Mobilr - Tumblr Posts
generated quote
send ‘generated quote’ for me to generate an incorrect quote and write a starter based on it.
Anne glowers up the man, stubborn to the end and still refusing his hand up. Hands, thank fuck, is a more merciful sort than Bonnet or Blackbeard. He won’t hover over her forever with his fucking hand out, she knows; she’s waiting for him to fuck off, at least a little. A few steps. Enough space for her to regain some semblance of dignity for herself.
Anne pushes to her feet when she has her space. She’d stared sullenly ahead before, jaw set, eyes glassy, refusing to make eye contact; now, she holds the eye of every dumb fucker stupid enough to meet her gaze. Her nose is itchy, crusted over with dried blood and mucus that’s stuck to her chin and upper lip, too. New bruises bloom over her bared arms and chest, which she doesn’t bother covering with the fucking blanket they’d thrown at her. She wants them to see. Wants them to see even with a swelling cheek leaking blood, she’s better than them. Wants them to see even on the precipice of disaster that Anne Bonny is not a one to be fucked with.
She’s so busy with her own fronting that she doesn’t bother with the uncomfortable questions Hands’ presence raises, like why a fucking pirate was able to negotiate the release of another pirate or how he knew which ship to check. She can feel the invisible pressure of those questions swelling against her back, but she forces herself to ignore it for now. Hands has the answers, and she can pry for them later. She drops the blanket from her shoulders altogether and follows him off the godforsaken mound of kindling she’d been earlier dragged onto.
Anne can’t bring herself to speak again, can’t conjure the words thank you when it feels like she’s yet again indebted to another pirate—and another life debt, no less. Hands will have to wait for his thanks and the rest of his due until she’s squared this away within herself first. In the meantime, she watches his back and waits for the next idiot to give her an excuse to punch something.
“Unfortunately f’r us both,” Anne replied dryly, though not without a small smirk. He was one to be calling people weird, powder keg that he could be, poised on the edge of eruption—a familiar sentiment. Anne shrugged and sniffed, a mannerism of concession she’s hardly even aware of anymore. She squinted at the block of wood in her hand, still depressingly block-shaped even after a day of trying to whittle the sharp corners down to rounds. Can’t be good at everything.
“But I’m just a stupid Irish cunt,” she joked finally, looking back up from the block with a twinkle in her eye. “What’s yer excuse?”
generated quote (fill out blank and let the generator choose who speaks!)
Izzy snorted at her answer and took a drink from the cup in his hand. They'd been around each other long enough that he could actually appreciate the fact that the redhead let herself be quiet around him. Let herself be 'weird'. It was almost like she was allowing herself to be something other than a freshly sharpened blade.
"Does that mean that's just your face, then, too? Dumb look and all?" There was humor in his voice as he lowered the cup.
Send me a meme.
I love how theatre kids literally never change.
Example: I had to ask myself if I was back in the 2000s earlier today when, as a joke, I put on “I Want It That Way” and somehow ended up with a singing chorus of pre-teens asking me to tell them why. We were singing this when I was in middle school theatre, for gods’ sake!
I’m not usually one to do Christmas shit this early in, but the kids got me in a mood to celebrate!
If you got a random Christmas ask from me, that’s why.
Alternatively, leave the phrase “All I want for Christmas” in my inbox and I’ll have Anne tell you what she wanted to get you, what you deserve (in her estimation), and what she actually got you!
Restarting bg3 cause it turns out I screwed up BAD in act i. Can i interest anyone in a mobile thread, perhaps? A meme? A reverse meme call?
Anne is quiet for a moment following the plea. Doesn’t seem right, man like Israel Hands begging for death. She finds she can’t look at him laid low like this—not the injury, but the defeat. Feels like it should be a private thing, but with Ed in the state he’s been in, Frenchie asked her to disappear and keep their illicit company…well. Company.
Disquieting. When the lump in her throat proves too big to swallow around any more, Anne lets out a shaking breath of her own. She tries to cover the shaking with a cough, a clearing of her throat, but she knows he knows. Just like she knows he’ll let it slide.
Anne meets his eyes with a level stare, plumbing their depth. He means it. She has no doubt he means it. That’s what finally manages to draw her voice out, steadier than it has any right to be.
“If it comes to it, Iz…you can count on me f’r it. But not a moment before it’s really come to it. Is that goin t’be now, or are ye gonna sack back up and suck it up f’r another day? ‘Cause I’ll promise ye this: the second ye’re really gone, there won’t be nothin’ ‘tween him and the rest, an’ nothin’ t’bring him back asides. Lord knows he en’t gonna fuckin listen t’me—en’t e’en looked at me since he got back—and lord knows he en’t listenin t’Frenchie ‘r anyone else.”
the very air you breath smells like a rotting corpse.
