the bosun

Of Ships

Ignacio enters the Pixie’s Kitten. It’s a very fine establishment, with plenty of people wearing very strategically placed bits of silk, as well as some rowdy dudes enjoying the libations and sights.
Ignacio: Hola, I am seeking for men and women to fly my ship.
Everyone looks up at this bombastic entrance and several people raise an eyebrow.
A scantily clad women, presumably of the evening, takes Ignacio’s arm.
“Well, I’m sure we can find someone who can… pilot.”
Ignacio: So long as they are good with the helm and accepting of gold, I do not care.
Madam: “Well, are you looking for a… bosun, or a cabin boy?”
Ignacio: Preferably a bosun, por favor.
Ignacio is not quite so familiar with sailing terms in Common.
The woman pats Ignacio’s arm and walks off, sighing to herself.
“The good looking ones always plow the other row…”
Ignacio: Plow rows? I’m looking for sailors.
Madam: “No no, I understand. We’ll find someone.”
The woman walks into a back room and is gone for some time, before coming back with a guy that might have been carved from a tree. He looks Ignacio up and down.
This burly fellow is shirtless and looks like his skin is half oil.
Ignacio: Ehh… He does not look like a sailor.
He’s not wearing the uniform.
Señor, do you have a sailor’s outfit?
Madam: “I think I could find one somewhere.”
Ignacio: I’m not convinced. Can you provide me a more authentic sailor? Perhaps someone who owns a belaying pin?
The man grins.
“I have one of those, too. Not sure where it is, though. You want to help me find it?”
Ignacio: I suppose. Do you mind long stays in the sky?
Faregal: “I do need to be paid overtime.”
Ignacio: Do you have any experience at the helm?
Faregal: “Helm and belowdecks, too.”
Ignacio: Excelente.
Ignacio turns to the madam.
Ignacio: I would like to bring this one with me.
The madam blinks.
Madam: “We don’t typically do long jobs.”
Ignacio: I will be keeping him. I’ll pay him well. I desperately need a helmsman for my long voyages in the sky.
I don’t normally hire prostitutes as sailors, but I think this one can do the job. What is your name, señor?
Faregal: “How mu- wait, an actual sailor?”
Ignacio: Did I stutter?
The buff dude looks confused for a few moments before nodding.
Faregal: “Right. Of course. A ‘sailor’. Sure. What are your rates?”
Ignacio: Two gold per day.
Consistent work.
The buff prostitute blinks.
Faregal: “Two g-”
Turns to the madam.
Faregal: “I quit, you’ve been lovely, thanks, bye.”
Ignacio: Bien. I have one more place to visit before you see the ship. Hasta luego, señora.
The madam stares after this high roller.
Ignacio walks out of the brothel with the prostitute in tow, What is your name?
Ignacio: Bien Faregal. I need you to perform any and all services asked of you, even if they seen unorthodox.
Faregal looks at Ignacio.
Faregal: “Yeah… for two gold a day, you can whip me bloody.”
Ignacio: Oh, and you will never discuss your pay with your crew mates.
Ignacio unfolds his sword and holds it to Faregal’s throat, “Understand?”
“Woah! Woah! I understand!”
Ignacio: Muy bien.
Ignacio folds his sword.
Ignacio: Where can we find a good hunter in this city?

I’m probably the only one watches this show but a Below Deck AU anyone?

Kristoff’s a nose to the grind, no nonsense bosun trying to work his way up to be a captain one day. Anna’s an heiress with a love of boating who escaped her restrictive life at home for a chance to prove herself and see the world. She’s made chief stew in record time.

They both get hired on the same luxury yacht and instantly are at odds. Kristoff thinks Anna keeps coming up with these ridiculous activities for the guests just to make his life miserable. And Anna cannot deal with his attitude when she’s just trying to get a good tip for the crew.

They bicker all the time in the tight quarters. But somewhere along the season Anna starts to see how much Kristoff cares about his job. And Kristoff admires how hard Anna works and is trying to help everyone. Bickering turns to banter that turns into something else.

Kristoff has a rule to never get involved with anyone he works with. He’s never been tempted before and he’s not going to start now. Nope. No way. But he can’t stop staring any time Anna walks by to bring a fresh round of drinks to the guests.

Just a few facts on Flint/Billy

Feel free to fight me on this :)

1. Flint finds Billy physically attractive.

2. Flint respects Billy, he knows how smart and capable Billy is (he did make him bosun, right?)

3. Flint (and his crew) saved Billy all those years ago. Flint empathizes with Billy. We all remember the story he told Abigail and the way he told it.

(I won’t mention that he was totally like “quit staring at my boy” and “girl you’re wrong he does fucking belong here”, not really solid facts).

4. Flint has tried to protect Billy/prevent his death more than once (including 1x06 but I know lots of people will disagree).

  • In 3x02 he took down all the sails except the one Billy was on.
  • In 4x02 Flint asked Billy to follow him (”for any man who offers resistance to that militia will be held responsible for…” *we know what*); when Billy attacked him, Flint didn’t try to defeat him (mostly just kept throwing him off and avoided using the sword).
  • In 4x04 Flint was actually trying to protect Billy from Silver’s rage (after Billy tried to kill him lmao).

