Neverhangd - NeverHang'd!

🕯️

send me 🕯️to hear my character's inner thoughts about your character.

She’s shrewd. Honestly too smart to be doing this poorly in this city. Why doesn’t she just leave, go somewhere he smarts would serve her better? She could rule a gang scene with an iron fist anywhere that wasn’t already quite so lousy with bloodthirsty gangs.

𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟐𝟐𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟕𝟐𝟏, 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐲. 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭

𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙽𝚈 𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙳!

independent / slightly selective

s/low activity

history & headcanon based

captained by ren

21+ only, please

template by calisources

Fuck, Marry, Kill. Send me three names.

Send 🫂 to just hug my muse. No reason. Hug them.

Bad dreams are making a run of the camp.

Behind closed eyes a storm rages on, lashing rain and howling wind making a massacre of the ship. Splintered wood and broken bodies litter the deck, sails and ropes hang in tatters and whip the remaining crew at the wind’s command. Anne’s voice is lost in the crashing of the waves and the cracking of thunder, but she shouts herself hoarse nevertheless. She screams in defiance of the storm and the storm screams back, sending a tall wave over the ship’s railing where it hits Anne square in the chest. She stumbles backward, trips over something, ends up on her back on the rain-slicked wood. She pushes herself up only for the heels of her hands to slip rather than find purchase; the rain pooling around her here is is tinged a discomforting shade of red.

In spite of herself, in spite of not wanting to know whose blood is painting the deck, Anne follows the reddened waters to their source and finds Read. Their dark, precious curls are flattened against their face in the rain, their wide eyes staring unseeing back at Anne. They were no casualty of the storm: there is a gaping hole in their chest where their heart used to be. Above the winds and the waves she hears his laugh, turning to the source, dead set on turning him inside out for thinking he could lay a fucking finger—

Something touches her neck, and pale green eyes snap open almost as if in response, taking the storm and its horrors away in so doing. The night she wakes up to is calmer than the one she has left, but clearly it’s no less dangerous. Frankly, she’d rather have woken with a dagger to her throat: at least she’d have known the score then. The sweat from her nightmare clings to her skin, cooling it in the cold night air. The campfire barely breathes, more warm ember than actual fire, and above her hovers the elf, mouth open like he’s trying to eat her. Like a dumbass.

She sits up slowly and slides a hand under her pillow, wrapping it around the hilt of the scian though she doesn’t pull the blade out. They didn’t turn her out for piracy, after all, even with all that implies; the least she can do is hear him out, let him see if that pretty tongue of his can twist its way out of trouble again. He’s had ample opportunity to do this before now, after all, and he hasn’t.

And anyway, she’s curious. What sort of idiot looks around this party and picks her for easy prey?

“The faster ye start talking, the less likely y’are to end up with a knife stickin out of yer gullet.”

closed starter | @neverhangd

The spawn wakes with a start, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps, the remnants of Cazador's voice echoing like poison in his mind. His master’s commands——cruel, unyielding——linger in the corners of his consciousness, tightening their grip on his every thought. "Thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures——thou shalt know that thou art mine," the words slither through his veins like a toxin, as if even now, across the distance and the freedom the mind flayer tadpole grants him, Cazador still holds the chain around his neck.

It’s not just the dreams that haunt him. It’s the hunger——the gnawing, insistent ache that’s been growing harder to ignore. For weeks now, Astarion has managed to sneak away, feasting on whatever meager, unsuspecting creatures he could find. But these past nights, the camp has been more vigilant, the party sticking closer together. He hasn't fed properly in days. And now, under the cover of darkness, with only the low crackling of the dying fire, the craving sharpens into something unbearable, something dangerous.

His gaze falls on Anne, sprawled out nearby in a restless sleep. Her breathing is steady, her body bathed in the soft light of the dwindling flames. She’s close enough to reach——too close. Astarion’s eyes narrow, pupils dilating as he silently slips from his bedroll, gliding toward her like a shadow. His instincts——those primal, vicious instincts——take over, drowning out reason and logic, urging him forward. Just a taste. Just enough to know. The thought rolls through his mind, feverish, irrational, but so very tempting. His fingers brush against her neck, cool against the warmth of her skin, and the scent of her blood is intoxicating——so close, so rich——so alive. His fangs ache in his mouth, a dull throb begging for release.

But then, her eyes open, and in an instant, reality comes crashing down around him.

His body tenses, fangs poised inches from her throat, the hunger screaming at him to take, to feed. The moment stretches, unbearably fragile, until he jerks back, panic clawing at his insides. ❛ Shit, ❜ he hisses under his breath, barely able to mask the tremor in his voice. He’s been caught——caught in his hunger, his weakness, his desperation. And now, he’s not sure which is worse: the hunger gnawing at him, or the way Anne is looking at him now.

I love you. You’re mine. I’ll kill any bastard who tries to take you from me. (But the I love you is silent) Raoul!

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒.

You’re mine. I’ll kill any bastard who tries to take you from me.

Clearly.

The depths of Raoul’s preoccupation with her aren’t a thing Anne has taken the time to sit down and think through. She fears what she may discover if she does—the third and final nail in the coffin, another man that loves her for the sake of something else, the thrice-proven principle of her own innate lack of worth—so she’s gone out of her way not to. He treats her better than the last two, and even if he didn’t, he says all the right things. She’d be a fool to look this gift horse in the mouth; she’s taken it, him, in already. It’s too late to turn it back out and avoid the bloodshed to come, so why spoil what remains of the unspoiled hours? Why rush the attack if it’s already in motion and offering her a respite from the battle first? If what is between them is really the Greek horse, let Cassandra fall with Troy. Let the prophecy come unspoken. Let her fall without the loathing her words are known to inspire.

But she isn’t falling. Troy is burning down behind her, but there’s no blade at her throat, no hand pushing her down. In fact, the only hand nearby holds her. She is nestled in the cup of his palm, spared from the flames only because he decided it should be so.

Anne blinks again, but the scene doesn’t change: Jack is still there, on his knees, panting and glaring up at her. Silva is still behind him, his favorite pistol still leveled at the stupid bastard. His dark, feverish eyes are still setting fire to Anne through his stare alone. Except to glance at Jack, she hasn’t broken his stare. It feels…important, to look him in the eyes while this happens. To show him she won’t be taken without a fight, that she’s his no matter what poison the bastard’s been drip-feeding Silva while at the other end of his pistol. She’ll kill him herself if she has to. Whatever it takes.

“I’ve no intention of being anyone else’s.” Not anymore. Not again. She’d already made that decision: Silva’s the end of the line. No more. He’ll the best or the worst of them, it won’t matter; he’ll be the last. And after him, she’ll be alone or dead, or maybe both. “Kill him, ‘less ye want me t’do it.”