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morgana-larkin · 1 day ago

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Here's the next part of Just Tired! And before anyone asks, am I going to write a fic based on Melissa's "mostly straight" comment? The answer is yes. Not edited in the slightest and I hope you like it!

Summary: Melissa takes you out on a date after your check up at the hospital.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32

Just Tired - Part 33

Warnings: Manipulative Relationship (Mentioned), Smut, Swearing

Words: 2.6k

You wake up on Saturday morning to a yelp and a bang and you look around and don’t see Melissa anywhere.

“Melissa?” You call out and she comes out from the kitchen a few seconds later.

“Sorry to wake you, hon. I accidentally dropped a pot when I was gonna make a frittata.” She tells you.

“It’s alright, since you’re here can you help me up? I need to go to the bathroom.” You ask her and she walks over to you and picks you up bridal style.

“Ah!” You say as it was unexpected. She brings you to the bathroom and sets you down near the toilet and you hop over to it as she leaves the bathroom. “You’re stronger than you look, you know.” You tell her and she smiles at you before she goes to get your crutch.

After breakfast she helps get you ready and then takes you to the hospital for your check up appointment.

“So it seems like everything is healing as it should. We’ll take the sling off your arm, not the cast but the sling as your upper arm is healed.” The doctor tells you and you nod before they take the sling off. “There, now you can move your arm, which we recommend to get your arm used to moving as it should be.” He says.

“Thank you. Do you have an approximate date for when the arm and leg cast are gonna come off?” You ask him.

“For your arm, we want you to come back in 2 weeks. And we’ll check your leg again at that point but it should be about 4-6 weeks for your leg.” He tells you and you nod.

“Thank you doctor.” You say and he nods before he books your next appointment in 2 weeks.

“So how does it feel to not have to have your arm close to your chest?” Melissa asks you as she wheels you out of the hospital.

“Freeing, in a way.” You tell her as she crosses the parking lot to her car.

“Well I guess it’s good we’re going to the art museum then. It’s a celebration for how fast you’re healing.” She tells you as she reaches her car.

“Just wish the accident never happened in the first place.” You say and she sighs as she opens the passenger door for you.

“I know, hon. But you have to look at the positives. You’re healing and you get to stay with me as you heal.” She says as you get in the passenger seat.

“I do like staying with you.” You say before you close the door. Melissa puts the wheelchair in the trunk before she gets in the driver's seat.

“You know I just remembered something about the museum.” She says after she puts her seatbelt on. “Museum has a shit ton of steps just to get in the entrance.” She tells you and you sigh. “About 100 steps.”

“I can barely do the 10 steps to the second floor in your house.” You say.

“I know. We can do something else. There’s lots to do.” She tells you. “How about the aquarium?” She suggests and you think about it before nodding.

“Sounds good.” You tell her and she pulls out of the parking lot and drives to the aquarium. You both arrive at the aquarium and she wheels you in and you see a bunch of fish right away. Melissa stands right beside you and holds your hand as you both point out all the fish and see how many you can name.

“Really? A princess parrotfish?” She asks you, not believing you.

“Ya, it’s an actual fish and that one right there is one.” You tell her and she gets her phone out and lets go of your hand.

“We’ll see about that.” She says.

“You’d think as a teacher you’d know everything.” You tell her.

“Are you sassing me right now?” She asks, not even looking away from her phone.

“It’s a possibility.” You say and then you see her looking at the fish and then looking at her phone again before she puts her glasses on the top of her head and looks at you.

“I can’t believe that’s an actual name for a fish.” She mutters and you giggle. “How do you know that type of fish?” She asks you.

“Because the name is amazing.”

“It is a good name.” She tells you. “Let’s go look at the shark.” She says and then wheels you to where they’re keeping the shark. You look at the shark moving around and you glance at Melissa looking at it as well.

“You know there’s times where you can be like a shark.” You randomly say and she looks at you and quirks her eyebrows.

“Oh ya? How?” She asks you.

“Well you can be scary, you’re protective of what you have, you go after what you want and if someone tries to hurt you or take something from you then things get bloody.” You explain and she hums.

“You have a point there. What about the other times?” She asks and you look at her in confusion. “You said there’s times where I’m like a shark, what about the other times?” She clarifies.

