She Doubles Over With A Gasp When Tryck Moans Against Her, Fighting The Urge To Shove Him Closer, Suffocate

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.

The truth’s a hard thing to share. If anyone can understand that, it’s Anne, with her hidden past and half-hidden present, with truths and half-truths woven between lies to keep her afloat in this miserable sea called life. Astarion’s betrayal was a swell that rocked her little boat and saw to capsize it—but what truth he offers, what lifelines he throws down to drag her back up, aren’t enough. Perhaps for somebody else they would be. Perhaps for someone who had never been backhanded by someone they trusted, Astarion’s truth would be all the comfort they need!

But Anne stays weighed down in dark waters. Despite the ring of truth in them, Astarion’s words have the feel of being little more than additional justification. And her face, naked even in its outrage, says as much the whole while she spends listening to Astarion. Nightmares. Masters. She doesn’t need to ask for clarity to see that this is part of Astarion’s past, and perhaps not a thing he’s interested in discussing. Testing boundaries is a thing she can usually respect—but not this time. Not this way.

“Oh, ye can be sure of that,” she says almost immediately when Astarion claims there won’t be a repeat performance. “I’ve every intention of leaving this party the moment we reach town. I may be stuck with a monster in my head, but at least it’s never pretended to be my damn friend.”

And the crux of the matter, really: Anne, so unaccustomed to friendship, has no one to blame but herself for what happened the other night. It’s in the nature of vampires to feed; she just didn’t realize it was in their nature to feed sadistically. Her betrayal isn’t for the fact that Astarion’s tried to make a meal in camp, only that that meal was her. She starts walking again, more so that she won’t fall too far behind the others than anything else. She believes the vampire won’t attack her a second time. What she can’t believe is that he’d attacked her a first at all.

“What kind of shite are ye trying to feed me here, anyway? There were two others ‘round that campfire, and an extra at their own tent. Three others. And ye still chose—fucking hell.” She can’t even get the words out. Hot, angry tears spill out from her eyes. She brushes them away with an impatient hand and soldiers on in silence before adding, quietly, “I actually gods-damned trusted ye. And ye chose to eat me over…over anyone else, or even a fucking conversation. Thought me more fit for death than for—.”

She cuts herself off again with a shake of her head, as brusque and impatient as her hand at her tears earlier. Stupid to cry over what’s already been said and done. Stupid to feel betrayed by someone known for less than a fucking month. Stupid to get comfortable and drop guard folk with baby mindflayers in their heads. Just stupid.

“My fault, fine. I’m fucking stupid. Just thought ye might have a better reason than a godsdamned game of ‘eenie, meenie, miny, moe’ for…. For fuck’s sake!” Perhaps her outrage isn’t as spent as she assumed. She looks at Astarion again, her face an open book of emotion: disgust, that godsdamned betrayal she can’t get rid of, the need for some kind of answer, a semblance of a lifeline. “Does even the gith rank over me?! That racist fuck who thinks us all shit under her heel?!”

@neverhangd sent: ❛ i'm the asshole? what does that make you then? ❜

❛ Oh darling, if I'm anything, I'm far more than an asshole. ❜

He lets out a soft chuckle, rich and velvety. ❛ But if we’re assigning roles, let’s just say I’m the charming vampire spawn——the one who makes all the worst decisions but does it with such irresistible flair you simply can’t stay angry with him for long. ❜ His eyes flicker with something mischievous, his coy way of once again trying to soften the edge of his misstep the other night. When he tried to bite her.

Send me Ⓐ and my muse will rate yours:

Attractiveness:

repulsive || hideous || ugly || not attractive || unappealing || not unattractive || meh || no preference || ok || mildly attractive || nice looking || cute || adorable || attractive || pleasant on the eyes || good looking || hot || sexy || beautiful || gorgeous || hot damn || would tap that || perfect || godlike || holy fuck there are no words

Personality:

grating || irritating || frustrating || boring || confusing at best || awkward || unreasonable || psychotic || disturbing || interesting || engaging || affectionate || aggressive || ambitious || anxious || artistic || bad tempered || bossy || charismatic || appealing || unappealing || creative || courageous || dependable || unreliable || unpredictable || predictable || devious || dim || extroverted || introverted ||  egotistical || gregarious || fabulous || impulsive || intelligent || sympathetic || talkative || up beat || peaceful || calming || badass || flexible

How likely they would have sex with them:

not if they were the last person on earth and the world was ending || fuck no! || never || no way || not likely || not sure || indifferent || I’m asexual || maybe || probably || it depends || fairly likely || likely || yeah sure || yes || would tap that || hell yes || fuck yes! || wishing that could happen right now || as many times as possible || we are already having sex

Level of Friendship:

never in a million years || worst of enemies || enemies || rivals || indifferent || neutral || acquaintance || friendly toward each other || casual friends || friends || good friends || best friends || fuck buddies || bosom buddies || practically the same person || would die for them || true friends || my only friend ||

