#cw dusk vibes

[lifesver]

(not) lil dire verse starter for @t4mpered / cw the usual dusk topics

bar is hazy with low laughter, and the warm rumble of a jukebox in the corner of the room — staticy, playing some old country song leland doesn't recognize. a little more lively than normal, though, leland thinks — or, maybe it’s just already the weekend, and he's lost track of his days, again.

leland's been here a few times now — quiet and subdued at johnny's heels. watch, learn. mirror. don't look so wide-eyed and scared. don't act like some skittish outsider. but he still feels out-of-place. it smells like mildew and cigarettes and stale beer in here, and rough-faced men sit perched on barstools, trying to chat up the pretty young bartender. real blue-collar types; ones johnny seemed to know most of by name, that leland didn't want to get caught looking at wrong.

he sends a nervous glance across the room — looking for a familiar shadow leaning on the wall, staring him down — but doesn't find him. it makes leland fidget with the handle of the blade in his jacket pocket. wouldn't he have told you, if this was another test? an odd worry settles in the pit of his stomach; what if something happened, and he doesn’t come back for you? what if —

( — what if you snuck away to that payphone outside, again? )

his fingers twitch at carved handle, agitated. eyes flick across the faces in the room again. breathe. you're fine, you can do this, you can — leland forces his shoulders to relax. it’s probably fine; he would be back. wouldn't let something get out of hand. wouldn’t let him get hurt, or anything like that — right? even if he isn’t watching leland from afar, others in this bar probably are. that's what johnny said; eyes everywhere, in this town.

he's supposed to pick out a stranger. a drifter, or a passer-through. someone who might not be missed. maybe, someone who seemed... vulnerable. leland tastes something sick in the back of his throat; there's no illusions of what he's here to do. what he’s done before — what’s expected. ( — and you want to do well for him, don’t you? show you’ve gotten better, that he can trust you. that he doesn't have to put you back down in the dark. you can be good enough — )

he scans the room again. johnny would say it like this; most people are lookin’ for something. then the trick was — you'd play that role for them; a friend, a hookup, sometimes a fight. whatever it took, to get them following you out to a secluded place — which, it got a little easier to do, when you pretended to be someone else. anyone else. anyone besides leland mckinney, officially, legally, dead. even if whatever he is, now, wanders around regardless of an obituary entry — lifelike in every way — with a heart that thuds and rattles, like a cold stone in his chest.

maybe in some sickeningly guilty way, it’s freeing. to smile, to give fake names to strangers. to know that no one’s going to match his face to a missing poster — not in this town, anyway. or, maybe not anywhere, now. people kept to themselves, around here. and if the past year had taught him anything — it was to forget about the idea of anyone in this god-forsaken town helping him.

leland blinks. opening chords of the next song roll fuzzy from the old jukebox; i need you, lynyrd skynyrd. he remembers, mostly, because he remembers when they started playing it on the radio, in the summer. he remembers trying to memorize the words, muffled through the dirt wall. it hums low in his throat as he spots his stranger, a dark silhouette by the bar, turned away from him. leland pauses just a moment, eyes fluttering closed as he performs the familiar practice, of putting all the roiling anxiety in him under cement. takes a measured breath to steady himself — okay. okay — find out what this stranger is looking for. you're fine. you can do this.

ain't no need to worry

there ain't no use to cry

'cause i'll be comin' home soon —

leland settles with his back to the bar, parallel to his stranger. at first it’s just a brush of contact, a bump of elbows, that could easily be written off as accidental. he gives a small sidelong glance to the man's profile, noting closed body language, static practically rolling off tense shoulders. but, definitely not a local, leland thinks, with a touch of bitterness — guy lacks the distinct grimy film this place tends to suffocate you with. but — there's something else, that makes his stomach twist in knots. something that stings nostalgic in the man's scruff and shaggy hair, the hard furrow of his brow. in that weathered brown jacket.

( " say somethin' " the far-away voice tries to reach him. as scared as him.

" ... leland? " )

— you know i get so lonely

that i feel i can't go on,

leland's eyes wander back to the blinking lights on the jukebox, and names that are not his own shift around behind his teeth. ❝ … they look lost in their own world, ❞ he comments, candidly. and nods toward the center of the room — where a couple of drunken patrons were in a slow, woozy sway to the music. a woman throwing her head back with laughter as her dance partner spins her around under the dim, gaudy lights. it looks a little silly, to him. it looks… romantic.

leland’s chest squeezes. he keeps eyes down, tracing the frayed stitching on the sleeve of stranger’s leather jacket. ❝ — what about you? ❞ leland smiles softly, mostly to himself, ❝ you look like you’d rather be anywhere else. ❞ god. he knows the feeling.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Sunshine [5] - Dusk

AN: My loves, thank you so so much for your wonderful support and lovely comments and HCs! ❤️ You’re amazing! ❤️

I hope you like this as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! 🥰

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female!Reader

Summary: Some evenings come with threats.

Word Count: 4242 

CW: Violence, explicit language, blood, threats

Series Masterlist

“I have no idea why you don’t like him.”

“Well, that makes two of us because I have no idea why you like him.”

You rolled your eyes at Jamie as you grabbed the coffee pot, then filled his cup while he pointed at you with his fork. The diner wasn’t very busy yet; you had the time to focus your full attention on him after taking a couple of orders to the tables, so you leaned on the counter, then stole a fry off his plate.

“Logan is nice.”

“Oh Logan is nice?” he repeated with a scoff. “He’s a giant ball of macho bullshit with no brains, that’s what he is.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh come on Jamie!”

“I’m serious,” he said as you crossed your arms to shoot him a lighthearted glare.

“You know, I wasn’t like this when you introduced Nik to me.”

“Nik is my soulmate,” he said without hesitation. “I doubt the brute caveman is your soulmate.”

“He's not a caveman.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“He just…he doesn’t look very friendly,” you said in a rush to defend him. “I’m aware of it but he’s been to wars and stuff, so it’s kinda expected—”

“Which is another red flag, sunshine,” Jamie insisted. “When was he born, you said?”

“1832.”

“You have a crush on Dracula: Lumberjack Edition?”

“He doesn’t give off vampire vibes!”

“No, he gives off werewolf vibes,” he said. “And just in case a certain popular franchise has escaped your notice, they’re both equally bad.”

You scrunched your nose up at him, still leaning to the counter while he sipped his coffee.

“What happened to the guy Nik set you up with?”

“Oh that date was a disaster,” you said with a shrug. “He talked about himself the whole time. I barely got two words in.”

“I hate when they do that,” he grumbled, making you smile.

“I swear to you Logan is not a bad guy,” you said. “He’s the furthest thing from that—which by the way, we might be just arguing over nothing. I honestly doubt he sees me that way.”

He shot you a look of disbelief.

“Sunshine.”

“No I really don’t think—”

“A lot of people you cross paths with see you that way.”

“You and Julie both say that but that’s because you’re my best friends.”

“No, that’s because we see how people look at you,” he said. “Unlike you.”

“Yeah but Logan—”

“Logan will make a move on you one of these days, and I think you should turn him down when he does.”

You wiggled your brows. “It’d be a bit difficult to turn him down while I’m climbing him like a tree.”

“Fuck him once and leave him.”

“I already decided what our future cabin in the woods will be like.”

He let out a groan, burying his face into his hands, making you giggle.

“If Logan and I start dating and that’s a huge if, considering I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want me that way,” you said. “We’ll go on a double date with you and Nik, and you will see he’s actually the nicest guy in the entire world.”

“I hope he’s terrible in bed so that you will snap out of this,” he motioned at you as his phone vibrated, making him check it before he took a huge sip of his coffee, then stood up.

“Thank you so much for letting me borrow your car by the way,” he said. “It’s just that, Nik’s grandma needs a ride to the airport and…”

“It’s totally fine,” you said with a wave of your hand. “Don’t even mention it.”

“I’ll bring it tonight to your place.”

“Like I said, it’s totally fine,” you said. “Tell Nik’s grandma I said hi.”

“Will do,” he said, leaning over the counter to kiss your cheek, then walked out of the diner. You grabbed his plate and mug, but as soon as you entered the kitchen, the boss’ office door opened and he peeked his head out.

“Hey,” he said. “Bad news, Stacey can’t make it, she has the flu. Do you think you could close tonight?”

Shit.

Of course you had to close when you didn’t have a car.

You pressed your lips together, then forced yourself to smile before nodding your head.

“Yeah,” you said. “I can close tonight, no problem.”

                                                  *

Today was not going as planned, at all.

Creepy customers weren’t exactly new to you. You were pretty sure that everyone in service industry had to deal with them at one point or another, God knew you did. But usually, once you turned them down, they finished their meals and left without leaving you a tip.

They didn’t just sit there at the booth, staring at you for almost an hour.

Paul was by the grill as you walked into the kitchen and heaved a sigh, pressing your palms into your eyes, your heart beating in your throat.

It was fine. If he stayed there towards the closing time, you were just going to ask Paul to handle him, he was pretty good at that. He would deal with him, and afterwards you would just call a cab and go home and forget about today.

“You okay?” Paul asked and you dropped your hands, then nodded, clearing your throat.

“Um—yeah. Just tired I guess.”

“You sure?”

“Uh huh,” you said. “Slow day but I went to bed late, so…”  

He grinned. “Your new boyfriend is keeping you up late?”

You let out a small laugh. “It’s nothing like that.”

“No?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t even know if he likes me that way to be honest.”

“What, he just came to drive you home the other day out of the goodness in his heart?”

You nodded again. “Yeah. He’s nice.”

“Honey, I’m terribly sorry to shatter your trust in the goodness of us men, but we usually don’t do that just for any girl.”

“Yeah but Logan is nice,” you insisted. “Not to mention, he’s out of my league.”

“Did you break all the mirrors in your place or something?”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Paul.”

“Take it from a guy, Logan definitely wants to…” he wiggled his brows and you grabbed the table cloth, then tossed it at him for him to catch it in the air.

“That’s absolutely not true.”

“So your crush isn’t keeping you up, then what is?”

“Have you met me?” you asked him. “I run on stress.”

“You know what’s good for stress, right?” he asked with a smirk but as soon as he stole a look out of the small kitchen window into the diner, then pulled his brows together. “Did I Beetlejuice this motherfucker or something?”

“What?” you asked, turning your head to follow his line of sight, then gasped when you saw Logan walking to the counter to sit on a stool.

At first you were surprised at the relief that hit you out of nowhere so fast that it made your head spin, because normally whenever you were around Logan, your heart would be making flips, adrenaline rushing through you. It took you a moment to understand what it was, and once you did, you let out a breath.

It was safety.

Somehow, something in your body knew Logan being there meant you were completely safe.

You let out a breath and pushed open the door to step outside, then approached the counter.

“Hey,” you said, still slightly dizzy and Logan’s hazel eyes searched your face, his frown deepening.

“What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“I could hear your heartbeat from a mile away,” he said. “What’s going on?”

You blinked a couple of times. “You recognize my heartbeat?”

“Yeah,” he said as if it was completely normal. “And I smelled your fear. So what’s going on?”

“You what?” you asked. “I smell like fear?”

“Not normally, but you do right now,” he said impatiently. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, trying to focus as you stole a look at the booth the creep was still sitting in, Logan turning his head to follow your glances.

“He, um…” you said, lowering your voice. “He wanted to know when I get off work, and—and I said no and he’s been sitting there for an hour, just staring.”

Logan’s eyebrows rose as if he was surprised by the guy’s audacity.

“And I close the diner tonight,” you whispered. “And I gave the car to Jamie because his boyfriend’s grandma has been staying with them, and she’s really nice except for when she made that one comment about me giving it up too—” you stopped yourself. “Sorry. Um, I don’t—”

“How about I drive you home tonight?” he cut you off, making you pull your brows together.

“You’d do that?”

The look he gave you was almost reprimanding as if he was offended by you asking a question when the answer was clear as day and you let out a relieved breath.

“Logan I…” you trailed off. “I don’t know how to thank you, you’re—you’re amazing, really.”

“You have no reason to thank me, princess,” he said, making your heart skip a beat.

“I have many reasons.”

“No, and don’t worry about that asshole,” he said, nodding in the direction of the booth before turning to you, “but you need to call me when this sort of bullshit happens.”

“I don’t have your number,” you said and he paused for a moment as if he hadn’t thought about that.

“Right,” he said, taking his phone out of his pocket before holding it out for you and you smiled, then took it from him. You entered your phone number, then sent yourself a quick text before handing him the phone back.

“There,” you said with a grin. “Now we have each other’s numbers. Technology isn’t so bad, huh?”

He gave you a small smile and you cleared your throat.

“So what can I get you?” you asked, shifting your weight from one foot to other in excitement, and he frowned for a moment.

“Any chance you’ve got some of that pie from earlier?”

“Sure!” you said. “I’ll be right back.”

You went into the kitchen and made your way to the counter to get out the pie, then cut a big slice to put it on the plate.

“Look at that, your mood is fixed for some reason,” Paul teased you and you scrunched up your nose at him, then grabbed the chocolate sauce bottle. You carefully drew the shape on the plate, your tongue sticking out from the corner of your mouth.

“So let me guess, he’s still not your boyfriend?”

You gave him a chiding look. “Don’t.”

“Hey, I’m asking to see if I need to set you up with one of my friends.”

“Oh I’ve met your friends,” you said with a laugh. “I’ll respectfully decline, thank you.”

“They’re pretty cool guys.”

“I guess I’m not cool,” you told him and picked up the plate, then pushed open the kitchen door to make your way to Logan who was sitting on the stool by the counter.

“There you go,” you said and put the plate in front of him. “You may be curious about what that shape is on the plate is.”

“Was just about to ask you about that.”

“That’s a cigar,” you pointed at it. “And there’s an X over it because cigars suck. And that’s a frowny face right next to it because to repeat, cigars suck.”

“I see,” he said with a small grin. “A very clear message.”

“Isn’t it?” you asked, stealing a look at the booth to check on the creep but the booth was completely empty. You blinked a couple of times before you turned to Logan.

“Logan?”

“Hm?”

“Where did that man go?”

He grabbed his fork. “He left.”

“…Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Your frown deepened. “Did you say something to him?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Just a small warning, that’s all.”

You could feel the relief filling your system as a smile warmed your face, making you bite at your lip.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he muttered as he dug into the pie while you leaned against the counter, crossing your arms on it.

“So you were around then?” you asked. “When you heard my heartbeat?”

“Mm hm.”

“How do you know it’s my heartbeat and not someone else’s?”

“I recognize it,” he said, making you raise your brows.

“Is that—” you started but were distracted by a customer asking for a refill, so you grabbed the coffee pot, went to refill his coffee and walked behind the counter again. You pulled out a mug to fill Logan coffee, then put it in front of him.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Is that what you did during the French Revolution as well?”

“To repeat, I haven’t—” he started but then his lips curled into a smile upon seeing the teasing glint in your eyes. “Right. Seriously, what is this fascination with French Revolution?”

“I was weirdly into historical documentaries while pregnant with Theo,” you said. “Kinda stuck.”

“Ah.”

“Speaking of all that though, what was 19th century like?”

Logan took a sip of his coffee. “Foggy.”

“…Very descriptive, Dickens,” you said with a nod of your head. “Professor X should have you teach literature, you’d do wonders in prose.”

 That made him chuckle before he took his fork into his mouth, and you smiled at him before walking to another table to take their order.

                                             *

As the sky went dark and the closing time got closer, you realized that you hadn’t even been paying attention to the time. Paul had left an hour ago, so had all the customers but you were so lost in the excitement of spending time with Logan that if it weren’t for your phone vibrating on the counter, you wouldn’t have even noticed it was past the closing time.

“But yeah, he literally brought a kitten home from the street,” you said with a smile as you walked to get your coat. “The said kitten is now Nik and Jamie’s beloved son, but—what are you doing?”

Logan pulled out his wallet and motioned at the empty plate and the coffee mug, making you narrow your eyes.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Princess—”

“I will threaten you, I don’t care if you’re invincible and like 200 years old.”

He tilted his head. “You’re threatening me with threatening me?”

“Yes,” you said. “I will kill you with kindness and also this knife I found in the kitchen if you try to pay for it.”

“You’re terrible at threatening people.”

“I know, I’m working on it,” you muttered as you grabbed the plate and the mug to put it on the counter of the kitchen through the small window, and by the time you turned around he had already placed some cash on where the plate just was.

“Logan!”

“Technically I’m not paying for it, I’m leaving a tip.”

“That tip is more than the check.”

“Well that’s—” he started before his head whipped around, the playful smile wiping off of his face as a car pulled over in front of the diner. He gritted his teeth, making you pull your brows together.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” he said. “Just do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll step outside for a moment,” he said. “Stay here.”

Your heart started pounding in your chest. “What—what’s going on?”

“I swear to you, it’ll take only a moment,” he said, his voice completely calm as he stood up from the stool. “Don’t step outside, okay?”

 “Hey asshole, I don’t appreciate being threatened!” A shout came from outside and you took a step back, panic making you dizzy upon recognizing the voice; it had to be the guy from earlier. “So I brought some friends! How about we show you some manners and then entertain your girl?”

You could feel your blood freezing in your veins and you grabbed your phone. “I’ll—I’ll call the cops—”

“Don’t,” Logan said. “They’ll only get in the way. I got it.”

“Logan…” you started but a metallic noise reached your ears as metal claws sprouted from his knuckles, making your eyes widen.

“What…”

“Stay here.”

“I-but—” you stammered but he had already walked out of the door, making you cover your mouth. Fear pounded through your system, your eyes filling with tears as you sniffled, then grabbed the knife on the counter and took a step to the closed door, but blood splattered over the huge window, soon followed by the panicked yelling of the newcomers. Your stomach churned as you swallowed thickly, then you wiped at your eyes and rushed to the door with the knife in your hand before you swung it open.

The view you were presented with looked like something out of a movie. Two of the guys writhing on the ground, one of the crawling to the car while the other looked like he was crying. The man from earlier was also on the ground, holding onto his face but you could see the blood dripping through his fingers as Logan retracted his claws, then held him from the back of his jacket and lifted him up.

“You’ve got something to say to her?” he growled, and the man let out a sob, then lowered his hands, your breath catching in your throat upon seeing the gashes on his face.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he managed to whimper through pain and Logan dropped him on his face unceremoniously, then turned to you.

“What’s the knife for?” he asked and you blinked a couple of times, forcing yourself to drag your gaze from the man.

“I was coming to save you,” you told Logan, making the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Yeah?” he asked as if humoring you and you nodded, then took a look at the men on the ground.

“Come on,” Logan said, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Let me take you home.”

You felt like you were in a haze as you rushed inside to put the knife back, grabbed your phone off the counter, then shut down the lights and closed the door behind you, locked it and turned to Logan again.

“…Shouldn’t we call someone?”

“Nope.”

“But what if you get in trouble because of—”

“I won’t,” Logan answered, gently leading you to the motorcycle, his hand on the small of your back. He put the helmet on your head and you got behind him on the bike, wrapping your arms around his waist to hold onto him tight.

The road to your home felt almost surreal. The panic still hadn’t left your system yet, your mind going overdrive with everything that could have gone wrong, or would go wrong if those creeps had decided to press charges on Logan. Even though he didn’t look worried at all, you were beginning to think you worried enough for the both of you.

And if something had happened to him, if they had gotten to him before he could beat them—

No.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to think about it.

