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vegas9 · 5 years

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I Own Anne Bonny’s Coat

I was fortunate enough to be able to purchase Anne’s coat used in the production of series 3 of Black Sails. It is actually Clara Paget’s stunt double’s coat, but it turns out to fit me perfectly so I’m not the slightest bit bummed that it wasn’t Clara Paget’s coat seeing as how she’s a bit taller than I am.

As I’ve posted this to imgur before there is always a question of cost so I’ll get that right out of the way: The coat came to $1750 after a bidding war I nearly lost at the last second - this is not at all indicative of my disposable income or spending habits, the timing of the auction just happened to coincide well with my savings. I hope to God I never want an object as badly as I wanted this coat. (Seriously, it was like gremlin-level compulsion to possess this item.)

Anyway, I’ve used it to cosplay Anne at cons before and for anyone out there looking to replicate it I present to you multiple photos to help you in your crafting endeavor. If there’s anything you can’t see that you would like to in terms of how the coat was constructed or fabric please let me know - I’d be more than happy to take additional photos for you!

Aside from the brilliant fit, the attention to detail on this is just astounding. It's very clearly handmade and it's been made exceptionally well. I got to show photos of it to my grandmother who had been a designer and seamstress before she passed away last year and she couldn't believe it was something that belonged to me. (She even asked how I had known it was so well made as if I hadn't spent my childhood wearing dresses and other clothing she had handmade for me with the same attention to detail - even if the materials weren't nearly as costly.)

You'll notice the shoulders are more rounded with the patches on them. I don't store this hanging on a traditional hanger. Not only am I worried it could slowly damage the shoulders by malforming them, but it is extremely heavy and requires a hefty hanger. More on that in a second.

This monster is heavy, weighing in right around 9 lbs. A lot of that weight is in the 'tails' that have exceptional movement. The way this coat was made it has a way of moving with you almost as though it's vaguely alive. It's extremely satisfying to walk or turn around with it.

It’s these patches and embroidery that give the shoulders a rounded look as opposed to the more traditional boxy look you get on regular jackets. It does feel a bit different to wear than any other coat I’ve had, but - again - in a satisfying way. That being said, while the style works for this coat I doubt I could pull it off with anything less dramatic.

A shot of the embroidery and detail on the tails at the center back of the coat. This coat has buttons and even loops that you could theoretically button them with. Since the coat was never worn that way on the show and the loops are very stiff and I don't want to put undue strain on them, I've never buttoned it while worn or stored except for the single attempt to see if they were truly functional. The cuffs on the sleeve are something else entirely. They add colour and subtle interest without demanding your attention.

The cuffs on the sleeve are something else entirely. They add colour and subtle interest without demanding your attention.

More detail of the front of the coat. When I was bidding on it the photos didn't really show that the main fabric of the outside of the coat was embossed (it's not a printed pattern, you can feel the slight grooves where the detail was stamped in). I don't know where the designer found the fabrics that were used, but damn I'm beyond impressed.

The front of the coat has these really neat pockets and get this - beyond the detail and visual appeal ...the pockets are real. The buttons can be opened and there's enough room in the pocket to store things such as a large smartphone in a wallet style case with room left over. (This is invaluable to me, my cosplays never have a spot for me to keep my phone.)

The lining in the coat had just as much care taken with its consideration. The fabric isn't itchy or artificially slick, but while this coat is pretty to look at and weighs as much as a large newborn, it won't keep you terribly warm. Also, I just love the patterns and the way it was thought out even though it was likely never to truly be seen on screen - it could have just as easily been a solid colour.

There are small tags handstitched into the collar, and though the marker used to write has been worn you can just make out "st... dbl" on the bottom one.

Also: the jacket in cosplay

From a fun little photoshoot I did back in 2017. Photograph taken by the lovely Dana Barrett.

I also flew out to London to visit some friends during London MCM/Comic Con in 2018 and brought my Anne costume with me for it. My friend who has always written the Jack to my Anne threw together a quick Jack inspired cosplay based on what they had on hand and frankly, I approve.

BUT WAIT. THERE’S MORE!

While we were at MCM in our Anne and Jack getups we ran into a group of guys also dressed as Black Sails characters also wearing screen-worn pieces.

They got super excited, in part because of the coat - one did offer to buy it from me and I’m not so sure he was joking. But they were even more excited because I was dressed as Anne and apparently Jessica Parker Kennedy was at the con. (Which I’d had no idea of up to that point.) I basically got swept up by four strange men to meet her and even though she was just supposed to be signing, she got the okay to take a photo with us all.

