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caeslxys · 6 months

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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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calware · 2 years

Text

TT: ‘Sup. TG: sup TG: this definitely won’t get confusing TT: Are you kidding me? It's about as downright comprehensive as it could ever get. TG: glad were on the same page TG: might as well be in the same paragraph with how on the same page we are TT: I’d wager we’ve even made it down to the exact sentence. TG: hell yeah we have TG: my brain is short circuitin here tryin to keep track of whos talking @_@ TT: Just leave the short-circuiting to me then, ok? TG: at least jas had the decency to change her color to a unique hex lmao TT: Of course. As if I wasn't civilized.

TT: You’re part housecat. TT: Emphasis on the “house” prefix. What sort of stray do you take me for? TG: O_O TG: woah lets back up on the snarky broad infighting and set the record straight here cause by scratching our session TG: we created your universe ie chronologically we take precedent TG: ie we get dibs TG: ie rose and i shouldnt have to change colors TT: Oh hell no. Ain’t no way I'm changing my text color a second time. TG: yeah and u guys were made from our genes soooo technically we were here first TG: that may be true for you two but i *know* dirk made hal when he was 13 so ill keep chilling over here with the red text rights TT: That text has composed my entire nonphysical self for the past 3 years. I’d argue I’m more deserving of its hue. TT: Are we really just going to bicker the entire time? TG: Only ten minutes into a conversation and we’re already at each other’s throats. TG: hal tbf u started it lool TT: … TT: ……… TG: …………… TT: ………………………… TG: what r all tha dots 4……………… TG: WAIT CRAP TG: aaaughh dave u tricked me!! using proper punctuation and everythin TT: It seems there simply aren’t enough colors in the rainbow to sustain our familial unit. Pity. TT: Hey, first I’m losing my text color and now I gotta give up my beloved speech pattern? I might as well saw off my totally new and legit arms while I’m at it. TT: We could always switch over to hemotyping! TG: oh my god jas youre a genius TG: NOOOOOOOOOOO WHAT TT: Yes. That’d be hilarious. TG: signnn am i gonna have 2 double check ur initials every time one of u sends a message now… TT: Sure, you could. TT: But how can you be sure it wasn’t Dirk who just sent that? We still use the same account, you know. TG: GAHH ARE YOU KIDDIN ME TT: Don’t worry Rox, I’m just messin’ with you. TT: Or am I. TG: this family is a nightmare

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ckret2 · 20 days

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Hey. I’ve been looking at your posts about posting your fic on Ao3, and I just wanted to be sure— you do know that you can post your fic without having to use HTML mode, right? Like you can post it without having to type a “” and “” before and after every new paragraph, or use “” “” to make sure something in italics is recognized by the website as italics? Just look for a button on the left right above the box you’re going to be writing in that says “Rich Text” and press that. It should be right next to the button saying “HTML,” which is the default button selected, but you only have to press Rich Text to change that.

And none of your work is lost if you switch buttons. But Rich Text mode gives you a version of the posting box where you can write normally and just press the return key for a new paragraph like normal, and there’s a little menu on the top where you can choose if you want to write in bold or italics or change the spacing or whatever. I just felt like you ought to know in case you missed it and had to write the hard way.

I can't do that because the site I write on and store my fics on strips the formatting out of the document—italics, bold, etc—if I copy/paste it anywhere I've tried (all my other word processor apps, other websites, and yes, AO3's rich text editor) EXCEPT FOR tumblr, for some bizarre reason I don't know. Copy/pasting from the site I use into tumblr and copying tumblr's text to paste into AO3's editor is the only workaround I've found for this issue aside from reformatting every italicized/bolder word by hand. And I use a lot of italics.

I could copy/paste the rich text off tumblr and paste it into AO3's rich text editor, but since tumblr's stupid-as-hell post editor only allows you to select one paragraph at a time, my options are: copy/paste one paragraph at a time; manually force past tumblr's stupid-as-hell inability to select more than one paragraph by selecting the first paragraph and manually scrolling all the way down to the bottom to select the whole thing; selecting the whole chapter by going to the finished post and scrolling down to select the whole thing (which is finicky as hell if you're on a tablet, which I am); or, using select-all in tumblr's HTML format and then just quickly deleting the author's note when I paste.

As you can see, using select-all in HTML format is the fastest and least human-error-prone way to transfer text from tumblr to AO3

Every time I post a new chapter I paste the text to AO3's HTML editor and then switch to the rich text editor to insert that chapter's art.

#anonymous #ask #about my writing #(incidentally the format stripping issue also happens when I paste text INTO the site I use)#(for some reason if I manually add html tags to my text & paste it into the site... it removes the html & auto converts to italics??#(would kill to see what that website's backend looks like)

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itsohh · 1 year

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Same Page

A/N: Thought this went without saying but, this is an act of fiction. Minors are never welcome on this blog, this is for entertainment purposes only and god wtf is wrong with you that I have to say this but this is not for sex education? If you're not mature enough to know a work of fiction is simply a work of fiction and not 'miss information' you're not mature enough to read smut.

Summary: After months of being unable to properly be together, you have worked up quite an appetite for your lover. It's a shame he's not really in the mood. However, states aren't always permanent and he never could resist you when you sounded like that.