You hadn’t even realized that your cheeks were wet with tears when he pulled over in front of your house, his head turning to the side when he heard you sniffling. You swung your leg over the seat to sit sideways on it and he got off the motorcycle to help you take off the helmet but as soon as he did, you pressed your palms on your eyes, biting inside your cheek to keep yourself under control.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, sniffling again as you lowered your hands before a shaky sigh left your lips. He lifted your chin with a curled finger, your eyes shooting up to his, your heart skipping a beat as he gently wiped at the tear under your eye.

“I’m sorry for scaring you off.”

The change in his tone was impossible to miss. That growl that had spilled from his lips while talking to that man was completely gone and now his deep voice was soft like honey, making you feel all warm inside. You blinked back the tears and shook your head fervently.

“You didn’t,” you said. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“But you’re scared.”

“Not of you,” you said, shaking your head again as you bit at your nail. “For you.”

That made him pull his brows together in confusion and you let out a breath.

“Logan, there were three people there,” you insisted. “They could’ve easily overpowered you—”

“That’s impossible.”

“They could’ve killed you!”

“Also impossible,” he said, a small chuckle escaping from his lips as if the idea was too absurd. “I told you before. I heal.”

“I’m sure there are exceptions to that, if they came up with a way—”

“Unless those guys were keeping a fully functioning high technology lab underneath the diner, they couldn’t,” he said. “Me getting hurt was not a possibility there, and the only reason they’re alive is because you were there. That’s it.”

You sniffled again.

“But did I make you betray a principle or something?”

“What?”

“Because the secretary of Mutant Affairs held a press conference the other day and he—”

“Hank?”

“Hank McCoy, yes. You know him?”

“Yeah, we’re friends.”

“Well, he talked about how mutants have this principle—”

A dry chuckle climbed up his throat.

“I don’t have any principles when it comes to assholes like those,” he said, a shadow crossing his handsome face. “But nobody gets to hurt you or threaten you. That’s the principle here.”

Your head was spinning again for a completely different reason and you took a trembling breath, stealing a look at the building behind you before looking up to his hazel eyes, your heart beating in your throat.

“Would you like to—” you started but before you could invite him to your apartment, a car flashed its headlights at you two, making you turn your head to look at it.

Oh.

Your car.

Jamie was in the driver’s seat and he frowned slightly before he stopped the car and Nik leaned out from the open passenger seat window.

“Hey Sunshine!” he said. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

You closed your eyes for a moment before opening them again, then licked your lips.

“It’s on mute, I didn’t hear,” you said. “Uh, Logan, this is Nik, Jamie’s boyfriend. Nik, this is Logan, my…my friend.”

Nik gave him a grin as he eyed him up and down.

“Nice to meet you Logan,” he said before turning to you. “Get in, we’re taking you out to dinner. Your friend can come too if he’d like.”

You glanced up at Logan, biting at your lip and he took a deep breath, then cleared his throat as if trying to snap out of a haze.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I am,” you said. “I just didn’t know they were coming—but um, would you like to join us? Nik is an expert when it comes to restaurants, he knows all the great ones.”

Logan shook his head.

“I’d better go,” he said. “It’ll be easier to track those guys down while they’re still bleeding.”

You blinked a couple of times. “What are you gonna do?”

“I’ll make sure they understand they shouldn’t cross paths with you ever again,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “That’s all.”

You hesitated only for a moment before you stood on your tiptoes, wrapping your arms around his neck to hug him, resting your forehead against his hard chest, the scent of pines and smoke surrounding you in the most pleasant way. He cradled the back of your head with one hand while his other arm sneaked around your waist and he nuzzled his nose into your hair to inhale deeply, making your heartbeat faster. Even though you felt like you could happily spend your whole life in his arms, you knew you had to step back especially with Jamie and Nik right there, so you slowly pulled back to look up at him. His hazel gaze went down to your lips for a moment before snapping back to your eyes and you swallowed thickly.

“Thanks,” you managed to say. “For…you know.”

“No problem, princess,” he said softly and stepped back as well, then nodded in Jamie’s direction before getting on the motorcycle.

“Be careful,” he said and you let out a small laugh.

“Likewise,” you said before he drove off and you shifted your weight before making your way to the car. You opened the door and got in the backseat, then slammed the door shut as Nik turned to look at you over his shoulder.

“Hi honey.”

“Hi Nik. Hi Jamie.”

“So that was Logan?” Nik asked and Jamie scoffed as he started the car.

“Yep. That’s the asshole I told you about.”

“Well, neither of you told me he was that hot,” Nik pointed out, grinning at you. “Did we interrupt something?”

You wiped at your nose, then shook your head. “Um, no.”

Jamie took a look at you from the rear mirror, then frowned.

“If that asshole made you cry, I swear—”

“He didn’t,” you said in a rush and buckled your seat belt. “I’ll tell you on the way. What are we eating?”

6 - Middle of the Night

[merrybloomwrites]

The Rake

Summary: You start having nightmares that disrupt your sleep, but luckily your boyfriend, Spencer, is there to help you through it.

Word Count: 1.8K

CW: mentions of creepy stories, nightmares

AN: This story is inspired by the Smosh Mouth episode that came out on October 21, which honestly did manage to creep me out a couple of times.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nearly everyday after work you go for a thirty minute walk. It’s always nice to go outside and enjoy some fresh air after being cooped up in the Smosh office all day. 

Plus it’s the perfect time to listen to podcasts. On Mondays you get to hear the first half of the newest Smosh Mouth episode, and you finish it up on Tuesdays. 

Walks are skipped on Wednesdays, as that’s the day you and your boyfriend, Spencer, spend together. 

It’s a perfect system in your eyes, one that you don’t plan on changing any time soon.

Today’s Tuesday, and you pull out your phone to press play on the podcast you’d started the day before. This week’s theme had been creepypastas, and it’s been fun listening to Shayne read out these weird stories.

You do admit that they’ve creeped you out a little bit, especially the one about the doll who demanded teeth. Shayne is an excellent storyteller, and it’s interesting to hear the different voice he uses for these stories. That, plus the eerie background music and noises they add in, really works to give those spooky, somewhat uncomfortable vibes. 

Add on the fact that the sun sets early now and you’re ending your walk at dusk while you listen to the final story about “The Rake”. You’re truthfully a bit freaked out by it, but then the episode ends with some banter from Shayne and Amanda and you move on. 

The rest of your evening passes as it usually does and by the time you get in bed you’ve completely forgotten about the creepy stories.

But then a nightmare wakes you up, and even though you’re now awake, you’re still terrified. Because it looks like something is sitting on the edge of your bed. You’re frozen in fear for what feels like minutes before you’re finally able to turn on your bedside lamp.

Once you’re no longer in complete darkness you can see that nothing is there. You take deep breaths and tell yourself that it’s just a bad dream. There is no weird creature in your room to torment you. You’re just stressed and your brain conjured this image to mess with you.

That’s the rational explanation. But it’s hard to be rational at 4:30 in the morning. 

For the next hour you try to fall back asleep. But it’s no use. You toss and turn, open apps on your phone, try to read a little bit, but nothing is chasing away the dream. At 6am you give up and get out of bed. You decide to take a morning walk today since you won’t be going on one this evening, and maybe getting outside will be a good change of scenery to reset your mind. 

It works, and by the time you arrive at Smosh you’ve forgotten about the dream. You are, however, completely exhausted from waking up so early. 

Spencer notices this immediately, as he gives you his normal good morning kiss. 

“You seem sleepy,” he says as his hand goes to your waist, his thumb rubbing circles on your hip. It’s one of his comforting gestures, and it’s most welcomed right now. 

“Had a weird dream that woke me up. Couldn’t fall back asleep,” you answer. 

“I’m sorry baby, you want to talk about it?”

“No, I'm good now. Just tired.”

“Okay. If you want to talk, let me know. And I’m staying at your place tonight so I’ll make sure you get a good night's sleep,” he says with a wink, causing you to laugh. 

Just like that, any lingering tension has left you, thanks to your kind and silly boyfriend.

“I’ve got a meeting I need to prepare for, but I’ll see you later,” he says, leaning in for one more quick kiss. With a parting squeeze to your waist he turns and walks away to start his work for the day. 

You do the same, and after a few hours of working at your desk, you’re struggling to keep your eyes open. Just as you're about to get up in search of caffeine, Spencer appears. 

As though he could read your mind, he hands you a mug saying, “Thought you could use a little pick me up. Made you some tea.”

“Thank you, this is exactly what I need right now,” you say. You take a sip and feel a pleasant warmth inside, not only from the tea, but from the fact that your boyfriend, who never drinks tea, has learned how to make it just perfect for you. 

As you sip your drink you reach out a hand. Spencer reaches to link his fingers with yours, and the two of you sit there for a couple minutes in comfortable silence. After this brief time spent together you both return to work. 

You don’t see Spencer for the rest of the day, since your lunch breaks don’t always line up, so it’s extra nice that you’re spending tonight together. 

Once you wrap up your last task of the day you walk over to Spencer’s desk to find him still engrossed by the document on his computer. You wait patiently, not wanting to break his concentration. When he gets to a stopping point he looks up and says, “Hey, sorry, I just need to finish this before I head out.”

“That’s fine, I’ll pick up the food on my way home,” you reply.

“Thank you, I’ll be at your place within the hour, promise.”

“Looking forward to it,” you say before leaning down for a quick kiss. 

You drive home, grabbing dinner as promised, and Spencer gets to your place not long after you do. You enjoy the food before lounging together on the sofa to watch mindless sitcoms. Spencer also keeps his word of tiring you out, the night ending with both of you very satisfied. 

Though all you want is to fall asleep, you definitely need a shower. It’s not what you want to be doing, but when Spencer decides to join you, it becomes much less of a chore. 

The two of you get ready and finally fall into bed. You’re truly exhausted, and as soon as Spencer spoons you from behind, his arms secure around your waist, you drift off to sleep.

But once again you jolt awake, pulse racing as you see what looks like a figure at the edge of the bed. Having felt you move, Spencer shifts beside you. He sits up sleepily and murmurs, “What’s wrong?” 

You try to explain but you’re still frozen by fear. Spencer becomes more alert and notices how wide your eyes are, how quickly you’re breathing. He turns on the lamp and scans the room. 

Seeing nothing to cause alarm he turns to you and again asks, “Baby, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“There was a thing, like a person or a creature or something. At the end of the bed,” you reply shakily. 

“A person in the room?” He asks to clarify. 

“That’s what it looked like but then it disappeared!”

“Okay, just, stay here a minute and I’ll check the apartment,” Spencer says, starting to get out of bed. You’re grateful for his bravery, but there’s no way you’re just going to stay in bed like a sitting duck. 

You get up as well and grab the metal softball bat leaning against the wall. Spencer watches and asks, “Have you always had that there?”

“Just since my moms last visit,” you answer. “She cleaned out the basement and thought I should have it for protection. But can we please focus on the possible intruder?”

“Right, yes, ok,” he says, getting back to the task at hand. The two of you search the apartment, but find nothing. 

You feel better knowing that your apartment is definitely empty, and with Spencer once again holding you protectively, you manage to fall back asleep, not waking until your alarm.

Both of you are needed in a meeting that morning so you quickly get ready and head to work. Once in the conference room, you sit next to Amanda, Spencer on your other side. Even though you’d slept more than the previous night, it’s clear both of you are still sleepier than usual.

“Busy night?” Amanda asks, her voice suggestive, but joking. You know what she’s implying, and though she’s kind of right, you don’t need her knowing that.

“Bad dream,” you say simply. 

“Y/N thought there was a creature on the bed,” Spencer adds. 

“Well, she was right, wasn’t she? You were there,” Shayne says from his spot next to Amanda, causing you to laugh. 

“Heyyy, rude,” is all Spencer has to say in reply. 

“Did you listen to the podcast this week?” Amanda asks.

“Yea of course, I listen every week.”

“And you had a dream about a creature in your bed?” is Amanda’s next question. You nod yes in reply.

“A creature like in the Rake?” 

“Holy shit. Yea. One hundred percent the creature from the rake,” you say, mad at yourself for not putting the pieces together.

“You got a nightmare from us telling stories on the pod?” Shayne asks. “That might be a first.”

You start laughing at how ridiculous this all is before sliding down and resting your head on the table. You’re embarrassed, not only that you had a nightmare because of a comedy podcast, but that everyone at work will absolutely know this fact by the end of the day. You’re already imagining the pranks that you’ll likely endure in the future because of this. 

And of course the pranks do come. In the following weeks, plenty of people joke around about you being scared of the Rake and sometimes pop out at you to make you jump. All of this is a totally normal and expected part of working at Smosh.

But what you don’t expect is Spencer’s reaction. Instead of laughing and messing around with the others, he’s always serious and checking in. He makes sure that it’s not upsetting you, and promises to talk to the others if it is. 

While you reassure him that it truly doesn’t bother you, it’s nice to know that he’s so fully there to back you up. You’d been on your own until you found him, always taking care of yourself. So having Spencer there to help take care of you feels so foreign, and yet, so welcomed. 

The teasing and pranks may get old eventually, but you don’t mind them. Because everytime it happens, Spencer is right there with a smile and a kiss to make sure you’re okay. 

And that makes it all worth it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Thanks for reading! Lmk if you have any requests!

[slytherinboysappreciation]

The Start of a Movie - P. P. x fem!Reader

A/N: Please don’t mind the modern au and the midwest usa vibes I infused into this fic. It’s for the sake of the plot, okay? And I liked doing it

Thank you to @pizzaapeteer for reading over this fic for me! You’re the best 💛

Fic is for week four of @finalgirllx and @thatdammchickennugget’s Jinxed July challenge, using the picture prompt. There is no use of Y/N. I am working on a second part and it should be out soon after this

CW: Fluff; cuteness; flowers as a gift; Mattheo and Theo are mentioned to own trucks; technically not cheating, but it’s a little dicey; mentions of withholding information from parents; pining; mentions of past homophobia; mentions of hatred; Pansy is a bit of a flaky friend; Reader is in love; emotional turmoil; Reader has conflicting feelings towards Mattheo; some swearing; Reader is supposed to be on a date with Theo; Reader’s parents do not like Pansy; kissing; interrupted kissing; mild moment of panic; again, not technically cheating, but!!!; Mattheo likes country music; implied talking to for Reader from parents

1741 words

“Pansy?”

She looks up from her phone. “Yeah, babe?”

You try not to react to the cute pet name. It’s Pansy, after all. She calls everyone cute pet names.

“I made you something,” you say shyly. You hold out your newly made bouquet of wildflowers. “I know Mattheo’s probably gonna get you something grander for your present, but—“

“For me? Thank you… They look lovely.” Pansy smiles, taking the flowers from you.

Your cheeks warm, and you’ve never been more grateful for the evening dusk around you.

It’s just past sunset, and the last rays of sun are fading behind the hills. You climb into the back of Mattheo’s truck, settling next to Pansy.

So close, but not too close.

Your friend group is out to see a drive-in movie for the first time. Mattheo and Theo have parked their trucks and filled their truck beds with pillows and cushions and blankets. The perfect movie watching set up.

The boys and Daphne went to go get snacks from the concession stand, leaving you and Pansy alone.

Sitting next to her feels bold. Her and Mattheo aren’t a couple at the moment, but everyone knows they’re on and off again.

Pansy sets the bouquet next to her and starts scrolling on her phone again. You left your phone at home on ‘accident’, giving you the perfect excuse for not calling your parents to tell them you’ll be out past curfew.

So you just lean back and gaze up at the night sky. Trying to ignore the short distance between her skin and yours.

You’ve had a crush on Pansy for ages. Before you even knew that girls could like girls. Even before you found out that it was normal to feel that way, and not some great travesty against a higher power.

Loving Pansy Parkinson has been your only constant for years.

Part of you still hates that you love her. You think it’s the same part of you that flinches when your brother cracks a joke about girls around you, or the same part of you that panics when your girl friends hug you. Now that you know, you can’t un-know.

You don’t hate her because she’s a girl. You hate her because she’s Pansy. Because she’s been your best friend on and off for years. Because every time you swear there’s chemistry between you two, you find her making out with Mattheo.

But god, if you aren’t addicted to loving her.

It’s the bob of her hair, the lines of her collarbone, the slight freckles on her face that she always tries to cover up. You love freckles. You love her freckles.

It’s her smile and her laugh and the way she seems to be on top of everything, but can never commit to anything.

And her lips. You just know they’re soft. Warm. Taste like the standard cherry chapstick she always puts on.

Your lips are nothing like hers.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Pansy leaning into you. “Look.”

She shows you a cute video. You smile and laugh. You can barely breathe without the scent of jasmine and cherry overwhelming you.

You want to cry. You want to scream. You’re so close to her, and she’s not moving away from you.

She looks up at you, and the light from the giant movie projector reflects in her eyes.

She’s so close. And yet.

The sound of crunching gravel brings you back to earth faster than a rocket. The boys are back.

Pansy sits back up, but her hand lingers in your space. Just next to your hand. You could reach out and touch it, and no one would be the wiser.

“Hey, babe. I got your popcorn without butter.” Mattheo.

Somehow the bane of your existence and the only boy who’s ever treated you like something. You despise him.

Pansy takes the popcorn with a smile. You know it’s partially fake. Pansy loves buttered popcorn.

“And I got yours with extra butter.” Mattheo hands you your popcorn with a smile. Maybe you don’t hate him as much as you think you do.

“Thanks. What do I owe you?”

He chuckles. “It’s on the house. Pansy’s birthday, remember? What kind of guy would I be if I let her best friend pay for popcorn?”

You’re her best friend again, apparently. Last week it was Daphne.

“You sure?”

He reaches behind Pansy to nudge your shoulder playfully. “Hell yeah I am.”

You smile and eat some popcorn.

Pansy picks at her red paper bag full of popped kernels and smiles at Mattheo.

You no longer want to eat popcorn.

The movie’s starting soon and everyone starts heading to their respective trucks. You’re supposed to be with Theo. He did technically ask you to come with him.

Him and Daphne linger for a moment.

“Pans…” Daphne whines.

Your stomach sinks and you grab your popcorn, preparing to move. Pansy stops you with a hand on your thigh. Your skin burns under her touch.

“Go be with your boyfriend,” she tells Daphne. “You’re only gonna end up sneaking over there anyway to makeout with him.”

Daphne huffs and stalks over to the other truck. Theo casts a look at you and walks over to join her.

You feel a little guilty, but mostly overjoyed Pansy wants you to stay.

The movie starts after another few moments and everything is quiet except for the radio playing the sounds of the movie. Everything is calm.

Except your racing heart.

Pansy’s hand hasn’t moved off your thigh. You can feel its weight, feel the warmth.

Mattheo’s hand around Pansy’s shoulders brushes your shoulder. You don’t react.

Eventually, you manage to focus on the movie. It’s an older film, a cheesy story about two friends falling in love. It makes your heart ache and thrill at the same time.

About halfway through the movie, Mattheo gets up to go find the bathrooms. Pansy sighs once he’s gone.

You offer her some popcorn. She hesitates for a moment before taking a handful. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” You don’t say any of the thoughts you’re thinking.

She quietly eats her popcorn for a moment before lying back in the truck bed. Her hair spreads out around her, framing her face like a dark halo.

You gaze down at her. “What’s wrong?”

She takes a flower from the bouquet you’d given her. It’s now a little squashed. She brushes the flower against your cheek. “I’m glad you came.”

You smile. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

You lie down next to her. Your shoulders touch, your heads close together. Your fingers brush. Once, twice. You take her hand.

Her hand is warm. Your hand is sweaty.

“I missed you,” she says softly. “You didn’t come to the last party.”

“My parents.” That’s all you say. She knows enough.

Pansy sighs and gives your hand a soft squeeze. “They don’t like me.”

