Stopppppp - Tumblr Posts
I don't ship them, but this was too funny not too.
"a joy to have in class" aka This Child Will Not Be Diagnosed for at least Eight Years
He’s the son of the stars, Lilia ✨
Based off this meme
The shark starts a-circling with nary an introduction to be had. He must smell the metaphorical blood in the water; her time in the Villa had cut her up and left her bleeding out after all that had happened. The choice was to stay and drown in it all or flee and fight another day—meaning she had no choice. Waiting might’ve only dragged her back into the yawning maw of those terracotta arches. Stowaways aren’t dealt with kindly, but anything was better than the Hell she’d just escaped.
Still. She’d expected a bit of grandstanding. It’s the prerogative of the captain to monologue and gloat, isn’t it?, the same way it’s the quartermaster’s prerogative to administer discipline in whatever way he saw fit.
When the captain apparent finally does deign to speak, it’s…not at all what Anne expected. It’s in English for one, which certainly makes an arse of her for assuming a language barrier. (And to think, she could have called him a bloated whale scrotum this whole time!) For another, it’s quiet. Unsettlingly so. And these two things are only registered after a sentence that stopped her heart.
I knew you would come to me eventually.
Who in their right fucking mind says that to someone they’ve only just met?
He goes on, talks of shitholes and hypothetical anger; though she keeps the mask of her snarl on—her face can be read as easily as map when she leaves it naked—unease drops like an anchor into her belly. There are too many plausible roles he could be filling in this drama: a rival of Jack’s come looking for revenge who never noticed the stupid fuck had left her there to rot, a privateer looking to make English (or perhaps Spanish or French) coin off of her capture, an obsessed stalker, somebody else’s obsessed stalker who’d mistaken her for them, some fucking halfwit James had accused her of selling out back in the day, a psychopath, and on and on and on and on.
It’s the faint brush of his lips (breath?) upon the shell of her ear that drags Anne out of the pit her thoughts had opened. Is it better to be a rat or a bitch? She’s evidently been both, and so far, neither experience has lived up to her standards.
Anne swallows and licks the front of her teeth, bracing herself for what’s to come: on the next breath, she bashes her head back into him, aiming for approximately where he’d been whispering from, but slightly higher. If this strange shark wanted blood so badly, he could have a taste of his own! Her teeth knocked together in the collision, but her expression never shifted in the slightest, wrathful as a harpy. Forget beating, Anne bites at the hand that so much as touches.
This is no fly in the spider’s web: this is a bee. Equally helpless in a spider’s web, perhaps, but not half so useless in a fight, and twice as determined to break free.
“Do I know who the fuck you are,” she scoffs, “do you know who the fuck I AM?! I am Anne FUCKING Bonny,” she’s half-shouting it now, “and I will NOT be FUCKED WITH!”
Christ Almighty, but it felt good to unload that on someone who could understand what she was saying! She’d been seven, eight months ashore locked in her gilded cage if she’d been there a day, and not one of Jack’s fucking so-called friends knew a word in any language but their own. Much like Anne. Figures the first person she’d meet outside the Villa who spoke English would use it to fucking threaten her. Bad luck yet abounds. Had she broken a mirror?
Anne comes down panting and chastens herself, puts her other mask on: inscrutably. A distant, disinterested demeanor. Her voice is much more level, much quieter when she speaks again.
“Hate t’break yer heart, Captain, but I picked this heap based solely on its departure time. I don’t know the first thing about ye.”
@hatigave gave me permission to be a menace
There’s been no shortage of bad luck in Anne’s life over the past almost-year. She’d managed to fall pregnant, be entrusted to the care of strangers interested only in what was in her belly, lose the baby, miss Jack’s last visit to port, and now she’s been found out mid-afternoon the day after she’d stowed aboard another ship. If she didn’t know any better, she might’ve started thinking she was cursed.
She isn’t surprised that the men who’ve found her only speak in Spanish. (She’d stowed aboard in fucking Havana, in the heart of Spanish Cuba: English is less common than wealth in these waters.) What surprised her was how quickly she was found. They had been less than a full day at sea and she in particular had been wedged behind an assortment of crates in the bowels of the hold. If that was a regular check, this is the tightest ship Anne’s ever been aboard, the fucking navy’s included. If that wasn’t a regular check, though, there’s more to fear than well-trained sailors on this ship.
For the time being, the sailors—pirates or merchants to guess by their clothes—have made the halfway fatal error of leaving her alone. Tied to a chair in the locked captain’s quarters, perhaps, but alone. And halfway to making a break for it; as soon as she gets this coil around her thumb and down, she’ll have a free hand and then, oh!, then she’ll be dangerous. Able to get free and get armed, maybe even get into a position from which to surprise them. Anne presses through the screaming pain her body’s in—the birth hadn’t gone well for anyone, truth be told—by imagining the look on the louder one’s face when she gets her hands on him.
Attempts to escape and fantasies of revenge alike shrivel up and die in the sudden light flooding the doorway. Anne sets her face into a snarl and prepares to bark like the mad bitch she is at the best opportunity. Even sweating and pale, even with dark bags beneath her eyes and fever hues in her cheeks, Anne knows how she looks: striking. The one word she’s heard everyone use for her. Striking, with her long auburn hair and unnervingly pale green eyes. Striking, taller even than most men she met and twice as mean. Striking, with her hand balled into a fist and slamming into the first person within arm’s length. And that’s even without her signature hat and long coat, both of which sit in front of her on the desk, alongside her rapier, along with two of her four smaller blades. (Her pistols, alas, had been a casualty of escape from the Villa.)
Stripped of hat and pistol, there’s clearly truth to what Anne’s said since the first day she saw it: the woodcarving accompanying her wanted poster could be any redhead with a hat and pistol. How the artist had avoided any other identifying measure should be a complete mystery—but answers for itself an inch below the face, where an equally generic-looking bosom is presented naked to the viewer.
It was the plausibility of the woman before them being anybody but Anne Bonny that had sent her captors scrambling back to their captain, shouting about a redheaded stowaway armed to the teeth. It was the possibility of her being nobody but Anne Bonny that had lured their captain here. And it was the likelihood that none of them spoke a lick of English that kept Anne Bonny from loudly comparing them to disease-ridden ballsacks.
why hello
lesbyler (featuring lesmiwi) dump
It's never too late for lesbyler, right?