Tryckthebard - Tumblr Posts - Page 2
"Well, I know if I called you my Bonnie Lass, I can kiss my jewels goodbye." Tryck's already holding his hands up defensively. "And so... I will simply call you my Fiery Lass... both for that hair of yours, and the temperament I've come to so greatly admire." (pirate verse)
Send in a Pet Name / Nickname that your muse might call mine, and see how my muse reacts to it.
He earns himself a cutting glance at the first suggestion—seems he expected that, though, with his hands up to halt her fire—but Anne…doesn’t hate Tryck’s second suggestion. She settles back against him slowly, thoughtfully, long legs dangling off the railing as she looks out on the sea. Her fault for suggesting this game, maybe, but she feels a little embarrassed not to have something to call him back. She doesn’t usually deal in nicknames outside of the general—shit-dick, fucker, twat, the classics—and the self-given. Blackbeard. Black Bart. Spanish Jackie. So he’d be…Tryck. Disappointing. Anne watches the waves for a while in a silence, but, finding nothing, actually offers her own answer unprompted.
“Dunno what I’d call. Probably just mine.”
؟
Send me a ؟ for a random thought my muse has about yours.
Can’t get him fucking Shakespeare, that’s a shite gift, but the hell’s he gonna do with more coin? Nowhere to spend it out here! He’s had twice the sexual adventures I have, can’t be anything he likes but hasn’t tried yet, never mind discovering something new. Just as early as riser as me, so no sense in trying to finish his chores ahead of him waking…fuck. The hell are ye supposed to get someone with more than you?!
@tryckthebard ‘cause I was feeling silly~
Two weeks in Nassau have restored Anne Bonny to the blithe bitch that set the port alight in the first place. Gone is the aloof, alone Anne with her crossed arms and her trustless gaze—but gone too is the Anne who would huff and roll her eyes at Tryck’s antics but never once pushed him away. In her place is a rowdier woman, the first woman, the one who came to raise hell and left with ash under her nail.
When Anne turns away from the bar with a pint held triumphantly in each hand, you can see the first one in her form, the full-throated rebel yell she had been building herself to become in those days. It’s a glimpse of Anne uneroded, the mountain she might have become.
How much of this is Anne, and how much of this is Nassau? It shouldn’t be this hard to tell.
Anne’s beer is gone unnervingly fast; the other she pounds the table with, leaving it in front of Tryck. She blows a kiss to Spanish Jackie—beloved friend and proprietor of the bar they now occupy—which is waved off with an affectionate roll of the eyes as Jackie left for the evening. Anne falls backwards into Tryck’s lap, arms going around his neck to help keep her balance. This is possibly the least sober she’s been in years, certainly in recent memory!
“And that…is how ye fuckin negotiate. Three nights free and ye don’t even have to let her ogle ye!”
♡
Send ♡ to see what my muse thinks of yours
LOW | ●●●●● | HIGH
●●●●○ | ATTRACTION - Tryck’s not Anne’s usual type at all, but that doesn’t make him any less attractive.
●●●●● | AFFECTION - She’s quite literally embarrassed by how much she likes Tryck. It’s both at odds with her tough guy persona and not something she’s used to dealing with.
●●●●● | INTEREST - She gets this way about all of her romantic interests…but like. In fairness. They’re all really interesting! And Tryck’s no exception.
●●●●● | LOYALTY - He followed her to New Providence; she’ll follow him to Hell and back.
●●●●● | TRUST - See above. My baby’s a simple woman.
●●●●● | OVERALL - 10/10 dynamic, no notes.
“…classical education. Father insisted.” And of them, Shakespeare and Marlowe—at least of the Elizabethans—were her favorites. (Homer will always hold a special place in her heart, thanks to that years-spanning odyssey.) She doesn’t know a single of his shows word for word, but beat for beat she could retell each story.
Her past has been a story left untold, a fact that makes her fidgety in the sharing of it. She wants to tell Tryck. She wants to share the stories she keeps to herself, the derring-do’s a fire-eyed teenager with blazing red hair: the music teacher scared off with a slamming of the piano’s lid, the weeks of lessons wasted on history she paid no mind to until getting her way, the rowdy alehouse punter who had caught the eyes and the hearts of damned near every pirate she’d met until now. She’s never wanted to share her past before, preferring it to lie in the ashes of an estate fire she set herself. Tell truth, she isn’t entirely sure how to share it now, only that she wants to more often than not these days.
