#wayfarer's rest

[srslyarts]

bringing in another @wayfarer-exchange treat this time of @sovhina‘s beautiful OC Lily <3

[redwayfarers]

Wayfarer Week: Injury

Fandom: Wayfarer IF Ship: N/A Characters: Cassander Inteus (OC), Amali Sero, Aeran Kellis Rating: Gen (vague descriptions of an injury) Words: 702 As it says on the tin - prompt 3 for @wayfarer-week! Enjoy my boy being a dumbass lmao

Sero is cleaning their daggers when the news reaches them. It’s already been a shitty week, all things considered, and they do      not    need any more additional stressors. So here they are, secluded in their study, trying to process it all and just take a moment for themself when someone knocks on the door.

“Kellis,” they greet, lifting their eyes from the daggers. They shine brighter than jewels on the Emperor’s crown, but it doesn’t stop them from giving them a loving, thorough sweep once more. Sero takes a moment to look Aeran over - his hair’s messy and dirty, there are bags under his eyes and he smells of days on the road. There’s a patchy stubble he has yet to shave off. Worry’s etched into the lines of his face. “Kellis, what happened?”

“I came to give my report,” he says. “Cass would’ve come with me as well, but he’s with Sirin now. Bastard almost got killed by a beast.”

Sero’s heart drops to their heels. Their face hardens and they’re on their feet in moments. “Where’s the injury? What did Sirin say?” 

“On his back– I took him there as quickly as I could but–” Aeran is gripping the door tightly. His nails are scarily white. Sero places a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezes. 

“Calm down, kid,” they say, playing up the certainty of their voice. “He’s in capable hands. You go wash up. Any reports can wait until the morning.” 

“I–” Aeran looks down. “I will.” As soon as he’s out of sight, though, Sero all but flies down to the infirmary. Their heart beats wildly. Aeran’s reaction indicates this injury isn’t a mere scratch. Did it touch the spine? Stars and hellfire, not the spine. They move on instinct, trying to will themself not to freak out. 

Not him, not him, not him, Sero chants, opening the doors loudly. Their eyes fly over the infirmary, looking for the familiar sight of red hair. Before they spot Cassander, however, they spot Sirin, who’s washing her hands next to a nearby, empty cot. She nods at them and approaches, drying her hands. 

“Grandmaster?” her voice is measured and even.

“Cassander–” 

“Will live,” Sirin finishes, tipping her head in the direction of a certain cot. And sure enough, Sero sees Cass’ bright, red head and the tips of his ears. “But can you keep your voice down? He, like the rest of the people here, is sleeping.” 

Sero sighs deeply in relief and clears their throat. A part of them wants to offer an explanation - my son is injured and I wish to see him - but the admission doesn’t really sit right with them. Not like this. Not to Sirin before anyone else. The other part, the Grandmaster one, makes them straighten their back and nod. It’s that part that also says, “I apologize. Is the injury serious?”

“He’s very lucky that it missed the spine just so. As it is right now, it’s deep, but nothing life-threatening.” Sirin squints. “I do recommend he grow a pair of eyes behind his head, though. This kind of luck doesn’t happen twice.” 

Sero rubs their temples. So he’s been a dumbass, so innocently unaware of what his recklessness does to people around him. They recall Aeran’s worried face, the whites of his nails as he grips the door. The desire to throttle Cassander sometimes overpowers them, but Sero persists. “I hope he learned his lesson, for fuck’s sake,” they reply. 

“Me too. I’d hate to patch him up twice over the same mishap.” With that, she goes on her merry way and Sero makes a beeline for Cass’ cot. Their hands shake just slightly as they remove hair from his eyes and feel the steadiness of his breath against their fingers. His skin is warm, sharp with growing stubble, and alive.

“I’ll throttle you when you heal, I swear,” they whisper. “Don’t make us worried like this.” Not you, not you, not you. Not you, of all people. Their hand stays for a moment longer. But they should let him rest now, probably. 

There’s a time and a place for accusations of dumbassery, but for now, they’re just happy he’s alive.

[dndtreasury]

Wayfarer (Set) by Dragons & Stories

[coldshrugs]

can't participate in a fun and silly fandom event if you haven't hundred percented the game, just so you know

[aureliobooks]

so i’m reoutlining wayfarer by hand in a very tiny notebook, which has been more fun than typing for so many reasons but mostly because when something clicks in my brain it’s going too fast to erase whatever i want to change so halfway through a sentence i’ll just write “WAIT NO—” or “HOLY SHIT—” and then go off on an entirely different tangent

[beyondmistland]

What do you think of the theory that Lord Vance might have been Master of Laws and finished due to going blind? It would account for there being a lack of Riverlanders on the Small Council, likely Renly came in just afterwards.

Its not a bad theory but there's also no evidence for or against it.

Thanks for the question, @cynicalclassicist

[lyriumsings]

happy birthday!! 🥳💖

Thank you!! 🥺❤️✨

[wayfaringstrangxr]

I always saw myself as a "too straight" person, you kow, because of how I dress and all. Then today I was on a work meeting and one of colleagues went "Fernanda, you're gay, right? Cause you look gay" and I was like "thank you?"

[cambion-companion]

could I request for you to write an scenario in which Raphael does not die to Tav nor their party, but in an other similarly humiliating circumstances, and Tav when learning about this desperately goes to save Raphael from his father by bargaining with Mephistopheles? (hilariously in a very sad way, I assume this, is the only moment that Mephistopheles would ever "value" Raphael's life, but then again that is devils for you) and Raphael's confusion at the whole thing, someone taking a terrible bargain to save him, just… because they… like him…??? (bonus points, if Tav still has a crown to willingly give Raphael XD)

It's beat up Raphael hours huh? (also Korilla will be fine)

Hi there love. This turned from a drabble into a oneshot haha

Have fun running to Cania to pick up your wayfaring devil!

Raphael x reader (gn)

Korilla had come to you.

Broker and bruised, battered and bloody. Her long curly hair matted with mud and dried viscous.

“Help him.”  Her first words, rasped from a throat raw from screams.

“Korilla!”  You caught her weight as her knees buckled, lowering her gently to the ground.  The Dwarven woman wasn’t your friend by any means, but she had been your ally.  “Who needs my help?”  You couldn’t fathom who she might be referring to.

Surely it wasn’t Raphael. It couldn’t possibly be the enigmatic, self-assured cambion.

Korilla’s answering rasp dispelled any doubt. “My master.”

A fog of shock settled over your mind, your hands loosening around Korilla’s shaking form.  She whispered the truth into your ear, her bruised lips trailing her blood onto your clammy skin. With fading voice Korilla told of the attack, Raphael’s demise and his imminent doom.

“Portal. Diabolist.  Cania.”  Korilla’s breaths grew short as she fought valiantly once more against the oncoming black.

“Hold on, Korilla.  You’re going to be okay.”

“Save him.” She said again, her eyes slowly glossing over as the life left her broken body.

You cursed.  The warlock’s last actions had been to find you in a desperate hope you’d help Raphael before he was consumed by his father.  His father who just so happened to be an archdevil. Mephistopheles.

“Little shit could’ve mentioned that.”  You grimaced, lowering Korilla’s body to rest upon the cold earth.

You stood, pinching the bridge of your nose as your thoughts whirled and clashed. Not only had the attackers killed Raphael, but they had also looted his house, stealing the Orphic hammer and the only hope you’d had of defeating the Elder Brain.

“Damn it.”  You returned to your companions with the news. “Looks like we’re taking a rescue party to hell.”

“Who’s the damsel in distress?”  Astarion asked, tilting his head as his red eyes flickered over your blood-flecked form.

“Raphael.”

The plan was to use as much stealth as possible. The vaults of Mephisto had been broken into not long ago, according to Raphael, so it was possible.  A direct confrontation with the archdevil himself was out of the question.  