Word count: 3226

Warnings: Smut

AO3 Masterlist

There was only so much you could do, there was only so much you could handle. The pair of you hadn't had any time together for what must have been months, mission after mission, constantly separated, so intimacy was out of the picture.

So when the pair of you finally had time off together, you knew exactly what you wanted. It seemed he knew exactly what he wanted as well. The pair of you had only been home for about ten minutes and he was already in the bedroom. It always made you smile, how in sync the pair of you were. Or so you thought, until you opened the door.

Gaz had turned his switch on and Stardew Valley lit up on the tv. Your smile dropped, only for a second. His gaze shifted to you and he smiled kindly at you.

"Hey wanna come play?"

Your feet were slow on the carpet as you slowly slid onto the bed next to him.

"Mmm, I had a different idea of what we could play." Your voice purred out and his eyes went back to the TV.

"Oh we could play Animal Crossing if you like, or maybe Mario Party but I'm not sure how fun it's going to be just the pair of us."

"I'm thinking more along the lines of Smashing." Your fingers hovered over the centre of his button-up for a moment.

"You hate Smash though- oh." His eyes shifted towards you and he swallowed when your fingers popped open his button and slid your hand on his chest.

Kyle cleared his throat and caught your hand before he pulled it away. "Not tonight, just wanna play. Maybe tomorrow?" The rejection hurt, just a little. But what really snapped was the burning desire that had slowly built up over the months. You pulled your hand back as if he burnt you, the reaction didn't go unnoticed and he let out a small sound.

"Babe, you know it's not like that. I'm just not in the mood and pretty tired I still love you-"

"Kyle, it's fine." Your head lifted and you gave him a reassuring look "You do your thing and I'll do mine." Gaz's eyes looked away from yours but he nodded. A deep breath exhaled out from your lips and your eyes snapped to your side table.

Gaz tried not to stare at you the entire time your hands fumbled with the drawer. Shaking from pure desire, it wasn't easy for you to find the vibrator hidden away in the storage. Eventually, your finger made contact with the soft touch of its velvet bag and you yanked it out. A moment of silence ran between the pair of you when you sat down at the edge of the bed. When you looked up you saw that Gaz's eyes were on yours. Then they went down to the bag in your hand.

You couldn't help the heat that formed over your cheeks. Now that he was watching you with a complete lack of desire or arousal, you couldn't help but feel a little shamed at the fact. He had seen it many times before, walked in on you, even joined you time and time before but this was different, this time you were dirty and he wasn't.

"I'll- I'll head to the living room." You pointed with your thumb and abruptly got up and practically ran out of the shared room. The door behind you was slapped closed and your back made contact as your heart raced. His blank expression raced in your head, mixed with the sting of rejection, both had you let out a small groan that turned into a whimper.

That shame couldn't control you for long, slowly you looked down and the vibrator slid from the small bag and reminded you of that crushing core that demanded attention. Vibrator in your right hand, your left hand slowly drifted down to your clothed cunt. Your eyes closed and you bit your left pointer finger.

Tension left your shoulders and they dropped when your hand slipped the waistband of your pants. Just that little touch gave you so much. Your eyes snapped open towards the open curtains and you ripped your hands away from yourself.

You needed relief and you needed it right there and then. The curtains were promptly snapped closed and you threw the toy on the couch so you had free hands to remove your clothing. First, you removed the t-shirt from your body and then the sports bra that had you let out a little sigh of relief. Next came your pants which were dumped on the ground.

Almost completely bare, you flopped down on the couch and grabbed the vibrator. A quiet him started from the toy and you placed it against your clit with only your thin underwear as a barrier. Your eyes shut and your mind wandered to the way that Gaz would touch you. He would start off slow, his gentle hands on the outside of your thighs. They would run up and down, feeling you up as his tongue would dance over his teeth.

He'd plant his hands firmly against you, indenting your flesh with his fingers. With his nice grip on you, he would pull you into his lap slightly. Kyle would be slotted between your thighs while your back would remain on the cushions. The thought of his clothed cock grinding against your cunt had you mew out. An admittedly rather loud moan as one of your hands went to grace your hard nipple.

The pair of you would stay like that, grinding against each other. Kyle would have that pent-up look on his face, mixed pleasure due to the friction between the pair of you. The grip on your thighs would tighten and he'd curse out before doubling down and grinding even harder.

You arch your back and continue your breathy moans while the vibrator works on your clit. The grip on the vibrator becomes a little tighter as you feel a wave of pleasure spread throughout your core, it's not there for very long but it has you relaxing deep into the couch.

The vibrator slips under your underwear and you slowly start to tease your entrance with it, your clits far too sensitive to continue. It would only need a couple of moments before you could return to it.

Lost completely in your imagination, you didn't notice the bedroom door open.

The dip in the couch had you gasp out and your eyes flung open. Kyle stared into your eyes as he mounted you slightly. Your legs were between his knees while he supported himself with the couch using one hand. Gaz leaned over your body and his face was directly above yours.

"Kyle?" You were still a little hazy, confusion written across your face.

"Hey." He paused and his eyes flashed down for a moment. "You were being a little loud there."