“…it, ah. Tryna get used to…talking, again. Thought maybe if I read to ye sleepin I might be less shit at it when ye were awake.” Out loud, the holes in her logic begin to present themselves, leaving her pink-cheeked in embarrassment. “This was the only one on hand. Used to have the whole lot of ‘em, but that were a few years back.”
@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.
No sooner had the mooring been tied off then Anne was ashore, darting past the last of the pre-dawn watch and back into the streets of her beloved Nassau. Despite all the tragedy of the last few years, even of the last few months she’d spent here!, Anne finds excitement and purpose back in this city. Founding spot and capital of the Republic of fucking Pirates, the last port she’d called home in years and the start of the woman she is today, Nassau (indeed, all of New Providence!) feels holy in her irreligious heart.
She winds through alleys and roads with their slipshod paving stones, following her feet as muscle memory alone carries her towards her destination. She stops only once on her journey, at a public posting board. It was a source of great amusement among the locals, hanging wanted posters of infamous pirates and guessing what the crown was paying for them, or what they would pay after this or that misadventure. A reviled image hangs on the board now, one that stopped Anne every time she looked on its familiar, ugly face. She plucks it from the board, shaking a bit at the sight of it. A bland, generic face stares up from the page, dark curls held back by a strangely angled hat. The image features a pistol in hand, as if that had ever been her favored weapon! If it weren’t for the hair, the hat, the trousers, the naked breasts—well. Anne is right in saying that any redhead with a pistol in hand could be taken for Anne Bonny.* She’s never felt so giddy before in all her life!
Anne stuffs the wanted poster into her coat and makes the mistake of glancing up. She’d thought to make sure there’s nobody else around—imagine the laughingstock of a pirate taking down their own poster in Nassau, of all places!—but in so doing sees the second to last face she expected to be staring at her from the board. She’s slow to straighten up under the unseeing stare of his surprisingly accurate eyes. The rest of him looks just a touch…wrong—which is as surprising as her own poster’s mismatch, given how memorably attractive he is. Really, more people could probably describe Tryck from memory than could describe Anne, and certainly more did Jack, given the uncanny nature of the sketch on his posters. So how is Tryck’s so…only passingly like him? Except around the eyes. (Eerily like his, really.) It’s a shame. Or maybe a blessing.
She could feel bad about the decision she’d made for him, but there’s no point in that. With nothing to gain in sharing it and her own freedom on the line, making it for him had made more sense than asking. Risking input on an iffy-at-best plan. There isn’t time to come up with a second idea!
And there’s no going back now even if there was. Not when the morning sun is well and truly upon Nassau, not after she’d slipped out at the dawn change. The captain had expressed his disinterest in cutting Anne loose of her contract so early, and so Anne had needed to slip off—there and then!—without anyone to see her after her chat with the captain. So long as she disappeared while Tryck was among witnesses, there’d be no holding him in contempt, allowing him to break his contract the natural way, if he so wished. Being free of her made a free man of him, so long as his eyes never clapped her after they settled down to sleep on the borrowed mattress in the hold. Even if that was found and forced out, she’d been seen long after that, ducking into the captain’s quarters. Just leaving the note had been risky enough, but she’d expected no less from the moment she’d realized the captain’s intent.
Whatever Tryck did now, he did on his own accord. And as long as Anne’s disappearance couldn’t be linked to him, it stayed that way. His contract was at its conclusion, and there was no legal contempt to find him in as long as Anne stayed out of it until it was done.
…besides, she couldn’t guarantee Jackie would feel the same charity for her if she had Tryck at her side. The next few hours would determine Anne’s fate, and a lot of it depended on Spanish Jackie feeling the same charity that she did a few years ago, though in a slightly different way. That and a few sacks of twice-stolen loot are all Anne has to barter with, and Spanish Jackie isn’t famous for her charity work.
Anne forces herself to look away from the poster, to figure her way again. She holds the side of the board, never realizing it’s the name half of her own poster tickling her palm before she walks off. Left, left…right…right! Because the side alley’s blocked the other way, and if she “ever need that favor returned, knock on my private door, and fucking wait,” in the words of the woman herself. Hopefully that holds water all these years later.
*OOC infodumping and image below.
I headcanon that this was her wanted poster (it probably wasn’t) because it cracks me up to think of this publicly available, romanticized image of her making approximately zero use of her more obvious features in favor of being 18th century misogynists about it. I know I have mentioned this before, but I refuse to shut up about it.
