Fxckinblackbeard - Tumblr Posts
Original Post
Anne squints hard into the sunlight that dances over the waves, chewing the thought over even as she chews on the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t like this. Things have been…bad, lately. Jack in the wind with no one but an “old friend” to speak for his whereabouts, and after her last encounter with Jack’s “old friends,” she’s hardly keen on relying on another of them.
There’s more choice than before, but not by much. Not if she wants to get back to sea anytime soon.
“Let’s say ye’re not a yellow-bellied lying coward: then what? Me an’ you go out maraudin, we find Jack ‘r we don’t—what’s yer Cap’n goin t’say ‘bout havin a woman aboard?” Most didn’t like it. Most didn’t know her. Most she met ended up with crooked noses and spittle on their face for not liking it. “I say find the fucker without me—and sink his damn ship on sight.”
He has Jack’s smirk, and Anne distrusts that immediately. It’s the same smirk that said we could always raze the fucker’s estate when planning their escape. The same smirk that had slipped a little gold band around her finger. The same smirk she’d punched off his fucking face the night of their last row. He has mischievous eyes that glint like Jack’s do in her memory and that combined with the smirk is almost enough to convince her this isn’t worth the hassle and she should walk.
It isn’t until he looks off and gets serious that Anne’s opinion shifts. She laughs through her nose to hear Jack called a stupid bastard by somebody who isn’t Anne herself. By somebody that he presumably likes—or, like her, once liked. Poor fucker’s going to do nothing but get himself hurt chasing Jack with that far-distant yearning in his face, but it isn’t Anne’s job to save anyone but herself from Jack.
A hammock of her own, food, and the ocean’s lullaby sway beneath her feet. That’s what’s on offer, and all for the low price of tracking a (hopefully possibly dead) moron pirate. It’s a shit trade-off, but at least it’s one in her favor.
“Andy Cormac,” Anne says finally. Her voice is hoarse, so she clears her throat and speaks again. “Andy Cormac,” she repeats, stronger. It doesn’t matter how he found out about her, or why he wants Jack, or whether he can actually keep a secret—not now. Not when she’s so close to going back out to sea. Even fucking Jack can’t spoil this. “‘S‘been my name afore, though not at sea. Nobody has cause t’know Andy’s name out here, anyway. I don’t pass well if there’s much speakin, but keep me unfound until there’s a fight and I’ll help ye find him.” Though why anyone who really knew him would want to, Anne could only guess. She could ask, but truthfully…she doesn’t want the answer. It’s usually only three things with Jack, and it’s clear he isn’t being sought out for money or death this time.
Unconsciously, Anne reaches up to fiddle with the leather cord at her neck, its three rings dangling in the shallow valley between her breasts.
“He likes the Leeward Islands: Antigua, Barbados, the like.” The words feel too far south, even as she says them. She considers further: Cuba is always a possibility, among more mysterious “old friends,” or perhaps the Caymans if he was feeling particularly reckless. “He likes the Caribbean too much t’leave if he weren’t havin a snit afore he left, though. If ye want to find his whereabouts any time soon, we’re goin t’need more information about why he left.”
Probably in a huff, insulted by the captain whose name he cursed and praised in equal measure. Wanting to show off what he’d accomplished to his old mentor in some last twisted gasp to get the man’s approval. Jack’s too stupid to realize the old fuck would sooner die than praise him, show up peacocking only to be shaken to pieces.
But between the two of them, Anne isn’t the one who was in a position to know that for certain.
Original Post
Anne squints hard into the sunlight that dances over the waves, chewing the thought over even as she chews on the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t like this. Things have been…bad, lately. Jack in the wind with no one but an “old friend” to speak for his whereabouts, and after her last encounter with Jack’s “old friends,” she’s hardly keen on relying on another of them.
There’s more choice than before, but not by much. Not if she wants to get back to sea anytime soon.
“Let’s say ye’re not a yellow-bellied lying coward: then what? Me an’ you go out maraudin, we find Jack ‘r we don’t—what’s yer Cap’n goin t’say ‘bout havin a woman aboard?” Most didn’t like it. Most didn’t know her. Most she met ended up with crooked noses and spittle on their face for not liking it. “I say find the fucker without me—and sink his damn ship on sight.”
🔪 - A lovely introduction from Edward
Send me 🔪 to put a knife to my muse’s throat and see how they react.
It is, in the end, the audacity of some men that Anne finds she hates the most about piracy. It’s usually the shrivel-dicked which struggle most from the burden of an excess of audacity. Tonight, it’s some fuck called “Ed,” who’s currently holding a knife to her throat. Anne pauses for a moment in her eating at the feel of the knife’s edge, but her hesitation lasts only a moment before she’s bringing the bread back up to her mouth.