First impression of them:

I hate them so much || I don’t like them || I don’t trust them || they annoy me || they’re weird || I’m indifferent || meh || they seem alright || they’re growing on me || truce || I think I like them || I like them || I’m not sure if I trust them || I trust them || they’re cool || they’re genuine || I think we’re going to get along || I really like them || I think I’m in love || oh fuck they’re hot || I love them

Current impression of them:

I hate them so much || I don’t like them || I don’t trust them || they annoy me || they’re weird || I’m indifferent || meh || they seem alright || they’re growing on me || truce || I think I like them || I like them || I’m not sure if I trust them || I trust them || they’re cool || they’re genuine || I think we’re going to get along || I really like them || I think I’m in love || oh fuck they’re hot || I love them

How good of a kisser:

worst kisser ever || terrible || bad || awkward || just okay || alright || pretty good || good || makes me moan || excellent || exciting || oh god they’re good || I dream about it || fucking amazing || absolute perfection || we haven’t kissed

Send 💬 + a rumor and my muse will react to it.

“The way ye work me, ye owe me at lest minimum wage!” Anne complains—but she takes the broom and heads off, trusting Adelé to show up with a beer and a broom for herself. She doesn’t mind the distraction, truth be told. It’s easier to work through her shit with a menial task at hand to distract her otherwise. (Again: Adelé gets it.)

Anne leans her broom up against the back wall, taking off her jacket with Jack’s dumb flag patch to reveal her tank top: homemade merch of her own band, which she wore with pride. She pulls up her hair too, starting on stacking the chairs only when it’s mostways up in a bun.

“That’s one way to say it.” Anne shrugs, focusing on the task at hand. One step at a time. “Another way to say it is ‘I broke up with Jack and now him and Silver are pressuring me to leave the band.’”

Menial labor for free tough-love therapy is one hell of a bargain, at least by Anne’s admittedly skewed estimation.

“What would be yer call in my situation? Short of ‘murder Jack,’ you understand—can’t have two counts on my record or it starts to look like a pattern.”

Anne clocks the green and grins to see it. God less Adelé—she gets it. And Anne’ll get it, too, soon as these fuckers are gone.

She slaps a hand on the bar top and uses it to abruptly push out her barstool. The noise catches the attention of the lingering bar flies, turning their dull gazes onto the just-over-six-foot redhead in the leather jacket. They wouldn’t normally have cared…and if Anne hadn’t tossed a guy into the streets one-handed earlier, she doubts she would have, either. But she’s in a foul mood and most of the drunks watched her do it. They hurry to the bar to close out tabs while Anne stretches, drops Adelé a wink, and meanders to the bathroom to splash water on her face.

Getting high in the early morning hours sounds great; going back to crash in Read’s couch for another sleepless night does not. She barely even recognizes the woman in the spotty bathroom mirror, dark bags and the remains of yesterday’s eyeliner under her eyes. She looks rough. Feels rough. Is rough, but this of a different kind. Exhaustion.

The bar’s pretty well cleared by the time she renters it.

“Bum me a beer and I’ll help ye clean.”

Anne looks back at Gale with a deep wrinkle in her forehead. Curse of a pretty face? Is that a quip or a come-on? She can’t tell; luckily, she doesn’t need to. Gale moves on and she’s happy to follow his lead, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of one blood-slicked hand. It definitely doesn’t help with the blood.

Anne takes the handkerchief and looks between it and Gale for a perplexed moment. This…this isn’t really going to do anything, is it? Not unless it’s magic. It’s just going to smear the blood about and make a worse mess of it all. Still. If only because he’s trying to be friendly, Anne dabs the handkerchief over her cheek and forehead, pulling it away much stinkier, redder, and generally stickier. She passes it back, eyeing the wizard strangely as he follows one act of kindness up with another.

“…aye, maybe.” She doesn’t want to waste her time looking for ulterior motives, but she can’t help it. He’s been direct with her so far; maybe she only needs to return the favor. “Why’re ye being nice? Do ye need something?” Kindness isn’t common at sea, after all.

@neverhangd sent: “Such attention.. I never realised I was so popular.”

"The curse of a pretty face, I suppose," Gale couldn't entirely resist a smirk as he carefully picked his way across the now quiet 'battlefield' towards her. Gnolls were nasty critters for certain, and seemed to veritably spray blood, instead of just spilling it. This rocky bit of road looked like an abattoir.

As he reached Anne, he held out his hand, offering a square bit of cloth - what passed these days for a handkerchief out here in the middle of nowhere. "You've got some..." Gale gestured, indicating her face. She looked like she'd bathed in the gnolls' blood, and the handkerchief wouldn't nearly be enough to clean her up, but she could at least look like she hadn't actively smeared the stuff on her cheeks. "After we take a breather, I can help more with..." he gestured again, vaguely in Anne's direction, "...all that, if you'd like."