Neverhangd - NeverHang'd!

😲

Send a 😲 for your muse to walk in on mine masturbating!

The problem with this camp is that everybody’s got a tent except her. How these fuckers had the wherewithal to pack a fucking tent into their packs, and to grab their packs as they were being hunted out by semi-sentient tentacles, is beyond her. Anne’s lack of tent isn’t a problem nine nights out of ten, but on that tenth night, with her teeth on-edge and her skin not fitting right over her bones, it’s fucking insufferable.

After checking to make sure the resident walking skeleton was off on a wander elsewhere, Anne slips into the ruined chapel and shuts the door behind her. With a sigh she leans back against the wall near the door and slips off her trousers. She doesn’t do this often, but she feels compelled to. There’s a tingle between her legs that refuses to go away—one that grows and warms when she reaches a hand down towards it.

Slipping into fantasy while doing this has always seemed like such a silly thing to her, but then, she’s never had better than her own hand. Maybe fantasy’s more fun with better phantoms to conjure up with it. Right hand rolls up the bottom hem of her blouse before tucking it between her teeth: the cold air on her nipples raises a shudder that tears through her, but it’s far from unpleasant. With a makeshift gag in place to help keep things quiet, Anne turns to petting herself. An errant thought slips through just as she slips a finger between her lower lips, and before long, her ministrations turn from routine to…teasing.

Godsdammit! She’d sooner choke on her own tongue than admit it, but it seems Tryck’s endless parade of come-ons and innuendos have finally sufficiently twisted her up. She lets go of a shaky breath and lets her eyes slip shut. Fine. Fine! Maybe there’s something to all of his teasing, a point to it past just making her squirm for the fun of it. Anne slows herself down, resigned to this illicit self-love affair probably lasting more than the quick eight or so minutes she’d reckoned she would need. Her right hand comes up to cup her tit, pinching the nipple and rolling it between thumb and forefinger; she keens a little at the sound, immediately flushing and glad no one else was nearby to witness it. She pinches it harder and keens again, back arching off the cold stone as she does so—

Just in time for exactly the wrong fucking person to throw open the door and come sauntering in. There’s no making a scene like this less incriminating, leading Anne to freeze completely, locked up on what to do. She stares at Tryck with wide eyes and her heart in her throat, unable to think of anything to say even if she had the presence of mind to spit out her shirt.

Jolly Rodger

JOLLY RODGER is a four-piece rock band of some small reputation thanks to frontman, co-founder, singer, sometimes songwriter, and networking expert Jack Rackham. Jack is joined by co-founder (ex-)girlfriend lyricist bassist Anne Bonny, guitarist Mark Read, and drummer John Silver*. Although the band hit a rough patch after the departure of Silver and the absence of Bonny, when Bonny returned to the band it steadily began to climb in popularity once more. The band continues to go strong today.

Or so Jack(ass) tells those that ask.

In reality, Anne, Mark, and Silver have long been the creative force behind the band. Though Jack sometimes contributes, it’s rarely for anything that doesn’t revolve around his vocal talents. Mark and Silver are musicals heavyweights, but have all the emotional sense of an upset teenager. Anne contributes where she can, in bass lines and lyrics for the most part. When the three come together, with or without Jack, it’s amazing!* The band is named JOLLY RODGER after both the pirate flag and to honor the memory of a now deceased mutual friend who actually brought the group together, their larger-than-life first drummer.

* Shut up, it’s my au and I’ll do as I please!

JOLLY RODGER serves as opening act for the Flying Gang, a much more famous rock band in the same genre. The tour is called the Queen Anne’s Revenge Tour, actually named for Anne. When Silver left JR, he joined TFG as their new drummer and ended up telling them a little bit about Anne from his own perspective. The conversation quickly became an impromptu songwriting session, ending with a new song for a new concept album called Queen Anne’s Revenge. In a twist of fate, Anne broke up with the band she’d co-founded the same day the album dropped. Anne went to ask Silver if she could crash at his since she was now, effectively, homeless. In a bid to keep her in work, Silver got Anne to agree to do the inevitable album tour, even going so far as to get her to agree to sing a few solo songs. That was huge. TGF’s record label was meanwhile contacting JR to get them signed on for that very same tour. Neither exactly knew what the other was up to until it was too late and worlds collided. It’s a very strange situation to be in.

Anne’s not handling her new fame well, and has come to resent Silver for telling the world her story before she could even tell it herself. She’s distanced herself from Mark, her self-admitted best friend, out of fear for his life. Jack believes to this day Anne was unfaithful with Mark, something that became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Anne and Mark only got together in the time between Anne leaving Jack and Anne leaving the band, a nebulous few weeks before Anne snapped and fucked off for Silver’s.

In applicable verses, this timeline is slightly altered, and represents the rise, fall, and recent reappearance of Red Death.

In my quest to find the perfect excuse for a spy story without having to tie Anne into an alphabet institution, I found a loophole that made me giggle in the persona of Red Death. Red Death is a singularly extraordinary individual, at once an expert hacker with extensive knowledge of several alphabet institutions, an enigmatic figure passing through high security spots without a trace, a brutal assassin, and a literary reference to Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of Red Death”. Naturally, Red Death is a shared identity between a few people. By name, Mark Read and Anne Bonny. (Jack was never involved as more than an alibi, actually innocent in it all.) You can imagine what the new visibility on Anne is doing to her career as Red Death.

be obsessed with me, it turns me on

How attractive are you?