“Fuck off, shit-stick,” Anne warns, her voice flat. “I haven’t eaten shit f’r days. I’ll hardly flinch at a little blood in my soup at this rate, and it’ll be twice outta you whatever you manage t’get outta me afore I’m through. Ye can put your fuckin dick away an’ wait until I’ve had my fill or ye can fuck all the way back off t’where ye came from. Those’re yer options.” She sniffs and glances down, careful not to nick herself now that she’s promised to pay him double. She dips her bread in the scalding, watery soup again and takes another bite as she waits for his choice.
"Bum fuckin lead then," she chides. She hasn't seen Jack in person for months, despite being haunted by his ghost almost daily. Here one moment and gone the next is the only way Anne's ever known Jack to be, but to hear Ed tell it, he isn't always. Anne feels her lip lifting in a sneer and turns to hide it from Ed, jealous of a tenderness she little received and unwilling to accept gloating or worse, pity for it.
All the same, Anne nods decisively, crossing her arms in front of her chest and leaning against the rail as she does so. "E'en so. My money's on that shithole in the Caymans he were always so keen on--the one that sold 'im out the last time. He's shite at keepin away from cheap, pretty things." What that makes Anne, to be once cherished and now avoided, she'd rather not think too hard about. And she has no intention of otherwise finding out: Ed can only think she'll meet Jack well if he's braindead or otherwise uninformed. The fast-forming plan currently in mind ends with Anne cutting the fucker's dick clean off and serving it back to him raw for dinner, but even that feels too friendly after all he's done and put her through.
"When d'we sail out?"
ᒥ☠ᒧ— She speaks, but he keeps his eyes out on the sea. He does, however, smile some hearing that she'd agree to it. Even after their not so pleasant meeting. "Andy Cormac," He repeats after her, making sure he remembers the alias well. To keep her safe from Hornigold's terribly vicious wrath, and himself, it was important.
As for Jack's possible whereabouts, finding each she says a place to check. How they were to convince his Captain of taking course for those places? Edward had a few ideas, clever tricks he could pull, to get Hornigold to be his ride unknowingly. The man was so blasted out on drugs, it wouldn't be hard.
"I wish I knew...He didn't tell me shit, he was just...There one day, gone the next." No note, no goodbye, no invitation for Edward to come along. He should resent the man, but something about the bugger was just too damn charming. Edward would rather find him, get an explanation or maybe continue where Jack had left things. Ed wasn't one to let go, not without a fight, not even when that was the best choice.
"The only lead I had was, well, you."
Anne doesn't have shit to say to the man holding a knife to her throat until he makes the fatal mistake of slapping the bread out of her hand and onto the floor. If looks could kill, "Ed" would be bleeding out, cut to ribbons on broken shards of sea glass eyes. Her left hand curls around the dull-tipped fork--but she freezes up with a scowl when the rest of her meager supper is threatened. It makes her livid.
"Listen here, ye sorry excuse f'r a shit-stained cum-rag. You touch that piss-poor excuse for a bowl of soup and ye'll be shittin your fuckin teeth out tonight, d'ye understand me? I en't doin anyone any fuckin favors 'til I en't fuckin hungry anymore. Sit the fuck down and put yer fuckin willy away--ye look like a right twat, no need t'act like one, too."
@neverhangd || Continued: X ||
ᒥ☠ᒧ— He's smirking, but it's twisted into somewhat of a sneer as he holds her there with a blade pressed close to her jugular. He wouldn't actually allow himself to harm her, or not fatally, at least. No, he needed her, should she be who he believed she was.
"Tough talk for someone with a knife to their throat," He snarls lowly. Edward wasn't intimidated by her words, he wouldn't allow himself to be. No, he holds steadfast in threatening her, getting his point across that he means business. "I'm lookin' for someone," He explains, a feral look in his eyes for a moment. However, he flips the switch suddenly, offering a smile. It's forced, clearly, but there is still a wild look in his eyes.
"Heard ya know him, know him pretty well--Stop fuckin' eating while I'm God damn talkin' to you." His brows knit down in a frown and he smacks the bread from her hand. He's trying to be scary, ferocious, but feels like a fool as she just eats while he's doing so. Manners weren't his best quality, he was a pirate after all. For Edward, all he wanted was all that was important, not some stupid food.
"Now, yer gonna tell me what I wanna know, or I'll be dumpin' the soup on you or some shit." It looked steaming hot, his left hand hovers over the lip of the bowl, waiting for any move from her to tip it over into her lap.