"S-sorry I'll uh try to be quieter." True to your word, your voice practically vanished at the end of your sentence.

There was a playful look on his face and he leaned a little closer. Then his lips made contact with yours. The kiss wasn't gentle by any means. It was rough and wet, sloppy and full of desire, Gaz taking the lead. You moaned into his touch and clenched your fist to prevent yourself from latching onto him like a bear trap.

"I thought you wanted to play on the Switch." The words mumble from your lips the second he pulls back and you hear him laugh slightly and his free hand ran through his hair.

"Fuck, with you over here moaning my name like that?" Your brows raised, you hadn't even realised you had been doing so. "I'm only human, babe."

"Kyle you don't have to-" He shuts you up with the taste of his lips and you feel his hand wrap around yours -specifically the hand with your vibrator in it.

"Don't need this anymore huh? Ready for the real thing?" His brow wiggled and you bit your lip. At his assurance, you couldn't help but feel the joy bloom in your chest. That earlier pain of rejection washed away.

A playful smile broke out on your face as Gaz continued to hover just millimetres above your head. "I dunno Gaz, I think I might continue with this." Your grip on the toy tightened and you smirked at him.

"Cheek."

"Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?" Gaz pulled back slightly and cocked a brow at your challenge. His strong arms wrapped around your waist and suddenly picked you up. Your hand dropped the toy in preference to stable yourself in his grasp. Gaz pulled back with you and got off the couch where your legs wrapped around his hips.

"Thought you were happy with your toy, seems like you just threw it to the side now eh?"

"Cause you picked me up you-" Your voice was cut off when Gaz's lips found your throat and messily kissed it, wetly kissing it as your head rolled back to give him better access.

"You said something?" He managed to muffle into your throat. A moan extracted from your lips was the only response he received and you could feel the way he smiled into your skin.

"You’re a bastard." The words left your mouth before he grabbed you and threw you onto the bed. You bounced a little and couldn't help the little laugh that escaped your mouth. Kyle had a rather predominant smile on his face before he kneeled down at the end of the bed.

Propped up on the bed with your elbows, you stare down at the man. He grabbed your ankles and grinned. A yank of your ankles had you surge forward where his hands kept your legs apart. Kyle's slender long fingers were stretched out over the inside of your thighs. Yet he didn't do much, he only rest his head on your right thigh where he took in the sight of you.

"You're gorgeous, you know that?" The devious smile on his face had softened and became one almost innocent. "Please don't take what I said earlier the wrong way." He clicked his tongue and glanced away for a second. "You're always super hot. I was just tired, you know? Felt like we never got a real break."

"Kyle…"

He pressed a small kiss on the inside of your thigh. "It's like a tiredness in my bones. I mean I got a second wind when I heard yah going at it-" He gave you a wink with his smirk. "-But it's still lingering there. Think it's gonna be good to have some time off."

"We don't have to if you're too tired darling. It's okay Kyle."

"Oh no, you're not getting out of this that easily." Gaz gave you little time to process his words before he turned his head slightly and bit down on the inside of your thigh. It wasn't very hard of a bite but the light pain on your soft tender flesh had you yelp regardless.

"You bitch!" You squeezed out and tore your legs from his grasp. Gaz's warm laughter filled the air as he climbed onto the bed after you.

"Oi get back here." He crawled up over the top of you and as his eyes made contact with yours, your movements slowed down until the pair of you were completely still. The smile on your face flattened and your lips parted slightly.

Gaz leaned in close to you, his skin brushed against your own. "Got you." At his whisper, his lips crashed against yours. Like a bear trap, you sprung and wrapped your arms around his neck. His hand found your waist and wrapped his arm around it while he ground down against you.

Kyle hummed against your lips, his moans muffled against you and he rolled the pair of you until he was on his back. He manoeuvred your body until he had your thighs split apart over his legs. Seated on his lap, the pair of you parted for a second so he could remove his shirt.

It was flung to the edge of the room and you pressed your hands against his chest. You leaned down and pressed your lips against his. Nose brushed against yours and your forehead rolled forward to rest against his. Kyle's lips were always so impossibly soft, somehow he could kiss so rough and messy but always feel so gentle.

An intoxicating taste that was so unique to him, his lips on yours was something that you could never get tired of. Every touch always felt like seconds no matter how long of a moment you shared.

You rolled your hips down on him and he tore his face away from you. Gaz elected a hiss as his head tilted up and his eyes squeezed shut harder. "Fuck you sure know how to rile me up huh?" His voice was breathy and you felt his hand on you tighten.

His free hand tapped twice on the outside side of your thigh and you knew exactly what he was asking. You pushed up in your shins and disconnected your upper body from his. Kyle's eyes shamelessly explored your chest while he snapped out his belt from his pants and undid his pants. A groan of relief left his lips when he finally allowed his rock-hard cock freedom from its imprisonment.

A smug smile that suited his face well graced your sight while he tapped the end of his dick against your cunt. "I would ask if you're ready for me but look at you, your dripping."

With a roll of your eyes, you couldn't help the smile that curled your lips at his teasing tone. You steadied yourself with your hands still on his chest and he aligned himself at your entrance. Gaz opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything, you lowered your body and slid down around his cock.