5. The fact that matters most: unlike others, Flint has never betrayed Billy.

Despite the tangle of absurdities and inconsistencies that is Season 4, I still hope that the writers had the decency to give a more or less logical ending to Flint & Billy’s story.

jkeats  asked:

PIRATE AU WOULD BE SO GOOD is enjolras a pirate too is he the pirate captain? are they privateers .. ~WERE they privateers/corsairs that decided to stop acting on behalf of the crown and ~become pirates I GOTTA KNOW

ok so like this isn’t fully developed but the story i tell myself sometimes as i fall asleep is that enjolras is first mate on a merchant ship that’s attacked by pirates. the attack comes during a tempestuous storm and the battle rages between the ships. it’s obvious the pirates are not trying to sink them – cargo’s too valuable – but the combination of cannons and storm means the merchant ship goes down. 

the pirates fish all the survivors they can out of the water and enjolras is the last one to be dragged aboard, exhausted from a fruitless search for captain mabeuf, who is lost at sea. enjolras despises pirates on principal, having spent his career protecting people and shipments from them, and expects, nay, volunteers to die at once. he’s surprised when the pirate’s bosun, courfeyrac, gives them a generous choice: join the crew or be left, far from home but intact, at the next port. enjolras is now the highest-ranking crewmate left and his men look to him for guidance. 

that’s when PIRATE CAPTAIN GRANTAIRE, in an amazing green hat w/feather, gold earrings, rum bottle in hand, dark hair whipped by wind and sea-spray, makes his appearance. he tells enjolras (after a lot of looking at him up and down in a way that makes enjolras increasingly furious but maybe a little turned on) that since their own first mate died in the fight, the position is enjolras’ to have. grantaire, shall we say, likes the look of him, but more seriously, says he needs a steady hand to help run the ship. if enjolras accepts, his men will be welcomed as friends and fellows, and enjolras will be second-in-command. enjolras finds the idea of piracy abhorrent, but agrees when it becomes obvious most men would rather stay than be cast penniless onto land. grantaire is pleased. enjolras would like to throw him overboard, he thinks.

Keep reading

The Price 9/?

Summary: Killian and the Swan come to an agreement.

an: Listen up folks, Catie has SUCCESSFULLY beaten the curse of dropping WIP’s the moment she misses a made up deadline. I DID THE THING.

Neverending thanks to @nowforruin for listening to me bitch about this thing, helping me wrangle it, and looking it over for all the details I always miss, and for threatening to fly out and bribe me with Sephora. I’m telling you all this so that everyone else knows who to go yell at when I take forever on a chapter again. 

tagging: @jadeddiva, @artielu​, @kmomof4​, @captain–kitten​, @the-captains-ayebrows​, @wheres-your-rum​, @dreadpirateemma​, @thearmorstaysoff​, @ripplestitchskein

Chapter List: One/Two/Three/Four/Five/Six/Seven/Eight


Chapter Nine

Wind whips through his hair as he kicks his heels into the stone wall below him, leaning against a break in the parapet while he takes another long pull from the bottle of rum in his hand. It is dangerous, attempting to blind himself with drink while perched against the battlements, and if he’d seen a crewman doing such a thing in the crowsnest he’d have had the bosun discipline him appropriately. But in the time he’s been here much of his previous self has been etched away, bit by bit, and so he drinks, and stares into the forest below, and wonders idly with every sip of rum exactly how high the fall would be.

He’d left Regina and Emma to their squabbles hours ago, Liam’s name echoing in his ears, and while he’d meant to tear apart his study in search of any damned spell that might allow him to reach his brother, his desperate hunt had only ended in frustration and anger, his magic coursing through him in crashing waves, hurling him about. He’d conjured up the bottle of rum to help calm himself, somewhere around dinner time, but he’d lost all focus he might have had for spellwork and had instead made his way out onto the ramparts, climbed up the side of a parapet, and continued drinking until the bottle was empty.

Then he’d filled it back up.

Keep reading

A Mention of Solomon Little

The past several days had dragged by in a grueling blur. It had been three days since they had left Charlestown behind. Or rather, the smoking husk of all that remained by the time the deafening boom of their cannons had finally fallen into fragile silence. It had been two days since they had left Tortuga to garner news and resupply. One day since Silver finally managed to regain consciousness for a period longer than just a few minutes. Since he opened his mouth to spout yet another lie, only this time it was to him.

It went without saying that Flint had thrown himself into his duties. Not only did it stave off the harsh realities of Miranda’s loss, of which he was still rather numb, but it also helped to quell the anger burning a pit of fire in his belly. Not towards Charlestown and Peter Ashe, not now, but towards Silver. Ever since they had taken the Spanish Man O’ War, Silver had been integral in every single step towards recovering the gold. From tempering the crew’s lingering resentment to turning the tides towards recapturing the fort. And here he had been scheming behind his back the entire time.

Flint felt betrayed. He had been swindled, lied to, used. Played like a fiddle by that same mouth that had deceived the crew time and time again. Only he had fooled himself. He had thought himself different, above the rest of them, and why? Because those same lips had traveled across his own when the two of them were hidden behind closed doors? Because he had not only snuck a taste of that silver tongue, but reveled in it? It was not just that Silver had betrayed him. It was the fact that he had been foolish enough to trust him in the first place. Yet despite all that, he still felt that dull ache within his chest, pained with the guilt that resulted from Silver’s own loss. It was maddening.

The moment Flint opened the door to his cabin he abruptly halted in his tracks. Though Silver had spent some time awake the day before, long enough to weave another web of lies at least, he had eventually succumbed to the embrace of sleep once more. Not that that was in the least bit unexpected, considering the severity of his injury. He had suffered a great deal of trauma, not just from the excruciating pain but from the blood loss as well. It was clear that his recovery would be a long one. And so he had entered his chambers expecting to see Silver lying still against the cushions of the window seat. Instead he was awake. Not only that, but he was standing.

“The fuck are you doing?” Flint practically growled as he rushed forward.

Silver stood hunched over his desk, his palms planted against the charts and papers strewn across the wooden surface so that he could better support his weight. His skin that was usually warm from the sun now held an unnaturally pale hue. Sweat beaded along his forehead, a drop falling from his brow as those blue eyes angled upwards.

Flint grabbed the man’s arm to make sure that he remained steady. The last thing he needed was for him to pass out on his floor. “What are you doing?” he repeated.

Silver could only offer a minute shake of his head. His breath was practically huffing from his chest as he panted from the exertion of making it this far. Howell had decided against providing a crutch this early on for this exact reason: To encourage bed rest. Yet the stubborn man had found it in himself to hop partway across the room.

“Silver,” Flint tried again. The grip on his arm tightened.

