattered to him.
It’s not until late in the evening, more than twenty-four hours since Jack saw him last, until he feels like he won’t shatter like glass dropped to the floor if he calls him. He just hopes Charles has the damn thing on him, wherever he is, and remembers what to do with it. ]
Meet me in the morning. I’ve got that spare apartment, I’ll send you the address.
[in the fucking morning. so either pre-dawn or quarter to noon, depending. either way it's hours ahead of him to pace or fuck or drink or get himself all riled up without the outlet he really wants, at which point he'll deliver himself to jack like a powder keg with a lit torch resting on top of it.
fortunately, daphne is more than suitable as a distraction. vane even manages to sleep, a little, though he wakes up in darkness, and lies there with all his physical senses wide open, ready to catch the wind that will begin closing the distance ahead of him. seven months is a long time to fall behind.
the thought drifts across his mind, once, that he could still fuck this up, badly, perhaps worse than eleanor, perhaps terrible enough that he loses something truly irreplaceable. that much can't even be said of his own life, in this place. but he snuffs out the same thought like a dwindling match, effortless, barely perceiving it. never in his life or death has he ever felt so fucking certain, so clear in his intention toward a singular solid goal. that kind of certainty is a light on the shore, a beacon out to a dark and angry sea saying this is where home is.
not a house, or a ship. not even nassau, anymore. it's just jack. that friendship, hard-won and enduring. that true depth of trust. the only comfort worth his submission.
just before dawn, he rolls away from the warm body beside him and dresses silently, snatching up a cigarette to take with him. he doesn't light it until he's left the high breeze of the beach behind, but by the time he makes it into the city proper he's already smoked it to the last embers. he's too early but he can't sit still, so for a while he just... wanders. familiarizing himself with the city again. gradually the light rises, the colors sharpen, and the streets of the Up grow busier, exactly as he remembers it, as if no time has passed at all.
he's surprised to realize he recognizes the location jack provided, when he finds himself outside of it, simply as a place he's passed before. the idea that he's grown used to this city unsettles him. but vane finds the right apartment, and this time he lets himself in.]
[there's some rustling going on in the background, like he's moving things around. there are really very few examples as far as pirates he'd actually give a shit about showing up here, but maybe jack has a point. strength in numbers, et cetera.]
[would you rather he find someone to read it to him
also, if these were the kinds of texts he gets, he'd be using his phone more often, fuck. if it takes him a bit to respond, it's because he's really savoring the visual.]
[ A box for Charles arrives at Daphne’s place, since he’s not on the map yet, but luckily, Jack can trust that he’ll receive it in a timely fashion. Inside there is a luxuriously cozy cashmere sweater, a ring which is not only shiny and pirate-y, but would bust someone’s face wide open, and if that doesn’t do the trick, the unnecessarily stylized brass knuckles will. The note is handwritten, but simple:
[She could have given it to him in person, but she actually likes being a little Santa tiger, so she delivers it when she knows he's not there instead, along with the gifts left for him at her place by others.
There is a pair of shirts, loose fitting and in the style Chaz prefers, a few henley-style shirts, and small box with a pair of panties - perv - that clearly have NOT been washed. And then a small box at the bottom with a katar style dagger, the grip perpendicular to the blade. The sheath is a work of art on its own, made of jade with a fat white pearl decorating it. The blade itself is eight inches long, bone-white, sharp on the point but clearly more designed for stabbing than for slashing. There's a groove that runs down one side; in her mouth it would be the blood groove, to guide blood down to the tip.
Ho, Vane. [A short pause follows as the rogue waits for his incoming message to be accepted, or the telltale 'click' as Charles hangs up on the spot upon seeing his ID photo. He's more than expecting the latter.]
I've no sense of how to start something like this, but I want to talk about what happened after the Finder. [After a week of allowing the cuts and bruises on his body to settle and feeling his regret and retroactive better judgment coalesce, if the other man will allow it, he needs to try.] Are you willing?