"Fuck." He drew the word out and his hand flew to the side of your hip where he gripped tightly. "God, it's been too long."

"Uh-huh." You tried to make your voice light and humorous like his teasing but the strain in your voice just had it come out as a needy moan.

You went to move rather quickly but his hand gripped you tight. "Need a second?" You blinked down and he let out a breath.

"Feel like I'm a teen again getting my first hard-on, damn."

“Oh yeah? What was teen Kyle like huh?”

“Surprisingly naive.” He gave you a weak smile. “I don’t think I really started understanding how the world worked until I was, what like twenty-four?” His eyes trailed off. The back of your fingers brushed against his face and his attention was drawn from whatever troubled matter his mind set to.

“I bet teen you was a cute one.” With that sentence alone he let out a laugh and his hand let go of your waist. “Oh sure I was but something tells me that you prefer the way that I am today. You opened your mouth to speak but he made a small thrust up into you to emphasise his statement. It had you let out a groan and you took matters into your own hands. Settled in place you started to roll your hips on his cock, pleasure shared between the pair of you.

Gaz always somehow managed to fit you so well. He took up every inch inside of you. A deep sensation that you swore you could feel in your chest. That cock, too thick and long managed to push against that perfect sweet spot inside of you because how could it not? No space untouched, he filled you to your very core. With every bounce, the tip caressed your cervix. Not in any way painful but a deep pleasure that had you whimpering out his name.

The pace wasn't fast but wasn't incredibly slow either. Every touch was as intense as the last and had you practically trembling on his cock. "Made for me weren't you? That's it, baby." With both of his hands on the outside side of your thighs where he rubbed your skin up and down, coaxing you to continue riding him.

"Not gonna lie though, not sure how long I can last tonight." He admitted.

"Too much?"

"Been too long." He groaned and swallowed. "You’re insane if you think that we are only going one round though."

"Oh?"

"You wanted my dick, baby, now your gonna get it. Fuck." His hands gripped on purchase and he started to thrust himself up into you. Taking charge, you stilled your actions and allowed him to fuck up into you. He didn't push it in as deeply as you had under your control, that extra inch and a half being too much for you to take at such a hard and punishing pace.

He throbbed inside of you, pulsated inside of you. "God I really should slow down but, fuck, you feel so good." A determined look crossed his face but mixed with desperation. So close but so unsure if he should go over that edge.

"Cum for me Kyle." That purr of your voice had him groan out and lift you from his cock. Seconds later his wet dick smacked against your cunt and his seed burst.

It roped out over your stomach and chest. It wasn't just a little either. He painted your body white as his voice deepened in moans. Gaz never was the quiet type. Slowly, you wrapped your hand around his cock and gently pumped it, encouraging it to continue. Kyle cursed out your name and thrust into your hand a little, a mix of his cum and your slick coating the inside of your hand.

His dick stopped jerking and his body relaxed onto your shared bed. "Damn." He breathed out a laugh and ran his hand through his hair. "That's a lot huh?"

"You think?" You smiled back at him and brushed your thumb over the top of his member. He let out a shiver that ran across his entire body.

"Ah- too much give me a minute." His hand flinched towards your wrist and you let go of him. Kyle's eyes flickered down your painted body, fondness adorned his eyes and he couldn't help but grin at you. He was almost proud of himself in a way. He enjoyed the sight of you, that much was obvious but he enjoyed the sight of you so deliciously covered in his seed.

One of his hands reached up, his pointer finger extended out. With the flick of that finger, he smeared his cum over your nipple. A devilish look formed on your face and you grabbed the hand. You brought it up to your mouth where you sucked his finger clean.

Gaz's jaw parted and he let out a groan while his cock twitched with interest. "You're gonna be the death of me."

#gaz x reader #cod x reader #mw2 x reader #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #kyle garrick #alas the new text editor is forced on me so copying/pasting is a pain #means I have to use the html version from ao3 instead of just the raw text so formating is sllliiiggghhhhtly scuffed

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loquaciousquark · 4 months

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As part of what turned yesterday into a six-hour cleanup & touch-up of my tumblr, I polished my character page (now with Inquisitors & Tavs!) & my page of my most commonly used tags. (I used this tool to generate the tag list.) Look at all those ladies! And Astarion! And one random male Hawke!

I've also added a pinned post that has most of the useful links from my sidebar, since my current theme makes those pretty inaccessible on mobile. Let me know if you see anything broken or anything that looks goofy! :D

#quark rambles #i know you probably can't tell how much work i did but SO MUCH #we got into html & css attributes fam!#float! align! 3px auto! max-width & max-height!#i finally fixed 99% that bug on my theme that cropped up after tumblr switched to the new post format #where the images had all the left sides cut off ever-so-slightly #noticeable to anyone else? NO!#noticeable to me? EVERY TIME #now fixed ahahahahahaha #flashbacks to lj theme editing and hoooooow much time i used to spend on customizing those. the good old days

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pupmon1 · 3 months

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Me: *Has several different projects going at once*

Also me: Lets start a new one!!

Anyway! I wanted an excuse to write Sifloop...just Sifloop. And I got inspired by this post from @daily-sifloop

I tried to also capture the vibe from the tags in said post. Sometimes the universe just says no.

