Tryckthebard - Tumblr Posts
"Hey, you're that guy, aren't you?"
Halsin paused before he turned back to look at the other, one large shoulder shrugging. "It depends on who you are looking for." He offered the words with a small smile, scared forehead furrowing just a bit. There was no immediate recognition, but, with as many that came looking for him for various reasons he wasn't phased by it. "Did you need some help?" - It was a fair assumption about why they'd come his way.
Sex is a part of nature. I go along with nature.
The Druid chuckled deeply as he did a once over, hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. “I am a most humble servant of nature.” He offered. He has never been one to allow himself many distractions - however, with the shadow curse lifted and Ketheric defeated maybe it was past time.
2. to skinny dip with my muse
They were taking a couple of days before they pressed on, giving them all a chance to relax and recover a bit. Even without the presence of a tadpole Halsin still felt the creeping anxiety that spread across their companions.
"The water is great," Halsin said as he lazily paddled just enough to stay afloat. It was clear, crisp in a way that just felt clean - even the rocks that lined the bottom of the spring were the most beautiful colors, smoothed over from years of the water rushing over them.
❛ you can kiss me, you know. ❜ - @tryckthebard
&. 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.
“Can I, now?” Rather than looking up from her book—a Laerakondan favorite she hadn’t expected to find so far from home, the fairytale adventure of a dread pirate and the woman he loves—Anne turns the next page. Did she read the last of what Wesley was saying about the stupid oversized rats? No. No she didn’t, having flown into a full panic she’s very keen on keeping disguised. She can only hope he won’t see the way the book trembles in her hands.
Is this…a joke? A prank? The result of a lost bet? It’s so hard to say. Anne’s been with the party long enough to have gotten comfortable with them (clearly: here she sits reading as if that hadn’t still been a hidden guilty pleasure only a few short weeks ago!), but certainly no one’s indicated an interest in her. Or her in them, in fairness. Is he just teasing her?
The silence hits critical mass between them and Anne knows her chance to respond is now or never. After another short second of deliberation, she decides on the obvious best course: make it his problem again.
“Why am I the one doin’ the kissing, hey? I en’t the one sitting about bored.”
Gods help her: for all her nerves and grit, Anne Bonny is not a woman gifted in romance. Truly she is a fighter, not a lover, and with the scars to prove it. She’s been left scarred—literally—by love and romance, and, though her pride would never let her say as much, she’s scared shitless of it all now.
Sex is one thing, love is another, and kissing certainly lends itself to the latter over the former.
“You can kiss me, y’know, if yer taste is shite enough t’stomach it.” She’s a bit proud at the way that puts it back on him, the sudden expectation of action.
Gods almighty—! Anne’s face glows scarlet, the heat coming off of it enough to cool an egg on. Why…why is everything a sexual innuendo in this party?! She’s hardly a prude, but when it’s leveled at her, she doesn’t know what to do with sex talk, any more than she does flirtatious banter without a sword attached. It doesn’t make any damned sense to her why not, but without a weapon in hand and a reason to use it, she can’t find a word to volley back in return.
So Anne scoots over instead, suddenly mute, and hopes in passing that the wriggler in her brain chooses now to sprout tentacles. It’d be awfully convenient if it did bring so swift and end to her humiliation, though, and that’s how she knows the fucker won’t get up to it now.
…damned bard’s going to make it worse if she doesn’t say anything at all, isn’t he?
“Ye can afford t’have better taste than that, y’know. Might be slim pickings out here but even I can do better than a two-but pirate twat.” Insulting herself makes her smirk, puts a weapon back in her hand: her lashing tongue. Even turned against herself she’s glad for the stupid thing.
@neverhangd
"What are you going to do? Spank me?"
Tryck paused, raising a brow as he looked at Anne with a tiny bit of a smirk. All he did was ask her to move over so that he could have more room to sit beside the fire.
"I hardly think it's worth a spanking, my dear," Tryck chuckled, the corner of his lip tugging the smirk a little wider. "I've no objection to bending you over my knee if that's what you're into, though. Is that what you're into... Anne?"
❛ there they go , here we stay . ❜ Pirate!Tryck probably bitching about them getting left behind on the ship again.