I was not a remotely functioning human being. I was not cool. I basically turned red and couldn’t get any words out and it wasn’t helped by the fact that when we were trying to figure out who was going to stand where she insisted I stand next to her because I was Anne.

As a shout out, the four strange men are also super talented costumers in their own right. The fine gent dressed as Charles Vane all the way on the left in the above image makes awesome stuff that can be found here.

#cosplay #reference #black sails #con #convention #comiccon #london #anne bonny #set piece #costume

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vegas9 · 5 years

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We All Have Our Roles to Play

Summary: Continuation of the scene from I (series 1, episode 1) of Jack and Anne in the tavern after Jack thinks they've guaranteed Singleton's Captaincy over Flint. Sometimes, she loves when he's clever.

Canon: Black Sails Primary characters: Anne Bonny, Jack Rackham Genres: Jack is clever, established relationship, shameless smut, crude vocabulary Pairings: Anne Bonny/Jack Rackham Rating: Explicit

Warning: Cut is immediate because this goes from 0 to 100 in about 3 words.

Read it on AO3

She reaches down, hand cupping the bulge at the front of Jack's pants like she's laying claim despite the fact that they're in the middle of the tavern and it's full to the brim of people that could see the action. Or perhaps she does it because they're in public. He jumps and she smirks.

"I wanna fuck," she looks up at him from under the brim of her hat and he turns to her with a wry smile.

"Because of what I just said?" he asks. He's practically preening, bolstered by the genius of his own plan that's falling together before his very eyes.

"The fuck's it matter to you?" she shoots back, dragging her hand up until the heel of her palm reaches his belt.

He bites his lip and looks over at the bar where things are starting to come together with the strings he's manipulated to his ends. He can't hear what's being said, but there's a part of him that wants to keep an eye on this so it doesn't fuck up. But he also isn't about to turn down Anne when she wants him enough that she's willing to get even half this close in a public place.

"Alright then," he nods, eyes dropping to the heavy silver pendant that hangs from her neck. She's covered up from the neck down like always, but he knows that the bit of metal rests between her breasts when it ends up under her shirt.

Without waiting for any further confirmation she turns on her heel and he follows her up the stairs, watching the way her coat swishes around her calves in the absence of being able to stare at her backside while she ascends. It's a double-edged sword the knowledge he has of her. She hides her body under the heavy coat and layers of clothing and he will sometimes allow himself to bask in the knowledge that he's the only person who knows the lean body that's more lithe than curvy is what's under all that clothing. It's just that even if she's fully dressed, because he knows, she can be a horrible distraction to him without so much as trying.

They enter the room and as soon as he's over the threshold she's slamming the door shut and shoving him against it. Her hat falls off when she pins him between her and the unyielding door and she kicks it away without so much as looking at it. She's aggressive, forcing him to open his lips and without a moment's hesitation she's shoved her tongue in his mouth and she's kissing him like she's drowning and he's the only air there is. He responds in kind, hands tight on her hips to haul her against the front of his body. He's already hard, the combination of his surprise at her boldness downstairs and the anticipation that always comes when she wants like this.

Her lips are on his neck now, she bites and sucks with no consideration for any marks she might leave and he's a dead man. The groan passes his lips and she murmurs a sound of approval. She yanks his shirt from where it's tucked into his trousers and her fingers fumble with the buttons furiously until the linen garment is partly open. By the time she gets most of the way to the bottom she's lost her patience and pulls hard on either side of the shirt, sending the last few buttons flying to land on the floor and roll away.

Her lips are on his again to keep him quiet – because she knows he's going to complain, if not now then certainly later – and her nails scrape over his skin with little regard for how hard she's pressing until they get to his shoulders. Without any further thought, she pushes the layers; jacket and shirt, off of him in the same move. With his chest bare she stops and pulls away to just look at him in the low light. She catches his eyes drop to the floor, settling on what she already knows is his clothing in disarray on the wooden boards. Anne can very nearly hear the thoughts running through his head and she steps into him, hand cupping his balls through the front of the pants, not unlike just the moment before in the tavern proper. Jack is a damned genius, but she don't want his mind able to wander to anything that ain't her right now.

"Leave it," she orders and his gaze snaps back up to her face. "If they ain't in the same place in the morning I promise you'll regret it," she threatens, knowing that when he thinks she's finally drifted off to sleep he has the audacity to get out of bed and fold any clothing that's been strewn about. Tonight she wants him and unless the fucking tavern catches fire she doesn't want him stealing out of bed after the fact just because he thinks she's asleep.