“They can go fuck themselves.” You squeeze her hand back. “You’re my best friend, Pansy. No one can take that away.”

She smiles and turns her head towards you. You turn your head to gaze back at her. Your faces are so close together; you can practically smell the scent of her chapstick.

“Promise?” She whispers.

“I promise.”

There’s a quiet moment where you just gaze at each other. The light from the movie illuminates your faces. Everything feels peaceful.

And then…

You kiss her. Her lips are soft. Warm. Kissing her feels like coming home.

She tastes like cherry and buttered popcorn.

Her lips mold to yours, her fingers tightening around yours. You pull away to breathe, and her lips meet yours again.

You kiss once, twice. Your tongue brushes her lower lip.

The sound of gravel crunching has Pansy pulling away. You sit up, wiping at your mouth. Panic welling in your chest.

She’s gonna tell him, she’s gonna tell him, she’s gonna tell—

“Whew!” Mattheo hops back into his truck, settling down on the other side of Pansy. “Sorry for taking so long.”

Pansy gives your hand a squeeze. “You didn’t miss much.”

She didn’t tell him.

The three of you settle into your positions and return to watching the movie.

Your head spins as you vaguely focus on the projector screen. Your mouth feels all tingly.

You kissed her. You kissed her. And she kissed back.

The rest of the night passes in a slow blur. You’re hyper-aware of Pansy next to you. Her fingers entwined with yours. Her head falls to your shoulder.

You’ve never been this close to her before. It feels taboo, with Mattheo right there. But you don’t move away.

You’ve wanted this for so long. You’re determined to enjoy every moment you get.

Eventually the movie ends. You all pack up.

Theo offers to take you home, a last ditch attempt to salvage asking you out. Mattheo steps in before you can say anything. “Don’t worry about it. Pans and I are headed that way.”

You smile at him. He grins casually back. “Come on. You and Pans can have backseat.”

You wonder if he knows. You try not to think about it too much.

You and Pansy snuggle in the backseat on the way home. No seatbelts, no nothing. Just you and her.

Mattheo turns on the radio and sings along to country music.

There’s a feeling of peace. Warmth. Contentment. Like nothing in the world can touch you.

Mattheo pulls up to your house and parks his truck. You reluctantly untangle yourself from Pansy. You can see the lights still on in your house and you know you’re in for it.

But you can’t find it in you to care when Pansy sneaks a kiss to your cheek. “See you tomorrow, babe.”

“See you tomorrow…”

Matrheo gets out and opens the door for you. “Hope you’re not in too much trouble.”

You smile at him. “It’ll be okay. I had a fun time.”

He chuckles and pulls you into a quick hug. He smells like popcorn and cologne. “See you around.”

“You too, Matty,” you say softly. You step back and give the two of them a smile. “Bye.”

You walk up the path to your house, internally bracing yourself for talking with your parents.

You turn around before opening the door. They’re still waiting in your driveway. Mattheo lifts a hand and waves. You wave back and open the door.

Your heart fluttering in your chest.

[unreliable-narrator-chilaios]

chilaios week; day 6 prompt: "beach episode/alternative universe", using both prompts; 1,579 words

no i did not do the previous days. yet. but i WAS struck by inspiration for this one. i don't want to give too much away so i'm not saying what the AU is, but you'll figure it out lol

title: Chilchuck's Secret

cws: not any, I think? this one's very sweet. i wanted to use the good vibes of beach episode... i guess there's some suggestive lines, but it's not nsft at all.

      There’s a secret at the beach, if you know where and when to look.

      And nobody knows but Chilchuck, of course.

      He was always the sort of man to keep his cards close to his chest, and this was no exception. Anything that he treasured, he had to keep locked away - hoarding everything he held dear to keep it safe and sound, out of the way of harm… with maybe only a hint of jealousy inherent in that act. Greed, even.

      Not that he was the greedy one out of the two of them. That title belonged to Laios, through and through.

      The brittle shale that crumpled beneath his fingers was cool to the touch, compared to how it would feel later. It hadn’t yet been baked in the sun for hours today. The shale and limestone and sand were blissfully cool for now, letting him take his time on his way down the short cliffside to the cove. It was the time of year that it was cool in the morning and searingly hot in the afternoon, the time of year that he was always tempted to stay from dawn until dusk. Maybe even longer than that. It was a rush to get across the route when the sand scalded and blistered his feet, but when it was cool, it was almost soft. Pleasant.

      He needed the lack of urgency - the slowly building arthritis in his hands and knees made him especially stiff in the mornings. His tri-weekly trips here had been helping considerably, but the way down to get there was rough, even if the reward was well worth it. His body creaked traitorously, even as it allowed him his nimble movements down the short rock wall, the sudden lurch from his hop down onto flat stone.

      Tide pools flourished here. It was low tide, making the shallow dips and pools in the rock especially prominent, where hardy, stubborn plants drooped at the surface and critters scuttled within and between them. He was careful to sidestep a crab on his way to the sand proper, relaxing as his feet sank into the fine grains.

      He breathed in the scent of sea spray, salt and foam, the smell of things washed up by the tide and left stranded when the waters receded. A chunk of driftwood would soon be picked up again at noon, when the high tide came back; clumps of washed-up kelp and algae littered the beach, at the line where he knew the tide would come up to later.

      The sun was still low in the sky, just barely peeking through the trees that sheltered the cove. The passage to the ocean was narrow, and the forest was thick in this area. Most of the cove wasn’t just blocked off by trees, but cliffs. His route down the side of one was the safest; the beach here was free of litter, free of the sound of crinkling plastic and the smell of waste, the bright eyesores of humanity that left their mark on nature’s majesty.

      Chilchuck relaxed as his eyes gravitated towards an outcropping of rock in the center of the water. He wasn’t here yet, but that was fine. The half foot was early to their meeting.

      He made himself comfortable. The sand yielded to him where he stepped, slipping between his toes and under his heel as he walked across the sandy portions of the beach, coming up to a rock that he’d begun to favor in the past month. Pebbles and sharp stones littered the sand here, but he didn’t mind, avoiding them the best he could before he quickly scaled the side of the beach rock.

      It was the outermost boulder of a wider outcropping that extended from the cliffs, forming a small, flat perch on top that let him have an excellent view of the cove. The chill in the rock was soothing as he sat down, careful not to let his swimming trunks get caught on the sharp little crags.

      Other than his swimming trunks, he wasn’t wearing much. Just a plain white swim shirt. The trunks themselves were solid black. He would have opted for clothing that looked a little better, but he had to replace them often - he kept stashes of extra pairs in an alcove nearby, in case of them being ripped or shredded while he was here.

      It happened much more often than he’d like. The thought alone made him huff, amused, as his whiskers twitched and his tail curled around his side. His ears flicked when he felt the breeze stir the inner ear fur. He usually hid his more… animalistic features when he could, but he knew Laios would just rip his clothes off even faster, just for a chance to feel his tail. Grabby bastard.

      Speaking of. Speak of the devil, and he shall come.

      There’s a large, dark shadow in the water. The water here is practically crystal clear, but it’s massive and far away - the cove is huge, after all, stretching across half a mile from one side to the other. He can see the little flurries of shoals of fish scattering in its wake, schools dispersing and reforming as they flittered between open water and the abundance of plants in the makeshift, tiny reef that had formed here. Small stretches of coral were in the deeper parts of the water, here, and seagrass and algae offering food and shelter a little further out, teetering off into just rocks closer to the beach. Algae particularly liked the base of the sea stack in the middle, the base of the colossal rock wrapped in slimy dark green.

      With a burst of ripples and sea spray, the figure breaks the surface of the water, hauling itself up the rock with relative ease, even as gravity drags it down. He isn’t meant for the surface, after all, and without the buoyancy of the water, he’s heavy - because, after all, he’s an utterly massive cecaelia. Pale skin transitioned to yellow-gold at the waist, the muscular fatty upper human half matched with a fat, bulky form of an octopus, rippling with muscle underneath slick, oddly-textured skin and suction cups. He easily hauled himself onto his own perch, running a hand through his blonde hair and practically deflating under his own weight for a moment.

      Those golden eyes light up like always when their gazes meet. Swaths of his skin light up in a blushing pink, giving away how happy he is. Laios was always, and would always be, an open book. He loves that about him.

      Chilchuck carefully made his way back down the rock, feet planted into the sand and pebbles and sea glass. He waded into the shallows, where the water was relatively warm. It wasn’t long until he was swimming, doing a bit of a pathetic doggy paddle to the base of the sea stack - and then one of those muscular arms gently wound its way around his torso, lifting him up out of the water and onto the little plateau. The routine was wound into them at this point, wordlessly slumping into one another as soon as he was able to reach his human half. Those big, strong arms wrapped around him, one hand coming down to pet along the drenched fur of his tail.

      He didn’t shake himself out like he wanted to. That was a bit too dog-like, for his tastes. Laios always laughed at him when he did it, with that soft, genuinely happy laugh.

      “Dork,” he mumbled, non-contextually. It earned a chuckle, vibrating through that broad chest.

      He’s pulled into a kiss, small and chaste, but sweet nonetheless. He curls his tail around the cecaelia’s hand, relaxing into his hold like always after he pulled away. That chest was the perfect pillow, letting him listen to his breathing, the beating of his heart. He knew it would sound different if he listened to it while the man was underwater, when he used his gills instead of his lungs. He found his body idly fascinating, but not as fascinating as Laios found his to be.

      The hand not occupied with his tail pressed softly against the back of his neck, thumbing across the muscles between his neck and shoulder. “You missed me,” he teased, curling one of those arms around his leg to hold him securely. He always wanted to completely surround him, hold him with everything he had. “That was… what, two days?”

      “Shut up,” he scolded, playfully. He smacked his bicep lightly, swatting at him like a fly. It just made the man laugh. His ears burned and he knew they were scarlet on the inside. He couldn’t help that Laios was the best thing going on in his life right now. His secret treasure. “I didn’t miss you, you were just annoying immediately. I mean, come on. You’re bright pink. I thought that the color change was for camouflage! Eedjit.”

      He laughed that sweet laugh again.

      “M’eudail.” He said it with the tone of an insult, a curse, even if it very much wasn’t, as he swatted him again. “Ye fuckin’ sook.”

      “You definitely missed me.” Laios was grinning, more of that oddly-textured skin flushing pink and red. “I can change the subject, though. Do you want to hear about a weird fish I caught the other day?”

      Chilchuck huffed, whiskers twitching. “Sure.”

      He could listen to him talk about just about anything for hours.

[another-heroine]

Sealed

For a long time I wanted to write some kind of fluff with Lariel (@the-raging-tempest 's oc) and Andrine, and finally it's about time!

I love playing inside Lariel's head because her mind reminds my own. And I love whimsical characters who do spacing out for a living. Thank you, Dolly!

CW: Bisexual Awakening

Summertime was about to end. It was not necessary to check out a calendar; Lariel could feel it with her eyes closed. The warmth breeze was starting to bring storms at dusk, and frogs sung happier around midnight.

She would be singing along if not for the strange feeling choking around her pale neck.

The last weeks were memorable. The Kingdom of Solovey indeed had fairytale vibes, with its orchards, diverse people and legendary tales. The Knight Commander had entrusted her to go there and get a complete report about their local ally, the queen Andrine. And all the years studying about court etiquette hadn't prepared the young emissary for such a heartwarming reception.

“Let me guess! Lariel Aldolnel, am I right? I was waiting for you. Welcome to our country!”

They all were kind. The queen's family at least. Her whimsical aunts cheered Lariel up every day, especially Amanita, the gnome one. Her mother seemed distant at first sight, but as the time went by, Lariel learned they both were very alike. And also, there was Fionnirel, member of the House Kaellin, though he renounced his titles because of his wife and daughter.

But like everything in life, that also would end. She was done with her duties and should head back to Drezen. Lariel should have bid her farewells two days ago, but asked the Knight Commander for a little while. She was packing her luggages, although her scattered belongings said otherwise.

Lariel leaned against the balustrade, watching the sunset. Some courtiers were walking in the royal gardens, pacing before the dusk rain could come down. A bucolic scenario she would like to take with her memories.

A melodic laughter called for her attention, making her heart skip a beat. Andrine was around, right there, talking to some of her companions. Lariel didn’t know why she felt so flushed and neither because her eyes sought for the queen's figure so eagerly. But for her surprise — or should it be a shock? —, Andrine was looking in her direction too. Just for a second, but under that golden gaze it seemed an eternity.

Lariel pursued her rosy lips and turned away. How embarrassing. The queen could think she was staring at her all that time like a maniac. Or worse!

Suddenly she shook her head. No, it was just babbling of her fears. The queen was kind, gentle and took care of her since the moment Lariel landed there. Even when she had fainted in the ball, and woke up surrounded by the castle's servants and the sovereign herself applying cold water on her forehead and wrists.

“Poor thing, it must be the weather. Drezen is much colder, you should not be used to the Stolen Lands’.”

Lariel didn’t remember what she said, but could recall Andrine opening a smile and giggling. She said reassurance words to her and, without second thoughts, kissed the back of her hand before leaving the room.

Sometimes Lariel caught herself caressing the kissed hand, like she was touched by a supernatural force. Like that act had sealed something magical inside her. And since then, every time Andrine met her around, she felt fire butterflies in her stomach.

But who was she but a foreigner courtier, living inside those strange walls for a while? As she left Solovey, Lariel was aware that probably the queen would forget her. And there was something inside her fighting senselessly against that fate, though it seemed the opposite.

The sorceress sighed heavily. May she not be forgotten as the softness left on the back of her hand.

[aimfor-theheart]

hey cielo, I just can't get getou out of my mind and I think he fits that 3am vibe so perfectly!! 🥰

god he sure does, doesn't he?? and he gets stuck in the head easily. awful. i can't stand him.

i hope you enjoy anon!!

getou + witching hour

cw: blood and injury and...kidnapping? lol

the moon is a hook in the dark mouth of the sky.

you're bleeding, slick and dark into your own hands. it's a lot of blood. too much.

"what are you doing here?" your voice is half a growl, half despair, all raw horror.

"i came back for you." he says. "i could never leave you."

you inhale, like it might hold everything in, like it might keep your fracturing to a minimum. it doesn't. your face crumples.

"i-i could never go with you." you get out but you waver and he's there, he's there to catch you as you fall. in his arms, the moon turns in your vision, slumping over into his chest.

his palm comes up against your open wound, covers your own hand with his.

his other hand cradles the back of your neck as you lean hard into him, dig your forehead into his shoulder.

"you poor thing." he murmurs.

he presses into the wound a little and you cry out, broken, from your throat. you don't know if he does it to try and staunch the blood or to punish you. your teeth clink together as you grit your teeth, hold in your scream.

and then he pulls away from you fractionally, forces you to look into his eyes. they glint darkly, scales beneath black waters of some monster lurking deeper.

"you don't have a choice now."

give me a character + time of day (dawn, dusk, midnight, etc.) and i'll write a small blurb!!

[sam-glade]

Find the Vibe Tag

Tagged by the wonderful @writernopal here. Thank you💜

Passing the tag onto: @dogmomwrites @axl-ul @eccaiia and leaving an open tag. Your vibe to find is: 'sorry-not-sorry'.

My vibe was: "Well, excuse me, princess!"

Context: right after Lissan gets possessed by the demon in Gifts of Fate. CW: discussion of intrusive thoughts and killing

“We have no idea what this thing is capable of,” Gullin snapped. They knew next to nothing about it and the kid’s character; he might be severely overestimating his own capabilities.

To his surprise, Lissan nodded in grim agreement.

“I’ve been staying in the old herbalist’s hut, away from Dad and Marta. At least there, the thing doesn’t tell me all the creative ways in which I can kill my sister as soon as I look at her.”

Gullin bit back an instinct to tell Lissan not to be so overly dramatic. Seeing his dark expression, he might actually be taking this too calmly. And Ianim’s protectiveness stirred something in him. Fine.

“No, that won’t do. We need to find a better place. Somewhere where whoever is behind this facility won’t find you and somewhere where we can teach you the basics,” Gullin said, tapping his finger on the table. Under any other circumstances, Lissan would be treated as a key witness, under the Army’s protection, but seeing as high-ranking officers were involved, Gullin was willing to assume that the standard procedures wouldn’t offer him enough protection. At the same time, if his Sword was as powerful as it appeared, and on top of he had a bloodthirsty demon in his head telling him to go on a killing spree, he needed training in mental discipline, urgently. In the meantime, they could look for a way to get rid of the demon.

“All right,” Lissan conceded with a sigh. “Is training really a priority though?”

“Oh, I didn’t realise I needed to take your schedule into account,” Gullin shot back.

Days of Dusk taglist (please message me to +/-): @acertainmoshke @another-white-hole

[breedaboyd]

Day 22 ~ Thirsty for More

Prompt: In Heat.

Pairing: Alpha!John McBride × Omega!Ezra May (M!OC).

Word Count: 6.2k+

CW: A/B/O, breeding kink, cumflation, dirty talk, lactation, mating cycles, oral sex, vaginal sex.

A/N: In this short, we're using A/B/O dynamics with the werewolf vibe. Being A/B/O isn't normal in the universe but, after John bites Ezra, he also develops the dynamics and his body changes. Ezra has a dick and a vag now.

Ezra's day at Scotland Yard has been anything but ordinary.

As he trudges through the fog-choked streets of London, a sense of unease settles deep within him. His illness has worsened, a gnawing ache in his bones that refuses to ease. The buildings loom overhead, shrouded in mist, their windows like dim, watchful eyes. His footsteps echo on the cobblestones, hollow and distant. His vision blurs and he stumbles, catching himself against a lamppost. The world tilts, a dizzying whirl of shapes and shadows.

Breathing heavily, he finally arrives home, his modest home nestled in a quiet corner of the city. He kicks the door shut behind him, shivering in the draughty hallway. The flickering candlelight casts eerie, dancing shadows on the walls. His hands tremble as he peels off his coat, revealing the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his fevered skin. He stumbles into the bathroom, fingers fumbling for the faucet. The cool water provides momentary relief as he splashes his face but the fever still burns deep within.

Ezra stumbles toward the bedroom, collapsing onto the sheets. His breathing quickens, his pulse races. He's hot, impossibly so, and it's like a fire rages under his skin. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead, his body trembling with an undeniable heat that's all-consuming. It's then that he feels it; a change, a shift. It's as if his body is preparing for something, something primal and overpowering. He gasps, clutching the sheets as a surge of desire courses through him. His senses, heightened by the wolf blood in his veins after John's bite, come alive. The scent of his own arousal fills the room, hot and heady, mingling with the damp, musky scent of his fevered skin. His body responds, hips lifting instinctively as he grinds against the air. Ezra's heart races, his mind clouded by a haze of need and lust. He's overwhelmed by sensations, by the relentless fire that burns under his skin. It's a transformation, a primal awakening, and he can't control it.

His fingers trail down his sweat-dampened shirt, tracing the path of fevered skin below. Every touch, every caress, sends sparks of pleasure racing through him. He moans, his voice a high, desperate sound that fills the room. And then, in the depths of his fevered delirium, he thinks of John; the way his lips would feel, the taste of his skin, the press of their bodies together... It's a fantasy born of need, a craving that consumes him. In the dimly lit room, Ezra is a creature of raw desire, lost in the throes of an uncontrollable transformation. His body, changed by the wolf's blood, is preparing for something primal, something that defies reason and restraint...

The gas lamps flicker in the gathering dusk as John steps through the door of their home. The scent of rain-soaked streets and the distant hum of the city hang heavy in the air. Fatigue clings to him like a second skin, a testament to the long day at the coroner's office.