"If ye keep sayin the fuckin name like it's the punchline t'some sad, sorry excuse for a joke, ye're gonna blow my cover long afore we get near 'nough to start lookin for the twat." Anne doesn't find the humor in the name, an old alias gifted to her by her father somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, but maybe she's too close to the matter to find it--or too closed to the matter altogether. Hard to say.
Anne sighs through her nose and whips off her hat, shoving it into Ed's chest with one hand and reaching back for her hair with the other. "Hold that," she orders, leaving her signature hat behind in Ed's hands as she twisted her hair half up into a bun, leaving a small tail of it down the back of her neck. With her hat on and a bit of binding about her chest--especially with some dirt on her face to obscure how clean it is--she'll pass for a younger man than she is a woman.
"Keep yer steel, but I'd be obliged f'r the fire arm," she says simply, reaching her hand out in expectation.
ᒥ☠ᒧ— All he needed was Jack, just to see the man again. His dear friend, his passionate lover, a man that gets and understands him like no one else. Her history with Jack was not much of his business beyond him needing her to locate Jack. Edward doesn't plan to nose about her business with Jack, what went on or happened between them; knowing Jack, Edward was sure it wasn't the happiest of stories, probably. Pyrate life was complicated, everyone involved had issues, Jack especially could be a right cunt of a man with his issues.
"Caymans, huh?" Edward doesn't comment on the cheap, pretty things thing, though it makes his stomach churn some. Was he cheap? Even worse, was he pretty? Surely not.
Edward rubs his scruffy beard, eyes locked onto the sea. "It's lookin' choppy, we'll probably remain in port for the night to wait out n'see if a storm is gonna blow in. I can't tell yet if one is coming, too early if so." That wasn't a bad thing, however. "Gives us time to get you some clothes and something to flatten yer chest, Andy." He says the name with a smirk, finding it funny. Ed understood the need for a disguise, women on board not always an accepted thing. To him, he couldn't really care what sex someone was, as long as they were capable was all that mattered. Why ever limit a crew?
"I'd give ya some of mine, but that might look suspect if we're matchin'." Also, she may not be a fan of black leather in the sweltering, tropical heat. "Got a knife and pistol if ya need," And with a man as cruel as Hornigold captaining the ship, she will be needing something to keep herself safe.
The muscle just beneath Anne's eye twitches when he touches the bowl--the only outward sign of the extreme stress Anne put herself under to behave accordingly and save her supper. When he finally fucks off into a seat, Anne reaches down and retrieves the bread he'd batted away, ripping the crust off and tossing it across the table as she resumes her eating. His respect doesn't impress her, but then again, nothing much does these days. She acknowledges him again only when he mentions the soup, her gaze seeming almost lazy by comparison to the glares she'd given moments before.
He's a dumbshite. The kind of dumshite Jack is, but he's...how to say it?...actually a bit clever. Quick witted 'stead of just pretending to be. The arrogance doesn't impress her, by the wit behind it is a bit more interesting. Anne hunches over her soup and nods once, affirmatively.
"Anne Bonny, by name and by reputation." A reputation that she would see repaired soon, washed clean of the stink of the dog-shite that was her former lover and captain. "An' ye're...Ed."
ᒥ☠ᒧ— Edward smirks more, unable to resist the urge to tap his finger on the lip of the bowl. He wouldn't be tipping it, he just felt like being a shithead and challenging her a little hearing her threats. Finally, he pulls the knife from her throat and moves to sit at the table. His boots come up to rest atop the table, and he leans back in the chair. Edward chuckles and he stabs the knife into the wood, leaving it there.
"I can respect a chick that can stand up for herself," And she was certainly very feisty. "And her soup." He adds after, snorting and laughing some. This was a game to him, that much clear by all his laughing and fucking around. He'd be leaving her to eat, watching her carefully to make sure he's ready should she decide to retaliate his earlier hostility.
"You Anne?" Ed asks, that stupid, smug smirk still plastered to his face.
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.”
The muscle just beneath Anne's eye twitches when he touches the bowl--the only outward sign of the extreme stress Anne put herself under to behave accordingly and save her supper. When he finally fucks off into a seat, Anne reaches down and retrieves the bread he'd batted away, ripping the crust off and tossing it across the table as she resumes her eating. His respect doesn't impress her, but then again, nothing much does these days. She acknowledges him again only when he mentions the soup, her gaze seeming almost lazy by comparison to the glares she'd given moments before.