The diabolist in Baldur’s Gate took some convincing, but in the end you were able to push enough gold across the counter to seal the deal.  

“Very well.  Though I warn you, you’ll not return alive or with your souls intact.”

“Yes, yes.”  You waved the woman off, her visage reminding you of Korilla. “Believe me, I’ve heard it all before.”  Your eyes scanned the musky shop. Do you have anything that will locate a specific fiend?”

With a Locate Creature spell scroll ready in your bag you watched as the diabolist created for you a portal. Ice crystals immediately crusted on the edge of the black abyss, the wind coming from the portal nearly freezing your shoes to the floor.

“Quickly, and remember the disguises!”  She ushered you and your party through, the frigid darkness enveloping you with a grim finality.

Through cold halls you’d snuck, invisible fingers cold as death scraping along your back and through your hair as you passed beneath torches of blue flame.

Time lost all meaning here.  Your eyes began to play tricks on you. The only thing keeping your mind focused was the spell lighting the edge of your vision with a warm glow, growing brighter as you hurried to where Raphael was being held.

An age, or an hour had passed.

The wrought iron door, so cold to the touch it burned, swung noiselessly inward, admitting you to an octagonal shaped room. On the far wall you saw him, his form dark, chained by one wrist to the wall.

“Raphael.”  You hissed, unexplainable relief flooding your frozen veins when his head moved in response.  

Your companions waited by the open doorway, keeping watch from the shadows.  You snuck as quickly as you could to where Raphael was restrained. His glowing eyes looking down upon you with consternation before recognition slowly dawned across his sharp features.

You held up a hand, silencing him as he opened his mouth. Movement could be heard from outside the prison room. You were running out of time.

“Can you get us out of here if I free you?”  You hissed, still keenly aware of the nature of the devil.

Raphael nodded, his tail moving to and fro in agitation.  Something about his vitality seemed to be missing, you had never imagined seeing him in such a state.  It was unsettling.

The matter of removing the singular shackle proved to be more challenging than you’d thought.  Astarion’s lockpicking skills proved futile.

“It’s a magical seal.”  Raphael breathed, his voice low yet sharp with anger born of desperation. “Now’s not the time to play the fool.”

You gave him a severe look which he matched right back at you, his eyes sparking flame.

You raised a hand to the ice-covered metal, about to dispel the magic surrounding the lock. “You owe me a favor.  A big one.  I don’t know yet what I will ask of you, but you will deliver. Understood?”

Raphael’s gaze scorched you for a moment, it was clear he was furious with his current predicament. But he had no choice, and both of you knew it.

He nodded curtly.

You cast your spell.

Raphael’s wrist broke free with the sharp sound of metal splintering. His hand closed tight around your arm, the dungeons of Mephisto melted away as you and your companions were yanked unceremoniously back to the material plane.

At least, your companions were.  Deposited non-gently upon the hard ground of your camp.

Raphael kept hold of you.  Taking you back to the foyer of his house. The house which still lay in semi ruin from its previous sacking.

He was angry.  Each step he took crackled fire and promise of swift vengeance.

“Raphael…”  You said hesitantly, following him down into the dining hall.  “Raphael, Korilla-”

“Is dead.”  Under the glow of firelight, you could properly see the state he was in. You winced when he turned to face you. “I know. Though not as dead as those who dared pillage my home, the fools.”

“Do you know who?”  You remained wary as you watched him conjure an armchair and sink down into it.

Raphael ignored your question, he issued orders in the abrasive Infernal tongue, seemingly into thin air.  His fingers clicked and a spark of flame licked around them.  Unseen servants began bustling around, clearing the debris and wreckage.  Setting the House of Hope back in order.

Raphael leveled his gaze upon you.  His expression was not unkind, it was calculating.  He had underestimated you and overestimated himself.  Not a mistake he’d make again.

“Why?”  No flowery words, no ado.

“I still need the hammer.”  You had the response prepared, having known the question was coming.

“You could have hunted down the thieves without my help.”  Raphael narrowed his hellfire eyes. “Why come to my aid?”

“Korilla asked me to.  It was her dying wish.”  You fidgeted under his piercing presence. “Besides, you’re a useful ally.  I still need your help to save the world.”

Raphael arched a brow, unconvinced. “Half-truths are still considered lies, dear.  But there are matters I must attend to.”  He stood, restless.  

“Will your father come for you again once he realizes you’re gone.”  The question came before you could stop yourself.

“Concerned for me?”  Raphael appraised you, a knowing tilt to his head. “No.  He will not.”

You didn’t argue, Raphael was clearly on edge, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

You rubbed circles against your aching temple. “Well, seems we have some thieves to track down.  A hammer to retrieve.”

Raphael looked as though he was biting back a sharp retort.  He chewed on his words, looking you over. “Yes.”  He growled, infernal fire flickering off his form. “You may watch as I peel their souls from the writhing mortal flesh.”

In an unexpected move, Raphael strode to you and took your hand, placing a kiss to your knuckles. His breath hot on your still chilled skin. “You may even assist me, if you so desire.”  He straightened.

That was as close to a “thank you” as you were going to get.

You set your jaw grimly. “When do we start?”

[dinozarr]

⠀ “f-f-fuckk~ please fuck me harder.”

𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐒 . . . who was obsessed with you from the moment he saw you. the way you flaunted yourself to the rest of the class, impressing your professor from your sheer intelligence. he could never take his eyes off you, always stealing longing glances your way anytime you took the notion to sit next to him. he always found himself pushing his glasses up high, gripping his pencil tighter, and shifting in his seat whenever you were around. the affect you had on him was like no other.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀it didn’t help the fact that you were top of the class either, so he couldn’t use the stereotypical excuse of being your tutor in order to just talk to you. he had to go a different route. it wasn’t something he was proud of; dumbing himself down for the sake of one’s attention, yet he didn’t necessarily care since it was with you. he found himself purposely failing the quizzes and discussion boards your professor would post, expressing evident irritation at his forced grade.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀much to his dismay, after scrounging your socials, he discovered that you had your own “tutor sessions” up on a particular website called OnlyFans. he hadn’t a clue as to what it was, yet didn’t mind all of the sexual ads he continued to get when looking at your “tutor prices”. he was utterly oblivious to the fact it was a porn site, messaging you like some sort of professional customer. it was cute, you gave him that. his profile being himself with his adorable little black-framed wayfarer glasses.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀you thought he would’ve changed his mind the moment he stepped foot into your loft apartment, seeing your setup and alas realizing your tutor sessions weren’t what he was expecting at all. however, when revised of the terms he initially agreed you, giving him an op-out, he remained persistent and gave full consent; practically begging for the session to start. you were startled by his assertion, not expecting to see such a side of the quiet boy that sat in the back of your mathematics class.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀nor were you expecting for your viewers to absolutely adore him. they loved watching you ride his over-average erection that had your walls practically begging for mercy with how his veins raked along them, his tip kissing your cervix beautiful with every hip roll you gave. you were unaware of how large he was, bottom lip being crushed between the brim of your teeth as you adjusted to his enlarged size. just from being halfway down his dick you could feel your lower abdomen forming a heated knot, eyes squeezing shut instantly.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀his eyes were literally a sight for sore eyes with how cutely he sat beneath you, trembling hands not knowing where to go as they roamed you body freely. his glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, fog coating the frames with both of your breaths fanning against them. his face was on full display for everyone, thanks to the overhead camera you had. the likes and money continued to roll in the more you kept the camera on him, your viewers loving every second of it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀you had your hands slightly resting on his shoulders, fistfuls of his shirt clenched in your grasp to guide you along him. it was adorable how his eyes were coaxed in tears, the dazed glint that swirled within his irises causing a snarky grin to mar your features. he looked utterly fucked out, lost in nothing but raw euphoria. his mouth was barely open ajar, whimpers and cries being the only noises to fill the wide-spread apartment. aside from the sounds of your squelches on his dick of course, your sopping cunt sucking him in farther with each thrust.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀it was no surprise that you were each on your third orgasm by the time it hit one hour into the session, you couldn’t get enough of it despite him being balls deep in you. and, to reward the man of such behavior, the minute he reached his climax you were already on your knees before him. he hadn’t a clue as to what you were doing until you shoved the entirety of his drenched erection into your mouth, gargling back your gag reflex with small eye rolls.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀your actions had the man melting into the chair, the feeling of your cold, silver-lined tongue piercing that dragged across his base sending bone-crushing chills down the man’s back. all he could do was cry out moans of pure ecstasy with his head thrown back against the top of the chairhead. the rest of what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, you kneaded with your hands; hollowing out your cheeks with your tongue gliding through the slit of his tip. saliva drooled from the sides of your mouth, coating his dick even more and causing even louder noises to extrude from the situation.

