#Am I going anywhere with this? I don’t think so?

[no-144444]

soft launching (hard) -d.riccardo

summary: you and daniel decide it's time the world know about you

pairing: daniel riccardo x fem! illman! mechanic! reader

(for context, kym illman is an f1 photographer from australia)

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Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

You were livid. You wanted to scream, to sob, to shout, everything. It wasn’t fair. You were exhausted, hours and hours of practice, hours and hours of expertise, and yet, Daniel had just crashed the car into the wall. You were usually quite good at turning off the ‘mechanic’ side of you to turn into the ‘girlfriend’ but it was hard today. You’d worked overnight. You’d worked until you were practically falling asleep at the side of the car. 

And he crashed it. Again. 

You knew it wasn’t his fault.

It wasn’t his fault. 

You kept repeating that in your head. The looks on the faces of the other mechanics were… unwelcoming to say the least. You didn’t want Daniel to see them, or you. You walked on, ready to hide in the bathroom until Daniel got into his room. 

Then he saw you. Daniel had a certain way he liked to calm down after races. Shower, relax in bed for an hour with you, then back to the hotel for some food. 

You couldn’t do it. You knew you’d blow up on him. You knew you’d freak out. 

“Baby-” he started, running up to you and wrapping his arms around you. “I’m sorry.”

Your heart stopped. ‘Mechanic’ you, was gone. Replaced whole-heartedly by the need to comfort him and make sure he was alright. Yes, you still felt bad for the other mechanics and yourself, thinking about how you’d have to put it all back together in Milton Keynes. But Daniel needed you. 

“It’s alright,” you whispered, holding him close. “You’re alright baby.”

He nodded, his eyes wet with tears. He knew if he’d talk he’d break. 

“Does it hurt anywhere?” you asked, pulling him into his driver’s room. He shook his head. “Did you get checked out?”

He nodded. You sat him down on the bed. 

“It’s alright darling,” you whispered. “It’s Lance’s fucking fault anyway-”

“I don’t want to lose you if I lose this,” he responded bluntly, his hazel eyes filled with tears. “I know I can be better, I just… it feels like a classic case of old dog, new tricks, and I just can’t get the hang of it. If I could just get one shot at the RedBull seat, I know I could do it. I just… it feels like shit battling it out at the back for one point. I used to stand at the top of podiums, and now I’m… this,” he sighed, discouraged. 

“You won’t lose me,” you assured him, running your hands through his hair and he leaned his head against your stomach. He loved sitting like this, his head on your stomach as you stood in front of him. “I’m not going to let you go, don’t ever worry about that.” 

“I do,” he admitted. 

“Then talk to me about it,” you told him, pulling his chin up so he had to look at you. “I am here for you no matter what. Always and forever, Dan.”

“You swear?” he asked. 

"I swear."

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ You were there when he got the call. He sobbed for hours. You were both there, just laying in your bed, holding him as he cried. For the first week, it was rough. He barely got up. You helped him. You made him food, made him get up and walk, made him shower. He was grateful to have you there, because he didn’t know what he would’ve done without you. He probably would’ve sulked for months. But you, you brought him out, brought him home, brought him to see Josh and Hailee. You even bought him a hat (his new favourite) that says ‘retired!’. You made him happy again. Yes, there were still down days, and yes, he still looked at his trophies longingly. But he had other things in mind too. He wondered a lot about how you’d look in a wedding dress, or how you’d both look with a baby in your arms. He was finally thinking about the future for once, and he felt like slowing down, for the first time in his life, was just as exciting as going fast.

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Being in F1 when Danny wasn't was hard. He was your boyfriend, and it meant you didn't get to see him all the time anymore. You still adored your job, so you weren't going to quit, just... step back a bit. The season came to an end, you were 7th in the constructors, and off you went skiing with half the grid.

The funny thing about the fact that you were a mechanic, was the fact that your father was one of the main photographers in F1. You'd picked up that skill from him, and you usually jsut took photos of your friends, but to cut costs RedBull had asked you to be their on-track photographer as well, and you'd gained quite the reputation.

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ynillman

liked by pierregasly, jackdoohan, landonorris and 4,987,736 others

ynillman: 2024 is over and done with! I cannot wait to have a regular sleep schedule for three months!

comments

kymillman legendary photos this year! see you at christmas, and enjoy skiing! liked by yourusername

landonorris PLZZ LET US BORROW YOU NEXT YEAR -> ynillman maybe... but even I can't make papaya look good 🤷

lancestroll time to hit the slopes! -> ynillman bro i broke my fucking arm last time wtf -> lancestroll let's hope you break both of them this time! maybe then you won't capture another video of me falling!

oscrapiastri thank u for your service, lily is very happy with our couples photos! -> ynillman anything for lily! so happy for the two of you! -> user89 did we miss something...? ->user829: oscar did say he'd rather get married than get a tattoo...

user88: when's the next yt video queen??? -> ynillman tomorrow!

nicohulkenberg amazing work this year!

olliebearman thanks for the great photos this year!

jackdoohan thank you for making me not chop all my hair off again! (oh, and the photos were cool as well ig) liked by ynillman

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ynillman

liked by pierregasy, charlesleclerc, danielriccardo, and 8,098,364 others

ynillman didn't break an arm this year, only my ego!

comments

user8 lance serving boyfriend in this so hard

user99 hear me out, lance and y/n... -> user7 yes officer, it's this one -> user882 me when i'm clinically insane -> lancestroll prolly not.... -> ynillman please guys I have some standards

oscarpiastri i swear i was so surprised you didn't kill yourself

landonorris you're genuinely a danger to society on a snowboard -> ynillman because of my skills? -> landonorris because you can't fucking use one. I have the bruises to prove it

user83 lando, lance, oscar, and y/n????? what the fuck is this multiverse of madness

user0 still serving with the photos OMG QUEEN

estebanocon remind me to never go skiing with you again -> user82 estie bestie!!!!!!

mickschumacher who tf let her out of her cage? -> jackdoohan you did. you gave her the vodka.

user9: jack, mick, esteban, lance, lando, oscar, and yn? who else??? -> charlesleclerc i was there too -> alexalbon same -> carlosainz same -> francocolapinto me too! -> danielriccardo same... -> user9: and all of their wags were there too! what a cool friend group!

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lilymunihe

liked by alexalbon, ynillman, alexandrastmleux and 890,876 others

lilymunihe guess who took these photos? @.ynillman

comments

landonorris that's actually a normal sized bear in Alex's hands -> alexalbon so you're calling me tall? thanks??? -> landonorris fuck no, i meant a regular sized teddy bear

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ynillman

liked by robertirwin, pierregasly, francocolapinto and 9,987,625 others

ynillman new video out with robbie! (my sleep schedule is still fucked someone save me) (i love australia(ns))

comments

danielriccardo what a group of legends -> ynillman aka you're jealous i didn't invite you? -> user8239 y/ndaniel CRUMBS !!!!!

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danielriccardo

liked by ynillman, francocolapinto, fernandoalonso and 987,253 others

danielriccardo she's looking beautiful these days. missed home :)

comments

user8240 yall know who else is in australia this week... -> user247 i am picking up what you're putting down... delusion!

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danielriccardo

caption: you think she likes the bay?

dms

landornorris SOFT LAUNCH?

oscarpiastri taking the soft launch approach?

alexalbon BOO HARD LAUNCH YOU'VE BEEN TOGETHER FOREVER

lewishamilton mate if you don't hard launch her i'll do it wtf is this bullshit

yukistunoda bro... try harder.

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Daniel had decided something, which was almost always a dangerous idea. It was the off-season, you were in Australia to see the sights, see family, and catch some waves. He'd made his mind up about something days ago, and you'd been trying to figure out what, but he wouldn't budge. He was secretive and giddy, and slightly more childish than usual, so naturally, you started to panic.

That all changed when he brought you down to the beach. There were candles set up everywhere, he was smiling, and you were crying already.

"Y/n, you have made me the happiest man in the past four years," he smiled, despite the way his voice cracked with emotion. "You've been with me through everything. You've held me on the nights I've been my weakest, and championed me on the days I've been my best. I never asked you to love me, but you do it like it's breathing. You make the ups and downs feel like goosebumps on my arm, instead of mountainous waves. You make me smile. You make me laugh. You make me feel so fucking stupid when you start explaining something to do with engineering, and I realise I couldn't do that. The way you dedicate yourself to things is incredible. The way you treat others with kindness and respect even when they don't deserve it, is commendable. I love you with every bone, every nerve, and every cell in my body. I love everything about you, inside and out. I can't wait to get to sit in a front porch someday when we're old and wrinkly, and still get to tell people that you're my wife. So, Y/n, will you marry me?"

You nodded through tears,. pulling him up off one knee and kissing him harshly, only pulling back to look at the ring.

"I love you too," you smiled through tears. "I love you so much."

"I love you so much more," he smiled, elated that you'd said yes. "You saved me."

And that was that. You were were engaged.

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danielriccardo

liked by landonorris, ynillman, liamlawson, and 893,273 others

danielriccardo she was there for me through thick and thin, and she still likes me years later. you swore you wouldn't get rid of me, so i'm here to stay! love you more than anything, my love, my life, my (future) wife!

comments

landonorris HARD LAUNCH

robertirwin So happy for you guys!

oscarpiastri must come and visit you two oldies

maxverstappen man had been stolen... kidding! (not) Very happy for you two! (not).

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navigation for my blog :)

redbull and vcarb masterlist

[bitchface24-7]

And I am back once again with my regularly schedules JayVik x reader request!

For context this time, I tend to have a pretty stable sleep schedule but whenever I’m on vacation it kinda goes to shit. This will lead to me staying up til 2am and waking up at noon for days on end which is super annoying. So In order to fix this, I will pull an all-nighter in an attempt to “reset” my sleep schedule (which actually does work but I also super wouldn’t recommend it)

I had to do this again recently and while I’ve gotten used to it, it’s still annoying to deal with. I know for a fact that both Jayce and Viktor have ass sleep schedules and, while Jayce’s may have gotten slightly better after becoming a council member (out of necessity mayhaps), I am still willing to bet money that they both pull regular all nighters

With all that being said, I think it would be nice to pull an all nighter while hanging out in the lab, spending the time trying to keep each other up with too much coffee and dumb conversations. On the flip side, I also think it might be funny if Jayce/Vik tried to convince Reader to just sleep and have reader call them out on their shit

(Also mayhaps some cuddling? Would probably make me fall asleep instantly but also I need to be squished between them (non-sexual style))

Thank you in advanced, hope you’re taking care of yourself :))

ALL NIGHTER - JAYVIK X READER

synopsis: all of you have the worst sleep schedules ever. Point blank period. So when you decide to pull an all-nighter with them, you remember how much it sucks; but it does help you fix your sleep schedule in a jiffy. If only the two men didn’t constantly try to get you to sleep. If you’re sleeping; so are they.

warnings: nothing. It’s fluffy like cotton candy. Goofing off, banter, negotiation, cuddling

genre: m/m/f or m/m/m

p.s. I too have to reset my sleep schedule sometimes and I know how ass it makes me feel. But I just can’t help it, I don’t want my day to end (especially if I have things to do the next day) so I just… stay up 😭

Your sleep schedule has been fucked ever since you got time off from your job and took that god-forsaken nap. You took it at five p.m. and woke up at one in the morning. You then stayed up until five pm again and fell asleep.

Rinse and repeat.

Now you're going to use your tried and true method in desperate situations, you’re gonna pull an all nighter.

And who better to do it with than your two boys?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You walk into the lab, your feet dragging across the floor a bit. It’s almost four p.m. and you can feel the fatigue coursing through your body.

You want to sleep, but you can't.

Viktor and Jayce are experimenting as you come up to their stations. Jayce shoots you a big grin and Viktor just nods lightly in your direction. You walk further into the lab and plop onto your designated rollie chair.

"You okay?" Jayce asks, his big puppy dog eyes looking at you. You tiredly smile at him, "I'm just tired, trying to pull an all-nighter to fix my sleep schedule."

You hear a small hum at your statement, "Understandable. I do the same thing when needed." Viktor adds as he continues to work. Jayce looks worried at you two, "I get my sleep schedule also isn't the best, but I have maybe done an all-nighter once or twice. How often have y'all done this?"

Viktor stops working and contemplates Jayce's question, you look up to the ceiling and try to add up the amount of times you did this, "Anywhere from six to ten times? I really only have to do it after I get time off, I get so excited having nothing to do that I stay up way too late and wake up way too late."

Jayce huffs at you and looks to Viktor, "And you?" Viktor purses his lips and looks to the side, "Too often."

"Viktor!"

"What? Leave me alone."

You giggle at them, "You can't say anything Jayce. You've pulled all-nighters too. I've seen you stay too late at the lab and bring home paperwork from the council home."

Jayce sputters as the two of you giggle at him. His fond look gives away him fake irritation.

"You should sleep, love. Honestly pulling all-nighters is bad for your health."

"And you're a hypocrite Viktor. Pass me the coffee pot, I'm staying up for as long as I can."

Viktor sighs and complies to your demand. It's true, he is a bit hypocritical.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The delirium has set in. Everything is making you three giggle, how Jayce's hammer sounds as he works on a prototype, how Viktor's accent swirls his words due to his exhaustion, looking at each other for too long.

The lab is full of snorts, cackling laughter, and wheezing.

You look at the clock and see it's almost three in the morning, "Ok, I'd say it's bedtime now. We'll probably wake up at around nine or ten in the morning and we'll be able to go to sleep properly later today."

Both Viktor and Jayce whine, wanting to stay up longer. You shut the shit down.

"Nope! Nuh-uh, bed time for all of us, c'mon."

They listen to you, complaining the whole time, but the minute you all lay in the lab's futon, they almost pass out insatntly.

You're smack dab in the middle. You're essentially laying on top of Jayce and Viktor is on top of you. You hear Jayce's heartbeat as you card your finger's through Viktor's hair.

You sigh in content, this is gonna be the best sleep of your life, you can feel it.

It's great being a teddy bear.

Having a delirious laughing attack would be great with them. Like when you’re laughing with a friend in class and you just can’t stop 😭😭 I miss that so much bro

[curiousnightly]

sylus smut sneak peek

a/n: i couldn't help myself from writing something based off this thought i posted about recently and figured i'd give y'all a teeny tiny glance at what i've wrote so far. let me know what you guys think and if i should finish the entire piece.

also, bonus points if you can guess the scenario that i am shamelessly a sucker for ( •̀ω •́ )

MDNI - 18+ NSFW

warnings: mature content, horny sylus

not proofread; ~500-600 words

“Sylus, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why. And from the looks of it, you seem to be reacting to that powder,” I trail off as I approach him. 