“A dolphin.” You say with a smile and she laughs. “No seriously. I mean you have an amazing smile, you’re friendly, caring and fierce. Just like a dolphin.” You explain.

“How about we go see the dolphins then?” She suggests and you nod.

She wheels you to where the dolphins are and you watch as they swim around. You get Melissa to take you right to the glass and a dolphin comes up to where you are. You put your hand on the glass and the dolphin taps it with their nose and you giggle. Melissa watches the interaction with a smile and she takes a video of it. The dolphin shows you all their tricks before swimming up to the glass again. After a few more minutes the dolphin swims off and Melissa stands beside you.

“Made a new friend?” She asks with a smile and you nod. “Maybe you’re right about me being like a dolphin, I got lots of tricks that I like to show you.” She tells you and you hum. You then grab her hand and get her to bend down so you can whisper in her ear.

“Any tricks you want to show me when we get home?” You whisper seductively and she pulls back.

“There might be one.” She says softly and with a lower voice.

“Hm, like what?” You ask her and she thinks about it for a second before she leans in closer.

“How about taking all of your clothes off and fucking you with a strap?” She asks and she hears your breath hitch. “Did you forget how to breathe for a second, hon?” She asks with a smirk, already knowing the answer.

“Do you actually want me to answer that?” You ask her.

“You can if you want, but we both already know the answer.” She says. “So how about we finish looking at all the fish, we stop and get some fast food for lunch and then we go home and I show you my trick?” She suggests and you nod with a smile. You both make your way around the aquarium and you leave after an hour.

“So why did you suggest fast food?” You ask her as she’s going through a drive thru.

“Fastest way to get food before I fuck you senseless.” She says casually, like she didn’t just shut your entire brain down. “What do you want, hon?” She asks a couple seconds after and your brain still isn’t functioning properly.

“I-um, the same thing as you.” You end up saying and she gives you an amused look before she rolls her window down and orders.

“I’ve been thinking about something and I want to make sure you’re ok with it.” She suddenly says and you look at her. “Well remember when Barb asks us if we’re together?” She asks.

“Ya.”

“Well I told her that we’re not labeling it. Which is what I want right now. I want to be with you but not label it as a relationship.” She tells you.

“I get it, and I’m ok with it. So I guess we’re in a non-relationship relationship.” You tell her and she rolls her eyes before she’s handed the food she ordered for you both.

“Thank you.” She tells the worker before she begins to drive away. “I don’t understand your generation. Youse go around saying you don’t like labels and then go and make labels for everything.” She complains and you giggle.

“We don’t like making sense either.” You tell her and she smiles.

“Just eat your food.” She says and you look to see what you got.

“There’s two different meals in here, I thought you got me the same thing that you ordered.” You say and she shakes her head.

“I ordered something different for you that you’d actually like.” She tells you and you look at her softly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you already know what I like and don’t like. You must really like me.” You say with a teasing tone.

“I thought that was already obvious.”

“It was, but seeing it and knowing it are too different things.” You tell her before eating a fry.

“I hope that’s one of your fries.” She says.

“They’re not labelled, we can share.” You tell her before feeding her one.

“We can share but only eat half of them.”

“Am I supposed to count all of them before we continue eating them?” You ask her with an amused tone and she gives you a side glance.

“Why do I put up with you again?” She asks.

“Because I’m adorable?” You tell her and she chuckles.

“Ya, you are.” She says and then you feed her another fry.

The both of you get to Melissa’s place and she helps you to the couch before you both continue eating. You listen as she tells you a story about what a couple of her students did when you were in the hospital.

“Will you stop eating all the fries?” She asks and snatches the fries away from you.

“But they’re really good.” You complain as you try to get another but she moves them out of your reach.

“I know they’re good, but you already ate over half of them. Take another and I won’t fuck you with the strap.” She says and you gasp.

“You’re playing dirty.” You say with a pout and she giggles.

“Yes I am.” She tells you proudly before she puts the food on the coffee table and kisses you. “And now, I want to be dirty.” She says and then picks you up and brings you to the bed as you giggle. “Stay there while I get the strap.” She tells you and you nod. She returns a couple minutes later with her pants and underwear off and she’s wearing the strap. She walks over to the bed quickly while removing her shirt and bra. She hops on the bed and straddles your hips as she removes your shirt.

“You’re so impatient right now. You’re acting like we didn’t have sex for 2 weeks.” You say with a smile as she removes your bra.

