FIC: Rogues and Witticisms, PG
Rogues and Witticisms
By Emerald Embers
Louise_cmi_vc@hotmail.com
Rated PG for bad language and mild het
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Anamaria/Captain Jack Sparrow
Non-profit fanfiction, please don’t sue.
Anamaria was no fool. A woman of colour who travelled on western soils - or, more accurately, seas - could not afford to be otherwise. She knew plenty about pirating, the lore, the codes and people involved, and plenty more about what she had yet to learn. Lies and foolishness could catch a person out, so one had to be certain as to areas of expertise - fencing, scavenging, rudimentary canvas repairs - and areas of ignorance.
Take, for instance, the man who had been her shipmate until recently. Captain Jack Sparrow lay sprawled across Tortugan weeds, passed out by the fire after a night of celebrating the Black Pearl’s return with rum, more rum, and rum diluted into grog when nausea beckoned. Jack claimed grog cheated the whole purpose of getting drunk - to see if you could beat the devil by pickling your liver whole and stubbornly refusing to die. To the untrained eye it would seem Jack and the devil had long since exchanged blows, given his staggered gait and unholy luck, but Anamaria knew better.
A clever student would know Jack’s behaviour to be a game from many little signs, though normal pirates were not known for their people skills. Body language and a silver, if clumsy tongue had saved Anamaria from the noose more than once, though being forced to play roles befitting her accusers’ prejudices in order to escape infuriated her. She was not meek or stupid. Nor was Jack, and despite his frequent acts of selfishness she still gave him credit for recognising her abilities without question.
Bright, sharp eyes gave away what a lack of focus did not. Jack was observant, spotting escape routes and easy money everywhere he went. And if ever one wanted proof that he was not the addled fool he played for land dwellers, they had only to ask about his hair ornaments. That seemingly random jumble of braids, dreadlocks, wisps and decorations barely held out of harm’s way by the ever present bandana told hundreds of stories. Each shell, coin, bead had a story, and if you were ever in the privileged position of being able to ask, he would regale you with the full splendour of the tale. At one point they seemed too far-fetched, exaggerated adventures if not quite lies, but ever since reclaiming the Black Pearl and hearing the full list of crimes Jack was to be hanged for in Port Royal, somehow the truth became less questionable.
One question no one could answer would seem foolish to any land dweller, but intrigued everyone; where had Jack actually come from? None of his features seemed to give a definite answer, though if one tried to imagine his face beneath tan and beard the results were surprising. Sculptured features, dark hair, dark eyes and a bone structure that balanced perfectly between feminine and strong made his heritage anyone’s guess. The most popular theory was the typical bastard son done good story, the abandoned boy of an aristocrat and servant grown up and gone to seek his fortune in the colonies. Certainly it would explain the mix of features and the decidedly common accent.
Anamaria had her doubts, though she had to concede that Jack Sparrow was almost certainly an invented name. Jack was common and Sparrow too perfect for his features; moreover he detested hearing his name shortened by those who did not know him. He was proud of his moniker, and had probably adopted the ‘Captain’ title before even knowing how to steer a ship.
Sighing and nursing her bottle of rum, Anamaria carefully brushed Jack’s braids away from his face, looked at the longest braid of beads and shells. Given the number of stories she’d heard from questions about the trinkets, she could say with reasonable accuracy that short of Gibbs and the Black Pearl itself, she probably knew more truths about Jack than anyone else in the Caribbean. Other people might be able to say more about him, but separating fact and fiction would be harder for them. Jack’s limits were difficult to guess.
“Darling,” muttered her nautical companion with a small gust of downright poisonous breath, “Nothing against your thinking, but try not to do it so loud, eh?”
She laughed quietly then, saw him grin back with the pride of someone who saw their hangover on the horizon and welcomed it anyway. “Best you give me reason to sleep.”
Jack grunted and rolled over onto his elbows, flashing a salacious smile. “I’d better be owing you one less favour afterwards,” he announced before throwing arms around her waist and pulling her towards him. “Little Jack’s not good for much yet; a job for my tongue, then.”
Anamaria gave him a swift and friendly slap across the back of the head, putting her own arms up under his and pulling him up to rest against her chest. He didn’t complain much. “Don’t need a gander to help me sleep, just a cuddle.”
“Women,” Jack scolded teasingly and buried his head in her bosom with distinct pleasure, arms going slack as he relaxed. “Better off with you than without though.”
“Thought so too,” she replied, closing her eyes and dozing lightly, relieved that the chase was over for a night. Soon Tortuga would be a target, same as anywhere known to bless pirates with leniency, and it was best to use the break while it was available. Rest was a rare blessing and one she welcomed with open arms, albeit arms currently occupied by Captain Jack Sparrow.
She couldn’t really complain.
The End
By Emerald Embers
Louise_cmi_vc@hotmail.com
Rated PG for bad language and mild het
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Anamaria/Captain Jack Sparrow
Non-profit fanfiction, please don’t sue.
Anamaria was no fool. A woman of colour who travelled on western soils - or, more accurately, seas - could not afford to be otherwise. She knew plenty about pirating, the lore, the codes and people involved, and plenty more about what she had yet to learn. Lies and foolishness could catch a person out, so one had to be certain as to areas of expertise - fencing, scavenging, rudimentary canvas repairs - and areas of ignorance.
Take, for instance, the man who had been her shipmate until recently. Captain Jack Sparrow lay sprawled across Tortugan weeds, passed out by the fire after a night of celebrating the Black Pearl’s return with rum, more rum, and rum diluted into grog when nausea beckoned. Jack claimed grog cheated the whole purpose of getting drunk - to see if you could beat the devil by pickling your liver whole and stubbornly refusing to die. To the untrained eye it would seem Jack and the devil had long since exchanged blows, given his staggered gait and unholy luck, but Anamaria knew better.
A clever student would know Jack’s behaviour to be a game from many little signs, though normal pirates were not known for their people skills. Body language and a silver, if clumsy tongue had saved Anamaria from the noose more than once, though being forced to play roles befitting her accusers’ prejudices in order to escape infuriated her. She was not meek or stupid. Nor was Jack, and despite his frequent acts of selfishness she still gave him credit for recognising her abilities without question.
Bright, sharp eyes gave away what a lack of focus did not. Jack was observant, spotting escape routes and easy money everywhere he went. And if ever one wanted proof that he was not the addled fool he played for land dwellers, they had only to ask about his hair ornaments. That seemingly random jumble of braids, dreadlocks, wisps and decorations barely held out of harm’s way by the ever present bandana told hundreds of stories. Each shell, coin, bead had a story, and if you were ever in the privileged position of being able to ask, he would regale you with the full splendour of the tale. At one point they seemed too far-fetched, exaggerated adventures if not quite lies, but ever since reclaiming the Black Pearl and hearing the full list of crimes Jack was to be hanged for in Port Royal, somehow the truth became less questionable.
One question no one could answer would seem foolish to any land dweller, but intrigued everyone; where had Jack actually come from? None of his features seemed to give a definite answer, though if one tried to imagine his face beneath tan and beard the results were surprising. Sculptured features, dark hair, dark eyes and a bone structure that balanced perfectly between feminine and strong made his heritage anyone’s guess. The most popular theory was the typical bastard son done good story, the abandoned boy of an aristocrat and servant grown up and gone to seek his fortune in the colonies. Certainly it would explain the mix of features and the decidedly common accent.
Anamaria had her doubts, though she had to concede that Jack Sparrow was almost certainly an invented name. Jack was common and Sparrow too perfect for his features; moreover he detested hearing his name shortened by those who did not know him. He was proud of his moniker, and had probably adopted the ‘Captain’ title before even knowing how to steer a ship.
Sighing and nursing her bottle of rum, Anamaria carefully brushed Jack’s braids away from his face, looked at the longest braid of beads and shells. Given the number of stories she’d heard from questions about the trinkets, she could say with reasonable accuracy that short of Gibbs and the Black Pearl itself, she probably knew more truths about Jack than anyone else in the Caribbean. Other people might be able to say more about him, but separating fact and fiction would be harder for them. Jack’s limits were difficult to guess.
“Darling,” muttered her nautical companion with a small gust of downright poisonous breath, “Nothing against your thinking, but try not to do it so loud, eh?”
She laughed quietly then, saw him grin back with the pride of someone who saw their hangover on the horizon and welcomed it anyway. “Best you give me reason to sleep.”
Jack grunted and rolled over onto his elbows, flashing a salacious smile. “I’d better be owing you one less favour afterwards,” he announced before throwing arms around her waist and pulling her towards him. “Little Jack’s not good for much yet; a job for my tongue, then.”
Anamaria gave him a swift and friendly slap across the back of the head, putting her own arms up under his and pulling him up to rest against her chest. He didn’t complain much. “Don’t need a gander to help me sleep, just a cuddle.”
“Women,” Jack scolded teasingly and buried his head in her bosom with distinct pleasure, arms going slack as he relaxed. “Better off with you than without though.”
“Thought so too,” she replied, closing her eyes and dozing lightly, relieved that the chase was over for a night. Soon Tortuga would be a target, same as anywhere known to bless pirates with leniency, and it was best to use the break while it was available. Rest was a rare blessing and one she welcomed with open arms, albeit arms currently occupied by Captain Jack Sparrow.
She couldn’t really complain.
The End