[how little he was expecting this call is what compels him to answer, since he'd frankly assumed that their paths would only cross again under similarly violent circumstances. it's not entirely unheard of for people to come down from wanting to punch him, but usually his interpersonal relationships only deteriorate over time.
so: interesting. hearing him out seems like the obvious answer, though he obviously remains guarded.]
Planning to tell me what the fuck I've done to you, I assume.
[She had to sneak and take his device - luckily a piece of equipment that is not surgically grafted onto his hand - and install the software that she and Tony made. And then she figures he won't look at it until she texts him later from work.]
[if he hadn't actually asked her about this himself, he'd have been a little freaked out by the brand new sexy voice coming from his phone. it sounds exactly like her, if very specific to one tone of her voice, and he does think for a second that she's somehow managed to call him and answer the call herself.
[a woman who sounds similar to daphne, if not exactly like her. enough to be intriguing and also slightly alarming when reading a message he knows is coming from jack.]
vane is spared about one-tenth of the confusion by the newly-installed function that reads all texts from jack in jack's own voice. which means that instead of 'who the hell is this', his first concern runs more along the lines of oh hell he's got some kind of brain fever.]
[She's in her office late, later than usual. It's not because she has extra work, and it's not because she got caught up in something with Jon or another one of the people who seem to live their needy lives needing her.
Instead she's thinking, very hard, about the series of events she went through just a little earlier at the Neptune. She's so caught up in that that she misses the time she usually goes down to said bar to meet Charles. Instead she's pacing in her office, a bit restless, and her head comes up when she hears the door, when she smells the first hint of him.]
[he wasn't going to come looking for her; both of them keep to their own schedules, daphne often works late, and it's not like he needs much of an excuse to drink jack's liquor. she's been very consistent about letting him know when he should not expect to see her, but vane chucks his device the second he hits the threshold of the neptune and doesn't think to step out long enough to check for messages until he realizes how late it's really gotten.
no word is what sends him off to find her, out of an abundance of caution and nothing telling him not to. fortunately, her office is the first place he checks. so at least no disaster seems to have befallen her, as far as he can tell.]
Anne’s only been gone for a couple days, knocking the air from his lungs and the blood from his body until he’s a drained and hollow husk, his breath nowhere near caught before the announcement came.
They’re going home, two days from now. Whether they like it or not. Whether there is anything to go back to or not. The numbness shifts to panic, not solely at the thought of forgetting it all, or at going back to Anne only to have to watch her die, but because her precarious situation is somehow the safest of all the people he’s opened his heart to here, nearly dead still carrying more hope with it than certainly hanged or murdered in the Arctic. It was his only solace in all this, knowing that they were here. And soon, they’ll be gone, for good, and Jack returned to his mountain of Spanish gold none the wiser, likely to repeat the same mistakes that led Charles to the noose.
It’s been tense between them lately, the two men settled into their own routines, a rift evident between them that’s gone mostly unaddressed. That stops now. Jack missed the chance to tell him goodbye the first time, and he won’t let that happen again. Even if he won’t remember it, even if it won’t change anything, it wouldn’t feel right.
So, he goes to Charles, at his little shack on the beach not far from his own home, and pulls him into a hug. ]
I’m sorry, Charles.
[ Give him a minute, and he might elaborate. For now, he just needs to feel him, alive, one more time. ]
[he'd left daphne in bed. there is an unspoken understanding here, between all of them, that this has to be done, because there will be no other time for it. they're settling their accounts, and charles has so few of them here.
and yet the hug still manages to surprise him a little. it takes a moment before his arms come up in turn, trying not to be too keenly reminded of the last time he and jack had seen each other before he drew him, bruised and bleeding, out of an overturned carriage. only a few moments altogether before he draws back from it, and though he keeps jack at arm's length, he grips him on the shoulder and guides him down the low porch to the sand.]
I know you're sorry, Jack.
[he leans against the wood, a support beam he'd replaced himself, the original one too rotted to support the roof. signs of a life built, a commitment made.]