I take only one step forward when Sylus quickly stands from his seat. He takes a moment to look at me with a pained expression before throwing his glasses down onto the table and turning his back from me. 

“Don’t-don’t get any closer,” he groans as he places a hand on the table next to him to steady himself. 

Seeing him lose balance, I ignore his request by rushing to wrap my arms around his waist to steady him. Though, as soon as I touch him, a deep, husky moan comes from his chest. My body tenses, not sure how to react to his own reaction. 

“Sylus,” I whisper softly behind him, trying to assess whether that reaction of his was my own desire for him playing tricks with me or if he genuinely reacted to my touch in that way. But prior to coming to that conclusion on my own, he manages to provide that answer for me as he suddenly shifts in my arms. His large hands quickly find my waist and in rapid movements, I am shoved into the seat he once occupied and caged in as both of his large arms take hold of the armrests on either side of me. I take a second to adjust before looking up at him and seeing pure lust in his hungry gaze. I swallow hard as the sight in front of me directly sends heat to my lower core. 

I call out to him once more, both timid and aroused. Hearing his name, Sylus pinches his eyes shut and takes a deep inhale as if it's agonizing for him to hear me say his name. However, I quickly realize his labored breathing is the result of his horns reappearing on his head. My mouth falls open at the sight of them. Something is clearly not right.

“Sweetie,” his voice registers extremely low and hoarse, “if you say my name like that, I won’t be able to hold myself back.” He slowly opens his eyes and this time I notice that his pupils are completely blown. My legs instinctively close tighter, which only brings his attention from my face down to the exposed skin below the hem of my skirt. Sylus curses to himself. 

Ignoring my own sexual frustrations from seeing his reactions, I try to return to the topic at hand. 

“Sylus, what is going on,” I coaxed, placing one of my hands on top of his. His skin is hot, I immediately take notice. His breath hitches upon the skin to skin contact. He closes his eyes again as if trying to compose himself. 

“I-I can’t,” he struggles, his eyes returning to me with an expression of both pain and guilt, “Sweetie, I need you to do me a favor.” His plea comes out with a shaky breath. I quickly nod in response. He drops his attention from my face to look down at himself. Not hearing him saying anything, I slowly look down to where his focus has shifted to until my eyes land directly on it: his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants.

My face shoots back up to look at him, expressing both pity and slight amusement. 

“Sylus…are you horny right now?” I can’t help the small laugh that follows my question. He frowns.

“Kitten, I am not in the mood for your games right now,” he chided, voice strained with frustration. “I need an answer before I do something I regret,” his tone coming out more serious as he practically speaks through his teeth. His control is slipping.

[charmac]

Danny did a little interview for AARP Magazine in December. I haven't seen it copied anywhere past the paywall and I enjoyed reading it, so wanted to repost here

(Article is pasted as text below the cut)

Noisemaker I was born in Asbury Park, New Jersey. I was the baby, my sister Theresa was 10 years older, my sister Angie was 16 years older, my mom had two sisters, and none of them shut up, ever. It’s an Italian family, so the decibel level is out there. A little smart aleck I went to Our Lady of Mount Carmel School, because if your mother and father didn’t know what to do with you, they gave you to the nuns. … and still a smart aleck I remember when Peter, my nephew, was born. I was 7 years old, and I went over and looked into the bassinet, and the first thing he did was pee on me. It was great! I don’t think there’s a conversation I’ve had with the guy over all these years where I don’t bring up the fact that he peed on me. Also an old softie Do anything you can to keep on an even keel with your family and friends, no matter what happens in your life. That’s all we have. Don’t hide things. You’ve got to get up every day thinking about how you’re going to make it easier for the people that you’re working with or that you love or that you eat breakfast with. Because it’s infectious; everybody starts feeling good. Falling into the business Growing up, I’d spend the weekends at the movies, but I actually wasn’t even thinking about doing it. I got introduced to the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in a roundabout way, took a couple classes, and I got the bug. And I thought, I’m not like Cary Grant, but I got a feel for this thing. So I studied, and then I went and started looking for jobs in New York, like every other actor does. I didn’t care what the description was—“male, 6 foot 4, 250 pounds”—I’d go out for the audition. Once I got in the room, I’m going to do what I’m going to do. Becoming Louie I wanted that part, Louie DePalma [in Taxi]. I walked into the room to audition in front of the four guys who created it, and I said, “One thing I want to know before we start. Who wrote this shit?” And I threw the script on the table. And I had a nanosecond of, did I screw everything up? Then they fell on the floor. Louie walked into their lives. Sudden fame I went to the market the day after the first episode aired, and people are stopping me on the street: “Hey, Louie!” They weren’t calling me Danny. After a couple of days of this, I called my publicist, and said, “This is really crazy. People are chasing me down the street.” He says, “Danny, you don’t have to worry until that stops happening.” Now it’s all, “Frank, Frank, Frank!” because of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, which is good. The fans are all you have. Still evolving I think I’m bolder than I’ve ever been—I don’t monitor myself as much. I do say things that are, like, pretty far out, that are really weird, and sometimes I’m inappropriate. But I am always respectful, and that’s because of my two sisters, I swear to God. You have to respect other people’s space.

My happy place Since my two grandbabies have been born, I am just in- corrigible. You gotta tamp me down in the joy department, you know what I’m saying? I’m just so lucky. Blessings have been showered down on me. I wish that for everybody.And the thing is to be aware of it. Don’t let it go. Rhea [Perlman, DeVito’s wife, from whom he is separated but with whom he still spends a lot of time] and I were always able to see those little, incremental changes when our kids were growing up. And I tell my kids that, with their babies: Don’t miss a thing, don’t look away. A sudden case of holidays I’m in the movie A Sudden Case of Christmas with my daughter Lucy, who plays my daughter. It’s just a real warm, wonderful movie, and I loved doing it. As far as the actual holidays go, we have family dinners. Basically we’re Italian, so you know, anybody who’s around, we grab. We get to celebrate all the holidays, because Rhea’s parents were Jewish, so we did all the Jewish holidays, and we do all the Catholic holidays or Italian holidays. My mantra It’s always a good thing to be positive about life, and always get out of bed thinking today’s the day you’re really going to kick its ass. That’s the way to do it

[lou-struck]

Blanket of Snow

Belpheghor x reader

W.C: 2.4k

~ As the Avatar of Sloth, Belpheghor can fall asleep just about anywhere. But just because he can doesnt mean he should. 

a/n: This was the ‘Other’ option on my poll from a few days ago. I hope everyone is staying warm out there unlike Belphie. 

Apparently a single cardigan, no matter how fluffy it is, is not warm enough to withstand the icy northern winds of a Devildom winter. After staying late to watch Beel’s Fangol practice, The Avatar of Sloth finds himself cold and uncomfortable as he fights against the chill. 

Belphie is miserable, and with each slow step he takes fighting against the heavy air, he lists off the million other places he would rather be at the moment. 

In his bed

*step

In your bed

*step

That really comfortable couch by the fireplace

*step

Eventually just thinking about napping tires him out, and he reaches into the pocket of his too thin cardigan to pull out his DDD for just a bit of motivation. 

He fumbles with the cold screen, pulling up his call logs and pressing your name. The speaker begins to ring and he holds the device to his ear expectantly waiting for you to pick up and make today just a bit better. 

“Hello?” your voice says coming through the receiver a bit staticy from the strong wind. 

“Hey, are you almost home?” he asks, “I’m tired and want to take a nap before dinner.”

“Not quite,” you muse, the lack of your chattering teeth tells the Demon that at least you managed to pack a warm jacket. “I actually am on my way to Purgatory hall to pick up my charger. I won't be home until dinner.”

Belphie frowns, his bottom lip pouting at your words. “Use my charger then, it’s too cold for you to walk all the way there.”

It’s too late.” you chuckle, no doubt imagine his youngest sibling pout. “I’m already here, but i’ll be home soon.”

“Fine, but make sure not to bring home any more of Solomon’s cooking.” he warns. “You’re too nice to that shady guy.”

“I won’t, besides Mammon is cooking tonight and wants everyone to come home hungry.”

Belphie pales because Mammon isn’t that great of a cook either. “Never mind, let's go get sushi instead.”

“Nope,” your reply is firm. “But we can go tomorrow.”

His cheeks warm slightly at your words. “Could we go to the place with the Conveyor belt? It’s all you can eat so we can bring some home for Beel.”

“That sounds great.” you say a warm fondness in your tone that pulls at his inhuman heart, “It’s a date then.” 

The well lit windows of the House of Lamination shine brightly in the distance. “I don’t know why, but just the sound of your voice makes me feel warmer.” he murmurs into the phone. “I’m almost home so I’m going to find a place to take a nap.”

“I’ll see you soon Belphie,” you hum. “I want to make it home before the snow starts to fall.”

“I lov~” the line goes dead. Pulling the device from his ear as the cold screen flickers weakly before dying, leaving his declaration unheard by you. Annoyed, he slides the now useless brick into his pocket and climbs the front steps. 

As soon as he pushes open the front door, he is hit with a cloud of suffocatingly dark smoke. It’s burnt spicy taste invades Belpheghor’s senses, and as it hits the back of his throat it sends him into a coughing fit. Ducking away from the toxicity, the door slams roughly behind him. Eyes watering as he followed the trail to the Kitchen where Mammon stands up on the countertop. In his hand he waves a pathetic-looking dish towel in front of the smoke alarm.“Of course it would be you trying to burn the house down.” He mumbles as the smoke begins to stream out the cracked window.

“Ya could help me ya know.” Mammon pants stepping down from the countertop, looking down at the ashes of what would’ve been dinner. “Yer jus standin there all judgy.”

The smell of burnt food makes the tired Demon grimace “ there’s too much smoke, I won’t be able to take a nap in here now.”

Mammon crosses his arms, “go find somewhere else to sleep then if yer jus gonna complain about it.”

“Fine, I will.” he mumbles, his favorite blanket appearing in his hand and he turns and walks down the hall to find a less smokey resting place. 

~

Mammon hands shake as he sets the glass bowls on the table. After confiding in you that he had ruined the dish he was making earlier, he had to resort to a plan B that he could pull together in under an hour, an instant noodle bar. 

Although making the large pot of noodles wasn't too complicated for the Avatar of Greed, the thing that really made this dinner stand out was all of the different sauces and toppings he prepared so everyone could make their perfect bowl. 

You look around the dinner table and find that for once, his brothers are without complaint. “I must admit Mammon, this was an unexpected surprise.” Lucifer hums looking around at the various toppings.

 “It’s not a big deal or anythin, I'm just a genius.” he mutters, clearly blushing from the attention. 

“Oh really?” then why did the house smell like the inside of a chimney when I got home?” Asmo chirps, “What did you burn?”

Mammon's eyes widen, darting around the room looking for a distraction and they settle on Belpheghor’s empty chair. “Where's Belphie? I thought we all had to be at these family dinners?” 

His utterance draws all seven pairs of eyes to the only unoccupied seat for the first time. “I see, it appears we are missing someone. Does anyone know where Belphegor is?”

“I thought he was home,” you mention, thinking back to your earlier conversation with the seventh born. “We were on the phone when he was walking up, but he was tired.”

“Probably jus fell asleep somewhere.” Mammon grumbles, sinking into his chair. 

“I see,” Lucifer says, settling down in his chair at the head of the table. “Well then, dinner will not be served until he arrives, so unless you wish to dine on cold noodles, I suggest searching for him.”

It only takes half a second for his threat to make Beel spring up from the table, his stomach growling so loud the table shakes. “There’s no time to waste, everyone get up and find Belphie.”

Having put another brother on the chopping block, Mammon slips away knowing that if he is the one to find Belphie, it will make him look much better and perhaps the whole fire in the kitchen thing will get swept under the rug.

“I wonder where he could be?” you murmur glancing outside as the heavily falling snow that already coats the dark ground in a white blanket.

“You look worried,” Satan says walking up to the window. His relaxed smile in the reflection comforts you a bit. “I’m sure Belphie just lost track of time and is napping in one of his usual spots. I’m headed up to the attic now, but you could try the living room.”

“I will, thanks Satan.” you say, recalling the seventh born’s love for the fireplace and cozy couches as the true middle child disappears up the stairs. 

The living room is dark as you approach, but the lack of light does not deter you. One time in the human world, you found Belphie napping in the trunk of a moving car to escape the harsh summer rays. 

But the cold breeze that twists the long curtains, brings you back down to reality. Goosebumps litter your skin as you spot the open french doors. A slushed mix of water droplets and melted snow litters the stone ground. 

Worriedly you rush to the door and grip the ice cold handle, The hinges squeak as you start to shut them, but stop yourself when you notice a particularly large and uneven  amount of snow covering one of the outdoor couches. 

It is mindblowing how fast the snow can pile up in the Devildom. Just fifteen minutes ago, the first few flakes were falling from the sky as you climbed the House of Laminations familiar steps. 

But it’s crazier still that most of the snow has piled up on the couch on the right in particular while its twin just on the other side of it has significantly less. 

It’s almost as if someone is under that mountain of snow…

Oh no

Although your feet are only protected by some particularly fuzzy socks, you rush outside into the elements. The cold, wet snow gets absorbed into the balls of your feet as you stand in front of the Belphie shaped mound of snow.

Although the demon does have a tendency to fall asleep in the strangest places, this may be a new record. Your fingers feel like pins and needles as they dig through fresh powder, the discomfort makes you doubt yourself until you hit something hard. Digging turns to brushing when you uncover Belphies face. 

His skin is ice cold as snowflakes land on his closed eyelids. At first you fear the worst but he lets out a snore…

How is he sleeping through this

Panic turns to annoyance as you waste no time brushing off his shoulders and shaking his awake. He stirs slightly, violet iries blinking up at you sleepily as he smiles. 

“Hey Mc, It’s cold out here,” he mumbles snow falls from his arms as he wipes the powder off his face. 

“Why in the three realms are you sleeping out here in the middle of a snowstorm?” you exclaim, your cold feet jogging in place to try and keep warm.

“I wasn't snowing when I came out here,” he groans sitting up. “I just wanted to sleep somewhere that didn't smell like smoke. 

“S-still,” you shiver wrapping your arms around your midsection for warmth. “T-t-there are a d-dozen places you could've s-slept without putting yourself at risk of f-frostbite.”

“I’m not gonna get frostbite,” he mumbles, taking your hand. I’m a demon, the cold is just annoying for me, but you look cold. Let’s go inside.”