#isat #isat spoilers #isat loop #isat siffrin #sifloop #my writings #I will add a link to the post in the actual fic when im at my computer #tumblr was fighting me enough making this post i dont wanna fight html formatting this morning #i promise i will add it #anyway I shake these two in tupperware #something less heavy is a good break from Third and Final's depressing nonsense

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sincerelynotserious · 1 month

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Rouge-like elements in my multi-format web media? It’s more likely than you might think.

#truly amazed with the amount of styles and format screws #and the fact that the creator did it all with just JavaScript html and css?#insane #can’t wait for whatever’s next #corru.observer

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bizlybebo · 10 days

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moving from ao3 rich text box to a doc so i can view it on dark mode and stop burning my eyes. this is real dedication

#vixen rambles #makes me sad thoug h. ao3 rich text box i love you...........#if i wasnt so huge on seeing Exactly the way the format looks when published i would be always be writing my fics in html

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monarch-boo · 8 days

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Look in my eyes... Look in my past.

#post #temp art tag #splatoon #splatoon 3 #dead rising #dead rising deluxe remaster #team past #squid sisters #isabela keyes #frank west #GRAHHH I HATE FORMATTING TEXT ON TUMBLR #took forever just to figure out how text coloring works on tumblr specifically and make it cooperate #also keeps telling me uNsUpPoRtEd hTmL when it's totally fine #it has literally been nearly an hour since i finished the drawing and posted to twitter.#that's how long it took me to fiddle with the html

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hideandgopeep · 7 months

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Book Club?

First, the info:

Who/What: Miche Zacharius (Attack on Titan) x afab f!reader. Word count: 3.8k. NSFW! Reader treats a sweaty, post-training Miche to an evening of getting turned into a whining puddle by mostly touching him, praising him, maybe some slight domming (?), and a lil piv (he finishes elsewhere). A few other Survey Corps members make appearances, and you even get a couple of cheeky run ins with Levi for shits n' giggles.

A/N: Shout out to Flamey (@flametrashira) for the inspiration to write about a whining messy man in the throes of passion. I'm spelling his name "Miche" instead of "Mike" for personal reasons LOL. It's detailed porn with plot, so bring water or an electrolyte drink and a snack. This is my first completed smut, the first piece of completed fan fic I can share, and the third fan fic I've written. Constructive criticism is welcome since I'm so new at writing this (please don't be a butthole). Please, minors DNI. Okay, hope you enjoy!

My squad and I are fucking off after dinner, our chatting lost in the din of the cafeteria. Petra and I are trying to have a conversation, but Oluo insists on peppering in quips. He’s on his third beer, and we know how that goes. I’m newish, moved from the Military Police about a month ago and still meeting members of the Survey Corps all the time. Petra looks up at something above and behind me, and before I turn, I feel someone in my personal space.

“Can I fucking help you?” I growl and turn, a bit surprised to find that rather enormous section commander. He’s usually quiet in the meetings I’ve attended. Petra’s giggling, watching my face, which is blushing for cussing the section commander. He’s watching me from above as I unclench my jaw and blink at him, my anger immediately gone.

“You’re a reader,” he says in a quiet, flat tone. His hair flops over his eyes, which makes it hard to see them until you’re below him like I am, and they’re a match to his smooth voice. Instead of apologizing, I think about what it would be like to push his hair back and tilt his face up while he’s below me.

“H-how can you tell?” He’s still close, and I wrangle my brain to the present.

“Smell like a bookshop.” A corner of his lips lifts with a twitch in his mustache, and he adds, “In a good way.” He holds out his hand, and I take it. “I’m Miche Zacharius.”

I introduce myself and glance at Petra, who’s moved on to talking to Eld on her other side. Miche’s still standing above me, so I turn my body and lift my legs over the bench to fully face him. “You a reader too, Section Commander?” I wait for his answer, and it’s really hard to not slide my eyes all over him. He’d notice, it’d be inappropriate, but I do let my gaze drop to his crossed arms and back up.

“When I find the time, yeah,” he answers. “Hey, nice meeting you, thank Petra for the introduction for me. See ya around.” I watch the way his long, thick legs move as he walks away until I get interrupted by a poke to my back. I lean back to turn, seeing Oluo with a huge shit-eating grin settling in across the table.

“Yeah, I’m a little jealous you ain’t watching me walk away like that, but I get it.” I look for Miche again, but he’s gone. “He’s a lot of man, Scout.”

“Okay, Oluo. What’s he like on the field, though?” I ask, attempting innocent curiosity about him and finish my ale. Wow, my mouth was fuckin’ dry.

“Uh, pretty bad ass, second only to our captain,” Petra answers.

Eld leans forward to add, “Great leader of his squad, takes care of them.”

So, they all saw and heard the interaction. Ugh. At least Gunther’s already gone. Petra and Eld look poised to leave the table.

I check my pocketwatch, and we have just over fifteen minutes until our final squad meeting before the morning ride for a quick mission. We chat for a little longer before heading to the meeting and going about our nights.

The mission does end up being not only quick but uneventful. It’s just our squad with Hange’s, and we camp overnight. It’s early summer, no rain, so we don’t even bother with tents.