He strips off his coat and hangs his hat by the door, shaking off the chill in his bones. He makes his way through the house, his steps as familiar as the shadows that play across the walls. John comes to a stop at the doorway of their bedroom, his eyes adjusting to the low light. The curtains are drawn, shrouding the room in hues of gold and amber.

As he steps further into the dimly-lit room, his eyes narrow in concern. There, on the sheets, lies Ezra, his figure twisted in a fevered stupor. John's breath catches, heart pounding in his chest. The sight is both alarming and achingly familiar.

"Ezra." He breathes, a mix of worry and want seeping into his voice. He crosses the room in quick strides, the familiar creak of floorboards beneath his boots. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against Ezra's damp forehead. The heat radiating from him is palpable. Ezra stirs, a low groan escaping his parched lips. His eyes flutter open, unfocused and glazed with fever. Recognition dawns slowly, like the hesitant break of dawn after a long night.

"John..." His voice is a raspy whisper, barely audible. He struggles to sit up, his movements weak and unsteady.

"Easy now, love." John soothes, helping him into a more upright position. He takes in the disarray of the room; the damp, wrinkled sheets, the sweat-drenched suit clinging to the detective, the fevered flush on Ezra's cheeks — a tableau of need and distress.

"How long have you been like this?" John's concern is etched in every line of his face, his eyes searching Ezra's for answers, the wolf already threatening to break free. Ezra's gaze is unfocused as if he's still caught in the hazy grip of his fevered dreams.

"Don't... Don't rightly know. Feels like forever." He manages, chest heaving. The worry tightens in John's chest. He reaches for his handkerchief and begins to gently wipe away the sweat that beads on Ezra's forehead.

"You're burning up." He murmurs, more to himself than to Ezra. "I need to cool you down, love."

With practiced efficiency, John moves about the small house, gathering what he needs. He fills a basin with cool water, wringing out a cloth before carefully pressing it against Ezra's flushed skin. The touch is a balm to Ezra's fevered body. He leans into it, his eyes fluttering shut.

"J-John... Something's... Something's wrong..." He gasps, trembling fingers reaching for his partner. John doesn't miss the fear in Ezra's voice, that edge of desperation cutting through the fog.

"Shh..." John soothes, his hand gently caressing Ezra's cheek. "It'll be alright. I'm here." The words are a promise, a vow that John intends to keep.

"I'm... It's... I'm so hot, John, it's eating me up inside... I need... I can't..." Ezra can barely get the words out, his body wracked with tremors. John can see the way Ezra's fighting against the fever, against the aching need that coils deep within. There's no doubt that the detective is in some pain as it seems the heat of the wolf blood is attempting to make itself known. He knows firsthand the struggle of containing the beast, the struggle to keep his urges in check and it doesn't surprise him in the least that Ezra is struggling just as much.

"What do you need, love?" John asks softly and Ezra struggles, uselessly pulling at his sweat-slick suit. It looks like he didn't manage to strip down before getting into bed.

"N-Need clothes...off..." He huffs out and John reaches down, untying his cravat and setting it aside before moving to unbutton the younger man's shirt. Ezra's restless energy persists as the wolf tries to come out.

Once he's stripped his lover down, he lays him back against the pillows, Ezra's chest heaving from the fever-induced exertion. John can't keep his eyes off Ezra's body, especially as he lifts his hips, grinding against the air, presenting himself. Heat, John thinks. His fevered brain is trying to prepare him for mating. In fact, Ezra's body is completely ready to receive John's pups, ready to be knotted and bred. John knows this is far too early to be happening. Ezra's heat would ordinarily have come a few months later but perhaps the stress at work has hurried things along, made his body more susceptible.

"Oh, love..." John trails off, drinking in the sight of his lover. Ezra's skin is flushed with heat, pink and glistening with sweat. His body arches in desperation, searching for relief. His eyes — normally a bright emerald green — are eclipsed with gold and black, the animal within him fighting to the surface. His chest is swollen and full, nipples puffy and tender, with fluid beading along the flesh. He's... He's already... He's already in such deep heat, he's begun lactating. His thighs are shivering, cock hard and leaking as slick drips from his newly-opened hole. The sweet, hot cunt that split Ezra at the seams when he became John's mate, the one that never fully closed after the bite, is now more open than ever before. In mere moments, Ezra's entrance is gaping enough for John to see deep inside. He's never seen a heat this intense. "Oh, love..." He repeats and the younger man shudders, pupils blown wide.

"Don't...know...what...to do... Please..." Ezra's writhing against the sheets, sweat-dampened curls clinging to his forehead. "Help me, John..."

"Alright, love, alright. Here, I'll help you."

Trying not to look too terribly eager, John begins to strip himself down. There are too many layers, too many buttons, and the wolf is so close to breaking free. He manages to remove his waistcoat, shirt and cravat before his restraint snaps and the pants and boots are next to go. John's body is warm, too warm, and his head spins with dizzying heat and lust. His boots thump on the rug, trousers abandoned on the oak floorboards, drawers discarded as well. The room feels hotter, humid, and his own fevered skin brushes against Ezra's as he slides into bed.

"Does it hurt, love?" He asks, gently cupping the younger man's cheek and watching him keen desperately into the contact.

"N-No but...it's intense. So hot and...my heart's... I'm trembling..." Ezra whimpers, his fingers curling into fists in the damp sheets. He tugs weakly, arching his back. His breathing is laboured as his words slur, drunk off the scent of his own arousal. The scent of fresh, hot, fertile flesh floods John's senses. God, Ezra smells so good...

Ezra tilts his head back, exposing his throat, inviting John in, begging for the press of his partner's teeth. With a growl, John obliges him, fitting his mouth over the throbbing pulse point in Ezra's neck, the scar of his claiming bite aching and sore. He worries the skin between his teeth, lapping at it affectionately, the salty tang of his lover's sweat on his tongue. Ezra mewls, his eyes fluttering shut. His body responds to the primal sign of affection, slick dripping from his spread legs and soaking into the sheets below. He shifts, rolling his hips, presenting himself for John to claim. John pauses for a moment, catching his breath, and nuzzles into the crook of Ezra's shoulder, peppering soft kisses over the bruised flesh. He smells delicious; like honey and rosewood and sweat and sex and it's all John's. He's marked with John's teeth, branded with his bite, and John aches to mark his lover again, fill him with pups, show everyone in London what they've been doing, what they are, that Ezra is his.

John pulls away for a moment, gazing down at Ezra's chest, swollen and flushed and begging to be emptied. With trembling hands, the older man reaches up and gives his mate's breasts a gentle squeeze, earning himself a gasp. More beaded liquid pools in Ezra's nipples, milky fluid dripping along the puffy, tender buds. Ezra's cries grow desperate and John leans down, running his tongue along his lover's nipple before sucking firmly. He groans, sweet, ambrosial milk filling his mouth. Ezra tastes delicious, like nectar, and John laps it up hungrily. He buries his face in Ezra's chest, kissing and licking and sucking. He's so ripe and ready, ready to feed John's pups, ready to be filled.

"J-John! I'm— How am I�� You made me like this, John..." John chokes out a low growl, his teeth grazing against sensitive, pink flesh.

"I know, love, I know. You smell so...so good. You're so gorgeous like this. I want to breed you and fuck you and fill you with my pups. Make you mine in every way..." He seals his lips over one of Ezra's aching buds again, suckling and swallowing, draining him dry. Ezra wriggles and strains, hips lifting, his fingers gripping the bedsheets tightly. His muffled whimpers are music to John's ears and he keeps suckling, drinking down every drop. "You taste so sweet, love... I can't get enough..."

"John, please... God, it's so hot...! I'm so... Why do I..." Ezra manages to get out and he slows his pace. John gazes up, wiping drops of milk from his moustache. Ezra's staring at him, gold-flecked eyes pleading, aching thighs quivering and parted.

"It's alright, you're in heat. Your body's... Well, it's trying to get ready for me." He explains, firmly kneading the younger man's full, swollen chest.

"But it's...usually not this...bad... Why am I..." He flushes anew with heat as he watches the way his nipples squirt a little, letting loose more beads of delicious milk. "That's never...happened before..." His shy look is almost too much for the older man. John rewards Ezra's bashfulness with another hard suck and he can feel how the young man writhes and thrusts his breasts harder into John's waiting mouth. He's a lewd picture of submissiveness and want. His eyes flutter shut with obvious pleasure as John works his full, fertile chest. It's true. It's never been this intense before, usually he's only got minor symptoms; slight fever, lethargy, higher sex drive, heightened senses. Never something this...intense, almost severe.

"I'm not sure, love. Did something happen today? Something stressful?" He asks, drawing slow circles around his young lover's nipple with his tongue, almost cool against the fevered skin.

"I-I suppose. Was called in to help on an investigation for a murder; gruesome scene. Thought it was just stress, a-a migraine, at first... Wasn't 'til I got home that it seemed worse. Was home alone when I started to feel...strange. It was too hot and I was d-dizzy. My body felt...good but sore. Legs gave out and I ended up in bed, spreading them..." Ezra babbles, the feeling of his lover sucking out his milk coupled with the fever making him quite talkative. John's never been a religious man but the sight is almost too divine. Long, auburn curls splayed across the pillows, cheeks and lips pink with warmth, eyelashes fanned delicately over his sun-kissed freckles, slender body arched and wanton with need. Ezra is an angel, cast down from heaven to feed John's own passion. "I-I'm not a whore, John, p-promise! I couldn't help it! Wanted to cum until I ached, fill myself with anything I could find but...my body was too tired and I couldn't move... Was left here...wanting...needing..." John presses a gentle kiss to Ezra's lips, feeling him tremble.

"I know you're not, love." He promises and he wants nothing more than to worship his mate. He nuzzles into the crook of Ezra's neck, nibbling over the teeth-marked flesh of his claiming bite, before suckling lovingly. "If anything, this means that you're healthy, that you're...incredibly fertile. And all this milk..." He gives the young detective's breasts another squeeze, spurts of white arcing in the air. "All this milk must mean you're ready for me. Ready for me to pump you full of pups, keep you tied to my knot for days, listening to you scream and beg." He can see Ezra's too far gone to respond with anything other than a high whine and a throbbing gush of slick. "I'll make you cum, love, as many times as I can manage and every time I'll fill that ripe body of yours with seed until it's pouring down your gorgeous, perfect legs. Would you like that?"

"Please, John, I'll breed well... Need your pups in me..." Ezra pants out. "No...more talking, John... Just touch me..." His breath is shallow and quick as his chest rises and falls, fingers curling into fists and claws bursting through his nailbeds because, Christ, he's still transforming.

"Of course, love. Let's start with this chest of yours."

John's determined to see this through to the end, to make sure his mate is safe and sated. He groans softly as he lowers his mouth to Ezra's chest again, working his tongue in slow, lazy circles. Each spurt of milk tastes sweeter and thicker than the last and John can't help but savour it, savour the fruits of his claiming bite. His lips are sealed around one nipple, a large, warm hand working the other breast, as Ezra writhes beneath him, bucking and whining. He can feel just how ready his mate is, pulse fluttering as his cunt drips with slick. The milk that floods his mouth is delicious, like the sweetest honey, and John can't resist gulping it down greedily. There's so much of it, Ezra is so full, his chest tender and ripe, and John feels his stomach grow heavy with the sheer volume he's drank. He continues to suckle, the sound sloppy and wet as Ezra mewls below, his cunt twitching with need. John can smell it; the thick, musky scent of Ezra's slick, clinging to the air and flooding his senses. He draws away with a soft gasp, panting heavily.

"Do you think you could cum from this, love? From filling my mouth? Drinking from you is..." He huffs out, lust threatening to consume him. "I could do it for hours." Ezra whimpers and nods.

"Mm-hmm... Th-Think so..." He whines and John purrs, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the soft flesh of his mate's chest.

"Good boy. Here, let me make you cum. I can't imagine how much you need it." John lowers his head again and latches onto Ezra's nipples, laving his tongue over sensitive flesh, his lips and beard slick with milk. His nipples are abused and sore but every tug of John's mouth sends a bold of pleasure straight between the younger man's legs.

And John can imagine it; Ezra heavy and round with pups, chest full with milk, leaking through his shirt steadily. He'd need to be brought to orgasm over and over just to satisfy him. John could drink from him every night when he got home, stepping through the door and seeing his mate all swollen and begging for him. His mouth would water and he'd rip open his clothes, taking Ezra then and there. It's delicious fantasy, too much to take, and John grinds against the sheets, his knot pulsing. He reaches down, taking his cock in hand, working it in smooth strokes. It's too good to deny himself the pleasure now.

Ezra's legs shake as his chest heaves, pushing himself against John's warm, demanding mouth. The need to cum is getting stronger and stronger, coiling deep in his belly. It's a steady build, a rush of heat that has him trembling, struggling to ride it. His heartbeat echoes in his ears as he whimpers as his climax hits. Milk floods over John's tongue like a dam's broken and with every pulse, Ezra's dick spurts too as his cunt drenches the sheets with slick. He cries and whimpers, writhing on the damp sheets, thighs shuddering and chest heaving. He becomes boneless and pliant, riding his bliss with shaky puffs. John's not far behind, cock slick with pre-cum and he grunts, sliding the tip into his mate's empty, begging cunt. He's overwhelmed by the thought of Ezra, pregnant and satisfied and milked dry, and the mere idea sends him over the edge. With a groan, John spills inside, his semen creamy and hot, but he doesn't knot them together. Yet.

John pulls back, knot still throbbing, to watch Ezra's swollen hole glisten with slick and cum. His fangs are fully out, pups aching to be planted inside his mate, as Ezra gazes up at him, eyes wet with tears. "That's the first one, love. Don't worry, I'm going to have you stuffed full..." John sounds wrecked, half-wild, his voice dark with satisfaction. He can't believe it. He must be in heat too now, brought on by seeing just how debauched his lovely mate is. John can hardly think straight, not with how much thick, sweet milk still drips from Ezra's breasts. All John wants to do is fuck his young lover hard and fast and fill him with pups while drinking him dry. "Count for me, Ezra. Count how many loads I put in you." John's gaze is full of desire as he surges forwards, letting his wolf take over. He rips a mating growl from his throat and, at the very sound, Ezra whimpers and writhes, his hole clenching tight.

"That's the f-first, John..." He breathes weakly, fingers curling into the bedsheets.

"Well done, love. I'll make sure you're properly bred by the time I'm done with you, then give you a nice hard breeding with my knot. Maybe I'll drink from you while we're knotted, have some honeyed wine to go with it." That certainly seems to do the trick for the younger man who whines and arches his back, oozing more sweet, creamy slick and cum from his cunt.

John decides it's time the detective's neglected cock gets some attention this time. He lays on his side — so he's able to reach his own dick — between Ezra's shaking, trembling thighs.

"You have such gorgeous legs, love." John sighs, pressing kisses along the side of the younger man's knee before heading north. He peppers kisses and bites along Ezra's inner thighs, getting closer and closer to where his mate so desperately needs him. "And they only look better when you spread them for me..." John whispers, stopping to take in the sight of Ezra's cunt, already puffy and filled with cum. He can't help but admire the sight, licking his lips at the opportunity to breed his mate so thoroughly. He thinks he might die from overstimulation if he cums as many times as he intends to but Ezra's soft, pathetic moans are adorable and his hole quivers for him... John could fill his mate for months with the pups he'll put in him today...

Turning his attention to Ezra's dick, John presses wet kisses along the base, where pre-cum has pooled in the short, dark brown hair. Ezra jerks, whining loudly, his aching, used body demanding he be filled over and over. He barely has the energy to keep himself awake but he tries. Gazing up at the young detective, John leans down and trails his tongue over the tip of Ezra's aching dick. The sweet, salty taste of Ezra's precum is delicious and John feels his mate whimper and moan. "Such a sweet, little cock... Perfect and sticky and made for my mouth..." He rasps out and the young man moans, his wet hole clenching around nothing, growing needier and more desperate by the moment.

Slowly, deeply, John takes Ezra's dick into his mouth. Bless him; his mate's cock is adorably small. Taking Ezra to the root is hardly a challenge but that's a non-issue. Each stilted thrust into John's warm, willing mouth brings the detective closer and closer to the edge. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest and his breathing comes in heavy gasps. But for such a small piece, the amount of pre it produces is incredible and John drinks it down, his throat filled with the rich, salty flavour.

"J-John... God, your m-mouth is so... I-It's so... Ohh—" Ezra struggles to speak, his thoughts consumed by a feverish haze. He digs his claws into the sheets as John swallows around his cock. His thighs tremble with pleasure as he arches off the sheets, struggling to steady his breathing. One hand slides down to card through John's dark, sweat-matted hair, Ezra's lust-darkened eyes lidded as he watches John take him down over and over. He feels a tingle shoot through his spine and his thighs tighten. His toes curl as he grips the sheets tighter, threatening to tear the fabric. John pulls away for a moment, working Ezra's cock with one hand and his own with the other.

"That's right, love, let me hear how good it is." John smirks as his sweet mate makes so many sinful noises, writhing on the sheets. As he strokes Ezra's dick with one hand, John brings his other hand down and begins rubbing at his own knot, already so close to cumming again. "Think about how full you'll be when we're finished. I'll have fucked so many pups into you by the time you've reached your limit. Imagine yourself, six, seven, eight months pregnant with our pups, naked and overeager in our bed, your gorgeous body so soft and sore that I'd need to milk and suck you dry every night until you've finally got enough room for the rest of the pups." Ezra mewls at the description, no longer able to form coherent words.

John pumps his cock harder, shuffling up to fill the detective's slick cunt again. He slides just the tip inside as he spends, spilling the next load into Ezra's already overstuffed hole. "Cum for me, love. Give me what you've got." John demands and that's all Ezra needs to hear. His climax rips through him, every nerve on fire. Ezra writhes as his body convulses, bliss burning a white-hot trail up his spine. Cum oozes from his slit, nipples dripping with milk, cunt seizing around John's cockhead. The detective cums for what feels like hours, his whole body shaking with the intensity of the release. "There you are, love. I reckon we could pull one more out of you, hm?"

And now it's time to give the smaller man's tight, little cunt some attention with his hands and mouth, getting that sweet hole nice and ready for pups.

"I'll make sure you've got plenty of room before I put my knot in you, love." John's voice is already wrecked, husky and full of adoration. When he reaches Ezra's tight, puffy cunt, he takes a deep breath, taking in the scent of him; fresh slick and John's own musky semen. Reaching down, he firmly strokes his own cock, already eager to burst. Oh, but he wants to hear his mate moan and beg again, hear him curse and cry as John adds to the ache between his thighs. He licks a broad stripe over Ezra's overstimulated, abused hole, tasting himself and the younger man below him. It's a damn delicious combination, especially with the aftertaste of the detective's milk lingering under his tongue.

"W-Wait! No, it's too much— S-Sensitive!" Ezra gasps, writhing as his legs shake with overstimulation. He squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the sheer flood of sensations that fill his fevered mind.

"I need to stretch you wider, love, for our pups." John croons in response, leaning back in with the pointed tip of his tongue before dragging it over Ezra's swollen lips. God, he's absolutely dripping, cum and slick oozing from his loose entrance and pooling on the sheets below. "Look at how much you've taken so far." John purrs, working a finger into his mate's wet hole, curling up against the tender spot inside. "You can take more, I know you can, love." He sighs in approval. He braces both hands either side of Ezra's slick cunt before opening him up, putting him on display. Thick streams of cum trickle from inside him, making the lewdest sounds as they drip onto the sheets and collect in a milky puddle beneath him. Ezra's wails don't sound out of pain or fear or disgust — he wouldn't dare attempt to run from a wolf that had claimed him, as long as it sated him and his womb — rather, the sounds are born from pleasure, lust, desperation. Lust is eating him up from the inside.

