Up the Stairs I Go

>i need to be doing homework >i write for all things tolkien and am interersted in architecture >this is a new blog. you may have seen some of this stuff before posted on another blog but that account was deleted and i made a new one so i promise its mine :)

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

Masterlist

House of Finarfin

By the Sea - Finrod x Reader: Pt. 1; Pt. 2

Sons of Fëanor

Dance - Caranthir x Reader Love and Loss - Maedhros x Reader Tradition - Caranthir x Reader: Pt. 1; Pt. 2

Lords of Gondolin

Loser - Maeglin x Reader

Lords of Imladris

Starvation - Glorfindel x Touch Starved!Reader High Tide - Erestor x Reader: Prologue; Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3

[z34l0t]

[rinthecap]

Day in the life of a blacksmith 😎

[animentality]

[animentality]

[literary-sparks]

“Why don’t you use ai” idk man beyond the obvious environmental and “this machine causes psychosis and encourages people to kill themselves” thing I think asking the equivalent of a solid D student who is also a pathological liar if they can answer my question/do the work for me seems pretty fucking stupid

[hylianane]

functionally suicidal character saying “I would die for you” to their significant other and its like. I get the sentiment, honey, but if a hot dog vendor told me he’d sell hot dogs for me, I wouldn’t feel very moved now would I

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

Where the Waves Break—Chapter One

James Norrington, whether he knows it or not, embarks on a life-changing journey at his promotion to Commodore. You set out on your own months ago when you planned to leave Portugal—but here, in Port Royal, you’re beginning to find you’ve reached a fork in the road.

A/N: this is written as a James Norringtonxreader, but I’ve inserted a name because I don’t like writing Y/N. Anywho hope you like it

James Norrington wasn’t usually keen on making such an exhibit for himself, but the governor insisted his promotion to commodore was an event worth celebrating.

‘It’s a real picture of the nature of your character—and the humility you carry. That is worth honoring, on it’s own, I think.’ He would say. And James would smile, and dip his head in respect.

So off on his own he stood, finally, after greeting every citizen of Port Royal, it seemed. He tried to ignore how hot his coat was, and how heavy his hat felt, and he tried to tune out the sound, but his thin-stretched peace was interrupted at a frantic cry.

“Elizabeth!” Shouted the governor, and quickly James rushed toward the balcony to find Weatherby Swann leaning over the stone railing looking down at a splash in the water.

“Ms. Swann,” said the commodore, and quickly began to shed his coat.“But Commodore,” said a soldier from behind him, “The rocks! It’s a miracle she missed them!”

James huffed and flipped his coat back over his shoulders. He took the quickest way to the dock. Time was of the essence, if it wasn’t already too late. When he reached the woodenplatform he found an alarming sight—a sopping wet, unconscious Ms. Swann with a strange, dirty looking man leaned over.

“Not breathing!” He heard one of the soldiers say.

Somewhere in the fray a young woman—hardly older than Elizabeth—emerged from behind the crowd. The bottom of her white slip was muddled and torn, and she wore nothing over it except a brown corset-like vest. How improper, James thought. His eyes traveled upward where the front pieces of her damp hair were braided away from her face. Her eyes looked tired. She was a perfect picture of an impoverished, lower class, down on her luck young lady. Except for one thing—the golden earrings that hung nearly down to her jaw. A large turquoise stone rested on the inside of a gold ring. The jewelry tapered in and back out again like an hourglass. Many pearls and diamonds were embedded on the bottom, with five smaller turquoise stones embedded around them. It would have cost a pretty penny. A strange thing for such a down-at-heel woman to sport.

“Move!” She cried, and her knife slid down the front of Elizabeth’s corset. Elizabeth turned on her side and woke up, gasping for air.

“I never would have thought of that,” said a soldier to the side.

“Clearly you’ve never been to Singapore.”

“Elizabeth,” breathed out the governor who had finally found his way down, “Thank heavens you’re alright.”

