Annabelle Blishwick

As Annabelle walks on the hard wood floor, it's wet. Wet with black, cold ink, lapping around her feet—despite its darkness, it only leaves a faint gray trace of water on her feet as she slowly steps forward. Her skirt drifts side to side as she walks, gently, just at her ankles, and she's careful not to make a sound.

The room is cold, such that it stings her skin, burning the edges of her ears and knuckles bright pink. The hardwood floor, as far as she can manage to see, which isn't very far, is all there is of any discernible structure. But even the panels of the floor are eaten up by black, and she can't feel any impression of the walls around her.

She can see a bed, though—and someone in it. There's been so many times she's been the last one to bed, even if it wasn't exactly regular enough to be the known norm and routine, and she's seen the Tanner brothers comfortably tossed about the bed, sometimes entangled. But this time, there's only one of them. She can see the outline of him in the moonlight, though there are no windows. He's in his bed clothes, and is asleep.

As she gets closer to the bed, her skin breaks out in goosebumps, her pupils dilating as her focus is drawn in unwittingly by him. The closer she gets, the warmer the air becomes, pulling her nearer as a source of comfort. She kneels against the bed, right at the end of it. Lauren is curled on his side, a little, and seems roused by the shifting of the weight on the bed. He shifts, slightly, noticing Annabelle coming in at the foot of the bed, rather than the side of it, pushing himself up a little bit, his hair a sleepy mess. He looks tired, but not confused.

She comes forward across him, and Lauren anxiously wets the crease of his lips with his tongue as he watches her, anticipating. Her hand slides up the side of his thigh, and he shifts so that his back is against the bed. She can see his cock shift in his sleeping pants, and she continues moving up. Her hand brushes his crotch, and his breath hitches, his eyelids fluttering from the passing contact. She doesn't give him any more than that, and she moves further up. Lauren takes hungry handfuls of her skirt at its sides, his body tense once he feels her skirt brush his collarbones.

Annabelle watches him, and she feels as if she's burning. He licks his lips, not even looking at her, one of his hands coming forward to eagerly push her skirt up. It's a lot of fabric, so she assists him, lifting it. His palm smooths over her belly, then around to hold the small swell of her ass, guiding her down. She relaxes, following his gesture, and she feels his breath against her bare skin and shudders.

There's the familiar, velvety texture of his lips, horizontal against the vertical split of her cunt. It's a full, plush and affectionate kiss, bumping the soft nib of her clitoris, and her eyes roll closed as she takes a deep breath, body stiffening. She feels his tongue part her, and softly bat her clitoris side to side. She sucks in her lower lip, holding it with her teeth, eyes closed as she knits her eyebrows. Her head hangs, and she smooths her fingers through his hair. She takes a commanding handful of his hair, giving an immediate, but gentle yank, and it earns her a pleasurable moan against her sex. She breathes out heavily as Lauren both depletes and encourages her lubrication with hungry, instinctive ease, finding his tongue the most clever when its between her legs this way.

He sucks on her clit and labia, and she can feel his hands come around the backs of her thighs near her ass, pulling her closer. Her mouth hangs open in a quiet gasp, the contact becoming fuller as he deepens every lewd ministration on her cunt. She clutches his head, feeling sweat beginning to break out on her fevered flesh. It's overwhelming, and warm, each wave mounting more and more intensely. More than usual, she thinks. He licks her from the bottom of her open, eager split to the base of her clit in broad, slow, and confident strokes. She shudders, rolling on him slowly and carefully, and feels another groan from him.

His focus lingers on her clit, predominantly, though he occasionally redistributes the waking of her nerves with playful licks to her outter lips and the wettest part of her. It's not long before the articulations and distinct movements of his work on her becomes indiscernible to her. The ink is lapping around the bed, much higher than it was before, staining the sheets. Her body does a series of small jolts, which involuntarily arranges her head tilted far back, some of her curly dark hair stuck around her sweated brow, eyebrows slanted backwards with desperation as she cries out loudly. He doesn't relent, and she grips his hair urgently as she cums in his mouth. She cries his name, then does it again, and—

Her eyes open with a gasp, and it's over. She's staring at the ceiling, the room alight with the morning sun. Her breathing is quick, and her skin and hair are both damp. She sits up, and sees Susan and Lauren. Susan is asleep with the back of his hand on Lauren's face, and Lauren is sleeping on his side, drooling a little on his pillow as his face is smooshed by his younger brother. Annabelle looks at him with wide eyes, a little jarred by the very different images painted between fantasy and reality.

She winces, and rubs the sleep out of her eyes with slow rubs of her knuckles against them. She pauses, holding her hands there, and bites her lip. Her clit and cunt both ache, especially on the inside. But she isn't like Lauren—she can't just go take care of it with great ease and convenience. She sighs irritably, dropping her hands, and glares at Lauren before she hops off the bed.

She goes to draw herself a cold bath. When it's finally full enough, she wakes both of the brothers with a start when she hollers in agony from plunging herself in it. When she eventually emerges, sopping wet in her towel, looking like a put out, drowned cat, she storms to her side of the bed to get some of her after bath care and explains nothing.

Since meeting and traveling with the Tanners, Annabelle had seen a lot. A lot of death, destruction, and chaos; all the darkness that she'd always felt magnetized towards, even coveted, had stared her in the eyes several times in their journeys. It humbled her, and finally, had even scared her a little. She didn't let as much on, very often—the two boys had seen her rattled a couple of times, but she always recovered with stoic grace into her eventually typically impish facade.

A year or so into being with them, she pondered loss, having learned why they were alone. She wondered about her own family, and her own heart—if she would feel that sort of grief.

She decided if she lost either of the Tanners, she would.

But it was grief uncompared to Lauren's—she'd never heard such soul shaking wails of despair in her life, and sitting awake in the corner of his room, she can still hear it. Though Lauren has stopped crying, she can't shake the image of his face in the fresh of it. And it hurts her, too—she loved Susan as well. She cried and screamed as well. But quickly, perhaps too quickly, she's gone and steeled herself; she had to be strong for the remaining brother.

She doesn't sleep, and she's not sure if Lauren does, either. But late in the night, she slips out, whispering she would be back—just in case he's awake. She returns hours later, when the sun is up. She feels cold, and wonders if he does as well. The lack of sleep and the despair has left a chilliness in her bones, but the cold morning air hadn't helped.

Quietly, she moves carefully to the bed. They're staying in an inn—the owners have been kind about the cost of their stay, because tragedy is starkly clear when it strikes. She moves the sheets and comforter back, wordlessly moving beneath them. She settles on her side, laying beside Lauren to look at him.

She has no words, and she's not sure if it's okay to touch him. She seems stoic, because she's shocked—but she feels her grief would be imposing.

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