He swallows, but nods. His hands tremble just that little bit as he reaches for her sword belt, eyes silently asking for permission and a smile curls across her lips. She likes him compliant, especially when she knows he's been orchestrating and in charge of shit with the crew. She nods and he deftly unbuckles the belt, taking it off gingerly so the weight of her blades doesn't yank it out of his hands. Though she can see him nearly vibrating with the urge to set them on some surface, he crouches down to lay them on the floor gently.

"That's it," she murmurs, reaching out to run her fingers through his hair. She shrugs out of her coat, its own weight dropping it to the floor in a whoosh of air followed by an almost lifelike thump.

His hands curl around the backs of her knees, just above her boots, and he rests his head against her stomach. With a sigh Anne tips his head back, fingertips on either side of his jaw. Sometimes, when it all works out, she loves how clever he is. Loves the way that for as brilliant as he is, he'll give it up entirely and let her make the decisions. She's never had any designs on a position that puts her in command, but this... this she likes.

"Kiss me," she doesn't have to put force into her voice to know that he'll do it.

Sure enough, he comes to his feet, if a bit ungainly, and runs one hand up the side of her neck to cup her face. His other arm goes around her waist and he pulls her in sweetly. When he presses his lips to hers there's no demand to it. He kisses her like there isn't anything else he'd rather be doing, long and lingering, all tender care like she doesn't drink and swear with the best of them. She tries to let it remain that way, wants to enjoy it as much as he does, but she's spent all evening drinking with him and watching everything he's worked for come together and fuck if it's not one of the most attractive things he does.

Now there's hardly anything in her that isn't the wanting; wanting to feel him and know he's absolutely hers, wanting to reward a plan that's gone off well.

So while she tries to stay sweet because she knows what that does to him, she doesn't want to. She wants him to take her hard and fast like he owns a piece of her because nights like these she don't mind being his instead of the other way around. There's hardly a person in the West Indies who says her name without his. She's dominated the kiss again, her hands making quick work of his belt so she can shove her hands down the back of his trousers. Jack doesn't seem to mind her impatience, his own hand has drifted down from the side of her face to palm her breast, fingers pinching her nipple through the thin shirt with a sharp tug that causes her to surge against him with a soft cry.

"Get outta your boots," she's only pulling away so she can yank hers off as well. Unlike hers, his have laces, so while she waits for him to fumble with those she slips out of her trousers because she sure as fuck ain't going to want to spend more time apart from him to take care of them later. He's still trying to work the second boot off of his foot, having barely untied it when she steps past him and locks the door. You can't really buy yourself any privacy in Nassau, but she's in no mood to be walked-in on accidentally or otherwise.

Her hand is still on the lock when Jack's arms circle around her waist from behind. She leans into him and her eyes flutter shut as his lips find her neck, her own parting in a sigh. His hands slide down to the outsides of her thighs, fingers curling under the hem of her shirt.

"Y'can take it off," she says quietly.

That surprises him, she feels him go completely still behind her, barely breathing. Smart man that he is, he doesn't ask if she's sure. She rarely takes her shirt off, even if they're at port with their own room, and lets him be the one to remove it even less. He brushes her hair away from the nape of her neck and kisses the top of one white scar that peeks over her collar.

"Turn around for me, Darling?" Unlike her, he's not giving any orders, but she takes a deep breath and does as he asks.

His hands slip under her shirt, settling on her waist. He doesn't pin her against the door the way she did him, leaves her space enough to slip away if she wants. She doesn't, and the way he looks at her she suddenly feels like this is years ago when she wasn't as sure about the fact that she wanted him for herself. She rests her hands on his chest, fingers splayed over a thin scar that she personally stitched up once upon a time.

"You love me?" she doesn't look at him, asking even though she knows the answer.

Jack pulls her closer, hand sliding up her back like it isn't covered in more waxy scar tissue than actual skin. He tucks her hair behind her ear and kisses her cheek.

"I'd kill James Bonny every day for the rest of my life to sail with you," his lips brush her ear when he speaks and though it's fleeting, she grins. It's a better answer than she was expecting, she does so like when he's clever. He knows she don't really want to hear that he loves her more than even his precious reputation. Knows that she'll probably never say it back, doesn't expect her to or make her feel like she ought to.

The loose fabric of her shirt comes off easily and Jack is too busy looking at her to pay it any attention when he drops it to the floor. His hands are back on her skin, reverently making their way up her sides and his eyes are alight with a greedy pleasure as he looks at her body.

"Bloody gorgeous," his voice is hoarse and when he meets her gaze his expression is gentle and adoring. She looks off to the side, argument ready out of habit, but the corner of her lip tilts up in a smirk. This is what she wants from him, his mind absolutely nowhere except right here with her.

