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pseudowho · 6 months

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Yet Another Nanami Kento Sex Pollen Fic, Part One

Owing our Reader for pleasuring him after his prior drunk escapades, Kento allows himself to be thoroughly used after the Reader encounters some rather unusual pollen.

Read Part Two HERE!

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"Hey, darling. Home soon? I was going to run out and grab some wine."

You smiled warmly at Kento's voice over the phone, brushing your mission clothes off with one hand while you surveyed the wreck of your surroundings. The factory you were in seemed ancient, despite its abandonment in just the last decade. Its back wall, you noted, was formed of collapsed brickwork, opening out onto a patch of hazy woodland. You were curious to investigate.

"Soon," you promised Kento, "the main Curse body is gone. I'm just going to do a last sweep around. You know, I--"

"-- like to be thorough," Kento parroted you, knowing you so well. You rolled your eyes at him. Hearing him chuckle, he reassured you, "No, no, I like it. You're thorough. It's a turn-on, I promise." Laughing lightly as you stepped over damp brickwork and ivy, you heard the jangle of Kento's keys over the phone.

"Well, Sir, if I'm that much of a turn-on, you'd best get that wine. I'm ready for our evening." Kento gave you an approving hum, and bid you get home soon.

Hanging up, you stepped into the humidity of what appeared to be a totally enclosed patch of woodland, sprung like an oasis, half-in and half-out of the crumbled factory walls. Beautiful flowers, wild with a heady scent, sprouted from beds of moss and ivy, and low-hanging trees dropped jewels of dew onto the springy floor. You felt yourself becoming heavy-headed and warm. Bending down to inspect a particularly beautiful pink-budded succulent, you squeaked in shock when the buds puffed open into a surprising shade of yellow, coating you in a fine mist of pollen.

Sneezing, you backed away. Bumping against the residual wall, you noticed the forest starting to crumble away from the edges, disintegrating in the same way as the main Curse-body had. With a sinking feeling in your stomach, you recognised you had nearly been so foolish as to walk straight into the remains of its dying belly. Telling yourself off for your gullibility, you watched from the factory as the forest faded away, leaves rising like ashes into the mist.

You felt flushed, heart thumping behind your breasts as you left the factory, finding Ijichi waiting patiently for you outside the veil. Ijichi smiled to you, bowing, thanking you for your services. He held the car door open for you, and you climbed in, grateful for the chance to sit down.

Except, as the car rumbled to life, every small vibration, every graze of the cool leather against your flushed skin, every time you caught the smell of Ijichi's shampoo, you felt the agonising thud of arousal between your legs. You mentally shook yourself when catching yourself looking Ijichi up and down from the back seat, admiring how his hands managed the steering wheel so smoothly, and you were appalled that this wonderful, kind, gorgeous man didn't have a girlfriend yet. Maybe you could be his girlfriend, you thought fleetingly, you'd know how to treat him right--

"Everything okay?" Ijichi caught your eyes in the mirror, full of concern as you gasped at yourself and slapped your own cheeks. Cheeks pink, breasts heaving with deep breaths and underwear increasingly wet, you knew you needed to get home to Kento. There was absolutely nobody else you needed right now, and surely this would wear off, surely he would help you deal with your desire as you had helped with his, in the shower that night--

"I'm okay, Ijichi, I'm fine!" You babbled, arms folded across your chest to hide your pebbled nipples, "Just tired! You know how it is. Busy day." You laughed nervously, hiding your face in shame as Ijichi politely bowed his head and continued to drive you home.

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Kento dropped his keys onto the shelf, slipping out of his shoes and into house slippers as he leaned back against the door, shutting it with a click.

His heart gave a happy leap when he heard you rummaging around the bathroom; you were home. Rolling the wine bottle in his broad palm, he fetched two glasses. In the process of uncorking the bottle, he pretended not to notice as you walked up behind him. He regretted feigning ignorance when he felt sharp teeth nip into the back of his shoulder.

Kento spun, startled, and barely had time to save the open bottle of wine when he was pushed with surprising force back against the table. All thoughts and blood rushed straight to his cock as he felt your body, insistent and hot press against his. Kento offered no resistance at first as you grabbed the back of his neck, fingers sinking into his hair to pull him down for a kiss, but stopped immediately at the feverish and desperate look in your eyes.

Kento gripped your shoulders and held you at arm's length, scowling deeply as he appraised you. Still in mission-wear. Flushed. Eyes glazed. Heat radiating off you.

"You're...hurt? What happened? Tell me." Kento ordered, already moving to grab his keys- you needed Shoko's attention. You moved instantly to block Kento's path, eyes fixed on him and pupils dilated as you panted, arousal thrumming through you in waves, your blood rushing in your ears and between your legs. Not swayed, and firm in his decision, Kento restrained you effortlessly, one arm trapping both of yours behind your back, and another arm diagonally across your breasts.

As Kento's arms pressed your body firmly against his own, you moaned and Kento short-circuited. Not letting go, breath tickling the side of your face, Kento stared at you.

"What happened?" he repeated. You pressed your head back against his shoulder, whimpering in frustration.

"The Curse was very plant-like I suppose, and it had a garden, and these pollen pods just exploded all over me, and since then I've just...I just...god Kento please just fuck me, I'm begging you."

With a blush, it finally clicked for Kento- you weren't hurt, you were uncontrollably horny. He gulped, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth, and cock hardening against his thigh. In a measured voice, Kento replied.

"You're in no fit state to demand I fuck you. You're under the influence of that curse, and I won't take advantage of you like that."