Again Silver shook his head, but not before pushing weakly against his hand. “I can’t,” he eventually offered. Even from uttering those two words he sounded completely winded. “I can’t–!”

When Flint finally managed to get a better glimpse of his face he saw that those usually calm eyes were wide, the pupils blown. Wide, wild, and unseeing. Despite the color lacking from his complexion, the moment Flint pressed his palm against his forehead he could feel the fever that burned beneath his skin.

“Fuck,” Flint breathed. He pulled at Silver, ignoring the protests as he slung his arm across his shoulder and practically dragged him back to the window seat. A slew of curses and swears immediately flitted from Silver’s mouth. Hands shoved against his chest, an elbow knocking against his ribs as he tried to wriggle free. Part of him wanted to give in and let the lying thief drop to the floor. However, it was only a small part, one that was quickly drowned beneath the weight of his persisting concern.

The moment Flint got him somewhat settled he let out a piercing whistle. A low, steady tone that proved effective not moments later when Billy poked his head in from behind the door. “Get Howell,” he ordered before the bosun could even open his mouth. The man offered a curt nod before disappearing once more. Flint would have left to fetch the man himself, but with the way Silver still pushed against him, he gathered the moment he stepped away he would be trying to escape once more. He’d rather not find out just how far he could get.

“–Go!” Silver struggled. “Let go of me!” The man was in an absolute panic. Whether or not it was genuinely linked to the injury or simply a delusion fueled by the fever, he had no idea. And in all honesty, at this moment he didn’t quite care. He just needed to get him calm before he tore through the stitches or found some other way to hurt himself.

“For fuck’s sake,” Flint swore as he held him pinned at the shoulder. “Would you calm down a little–”

“Don’t call me that!” Silver all but shouted. The outburst was enough to give even Flint pause. However, it was quickly muddled over by confusion.


“I told you I hate that name,” Silver pressed vehemently. Despite the fingernails biting into his forearm, he at last seemed to settle somewhat. At the very least, he no longer seemed determined to shove him off so that he proceed to collapse to the floor. Instead Silver shook his head, his brow furrowed and damp with beads of sweat, as a tongue reached out to wet his lower lip. “Solomon Little,” he relented then, his voice but a broken whisper. “I hate that name. I hate it..!” His chest shuddered. It was almost as though he couldn’t catch his breath, as if speaking that name had taken all that was left in him.

Flint’s own brow furrowed then. Solomon Little… The man whose name he had heard only once or twice, and always at the center of one of Silver’s stories. To his knowledge, the only one that held any sliver of truth was when he had told him of the orphanage. And all this time this figure, this figment of a tale, was him.

The man sighed before weighing his next words carefully. “It’s alright,” Flint eventually soothed. Or rather he tried to, as he doubted the usual rough edge of his voice could possibly hold any degree of comfort. “You aren’t… Solomon Little anymore. Let’s never speak of that name again, alright? He’s gone.”

Silver’s fingers clutched at his arm almost desperately. When he next released a breath it sounded like a gust of wind wracking through his chest.

“You’re John now,” Flint continued after a moment. “John Silver.” It wasn’t until after Silver managed to offer a minute nod that he noticed his cheeks were damp. What’s more, when those crystalline blue eyes opened they were wet. Glassy and wide and just as tumultuous as the seas that stretched beyond the bay window. The sight caused a lump to form in Flint’s throat; one that was promptly forced back down.

The moment the door banged open Flint immediately stood to make room for Howell. Yet the moment he so much as took a single step away that hand reached out to stop him in his tracks. Silver’s fingers latched onto his wrist with a grip so tight it was as if his life depended on it. As if he were getting pulled down beneath the waves, drowning beneath the weight of it all, and he was the only tether within sight. The fear in those blue eyes only confirmed his thoughts.

A weary sigh passed Flint’s lips as he rubbed at his temple with his free hand. His own eyes closed briefly as he cast aside his warring thoughts and settled his decision. With Silver’s hand still clutching to his wrist, and without stepping away any further, Flint scraped his desk chair across the floor so that he could sit down.

With Flint at his side, Howell began to look over their newest quartermaster. He touched his forehead briefly before setting a wet cloth against it to help stave off the fever. He checked his pupils, voiced questions that Silver could just barely manage to answer either with a shake of his head or nonsensical mumbling. By the time Howell proceeded lower to unwind the bandages around the fresh stump, Flint was no longer paying attention. Instead his eyes were locked on Silver’s face. On the rabbiting pulse in his neck and the fever that darkened his cheeks, on that strong yet broken gaze that held his own.

Flint was drowning beneath the rushing swell of his own seas. He had been for several years, and now moreso than ever now that Miranda was lost to him as well. Yet here at Silver’s side he would stay. He would be that tether the man so desperately needed in this moment. He would be the one to keep him afloat, until he was once again strong enough to stand tall and steady on his own. It didn’t matter the lies he had told again and again. It didn’t matter the trust he had betrayed, the riches he had stolen from beneath his nose. For now he realized he was drowning in him. And so here he would stay, keeping the man’s head above the rushing water, until that rope was cut and he was eventually cast aside once more.

“Cast off!”

the Captain bellowed, and the waiting hands sprang into action. The last of the lines tethering us to the piling was slipped free and neatly coiled, and all around us, lines tightened and sails snapped overhead, as the bosun ran up and down the deck, bawling orders in a voice like rusty iron.

“She moves! She stirs! ‘She seems to feel / the thrill of life along her keel’!” I declaimed, delighted to feel the deck quiver beneath my feet as the ship came alive, the energy of all the crew poured into its inanimate hulk, transmuted by the power of the wind-catching sails.

“Oh, God,” said Jamie hollowly, feeling the same thing. He grasped the rail, closed his eyes and swallowed.