He leads you into the much warmer house as you peel off your ruined socks, placing them outside to deal with later. “You had me worried,” you huff eyeing his snow covered blanket and rosy cheeks. “You should change out of those clothes and take a warm shower. Demon’s may not get frostbite, but I know you guys can get sick.”

“Fine, I am a little cold.” he relents stubbornly, “I’ll go upstairs but you should eat, i’ll eat later after I get some more sleep.”

“Told ya so, I’ll come see you in a little bit,” you hum, watching fondly as he walks away, leaving a trail of melted snow in his wake. 

~

After explaining the circumstances surrounding Belphies’ absence to Lucifer and the rest of the brothers, dinner resumed. 

Beel looked over the moon as he dug into his noodle bowl topped with everything he could get his hands on. Watching him slurp down and work through the savory mountain was quite entertaining, but with all eyes on the sixth born, you almost missed Lucifer silently making a bowl for his youngest brother, slipping away to bring it to his room.

“That was nice of you,” you say quietly leaning closer to his chair when he returns. 

“I do not know what you’re talking about,” he hums, taking a long sip from his glass, avoiding eye contact with you. “But I think you should check on him when you have the chance.”

You nod,  taking the last few bites of your dinner and heading up to Belphie’s room to see how he is faring after his chilly napping spot. 

The twins’ door is shut when you approach. “Hey, it’s me.” you knock. “Can I come in?”

Pressing your ear to the door you hear a muffled but affirmative grunt in response. 

Stepping into the bedroom hits you with a strange sense of deja vu seeing the two beds on the opposing walls, Beel’s is made diligently, sheets tucked under the mattress with military precision while Bellphie’s is piled high with what looks to be every blanket in his collection. 

“At least it’s not snow this time,” you hum, eyeing the empty bowl of soup on his nightstand as you turn your attention to the shivering mound. You pull away the blanket layers gently until you meet his eyes. I’m cold,” he mumbles, strands of his hair sticking up from the blankets. 

Instinctually you flatten the wayward strands as you sit on the edge of the mattress. “I bet, but that’s what happens when you choose to sleep under a blanket of snow.”

He pouts, grabbing your extended hand and pulling it closer, While giving you an accusatory look. “It’s all your fault.”

“How is this my fault?” you ask, trying to retract your hand, but his grip is too tight. 

“You found me outside and woke me up.” he says obviously, pulling back the blankets in a silent request for you to join him. “If I was still sleeping I wouldn't know I was cold.”

“Or you would’ve froze to death.” you counter, sliding out of your slippers as he pulls you under the mountain. 

“There is no way of knowing that would’ve happened,” he smiles, seeing your body relax as the weight of the blankets brings you closer to him, his skin is far colder than it should be, but that doesn't deter you in the slightest. “So you have to face the consequences for your actions and help me warm up.”

“Fine,” you relent, clinging to the sleepy demon. The smell of lavender and fresh linens surrounds you and you breathe in deeply, eyelids growing heavier by the second. Belphie shivers slightly as you look to his lips wondering if they too need a bit of warming up.

“What’s wrong MC?” he breathes, his somnolent gaze twinkling impishly as he leans in closer, but not all the way. “Something on your mind?”

Although the room has grown ever so darker since entering, you can tell that his lips are just centimeters from your own, but he is counting on you to close the distance before you both close your eyes for the night. 

And you have never been one to let him down.

Tagging: @pixelcafe-network

[iiluvtaylorrussell]

ℰ𝓃𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒸ℯ 𝓌ℴ𝓇𝓉𝒽 𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉𝓃𝑔 𝒻ℴ𝓇

ℛ𝒶𝒻ℯ 𝓍 𝓀ℴℴ𝓀 𝓇ℯ𝒶𝒹ℯ𝓇

“ 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓎 𝓉ℯ𝓁𝓁 𝓂ℯ 𝓉𝒾𝓂ℯ 𝒾𝓈 𝓂ℴ𝓃ℯ𝓎 𝓌ℯ𝓁𝓁 𝓌ℯ’𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝓅ℯ𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓉 𝓉ℴ𝑔𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇 “

She strutted into the restaurant, heels clicking against the polished floors as heads turned, but her eyes stayed locked on one man—Rafe. He was leaning back in their reserved booth, one arm draped over the leather seat, his sharp jaw flexing as he watched her approach.

“You’re late,” he said, but the smirk tugging at his lips told her he didn’t mind.

She slid into the booth across from him, her dress hugging her curves in all the right places . She tossed her curls over her shoulder and smiled. “I like to make an entrance.”

Rafe’s eyes roamed over her body slowly, unapologetically. “You always do.”

The waiter appeared to take their order, but Rafe kindly waved him off without breaking his gaze. “Give us a minute.”

She raised an eyebrow, leaning forward on the table. “What? You brought me here just to stare?”

“Can you blame me?” Rafe said, his voice low. “You walk in looking like that, expecting me to focus on anything else other than you ? He said gently reaching his hand over hers his thumb brushing over her knuckles .

She plays with the edge of her napkin trying to hide her nervousness feeling his gaze on her , her diamond bracelet Rafe had bought her catching the candlelight. “You act like you’ve never seen me dressed up before.”

“I’ve seen it,” he said, leaning closer, his tone soft but possessive. “But it never gets old. You’re something else, princess . The way you walk and carry yourself it’s so sexy … like you already know you’re the prettiest girl in the room.”

Her lips curved into a sly smile. “Because I am.”

Rafe chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And yet, here we are,” she said back.

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “Here I am,” he echoed. “And I’m not going anywhere. But don’t think I didn’t notice how fucking long it took you to get ready tonight .”

She grinned, pulling her hand back to take a sip of her drink . “Perfection takes time, Rafe.”

He watched her for a moment, his smile fading into something softer, more serious. “You’re not perfect,” he said, his voice quiet. “You’re better than that. You’re mine.”

Her heart skipped, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she leaned back, crossing her legs with deliberate elegance. She smiled softly “ Im glad your here “

Rafe’s grin returned, his eyes softening “ Me to I wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else “

[cas-kingdom]

“Do you want me to wear a wig?”

A/N: Remember when I said '5 line fanfics'? Yeah.

(Please be kind lol, this is my first fic in a whiiiile).

“Do you want me to wear a wig?”

“No, I don’t want you to wear a wig.”

“What about heels?”

“You don’t wear heels.”

“But Karen does!”

Matt sighed and put a hand to his forehead. “Y/N, you’re not Karen,” he said, his voice sounding exactly how he felt: exhausted. This had been the first evening in longer than he could remember that he wasn’t catapulting himself across Hell’s Kitchen, and yet somehow, his aches and bruises were more prominent now than they had been when he was. He’d taken the day off—not that there was a workplace to take it from—and spent it in his pyjamas, trying not to aggravate his battered body more.

And so, it had not been his idea to stand in his living room at 2 am, feeling like the world had swallowed him and spat him right back out again. Neither had it been his idea to submit to a drama performance orchestrated by his sister. And yet, here he was.

This drama performance was entitled: Practicing Telling Karen That I’m Daredevil. In reality, Matt hadn’t given that much thought past the fact that it needed to happen. It was time. He had told Foggy, and he refused to leave Karen out any longer. But his ideas didn’t quite reach how, or when, or where. He’d figured that in any way, anytime, and anywhere, the result would be the same. There would be disbelief, and there would be accusatory remarks of betrayal and lying, and then quite possibly he would be on the receiving end of a slap. But he was okay with that, because at least it would be done.

You, ever the protector, had not been okay with that. You have to be prepared, you'd told him, nothing ever goes right for us. If you don’t figure this stuff out then she’ll probably find out you’re Daredevil when you’re sitting on the toil��

Well, he didn’t want that. So, he’d agreed. Partly because you weren't exactly wrong… mostly because he knew his sister, and he knew that every hour spent awake with him was one more you could hold onto. This was more for your benefit than it was Karen's.

“For all intents and purposes, yes,” you said, “yes, I am. I am Karen. Come on, into position.”

There was never any winning with you. Let it not be known that Matthew Murdock, fierce attorney at law, alias Daredevil, crime-fighting vigilante, could beat and punch and kick his way out of any situation except ones you had pulled him into.

Practically hearing the call of his bed, Matt picked up the bag with his mask inside. You had suggested he swing in through the window of Murdock and Nelson dressed in the suit.

Never gonna happen.

He turned his face towards you, stood across from him in your dressing gown, wet hair tied back. With a resigned sigh, he took the mask from the bag, and, the words feeling stupid on his lips, as though he was in some sort of cheesy superhero movie: “I’m Daredevil.”

There was silence. A sniff. You narrowed your eyes. Then, you snorted a laugh.

“Ha, ha. That’s hilarious.”

Matt tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Dude—no, wait, Karen wouldn’t say dude—Matt, you’re an awesome lawyer, seriously, but—you?" Incredulity dripped from your tone. "Scaling buildings and backflipping from roof to roof? That’s like… imagining Foggy in a bikini.”

“I’m trying really hard not to be insulted right now.”

“Did you forget you’re blind?”

Matt frowned, his muscles tensing a little. “I am blind. But I’m also Daredevil.”

You rolled your eyes, and Matt couldn’t help but think he should have enrolled you in acting school when you were younger.

“And did I tell you I’m Jesus Christ incarnated?”

Momentarily forgetting the feeling of his silk sheets and a cold pillow beneath his aching head, Matt drew his brows together and his jaw fell slightly open. “Are you making fun of me?”

“If you’re Daredevil, why don’t you prove it?”

“I’m not doing a backflip in the living room.”

You scrunched your nose up. “You’re so boring.”

“Okay. Then where do you think I got his mask from?”

You took a moment, eyes narrowing in suspicion, tongue running across your teeth as you thought. You walked towards him and took the mask from his hands. Matt listened while you moved it about, turning it upside down, hands passing over the horns as you scrutinised every detail.

You stood on your tiptoes to peer at something. Matt was patient. When you were satisfied, you made a disgruntled nose and threw the mask onto the couch. Arms crossed once again you stared determinedly up at him, saying simply: “Stolen."

Your brother rose a brow and mirrored your position, clear he was no longer dealing with Karen Page. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll bite. Why do you reckon that?”

“Too small to fit on your fat head.”

There were about two seconds between Matt tossing his head back and laughing, and grabbing you to toss onto the couch. Quicker than you had time to register it, he was over you, one knee beside you, his hands shooting down to tickle you.

You positively screamed, your brother’s full and legal name exiting your mouth in one shrill shriek.

“You’re a little shit, you know that?” Matt expertly dodged the kick aimed at his chest, wincing as his body reminded him of the stunts he’d pulled over the last few nights. He flopped in the seat beside you, his mask falling to the floor, and grabbed your hand as it aimed for his nose, holding it far enough away from the both of you that you couldn’t touch him.

“Noho! Stop!”

“No, you don’t know that? Damn, I’ve been slacking in my duties as big brother, haven't I?"

“You would—” You squeezed your eyes shut, one foot planted firmly against Matt's thigh, your free hand desperately trying to shove his away—“YOU WOULDN’T DOHO THIS TO KAHAREN!”

Matt scoffed a laugh, then, with an evil chuckle, leaned over you, hands still at work—“Karen knows how not to get on my last nerve,” he growled lowly—and blew a raspberry right under your ear.

He finally backed off at the noise that produced, partly due to sympathy, mostly because you had new neighbours who probably wouldn’t appreciate a 2 am wake-up call. Settling back in his seat with a self-satisfied smirk across his lips, he let you lurch forward and attack him, playfully shoving and kicking at him, until your foot caught a particularly sensitive spot and he recoiled. Instinctively a hand went to his side and the other closed around your ankle, his head dipped a little at the pain that coursed through him.

You recovered quickly. “Sorry!” you said, your breath still coming in short bursts. “Sorry, Matty, I—are you okay?”

Matt nodded slowly. “I’m okay,” he said, then breathed a laugh through his nose. “Not sure why I ever believed I’d get an evening off being beaten up tonight.”

You giggled and lightly smacked his shoulder, managing to wrench your foot free from his hold before he could take advantage of it being in his grasp. You crossed your legs beneath you and leaned back against the pillows as you tapped your phone to check the time.

“You can go to bed now,” you said quietly.

“Huh? Thought all this practicing stuff was necessary.”

He bumped against your shoulder and smiled slightly, picking at a loose thread in the sofa. “It’ll be fine. Whatever happens is gonna happen no matter how you do it, right?”

“I did kinda say that.”

“You can kinda shut up.”

A comforting sort of silence enveloped the room then, one that you were happy to sit with. The bustle of Hell’s Kitchen was still loud outside, but in this apartment, in this room, it was just the two of you. That was how it was supposed to be. That was what you missed.

A gentle snore broke the quietude, and you turned your head to see your brother utterly knocked out. His entire body had fallen limp against the couch and for the first time in so long, he looked almost peaceful.

You stared at him. Subconsciously, your mind counted every visible injury, every patch of discoloured skin, everywhere that could have been the one that killed him.

You reached down to pick up his mask. It felt cold against your skin, a reminder that it had the terrifying ability to upturn your entire life. This one thing.

Your eyes lingered a bit before you tossed the mask across the floor and grasped the throw on the back of the couch. Gently leaning against your brother, careful not to wake or hurt him, you draped it across the both of you and closed your eyes. His slow breathing soothed you and in no time you were lost in your own dreams.

Daredevil Masterpost

send me the first sentence of a fanfic and i’ll write the next five, except i don’t know when to stop writing so i guarantee there’ll be more than five

[mercury2venus]

“Sometimes I hold you closer just to know you’re real.”—

Just something I wrote at random. I love Louis fine self so much.

I was selfish with Louis. As he was with me. But we truly couldn’t help it. I indulged in him as if he was my favorite chocolate during the holidays. From simple glances to throes of passion his form was committed to my memory.

“ we have to leave the bed at some point darling.”

He whispered in my ear. Our essence tangled within the sheets, I cuddled to him closer “ no we don’t, we can stay here forever.”

Louis laughed deeply. His smile always touched his eyes. “ yea we can but I have business to take care of sugar, and that little one inside of you is going to be needing food soon. Now let’s get up so I can feed my girls.” He gently smiled.

How are you so sure it’s a girl ? I asked with a giggle

“Saw it in my dream. A little baby girl sat on my lap and called me papa.” He said sweetly

Well if it is a girl what we naming her ?

“Claudia, we’ll name her Claudia.” He responded

I smiled. I like that name.

There are things I have yet to know about Louis De pointe Du lac. He’s given me bits and pieces of himself and slowly I’ve been able to put together the puzzle. It’s been quite a journey.

“You gonna be gone long Lou? “. I needed to know if his business would have him out all night again.

“I’ll be home in just 2 hours Cleo. Don’t worry about me. “

“I can’t help but to worry” I mumbled

“It’s not good for the baby, I’ll be back sooner than you think.”

After making a quick meal, Louis gave me and my tummy a kiss before embedding himself into the darkness once more.

That night i heard Louis stumble in. I kept my eyes shut tight. Whatever demons he’d been fighting I pray they do not find their way to my doorstep. Louis had trouble in the past, he was honest about that, but it didn’t ease my nerves when he came waltzing in here after midnight.

“ Cleo ? You awake baby “ his thick New Orleans accent rang through the quiet room.

“Yea I am.” My voice was small, I wasn’t afraid of Louis but there was a shift in the air and that unnerved me.

“ Cleo baby girl we’re going way for a bit, i don’t have much time to explain. I’m packing our things just please get dressed.” His voice was frantic.

I didn’t ask questions. Because I knew Lou. He didn’t fear anything. Not even death itself. So whatever spooked him, was serious. I scrambled out of bed and began to throw on anything. After getting dressed we walked out of our home.

I seen 2 figures waiting for us. As I got closer I seen one blonde white man and the other of Indian descent. Their eyes travelled to Louis and I felt my legs want to give out. They looked at my Louis the way I did, and when their eyes reached me ?

Well, death seemed easier. I could just feel the earth begin to swallow me whole and—

“Cut that shit out Lestat. Don’t you dare invade her mind.” Louis spat

A smirk played on the blondes lips. “ of course “

We entered the car, as we pulled off lestat decided to make small talk

“ so any baby names” I didn’t miss the venom in his tone as if I was beneath him. Like I wasn’t worthy

“ Claudia. Right Lou ? “

I felt Louis hold me tighter. He kissed my temple and smiled.

“ yea, Claudia”

The car grew silent.

The tension began to choke me

I’d follow Louis anywhere but for the first time, in his arms was the last place I wanted to be. “ please dont say that.” louis whispered.

“Hmph. Well I am Lestat the man next to me is Armand we are old friends of your boyfriend. “

“Husband. We’re married.” I corrected him

We came to an abrupt stop.

“ Lestat keep driving. Please. “ mumbled Armand

I watched the blonde man rush out the car, to stand on the side of the road. Suddenly he doubled over and vomited.

“Dramatic.” Armand muttered.

“Is he okay” I asked with concern. Armand looked back to me then Louis then rolled his eyes

“Ask your husband.” Louis sat back with his eyes closed.

“ just sit back cleo and take a nap. You and the baby need rest.” My mind whispered.

I felt myself lean back and drift off.

OMNISCIENT POV

Armand watched Louis through the mirror.

“ don’t say anything to me” Louis spoke,

“You love her I can see that.” Armand responded curtly.

“Yea. Yea I do.” Louis ran a hand down his face.

“Be honest with her “

“I’m trying”

“She’s in a car with 3 of the undead. You’re not trying hard enough”

Please lay off this. Louis spoke into his old lover’s mind

Lestat entered the car eyes red and voice gravely.

“This was a mistake. But it is too late I suppose.” He took a pause. “Is she aware of what grows inside of her? “

“It’s a regular human child”. Louis responded wearily.

“Oh ! So that’s why we’re taking a road-trip, you’re afraid.” Lestat shook his head and focused back on the road.

Louis looked to Cleo eyes brimming with tears.

“I am. He whispered. I’ve never been more afraid.”

[theambitiouswoman]

Do you have relationship advice for a woman in her mind 20s whose never dated? I have Muslim immigrant parents, social anxiety, trauma and some body image issues which has led me to just never try. I've been on one date that never went anywhere despite being 25. I want to start trying to date more seriously but I feel like I'm too old to start when everyone around me has been dating since they were teenagers, and some are even married and have kids. I feel like my lack of experience will be a red flag to people, and even if I lie about my experience, they'll probably figure out I'm lying once they see that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.

Dating at 25 might feel late, but it’s not—everyone’s timeline is different, and starting now means you’re likely more self aware and intentional. Your lack of experience isn’t a red flag; it’s just part of your story. I know a lot of social circles where your limited relationship history basically makes you a trophy, a unicorn. So it is all about perspective. Any person who's interested in you wont look at this negatively, at all. And that is if they even care about your past history. The right person will value your honesty and authenticity, so there’s no need to lie. Instead, embrace vulnerability and say something like, “I am focusing on myself." I phrased it like that for a reason. You don't want to be an over eager girl anyway. Men love the hunt and a woman who is focused on herself is only going to make a guy more interested.

Start small to build confidence—practice conversations in low-pressure settings or join activities where you can meet people naturally. I would focus on casual, low pressure dates to avoid feeling overwhelmed. Not thinking about it going anywhere, just getting to know people. I say this because I am worried that with your limited experience, you might fall for mens lies or wont know how to navigate certain situations. Wouldn't want you to get hurt. This doesn't mean not to take yourself or your desire for relationships seriously!!!

Don’t compare yourself to others. Many who started dating young may not have the emotional clarity you’re developing now. Everyones journey is different. If i could do it all again, I would have 1000% waited to date later (was actually thinking about this a week ago). Focus on what you want in a partner and take your time. Dating is a skill, and every step—even awkward moments—helps you learn. You are beautiful, special and unique and not just anyone is worthy of you, so you shouldn't be in a hurry to make anyone your boyfriend either!! They have to earn you! :)

[echoingbirdsofprey]

Lightning On My Lips (Every Time You Kiss Me)

26 - Empty The Bottle And Empty My Soul

Pairing: Tyler Owens x OFC Georgia Tennley-Owens

Rating: Explicit (MDNI!)

Warnings: Alcohol comsumption, medical crap, mentions of suicidal ideation, mentions of SMUT

A/N: This should read like a series of bad dreams that neither Georgia or Tyler can wake up from. Lots of mutual pining and no actions. Don't think that Georgia doesn't feel bad for what she did. She does. Tyler was a fucking mess. Thank you y'all for reading and continung to read! As always comments, likes, reblogs, and any feedback is super appreciated! Hope y'all enjoy this one!

Tags: @mrsevans90 @djs8891 @gpsmississippihippie @barnesboo1967 @dizzybee03 @coloraturadiva @kmc1989

Tyler laid uncomfortably in his bed, running his hand over the cut on his head. He traced it lightly with his fingertips and it seared with pain when he did. It was throbbing and the pain killers weren't doing shit for him. This was the last time, he vowed, the last time he'd get staples in his head for riding a bull. The last time he'd get stitches for opening up his skin on a fence. The last time he'd get a cast or a sling for breaking something. This was it. He was done. He needed to do something else because now he'd lost the love of his life and his riding career was pretty much over. He wouldn't live long enough to do what he's dreamed of his entire life if he didn't stop.

But he hated all of that. And the part he hated the most was that he'd lost Georgia.

“Why'd she leave?” He asked, sitting up, while groaning in pain.

“All she said was she couldn't lose someone else. I didn't ask her what that meant. I'm so sorry T. She said she loved you.” Boone said, as he shifted in his chair. He knew the biggest thing his friend needed right now was support and it was kind of shitty that Georgia left. She’d probably even admit that. But as the days stretched on and Tyler became more cognizant of what his life was really going to be like for a long while, he even commended her for leaving.

“Well a lotta good that does me now!” He exclaimed, slamming a fist on the bed, Agony radiated throughout his entire body and he yelped. 

“T, easy. Ya gotta chill.” Boone stood and made a calming gesture with his hands. 

“Why Boone? I'm fuckin’ done. I can't walk. Can't go anywhere. What the fuck use am I now? I'm glad she fuckin’ left. She doesn't havta see me like this, all broken and fucked up.” Tyler said, laying back down. He huffed in frustration.

“T, seriously man. It'll be okay. Just gonna be a long road.” Boone said, fidgeting in his seat, uncomfortable at Tyler’s burst of anger. He’d seen the bull rider get mad before but not like this. There was a ferality in his eyes that Boone wasn’t sure he was okay with in that moment.

“Nah, Boone. This is dumb. I...I gotta find somethin’ else man...what am I supposed to do sittin’ in a fuckin’ bed rottin’ away.” Tyler shifted again, grabbing the cup of water from the tray in front of him and chucking it across the room. It landed with a splash and Tyler cried out in pain.

“Tyler...I'm sorry.” Boone didn’t know what to say or do to help his friend, so he decided just being there was going to have to be enough for now.

🌪️🛻🌪️

“FUCK THIS.” Tyler yelled, throwing the book he’d had his nose in for nearly three hours, across his room. It thudded against the wall and Boone ran up the stairs as quickly as he could. He’d been in the process of making his best friend lunch. Tyler was studying for an exam. A college exam. While he was laid up, he’d decided the best use of his time was to go to school. If he couldn’t exercise his body, at least he could exercise his mind. 

“What’s wrong, T?” Boone burst into the room and saw Tyler wheeling his chair backwards. 

“Fuckin’ cloud microphysics...pissin’ me the fuck off. I don’t get it.” Tyler said, slamming the wheelchair into the bed frame, the impact radiating up through the chair and into Tyler’s taxed body. 

“Can you be a lil’ less aggressive with the chair, T? You’re gonna break it and need a new one.” Boone pulled the chair slightly away from the bed.

“Maybe if I fuckin’ break it they won’t give me a new one.” Tyler glared at him.

“Then how you gon’ get ‘round?” Boone asked, knowing what his friend was hinting at. He would have to let the therapist know.

“I won’t. I’ll just heal or I’ll die. Who cares at this point.” His statement hurt Boone to his core. He knew someone that would care, but damn if he knew how to contact her, He’d tried and it came up as an out of service number. Maybe she had to get a new phone. Maybe she changed her number on purpose. Maybe she stopped paying the bill. There were a million reasons but there was only one that he cared about. Boone was banking on her coming back at some point. It would help Tyler. 

🌪️🛻🌪️

“You’re gonna graduate in that fuckin’ chair if you don’t start tryin’ a lil’ harder.” Jake said to his brother, offering an arm and that was it. He wanted Tyler to be rageful, so that he would try to stand and maybe punch him. But Tyler had become complacent and it killed Jake to see him this way.

“Do you understand how much pain I’m in?” Tyler asked, glancing at his brother before gripping tightly to his arm.

“I don’t give a fuck. Get up.” Jake scolded him and helped pull him to his feet. “You’re supposed to be trying to walk. Let’s go.” 

“FUCK. It hurts, Jake!” Tyler yelped, nearly collapsing. Jake caught him and pulled him back up.

“I know it does but you have to try.” Jake said, helping Tyler straighten back up. “You wanna fuck a girl again?”

“I mean...yeah...” Tyler’s brows furrowed.

“Then you have to walk!” Jake exclaimed, pulling his hands away from Tyler. He wobbled as Jake backed away. “Walk to me.” Jake said, motioning for Tyler to go toward him. Tyler focused hard on Jake, taking a couple of heavy steps. He sighed and his breath shuddered. Jake stepped over and held his brother. “You’re okay, T. You’re okay.” 

Jake knew he was struggling. Tyler had begun standing in physical therapy but he needed help at home with it. Boone had been able to for a while, but he also had to go back to work so he could make a bit of a living too. Jake had come back from a deployment just in time to help take care of Tyler. 

Tyler couldn’t control his emotions. He began sobbing against Jake’s chest.

“I can’t do this Jake. I’m in so much pain. I just want to end it.” Tyler said between sobs and Jake guided him back to the bed. Tyler folded into his brother like a child, burying his face in his neck.

“You can’t, T. I need my wingman. You can get through this. I know it hurts. I can feel you shaking. But you’ve gotta push through. Its the only way those muscles are gonna come back.” Jake rubbed his brother’s back. Tyler’s muscles were spasming and he was sweating. He’d been in the wheelchair for so many months that most of his muscles had atrophied to a point where any physical activity was difficult. Tyler was thin and weak and it horrified Jake to see his brother that way.

“Jake...if I asked you..” Tyler began and Jake cut him off.

“I’m not helping you end it. I’m helping you live, T. Stop being selfish. You’ve been through harder shit than this. Pull yourself together. For me.” Jake and Tyler’s eyes met. “Do you still want to have a house, and the girl, and kids, and all of that? How you gonna get that  if you don’t get through this.”

“How can I have any of that...she left me.” Tyler said and Jake scoffed.

“She’s not the only girl in the world, T.” Jake said softly.

“No, but she’s the only one I want.” Tyler said.

“How do you know that?” Jake asked.

“When you know, you know. And I fuckin’ know.”  Tyler affirmed and Jake shook his head but then puzzled through a solution.

“Well then T, if she’s the only one for you and you know, then you gotta get her back. You gotta work to do that. She ain’t gonna want a fuckin’ cripple. And you can’t make babies and maintain a house and all that other shit like this. So pull yourself together and remember what you want. If you want all of that, then go get it. Make it happen. Get better so that you can have everything you want.” 

🌪️🛻🌪️

Tyler had agreed to go on one date, set up by Boone with a girl from his Computer Modeling class. Talia was cute, a tiny blonde with glasses, little tits and a small ass. Not Tyler's type at all. There was only one girl that was his type.

The whole time he was at dinner with her he couldn't help but think of how different she was to Georgia. Tyler, being the stud he was, could barely see past her body. Sure she was smart, probably smarter than him, but all he could think of was what she'd be like in bed. 

He had to get Georgia out of his head. But even as they headed back to her apartment, fumbling with the lock as they made out, Tyler thought of the beautiful blonde he'd loved before. Her curves, which this girl lacked. Georgia had perky, large breasts that fit perfectly in Tyler's large hands. Georgia had just enough around her hips that Tyler could grab on and not be worried he'd hurt her. Talia was all bones. And as he slipped the condom on and thrust inside the cute meteorology major, pain shot through his loins and immediately softened his length. He tried. He did. He just couldn't keep it up. By the time Talia orgasmed, Tyler's hips were screaming. He pulled out and panted and she went to the bathroom to rinse herself off. 

He gathered his clothes from the floor, trashed the condom, dressed and left. He sat in his truck at home, rubbing one out to an interview that Georgia had done for the NFR. He couldn't believe himself and how low he'd stooped. 

Tyler would pick a bottle of whiskey, vodka, or rum, sit out in a wheatfield at night in the back of his truck and drink himself to sleep. He’d look up at the sky, pray to God and the heavens above that Georgia would come back some day, but the alcohol always left him with no hope for that and a hell of a hangover in the morning.

🌪️🛻🌪️

He had an impressive archive after four years. Every run, every pickup, every exhibition, every interview. Even the silly English show she'd done. Gee looked damn good in breeches, he admitted. That was the only thing that had gotten him through school and his recovery, was being able to watch her succeed time and time again. But every time he went to comment on a post or DM her, his thumb would hover over the button and he just couldn't bring himself to send it.

He'd struggled with pain management throughout those four years, attempting to end his life twice because it had become unbearable. There were days that he woke up and could barely move. Then he had really good days where he'd thought maybe he'd hop on a horse at the local arena and rope the dummy a couple times. 

He'd been building a truck to start storm chasing. Boone had helped and they were looking for a team. They'd started a YouTube channel, he and Boone getting some wild chase videos. The one that went viral and put them on the map was just outside of Tulsa, after Tyler had installed the augers on the truck and they tested them for the first time.

It had been a long time coming, but that was really when Tyler began praying hard. Tyler would go out to some different wheat field, now only once a week and polish off a bottle of whiskey or rum, whatever he had on hand, and lay in the bed of his truck, mumbling to God and the heavens above about how he just wished he could have her back. He just wished she'd come back around and they could forget the past four years and go back to what they had. Tyler just wanted her. 

He was tired of the girls throwing themselves at him. Tired of taking them out and trying to learn what they liked and didn't like when he already knew Georgia. He didn't want some other girl. And he was tired of the meaningless sex. They only wanted to bang him so they could say they'd slept with a famous youtuber. He should be sponsored by a condom company with how many he used over the course of the four years. He was so done with girls trying to get in his pants that he started letting Georgia's name come from his lips as he came, if he came. He didnt give a fuck anymore. Sure, he felt bad when it happened, and he apologized but he just couldn't take it anymore. He was done with other girls. Time to focus on his career, which was on an upswing that he couldn’t deny.

🌪️🛻🌪️

She was miserable. She was burnt out. Exhausted. She'd run every bit of ground at every single rodeo in the country over the course of four years. And she still thought about Tyler every single day. He weighed heaviest on her mind. He was the piece pushed far in the back that pulled at her subconscious.

“What's wrong, sweets?” Skylar or Beau or Johnny or any of the hundred other bull riders or ropers would ask her, knowing she was distracted and Georgia would just shake her head. He didn't care. Not like Tyler did. No one cared like Tyler did.

And not one of these guys could give her release like Tyler could. Skylar thought he was God’s gift to women, and was always too rough, making her sore afterwards. She’d fucked around with Johnny a couple times and he was too boring. Beau was too wild, too erratic, barely could get her off, so she made it very clear she wasn’t interested in him. There was a guy that had come close to Tyler, but for whatever reason she would always go back to Skylar. Maybe she felt like she needed the punishment. She felt like she deserved to be in pain. 

When Georgia saw the Tornado Wranglers channel for the first time come across her YouTube suggestions, she gasped. He looked just the same as he had, but a little older. More mature, but still playful at heart. The banter between him and Boone made her smile. She watched every livestream that she could. And then when the channel hit a million subscribers, Georgia wanted to message him and congratulate him but she couldn't. 

With Tyler's YouTube fame, she figured she would be as insignificant as any random fan that messaged the channel. He wouldn't recognize her. She fucked up. Now she had to live with that. 

So she did the only thing she could do. Continue on.

🌪️🛻🌪️

She’d gotten a call from her mother, saying that she wanted help moving down to Florida. Eleanor didn’t want to deal with tornados anymore. Emmaleigh didn’t have time to help her with everything she and her husband were doing. 

So on the day, when Georgia brought the mares back home, let them out into the field by the barn and set up their stalls, it was her mother who came out to the barn for once.

“Hi honey.” She said softly, taking her daughter in a weak hug. 

“Hi momma.” Georgia said. They watched the mares for a moment and then her mother spoke.

“Came to bring me down to Florida?” She asked and Georgia shook her head. “And then what’ll you do after?”

“Probably come back here. I got a job offer from one of the local weather stations for camera work. Met one of the meteorologists while I was on the road.” Georgia explained, moving her tack into the barn.

“Yeah? That sounds good. No more competin’ then?” Eleanor asked, as the mare ran back towards the barn. She reached out to rub Twist, who nickered softly to her. Georgia threw a couple apples on the ground under the fence for the mares and then folded her arms across her chest.

“Momma. I need a break. I’m exhausted.” Georgia said, her tone flat. 

“I don’t think you’ll get much rest chasin’ storms either, sweetie.” Eleanor rubbed a hand over her daughter’s back and then glanced back at the truck and trailer.

“Maybe I'm hoping to find something or someone else while I’m doin’ it...” Georgia murmured as she began to walk back to the truck. Eleanor walked with her and spoke even softer then.

“Tyler.” She said and Georgia stopped dead in her tracks. Even after four years, she didn’t think her mother would remember him, but she did. 

“Momma I know what you’re gonna say.” Georgia leaned against her truck for a moment. Eleanor put her hands on her hips.

“All I’m gonna say is if that’s what you want...be prepared for him to not want you back honey. You know what you did. I love you. I do. I always will. But I also know that you know that boy deserves more than you gave him.” She said, then heading into the house, leaving Georgia to think about what she said. Her mother’s words stung and brought tears to Georgia's eyes. She was right. Why would she ever think Tyler would want her back after what she did to him?

[al-n-cartoons]

I did not, in fact, do school work.

“Hey, Al, what’re the relationships in A Story Told?”

Excellent question!

Ben’s in an open relationship with Ed. Ben is either pan or bi (undecided) whereas Ed is demiromantic and asexual.

Ben is quietly omnigender but prefers he/him pronouns. He will use any pronoun or gendered title he can fit into a pun or joke. He started leaning hard on his masc attributes after someone implied to him that he was too obviously Not Cis-Hetero (this is pre-gay-marriage America).

Ed is proudly agender and uses kit/kits pronouns. Kit is alright with people using they/them on kit and is willing to join Ben in the closet when around Ben’s family and coworkers.

Ed comes from somewhere wherein gay rights are a given and kit thinks the political sphere Ben comes from is philosophically archaic.

Ben and Rex are two buds with massive competitive streaks and spend a lot of their time together bantering. Sometimes they fight or bicker but at the end of the day, they have each other's backs. They try dating for a short stint but Rex realizes he’s heteroromantic so the two omit romance from the picture.

Rex and Ed don’t click. At all. They respect one another and care about a lot of the same people, but their friendship is heavily reliant on the two not interacting too much.

Danny and Ben are on friendly terms and find allyship in each other. However, both identify the obvious conflict of interest in being around one another too often (as it’s a risk for Danny’s identity being discovered). They come to play a fake game of cat and mouse where Ben, someone seen by the public as a clear hero, presents as a faux nemesis to Phantom, whom the populace view to be a menace. In actuality, this is an act of cunning as it allows for Danny to more easily escape and hide in plain sight. Ben also gives Danny (et co.) advice on avoiding attention and preventing discovery.

These two sometimes spar together for the heck of it.

Side note: Danny is genderfluid. Her predominant pronouns are “he” and “it” but they use different ones all the time.

Ed and Tucker are buds. Tucker helps Ed figure out modern technology, Ed explains alchemy, the two are a menace to all things creative.

Ed and Sam are also buds. These two spend most of their time together grieving the recklessness of their boyfriends (save for Tucker, who doesn’t spend his time being shot at).

Sam, Tucker, and Danny are obviously a wholesome, mutually supportive polycule. I dare you to defy me.

Ben and Sam can get on one another’s nerves but generally get along.

Rex and Danny don’t know one another too well but eventually become long distance friends.

Tucker and tech are a match made in heaven, obviously. With Ben’s funds and Rex’s resources, Tucker begins making more gadgets and is slowly catching up on the Fentons.

Tucker goes on to use the loophole of Anything on Ed Remains to create a group chat across their bundle of realities. Ed hates having to unearth the secret of Using a Touch Screen but enjoys having infinite access to Google Maps.

Ben and Rook start out on iffy terms but eventually become amicable…? Their relationship can best be described as an uneasy truce; Ben isn’t the all powerful, extremely professional partner whom Rook was promised and a partner and full time internship isn’t something Ben had been told he was getting until maintaining them was suddenly expected of him.

Rook begrudgingly realizes that he’s been tasked with babysitting what turned out to be the human equivalent of an adolescent, superpowered though Ben may be.

Ben tries to establish boundaries with Rook or otherwise just refuse the partnership outright but (1) is unable to work alone and (2) feels bad for ditching Rook.

Max and Ben: Max assigned Rook to Ben because he doesn’t want Ben to be left alone in Gwen and Kevin’s absence. He’s worried about Ben’s emotional wellbeing and social development and his best solution is to give Ben someone who can watch his back when on the field (and generally keep up with him).

Max is disappointed when Ben initially rejects Rook and tells Ben that he needs to be more responsible.

Ben and Lucy are somewhat estranged and generally don’t interact too much. When they do, they have fun, but there’s an underlying awkwardness the two can’t shake.

Ben and Gwen are estranged and in denial about that fact.

Ben and Sunny were never close but start to find themselves venting to one another about their woes. Sunny is considered a bad influence and she does bring out aspects in Ben that his family find undesirable, but it’s the most honest relationship Ben has in his family (or from his reality) so the two continue chatting together on-and-of.

After Ben eventually leaves (dude runs away), Sunny is the only person he keeps in touch with.

Ben and Verdona: Ben doesn’t have “the spark” and thus Verdona is uninterested in this grandchild. He makes some good jokes, that’s nice.

Carl and Ben: After Verdonna left the family because her children didn’t have “The Spark”, Carl set out to have his own ordinary family of perfectly ordinary people. Carl’s desire for normalcy bleeds out in his expectations for Ben’s extracurriculars, academic performance, social life, self expression, etcetera. When Ben turns out not to be normal in terms of a learning disability (severe ADHD), Carl is rather understanding. At first. He decides that, if his son isn’t academically talented, sports should be the way to go. Ben is okay at them and rather enjoys soccer but, for some reason, he just can’t seem to last as long as his peers. He runs out of breath faster and never seems to catch it. His chest often hurts from the heavy humid air but maybe he can be a good goalie?

Carl instills the ableistic mentality that disability is inherently shameful and that they are something that must not be discussed openly. It is okay to have a disability and to need medicine so as to be normal, but one cannot let others onto the fact that he isn’t normal.

Ben comes to develop early onset bipolar, Carl helps Ben figure out a good treatment regimen (medically supervised). Then Ben comes to be the bearer of some intergalactic megaweapon that turns him into aliens??? And Carl can’t get the thing off??? Then Ben says he’s anemic??? What- No, those are a few steps too far, stop it.

Ben does not magically stop being a public figure. Also, his blood doesn’t care about keeping up appearances (much to Carl’s chagrin).

The two progressively drift apart over the years.

Sandra and Ben have a somewhat similar relationship as that between Carl and Ben, emphasis on the somewhat. Like Carl, Sandra believes it is important that her son be normal. Unlike Carl, she believes that her son is a perfectly healthy, perfectly happy person because why wouldn’t her son be? He doesn’t need pills or doctors, those are just wastes of money that change her son from what he truly is.

When young, newly-diagnosed-with-ADHD-Ben doesn’t have the reaction to Adderall that Carl hoped for, Sandra cemented her belief that the pharmaceutical industry is a scam (and an accusation that she’s failed as a parent).

Sandra leans hard on alternative treatments; sports, yoga, herbs, herbal supplements (not from pharmacies ‘cause big pharma).

Sandra takes Ben off of his mood stabilizers (and then Ultimate Alien happened).

Did I end on a bummer note? I think I ended on a bummer note. Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… Drew Saturday basically adopts Ben? Ben starts seeing Dr. Holiday and gets back into a good regimen for maintaining his health? Ed punches abelists in the face with his metal fist? Enter funny tidbit here?

[princessefemmelesbian]

Maybe I’m just being dramatic but it does legitimately scare and sadden me to see that a lot of transandrophobia truthers are literally just…young boys. Like, actual children. Like you’re not even old enough to vote yet and you have your whole life ahead of you and yet you are being manipulated into joining an mra group that hates trans women with a passion and thinks that men are oppressed in society for being men, and constantly uses Black men as their talking point in order to sound diverse and inclusive, meanwhile they’re also appropriating and misusing terminology specifically created by Black women to talk about our own oppression in order to get their misandry point across…to say nothing of the fact that the largest people in this group(including but not limited to its creator!) have misogynistic rape/detrans kinks centered specifically around preying on lesbians and trans women and this is something that is normalized and defended by the vast majority of transandrophobia truthers, or at least defended viciously by every single transandrodork that I’ve ever encountered who argued with me(a lesbian!!!) that actually there’s nothing wrong with getting off to the corrective rape of women because two consenting adults can do whatever they want in the bedroom(yeah right)! Not to mention I have yet to come across a transandrophobia truther who wasn’t also a raging die-hard Zionist.

And that’s why it disturbs me so much to see young trans boys jumping onto this transmisogynistic hate train like you guys realize these men don’t have your best interests at heart, right? They’re only going to manipulate you into being a sexist entitled asshat who shuns and bullies the trans women in your community and sees them as oppressing you. Like I know you’re still in middle/high school but you can still think for yourselves, you can choose to be better than this, you can choose to actually learn about feminism and realize that it’s not actually misandry that oppresses you, it’s transphobia. Misandry doesn’t suddenly become real because you slap a trans paint over it that’s not how it works that’s not how intersectionality works that’s not how any of this shit works. There are better trans men to talk to about trans issues who know that the patriarchy is real and don’t shit on trans women in order to speak out about trans topics, so go seek them out, okay? You absolutely do not have to listen to shit that the “male supremacists but trans” group of lowlives has to say. Hell, tell them to fuck off instead! Please, I promise you that there are much better options, there are ALWAYS better options, and you still have time to escape before they fully radicalize you into basically being an incel. There will ALWAYS be another way. ❤️

[caeslxys]

the salt and the skin

Hi! I have been deeply beset by a disease that can only be cured by writing about Imogen Temult’s intensely ingrained mental illnesses. Yeah it’s contagious. Honestly this fic should probably be labeled as some type of biohazard.

Also on Ao3!

The first time Imogen told Laudna about the storm it was, appropriately, storming.

Laudna’s eyes had been swallowed by a blackness darker than that of the night surrounding them, catching and reflecting even the most minuscule scatterings of light in a way that made her gaze look full with shooting stars. She had taken her leather-shielded hand to hold in both of hers as she listened. It was the first time she could remember someone taking her hand simply to hold.

She said, here is what she knows of the storm: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.

After—as they lay for the first time in a shared space, hands locked together in a promise at their sides—Laudna fell asleep before her, eyes wide open. Imogen had spent minutes watching light shows reflect in them, enchanted utterly. She thought, without really considering the weight of it then: beautiful.

When she finally fell back asleep, she did so with the comfort of knowing she was never out of Laudna’s lightspun gaze.

———

In the time that has passed since that night the same things that have changed about the storm have changed for her and Laudna—which is to say, nothing at all.

(Which is to say, absolutely everything.

In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has become familiar with the difference between the chill that follows Laudna’s skin and the chill that follows a corpse with her face. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between running from and running to. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between losing and being left.

Here is what she knows of grief: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.

It does not escape her that the first time she heard her mother’s voice was in a storm.)

———

On the twenty-seventh day of Quen’Pillar, as the falling leaves and spines begin to create a shoreline on the bordering forest in a glaze of varying orange and brown shades, Gelvaan celebrates the Hazel Festival.

This, like all other celebrations in Gelvaan, is celebrated with hastily put-up stands and stages and games, the best and biggest cattle and produce hauled in on freshly cleaned wagons—some sporting their previously won ribbons as intimidating trophies—and various flowery dedications to various different gods.

The Hazel Festival, as her father explained it, is a celebration of love and divine intention—the concept and promise of soul mates. As the superstition goes, if there exists another half of you, then you would find them here. People would arrive with bouquets of freshly picked flowers, hand-written letters or hand-crafted food, wandering the small stream of Gelvaan townsfolk with the belief that they were about to stumble upon the great love of their life.

It always seemed so silly to her, which means it was something many of the people in that town held very close to their hearts.

Her father told her that they met there. He and her mother. Maybe that’s why it seemed so silly.

But here, in the dark and with the taste of honesty staining her lips, she has the passing thought that she’d like to take Laudna one day. Maybe not to the one in Gelvaan; somewhere new, somewhere that feels syrupy sweet and slow and that sticks to your skin like a joyful glaze when it's over. Somewhere that stains. She wants Laudna to have to lick her fingers clean. She wants to bring her a bouquet of flowers.

But, for now, she is in a chasm that might as well be endless telling Laudna things that she deserved to hear in any other way. She should have told her about how she feels about Delilah’s presence in their room, holding her hand, holding her lips to the skin of her throat in a threat and a promise.

She should have told Laudna she loves her at the Hazel Festival.

Instead she says “I love Laudna,” with the same tense hesitance you would feel pulling a trigger and follows it with a “but” that bursts from her chest like a bullet that precedes “I’m disgusted at the idea of Delilah looking at us all the time.” that leaves her smoking mouth like an accusation. She watches her careless aim land true in Laudna’s chest, sees the conflicted hitch and stutter of her breath from even the short distance separating them.

It ricochets; it strikes her, too.

———

During the trial of trust, when Laudna says she loves her, Imogen’s response is: “I think you’re a doppelganger right now?”

Which is silly. They’ll laugh about it later. It also makes her want to die as soon as it leaves her lips.

Because, the thing is, she knows Laudna. She knows Laudna and she would be able to tell if it wasn’t Laudna if she had been blinded or deafened or made senseless altogether. Her tether, her anchor. She would know. She should have known.

In the same way she should have known the moment they landed in Wildemount that Laudna was in Issylra. In the same way she should have known the moment she fled that Laudna was in the Parchwood. In the same way she should have known twenty years ago that Laudna was coming to her.

Not that any of it matters. She didn’t know. She didn’t know that she was in Issylra—the Parchwood—The Hellcatch—in front of her. It feels as close to sacreligious as Imogen has ever truly felt. Heretical. Like she should be punished or brought down altogether. And, really, maybe she should be. The exercise was to trust one another.

What kind of trust was it, to instinctually keep trying to reach into her friend’s minds? To summon a hound to stand between them all as they stood at the very precipice in case? If she’s honest, she doesn’t truthfully feel like any of them deserved to be called victorious.

She wonders, briefly, if the other side is lacking here, too. Ludinus, Otohan. Her mother. Is it trust that binds them? Is it faith?

The brief thought of it, that her mother has found her own version of the Hells—maybe her own version of Laudna—drives into her chest like a fist.

But none of that compares to—Laudna’s face, fumbling into disbelief at the accusation; Laudna’s grasping, empty hands; Laudna’s nervous, darting eyes. Laudna’s screams, cutting through the night off the bow of the Silver Sun. Laudna’s bleeding fingers, dripping black onto shattered, pink stone.

If it was sacrilegious of her to doubt Laudna’s intention, it is damnation she feels take root in her ribs as a hound aparrates at her side. It bursts forth with a growling howl, its decaying hackles raised, its bright green eyes trained on her, sharp and dutiful. For her to doubt Laudna—for her to make Laudna doubt her—

Well. She supposes it’s fair.

She glances at it, her Cerberus. She says, “Hi, baby boy.”

It calms. Across the fountain, face blocked by the angle of her own extended hand, Laudna calms, too. “Yes.” Laudna utters, “Good boy.”

She closes her eyes as she, Orym, and Chetney breach the barrier surrounding the fountain and drop their ivory sticks into its grasp. She reaches for Laudna’s mind one final, unsuccessful time, the plea for her not to lunge dying unheard in the folds of her mind.

(In the moment, as Morri applauds their upward failure of a success, she doesn’t register the way her now red-scarred fingers come up to brush against the now-bare skin of her temple. She should have known.

Next time, she will.)

———

When Fearne finally makes up her mind and readies herself for taking the shard, Imogen’s eyes are on Laudna and how a line of tension shoots up her spine and draws her shoulders together like folding, skeletal wings. How, as Chetney reaches into the bag of holding, she silently steps away.

Imogen hasn’t been wearing her circlet, has lowered herself once again into the rapid waters of her too-open mind for hours now, but she doesn’t need to be in Laudna’s mind to know what is passing through it.

It makes her sick, the thought of that vile woman in Laudna’s mind or soul or presence. It makes her more sick to think of Laudna spending even a moment around her influence alone.

(When Laudna had come back—when they found her, out at the tree line of the Parchwood—she had run. She had taken a moment to meet Imogen’s exhausted-elated-terrified eyes and sprinted in the opposite direction. She ran for fear of what she was capable of doing, of who she was capable of hurting, of both her lack of control and abundance of power.

She thinks of Laudna running from her and from her and from herself and, briefly, envisions a storm in the place where once she stood.)

She doesn’t really register that she has moved until Laudna is already in her arms.

“You can put your head in my shoulder. Til’ it’s over.” She whispers, one hand burying itself in Laudna’s hair and the other wrapping possessively around her waist, “I can tell you what’s happening, if you want?”

Laudna doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, into her neck: “You’re warm.”

She feels the barely-there press of lips to her carotid and tries valiantly not to let the shiver it sparks pass through her. Instead, she takes the hand in her hair and presses lightly, moves so that every point of their bodies that could be connected are. She says, voice silk-soft, lips brushing a metal-armored cropped ear, “So are you.”

For a moment it feels—well, intimate in a way she’s slightly embarrassed about displaying in front of the others. Slightly.

But then Laudna is murmuring “shut up, shut up, shut up,” into the skin of her shoulder and—she can’t help it—she smiles. She giggles. It is pure pride. Her brain in three parts: loving Laudna, hating Delilah, wanting to tell Laudna it’s okay to bite her shoulder to drown out the voice if it’s too loud.

She does not do that, and instead whispers the incantation she has all but ingrained on her tongue from countless back-and-forth trips on too shaky gondolas and grief insurmountable—she says, in some dead language or a command—calm.

She thinks, as the spell leaves her and Laudna’s tense body melts completely—as Fearne’s body rises into the air, encompassed in flame—as Chetney’s grip on the tools he has taken out to hold for comfort, and then on FCG’s raging body, turns white-knuckled—as Ashton flinches and almost doubles over from another shock of pain that passes through them and then as healing energy into Fearne—as Orym bounces anxiously on his heels like a flea or a warrior looking to strike—as FCG’s eyes flicker red and his tiny healing-hands become something violent—as her mother says her name through the roaring of a storm—I’m not running anymore. I won’t run.

She imagines, as Laudna pulls back when things have settled and her taloned grip releases Imogen, that her skin has formed new scars in the shape of Laudna’s hands. She holds the idea in her mind in place of an oath.

———

That night, she gives in.

It’s inevitable, really, no matter which way you look at it she and the storm and the moon have always been meant to collide. To swallow each other whole. It’s better that she does it on her terms.

Laudna agrees. It’s good that Laudna agrees. The best, actually, because she was hoping that she’d say no. She was hoping that she’d say no because she doesn’t actually want to be swallowed whole by the storm or the moon or the concept of a mother. What she wants is for Laudna to say no, and to take her hand and walk her out of the room—the house—the feywild—this entire situation—and into whatever is next. Because the truth of it is, no matter how many people go into her dreams with her, she still feels alone.

In the end, she tells herself as red bleeds into the nothing behind her eyelids, the future she has been fighting for has never been her own. The hope she holds like water in her hands was never meant for herself. Her last fight. Her last hope. She stows them away like weapons. She thinks, They’ll owe me. She thinks, They’ll free her.

Except, when she gives in—when her friends fall away, as they always do, and she is left alone and cradled and warm with the echo of her desperate mother’s voice ringing in her mind—it’s everything. It’s twenty years of nightmares and ten of minds on minds on minds and months of grief and love and wrath all wrapped up in a bow and labeled “purpose”.

She feels like a child. Or what she imagines most children felt like. Weightless. Like if she’s simply good enough there will be someone who loves her there to wrap her in a hug or a blanket and tell her she did well. Who will carry her tiny half-asleep form to her room and tuck her in and kiss her forehead and say “good night.” Like she could close her eyes and let the darkness swallow her and know someone left a light on.

It’s everything. So when she wakes to her friends hovering, groggy faces she is only guilty for a moment at the spike of disappointment that shoots through her at the sight of them. And only guilty for a second longer when her eyes land on Laudna who is still, also, endlessly, everything.

It’s not—she’s not really there for the next few seconds—minutes—hours. All of their voices come through as if she is submerged in something thick that pulls every time she tries to break for air. Or maybe a lack of air altogether. There are still stars behind her eyelids every time she blinks.

At some point in their conversation two things finally register in about the same amount of time. One: her mother had called for her. Her mother had been there. Her mother had sounded like she was crying. And two: Laudna is holding her hand.

Laudna has been holding her hand, maybe. For a few moments and a few years. It's this, her tether, that finally brings her back to—well—Exandria.

The others are—asleep? No, they’ve—that is, she and Laudna—have moved. To their room. They had a room? Have they spent a night here already? If time is a soup then she has made quite the mess.

Regardless, Laudna is holding her hand. It’s everything.

Then there is shifting, slow and slight.

“Imogen.” She hears her whisper, voice dropping to that low husk that her choked, only lightly decayed vocal cords must reach to achieve a tone so soft. She doesn’t ever mention it, but Imogen knows how sometimes kindness exists like a war in Laudna’s body. In the way her throat rebels against the scratchy dip of her voice, in the way her bones ache when embraced. It hurts her to be so soft. For Imogen, she does it anyway. “Imogen. Would you like to lie down?”

She doesn’t respond—she doesn’t think she responds—just squeezes Laudna’s cool hand in her warm one and laces their fingers together in lukewarm knots.

She feels Laudna’s hands take and cradle her close—holds there, chests rising and falling against each other like lapping waves for an amount of time Imogen doesn't bother to count—and then she twists and shifts and lays her down like a sleepy child on their shared pillows. She tucks her in. She stands.

“I’ll be back.” Laudna husks somewhere above her. “Rest, darling. I won’t be but a few minutes. I’m sure Nana has a pitcher of water somewhere around here that I won’t have to—I don’t know—make a deal for, or something.”

She thinks she feels the tiniest beginnings of a grin pinning her lips up as Laudna's steps slow near the door, hesitate—begin to close—and then open the door long enough to peek in and say: “Pâté is with you, okay, I’ll be right back. I’ll try not to bargain what remains of my soul for water, but—you know—as they say—what must be done and all—okay, bye” punctuated by the croaking sound of their door pinching shut.

Definitely a grin, then. “Pâté,” she says, dream-drunk, “Your mom is the best.”

She feels Pâté land on her chest with a soft, somewhat wet flop. His tiny feet pitter like he’s excited or dancing. He says, “I know. She’s the whole package.” And then, after letting loose a rattling sound that could be considered a yawn, he asks, “Can I get cozy, then? While we wait for mum?”

Imogen, eyes still blissfully closed, let's loose a breathless laugh. Her hand blindly makes its way to the ball of fur and viscera and bone and love on her chest and scritches, “‘Course, Pâté. We’ll wait together.”

He hums. She feels him turn in one, two, three circles on her chest before finally curling up and settling in on her skin. He makes another rattling noise that could be a yawn or maybe a purr and says, “You’re warm.”

She is undeniably smiling when she responds, “So are you, buddy.”

———

When Laudna comes back minutes or hours later, Pâté is fast asleep on her chest.

His little body rattles with what she assumes are snores, softly vibrating against her collar. She holds a finger to her lips as Laudna goes to shut the door behind her. Laudna makes a face like she’s about to burst into tears.

She doesn’t. She instead turns to—softly—shut and lock the door, and then turns soundlessly again in her direction. She takes a breath. She smiles, “I’m not going to lie, I was kind of hoping you’d be asleep when I got back.”

She hums, low in her chest. “Why?”

Laudna looks at her in that somewhat blank way she does when she thinks the answer to something is quite obvious. She says, “Because you need the rest.”

She hums again. Laudna treks the distance between them and sits softly beside her, her sharp hip just barely pressing against the bend of her waist. Her bony hand catches Imogen’s cheek—or, maybe, Imogen’s cheek willingly falls into her hand—regardless, suddenly she finds herself held. A thumb brushes under her eye with the barely there gentleness one uses when full with fear for something breaking in their grasp.

She leans forward and over her, dark hair falling around them like a curtain of ink, blanketing them in shadow, encompassing her entire vision. She asks, breath falling upon her lips like a torrent or a phantom kiss, “Are you alright, darling?”

Imogen lifts up the barely there distance to press their lips together, sighing into her mouth. “Careful with Pâté,” she whispers when she falls back, a hand splaying on Laudna’s chest to keep her from fully settling in atop her, “he needs the rest, too.”

Laudna opens her eyes as if from a good dream—and then rolls them. She lifts a hand to wave in the air as if swatting at something. “He’s dead.” She says, like it’s an obvious thing—which, it is. But. “Besides, if he dies from exhaustion or something else ridiculous then I’ll just bring him back.”

Imogen frowns. “I don’t think he’s dead. Not, like, dead-dead, anyway. ‘Sides, he’s comfy. I’d feel bad if we woke him.”

Laudna hums, then. “Yes, he is. Comfy. And also dead.”

Her turn to roll her eyes. “Where’s his house?”

Laudna sighs like the world is ending—which, well—and leans down for one more soft kiss and then back and up and off of her entirely. Imogen tries—valiantly, she might add—not to openly wince at the loss.

She watches Laudna brace her nonexistent weight against the bed in a way that would cause the mattress to dip if it were anyone else, and instead just presses with the barely there imprint of her palms into the silk. She reaches for Imogen’s chest, cups Pâté’s tiny form in her hands; Imogen brings her hands together overtop them both. When Laudna looks at her, her eyes are full of shooting stars.

“Can I?” she asks, “Please?”

Laudna stares at her for a few slow heartbeats more, a little like she is stunned. Eventually, she leans down over their joined hands and kisses her fingers. Again. Moves her thumb to run over her knuckles like she is wiping away a stain. “Of course.”

Her body still feels a little gone, a little floaty, as she brings her hands to catch Pâté’s tiny body in their joint grasp, lifts herself up against the headboard, and then swings her legs over the side of the mattress. She sways to her feet slowly, slightly wobbly, eyes never leaving from the curled-up ball of fur in her hands and on her chest. Laudna’s hands have moved and are pressing into her biceps from somewhere behind her, steadying.

She lifts her head long enough to find where Laudna had placed Pâté's little home across the room, its golden-brown wood resting silently atop the possibly skin-covered drawer by the archway that opens into a vine-wrapped, flower-lined balcony.

She half-shambles, half-stumbles her way over with Laudna on her bleary-eyed heels. It feels infinitely important—it’s always felt important, but—that she is gentle. That Laudna sees her be gentle. It is more important than she has words to describe that Laudna could leave or fall asleep or be elsewhere and feel and know that Pâté would be put softly, lovingly to bed. That he would be tucked in. That Imogen would leave a little light on for him if he asked. She looks down at Laudna’s most special little gift and drops a tiny, feather-light kiss against his skeletal head. “G’night, buddy.”

He mumbles out a gargled sounding, “G’night, ‘mogen.”

She smiles, pulls apart the tiny curtains that act as a privacy sheet to his home, tucks him in as well as she can, runs one last soft finger down the length of his beak and just like that—she can’t help it—she starts to think of her mother.

She wonders how gently Liliana held her, when she was so small and helpless and vulnerable. She wonders if Liliana ever sang to her, ever held her little hands and kissed her stubby fingers. That memory—the one that Otohan conjured or summoned or triggered—her mother had caught her as her toddler legs had stumbled; she had smiled and wiped her tear-stained cheeks and lifted her into her arms and held.

The phantom memory of a mother and the phantom memory of Ruidus begin to overlap—how long had it been, before Laudna, that she was shown gentleness? Before Laudna, two decades into her life, was it her mother? Before her mother, before she was ever given a name, was it the moon?

How was she meant to—how was it fair to expect her to—is it so evil of her, to wish? She won’t—she won’t—because she knows that it’s wrong no matter how desperately it feels right. But the—the venom she catches pooling in the depths of Orym’s gaze, sometimes, when he talks about the moon and the vanguard and she—she gets it—of course she gets it, of course she understands—but it’s not like she’s ever genuinely entertained the thought of joining the vanguard—of joining Otohan—but the moon, Ruidus, Predathos—she won’t—the silence, the comfort—her body, radiant even among the stars—running, tripping into her mother’s arms—she won’t—

“Imogen?”

A chilled hand on her shoulder, gentle, gentle, gentle.

Breath enters her empty lungs in a shock-sharp inhale. Light enters the world again—natural, silver-white moonlight like a stripe of paint from the open balcony; warm, flickering orange from the candle by the bed—and the temperature goes from freezing to scalding to cool as she collapses back into her body like debris flung from orbit. Laudna’s hand on her skin; she crash-lands back home.

On impact, she whispers, “Laudna.”

A moment of hesitance and then a soft, cool pair of lips against the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her hands circle to wrap around Imogen’s waist. She asks, again, voice feather-fall soft, “Are you alright?”

A moment of hesitance and then her traitorous mouth, her traitorous heart: “I don’t know anymore.”

Laudna presses another, more lingering kiss to the space below her ear, then moves to run her nose along the curve of her jaw. She whispers there, in a way that she feels the words press against her skin, “That’s okay.”

Imogen finds her hands against her belly and twines them together as tightly as she can—tether, anchor, home. Her breath trembles.

They don’t say anything, holding each other in the space and the silence. Laudna presses gentle, gentle kisses to anywhere on Imogen that she can reach—neck, shoulder, ear, jaw—until Imogen turns to meet her there, barely capturing Laudna’s bottom lip between hers and then moving in again, more insistent. She feels Laudna’s lips pull into a smile against hers. Imogen notes that she’s becoming familiar with the feeling. The thought pulls her own smile forth.

But they haven’t kissed like this before, at this angle, in this room. There are so many other perfect kisses they have yet to discover.

It doesn’t make sense that she only kissed her a little over a week ago. She should have kissed her a month ago, the moment she came back on the floor in Whitestone, the moment they arrived in Jrusar, two years ago in Gelvaan. She should have kissed her a hundred more times than she did the day that she first gathered the courage to kiss her in the first place and then kissed her some more. She should’ve bought lipstick so she could leave a stain.

Laudna pulls back first, half-laughing and half-sighing at Imogen’s attempt to give chase. She leans back in to press a quick kiss to her nose—new, perfect—and then dips down, seals their foreheads together, looks up at her. She asks, “Would you like to talk about it?”

No, not really. “I think I’d need another week to even begin to process what’s happened to us in the last three days, to be honest.”

Laudna nods. “Yes, understandable. It’s been a lot.” She pauses, as if to see if Imogen will respond, and then says, “Still, I’d like to listen.”

She’s perfect. That’s it, really.

Imogen finds her hand and brings it up to her lips, kissing each finger once and then each knuckle. She whispers, “I’m not sure I know how to.”

Laudna kisses her cheek. “That’s okay, too.”

When she pulls back she also pulls forward, taking Imogen’s hand in her own and guiding her. She twines their fingers together, and then they are on the balcony.

Catha shines more brightly here than she is used to in the Material Plane. There is no bloody red or pink shine of Ruidus to speak of after their work at the key. It is navy-dark, struck through with silver cuts from Sehanine’s light. There are moving, shifting vines wrapped around the stone-skinwork railing of their little alcove, purple and yellow and orange and bright, vibrant green dancing and swirling and alive around them.

Laudna gasps, her lips forming a perfect, excited “O” when she notices the little movements. “Hello, there,” she says to the vine, “Sorry to disturb you. Would it be impolite to talk to my girlfriend out here, for a minute?” and then, her hands coming up like claws and her voice deepening to the tone she uses for her most important and dramatic of questions, “Is this, like, your domain?”

The vines shake back and forth as if to say knock yourself out or maybe well I can’t stop you.

Laudna grins, “Oh, perfect. Excellent. You're much less ferocious than your feywild-forest-flower friends.” Her brows furrow, a single finger coming up to tap nervously against her lips. “Hm. I hope that wasn’t insulting.”

Before Imogen can stop her she reaches forward and lightly taps the vine with two fingers, sharp teeth exposed in a smile, “You’re perfectly ferocious as well.”

The vines shutter as if to say fuck off and then pull back and vanish, leaving clean stonework behind.

Laudna pouts. Imogen takes and tangles their hands together. “Maybe next time.”

She sighs, all dramatics, “I’m beginning to believe plants hate me as much as people do.”

Imogen knocks their shoulders together. “People don’t hate you.”

“Objectively untrue. Regardless,” she says, waving Imogen’s immediate attempt at a counter aside, “Are you ready? For tomorrow.”

For the key? For Ruidus? For her mother?

She shrugs, “As I’ll ever be. You?”

”Oh, I think so.” She leans her bony hip against the balcony wall. “It’s been a long road. To get here. I never doubted you would.”

Imogen scoffs. She leans against the wall, too. “A long road is certainly one way to describe it. A shitty road, would be another.”

Laudna tilts her head at her, raven-like. A rope of black hair falls into her face. Imogen clenches her fingers around her arms in an effort not to reach across the space and brush it behind her ear. She says, with the upward tilting, insecure cadence of a question, “It hasn’t all been shitty, though?”

Imogen heaves a heavy breath. “No,” she says, fingers still digging into her own skin, “No. Not all of it.”

Laudna hums. There is still hair in front of her eyes. “But quite a bit of it.”

”Quite a bit, yeah.”

Quiet. Some likely incredibly fucked-up feywild bird flutters its incredibly fucked-up feywild wings and takes off into the moonlit night. Imogen turns and balances her weight on her elbows, leaning over the wall. The vines from earlier are just over the edge, as if eavesdropping. She says, “But not all of it, Laudna.”

”I know,” Laudna whispers, “I agree.”

”About not all of it sucking absolute ass or about it sucking absolute ass in general?”

”Yes.”

“Awesome.” Imogen chuckles, “I’m glad we agree that everything sucks.”

”But not everything-everything.”

”But not everything-everything.”

”This is getting pretty circular,” Laudna steps closer, “How do we make it suck less?”

Kiss me, Imogen thinks. “I have no idea.” Imogen says.

“Because, you know,” Laudna continues as if Imogen hadn’t spoken at all, “I think you’re…so capable. Truly. And I really haven’t ever doubted that you’d make it here—“

”—to the moon?—”

”—from the moment it became apparent it was possible, yes—but, really, even then—anyway. I just…I want to protect you. On the moon, but also here,” She lifts one dainty hand and presses her finger against Imogen’s forehead, “I know the dream was a lot.”

Imogen grasps Laudna’s wrist where it is in front of her face, leans forward to press a kiss against the veins there and then again at the tip of that same finger. “It was.”

Laudna shifts closer, still, leaning over her just slightly. “Do you feel any different?”

Imogen finally, finally allows herself the gift of brushing those stray hairs back, lets her fingers linger against Laudna’s gaunt cheek. “Yes and no.” she admits, eyes on the silk-soft hair tangled in her fingers to the side of Laudna’s face, “I’m not sure how to explain it.”

“That’s alright. Maybe I can help you find the words. You just—well, I…don’t want to, you know, but. You’ve just seemed a little—“

”Out of sorts.”

She sees Laudna’s breath stutter and then release. “Yes, I…I didn’t want to pressure you, or anything. It’s been a lot, so much. And you don’t have to—I trust you. I do. But if you…if you need or want help, then I would like to offer it. Is all.”

Imogen swallows. “I meant it, earlier,” bursts from her chest, her heart, “When I—That I love you. That I’m—in love with you. In case that wasn’t, um, clear.”

Laudna, for her part, looks genuinely surprised. Which is itself surprising. Not in the least because she had said she loved her, too; but, also that Imogen realizes that she very simply is not super good at hiding it.

Quietly, softly, Laudna’s lips part. Her eyes go a bit glassy. She shifts forward slightly, leaning into her palm still on her cheek. She says—whispers, really— “I know.”

Imogen inhales. Exhales. “You—well, that's good. That’s great.”

Laudna smiles against her skin. “You’re warm.” she whispers. She presses a kiss there, to the crease of her palm. “I love you, too.”

Imogen inhales. Exhales. “Well. That’s good. That’s great.”

”Mhm.”

”I don’t—“ she licks her dry lips, “I don’t know what to do now.”

Laudna hums. “Yes you do.”

”Right.” she says, “Okay.” and then she’s kissing her again.

”I’m going to ask you—“ a pause, another kiss, “I’m going to ask you about the dream again, when—“

Imogen pulls back. Laudna’s lips are kiss-swollen and shiny. It makes her want to break something. She asks, “When?”

Laudna sighs. Her eyes open to find her slowly, and then stop half-way, hanging over her iris’ heavily. Her eyes are dark. Hungry. She says, “When I’m done.”

Imogen’s eyes fall back to her lips. “Right.” She whispers, “Okay—“ and then the rest of her sentence and the rest of her breath and the rest of her thoughts are stolen from her.

———

“Now, then.” Laudna starts. She wipes the back of her hand across her uptilt lips. “What’s different? Do you have gills? Webbed fingers? Though, I supposed I’d have noticed that much by now—”

”Laudna—“ she heaves a laugh, lungs still desperate, voice a little hoarse, “God, let me catch my breath first.”

Laudna’s tongue runs lightly between her lips. She is above her, still, grey-ish arms bracketing either side of her. There is hair in her face again, sweat-stuck to her skin. Imogen is too mesmerized by the way that it splits her into like running ink and catches the nearby moonglow in a contrasting showcase of light to bother to want to brush it away. Chiaroscuro personified.

She tilts her head, bird-like and uncanny. Her eyes, shooting stars. It makes Imogen want to pull her back in. “Shit, Laudna,” she whisper-giggles, “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

Laudna stutters and then grins, all too-sharp teeth. She says, teasingly, ”It’s nice to not be the breathless one for a change.”

Imogen’s laugh leaves her like a strike to the chest, “Oh, that’s a good one.”

”I thought so.”

Laudna leans down, kisses her again. Imogen sighs into her.

This—the intimacy of it—is still so new and beautiful and exciting and—well—frankly, they've both discovered that they’re ravenous. For each other and for love and for touch. That first night—at Zhudanna’s, her body still thrumming hours later with the electric echo of their first kiss—Imogen had taken Laudna’s hand after they passed the threshold of their little makeshift and borrowed home and led her to their windowless room, their small bed. She had asked: Can I kiss you again?

It was indescribably wonderful, and took approximately two lung-heaving, feather-light minutes in the aftermath to discover that Laudna was starving. Voraciously hungry. Thirty years of nothing and then—suddenly—this. Suddenly them. Imogen could hardly stand the handful of weeks apart.

Which is to say, Laudna has a tendency to lose herself in her, a little bit. It has quickly become one of her greatest prides.

Except—well.

Imogen falls back, separating them. “Sorry,” she whispers, “What were—what were you sayin’?”

Laudna pouts. ”Asking.” She corrects, “Well—maybe theorizing, but mostly asking. You said—earlier—it feels different?”

Imogen nods. She reaches up to brush her fingers over Laudna’s cheek. “Yeah.”

”Is it…good different? Or bad different?”

Imogen nods. “Yeah.”

Laudna nods, too. Imogen watches something like self-consciousness settle on her shoulders. She isn’t sure what to do about it.

Laudna braces to press a kiss to her cheek and then rolls over. When her skin hits the light it makes her look made of marble. Like a statue. A work of art.

She bends across the space and tugs the blanket up and around them both, reaching around Imogen to make sure she is covered completely. Imogen uses the opportunity to press her lips to the skin of her bicep in passing thanks.