@neverhangd
The handwriting is neat and tidy to a surprising degree, an elegant cursive script that should have no place on the torn and yellowed paper.
When we reach our next destination, I intend to leave—with or without the captain’s approval. I can’t ask you to come with me. There’s no coin to be made there. But this last adventure has taught me a few things, like that my heart isn’t as dead as I thought it to be. That there are people out there capable of treating others kindly, even me. That there are even some poor fucks who can look at me find beauty there. Thank you for teaching me those things. I think I love you. I’m all out of parchment now, so I suppose I just get to live with that. Good-bye and good luck. Signed, A Friend
Tryck had found the letter waiting for him on his hammock as they were making port in Nassau. He had recognized her script even if she didn't properly sign it. He'd seen it enough times, when she was writing in the ledgers during the times they were left alone on the ship.
He honestly has no idea how to feel as he reads the words over and over again, except that he doesn't want her to go. He doesn't want her to leave him on the ship with the rest of the crew that could care less about him except as a place to plug their pegs. He serves no loyalty to the Captain, only on the ship to avoid arrest in certain ports.
In Nassau, there are no bounties or warrants on him, and he knows Anne knows that, so he wonders... why would she say her goodbyes, rather than ask him to come along?
It's a question he needs answered, and so he packs what little belongings he actually has (violin, a few clothes, a couple of books) and carries them off the ship without a word to the crew.
How far has she gone, how long will he have to look for her? He doesn't much care, he'll search the entire port and beyond if he has to.
There's not a chance he's going to let his Fiery Lass get away.
She doubles over with a gasp when Tryck moans against her, fighting the urge to shove him closer, suffocate him with herself. It takes an unnatural amount of willpower to resist the urge, yanking the fist from her mouth and wrapping it in the sheets to help her focus on something else.
And then he does the same—gives her something else to focus on, that is—and she’s glad his mouth’s pulled away with the way her hips cant up with it. Shit, how does anyone stand it? She’s embarrassingly aware of the heat in her cheeks, the slight sheen forming on her forehead, the way her idiot tongue (worthless in the best of situations!) can’t even form words at the moment—truly, how is anyone meant to withstand it?
And he still has the presence of mind to banter. Of course he does. Anne can’t say she’s surprised; if anything, she envies his loquacity. One of his tongue’s many talents, it would seem. She forces her fingers to loosen around his hair, to stroke through it without shaking. She almost manages, using the motion to buy time to find something clever to say back.
“Y-e’re not s’bad lookin yerself,” she slurs a bit, unable stop her shaking. She eases the tension a bit by rolling her hips over his fingers. It’s a bit more backhanded than she would’ve liked, and a bit less romantic than she might have been capable of given more time, but it’s genuine all the same and rare to boot. She clears her throat and tries some more, twisting the bedsheets around her right fist once more. “I mean ye’re—fuck, I…worse’n handsome. I mean better! Better’n….” Shit. This was going tits up, fast.
In desperate bid for some small measure of control, Anne reaches for a nearby truth and wields it to the hilt, honest and unfiltered and embarrassing as it may be. It’s at least said with the confidence of someone confessing a truth at long last. (It might not have built up the same desperation in Anne, but the urgency of it lends it further credibility. If she says it slowly, she may abandon saying it altogether.)
“I’d think of ye when I touched myself, sometimes.”
The flirtations she tolerated that left her flustered had left her with…other feelings as well. Which likely meant they were doing their job in some roundabout way. Sneaking off at dusk to finger herself ‘til completion came, be it through orgasm or boredom. The flickering images of a make-believe story featuring her and him and a closet and a sense of urgency, mutual pleasure having been long since dismissed as a myth of youth. Thoughts of closets and urgency still came sometimes, now touched with less fantasy and more realism. His hand cupping her ass. Lips and tongue over her clit, in her cunt. The favor returned in the same rhythm that built a second desperate wave in need of cresting or drowning in.
Even those didn’t leave her squirming the way she was now.
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.
Anne’s breath catches when Tryck stands, stumbling out in a whine that she doesn’t even recognize as coming from her. Her hand slips from head to shoulder where it holds him perhaps a little too tightly, a little too desperately, even ignoring her self-imposed image. She’s surprised to find she wants to keep him close—not only for the discovery itself, but for the fact that the thought of his departure had struck her at all, let alone in this moment.
