"Pull The Stick Out Of Your Arse And Learn T'fight With That, You Ungrateful, Shit-spewing Weasel," Anne

"Pull the stick out of your arse and learn t'fight with that, you ungrateful, shit-spewing weasel," Anne suggests, voice low and tone hostile but all of it cold, devoid of rage. Anne crosses her arms in front of her chest and leans over into their face from the front. "Fuckin embarrassin, puttin my good standin' on the line only t'have ye whine when ye don't hear what ye wanted. My only interest was in makin ye less of a fuckin liability, and that, ye scum-sucking son of a whore, en't something ye're goin t'learn sitting on yer FUCKING arse!"

Anne's FUCKING echoes over the water like a gunshot, the only clear burst of anger in her. She sneers but at least holds herself back from spitting on their shoes, pivoting to retrieve the last of the knives before her fidgety hands worm out of her arms and around their neck anyway.

One time with Stede Bonnet (I can’t stop thinking about it) 💀

Anne: Anne Bonny is a fuckin psychopath with a sword and the only reason Jack Rackham’s lived as long as he has, the fuck.

Stede: I couldn’t help but notice… that you don’t currently have a sword on you. And Jack, so far as we know... isn't exactly alive anymore. That leaves us with.... psychopath […] But there must be something to know and remark upon about you that doesn't have some kind of association with a man or a weapon. I, for one, would love to hear it.

Anne: [-cue an existential crisis-]

Some men have died, And some are alive, And others sail on the sea: With the keys to cage, And the Devil to pay, We'll lay to Fiddler's Green.

☠️☠️☠️

independent || semi-selective || original lore/story ANNE BONNY, who NEVERHANG'D! captained by ren 21+ only still under construction

illustration by mirandakat template by calisources

She doesn’t need fucking words to know what works needs doing and when, same as she doesn't need a medical degree to know bullet holes put people in the ground. If the great fucking drama queen could keep himself from wearing such an unfathomable fucking getup in the name of his own damned legend, maybe they both could've been back in action by now--him at least sneering them down, giving his men a leader to look for when Izzy starts going too hoarse to be heard. He squeezes her shoulder and her eyes jump to his face--no, no more fresh pain than to be expected. And this is going to hurt like a mother.

With a growl Anne whips off her hat, curling the brim in a bit before shoving it in his general direction. Unless he intended to start screaming or bite off his own tongue, he was going to want someplace to put the pain.

--Fucking stupid to go at this with a sword or a dagger, even if she had one free of a stranger's blood. Instead Anne reaches into the hidden pocket inside her trousers, producing a porcelain-handled pocket knife. She keeps it clean, always, out of habit.

She flicks the thing open and makes sure he's ready with a nod before going sharp-side-in on his shoulder, pressing with practiced fingers to find the bulk of the bullet and move it, using the knife to scrape and prod it and help it come free.

[ injury ] sender cleans receiver’s wound and patches it up

prompts for comfortable intimacy || [accepting]

Edward went quiet whenever he was injured, pressing his teeth together tightly to prevent a reaction. It was important that he seemed impervious to the enemy. It added to the perception of him as some kind of devil. He and Izzy had perfected the act years ago, finding ways to divert attention away from the fact that Edward was bleeding. That he was human.

He was quiet now, his back pressed harder than what was necessary against the wall behind him. Anything to divert from the pain. He could hear Izzy shouting somewhere out on deck, mitigating damage with barked threats. Drawing attention to himself so that no one noticed where Edward had gone.

No one, apparently, but Anne. They'd struggled in heavy silence to get down to the wound, him doing his best to assist her in pulling away the layers of leather he wore. The bullet hole in his shoulder had stung anew when it was exposed to the air. The pain was only going to get worse as she tended to it.

He lifted his hand to her shoulder, squeezing it lightly beneath his bloodstained fingers -- silently expressing his gratitude for the steadiness of her hands.

Anne rolls her eyes, looking away from the twat captain (the title grates the nerves in moments like this) for a moment. Her arms cross over her chest without her meaning to, building a wall back up between them. Every two steps forward with this man is somehow also one step back. Shore's only been at their backs a few hours, the wind is good, the sun falling--and he wants to read his crew a fucking BEDTIME STORY.

Are ye going to tuck them in arter? that mean voice in the back of her head asks, laughing hoarsely at the suggestion.

"I didn't sign on for a fucking moppet show," she replies, aware (once again!) that she's in the presence of the madness that comes alongside genius. Not to say that genius was necessarily Bonnet's. "If we're huntin Blackbeard, we're hunting Blackbeard--end of the fucking story. En't time for sitting about doin fuck-all for the hunt."

Listen t’me very, very carefully, ‘cause I’m only saying this the once: I’m. Not. _Doing._ That.

Stede stood in the doorway of the cabin, a book held in his hand. He could hear the crew gathering on the deck and talking to each other, familiar murmurings from their time aboard The Revenge. They knew the routine and it seemed like they had come to anticipate and enjoy it as much as Stede did.

He had politely invited Anne to join them in listening to him read a bed time story and had gotten her hissed rejection of the idea.

"Why not?" he asked, clearly genuinely puzzled by the fact that she didn't want to join in. "Is it the book? This one is about a young woman sent to live in a castle with a terrible beast -- oh, I don't want to give the whole thing away. But I can get another, if you'd prefer?"