Elizabeth stood and rushed into the arms of her father. James Norrington looked down at where she laid, and at the man who still knelt there. A strange familiarity settled in his chest.

He didn’t miss the woman’s figure slinking back behind the soldiers.

“On your feet!” He barked, and the man stood with his hands raised in submission. James raised his blade.

”Commodore,” cried Elizabeth, “Do you really intend to kill my rescuer?”

James’ jaw went rigid, but he held his hand out for the taking nonetheless. “I believe thanks are in order.” But James Norrington was no fool. He roughly lifted the linen of his sleeve to reveal two marks: a P branded into the skin of his forearm, and a poorly done tattoo of a sparrow and something else that James couldn’t quite make out. “Had a brush with the East India Trading Company I see. Men keep your guns on him. Gillette fetch some irons.” Norrington let go of his hands, confident he wouldn’t try anything shady, given his current predicament. “Jack Sparrow isn’t it?”

”Captain Jack Sparrow, if you please.”

”I don’t see your ship, captain.” It was more of a question than an observation.

Jack sighed. “I’m in the market—as it were.”

“He said he’d come to commandeer one,” said one of the soldiers standing to the side, ”These are his, sir.”

James took a pitiful bundle out of a soldier’s hands and inspected it.

“No additional shots, or powder. A compass that doesn’t point north,” he said and unsheathed the scimitar just enough to see the blade, “And I half expected it to be made of wood. You are without doubt the worst pirate I have ever heard of.”

”But you have heard of me.” 

James hmmed, displeased with the satisfaction Jack had in himself. “Carefully Lieutenant," he said as Gillette fastened the irons around his wrists. 

“Commodore, I really must protest,” said Elizabeth, shrugging off her father’s coat to stand between James and Jack. “Pirate or not, this man saved my life.”

”One good deed is not enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness.”

”But it seems enough to condemn him.” 

“Indeed,” James replied, unconcerned. He nodded to the men around him. They stowed their weapons. 

Suddenly, Jack had the chains around his wrists across Elizabeth’s throat. The soldiers drew their guns—but if they fired, they were sure to hit Elizabeth. 

“Finally,” said Jack, “Commodore Norrington, my pistol and belt please?” James didn’t move. His nose twitched and his hands balled up in fists in agitation. “Commodore!” Repeated Jack, impatient. “Elizabeth—it is Elizabeth, isn’t it?”

”Miss Swann,” she hissed. 

“Miss Swann, if you’d be so kind.” His tone was mocking. 

She knew what she wanted. She took Jack’s things from Mr. Murtogg’s hands and fastened them around his waist. 

Jack grunted. “Easy on the goods, love.”

”You’re despicable.”

”Hmm. I saved your life, you save mine—we’re square.” He turned her quickly with his own pistol pointed at her head and backed against the cargo gantry. “Gentlemen—m’lday, you will always remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow.”

Jack threw Elizabeth into the crowd and took off with James and his men hot in pursuit.

James never imagined he’d find himself wishing he’d just let him go.

____________________

It was an eventful day, James Norrington decided—what with his promotion, Elizabeth’s fall, and the scandal with the pirate. But that was good—one less to torment the rest of the world.

A thick fog settled, but the stars still were bright. It was the kind of night that would have your mind running—vulnerable to all sorts of thoughts. The wind would seem to stir your heartstrings. 

A walk would do him much good, James decided.

The air was quiet and cool, and it settled on his face on the balcony of the North tower. The water swished, and for a while, it seemed like everything else was still.

Until the warm glow of a lantern and a far away scuffling of feet caught the commodore’s attention. He cut his eyes for a better look. What an unusual sight—in the dead of night was a young lady, maybe in her twenties, hauling luggage out of a sailboat. She turned, and when he saw her face, he knew instantly who she was. He couldn’t seem to forget her face, and though her earrings were gone, she was wearing the same dress she was that afternoon. 

His boots clicked against the wood of the bridge. He wasn’t sure if they were just louder than usual or if he was walking faster. 