There were two lofty ships
 From old England came
Blow high, blow low
And so sail we
One was the Prince of Luther
 The other Prince of Wales
All a-cruisin’ down the coast
Of High Barbary

“Aloft there, aloft there”
 Our jolly bosun cried
“Look ahead, look astern,
 Look to weather an’ a-lee”

“There’s naught upon the stern, sir
 There’s naught upon our lee
But there’s a lofty ship to wind'ard
 An’ she’s sailin’ fast and free”

“Oh hail her, oh hail her”
 Our gallant captain cried
“Are you a man-o-war
 Or a privateer?” cried he

“Oh, I’m not a man-o-war
 Nor privateer,” said he
“But I am salt sea pirate
 All a-looking for me fee”

For Broadside, for broadside
 A long time we lay
‘Til at last the Prince of Luther
 Shot the pirate’s mast away

“Oh quarter, oh quarter”
 Those pirates they did cry
But the quarter that we gave them
 Was we sank 'em in the sea

When You’re Lost At Sea - Day 6

Flint/Hamilton Week:

Day Six: Favorite “Little Thing”
Theme: True North
Quote/Song: “He leans in, and I smile against his lips, finally give up and let his love flood in and carve the last of my stone heart into a new shape I’m only just discovering. Somehow it doesn’t feel like a surrender. It feels like a victory.” - Kiersten White, ‘The Chaos of Stars’

TITLE: When You’re Lost At Sea

Read on Ao3:

“Tell me about the men you sailed with,” Thomas said quietly, his fingers brushing gently up and down James’ upper arm. James was leaning against Thomas’ chest, a book in his lap, reading while Thomas gazed out the window. James paused, his fingers tightening on the book.

“They were just men,” he said after a moment.

“No one of note?” Thomas asked softly, pressing a kiss against the side of James’ head, lips tickled by the short hairs there. They were longer than when James had first arrived at the plantation, longer than when he had broken them and a dozen other men out, longer than when they found this small house near Boston, but they were still maddeningly short and Thomas was waiting for the day when James’ hair would be long enough to once more wrap around his fingers.

“They were just men,” James repeated quietly.

“One of them must have been exceptionally intelligent,” Thomas prodded gently. “I saw the shock on your face when you first saw me. This was not your plan or of your making. You didn’t know.”

“I didn’t believe,” James corrected. “Not after so long.”

“Tell me about someone, anyone, from your crew.”

James sighed, closing the book around his finger and trying to think of anyone that didn’t bring him pain to recall. Finally he chuckled, shaking his head.

“Betsy,” he said quietly, thinking of the black and white cat that had always followed Randall, and after Randall, had taken a shine to…no, he wasn’t going to think about Silver. Behind him Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“Betsy…” he repeated, skeptical. He knew as well as anyone that crews rarely sailed with women aboard.

“Ships mouser, and a damned good one,” Flint grinned and Thomas chuckled.

“The cat?”

“There was a dairy goat,” Flint started then shook his head. He didn’t need to relay that particular story.

“Do I want to know?” Thomas asked at Flint’s silence and he shook his head.

“Please never ask me about the goat again,” he said, trying to hold in his laughter. “It’s not for…the ears of polite society…”

“Someone was fucking the dairy goat,” Thomas deadpanned and James burst out laughing, unable to hold it in any longer. Thomas chuckled, relieved beyond belief that James was finally laughing, even if it had taken several months since they left the plantation and built a home together.

“Randall was our bosun, before a beating during a boarding left him stupid,” James said, his laughter subsiding but his smile remaining. Suddenly it seemed easier to speak of it, of the earlier days at least. “After that he was the ships cook. Looked after Betsy, heard all the ships gossip. I always wondered if he had really been left stupid of if he put it on himself. The men all spoke around him as if he didn’t understand, but he remembered every word. Four years ago, I had a plan to go after a Spanish gold ship, the Urca de Lima, carrying five million Spanish dollars in gold coin. The ship wrecked in a storm, but the man o'war guarding her didn’t. One of our ships was scuttled and the other ran aground. My quartermaster led a mutiny, then almost at once proved himself utterly useless, leaving me back in command.”

“Jesus,” Thomas muttered, leaning his head against James’ as he spoke.

“I had one man on my side, the new cook, an obnoxious little shit who had stolen the Urca schedule out from under me and then burned it so that I wouldn’t kill him the moment I laid hands on it. It was he who first shared the story of the dairy goat, heard from Randall, who knew everything that happened on the ship. He got the stories from Randall, and he told them at each meal, and took a beating for it for the first week. Eventually the men started to listen, got smart to the fact that if a man stood up and beat him for a story, it was obvious the story was about him.”

Thomas listened as James talked, moving through his tales like water flowing through a stream, now that he had started. He told of leaving the gold behind, returning to Nassau. He told stories of Charles Vane and Edward Teach, names that had drifted to Thomas’ ears for their crimes against civilization. He told how the hanging of Vane had truly began the rebellion. He told of Billy’s role on the ship, his fall, his return, his part in the rebellion and his eventual betrayal until finally he had told Thomas everything he could think of and only a few times did he have to tamp down his anger at events. All the while, Thomas noticed there was one person he never seemed to speak of again, at least not directly.

“What happened to that cook?” Thomas asked softly after James had fallen silent, his gaze lost out the window in the field before their house. James sighed.

“His name was John Silver,” James said quietly and Thomas tilted his head.

“The one legged man who Billy made a pirate king of?” he asked, surprised.

“He had two legs then,” James chuckled. “And a wicked tongue. He could talk his way into or out of anything. Saved my life more times than I can count.”

“He’s the one who found me, isn’t he?” Thomas asked and James nodded, falling quiet.

“He wanted an end to the war we had been fighting, before it took everything from him…I understand, I can understand it now, but then…then I had nothing left to live for the but the fight. I still don’t know how he did it, I don’t know how he knew about the place where you were, I only know that when he told me you were alive, I wanted to kill him for being so…cruel,” he said, his voice breaking.

Thomas wrapped both arms around James and pulled him tightly against his chest, trying to reassure the other man in any way he could. He had fought for so much, had lost so much, the last fourteen years, Thomas wanted nothing more than to crawl inside him and sooth his soul. He made do with his arms around the other man.