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ “please let me cum, please o-oh fuck, ohmygod.”

⠀⠀⠀ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

ARMIN ARTLER. ARAN OJIRO. EREN JAEGER. suguru geto. aki hayakawa. connie springer. kento nanami. NORITOSHI KAMO. CHOSO KAMO. AOI TODO. sae itoshi. shidou ryusei. OLIVER AIKU. imamura yudai. SHOUEI BARO. kuon wataru.

NOTEZ : was notttt expecting this to lead into a camgirl!reader but ay fuck it we ball

© TAKST4Z 2023 — all rights reserved. mature discretion. please do not plagiarize or steal any of my works or graphics.

[nabihaiderali]

"Returning What Was Once Lost" — an orphaned Sakina once again finds herself in the arms of her father...

Feeling bittersweet as Ayyam-e-Aza—the Shi'i mourning period—draws to a close after over two months. It's a season of tearful goodbyes as well as reunions, of loved ones put to rest, of martyrs uniting in the next world, of earthly wayfarers aching to return to this very same realm next year...

[mangxakorado]

Go and rest your limbs here for a little under the juniper, O wayfarers, by Hermes, Guardian of the Way,

Not in crowds, but those of you whose knees are tired with heavy toil and thirst, after traversing a long road;

For there a breeze and a shady seat and the fountain under the rock will lull your toil-wearied limbs;

And having so escaped the midday breath of the autumnal dogstar, pay his due honour to Hermes of the Ways.

— “Hermes Of The Ways” (Author Unknown), in Selected Epigrams from The Greek Anthology translated by J. W. Mackail

[bettyfrommars]

don't say you need me (it's understood)

vampire!steve x deliveryDriver!fem!reader

summary: you are a delivery driver who gets extra hazard pay to bring blood to the vampires of Crimson Alley, but this time, you get up the nerve to ask Steve for something you have always wanted. This story has a surprise ending and an appearance from vampire!eddie. Steve is not a typical vampire. Slightly True Blood au. wc:6.3k

18+ONLY, mature themes, Steve is a vampire but he is also something else, reader's first time feeding a vampire, smut, drinking blood, sensitive!steve, lovesick!steve, monsterfucking, doordash delivery for vampires, oral for all, reader wears a sportsbra, unprotected p in v, creampie, self-inflicted knife wound.

author's note: I've had this one in my wip's for a while, and it was going to drive me crazy if I didn't finish it. My Steve fics rarely see the light of day, but I can't stop writing them for some reason. This is my last little detour before I go back to working on my other series. Or, until I get distracted again, which will probably be in two minutes.

Part 2 smut extra Wolf Moon

Part 3 fluff request

The way you earned money lately was not your dream job, but it paid the bills.  Food delivery was a necessary evil with your life being as chaotic as it was.  The particular app you worked for paid better than the rest because of the “hazard pay” you accrued for some of the deliveries that required more “risk”.

The risk in question had you delivering blood to the local vampire population, most of which lived in a particular section of the city called Crimson Alley.  It wasn’t just an alley; there were apartment buildings and a long street full of picket fence houses, all with heavy, black out curtains over them during the day.  

One minute, you’re leaving tofu Pad Thai on someone’s doorstep, and the next—-you’re casually dropping off a grocery bag full of type O.  

It was dark, of course, when you made your final delivery before clocking out.  You took on as many deliveries to Crimson Alley as the app would allow, mostly because you needed the money, but also—you weren’t afraid of death.

Most of the vampire clients who signed up for deliveries on the app were decent, law abiding ghouls, but there had been two noted incidents where the vampire in question only wanted a live human to feed on, and ended up draining the delivery driver before disappearing into the night.

You told yourself they were just rumors, but also, you spent quite a bit of time ruminating on what the sensation of fangs breaking your skin would feel like.

The receipt stapled to the front of the paper bag from the blood bank said Harrington, and you matched it with the information on your phone before making your way up the sidewalk.  It was an old, vintage building with renovated apartments inside, and so you punched in the alarm code from the notes in your phone, waited for the beep, and then made your way up to C5.

Two female vampires were just leaving as you stepped into the foyer, and they seemed to be dressed for a night on the town.  You jumped back to make room for them, and they excused themselves with a laugh and a wave, fangs exposed, as if they were any other living humans going out for drinks. That was the great thing about vampire specific blood banks and the recently invented blood substitutes; fed vampires, for the most part, were happy vampires.  Sure, there were those who still lusted after the chase and the thrill of the kill, but most of the newer vampires were surprisingly chill.  

The customer requested that you hand the delivery directly to them, which meant you had to knock instead of just dropping it at the door and bolting.  

But, as your finger rose to touch the doorbell, the door opened, yanking back into the apartment so fast, and you scrambled back, startled, testing the handle of the bag with your vise grip.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” the vampire said, smiling around his fangs, wearing Wayfarer sunglasses even though it was dark outside.  “I didn’t mean to scare you, my bad.”

“You didn’t scare me,” you stiffened, shaking your head, hoping that was the correct answer, since the customer is always right.  

In the next few heartbeats, the two of you looked over each other.  Your vampire customer had a full head of lush, dark hair, just long enough to tuck behind his ears, and a solid, muscular frame.  He had on a white shirt that was of little contrast to his pale skin, rolled up to the elbows and unbuttoned to expose a swatch of chest hair, black pants that made it look like he was getting ready to go somewhere fancy, and a pinky ring with what looked like a skull on it.  He smelled like sandalwood and vanilla tobacco, and your mouth produced an overabundance of saliva that made you swallow and choke a bit.

Steve liked what he saw so much that he didn’t want to remove his sunglasses, so that he could continue to look you over without you seeing his eyes move.  But, eventually, he did, sliding them up on top of his head, clearing his throat.

“Harrington,” he said, leaning against the door frame, forgetting why he was about to leave the apartment in the first place. “That’s me, I’m Steve.”

You introduced yourself, and then lifted the bag up in the space between the two of you. “Would you like me to set this by the door, or—?”

“Oh, damn, yeah, of course,” he chuckled fondly to himself, as if remembering a private joke.  “I can—yeah, sure, here—I’ll take it.”

You passed it off and he opened it to look inside as if he didn’t know what he’d ordered.  

“Alright,” you backed up, offering a low wave.  “I guess I’ll be going,then? As long as everything looks okay.”

“Sure,” Steve said, uncertain, still staring into the bag.  You turned on your heel to head for the stairs. “But, wait—” he called after you.

You spun around to face him, rubbing your lips together, wondering if you were crazy, or if the vampire was trying to flirt with you.

Steve held the bag with one hand and let it fall to his side while his other hand shoved into his front pocket, smirking at you in a way that screamed trouble.  “Would you like to meet up later? After your shift? For a drink, or something?”

Or something.

This wasn’t a good idea, you told yourself, as you turned around to accept his invitation.  

“I’m free right now,” you told him.

—-------

Steve didn’t have a plan; he just knew he didn’t want you to go.

“Were you about to leave?” You asked, gesturing to his outfit as you accepted his invitation inside the apartment.  