Whatever it is you think I need from you, I can assure you we're past it now.
his response is delayed, though that's not altogether uncommon. but he is taking his time - first acknowledging the message, then actually reading it, then considering, very thoroughly, how he wants to respond.]
she bought her security with it. saw her at the gallows, standing right by eleanor's side
[stop smiling at him like that, he doesn't know what to do with it.]
It's not charity. You're going to work your ass off for that business. I want you invested.
[he's not trying to climb to the top of any social ladder or compete with others in environment where everything seems to be in abundance. he's just looking out for his own interests, and since she's not an enemy, she might as well be a resource.
friendship would be asking too much at the moment. but this is, very transparently, an opportunity for her to prove herself.]
I know you can handle this, so you damn well will.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
you've got mail
Welcome to Duplicity, Charles Vane. xoxo ]
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He'd spent a good amount of time staring at the picture when he got it. Who fucking wouldn't? He's never seen this woman before, but it kind of seems like something that would happen in Duplicity, so that fact doesn't bother him much. So he decides to keep the picture on him, just in case.
It's only a short while later that he sees a woman he's definitely never met who is definitely still familiar about to get onto the elevator in the Up housing. Since he absolutely is not about to miss this opportunity, he immediately raises his voice. ]
Wait!
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She's sitting and having a drink when someone next to her - a local, probably, one of the Rubies or the other gang, Daphne doesn't know or care, starts to give her grief. Pretty pampered Dominant like you, and Daphne is doing her best, god knows. His hand is suddenly on her thigh.
But the Rage is inside of her, all the time, and sometimes-
-if she was a normal woman, she would dress him down, and then get out. If she were a normal woman, she might slap him, or leave.
She's not a normal woman.
The movement is fast enough that it's hard to follow, the smell of blood thick in her nose as she rams his head against the bar, once, twice, and wood cracking. He doesn't die because she makes sure it's the top of his head - the hardest part - that smashes into the wood, but there's blood everywhere.
Someone screams.
Someone tries to pull her away and her first reaction is turn and slice them open, only she's barely stopped by a single rational thought; the smell of the person pulling her back by her midriff.
The cold hits her better than anything else, calms her down better than anything else.]
Put me down.
[There's a very light growl in her voice. There's some blood on her hand, but none of it is hers.]
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Hard not to let her finish, honestly - but this kind of thing brings guards very quickly. Even in the seediest places, you can never be sure who might be drawn to the violence. So he doesn't put her down until he can get her to the shadow of the wall, and shove her up against it, putting his body between hers and the entrance to the bar. It's pretty fucking obvious that she could defend herself if she has to, but he'd prefer if they weren't fucking bothered.
He looks behind them, and then back at her, eyes narrow. ]
What the fuck are you trying to do? Get tossed into Fuck Jail?
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actionnnnn
Jack knows what this feeling is. He knows it well. Thought that Duplicity had freed him of it. It's both hot and nauseating, curling in knots in his gut and spreading up into his throat like thorny vines. It's painful when it's got no fucking right to be, because Charles isn't his to keep. So, it's not his business being jealous.
And yet, here he is, shaking his head at himself for letting this escalate so quickly, to the point where there is nothing he can say in his own head to delude himself into thinking this is anything but what it is. Charles has about shattered whatever guard Jack had up already, so maybe he'll clock him and make a fool out of him if he says anything, but he just can't help himself. There's a smarter angle to take, a concern more pressing than his own personal feelings about it. ]
Chaz. She isn't going to become another Eleanor for you, is she? Because I must tell you upfront, that I simply do not have the time to clean up after you if you want to play that game again.
[ Does he know about the leak, even? Quite possible he's been smoking and staring at the sea through the window the entire time Jack's been looking at this shit. ]
Daphne.
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So he's definitely not expecting Jack to bring Eleanor Guthrie up out of fucking nowhere. ]
What are you talking about?
