#anne bonny/max

[van1lla-v1lla1n]

Ooh for a black sails fic Flint/Rackham or Max/Anne.

some anne/max hurt/comfort for you, my friend! (plus a dash of anne/jack for good measure)

summary: Anne returns to the beach to care for Max, then works out her muddled feelings with Jack.

this is set around eps. V-VI so sexual assault is a prominent theme; please mind the tags <3

ask re: this post

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 28 - In Which Everything is Going Splendidly

Charles nods to the young Black boy who has been guarding the entrance to the underground fight ring the last few times he's gone. There's a scar marking him as a member of a street gang on his collar bone, just barely visible above the ratty white vest he's wearing. The boy is too young to be an enforcer just yet, can't be more than thirteen or so, but Charles would bet that's where he's headed. Guard duty sometimes involves turning away idiots who've been banned for one reason or another, and that sometimes requires hitting them with a tire iron, or the baseball bag the kid's got leaning against the wall next to him. Makes for good training.

He gets nodded through by “security” and Charles feels the scar above his own clavicle pull as he heaves open the rusty scissor gate on the freight elevator that leads down to the maintenance basement where this nights fight is happening. The office park has been abandoned since it was half-built as part of the speculative real estate boom in the 80s, right before construction was halted during the subsequent crash in the 90s, and it's one of the been in bankruptcy limbo ever since.

See, Charles has been picking up some new property valuation skills over the past year or so and it's become like second nature to assess whatever rotting hulk of a warehouse or car park or office tower he ends up in, even though they're not particularly interested in corporate spaces. And the return in investment on a place as rundown as this wouldn't make it worth it even if they were.

Charles descends into the musty depths, past mildew streaked walls and industrial lighting. Every other bulb appears burnt out or broken, even behind the metal cage guarding each light, and much of the descent is in darkness. When he reaches the sub-basement, it's not much better. Emergency lighting illuminates the cracked and water stained corridor before he's spit out into the vast, open, empty sub basement. Shop lights have been strung up in a corner, and all the street toughs and gangsters have congregated there, waiting to beat the everloving shite out of each other.

He greats the few he knows well enough for casual drinks down the pub. And a few who are as close to rivals as he knows anymore. The ones who want to throw themselves at him to see if he'll eventually break. To see if there's a crack in his defenses, to see if he's weak, the way he was always afraid ofbeing.

They generally end up broken instead, crawling off to whatever stinking hole they're squatting in to lick their wounds before trying again next week.

He doesn't blame them. He did the same thing when he was starting out. Half-starved and wild and willing to get himself beaten half to death just to prove himself to the man who held his leash.

And maybe someday they'll turn on their leader, their master, the same way Charles did, and be free.

He also tries to greet some of the newcomers that have been showing up the last couple of months. They're mostly from the Bahamas and it might help sell their cover as former residents of the islands if they're friendly. Plus Max likes any intel he can get on new gangs forming to fill the power vacuum left by him and Flint, and to a lesser extend, Jack. Jack who had handed control of his little drug empire over to one of his smarter and less addicted pushers, who's running things pretty much same as usual unless Jack makes a special request for them to attend this or that party. But that doesn't mean the chosen successor will actually be a success and Charles tries to keep an ear to the street during fight nights. Toughs are as inclined to gossip as anyone, in his experience.

Except the Bahamians, who pretty much stick to themselves and don't seem inclined to talking much even then.

They do seem to be keeping an eye on Charles, though, as much as he keeps an eye on them. Subtle glances from across the room, blink and you'll think you imagined it. Caught only out of the corner of your eye, but glaringly obvious if you know what you're looking at.

They're sizing him up for some reason. And he doesn't think it has anything to do with the fighting tonight.

But Max says they're nothing to worry about. She still has her finger on the pulse of the street. Still owns it. All the pickpockets and cutpurses. All the street corner pushers. Mid-level gang bosses pay tribute to her, and she's starting to get her grip on the white collar criminals and the government officials they own, thanks to their new identities as respectable people. So if Max says don't worry about it, Charles won't. And instead he'll lose himself in the calm he feels before the rush of blood and adrenaline of a fight.

Councilor Featherstone shuffled another application for planning permission from the friend of an enemy to the bottom of the ever-growing stack. Ordered an ecological impact survey to be conducted for one proposed building site in Wales and waived it for another.

Life was good. He had a beautiful, loving wife. A large, well decorated home in a fashionable suburb, usually reserved for Westminster types – or minor nobles. His neighbor was a baronet! They nodded regally to one another in passing! He was finally getting the sort of recognition a person of his position deserved.

The bribes. The fancy dinners. The consulting fees for do-nothing jobs on various boards and committees. The friends (Jack) in high places, able to connect him to the world of wealth and privilege he'd only been able to dream of before. The sort of wealth and privilege he'd only been able to rub shoulders with as he'd stammered and stuttered his way through long dinners with department heads who all knew each other from their posh grammar schools.

