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ghouldump · 2 months ago

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Girlll did you delete your last fic? Whyyyy I was about to read it😭😭

Your Best Nightmare | Lestat de Lioncourt x Reader

ෆ being away from your companion, as both of you take on stardom, can be frustrating, but it is very rewarding to see your maker for the first time in months.

(anon asked for bi!reader w/ crossdressing lestat and if possible some nsfw content)

girl, somebody messaged me and said it was weird and i was confused like you watched a show with vampires killing people like bffr, but ig i’ll repost bc somebody else asked too 😂

The crowd seemed more lively than ever, screaming the frightening lyrics, but paid them no mind. Humans, despite having dominion over nearly every species, were quite stupid. They all had things they liked, they idolized, and in many of their eyes, it didn't take much to seem trustworthy to them. A quick photo of you holding the cheek of a beautiful mortal, and overnight, you were a national treasure — proof that vampires were not a danger.

Vampires, although people of the night, were only bound by their circumstances, and if there were others, they deserved the privilege to reveal themselves. It was cute, really, the same songs that were once deemed monstrous, alarming, and cultish, were now innovative, you were now an icon, like your lover, the vampire Lestat, you were simply adding your contribution to rock culture. However, they didn't even realize, all of them were wrong. They couldn't be more wrong about everything.

I'm your best nightmare,” you sang, as the audience joined you.

And then it happened, you were in my arms

Your lips on my throat- your hands on my, on my...

Two bodies together, the intimate sin

The pain and the pleasure, could do mortals in

How could you know, what I'm thinking of

To me lust can be, as beautiful as love

Here tonight, your pure heart and soul

Untainted passion should have no control

She asked me if I...

I told her the truth

I said "I'm sorry, it takes me, longer than you"

She smiled and blushed, and continued to grind

And promised to make me, go out of my mind

Returning her promise, she, came to a halt

Licking my lips, I, tasted her salt

Then she sat up and gasped and clutched at her breast

I thought she was coming- I'd never have guessed that

As she grew pale, as white as a flower

She collapsed to the floor and was dead in an hour

Hearing the humans singing along to the deranged song, you nearly laughed. Too foolish to grasp the very lyrics, escaping their mouths. A song about your very first hunt, alone. Delilah, the name itself brought a nostalgic tingle to your tongue.

You remember the night utterly, from the time you stumbled out of your coffin, to you crawling back in. You sat alone at the bar, The Dungeon, a frequent spot for tourists when she caught your eye. Dancing against her friend, they both laughed loudly, singing along to the music. Her skin was flawless, her makeup dark, with an incredibly flattering dress, hugging her curves beautifuly.

Just from staring alone, you almost held your throat from how thirsty you were. Standing up, you approached her, her friend nudging her, their eyes shifting to you.

"Hey," she smiled, briefly biting her lip.

"Hey," you repeated, peering into her thoughts, not a single piece was left unattainable from your view.

"Are you here alone?" she asked you, her friend whispering that she was going back to their group of friends, to give her privacy.

"I'm afraid I am," you smiled, as she moved closer, tilting her head.

"Then I'll have to keep you company"

"I'm very difficult to entertain"

"That's because you haven't met me," she giggled.

"Ah, I see, and what is the name of the woman I've waited for?" you asked her.

"Delilah"

"Very beautiful-

"Please, I was named after my grandmother," she said, smiling as you chuckled.

"I'm Y/n," you said, holding out your hand, shaking hers.

"Would you like to get out of here? Maybe have some fun at my place?" you asked, leaning closer, to glamour her.

"Yes, I'd love to," she smiled.

"Good girl, why don't you tell your friends that you're headed back to your hotel for tonight, because you're tired, and I'll meet you outside," you winked, watching as she went to the group of friends.

It wasn't much longer before you were both nude, her moans only continued to arouse your longing appetite. Her gentle kisses, and promises to rock your world, as her orgasm drew near — it only made you want to rip her to pieces more. Holding her soft hips, you felt your fangs emerging before you began to suck from her breast. She panicked for only a moment, choosing to follow along with your erotic behavior.

