This is just a little update to let folks know that I have found a suitable secondary faceclaim for Abigail Ashe. This is now in her profile to give insight on the usage and whom to expect based on verse. ( If you are uncertain, the FC has been included into each verse separately so you can check there as well. )

I use two faceclaims for Abigail as a result of minimal resources for her canon one. The use of Meganne Young is for canon and canon based storylines in which Abigail is 18-20. The use of Jenna Coleman is for her main verse, and other post canon verses where she is 21 or older. FC is noted at the bottom of each verse to ensure minimal confusion.

In order to keep things from being confusing, I have combed through the blog and changed all of Abigail’s icons to reflect this change where applicable. This change is effective going forward! ❤

Fun Facts:

Benedict Charles Vane is 56 years old.
Katherine Marie Vane is 53 years old.

They are both still alive, and searching for Charles whom they believe is still in the West Indies, taken by one of their enemies. While they are correct in the assumption that Charles was kidnapped on account of their business for the EITC, they have spent the past three decades searching in the wrong corner of the world.

While verses may be created where word of Charles Vane the pirate of the New World reaches the West Indies, for the most part this simply remains as a fun aside. What is more, he has no siblings – the loss of him devastated Katherine and Benedict too completely, and the mere thought of another child often upsets them greatly.

Some small insights into Charles before he was kidnapped at the tender age of seven.

Born to Benedict Charles Vane and his wife, Katherine Marie Vane (

née

Barrett ) an EITC overseer and the wits behind his operation respectively, Charles was a shockingly healthy child. While many mothers in their vicinity fretted over fevers and coughs, baby Charles weathered through his early winters with his only cries being for food, changes and the insistence on being held.

By the time he was five, he had moved from England to Singapore and discovered a love of climbing and of bugs. One of Benedict’s friends was a naturalist by name of Alexander Warren, who informed the young boy that a great deal about our world and how to live in it could be learned through the study of nature and most particularly, the hardy insects. This lead to the early formation of a fascination that never leaves Charles, though unfortunately for dear Katherine her son’s understanding of “bug” was rather — broad.

To Charles a bug was just about anything he didn’t know the name of, or happened to think looked interesting. This would then be brought to Mister Warren for information, though when the man was not around it would result in all manner of creepies and crawlies being discovered by Mrs. Vane or her staff on hand, set in a teacup or even the teapot itself. This ranged from, but was not limited to, salamanders, toads, tadpoles and on one remarkable occasion, a very small and likely newly hatched crocodile.

Then, of course, there was the climbing. Charles

loved to climb literally everything and his poor father was perpetually having to get him down, cause like a big dumb cat Charles could Get Up There but was utterly incapable of getting back down.
Katherine would try and insist he get himself out of his own trouble, but then he’d start to cry so she’d huff and send Benedict up to retrieve him.

Aside from this particular display, Charles was not in fact very prone to tantrums as a child. He actually tended to just watch a lot and he didn’t like confrontation, so when the other kids got real loud and rowdy he would scuttle away rather than join suit. When he was really upset or angry about something he would end up crying and holding his fists at his sides as he hyperventilated because he literally couldn’t connect to his words when he had Big Feelings.

This eventually transformed into staring as intimidatingly as possible. As an adult, Charles’ eyes widen whenever he is feeling Big Emotions because he learned that was a way to keep tears at bay. It ensures that he controls himself, regardless of what might be coursing through him at any given moment.

When particularly emotional as an adult, Charles stammers and it becomes a real struggle because not only does he not verbally connect well once his emotions start churning, he is also dealing with the fact that when Emotional he starts thinking more in Papiamento than in English so there’s also language barrier struggles that cause him to kind of….stall. We see this a few times in the show, particularly with Eleanor, and his eyes widening in emotional moments is something I expanded on based on the actual canon so, watching closely for that is a wild ride let me tell you.

Charles tends to display his friendship in ways one might liken to a domesticated house cat. Many of his more affectionate gestures tend to fall into tactile fields – be it brushing up against a person’s side or even taking a seat and pressing his side against them, chances are casual and calm physical interaction is a sign that Charles likes you.

Resting his head against shoulders and even laps is a sign not only of his affection, but of his trust and admittedly, possession. This is his quiet, but poignant means of showing the world that you are his person, and that undoubtedly means people would answer to him if anything were to happen to you.

Perhaps the most notable tactile offering Charles has though, is in regard to his hair. He does not take well to it being touched or grabbed by anyone without some form of permission granted from him – each and every time. Simply because you could touch his hair before doesn’t mean you can now, and that is important to understand.

That said, anyone he allows to not only touch his hair, but to modify it – either by means of styling ( be it braids, buns and ponytails – or flowers and beads to decorate it ) or in the much rarer instance of cutting it is someone Charles not only trusts, but is someone he openly adores in as affectionate a manner as he understands how to convey. To put it in meme terms, being allowed to play with or modify Charles Vane’s hair in any way makes you a God Tier friend.

It should be noted that in cases of a sexual nature, this does not always hold true. Just about anyone can touch Charles’ hair if he happens to be fucking them – but as soon as the sex is over the permission is immediately and thoroughly revoked, unless of course the person he is having sex with happens to be someone he trusts – which frankly has only ever happened in an AU environment anyway.

( Fun Fact Time: Outside of the circle of ocs I have yet to write about, there are very few people with the right to touch Charles Vane’s hair. Anne Bonny is the reason behind the braids we see more often than not. Jack Rackham and Blackbeard are both permitted to touch his hair depending on his mood and theirs. Outside of this, and only in the applicable AU’s, the only other people with this permission are Edward Pellew, Joji and Abigail Ashe. )

Another means in which Charles displays his friendship in a feline like fashion comes from his manner of bringing his people food or fighting off their enemies. The more he looks after someone’s welfare and even reputation, the more likely it is that they matter to him.

( Fun Fact Time: Charles had other means of getting information on Low that did not involve turning to Max. If he had not wanted an excuse to restore Jack’s reputation, he would not have been pressured into accepting terms that would require him to restore it. )

Another thing is lending – Charles is not the most materialistic person ironically enough. Despite being a pirate, greed is not his vice and in fact there is very little in life that he covets that can be measured in a physical sense. That said, he doesn’t particularly like being stolen from, and if he doesn’t like someone he is not above going after them for doing so – even if all they stole was something small and innocuous, like a shirt.

In the event that he likes a person though, what is his – well, it is as good as theirs anyway. A good portion of his formative upbringing was spent as a slave in a labor camp – when one has absolutely nothing to call their own, what little things they have are either guarded jealously or shared communally, and Charles was very much among the latter in his camp. So to him, sharing his clothes and even his food with his crew and chosen family comes completely naturally – what belongs to him, belongs to all who depend on him, and all whom he counts as his own.

( Fun Fact Time: He is aware that some people – namely, Jack and Anne – seem to consider taking his clothes to be something of a sport, so he plays along even though he believes them completely entitled to his shirts and other miscellany, as he sees it as a form of play between the three of them and literally does not realize they actually think they’re just getting away with stealing his stuff. )

Small gestures like getting something broken repaired or anticipating a need and tending to it is also a big way Charles shows he cares. He watches all the fucking time, he is always absorbing knowledge and observing, so he tends to note small details and kind of plays his hand sometimes. This is perhaps the most notable in Living Does Not Mean A Happy Ending, where he is partly looking after Flint. Here, he brings the man books and teacups, and generally finds means of repairing household damages during downward spirals, as well as ensuring Flint has means of self care when things get really bad. None of which he would do, if Flint had not become one of “his” in that verse.

Lastly ( and perhaps, by Charles’ view, most importantly ) if he hands a person an iguana or any other type of lizard, this displays the same measure of trust and adoration as someone handing you a kitten from the litter of their most treasured childhood cat. Rejecting that lizard is a terrible offense, and will make it difficult for Charles to wholly trust you going forward.

Oh – actually, one final thing. If you’re afraid of a type of bug or like, scared of lizards, he will shoo bugs for you and also do silly shit to make lizards less scary — like put them on his head.

And that is the sum total of How To Tell If Charles Vane Is Your Friend!

[intolerablexsacrifice, for Silver, pick a verse any verse] 💥 Try to calm/placate my muse during an overwhelming emotional moment

{ Nonverbal Starters }

It was astonishing what this man believed himself capable of – and perhaps even more alarming was the amount of times in which he was proven correct in his assumptive actions. For a long moment, Silver was silent as he debated the merits in making his true opinion known.

Vane and his men had murdered Randall – among others – had relieved Silver of his fucking leg – and within what, three hours? Managed wholesale forgiveness from the captain and a fucking allegiance between crews with a history of hating one another for — what? The purpose of war on England and the rest of civilized society in the name of pirates everywhere?

Fuck that shit.

“Let me make myself – perfectly plain to you, as it appears that once again you have come to completely lose track of why I am here.” His tone was clipped, an iron focus the only thing at this point keeping him from slipping forth some brutal obscenities in his mother tongue, “I do not give a shit about the politics here, but if you think I’m going to stick around now that what I am here for has been obtained, and you’ve decided that palling up with a crew of murderous sacks of shit is a good idea all around, I don’t know what to tell you. I am entitled to my share, and I am taking it. Our business, as I have been stating it to be from the beginning of this entire endeavour, is now concluded. So please explain to me why the fuck I should care about being your goddamn quartermaster.”

“When everyone lies, telling the truth isn’t just rebellion. It’s an act of revolution. So think carefully when you speak it, because the truth is a weapon.” miranda? cautioning thomas re: verbalisation of idealism? absofuckinglutely

{ Altered Carbon }

“My dear Miranda,” His tone is fond, and there is a subdued delight upon his features which would take no effort to hide if he willed it. As it was, he saw no reason to conceal his amusement, for it was far kinder a response than the grim foreboding her words set upon him, “I do believe you’re becoming quite the dangerous radical yourself with such ideas.”

It was hardly an insult – in the privacy of their own home, in the quiet after the last of their guests had taken their leave, dangerous words like revolution and radicalism bore tones quite deadly in the times – of fondness, gratitude and even adoration.

“To conceal one’s true intent and ambitions at all times,” He mused, stepping into his robe so that he might remove his wig without damaging his clothes, “Not only sounds tiresome in the extreme – but also as dishonest as one can get. I’ve always admired our honesty – are you suggesting that for the sake of our ideals, we become more like the dishonest to whom we must entreat ourselves?”

[intolerablexsacrifice, for Silver] 👁 Wake my muse up during a nightmare

{ Nonverbal Starters }

It is not the first time he is shaken roughly, hauled away from the cacophony of howls that haunted him. ( Unaware, as ever, that the Spanish screams were in fact his own, echoes of a burning manor and repetitions of dying soldiers ) His eyes fall upon the man who has taken everything from him – again, so lost in his own mind he can no more tell the difference between one redhaired demon and the next.

He offers nothing – not daring to speak in his own tongue, the language this man was determined to rip from him even if it meant tearing out his spirit strip by strip. He does not speak the language of these cursed, evil people because every time he does, he feels farther from home than ever – and more afraid that with each passing day, he is becoming more and more like them.

Instead he stares, quiet and angry and full of impotent hatred that means no more to this man than his silence. The devil will have his due, he always does. Jandro does not believe he will succeed in his defiance, but he cannot bring himself to surrender, either. So he waits, his body shivering in the English cold, his mind far afield of the scorching heat of a becalmed ship, and expects an attack that has already come and gone.

“You look–” Flint seems to catch himself, hands tightening behind his back. He gives Gates a curt, military nod. “Very good.” [ listen he deserves it ]

“Uhh…” Gates, having completely forgotten the whole ‘call me pretty’ conversation, has found himself temporarily thrown by the compliment. Unthinkingly, he looked down at himself – perhaps the boss was being sarcastic, and he had some manner of grotesque stain on his shirt?

Nope. Just as pressed and polished as he could be after weeks at sea and no port towns to spend money to bathe in.

Looking up, he shrugged and grinned, figuring he might as well roll with it. “Don’t I always?”

“ i just want to kiss you. ” [ mcgraw, muttered very v e r y softly to thomas while they have Company ]

{ Kissy Starters }

Maintaining a neutral expression in the wake of that particular confession proves phenomenally difficult. Thomas knows his jaw has slackened slightly in shock, perhaps more because he felt his lips part than any particular attention spent on how tightly clenched his teeth had been up until that very moment.

Quietly, his gaze seeks out the lilac vision of his wife as she mingled among their guests, seemingly harmless with her charming smile and innocuous remarks. She was perhaps his most delicate and dangerous device in these political games, her cautious wit affording her the capability of gathering intelligence with none being the wiser for it. She was a formidable ally, but she was not without her own games – he thought, for a moment, she might have put James up to this.