"Who said anything about you taking advantage?" You whined, rubbing your arse back against his hardening cock, "I'm asking if you'll let me take advantage of you." You squirmed against Kento, one of your pinned hands sneaking between the buttons of his shirt to rub his V-line. Your head turned sharply and you bit Kento's neck hard enough to draw blood. Kento yelped in alarm, now moving you swiftly forwards and pressing you into the wall, using one arm and one knee between your legs to pin you there.

"You minx," he gasped. Wiping at his neck with one hand and holding your wrists in another, Kento watched as you squirmed against the wall, thighs clamped furiously together for relief, blush creeping down your breasts.

"Kento, please," you begged, "I helped you. When you came home, drunk. And you promised you wouldn't refuse me."

"You and I both know that was--"

"It was no different!" Kento let his silence hang in the air. He knew as soon as he let you go, you'd be undressing him in seconds. He was furious to find himself thrilled at the thought. Being used as your toy sounded absolutely delicious.

"If I let you use me for some relief, but it doesn't work, I'll be taking you to Shoko immediately. Understood?" You nodded frantically, hands clenching and unclenching desperately in Kento's grasp. Kento walked you slowly back to the table, and you heard him knock back his glass of wine. You felt a glass placed to your lips, and Kento's smooth voice in your ear, "Bottoms up," as you gulped the wine, the alcohol hitting your heightened senses immediately, and your need for Kento to be buried inside you was suddenly furious and burning.

Kento let go of your wrists, and you jumped him, quite literally, arms locked behind his neck and legs around his waist. Kento grunted in surprise as your lips crashed against his with bruising force, the taste of blood and red wine on his tongue as you forced yours into his mouth, immediately dominant in a way that aroused him to his very core. Kento's hands cupped your arse perfectly, and you shifted your weight so Kento slammed back onto the table, feet on the floor as you straddled him, clothed pussy grinding against his cock.

Kento groaned at the contact, and submitted fully when you pinned his wrists to the table, leaning forward to bite and suck his neck. Kento shivered with pleasure, feeling every mark that he would see in the mirror the next morning. Drunk on the novelty of being so used, Kento offered absolutely no resistance as your hand slipped to his groin, squeezing his clothed erection almost too hard through the thin material. Kento shuddered, coughing in surprise and bucking into your hand.

Your hand left his cock far too soon, and you moved up Kento's body, now pinning his wrists with your knees as you began to undo his tie. Kento watched you with absolute focus as you then began to undress yourself, clothes being flung off at speed, until you were bare breasted on top of him, nipples hard as bullets, and you absent-mindedly draped Kento's tie around your neck as you surveyed him like your favourite meal.

"Oh, fuck," Kento intoned, as you ripped open his shirt, hearing buttons skitter away across the table. Moving down to grind against him again, and replacing your knees on his wrists with your hands, you bit his nipple, leaving lovebites across his heaving chest. Kento's head swam with arousal and anticipation, hands eager to reach you, to give you your own way, to be inside you.

You were focused, predatory in your need, and closed your eyes as you kicked your trousers and underwear off, pussy now totally naked and glistening with your arousal, leaving a wet patch on Kento's groin as you humped his clothed cock fervently. Kento was completely pinned, moaning and gasping as his cock twitched with need. You felt like you were on fire, your clit throbbing as you felt your first orgasm approaching, almost there but not close enough, body and mind still feeling too empty to climax. Your torso leaned closer to Kento's as you tried to increase the pressure and he quickly freed his arms from under yours.

Sliding one hand between your legs, he hurriedly pressed his two middle fingers upwards, deep into the heat and wetness of your pussy, his thumb quickly finding your clit and rubbing harsh circles on it. You cried out and bucked, riding his hand, and Kento nearly came from the feeling of your pussy clenching his fingers alone. You had reached down, both hands holding Kento's wrist, grasping his hand in place as your cunt fluttered around it, wet and needy, your cries becoming higher and louder, desperate to abate the burning arousal that had turned your skin electric.

Kento felt your desperation, watching you, near tears, trying to cum on his fingers. Reaching down, he swiftly unbuttoned his trousers and freed his leaking cock, pressing it up into you without warning, not even removing his fingers, and pinching your clit between his thumb and forefinger.

Your orgasm hit you in hot waves, tears streaming down your cheeks as you called Kento's name over and over, feeling stretched and overfull with his fingers and cock still inside you. Feeling next to no relief post-orgasm, you slammed your hips down on Kento's, chasing the fullness his hand and straining erection gave you.

Kento clenched his teeth as you rode him, refusing to cum until you'd had your fill of him, vision and heart full of you clad in nothing but his tie. One hand remaining between your legs, and the other providing aggressive attention to your breasts and nipples, Kento felt your sweat and cum drip down his balls, groin now soaked with the intoxicating smell of you. He continued rubbing circles on your clit and squeezed his fingers forward against your internal walls, feeling your cervix bump his fingertips, as you shook and shuddered your way through a second orgasm.

Kento removed his hands to grasp your hips, your wetness dropping along his hand. Lifting you up and ramming you back down onto his cock, you slumped forwards onto him, a ragdoll.

Determined to pleasure you until you could barely stand, Kento tilted your hips against his until his cock pumped in and out of you at the perfect angle, his eyes fixed on where his fingers sank into the plush fat of your arse, jiggling as he slammed you down onto him. He hissed as your nails dug crescents into his shoulders, and you pleaded against his chest-- "please please please cum inside me, don't stop, don't stop" -- while his hips bucked you upwards, feet cramping as his toes pressed hard onto the floor, lights in his eyes as he felt his balls and abdomen clench, his approaching orgasm about to overwhelm his stamina. He felt your teeth and hot little pants against his chest.