[ He doesn't stub the cigarette out but Jack has his attention now; Charles looks over at him with a furrowed brow. It's not like he's been keeping Daphne a secret, but he definitely hasn't discussed her with Jack before now. ]
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In the grand scheme of metaphor, it could be that simple, except it's simpler still: sometimes, Daphne is a bit of a bitch. She's relentlessly, regularly, and almost absurdly kind to children, the elderly, and idiots, so what ends up happening is that she turns on a dime even to those she likes.
And it's also not that simple, either. She just has a cat's curiosity and a thrill at attention, so when she hears of a new submissive, a man with strong cheekbones and a nose like a blade, fighting in the arena, she turns up because she knows who it is. She scans the fight - it's another submissive he's fighting next, some local with a pretty face and a brutal body, and she can't quite help herself. To begin, she's never seen him fight, and she wants to. She wants to reassure herself that he really could be what she sees in him - a kindred spirit, something wild and untamed.
She sees Charles getting ready, and she's not sure if it's the desire to see if Charles will be jealous, or just to rile him up at the thought of her trying to make him that way, but she raises up on her tiptoes to flirt, her smile pretty, her dimples showing, as she touches the other submissive on the arm and tells him something soft in his ear.
Whatever she says has him flush and her smile turns a little predatory, and she settles back to find a spot to watch the fight.
Whenever it ends, whoever wins, she's waiting for Charles.]
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If she wants a show, she'll get it.
He lets the other man, fired up by the attention, come to him; the first punch thrown is dodged, and the second punch thrown is Vane's, with his whole body behind it, a vicious hook that sends his opponent to the ground. To Pretty Boy's credit, he rolls right back to his feet and launches into him, getting two into his stomach before Vane cracks an elbow across his face, and what certainly wasn't likely to be a polite little boxing match dissolves quite quickly into a brawl.
Vane fights ugly. It's one of the first things to notice, because he makes it clear quite quickly: go down and stay down. There's only one king on this mountain. But even if he's not above taking cheap shots to get the upper hand, the way he throws his whole body into every assault and so rarely bothers to defend speaks to a deeply primal form of dominance - the kind rooted in survival. ]
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the next night...
The headache Jack wakes up with proves him wrong. Irving’s desperate need to put as many marks on him that morning as possible, scratches down his back and bruises sucked into his collar, while incredibly hot and far too easy to encourage, only confirms it.
So what does Jack do, when the time finally comes to get out of bed? He goes to the Neptune, as he’s done almost every morning for the past few weeks, leading up to their big opening. Decisions to make, training to do. He’s usually the kind of person to face his problems head on, to make a plan and execute as soon as he can so that he can find a position that suits him better, but this isn’t a problem. Charles Vane, despite what Jack might have said about him in his deepest pits with Eleanor or his surly opium binges, isn’t a problem. He's a relief, a glass of water for a man trying desperately to deny his thirst. No, never a problem, but certainly a situation, and a delicate one at that, so Jack takes his time to make sure his head is on straight before he does anything. As straight as it can be.
Life was so much easier when Anne’s were the only feelings that mattered to him.
It’s not until late in the evening, more than twenty-four hours since Jack saw him last, until he feels like he won’t shatter like glass dropped to the floor if he calls him. He just hopes Charles has the damn thing on him, wherever he is, and remembers what to do with it. ]
Meet me in the morning. I’ve got that spare apartment, I’ll send you the address.
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fortunately, daphne is more than suitable as a distraction. vane even manages to sleep, a little, though he wakes up in darkness, and lies there with all his physical senses wide open, ready to catch the wind that will begin closing the distance ahead of him. seven months is a long time to fall behind.
the thought drifts across his mind, once, that he could still fuck this up, badly, perhaps worse than eleanor, perhaps terrible enough that he loses something truly irreplaceable. that much can't even be said of his own life, in this place. but he snuffs out the same thought like a dwindling match, effortless, barely perceiving it. never in his life or death has he ever felt so fucking certain, so clear in his intention toward a singular solid goal. that kind of certainty is a light on the shore, a beacon out to a dark and angry sea saying this is where home is.
