Incorrect Quotes! :D

Incorrect quotes! :D

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Sturmhond: Anne, what are you doing tomorrow? Anne: Having my day ruined by whatever you’re about to ask me to do. --- Sturmhond: Are you really planning to shoot the demon? Anne: Don't worry, it's a holy gun. Sturmhond: How so? Anne: It makes holes. --- Astarion, looking at a map: It’s a barren, featureless wasteland out there, isn't it? Anne: Other side, Astarion... --- Anne: You have an impressive pain tolerance. Astarion: Thanks, it's the trauma. --- Halsin: Damn, the power went out. Anne: Don’t worry, I got this. Anne: *shakes rapidly and starts to light up* Halsin: What-? Anne: I swallowed a glow stick! Halsin, on the verge of tears: WHY WOULD YOU- --- Halsin: Do you have any skeletons in your closet? Anne: Literally or figuratively? Halsin: I have to specify?

BONUS:

Sturmhond: Punch me in the face. Anne: ...Punch you? Sturmhond: Yes, punch me, didn’t you hear me? Anne: I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ while you’re speaking but it’s usually just subtext.

don’t tell me “you can’t do that” ‘cause I will do that

@storiesbreathed

This was a sad, sloppy crew.

Anne could see that in the half-arsed way they’d shuffle to the hold to check their living cargo: infrequent, irregular, and inattentive. Some stepped all the way down, looked so long and so hard at Anne and the other woman that it left no questions about why they stared, then left without a word. Some came to gloat, some to pity, and a few wouldn’t even come down the last four stairs and enter the brig proper.

Because of all this Anne held her tongue until the darkest hours of the night, just before grey dawn steals over the waves. She has to be sure no one was listening, no one was coming, no one would interrupt—everything she’d seen indicated the other woman in the hold was as reserved as she was, but whether that was born of necessity or inability, Anne had no way of knowing. Explaining her plan might take a long while if the worser of the cases were true.

“I’ve no plans t’stay aboard longer than needs be,” she announced. Her voice sounded the way rusted nails feel beneath your fingers, rough, unpleasant, strangely sticky. She cleared her throat some and continued. “Needs be could be as early as the first light, if ye’ve also no plans t’stay aboard.”

Anne takes the shaking of the stranger’s head as disapproval of the promise (it’s only a threat if you don’t carry it out), but she narrows her eyes into a squint when he makes a prophecy of it. It’s an odd reaction to have, to say the least.

He was straight-backed and proud, but the reason Anne did not retreat were those shrewd eyes. The Republic of Pirates was full to the brim with violent men; thoughtful folk were few and far between, and Anne was reluctant to turn away company smart in thought and form. She very nearly does so out of habit when he asks for her name anyway. She nods her answer to his question

And visibly flinches when he says his name, contracting like a raw nerve against the wave of pain that brings. Her eyes widen, her hand tenses on the door, and she’s caught for a terrible moment between fight and flight. Rather than ripping in two over the matter, Anne steps back, making room for Alvaro.

“How—.” Anne cuts herself off before her rusty voice can infect the room. She takes a moment to close the door behind him, to clear her throat. She nods her head in the direction of the stripped-bare coat track bearing her own hat and coat at this moment as she tries again.

“How did ye track me here?” The Republic of Pirates is a good guess to find almost any piracy-inclined sailors, but Alvaro’s presence here is the tolling of an unexpected bell. If her father knew well enough to send a man here for her…how much else did he know? She’d done what she could to conceal their connection, for his sake—so why the fuck would the man who disowned her (rightfully so, in hindsight) unbury that lead?

In the Republic of Pirates, Anne Bonny is a topic all but banned. Calico Jack himself had only recently left port before she’d re-arrived, hungrier of eye and sharper of tongue than ever before. Founding out she’d missed him had sent her into a howling rage that ended after the bar was three thousand pints, four steins, two kegs, a chair, half a door, and a third of the bar itself poorer for the news. She’s gone from a hex to a persona non grata to a raging lunatic in the eyes of the Republic in less than two years, and that was quite the feat.

It’s little wonder, given all this, that she’d be a difficult woman to find people willing to talk about, let alone look for. That would make one pirate among the others in particular something of a double-wonder, then. The poor pirate that looked back at Vasco happened to be the same poor fucker who’d looked back at Anne when she’d stood by, chest heaving, unable to throw her fists any longer. He indeed led the man to the same place he’d taken her most ways to a week ago. His gaze is noticeably lowered, shame and desperation at war on his face.