Your hips couldn't keep up with his pace, hearing his moans rumble through his chest with every thrust, until you felt his cock jump and spurt hot seed inside you, cervix wet and belly warm and full. You lay on top of him, shuddering, feeling the heat in your body gradually dissipate. Kento stroked your hair, strong arms holding you to him, planting soft kisses on top of your head.

"Better?" he inquired, toying with the tie around your neck. You blushed, bashful after your performance, nodding and humming against his neck. "Much," you reassured him. He tapped your bum playfully, "You go shower and get cleaned up. I'll tidy up out here."

You climbed off him with a sigh, feeling his cum drip down your thighs as he slipped out of you, and you padded away to the bathroom.

In a few minutes, sated, sleepy, and feeling the hot water tumble over you, you were struck with a thought. Opening the shower door, you called out to Kento.

"I was just thinking, maybe you shouldn't touch those clothes? There's probably still loads of--" You paused, hearing Kento sneeze and swear in the next room.

A few tense moments passed, the time coiling up in your tummy like snakes, and the bathroom door creaked open slowly. Kento filled the doorway, shoulders tense as he stared you down like you were prey, slowly stroking his rapidly hardening cock.

"Oh shit," you breathed, naked and helpless under the hot water as he approached you, eyes burning with intent.

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REQUEST #1 COMPLETE!

And just think, Kento never even took off his slippers. Get you a man who can rail you like that with his house slippers on.

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babygirlceosblog · 2 months

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i feel like i talk about this a lot but i just want to be loved

i want to go home after a hard day excited to talk to someone who likes seeing me small

i can babble and giggle and be as nonverbal as i want and it won’t be annoying because they think i’m adorable

when i see them in person they’ll snuggle me and give me forehead kisses and hold my warm bottle of milk for me

they’ll let me borrow their clothes so i can smell like them

they’ll print out colouring pages for me and say “wow good job baby!” when i make it all pretty

we’ll make blanket forts that i can take my naps in and they’ll read me “goodnight moon” because they know it’s my favourite

when i lose my passie when sleeping they’ll lovingly put it back in for me

when i look cute they’ll take videos and pictures of me for their wallpaper and smile every time they turn on their phone

they’ll worry about me when i say i’m going to do something they know i’m too little to do

they’ll hold me when i cry and get fussy because that’s what babies do and they’re okay with that

they’ll call me “angel” and “little one” and better yet “my baby”

and in the mist of it all, they’ll enjoy every bit of regression with me

i just want to be someone’s baby

i just want to be loved when i’m little

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y-rhywbeth2 · 5 days

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Still incredibly suspicious of Ravenloft having a murder cult called "Ba'al Verzi", with its assassins once being in positions of power, and running protection rackets, and its "bleeding skull" symbol.

It might just be a coincidence with similar names and themes, but if I find out Bhaal has a cult in the Domains of Dread and Toril I'm going to hit him with a stick. Just load up a ToB save before that fight in the pocket plane and hit the Ravager with a stick.

...it would explain how he keeps refusing to die if he's still getting a little power from cults on other planes and worlds though.

#I'd hit Sceleritas as a proxy but he'd enjoy it and that would ruin the entire point of it #The mists pick up the BG3 idiots and Durge suddenly gets very nervous when they hear about a familiar sounding cult #babbling #the idiot three

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noosayog · 6 months

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[my first task!] ft. miya atsumu

synopsis: inspired by the series, Old Enough? basically, in Japan, it's common practice to entrust a toddler an errand to perform all by themselves, such as fetching something from the store. sometimes, in a small village or closely knit neighborhood, all the shopkeepers and neighborhood residents are aware of when the toddler will be out and all work together to watch over them and guide them.

wc: 2.6k

“Are ya sure she has to do this today?”

“‘Tsumu, we’ve already done all the preparation. Let’s just let her try, hm?”

He grumbles, but moves to his assigned location at the dining table, where your daughter is already sitting, swinging her legs in anticipation of her favorite Omurice lunch.

You bring the plates of food over to the table and set one down at each of your seats. You give Atsumu a pointed look which he ignores. You clear your throat and give him a hard nudge.

“Ow,” he complains. He gives you one last pleading look which you leave unanswered.

He sighs and recites his scripted lines. “Oh honey, what about the ketchup drawings?” he asks you in monotone.

You tap a finger at your chin, looking up at the ceiling to feign deep thought. “Oh no! I think we ran out of ketchup!” You bring a palm up to cover your mouth, gaping open in dismay.

“No ketchup drawing? How can I possibly eat Omurice without the ketchup drawing?”

“Oh no,” you turn to your daughter. “We can’t have Omurice without ketchup can we?”

“No, we can’t!” your daughter exclaims.

“Well baby, do you think you can go to the store and get some ketchup for us? Just like how you do it when you go with Mommy.”

Her eyes sparkle with excitement at the prospect of going out. “Me?”

“Yep, Daddy and I are so busy, we can’t go. Can we rely on you?”

“Sure!” she chirps.

So a few short moments later, you and Atsumu have strapped her little purse on her torso, containing just enough coins to purchase a bottle of ketchup and a card with your phone number on it, just in case. Atsumu laces her shoes up and gives her a kiss on the cheek. You think you see his eyes misting over.

You speak up. “Just to the store we always go to, okay? Mommy’s counting on you!” This was supposed to have been Atsumu’s line, but you can tell that the dam is about to burst so you help him out.