“I hate him,” James muttered. “I hate him for everything he did, but I owe him everything. I lost my way, my direction, and he found it again for me. He found me my true north again.”

“True north?” Thomas asked, momentarily perplexed.

“When you navigate by the stars, true north is the one star in the sky that never moves. It’s how you find your way home, lost at year. You’re mine,” James said, tilting his head up to smile at Thomas. “You always have been. You are my home, my salvation, my path.”

Thomas returned the smile, leaning forward just enough to brush a gentle kiss over James’ lips, heart still racing at the thought that they could kiss any time they liked, make love any time they liked, and not have to worry about anyone finding them out or caring ever again. James sighed against him, sinking back into his chest like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, a burden finally eased. When they fell asleep that night, it was the first time Thomas wasn’t woken by James’ nightmares.

justsomewhump  asked:

So you mentioned humiliation... Likes/dislikes about it?

Sorry it’s taken me so long to respond to this, my dear friend. I wanted to give it a nice, thorough answer, and I’m just slow in general, lol. Also, forgive me for both the length of this post and its tendency to read like a magnum opus of humiliation instead of a direct answer to you. It… uh… kinda turned into a magnum opus of humiliation somewhere around the cut. *cough* :D

I loooove humiliation. Done well, it can push all kinds of buttons for me that I absolutely love. Of course, it’s also easy to get completely wrong and end up being all weird. Too often, mainstream TV shows do it wrong because they don’t take it far enough to actually fuck someone’s head up and it ends up in some weird quasi-embarrassing situation that’s more likely to cause second-hand embarrassment than push any good buttons. Ew.

But then, humiliation is largely subjective. It all depends on the character’s psyche and the viewer’s own views on the situation at hand. Something that might humiliate one character might do nothing for another… and it doesn’t matter how good the scenario is if it doesn’t appeal to the viewer watching it.

I’ll start out with light stuff I like, then put the more intense stuff behind a cut. Also, please keep in mind, absolutely nothing in this post should ever be done to a non-consenting individual in real life! But in fiction, well, have at it ;)

I love it when male characters are talked down to - particularly by women. It’s the Domme in me poking her head out ;) I just love when women refer to men as objects, talk about them like they’re not standing right there, call them names, refer to them as a pet, a slave, an “it”. Oh, I love that stuff.

I also love men on their knees. It’s such a subservient position, and men in particular take great offense when forced into that position by their adversaries. That, of course, makes it delightful to me. Again, I really like it when a woman’s the one forcing a man to his knees, but I’ll take whatever I can get. I just love a reluctantly kneeling man ;)

Name calling in general is hit or miss. Random insults, like “jackass” don’t do too much for me. Names picked specifically to needle at someone’s insecurities are good, like if someone was calling Killian “slave” - which would likely bother him after having grown up as one and undoubtedly being called it derisively in the past. In general, I like it when men are called “boy” - especially by other men, making it even more of an assault on their masculinity.

Because, really, that’s what humiliation is all about for me - dismantling and assaulting an individual’s very sense of self. Finding the things they take pride in and just annihilating them through word and deed, as well as finding the things they’re sensitive about and jumping on them like a trampoline. You can’t just dress a character up in a stupid clown costume and have people laugh at them. That’s… just weird and totally unsatisfying to me.

Which isn’t to say some of the humiliation scenes I’m into aren’t weird… Some of them are very weird, and you should only click the link below if you want to see just how weird these things can get…

Keep reading

The Aftermath

On AO3

Flint had never been so uncertain of his next course of action. The events of Charlestown had shaken him to his very center, wreaking havoc in his mind. The trauma of Miranda’s sudden death, Ashe’s betrayal… Not to mention his last hope for freeing Nassau had been found a failure. The last thing he had expected upon climbing back over the side of his ship was for those last few remnants of normalcy to have been torn apart. He had known that Vane had succeeded in taking over the Spanish Man O’ War. The fact that there had been casualties in the scuffle was a given. Yet when Billy gave him that incredulous look in response to his order to release Vane’s men, he couldn’t have grasped the gravity as to why. Not until they had hoisted the sails and left Charlestown but a smoking husk along the shoreline.

Flint had told Billy to send Silver up to his cabin as soon as possible. The cook was the only one he trusted to give an accurate account of what had occurred aboard the ship during his absence. Which was ironic considering how he even came to be a part of this crew. But nonetheless, the men here had come to trust him. He knew what went on below decks when he was out of earshot; he knew they said, what they thought. Not to mention he was quite skilled with that silver tongue of his, and could shape their thoughts and actions to better coincide with his own plans. Right now he relied on that talent more than ever. With little remaining hope for Nassau and the Urca gold a distant memory, he needed his knowledge so that they could plan out their next moves.

However, his order had been met with silence instead of the usual “yes, Captain”. When Flint turned towards Billy he saw that his expression had shifted to one of uncertainty. He seemed to be at a loss for words. Immediately Flint’s thoughts shifted to wonder what trouble Silver could have possibly stirred up this time. Yet as the bosun led him down to the room Howell used for his practice, it became apparent that this was not a matter of what he had done, but what had been done to him.

John Silver was never one for engaging in combat, that much was certain. When he was aboard that merchant ship he had hidden below to avoid the violence. Not to mention later when they were overtaking the Spanish Man O’ War, his ineptitude and discomfort when wielding weapons was obvious. And so he never gave much thought to the idea of him being wounded. Silver was not a part of this crew for his physical prowess; there was none. He was here because he wielded his mind and tongue better than any blade or pistol. The man was only of use if he was alive, and he knew that, so he typically avoided the conflict when taking prizes. How he had found himself thrown into the center of the fighting this time he wasn’t certain.