We ride back to HQ as soon as we have enough dawn light and arrive just after lunch. I decide to put off relaxing in a bath until after I eat, too fuckin’ hungry from skipping breakfast. Both decisions earn me a couple of comments from my captain. When he sees I’m turning to the cafeteria when we go in the HQ building, Captain Levi flicks my shoulder. “Hey, Scout, at least wash your fuckin’ hands, come on!”

“I will, Captain! Promise to scrub under my nails, too.”

“I know the field rations are as dry as sunbaked turds, but we still need to fuel ourselves. They not teach you that in the MP?”

I click my tongue. “Not much of a need to, we never left.” He groans, and our paths split. I do make a stop to scrub my hands. The rest of my squad does their own thing, but I take my bowl and ale to the table we’re usually at.

Miche’s there with a book on the table in front of him, and I greet him with a smile as I sit beside him. “Hey, Section Commander.”

“Just Miche’s fine. I’d say the same if you were one of mine.”

I hum and take a swig of the cool ale before peering at the book. “You already eat?” I ask, mostly to fill the quiet of the cafeteria. There are just a few stragglers, chatting over empty bowls and mugs.

“Mhm. Brought this for ya to read if you’re interested. Finished it a while ago and still think about it.” He scoots the book closer to me so I can see the cover. It’s wrapped in navy cloth, the title and outline of a saluting hand embossed in silver.

“I wanna ask what about it stuck in your mind but don’t wanna spoil it for myself.” I wipe my fingers on my handkerchief and pick it up to flip through it, catching a few phrases. It’s not a long book, maybe 250 or so pages, and there are some illustrations of plants. I close the book and look up at him. “Thanks, Miche. I’ll check it out and let ya know.”

He responds with a smile and taps his fist on the table a couple of times before standing. “See ya around.”

“Bye.” I pointedly do not watch him leave this time and waste no time starting the book while I finish lunch. The book sucks me in, and I struggle to find a stopping point to go bathe and rest, and stay up late reading more.

The weather the next day is perfect again, and I have no tasks or errands, so I sneak out just after lunch to my coveted quiet reading spot near the river. I get through a lot of the novel, pleasantly surprised because it’s philosophical, loving, healing. My ass gets numb, so I stop and get back to HQ for an early dinner. Can’t help but to start reading again while I wait for the first dinner bell in the nearly empty cafeteria.

Miche interrupts me with a tap on my shoulder. “Damn, almost done already?” I slip the bookmark in and stand up to greet him and a few of his squad members, who wave before lining up next to the kitchen to wait. They’re all sweaty and dirty, Miche especially, and he stands close.

“Hey, yeah, I’m hooked.” I shrug, and I can hear him sniffing me, so I lean toward him and murmur, “What are you doing?”

“You smell like grass, the river, sun.”

I step closer, still leaning toward him, and make it obvious I’m taking a couple of whiffs of him. “Hm, sweat, clay dust, also sunshine, leather, gear oil, and a nice woody scent. Cologne?”

“I’m impressed,” he says and laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s a smooth, deep laugh, like his voice. “It can’t be pleasant, like you.”

“You’d be surprised.” I admire his eyes from my vantage and move to his mouth. Fuck, I’d almost let him bend me back on one of these tables in front of everyone if it meant I could get a taste. I lick my lips at the phantom taste. “What are you doin’ after dinner?” I brave asking, hoping no one overhears.

He starts, just barely. “Nothin’, why?”

My squad comes in, and Oluo immediately sees us and winks at me. I look up at Miche again. “I could answer with something innocent like discussing the book.”

“Ohh,” he breathes before leaning next to my ear and humming before whispering, “Hmm, then yeah.” My knees shudder with the vibration of his voice. “Your squad’s looking for ya. Meet up after dinner?”

“Mhm.” I savor the heat from his breath against my hair and neck as we part, giddy like an idiot. I’m checked out of what everyone’s talking about while we eat, the book on my lap under a handkerchief so I don’t drop food on it. Miche and I are in each other’s line of sight, so we glance at each other for some signal, which is him jerking his chin. He leaves, and I’m not far behind.

“Book discussion, huh?” he asks, walking to me as I leave the cafeteria. “As long as it’s fine that I’m dirty.”

“Yes, yes. I need a taste.”

His mustache lifts at the sides. “Shit, should’ve just went to one of our rooms if that’s what you have in mind,” he murmurs, cheeks getting pink.

“How about yours?” He nods, and we take the stairs at the front of the building to avoid the dinner traffic and stroll through the halls in heavy silence until we pass my captain and Section Commander Hange. I offer a polite nod and bite my tongue; Levi will bring it up at some point, I fucking know it.

“Oi, Scout.” Miche and I halt our stroll, and I groan and turn. Moblit rushes from the direction we’re heading in, and Hange says, “Hey, see you guys later!” with a massive grin at Levi and takes off with Moblit. Levi’s got his arms crossed by the time I meet his eyes, and he glances Miche over, then me, to the book in my hand, then back to Miche, grimacing at his uniform pants. “Be safe. And Miche, treat her right.” With that, Levi walks away.

“Whoops, we’ve been caught,” I giggle.