"What're you gonna do about it?" she's touching him again, one hand curled around the back of his neck while she slips the other down the front of his trousers. She's the one that always calls what they're going to do, he's never questioned it and has always rather encouraged it, but while she ain't giving him free reign she don't want to be the one to determine everything right now.

He gives up on giving her room to get away. Her back hits the wood of the door, his hand in her hair the only thing that keeps her head from doing the same. His lips are on hers again, hungry and desperate as he presses himself into her hand. She loves knowing she can do this to him, that even though she ain't as pretty as half the whores they've seen at various ports or cultured and intelligent like a proper lady, it's her that he picks. Every time.

She's gotten her hand out of his trousers, fingers tugging at the laces deftly right up until one of his hands is slipping down the front of her body. He doesn't stop, doesn't even hesitate, until his fingertips are brushing over the outside of her cunt, parting her folds to tease and she bucks into his hand with a sound that gets swallowed by the kiss.

"Is this what you were after down in the tavern?" he asks, voice low as he slides a finger into her with exquisite slowness. He kisses the curve of her jaw and her hands grip at the waist of his trousers as he draws a gasp from her.

"More'r less," she breathes out and it sounds like a single word. "was thinkin' more," she moves in time with the short thrusts of his hand, arms around his neck now. She swears she can feel him smile against her skin just before he adds a second finger and then he rubs with his thumb just right and she moans. "Fuck, Jack,"

He nods, kissing her neck and continuing to draw soft sounds from her as she arches into him. He almost never gets her like this, the wanting without the brittle edge that has made him so damned careful with her from the beginning. Almost every part of him wants to take advantage of it because she's responding like it's what she wants too, but there's a better part of him that doesn't trust it. Not because he thinks it's disingenuous, but because the last thing he wants is to chance crossing some invisible line she didn't even realize was there and suddenly for her it's not his hands on her, but the memory of someone else.

He kisses her again, like he knows James Bonny never did, lingering and deep. He can feel the heat coming off of her feverish skin, knows what the red flush on her chest would look like right now if the light was good enough to see it; coaxes her that last little bit until she's whining in the back of her throat and her cunt spasms around his fingers like a vice, slick and tight.

It takes her a moment to catch her breath, breaking the kiss and sagging against Jack for support as he lets her come down slowly. She can feel how badly he wants her, that he's painfully hard pressed against her stomach even through the trousers he's still wearing.

"Thought I told you I wanted to fuck," she looks up at him with a wry smirk and gets one back in turn. He eases back just enough to let her slip by, one of her hands dragging over the front of his trousers as she passes and he hisses at the teasing touch, unable to do anything other than follow her. She stands by the edge of the bed and simply looks at him expectantly, knowing she doesn't need to use words to convey what she wants.

He shucks his trousers with as much speed as he can manage and almost before his back is to sheets she's straddling him. She rolls her hips, rubbing herself over the length of him and it throws his head back, his hands fumbling to grasp at the bedclothes because he's beyond ready to have her at this point.

"Anne, please,"

She loves hearing him beg, but that ain't the point tonight. He'd let her get distracted, but she had wanted to reward him. Always talking about how clever he is, she likes seeing the proof of it instead of just hearing about it. She can feel him straining to keep still as she sinks down on him. Even once her body meets his again he's trying so very hard, the effort clear on his face. Rather than draw it out she begins to move, encouraging him without words that he needn't hold back quite that much.

His hands are on her hips, guiding her with thinly veiled need as he matches her pace. She rakes her nails down his chest and earns an unabashed groan, her own breaths starting to come short. She's sweating in the warm Caribbean night and it doesn't take long before she's coming undone again, his name a soft cry on her lips.

That seems to do it for him. His grip tightens as he endeavors to press further into her with a swear and she could sigh with how much she loves this moment, when he's irrevocably hers.

She lays on his chest while they struggle to catch their breaths again. Neither of them speak, though she gets the distinct impression he's going to as soon as he can so she heads him off by pressing her fingers to his lips.

Eventually she eases off of him and rolls on to her side. He curls up behind her, an arm around her waist, and kisses the top of her head. She knows she's going to be too hot to enjoy it in a matter of minutes, but for the moment she lets herself relax into the curve of his body, eyelids suddenly heavy and difficult to keep open.

"If those clothes ain't where they are in the morning..." she reiterates, just in case he's forgotten.

#fanfic #fan fiction #black sails #anne bonny #jack rackham #explicit #anne x jack #shameless smut

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vegas9 · 5 years

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Stars

Summary: She loves touching Max. Wherein Anne asks Max to teach her French and the madame obliges in a fashion Anne probably should have anticipated. Set between series 2 and 3.

