Ships, Please!

Ships, please! 🥰⛵️🏴‍☠️

Anne doesn’t truck with the supernatural. She may be unsure of whether or not she buys into religion, but (even in more grounded verses) she wholeheartedly believes in things like magic, ghosts, devilry, etc..

And she does not fuck with them.

Which is probably why one of my favorite things to do is to make her contend with the supernatural. :3c

That said, there’s a fortune-telling “game” played with a pack of cards that she takes seriously and will sometimes, usually reluctantly, participate in.

Anne is such a tsundere little bitch, I love her! I really wish it was easier to find ships for her/people even interested in shipping with her.

She’s this big, tough, mean pirate thug but she gets easily flustered and sucks at flirting. She wants to spend all the time she’s allowed around her person and frequently wears their clothes because she likes the smell of them. She’ll defend them to her last breath and just…soft moments of reading to or with or next to them, evenings with her legs in their lap and afternoons of one or the other with their head in the other’s lap. Telling stories (she only does this with people she’s comfortable around) or singing (she sounds like a dying cat but sometimes she can’t help but crow along), helping mend clothes and clean weapons and just.

Anne not knowing what to do with softness after a lifetime spent hardening herself. Anne forcing herself to crack through her shell because she found someone worth cracking it for. Anne in love.

‘ all the wealth within these walls will never buy the thing called love. ’

HADESTOWN SENTENCE STARTERS PT III

Anne glances back in mild surprise at Karlach, the gold piece she was inspecting still held in a loose grip between thumb and forefinger. The waves of heat radiating off of Karlach’s body makes the air around her dance, giving the mounds of treasure around them mirage-like quality. Anne glances back down at the gold in her hand and huffs through her nose, standing and turning to Karlach with a softer expression. She’s a hard-nosed bitch to most of them—the Blade, the wizard, the cleric, the gith—but Karlach has an indomitable spirit that Anne likes and friendly cajolingness to her that makes her hard to dislike to boot.

“That’s ’cause love en’t bought, big girl.” Anne flips the coin to her. “It’s caught. Like a fire catches, maybe, or like a trap does.” She should know. Twice now she’s been in love, and twice burned and captured—one each literally, all metaphors aside. “Money buys nice things, and love en’t a nice thing.”

i’m sorry about what’s gonna happen to you.

abigail sentence starters

“Yeah,” Anne mumbles back, fighting to keeping her swollen eye open, “ye look real fuckin’ torn up about it.”

Blood has dried to crust under her nose, between her fingers, on her knuckles. She didn’t go down without a fight—without one hell of a fight, in fact, and that’s a thing she can at least die proud of when she inevitably dies for it. She went down swinging and kicking and fighting and scratching and screaming bloody murder. She outnumbered and overwhelmed and even then she sidelined two of the worst of the brutes on her lonesome.

Now caged up in a cell who the fuck even knows where—there are more cells in Gotham than there are apartments—Anne knows what’s gonna happen. What’s gonna happen is someone is gonna take one of those famous Gotham guns of theirs and stick it right between her eyes and send her off to Hell. The writing’s on the wall, and in blood no less. (Quite literally. The wall opposite her cell proclaims that ur gunna die here :), bad spelling and all.)

What should the final words of Anne Bonny be? Something appropriately defiant and stinging. Something angry. If it weren’t for the throb in her head moving in time with her pulse, maybe she’d be able to think of some haunting last sentiment. For now, she gives the best she’s got:

“Fuck you.”

At least they’re still fitting final words, even without the chance to amend them.

The Hook: Anne is new to the crew and still struggling to find her place in it. She’s standoffish and mean, but this is the fourth day in a row she’s asked for a chore to do. Finally, someone let her prep food. Your muse, also a member of the crew, is coming over for whatever reason they have, giving them a chance to catch Anne unguarded and softer than she’s ever shown.

Your Muse: must be a member of the same crew or a high stealth antagonist. Anne’s guard is a little down but not all the way! The rest is completely up to you. ♥

link to alternate version

The bucket to her right is already half-full of peeled potatoes, the skins caught in the bucket sitting between her thighs. The sun is just beginning to set, and from her westward facing port hole, it’s a lovely sight. Anne leans back against the table and continues to scrape the knife against the spud. Anything to prove she deserves her place on this crew.

The work is easy, familiar even. She used to help John in the galley, times were, him setting her with her buckets at a table so she could croon to herself and he could be alone with his thoughts. She can skin damned near anything thanks to him, from fruits and vegetables to most common meats, without wasting hardly any of it. John said it made the food feel like it stretched further. That can’t hurt in this ship any more than it did that one.

The familiarity and the hazy heat come together to coax out an old memory, a song half-forgotten that had been popular when she was a wain. It was from before South Carolina, when her mother was alive and English school girls played in the square on shopping days. Anne had always liked the song, despite never having sung it herself.

How did it start again? Anne hummed a few dissonant notes, trying to find the right sequence of five. She stops almost as suddenly as she started, having jogged the memory. Quietly, and slowly, remembering more or less as she goes, Anne begins to sing the song she heard in the square so often.

“My mother says I have Irish eyes, Irish eyes, Irish eyes… My mother says I have Irish eyes….” The last note waivers uncertainly in the air for a moment. Feck. What was next?