As it was, she was most engaged in conversation with Peter, and appeared to not be paying him or James any mind at all. He supposed that was fitting enough all things considered – she was the one who among them, was the least reckless. Making this gambit all James’ doing and therefore, all the more enticing for the fact the once so formal lieutenant could now possibly be so wickedly and delightfully bold.

“In good time,” He assured mildly, as if they were merely discussing something as indifferent as when it would be best for them to make a proposal before parliament, as opposed to the unspoken promise that there would be a great deal of kissing once their guests had taken leave for the night. “Patience may be a virtue I lack, however,” He warned, glancing over at James with a slight, hidden smile upon the corner of his lips – it wasn’t as though they couldn’t excuse themselves for a moment or two if need must.

Issues of Pride

intolerablexsacrifice‌:

@oceanfoamed (from here)

_{He couldn’t describe what it was that had come over him upon seeing Silver in the state he was in: it was almost like anger. So red-hot and forceful that it had driven all other motive from his mind, replaced by the singular desire to fix it by any means necessary. He had no expectation that dragging Silver off would be received well by him. But if it was a choice between Silver’s wrath and letting him keep pretending he could simply walk off his wounds until it killed him–?}

_{“Not interested in the ship.”}

_{Flint’s voice was gruff and subdued: he didn’t so much as glance at Silver at first, standing across the room from him, hands braced against a wooden counter. It wasn’t surprising in the least for Silver to assume that this was about the Walrus: had Flint still had any kind of purpose left, and therefore any desire to regain his captaincy, he’d have used Silver as leverage in a heartbeat. But now?}

_{All he’d ever wanted was to walk away from the sea and find peace: there was no reason for him to return to it. Nothing left to tie him to a life of violence and danger, no martyr to drive him forwards. With his world so deeply thrown off-balance, and no Miranda to hold onto for stability, all he had were the few people that had–in Flint’s eyes–taken pity on him enough to at least ensure he wasn’t dead each time they made port.}

_{Silver was one of them, shit that he was. And he was going to run himself into the fucking grave if someone didn’t forcibly intervene- and who else would dare?}

_{“I take it you’ve been ignoring Howell’s advice.” Flint–or what was left of him now–turned to him, finally. “Can’t say I’m surprised – though I had hoped that being made captain might shake some fucking sense into you, make you less likely to risk your life by refusing aid.” He looked pointedly at the leg, then glared at Silver, lip twitching. “What the fuck are you trying to achieve, here?”}

It was admittedly difficult to concentrate, when all of his body and mind seemed intent upon focusing on the part of him that was broken and in dire need of something – anything – to alleviate it. Now that Flint had hauled him here, Silver supposed there was little point in ignoring what his body most needed at the moment. If nothing else, perhaps alleviating some of his pain might help him better deduce what the fuck Flint could want other than his ship back that would cause him to do something like this.

Leaning down, his hands worked clumsily over the straps that buckled his false leg to the true flesh, hissing through his teeth as the pressure lessened, and needing a moment of distraction when at last he drew the damn thing off. Biting the inside of his cheek was a sore way to go about it, but the new, albeit smaller point of pain was enough to redirect his mind just long enough to keep him from crying out when at last, the false leg fell away from his body and clattered loudly against the floor, a sullen and firm reminder of how real it was. He balanced himself on a wooden peg, and there was nothing he could do to escape that reality.

Opening his eyes, he stared almost unseeingly at the empty space where the rest of his leg ought to be – at the carefully carved wood that filled that area courtesy of the ship’s carpenter and doctor Howell’s wise instruction. His gaze lifted now to his latest source of frustration, praying that he could focus enough through this not to be lead by the nose by this man and his capacity for resetting reality to suit his purposes.

“I didn’t volunteer for the job,” He reminded Flint flatly – the men had voted him in the moment Flint left, he hadn’t been granted a fucking say in the matter and they both knew it. “Or have you forgotten, somewhere in all of this, what I told you before?” It wouldn’t surprise him if the man had – so much had happened since that point. “I do not want to be a pirate. At this point, I simply have no other viable opportunities in which I can survive, thanks to this.”

He didn’t look or gesture at his leg. He simply stared Flint down, knowing the man would understand full well what “this” happened to refer to. “And in case being out here has caused you to forget the realities of piracy, what I hope to achieve remains exactly the same as ever. I intend to survive – and acting like invalid among those folk? Isn’t how I do that.”