“Good evening, Ms.” You turned to see a man standing behind you, looking over at your boat with pursed lips. It was the commodore—you recognized him immediately, even without his coat.

“Good evening,” you said, in the finest fashion you could muster.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “But I find it rather strange that a young lady would be hauling in luggage alone at this hour. Have you an attendant?”

“No sir,” you said, meeting his green eyes for the first time (which you wouldn’t mind doing again, you decided), “But I’ll only be heading straight to the inn.”

“The inn?” He said, “Is it The Red Lion? Pardon my audacity.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see,” said James, and went silent for a moment. Your eyes stayed fixed on him. He fought off a shudder. Curiosity nipped at the back of his mind. He wanted to talk more—find out who you were and what you were doing. But it was late. You would think it was strange if he stayed out to talk with you—maybe even alarmed. So, after a good, studious look at your face, he tore his gaze away from you and decided to leave you alone for the night. “If you will, wait here one moment. I’ll send someone down right away to help you with your luggage.”

“Oh no,” you said. The Commodore found himself mirroring you when the corners of your lips turned up in a sweet smile. “Thank you, but I don’t want to trouble anyone.”

“Nonsense,” he said, and he felt his smile reach his eyes while he replayed your voice in his head. “It’s no trouble at all. If anything, consider it my way of welcoming you to Port Royal.”

You breathed out a laugh—one of those quiet, airy, polite ones. “Well, thank you, then.”

He opened his mouth and hesitated for a moment. His eyes brows twitched inwards. “I never caught your name.”

”Ms. Smith,” you said, “Ms. Naiara Smith.”

He nodded at you. “Commodore James Norrington,” he said, and tipped his hat. “Good night, Ms. Smith.”

You responded with a soft ‘good night.’ The commodore’s eyes lingered on your for a moment. He smiled. He said nothing, but glanced briefly down at his shoes before turning on his heels, and suddenly your face felt hot.

The innkeeper at The Red Lion bid you goodnight when you walked upstairs, hungry and dirty. But it was too late for dinner, and too late to draw water. So you settled to put away your clothes and have a glass of weak wine—nothing like what you drank at home. But even if hunger and the damp sensation on your skin didn’t keep you up, you couldn’t help but replay your meeting with the commodore Norrington over. There was something about his eyes—his expression that drew you towards him like the tide. And it certainly is hard to swim against the tide. 

You hardly got any sleep that night. 

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

My most recent work—prologue

‘The map-maker is dead!,’ they would shout, ‘The house is empty!’ And they would beat on the doors for a few days, until they concluded that you were just ignoring visitors, and deemed it necessary to break in. They would only be looking out for you—it wasn’t good for you to stay bottled up in your home, after all. That was no way to deal with grief. And that was no way to deal with the material assets of the Da’lmeida house. What would happen to the china? And the linen? And the furniture? It would be a disgrace for all of that not to be put to use. Mr. Da’lmeida would be wroth.

But that wasn’t your problem anymore.

The nights had become cooler, and the days hotter as you sailed further out into the open water. You found yourself wrapped up in nearly every linen you had brought in the mornings and shedding almost every layer in the afternoon.

It had been about two months, and you had guessed you were probably almost there. But little one-woman sail boats didn’t make the time that the grand vessels of the royal navy, so in patience you had become well-versed.

You couldn’t quite remember when the boat started to rock a little harder, or when the wind had started to pick up. But you could remember when it started to rain, and when you realized you had been very lucky to have come so far—alone and unprepared.

You folded your sail and locked away all your belongings so they wouldn’t be lost, and tried to spread the weight as even as you could. From the back of the ship you tied your hair back and braced the tiller.

The storm was probably the most frightening thing you had ever faced. You didn’t like them on land, but lightening on the water felt entirely different, and you were certain the thunder was so loud it could be heard on every corner of the earth. Your boots were soaked. Your dress was soaked. It was cold, and nothing would have prepared you for how dark it would be. A thin layer of water had settled onto the deck, probably leaking into the hull. Just when you stepped down into the cabin to fetch a match and lantern, you felt the boat rock, heavy to the left.

