Inn0cencestrained - Tumblr Posts
@inn0cencestrained | prev
Elizabeth doesn’t slow—for that, Anne’s grateful. The badgering she could’ve done without, though. Bleeding out is fine, as long as she goes down swinging…but Elizabeth makes a good point. She’ll lead the fuckers right back to them with her staggering about, blood smears from holding her wound then touching a wall littering the way up towards them, and that’s not mentioning the trail of blood that’s dripped between her fingers and down her body to the dirty cobblestone below.
“Fuck!” She manages not to scream the word, at least, knocking her head back against the stone wall behind her. It’s a tight alley and they’ve stopped midway down: bad for an escape, good for a hide. With a strangled, angry cry, Anne relents. She fixes eyes of natural sea glass green on Elizabeth that shine almost as much as the sweat on her face. “Hope ye know how t’do this. It’s—fucking tricky, and I can’t get it myself.”
Anne whips the shirt off over her head and almost immediately shoves a part of it into her mouth, using that as a gag to muffle her scream. Unexpected fire rips through her side where the fuckers got her, growing worse now that it’s been exposed to the open air. She makes no move towards modesty, shirt off and tits exposed, panting from running and pain and probably blood loss. She locks eyes with Elizabeth and nods, dropping the shirt from her mouth to roll it into a better gag.
“Be quick or be dead, aye?”
Anne shudders around a deep breath and tries to think about anything other than how fucking dizzy she is. As a consequence, she’s too focused on not throwing up to tell Elizabeth to just grab another fucking shirt and tie it closed—all the wound care she’d expected, really, which perhaps says more about her and her company than anything else. And even then before Anne can give directions, Elizabeth’s found the fucking flint and suddenly there’s no going back to the patch-job idea at all.
By strike six, Anne is about to suggest a patch-job nonetheless, but the fire takes before she can get her tongue around the words and she just has to huff out a laugh. Anne winds the sleeves of her shirt around her hands, taking a few deep breaths before nodding, signaling that Elizabeth was fine to proceed.
FUCK!, though, it hurts! Anne fights back a wave of nausea, pounding her (wrapped) fists against the wall. If she wasn’t so sure she’d vomit on her blouse if she tried, Anne would screamed. Damn! It shut the wound, aye, but it felt like having a fucking stab wound get cauterized in a back alley—an experience which defies any attempt at simile or sympathy. No sooner has Elizabeth stepped back then Anne is peeling herself from the wall, jerking the shirt back on with a hiss. Still hurts, but at least it won’t bleed anymore. She wipes the sweat away with her forearm, nodding even before she answers the other woman.
“I’m fine, yes, let’s move.” Anne’s agitation is understandable; they’re likely to be found at any moment, the escape having caught more attention than intended. Getting stuck in the side hadn’t been in the agenda either, but there they are.
Bedsides, they’re on a tight schedule.
“Jack is exactly the sort of bastard t’leave ye stranded when the chips are down.” She ought to know: he’d done just that to her two years ago. “We might have t’swim for the boats as is. You listen t’me: I don’t make it, you spit in his face for me and tell him I meant t’cook his cock for supper and shove it down his idiot throat.” A few more turns and, as promised, Anne leads them both out of an alley not a block away from the docks. She steps aside and nods to Elizabeth, trying to mask a wince.
“My part’s done. Yer turn: where’s the ship?”
@inn0cencestrained | prev
Elizabeth doesn’t slow—for that, Anne’s grateful. The badgering she could’ve done without, though. Bleeding out is fine, as long as she goes down swinging…but Elizabeth makes a good point. She’ll lead the fuckers right back to them with her staggering about, blood smears from holding her wound then touching a wall littering the way up towards them, and that’s not mentioning the trail of blood that’s dripped between her fingers and down her body to the dirty cobblestone below.
“Fuck!” She manages not to scream the word, at least, knocking her head back against the stone wall behind her. It’s a tight alley and they’ve stopped midway down: bad for an escape, good for a hide. With a strangled, angry cry, Anne relents. She fixes eyes of natural sea glass green on Elizabeth that shine almost as much as the sweat on her face. “Hope ye know how t’do this. It’s—fucking tricky, and I can’t get it myself.”