Canon: Black Sails Primary characters: Anne Bonny, Max Genres: Romantic Fluff, Mild Smut Pairings: Anne Bonny/Max Rating: Mature

Warning: none

Read it on AO3

………

She loves touching Max; the way her skin feels warm and silky under the toughened pads of her finger tips and her soft curves that feel exactly right in her hands. Anne loves the way she moves and the pretty sounds that fall generously from her lips, body yielding sweetly under her like every little shift and gasp is an invitation. Even if they ain't fucking, she loves how small Max is; that all of the soft warmth of her body fits so perfectly against her lean muscle and that she kisses her like she's worth savoring and not a woman who's really only good for killing.

Jack kisses her like that, but it ain't the same. Max don't have a reason to do it. Anne didn't try to kiss her first, didn't spend years fighting and killing at her side like she did Jack. Sure, she'd saved her from that fucking tent, gutted Hammund like he'd more than deserved, but she didn't do that for her. It's not even like she was particularly nice to her for all that time. She mistook the hazy wanting for something else - anything else - and it just fed her temper, making her feel constantly guilty for no reason she could figure.

She doesn't know why Max did it the first time, or why she kept at it, kept letting Anne come back to her, but she knows Max wants her. It could just be a whore faking it because that's what they do, but Anne ain't payin' her and she can't see what just splitting her and Jack up is worth. They're a good team, but they ain't worth shit separated, neither of them are really anyone when you take away the other. S'not like Max wants Jack for herself and he's already letting her have forty percent of gross profit from the brothel as the madame. Anne doesn't know how much that is exactly, but it's enough that Max can buy herself prettier dresses and jewelry like she's never had before.

No one but Jack has ever wanted just her before. Max don't want her swords, doesn't ask her to kill for her. She looks at Anne like some kind prize she can't believe she's gotten hold of, tries to take care of her when she allows it. Anne doesn't know what it is they're doing, but she can't stop thinking about Max when she ain't got anything else on her mind and the thoughts are confusing, but mostly they make her feel warm and start a quiet wanting.

They're laying in Max's bed, the sun starting to set outside and the sounds of the brothel gearing up for the night filtering in through the floor and the closed door. Max has been asleep for at least the last hour. Anne knows because she's been focused on nothing but her the whole time. Her chest rhythmically rising and falling at an ever slowing pace until her lips parted just barely and she nestled closer and tucked her head under Anne's chin with a soft sigh.

It's fucking criminal that Max looks the way she does is what it is. Downright devastating with her clever mind and ladylike manner even though she's a whore. And Anne can't help herself from running her fingers through her dark hair, dropping a kiss to the top of her head as she moves to trace idle patterns over her back.

"Ma doux pirate," Max murmurs. Anne feels her smile against her skin before a soft kiss is pressed just below her collarbone. A small hand curls around her hip possessively and Max slides one of her legs between Anne's.

Before she can even make the conscious decision to do it, Anne tips Max's head back and tilts hers down to kiss her. Softly at first, gentle because she's learned Max don't always like starting out as rough as she does with Jack and because she's come to enjoy the slow kisses that gradually grow more desperate. Anne doesn't let this kiss go too far before pulling back, knowing Max expects different. She smirks at the frustrated mutter of French that she can't quite make out.

"Teach me," she says suddenly. Max blinks at her, brow furrowing in confusion. "The French," Anne clarifies. "I like hearing it. Bet I'd like it even better if I knew what it was you were sayin'," her cheeks colour and her gaze slides off to the side. "I know I ain't that smart, but–" she's silenced by Max's hand cupping her cheek, thumb resting on her lips.

"I think you could learn, ma chérie," Max affirms with a gentle smile. "Lesson one," she starts, her smile curling wider, she brushes her thumb across Anne's lips. "Lévres," she says the word slowly.

"Lévres," Anne repeats without any of the finesse of Max's accent, a finger reaching up to touch her lips. Max laughs, but it's a warm, gentle thing.

"You sound like an Englishman," she tells her, still grinning with amusement. "but we shall practice and the sound will come more naturally," she promises. Max kisses her and the sound of her speaking the word for lips fills Anne's mind. Anne lets Max coax her on to her back, the familiar weight of her straddling her waist a welcome sensation as she drags her hands down her sides and is rewarded with one of those soft sounds she enjoys so much.

Max pulls away, teeth tugging lightly at Anne's lower lip, and kisses the curve of her jaw. She tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear and nips at the shell of it.

"Oreille," she says, lips brushing the outside of Anne's ear as one of her hands slips under her tunic and she trails her nails slowly up her ribs, teasing a feather light touch to the side of her breast.

