#and imogen ripping it to shreds with her teeth

[caeslxys]

you're afraid of heights. the person you love most holds your hand at the zenith. she dies for you. she comes back for you. she gives into her hunger the minute you aren't there. she lies to you. she says, "imagine how high you could fly without me". you're afraid of heights

[mehoymalloy]

@pegasuswriter you got me digging through my GOOGLE DOCS (something I haven't used in well over a year), and I was surprised to find I actually saved my notes and cuts!) The Editing doc is only modified because I originally misspelled 'cuts' 'cutes' lol

Below being the roughest draft imaginable of the main smut part of the fic. Apparently originally Imogen softened waaaaay faster than she does in the final draft, and the Laudna fantasy/jealousy aspect was even more pronounced. (Also back when I used <editing brackets> rather than {})

-

If anything, it should help—that she's fighting. This would all be so much simpler if Otohan were breaking her. If the culmination of this entire dream---Imogen's long exercise in slowly, intentionally giving in, feinting a fight to preserve any shred of her self-righteous pride—if it all ended in a clean and simple victory.

Imogen's voice flares into their mind, and it makes Otohan flinch. "Not fightin'. Don't need my own pride, just wanna destroy yours."

-

Imogen leans up to kiss them, and Otohan <rails> against the sudden softness to her lips, the way her teeth scrape rather than bite, hating that they automatically relax into her.>>

-

<Imogen opens her mind fully, just to unleash an attack. Dozens upon dozens of images. What they had been doing, the fleeting fantasies and desires that had passed through both their minds. But laudna, laudna, lauda.

There a twinge of disappointment, and Imogen revels in it. She ruts against otohan's thigh, smiles as she bites their lip, does not let up that mental attack that has otohan momentarily locked up. Then fury engulfs the sting of rejection.

Otohan flips them. "You think you've won, don't you? You think you hurt my feelings?" She laughs, low and dark. "You've just given me more to work with."

From then on, every touch otohan makes is in direct opposition to what Imogen had imagined with laudna.

"Do you want me to call you darling?">

"I don't want you," Imogen says, like she's *won.*

<Imogen—kissing Laudna's neck, caressing her cheek, stroking her hair.

Laudna—holding Imogen's hand, hovering over her, slowly pushing inside.

<contrast Imogen's imagined gentle touches to Laudna with later aggressive touches with Otohan. Direct opposites: kissing/biting, holding/grabbing, stroking/tangling, caressing/dragging, hovering over/bearing down, slowly pushing inside/shoving>

–

<maybe during this slow buildup, Imogen is half imagining it's otohan, and otohan is directly countering those fantasies, getting more and more angry and vague flashes leak through the bond against imogen's knowledge?>

Otohan's stomach falls, flips, turns in on herself, and she knows Imogen feels it to. Her grip on Otohan's face tightens, hard enough to hurt, as she Presses her knee once more againsg her core, ripping a strangled sound from Otohan's throat. The flash of smug satisfaction that leaks through the bond infuriates otohan.

Otohan sees it in Imogen's eyes the moment she realizes what's going to happen. The smiles fades away, her hands move to otohan's shoulders, but otohan abruptly grabs her wrists, rolls until she can slam Imogen flat on her back. Squeezes her wrists for emphasis as she settle against her, chest to chest, her legs shoved between Imogen's, <no, straddling one thigh> bearing down on her.

<have Imogen not immediately soften. Instead, she's imagining laudna, doesn't initially realize that's what otohan is railing against>

Imogen does not struggle beneath her. She stares up at Otohan, sees blood on otohan's teeth, abruptly remembers what she had looked like last time, when it had been Imogen's blood on their lips rather than their own. Staring at Imogen like she wanted to devour her. Imogen lifts her head to kiss Otohan before she can even lean down to meet her, and Otohan relaxes her grip, shocked Imogen wants to continue this, even now.

Otohan breaks free to breathe, trails her lips along Imogen's jaw, projects that image again, of her own hand on Imogen's face, as she nips at the delicate skin below her jaw.

"Yes," Imogen breathes, and then Otohan feels the spike of panic flow through the bond. She hadn't meant to say that. Otohan latches on to her neck, bites and sucks hard enough to bruise, and Imogen arches off the floor, Presses up into otohan as a loud moan tears free from her throat. Otohan's feels the vibration of it under her teeth. She softens kissed the spot, feels the tendons strain and relax beneath her, hears the rush of Imogens pulse through *her* ears.

"Say it again," she growls against Imogen's ear as a hand released Imogen's wrist, trails to her neck. When she squeezes momentarily, Imogen whimpers, cants her hips upward. Otohan released imogen's other wrist and grabs ahold of imogen's hip, slams it down.

"No. I said, say it *again*"

Imogen *whines,* and its the most beautiful sound otohan has ever heard. A tiny, broken "yes," barely audible, rides the end of the noise.

Otohan pulls back, leaving a lingering kiss on on her neck, and she waits.

Imogen's eyes flutter open, stare up at her with plain desperation and incredible fury even still. Otohan loosen her grip on Imogen's hip, clutches the material of her skirt a moment before she slowly trails her hand down, slow enough for a Imogen to object.

<Note: There is a slit up Imogen's skirt> She reaches bare skin faster than she thought she would. Imogen's skirt has ridden up, the hem bunched around her knees where she had pressed into Otohan. She hooks her hand behind imogen's knee, tugs it open just a little, keeps her gaze locked onto Imogen's.

"Say it," Otohan demands. Her fingers smooth up Imogen's thigh a couple inches, watches the way Imogen's eyelashes flutter at the touch—*her* touch. Violet eyes bounce between hers, confused.

<Contrast fantasy and present now? Only it's otohan focusing on the fantasies, not imogen projecting them. Lashing out as she does the opposite of what Imogen had imagined Laudna doing, as if to prove a point>

"Say you want me," Otohan growls, and she hates that Imogen can *feel* the desperation buried deep inside her. That clawing, writhing, pathetic need.

<take away these softs parts, imogen if half imagining otohan, and maybe otohan is initially trying to ignore it before she breaks and says that "say you want me" line

OR maybe otohan is considering those fantasies, directly countering them as if to prove a point, force imogen to face that she wants them.>

…….The bond abruptly opens. It only opens when Imogen loses control of her emotions. But she's not angry. Otohan feels something sickeningly *soft* crash into her mind. Pity.

<it just makes her angrier> "No," Otohan snaps, and she jerks Imogen's leg, pries her open. Imogen doesn't even fight the motion. She tenses, relaxes, looks up at otohan with something far too *knowing.*

Otohan shoves her dress further up, skids her palm roughly along her thigh until she can hook a finger beneath the hem of her shorts. Something inside her snarls when Imogen squirms, but <word,> something *sings* when Imogen silently lifts her hips, acquiescing.

"Say it!" Otohan barks, raising her voice too loud when they are so close as she rips Imogen's shorts and <underclothes, small things> down. Imogen doesn't even flinch. She surges upward and kisses her, and for a moment it's too soft. And otohan rails against it, <pushes Imogen down, forearm pressed across her collar> as she bites her lip in retaliation. Imogen groans into her mouth, shifts her hips, kisses her back just as <hastily>. Otohan's hand shakes against the bare skin of Imogen's hip, fingertips just brushing against coarse hairs <at the Apex of her thighs>.

Imogen's jerks and bites hard enough to sting.

"Yes," she breathes, strained and small and still *too soft*.

Otohan abruptly swipes a calloused thumb against imogen's clit.

"Fuck!" Imogen arches up against her, making Otohan's thumb drag downward, parting her lips and gliding through slick skin. Imogen gasps sharply, jerks her hips closer. The bond is still cracked open. Otohan *sees* everything Imogen wants. Fingers sinking in, pushing deep, Otohan's lips on hers, drinking down every sound she's been holding back this whole time. <does she half-pretend it's laudna instead?>

Otohan purposely runs her thumb up and down between her folds, then brushes her clit, then Imogen's eyes slam shut as she jerks her hips forward again, another strangled breath escapes her.

"Open your eyes," otohan demands.

Imogen does so immediately, holding perfectly still when otohan moves her hands, lines up her fingers. Violet eyes bounce around her face, and in their minds, Imogen is *begging,* even as she doesn't say a word.

"*this* is for *me,*" otohan seethes, dancing her fingers around imogen's opening, swirling in matted curls, brushing against the slick skin of her inner thighs, before she returns her fingertips, brushes her clit, remains poised at her entrance. "Say it."

Imogen stares at her, and finally, finally, otohan feels that flash of fury again. It helps, even though that soft sensation is still there, just under the surface.

Imogen's gaze hardens, jaw clenched in such a familiar way, and she shudders when otohan vividly remembers the last time she looked at her like this. Like she hated her. "You," Imogen growls, "I want you."........

Saying it feeds that flash of shame through the bond again, and otohan revels in it. She needs it. Needs to know that she's done this to imogen. She's breaking her. Not the other way around.

[gclen-blog]

                             writing sample one: ‘the last supper’

“Come on, little duck – you know how your mother’ll get if that ribbon’s not right. And if that blouse isn’t tucked.”

“She’s your mother, too, Galen.” A persistent hand swatted away his worrying fingers, tugging at a too-large ribbon which sat perched atop her head, making her almost as tall as he.

He laughed at this, practiced hands tightening the frilled knot atop her head, “Yeah, well she’s your responsibility now. You’re the head of the household now, far as I’m concerned, and – hold still, will you?” Galen’s voice was full of laughter, empty of all the sternness required to keep his sister in line, though she always relented in the end. Playful, as if the impending departure were a figment of some strange shared nightmare, he bent and grabbed her round the waist, tickling at her sides before straightening her skirt and tucking her neatly pressed blouse beneath the hem. In retaliation, she reached up to ruffle his hair – which seemed to be untameable anyway, despite the obvious time he’d spent combing it at his mother’s request.

Once she was in acceptable form, he straightened, adjusting the buttons on his shirt – one reserved for special occasions, though this occasion was not one any of them desired to celebrate – and grinning down at her in a way reserved only for his sisters. Nora and Imogen, Imogen and Nora; the three of them were meant to always be together, to be happy together. Such an occasion was meant to celebrate the dashing of that hope – or perhaps to ease the blow. Nora was old enough to understand; even as she stood before him, tugging at the bow their mother had imposed upon her hair, he could see that the slump of her lazy shoulders was of a different angle, as if she were coiled to run and ready to crumble all in the same breath. He only wished he had more time – time to tell her it would be alright, time to assure her that she and Imogen would be safe here, even without their brother around to chase the monsters from beneath their bunk bed with the broom in the cupboard. Had he only a moment more to spare, he would look her in the eye and tell her the truth – but to tell her the truth would be to admit that he was just as scared as she, and big brothers weren’t meant to be scared.

And that was a role he’d never stop yearning to play.

“Ready for dinner?” he held out a hand, wiggling his fingers as an invitation for hers to lace between; Galen’s hands had been hard since he was a child, all calloused and rough – large hands, they were. Nora had often observed that he had been given such big hands for her to swing off of. He could not disagree. For a moment, it was all he could think of – little Nora swinging from his hand and little Imogen clinging to his back for dear life, though he’d never let her fall. His eyes were misty as he thought of it, mouth somewhat ajar and free hand hanging limp at his side. Nora’s small hand in his woke him from his state – a state which he’d found himself in more often than not of late, a wistful defense against the separation yet to come.

Nora considered, wrapping her petite fingers around his, and giving a familiar scar a good rub. “Do you think,” she wondered, looking up to Galen with honest eyes, for she knew that he would give her an honest answer – he almost always did, “that if we’re late, and if you miss the train –“

“They won’t forget about me, little duck,” his voice was a reluctant sigh; Imogen had pitched this idea to him not hours before, likely at Nora’s behest, “Someone’s got to go take care of all those pretty horses – when they don’t get their dinner, someone’s going to realize that their stable boy is being held hostage.” Though the smile did not reach his eyes, he reached down to give the ticklish spot on her side a poke. And through his force smile, he sighed: “But I wish.”

“Me, too,” Nora nodded, skittering away from Galen’s advances with the barest  of laughs; it seemed as if the old tactics would not work today. She opened her mouth to speak again, eyes upon the ground between them, but before she could muster the words, a smaller body hurtled from the door behind them, down the rickety porch steps, to where Galen and Nora stood, nearly taking his leg out from beneath him as petite but firm arms wrapped around his thigh. His mother and father followed, though they remained on the porch, watching as Galen was overtaken. And they remained silent – it went without saying that this was to be how the evening would go.

His mother had made dinner for them all, as a sendoff that they could all swallow with forced joviality and halfhearted smiles. Galen had not been hungry since the moment he knew he’d be leaving; it was the better option, of course, but to pry himself free of the two girls so firmly attached to him would be to tear his heart in two and return him to the palace with the defective half. His free hand, at the feeling of Imogen digging her heels into his toes, clasped at her back, keeping her pressed against his leg so as not to topple off and ruin her pretty dress. A dress saved for nice occasions – they all were clad in celebratory wear tonight; Galen felt quite like ripping his attire to shreds, for it felt like a lie etched into his skin.

Imogen’s voice was muffled, her face buried in Galen’s leg, offering him a view of nothing but a head of hair and a bow similar to Nora’s pressed persistently into his trousers. “I’m not hungry!” she shouted, tightening her grip about Galen’s leg – as Nora tugged relentlessly on his hand. It seemed as if they were determined to knock him over, as if that would convince him that he needed to stay, of broken bone or otherwise.

“Of course you are, Immie,” Galen sighed, weary but ever good-natured, “You’re always hungry. Just a fact of life.” Nora laughed at this, tugging momentarily forgotten – Imogen reacted in kind, head lifted and tongue stuck outward in a display of defiance. It was this that allowed his father enough time to descend the steps and pry her from his leg, adjusting Imogen’s hair bow just as Galen had for Nora.

The lack of her weight upon his leg was one he’d feel for weeks to come – never was there a pain more acute than that of absence. A similar sensation would persist upon his fingers, too, for Nora’s grip was tight. Love hurt, he decided; he did not appreciate the sting. But for his sisters, it was worth the trouble.

He reached up to his mother, who remained on the porch, eyes fit to water and teeth clenched down upon his tongue to keep unbidden tears from falling. “The woman of the hour,” he forced; it was clear that emotion had overtaken him quite suddenly, though he was determined not to show it, “Shall we eat?” The train is coming soon. He had little time to spare; they’d come for him sooner rather than later – he would need to leave them sooner rather than later. His mother followed suit, and down to the wood they walked, to the clunkily built picnic table that Galen and his father had tinkered on during a summer many years ago. It had housed many a Dean family dinner, when they afforded the time to sit and enjoy each other’s company.

Galen was merely thankful that they had the time.

All throughout dinner, he watched Nora and Imogen fidget, tugging at their blouses, their ribbons, pushing food about their plates, for they knew what was coming. And he could do nothing; he was the one leaving them after all. Would he ruin them, by doing what he thought was right? What he knowswill save them?

Later that night, he would find matching ribbons in each pocket – and his mother would never notice that they were missing.