“You were in the hospital for a month, we got some catching up to do.” She tells you as she goes and kisses your neck. “As cute as you look in this long skirt, I much prefer what’s underneath.” She says as she takes your skirt and underwear off. “Hmm, I seem to have forgotten the lube upstairs.” She tells you as she looks around for it and you sit up and pull on her hair so you bring her face closer to you.

“Guess you’ll have to get me very wet first.” You tell her with a low seductive voice and she smirks before she kisses you. She starts trailing down your body, she leaves a couple hickeys on your neck before she trails down to your chest and wraps her lips around one of your nipples. You gasp at the sensation and then she pushes you down so you’re on your back.

“Stay down or I won’t hesitate to tie your hands to the bed frame.” She says and you quirk an eyebrow.

“What if I want you to tie me up for being a brat?” You ask and she tilts her head.

“If I tie you up then you can’t run your hand through my hair as I eat you out. Your choice.” She says as she settles in between your legs. “Are you gonna be good?” She asks as her mouth is just centimetres away from where you need her.

You nod as you get comfortable on the pillow and she smiles before she closes the gap and licks your centre. You bring your hand to her hair and run your fingers through her ginger locks before you grab her hair as she sticks her tongue in your entrance and starts tongue fucking you. You moan loudly as you feel her move her hot tongue inside of you. She brings her left hand to your clit and starts rubbing it as she brings her right one to your left breast and plays with the nipple. You wrap your right leg around her as you begin breathing hard and you hear her moan as you yank her hair.

“Oh my god, Mel!” You scream as you feel your orgasm approaching already, she really knows your body so well already. You moan out her name as you come and you feel her immediately remove her tongue so you stay wet. She sits up and gathers up some of your juices with her hand and applies it to the dildo.

“Ready?” She asks and you nod. She aligns the dildo with your entrance and slowly slides it in. She slides in all the way and gives you a second before she starts pumping in and out of you. She grabs onto your hips and goes faster and harder into you, just like she knows you like. She realises you start to wrap tighter around as she has to push with more force and she goes down so that she can kiss you on your lips. “I wish at this moment that I had a real dick so I can feel you squeeze around me, and how hot and wet you are.” She says as she continues pumping in and out of you.

You feel her on you and inside of you and you suddenly feel like you can’t get enough of her, that you want to continue feeling her your entire life. You want to feel her lips all over your body, and nobody else’s, for your entire life. The sudden realisation that Melissa is the one you want to spend your life with is enough to let go and fall over the edge as your second orgasm rushes through your body. Seconds later you hear Melissa gasp out as she just came as the strap was rubbing her clit. You look up at her and look into her perfect green eyes and you bring your hand up to cup her cheek and she leans into your touch. Melissa looks at you and sees something different in your eyes but she can’t tell what it is until you say your next words.

“I will always love you.”

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ultred · 12 hours ago

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the money mindset ? no, the spoiled “princess” mindset.

i love the topic of money so much because it’s always been an extremely easy thing for me to manifest and i’m here to remind you of how easy it is. you’ll be drowned in it once you fully tap into the mindset of a “spoiled” person.

now, i’m not talking about being spoiled as in ungrateful, condescending, and unappreciative. i’m talking about having the mindset of someone who is always spoiled by those around them. a spoiled person is always receiving things. they’re always given what they want and money seems to be around them everywhere they go. why is that ? because money isn’t something they get, it’s part of their identity and they don’t care how it comes to them.

this mindset can also be considered as receiving princess treatment. and trust me, having this mindset will make money flow to you in unlimited amount and in different forms, and you don’t even have to lift a finger.

reminders :

1. princesses don’t have to do anything to get spoiled. they just exist.

when you truly believe that money is your birthright and that being spoiled is the norm, that’s exactly what you receive. walk around knowing that everywhere you go, people want to do things for you. they want to give you their money. they want to buy you things. they want to pay for your food. they want to pay for your rent. they want to take you anywhere you want.

2. stop putting money on a pedestal.

it’s literally just paper. diamonds on earth are really expensive yet apparently there are planets where it RAINS diamonds. nothing really is as valuable as you think. we assign meaning to everything. having all the money you want is literally a thought away from receiving it. just take it off the pedestal.