"Oreille," Anne repeats after swallowing. Her pronunciation still leaves much to be desired, but she's trying to shift to get even a little more contact.

Max moves down her body slightly, laying on Anne's chest and pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of her neck. She starts to suck a small mark where her neck curves into shoulder and Anne tilts her head to the side, giving her better access. One of her hands slips down Max's waist to rest at her hip, the other she brings between them to cup one of her breasts, rolling her nipple between the rough pads of her fingers with just enough pressure to get a pretty little whimper and Anne gasps as Max sets just the barest edge of teeth into her skin.

She thinks she hears Max murmur the word for what she can only assume is neck, but the better part of Anne's mind is focused on the fact that Max has eased off of her enough to reach down and press the heel of her hand to her clit. Max doesn't do anything else, just holds her hand there and Anne rolls her hips with a soft moan of satisfaction when she doesn't tease and pull away. Max goes back to kissing her neck, letting Anne writhe underneath her and even though she's got her head turned to the side and she's looking out the window she knows exactly what that smug smile on her face probably looks like about now.

It's gone dark out now. The sky is clear and while she can't see the moon from where she is, stars glitter brightly in the darkness. A thought crosses Anne's mind, one so eloquent she can hardly believe she's thought it and she uses both hands to bring Max's face up to kiss her. She gently nips at Max's lower lip, tasting her leisurely when she opens to her. Max lets her roll them so its her back on the sheets and Anne above her and Christ but Anne doesn't think she'll ever get tired of the sight of her laid out beneath her. She moves down to kiss the space between her breasts where usually some sparkling pendant sits, drawing her attention away from everything else even in the middle of a conversation.

"What're the stars called?" she asks, laying another kiss a bit lower and scraping her teeth a few inches below that until her mouth is just over Max's navel.

"Étoile," she raises up on her elbows to look down at Anne. "Why?" there's no accusation or judgment in the question, just honest curiosity.

Anne rests her head on Max's stomach, fingers drawing curving patterns over the outsides of her thighs, occasionally dipping up to the hollows of her hips.

"When we're at sea an' a storm blows us off course the navigator uses 'em to figure out where we are," she explains without further context. "Ma étoile," she murmurs, feeling her cheeks heat. She bites her lip and can't look at Max, can't believe she's said anything of the sort and is terrified Max is going to make her explain it further.

But she doesn't, of course she doesn't. Because Max always seems to understand what she means even if she doesn't so much as say a single word, always seems to know exactly how to respond so that Anne never feels bad about what she wants just because it's confusing for her. She sits up, surprisingly strong as she moves Anne with her and draws her into her arms, whispering into her hair and holding her close. It takes Anne several moments to realize she's speaking in English, that she can understand what she's saying and she buries her face in the side of Max's neck and hugs her tightly, closing her eyes against the sensation of tears threatening to start, though she couldn't have said why.

She loves touching Max; the way she don't let her feel like it's wrong and that she should think less of herself for wanting to. Anne loves the way it ain't just about the fucking, that for her Max ain't a whore and for Max she ain't a killer.

#fanfic #fan fiction #black sails #anne bonny #max #maxanne

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vegas9 · 5 years

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Stitches

Summary: Preseries. Jack has always cared entirely too much about his public image, which is how Anne occasionally finds herself his doctor when his pride gets the better of him. She's not particularly fond of it.

Canon: Black Sails Primary characters: Anne Bonny, Jack Rackham Genres: Patching up, Hurt Jack, Jack has Issues, Anne is sick of Jack’s shit Pairings: Anne Bonny/Jack Rackham Rating: Teen

Warning: minor medical care

Read it on AO3

.........

"For someone with such a smart mouth you sure are dumb sometimes," Anne grumbled, fingers deftly working the curved needle through torn skin in tiny – if not straight – stitches.

"I'm sorry?" Jack winced as she tugged at the sutures a bit too tightly.

"You should'a let the doctor do this hours ago," she pressed her lips together in a grim line, eyes flicking from her work to the blood-soaked clothing and rags that even in their ruined state were folded and placed neatly on a wooden chair. There were a lot of things she was never going to understand, the fact that Jack would still fold bloody clothes with a gash the length of her hand on his chest was one of them.

"It didn't seem bad enough to warrant looking for him," Jack groused. "Besides, our fine ship's doctor hasn't so much as washed his hands in weeks," he gasped as she started stitching again.

Anne glared up at him, fingers pressing around the wound harder than necessary out of spite. It earned her a choked hiss of pain and a measure of satisfaction. She couldn't fucking believe him. He could say what he wanted about the doctor and washing but she knew it had been about saving face. His damned fixation on his reputation was going to be the death of him one day.