"I'm coming," she cried, grinding against your thigh. Her breathing hitched, feeling your cool fingers near her glistening pearl.

"You taste just as good as you look," you whispered, staring down, as you hovered over her.

"Your turn," she giggled, her eyes still shut. If only she had opened her lovely raven eyes, to see the monster in front of her. Blood dripping from your mouth, as you stared at her, seeing her for nothing more than she could ever be to you, food.

"Unfortunately, you won't get the honor, tonight, as your life is coming to an end," you said, and just as she was able to open her eyes, you lunged forward.

Draining her, you could sense her heartbeat, hear her thoughts, and feel the sensation of her nails clawing into your back. It was all euphoric, you were a monster, you could admit, and you loved every bit of the thrill, of experiencing such an occasion, with stunning humans.

As the final song came to an end, you waved, bowing at the arena of people, the music fading, as the stage lowered, giving the illusion that you were disappearing. Going backstage, you thanked your team for working so hard for the tour, before you changed clothing — and headed to your hotel. You intended to catch your flight tonight, but with the concert ending so late, you couldn't take the risk, as the sun was bound to rise in the next hour or two.

Although you felt impatient, you would have to wait another night, before you could catch the private jet to New Orleans, to him. Lestat de Lioncourt, your muse, maker, lover, and companion. He turned you nearly 40 years ago and you have been inseparable ever since.

With the both of you busy with your careers, the two of you promised that it would be fine to have flings on the side, as long as there were no feelings attached — not that you would be able to feel anything for another anyway. You had yet to meet another as passionate, as he.

As the driver stopped the car, you quickly made your way into the building, as the sunrise began to peak from behind the buildings.

"Good morning, miss Y/n," the receptionist smiled, batting her eyelashes as you looked her way.

"Morning," you winked, before entering the elevator.

Going to your floor, you stopped for a moment, seeing Amanda, your assistant, standing at the door, it only meant one thing, groupies. Your team sometimes selected women and men, bringing them to your room. Your publicists emphasized how important it was for you to not be seen hunting, and you were simply playing your role.

"Thank you, Amanda, why don't you go get some rest?" you spoke, grinning as she jumped, glancing over at you.

"Yes, of course, sleep well," she nodded, practically running to the elevator.

Opening the door, you squinted, trying to allow your eyes to adjust to the dim room. The blackout curtains blocking any potential sunshine. Hearing the sound of the faucet running in the bathroom, you entered and shut the door. Taking note that you couldn't hear any thoughts, you looked around for a handbag or wallet, to identify the person, just as the bathroom door opened.

Gasping, you couldn't contain the large smile, as Lestat exited the bathroom, he wore a black bralette, cheeky knickers, and a silk robe on top. His blond waves looked even more luscious than usual, with a light pink gloss on his lips and blush.

"You came to California, to see me," you said, trying to swallow the emotions bubbling inside. You felt so elated, seeing him for the first time in months.

"I couldn't go another day away from you, chéri," he confessed, as you moved closer, embracing him. Mumbling a low, "baby", while he held you near, placing a kiss on your lips.

"You look so pretty," you giggled, as he pecked your lips again.

"I had to look my best to get your attention, I've seen the woman that come to your shows," he smirked.

"They don't stand a chance, next to you," you said, as he stared longingly into your eyes.

"I missed you," he finally said.

"I missed you too," you said, as those words were all he needed to hear before his lips were connected to yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth.

Biting down on your lip, he groaned, lifting you in the air, walking over to the bed, before breaking the kiss — as you peeled each article of clothing away, your eyes set on his piercing blue ones.

"This is so cute," your eyes twinkle, as he removed the robe, the obvious bulge in his panties catching your attention. Sitting on the bed, in front of him, he went to his knees. Kissing your lips, he moved down your neck, holding your waist, as you arched your back. "Love," you moaned, feeling his breath against your skin, causing goosebumps.

Laying back, you bit your lip, as his mouth traveled south. Kissing your glistening pearl, before hungrily consuming her. Your fingers found their way to his blonde tresses. Your eyes could hardly stay open, as his tongue repeatedly lapped over your cunt.