3. money comes in many forms.

one thing that helped me manifest anything money related is that i didn’t limit money to just receiving it in its “paper form.” i see money in everything. i see ABUNDANCE in everything. i don’t just focus on money itself. i focus on the idea of being spoiled, thus leading to money being manifested in different ways. i don’t just limit myself to receiving cash or money randomly showing up on my bank account. be open to receiving money in any way aka being spoiled through different ways. i don’t have money to buy food ? oh, whatever. someone will pay for my food. i don’t have money to pay for rent or the clothes i want ? oh, someone will pay for my rent or it will magically be solved because i am spoiled and don’t have to do anything. also, someone will buy me the clothes i want because i deserve to receive gifts and be spoiled exactly how i want.

4. spoil yourself first.

i know this might raise some questions like how tf am i supposed to do that ? this works for me so it might work for you as well. i always spoil myself in any way possible. through self-care routines, buying myself little things if i can, and overall doing things that make me in the state of being someone who is living a soft life ? i also keep affirming that i’m always spoiled and receive princess treatment from everyone. i don’t necessarily focus on money as something that is separate from me. i make it my identity and like i said, i’m fully open to receiving it in any way possible not just in a particular form. and since then, i’ve been manifesting not only cash, but also everything i could possibly want that requires money without having to pay at all, paying a little amount, etc.

affirmations :

i am drowned in money everywhere i go.

i receive princess treatment from absolutely everyone.

i am always spoiled by everyone around me.

everything comes to me effortlessly.

everything works out in my favor perfectly.

i am a spoiled princess. i receive everything i want.

i get paid to exist because life loves me that much.

i love how everywhere i go, people want to buy me stuff.

i love how everyone wants to make my life easier. i truly don’t have to do anything.

i love how money is always chasing me everywhere i go.

money is my birthright and being spoiled is a norm for me.

i love being spoiled and treated like royalty.

i am living a soft life. i don’t have to work hard for anything.

money comes to me easily. i can just sit and do nothing and it begs me to spend it on everything i want.

i have always been a spoiled person. i love how easy my lifestyle is.

i am abundance personified.

overall, you can manifest money in various ways and any way works. i believe that choosing this mindset just makes it flow to you so easily without even having to do anything and it truly feels so good. ✶ ૮₍৹˘ᵕ˘৹₎ა 𓈒

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fullofgutsndopamine · 23 hours ago

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you’re my big blind (are we on the same side)

or: roommates au no one asked for

TW: cursing, drinking, i(drinking to excess) insta-love, sex joke, light angst (maybe?), open ended ending

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as he leads through the house, nudging doors open with his foot and not quite coming all the way into all the rooms.

he nudges your door open, cranes his neck in but doesn’t enter, opens the door wide for you.

“this uh, would be your room.” he clears his throat, not the confident man you talked to through the phone just days prior. “It’s not much, obviously. that’s why the rent is so cheap but-“

he takes the baseball cap off his head, a logo you don’t recognize, runs his hands through his hair and slams it back over his head, a nervous habit you’ve already picked up of his even though you’ve only known him a few hours.

You walk around the room, small, a twin size bed is pushed into the corner and the walls are painted purple, so obviously it’ll need to be fixed up, but you figure that’s why rent is so cheap.

The man in the doorway clears his throat again, adjusts his glasses as your fingers play over the spines that decorate the small bookshelf in the other corner.

“So, there is a catch i might’ve left out.” he winces, his hand on his neck.

The tension is in your shoulders. Your back is to him, and youre glad it gives you a second to pull yourself together, so he doesn’t see the disappointment in your face, the way your face falls, the way your shoulders slump.

“Of course,” You turn around, trying to give him a small smile, show humor. “What is it?”

You’ve had your share of bad roommates; up at all hours, loud, you’re sure you’ve seen the worse of all.

“Anything but growing drugs in the garage again- besides that, I literally don’t care.”

His eyebrows shoot up, his mouth opens, closes, opens again. There’s a story there, and he’s desperate to push for it.

“Is-” His eyes narrow at you as he cuts himself off, his voice drops, “Is that something that happened?”

You ignore it, turn your back to him and inspect the books again.

“Go on, give the bad news, I’ll mentally prepare. Go on.” You sigh, squinch your eyes shut.

“I feel like we skipped over the garage story like, real quick-” He says quietly, and you can picture him without seeing him, scratching the back of his neck, looking at you anxiously. You haven’t known him long but you still feel like you’ve known him for a long time.