I can’t find the meme :(
Setting her finger on the line of numbers so she won’t lose where she is—pirates are a lot poor in education and the captain was glad to have someone else with a head for numbers aboard, even if she is a woman—Anne looks to where Tryck sits beside the porthole window. He almost looks like he’s pining for the outside, making wistful wishes through the glass.
Unlike Tryck, evidently, Anne knows what’s going on on that beach he keeps yearning for: once all the dinghies have landed and are pulled up the sands, the men will pitch tents and get straight to drinking. That’s how it always happens when they make landfall. The only difference is that they get rooms in port, where there’s no room for a tent.
She shrugs, looking back down at the smudged graphite of the ledger.
“I’d’ve picked t’stay even if I were offered different. The only things ye’re missing over there are drinking and dumbassery. ‘S’always the same.”
I absolutely love your Anne. Fierce and sassy, but she's got this amazing vulnerable side that I think really fits especially for a historical portrayal. I love everything I read and I definitely enjoy our interactions and look forward to many more <3
tell me your honest opinion of my portrayal
Thank you for sending this in. It means a lot to me. 💕
Anne has been my obsession for a while now and I’m glad other people see merit to her and to my writing! I worry I overdo her vulnerability and press too hard into the grimdark, especially with regards to her backstory, so it’s reassuring to hear that her vulnerability in particular stands out as a positive! There’s this quote I don’t fully recall, about being the dog that bites out of fear. Even though I still say she’s a street cat, Anne is that dog. It’s important to me that her vulnerability reads, because it tempers the nastiness she can otherwise be/bring.
For the briefest of moments, it looks like the discomfort’s done with, like she can cajole him into debating the relative merit of making eyes at a few party members like they’re still among the city crowds—and then Tryck opens his mouth again and Anne actually groans out loud. She was going to pick on the wizard or the elf next, but noooo, she’s trapped in a hell of her own creation. Damn her idiot tongue!
She wouldn’t mind Tryck’s teasing if it didn’t feel so…pointed. He gave it out to everyone, sure, but somehow when it turned on her it made her an idiot. It sometimes seemed more intentional than playful, but toward what intention, Anne couldn’t even begin to guess.
“—Fuck’s sake. Ye’re exhausting, ye know that? Ye asked me t’move over, I moved over! What more of an answer are ye looking for?” As if she didn’t know. Although there is reason to doubt that she knew the answer regardless.
Gods almighty—! Anne’s face glows scarlet, the heat coming off of it enough to cool an egg on. Why…why is everything a sexual innuendo in this party?! She’s hardly a prude, but when it’s leveled at her, she doesn’t know what to do with sex talk, any more than she does flirtatious banter without a sword attached. It doesn’t make any damned sense to her why not, but without a weapon in hand and a reason to use it, she can’t find a word to volley back in return.
So Anne scoots over instead, suddenly mute, and hopes in passing that the wriggler in her brain chooses now to sprout tentacles. It’d be awfully convenient if it did bring so swift and end to her humiliation, though, and that’s how she knows the fucker won’t get up to it now.
…damned bard’s going to make it worse if she doesn’t say anything at all, isn’t he?
“Ye can afford t’have better taste than that, y’know. Might be slim pickings out here but even I can do better than a two-but pirate twat.” Insulting herself makes her smirk, puts a weapon back in her hand: her lashing tongue. Even turned against herself she’s glad for the stupid thing.
Anne almost immediately wants to argue—this crew isn’t near so rough a sort as her last, her usual, they take to him for plenty reasons other than his dumbassery—but there’s no point in raising an argument when better points come to life. He collapses into the seat across from her and she glances up again, sharpish, more reflex than anything else. She loses her place in the ledger and growls to herself, searching the page over for the last set of numbers she remembers working with.
She gives up instead, flipping the ledger shut and shoving it away. Fucking pointless. And why is she slaving over these numbers, anyway, while the dumbfucks have gone ashore and left her to look over the ship? Tryck is being punished; Anne is being pushed. Tryck they want, clearly, to keep morale high by whatever means—jokes, songs, stories, sex—and disinviting him from making camp was done to shame him for favoring anyone over Captain. Anne they want to be gone as swiftly as possible, kept on for competence and reputation but reviled for her sex and the lack of such she puts out.