“He’d absolutely have my hide if anything happened to you, which nothing bad will.” Miche says this with a matter of fact tone.

“I’m sure he’d have my ass if anything bad happened to you, Miche.” He shrugs.

His quarters aren’t much farther, and he lets me in first. It’s a neat room, lived in but clean with a book collection and small paintings of people I assume are family members. I set my book on his desk and note that his bed is much larger than my own.

“We made the right decision. I’m imagining you on my small bed, half off of it.” He laughs while he removes his boots by the door, and I do the same.

“You adjusting okay since coming to the Survey Corps?”

“The worst and only bad part is horse riding. I didn’t get around to doing much of that in the MP, so it still wipes me out.”

There’s an awkward air to the moment, because we’re just standing and looking at each other, so I place my palms against his chest to guide him back against the door. “About that taste . . .”

“Start here first?” He tilts my chin up with his fingertips and leans down to press his plump lips to mine, mustache brushing my cupid’s bow and nose. Salty, the ale, him. It’s like resting my head on a comfortable, familiar pillow. We savor the kiss, taking our time to feel each other out. I slide my hands from his chest down his stomach and over his sides before squeezing his hips at the window between the gear straps. His wide hands roam across my back before moving to my ass, squeezing me against him. I feel his bulge against my stomach, and he groans into my mouth.

He pulls his mouth from mine and whispers, “Sorry.”

I pinch open the shirt button above his belt and say, “Don’t be sorry for doing that.” He isn’t wearing an undershirt, and I don’t bother pulling out the shirt tail before working the rest of the buttons open. His chest strap keeps the shirt in place, so I swipe the shirt to the sides of his wide chest and brush over his nipples, pulling a gasp from him. His chest and stomach are covered in thick, soft golden hair, and my fingertips dive in, causing his stomach to jerk. He hisses. “Sensitive, aren’t you Miche?” I look up at him to check in. Flushed from his tits up, lids drooping, lower lip puffing out from under his mustache, which I rub with my fingertip. “Look at you, already like this. Fuck, Miche.”

“Please, do,” he pants out and leans down to work his strong fingers around my ass and rubs the fabric of my skirt and underwear against me, and I feel my wetness. Soaked already. “Wanna feel you.”

“In time,” I giggle, mostly at myself, still giddy. “Am I taking the lead?” I ask.

“Mhm, m’all yours.”

I pull the shirt tail from his pants and fist the fabric to tug him to his bed before he melts at the door. “Let’s work on these straps.” He sits on the bed and starts at the buckles on one side. I take the other side, thankful for the breather. We work in silence until the buckles are all released. He frees himself and lets the harness and straps slide off the bed to the floor with a sigh before leaning back with his palms against the bed, grinning at me.

“Next,” I say and pluck at the collar of his open shirt. His grin falters when I slide my skirt off and crawl onto the bed behind him to peel off his shirt.

“Let me just-” I press my nose against the back of his neck to take in his scent and lick the skin, once for exploration and again in seriousness. “Fucking delicious,” I purr against the side of his neck before suckling across the skin of his shoulder. His breath is hitching with each new position of my tongue and lips, and my mouth works back to the side of his neck. “Pants are next.”

He lets his head tilt back, lips parting for another of his soft groans, and I slide off the bed, licking the salt from my lips and hook my fingers behind his belt into the waist of his pants. I tug him forward a little, and he scoots so I can release the belt buckle, button, and fly. “Getting all of you outta these is gonna be a chore. Need your help, Miche, they’re fuckin’ tight.” He lifts his hips so I can tug them off his hips and ass, revealing a cup and strap instead of underwear. I peel his pants off and admire the scene in front of me again while removing my own shirt, and our eyes take each other in.

The cup’s straining to keep him contained, the straps digging in across his hips. I try to slide my finger between the strap and his sticky skin but can’t, and he thrusts into the air below me with a wink. Everything jiggles, and I giggle, tugging the strap in the buckle at his hip. Of course his stomach twitches at my touch, and he laughs through his nose. “You’re ticklish here?”

“H-yeah.”

As soon as there’s enough slack in the buckle, the whole thing flips away in a blink, and he groans with relief. The indentations from the straps are deep, red bordering on purple, and I hold off on studying what was under the cup. “Is this painful?”

“Burns at first.”

“Let’s leave your skin here alone, then.” He hums, still propped on his elbows, legs spread, toes resting against the floor. He watches me study him in the light from his window. Scarred all over, some newer and still deep pink. Gear strap calluses from the friction. Bruises in different stages but no bad new ones. I finally let myself look at his groin. His half hard cock is lying against his left inner thigh, the base ending in dark blond hair, balls resting on the bed. The soft pinkish tan skin swirls to adjust to the air.

He leans onto one arm to bring his other to stroke himself. I brace my hands on his thighs and say, “Don’t, it’s beautiful like this.”

“Y-yeah.” I slide my palms all the way up to frame his groin before running my thumbs up and over his balls and around his base. He heaves a loud exhale, and his cock hardens, lifting to me. I repeat the movement to stimulate his scrotum again and feel his hair then lightly wrap my hands around his shaft and slide up, getting a hiss from him, and let him drop and bounce against the bed.