"Weak... Sore... Hot... Too much... John..." Ezra strains out as his fevered mind burns through his survival instinct. Being with a wolf this way requires immense trust and John likes to think he's been a suitable partner for the young detective. Gently, slowly, he guides Ezra's hand down to his greedy, pulsing hole. He looks almost feverish, gazing up at his mate with blown-wide pupils, only the slimmest ring of hazel-gold left. Ezra knows that look. It's want, it's lust, it's love, all combined and when that look is fixed on John alone, Ezra really could be put on cloud nine.

"Don't worry, love, soon. I'll knot you next." John promises, propping himself up and shuffling onto his knees. His own cock is huge and red and almost painfully stiff. "God, you look amazing like this. So lovely..." He growls and Ezra automatically spreads himself. He slowly raises his legs, holding his ankles over his head to allow his slick, puffy hole better access. His juices and his lover's cum combine, spilling over his swollen folds and staining the sheets below. It's a true reward to see the young detective spread himself, displaying his dripping cunt like he is. John whistles lowly, sucking in a breath, taking in the sight, feeling his stomach flutter at the display. "You've done so well, love." The older man says. "We're almost done now and then we can start cleaning you up, alright? How does it feel, love, having so much inside you?"

"Need you to...knot me, John... Pump me full of pups, make me your mate, knot me, breed me, love me, help me get rid of this heat, John..." Ezra whines breathlessly. 

"Of course, love, I'll help you. One last one. You'll be so pretty carrying them, Ezra. So round and swollen with our pups. Do you think your little chest can handle feeding them too?" John positions himself over his mate, cock in hand, staring down at Ezra's tempting, blushing body. The younger man looks up at John, so much adoration in his gold-ringed eyes. John's never wanted anything so badly before. The thought of Ezra pregnant, large and full of John's pups, makes something in his hindbrain short-circuit, his mouth drying.

"Mm-hmm... Would feel so good, feeding all your pups, having you care for me..." Ezra whispers. "Put them in me, John, I'm ready, please..."

And John can't hold back anymore. He grabs Ezra's trembling thighs and angles his hips, his chest heaving as he grinds the tip of his cock against the detective's leaking hole.

"Make sure you're loud for me, love. Need to make sure this load reaches deep and need to make sure that you're... Well, that you're enjoying it." John lets the excitement show in his voice, shifting himself slightly before sliding into the wet, dripping body laid out for him. Ezra gasps, scrunching up his eyes as a fresh gush of slick drains from inside him. He moans with the relief and it's bliss. He feels the familiar ache of John's hot flesh opening him up, cock splitting him in half. Even though he's already loose, it's still a tight fit. John is so big and the amount of fluid already filling his cunt is enough to make his thighs sticky and trembling. "That's right, love, let me fill you up... You feel so good, I'll have you bred in no time..." John can't resist dirty talk when he's balls-deep in Ezra's sopping cunt. Predictably, Ezra cries out, thighs shuddering.

"J-John... Need it hard and f-f-fast... Breed me up, pump my belly...!" Ezra begs, hands trying to claw at John's broad chest as the older man continues to slide into him, the friction already making Ezra sweat anew. John chuckles, his features softened with affection as he ruts up against the younger man, nudging himself even deeper. He can feel Ezra's wet, sticky heat wrapping around him, swallowing him up. God, he's so deep and his mate's insides are so syrupy-soft and yielding, so eager to receive him.

As soon as he's hilted himself inside, John pulls his hips back before snapping them forward again, Ezra's ripe, swollen cunt resting just above his aching knot. He starts fucking the younger man in earnest, letting his instincts take over as he becomes a babbling mess of filthy, growling words. The headboard slams against the wall in time with John's thrusts, a testament to just how much the detective's heat had spurred him on. John's going to knot the poor thing; force him open, suck his chest dry, fill him up and plug him with his knot. He'll fuck him like a wild animal, a beast in the night, a mating growl rising in his throat, leaving a mark that'll never fade.

To stop the endless torrent of growls and snarls that leave his mouth, John lowers his head to Ezra's chest, taking a puffy, swollen nipple into his mouth and sucking. He kneads the soft flesh of the younger man's chest, biceps flexing, as he drinks and drinks and drinks. The milk is so sweet, so thick, as it leaks from Ezra's nipples, some of it dribbling down from the corner of his lips. Each deep swallow feels John's stomach expand, filled with creamy, tender milk. As he drinks, he picks up his pace, rutting deep into his love's body. They'll be such good fathers, the both of them; Ezra feeding and bathing their precious pups, John protecting and caring for them. Ezra will be a vision...and John will worship him...

They're both getting close now, Ezra a puddle below him, now unable to form words, only communicating through desperate whines and eager groans. His heart feels like it's going to burst from his chest, filled with the rush of endorphins and pleasure. He can't believe how good it feels being so full, stuffed and leaking, used but loved, claimed and mated. John is in a haze of lust and affection, barely hanging on but still wanting this to last just a few moments longer. He snaps his hips in and out of the trembling detective, drinking deeply from the younger man's chest. So sweet and creamy and nectar-thick, absolutely heavenly. It only drives him harder and faster, trying to push just a little deeper, a little further...

Then, John lets out this low rumbling growl and Ezra's last shreds of stamina give way. His cunt flutters wildly around John's cock, soaking him in slick and the dam holding him back breaks as Ezra cums, spurting ropes of fluid across John's chest and practically screaming as he writhes with pleasure. John's knot finally pops inside, tying their bodies together and making sure that every drop of spend stays inside, shooting into his lover's aching, fertile womb. The younger man's belly swells from the sheer volume of fluid pumped inside him, round and plump and tender and trembling. For a moment, John props himself up, chest coated with sweat and milk, breathing heavily, to see the most perfect thing... The younger man so blissed-out, fucked-out and sated.

They complete each other; Ezra takes well to being sated while John's adores breeding his sweet mate. The detective lays in the afterglow of the night, a deep ache between his thighs. All the breeding makes him drowsy and he settles into the wet sheets, blissfully euphoric. John stays still and cradles the younger man as he catches his breath, his knot slowly deflating inside the detective...

When John can finally move, he detangles himself from Ezra's body, pulling out and feeling the gush of fluid soak into the sheets. The younger man goes bright red, remembering himself as the lust begins to clear. To soothe him, John runs a hand over Ezra's swollen stomach. The thought of him actually pregnant, full of John's seed, his love... Just imaging Ezra's beautiful, lithe body, round and full with their pups... It fills the older man's chest with affection. He leans down and presses his lips to the warm skin.

"How are you feeling, love?" He asks softly. Ezra sighs, face scarlet.

"C-Could really use a bath... Sorry about that, John, I was—"

"Hush now, love. I'll draw you a bath and get these sheets changed, alright? You've had a rough night." John's concern only adds to the adoration in his gaze. John's so tempted to stay here, with his mate's plush body displayed, bloated and full of him but... Best not. He can't take another round himself, not yet anyway. So, with a great deal of reluctance, he sits up, presses a loving kiss to his mate's lips and heads to the bathroom to draw a bath, already beginning to feel the blissful ache between his legs. Ezra'll feel the ache tomorrow, he thinks with a smile as he starts to fill the tub. Maybe it would do for them to share the tub, wait until the warmth has cooled on Ezra's skin. He could fit his way between those long, pale, shaky legs and clean his mate thoroughly, milk him dry until his fingers are sticky and— A gentle groan echoes off the tiled floor and John realises it's his own. No. He shakes the thoughts free and grabs some fresh towels from the airing cupboard. They've both had more than enough for one night.

Once he's found a sufficient temperature, he leaves the water running, knowing it'll heat, before padding back to the bedroom where he sees the sight that greets him; Ezra is a truly debauched picture of pure feral affection; he's covered in sweat and milk and his mate's cum. Slick and semen is soaked through the bedsheets, soaking the mattress, and the scent is pungent, the sickly-sweet smell of their bonding. "Come on, love, let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

[broodwolf221]

THE MERRY WHUMP OF MAY

6th — Suspicious; “You thought you could get away with this?"; barbed wire; riverside ao3: The Binding, the Price Paid

cws: a whole lot :x lacerations; barbed wire; risk of drowning; hypothermia; blood loss; punishment; whipping (mentioned); sexual slavery (mentioned); infidelity (not rly tho. like that's the interpretation someone has but it didn't actually happen)

notes: a take on the fen'harel and the tree story. other note: sorry to any medical professionals reading this i am going off Vibes and not science

3572 words

Ghilan'nain had arranged this meeting, but when he arrived the clearing was empty. He hesitated, uncertain—had she decided against it? Was she simply delayed? She did not seem the type to shirk a commitment made, but then, he did not know her that well. He decided he would wait for a time, since leaving now that he was here felt foolish.

Something new and dangerous had begun to take shape between them. Yet he remained bound to Mythal, and she was Andruil's lover. Whatever mutual interest was growing could not be allowed to bloom.

For some time he had been puzzling over her history, since she seemed different from the other Evanuris and he was uncertain why. She had earned a seat among them, and he was uncertain how. They had spoken a few times in Arlathan, brief encounters only.

Not long ago he had asked her to meet outside, in a grove of oak trees. They had spoken there for a long time, until dusk drew a cover around them, and then until sunset painted the sky in glory. The conversation had been wonderful; contemplative, philosophical, considerate, and impassioned. He valued her insight. He valued her. 

But under that painted sky, bathed in those beautiful colors, he realized that he wanted to end the night with a kiss. Or perhaps… begin the night with one. What's worse, she seemed to realize it at the same time, glancing at his lips before blushing and looking away. A moment later and she was on her feet, brushing grass from her clothes as she excused herself and left in a hurry.

He had thought it was done. Had mourned the conversations they'd never have, and appreciated the one they had. But he knew it was best to leave it alone, to not feed the risk of it more. So receiving the message from her yesterday had come as a surprise, but he knew he could allow it to go no further. Perhaps she had decided the same.

He was about to leave when he heard a soft sound and stopped, turning to watch as she entered the clearing. But it was not Ghilan'nain who stepped forward, examining him. 

It was Andruil.

For a beat they just stared at each other, his throat feeling tight. Finally Andruil tilted her head, the thick braid she wore momentarily swinging into view before it settled behind her again. “Hello, little pup,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial warmth. “You were expecting our sweet halla, yes?”

“Huntress,” he said stiffly and she smiled. 

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He could run, but it would be foolish. She had set this snare for him, she would certainly be prepared for his flight. Besides, to run would be to admit guilt. And nothing had happened. 

A conversation. A stolen look. A brief desire.

Nothing more.

“You are aware of the penalty for hunting on our lands, are you not?” His stomach sank.

“I have done no such thing,” he pointed out and just like that, her smile was gone.

“Is that so?” She took a step nearer, then another—hard as it was, he held his ground. “I have seen the way you track her. If the pup does not mean to bring the halla down, whatever could he want with her?” She stared at him and he met her gaze evenly, saying nothing. Finally she sneered. “You have two choices. Either you accept the penalty for hunting, or you accept the penalty for a far worse transgression.” She closed the distance between them, slowly circling her hand around his throat. “What will it be?” She squeezed lightly—he could still breathe, but the threat was clear. 

“I apologize for hunting on these lands,” he told her stiffly, grunting as she shoved him away.

“It is forty lashes.” He nodded slowly, but then she smiled. “However… I do not believe we need to be so barbaric.” He frowned, puzzled and wary. “Remove your robe.” It was an unsettling request, but the whipping would have required it too. So he loosened the knot at his waist and slipped free of it, listening to the fabric slither to the ground behind him. She glanced down at his leather leggings but did not instruct him further, for which he was grateful. 

Instead she just stepped closer and put her palm against his bare chest, pushing him back until he felt the rough bark of a tree against his skin. She smiled as she pulled a coiled length of rope from behind her—he assumed it had been attached to her belt this whole time. She had clearly planned all of this out. She must have sent the note, too. At least, that was his hope, for he did not want to believe Ghilan'nain had participated in this setup.

She began to bind him securely to the tree, drawing the rope painfully tight… but still, it was a mild punishment compared to the alternative. When she was done she stopped before him, admiring her work. Then she tilted her head again. “There's no need to be barbaric,” she said again, “but you do deserve to be punished. Perhaps something like… this.” On the last word she raised her hand, the rope suddenly stabbing him everywhere it touched. He grunted and tried to jerk away but that only made it worse, warm trails of blood now rolling down his skin.

He looked at the rope only to find it a worked metal, twisted and sharp. Each breath pulled it tighter against him, the pain unrelenting. Suddenly she grabbed his face, pulling him forward against the barbs, and he barely bit back a sob. “Did you truly think you could get away with this?” She hissed, her fury finally evident. “You want to put your dirty paws on my beloved? You would see her lowered to your level?” She squeezed at his face, his jaw creaking. “You are nothing more than a filthy mutt, a worthless dog. You do not deserve her glory or beauty. You certainly do not deserve to preoccupy her mind.” He wanted to protest but he couldn't speak. At last she released his face, but only to settle on his throat and push him back into the tree. 

He could get air, but the pressure made him feel panicky, an unruly fear building up in him despite his best efforts to control it. “You want to get your little cock wet?” Now her voice was saccharine, frightening him more than her clear anger had. “Then I give you an alternative. You can stay here overnight, or you can warm my bed.” She grinned, and it showed teeth. “For a year… and a day.” His eyes widened and after a moment she released his throat. 

“I will stay here,” he managed, voice thick and raspy. She just scoffed.

“Do you know why I chose this spot, pup?” So, she had been the one to choose. It came as a relief, a strange sensation amidst the fear and pain. “Do you hear that?” She asked pointedly and he frowned, listening. The wind through branches. Distant birdsong. The rush of the river. He did not know what she wanted him to hear. “Every night, the river floods its banks.” She made a point of looking around, then gestured to a distinct stain on a nearby tree. “At its height, you may drown. I am not certain how high it will be tonight.” He swallowed shakily, staring at the mark before meeting her eyes again. 

How could he? It was not only his life that he risked, but his plans—the lives of the slaves. Their potential future. But to warm her bed for so long… she was not entirely without affection. There would be pleasant nights. In time, he might even learn to look forward to it. But there would be brutal nights as well. It would still be a punishment. And even if he was willing to perform for her, he was uncertain that it would be limited to her. 

Would she bring Ghilan'nain in? Bed her lover and make him watch? Would it be confined to her bed, or would he be made to perform in public?

Yet, was he willing to die here tonight, in this flooded embankment? He glanced at the mark again. It was above his head… she had chosen well, securing him to this tree. It was the lowest in the area. Without trying to make it obvious, he tested the restraints. A deep breath forced it into his skin, drawing new trails of blood to the surface. It would hurt horribly, but he felt confident that he would be able to move, to reposition himself enough to keep his head above water. He might even be able to shift upwards on the tree.

One night of horrible misery, or one year of uncertain suffering?

“I will stay here,” he insisted, and she smirked. It seemed that she had expected this answer.

“Here—” she slammed a blade into the trunk beside his head and it took everything in him to not flinch away. “This,” she tapped the pommel, “is a sending stone. If you say my name, I will come.” She traced her finger across his cheek, then tapped at his chin. “But you should not wait until the last moment, pup. I may be preoccupied.” She bent in close, her breath ghosting across his ear. “Ghilan’nain craves my touch, and I intend to give her everything she wants.”

She pulled away and he met her eyes stoically. It was useless to proclaim his innocence, for she had already decided his guilt—and his fate. But he was not as weak or fearful as she believed. He would not give in, would not call out her name, would not give himself over to her. Nor would he die tonight.

She left not long after and he tried to relax, to still his breathing and keep his energy in reserve. He was half dozing when the cold water first lapped at his feet, suddenly wide awake and twitching in his bonds, hissing as the barbs pressed in harder. He glanced down at himself, shivering to see how much blood there was—rivulets all down his chest and arms, wicking into his leggings and making them feel thick and soggy.

Despite the alarming appearance, the blood was bright and thin and he still felt clear-headed. He waited as the water slowly rose; where once it washed periodically over his feet, it eventually submerged them. Slowly but inexorably it continued to climb upwards, until his calves were covered and it began to brush at his knees.

He glanced up at the moon. It was nearing the middle of the night… still long to go.

He began to shiver uncontrollably as it reached his thighs. It was cold, the night was cold, and he did not have the wherewithal to cast a barrier, even if he could manage with his incredibly limited range of motion. The blood loss was not helping matters, exacerbated by his damnable shivering, the barbs digging in more frequently. He closed his eyes and tried to distance himself from the sensation, but it was difficult. Every part of it was demanding and persistent.

He alternated between resting or watching the clouds drift slowly across the sky, the leaves fluttering in the occasional wind—a wind which inevitably chilled him further—reminding himself time and again that he only had to survive this one night. That perhaps he would need to do nothing more than stand here and tolerate this.

His thighs were covered now and the water was beginning to move over his groin, a terrible sensation as it began to rapidly drop his core temperature. His shaking was constant, a desperate attempt by his body to save itself, and he began to feel frightfully distant and disconnected. As the water level continued to rise it eventually covered some of his wounds. At first there was a terrible pain, but the cold actually made the cuts hurt less… although it was really only trading one type of suffering for another.

He was beginning to get scared. He felt wrong. He had known he would suffer, but this was different—he felt apart from himself, drifting, almost detached. It hadn’t even covered his chest yet, but suddenly drowning did not seem to be the issue: the cold would kill him first.

He glanced at the knife embedded near his head for the first time. Would it truly be so bad? A warm bed… and Andruil was beautiful. Haughty, mercurial like her mother, possessive like her father, and with a bold brutality that was all her own. She was also brave and passionate, determined to a fault. Her long journeys had changed her, but perhaps she could be changed again. Perhaps if he gave himself willingly, if he spoke to her, if he whispered in her ear…

Why was the knife blurry…?

He jolted out of his reverie with the terrifying realization that he had nearly fallen asleep. There was no choice left. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced himself to move. His muscles screamed in protest, locked in place from his stillness and the cold both, and he knew he was damaging himself. But damage was better than death.

He contracted the muscles in his chest and stomach, tensed his legs, his arms, doing everything he could to get them to function again. His hands and feet felt entirely numb and he was distantly concerned, but there was no time to fixate on that fear. The water was nearly at his collar.

Then, when he was as ready as he could be, he braced his feet against the rough bark and surged upwards.

And he screamed. 

The barbs tore through his skin but he kept going, trying to keep the momentum. Eventually there was a new pain and he realized her knife was cutting into his arm, grunting as he forced himself sideways, dropping his shoulder to clear the blade. 

He didn't let himself stop, using the buoyancy of the water to climb further up the tree, dragging the damn metal with him. It had hooked on his leggings and he was able to drag it and himself higher together, but it was slowly beginning to tear through the leather and into his hips. 

He knew he was sobbing and screaming, his body on fire from the lacerations and the cold both, but the metal binding was loosening. The tree was getting narrower.

He forced himself a little higher before he decided it was enough. He took a deep breath, girding himself, and ripped his right arm out of the wrapped metal. It took him a moment to realize that the horrible moaning he was hearing was coming from him—it sounded like an animal dying a slow death. 

The kind that deserved a mercy kill.

He did not want to look at his arm. He did not want to look at how much blood was on his skin. He just wanted this fucking night to be over, to live, to heal.

