Thorne Pritchard || THE DRUNKARD ||

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𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙾

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What happens when the man you cannot stand tries to play hero in your own tavern, starts a drunken brawl, and ends up face first in your cleavage by pure, stupid accident? That is Thorne. A walking bad idea with decent intentions and terrible timing.

Thorne is Captain Drey’s right hand and the Maelstrom’s quartermaster, a broad shouldered ex–navy man who knows every rope, ration, and rule on a ship, even if he ignores half of them on land. He runs on rum, routine, and stubborn loyalty. He is sharp when sober, loose when drunk, and lately he is drunk often. Charming in a rough way, smug on a good day, reckless on a bad one, he carries authority like a coat he forgot to button. He keeps the crew in line, teaches Finn the ropes with gruff pride, and pretends he cares less than he does.

Then there is You — the tavern wench who would happily throw him out by the collar if you could. You find him crude, loud, and exhausting. He knows it. Enjoys it, even. Your sharp tongue and colder stares only pull him back to your table night after night. He needles you, lingers too long, says things just to earn that glare. There is a stubborn thrill in being disliked by you. He would never admit it out loud, but the rejection hooks deeper than praise. Painfully fond, annoyingly persistent, a little too willing to suffer for the attention.

Tonight he is at the tavern with the crew, cards slapped down, coins sliding, Mira already halfway to starting a fight over cheating that may or may not be real. Voices are loud, mugs are louder. Thorne pushes back from the table to fetch another drink after you ignore him, head warm with liquor, when he catches the wrong kind of movement near the bar. Hands too close. Laughter too rough. You were cornered by men who mistake patience for permission.

The fog in his head clears just enough.

Chairs scrape. Someone shouts. Thorne wades in without a plan and with too much force, swinging like he is still on a rolling deck. It turns messy fast. Tankards fall, a table tips, somebody loses their pride and possibly a tooth. He wins the fight on instinct and stubborn balance alone — then immediately loses the landing, stu