“Come on,” Anne orders apropos of nothing but her own sour thoughts; they had flashed across Anne’s face naked as a baby newborn, the way they almost always do. She doesn’t give a rat’s arse for drink or dumbassery—that much is clear—but Tryck does, for whatever idiot fucking reason he does. She bashes her way through the door of the galley, sure Tryck’s hot on her heels without looking.
Fuck the Captain. “I know where Captain keeps his private stores. Sounds like ye’re drinking better’n rotgut tonight.”
@neverhangd continued from here
Setting her finger on the line of numbers so she won’t lose where she is—pirates are a lot poor in education and the captain was glad to have someone else with a head for numbers aboard, even if she is a woman—Anne looks to where Tryck sits beside the porthole window. He almost looks like he’s pining for the outside, making wistful wishes through the glass. Unlike Tryck, evidently, Anne knows what’s going on on that beach he keeps yearning for: once all the dinghies have landed and are pulled up the sands, the men will pitch tents and get straight to drinking. That’s how it always happens when they make landfall. The only difference is that they get rooms in port, where there’s no room for a tent. She shrugs, looking back down at the smudged graphite of the ledger. “I’d’ve picked t’stay even if I were offered different. The only things ye’re missing over there are drinking and dumbassery. ‘S’always the same.”
"But I enjoy the drinking and the dumbassery." Tryck said, continuing his pining for the shore as he looked out the porthole, a heavy sigh escaping his lips for dramatic effect. "I mean, the entire reason the crew tolerates me is because I entertain them with dumbassery while they're drinking. You'd think they'd want to bring the entertainment ashore."
He gives a bit of a pout out the glass before spinning around to walk over and plop himself down in a chair across the table from Anne. At least he had her company. She was one of the few on the ship he actually enjoyed being around and chatting with.
"I feel as if the Captain is punishing me for some reason." He'd joined the crew to escape punishment, finding refuge from the authorities among those that sailed beneath skulls and bones. It did mean it wasn't necessarily a good idea for him to go ashore, depending on where they'd made port.
But this isn't port, this is an island they're stopping at to get supplies from a secret stash they were hipped to by a friendly crew. Tryck still thought it could be a trap, but no one listened to the musician.
"As if it's my fault the new pegboy prefers my hamock to his cabin."
Do you know what passion is? - pirate!tryck
𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒.
The book is lowered against Anne’s chest and her eyes narrow to a squint at his face. Tryck’s a funny one, deserving of his name: tricky. Trustworthy enough for Anne to invade the cabin when he has use of it, to make use of it for her own reading even when she never otherwise would have let herself be caught dead—but questionable enough to ask out-of-the-blue things that feel more like traps. Like this one.
Anne opts for cautious honesty.
“S’like…a real strong fuckin emotion, en’t it? Stronger’n love and lust and the like, but not even half so long-lived.” Leastways that’s what it is in books, like the one she has open right now. She isn’t full sure she’s ever felt it herself, or known anyone who has that she would ask.
❝ I’m going to leave you aching in the morning. And then I’m going to take you again. ❞ pirate!tryck
𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 & 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐄 *
In her right state of mind, Anne would have trouble pinpointing which of her reactions to that was worse: the noise that escaped the back of her throat, the flush starting at her cheeks and spreading to her ears and clavicles, or the way her spine lost all its steel and melted flush against him. In her current state of mind, none of it registers above the thrum of her pulse in her ears, the gooseflesh rising at his touch. It’s fucking mad what they’re doing, all of it, but maybe that’s just what Anne’s needed all along: madness. Of a kind different than anger, that is. As when he’d drunkenly suggested they take the ship and leave the crew, it doesn’t take much convincing at all to bring Anne into the insanity.
It isn’t until Tryck’s slipping his hand between her thighs, until her head’s fallen back on his shoulder with what almost counts as a gasp, that Anne realizes how dead useless she’s turned. She scrambles to gather enough wits to return a favor, any favor, pawing at his head with her dominant hand until he turns in and and dragging him to her for a kiss. Anne’s bite has always been worse than her bark, her actions louder than most because her words were fewer.