“Wiat, let me guess.” You flip around. If he’s going to be a shitty roommate, it’s only fair that you get to have a little fun, you can’t afford to go anywhere else. “You-”

You get a good look at him, finally. His Craiglist ad didn’t say much, a standard call for a roommate, some dry humor on cleaning being a plus. You guys were both desperate, and both knew that.

He stands in the doorframe, as if he’s unsure of himself, fiddles with his glasses.

Your eyes narrow at him, fingers play at your lips, “You have a secret dog that you only take out at night and barks non stop. Am I close?”

A smirk plays at his lips now, he opens his mouth but you cut him off, “No, that can’t be it. Hm. Wait-” You snap your fingers, “You’re a republican.” You pull a disgusted face, not a deal breaker, since you can’t afford to be picky, but you’d rather not go through that again. “Am I close at all?”

He seems to have eased up in front of you, leaning in the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and the hint of a smile on his face. “No, not at all.” He laughs, “But this is fun, go on. What else?”

You sigh, rub your forehead, and he interrupts, a smile plays on his lip. “What’s the worst possible thing you could think of for a roommate? What would be the emergency level?”

He’s teasing you, and you know this, but something about it is oddly comforting.

Your nose turns up, your lips curl in disgust, “Morning joggers.”

The laugh that escapes from his body makes you smile, rips out of him, moves his whole body so he’s clutching his chest as if you said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “So, drugs in the garage is okay, but morning joggers is where you draw the line?” He teases, a smile on his lips, you can see the sparkle in his eye from halfway across the room.

The tension is gone, so you stand a little straighter, shrug, “I said what I said.”

He snorts, wipes at his eyes. “Oh man, I’m sorry. You’re going to be so disappointed though.”

You walk over to the mattress, sit on the edge, fold your hands on your lap, decide you’re going to be as extra as possible now. “Continue, let’s hear it. I'm ready.” You take an exaggerated deep breath that makes him snort, duck into the room.

“It’s just, every Thursday-” He says, that stupid smile never leaves his face, “My friends come over for game night.”

Your eyes pop open when silence fills the room.

“And?” You push.

He shrugs, hands in his pocket, “That’s it. We’re pretty competitive. You have to play though, it’s required, sorry.” He shrugs.

Your eyes narrow at him, wonder if it’s that obvious you’re running away from something and have no friends in this small town.

“Oh?” You tease back, now smiling. “It’s in the lease?”

He shrugs, “Yeah, second page, third paragraph.” Throwing his chin at you, his eyes narrowed playfully, “Did-did you not read it?”

You smile back at him, “Oh no, definitely did. I was actually going to bring it up, I just wasn’t sure how to, so I’m glad you did.”

Finally, you see maybe the hint of a small blush over his cheeks before he clears his throat, “Well, glad we cleared that up. Let me know if you need anything, I’m uh- just next door.” He knocks his knuckles on the door as he leaves, and you busy yourself with your new room to keep the pinch of loneliness alone.

You have to give it to him, he’s a pretty good roommate. Charming , in a way that he doesn’t have to try; post it notes on the mirrors reminding you of garbage day, of left overs in the fridge: the snacks he buys because he sees you eat them;

he’s also quiet enough, keeps to himself. Besides his obnoxious singing in the shower, and weird stomping you hear on and off in the middle of the night (along with an obnoxious alarm that goes off at 723am, every morning, without doubt, you’ve started slamming your hand against the wall in hopes he gets the hint, but he hasn’t yet, and you’re too shy to tell him you hate it, especially because he’s mostly an ideal roommate.)

You’ve heard him on and off all afternoon, walking around the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the clicking of the stove, obviously getting ready for game night, didn’t realize how serious he actually took it, only knocked on the door twice; once to remind you of “the big day” (he says with this ridiculous smile on his face, rubs his hands together with such excitement it makes you excited) another knock to ask you if you had any allergies and your feelings towards different dips, something you’ve never given a thought to before but he tells these elaborate stories of fights in caused in his group, talks with his hands as he tells you, is all facial expressions, and even though it’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard, everything he says has this power to pull you in, make you feel like his best friend.

You can hear the group downstairs, the door opening and closing, the crack of something in a can opening, and you’ve decided you’ve been stalling for too long, pull on your shirt one last time before slowly walking down the stairs.