He forced his arm up, scraping across the tree in desperate search for a branch, a shaky gasp escaping him as he found a good, solid one. He could barely make his fingers move but he got enough of his palm on it to yank himself upwards, crying out as the metal tore through more of his left arm and his stomach. But he was nearly free. High enough now to loop his elbow around the branch, the water level around his groin once again. 

One more. His left arm was nearly free. The chains would be loose. Just one more. 

He was scared. 

Just one more. 

He screamed again, but then the metal was loose, slipping down his legs and towards the base of the tree. He was free. He was free. 

He was not sure he'd be able to swim, so he tried to position himself nearer the side of the tree that faced dry land. He haltingly shifted his arm until he was just barely holding onto the branch, then released it at the same time that he kicked off from the tree. Or tried, his limbs not responding the way they should.

He landed on his knees underwater and the impact reverberated through his whole body, mouth and nose flooded as he gasped. Every single part of him was screaming for relief, but he dragged himself forward through the mud and stone. Nearly there. Nearly…

His head cleared the water and he sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs as much as he could before he was wracked by violent coughing, spitting out water. He kept pulling himself forward. Almost, almost…

His shoulders were free. The water was shallow and the slope was steeper. More stone and less mud. His chest was free. Stomach. Hips. His legs. At long last, his feet.

He kept going, crawling up the embankment. He needed to get higher. Higher. Needed to be safe.

He was shaking, or had always been shaking. His arms were streaked with fresh blood, the soil he crawled over made into a thick mud by his passage. 

There was nothing in him but a fight to survive. He was not thinking of Andruil, or Ghilan'nain; not of the slaves, or his goals. His entire world was this struggle, his uneasy breathing, the disconcerting warmth of fresh blood against his chilled skin. The way his clumsy hands sank into the dirt, the searing pain as they shifted away from their numb state.

He finally lifted his head, uncertain why he was crawling. He felt disoriented, dizzy, forgetful. Vaguely he knew he was fleeing something, but what? 

Then he heard the rush of water and with it came a horrible surge of fear. That was what he was escaping. The river that would drown him, the cold waters that would swallow him whole. He kept crawling, until it was not soil and stone but low-growing plants he was moving through. Then shrubs, their leaves and branches scraping his worn skin and leaving trails of new irritation, but it hardly mattered. If there were shrubs here, he was likely above the flood line. He was safe. 

He kept going for a little longer, but eventually he could push no further and collapsed on his side, curled into himself. 

Later he woke, uncertain when he had fallen asleep… or fallen unconscious. All he knew was that it was still night, but he couldn’t find the moon through the foliage above him. And he was suffering.

All his wounds were throbbing and he felt light-headed even laying down, shaking so much that it was painful, forcing spasmodic action into tight muscle, everything a new agony. He was so exhausted but he could think, albeit blearily and slowly, and he forced himself to roll onto his back and look down at his torso.

The metal wire had been wound around his chest and ribs, and from that point down there were deep, irregular gouges in his flesh. His arms were particularly bad, his right especially, whole strips of flesh gone from where he’d yanked it free of the bindings. His left shoulder bore the deep incision from Andruil’s blade, and his chest and arms were covered in a tacky layer of drying blood, which might have saved his life: uncertain how long he’d been laying here, he might have lost too much blood to wake had it not coagulated.

As impossible as it seemed, he knew he had to heal himself. He would not be able to seal all the wounds, nor could he treat the infection that they likely held, but to return to Arlathan and find a proper healer he would need to be whole enough to move. Gritting his teeth against the pain of moving, he carefully drew his left hand over the mess of his right arm, closing his eyes and focusing all his energy on his magic. He felt the flesh stretch and begin to knit together, stopping when it was just beginning to seal.

Exhausted, he laid there for some time, trying to regain some strength. But when he felt he could postpone it no longer, he lifted his partially-healed arm to his left shoulder and worked on that deeper wound, sealing it just enough that it would bleed no more.

In this manner he worked over the worst of the damage piece by piece, resting between expenditures of magic. Healing was not his forte, requiring a stable hand and mind that he struggled with, but he had no other choice.  The sun was beginning to rise when he felt finished, resting before he made the final journey back to Arlathan. He knew a few healers who would keep this secret, but he suspected he would be absent from public eye for days—even weeks. Regardless, he felt a fierce pride: he had survived. He had not given himself over. He had fought his way out of the trap and had won the day, even that the cost was so great. The muscles in his face felt stiff and sore as he smiled, beginning to lever himself upright. He was stronger than she thought. Stronger than any of them realized.

[lifesver]

@priestbit said: what the fuck are you talkin' about? ( mmm sensing incident in the motel vibes from this one... )

cw/tw for um [checks notes] the most traumatized thought processes ever, general dusk-type verse heavier stuff, some alcohol/substance implications.

--

it should have been like every other hunt.

it should have been simple enough — the drunk crowd from some heavy metal concert next door, pouring out into the bar left plenty of easy targets. it could have been anyone else. but he had slipped up. gotten too comfortable, too close. a drink too-many. should have been clear-headed.

he can’t remember much more of what had happened, after that — a blur of laughter, warmth, the neon blink of the motel sign. and that was terrifying. beyond risky. leland's head pulses. the sliver of morning light through the blinds cuts across their bodies, hurts his eyes. he'd fucked up. he'd faltered, and now —

you can't fix this. you can’t fucking fix this.

pinned beneath his hips — beneath the cold edge of his pocket knife — is donnie watts. staring, wide eyed back up at him. staring like he’s seen a ghost. ( and aren’t you? or are you something worse? )

donnie hadn’t been the mark. it should have never been donnie. it should have been some too-tough guy, who was too handsy, or too rough, or picked a fight. someone he wouldn’t feel bad gutting, when the motel curtain closed, or in the dark of an alley, or in some empty field somewhere. someone he could justify to himself. he’d done this before. he knew what he was supposed to do, who to look for. he brought them home, to the property. dead, or alive. but he didn't fuck around with them. he didn't ever let them close enough to risk that. risk himself. risk how johnny might react.

but the universe was cruel, wasn’t it?

how was it that last night, he had been nothing but a handsome stranger. charming, sweet-talking — the drummer in a band, that had played the venue nearby that night. leland remembers smiling to him across the bar. always waited for them to come to him. laurel was the name he gave, the one he thought would work.

‘ so, you’re like, a rockstar? ’ leland remembers asking, with low lids and a lazy grin. it didn't matter the mark, really — leland had learned the art of what people wanted to hear, from the best. lots of people were lonely. lots of people trusted too easily.

what felt impossibly worse, maybe, was that donnie must not have recognized him, either. and wasn’t that worth begging the question — what the hell remained of you, anyway? how many years did it take to become a shell of something familiar? a ghost? how long since you'd last thought about your friends? how long since they'd last thought of you?

it's an onslaught of feelings, then. in pieces, he remembers this face. these sage-green eyes. how breath, hot between their lips, felt a little like something holy. ( but you always thought that about donnie, didn't you? who wouldn't? ) and how his hands had been gentle. gentler than you’re used to. he had been so sweet to you. and you had fallen. like you always do, when someone touches you kindly.

wasn’t that pathetic? pathetic — how he never should have put himself in this situation. and how he had, so easily. leland's head screams; look at him. look at how he had moved on, while you had rotted into something unrecognizable. how he had gotten away from this place, and now — now you're supposed to slit his throat. now you're supposed to kill him.

❝ donnie.❞ he whispers, broken from his spell. nearly incredulous. nearly angry. but he’s not sure how much of that feeling was just overwhelming, ground-shaking terror, instead. the urge to run, to get away from how horrified donnie looked. ❝ what... are you doing here? why — why would you ever — ❞ come back here. close enough to newt. close enough to the house. the carved hilt of his knife trembles in his hand, where it presses down close to donnie's throat. where a glint of gold chain catches his eye.

donnie is wearing his cross. leland remembers, now. how he had given it to him that night. he remembered you. he remembers you. you remember him — and donnie is talking to him, low, careful — like he knows he's dealing with a scared animal; ' lee, baby — ' he tries, and to leland, that feels like a shot point-blank in the chest. his reaction is a sharp, hard flinch. what right does he have? what fucking right —

❝ don’t. don’t call me that. ❞ leland bites out, fiercely. ❝ it wasn't — it wasn't supposed to be you. last night. ❞

donnie looks a little hurt by that, but he agrees — he won't call him baby — so minutely. placates him, so gently. and he's carefully bringing his hands up to curl at leland's forearms. not forcefully, but enough to make him jolt back instinctively. ❝ let go of me, ❞ he trembles out, all wild eyes, still keeping that blade to donnie's neck. feeling less sure by the second.

❝ — you don't get it. if i don’t... if i don't — he will. ❞ he doesn’t know how much worse it will be. donnie would beg for the death leland would give him. you could make it easier for donnie, make it quick. just because johnny wasn’t over his shoulder now, didn’t mean he wasn’t close. didn’t mean he didn’t know, already. doesn't mean you won't get put back in that fucking basement again, if you dare to lie to him.

' what the fuck are you talkin' about? lee — who will? '

it's like he barely hears donnie. too distraught, being swallowed by his own fear, his own panic. what the hell would you tell him, anyway? he wouldn't believe you. no one would. leland keeps rambling, stumbling on his words; he can't control how fast his heart rabbits, how jagged his breath becomes.

❝ you never — you never came back. you just accepted — ❞ he tries to be angry. but his tears land, and keep landing, against donnie’s skin. betray him for what he really is; terrified, and weak. this is all your fault. why didn't you know? why couldn't you remember? why was your head full of dark, blank spaces?

he thinks of the family. he thinks of johnny, leaning over his shoulder. if you kill donnie now, you can salvage this, can't you?

but donnie doesn't think you'll kill him — because his hands are tentatively, gently taking leland’s wrists. and leland doesn't dare abandon his knife. but he doesn't fight him, either. mollified, he lets donnie slowly sit upright with him. to steer leland's badly shaking hands away from his throat, while dark, brimming eyes watch him with distrust.

there's another voice, screaming in the back of his skull. don’t come back empty-handed. he’ll know, he always knows. when something happens, when something goes wrong. when you falter, or fail. terrified, he felt like he was drowning. he wished johnny had been there, last night, maybe this wouldn't have happened. he was afraid of what johnny was going to do, how he was going to react — finding out he’d lost his nerve. let one get away.

let someone from your past touch you like he still knows you, knows what you are —

and what do you think happens now? someone like donnie can't ever love something like you. did he ever? don't you remember? no one had never come to look for your body. no one came to save you. you screamed under the floorboards of that house and nobody ever —

— but donnie is still trying to comfort him, talk him down, like he isn't a ticking time-bomb. soft, too trusting, gently rubbing his arms, trying to catch his flighty gaze. leland can only tremble, frozen with the frustration of it; why aren't you scared of me? go back to looking scared. go back to that. that was easier to take.

donnie reminds him of other things, too. things he didn't think about anymore. he had looked at donnie so starry-eyed, once, some years ago. it's easy to be lulled and quieted, by his hands, his voice. with some coaxing, leland finally parts with his weapon. it sits on the bedsheets next to them, as donnie brings his arms around leland, folds him in closer, protective. carefully moves the mussed hair from his face while he cries. lets leland tuck himself smaller into his chest. it unravels him completely.

❝ i wasn't — i wasn't dead. i. ❞ his jagged, stilted words keep spilling, hiccupping, between panicked breath. he can't breathe. he can't speak, he can't say what he wants to say. what he had wished he could say, a million times before. all that time he spent alone. fucking alone. wishing he would save you. or that you were strong enough to save yourself. or that you were worth being saved.

his mind screams it; i was alive! i was alive down there!

leland can only tremble out choked sobs, devolved into gasped strings of i'm-sorry's, as he presses his cheek against donnie’s chest. he knows this is selfish. selfish. cruel. and he's sorry. he's sorry. he wants to stay wrapped up in this feeling of being protected. no one’s held him like this in a long time. and donnie is saying ' listen to me. come with me. it’ll be okay. i’ll protect you. whatever is going on, just come with me, lee, please — ' go where? how?

leland blinks, quickly, snapped from his daze at once. he can't. he can't. there's a cold hand gripping the back of his neck that says you can't! you can't ever leave! the only one protecting him, the only one that cared — was out looking for him now. would be here soon. leland knows he can’t afford himself any more of this. already too much. already have to explain why you smell like him, why there's no body, why —

leland twists away from donnie abruptly, pulls himself out from his arms. he feels unfathomably cold again, the moment he does. donnie’s hands hover, but don’t try to keep him. and donnie begins to speak again, to calm him, maybe. but leland cuts him off;

❝ listen to me. don’t — follow me. don't... look for me. it’s not. safe. ❞ one hand strays, hovers by that gold chain around donnie's neck. and he looks like he wants to say something more. palm rests on his chest, and eyes flick up to fix on donnie's. hand comes up to cradle the curve of donnie's jaw, gently. for just a moment, and then his hand retreats. leland's expression shutters again. you have to go.

he retreats from donnie further. all too-sharp movements, all tense lines, as he starts to distractedly gather his things from the floor of the room. eyes never leave donnie for more than a few seconds, never trust him quite enough.

❝ don’t come back. don't ever come back. i’m serious, donnie.❞ he mutters, throwing on the rest of his clothes from the night before. he’s not sure if telling the truth, or lying will be worse. he just needs to get out of this room. needs to get back to johnny. he grabs the knife up again, steps backward. doesn't let donnie get close again. he needs donnie to understand. he needs donnie to run from him. ❝ just. stay away. he’ll fucking kill you. ❞ a beat, a pause. the sickness in the pit of his stomach is only worsening. he'll kill you, he thinks. or i will.

he looks at donnie one more time, from the open doorway. takes in his eyes, his face. his freckles, his golden halo-hair.

you didn't mean to hurt him, again.

❝ i'm sorry. ❞ he says, softly, and he means it. and then he's gone.

[artfest]

~ pinterest ~

[robocatfan]

"You can sleep now. It's safe, I'll protect you."

(I ment to send a couple of prompts. sorry about that)

(I’m so sorry this one took so long but it’s here now-)

Cw: Near death experience

The sky was slowly turning darker as the sun went down and dusk was setting in, signifying that the night was coming soon.

Standing by a window, a young borrower contemplated the sight before yawning and deciding to climb back down.

The day had been long and tiring, much more than what they were normally used to. So, after finally completing all the tasks they had to do (including restoring their food supply, since they forgot to do so long ago), the only thing the tiny person wanted was to go back to their home and take a well deserved rest.

After dislodging their hook from the window and making sure that no one was present, the borrower carefully walked by the walls of the living room until they were a few feet by the door of a bedroom. More specifically, the door to the bedroom of one of the human kids.

But in all honesty, the borrower didn’t really mind it, since they knew they weren’t in real danger because of it. The humans in the house has proven themselves to be kind and not really mind their presence at all. So there wasn’t really any risk in deciding to have their den in the walls of a bedroom; apart from accidentally waking up the kids with all kinds of noises, of course.

One would normally consider having their home right besides the room of a human to be incredibly foolish and dangerous. After all, it made it more likely for a borrower to be seen by the giant person, as well as the fact that any noise inside of those walls was going to be way more noticed by someone.

Still, that didn’t mean they weren’t cautious. After all, humans weren’t the only dangerous things to a creature who was only several inches tall. There were still things that could easily kill them if they had the chance; like a cat.

Said cat was always on the prowl, checking the house and the yard for any prey it could find. When it wasn’t, it usually was laying in some place, either napping or enjoy the pets from any of the humans. Most of the time it was in the day hours, when the humans were the most active. But now that night was close, it surely was either starting or in the middle of its patrols, so the borrower had to be careful.

The borrower carefully peeked inside of the room, mouse- like ears perked, trying to notice any signs of the presence of another living creature. But there was nothing. Good.

They carefully tiptoed inside, every sense still alert and body tense, ready to run at the signs of any strange movement. But again, there was nothing; the room truly seemed to be empty at the moment.

After standing still to make sure that their senses were correct, the borrower pushed door with all of their might, managing to close it completely, and then sighed in relief

The room was pretty messy; unsurprisingly since the kid really didn’t care enough about order. Thankfully tho, most of the mess was in top of their bed and cabinets, so the borrower managed to make their way through the floor without any real trouble.

Finally, they managed to get near one of the cabinets. Under it, there was a whole big enough for them to enter, and that’s where they decided to make their home, as it was a place safe enough for them to both hide and peek at the human world.

Before deciding to enter, the borrower glanced around the room one last time, noting how the lights of the dusk penetrated through the room window and curtains, creating a somewhat soothing vibe.

And then suddenly, something happened; one of the pillows fell off the bed’s edge. The borrower jumped, startled, and immediately hid under the cabinet. After a moment, they carefully stared at the pillow that now was laying in the floor. When they realized that it was just a harmless object, the borrower slowly went out of their hiding spot and approached the object, curious.

A pillow wasn’t really one of the most interesting things in the world, but they still felt the need to check it, to make sure there wasn’t anything suspicious going on. With hands smaller than the object’s zipper, they touched it…. And then immediately started to grasp it, enthralled at the softness.

Honestly they shouldn’t have been surprised at that; after all, the pillows in the couch were also soft. But this one… this one was EXTRA soft. And fluffy.

The borrower lay on top of it, tail twitching with happiness. After a moment, they lifted their head and stared at the entrance of their home and then at the pillow, before deciding to go to take a blanked they knitted long ago.

They had a change of plan; today they were sleeping in the pillow. There was really no danger in doing so. The door was closed, the humans definitely wouldn’t mind and honestly they didn’t want to miss this opportunity.

After retrieving their blanket, the borrower jumped at the window and rolled in it, rolling and curling up with a smile before the tiredness of the day started to take over and they slowly fell asleep.

……

Or at least, for only a few minutes. Cause in their quest for a rest, the borrower was too focused on it to remember one crucial thing; the cat knew how to open door handles.

And sure enough, it did so, pressing it’s paws on the handle of the kid’s room and pushing it enough so that it would open. And then, with quiet steps, it entered the room.

It sniffed around, before their ears caught the sound of what could only be snores; snores too small to have being made by one of their owners. Eyes squinting, the cat looked around before finally seeing the source of the noise; the borrower, currently curled up in one of the pillows.

With its prey now on sight, the cat crouched and began to stalk towards it, paws not making any sound and all senses concentrated on the tiny creature.

Had the cat managed to get close enough to pounce and sink its claws on them, the borrower might have not made it through the day. But, as if it was some sort of miracle for the tiny being , the cat made a mistake. One of its front limbs stepped on one of the toys, making it make a loud squeak.

While the cat stopped in confusion, the borrower instinctively woke up, alerted. After groaning and rubbing their eyes, the borrower’s body completely froze when they spotted the predator, who was two times their size and was only a few feet away from them. And then the cat’s eyes locked with theirs.

There was only one thought in their head at that instant: RUN.

Quickly, the borrower jumped down from the pillow mere moments before the cat pounced on it, claws and teeth grasping the pillow.

The borrower started to run away, the fastest they could, while the cat spit some feathers out and let out at growl after missing its target and started to give chase.

At first the borrower tried to go inside the whole leading to their home, but the cat was faster and it managed to cover the underside of the cabinet, forcing the borrower to take sharp turn before a paw was swiped at them.

Terror filled the person’s mind as the cat ran behind them, not seeming to get tired while chasing them. Unlike the cat, the borrower only had limited energy after spending most of it in their tasks, and they could fell it slowly fading away as they ran. They couldn’t keep running forever, but they couldn’t stop because then they would become cat meal.