Anne whips the shirt off over her head and almost immediately shoves a part of it into her mouth, using that as a gag to muffle her scream. Unexpected fire rips through her side where the fuckers got her, growing worse now that it’s been exposed to the open air. She makes no move towards modesty, shirt off and tits exposed, panting from running and pain and probably blood loss. She locks eyes with Elizabeth and nods, dropping the shirt from her mouth to roll it into a better gag.
“Be quick or be dead, aye?”
There’s not a single black flag flying in the port, but that’s hardly a surprise. No one shows their true colors in a port like this, swarming with English parasites as it is. Anne follows quick at Elizabeth’s heels, keeping as much in shadow as possible out of pure survival instinct—but when Elizabeth quiet search turns to frantic cursing, Anne knows they’re shit of luck.
The fucker! Even when half-expecting it, the betrayal stings, settling like salt into her half-opened wound. She stumbles around behind Elizabeth, acutely aware that every second spent not gaining distance from the shore is a second closer to certain doom.
Anne thinks of cutting and running, giving the boot to the blonde’s arse and hiding out in a tavern, when Elizabeth insists on the boat at the end of the docks.
It’s fucking perfect. Small, agile, easy to man with a two-woman crew—while Elizabeth doubts its chances at sea, all Anne sees is a quick escape and some easy money. She hauls herself up and onto the ship with no small effort, immediately turning to loose the ship from its moorings.
“Do ye know how t’navigate, or can ye tie a knot?” Anne’s tone implies that it’s going to be one or the other for Elizabeth, whether she actually knows how or not; when they’re further from shore, they can lament the worthlessness of their dinghy and set a course for friendlier waters—perhaps in the direction of New Providence.
Anne shudders around a deep breath and tries to think about anything other than how fucking dizzy she is. As a consequence, she’s too focused on not throwing up to tell Elizabeth to just grab another fucking shirt and tie it closed—all the wound care she’d expected, really, which perhaps says more about her and her company than anything else. And even then before Anne can give directions, Elizabeth’s found the fucking flint and suddenly there’s no going back to the patch-job idea at all.
By strike six, Anne is about to suggest a patch-job nonetheless, but the fire takes before she can get her tongue around the words and she just has to huff out a laugh. Anne winds the sleeves of her shirt around her hands, taking a few deep breaths before nodding, signaling that Elizabeth was fine to proceed.
FUCK!, though, it hurts! Anne fights back a wave of nausea, pounding her (wrapped) fists against the wall. If she wasn’t so sure she’d vomit on her blouse if she tried, Anne would screamed. Damn! It shut the wound, aye, but it felt like having a fucking stab wound get cauterized in a back alley—an experience which defies any attempt at simile or sympathy. No sooner has Elizabeth stepped back then Anne is peeling herself from the wall, jerking the shirt back on with a hiss. Still hurts, but at least it won’t bleed anymore. She wipes the sweat away with her forearm, nodding even before she answers the other woman.
“I’m fine, yes, let’s move.” Anne’s agitation is understandable; they’re likely to be found at any moment, the escape having caught more attention than intended. Getting stuck in the side hadn’t been in the agenda either, but there they are.
Bedsides, they’re on a tight schedule.
“Jack is exactly the sort of bastard t’leave ye stranded when the chips are down.” She ought to know: he’d done just that to her two years ago. “We might have t’swim for the boats as is. You listen t’me: I don’t make it, you spit in his face for me and tell him I meant t’cook his cock for supper and shove it down his idiot throat.” A few more turns and, as promised, Anne leads them both out of an alley not a block away from the docks. She steps aside and nods to Elizabeth, trying to mask a wince.
“My part’s done. Yer turn: where’s the ship?”
Anne grunts and leaves the mooring, about to head for the helm when Elizabeth shoots ice directly into her veins using just two words: Port Royale. Wouldn’t that just fucking figure? The cellmate turned partner in crime, helping her pull a legger, isn’t just English but fucking English. And an idiot to boot. Who in the acquaintance of Jack would ever willingly sail to Port Royale, of all places? Anne resumes her walk—it’s a limo, really—back to the helm, setting them on a course that wouldn’t lead straight to the gallows. Port Royale can catch the fucking plague for all she cares; their heading is New Providence. She says none of this, guiding them out to sea without a fuss. It’s more important they leave this place, anyway, than that they agree on where they make landfall.