“You’ll do great,” he chokes out. “I’ll see you when you come home with ketchup so Daddy can have his Omurice. Okay?”

She nods, enthusiastic and completely unaware of Atsumu’s turmoil. With that, she’s out the door and Atsumu barely waits one minute before he’s following, sticking to his own plan to trail her on her first errand.

The route has been prepped ahead of time. All the neighbors and the local store owners have been informed of your daughter’s first errand to ensure her success. In addition, all of Atsumu’s teammates, old and new, showed up to guide her along.

So as Atsumu trails behind her toddling figure, hiding comically behind fences and walls, there’s really no need for him to intervene.

She first passess the local cafe, where Bokuto, Hinata, and Sakusa sit at a table strategically located by the open window facing the sidewalk. As she walks by, she recognizes them instantly, straying from her path to the store. Bokuto sits her on his lap while Hinata listens to her babble and Sakusa buys her an apple juice. After a couple minutes of chatting, Sakusa gently pats her and asks, “so why are you out here by yourself?”

“Oh!” she clammors out of Bokuto’s arms, suddenly remembering that she was supposed to be out on a mission. “I’m going to the store to buy ketchup for Mommy and Daddy. They’re counting on me.”

Hinata nods profusely. “You better be off then!”

“You should finish your juice first, though. Adults don’t waste food,” Sakusa tells her.

She nods, happy to sip the remaining juice from the cup, then sets on her way afoot.

The trio at the cafe watch her go, shaking their heads when they notice their setter conspicuously following close behind.

Next is Onigiri Miya.

Well, technically, next was supposed to be the florist on the main street, but the little Miya had seen the street that Onigiri Miya is on and took the turn out of habit. But no matter – you and Atsumu had foreseen this, so a team is at the ready there too.

Suna sits at the counter seat closest to the door to keep watch. When he sees her rounding the corner, he signals Osamu who comes out from behind the counter to greet her at the door.

“Heya, baby,” picking up her easily when she runs into her Uncle’s arms.

“Hi Uncle ‘Samu! Hi Rin-chan!” She greets Suna over Osamu’s shoulder.

Suna grins, “hey stink.”

“‘M not stinky!”

Osamu carries her into the restaurant and deposits her on the counter seat next to Suna’s. He rounds back into the kitchen where he begins shaping a miniature version of her favorite onigiri. She kicks her feet, completely at ease in the restaurant and blissfully forgetful of her task at hand. When the plate is deposited in front of her, she chirps out a quick thank you before digging in.

After chatting Suna up for a bit, Osamu finally cuts in.

“So, what are ya doing out here all by yourself?”

“Dunno!” she giggles.

Suna coughs a bit, giving Osamu a look which Osamu returns pointedly.

“Soooo… you decided to have lunch here without your dad and mom?”

She ponders this for a bit, before lighting up. “Oh yeah! Mommy made Omurice but Daddy forgot to buy the ketchup so I’m here to get it.”

Osamu’s eyes widen comically. “All by yourself?”

She nods sagely. “‘M a big girl now. Mommy is countin’ on me.”

“Well, ya better get going then. Yer silly dad will be waitin’ for ya.”

She agrees, hopping her to her feet. The two follow her to the door to see her off, holding the door open for her walk through. She gets halfway back the way she came when she turns around and grins toothily at the two.

“Thanks for the onigiri, uncle! Love ya!”

Osamu smiles and waves her off. Behind him, Suna holds out his phone, pointing the camera at the little girl’s retreating back, making sure to focus on the suspicious figure donning sunglasses, a mask, and MSBY jackals baseball cap tailing her. He sends it to the group chat warning the next team to watch out for a stalker.

Your daughter finds her way back to the intersection on the main road. She needs to take a left to continue her route to the supermarket. As she stands at the crossroads, she frowns, not quite remembering where she needs to go. She takes a right.

There, she bumps into the legs of Kageyama and Hoshiumi who are stationed at the intersection.

“Sorry,” she starts, craning her neck to get a better look at her obstacles.

“No worries,” Kageyama says, taking a step back.

Hoshiumi then strikes up a conversation with Kageyama, reading out the practiced lines.

“Hey, we need to go to the supermarket right?”

Your daughter’s ears perk up at that.

“Yeah. It’s that – ” Kageyama points dramatically “– way.”

“Ohhhh, I see,” Hoshiumi puts a hand up to theatrically mimic covering his eyes from the sun and squints the way Kageyama is pointing.

Your daughter nods to herself at that and turns around to walk in the correct direction this time.

When she gets far enough away, Hoshiumi shows Kageyama the text in the group chat.

“Stalker?” Kageyama reads, scrunching his face. “Should we –”

“Nah,” Hoshiumi cuts him off and points at the stalker in question, going the same way the little girl just went.

“Ah.” Tobio understands, noticing the peek of dyed blond hair from under the baseball cap.

At last, she arrives at the grocery store. This is familiar ground, so she wanders into the store and meanders the aisles, getting distracted by the array of colors in the snack section. She’s running her hands along all the biscuit options, contemplating how she can fit all the items she wants in her two hands when she hears someone clear their throat from above her.

This time, it’s Aran who waves a gentle hello to her.

“Aran-kun!” she exclaims, forgetting about the snacks and running up to hug his legs.

He chuckles and pats her head.

“Hi there. Are ya looking for something in particular?”

Once again, she thinks. She’s sure there must be a reason she’s in the store but can’t quite remember.

“I think so?”

“Hm, okay. Wanna go shopping with me until you remember what yer looking for?”