“Nowhere…special,” Steve looked you up and down again, forgetting that his sunglasses weren’t covering his eyes.   He was about to go and meet up with his friend Eddie, but he’d shoot him a text real quick and let him know he got “caught up”.  Eddie had canceled on him at the last minute more times than he could count, so his conscience was clear.  

Steve had eclectic taste, and the first thing you noticed was the Depeche Mode poster on the wall, along with some original art, oil abstracts, and there was a retro sense to the place: a boombox from the 80’s, a panasonic tv/vcr combo on a stand in the corner and a 1960’s wicker rattan chair with a big, dark blue cushion.  He had a large collection of vinyl in vintage, wood apple crates stacked up the wall, and a yellow kitchen table set that looked like it was right out of the 1950’s.  

You turned to ask him a question, but he was right there on your heels, and your chests pressed into each other, your noses almost bumping, and that was when you took a closer look at his fangs.  They weren’t long, obnoxious fangs like in the movies, and could almost pass for normal, albeit extra sharp incisors, but for the way they extended down further than the rest of his perfect teeth.  

“Do you ever accidentally—” you motioned to your own tooth, tapping it.

“Bite my own lip? All the time,” he gave a snort.  “My tongue too, and it fucking sucks.”

He offered you a beverage and you were surprised to find out he had human food there.  

“I have several human friends. I cook for them sometimes too,” he assured you from the kitchen which was around the corner. He carried the grocery bag of blood in to pour some out for himself, and then you heard the top pop off a beer.  But then he peeked his head around the corner, raising his eyebrows at you. “Did you think all vampires were hermits that just hung out with each other in a cave somewhere? Like in The Lost Boys?”

You put your hands in your back pockets and went over to take a closer look at the bat with nail spikes through it that was mounted like a trophy above his stereo system.  He came out carrying a wine glass full of a deep claret liquid, and handed you the beer, gesturing to the futon with his elbow.

He’d only known you for a few minutes and he already wanted to kiss you.  He could see the heartbeat in your throat from where he sat, and he wanted to take a sip from your lifeforce and then kiss you with his bloody lips, smearing it down your chin.  He couldn’t smell any other man or partner on you, but he also couldn’t let you walk out and be with someone else; he was actively attaching to the scent of your blood, and if you stayed any longer, he’d have to do something about it.  

You took a few gulps of your beer, thinking that if you didn’t make you move, you’d lose your nerve.  A chance to be consensually bitten by a vampire did not come around as often as people would think.  Especially for the modern vamps of today who’d been following a set of rules for decades.  Most vampires had specific humans they “bonded” with, be it a familiar or a partner, or they ingested a specific type from the blood bank or blood substitute.  Vampires were very finicky creatures, and the blood had to taste good in order for them to want to ingest it.  The way it tasted had to do with a certain mix of hormones and chemistry, you really had no clue.

After a bit of small talk about where you came from, and how long Steve had been a vampire—he was turned in 1996 by an ex he didn’t want to talk about—you set your empty beer down on the rectangular wood coffee table and sat back.

“So,” you bobbed your head a few times.  “Here we are.”

“Yes,” he inclined his glass to you, taking the last sip of his Type O claret. “Cheers to us.”

And then, there was silence, but for the sound of people chatting out in the hall, the low hum of the Depeche Mode song It’s no Good, and your heartbeat in your ears.

But then, you just blurted it out, and Steve started to talk at the same time.

“How would you feel if I asked you to—”

“I have to confess that I—”

You licked your lips.  “You go first,” you said on a nervous exhale, fiddling with the arm of the futon.

“No, you—please,” Steve sank down and rested his head on the back of the cushion, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made your cheeks hot.  You couldn’t help but notice the bulge in his pants was abnormally large even though it wasn’t even erect.

This was crazy, what were you even doing in his apartment? Your friends would be screaming obscenities at  you if they knew, telling you to pull out your colloidal silver mace spray and run.  But yet, all of  your blood seemed to be tickling at the surface of your skin, wanting to escape.

You turned in your seat and Steve’s eyes followed your movements, watching how you bent your knee up and scooted towards him..

“Here’s the thing,” you cleared your throat, finding your words.  “I’ve never been bitten before, by, you know, a vampire, but I’d really love to know what it feels like.  I fantasize about it, sometimes.”

In an unexpected turn of events, Steve abruptly got to his feet, mumbling, “not another one,” as he put his back to you and rolled his head from side to side, walking away.

“Wait,” you stood up too. “What do you mean, ‘not another one’? Do delivery drivers normally show up here asking you to bite them?”

When he faced you, his eyes were full of weary disappointment.  “I’m not turning you, okay? I will never turn anyone as long as I exist,” and then he rounded the corner into the kitchen and you heard the wine glass drop into the sink.  

“Hold on,” you followed, coming up behind him as he bent forward to brace his hands on the countertop.  He appeared so suddenly distraught, your hand hovered at his lower back for a while, wondering if you should touch him, and then you finally did—feeling his cold skin through his shirt like winter marble.  

You made a few comforting circles with your palm, and he let you, secretly closing his eyes at the soothing nature of your touch.  

“Hey,” you whispered.  “I don’t want to be a vampire.  And even if I did, I would never want to put that on you, a complete stranger.”

This admission made him stand, and you watched the way the ends of his hair caught on the collar of his shirt, shoulder blades flexing under the material.

You rested your hip by the sink, eyeing his back muscles.  “I’m kind of embarrassed now, that I admitted that to you,” you laughed a little then, at yourself, at the situation, looking down at your nails.  Could you have fucked this up any harder? 

You barely had time to register that he had turned around and was coming toward you, it all happened in a human blink. But then he had your back pressed flush against the wall by the fridge, one hand cupped your throat while the other pinned your hip.  It knocked the air out of you, but it also turned you on, and he returned your stare with a flicker of uncertainty.  Silky brown eyes that seemed to go ink black as the pupils expanded.

He brought his cheek down, rubbing it against yours, inhaling the scent of your hair, his words a tight whisper at your ear.  “Why do you want me to hurt you?”

“I-I don’t want that,” you stammered, knees wobbling as he sniffed along the side of your face and down your neck; his skin was cold and it made  your nipples hard.  “I just want to know what it feels like to be…needed like that.”

Steve snapped his head up to look at you; brows clenched, cherry lips parted.  The urge to taste you, to feast on you, had him questioning almost a decade of sobriety from using his fangs to feed.  His teeth ached, his stomach growled.  The light in the kitchen was on, and aside from a lamp in the living room and the street lights from outside, the rest of the apartment was dark.

Steve nudged your nose with his; lips an inch or two away from yours.  “Maybe…just a taste.”

You lifted your chin to kiss his pouty lips, but he pulled back.  “We can’t do that, though.  We can’t kiss.”

You searched his eyes, confused.  

Steve released your throat, and the tension of the moment subsided.  “It’s too…intimate.  I can’t risk an attachment to a complete stranger.” You could tell he was using your words against you, and you wondered why that description bothered him so much.  You were both, indeed, strangers, and you didn't know how else to categorize him.

“I want it to be a good experience, though,” he hushed, taking your hand, guiding you back out to the living room. “It’s the least I can do.”

He told you to wait there while he got a towel from the closet; he didn’t want blood on his new futon.  If only you knew how many offers like this he’d turned down in his life; if only you knew how nervous he was to break this seal with you.

“Should I lay down or sit up?” You asked.  Your mind was having a hard time registering that this was actually happening.  

Steve came back and plopped down onto the squishy futon.  His shirt was off, and your eyes locked on the patch of chest hair over his milk white skin.  “It’s less messy this way,” he gestured to his bare chest, and then he raised an eyebrow, his face serious.  “Are you comfortable straddling my lap?”

“Facing you?” 

Steve dropped his shoulders, giving you a look, and then he patted the cushion on either side of him.