He's a dumbshite. The kind of dumshite Jack is, but he's...how to say it?...actually a bit clever. Quick witted 'stead of just pretending to be. The arrogance doesn't impress her, by the wit behind it is a bit more interesting. Anne hunches over her soup and nods once, affirmatively.
"Anne Bonny, by name and by reputation." A reputation that she would see repaired soon, washed clean of the stink of the dog-shite that was her former lover and captain. "An' ye're...Ed."
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.”
It takes her a moment to realize Ed’s looking at her at all, nevermind why. By the time she finally follows his gaze up to the sprig of mistletoe in the doorway he’s already announcing his refusal—and Anne doubles over, roaring with laughter. A sailor without superstition is no kind of sailor at all; everyone sailing it is bound to the fickle whims of the sea, and everyone develops their own thinking about it, with most landing on the decidedly safer option of living cocooned in the safety superstitions can provide.
Which leads back to the stupid fucking mistletoe. “Ye’ve got more shite ‘n brains in that thick skull a’ yers, don’t ye? Refusin a kiss unner mistletoe’s a year a’ bad luck.” And for a change, it’s not Anne stuck with it—an absolute win, in her opinion!
Still snorting over arrogance leading to comeuppance, Anne starts to leave the idiot ‘toe, freed from having to keep her place and from owing anyone a kiss by the good luck of Ed’s idiocy.
Fuck it. Mistletoe for the lols
ᒥ☠ᒧ— He glances up to the hung mistletoe and then to Anne. Then back up to the mistletoe and Anne once again. He raises his brows and resists the urge to sneer in disgust. "Sorry, love, yer not my type," Edward's type was...well, not women. "Nothin' against you."
He didn't celebrate Christmas to begin with, and he found the traditions to be odd. Why were people obligated to kiss when under a dead plant? Weird.
"I'd kiss ya hand, but...Well, I don't even wanna do that." Was he being childish? Perhaps, but the young man hadn't really shown much maturity up to that point to begin with.
Jesus fuck. Anne accepts the bottle as he hands it to her, unable to wide the disgust curling her lips. She doesn’t mean to judge him, not really, but—the Jack he’s drunkenly bemoaning isn’t the Jack she’s known. Not by a mile. Different by night or day? The man she’d known was a bastard at every hour—though he possessed the same near-magic ability to make all the fucked up nonsense look insignificant when it never was.
Anne takes a swig from the bottle—a smaller mouthful, same as she has all night long, the exact method she’d been using all night to get him drunk enough to start talking. The Jack he’s metaphorically chasing can’t be the same Jack she’s literally chasing…right? Same name. Same shit reputation, sense of humor, mustache. But not even close to the same man, apparently.
Is Edward’s lead a useless one, then? Maybe.
“Funny ye should put it that way,” Anne says, deciding to finally take the gamble on honesty tonight. “As it happens, I’m also chasin’ him. A little more, ah…,” what’s a delicate word for this?, “…proactively at the moment. Frankly, Teach, I was hopin’ ye’d heard something of his last whereabouts. Given how close ye two were. He, ah. Even bragged about knowing ye, when we first met.” He’d done quite a bit more than just that, but this is neither the time nor the place for trading sordid stories.
“Failin’ that, I was gonna ask for yer help tracking him down.”
17 - Go To War
|| Go To War by NOTHING MORE: X || Playlist Starter Post: X ||
|| @neverhangd ||
ᒥ☠ᒧ— "He had m'heart and I had his soul, but...He thought we were better off alone..." Edward takes a pause, silence hanging in the air with a long swig of the rum from the bottle. How had she gotten him this drunk? He was spilling his soul more and more with each bottle they shared.
"That's why 'm lookin' for his stupid ass, the fucker is gonna face me and we're gonna hash it out. Don't care if he shouts or punches, we're talkin' about it. Us." Did Edward really have the courage to face Jack? Or would it be like it always is, where he gives into his people pleasing ways and Jack gets away scot-free once again? "Tell him fuck off or fuck me, whichever gets through that thick fuckin' skull of his."
He then looks over at Anne with those sad brown hues. He knew her pain, struck by Jack, the breaker of hearts. "He just pulls ya in, and ya just get stuck in his whirlpool...Pushed me around like I was nothing durin' the day, but at night he just...He's a different Jack, y'know? Suddenly all the shit he puts ya through just seems -hic- okay, when it's not..." Edward passes the bottle to Anne, hiccups getting the better of him now that he was throughly piss-drunk.
"'M still chasin' him, damnit..." Ed sighs, rubbing at his face furiously with his hands as if trying to rub the drunk away.