The sound that came out of Izzy was intended to be a laugh but it... wasn't. It sounded broken, more tears than anything that could be called mirth. She was right. She was fucking right. The little room they'd hidden him away in stank of his rotten fucking leg and the fever-sick sweat that still stuck his hair and his clothes to his body.
With all of that rot, he wouldn't be surprised if he was breathing it out just as much as he was breathing it in.
"Kill me," he said as that horrible noise he'd made petered out in his ears. "Please, Anne. Have some fucking mercy."
Send me a meme.
Anne takes a deep breath in, bracing against her immediate reaction—to snap back that it was none of his fucking business—to fight through it. Stede is…not the enemy. Took her long e-fucking-nough to figure that out for herself, but internalizing it was taking…longer. Unfortunately.
She’s happy to leave Stede to his rum-and-tea, the smell of it unfortunately easy to pick up. Everyone has their own way of dealing with it. Anne’s had been violence and death for a very long time. Alcohol seems less destructive, frankly. Anne stares into her own cup, long since cold, as she gathers the thoughts. How to express any of it to someone who…wasn’t there, didn’t know, couldn’t in the end understand because he didn’t have to live the same way she did. Had. Might again, soon.
“…it wasn’t how people thought it was. Mark…never wanted me like that. He.” She pauses, winces, wondering if Mark is even still a present-tense beast before settling on the past anyway. “He weren’t like that. And for a week…we lived like there weren’t nothin queer to us at all. I fished. Mark got a job with a butcher. We kept t’ourselves. An’ we were….” Happy. By the fifth day, all of Mark’s talk of the quietude of seaside life had started to make sense, and she’d thought…with no Jack to menace them…with no one making snide remarks about prostitution behind her back, no one looking twice at Mark or demanding proof of what he said…and the empty cottage…it had all started to seem possible.
And then Jack came back, the very next day. She’d returned with a net full of fish to find Mark sullen at the kitchen table and Jack with a mouth full of hard-bought bread and jam, yammering on about what a pain in the arse they’d been to find. As if they hadn’t been trying to get out from under him in the first place. One shared look and Anne knew it was all over, they were done playing homestead, they’d be at sea with the tide tomorrow. That had been that.
Anne hangs her head and pushes the tea a little too far; it teeters on the edge of the nearby table, one halfway decent swell away from shattering on the floor. The story’s soured everything, from the tea to Anne’s mood.
“Almost lived happy for a full fuckin week. Normal-like. And then it got fuckin upended and there’s no gettin it back.”
“And for one week, one week in my sad little blip of an existence, it made me happy.“
"I think we have to make our own happiness," Stede said, looking over at her. They were settled on one of the plush settees in his cabin. He had his legs folded up under him beneath his robe and a little teacup perched in his hands. Whether or not it had more alcohol than tea in it was his business.
"If we depend on other people for it... all we have is those fleeting moments, right?"
He was a hypocrite and he knew it. All of his happiness hinged on the man that they were trying to chase around the entirety of the Caribbean. He'd thrown everything he had into the venture.
Stede set the cup down, "....Why don't you tell me about that week?"
Send me a meme.
I should definitely do replies and shit but like…yeh Gate needs me, y’know?
Anyway like for some BG3 shenans.
I question the wisdom of @starlightintheirwake ‘s decision, but so be it!
Anne wipes her face free of gore with an audible, annoyed sniff. This shit is starting to get old, fast. If they don’t put someone nicer in charge soon, there won’t be a soul left from here to the Gate—or however the fuck far along they manage to get before that order goes through after all and half the damn party turns into a bunch of purple squids before enslaving the other half. If they’re lucky, mind. (Gods, what in the hells has she signed on for? And worse, what would happen if she turns her back now, decides enough’s enough and a debt’s paid?)
Instead of shivering at her own thoughts, Anne pulls her companion up, steadies him with what little of her strength remains when he does so.
“Sorry ‘gain ‘bout the alchemist’s fire. Honest t’gods, I didn’t see ye there.”
Anne snorted a laugh and cleaned up the cards, jerking her chin at the nearby glass. Fuck it. A drink with Ed, what’s the harm? It’s not like she has plans to keep or anything. She starts stowing the mess, preferring not to explain.