When Anne yanks open the door, he flinches—a mistake. Her gaze goes first to him, then hardens and goes through him, before cutting to the stranger at her door. There’s a snarl on her thin, pale lips before she says a word, sizing him up. In his stance she sees all she needs to: proud man, good upbringing, soft work. (It isn’t an insult. Soft work can be difficult. It’s just a different difficulty.) Her gaze never wavers from the stranger’s face, though one hand drops down into a better position from which to slam the door as necessary. With a voice as sharp as her gaze but as rough as her haggard, half-shadowed face, she speaks.

“Take yer cut and run, coward. Pray I never see yer face again.”

The man waits only as long as it takes to pocket his payment, disappearing down the alley and with a twist—off into the night, consumed by the shadows and never to see the light of day again.

What Anne sees in the man’s face seems to satisfy her. Her gaze doesn’t soften so much as it…unsharpens, a retracting of claws but not a complete relaxing of tensions. (What Vasco sees in the woman’s face, unknown to her, is a fate she would scoff to hear, no doubt.)

It all begins here, funnily enough. The chapter that leads her to that ultimate fate. And neither of them can truly know it.

“So. What in the fuck makes me worth ten whole…pounds, weren’t it?” To the right people, her prices ranges from thousands into pricelessness, depending on who you ask. It’s fair to assume the opinion of one William J. McCormac, esq., leaned heavily into the former, given Vasco’s current charge. It’s also fair to assume Anne is well aware of her worth beyond a mere ten quid, given her flat tone of voice and raised brow, the tension still in her body.

How did women manage to hide their gender at sea?

That is a really interesting thing when you consider that there were some who pretended to be men in order to be able to serve on a ship and even managed to remain undiscovered for a longer period of time. Certain circumstances played into their hands. For one thing, the crew, many of whom were boys or young men from about 9 to their mid-20s.Together with the clothing, which consisted of a loose shirt, a waiscoat or jacket, baggy trousers or petticoat breeches and a handkerchief around the neck, made it easy for the women to hide their curves. And since everyone wore their hair tied up long in a pigtail or ponytail, it wasn’t very noticeable either. But what many had to do was, if their breasts were too big, to tie them flat so that they didn’t stand out. So they were just mistaken for a young man in his teens or early twenties. Like Ann Johnson, the daughter of a shoemaker, who even served as Able Seaman in 1849. Her appearance was described as that of a handsome boy aged 16-17, even though she was already in her twenties.

Mary Ann Talbot (1778 - 1808) donned male clothes and enlisted as a sailor during the Napoleonic Wars; she was wounded in 1794 and later captured by the French. She returned to London in 1796 but the following year was seized by a pressgang, shown here, and was forced to reveal her gender (x)

A much bigger problem was the daily need to go to the toilet. Because these facilities were more than primitive on a ship and rather practical in nature, because if it was necessary, well, then they just peed over the railing or used a urinal. Otherwise the men went to the head. The area in the bow behind the figurehead that served as a toilet. Many probably always went to the head, but it is also known that some used a small tunnel made of horn or metal as an aid to avoid attracting attention.

You would think that the ladies would have one more thing that would expose them. Because a comrade who bled once a month for a good week was something unusual. But there are no notes in historical writings about it. According to historians today, there are three theories. One is that the women on board lived such ferociously active lives that, like modern athletes in training today, they may have ceased to have periods. In case of prepubescent girls, the hard life and poor diet could have delayed the onset of puberty for several years. Another theory is that so many seamen suffered from a range of diseases and ailments including piles and gonorrhea that they were not likely to comment on one of their number having bloodstained clothing on occasion.

Considering these points, it was quite possible for women to pretend to be men and hide their true gender in order to serve as sailors at sea.

[NSFW] put a name in my inbox and my muse will answer:

How interested they are in having sex with them: How much they would pay (or have to be paid) to have sex with them:  If they would rather bottom or top them: How good they think they would be: If they’d prefer kitchen counter, wall, or shower sex with them: If they’d fuck, have sex, or make love:  If they were going to make it a threesome, the third person they’d pick: If they think there’s ever a possibility that it would happen: