
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8893555.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Critical_Role_(Web_Series)
  Relationship:
      Percival_"Percy"_Fredrickstein_Von_Musel_Klossowski_de_Rolo_III/Anna
      Ripley
  Character:
      Anna_Ripley, Percival_"Percy"_Fredrickstein_Von_Musel_Klossowski_de_Rolo
      III
  Additional Tags:
      Non-Consensual_Voyeurism, Nightmares, Past_Rape/Non-con, Masturbation,
      Implied/Referenced_Torture, Past_Underage_Sex, Rapist's_POV, Dead_Dove:
      Do_Not_Eat
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-18 Words: 1778
****** i don't need you (but i need so much more) ******
by sparxwrites
Summary
     He doesn’t have the good dreams every night – or even most nights.
     Most nights, his sleep is silent, interspersed with hitching gasps or
     soft groans, tiny noises of stress and fear that fade as soon as they
     come. Some nights, he’s entirely silent, or snoring soft and even,
     and on those nights she can barely stand to listen. Boring. Boring,
     that he should have a night’s uninterrupted sleep, and refuse to
     provide her with the entertainment she craves.
     She checks in every night, though, in hope of a good night, and
     tonight… Tonight is one of the good nights.
Notes
     (see notes at end of work for more thorough warnings.)
See the end of the work for more notes
He doesn’t have the good dreams every night – or even most nights. Most nights,
his sleep is silent, interspersed with hitching gasps or soft groans, tiny
noises of stress and fear that fade as soon as they come. Some nights, he’s
entirely silent, or snoring soft and even, and on those nights she can barely
stand to listen. Boring. Boring, that he should have a night’s uninterrupted
sleep, and refuse to provide her with the entertainment she craves.
She checks in every night, though, in hope of a good night, and tonight…
Tonight is one of the good nights.
She takes herself a little ways from camp, under the guise of keeping watch,
finds a dry place to sit and settles down, gets herself comfortable. The
listening stone she keeps looped around her neck on a leather thong clinks
against the metal of her fingers as she pulls it out of her shirt, settling in
her palm with a quiet, ringing sound.
Her other hand, flesh and blood, tugs at the hem of her long, woollen skirt,
hitching it up to settle around her waist. The chill of the night air against
her newly-bared skin is sharp, but not unbearable – the leather of her riding
boots come up past mid-calf, and besides, she doesn’t intend to leave herself
exposed for terribly long. Orgasms, in her opinion, are generally something to
be dealt with as quickly and efficiently as possible.
That’s not to say, though, that she can’t enjoy herself in the process.
Tightening her grip on the listening stone with a faint shriek of metal on
stone, she closes her eyes and focuses. Lets her fingers wander up the bare
skin of her inner thigh, trailing the blunted edges of her fingernails as she
goes – she’s so sensitive there, just the barest contact enough to make the
wiry muscles of her thighs twitch and jump. The weakness of it annoys her, but
the sparks it sends skittering from toe to sternum most definitely do not.
She’s just reached the crease where thigh meets mons, the faint line from hip
to leg-fork, when she hears it. A quiet exhale, ragged around the edges,
followed by a sharp, stuttering inhale. It’s music to her ears, and she can’t
help but smile, the expression sharp in the corners where her lips pull back
from her teeth.
Fingers straying sideways, to dance across the thin cotton of her underwear,
she finds her clit with a half-thought and presses down, faint, almost teasing.
It’s too light, too muffled by fabric to do much more than send a lazy coil of
relaxation up her spine – but that’s fine.
Her true pleasure is not in her fingers as they rub easily over her lips and
clit through her underwear, but in the noises Percival is making, noises she
can hear through the stone as if he were laid out right in front of her. It’s
delightful, and she can almost imagine him, sprawled on his bed in the dark,
eyes closed, sheets kicked half-off as he twitches in the grip of his dreams…
Spreading her legs a little wider, she fits her whole hand between the fork of
them, slipping a thumb beneath her panties to press the calloused pad of it
against her clit. Without the intervening fabric, the contact is sharper, more
intense, and she exhales raggedly at the temporary release it brings to the
tightness digging claws into her lower guts.
Percival whimpers, in his sleep, the noise sharp and jagged and hastily-
stifled, and she sighs happily when his next exhale is more whine than
breathing. He groans, and she nearly groans with him, head tipped back to stare
up at the stars and underwear slowly turning damp with arousal.
She stays like that, for a while, legs spread against the forest floor and
thumb circling over her clit to winch the heat in her stomach tighter and
tighter with every pass. The forest comes to night-life around her, quiet
chirps and rustles that covers her own heavy breathing – but not, thankfully,
the ever-louder sound of Percival dreams turning dark and sour.
What starts off languid, though, quickly turns frantic, needy, desperate –
though she’s loathe to admit to being so base, so governed by her instincts.
Percival’s whimpers and groans, his sharp, choked noises of distress, become
more frequent, more scared. The roar of arousal in her chest snaps and snarls
with every one, cries out for more. Her thumb moves faster, presses harder,
until the pleasure is no longer a low thrum but a sharp, throbbing stab, and
still she needs more-
Percival yells in his sleep, a wordless cry laced with an edge of pain, and she
can stand it no longer. She pushes fingers inside herself in one hard, long
thrust, and throws her head back even farther at how good it feels. They slip
in easily, where she’s wet, where she’s ready, sink deep and slick, and when
she crooks them the fire in her gut flares sparking-red and hungry.