not a house, or a ship. not even nassau, anymore. it's just jack. that friendship, hard-won and enduring. that true depth of trust. the only comfort worth his submission.
just before dawn, he rolls away from the warm body beside him and dresses silently, snatching up a cigarette to take with him. he doesn't light it until he's left the high breeze of the beach behind, but by the time he makes it into the city proper he's already smoked it to the last embers. he's too early but he can't sit still, so for a while he just... wanders. familiarizing himself with the city again. gradually the light rises, the colors sharpen, and the streets of the Up grow busier, exactly as he remembers it, as if no time has passed at all.
he's surprised to realize he recognizes the location jack provided, when he finds himself outside of it, simply as a place he's passed before. the idea that he's grown used to this city unsettles him. but vane finds the right apartment, and this time he lets himself in.]
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voice; BEFORE tumenalia
[ He seems pretty pleased about it. Always nice to have like minds about. ]
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The Pacific, hm. What do you know about him?
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mistlefoe:
When you were gone, I kept one of your shirts and I used to wear it while I fucked myself with my fingers. No one else was enough for me after.
[She turns scarlet when she reads it and hopes he doesn’t turn on his text to voice.]
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also, if these were the kinds of texts he gets, he'd be using his phone more often, fuck. if it takes him a bit to respond, it's because he's really savoring the visual.]
do you still have it
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delivery, a couple days before Christmas
Stay warm.
- Jack ]
delivery;
There is a pair of shirts, loose fitting and in the style Chaz prefers, a few henley-style shirts, and small box with a pair of panties - perv - that clearly have NOT been washed. And then a small box at the bottom with a katar style dagger, the grip perpendicular to the blade. The sheath is a work of art on its own, made of jade with a fat white pearl decorating it. The blade itself is eight inches long, bone-white, sharp on the point but clearly more designed for stabbing than for slashing. There's a groove that runs down one side; in her mouth it would be the blood groove, to guide blood down to the tip.
There's a note. One of my own.]
voice; @blades | Backdated to Dec 15
I've no sense of how to start something like this, but I want to talk about what happened after the Finder. [After a week of allowing the cuts and bruises on his body to settle and feeling his regret and retroactive better judgment coalesce, if the other man will allow it, he needs to try.] Are you willing?
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so: interesting. hearing him out seems like the obvious answer, though he obviously remains guarded.]
Planning to tell me what the fuck I've done to you, I assume.
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text; un: sherekhan
Alright I'm making a kink list for you.
[Yes, it is her voice reading the text.]
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fortunately, he's not quite that hopeless.]
you what
how did you do this
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@RACKHAM
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[a woman who sounds similar to daphne, if not exactly like her. enough to be intriguing and also slightly alarming when reading a message he knows is coming from jack.]
how do i change it to your voice
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》voice
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@captaincummiesxoxo💦
hole
🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳🕳
h̴̦̘̪̝̖̦̱̠͗͜o̶̧͋ľ̷͙̞̞̺̦͙̳͈̭̫͚̫̜̝͑̉͂͂̃̚͜e̵̫͍̜̲̮͈͙͕͕̣͔̾͂̍́̄̎͗̂͋̃̊̈́͋́
[ There's a picture attached. It is a butthole. Not Jack's, but it's zoomed in too far to possibly know. ]
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vane is spared about one-tenth of the confusion by the newly-installed function that reads all texts from jack in jack's own voice. which means that instead of 'who the hell is this', his first concern runs more along the lines of oh hell he's got some kind of brain fever.]
what's wrong with you
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voice; un: sherekhan
I need to tell you something.
[Her voice doesn't sound strained or stressed, but she does sound a little distracted.]
It's about something that came up on that stupid thing that we have to deal with every couple of months. The finder.
voice.
What the fuck did they say now?
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action;
Instead she's thinking, very hard, about the series of events she went through just a little earlier at the Neptune. She's so caught up in that that she misses the time she usually goes down to said bar to meet Charles. Instead she's pacing in her office, a bit restless, and her head comes up when she hears the door, when she smells the first hint of him.]