But it didn’t rock back the other way.

Quickly you said a prayer and climbed back up, where the right side of the boat stuck up out of the water, and the anchor rope wrapped itself around the rudder.

How did that happen?

These were the things your father had never taught you (mostly because it was never thought that a respectable young lady such as your self would find herself orphaned, seeking her older brother alone on a sailboat in the middle of god knows where). Should you sit tight in the cabin and wait it out? Or should you try to fix it now?

You settled on the latter so that maybe you wouldn’t capsize completely, and fixed yourself with a sturdy rope to the ship before climbing over the back.

The rope was pulled snugly around the corner of the rudder. Your hands cramped up under the water as your tried to pull it free, but it wouldn’t budge. Your only option was to cut it. With a little hacking you sawing the anchor rope snapped loose from the rudder. You barked out a laugh—but nothing was funny—just as a warm glow came into view..

The mast was on fire.

You pulled yourself up with strength that you didn’t have when you had begun this journey and wrapped your coat around the fire—but it was too big already, and it was spreading quickly. You did the only thing you could think to do.

You hacked and the mast with all your might, as dull as a butcher’s axe is, and with a loud crack it went toppling over into the water. Defeated, you sat on your knees and watched the fire disappear into the water, your mast and sails with it. You should have known better than to hang your lantern so near.

The wind died down, and the waters calmed. The glow of your burning ship was replaced with the red of the sunrise.

You were stretching food for eight days as it was, and even with a proper mast and sail you were still at least ten from Port Royal. You could fish, but that didn’t help the state of your water supply. If you didn't starve, you’d surely die of thirst.

Tears threatened to prick your eyes, but you knew you had not a minute to waste. If you were going to make it to Port Royal alive, you had better get to rowing.

You rowed all through the day and all through the night. At noon the next day you took your rest. You decided it better to rest at the hottest part of the day, and take your chances making your way about in the dark. You were nw an expert navigator, after all.

On the third day when you woke from your sleep you brushed your hair while you ate. A little sense of self might go a long way, you thought. You threw your apple core into the bin and looked up from on the stairs. An unfamiliar sight reached your eyes—the sheets of another ship not far off. 

You were wary. You knew pirates plagued the waters of the Caribbean. But you needed help.

You climbed up further to examine the rest of the ship, only to find that it was not a ship at all—only what used to be one. And atop the mast and sails stood the strangest looking man. Better not to draw attention to yourself. But just as you thought it, he waved his hat and called out to you.

“Hello!” He said.

“Hello,” you replied but he likely couldn’t hear you.

“Have you got any rum?” If you weren’t so tired, you would have laughed. How absurd!

“No.” You called back, louder.

“That’s a shame,” he said,“the sun is shining, and the wind is cool. It’s a fine day for a drink!”

“It would seem you have you priorities out of order.”

He pursed his lips and furrowed his brows.

“Have I?” He said,“never mind that. What is your name?”

You didn’t answer him.

“Are you shy?”

“Tell me your name,” you said,“and I will give you mine.”

You weren’t sure how your boat had caught up so quickly to his.

“You know who I am!” He said, and waved his hand,“don’t be silly.”

You stayed quiet again.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, and deadpanned, “Are you living under a rock? I’m Captain Jack Sparrow!”

You cut your eyes and looked his—umm—boat up and down.

“Captain?”

He frowned.

“I’ve got a ship haven’t I? Are you not the captain of yours?”

“I—“ you said, looking around at the sorry excuse for a ship you had, but then his came back into your vision, and you found yourself a little prouder, “I am.”

“And what is your name?”

“Naiara,” you said after a moment.

“What a pretty name,” he said, with a smile, “for a pretty maiden. Where are you going?”

You cut your eyes, “Should I tell you?”

“Well,” he shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” He smiled a crooked smile that revealed several yellowing and silver-capped teeth.“Tell me.”

“You are in no position to be making demands,” you said, “I will not tell you.”