“Can’t find any work worth the while, truth be told. I weren’t plannin on retirement soon, but the scarcity out here might just force it upon me.”
Her own wain was a save Anne had shared but seldom discussed with Ed; some part of her belatedly worried if the joke had gone too far. Ah well. Stow that misgiving for later and focus on the now; namely, what the fuck Ed is up to.
“What the fuck are ye up t’ this time?”
Anne sat hunched over at a corner table at Jackie’z, very clearly engrossed in something she used her body to shield from view; it should come as no surprise, then, that she wasn’t as alert as usual, ended up with not only an intrusion upon her privacy but one at her table, too. Had it been anyone else interrupting her, she would’ve gutted them metaphorically and literally—but Ed? Fuckin Ed?
Bitch was lucky Anne had such an oversized soft spot for her.
“That’s acause the idiot at the bar on’y just learnt English. And acause all that damned grey in yer hair makes ye look senile. On men it’s ’distinguished,’ but on women it just means ye lived too damn long. Who the fuck’s gonna give a granny a dram a’ the good shite if she can’ tell the fuckin diff’rence?” Ed is a thing of mystery, reverence, and fear…for most people. But Anne was pointedly not most people. Ed was Ed was Ed, no matter how old, how grey, how murderous. Anne sniffed and quit her squinting at Ed, surreptitiously laying an arm over the cards in front of her as if covering them from view. She didn’t move for the bottle, though, just leaned forward and looked, really looked, at Ed.
New scars. New wrinkles. Same bright-burning eyes glinting out of her weathered face.
“Still feckin trouble, I see. En’t ye learned how t’ stay outta it by now?” Anne teased.
Anne stares at the man like he’s dumb—because, frankly, he is. Treating Jack like something special and not the leech he is. Trying to apply both honey and vinegar in setting his trap. Sloppy. That’s all that is. Anne chews her bread thoughtfully before answering, trying to size up exactly what kind of stupid she’s dealing with. Some can be taught. Some…not so much.
“Yer source is shite. If I was you, I’d fire the fuck.” She pauses long enough to take a dram of ale before continuing. “See, yer fuckin source didn’ mention we was married. Neither did they mention that I been missin a bit shy of a year. E’en I’ve heard by now the rumors of me goin ashore for good. An’ now ye’re tellin me yer fuckin source didn’ even think t’mention what sorta thing might entice me back out t’sea, as it were? Sad.”
Anne shakes her head and slurps up the soup this time, watery though it is. What in the fuck was he guessing for? Meals, shelter, money? He was being ripped off if the one thing certain to see Anne back at sea hadn’t come up, even once. Even people who had never heard her name before needed only to hear her professor to tell poor whatshisearse the magic words to set her asea: let’s go a-pyrating! There’s nothing on land but pain and presumption for the likes of Anne. At sea, there’s something almost like freedom.
“So how’s ‘bout ye describe the job, and I’ll decide from there?”
Blackbeard. There’s a name she’s heard, actually, although the dumbshite across the table hardly seemed half the stature of those rumors. Or perhaps they were only more tall tales. Anne’s almost inclined to believe the latter, especially when he says Jack’s stupid-arse nickname like it’s some special secret. It turns her stomach. She looks over her shoulder and spits at the name.
“Don’t say it like it’s somethin’ special-like.” Especially not with him being some new mysterious “old friend” of his—the only reason she knew his name at all was Jack’s drunken ramblings and the rumor that some friend of Jack’s were out, about, and looking for her. If he knew Jack at all, he ought to know the fucker doesn’t deserve the legacy he’s trying to build around himself. “An’ either your source is shite or yer brains are. I married the dumb shite an’ divorced him, everyone know that.” There’s a bit of a lie in there, a bandage for a gaping wound: it’s possible to know Calico Jack Rackham but to have never heard of her name, but nobody knew her who hadn’t known Jack first. She’s just tired of acknowledging that particular wound, doesn’t want fingers poking into it.
So she shifts the full disconcerting weight of her attention on EBlackbeard. Why do people insist on doing that? The whole picking-fingernails-with-a-knife thing? It’s ineffective as all hell, serving to just look cool. What the fuck’s the point of that?
“Whatever the fuck he owes you is between you two; leave me the fuck out of it. We been washed of each other f’r a while now.”
where do you carry your pain?
your heart
you have loved, and been hurt. your heart is tired, but cannot grow calloused...
Reunion after (physical) trauma prompts
tws apply: grief/fear for someone’s life, mention of injuries, unconsciousness, hospitals, comas, mention of involuntary drugging. that’s the general vibe.