Anne relaxes into her duties long before Elizabeth does; it’s well evident that they aren’t being chased, or canon fire would have marked their departure. When they’re out of canon shot Anne breathes easier. Well. Except for where she’s been run through on one side. The wind is strong and in their favor; it won’t be more than a day or two on the water before they reach Anne’s destination, by her own reckoning. Chances are good they’ll meet another crew with her same heading before the coast is even in sight—but whether that’s a good thing or a bad one can only be determined when it happens.
Anne waits until Elizabeth’s done fussing to say her piece, ignoring everything the other woman’s had to say since “Port Royale.” Since they’re taking care of the dire needs first, this comes before wound care.
“We’re headed for New Providence,” Anne announces, deadpan. Had Elizabeth suggested any other port it would have been hers—but the port named is one of only two Anne’s sworn to never dock in again. “I don’t know what kind of pirate ye are, are ye think ye are, but I en’t fuckin’ consigning myself t’death for ye. ‘Will’ can fucking well wait: it’s only a bit further from Providence t’the gallows, I’m sure he’ll survive.”
Who or whatever Will is, he isn’t worth dying for—not for Anne, at least. Port Royale is the bloodiest port in these waters, with its rotten, godforsaken docks soaked through with the blood of pirates hanged there; New Providence, on the other hand, is the capital port of that most dangerous of new ventures, the Republic of Pirates. Anne’s wanted poster hangs in both cities, one in pride and one in infamy. Notorious pirates tend to fare better in one of these ports than in the other, though smuggling ships, privateers, and even some fledgling company sail from one to the other still.
“I can find a ship’s doctor in port and you can find passage to hell for yerself.” On Anne’s tongue, it’s less insult and more barefaced truth, setting aside her vanity and letting Elizabeth see the exhaustion naked on her face. She’d been in that jail for weeks before Elizabeth arrived and made escape possible. She simply won’t give up her freedom again so soon.
“We can fight about it, but let’s call a spade a spade, aye? I paid attention when I were sailed into that port, a’cause I knew it’d be on me t’figure out where in the fuck I’d been landed. I figured it out the next morning, in that jail cell, and been plottin’ a route back out t’open sea ever since. Gotta get there ‘fore ye can get t’either of those ports, and I’m willing t’bet you came up the other way—from the opposite coast. Meanin’ ye don’t know which way’s t’sea and which way’s gonna trap ye in the bay here. Means I gotta be the one navigatin’ either way, so it can be agreed that we’re for Providence or ye can feel deceived when we get there. Choice is yers.”
There’s not a single black flag flying in the port, but that’s hardly a surprise. No one shows their true colors in a port like this, swarming with English parasites as it is. Anne follows quick at Elizabeth’s heels, keeping as much in shadow as possible out of pure survival instinct—but when Elizabeth quiet search turns to frantic cursing, Anne knows they’re shit of luck.
The fucker! Even when half-expecting it, the betrayal stings, settling like salt into her half-opened wound. She stumbles around behind Elizabeth, acutely aware that every second spent not gaining distance from the shore is a second closer to certain doom.
Anne thinks of cutting and running, giving the boot to the blonde’s arse and hiding out in a tavern, when Elizabeth insists on the boat at the end of the docks.
It’s fucking perfect. Small, agile, easy to man with a two-woman crew—while Elizabeth doubts its chances at sea, all Anne sees is a quick escape and some easy money. She hauls herself up and onto the ship with no small effort, immediately turning to loose the ship from its moorings.
“Do ye know how t’navigate, or can ye tie a knot?” Anne’s tone implies that it’s going to be one or the other for Elizabeth, whether she actually knows how or not; when they’re further from shore, they can lament the worthlessness of their dinghy and set a course for friendlier waters—perhaps in the direction of New Providence.
Anne wouldn’t, doesn’t, disagree. She owes Elizabeth her life, although not for the wound’s sake. At least not in her opinion. Were it not for Elizabeth, she’d never have managed the jailbreak, let alone have taken the ship she now steered. The problem Elizabeth faced was that Anne simply did not care. When Elizabeth grabs the wheel Anne came only sigh, giving up and leaning most of her weight against it. That was another count she was right about: Anne needed rest, and a doctor, badly. If it were (almost) any other port in the world, Anne would have conceded. She wouldn’t be having this argument in the first place! She’d have just set the damned course! But Port Royale will only ever mean her end.
