I Will Never Love You But It's A Soft Confession From Jimjam Mwah

❝ I will never love you ❞ but it's a soft confession from jimjam mwah

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ* ARRANGED MARRIAGE SENTENCE STARTERS 2.0

And there it is. Despite her best efforts and all that she had sworn to herself—to avoid her parents’ fate, to rise above the circumstances of her birth, to prove there’s something greater than mere duty out there—Anne has failed, and is doomed to a loveless marriage. The sinking of her heart has less to do with James than it does to do with the gilded cage snapping shut behind her. She’s seen loveless marriage, the misery it makes of a home. She’s the product of loveless marriage, the illegitimate love-child of Lord William Cormac, esq., and his maid, given legitimacy only because Lady Cormac failed to produce any heirs of her own for too many years. And now she’ll pass the burden of that on to whatever child is conceived in this new loveless marriage, and the cycle of unhappy wives leading unhappy lives will continue. Anne swallows around the lump in her throat and tries not to hate the man so gently holding her hands, so nicely trying to do what she’s asked of him in giving her honesty.

She just hadn’t realized how bitter a pill to swallow his honesty would prove.

Anne slips her hands out of his and abruptly stands. She has to leave now. She’s going to cry, can feel the tears rising and extinguishing the last spark of resilience in her, and she…he doesn’t need to feel responsible for those, and he’s exactly the sort that would.

“I see. Well. Thank ye for yer honesty. If…—excuse me.” She turns on her heel and fights the urge to run, back ramrod straight as she navigates around the chaise lounge to leave the room. (Skirts really do make movement impossible, don’t they?)

@pennyinyourthoughts continues to be my friend for some reason.

It’s been most ways of a week, near as Anne can tell, that she’s been stuck in this hell. There’s the vaguest impression of the hour from the sky, slightly brighter when the sun is out, or so she assumes. Mostly, it’s a soft, featureless, grey world, inhabited by a gentle sea and a ship she’s only ever seen once before. There’s no clock, no calendar, not even a captain’s log by which tell the time or guess the date, except for the one Anne’s started.

As far as hells go, this one is almost pleasant. She’s taken Bonnet’s quarters as her own, in part because it’s large and in part because it’s quite nicely stocked, with a feather bed and pillows, a fainting couch and an armchair and a fucking fireplace she’s smarter than trying to light, and most importantly, a library. A choice library, filled with as much classic literature as contemporary adventure tales, heavy with books good for running a ship and the history of pirates. She’ll have to give him a fairer shake, if ever she leaves this damned fog to see him again: he’s clearly not a man as beneath her notice as she’d taken him to be.

Anne stands at Bonnet’s bookshelves now, running her fingers over the spines of each book in the row. The ship’s well provisioned yet fully abandoned. With the chores of the day completed and the approximately mid-afternoon sun making a lighter grey of the fog, there’s really nothing left to do but go mad or read a book. It’s not exactly a difficult decision to make.

“Homer or…history?” she asks the empty cabin, more to hear a voice with her own two ears than anything else.

send me 🕯️to hear my character's inner thoughts about your character.

On anon or not, tell me who you ship my character with.

Anne’s not been one to drink: it dulls both wit and reflexes, making a useless scarecrow of a proper sailor. She hesitates only a moment before snatching the bottle from Hands, pausing to nod her appreciation before taking a swig.

Fuck!, but were these fucks fucking annoying! Enough to drive anyone to drink.

“How d’ye deal with so much fucking…fuckery?”

"Drink?" Izzy offered as she sat nearby, holding up an extra bottle for Anne. It had been a really long fucking day for everyone. "Promise it's the good shit if you want it."

@neverhangd

✨ I cannot give concrit bc I like your writing and so I can think of any ways you could improve. And tbh, writing is an artform, and therefore subjective past a certain point. Even the people named the greatest writers aren't universally loved and will have critics. I can tell you I'm a picky person if that helps in any way. I enjoy writing with you, and you're doing great ❤

send ✨ if you like my writing and feel free to tell me why !! the rpc is in serious need of some positivity.

I’m not naive enough to expect universal acclaim, especially writing what is essentially an original female character in a space so dick-crazed that it’s all but a crime to be writing a woman.

I guess I just miss the workshop process the way I had it in undergrad and for one shining, glorious class during my time in grad school, where we share our writing with each other and discuss the ideas, the pros and the cons, the bits of prose that work and the bits that are confusing and how to fix them.

I miss having a real writing community focused on the craft and the joy and on improvement. Art is subjective, but stagnant art is bad no matter what you do, and I fear I tend towards the stagnant. 😞

But!!! This isn’t meant to be a sad post, but a celebratory one! Thank you for your kind words. 💕