WORDS
“Theeeere you are. Hi. Welcome back.”
“Breathe. Hi, we found you, just breathe for me, okay?”
“This is going to hurt, but it will help you.”
“You’re safe. [Name], can you hear me? They’re here to help you, you need to let them help you.”
“I found them, they’re over here!”
“Does anyone have medical training?”
“N.. no, no, no, no, hey. [Name]? Hi, I’ve got you.”
“You can sleep, [name]. It’s over.”
“I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
“You were in an induced coma. Your body went through a lot.”
“I wasn’t –… Your doctors weren’t sure you’d wake up.”
“[Name]? Was that - did you squeeze my hand?”
“It’s okay. It’s meant to be there, it’s helping you breathe.”
“Can you hear me?”
“You.. you were so close to dying. I was scared.”
ACTIONS
[ GATHER ] for sender to gather receiver’s (unconscious) body into their arms, in the style of no no no not them.
[ STARING ] for sender to find receiver sitting alone staring at a wall, covered in blood, and to touch their arm.
[ WAITING ] for sender to be waiting at receiver’s hospital bedside when receiver finally comes out of a coma, or wakes from surgery.
[ STEADY ] for sender to catch or steady receiver when receiver tries to stand up too early or to push their body past what it’s ready for
[ TEARS ] for receiver to find tears on sender’s face, when they’re finally reunited (either immediately after the trauma, or waking up in a hospital), because sender thought receiver was dead or dying
[ GRIEF ] for receiver to wake up just as sender is saying goodbye, because the doctors told them to. feel free to specify what they might be saying. do not judge me, this is going in the meme
[ LETTER ] for sender to find a last letter, video, text, etc that receiver made for them, thinking they wouldn’t make it out of the situation alive. Obviously receiver does make it out alive, but the letter/video still exists (and receiver will detail what’s in it).
[ FIGHT ] for receiving muse to not recognize sender or medical staff trying to help them, due to being drugged or otherwise disoriented – so they fight.
Christ Almighty—and on one of the few occasions Anne wasn’t looking for a fight, no less! She clears the cards and rolls her eyes, refusing to lose or stain them over this dumb fuck’s inability to follow simple instructions. When they’re all tucked away—back in the box, back in the inner pocket of the weathered old coat—she pins his ankles atop the table, dagger already shining in her dominant left hand.
“I en’t Jackie. I take apologies in body parts and gold. So. What’s the cost of a single ankle to ye? And allow me to remind ye, if yer schoolin were remiss, that a single heel were everything to Achilles.”
Sea glass green eyes cut up in annoyance at the twat who’s just sat himself down at her damn table. Before her sit her five doors—five cards—each with a different back, each from a different deck. Appropriately eclectic for a pirate. Anne doesn’t fight the scowl that storms its way over her feature. This is private fucking business, after all.
“Clean out yer ears, ye stupid cunt. I said ‘fuck off.’ That don’t mean sit down.”
He’s a right short bastard, though not short on audacity, it would seem. (That placed him squarely in estimation limbo, boldness on the one hand being a net positive in Anne’s opinion and disrespect being on the other an offense she’s often maimed others for.) There’s a hardness to his face she knows well, having usually seen it in the face of many a good pirate, and a swallow on his neck—good signs both. Between that and his age, she’s almost inclined to tolerate him.
Almost. Perhaps at any other time she would have, too, or even would have engaged him herself. But she’s a bit fucking privately busy right now, and she’s hardly stupid enough to start turning her cards over right in front of a man she doesn’t know apart from Adam. That’s a fast way to go from being accused of being a whore to being accused of being a witch, a far worse fate.
“Take it on yer fuckin heel while ye’ve still got a heel t’take it on.”
“Oi! I en’t started a fight since I got here. That’s pretty fuckin quiet for me.” There’s no sense in arguing the rest; Ed’s known her too long and too well to believe for a moment that Anne, left to her own thoughts, would be anything other than surly. She’s very clearly keyed up and uncomfortable—more so than usual, even. She doesn’t like people, doesn’t like parties, and when this had just been an invitation from Ed she’d turned it down. Knew there’d be understanding. The real surprise was when the second invitation had come in, and from Stede no less. He was…trickier. More bullheaded about this kind of shite. She’d said yes to keep the peace and decided to flake when the phone calls checking attendance and preferences started to roll in.