She licks the seam of his lips and lets her hand drop away to his thigh. She squeezes it, desperate not to go all the way back under the emotion again: she might drown in it if she does.
It’s funny, the things Tryck has and hasn’t managed to work out in their time temporarily marooned together. He’s learned of her reading habit, that she can play the spoons and doesn’t sing so much as crow, that she holds the thing nearest to her in her sleep even when that’s usually just her own self, that she could burn water left alone at the cookpot and that she’d had a reputation for bullying her tutors, but he somehow still hasn’t learned how to read her self-imposed contradictions.
He’s worked out she likes him, sure, even in the face of her groans and threats and protestations, but he doesn’t yet understand how to read those contradictions. Even now, he takes squirming and desperation for impatience where it’s more…enjoyment. And perhaps a little fighting of the old ego still, an attempt to keep it in check so she can feed the hole where her soul should be. The drive to be noticed, the fear of being seen, the desperate longing for someone to give a damn enough to help her push through: it’s a heady, awful thing.
When his hand slides around to her inner thigh, when he starts to rock against her, Anne curls her hand around to caress his inner thigh. Her head is still swimming and here’s this smug, articulate bastard having a fucking frolic while she struggles to string two words together! She almost manages a smart comeback about preferring full mouths when he skates over a thing she had long assumed other people simply had no idea existed. Her thoughts short out again instead, leaving a renewed flash of heat through her face. Insufferable bastard would most definitely notice, and would have done even if she hadn’t full-body spasmed over it.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! This has become ridiculously embarrassing, especially—she assumes—compared to past liaisons.
“Nnnnn—.” Shit! Anne slams her eyes shut, chastens herself to pull it together, and tries again. That sad attempt at a lie was probably best left stuttered out and surrendered. New tactic: change course.
She massages his inner thigh for a moment, watches herself do it, then lifts her eyes to his. Her hand moves when her eyes do, sliding from thigh to crotch and tracing the outline of what she finds there.
“…hard enough to breathe when ye’re like this,” she says, shaky voice growing firmer with each word, “and now ye want me to talk, too? Didn’t take ye for cruel.”
@neverhangd continued from here
In her right state of mind, Anne would have trouble pinpointing which of her reactions to that was worse: the noise that escaped the back of her throat, the flush starting at her cheeks and spreading to her ears and clavicles, or the way her spine lost all its steel and melted flush against him. In her current state of mind, none of it registers above the thrum of her pulse in her ears, the gooseflesh rising at his touch. It’s fucking mad what they’re doing, all of it, but maybe that’s just what Anne’s needed all along: madness. Of a kind different than anger, that is. As when he’d drunkenly suggested they take the ship and leave the crew, it doesn’t take much convincing at all to bring Anne into the insanity. It isn’t until Tryck’s slipping his hand between her thighs, until her head’s fallen back on his shoulder with what almost counts as a gasp, that Anne realizes how dead useless she’s turned. She scrambles to gather enough wits to return a favor, any favor, pawing at his head with her dominant hand until he turns in and and dragging him to her for a kiss. Anne’s bite has always been worse than her bark, her actions louder than most because her words were fewer. She licks the seam of his lips and lets her hand drop away to his thigh. She squeezes it, desperate not to go all the way back under the emotion again: she might drown in it if she does.
The way she's squirming against him as his fingers tease along the top of her mound through the fabric of her trousers has him grinning against her ear as he says those words. When did they decide this was a good idea? When did they decide anything they were doing was a good idea? Oh yes, the night they stole the ship away...
Of course, they didn't get away with it. Two drunks trying to sail an entire ship on their own? The punishment was worth it, though. Two weeks alone together on that very same island with the supplies cache. It gave Tryck plenty of time to learn the ins and outs of what made Anne tick, wiggle, and squirm like she is now.
Now, it seems they are both more than willing to induce the Captain's ire if it means they can be left alone on that ship together. Well, not entirely alone - one of the crew was always left with them to make sure they don't pull a stunt like that again. But for a few extra silver or bottle of port, most of the crew left with them don't ask questions and tell no tales.
So Tryck has all the time he needs to make Anne moan and writhe, without worry of interruption, which he certainly takes advantage of. He knows damn well she's wanting him to just get on with it, but he can't help making her ache for his touch with his teasing slowness of it all. It makes the final glorious release all the better.