She elects not to say anything, but the phrase FUCK YOU certainly comes to mind….

Student: Morning, Miss! You look tired again. Are you sick?

Me, laughing: Little bit! Little bit!

Student: No, Miss, LOTTA bit! Lotta bit!!

It isn’t so much that Anne is surprised that she’s been found out so much as it is that she’s surprised it’s taken them quite so long. In all fairness, Anne had warned the captain that she wouldn’t be sleeping with the rest of the crew. It wasn’t meant as a slight on them, but as a precaution needed on her part. Space, like privacy, is a rare thing on a pirate ship: Anne had carved out something that served as both for her, and nobody questioned it because nobody cared to.

Hidden in the hold amongst the cargo, Anne nightly makes a nest that she stores back up in the morning behind the used crates and barrels. It isn’t much, but it’s better than the sleeplessness that would haunt her otherwise.

The sound of an intrusion pulls Anne from her dreamless slumber. She blinks back into consciousness, immediately pushing herself up and into action. She lights the lantern as she tries to place the sound she’s hearing. It takes a moment for knowing to come and a moment more for realization to hit. She burns herself with the match she’d neglected to attend to, sticking burnt fingers in her mouth as she turns the light low.

She could almost feel bad for the fucker, truly, and can’t blame him for wanting privacy while he attends to himself, but that’s all the more reason to confront him. Anne slips out of the makeshift entrance and around the side, realizing two things almost at once. One is that her intruder is Tryck, making him less an intruder and more an unexpected visitor.

The other is that he’s moaning her name.

How often do friends moan each other’s names? At least outside of sex with each other. And sure, yes, sometimes friends have sex with each other, and sometimes they get walked in on while purely platonically fucking by the one person who wasn’t supposed to be there— Perhaps Anne’s fairly limited experience in the matter oughtn’t be the guide for the norm, actually.

The whole thing dizzies her into a misstep, announcing her presence without her intending to. Even so, it’s obvious she’s caught Tryck on the back foot for a change! It’s…sort of fun, isn’t it?, being the one on the front foot. She sets the lantern down and crosses her arms under her chest. Anne’s no more dressed than Tryck is, save that her blouse the longer, reaching her mid-thigh. Crossing her arms hikes it up, though she doesn’t pay it mind. There’s a smile on her face and in her voice.

“I would, but I’d hate for ye to make a habit of relyin on me t’finish what ye started.”

Those sea green eyes track over him, from the tousled curls about his head and shoulders to the line of his neck, to—fuck it. And fuck poetry. Anne’s gaze drops almost immediately to where Tryck’s literally got his dick in his hand. She cocks her head before dragging her eyes back up to his. For someone normally so reserved, she seems awfully audacious in this moment. There’s a wildfire spark in her eyes.

“Could be convinced otherwise, a’course. If ye’re equal to the task.”

@neverhangd asked

Send a 😲 for your muse to walk in on mine masturbating!

There was very rarely any privacy on a ship amongst a crew of rowdy and randy pirates. Very rarely did one get a chance to be completely alone without some sort of interruption. That certainly didn't stop Tryck from trying to find himself a bit of alone time for some self-love-and-care.

It was late at night, and the snoring of Tryck's cabinmate had been keeping him up, as well as a growing problem in his pants that just wasn't going away. Normally, he might've woken his cabinmate for a quick go, but the other man wasn't really Tryck's type, personality wise, and probably too drunk to give a proper yes. Besides, there'd only been one particular crewmate's bed he'd been actively seeking out these days, and he didn't want to disturb her sleep.

So, he'd snuck out, giving the excuse to the nightwatch that he woke up with a terrible thirst and was just going to grab a quick bottle from down in the hold. He even promised to bring one up for the watch, which secured his entrance into the hatch.

Was he proud of what he was doing? Absolutely not, but sometimes a need like this must be tended too. He'd found himself a secluded spot behind a few empty barrels in the back of the hold. Letting his pants and briefs drop down around his ankles, he gave a little groan of relief as his hardened cock was free and the cool air in the hold tingled against his skin.

He quickly wrapped his hand around his cock, leaning against the barrel as he bent over and closed his eyes. His mind began to conjure images of his recently most frequent bedmate, of long red locks falling over pale, naked shoulders. Of green eyes looking at him with a piercing desire he found himself longing to succumb to over and over again. He stroked himself in long, steady strokes, using his thumb to tease the tip of his cock with his thumb, imagining it to be her talented tongue.

Tryck felt his desire building with every stroke, picturing perfectly beautiful breasts that fit just right in his hands and tasted even better with his tongue. His lips were parted with a panting moan as he got closer to release, and he couldn't help himself from moaning out her name...

"Anne..."

That's when he heard the planks of the floor squeak just to the side and behind him, and he realized as his eyes snapped open that he wasn't alone. He cursed under his breath and quickly tried to pull his pants up as he spun around, but then saw those sea-green eyes staring at him shimmering in the lantern she was holding.

"Anne!" There was a small squeak to his voice as he cleared his throat, he stopped bothering trying to hide what he was doing with a mixture of embarrassment and relief in his voice. Normally eloquent, he was stumbling a bit over his words from the surprise wearing off.

"I... um... I don't suppose you'd want to help me finish what you interrupted?"