“M’kay!”

She grabs Aran’s hand and swings them as he guides her to the aisle with the condiments. There, she inspects the colorful array of sauces, eyes sparkling. Aran pretends to look for his own items, hovering a hand over the ketchup bottles and waving his fingers in the general area until she remembers. Her eyes hone in on the red bottle and she remembers her poor father, still unable to eat his lunch without ketchup.

“Aran-kun! I’m here for ketchup!”

“‘That so? Well, here ya go, then.” He picks up the bottle of the brand he knows you use and plops it right into her hands.

“Not this one,” she shakes her head. “Mommy wants that one.”

She points at the bottle next to the one Aran grabbed. They’re identical.

Unbothered, Aran switches out the bottle in her hands with the one she wants. “Sorry ‘bout that. All good now?”

“Yep!”

“Ready to go check out, then?”

She nods. He continues to walk her to the registers. Once the lines are in sight, she lets go of his fingers and darts over to the nearest line. But not before bowing a polite thank you to Aran.

At the register, she greets the attendant watching him scan the bottle and showing her the total amount owed.

“That’ll be 200 yen.”

She reaches into her purse and pours out all the coins onto the counter, not entirely sure what she needs to offer. The cashier picks out a few coins and deposits the rest back into her coin purse, allowing her to tuck the coin purse back into her bag and zip the purse securely before asking if she wants a bag.

“Yes, please!”

With a plastic baggie in hand, she makes her way to the exit. Aran catches her before and tucks a small box of pocky into her bag, pushing a finger to his lips and winking at her. “Keep it a secret from yer mom. Get home safe!”

She mimics his gesture and nods. With one last bear hug to Aran’s legs, she’s off.

Outside the store, Kita waits for her. She spots his white hair easily. Of all her uncles (excluding Osamu, of course), Kita is her favorite. She runs over to him, bag swinging carelessly behind her. Kita catches her and gives her a little spin before setting her back on the ground.

“Hiya, Uncle Shin!”

“Hey there. What’cha got in there?” he asks, pointing at the bag.

“Ketchup! Daddy forgot to buy more and he can’t eat Omurice without it, so Mommy’s countin’ on me to get it.”

Kita rests a hand on her head. “That’s real impressive of ya, to come to the store to get it all by yourself.”

She glows in his praise, rare but genuine.

“Going home now, Uncle Shin.”

“Alright,” he responds. “I need something from that way, so I’ll walk ya part ways.”

She beams and follows Kita in the direction of your home.

“Uncle Shin?”

“Yeah, bug?”

“Can I eat my pocky? Aran-kun bought it for me.”

He crouches down to her eye level. “Can I have some?” he asks seriously.

“Yeah!”

“Then, alright. But let’s go sit down at that bench over there, okay? It’s rude to eat and walk.”

“Okay!”

So the two take a detour, sitting at the bench to watch the birds hobble by while sharing the box of strawberry pocky. A certain stalker watches in envy from behind the trees.

Once the box is depleted, Kita wipes her fingers down with some wet wipes he keeps in his pocket and tosses out the trash. They continue on their way, Kita sticking with her until they pass the confusing intersection (where Kageyama and Hoshiumi bow slightly at the sight of Kita) and the cafe (where the MSBY trio nod in acknowledgement).

When the house is only a couple more feet away, Kita once again crouches down. “Alright, I gotta go my own way from here. Do ya think ya can make it home all by yourself?”

“Yep, thanks Uncle Shin!”

“Sure. I’m proud of ya, bug.”

She squirms a bit, overwhelmed by the praise she gets from her favorite uncle. The ketchup bounces in its bag by her side as she skips all the way back home.

After fishing out her own key and unlocking the front door, Atsumu is there to greet her at the genkan, scoping her up and squeezing her tight, the ketchup bag forgotten on the floor.

“There’s my girl!”

“Daddy!” she laughs.

“Welcome home,” you greet, tummy warming at the sight of your two Miyas.

“Mommy!” she squirms in Atsumu’s arms signaling for him to let her down. He obliges and she picks up the plastic bag to wave in your face. “I got the ketchup! Now daddy can eat his lunch!”

“Wow, great job! And all by yourself!”

You usher her over to the table as she babbles about her day.

“I saw Shoyo-chan, Bokkun, Omi-chan, Uncle ‘Samu, Rin-chan, Aran-kun, and Uncle Shin too!”

“Wow, sounds like you had a great day. Did you have fun?”

“Yep!”

Atsumu, who has since changed out of his stalker gear, slumps into his seat at the table, back to grumbling about his cold omurice and how it would’ve still been hot if he had quickly gone with his daughter to get it.

You throw him a bone by asking your daughter, “Did you miss Daddy on your trip?”

“What do you mean?”

You almost choke out a laugh; kids are ruthless sometimes.

“Why would I miss Daddy? He was there the whole time.”

Atsumu sputters. “What do ya mean? I was at home waiting for ya the whole time.”

“Daddy’s a liar,” she whispers in your ear. “I saw him, but he was wearin’ some weird clothes. Like covering his face.”

You break into a fit of giggles. “Your daddy’s really silly, isn’t he?”

Atsumu can hear everything. “Hey!”

“Daddy was following you because he was just a bit worried about you going by yourself. But he’s really proud of you. Right?”

Atsumu rounds the table to crouch besides your daughter’s seat. “Yeah. But you did so well. I’m so proud of ya.”

Her eyes light up at the praise. She throws her arms around his neck and wiggles in her seat a bit.