He's devouring her lips right back as his hand wanders lower, rubbing the inside of her thigh, scratching against the fabric that separates his nails from her skin before pressing and rubbing against that sensitive spot right between her legs. When her hand clenches his thigh, he presses himself with a slow rocking against her backside, his arousal straining against his trousers very noticeable.
"What, no witty words? No sharp retort?" Tryck murmured with a chuckle against her lips, sliding his hand upward along her clothed mound again before he's slipping his fingers in through the top of her pants and sliding down through her curls to gently seek out that sensitive pearl of pleasure. Once his fingers caress along that sensitive nub of nerves and flesh, he lets his digits move in slow, languid circles.
"What's the matter, Anne, my dear? Have I rendered you speechless?"
“Ye think that’s nice, ye should see the wine.” She has no idea what’s she saying, going on nothing but the way Captain hides the bottles from the rest of the officers, too dim to realize she’d been watching from the door. He hid the wine and the brandy, so that had to mean something.
Anne pulls the Quartermaster’s misplaced keys from her coat pocket, preferring the ease and discretion they offered over, say…bashing the doorknob in. Up and out she climbs, through the doors and onto the deck. They weren’t locked below or anything, but pulled out in the gloom as they were, she hoped to mask some of their illicit nature. Tryck’s nice and all, but anyone reporting to the Captain’s cabin alone was someone to be kept at an arm’s length. This bit of mischief is something they can both agree on; pickpocketing a crew member while at sea? That’s a bit less…juvenile.
Without a telescope, the crew’s too far away on the beach to see what their outcasts are up to. The Captain finishes his speech, mug held high; the others cheer and toast him right back. Anne is at the cabin door before the ale hits their tongues.
As she so often did when a silence felt in need of bursting, but nothing of importance could come to mind, Anne asked a question over her shoulder that had dick all to do with anything. Just to fill the silence.
“Ye’re bein marooned on an island and the captain lets ye choose three things t’take, but no more than ye can manage t’carry alone. What’re ye taking?”
Anne almost immediately wants to argue—this crew isn’t near so rough a sort as her last, her usual, they take to him for plenty reasons other than his dumbassery—but there’s no point in raising an argument when better points come to life. He collapses into the seat across from her and she glances up again, sharpish, more reflex than anything else. She loses her place in the ledger and growls to herself, searching the page over for the last set of numbers she remembers working with.
She gives up instead, flipping the ledger shut and shoving it away. Fucking pointless. And why is she slaving over these numbers, anyway, while the dumbfucks have gone ashore and left her to look over the ship? Tryck is being punished; Anne is being pushed. Tryck they want, clearly, to keep morale high by whatever means—jokes, songs, stories, sex—and disinviting him from making camp was done to shame him for favoring anyone over Captain. Anne they want to be gone as swiftly as possible, kept on for competence and reputation but reviled for her sex and the lack of such she puts out.
“Come on,” Anne orders apropos of nothing but her own sour thoughts; they had flashed across Anne’s face naked as a baby newborn, the way they almost always do. She doesn’t give a rat’s arse for drink or dumbassery—that much is clear—but Tryck does, for whatever idiot fucking reason he does. She bashes her way through the door of the galley, sure Tryck’s hot on her heels without looking.
Fuck the Captain. “I know where Captain keeps his private stores. Sounds like ye’re drinking better’n rotgut tonight.”
She shuts the door behind them, stopping on her way to the closet to light a lantern on Captain’s desk, just in case. To the right and back, Anne shoves his frocks aside, revealing the hidden cabinet. This she doesn’t have a key for, bending down to examine the lock. Not one she can smash, sadly, leaving her to pat her pockets down for her lockpicks.
Figures he’d think of how to survive. The way people answer her strange little questions says a lot about them, she’s noticed: in this case, that Tryck thinks of himself as a survivor. His choices speak to the long term, a plan to thrive in his survival. Interesting, but a little disappointing. Anne nods, fishing the lockpicks out of her trouser pockets.
“Sounds about right,” she says, just trying to keep the silence from settling in. She isn’t exactly a brilliant conversationalist. She narrows her eyes and focuses on the lock, lapsing into silence despite her best efforts.