She opened her mouth to lecture Elizabeth about why she couldn’t sail there—to explain the situation with her bounty, with Jack, with everything tied up in it and how her next visit to that port may very well be the thing to damn them all—when she keeps going. Anne chokes on her disbelieving laugh. Gold? Opium? Ridiculous on their own, given Anne’s interests in piracy, but added to the idea that anyone could vouch for her and have the courts save her life? It’s at least as funny as it is insulting.
“Christ alive!, I’d’ve thought even Jack’s whore knew better than that!” It slips about unbidden. She sounds, looks, incredulous. “Don’t you have any idea who I am? I signed my life away at age nineteen. Afore that, even, when I were still a wain. I’m Anne fuckin’ Bonny.”
Anne grunts and leaves the mooring, about to head for the helm when Elizabeth shoots ice directly into her veins using just two words: Port Royale. Wouldn’t that just fucking figure? The cellmate turned partner in crime, helping her pull a legger, isn’t just English but fucking English. And an idiot to boot. Who in the acquaintance of Jack would ever willingly sail to Port Royale, of all places? Anne resumes her walk—it’s a limo, really—back to the helm, setting them on a course that wouldn’t lead straight to the gallows. Port Royale can catch the fucking plague for all she cares; their heading is New Providence. She says none of this, guiding them out to sea without a fuss. It’s more important they leave this place, anyway, than that they agree on where they make landfall.
Anne relaxes into her duties long before Elizabeth does; it’s well evident that they aren’t being chased, or canon fire would have marked their departure. When they’re out of canon shot Anne breathes easier. Well. Except for where she’s been run through on one side. The wind is strong and in their favor; it won’t be more than a day or two on the water before they reach Anne’s destination, by her own reckoning. Chances are good they’ll meet another crew with her same heading before the coast is even in sight—but whether that’s a good thing or a bad one can only be determined when it happens.
Anne waits until Elizabeth’s done fussing to say her piece, ignoring everything the other woman’s had to say since “Port Royale.” Since they’re taking care of the dire needs first, this comes before wound care.
“We’re headed for New Providence,” Anne announces, deadpan. Had Elizabeth suggested any other port it would have been hers—but the port named is one of only two Anne’s sworn to never dock in again. “I don’t know what kind of pirate ye are, are ye think ye are, but I en’t fuckin’ consigning myself t’death for ye. ‘Will’ can fucking well wait: it’s only a bit further from Providence t’the gallows, I’m sure he’ll survive.”
Who or whatever Will is, he isn’t worth dying for—not for Anne, at least. Port Royale is the bloodiest port in these waters, with its rotten, godforsaken docks soaked through with the blood of pirates hanged there; New Providence, on the other hand, is the capital port of that most dangerous of new ventures, the Republic of Pirates. Anne’s wanted poster hangs in both cities, one in pride and one in infamy. Notorious pirates tend to fare better in one of these ports than in the other, though smuggling ships, privateers, and even some fledgling company sail from one to the other still.
“I can find a ship’s doctor in port and you can find passage to hell for yerself.” On Anne’s tongue, it’s less insult and more barefaced truth, setting aside her vanity and letting Elizabeth see the exhaustion naked on her face. She’d been in that jail for weeks before Elizabeth arrived and made escape possible. She simply won’t give up her freedom again so soon.
“We can fight about it, but let’s call a spade a spade, aye? I paid attention when I were sailed into that port, a’cause I knew it’d be on me t’figure out where in the fuck I’d been landed. I figured it out the next morning, in that jail cell, and been plottin’ a route back out t’open sea ever since. Gotta get there ‘fore ye can get t’either of those ports, and I’m willing t’bet you came up the other way—from the opposite coast. Meanin’ ye don’t know which way’s t’sea and which way’s gonna trap ye in the bay here. Means I gotta be the one navigatin’ either way, so it can be agreed that we’re for Providence or ye can feel deceived when we get there. Choice is yers.”