The room below reeked of blood and vomit. Flint’s nose wrinkled as he passed by the scarlet-stained work table, piercing green eyes lingering over Howell’s tools that were still sprawled out haphazardly. Something laid in the center of the table beneath a soaked piece of canvas. Howell stood nearby cleaning his hands on a rag; or perhaps he was simply wringing his hands out of worry. After a moment he gave a curt nod before angling his head towards the corner. Flint could feel his heart sink deep into his stomach before he even turned to where he had motioned.

There Silver was, lying on a makeshift bed with an empty space where the lower part of his leg should be. Flint’s expression hardened, the muscles in his neck and shoulders locking into place as he stared down at the man. Despite the lack of color in his face his chest continued to rise and fall in a steady, albeit slow, rhythm. Flint tore his eyes away from Silver’s face to instead travel over his leg; or rather what was left of it. It had been amputated just below the bend of his knee. As he looked over the bloodied bandages it became apparent what laid covered on the surgeon’s table.

“The fuck did this happen?” he demanded. His voice was low and almost quaked with anger.

Quickly Billy explained it to him. How when Vane’s men overtook the ship Silver had somehow managed to evade the violence and hide. This was not a surprise. What did catch him off guard was how instead of remaining hidden he had instead risked his life to sever the rigging of the foremast. This alone had not just saved the lives of his crew from a swift execution, but it had inadvertently secured his own rescue as well. Though the details became a bit muddied after that, Silver had somehow been singled out and dragged away to be interrogated by Vane’s quartermaster. He had wanted the names of ten men that would abandon him and the crew to save their own skin. When Silver refused, well… the man had resorted to torture in an effort to change his mind.

Flint gave a shake of his head as his mind worked to process this new information. How..? This was a man whose sole motivation revolved around either recovering the Urca gold or ensuring his own survival. This was something he had proved time and time again and yet here he was, lying half dead because of a sudden change of heart. A change that weighed the lives of the crew above his own. Eyes closed as he released an even breath. “Round up a few men and move him to my quarters,” he ordered. “The seat by the window.. he can stay there until he recovers. If he remains here he will likely succumb to infection.” As he spoke he glanced at Howell to affirm his thought process, which he did with a slight nod.

Flint now rested in his cabin. He lounged back in the chair that he had dragged away from his desk so that he could keep a better eye on Silver. Fingers stroked slowly over the coarse hair of his beard as he remained lost in thought. When he heard the man’s breath hitch his gaze traveled back up to his face. Pain twisted Silver’s usually smooth features as he shifted in his sleep. Fingers clutched the edge of the blanket that covered him until his knuckles turned white. It had been a full day since they had left Charlestown and Silver had yet to completely regain consciousness. Not that this was unusual or unexpected. Considering the sheer trauma and blood loss he had suffered he was impressed that he was alive at all.

Flint found himself watching the man with a keen interest very few had ever captured. Green eyes took in every detail of Silver’s face with a hard gaze, just as he wished he had done days ago before that bullet pierced Miranda’s temple. With a slow blink he pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on what was in front of him. A light shadow of stubble had formed during their voyage and his hair had begun to grow long. A few stray locks were stuck to his face and neck, matted down from a cold sweat.

Suddenly his lips parted as he drew in another ragged breath. While Howell had done all that he could, as with all such injuries the work had to be quick, and so the stump was crude at best. The man had caught a brief look when Howell changed the soiled bandages. As he did so he had explained that the pain from his injury, while manageable with opium, would likely never go away. This only reminded him of how Silver had confessed his exceptionally low tolerance for pain. If any of that had been true, well… the man was in for a long and slow recovery.

When Silver’s eyes finally slid open, it took Flint a long moment to register the fact that the man was finally conscious. The captain braced in his chair as he watched those bright blue eyes move about the room before settling on where he sat. Suddenly his lips twisted into a grimace and he reached down to grip his injured leg. “Fuck,” he rasped. The man’s voice was broken and raw.

Flint stood before sauntering over to his desk. Silver’s eyes seemed to follow him for a few moments before squeezing shut from another bout of pain. Fresh beads of sweat had blossomed along his hairline when Flint returned to his side. He had poured him a cup of water which he offered to him now. When Silver only managed to give a small shake of his head he frowned. Setting the mug aside for a piece he moved to help Silver sit up, Flint remained silent as he adjusted the pillow behind his back and dragged his chair closer. This time he held the metal cup to his lips and titled it so that he could drink.

Silver ’s hands raised to grasp the cup as he suddenly realized just how thirsty he had become. He drank in long droughts before handing it back, empty. “Thank you,” he breathed, the words just above a whisper. The man’s brow furrowed as his eyes took in the sight before him. The way the blanket that covered him sloped down just below his knee where the rest of his leg used to be. With tentative fingers he raised the sheet and took in a trembling breath. He didn’t look long before allowing the blanket to cover the stump once more. “Fuck…” he repeated.

Flint watched quietly as a range of emotions moved over Silver’s face in quick succession. Anger, unease, perhaps sadness from the loss.. But what stood out was the fear. The man was usually just as guarded as he was, but not now. Not with what had just happened. Flint realized now that Silver’s own life had been suddenly torn from beneath his feet. For both of them everything had changed so drastically, though obviously in vastly different ways.

“How do you feel?” Flint eventually asked. His hands were clasped in front of him, his forearms resting heavily on his knees as he observed the man with a careful gaze.

Despite the obvious pain in his features Silver managed a snort of derision. “How do you think?” he countered. He delivered a quick glance in his direction before taking in a ragged breath, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. Flint reached behind him to grab the opium pipe Howell had prepared and left behind. However, when he held it out Silver refused with a shake of his head. “No,” he struggled. “No opium.”

Flint’s expression hardened. “You can’t be serious,” he stated, his tone incredulous.

Silver only shook his head. His knuckles were blanched as they gripped the muscle above his knee. “Do you have any rum?”

Fucking Christ,” Flint swore as he pulled himself up. This wasn’t the time to be stubborn. He reached across the desk to grab a half bottle of rum, rough fingers pulling the cork free before shoving the dark bottle in Silver’s face. The man grasped it and took a long swig, a small dribble running down his chin as he tried to drink too much too quickly. Once sated he drew in a gulp of air. “Better?”

