Hes Exactly Like The Stories: Menacing, Smart, Dangerous. Fucking Embarrassing As It Is To Die Like This,

He’s exactly like the stories: menacing, smart, dangerous. Fucking embarrassing as it is to die like this, like a damned idiot, at least she won’t have lost to some half-witted fuck who won on a stroke of luck.

With one brow he makes it obvious her strategy’s fallen flat. So much for knocking him off-balance. Vague plans of pretending to know someone co-opting his legend to sic him on their tail and off of hers evaporates before they can even really get started. She can’t blame him for reveling in a reputation like his, annoying as it is that she’s failed to raise his ire the way she wants.

She damned near opens her mouth to start arguing—it isn’t quite the same thing, is it?, comparing an identity chosen in adulthood to one pushed in early adolescence—when he turns back around and snaps about lying. There’s no sense in arguing even after he’s done. It’s enough to set Anne back on edge, grinding her teeth together to keep herself from digging her proverbial grave any deeper. Anne swallows back bile and ire in equal measure. Besides, if Anne’s caught the pattern correctly (and she’s near certain she has) she needs to start bracing: he’ll be aiming again for the gut soon.

The gut punch arrives as predicted, and expecting it does make it an easier blow to handle. The Shark is no fool; he isn’t human enough to be one. He knows things only Anne, Jack, and a ghost should, damning things: her past aliases might be explained away by knowing her father, but the burning estate was a secret she’d meant to take to her grave. She feels neither shame nor regret in what she’d done—and why should she?—but there are reasons she’s never sifted through the ashes herself.

Her silence is damning. She knows it. The Shark’s gotten his fucking blood, and now he’s circling for more. Is this why they call him the Shark? Not because he’s a predator, not because of his fucked up teeth or because you won’t know he’s there until he strikes, not even because he follows the scent of blood, but because he’s always circling? Her hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat, her shirt sticks to her back with it, and the rope at her wrists growing swollen with it and tighter as a result. She doesn’t try to follow his circling until he says the thing that finally makes some damned sense of this whole encounter. You did get away from me that one time.

Fucking hell. The Shark had been on her trail at one time. At two times counting this latest, and neither time she’d been aware of it. What had she done to end up on the boogeyman’s hit list? She starts to wrack her brains for the answer—maybe she’s a means to an end still, maybe his interest is her father, or the stupid bitch she’d done for just after losing the privilege of being Andy—when he touches on another nerve, red and raw and angry. Sloppy? Sloppy?! She’d been a fucking sheltered-arse teenager when she’d done most of that shite! Sloppy! Hah! For a pair of fledgling kills those had both been surprisingly neat, especially spur of the moment as they’d been! He tuts in her ear but doesn’t make the mistake of lingering again, meaning she doesn’t have the chance to split his skull on hers.

When she speaks this time, it’s without a plan. (The plan’s gone to shit already. There’s no plan now outside of “draw more blood before dying.”)

“Ye’ve got the fucking wretch. I watched the whole damned house go up in flame afore I left: he died trapped and alone, same as he tried to do t’me.” Well. More literally than he’d tried to do to her, but that’s an unimportant detail in the grand scheme of things. “Now, if ye’re done jerking yerself off: free me or fucking kill me. Tired of this idiot game already.”

Anne’s spent her life being the growling underdog, the bitch, protective and snappish. She doesn’t bark when she can bite. The second he feels comfortable enough to touch her again, a spark lights in her eyes that hasn’t been there since she was a pup herself, the last dying embers of the firestorm she’d been in her youth. It hadn’t been beaten all the way out, and this is the first gasp of air it’s had in years.

There’s blood dripping over the bastard’s mouth as he speaks; she’d managed to break his nose, all right, but he hardly seemed to feel it. She’ll make him feel the next one. His wrist is well within range of her teeth, and she’s just figuring how she’ll jerk in towards him again to free her face some before trying to rip through his wrist with her teeth, when he manages a second gut punch, this one worse than the first. That had only been strange, perhaps a mite frightening: this actually knocks the wind from her—and worse, a spike of fear drives it way through all of the anger, cracking through her rage and onto her face.

She hasn’t been Anne Cormac since she was sixteen, nor Andy since a year or two before.

For a moment it feels like she’s going to make sick; she doesn’t, though her head is spinning and her stomach is somewhere near her boots. Shit. She is so fucked. She really must be cursed to have managed to sneak aboard a ship already looking for her. The ship of someone who knew a past she’d left buried in South Carolina. Worse, the ship of someone who knew her father—and not just his name, clearly. William Cormac, esquire, would not have approved of its delivery, but the message sent is a lesson he no doubt would have wanted imparted to her: open your eyes, girl! She hadn’t even realized she had them closed until the pressure disappeared from her jaw and he stepped away.

A third gut punch, but one much easier to handle than the first two. (She’s worn down. Dull. This is a really shit time for her to be playing mind games, drawing on energy resources already badly drained from the events of the days before.) Maybe she’s getting the hang of this, though, catching the pattern already: he throws out what it takes to fuck with her, then backs off to see what sticks. If she can pull herself back together, she could go on the offensive here—really get her feet under her and get going. If she can knock him off-balance, even once…. She needs to buy time back first, though.

She doesn’t doubt for one moment he’s the fucking Shark. Didn’t even need to say it, not after a peek into what he knows about her. If she wasn’t so damned hot right now, there’d be no color in her face at all. How do you stop a shark? You punch it in the nose

—Fuck, she’s done that already! What’s next? They…generally don’t survive the tales she’s heard, the people in Anne’s position. Their death is usually the call to action for the hero to take arms and avenge their death: Patroclus at the mercy of Hector, Mercutio on Tybalt’s sword, nevermind the hushed names attached to the Shark’s own legends.

She digs her nails into her palm in an age-old gesture to help ground herself. She’ll be the first to survive or the next to set their name ablaze.

“The Shark’s a fucking saltwater boogeyman: a tale sailors tell to spook one another. Smart to co-opt his legend, though. We almost crossed paths once, did ye know? Back when he set that fire near Nassau.” That’s another lie and she knows it—but maybe he doesn’t. Off-balance. She’d set that fire, and she’d started the rumor that pirates had done it, and somewhere down the line someone connected it to the Shark’s whereabouts and assumptions were made and never dispelled. “I’d been there that morning. Decided that night to elope. Lucky me, aye?, escaping a fiery death by a few hours.”

How attractive are you?

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

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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?"

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.

Anonymously send me your favorite detail about how I play my character.

I will publish and respond OOC.