Shit. What time is it?
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[he wasn't going to come looking for her; both of them keep to their own schedules, daphne often works late, and it's not like he needs much of an excuse to drink jack's liquor. she's been very consistent about letting him know when he should not expect to see her, but vane chucks his device the second he hits the threshold of the neptune and doesn't think to step out long enough to check for messages until he realizes how late it's really gotten.
no word is what sends him off to find her, out of an abundance of caution and nothing telling him not to. fortunately, her office is the first place he checks. so at least no disaster seems to have befallen her, as far as he can tell.]
What the hell are you still doing up here?
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blanket cw for this thread of rape talk and pirate standards of accountability
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text; pre-march event
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what
are you sure
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action.
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March event
Anne’s only been gone for a couple days, knocking the air from his lungs and the blood from his body until he’s a drained and hollow husk, his breath nowhere near caught before the announcement came.
They’re going home, two days from now. Whether they like it or not. Whether there is anything to go back to or not. The numbness shifts to panic, not solely at the thought of forgetting it all, or at going back to Anne only to have to watch her die, but because her precarious situation is somehow the safest of all the people he’s opened his heart to here, nearly dead still carrying more hope with it than certainly hanged or murdered in the Arctic. It was his only solace in all this, knowing that they were here. And soon, they’ll be gone, for good, and Jack returned to his mountain of Spanish gold none the wiser, likely to repeat the same mistakes that led Charles to the noose.
It’s been tense between them lately, the two men settled into their own routines, a rift evident between them that’s gone mostly unaddressed. That stops now. Jack missed the chance to tell him goodbye the first time, and he won’t let that happen again. Even if he won’t remember it, even if it won’t change anything, it wouldn’t feel right.
So, he goes to Charles, at his little shack on the beach not far from his own home, and pulls him into a hug. ]
I’m sorry, Charles.
[ Give him a minute, and he might elaborate. For now, he just needs to feel him, alive, one more time. ]
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and yet the hug still manages to surprise him a little. it takes a moment before his arms come up in turn, trying not to be too keenly reminded of the last time he and jack had seen each other before he drew him, bruised and bleeding, out of an overturned carriage. only a few moments altogether before he draws back from it, and though he keeps jack at arm's length, he grips him on the shoulder and guides him down the low porch to the sand.]
I know you're sorry, Jack.
[he leans against the wood, a support beam he'd replaced himself, the original one too rotted to support the roof. signs of a life built, a commitment made.]
Whatever it is you think I need from you, I can assure you we're past it now.
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@RACKHAM
Anne let me know that she sabotaged our efforts to reclaim Nassau, after your death.
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she bought her security with it. saw her at the gallows, standing right by eleanor's side
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un: sherekhan
Is she the one?
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that's her
[trust that he's not in a mindset to make amends.]
watch your back around her. that woman built a small empire on secrets
betrayed jack and anne to england and spain, so she could hold onto her power
she is no friend of mine
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un: max
[Can you tell Max is in shock? She sounds a bit spaced out but the beaming smile lighting her face shows just how pleased she is.]
Why? How does it benefit you?
[She pauses]
But Charles? Thank you!
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[stop smiling at him like that, he doesn't know what to do with it.]
It's not charity. You're going to work your ass off for that business. I want you invested.
[he's not trying to climb to the top of any social ladder or compete with others in environment where everything seems to be in abundance. he's just looking out for his own interests, and since she's not an enemy, she might as well be a resource.
friendship would be asking too much at the moment. but this is, very transparently, an opportunity for her to prove herself.]
I know you can handle this, so you damn well will.
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Text | un: LadyRogue (event misfire)
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yes
and yes
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text; un: sherekhan (misfire) [subject heading: my boyfriend doesn’t know I need more company!!]
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didn't realize i'd left you wanting, though
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text;
[She woke up and he wasn’t there, which isn’t altogether unusual since she sleeps more than he does and he, you know. Has things to do.]
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