You were about to drop your knee down to do as he suggested.  

“Oh wait,” he stopped you, giving you an open, earnest expression.  “Do you want to take your shirt off?  It might get blood on it. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

You looked down at your shirt.  It was a vintage concert tee, and you didn’t want to risk it. “Um, yeah, okay,” you had a sports bra on underneath, so this was fine.  

Steve watched you remove your shirt with a hitch in his chest, but then looked down when you finished and tossed it over the chair.  

You climbed on top of him, bracing your hands on his shoulders.  “You’re so cold,” you observed.  “You make me want to get you a blanket.”

“You’re all the warmth I need,” he muttered, shifting as your core settled above his cock, his hands tentative at your hips. 

“Listen, it’s probably going to sting, or hurt, even,” he coached, watching the plump artery in your throat.  “But once I start drinking, your endorphins take over and it should feel…good, in a way.”

You nodded, pushing your shoulders back.

“Now, come forward,” he continued, pulling you close so that the two of you were skin on skin, his fingers spread out on your back.  “And tilt your head to the side, just like that.”

Steve’s mouth watered as he took in the sight of your neck so exposed to him, like an offering.  It reminded him of way back when he used to confuse the gift of blood as a form of love.  Back when he was naive and bursting with wet dreams about a home and a family and one love forever.

A few seconds passed and your chin rested on the cool muscles of his shoulder.  You could feel his breath on your skin, tingly like wintermint gum.  

“Should I count down?” He asked.

“No, I’m fine,” you returned with an edge of irritation. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You adjusted yourself in his lap and it made his cock throb, and now he was nervous that you could tell how aroused he was.  It’s been a while since he drank from someone he wasn’t in love with, and his cock assumed it was its turn to get involved too.

You felt his lips tremble on your flesh as he brushed over the spot. 

“Okay, here we go,” he mumbled. Steve’s stomach growled again as he made “O” with his mouth over your big, thumping artery, swiping his tongue a few times over your salty barrier.

But then his teeth broke the surface, making you choke and clutch his arm.

It did hurt, in the same way thorns from a rose bush hurt, and your adrenaline surged, preparing your body for fight or flight, but Steve’s arms were strong, and now they had you caged in a vice grip.

The sweet hesitancy of consent was gone now that he knew the honey nectar in your veins.

Now, his animal urges made him growl as he drank from you; whimpering, even, when he felt you ease into it, shifting to be closer to him.

There were only a few seconds of that sharp pain, but then as he sucked, you felt your pussy flutter and bloom—a reaction that you had not expected.  You closed your eyes, vibrating, leaning into each pull, turned on more and more by his wanton need for you. A trickle of blood trailed down along your breast and it made your skin raise with gooseflesh.  

Steve jerked his mouth away with a gasp after about a minute, breathless.  He looked at the dripping fang marks in your neck, and then, without thinking, he kissed you there. He released his double arm lock on you and held your upper arms, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck,” be breathed.  “That was so good.” 

“You can have…more,” you whispered, keeping your head tilted to the side.  

Steve swallowed hard: the temptation was real. “I can’t,” he managed.  “I’m afraid I’ll take too much.”

You wanted to cry out in disappointment, to beg for more.  But then, Steve picked up the towel and started wiping you off. He pricked his finger to heal the fang holes with his blood and you felt a sizzle as they closed up and vanished.

You couldn’t look at him right away, but when you finally did—you saw the trickles of your life force in the corners of his mouth and the strawberry wine tinted hue of his lips. His cinnamon brown eyes that had somehow turned hazel  Your need was too great, and before you could stop yourself, you were leaning forward to flick your tongue out to taste the evidence of his feast.

Steve turned his head and that was when you remembered the rule: no kissing.  He was the Julia Roberts Pretty Woman version of vampires.  

But a  twitch of his cock against your inner thigh from inside his jeans betrayed him. 

“Oh, fuck it,” he hissed, acquiescing to his own desires, holding the back of your head to find your mouth.  He kissed you deep, without any hesitation.  It was innocent and urgent, like a man who had been starving in many different ways for a long time.

The taste of your blood in his mouth had your eyes rolling back in your head.  There was something about the closeness of it; the way he received nourishment from you.  You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him back, not paying any attention to the way your hips were grinding into him.

“Wait,” there was a smacking noise as Steve pulled his mouth away. He ran the back of his fingers down your cheek.  “Do you want this? Do you want…me?”

Your lips throbbed and felt bruised, and you nodded, unable to form words.

Steve would regret this the next day, he knew he would.  He wasn’t one of those people who could do casual intimacy like Eddie and Argyle.  He wondered if he was hypnotized by your blood, wondered if maybe he’d see clearer in the morning.  But right then, he didn’t care.

You crossed your arms over yourself and pulled your sports bra off, watching Steve’s breath catch at the sight of your nipples. He took one in his mouth, swirling his tongue, moaning as he did so, and you flexed your hips against him. His sucking popped off as your mouth went to his neck; you didn’t kiss him, you just planted your lips there and said:

“I love knowing my blood is inside of you.”

And for some reason—that was it for Steve.  

He gasped, clamping his hands onto your thighs, locking you in place. “Wait…fuck…oh shit—”

You felt him tremble and arch his pelvis up, his hips stuttered, and then his head dropped to your arm with a strangled cry.  

“Hold on…did you just?”

“I’m afraid so,” Steve admitted with a tight, aggravated sigh.  “Excuse me while I—”

He motioned for you to move out of his lap, but you stayed there, lowering your head to find his eyes.  “Can I clean you up?”

Steve shifted, feeling embarrassed and a little uncomfortable, about to decline your offer, but then you were sliding down between his legs, pushing them wider with your shoulders.  Your attention went to unbuckling his belt and zipper, but then your eyes flicked up to meet him, hovering there.

“What are you doing?” He asked softly, lifting his hips when you needed to scoot his jeans and red boxers down.  You saw the wet spot where his tip had exploded and the dark hair around the base of his cock.  You grabbed onto his length to bring it out of hiding and Steve shivered.

“You don’t have to—” but your lips were already on the fat, sticky tip, licking down the vein and the excess that dribbled down his shaft.  His cum didn’t really have a taste—it reminded you of something with a clear flavor, like glycerine.  He was semi-hard now; caught between being done and getting excited again.  He threw his head back onto the couch, exposing his throat to the ceiling, Adam’s apple jerking as he swallowed back a whimper.

His hips bucked up when you took the tip to the back of your throat, and Steve’s fingers dug into the couch, wondering if he should touch you.  “Do you like the way I taste?” He asked in a hush.

You nodded, meeting his gaze again, kissing the head of his cock.  “I want more.”

Steve leaned down to grab your face with both hands and coaxed you back up into his lap for another depraved kiss; moaning into each dive of your tongue.

“It’s my turn,” he said with a crooked grin, rubbing his nose on yours, and then he flipped you over with surprising strength.  You pushed your jeans down as he pulled them, yanking the denim all the way off your feet.  They landed inside out in a crumpled pile nearby.   He kissed down your breasts, your stomach, flicking his devilish tongue along the soft curve of your hip.  

Your legs stretched out to meet the width of his strong shoulders, cursing when his tongue licked a stripe up and down your slit a few times. When his mouth pulled away, there was a string of saliva connecting you to his chin, and he found your eyes before he moved to taste you again.

He lifted your thighs up off the couch—god, he was so strong—and licked down even further, until his tongue fluttered at your tight muscle back there, making both holes clench.  Your torso was almost bent in half when he looked up at you over your pussy.  “Do you like that?”

“Don’t stop Steve, please,” you gushed.

He took that as a yes, smiling to himself, continuing to work you over in that spot.

He lowered you and moved up to suck your clit and sank two fingers in a little too fast, making you tighten up for a moment.  “Shit, your fingers are so big.”