Furrowing your eyebrows, you moaned loudly, "I'm so close," you said, the orgasm escaping, as his long fingers moved up to your breast - caressing them.

"I wasn't sure how much longer I could take, being away from you," he spoke, as you agreed, pulling him close to kiss his lips, smearing the lip gloss on his pale skin.

"Take this off, please," You tugged on the bralette, you needed every part of him, bare.

As he stood, you grinned, exploring his toned body. He kept his usual sultry eye contact, as he slowly removed the lingerie, purposely teasing you.

"Lestat," you whined, giggling.

"Patience is a virtue, ma chéri," he smirked, as he approached you, bound to another night of sharing his endless love with you.

"Fuck Patience, I need you now," you groaned, making him laugh.

"Anything for you"

in the original post, i explained that all of the upcoming posts won't be released in a particular order, since i’m working on everything in my drafts.

#amc iwtv #interview with the vampire #iwtv #lestat de lioncourt x reader #lestat x reader #lestat de lioncourt

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jaigeye · 2 years ago

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new ocs-- Delilah Salt is an Omwati ex-Jedi. Cunning, passionate, intellectual and curious, she lusted for knowledge-- she wanted to attain all the information the Jedi had to offer, and then that which they refused. Her efforts lead to the death of her own Master. She was an engineer and an alchemist in the Order. her lover, the demure, reserved, naive and emotional Dunyasha Cyprian, was a fellow Jedi, and her dearest friend since childhood. The young woman intercepted the scene when Delilah's thirst for knowledge went too far-- Delilah attempted to revive her deceased Master, to the horror of all, and Dunyasha was killed trying to pull her away from him.

Delilah, then a Sith, escaped with the body and revived her lover, who after death was called only Darling. Using her expertise with machines and alchemy, she fashioned Darling a body, partially droid and partially her own flesh, stitched carefully together at the seams. Darling was alive again-- keenly aware of the Force in all things and overwhelmed by the constant noise, but lacked the control over it she once had as a living Jedi.

#jaigeye ocs #jaigeye art #darling and delilah #darling cyprian #delilah salt #swocs #!!!!!!!!

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queerliblib · 1 month ago

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New audiobooks but make it creepy!! Happy October, y’all! We hope you’re in the mood for queer horror, because we sure are.

books featured:

Bad Cree, by Jessica Johns

Brainwyrms by Alison Rumfitt

Bloom, by Delilah Dawson

Compound Fracture, by Andrew Joseph White

A Dowry of Blood, by S.T. Gibson

What Moves the Dead, by T. Kingfisher

Vampires Never Get Old, edited by Zoraida Cordova & Natalie C. Parker

Godslayers, by Zoe Hana Mikuta

Cuckoo by Gretchen Felker-Martin

Dead Collections, by Isaac Fellman

The Salt Grows Heavy, by Cassandra Khaw

#queer liberation library #qll #queer books #queer horror

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oneforthemunny · 1 year ago

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girl i missed you!!!!🥺🥺🥺 so happy your back! i was thinking for your spooky stories, can you do older! eddie x reader take lilah trick or treating. thank you ❤️

a roo and a boo |older!dilf!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: delilah's first halloween (not exactly the trick-or-treat sorry. i started it and ended here with this but still fluffy and sweet and cute!!).

part of my munny's spooky stories series!

contains: literal fluff and cuteness. dad!eddie, mom!reader, age gap relationship. you can read the full older!eddie works here for all the lore and such :)

“Look at her.” You coo, peering over the padded changing table, wrangling Delilah’s tiny arms and long limbs gently into the costume. A random find you had shipped last minute, random and adorable and everything you’d ever wanted for your babies first Halloween.

“She’s so fuckin’ cute.” Eddie grinned, dimples creasing in the scruff of his beard, at its beginning stages of salt and peppering like the curls that framed his hairline. “How did you find one this small?”

“I got it off Etsy, so I could put the size in. Pretty handy because everything was too small for her.” You hum, shushing the small whimper that tore from Lilah’s chest.