“Ye think that’s nice, ye should see the wine.” She has no idea what’s she saying, going on nothing but the way Captain hides the bottles from the rest of the officers, too dim to realize she’d been watching from the door. He hid the wine and the brandy, so that had to mean something.
Anne pulls the Quartermaster’s misplaced keys from her coat pocket, preferring the ease and discretion they offered over, say…bashing the doorknob in. Up and out she climbs, through the doors and onto the deck. They weren’t locked below or anything, but pulled out in the gloom as they were, she hoped to mask some of their illicit nature. Tryck’s nice and all, but anyone reporting to the Captain’s cabin alone was someone to be kept at an arm’s length. This bit of mischief is something they can both agree on; pickpocketing a crew member while at sea? That’s a bit less…juvenile.
Without a telescope, the crew’s too far away on the beach to see what their outcasts are up to. The Captain finishes his speech, mug held high; the others cheer and toast him right back. Anne is at the cabin door before the ale hits their tongues.
As she so often did when a silence felt in need of bursting, but nothing of importance could come to mind, Anne asked a question over her shoulder that had dick all to do with anything. Just to fill the silence.
“Ye’re bein marooned on an island and the captain lets ye choose three things t’take, but no more than ye can manage t’carry alone. What’re ye taking?”
She’s still getting used to this, in more ways than one. It’s due to more of those things Tryck doesn’t know about, Anne’s sexual history—a dark shadow looming behind them, bound to come up one of these days if they keep at this. For now, however, it’s little more than an uncomfortable prick in Anne’s side, something she tries to ignore. This isn’t usually how it goes.
—Well. This is usually how it goes with Tryck, but as with Tryck is a recent addition to it, this simply isn’t normally how it goes. She’s usually the one face first in the other’s lap, putting her idiot tongue to the only thing it’s proven good at. (Blow and go—no entanglements, just fun.) She hadn’t ever had it done to her before Tryck, and was fast discovering just how devastating it could truly feel. No wonder it had been so easy to ply people with it. It’s even got Anne shoving her fist in her mouth, biting herself so she doesn’t scream from it.
It’s an obscene sight, the top of Tryck’s dark head of hair bobbing over her lap, one leg hooked over his shoulder. What’s she finally done right, getting this? Her eyes roll to the back of her head at one insistent look, a strained sound leaking out her throat as warmth coiled tighter in her belly, pebbling her nipples as the tension increased. God—! Fuck—! What is she meant to do?! She can only gasp and whine and, finally, reach for him. This feels lopsided, unfair to Tryck in a way she wouldn’t think of as unfair to herself in his same situation. But getting hard to think with the electric fire zapping through her body right now.
It’s funny, the things Tryck has and hasn’t managed to work out in their time temporarily marooned together. He’s learned of her reading habit, that she can play the spoons and doesn’t sing so much as crow, that she holds the thing nearest to her in her sleep even when that’s usually just her own self, that she could burn water left alone at the cookpot and that she’d had a reputation for bullying her tutors, but he somehow still hasn’t learned how to read her self-imposed contradictions.
He’s worked out she likes him, sure, even in the face of her groans and threats and protestations, but he doesn’t yet understand how to read those contradictions. Even now, he takes squirming and desperation for impatience where it’s more…enjoyment. And perhaps a little fighting of the old ego still, an attempt to keep it in check so she can feed the hole where her soul should be. The drive to be noticed, the fear of being seen, the desperate longing for someone to give a damn enough to help her push through: it’s a heady, awful thing.
When his hand slides around to her inner thigh, when he starts to rock against her, Anne curls her hand around to caress his inner thigh. Her head is still swimming and here’s this smug, articulate bastard having a fucking frolic while she struggles to string two words together! She almost manages a smart comeback about preferring full mouths when he skates over a thing she had long assumed other people simply had no idea existed. Her thoughts short out again instead, leaving a renewed flash of heat through her face. Insufferable bastard would most definitely notice, and would have done even if she hadn’t full-body spasmed over it.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! This has become ridiculously embarrassing, especially—she assumes—compared to past liaisons.
“Nnnnn—.” Shit! Anne slams her eyes shut, chastens herself to pull it together, and tries again. That sad attempt at a lie was probably best left stuttered out and surrendered. New tactic: change course.