”You are at least a fortnight from land, the way it seems, ” he said with a shrug, “Have you enough food? Water? And you are going to row all that way?”

You said nothing and licked your lips.

“I doubt it. But fortunately for you,” he said, “I am also a fortnight from land with no food or water. The difference between me and you is that, I have a mast and sail, and you don’t.”

“Bold you to assume that I—“

“But I’m right though.” It seemed he didn’t know when to stop.

“I’m going to Port Royal.”

“Perfect!” he exclaimed, “Have you got a saw?”

You cut your eyes. “Why do you need a saw?”

“Just trust me.”

“You are going to kill me.”

“No I’m not,” he argued, ”I have a gun. You don’t. If I wanted to kill you I would have already.”

“But you—“

“And if I don’t kill you, you will starve to death. Have you got a saw?”

With a huff you climbed into the cabin for a saw and a rope.

The product of his labor was a dingy thing—you couldn’t right call it a proper mast and sail, but at least you would have the wind, and you could turn it with the tiller, if you fidgeted with it a bit.

So your journey with Jack Sparrow began.

“Why are you going to Port Royal?” He asked as he took a quick bite of a cracker.

“That is none of your concern.”

“Please,” he scoffed, “we’ll be stuck on this ship together for a while. Might as well tell me.”

“I’m looking for my brother,” you said after a moment, “He was a sailor—he came down here for commission, but I stopped getting letters some years ago.”

“I see,” said Jack, “And you think you’ll find him in Port Royal?”

“No,” you shook your head, “But I think maybe I can get a lead. Maybe someone remembers him. I here it’s quite the happening place.”

“Maybe,” said Jack, but a strange quietness overtook him for a while.

It was something you had taken for granted before Jack sailed with you—silence.

“Why are you?” You asked him.

“I’ve got—umm—business there.”

“Business? What kind of business?”

“None of yours,” he said.

“Tell me.”

He sighed. His shoulders fell. “I’m a merchant *

“I hardly believe you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

”You don’t look like a merchant.”

”What’s that supposed to mean?”

You frowned, and tried to think of what to say next. “I—I don’t know. Sorry.”

His hand shot up to tilt your chin up at him. “And you don’t look like the type of young lady to end up out here—stranded out at sea, gallivanting about with the likes of a man like me.” You dared not say anything, but you shook your head. “But here you are. Things aren’t always as they seem, love.”

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

IF anybody has any input on what I should name this lmk—im thinking something like Broken Waves; Broken Promises (it’s kinda angsty)

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

My most recent work—prologue

‘The map-maker is dead!,’ they would shout, ‘The house is empty!’ And they would beat on the doors for a few days, until they concluded that you were just ignoring visitors, and deemed it necessary to break in. They would only be looking out for you—it wasn’t good for you to stay bottled up in your home, after all. That was no way to deal with grief. And that was no way to deal with the material assets of the Da’lmeida house. What would happen to the china? And the linen? And the furniture? It would be a disgrace for all of that not to be put to use. Mr. Da’lmeida would be wroth.

But that wasn’t your problem anymore.

The nights had become cooler, and the days hotter as you sailed further out into the open water. You found yourself wrapped up in nearly every linen you had brought in the mornings and shedding almost every layer in the afternoon.

It had been about two months, and you had guessed you were probably almost there. But little one-woman sail boats didn’t make the time that the grand vessels of the royal navy, so in patience you had become well-versed.

You couldn’t quite remember when the boat started to rock a little harder, or when the wind had started to pick up. But you could remember when it started to rain, and when you realized you had been very lucky to have come so far—alone and unprepared.

You folded your sail and locked away all your belongings so they wouldn’t be lost, and tried to spread the weight as even as you could. From the back of the ship you tied your hair back and braced the tiller.