Only three months old, still tiny and fresh and new, but bigger than before. Bigger than when you first brought her home, scared out of your own mind that you’d drop her, break her, hurt her. Eddie was always so calm, so good about your fears and helping you- he’d done this before. He knew what it was like to be scared shitless with a baby.

“How’d you come up with this?” Eddie’s eyes sparkled when they met yours. “Thought you were doing the bat and I was gonna be Ozzy?”

“She’s too little for the bat costume. The biggest they made wouldn’t fit her, so I figured next year.” You shrugged. “I thought this was cuter.”

“A kangaroo, hm?” Eddie’s finger brushed over Lilah’s cheek, grinning at the way she turned into his touch.

“She’s Roo, Eddie, from Winnie the Pooh.” You glare at him playfully, grabbing the blue sweater next to you with the cross stitched letters ‘ROO’ on the front. “And I have some ears and a brown sweater and I’m Kanga. Get it? Because I’m her Mama.” You babble down at the baby, voice lifting in that airy coo of a tone that had Lilah’s lips curling in a gummy smile.

“Oh,” Eddie nods, helping you maneuver Lilah’s balled fist through the sweater. “Just a you and Lilah costume?”

“You get to be Ozzy and a bat next year.” You countered lightly, though your stomach flipped in fear. Fuck, maybe the suprise thing was stupid. Maybe you should have included him. “I mean, I can run to Target and try to find a shirt with Winnie on it or-”

“-I’m just kidding.” Eddie shook his head, a gentle, calming hand rubbing down your spine. “I think it’s adorable. Both of you.” You beam, looking down at your little Roo, the hoodie with tiny ears that poked up. “Besides, I’m more of a Tigger man myself.”

You snort lightly, rolling your eyes. “You? Thought you’d be more like Rabbit.”

“Rabbit? No, that’s you, bunny, c’mon.” Eddie grinned, pinching your thigh playfully so you squealed.

“You better watch it, Munson.” You pointed at him, fixing Lilah’s little sweater in place. “We have to be at my parent’s house in, like, thirty minutes. And they’ll actually care if we’re late now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie hummed, lifting Lilah carefully into his arms. Her brown eyes blinking back at him, the small furrow of her brows from being disturbed- she looked like Wayne.

“Yeah.” You nodded, swiping a stack of diapers from under the changing table. “My mom’s already losing it because she can’t wait to see Lilah’s costume. I’m never doing this surprise shit again.”

“It’s their first grandkid, baby. What did you expect?” Eddie followed you down the hallway towards your shared bedroom. “They’re excited. Brie and Madeline too. It’s her first Halloween.”

“What time is Brie getting here?” You pulled the brown sweater over your head, folding the slouchy neckline into place.

“She’s here, I think.” Eddie muttered, eyes squinting, scanning the room undoubtedly for his phone. You bit back a smile. “I told her just to go over to Madeline’s. She’s staying at her apartment anyway tonight since she’s going to Gina’s tomorrow.”

“Oh?” You quip, brows raised in surprise. “They’re talking again?”

“Yeah,” The sigh Eddie let out was soft, but heavy enough you knew he was… bothered, to say the least.

Brielle’s silence towards Gina came after her mother’s nasty, cruel words about your pregnancy months ago. Eddie always felt guilty that Brielle was in the middle of the mess that was his relationship with his ex, even if she was the one dragging Brielle into it, weaponizing her even now against Eddie so he’d feel insecure.

“I don’t… I don’t want to think about that tonight.” Eddie admitted, a soft tone that sounded defeated, hurt, really.

You nodded, looking at him through the mirror, slipping on your own DIY made Kanga ears on a velvet headband. “I’ll text my mom. Let her know we’re on our way before she shows up and breaks down our door.” You laugh lightly, hand petting over Lilah’s soft cheek, your own lips brushing over Eddie’s for a sweet kiss.

The drive to your parent’s house was brief, it took longer for you to load up the car. Carriers, diaper bags, extra clothes, strapping in the car seat, everything- it was a chore to pack up a baby to bring, but it was worth it. The look on your mom’s face when you pulled Lilah out of the car, her coos and squeals of excitement.