She massages his inner thigh for a moment, watches herself do it, then lifts her eyes to his. Her hand moves when her eyes do, sliding from thigh to crotch and tracing the outline of what she finds there.
“…hard enough to breathe when ye’re like this,” she says, shaky voice growing firmer with each word, “and now ye want me to talk, too? Didn’t take ye for cruel.”
The smile on Tryck’s lips is one she’s seen a few times to date, and it never ends well for the person he’s smiling at. It’s supposed to mean mischief, but in reality, it just means the blue fuck’s a-scheming again. Honestly—all this work just to get a rise out of her? There’s got to be someone more entertaining than her to fluster; certainly there are others that can at least lob back a halfway decent flirtation or two, unlike her. So why someone with Tryck’s wiles—his looks, sure, fine, but more importantly his cunning, his confidence, the bright magnetism of his personality—would be so stuck on her is a mystery, at least to her.
Rough waters make for rough crews, and rough crews for rough living. Anne hadn’t led a life that wasn’t rough in almost a decade, experiencing her softest time to date with a fucking parasite lodged behind her eye. Time spent at the hands of smaller, crueler men and made a small, cruel crumple of the woman sitting beside Tryck now.
Lord Almighty, but he likes to dance about, don’t he? He eats his food and shrugs as he talks—honest, she isn’t a prude. She’s fucked before! Plenty of times! Maybe what they say about bards is true, though, and he’s looking to make a notch of her yet.
He’ll be sorely disappointed if so.
“‘Friad ye’ll need more’n a blanket and a bottle of the swill we keep here t’get me in your bunk. I en’t the camp whore anymore’n I were the captain’s whore. It’ll be you and yer hand tonight, I fear, ‘less ye ply that pretty tongue of yers to someone else’s ear.”
For the briefest of moments, it looks like the discomfort’s done with, like she can cajole him into debating the relative merit of making eyes at a few party members like they’re still among the city crowds—and then Tryck opens his mouth again and Anne actually groans out loud. She was going to pick on the wizard or the elf next, but noooo, she’s trapped in a hell of her own creation. Damn her idiot tongue!
She wouldn’t mind Tryck’s teasing if it didn’t feel so…pointed. He gave it out to everyone, sure, but somehow when it turned on her it made her an idiot. It sometimes seemed more intentional than playful, but toward what intention, Anne couldn’t even begin to guess.
“—Fuck’s sake. Ye’re exhausting, ye know that? Ye asked me t’move over, I moved over! What more of an answer are ye looking for?” As if she didn’t know. Although there is reason to doubt that she knew the answer regardless.
“ there’s a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. it would be a pity to damage yours. ” pirate!tryck because Wesley is literally his voice XD
⚔ the princess bride sentence starters ⚔
Anne snorts and musses Tryck’s hair, lolling her head against the pillow.
“Ye’re on’y saying that ‘cause it’s the first pair ye’ve had at eye-level at all times.”
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?"
😲
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.
@tryckthebard made the fatal mistake of befriending me. 😈
The moment Tryck followed her off the ship and into the streets of Nassau, Anne knew she was done for. It was one thing to speak plans into the air while at sea, drunk on intimacy and affection, but quite another to act on them in the full light of day on unsure shores. Every man she’d made the mistake of before (and now with) Tryck was a good talker. But a good doer? He would be the first.
And she would hang herself by his violin strings before admitting that she’d only learned the literal truth of being made weak in the knees at the thought of him now.
“Thyself shalt see the act. For, as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice more than thou desir’st,” Anne reads. It would appear she’s most ways through the thin book in her hands, and from the shine in her eyes, it’s clear there’s conflict afoot in the plot. It’s one of Anne’s favorite plays, having often been called dubbed Portia—and Kate, and Viola, and a few other notables—by her father in her youth. It isn’t hard to guess why. The trickiest bit of this scheme, Anne’s favorite meting out of true justice, is mere lines away when the bed creaks again.
As before, she glances up at check it; very much not as before, the occupant in it is clearly awake. Anne does a double take before removing her feet from the frame of the bed, the front two legs of her chair slamming back down on the floor.