Life on the sea is just better than living in some landlocked country in Europe forever. Lucky for him, France touches the Atlantic, and the ocean turned into his one reprieve from rotting away as another sad, street orphan casualty.

No longer is Jean fresh meat and a scrawny thirteen-year-old with nothing to his name, either, because here at twenty-goddamn-six, he's got even more notoriety that his bosses would only dream of having back in the day.

Good. Let everyone be scared. Just means more room at the top for him to relax and laugh the night away with his crew anyway.

The Golden Sun is in good spirits tonight as Jean surveys from up at the ship's wheel while his crew drinks and sings in jolly, drunken joy. They were going to dock soon to trade goods at the port, which meant everyone would get paid, and also suggested that everyone's spirits were at an all-time high. Jean would've joined the fray in a heartbeat, but for now, he's content to watch.

Why? Simple: Jean is planning to wet his dick tonight.

Though before he can do so, climbing up the stairs to the wheel is reliable Louis, his quarter master. "Captain. We dock in three days."

"Mmm," Jean hums noncommittally, crossing his arms as he continues watching. "Remindin' me again? Go get proper bombed already."

"...Last time, people were talkin' 'bout that Dick Hande bastard wantin' to pull somethin' on ye," Louis continues anyway, mildly exasperated. "Word is it'll happen when we dock."

Jean finally looks at him then, quirking a single brow and giving him an amused, lopsided flash of teeth. "Gettin' too paranoid now that yer hittin' yer dirty thirties, Louis. He tries, we send him to deep six. Stop worryin' yer pretty little head."

Louis looks like he wants to say something, his mouth opening in protest, but decides against it. Like a goldfish, Jean thinks amusedly. Even has it down to the red hair. His quarter master drags his feet downstairs, realizing there's no reasoning with Jean, and he watches as Louis snatches an empty mug from one of the gunners a little rougher than he usually would, loose red curls bouncing as he trudges off to fill it with alcohol.

Yeah, sometimes Jean just does that to people.

Now that Louis will definitely be smashed in approximately ten minutes, Jean finally makes his move. He slinks down the wooden stairs to tap Anders, a nonverbal cue for his sailing master to do his duties at the wheel now that Jean is leaving, and he gets a starry-eyed look and a nod as the former noble boy runs off. Perfect.

That leaves the only other person on this ship who isn't hammered out of his mind: his beloved first mate. He ducks into the quarters where his first mate is, who's probably tending to the duties Jean had assigned him earlier.

Their rivalry predates the Golden Sun. His favorite challenge has always been him. Rival ships, rival titles, rival skills. They were always pitted head-to-head like it was an act of fate, and Jean loved it.

Every playful jab-and-retort was music to his ears, and every biting remark they exchanged went straight to his fat, giddy cock. Competing made plundering fun, made him work harder just to beat him by an inch, which always did miles for his reputation.

How do ye reckon I can nab that Cap's booty and his prized eyepatch off o' him while he's sleepin'? He'd asked Louis years and years ago, racing to raid another pirate's ship before he could get there first.

That night, he'd worn an eyepatch studded in glittering gold, gloating to the other man of his glory down at the docks. It was fun. Jean finally felt like he'd met someone who could match his brain that often ran long-distance sprints while others hopped along at a snail's pace, which was the best part of it all.

"Must be sad ye ain't havin' fun out there, aye?" Jean smirks, snaking behind him to loop an arm around his waist. "Even sadder ye lost that bet a couple months ago, an' now all yer new mates 're drinkin' without ye..."

Ah, the bet. Some drunken, spontaneous thing at a bar just a couple of months ago. Jean had made a bold bet right from the get-go. Leave your old ship behind and join me instead, love. A blur—a game of Liar's Dice, Jean's risky bet, the ecstasy of victory that flooded his brain as he tipped his cup over—and then he left feeling like the luckiest bastard to ever hit the gambling tables.

The next day, Jean paraded around the dock to depart with an arm slung around his shoulder to drag him onboard. That was when he really became the biggest goddamn champion.

The fire only escalated from there. Hot nights only got hotter the first time Jean dragged him to his private quarters, and the rest is history.

He is convenient, fun, and Jean gets to wet his dick without spending a single penny on a prostitute. What better deal could he ask for? Having the power to boss him around a bit after spending so much time competing as equals has been a surprising shift, and Jean thinks he's been enjoying it a little too much.

God, he's sexier than any whore, too. Thank the lord above that night happened, 'cause missin' out on ass this good woulda made any mate o' mine cry.

Jean laughs, a breathy thing that fans his ear from how close he is. "Ye can join us next time. Promise. Yer doing all the hard work now though, ain't ye? Deserves a reward, methinks."

"C'mere, ditch whatever ye have to do an' come to my bed," Jean coaxes, voice low as he plucks a rag from his hands and discards it somewhere on the main quarters' floor. "Important work yer doin', 'm sure, but it'll be way more fun, an' I love fun. Ye wouldn't say no to Cap now, would ye, love?"