So she’d come. Lucky, regretful her. She took the cup but uncrossing her arms only served to worsen her jitters. She’s tense, like she almost expects to be ambushed, all but checking over her shoulder even as she leans up against the wall. Christ. Maybe small talk will help.
“Since when the fuck are you a Christmas person, anyway?” It comes out harsh and fast and not at all how Anne meant it, but her grimace of apology is the best she offers Ed for the unfortunate outburst of not-quite-small-talk.
All I want for Christmas is some goddamned peace and quiet.
Ed snorted a laugh at that, "You? Peace and quiet? Think you'd have to start by shutting the fuck up, first. That'd give us some quiet."
They offered Anne one of the red solo cups from the drink table, "No peace there, though. You'd get surlier and surlier the longer you kept your mouth shut."
Ed had never imagined that they'd be the sort of person to be hosting a Christmas party, but... Stede had insisted. Stede had also insisted that they invited all of their friends, regardless of their various and sundry questionable backgrounds.
Stede and his smiles and his clucking about like the mother hen he was always born to be—this is clearly him in his element, fussing at staff and trinkets and guests who arrive too early hoping to kiss cheeks and escape before more cheeks show up. He’s already steering her away from the tree but, damn her luck!, in the opposite direction of the door. Anne tries to smile and it comes out as a grimace even as she lets him lead her on.
“I, ah. Wasn’t plannin on stayin,” Anne admits reluctantly. Truth be told, she sort of likes the way Stede clucks over her—when it’s just them, and maybe Ed or one or two of the others. Add too many more to the mix and there’s…something else there, too. Not quite pride or dignity, but ego nevertheless, and a deep dig into the soft underbelly of her if left too exposed in front of too many eyes. “Was just gonna drop the prezzies off and be done with it.”
The shoddily wrapped gifts in question had already been taken and shoved under the tree, where their crinkled paper makes the other neatly wrapped gifts sitting nearby look shabby by proximity as well. That puts a certain amount of embarrassed heat into Anne’s cheeks as well.
Anne grimaced, short black nails digging into the flesh of her arm as she fought against grimacing. It was all very…homey, wasn’t it? Glowing and warm and bright and…sweet. Too sweet, at least for Anne’s taste. She doesn’t want to insult Stede—nice of him to invite her to Christmas, really—but Jesus, she doesn’t exactly want to be here either.
“It’s, ah. Very. Festive.”
(modern xmas nonsense, deal with it)
"Isn't it?" Stede flashes her a grin, gesturing towards the (overdecorated) tree. "I decided that we should go all out, give everyone something to remember."
Some of Stede's staff were already there, dressed in ugly sweaters and putting up some last minute garlands. Jim stood on a step stool to be the same height as Wee John.
"Why don't you get settled by the fire? Have some eggnog with a splash of brandy," Stede suggested, putting a hand on her back to steer her.
Sex Dressed starters
"Well, that was unexpected. Do you have a spare shirt I can borrow?" "Is that my sock? How did it end up there?" "Don't answer the door! I'll grab something to wear." "Note to self: invest in a more discreet office space." "You're not seriously suggesting I walk out like this, are you?" "Did I just hear someone coming up the stairs? Quick, find my pants!" "I never thought I'd be doing the walk of shame in broad daylight." "You know, your neighbors probably think we're filming a low-budget romance movie." "That was worth being late to the meeting, right?" "I hope my boss doesn't notice the lipstick on my collar." "Is this your idea of a quick exit strategy?" "Why is it so hard to find matching shoes in a hurry?" "I think I left my dignity somewhere between the bed and the front door." "Who knew trying to put on a tie in record time could be so challenging?" "We might need to invest in a better spot for next time." "This is why I should never let you convince me to play hooky from work." "I didn't plan on attending the morning staff meeting with last night's mascara on." "The things we do for spontaneity."
[ZIPPING]: The sender quickly zips up the receiver's dress as they both try to look presentable. [HIDING]: The sender and/or receiver dive under a blanket to shield themselves from an unexpected visitor. [HUNT]: The sender and receiver scramble to find the missing clothes scattered around the room. [FIX]: The sender helps the receiver fix their messy hair, attempting to make it look less disheveled. [CHECKING]: The sender and receiver discreetly check each other for any visible signs of the encounter. [PEEK]: The sender and receiver cautiously peek through the window to see if anyone is approaching. [EXIT]: The sender and receiver plan their exit strategy from the room without attracting attention. [LIPSTICK]: The sender tries to discreetly wipe off lipstick from the receiver's collar.
sexually AND violently, i might add
your hands are literally instruments of god and you can put them inside of other people btw