He made a guttural growl, staring at the way his fingers stretched you, and it sounded so unlike the noises he made thus far, it made your eyes snap open.

“More,” you gasped, taking his head in your hands.  Your fingers threaded through his hair that was a bit crunchy from styling product.

He slipped a third finger in and your cunt pulsed around him, making his cock get stiff and leaky again. “Fuck, you’re going to take my cock so good.”

The throb of the artery in your inner thigh caught his attention and so—that was all he could think about.

His fingers went in to the last knuckle, and twisted them a few times.

Your jaw went slack with a moan.  You watched his mouth lift off an inch so that he could stare at the spot just below the curve of your hip.  You could almost hear his thoughts, they were so loud, and the thought of him feeding on you again made  your cunt tighten like a fist.  

“Fuck, Steve, please do it,” you whined, squirming.  “Take more of my blood.”

Steve felt like a man out of control. Like the vehicle had already flown off the cliff, but he was still trying to work the break and steer.  There was no hope for him now—he might as well release his grip on the wheel.

His fingers curled up inside you as his fangs nipped at your tender flesh, toying with you.  When his his sharp teeth finally sank in, he didn’t give a shit about staining the couch or his clothes—he didn’t care if you could tell how much he fucking loved this.

When his mouth locked onto you, your pussy clenched around his fingers, and you were whimpering, clutching the back of his head, encouraging him, “moremoremore.” 

Steve had to push himself off of you with all of his strength, sending the couch sliding back a few inches with you on it, knocking over a table and a lamp that went crashing to the ground.  Your flesh was still leaking as he stumbled back, breathing quick and heavy, mouth and chin wet from his meal. His jeans were still down his hips a bit and his cock curved angry and sticky against his belly.

“Cover it,” he braced his hands behind him on the carpet, gesturing to your inner thigh, but you weren’t quick enough.  “Cover it now!” He barked, wincing, baring his teeth.  

You reached over for the towel and did as he asked, wrapping it around your thigh, securing it with your hand, watching whatever struggle he seemed to be having with himself.  It looked almost as if Steve was…changing? The hair on his chest and arms seemed to grow thicker right before your eyes and his jaw muscles strained as if making room for more teeth.

Once he caught his breath, his eyes locked on your cunt—so open and ready for him—and another animal growl escaped his chest.  You watched his cock twitch a few times, a sticky strand of precum connecting to his stomach.

No words were needed as he grabbed you by the crook of your knees and yanked you off the couch.  You yelped only because his movements were so fast and your lower back skidded on the rug, but you were equally opening yourself up wider for him, spreading your knees out.  

He knelt before you, chest hairier than ever, and his eyes flicked red for a moment.  He stretched his thick cock down along your slick and with one thrust, buried himself to the hilt, making you both throw your heads back with a cry.  

“Fuck,” you wanted him deeper, you wanted all of it.  Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the size.  He put one hand at your shoulder and one at the crease of your thigh and began to pound you onto his cock as if you were a toy.  Your breasts bounced and you kept eye contact with him as your jaw went slack, feeling a mounting orgasm already teasing in your core.

Steve’s hands no longer resembled the hands of a man; they were completely covered in hair now with curved claws. Honey brown fur covered his flesh entirely, and his nose was more of a snout as his eyes bore into you, burning an orange red.  His mouth was wider, teeth bigger and sharper as he revealed them to you in a sneer; his tongue lolling out thick and sharp.

You were not afraid though, and he could see it in the way you regarded him, as if the change had not taken place at all.   Your curiosity was piqued, but you were not disgusted, nor did you look away.

The curse, it was real.  He had not dared to tempt it for so long, thought maybe he had outrun it, but now he was mating you and he didn’t know how to stop.

You didn’t want him to stop. You wondered if maybe this was what happened when some vampires had sex—you’d never tried it before.

His strong, animal hips slammed against you; muscular, hairy legs splitting his jeans open so the seams ripped to accommodate his size.

“Steve, I’m gonna cum,” you gasped, brushing your fingers over your clit.

Monster Steve’s movements sped up and got erratic as you screamed his name again and the fire in your belly swelled to your entire body, exploding like firecrackers behind your eyes.  

Steve barked and locked you up against him, balls deep, as his cock pumped everything he had inside of you; body tensing, muscles straining.   

You were both panting when your eyes found each other again.  He searched your face with his feral eyes as his cock jumped a few times inside of you.  You wondered if he had lost the ability to speak since he hadn’t said a word since the transformation. 

He unhooked his hand from your shoulder and ran a claw down your face, gently, parting your lips with it, and then drawing down your throat.

There was a knock at the door, and somewhere in the deeply muffled civilized part of Steve’s brain he thought: “Shit, I forgot to text Eddie.”

You looked around, wondering what to do, wanting to cover yourself up, and Steve pulled out of you, savoring one last look at his cum leaking out before he bolted to the fire escape window on all fours and then crouched there.  

“Steve?” Another man’s voice came from the other side of the door.  “Yo Steve man, what gives? I waited at the bar for like two hours.”  He knocked on the door again, and then tried the knob.  “I’m going to use my spare key if you don’t answer, man.  It’s not like you not to text.”

Monster Steve growled low, staring across the room at the door, snarling like a dog.  

Getting the hint that maybe Steve didn’t want anyone to see him like that, you jumped up to find your clothes when you heard the key in the door.  You had your shirt on and were struggling to button your jeans when the door opened.  

You rushed over to greet whoever it was and found yourself face to face with another vampire, but this one had long, dark messy hair, and bangs that were too long, and a leather jacket over his Alice in Chains tee shirt.  

“Hey,” he paused, offering a confused smile to expose his fangs.  “I’m Eddie.  Is Steve here? We were supposed to meet me but he—-”

That was when Eddie caught sight of the huge, hairy monster dropping from Steve’s fire escape and into the street.

“Shit!” Eddie cursed, pushing passed you, yelling for Steve.  

You both made it to the window in time to see monster Steve bounce over the hoods of several cars like something out of a DC comic, and then bolt down an alleyway on all fours before climbing up the next building.  

Eddie turned to you, the only human in the vicinity, and cursed.  “You let him drink your blood, didn’t you?”

“Well I—” you stammered, trying to catch sight of Steve from the window again, but he was long gone.  “I-I didn’t know that vampires couldn’t—”

“Most can,” Eddie sucked in his bottom lip and put his hands on his hips, looking around.  “But not Steve.  He was already a werewolf when he was bitten and turned into a vampire, and if hybrids drink blood directly from a human, they turn into a beast, like what you saw.”  Eddie glanced down at how your jeans were unzipped, and then he quickly looked out the window again.  “Especially if there is some type of sexual act involved.”

Eddie paced back and forth in a line for a minute, wondering what he should do—-who he should call. 

You swallowed so hard there was a click in the back of your throat.  “How long will he…be like that?”

Eddie scratched his forehead, parting his bangs.  “It’s really hard to say.  Could be hours, could be weeks.  But the problem is—” Eddie trailed off, thinking about the last time this happened.  “----he’s out there all alone and there’s no way to find him or catch him.  He’s stronger than any vampire or a werewolf now.”

You told Eddie a little bit about who you were as you collected your things and went out in the hall with him so he could lock the apartment back up.  You told him that you didn’t mind waiting there, until Steve came back.  Maybe he just went for a run to stretch his monster legs?”

“That’s way too dangerous,” Eddie promised.  “Once Steve is back to Steve again, he’ll want to know I kept you away from him, that I kept you from danger,” he walked you out of the complex and down to your car.  “The smartest thing you can do right now, sweetheart, is go home and wait for things to go back to normal.  I’m sure he’ll call you when he returns to himself.”

You thanked him and shook his hand, even though you knew Steve didn’t have your number.

You had a plan you thought might work even better.

Once you got back to your place, you showered, cleaned up the sticky trail of Steve’s cum down your inner thigh, and then wrapped a towel around you and went to the kitchen to find a sharp knife.