The storm was probably the most frightening thing you had ever faced. You didn’t like them on land, but lightening on the water felt entirely different, and you were certain the thunder was so loud it could be heard on every corner of the earth. Your boots were soaked. Your dress was soaked. It was cold, and nothing would have prepared you for how dark it would be. A thin layer of water had settled onto the deck, probably leaking into the hull. Just when you stepped down into the cabin to fetch a match and lantern, you felt the boat rock, heavy to the left.

But it didn’t rock back the other way.

Quickly you said a prayer and climbed back up, where the right side of the boat stuck up out of the water, and the anchor rope wrapped itself around the rudder.

How did that happen?

These were the things your father had never taught you (mostly because it was never thought that a respectable young lady such as your self would find herself orphaned, seeking her older brother alone on a sailboat in the middle of god knows where). Should you sit tight in the cabin and wait it out? Or should you try to fix it now?

You settled on the latter so that maybe you wouldn’t capsize completely, and fixed yourself with a sturdy rope to the ship before climbing over the back.

The rope was pulled snugly around the corner of the rudder. Your hands cramped up under the water as your tried to pull it free, but it wouldn’t budge. Your only option was to cut it. With a little hacking you sawing the anchor rope snapped loose from the rudder. You barked out a laugh—but nothing was funny—just as a warm glow came into view..

The mast was on fire.

You pulled yourself up with strength that you didn’t have when you had begun this journey and wrapped your coat around the fire—but it was too big already, and it was spreading quickly. You did the only thing you could think to do.

You hacked and the mast with all your might, as dull as a butcher’s axe is, and with a loud crack it went toppling over into the water. Defeated, you sat on your knees and watched the fire disappear into the water, your mast and sails with it. You should have known better than to hang your lantern so near.

The wind died down, and the waters calmed. The glow of your burning ship was replaced with the red of the sunrise.

You were stretching food for eight days as it was, and even with a proper mast and sail you were still at least ten from Port Royal. You could fish, but that didn’t help the state of your water supply. If you didn't starve, you’d surely die of thirst.

Tears threatened to prick your eyes, but you knew you had not a minute to waste. If you were going to make it to Port Royal alive, you had better get to rowing.

You rowed all through the day and all through the night. At noon the next day you took your rest. You decided it better to rest at the hottest part of the day, and take your chances making your way about in the dark. You were nw an expert navigator, after all.

On the third day when you woke from your sleep you brushed your hair while you ate. A little sense of self might go a long way, you thought. You threw your apple core into the bin and looked up from on the stairs. An unfamiliar sight reached your eyes—the sheets of another ship not far off. 

You were wary. You knew pirates plagued the waters of the Caribbean. But you needed help.

You climbed up further to examine the rest of the ship, only to find that it was not a ship at all—only what used to be one. And atop the mast and sails stood the strangest looking man. Better not to draw attention to yourself. But just as you thought it, he waved his hat and called out to you.

“Hello!” He said.

“Hello,” you replied but he likely couldn’t hear you.

“Have you got any rum?” If you weren’t so tired, you would have laughed. How absurd!

“No.” You called back, louder.

“That’s a shame,” he said,“the sun is shining, and the wind is cool. It’s a fine day for a drink!”

“It would seem you have you priorities out of order.”

He pursed his lips and furrowed his brows.

“Have I?” He said,“never mind that. What is your name?”

You didn’t answer him.

“Are you shy?”

“Tell me your name,” you said,“and I will give you mine.”

You weren’t sure how your boat had caught up so quickly to his.

“You know who I am!” He said, and waved his hand,“don’t be silly.”

You stayed quiet again.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, and deadpanned, “Are you living under a rock? I’m Captain Jack Sparrow!”

You cut your eyes and looked his—umm—boat up and down.

“Captain?”

He frowned.

“I’ve got a ship haven’t I? Are you not the captain of yours?”

“I—“ you said, looking around at the sorry excuse for a ship you had, but then his came back into your vision, and you found yourself a little prouder, “I am.”

“And what is your name?”

“Naiara,” you said after a moment.

“What a pretty name,” he said, with a smile, “for a pretty maiden. Where are you going?”

You cut your eyes, “Should I tell you?”