It’s funny, him trying to seduce her despite already having her in his bed, and her becoming terribly aware of something shifting at her core. She’d laugh if he hadn’t leaned in, changing the angle of his fingers just-so. It was like a log collapsing in a fire, sending up a shower of embers inside of her. Wordlessly, Anne nodded her head, attention dropping down to his lips. The rush of her blood finally drowned out the indignant voice of her ego, and Anne closed the distance between their mouths.
Words, words are hard. Nigh on impossible!, even with the ego muted. Anne’s found better uses for her tongue over the years, cleverer uses than her words could ever aspire to be. She makes use of those talents now, rolling her tongue over his, her hips with his fingers, letting go of the sheets to grip him side instead. Her hand settles over his ribs and she breaks away, as desperate for air as for release. She can feel the peak approaching, see the foam starting to form on the crest of this wave; she whispers feverishly against his lips, barely audible.
“Please, please, please, please, please, please—”
She doubles over with a gasp when Tryck moans against her, fighting the urge to shove him closer, suffocate him with herself. It takes an unnatural amount of willpower to resist the urge, yanking the fist from her mouth and wrapping it in the sheets to help her focus on something else.
And then he does the same—gives her something else to focus on, that is—and she’s glad his mouth’s pulled away with the way her hips cant up with it. Shit, how does anyone stand it? She’s embarrassingly aware of the heat in her cheeks, the slight sheen forming on her forehead, the way her idiot tongue (worthless in the best of situations!) can’t even form words at the moment—truly, how is anyone meant to withstand it?
And he still has the presence of mind to banter. Of course he does. Anne can’t say she’s surprised; if anything, she envies his loquacity. One of his tongue’s many talents, it would seem. She forces her fingers to loosen around his hair, to stroke through it without shaking. She almost manages, using the motion to buy time to find something clever to say back.
“Y-e’re not s’bad lookin yerself,” she slurs a bit, unable stop her shaking. She eases the tension a bit by rolling her hips over his fingers. It’s a bit more backhanded than she would’ve liked, and a bit less romantic than she might have been capable of given more time, but it’s genuine all the same and rare to boot. She clears her throat and tries some more, twisting the bedsheets around her right fist once more. “I mean ye’re—fuck, I…worse’n handsome. I mean better! Better’n….” Shit. This was going tits up, fast.
In desperate bid for some small measure of control, Anne reaches for a nearby truth and wields it to the hilt, honest and unfiltered and embarrassing as it may be. It’s at least said with the confidence of someone confessing a truth at long last. (It might not have built up the same desperation in Anne, but the urgency of it lends it further credibility. If she says it slowly, she may abandon saying it altogether.)
“I’d think of ye when I touched myself, sometimes.”
The flirtations she tolerated that left her flustered had left her with…other feelings as well. Which likely meant they were doing their job in some roundabout way. Sneaking off at dusk to finger herself ‘til completion came, be it through orgasm or boredom. The flickering images of a make-believe story featuring her and him and a closet and a sense of urgency, mutual pleasure having been long since dismissed as a myth of youth. Thoughts of closets and urgency still came sometimes, now touched with less fantasy and more realism. His hand cupping her ass. Lips and tongue over her clit, in her cunt. The favor returned in the same rhythm that built a second desperate wave in need of cresting or drowning in.
Even those didn’t leave her squirming the way she was now.
Her teeth sink into her lower lip and her brow furrows as she concentrates on the lock at hand. Tricky little fucker, isn’t it? Finicky. She dislikes it at once. Her thoughts turn distantly, distractedly to deserted islands and maroonings—a hammock, a sword, and a tinder kit have always been her go-to answer there—but she doesn’t catch Tryck lobbing the question back at her. She actually forgets about everything except the lock for a few frustrated moments.
It takes Tryck looming over her shoulder to realize what’s gone on, the instinct to knock back an assailant one poorly smothered in the moment: she’d already balled her fist and was halfway to throwing the punch before she remembered neither Captain Cassidy nor any of his shrivel-dicked officers were currently aboard to catch her at the stash. Tryck continues like he doesn’t notice how jumpy she is and Anne chastises herself silently, moving aside and offering the picks to Tryck.
“Locks en’t my strong suit. ‘S’easier to break the lock most times.” Though not the locks like these. In a different situation she would have sought out a crowbar and pried the cabinet open, but that isn’t ideal here, either.
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.