You went out to your modest balcony on the 6th floor of your building, and blinked against the breeze as a hand-shaped cloud circled the moon.  The stars were bright and the air smelled of honeysuckle, and you held the blade of the knife tight before yanking it through your grip.

It slit the flesh of your palm like butter, and you bit your lip against the pain.  You squeezed your fist in the air—a summoning on the wind—and watched the dark red flow trickle down your forearm.

You let it drip onto the railing, all along the cement ledge, and then left the sliding door open and made a trail of droplets on the floor to your bedroom.

And then, you waited.  

[choccy-zefirka]

"It's not fair," Wyll cries out, as the weight of this entire long day, the longest in his seventeen years alive, comes crashing down onto his shoulders and presses him onto his knees. He has weathered it all, somehow, stalwart and strong like the heroes from his childhood books. Even the hot drill of pain that dug into his socket; even the cutting ice-floe edge of his father's voice — it almost seemed distant, a dramatic scene on a page that he was idly reading. But now, suddenly, in a tremendous terrible instant, it all becomes real.

And the world swims and wobbles before him, ever so slightly off, ever so slightly alien, now that he has only one eye to see with. And the sob at the back of his throat turns into a high-pitched squeak, like the ones he'd make not so long ago, when his voice first started breaking. This is probably the last he'll hear from the child who still lives within him. From Ulder Ravengard's boy.

Behind Wyll's back, leathery wings flap softly. A long tail thrashes against the ground, thump-thump-thump, a cat all coiled up in an ambush. He shudders head to toe, a cold pit opening within him — and braces himself to feel those claws on his face again. But the cambion does not grab him this time. She only murmurs, her gloating woven from the sleekest silken thread,

"Of course it's not fair, dear boy. Get used to it."

"It's not fair," Wyll croaks, nigh without sound, on his knees again, in a puddle of darkest crimson. He can barely muster control over his numb lips, his stifled voice: the entirety of his strength has been poured into a single desperate action... Clutching on to the limp, blood-drenched body in his arms. A grey-skinned Tiefling with oddly shaped horn stumps — like imprints of giant fingers that once molded her out of clay — and with a crude makeshift amulet resting on her marble-still chest. A little acorn on a chain.

Just moments ago, he felt so proud of her. His beautiful champion, stalwart and strong, looking her profane father in the face and defying him. That acorn was his promise to her — they were supposed to make it through this, like storybook wayfarers returning home from lands of fire and death; they were supposed to build a life together, sheltered from the darkness that has been tormenting them both.

They were so close. So close. Maybe they still are, maybe she is just asleep in his arms, exhausted by battling her father from within her very flesh... No. The thought is coming from that child, the ever-hopeful little Ravengard. Wyll never thought he'd come back.

The child still dreams, still years for tomorrow — but his tomorrow is cold, empty-eyed, with not a whisper of breath between her darkly bitten lips, or underneath the little acorn.

Behind Wyll's back, there are no footfalls. Not a hint of presence, until the silence is broken by that peculiar dusty drawl.

Withers has this way of hovering slightly above ground, whenever his fancy strikes him. This would have been a great subject for frivolous camp gossip in another lifetime, when among all the tadpole squirms and the horrors of Faerun's deepest long-forgotten corners, Wyll still had his love, his poem incarnate, by his side. But now he could not care less about skeleton antics. Until —

"Tis not fair," the ancient scribe agrees, softly, with a hint of what, in any other being's tone of voice, might have been... Tenderness.

"And I shall not allow it."

[quietblueriver]

Got to thinking about masc Laudna (thanks to all the amazing artists circulating those) and useless lesbian Imogen and needed some fluff, so pls find below a random modern AU feat. Laudna in a muscle tank; Laudna w/floppy hair; Caviar, Mister, and Flora as excellent pups; (background) wingwoman Fearne; vet Imogen; and shameless fluffy flirting.

-

“Shit. Fuck. Damn it.” Imogen hisses and pulls at the orange webbing of the leash, turning to try to free herself. It’s futile, Mister matching her turn for turn, whole body wagging with excitement at the game he seems to think Imogen is playing. 

“Good girl, Flora. I’m sorry, baby,” she says absently to the massive gray Dane mix waiting patiently to the side. Flora’s purple leash coils almost neatly on the ground next to her as she huffs and lays down out of the danger zone, and Imogen makes a note to give her an extra scoop of peanut butter tonight as she fights a scream. 

“Okay! Mister, stop. Stop! Fucking…” She’s bending down to try to get the handle on his harness when she hears the voice, lilting and curious and familiar. 

“Imogen?”

Her head snaps up, hands paused in their pursuit, and she barely has time to register Laudna, smiling a bit hesitantly in her round silver sunglasses, signature white streak falling unruly from the rest of her slicked back hair, before Mister catches sight of Caviar and pulls, yipping happily and tightening the webbing wrapped around Imogen’s ankles and…

The wind bursts from her chest in a very unattractive grunt as she hits the ground, arms flailing, and, helpfully, the leash unspools from around her legs as Mister keeps going for his friend, the fabric tensing at the point where it connects around her waist. Cool. Cool cool cool. 

The wet of the grass and dirt seeping into her cut-offs, she lets her head fall all the way back and sees Flora eyeing her almost boredly from her own spot nearby. Giving herself the gift of denial, she closes her eyes and pretends that she had imagined Laudna, that her very hot friend she wanted to make out with real bad hadn’t, in fact, been the one to see her bust it. It’s a nice fantasy, and then she hears Laudna’s voice, frantic. 

“Oh! Oh no. Oh I’m so sorry. Mister, down. Caviar, stay. Stay.”  

It’s the worry that makes Imogen leave the world where she isn’t a full mess; she doesn’t want Laudna thinking she’s hurt, and trying to deny reality for any longer is likely to make her seem concussed, at best. 

“Imogen? Are you alright?”

The handsome smile is gone, the corners of her mouth pulled down in worry. Her bottom lip catches under an incisor as she kneels, the silver of the gorgeous, intricate ear cuff she wears on her right ear bright against the sun with the dip of her head. As she settles, one hand runs through her hair, mussing it slightly so that more flops over the shorn sides, which look like they’ve been newly touched-up. 

It’s quite frankly, a lot for Imogen to be asked to handle, and that’s before she takes her sunglasses off and tucks them into the pocket of her black tee as she assesses Imogen, big, dark eyes moving with concentration over Imogen’s sprawl. 

This, of course, makes Imogen aware of everything about herself, but honestly, it could be worse. She’s in purple high tops, yesterday’s cut-offs, and the Bikini Kill t-shirt she’d spilled her iced coffee on earlier and hadn’t had the time or inclination to change, a pair of violet Wayfarers tucked into the collar. Pro: the shorts are Fearne-endorsed and make her ass look great. Con: her ass is currently in the wet grass, along with the rest of her. 

She sighs and Laudna’s brow furrows further, her hand reaching out to flit between the space above Imogen’s shoulder and her hip. Imogen wants to grab it, erase the distance. 

“Imogen?”

And fuck, she’s been too busy being a lesbian to answer. Grasping, she says, like she’s new to language, “Good. Fine. Mister.” 

Unhelpfully, her hand, without her conscious knowledge or consent, begins to gesture awkwardly and quickly between the leash secured around her waist and the space in front of them, one foot lifting to join it as if in emphasis. 

“No,” she says in admonishment to the wayward foot, staring it down, and Mister, now lying happily at her feet, tongue lolling, seems to wink at her. Caviar, all massive, muscled black body, sits perfectly beside Imogen’s other leg, the one nearer to Laudna, and he’s regal as always, the outline of his torn ear ragged against the sun. 

When she’d first met Laudna and Caviar on their move-in day six months ago, 3B to Imogen’s 5C, Imogen had cooed and, with permission, gotten to her knees to let Caviar sniff at her. Laudna had joined her, thoroughly distracting in her homemade black muscle tank, Whitestone High School Band in faded white letters forming a circle around a large tree. 