“Ooo, heavy,” I compliment and straddle his right thigh. He watches me spread my tingling lips to rest against his skin and sits up. His tongue slides over his lower lip, his hands back on me, one palming my ass cheek and the other squeezing up and up my thigh. I let him slip his fingers between me and his thigh while I stroke his length again and again.

“Mmm, my thigh’s soaked,” he breathes, smiling, and circles my clit.

“Miche, we’re getting distracted.”

“Come closer?” he asks. I lean into him until he lifts his thigh to help me. His mouth and tongue are instantly on my tits.

“I’ll let you have your fun,” I say then shift to straddle both of his thighs to squeeze them closer together. He pulls away from my chest to look down between us and he fucking whines when he sees the glistening strings of my arousal stretching from my pussy to his thigh.

“Fuuck,” he breathes to end his whine. “Please, let me tou-” I stop him by doing what I thought of when we were introduced: run my hand over his forehead to push his sweaty hair back from his eyes, and I firmly press him back. He complies, relaxing back with another whine choking off in his throat.

“Shh Miche, patience. If you touch me any more, I will come.” I sit back on his thighs to to see his flushed chest shaking from his breath, eyes trying to be on me from his position.

He lifts his head. “That’s what I wa-hah-want.” I get my hands back on his length and gently squeeze, watching him leak from his hot deep pink tip and press my thumb against his slit and slowly swipe. His cock twitches, and he drops his head back.

“I know that’s what you want, but this is fun. I like listening to how my hands make you feel.”

“You’re barely h-hanging on to-OO.” I repeat my thumb swirl while he’s whining and watch his mustache and lips pout around his last word before he pulls in a sharp breath through his teeth.

I take a firmer grip on him, tilting my hips up to rub his tip against my clit, and his abs clench like he’s gonna sit up, but he stops. “You’re doing so good, Miche, keeping your ass on the bed.” Pressing his cock up against his stomach, I slide along the underside and coat him. I feel his thighs move as his feet seek purchase on the floor, bedframe, anything, but his legs go limp with a renewed whine when I rock against his thick shaft, trying to go slow and finding my own breath getting wild. This has him gripping at the bed as his hips shudder.

“Please, just-hah!”

I catch his head in my entrance. “You’d slide right in,” I breathe and slowly fuck just his head. This unravels something in him, because he starts shivering all over, his tits vibrating from clutching the blanket, thighs fluttering and my pussy spasms around his head from just seeing and hearing him. “You feel that, Miche?”

“Hm-hah, just-” he works out around a moan, eyes going wide, mustache moving with his breath.

“I can’t take anymore, can I-” I sink onto him just a bit.

“Y-yes. Fuck, yesss, please.”

We groan together at the sensation of me taking him, groan at the relief. “Still shivering. Can you hold on ‘til I come?”

“‘Ll try,” he slurs.

“Gonna take you out when yours hits so lemme know, okay?”

He finds a moment of strength to put his hands behind his head, and he nods. “I will . . . c’n I watch you?”

I’m at the breaking point and can’t answer with anything other than my head nodding in time with my rhythm. His mouth a perfect O beneath his mustache, tears or sweat around his glazed eyes, brows scrunched together, but it’s his fucking whimpering that sends me over the edge.

“Shit,” he groans and starts muttering, clearly barely hanging on. “H-hey, it’s-uh, I’m go-” I slide off of his cock, settle back onto his thigh, and work his shaft, thumb to his glans. He sucks in a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and lets go with a strong, high pitched whine that changes to throaty whimpering haahs and ahs as his balls and cock spasm to release his come. The first reaches his chest, and the rest spills hot over my hand.

“Breathe, MIche, you did so good,” I praise him as he breathes down his chest, eyes locked on mine, and I gently release him.

He tries to say something but swallows to try again. “Thank you. Fuck, thank you.”

“You have a towel?” He points me to a dresser and flops back to breathe while I wipe my hands then his chest, stomach, and groin. I grasp his ankles and lift his heavy legs. “Here, get fully on the bed so you can be comfy and rest.” I kiss his forehead, eyelids, and chin. “You did great. I’m getting dressed and will be back with water and probably food.” He starts to move. “Rest, Miche, don’t get up. I’ll be back, and I’m gonna finish that book.”

“You gonna let me do this for you next?”

“Maybe.”

I think I luck out by avoiding running into anyone I know on the way to the kitchen, but my captain catches me in the same damn hall as before on the way back to Miche’s room. He’s smiling without exactly smiling, it’s in his eyes. “You take good care of Miche, Scout?”

“Hope so,” I say, laughing at his comment. It’s probably innapropriate, but it’s Levi.

His lips twitch. “Sounded like it.”

“Stone walls here aren’t as soundproof as I thought, huh?” He lifts his chin, one side of his mouth smiling. We stare at each other for a beat.

“Bye, Captain.”

Miche’s breathing deeply when I get back, so I chug some water and snack on the bread and cheese at his desk while finishing the book, surprised that someone in the Survey Corps would enjoy something that touching.

#miche zacharias x f!reader #miche zacharias smut #an elder millenial forgot markdown and html #please forgive formatting errors bc i'm rusty #miche on beffers' mind

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