Now he's able to hold his own during those long, boring dinners. Now he has people hanging on his every word.

Yes, life was good. And he owed it all to Jack.

Jack who had a head for business, and real estate investment in particular, that was nigh uncanny. Every investment a hit. Every piece of property picked up for a song and turned around at a monumental profit. A profit he got to share in.

Every piece of planning permission he signed off on, rubber stamped, moved to the head of the queue just got him a bigger slice of the pie. A pie Lord Hamilton had never been particularly inclined to share, keeping the payout for himself and fuck everyone who actually made any of his little deals happen.

Featherstone thumps his heavy antique desk (a gift from Jack) with his heavy antique gold ring (another gift from Jack) and pushes Lord Hamilton and his unreasonable attitude out of his mind. Yes, things were looking up with new business partners – who treated him like a real partner – and the future seems brighter still.

[kuzuyamii]

happy anniversary to whatever is going on in this show

[a-story-is-true]

good luck, babe!

[rebelsafoot]

HAPPY TENTH ANNIVERSARY BLACK SAILS THANK YOU FOR GIVING THEM TO ME

[amarantheia]

Today's a personal Black Sails Anniversary for me, so posting this drawing of my faves from my fave show as a tiny celebration

[skrunglesage]

black sails is about them. to me.

[jennaflare]

long ago you summoned what was coming / it was creeping on a come up / now it's right up in your face / face it

(youtube)

[manabombs]

text free + close ups ✨

[samuelroukin]

#parallels BLACK SAILS (2014—2017) Chapter XI

[john-silvers]

BLACK SAILS, SEASON 2 January 24, 2015 - March 28, 2015 Average IMDB Episode Rating: 8.5/10

[mr-culper]

The beautiful person who edited this had to cut the video in half for twitter, but you can enjoy it in its entirety here.

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans - Chapter 28: In Which Jack Cons Another One and Eme Runs Essentially the Entire Enterprise

Jack's at another fucking cocktail party, just one of the innumerable he's forced to attend in pursuit of a mark. This particular cocktail party doesn't even do him the courtesy of being novel. It's hosted at yet another swanky hotel, hosted by yet another nouveau rich hedge fund manager. They all tend to blend together, the hotel bars and the sharks in suits, with their Rolexes on their wrists and blood in their eyes and no warmth in their perfect pearly smiles.

It gets rather exhausting trying to tell them apart, but the sell is all in the details so Jack's made himself flash cards and always makes sure to brush up on any potential marks – and their friends, enemies, and grandmothers – ahead of any little soiree he may encounter them at. It's the personal touch, after all, that makes all the difference.

This particular mark is special in that his girlfriend of the hour (fiance to hear her talk, cheap slag if you listen to his golfing buddies, investment firm frenemies, and old college chums, which may be why they're keeping the engagement quiet despite the size of the rock on her twiggy little finger) she's interested in fashion. Oh, every bint who's go the money to be thin and tan and blond has aspirations of modeling. But this one, this one fancies herself the next big runway star.

What's good news for Jack (what makes her different from every other girl like her) is that she's reasonably wealthy and very, very connected in her own right. Hedge fund arseholes are thick on the ground and Jack doesn't really need to con (to push, to sell his glimmering golden dream to) every single investor he comes across. Sure, Jack's selling this one (and any of his friends who happen to overhear Jack's pitch and look like they might be easy enough to hook over the course of canapes and cocktail waitresses) Jack's selling this lot a real estate venture. Condos along the Thames built over the rotting carcasses of old warehouses. Gilt and glamour now where there used to be commerce and the broken backs of longshoremen. Anyway, he's got the hedge fund managers sufficiently on the hook, their drunken promises signed on bar napkins along with their souls, and his sights are turned elsewhere.

Because nouveau rich investment bankers looking to make a quick million might be a dime a dozen, but nouveau rich investment bankers engaged to young women with aspirations of becoming an international supermodel and ties to moldering old men with titles, estates, and sexual harassment scandals they'd quite like to move overseas to avoid (another potential reason they're keeping the engagement quiet. They're all waiting for the scandal to die down. For their engagement announcement to appear in the papers and not have a tabloid sheet running an expose on dear old dad right next to it.) Marks like that are considerably more rare. And considerably more valuable.

Jack's got some rich new bitch he's scamming which means Anne's gotta get all dolled up in her little PA outfit and pretend to be harmless as Jack gives the grand tour. His workshop at the house, where Charles has been draped artfully over a stupid little sofa. Christine, who does all the actual work. Then the champagne and blow Range Rover ride over to Jack's actual workshop. The one where all the clothes actually get made.

Jack's a success now. He don't have to bother with anything more than mocking up a few ideas that might end up on the runway in muslin cloth for Christine to actually design and the few dozen people Eme found to actually make. That and showing useless rich bitches like this one around.