“Well,” he shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” He smiled a crooked smile that revealed several yellowing and silver-capped teeth.“Tell me.”

“You are in no position to be making demands,” you said, “I will not tell you.”

”You are at least a fortnight from land, the way it seems, ” he said with a shrug, “Have you enough food? Water? And you are going to row all that way?”

You said nothing and licked your lips.

“I doubt it. But fortunately for you,” he said, “I am also a fortnight from land with no food or water. The difference between me and you is that, I have a mast and sail, and you don’t.”

“Bold you to assume that I—“

“But I’m right though.” It seemed he didn’t know when to stop.

“I’m going to Port Royal.”

“Perfect!” he exclaimed, “Have you got a saw?”

You cut your eyes. “Why do you need a saw?”

“Just trust me.”

“You are going to kill me.”

“No I’m not,” he argued, ”I have a gun. You don’t. If I wanted to kill you I would have already.”

“But you—“

“And if I don’t kill you, you will starve to death. Have you got a saw?”

With a huff you climbed into the cabin for a saw and a rope.

The product of his labor was a dingy thing—you couldn’t right call it a proper mast and sail, but at least you would have the wind, and you could turn it with the tiller, if you fidgeted with it a bit.

So your journey with Jack Sparrow began.

“Why are you going to Port Royal?” He asked as he took a quick bite of a cracker.

“That is none of your concern.”

“Please,” he scoffed, “we’ll be stuck on this ship together for a while. Might as well tell me.”

“I’m looking for my brother,” you said after a moment, “He was a sailor—he came down here for commission, but I stopped getting letters some years ago.”

“I see,” said Jack, “And you think you’ll find him in Port Royal?”

“No,” you shook your head, “But I think maybe I can get a lead. Maybe someone remembers him. I here it’s quite the happening place.”

“Maybe,” said Jack, but a strange quietness overtook him for a while.

It was something you had taken for granted before Jack sailed with you—silence.

“Why are you?” You asked him.

“I’ve got—umm—business there.”

“Business? What kind of business?”

“None of yours,” he said.

“Tell me.”

He sighed. His shoulders fell. “I’m a merchant *

“I hardly believe you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

”You don’t look like a merchant.”

”What’s that supposed to mean?”

You frowned, and tried to think of what to say next. “I—I don’t know. Sorry.”

His hand shot up to tilt your chin up at him. “And you don’t look like the type of young lady to end up out here—stranded out at sea, gallivanting about with the likes of a man like me.” You dared not say anything, but you shook your head. “But here you are. Things aren’t always as they seem, love.”

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

I’ve been on a writing hiatus. My laptop broke and i just started a new job as a hairstylist but anyways so I’ve been out of it but anyways im getting back into pirates of the Caribbean so Im gonna post a prologue of a James Norrington fic I have been working on wow i forgot how much fun this was

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

okay so I’m reading a Reddit post about Rings of Power and how horrible the writing is about about all of these quotes that are supposed to sound like they come from a place of profound wisdom but they are actually very shallow they’re just embellished. I think it’s safe to say that rings of power didn’t have the best writing butttttt no one can tell me that “cleverness is for men of small ambition” doesn’t go hard

[burntheedges]

me to my husband: ao3 is down again [explains outage]

my husband: someone should write a spicy fic about the two database engineers locked in the server room trying to fix it

my husband, smug: there was only one spreadsheet 😎

[talon-dragonbeast]

daily affirmations for college students

im doing great

my teeth and claws are very sharp

i can kill ai with my mind

the professor is more scared of me than i am of them

theres no surprise test on friday

no one can tell i have a tumblr blog

my roommates dont hate me

salmon burguers on sale

[fistfuloflightning]

If Tuor (blessed by a god, silver tongued and persuasive and cautious) and Turin (cursed by a dragon, stubborn and makes bad life choices) ended up on an extended road trip, would they balance each other out enough to function well?

[sailorsally]

everyone rejoice, Ao3 is back

[tumblr]

well done everybody for being so brave about it