Silver shook his head. “Soon, hopefully.”

“Now, why are you refusing the pipe?” Flint asked, genuinely curious as he accepted the bottle back. Only a small amount of liquid remained at the bottom. Still, the man looked as though he could pass out any moment from the pain.

“Would you take opium?”

An eyebrow rose at the question. “No,” Flint admitted as he returned to his seat. “But I have a ship to run and a crew to keep reigned in.”

Silver didn’t say more on the matter and Flint didn’t push. Instead he simply watched the man, noting how after a few minutes his expression began to soften if only just. The liquor was taking its effect, it seemed. Those crystal blue eyes closed as Silver swallowed a deep lump in his throat. When they opened again they were slightly damp and dull with a curious haze. After another few moments he averted his gaze from his leg and settled back against the pillow. “So,” he asked softly, “How did things fare on your end..?” When Flint didn’t answer he turned his head slightly to take in that hard stare.

Flint felt his breath leave him. Quickly he looked away from the weakened man before him, not wanting him to notice the pain in his eyes. His thumb slowly twirled the thick ring that rested on his middle finger. It was a nervous tick of his. For some reason playing with his rings or twiddling his thumbs helped to calm his mind as he thought. This instance was no exception. After a few moments of silence he finally spoke. “He killed her,” he offered softly.

When Flint’s eyes finally flicked back upward they met Silver’s gaze. His eyes were soft and he could swear he saw something meaningful in those depths. Empathy, perhaps? “I’m sorry.” Silver struggled. His words were just barely above a whisper as he appeared to wrestling to remain conscious. The rum had started to make his features grow slack, his eyes slipping closed briefly as his hand fidgeted restlessly at his side. Even in this state Flint could tell that the man’s words came from a genuine place.

Eventually Silver’s head titled to the side as he finally succumbed to the rum’s comforting embrace. This time, however, it appeared that he slept somewhat soundly. Flint felt his own body grow at ease as he settled back into the chair. Still, his eyes remained on Silver’s face. The man would live, that much was certain. He was far too stubborn to die now.

Soon Flint’s expression faltered and he sighed, calloused hands moving up to gently rub against his face. There was a pit in the center of his stomach that weighed heavily like a stone. Though he hated to admit it, even silently within his own mind, he was worried. Worried for the lying thief, the terrible cook, the stubborn shit of a man that had connived his way into his life. Their physical affair was brief and had only just begun, but now as he sat here watching the man… He could no longer deny that there wasn’t something about him. Something that made him stand out apart from the rest of the crew.

He wanted him, needed him. And not just for his partnership, or for his help in sorting out this troublesome mess of securing Nassau’s future, but for entirely selfish and personal reasons. He had already lost so much… Thomas, his home and old life in London, and now Miranda. He couldn’t lose Silver too. The man was that final thread that was managing to keep the fraying seams of his mind together. Somehow. And so Flint sat back and simply watched the gentle rise and fall of Silver’s chest, knowing that when he woke again he would be there for him, even if it was only to offer him another drink.

[TRANS] ‘WINGS’ - Rap Monster Thanks To

My dear parents, lil sis, Mon-ah! I love you.
Grandfather, grandmother, maternal grandfather on heaven, I love you. Maternal grandmother, please stay healthy. I’ll come visit you.
My dear relatives, thank you.

Bang PD-nim, vice-president Yoojung, director Shinkyu, director Seokjoon, director Hyuk, director Chaeeun, thank you.

Pdogg-hyung, teacher Sungdeuk, Dohyungie-hyung, Donghyuk, Gahyun, Joonsang, thank you.
Changwonie-hyung, Jooyoungie-hyung, Bosungie-hyung, Wooyoung-nim, thank you.
Head of Department Hobeom, Sejinie-hyung, Jungilie-hyung, Yoonjae-hyung, Minhyukie-hyung, Soonhakie-hyung, Kwangtaekie-hyung, assistant manager Sungseok, thank you.
Sunghyunie-hyung, Hyunjoo-noona, Sunkyung-noona, Gabriel-hyung, thank you.
Woojung-noona, Surin-noona, Seolhee-noona, Hyunji-noona, Bunhong-noona, thank you.
Seul-noona, Nayeob-noona, Yoori-nim, thank you.
Team leader Heesoon, Hayan-noona, Jinah-nim, Kyungjin-nim, Sungho-nim, Hyeyoung-nim, thank you.
Team leader Hyukki, chief Jaehoon, Eunjung-nim, Eunsang-nim, thank you.
Sunjung-noona, Mijung-noona, Yeonhee-nim, Seungwoo-nim, Hyunryung-nim, Hyewon-nim, thank you.
Bighit is the best company.

Head of Department Hajung, Hyesoo-nim, Chaewon-nim, Seoyeon-nim, Yeonhwa-nim, thank you.
Head of Department Dareum, Head of Department Naejoo, Hyunah-nim, Seolji-nim, Head of Department Jihye, Jinyoung-nim, team leader Sekyung, thank you.

Teacher Jimin, teacher Hyundeok, teacher Youngwon, teacher Helen, Jinwoo-hyung, along with eAeon-hyung, Gaeko-hyung, I’d like to specially say thank you to you.

Dohyun, Dongwon Jangwon, Hyebin, Soyoung, Joonhwan, Bosun, Jinsung, Dongki, Moonhee, Jackson, Sooyeon, Eunsung, Sinhye-noona,
Junghyun, Sanghee, Narae, Changhwan, Jaeyoung, Jungseok, Hyunjoon, Jaeyong, Jaewon, Youngho, Dohee, Yeonjoo, Jasung, Minsoo
My old buddies who don’t have much time left*. Still, that’s why you’re even more important. I miss you a lot.

And many other people whom I can’t remember their faces or names, who helped us a lot, staffs, dancers, related parties,
band section guys, people from the broadcasting industry, showbiz, media, music industry, and the Internet, thank you as well.