She’d smiled as she rubbed softly at Caviar's damaged ear, a match to the rest of the scars that littered his body and his docked tail. Pulling at her own cuff, she’d said, “I’ve thought of getting him one. It might be nice to match, although I think he looks quite rugged and handsome this way, too. A survivor, hmm?” Her voice had pitched higher with the last words, clearly directed at the pup, who turned and licked at her hand with affection. 

Imogen had swooned and, five minutes later, tripped on air as she left them to get settled, waving off Laudna’s concern and moving as fast as she could up the stairs without further shaming herself. 

A throat clears. Laudna’s throat clears. Laudna, who is still here, still right here, good gods Imogen what the fuck. She leaves her daydreams, the tilt of Caviar’s head feeling a little judgmental, and forces herself to meet kind dark eyes. Her skin is hot, absolutely red as a tomato, but she ignores that and tries for a smile. It’s not quite right, she can feel it in the strain of her cheeks, and her failure is confirmed with the narrowing of Laudna’s eyes. Such pretty eyes. Whatever’s happening with her mouth now is so concerning that Laudna’s frown deepens. 

Shit, maybe she should fake a concussion.

Her foot jumps again, admonishing her back, and yeah, fine, deserved. 

Focus drawn toward the motion, Imogen’s already busy admiring her profile, the sharp cut of her jaw and the proud, aquiline curve of her nose, as Laudna says, a little confused, “Is…is there something wrong with your foot? Your, your ankle, perhaps? I know the leash was…” 

At the slightly pained noise Imogen can’t suppress, Laudna’s reaching toward her pocket, her phone, Imogen realizes, and she’s shooting to sit up and grab Laudna’s wrist on instinct. “No,” she says at a volume just short of offensive. “No, I’m fine.” 

She lets go of Laudna’s hand and puts her own to the back of her neck, feeling bits of wet dirt and grass against skin and groaning in horror when she sees she’s left the same on the pale skin of Laudna’s wrist. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, Laudna. I’m fine, honest.” She closes her eyes and sighs, lets her mouth run because at this point why not. “Except that I can’t help makin’ an ass of myself in fronta you, I guess.” 

And it’s true. Since that first meeting, Imogen has: fallen up the stairs out of the mailroom at catching sight of Laudna in a full suit and tie; dropped an entire bag of groceries trying to hold the door open for Laudna, who had been carrying exactly nothing; choked on beer, spilling all over herself and Laudna’s kitchen floor at Fearne’s whispered suggestion about, what, exactly, Imogen might do to show her appreciate for Laudna’s Ticket to Ride prowess; tripped over her own feet or on nothing at all more times than she can count; and woke the whole building with the fire alarm at 11:30pm, the fallout of ignoring the phone timer for her frozen pizza for 23 minutes because she ran into Laudna in the mail room and didn’t want to leave.

“I don’t think that’s true at all.” 

Imogen blinks her eyes back open and raises her eyebrows incredulously. “That’s nice and all, but Ms. Gertrude still gives me stink eye.”

“To be fair,” Laudna’s lips are quirked and Imogen’s stomach does that thing it does when she feels like she’s made Laudna smile, “I think that might just be her face, darling.”

And that’s new, the term of endearment and the shade of purple in Laudna’s cheeks just after she says it, but then again, Imogen doesn’t usually talk about what a queer disaster she is because of Laudna in front of Laudna, so. 

“Um,” she says, and Laudna tilts her head and looks at her with what Fearne has told her probably 100 times really is fondness and not Imogen just wishing things, at least half the time tacking on an offer for a threesome that Imogen declines with a blush fierce enough to make Fearne coo and cackle. 

Unsurprising in the face of Imogen’s inability to find her words, Laudna still doesn’t seem totally convinced that Imogen isn’t hurt, humming under her breath before she asks, “Are you quite sure you’re alright? You know Letters is an EMT. They were just around the corner getting coffee. Actually, just to be safe…” 

She’s reaching for her phone again, and Imogen is distracted by the way the movement shifts the fabric near Laudna’s hip, the little sliver of nearly translucent skin on display where the black of her shirt has escaped the black of her linen pants. It’s only the glint of the screen in the sunlight and the threat of further shame that overrides her useless lesbianism, pushing her to shake her head and bring a hand to Laudna’s knee. 

It has the intended effect—Laudna stops texting and instead turns her full attention to her knee—and as soon as Imogen’s fingers twitch nervously, Laudna’s hand is on hers, surprisingly cool, calloused fingers wrapping around to rest against Imogen’s palm. 

She seems surprised at her own action, a thick, dark eyebrow raised like she doesn’t quite understand what’s happening, and it gives Imogen the smallest burst of confidence. 

“Hey,” she offers, and the smile that takes up residence feels much more natural, if a little wider than usual.

“Hello,” Laudna responds, shoulders relaxing a little as she smiles back. 

A cold nose nudges at her tricep and Imogen sighs. She tilts her head back and reaches her free hand for Flora, who has been waiting very politely for her mother to conclude her embarrassing, gay interaction and before that for her annoying cousin to get it together. She’s due her well-deserved walk. 

“I know, baby. Okay.” Laudna still hasn’t let go of her hand and Imogen doesn’t want her to, so she acts like she’s Relvin’s kid again for a second and does something about it, keeping her hand on Flora’s big jaw as she looks to their joined hands and then to Laudna’s open expression. “Would y’all, uh, you and Cav, I mean, wanna join us? For a walk?” 

And fuck. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mister is up and on her as soon as she says the word, which means Laudna is forced back, hitting the ground next to her with a surprised noise that’s unfairly cute. 

“Oh my gods.” She pushes Mister to the side, stands, unclips his leash from her waist and hastily clips it around the closest light pole. “Laudna, shit, I’m so sorry. Let me,” she offers her hands to Laudna, who takes them after giving Caviar a reassuring pat, smiling the whole time. She’s still smiling as Imogen starts to help her up, smiling a little less as it becomes clear that Imogen has miscalculated the amount of strength to use, and trying very valiantly to turn a wince into a smile just before they collide. 

Imogen somehow manages to keep them stable, back foot out for balance and arms braced at Laudna’s waist. Before she can stutter out yet another apology, Laudna’s smiling again, for real, and then she’s laughing, and Imogen can’t look away. 

“I’m fine, darling, I promise,” she says through a last bout of laughter, running her hand through her hair again and shaking her head. “We would love to join you for a walk.”

“Oh,” she says, because of fucking course she does. “Neat.” She is pretty sure she’s never said that before in her life. 

“Neat,” Laudna echoes kindly, like it’s something people say, although Imogen is pretty sure she wants to laugh, too, the purse of her lips giving her away. 

“Oh, hush,” Imogen says, and Laudna does laugh then, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, yeah. I’m a useless lesbian. I get it.”

Laudna tsks. “Nonsense. You’re quite capable. Fearne has told me all about how well you did in vet school and I’ve seen the waitlist at your clinic.” 

She pats her leg and Caviar moves to stand beside her, leash in his mouth. Imogen grabs Flora and moves to get Mister, eager as ever, from the pole, clipping his leash around her again. 

“You know you don’t have to call the clinic. Just text me. I’ll fit y’all in whenever. And,” she has to say it, even as she wants to hug Fearne and shower her in those flaming hot chips she loves for definitely talking her up to Laudna, “I wouldn’t believe everything Fearnie says.” 

Laudna slides her glasses back on with something close to a smirk,

“Hmm. Well. That’s a shame. She’s told me quite a few things about you that I’d like to believe.” 

Imogen stumbles, cursing under her breath. The sting to her pride eases when Laudna’s stabilizing hand comes to her elbow and then stays for a long moment, eventually sliding down her arm and keeping close, the backs of their fingers brushing the whole walk home.