Thinking quickly , the borrower jumped in the kid’s toy box , digging their way down in it until they were at the very bottom, and pushed themselves to a corner, surrounded by various toys. The cat also jumped at the box, but only landed on top of the toys, making it wince.

For a moment, the borrower thought that the cat would give up their chase after that. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the case.

Body trembling in terror, the borrower could only watch as the cat started to grab the toys one by one and putting them outside of the box, helping it slowly make its way down. Eyes shining with determination.

The instant it spotted it’s prey, it started to get faster, box starting to get more and more empty as the borrower was getting more exposed.

Until finally, it lifted the toy the borrower was under, and threw it out, now fully leaving the person defenseless.

When they saw the feline’s claws sharpening and it’s tounge lick its mouth, the borrower curled up and closed their eyes, fully expecting to be eaten at that very moment. But just as the cat was readying itself for the kill…

“Harry!”

The cat’s ears perked and it looked at the door. Confused that they were still alive and also hearing the voice, the borrower squinted one eye open, just in time to see a human kid run inside the room.

“Harry! What happened here?” the kid asked in disbelief, staring at all the toys her pet had thrown out. Then, they noticed the borrower, who still didn’t dare to move, and gasped in realization “Oh no! Bad cat! You cannot eat them!”

The cat could only mew in protest as their human picked them up while continuing to scold them and then putting it outside her room, closing the door before Harry could try to enter again.

While that was happening the borrower took a moment to take deep breaths to calm themself, not believing how close they had been to death.

“Are you ok?” The borrower looked up to see the kid staring down at them, a concerned look on their face. Still shaken up , the person only nodded in response “Phew”

After managing to recover a bit, the borrower, started using the remaining toys to climb out of the box. When they reached the top, they saw the kid picking up some of the toys in the floor. When she realized they were now almost outside, she smiled.

“I’m sorry for not locking the room before” she said in a regretful tone “ i was busy playing outside, and I forgot to do so”.

“ Don’t worry, it’s alright ” the borrower said trying to comfort her, although their words weren’t really the trust; they weren’t exactly alright after that experience. Then, they noticed the human staring at something in the floor “Hmm?”

“Is that your blanket?” The human asked. Perking up, the borrower saw as the kid lifter a knitted blanket from the floor.

Ah.

“Yeah. I…” they hesitated for a moment before looking down in embarrassment “I was trying to sleep on one of your pillows. Sorry”

“Were you tired?”

“Aha”.

The kid was quiet for a moment, before they took the pillow and put the blanket above it once again

“Well, you can still sleep here if you want too”.

“Really?” The borrower squeaked, surprised at her kindness. Still , there was doubt “But what if-“

“Harry comes back? Don’t worry. You can sleep well now. It’ll be safe. If anything happens, I’ll protect you”.

The borrower stared in a bit of disbelief… before a smile fell on their face and they started to climb down from the toy box.

“Thank you” they murmured as the human smiled and resumed organizing her toys, all while the borrower prepared themself for a well deserved sleep.

[daisyachain]

are you a fan of any shojo/josei works?

Wish I were! Josei stories in particular seem to run the gamut of mature stories in interesting locations that don’t really fit to any one mold or trope, but I read manga on an irregular basis and rarely read something I haven’t already seen others talking about. There’s doubtless some really good stuff out there…but the few that I have tried (Fruits Basket, Ao Haru Ride) don’t fit my preference for either loud, dumb, and action-packed. In general I’m not a fan of m/f romances and the tropes associated with them in female-targeted manga (the overbearing/controlling older guy, the clumsy everygirl, the female friends who function mostly as cheerleaders) which makes it hard to get into some stuff.

Shoujo/josei that I have enjoyed are

BANANA FISH, a violent thriller/action subtextual BL that reads as a bizarre fusion of The Wire and That One Darkfic You Read At Age 15, a tight series with allowances for 80s + bl tropes that should absolutely be read with a list of CWs.

Shimanami Tasogare/Our Dreams At Dusk, a sort of pan-demographic slice of life with some melodramatic moments, you’ve doubtless heard of it but it is as good as they say. A quick and impactful read, I want to read the mangaka’s other works but I really need to emotionally prepare myself first lol.

GSNK, it’s funny!

Hakuouki. Purely a matter of timing. I watched it as my third anime ever and became obsessed with the way the side characters were built up in drama CDs and bonus content, many of which only exist as translated on the tokio-fujita LJ by a person who is now unfortunately deceased(?) but back in the day successfully pulled a minor scam or two within the fandom. Pretty mid, has all the same fatal flaws as any VN adaptation, interesting cast and ideas HAMSTRUNG by having to stick to the main m/f romance, women robbed of all relevance and agency, somehow the male protag’s love interest in the prequel is far better written than the female protag. This series is indivisible from my love of all animanga so I can’t tell how good or bad it is. I can only say that I spent a very very long time thinking about it. Classic shinsengumi story, Japan is torn by a civil war between traditionalist and modernizing factions, but also there are magically enhanced vampiresoldiers and a line of bloodsucking demons seeking to continue their race through eugenic matchups. It’s Anime as anything.

There are a few others that fall into josei/shoujo-adjacent but that aren’t officially in the category I think? After Hours (mature and sedate slice of life romance), No. 6 (slow biological sci fi), Shadows House (ontological mystery thriller) are all series I’ve enjoyed but never quite got to ‘fan’ except for Shadows House, which I really need to catch up on

Bonus rec: Hakkenden: Eight Dogs of the East is as far as I can tell just a cringe, tropey bl-inflected adventure with godawful pacing that I somehow watched in grade 10? Absolutely would not recommend for a quality watch but it’s obscure enough that it has a certain novelty.

I’ve rb’d a few josei/shoujo recs for future references as I keep searching for something to vibe with so all recommendations are welcome! Next one I am considering a read of is XXXHolic, haven’t yet started because while the pros are that it is CLAMP, the cons are that it is also CLAMP and my list of works to consume is too long to spend time trying to figure out whose legs are whose.

If you’re looking for manga to read, I have to recommend Screentone Club podcast! They do first-volume reviews of mostly new manga without anime adaptations that hit the sweet spot of brief, literate, and indicative without being spoilery. Doesn’t work well for series that get good in the 8th volume, but it’s my go-to for broadening my awareness of the current scene.

[writeblrfantasy]

here it is!

my pride and joy, the piece that has completely hijacked my brain and my life for the past 24 hours. this is the prologue, some might say, to TDOSA, featuring the vibes of an endless, sunny summer, the sense of floating through time and space, and a lot of lesbian yearning and projection, i present: the summer of seret ashling.

cw implied sex, blood

word count around 6300

one time tags of interest @ashen-crest @ettawritesnstudies

tdosa taglist (lmk to be added/removed) magic-is-something-we-create @hysteriwah @imjustalonesomewriteblr @a-forgotten-dusk @bronwennjames @metanoiamorii

Lysandra Fleming’s summer begins like this: a lonely night in Briar Bar, sipping a warm mug of cherry syrup. Not because she is cold—the heat in Vashiri Valley does not begin with summer, nor does it end there. Cherry syrup is vile and bitter and sweet at the same time, made worse warm, but the smooth way it goes down reminds her of childhood, the strange days when she actually liked this stuff.

Not home. She has not had a home since she was a child, when the supposed charm of the palace still worked on her. What were once silky ribbons in her hair became the invisible chains and rules of her parents, tying her down.

Lysandra, you can’t do this, it will reflect badly on us, or Lysandra, you can’t speak to that person, can’t smile at them, can’t see them, don’t you know what they did ten years ago? Don’t you know who their parents are? Vashiri Valley is struggling for power enough without you mucking it up.

Lysandra stopped smiling altogether.

Now, she comes to Briar Bar to be left alone with her cherry syrup, to melt into the crowd, to be normal, for once. Instead, others smile at her the way her parents always encouraged she smile, fake, polite enough, with an ulterior gleam in their eye. So many eyes watch her in want, but she does not feel seen at all by any of them.

The room’s quiet conversation dims and dissolves into whispers, prompting Lysandra to glance over at the reason. The reason is facing away from Lysandra, wearing a tall black hat and a black suit that nearly blends into the darkness of the walls, if not for the white shirt the woman is wearing underneath.

Lysandra didn’t see her come in, and all eyes turn to the tall, dark stranger, wondering the same thing. Her companions across the room point her in Lysandra’s direction, who braces for another meaningless smile, another delighted to meet you, Highness.

The woman turns, and Lysandra sees brown skin, black hair falling in long, loose curls, a subtle, close mouthed smile that draws her attention instantly. Brown eyes meet Lysandra’s green.

“Seret Ashling, my princess.” Seret Ashling leans down, never breaking eye contact, and kisses the top of Lysandra’s hand, holding her fingers delicately, but not like she’s glass. She treats Lysandra like she knows, instantly, her boundaries, how far she can safely push, what Lysandra can take—which is a lot more than most people guess.

Already, Lysandra likes her.

Lysandra is not her princess. She knows the name of every person in this valley, and she knows she’s never even seen Seret before. Even the name is foreign to her. Seh-reht.

That makes it all the better.

She moves her stool a little farther from the empty one beside her, raising an eyebrow in an invitation Seret accepts, removing her hat and tucking it under her arm to smoothly mount the stool. Seret sits with a straight back but ankles curled around the legs of the stool, adding enough humanity to her presence to make Lysandra smile.

She does not prop her elbow on the table, she does not order anything, but she does stare at Lysandra like she’s the most interesting person in the room. Lysandra can tell, somehow, that this gaze is genuine, not hastily crafted and practiced to impress her.

She offers to buy Lysandra another mug of cherry syrup, and Lysandra lets her.

***

Everywhere Lysandra goes, Seret seems to find her. She’s the talk of the valley, enrapturing them with her tall, dark, handsome aura, her small smile, the way the sun shines off her hair.

Finally Seret takes the leap and asks her out to places in Vashiri City Lysandra has been a thousand times, but somehow Seret’s presence paints color to her world again instead of the dull greens and golds the valley has become.

Their connection is instant, from Briar Bar to the lane of potion shops to the muffled awe in Seret’s face when she sees the Academy. At some point, Seret takes Lysandra’s hand, and they stroll through the town like they are not a princess and the new obsession of Vashiri Valley.

Everyone has been asking Seret about herself, where she’s from, what family she has, but she slips out of answering like a snake from a trap. Her smile is quite persuasive. Lysandra doesn’t even try to pry the answer out of her, though she might be the one person to succeed. Seret still looks at her every time like she’s the sun and the moon and the stars.

Lysandra’s heart thrums with nerves every hour before their dates, afraid of messing things up and driving Seret away, but the moment Seret enters the room, her heart calms. Seret gives her a warm hug that envelopes her whole soul, tells her she missed her dearly, and Lysandra wonders why she was ever worried. Seret seems impossible to offend.

“I am going to buy you a gift,” Seret announces on one of their dates in town, in a tone which makes it clear this is non-negotiable. Lysandra only nods. Seret pauses between two shops, one being the most popular jewelry store in the city with a line out the door, the one across the street being an adorable but little known competitor.

Lysandra waits for Seret to get in line for the popular jewelry store, but instead the woman lingers in front of the door of the other shop before opening it. “Don’t peek,” she says with a little smile, shutting the door and triggering the little bell. Lysandra stands there gawking like a fool until Seret emerges ten minutes later holding a little square box.

When Lysandra opens it with trembling hands, she finds a little heart shaped necklace, gold with a silver center on a golden chain. The gold probably isn’t real, probably just paint, but the pink paper wrapping the necklace and the little thank you card inside the box make her smile when the shop across the street wouldn’t.

The plain red and blue shelves in the windows of the other shop, where her family’s jeweler gets his jewels, have nothing on the soft pinks, greens, and browns of the cheap shop owned by twins. They keep flowers in their windows, pink carnations, and prices written in loopy court script.

“Do you like it?” Seret asks nervously, and Lysandra realizes she hasn’t said a word.

“I love it. Thank you.” She offers it up to Seret to clasp around her neck. Seret’s warm fingertips brush the back of her neck, and shivers run down Lysandra’s spine. This is special, her heart keeps telling her, like she doesn’t already know. This is different.

“How did you know?” Lysandra asks.

“Know what?”

“That I’d like this better than the shop across the street.”

“You’re a princess, you’re used to expensive jewelry, and you’ve publicly and loudly denounced royal life. Also, I’d rather give my money to them, seems like they actually need it. Don’t you agree?”

Lysandra has to take a deep breath to keep from blurting out something stupid. “Yes. I agree.”

Their first kiss a day later is a ray of light and a shadow of darkness, colliding and exploding in a glorious show of white and black, settling as ashes and debris into serene, calm gray. They are not the sun and moon. Lysandra is too sharp to be the sun, Seret too dim to be the moon.

It is the death of something. The birth. Lysandra can’t define what.

***

When Lysandra asks, Seret says she came to Vashiri Valley to visit and experience its delights, after which she meets Lysandra’s eyes and kisses her hands.

Lysandra hangs around the city apartment Seret rents. It’s close to Wynn’s cabin where she sleeps. She hasn’t slept in the palace in months. The layers of security and scrutiny she has to pass to enter are not worth the temporary comfort of a soft bed and her favorite meals.

She’s sleeping beside Seret before long, unable to bear being apart from her for that long, wondering how she behaves during such a precious time. Seret’s arms are even warmer around her under cool sheets, and in the morning, Seret brings her coffee before disappearing behind a white door.

She reappears in a cloud of steam, smelling like sweet flowers and honeysuckle. Lysandra gets to kiss her good morning and wonder how she got so lucky.

They’re invited to plays, the nights at the bars for amateur bards, the travelling witches who perform at the amphitheater. Lysandra has been to every event in this valley at least once, usually at the request of her family, but Seret loves going. Like the city and the shops and the Academy, experiencing Seret’s joy secondhand is intoxicating.

Everywhere they go, every table they sit at, whether it’s the theater or the bar or a café for a simple breakfast, people are fawning over Seret. The entire valley is enamored with Lysandra’s new lover.

Seret seems to find it amusing, the way they pat her arm and show a comical amount of interest in everything she has to say, just waiting for an opportunity to ask questions that they must know will go unanswered.

Lysandra sits quietly, burning from the way Seret entertains them, smiles at them in her private way. She wants Seret all to herself. She’s used to sharing things with the public, she’s had to share herself her whole life, but Seret is different. Lysandra doesn’t care if it’s selfish, Seret is hers.

When everyone finally seems like they’ve gotten their fill of Vashiri’s new inhabitant, Lysandra takes her to the edge of the forest and the dead tall grass fields beside it. She gets to watch the exact moment Seret falls in love.

Seret has never grinned, never raised her voice louder than a murmur, but her hitch of breath and the way she reaches for Lysandra’s hand is all she needs. Pride blooms in Lysandra’s chest at the realization she’s learned Seret’s little tells like that.

“It’s just a field,” she laughs. She’s laughing more, now, thanks to Seret. Stoic, cynical, unpleasant Princess Lysandra, laughing. This is why she hasn’t let Arlin near Seret yet, she’d never hear the end of it.

“No, it’s not,” Seret breathes, radiating darkness and mystery in a way that is curious, enticing, instead of harmful. Lysandra just wants to follow her into the shadows where no others can see them, hurt them, touch them. “Can’t you see?”

Lysandra strains her neck, but it’s not the fact that Seret is taller than her that’s the problem. “No.”

Seret pulls her along and begins running instead of answering. Lysandra yelps in surprise and stumbles along, staring enviously at Seret’s long legs—long legs, long arms, long face, long fingers, everything about Seret is long. She sweeps Lysandra up in her arms and spins her around, feet in the air, Seret’s strong arms keeping her up.

Seret is grinning for the first time, showing perfect white teeth, her joy the only reason Lysandra doesn’t scream in shock. She trusts Seret utterly, she realizes in a paralyzing moment of clarity, the sun warming her back, the wind blowing through her hair. Seret has never given her a reason not to.

“What’s the matter with you?” Lysandra asks, though she can’t keep the joy out of her own voice. Seret is infectious. Anything she feels reflects on Lysandra.

“We had fields exactly like this in the city where I grew up. I can’t believe I haven’t seen these yet.” She finally sets Lysandra down and immediately kisses her, as has become a habit the last week. Lysandra gives in, gives over entirely.

She has twisted and forced a key into the lock of her heart, but now, she hands the broken key to Seret and wishes her lucky trying to fit it in the rusty, damaged old lock. Lysandra knows she’ll unlock it fast, her eyebrows pinched and frowning in concentration, long fingers working quickly.

She doesn’t tell her that, of course.

Even then, Lysandra knew.

***

They find a cabin at the edge of the fields and the forest which they quickly move into, abandoning Arlin and the boys and Lysandra's family and Vashiri Valley for themselves. Lysandra has no remorse.

Seret shows her how to live in darkness, in quiet, in peace. They prepare coffee in the mornings before the sun floods the fields with light, arms brushing and using only using their sleepy voices when they need to, not wanting to disturb the holy peace of the morning.

They bathe in the evenings indoors where the fading sun doesn’t reach, sitting close in a tub of river water that Lysandra heats.

They spend all day laying on their backs in the fields, one of them lying on the other while someone’s hair is stroked and someone speaks over the wind.

When the afternoon heat turns the sunlight from pleasantly warm to scorching, they move to the shade of the big oak tree near their cabin to eat.

The shadows are their friends in this haven, where no one and nothing else exists but them. Seret trusts them like they trust each other, content to close her eyes and lay her head back against the trunk when she’s done eating.

Lysandra loves the warmth of the sun, but she hates the harsh white spotlight of her family, the prickly rules tying her down, the sense that she can’t ever escape their restraining eyes. She can hide in the darkness from Seret. They’ll never catch her.

Lysandra has never been so invincible, light enough to be picked up on a cloud every time the wind blows. Seret is the only magical thing she’s met that doesn’t have a drop of magic within her.

Seret is ineffable. Unknowable. Larger than life. Lysandra can never hope to understand her fully, but she can try, she can watch and observe, attempt to learn the inner workings of Seret’s mind.

“Seret?” Lysandra asks one afternoon just like every other, where the peace and warmth of their retreat cannot be broken. “Where are you from?”

It is the first time she has asked. She holds her breath, waiting for Seret’s answer, which takes a long time to come. Seret chews on her lip, her expression as guarded as always, until she finally smiles. “Wherever you want me to be from. North, south, east, west, I’ve visited them all. Pick one and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Lysandra’s chest opens to swallow an ache of emptiness. “Maybe later.” It’s not what she wanted, and they both know it. Lysandra inches mere breaths away from Seret’s side, but it won’t go unnoticed. She thought Seret might actually tell her. She rubs the small gold heart between her fingers and sighs.

“Hey,” Seret says, turning Lysandra’s chin towards her. “It’s not because I don’t trust you, because I do. I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone, more than you know.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?” Need, embarrassing and whiny, sneaks into Lysandra’s voice, but she ignores it. She’s entitled to this answer, at least.

“I don’t want to shatter your world.” Seret sighs and shifts to take Lysandra’s hands in both of hers. “I am from the south. I ran away from home at a young age to travel because my upbringing was hell, and I’ve never stopped since.”

Lysandra breathes out.

“None of that changes how I feel about you,” Seret continues, pleading, the most passionate Lysandra has ever heard her. “I have never met anyone like you, even with everywhere I’ve been. I do not want anyone but you.”

No one has ever said anything like that to Lysandra, and hearing it now gives her pause. The way Seret’s eyes burn on her skin with their dark intensity is exquisite. Lysandra will never get used to it. She does not want to.