“She is adorable. Just precious, oh!” Your mom gushed, ushering her grandchild through the doors, leaving you and Eddie for the rest of the things. “Honey! Look, look at Lilah!” You heard her call, scampering into the house.

“I think she’s excited.” You roll your eyes playfully, slinging the diaper bag over your shoulder.

“Yeah,” Eddie smirked. “Can you blame her? She is pretty cute.”

“She is.” You nod, head leaning against his shoulder while you walked towards the house. Your felt ears hit his chin, tickling the skin there, but he didn’t move. “Is Wayne still coming?”

“When he gets off.” Eddie nodded, his hand squeezing your waist softly. “He had to work. Likes to work at the plant on Halloween. They always bring the kids to trick-or-treat.”

“Really? We should bring Lilah next year.” You look up at him.

“Yeah, he’d love that. Hope he retires this year though.” Eddie rolled his eyes. He’d been trying to convince Wayne he needed to retire for years, but the older man was stubborn. “I used to take Brielle there every year, and she loved it. He did too. He would always save her the best pieces of candy.”

The warmth in your chest spread to your cheeks, tugging at your lips, curling into a smile. You liked hearing memories like this with Eddie, not ones tainted with Gina’s venomous actions and words. Your fist balled at the thought- no, you wouldn’t say anything. Not when Brielle drove all the way from Indianapolis to be here. Not when everyone was happy.

The cackle of the girl in question floated through your ears as the two of you climbed the pumpkin lined steps. Your parents and Madeline had insisted on carving them with Lilah, for her first Halloween, they’d said. She hadn’t done much besides being passed from person to person in her little pumpkin onesie while they carved them, but it made your family happy- it made you happy.

“... This is so cute! Ugh, Maddy, we definitely still had our costumes from junior year. I know mine’s in my closet at my mom’s. We could have been Piglet and Winnie with her.” Brielle nodded, cradling her tiny, baby sister in her arms.

“Yeah,” Madeline looked at you, brows furrowed in annoyance. “Why didn’t you tell us? We would have matched.”

“I didn’t know.” You huffed, rolling your eyes at your little sister, Eddie shutting the door behind you. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Well, we could have matched.” Madeline’s lips pursed, only for a moment before she was back to Delilah, cooing at her. “Hold on, Brie, let me get a picture. No, let’s go out by the pumpkins, it'll be so cute!”

“Hi, Dad.” Brielle muttered, leaning into his hug, still cradling Lilah.

“Oh! Take my camera, Madeline!” Your mom called frantically, spinning in a half circle looking for her camera.

“Hey, sweetheart. Your drive ok?” Eddie pressed a kiss to her head, finger tickling down Lilah’s little cheek.

“Yeah, it was good.” Brielle hummed, following Madeline out the front door.

“Hi, Mom.” You said, stepping towards her.

“Hi- oh! That’s so precious, you two match! Where did you find this, honey? It is so cute! It is- hi, Eddie, how are you?- It reminds me of when you dressed up as Tigger one year. Your Dad is looking for the photo album right now, so I can do a side by side.” Your mom rambled, jittery with the excitement of Delilah, the holiday, the side by side post she was already plotting to post on Facebook so all her friends would go ballistic.

“I gotta see that.” Eddie grinned, hand wrapping around your waist sweetly.

“Dad is looking through it now- it’s in the second one!” Your mom yelled into the living room, over the re-run of Hocus Pocus playing for the millionth time. “I’m going to go take some pictures with the girls, but there’s chili and hotdogs in the kitchen and- oh, Eddie, I got you Fritos for yours.”

Eddie blushed, cheeks tingling pink in the warmth of your home. Your mom had remembered from last Halloween, remembered something about him and gotten it for him. It was small, he knew it was, but it made him feel… content? Made him feel like a part of the family.

Your mom didn’t hear his response, scurrying out to the front porch with her phone to take her own photos. Your eye roll made Eddie grin, pulling you into his side, pressing a kiss against your hairline where your velvet headband met your hair.

“She’s insane.” You muttered.

“She’s excited.” Eddie hummed, rubbing a hand down your hip soothingly.