She doesn’t do this often, really – she’s not the type for sexual
gratification, honestly, but… there’s something so sweet about the way he moans
her name in fear, the way his breath hitches and gasps with horror. It’s just
too good to pass up, gets her off fast and hard like nothing else does, leaves
her warm and satisfied for weeks after.
He groans, “Anna,no- please-” again, and she gasps, head tipped back until
she’s staring at stars and body clenching greedily around her own fingers.
There’s only two of them in her, thumb still working her clit in fast, hard
circles – she’s nothing if not pragmatic, and the middle of a forest in the
dead of night is no place to take your time with an orgasm – but it’s been a
while, she’s out of practice, and it feels like so much.
She finger-fucks herself with a swift efficiency, bordering on frantic, thumb
working her clit in bruising circles. She's so wet that the noise it's making
is loud, obscene, and she needs to be a little careful because she’s on watch,
camp is less than ten feet through the trees and someone might hear, but god-
Every time Percival cries out, “Anna, no,”, she clenches involuntarily,
tightens around her own fingers where they’re pushed deep and crooked like he’s
beckoning, pressed against the soft, sensitive places deep inside her. It's
like lighting through her gut, every time, the dual flare of pleasure and
power, and she has to tug her lip between her teeth and bite down to keep
herself from making unacceptable amounts of noise.
Twice, three times more he cries out for her, calls her name with terror in his
voice – makes it sound like a plea, a prayer to an uncaring deity. The heat
spikes each time, and within minutes she’s aching, lightning prickling over her
skin, the heat inside her almost unbearable. She approaches her climax as his
nightmares approach theirs, her own breath going harsh and ragged even as he
forgets how to breathe.
When Percival wakes, it is with a strangled howl, the noise tearing itself free
from his throat no matter how he tries to choke it down. She can imagine him
now, taller and broader and older than he was when she knew,him biblically, but
still just as scared. Still shaking and wide-eyed, bolting upright in his bed
in the darkness, scarred hands clawing at the covers.
For a long moment, the only sound through the listening stone is his heavy
breathing, rasping and rabbit-fast in the darkness. And then… and then… Then,
there is the unmistakable sound of soft, broken sobs, wet and poorly-stifled
and hitching in his chest.
She comes, then – buries her fingers deep into her wet, slick heat, crooks
them, flicks a nail over her clit and comes so hard that the stars in the sky
are replaced with ones behind her eyelids. Comes to the sound of her beautiful,
brokenPercival crying – by himself, in the dark, all alone, like the sad,
lonely, pathetic little boy he still is – because he knows, in his heart of
hearts, that he will never be free of her.
Her cunt clutches greedily at her fingers, sucks them deeper even as she fucks
herself through her orgasm, and she remembers – in a burst of sense-memory so
powerful she almost moans from it – him. All those years ago, him, beneath her,
inside her, only half-hard from blood loss and fear and shaking like a deer
with its leg in a bear trap. Seventeen, seven days in her care, still a virgin
and so scared when she’d straddled him and sunk down onto him, rode him like
there was salvation awaiting her in orgasm.
Even now, years later, she still considers it the best sex she ever had – the
bitter, messy edges of human contact sweetened by the powerplay of it, by her
control looped around his neck like a noose.
It takes her a few moments to come back down, thumb still working over her clit
as she shudders through the aftershocks. By the time her senses return to her,
the stone has gone silent and dead, Percival apparently having – regrettably –
gotten himself back under control. But no matter.
She’s gotten what she came for, gotten what she wanted, and that’s all that
matters. That’s all that’s ever mattered, between her and Percival.
Slipping her fingers out, sighing quietly at the oversensitive spike of
friction, she wipes them off on a nearby tuft of grass until they’re clean of
her own slick. She tugs her skirt back down, lets it settle heavy around her
ankles again, and sighs again. Her underwear is ruined, soaked through and no
doubt stinking of sex, but there’s little that can be done about that.
It’s no matter, anyway. She knows that, even if they noticed, not oneof her
hired guns would dare say anything.
She smiles, satisfied, at the reminder of the power she still wields over
people – even if Percival is, for the moment, out of her reach – and tucks a
few wisps of hair escaped from her bun behind her ears. Tucking the stone back
into the neck of her blouse, and picking up the familiar weight of Animus once
more, she settles in for the rest of her watch.
The memory of her orgasm lingers, though, the echoes of Percy’s sobs ringing in
her ears sweeter than any song. Though the sleep-heavy rush of endorphins fades
soon enough, the satisfaction of it lingers – warm in her gut and slick-wet
between her legs – until the sun rises.
End Notes
     cw for ripley masturbating to the memory of raping a seventeen-year-
     old percy, and to the sound of him having nightmares about her. it's
     presented as fucked up, and ripley is aware it's fucked up, but it's
     still a rapist getting off on having raped someone - please tread
     carefully.
     i… have no answer to “why did you write this”, really. ripley’s
     fucked up, it’s very interesting getting into her head, and this is
     dirtybadwrong on so many levels. it’s… it’s been a week, guys, and
     percy/ripley is apparently very good for de-stressing. written to,
     and title from, “mistakes” by phildel.
     find me on @sparxwrites on tumblr.
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