She settles back against the sheets. “I love you.” She says. Somehow, it sounds like a plea. “And I’ll support whatever it is you decide you want to do.”

Imogen turns on her side to mirror her. “Even if—if it’s giving in completely?”

Laudna's eyes are dark. Hungry. “Whatever you decide, Imogen.”

Imogen swallows. She feels like she’s choking. Something is rising in her, clawing at her chest and stomach and ripping its way into the world. Laudna’s eyes are so dark. There is a hound in her chest. Imogen swears she hears the echo of its howl, somehow, in her own chest. In the breaths between heartbeats, something is growling.

The howl, her eyes; it rends her completely. With blood in her teeth, she says, “My mom was there.”

It leaves her like a strike of lightning, seeking the quickest way to earth, splitting and bursting apart her ribcage as it rips from her lungs. Or like a hound, pent-up and caged, let loose to hunt and sprinting, snarling to the nearest indicator of meat. Or like sickness, like bile, burning.

That’s the bursting, bleeding, burning truth of it: her mother was there. On Ruidus, at the key, in her dreams for as long as she has had them. Guiding her or warning her. In the end, isn’t that a form of love? Isn’t that what a mother would do? She felt so held, there at the center of Ruidus, in the eye of the storm, in Predathos’ hand or maybe its jaws. Her mother had screamed for her. Her mother had cried for her.

And she can’t remember the feeling of her mother’s warmth, but she can remember the sound of her voice: Run. Imogen.

Does Predathos have a voice? Would it mourn her? Would it leave?

“What did she do?” Laudna—like a thunderclap, or a resonating howl, or a hand on her heaving back—takes and wraps their bodies together like twisting vines. She presses their foreheads together. Her eyes are still dark. “Imogen. What did she say?”

Laudna would. Laudna would mourn her. Laudna would tuck her corpse into bed before leaving her.

”I don’t—she just—called for me. My name. She said no. Laudna.” Laudna’s hands on either side of her clenched jaw, Laudna’s lips centimeters from her own, Laudna’s hand in hers in the middle of the storm. “She sounded like she was crying.”

She feels the well in her eyes overflow, cutting down her cheeks. Laudna makes some gasping sound and leans in, pressing her lips to the skin and the salt. “Imogen. Imogen, I’m sorry. Imogen.” She pulls back. The dark in her eyes is gone. “Darling, what can I do?”

Imogen shakes her head. They’re close enough that each passing arc causes their noses to bump. “I don’t know.” She says, voice tight. “I don’t know. What if I fucked up? What if she left to protect me and I wasted it? I don’t know anymore, Laudna.”

Laudna kisses her, lightly, a barely there press of their lips and then gone. Like she isn’t sure how else to respond. “What happened? When you gave in? What did it feel like?”

Imogen trembles. “I—you all—left. Were pulled away. It brought me in and then—my mama—but it—“ here, she sobs, “it was warm.”

Laudna’s body stiffens around her, arms locking like rigor mortis around her waist. She doesn’t exhale for a long, long time. When she does, it passes over her lips like a torrent.

“My mother taught me to sew.” she starts. “Did I ever tell you that? We didn’t often have enough money to go get new clothes so we made our own. Anyway, the first time it was because I ripped a hole in one of my shirts out in the woods—I was digging for worms—and when I came back I was all in a huff, expecting to be in so much trouble and felt so terrible for ruining clothes I knew she made for me.”

She pauses to press a kiss to Imogen’s hairline, “She took the ruined thing out of my hands and taught me how to fix it.”

She inhales. There’s the tiniest stutter in her chest that makes Imogen want to level another city block. “I used to think about her quite often. Everytime I found myself trying to sleep on the floor of some cold, abandoned cabin, all alone, I remember wishing she were there to teach me how to fix it.”

Their eyes find each other again, snapping together like magnets or puzzle pieces. Laudna’s eyes are full of shooting stars again. “I just—I’m just sorry, Imogen. I’m sorry I don’t know how to fix this. I’m sorry she doesn’t.”

No longer the snapping wolf, no longer the lightning strike or the thunderclap or the bile or the hand; Imogen breaks.

“God, Laudna. It feels like—like I'm mourning her.” She sobs. The words loose from her throat like an arrow held taut for too long, aimless. “But, Laudna, she isn't—she was never gone."

It is an ugly, sharp, irrational thing, her grief; she feels it drive like icicles into Laudna’s already chilled skin and dig rot-guilt up from under the warmth of her own when the weight of it tugs her over and into Laudna further. She wishes, fleetingly, that she could wear her grief as prettily as she thinks Laudna does. Laudna slips into hers like an old coat or an old blanket—scratchy, filled with holes, utterly familiar in a way that settles onto her shoulders in some poor facsimile of comfort.

Imogen’s is always, always this: an implosion. An excavation of the self. Her body nothing more than a dig-site of scars with histories older than she is.

“She’s my mama, Laudna.” It is a pathetic plea, it drops with the weight of a stone into water from her lips, “She was always with me. I never knew her. I love her and I loved her. She was dead. I have to kill her. I have mourned so why am I still mourning?”

The last word rips out of her in two tones, caught in the hiccup-choke of a sob into Laudna’s shoulder.

"Oh, darling." Laudna whispers, her lips against Imogen’s temple petal-soft in a way that makes the guilt dig deeper, sugar and salt. For a moment she only holds her. Presses kisses to the side of her head. And then Imogen feels air fill her chest, hears her lungs expand with the accompanying sound of bones like a creaking ship at sea or a growling hound. She says, with all the wisdom of someone who has lived and died and lived again, "Mourning is just…love in a transitive state.”

She shifts, catching the wet guilt dripping from Imogen’s face and forming lakes of grief at her collar, rivers of it down her chest. It makes Imogen’s breath catch, watches the moonlight catch in the momentary proof of her on Laudna. She continues, more softly, “It is…an adjustment to distance. Not gone—just far."

At this, Imogen glances away from the stain of her to meet Laudna’s eyes. She hesitates, breath a pathetic stutter in her lungs. She asks, “Are we still talking about my mother?”

Laudna watches her. And watches her. And then, voice like a bleeding wound or creaking branches or whining rope: “Death could not take me from you.”

“Don’t—“ she begs, “Do not—Laudna—“

”It can’t, Imogen. She can’t.”

Imogen sobs, reaches up desperately to cradle Laudna’s face in her hands. “I don’t want you to be another voice in my storm, Laudna. I can’t. I won’t.”

Laudna's gentle, cool hands gather her own callous, warm ones together at their collar. She asks, "Can I tell you something you don't want to hear?"

A laugh breaks out of Imogen’s lungs, desperate and sad. “You already are.”

Her grip on Laudna's hands is not gentle, it is clinging. Clawing. She imagines that when Laudna pulls away, her wrists will bear the bruise of her.

She says, in that same creaking branches voice, "You would have been fine without me."

She pulls away—tries to—hears her voice from outside her body saying, "No—No, I—" but then Laudna's fingers are entangled in hers like roots and Imogen is—she's—clinging, too.

"Don't say that." She cries. There is thunder in her voice. A precursor and warning. "I love you. Don’t say that.”

Laudna’s hands release hers to wrap around and claw at the skin of her hip, dragging them close again. Her eyes are swimming. “You’re so strong, so capable, and you are going to live. Your storm won’t take you. You will outgrow it.”

”You are, too.” Imogen demands. Because it is a demand, of herself and of the world. “You’re going to live, too.”

Laudna says nothing. Imogen continues, “I won’t let her have you, Laudna. If I can outgrow my storm, you can outgrow her.”

Laudna’s face is choked up in grief, now, in a way that Imogen has never really seen. “I just mean—“ she starts, chokes, starts again, “I just mean—my mother taught me to sew. And I did. And I think maybe your mother taught you to run. And you did. And I don’t think it’s…it’s understandable, that you wish she had taught you how to sew instead.”

Something in her, some roaring thing—the storm, maybe—cracks her skin at the words. She thinks if she were to look at her hands right now there would be new scars.

Laudna takes her ruined hands into her own; she tries to fix them. “But I can teach you how to sew, Imogen. I can—and then when I'm—gone. You can still sew. Or cook or—or paint or—whatever it is, Imogen. Imogen.”

Imogen rushes in; she kisses her. What else is there to say? What do you say when I love you isn’t big enough anymore? How do you say I don’t want you to teach me how to sew, I want you to teach me how to hunt?

Maybe there aren’t enough words to encompass them. Maybe they’ve created their own expanse of love and devotion here, between them. Maybe they’ve spent two years carving a space for the other in the ether of the world.

Everything they’ve found, all of the information they've picked up on the Gods and what makes or breaks or conjures them in these past months—faith. Both the call and the creator, the word around which divinity molds itself. And her faith, her divine call into the dark—her unanswered pleas on her knees in Gelvaan, on her knees at the altar of the Dawnfather Temple in Whitestone—if they can pick and choose whose faith they deem truthful, then what does it mean to be truly faithful?

The confidence in the callous hands of a blacksmith as he brings the hammer down, striking metal into shape. The gentle hands of a gardener digging into the soil, preparing it for life, removing that which would otherwise ruin and rot. The small hands of a child held in the soft, guiding hands of their mother. Are these not examples of divine faith?

Would the Dawnfather's hands hold her face so gently? Would the Wildmother's lips press so softly to her brow? Would the Changebringer's fingers dig just so into the skin of her shoulders, sweaty and heaving in the aftermath of her storm?

What could the gods offer her that Laudna hasn't? What would they ask in return for what Laudna freely gives? What faith of hers have they earned?

If faith is the ultimate test of love and passion and trust—than whose altar but Laudna's would she kneel to?

If godhood, then, is as simple as a state of faith and belief then maybe she alone can love her to the point of divinity. Immortality. Imogen could make a God of her. Maybe, she thinks with Laudna’s bottom lip caught between her teeth, maybe one more kiss will do the trick. Maybe one more. One more.

Eventually a sob—Imogen’s, of course—breaks them apart. Her head falls into Laudna’s neck. Laudna’s arms cross behind her back and press her close. She runs her taloned fingers over the bare skin at Imogen’s shoulder blades, the base of her neck, down every popping vertebrae. She is breathing at the normal human rate—for her it is heaving. She kisses Imogen’s temple.

“No one can take away the love for the mother you wanted. Not even the mother you have." She says into her hair, and then pulls away and down—kisses her. Keeps kissing her. When she separates to speak it is by centimeters, “And no one can take me away from you. Not Delilah. Not Otohan. Not Predathos or The Matron.”

And then, into her trembling mouth, “If we are apart, then I am within.”

Imogen lets out a wrecked—choking—dying sound, “Yeah—Yes. Laudna, I—“ desperate and clumsy and broken, she brings her shaking hand up to Laudna’s face and presses her finger to Laudna’s forehead, “Here. As long as you’re here.”

Laudna nods, brings her own talons up to Imogen’s face in a mirror-gesture, “Here. As long as you’re here.” And what is left for Imogen to do besides to rush up and in and in and in. Again and again and again.

Here, in Jrusar, in their room at Zhudanna’s, in Zephrah, in the Feywild, in Bassuras, on the moon, in the storm. In the evening, in the morning, in the middle of the day, in the depths of the night. Crying, laughing, bloody, triumphant. Again and again and again and again.

Better halves, Imogen thinks—into Laudna’s head and then, endlessly, into her own, Better wholes. I love you. I love you.

“I love you.” Laudna gasps aloud, ripping away and then rushing back in, “Imogen. Imogen. As long as you’re here. I love you.”

Imogen nods, gasps, and then neither of them say much at all.

———

In the end, Imogen doesn’t say: I lied. When I promised to move on. I lied to you. Nor does she say: I’m sorry. I’m not disgusted by you. I could never be. I love you so deeply that every time I look at you I am remade. She doesn’t say: I sundered her once. I’ll sunder her again. If you’ll let me, I’d plant a new sun tree in your mind. One that makes you think of picnics and not nooses. One that makes you think of the view and not the fall.

She does not say: I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can kill her. Will you do it? Can we trade?

She tucks these confessions away in the divots of her mind right alongside her circlet. She hopes the weight of them, the promise of them, will help to keep her runaway feet firmly rooted.

———

(After, Laudna falls asleep before her, eyes wide open.

Imogen lays next to her, one hand softly running up and down Laudna’s exposed navel, the other curled under her own head as she allows herself to trace the profile of her face.

It is late enough—or, early enough, maybe—that Catha’s light cannot breach the shared darkness of their space. Or maybe it does, and is swallowed entirely by the pitch of Laudna’s eyes.

Laudna’s eyes—the empty, dark swirl of them—Imogen remembers her gaze full with stars—captures her attention. The shadows in the room paint Laudna an even deeper dark, cutting her features into shapes that catch the barely there impression of light that Imogen’s weak, mortal eyes require to capture form.

With no light, with nothing to reflect in her sky-locked, sleep-awake stare; Laudna appears hungry. Like even in sleep, she is hunting. In the dark, she takes the form of a predator.

Watching her, Imogen thinks of Ruidus and of the storm there and of the one in her mind and of the one that takes the shape of her mother—reaching and watching and waiting for her, the entirety of her life—like an animal, like something waiting in the grass for her to make a mistake or lose her footing—waiting on the opportunity to close in on her—to consume her or to change her—

She reaches across the space.

Gently, mournfully, she closes Laudna’s eyes.)

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

The Sword of Kaigen

standalone fantasy set in a rural mountain village at the edge of an empire that still holds traditional values, with families of powerful water/ice magic warriors

follows a powerful young heir who begins to question his beliefs about the empire when a new boy comes to his village from the city

and his mother, a housewife who has tried to forget her youth as a warrior and vigilante in the city since she moved back home to a loveless marriage

when there’s a violent attack on their village that they’re unprepared for, everything changes, and she has to embrace her old skills to protect her family and people

[fisherrprince]

my third time starting a new minecraft world has been Much more successful than my first two times. on account of how i spawned in an area that kind of had things like iron and sheep and a coastline (I GET LOST VERY EASILY) and I didn’t get immensely frustrated trying to find Anything At All. I did however try to get two sheep near me, realize very quickly that that’s really hard without wheat, break both leads I got, dig a ton of stupid holes trying to get the sheep into it, kill one sheep out of pure choices in anger rage, then realize you can’t make a bed with two different colors of wool after I had already killed the sheep,

[chibishortdeath]

Great googley moogley it’s all going to shit! Every day becomes exponentially more terrifying!

And all perfectly timed to just right at the start of what’s supposed to be my adult life where I get my shit together and be useful and productive!