“Well, great job and since you got the ketchup for us, all your favorite uncles can now join us for lunch too.”

At that, each of today’s helpers emerge from the kitchen holding their own plates of Omurice, all undecorated. You figure it might be a good time to introduce her to Kageyama and Hoshiumi too, but she’s distracted by Kita and Osamu offering their omelets to her to decorate with the ketchup.

As she goes around the table and draws ketchup hearts and stars on each omelet, you wander over to Atsumu’s side whose eyes are getting watery again, watching her brag to each of them that the ketchup they’re about to eat is her ketchup.

“What’s wrong, ‘Tsumu?”

“Nothin,” he hastily swipes at his eyes. “‘M not crying.”

“I never said you were,” you say gently. You wind your arm around his waist and lean into him, rubbing circles into his back. His body closes around you instinctively.

“She’s just growing up so fast, ya know.”

“I know.”

“Soon, she won’t need me – us – anymore.”

“Aww, ‘Tsumu. Yeah, she’ll grow up but…”

He looks at you when you trail off.

You reach up to whisper in his ears. “We could always just make another one.”

#noos writes #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #hq x reader #hq x you #hq x y/n #hq fluff #hq imagines #miya atsumu #atsumu miya #miya atsumu x you #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu fluff #atsumu miya x reader #hq atsumu

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celestialwhoree · 1 month

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first of, ofc i have notifs on for you. hello? have you read your work? 🙄

second, not sure if you take requests right now but i’d kill for some simon fluff. been sick in bed for the past few days and been dreaming of that big strong military princess taking care of me🤧

-🦇

Big strong military princess I love him 🎀🫶

"You look fucking terrible, darl." Simon grumbles as he returns to your shared bedroom, where you currently lay wallowing in self pity, darkness, and a mildly concerning fever. You attempt to level him with what you hope is a steely glare, which isn't made very easy with the way your eyes are so swollen you can barely keep them open. "Soup and then bath, or bath and then soup?" He probes, although he's already hoisting you up by the armpits to carry your lank, worryingly sweaty body to the bathroom, where he props you on a little stool as he fills the bath with steaming hot water and epsom salts. "-lusion of choice." You slur, leaning your head back against the cool bathroom tile in the hope of some reprieve from the way your body feels like it's being slow roasted. "Mm. Yeah." The low rumble of Simon's attempt at seeming interested in your incoherent babbling falls on deaf ears as he turns off the tap and sets to work undressing you, throwing your sweaty pyjamas in the direction of the hamper before easing you into the hot bath. The moment you're submerged, you're already attempting to climb from the bath, grabbing for Simon's shoulders as he keeps you in the tub, splashing and hissing like an angry cat. "Needs to be hot, baby, need to sweat that fever out, yeah?" He croons, holding you until you relax back into the water.

Once you're safely settled back under clean sheets, in fresh pyjamas, the hazy figure of your boyfriend returns to the doorway, this time with a bowl of soup and a spoon balanced with one hand, and your hairbrush in the other. "Right, let's get you fed, hey?" He coaxes, attempting to feed you the soup, which you flat out refuse to let him do. Instead you relegate him to brushing and braiding your wet hair as you sip the chicken broth directly from the bowl, sighing deeply as it warms your insides. The warmth of the soup, paired with the fuzzy haze that's settled across your brain like morning mist in the valley, have you practically falling asleep sitting up. "Done?" It's impossible for Simon to miss the way your head begins to droop and your loosening grasp on the soup bowl, which he grabs before you can spill it all over yourself. "Tired." You rumble, barely holding back a yawn as you snuggle back into Simon's chest, falling asleep not long after to the gentle thump of his heartbeat, and the same episode of Real Housewives you've watched at least four times in a row, having had to restart because you kept falling asleep.

I loooove you 🦇 anon! Giving me cute ideas!! Thank you!! I very politely need a buff military man to look after me at all times always for the rest of ever pls🫶 Also 🦇, how do you cope with having notifs on for me all I do is come on here and yap🫣

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rafedaddy01 · 2 months

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It was hard getting over Rafe and it was even harder watching a different girl in his lap every week.

You stood off to the side, sipping on a beer and trying really hard to focus on what your friend was talking about but you couldn’t help but stare at the blonde sitting in Rafes lap and blushing at something he’s whispering in her ear.

The item stood up and your eyes quickly averted their attention back to your friend who was still babbling about some guy she slept with.

You took a drink from your cup, your eyes peering over the rim and locking with the familiar blue eyes that used to bring you comfort and now only look back at you with disgust.

His arm hooked around the blondes waist as they both walked past you and up the stair case.

Your heart felt heavy and at that moment you realized that it was over between the two of you. There’d be no more late night talks, no more inside jokes just between the two of you, no more flowers he’d randomly surprise you with when he knows you’ve had a hard day.

Your eyes misted up and you swallowed your hurt as your pushed off the wall and stormed up the stairs. You weren’t sure what you were gonna do but you knew you had to say something.

You saw the two of them walk into one of the guest rooms and you downed your drink before throwing the cup on the ground and rushing towards the door.

You stopped just before opening it, your mind setting back into reality.

What could you do. Rafe broke it off with you. You were simply a toy he used in his spare time. He wasn’t the same person anymore, he’s moved on.

Your breathing picked up as your back hit a wall and you fell to the floor, tears streaming down your cheeks.

A few people near by gave you weird looks as they walked past, but you didn’t care.

Your heart was broken. Your trust was broken, you weren’t the same person anymore either and you’d make sure Rafe knew.