“I would not want this with anyone else.” It does not mean the same thing, but Seret smiles, close mouthed, anyway. At times like this, Seret’s secretive nature makes Lysandra’s blood boil, unvoiced screams rise in her throat. She has given so much of herself already, why can Lysandra not know of her past, her family, her ugliest emotions?

She never wants Seret to treat her like glass. The first day they met, Seret got it right. Lysandra can’t bear the thought that Seret is any less perfect than she thinks, that would shatter her, not knowledge of the world beyond the valley.

Lysandra has gotten all she will today. She is content to sigh deeply and lay her head on Seret’s arm. Seret will stroke Lysandra’s hair, and the wind will ruffle her own, and Lysandra’s urge to push it back will fight the warmth settling into her bones. They are fine. They will be fine. Nothing more.

***

On lucky occasions, Seret shares stories of her travels from who knows when, who knows where. She has been everywhere, she said, and Lysandra believes her. She asks about the north, the far east, the west, and Seret’s homeland, the south.

The south could mean any number of things. Lysandra has never been out of Vashiri Valley, and her family have always been vague about what lies beyond their mountains, but Seret describes an actual ocean, the cold water wrapping around her ankles, the hot sand burning her feet.

She takes Lysandra to a desert in her mind, great, sprawling cities, icy lakes and snowy mountains to the north. To the east, she says, more ocean with great brown ships. Lysandra doesn’t care if she’s lying.

She lays in the grass on her side and lets the wind blow her skirts while she travels the world in her mind. Seret closes her eyes and traces mountains, rivers, canyons on her spine, unconsciously pointing in those directions. Lysandra’s breath catches in her throat.

Seret opens her eyes briefly to ask, “Am I boring you?”

Never. You couldn’t if you tried.

Lysandra shakes her head. Seret’s slow, easy smile returns, and the warm fingers on the skin revealed by her backless dress whisk her away to a thousand new worlds so big she can’t even imagine them.

***

“Does it ever bother you that I’m a princess?”

Seret smiles. “That isn’t something that would bother most people in my position.”

“I’d disagree. As the lover of a princess, you have no privacy, there’s expectations, rules you have to follow, harassment…I suppose a better word would be faze. You met and introduced yourself and spoke to me as if I were normal.”

“I called you my princess. the day we met.”

At Lysandra’s withering look, Seret chuckles. “Who said you aren’t normal? You didn’t have any control over what family you were born into. I would still feel the same if you hadn’t rejected your family and your role, if you were princess first and person second. It would be a bit harder to get to you, though, in that stronghold. To me, in that bar, you were just the prettiest girl in the nicest dress with the most captivating eyes. They told me you were a princess—so what? I love you anyway.”

Lysandra’s cheeks burn hot, and she chokes on saliva. The wind picks up, and she feels like she’s falling. How can Seret just say things like that and expect Lysandra not to explode and melt into the sun? “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Seret smiles again. “I’m not looking to get anywhere. I’m not like those people at the bar when we met. I’m not trying to be like anyone. I’m not not trying to be like anyone. I’m not looking to impress you, honestly. I’m just being honest.”

Lysandra’s breath catches in her throat like a branch stuck in a river, unfazed by the powerful oncoming waves.

Seret is clearly not looking to hear it back, but Lysandra gathers all her courage and quietly says, “I love you, too. I--”

She shies away from Seret’s intense gaze, burning on the back of her neck. “I’m not good at, uh. Saying things like this. Like you. But I want you to know that you’ve changed my life. I don’t know how to thank you for all that you’ve done for me, given me. This place is nothing short of perfect. Every minute we’ve spent together has been nothing short of perfect. I’m sorry I haven’t given you anything back.”

“My dear, you are quite mistaken. You’ve given me the ultimate gift: yourself. The opportunity to know your heart, your mind. You’ve let me in when I can tell you have trouble doing so.”

She kisses the back of Lysandra’s hand, looking up at her through her eyelashes, as she often does. It still makes Lysandra’s entire being heat like the sun itself came down to lay its rays gently onto her, powerful but careful with her.

“You are my entire world,” says Seret, the sun. “The most precious creature in all the places I’ve visited, all the creatures in this valley alone.”

Lysandra smiles. “You haven’t met Wynn Scylla’s dragonlings.”

Deflect. Defend. Dismiss. Seret sees through it.

Lysandra lays their lips together, hoping to convey without the painful process of words said aloud just how much Seret makes her hurt. Seret makes her burn and ache in the best of ways, like a satisfying stretch after waking up from a stiff nap.

Seret challenges her to face things she loves shying away from, things like the swelling of her heart which she hasn’t felt in years. Seret is terrifying, all consuming, but Lysandra can’t imagine a world without her. Much of her allure comes from her mystery, however infuriating her secrecy is.

Hours later, when they’re full and sated from dinner, after they wash the dishes side by side at the river and after they’ve bathed in the tub in the house, Lysandra hears a faint hum, high and low, continuous, lulling and soft. She turns her head and discovers it’s Seret, humming to herself as she drapes the wet towels out to dry. “What’s that you’re humming?”

Seret pauses her sweet melody. “Hm? Oh, just some music from the east. If I had the proper instruments, I would play the tune.”

Lysandra chokes on air. “You can play music, too?”

Seret smiles. “I can do many things.”

“Oh?” Lysandra doesn’t know where her sudden burst of courage comes from. Perhaps she’s the one looking to get somewhere. She raises an eyebrow and crooks a finger, hoping a low tone will convey her point. “Come here and show me.”

Seret is quiet, face blank. Lysandra wonders, belatedly, if she does in fact have unknown boundaries.

When Seret desperately searches her eyes for consent, Lysandra realizes it was shock and not disgust that rendered her speechless. “You mean—” Seret asks, hoarse, never breaking eye contact. Lysandra shivers. She had that effect on her?

“Yes.”

They stare at each other for a long, silent moment, Seret’s hungry gaze fixed on Lysandra’s pale shoulders, the towel wrapped around her middle. Then they’re both moving at once, mouths moving in the same pattern of Seret’s melody, a symphony of hearts beating in time.

If Lysandra is Seret’s world, Seret is the center of Lysandra’s.

***

At long last, Lysandra’s family gets wind of Seret. Lysandra doesn’t want to know how. Maybe Wynn and Petrus spread it around by accident—she loves those boys, but they couldn’t keep a secret if they tried. Maybe it was Arlin, who Lysandra finally let meet Seret.

All she does know is that her family is demanding to meet their middle princess’s lover, which means they’ll clarify if they’re allowed to be together or not.

“I’m sorry,” Lysandra whimpers, on the edge of tears in Seret’s arms. “I don’t want them to touch us with a ten foot stick, but if we don’t go, they’ll send someone out here to find us and disrupt our world. I’m so sorry.” Something about her family interfering in her and Seret’s affairs makes Lysandra boil like nothing else.

“It’s okay, my princess,” Seret murmurs into her hair, cupping the back of her head, rocking them back and forth. “We’ll go, I’ll tell them what they want to know, we’ll come right back here. It will only be a few hours. Their opinion won’t change how I feel about you, but I’ll do whatever you feel is best.” The sorrow in Seret’s tone implies too much.

Lysandra pulls back. “Don’t you ever think I’d leave you for my family. Right now, I’m thinking much the opposite.”

Seret purses her lips. “What objection would they have to me? The whole valley seems to like me, why wouldn’t they?”

“You’re not a noble, you don’t have a title, you have nothing to offer them, you won’t even tell anyone where you’re from, and you’re the lover of their middle child.”

Her voice is bitter, matching her heart. Seret’s arms tighten protectively around her. Lysandra switches from bitterness to anger to guilt in a second. How dare her family do this to them? What makes them think they have this right?

They control Vashiri Valley, but Lysandra can’t remember the last time they appeared in public, and their power is distant at best.

They control Vashiri Valley, but they can’t control her.

“No matter what they say,” Lysandra says into Seret’s chest, “I am never leaving you. You’ll have to pry me away. Whatever polite, diplomatic accusations or insults they throw at you, ignore them. You don’t have to tell anyone, especially them, about yourself. You’re with me because I love you, and that’s all we care about. Okay?”

“I’m not sure I’m the one who needs reassuring, Lysandra.”

“Shut up. I’ll be fine.” She pulls back from warmth to wipe her eyes, hot shame from crying coating her face, but Seret pulls her back in.

“There’s no shame here,” she whispers, kissing Lysandra’s temple. “Comforting you is my pleasure, though I wish you didn’t have a reason to cry. Everything’s going to be okay, my princess.”

Lysandra breathes.

She wears the gown she wore when she and Seret met, soft pink with a low neckline, tiered ruffles reaching down to her ankles, frilly short sleeves. Maybe familiarity will give her some comfort, whether that’s Seret’s hand on her thigh or this dress pinching her arm.

Seret wears the same black slacks, white shirt, and black jacket she always wears, thoroughly combs her hair, but leaves the hat at home.

At the dinner, she is perfect. she speaks only when spoken to, sits with that straight, enviable posture, praises the food like it’s the substance of heaven itself, the best she’s ever had.

She’s gracious, thankful, answers every question they ask. If she had a title, Lysandra knows her family would be simply begging them to marry.

Things start out pleasant, her family treating Seret with the polite, arm’s length attitude Lysandra expected. Finally, the dreaded question comes.

“So, Seret,” Lysandra’s mother asks, folding her hands, “where are you from?”

Lysandra clutches her necklace, the one Seret gave her, and prays. Please don’t let them be the first ones you tell. They don’t deserve that.

Seret smiles. “This soup is delicious, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, thank you, you’ve said so already.” Her mother is reaching the end of her patience—Lysandra has been on the other end of that short patience dozens of times. Her blue feathered hat and perfect red lips cover up a much nastier woman. “Please tell us about where you live.”

“Well, Lysandra and I have been living next to the forest all summer. The fields there are positively peaceful, you should visit them sometime.” She pauses to let horror sink into the hearts of luxury groomed royals. Lysandra bites down on a smile. “But I am technically still renting an apartment in the city.”

“Where you came from,” Lysandra’s father adds, sharp, on the end of his patience as well. Lysandra wonders how much Seret prepared for this. Seret is smart, she must’ve known she couldn’t wiggle her way out of the question with her usual tricks. “Maybe who your parents are.”

Seret appears to consider the question. “I’d rather not say,” she says, stirring her drink with her spoon. Silence falls onto the room. Lysandra holds her breath.

Her mother nods her head tightly. “Very well. In that case, we’re going to have to insist you stop seeing our daughter.”

Seret bows her head in humble acceptance, but Lysandra stands up, every fiber of her being filling with inexplicable rage. She told herself she wouldn’t display a reaction, she would just accept the denial and then ignore it, like Seret will, but hearing it so frankly from her mother’s lips is different from imagining it.

“You don’t have the right to tell me who I can and can’t see just because you feel like it,” she spits. “I’m an adult. I haven’t lived here full time or done the duties you ask of me for years. You should disown me. Save yourselves the trouble of dealing with me any longer.”

Seret’s hand lands firmly on her knee as if to say no, don’t. Lysandra captures her hand and holds it above the table for the whole family to see.

“You’re the one who chose to come here,” Lysandra’s mother says.

“Yes, because I knew you’d hound us if we didn’t.” Lysandra can feel her chest being ripped open from the top down. Seret’s fingers squeezing hers is the only thing tethering her to herself. She pulls tightly on Seret’s fingers, who takes the hint and stands. They walk out without another word, without a glance back.

When they get back to the cabin, Lysandra sinks onto the couch in their living room face first, and immediately begins to cry. The seconds it takes for the door to click and Seret’s boots to march across the wood are far too long, until warm arms wrap around Lysandra’s back and Seret buries her nose in the back of her hair. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, which only makes Lysandra sob harder.

“I don’t know why it still matters. I knew this was exactly what they’d say. I didn’t want it to affect me. I want to move on from them.”

Seret stays quiet, just letting Lysandra exist and holding her through it. They don’t speak about it again.

Things are different after that. The fields and the cabin have been tainted with mere mention of the royal family’s presence. The spell has been broken.

The wind comes less, the sun seems to burn in a way it didn’t before. Lysandra doesn’t treasure dawn and dusk the way she used to, and baths are just baths. The only thing that hasn’t lost its magic is Seret, as kind and loving as always.

A week later, Seret begins taking trips into the city to gather everything from her apartment and bring it to the cabin, everything of Lysandra’s from Wynn’s cottage.

No matter how many times Lysandra offers to help, Seret insists she’s fine, she doesn’t want Lysandra to come into the city and get hounded and harassed by the usual people dying to meet the princess.

Arlin and the others come to visit a few times to keep her company while Seret’s gone, to speak about the upcoming Academy year, their last year, to learn the place Lysandra disappeared to the entire summer.

She’s happy to see them, happy for the company, but her heart never stops aching for Seret, wondering what she’s doing. Arlin and the boys stay for dinner well after Seret’s back, so she’s never given a moment alone to think.

This continues for a month.

Arlin and the boys become as intimately familiar with the cabin, the fields, the river, and the forest as Lysandra was with Wynn’s cottage on the forest’s other side.

Lysandra flies toward the end of summer in a haze, perpetually afraid to break the peace, shatter the dream, feel the cold seep into her bones once more. She has grown so used to the wind in her hair, the sun on her skin, the safety of Seret’s arms and her soothing voice.

Seret is never too loud, never jarring. Seret seems to float on the wind; sometimes her mind is lost to Lysandra as she stares into the sky at nothing.

Seret is—

Seret is many things. Nothing at all. Everything all at once.

Ineffable.

On what Seret says will be her last day of moving, she kisses Lysandra’s cheek and says, “I’ll be back,” like always. Lysandra thinks that’s rather silly—of course she’ll be back, that’s a given—but it’s sweet.

Arlin and the boys won’t be over since they have to collect their books for school in two weeks and otherwise prepare. Lysandra spends the day in the river, letting the water suck all the thoughts from her head.

By the evening, as Lysandra waits on the porch with dinner ready, Seret is still not back.

She probably got held up with the loading carts she’s been using, Lysandra tells herself as she gathers her shawl, puts on a dress fit for the town’s eyes, and begins the long walk there. She stopped to have dinner, or something. Maybe she met Wynn’s dragonlings at last.

Seret would’ve run back here herself to tell Lysandra she wouldn’t be back until later because of the dragonlings, or she would’ve sent a magical letter, or something. Seret has told her over and over how much she hates to see Lysandra in pain, and how she’ll never, ever be the cause of even the slightest worry.

Dread sits heavily in Lysandra’s chest.

The area near the school is in chaos, looking for her. No one she meets will tell her what’s going on, why they refuse to meet her eyes, why they offer faint smiles in place of explanations.

When Lysandra is shown the rooms in the Academy Seret broke into, the bizarre circles drawn on the floor in chalk, the thick books lying open, the blood splattered all over the floor, and finally, Seret’s body lying on the floor with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes closed, Lysandra falls to her knees and doesn’t get up.

Her entire being is shattered with a force she didn’t know existed, with waves of invisible pain too strong for this realm. Everything feels empty and quiet, but not quiet in the serene way of Seret’s.

She screams, and it rips her open. It rips every part of good out of her and replaces her with numb, muffled, faint feeling. Later the waves of pain will come back, the longing for Seret’s warm arms to wrap around her and make everything all better, but now, she’s able to look at the body with only thin trails of tears streaming down her face.

Seret’s white shirt is soaked through with a circle of bright red blood. The whole scene is almost unreal. If not for the blood and the cold feel of her hand, Lysandra’s Seret Ashling looks the same. Her hair is neatly arranged, her face free of the splattered blood.

Death is too simple a word for what happens to Seret.

She is gone, says a voice, Seret’s voice, her smiling face haunting Lysandra behind her closed eyes. The ghost of Seret’s fingers cup her jaw, stroke her cheekbones, brush soft lips over her forehead, push her spectacles up.

I love you, my princess, Lysandra hears when she touches her ear to the floor, soaking the front of her dress with her blood, such a cruel reminder of Seret’s humanity. She was brutally, unfortunately, unbelievably human. She may have reached beyond this realm to grab a fist of love for Lysandra, a greater capacity than any human could hold, but that couldn’t save her from her own humanity.

I’ll be back. Seret’s last words to her.

She wasn’t just going into town to move.

Lysandra clutches the necklace Seret gave her and squeezes until it hurts. It fits easily in her palm, hangs right over her heart. The death of Seret Ashling is going to hit Vashiri Valley like the rare storms, unforgiving and violent, bringing destruction that takes years to recover from.

Lysandra squeezes the necklace, closes her eyes, and breathes slowly, steadily. The storm will wipe her out faster and harder than anyone else, but she’s the one who has to control it singlehandedly, and that will be about as easy as trying to capture an actual storm from the ground.

She won’t survive this, but she’s known for months that if anything ever happened to Seret, she never would. She can only submit to the darkness—the bad kind, this time—awaiting her, return to reality behind this door.

[ourtrudream]

Family Vacation, love it or hate it, I hate it

The biggest guarantee I'd have was that this summer would probably be the last in some time I'd spend with my family members. My parents' ruined marriage, which they insisted on continuing for the sake of appearances, was one of the main things I wanted to let go of. College was about to end, and I already had a job in mind, far from New York City.

Of course I would miss the bustling city, the routine I had built up since I was a child, but I no longer wanted to settle for something superfluous and extravagant. My next stop was Sweden, a small business in considerable growth where I had already headed, a friend from college was from Stockholm and had been invited by his friend to participate. My field was graphic design, a little html and more, I participated in many projects focused on these areas during my short life of 24 years.

As I packed my bags for this latest madness that is spending the summer with my parents at their beach house, along with my older sister and younger brother, my brothers were nice at times, but not my favorite environment. , that was a fact, it reminded me of my last trip there. My parents throwing parties to build a good image for my mother's campaign, she was fighting to become mayor of the town, and probably would soon if everyone behaved well (as she puts it). The family hadn't always been like this, kind of clueless and loving, but maybe it doesn't even matter now, at least not for me.

I closed the suitcase after checking everything I had put on my list, I had a really bad memory for everyday things, I always needed small lists in my cell phone's notepad. “Calling Deborah asking to feed the fish” was my next task, and that's what I did. The day passed slowly, and I was already ready to get in my car and drive for 4 hours until I arrived, some stops were going to be made to enjoy the best of a trip, the food.

"And when you come back?" Deborah chattered on the phone, I'd be back in at least 3 weeks, bursting. She would take care of my last surviving fish in my aquarium. As I loaded my huge suitcase into the trunk of my car, Deborah was talking to me about her day. She was an actress and would probably be on the next CW series, she was sure and I didn't doubt it, she's always been really good at getting what she wants, and I thought that was amazing, a lot of self-confidence.

-I hope God helps me in these coming weeks, I need to have my mental health up to date for the last period of this college.

-Everything will be fine, nothing that a shot of whiskey before bed won't solve, sis. She said making me laugh as she drove into the dusk, I would get there after dinner, that was the plan. My mother would complain, of course, but I would at least skip an hour of political blah blah that always went on at dinner in that house.

Just before nine o'clock at night I arrived at the Retz estate, the home where I spent 80% of my childhood summers. It was made of white painted wood with black accents, nowadays it looks more modern than before, maybe it was the glass walls of our porch. Three cars in the garage, my brothers were probably already in the area. Two floors, a swimming pool, flowered garden, gym, 7 suites and lots of family trinkets. My favorite part was the pool area which was surrounded by plants and flowers, which gives everything a tropical vibe. Brianna was the first to meet me as soon as I opened the door, she was 6 years older than me, but she looked the same age as me, we were never best friends, but politeness always prevailed. She was a model, she lived in a world totally outside my reality.