Lastly, my dear Bangtan, my dear ARMY.
Thank you so much and I love you.
My peace right now is all thanks to you guys.

Kim Namjoon, RM will live better.

(*I assume it’s because his friends might enlist soon, non-celebrity Koreans tend to choose to enlist right after graduating high school or university)

Jin | Suga | J-hope | Jimin | V | Jungkook

Blint fanfic list

AnHere’s the list of all Billy Bones/Captain Flint fanfics in English, with authors’ summaries. Titles clickable. Hopefully, there’ll be frequent updates!

Read below <3

Originally posted by maxaholic

Originally posted by sexyeclectic

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The Jones Brothers fic: Adrift

I was supposed to be working on other things, but this decided to jump the queue. It is my attempt to connect dots in their background that I feel had no connection prior. Obviously, it’s not going to be a particularly happy tale. But it does set the stage for Killian’s later knack for navigation. 

Rating: PG-13 for child abuse (but nothing really horrific, I promise)

Word count: 2700

Summary: Sometimes the stars misalign. 


“How do you know where we’re going?” Killian asked.

He and Liam had been aboard the ship their father abandoned them to for a few months, and once he’d stopped expecting his father to come rescue them, he’d started paying attention to what was going on around him when he wasn’t being watched himself. He’d always dreamed of setting sail to see far-off lands, and his father’s promise of seeing the realms was coming true, but not in the way Killian ever imagined or wanted. He was learning what life aboard a ship was like, that was true, but he wanted to know more than the scut work.

The helmsman glanced over at the boy and sighed. “Shouldn’t you be tendin’ ta yer duties?”

“I’ve finished for the moment.”

Without looking at Killian, he said, “Then maybe ya oughter go help yer brother wi’ his.”

“Captain won’t let me.” Neither would Liam, but he wasn’t going to share that information. He was trying to keep from getting Liam into trouble by messing things up as he had several times already since their status changed from passenger to slave. He couldn’t stand watching another bruise bloom on his brother’s skin on account of his clumsiness.

Another sigh escaped the old sailor and he continued to ignore the boy. Killian wasn’t deterred. He watched as the man, Fulton, looked from the compass attached to the helm, to the horizon, then up at the sky. When he moved the wheel three spokes to the left—port—Killian thought he figured the answer out. 

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Did you all know that there is a pirate comedy film, featuring some Monty Python folks, called Yellowbeard, released 1983 (when Sherlock would have been 6 years old)?

Look who is listed as co-writer:

Yellowbeard is a 1983 British comedy film directed by Mel Damski and written by Graham Chapman, Peter Cook, Bernard McKenna, and David Sherlock.

I haven’t seen the movie, but this is its plot: The pirate Yellowbeard (Chapman) is incarcerated for 20 years for tax evasion. He survives the sentence but has not disclosed the whereabouts of his vast treasure. The Royal Navy hatches a plot to increase his sentence by 140 years, knowing that he will escape to set out for his treasure. He does so, recruiting a motley crew of companions. He had left a map of the treasure in the chimney of his wife’s pub, but she burned it. She then tells Yellowbeard that she had the map tattooed on their son’s head. Things go wrong when his traitorous former bosun Mr. Moon (Boyle) takes over the ship. With the Head of the British Secret Service (Idle) hot on their trail, they eventually find the island, where the terrible despot “El Nebuloso” and his majordomo “El Segundo” (Cheech and Chong) have taken residence with the treasure, and the battle for the prize commences.

John Cleese described Yellowbeard as “one of the six worst films made in the history of the world.” As I said, I haven’t seen it, but I remember people talking about it back then, and how truly awful it was… (Like TFP?)

So, we have:

  • A hidden treasue (AGRA)
  • Mr Moon = Mary (claire de lune)
  • A map on (not in) a son’s head (Sherlock’s MP)
  • The British Secret Service (Mycroft)
  • An Island (Sherrinford)
  • El Nebuloso (Smoke, something foggy = Eurus?)
  • El Segundo = The secod = Sherlock!

Oh, and look, this is Yellowbeard:

Looks a bit like Mycroft in fisherman disguise, don’t you think?

BTW, David Bowie plays a character called Shark in the movie.

There even seems to be a character called Rosie in it.

I don’t know if this means anything, but still, some fun facts…

And just imagine, little Sherlock watching this film as a child. He always wanted to be a pirate… could he years later incorporate some of those characters into an elaborate MP scenario, which is what we’ve seen in his EMP since HLV or even prior?

@ebaeschnbliah @gosherlocked @yan-yae @loveismyrevolution @monikakrasnorada

cute gender-neutral nicknames to call your significant other!
  • invisibl asshole
  • rakkspit
  • skaglicker
  • dirty bandit
  • gunzerker
  • bonerfart
  • oz kit
  • The Bosun
Jump right in and swim until you’re free

On Pike, and the sea, and making whole what once was broken, and being lost before you can be found.

Title from “Atlas Hands” by Benjamin Francis Leftwich, from Pike’s spotify playlist.

[read on ao3]

The sea is lonely, at first.

The sailors know each other, know the slope of the deck, know the rasp of rope across their hands. They know the spray of the water and the sting of the salt and the sigh of the waves, steady like the turn of the world. Pike does not know these things. Pike does not know these people or their world. Pike watches them, eyes shadowed and hungry, and she does not know what she is seeking but she does not find it.

She spends the hours she is not working––and they are few and far between, for there is always work to be done upon the ship, and she has the slope of the deck to learn, and the rasp of rope, and the tricks and turns of life among the emptiness of the ocean––staring out at the horizon, the threshold of the world where sky meets water. Some days it is slate, heavy and low. Some days it is impossibly blue, blinding. Some days it is close enough to reach out and touch; some days it is impossibly far away. Some days it is a gaping, hungry mouth, ready to swallow everything. Some days it is closed tight.

Those are bad days, when the horizon is locked away.

The sea is a lonely, lonely place.

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