Taglist

@f4ll-for-you @v21sstuff @rafeysworldim19 @baby19sthings @sevenwivesofrafecameron @rxfecameronsslut @findapenny @r1vrsefx @spencerreidsrealgf @rafescokenostril @thievin-stealing @hoesindifferentshows @rafemotherfuckingcameron

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dooberific · 8 months

Text

❝𝘖𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘍𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦❞

pre release wriothesley x afab!reader

genre: nsfw (dacryphilia, creampie, idk how to finish tagging this hehe)

wc: 2.7k

summary: Despite his imposing stature, your lover is the softest and most genuine man you know. His regular praises make it seem like you hung the very stars in the sky, so why his sudden withdrawl?

There was just something different about the flowers of Fontaine. Maybe it had something to do with the land, moist plains sweeping up into sharp mountain peaks that passed a gentle breeze over the winding waterways below. The easy smell of rain, the babbling streams that fed into raging waterfalls that drenched all below in a fine mist.

They seemed to grow a little differently, proud and tall like the Rainbow roses dotting the hillsides, their very own fine bonnets adorning their heads as their brilliant appearances dazzled passing strangers.

Perhaps that was why the simplicity of the Marcotte slipped under so many eyes, winding through life with a silent elegance and glowing smile so heartfelt and utterly kind that even the most icy of hearts would tremble under the warmth of her gaze. She would never be a rose, nor would she ever entertain the thought of it, laughing away the idea with great mirth dancing in her eyes and a grin lingering on her lips well after the encounter.

You may never be a rose, but your simplistic and nostalgic charms had catalyzed such a violent reaction that he was sure you had hung the very sun in the sky, elevating its position as a kindness for your own radiance far out shone the largest star in the Teyvat sky.

But if you were the Marcotte, so delicate and pure, then what was he? Surely he was nothing but a weed in the garden of the gods, a wicked thing who rose from the dirt to strangle the life out of the pretty and soft things around. There was a trail of battered roses in his wake, resentful that the weed had never blossomed into something worthwhile as they had dreamed, that it had spent their precious time, basked in their light, and then left them to wither away in anger.

But the Marcotte was wild and resilient, your unbreakable and hearty spirit more than strong enough to carry your own burdens with grace and dignity even before you had unfurled your brilliant petals.

Pure and wild chased by the impure and plotting.

You should resent him for his wickedness, his impudence to dare stand under the same sun as you. He couldn’t help himself, he was little more than a moth drawn to a flame, a weed that kept creeping back into the garden. How long had he waited, chasing fleeting images and the feeling a hand could never hope to emulate, before your own interests had become so entranced that you allowed him closer?

He would swear it was all unintentional from the beginning, that it had all started as a draw to your magnetic personality. Fleeting kisses of parting after he walked you home at night giving way to deeper intentions as he cornered you against the door and indulged you a little more intimately. The wet slide of his tongue into your mouth, the firmness of his hands trailing down your sides and toying with the hem of your shirt. The little whines from your lips as your fingers carded through his hair, a sting in your calves from standing on your toes as his chapped lips ravaged your neck, your body pressed flush to his own.

It was such a natural progression until it suddenly wasn’t. Kisses left broken as he hastily departed, a harsh flush creeping to his ears as he apologized and took his leave. The onset of his behavior had left your head spinning with questions. Had you done something wrong? He never acted strangely about you until those last and most private moments together, maybe his interest was waning? If you had grown boring you would understand, it wasn’t like your job or life were particularly riveting—

Too many unasked questions, and too much sleep lost. You were not so shy or proud to confront an issue head on, and while Wriothesley loved that trait of your personality he loved it a little less when it was weaponized against him as you stood at his door, a finger pressed to his lips and a stern yet wary look in your eyes as you shushed his questions and gave him a piece of your own mind.

He really was nothing short of a weed, too cowardly to have confronted the issue before it had become a problem. He was a liar, unable to hold your burning gaze as he forced some half-assed excuse past his lips. He certainly could not tell you that his hasty departures had been the product of your evening rendezvouses which simply stoked the fire that the all consuming thoughts of you kept burning in his veins, of the perverse feeling stirred by the lovesick look in your eyes that was increasingly hard to resist. There would be no kindness in those pretty eyes should you know that he could barely touch you now without getting hard, that a moment too long basking in your presence would surely have him cumming in his pants with the same choked gasp that he so poorly suppressed as he jerked himself off later fantasizing your pretty cunt wrapped around him.

There was no question of want, he needed you. He needed to defile you with every dirty thought that ever dizzied his head, to have you fucked dumb on his cock and begging for more because you knew he couldn’t resist. What a shitty lover he felt like, having let you think you had ever done a thing wrong when it was just his own self disgust that he couldn’t keep it together that was wedging you apart.

Maybe just once he could show you, and if you hated him for it he could beg for your forgiveness. Just this once he would kiss you like always, whispers of reassurance passing between you that there was nothing wrong with you, you were perfect. Just this once would he not fight the onslaught of debauched feelings that flooded him the moment you sighed against his lips, parting your own at the gentle tease of his tongue. He would kiss you deeply and with no regrets or holds, making your head spin from the lack of oxygen as the feeling of his warm hands settling on your body as he pressed you against the wall. He wouldn’t make some shitty excuse to leave when he felt his pants tighten, nor would he apologize for the moment he grinded his hips deeply against your own in search of that heavenly bit of friction only you could provide.

He swallowed your surprised gasp, hell bent on smothering you with every ounce of his affection with sloppy kisses and a tangle of tongue. One hand settled at the nape of your neck anchoring you to him as the other hooked under your thigh, drawing it up to rest at his hip as he pressed deeper between your legs and you whimpered at the roll of his hips against the apex of your thighs.