"If you saw me with the same injury, you'd have a fucking fit if I di'nt have it seen to immediately," With that thought she frowned and stopped stitching again. She gave him a hard look, gaze going from the wound to his face and back again several times as she tried to piece it together and kept coming up empty. The silence stretched on long enough for her to feel the ponderous rock of the ship beneath her feet. "How'd you even manage this anyway?" she asked.

"Ah, well," his face coloured and he tried to buy himself a moment by picking up the bottle of rum next to him and taking a swig of it. "I was making my way down here anyway and," he shrugged, glaring at the bottle as if it had done him a personal wrong. "when we hit that swell I wound up pitched down the stairs," he finally admitted, pointedly not looking at her.

Anne tried, she really did, but the smirk tugged up at the corner of her lips and her shoulders twitched. Half a minute later she had lost the battle entirely and a bark of laughter escaped her.

"Fell on your sword then?" she asked between poor attempts to stifle her amusement.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "That railing is more shards and splinters than anything else. I landed on an especially sharp sliver half as long as my arm," he attempted to explain even though she had begun to laugh in earnest, her hand pressed to his collarbone to keep from yanking on the sutures she hadn't quite finished. "The coat and shirt are positively ruined," he moaned. "It's a mercy no one was there to witness it,"

Anne thought he should be more concerned about the state of his body than his clothing, but that was a conversation they had beaten to death years ago.

"It's gonna leave a nasty scar," she grinned as she tied the stitches off and cut the thread. Anne liked scars, especially liked them on Jack. She enjoyed being able to look at them, touch them, and know that the two of them always managed to survive.

"Darling..." the look he gave her was all heat and dark humor even though his eyes were still tight with pain. He reached up to cup the side of her face with his hand, thumb swiping gently over her cheek. He leaned in and kissed her gently, smiling when she stepped in closer to him. She had been mad earlier, when she had first found him bleeding in their cabin. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had hit him, she had certainly looked about ready for it. This had to be a good sign.

The sudden, sharp sting of her teeth biting down much too hard into his lip told him otherwise. The rough shove of fingers over the newly stitched wound only confirmed it. His breath came out in pained pants and it was all he could do to remain still.

"Pull somethin' like this again an' the fact that the doc don't wash his hands is gonna be the least of your problems," her voice was little more than a low growl as she pulled out of his grasp. With one last look at her handiwork she turned on her heel for the door. She stopped for a second, hand on the latch, and sighed, smirk curving her lips. "Fuck you, Jack,"

#black sails #fanfic #fan fiction #anne bonny #jack rackham

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vegas9 · 10 years

Photo

My resolution for 2014 is to do more work on Koani's story that can be posted on tumblr (I won't post any direct novel content, so 2,000 words a day doesn't mean much to this blog ^^")

Regardless, this is a drawing I did of Koani as an omari for the Bloodfury tribe summoning Kan'nagi. Dear god that is a confusing sentence because just make all this shit up.

Right, so, I'll definitely have to write clarifying posts about all of this because I have a very messy, pages long encyclopedia-like word document, but no "central database" to speak of which is what this is supposed to be.

Rambling aside, Koani is doing some big bruja-ha summoning of a major spirit with blood magic! Yes, that is as dangerous and as bad as an idea as it sounds.

http://sp-gorse.deviantart.com

#art #OC #Original Character #Dragon #Spirit #Summoning

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vegas9 · 11 years

Text

The Tale of Kaeshra

Long ago, before the Dragon Wars were a breath on the wind, there was a nomadic tribe of desert traders. Their skin was darkened by sun and sand, and their hair light from the golden rays. They were a hardy people, built small and strong to survive their harsh climate home. Guided by the seasons, they would traverse the desert, going north in the dry season, and south in the wet. They bartered much-needed salt for gold and spices that could then be sold for heavy linen and camels. For a nominal fee they would guide travelers through the dangerous and unforgiving terrain.

They were people of simple pleasures. They worked hard, lived day to day, and laughed often. Life was something to be celebrated, and wen the young wife of the caravan leader gave birth to a healthy baby girl there was music, and dancing, and feasting well into the night. The child grew to be a beautiful little girl with hair the colour of the sun, skin the colour of the sands, and eyes the colour of cloudless summer skies. But there was something about the girl, something that was simply more.

It started with the sand; it would rise up and plate her skin of its own accord. It could not be dislodged by anyone but the girl herself. Soon other strange things began to occur. The deadly sandstorms came, but the entire caravan was protected by the girl, shielded by her will. They named her Kaeshra, “she who could speak to the winds”.