“She’s lost her mind.” You scoff. “I don’t think she even cares about me anymore. She’s just, like, give me my baby.”

“Hey, it could be worse. Could want nothing to do with her.” Eddie sighed. He didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t tell you that Gina’s parents had been that way.

Your heart ached for him, leaning into his chest. “I think they’re going to be busy for a while.” You tilted your head up to look at him. “You hungry?”

“Starving.” Eddie grinned. “Especially for your Mom’s chili. I’ve been thinking about this all week.”

“God, don’t tell her that.” You snort, arms still around his torso when you walked into the kitchen. “Her head will explode. She’s already got an ego because she’s a Grammy.”

“Think you’ve got one too,” Eddie teased, eyes twinkling in the yellow light of the kitchen. You frowned, his hand rubbing over the ears of your headband. “You and Lilah in your matching outfits. ‘S cute.” He beamed, love struck and gooey, the way he would schmooze over you years before.

You fought back the blush on your cheeks, lips twisting to hide your smile. “Yours is gonna be huge next year, Ozzy.”

“It’s already huge, sweetheart. You know that.” Eddie purred playfully, squeezing the fat of your ass to make you jump and squeal, eyes cutting around to make sure none of your family was around. “I think it’s cute. Surprised she didn’t steal you for photos.”

“Don’t give her any ideas.” You huff, pulling a bowl out of the cabinet. “How much do you want?” You ask, reaching for the ladle.

Eddie shook his head, batting his hands away. “I got it. Got yours too, go sit down.” He nodded towards the table.

You hesitated, Eddie’s hip bumping yours to move out of the way. “I want mine on-”

“-chili on the hotdog, cheese on top, and no mustard.” Eddie hummed, spreading the bun to put the chili on. His eyes flicked to yours, smug smile on his face. “Right?”

You nodded, sinking into the chair by the kitchen table, where you always sat growing up. Eddie smirked. “Told you, I got it. I got you tonight, alright? Take it easy. You don’t have to be Mama Be- Kangaroo tonight.”

Your eyes roll, huffing lightly when you settle into your seat. Eddie maneuvered the two plates and a bowl with far better ease than you expected. It was nice, sitting in your childhood home with your husband, with your family.

Your mom came bustling in with the photo of you in hand, a tiny toddler in an old school Tigger costume, face painted to match. Your dad holding Lilah in his recliner, feeding her the bottle you packed, content watching whatever sports he’d managed to flip on before your mom would make him change it back to Halloween movies. Wayne came by after his shift, a handful of candy for Brielle and Madeline, giving them a wink and a, “Told you I’d save you the good stuff. Always save you the good stuff.”

Eddie beamed, watching it all from his own corner of the kitchen. Your mom and Wayne looking over photo albums, Brielle and Madeline giggling in the corner like they used to when they were younger- when the two of you had just met. You flitting between all of them, content and relaxed, Lilah in your arms.

Eddie knew that Lilah would be loved. That she’d grow up in a better house than he had, that even Brielle had. In the type of family home he’d always dreamed of having, and now he had it, with you- because of you.

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caeslxys · 8 months ago

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the salt and the skin

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

Also on Ao3!

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

(Which is to say, absolutely everything.

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It ricochets; it strikes her, too.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. She supposes it’s fair.

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

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

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

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

Next time, she will.)

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

That night, she gives in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there is shifting, slow and slight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

She hums, low in her chest. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I?” she asks, “Please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Imogen?”

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

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

On impact, she whispers, “Laudna.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s perfect. That’s it, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the key? For Ruidus? For her mother?

She shrugs, “As I’ll ever be. You?”

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

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

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

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

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

”Quite a bit, yeah.”

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

”I know,” Laudna whispers, “I agree.”

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

”Yes.”

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

”But not everything-everything.”

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

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

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

”—to the moon?—”

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

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

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

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

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

”Out of sorts.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Mhm.”

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

Laudna hums. “Yes you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

”I thought so.”

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

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

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

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

Except—well.

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

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

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

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

Imogen nods. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t—“ she begs, “Do not—Laudna—“

”It can’t, Imogen. She can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

She reaches across the space.

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

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

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