Charlie and his group have a way of making you feel at home immediately, something you weren’t sure is even possible until then, immediately the group is welcoming you, pulling you in for hugs, handing you food, telling stories and including you in these inside jokes as if you’ve known each other for years, not just a few hours.

Charlie keeps a close eye on you too, any time you look up his eyes are already on you, his hand wrapped around a red solo cup. Anytime there’s a lull, a joke you might not get right away, he’s by your side, kneeling on the couch next to you, crouched down so his mouth is close to your ear, and he’s gently telling you what you missed, what the context is, rolling his eyes as he says it.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt so welcome, so the dread you felt on playing games passed quickly, sitting criss crossed at the table across from him. You neglected to mention how competitive you are, isn’t sure how to bring it up, figure you’ll play it cool, didn’t say anything to him when you appeared across from him with a tiny notepad, a small pencil, didn’t answer when he raised his eyebrows at you.

Charlie was right, and you’re surprised to meet people as competitive as yourself. Side bets are flying (Charlie betting that Keith comes in last place and bankrupt, Keith that Charlie comes in second place. Notes passed between friends on what to do)

You’ve never met people this competitor, and you can’t remember the last time you laughed this hard, everyone’s facial expressions and how exasperated they are when the other ones talk. You stay low, don’t say much, observe, until it’s your turn, manage to stay under the radar until you steal one of Kevin’s properties, see everyone’s eyes narrow and new notes pass, new alliances form, new bets are made. When you look up Charlie is smirking at you, shaking his head, like he can’t believe it, when you make the first tic on the paper.

“What’s that?” he finally asks in between a mouth full of chip.

Feeling the buzz from both the alcohol you consumed and the giddy of being around all these people and laughing, not terrified and tense, has you feeling a million different ways, so you smirk, tap your pencil on the pad.

“This is titled: times i was doubted.” you point at the column you drew in the middle, “This is exclusively for times you doubted me.”

He snorts; wipes at his mouth to try and hide the food the flew out, how genuinely shocked he was:

“there’s no way i doubted you that much.”

“no, dude.” your voice goes low, “they won’t fuck with Kevin’s property-“

he giggles and stops: “fuck wait. is that your impression of me?”

you shrug, hands wrapping around a luke warm can of beer, teeth chattering. you haven’t laughed this hard in months

“wait,” he says, “not fair! fuck! I just didn’t think-“

your eyes narrow and you pick up the pencil, holding it over the paper at him.

he holds his hands up in surrender: “you win.”

satisfied, you put the pencil down.

“listen.”

somehow Charlie’s chair has moved closer to yours. he pulls gently at your shirt sleeve to get your attention and when you turn, his face is so close to yours you could practically hit heads with him.

instead of reading the social cue, moving away, charlie scoots closer, his lips against your ear, his breath hot and reeks of alcohol

“we need to form an alliance.”

“with my arch nemesis?”

he giggles:

“am i your arch nemesis?” he asks as he reaches for your hand, intertwining his pinky with yours.

heat rises to your face and you blame it on the alcohol immediately, not the close proximity of your roommate

don’t fuck this up don’t don’t fuck this up don’t-

“you weren’t,” you say evenly, “until you fucked me over-“

“i’m sorry i fucked you.” charlie says, and there’s no giggle at how juvenile that sounds, the innuendo that lingers: “but if we team up, we can fuck Kevin.”

his eyes narrow: “haven’t you always wanted to fuck Kevin?”

“since at least 6 tonight when I met him.”

“excellent,” he nods, “here-“

the crowd slowly thins out. Charlie sobers up the quickest; snacks handed out, water chucked at everyone (“no, you idiot. to drink.” “you’re drunk, i’m not drunk.”) promises to do it again next week are made, and ubers called.

“let’s get you to bed.”