One night, when the tribe was deep in sleep, the change occurred. Kaeshra was woken by a sharp pain in her chest. Her whimpers awoke her mother. The girl could not speak around the pain. The air became thin and she was unable to draw breath. Her mother carried her out into the cool night air and woke everythone. No one knew what was happening to the beloved little girl who had begun to seize and foam at the mouth. Her mother held her close and stroked her hair.

The girl's skin began to ripple and her form began to heave. Then, in a burst of wind and light, she had become something else, something unlike anything the desert traders had ever seen. She was a winged creature, with four legs and a long tail. She was covered in sandy scales and plated armor of stone and sand. The pupils of both eyes had drawn to slits and the shape of her head and face had all together changed and she possessed four graceful horns.

But as quickly as she had changed, Kaeshra became human again. She breathed slowly as sweat dripped from her brow. When questioned she could not say what had happened for sure, only that the desert had been calling her in her dream and she'd dove into the sand.

These nightly changes went on for many cycles of the northern moon. But one day, they stopped entirely.

As she grew, so did her power. She could wear many forms between being human and the winged creature the traders now knew was a dragon. She could control the winds and fashion animate beings from the sand.

Sadly, these same powers froze her physical age as that of a young woman. Everyone around her aged, but she did not. She stayed with her people regardless and was much loved for her knowledge and power over the desert. She became well-known in the outlying cities skirting the desert. She was sought out by suitors and scholars alike and gave blessings of hope to those who wished to travel the desert.

It did not take long for word of her to finally reach the ears of the eight dragonflights who were now decades into their war. She had been left alone for three-hundred years, regarded as nothing more than a myth. There had been no solitary dragons before or since her birth. Only a few cults of scions had been gifted with dragons, but she had been born to otherwise human parents.

The Cloud Flight came to her first. Their king Couros attempted to court her as nothing more than an elven traveler, but she was wise to his plot. She promised him nothing and crossed the desert. He tried to follow her as a master of the air, but Kaeshra had become known as the will of the desert. She called a sandstorm the likes of which had never been seen. Couros was blinded by the sands and battered by winds he could not manipulate. He lost his bearings and fell from the sky. No one knows exactly what harm befell him, but he was never seen again.

After Couros's failed attempt there was unrest among the Cloud Flight. They sent a delegation to meet the enigmatic Kaeshra.

Kaeshra hosted the air dragons alongside her people in their modest holdings just outside the bustling trading post of Jirkara. She told them she had no knowledge of their missing king – the desert is an immense and dangerous place. After a simple, but delicious meal, the dragons left, presumably to wherever they had come from.

But that night Kaeshra was woken by the sound of creeping footsteps. It was no one of her caravan for they all walked soundlessly across sand and stone. She stole away from her pallet and arranged pillows under the light sheet to mimic her sleeping form. One by one, she awoke the rest of her people and they waited in silence.

When the delegation from the Cloud Flight attacked, seeking vengeance for their fallen king, the desert walkers were ready. They rose up and shielded Kaeshra as she armored them in plates of sand. Dragons are stronger and faster than humans, but Kaeshra called an army of wind and light.

It was not the last time a flight would come to Kaeshra either seeking alliance or her death. Before long the war was at her doorstep. As the battles spilled into the desert it became harder and harder for her to protect the people merely going about their lives. To the east the Cloud Flight conquered small human cities for resources, to the north and west the Stonewardens battled the Darkling Horde.

The flights used the desert as a battlefield and there were many civilian casualties, people were dying because of a war they would have no part in were it not for an accident of geography.

The final straw was the Battle of Night. The Darkling Horde had never had the good sense to stay on their own continent. During the battle the orcs called the darkness and the noonday sun gave way to a starless night. Kaeshra took it upon herself to end the senseless killing. She ascended to the sky, higher than ever before. Using all the power she possessed she chased away the night and called for powerful sandstorms to bury the armies. For nine days and nights the dragon armies were battered by the full wrath of the desert. Those that did not die were forever lost – forced to wander the shifting sands until death finally claimed them.

To this day the Puli Desert boasts twin suns. Kaeshra, the will of the desert, protects caravans and assaults bandits. Any dragon who enters the desert, even if they mean no harm, will be forever lost, subject to the unrelenting wrath of Kaeshra.

In these troubled times she lends her name to those born without a flight. These solitary children owe their very lives to her vow and are rare, but always very powerful. More commonly however, the term “kashra” is a racial slur among dragons for those who are of mixed-blood.

Hasha ach Serkar Third Turn

#dragons #short story #original character #original mythology

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