Sure, Jack might attach a ruffle or sew on a sequin the night before a fashion show. But he's just the front man. The pusher. He doesn't actually make the product. Not when they're pumping out a dozen designer spa robes a fortnight and what feels like hundreds and hundreds of stupid little cushions and scarves and other useless, pretty shite.

Shite Jack's made his bread and butter just as sure as he'd made powder his bread and butter after taking over from Charles. Found what works and stuck with it, has Jack. And just like with powder, they're fighting to keep up with demand.

Oh, couture's all well and good. It gets Jack's name out there. Makes him someone famous. Someone desirable. Someone others want their names associated with. But the number of people who actually care about high fashion is relatively small.

Making it in that world opens doors to the upper echelons of society but it doesn't make you a household name. Doesn't get your plush spa robes (with tasteful monogram logo) into the bathrooms of everyone making north of six figures. Or those that want others to think they do.

It doesn't get high society girls throwing themselves all over you in the hopes you'll see then, notice them, if just for a moment. Take them along with you to the world of elegance and glamour you've created yourself to embody. A world they can only dream of.

Because that's the secret everyone knows and no one talks about. The noble. The titled. The silver spoon set nestled in their velvet drawers. There's rot underneath the floorboards of their stately manor homes. There's mildew and cobwebs and rot.

That's why, despite their titles and their lineage and their connections, they need the new money, the new blood. People like Jack and the investment bankers and the American industrial revolution millionaires. New money wants prestige. And the old families need new money, now the agrarian dream's long, long past.

So Jack shows her (woos her with, wows her with) all the shining cutting edge technology that makes dreams (Jack's dreams, her dreams) into reality. And he very carefully doesn't show her the people (Eme's people) who actually make it all happen.

Oh, he's not running a sweat shop. Oh God no. He's a boutique couture house. A small business. Made in Britain. They're paid a fair wage (he's got other avenues of exploitation, no need to exploit his seamstresses) and they don't even really answer to him.

He's just the front for Max, after all. She's the one who's really in charge.

Not that the distinction, between sweatshop labor and honest commerce, would matter to his guest. The diamonds of the first water, the silver spoon set, they've never cared about how the sausage of Empire is actually made. They just turn the handle of the meat grinder from an ocean, a continent, away. Why should they care about the screaming in the slaughterhouse?

Why would they start caring now?

It's better to leave the actual work to the shadows and for Jack to set himself up as a gleaming, shining, gilded beacon of progress and luxury and everything she wants, needs, to see him (and by extension herself) as.

We have power, she tells the young bucks, the hotheaded, the ones with fire in their veins and a desire to take on the whole world all by themselves. To die screaming.

It might not be the power you are used to, she says. The power you hear about, dream about. The power of money and titles. The loud sort of power that sounds in councilor's chambers and company boardrooms. But we have power.

It is a quiet power. The power of shadows and invisibility. The power to go unnoticed in those councilor's chambers, those CEO's boardrooms. The power to be unremarkable and unremarked upon amongst those with with a louder power. The power to listen. To watch. To know.

It is a power that has been chained, harnessed, used to run empires. It is a power that can bring those empires to a dead stop when we all pull together against the yoke. When all of us who have been made into cogs decide at once to stop our motion. When we all stand up and say “We will not move! We will not be made to move by you!” and then the entire machine is forced to halt.

And we should not give that sort of power up for foolish dreams of war and blood and revenge. We should not give it up just to die screaming.

But she knows, deep in her heart that there are those who will not listen. Who will not be content with shadows. And her heart. She is so filled with fear for them. The ones who will die screaming.

[astal-art]

Chill out bro she’s dating both of us you’re my boyfriend in law 

[a-story-is-true]

a story is true, a story is untrue

[brotherconstant]

BLACK SAILS 10th Anniversary Celebration Day Two: Favorite Dynamic: Max/Eleanor

II. • And then what? Then they blockade the island, choke off trade. A few crews will resist, but how long can they survive without my father's support? One by one their numbers will dwindle. The fort will be abandoned. Soldiers will storm the beach. By the time the smoke clears, my father will have arrived. First time he's set foot here in five years waving the royal commission that his bribes purchased and lording over the place. Round of applause, the new governor. Somewhere in London, some foul fuck will get news of all of this, light his pipe and say, "Finally, all is right again in Nassau." XIX. • You saying this ain't real? Of course it is. The fort will be repaired. If he says it, he'll do it. When you first opened that door and showed me the Urca gold, do you know what I saw? A solution. The mortar that would secure the sand beneath our feet. The thing I could offer to England or Spain or whomever arrived here and threatened to reorder things, and say, "Take this and leave me be." Everything is dependent upon that gold, and right now it is sitting in a fort with no guns and full of holes.