Charlie stands first. You groan, throw your forearm over your face:

“boo!” you try, “wanna stay up—“

he stands in front of you, offers his hands:

“cmon, sweetheart.”

when he says it he stops. not realizing himself, the blood rushes to his face, wonders if he’ll be able to blame the liquor for this, if you’ll remember-

“Not tired.”

you groan but obey, getting up, falling into line with him, his arm thrown over your shoulder as he supports your weight to help you up the stairs, into your room where he nudges the door open:

“i-if you want to sit on the bed i’ll uh-“

unsure of himself, of this foreign room, this new land that isn’t his, he’s opening drawers, searching for pajamas. when he turns around you’re on your back, already passed out.

he sighs. makes his way to the bed-grabs the blanket off the floor he knows is your favorite, throws it over you, fixing the pillows just right, running into the bathroom for aspirin and water that he knows you’ll need the next morning.

next to an alarm clock that blinks angry red, always midnight, he notices a post it note you saved-one of the ones he didn’t think was a big deal. listen, he was at the store anyways, knew you were working stupid hours this week: thought you might need this :) he has scribbled on it, his hand writing looks unsure, frantic and loopy. he doesn’t allow himself time to really think about it.

he flips the note over in his hand, pen to paper: i never doubted you scribbles over that again and again until he almost rips a hole in the in the thin paper. finally: aspirin. you won

he plays with the note again, unsure of it, of him-

pen down. he tucks you in once more and prays you don’t remember.

#caroline writes #charlie slimecicle x you #charlie slimesicle x reader #charlie slimesicle fanart #slimecicle x y/n #slimecicle x you #charlie slimecicle x reader #slimecicle fic #slimecicle imagine #slimecicle x reader #charlie slimecicle #slimecicle

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bitchinbarzal · 1 day ago

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For the just fine au: is having sex again hard for Kaia or Clayton? Like it’s so hard losing a baby and I know some people struggle with being intimate after a loss? Wondering how it is for them/how they navigate those feelings? Some people pull away/while others need that connection

That’s such a tender and real part of grief — how it reshapes everything, including intimacy. For Kaia and Clayton, I think it would absolutely be a slow, emotional process. He’d be so gentle, so patient, sensing when she needed space and when she needed to be held close — and sometimes not even touched, just understood.

The bedroom was quiet.

The kids were asleep. The house was dark. And Clayton’s hand had just barely brushed Kaia’s waist when she flinched.

It wasn’t obvious.

Not a jolt. Not a gasp.

Just a small tension, like her whole body whispered: not now.

He pulled back instantly, guilt knotting in his chest. “Sorry.”

Kaia shook her head. “It’s not you.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” she said quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But still, the silence pressed between them.

Clayton sat up a little, heart aching. “You haven’t let me really touch you in weeks.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“And I haven’t said anything because I didn’t want to pressure you, Kaia. I don’t want this to be something you give me because you feel guilty or… broken or—”

“I am broken,” she said, voice cracking. “That’s the problem.”

He blinked, stunned still.

She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “I used to love this. Being close. Letting you hold me. Letting you see me. But now? I get halfway there and I just—I see her.”

Clayton swallowed, throat tight. “Kaia…”

“I feel like if I let myself feel good again, I’m letting go of her.”

“You’re not,” he whispered.

“It feels like I am.”

He reached for her hand — slow, careful — and laced their fingers together.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he said. “But I miss you. Not just this. You. I miss having you close and knowing that you’re not somewhere behind that wall in your head.”

Kaia closed her eyes.

“I want to be close again,” she whispered. “But I don’t know how to do it without feeling scared. Or sad. Or guilty.”

“Then we do it slow,” he said softly. “And if that means just holding each other for now, I’m okay with that. I just need you to know I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes met his then, full of everything she couldn’t say.

And he pulled her into his arms — not to start anything, but to stay.

There, in the stillness, they lay tangled together. Hearts sore. Bodies aching. Love quiet and patient between them.

And for now, that was enough

#just fine au

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al-n-cartoons · 2 years ago

Text

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?

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caeslxys · 1 year ago

Text

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.”

”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.)

#critical role #imogen temult #laudna #imodna #liliana tumult #writing #I don’t think I love this anymore BUT. at least it is Finished and I can Move On. To Other Equally Distressing WIPs #i have a full blown liliana character study locked in the chamber of my brain. she is in there.#and delilah is right next to her. in a away i am just like the gay girls #also sos. this is the first time i’ve posted fic anywhere but especially on here in YEARS and why the FUCK #did they take away being able to simply add a line break. or am i dumb. i couldn’t get the HTML to work either orz #Also post-posting update. I am now recognizing a collection of formatting errors specifically on this version that I am like. h about.#But Whatever. The Show Must Go On #crit role fic

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