He broke away from your lips, his forehead pressed flush to your own. Your cheeks were tinged pink, eyes dazed as your lip quivered from the greedy breaths you sucked in. His voice was deeper, huskier and tainted with lust.

“I want you.”

Your own voice was shaky as you replied.

“Then you may have me.”

Your sheer stockings and well pressed skirts were hardly more than heaps of fabric on his floor, pearl buttons of your blouse scattered if not clinging to mere threads. A blind stumble through the house had left a trail of what was easiest to remove. Had it not been for his insistence to do right by you and take you in his bed he was assured he would have bent you over the nearest surface and had his way with you.

He swore deeply to any archon that would listen that he would be the most devout follower should they let him remember your disheveled look in the clearest of details, from the smear of your lipstick and the swollen lips he had indulged himself in to the sweeping curves of your body that he had marred with his teeth which now burned the angry red of ruptured capillaries. His kisses were smothering as his hands explored every inch of newly exposed skin, leaving a trail of chills from his cold fingers. He was a gentleman even in the most dirty of moments, all ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ as he waited for you confirmation as if he was still hesitant to think it anymore than a vivid dream to unclip your bra and lathe his tongue over the delicate flesh beneath, to drag his fingers over the soaked fabric of your panties and press his thumb harshly against that little bud of flesh that made your hips jerk in his grasp.

He was sure the sinful noise that parted your lips the moment he pressed your panties aside and flattened his tongue against your weeping cunt had been permanently seared into his brain right alongside the taste of you. The clamp of your pretty thighs against the side of his head only encouraged his efforts, calloused hands easily prying you open as he tongue teased past your lips and his nose pressed against your clit. Your shaky cries that it was too much fell on deaf ears, your fingers fisting into his hair to pull him off a stark contrast to the way your pretty hips grinded against his face begging for more.

He wasn’t so heartless to stop when he knew what was best for you. It wasn’t like you knew, and the flush on your cheeks as you had so softly admitted to him your intact virginity had him questioning if you had ever pleasured yourself at all. It was his duty now to show you what needed, to strip you of every ounce of purity, to fuck you so good you would never consider another man to be capable.

You could taste yourself on his lips, a bitter combination lost quickly on your mind as he dragged your panties down and pressed his calloused fingers into your cunt. His fingers felt thick and rough as he gave a few experimental pumps into your wet heat before burying them to the knuckle and curling them into your walls, relishing the heady cry that escaped your body as your hips canted into his palm.

“Fuck, baby, so fucking tight.” He groaned into your lips, his fingers scissoring you open as he set a brutal pace to loosen you up, the rough pad of his thumb circling and teasing your clit as the wet sound of your cunt met his ears.

“Wrio, please I-,” You choked out, arms wrapping around his neck as the wave of molten lust that clogged your veins and made your stomach twist so delightfully became unbearable.

“I’ve got you baby.”

His words, low and reassuring in your ear, were the last straw as he fingerfucked you into an orgasm. Your whole body buzzed as you cried out sharply, your face buried into his neck as you came on his fingers, thighs clamped desperately around his hand as your entire body quivered.

Your dearest lover Wriothesley felt safe and warm as he settled over your boneless body, gentle kisses pressing away the tears that had streaked down your cheeks from a pleasure never before indulged in. Any notion of vulnerability or embarrassment had been stripped away, replaced by the simple thought that his fingers seemed to intertwine so perfectly with your own just as his body seemed to slot so perfectly between your legs, as if he were some piece of a puzzle you hadn’t realized you were missing.

It was that sense of utter completion that overwhelmed you as his cockhead teased your entrance, the sense of the intrusion so much you forgot to breathe as your body trembled. You could feel every engorged vein, every ridge that bullied deeper into your cunt with the slow roll of his hips, how heavily he was pressed inside you.

He hissed at the feeling, how tightly you still wrapped around him. His grip on your hips was bruising, a vain attempt to ground himself in the moment of the realization of his most hedonistic desires and the simple truth that you were so much fucking better than he could have ever dreamed.

He fucked you deep and slow, reveling in the little sounds you made only for his ears, the gentle begging of his name in a tone reserved just for him. An exchange of sloppy kisses left your head spinning, his cock nestled deep in your womb, every slow thrust teasing that spongy spot inside that made your walls tighten and your legs quiver.

He was so kind, even as he felt that last of his composure slipping with the breathy whisper pressed to his ear that he could have his way with you. It had to be that look of glowing adoration in your eyes as you stared up at him, body rocking gently with each thrust as he made love to you, but he could be good for you just this once.

Just this once to press a kiss to the inside of your knee as he practically folded you in half. Just this once, to intertwine your fingers as he bottomed out in you with one smooth motion. Just this once to fuck you like he really meant it, to watch your eyes gloss over and tears pool at your lashline. Just this once, yet a thousand times over, another lie he would tell himself as if he wouldn’t pound you into his mattress until you couldn’t walk if you asked for it.

Your fingernails scraped harshly against his skin, your own little desperate cling to reality. You didn’t think it was possible for him to feel any deeper, finding it hard to breathe at the new angle as you were certain he was well into your guts by now. Your mind was utterly blank, his name falling from your lips like a prayer as he fucked you with a new fervor as if to shape your insides to only remember the feeling of him. That heated, gut twisting sensation had rebuilt and teetered dangerously on the brink of collapse just as quickly.

He could tell you were close, your words slurring into an incoherent babble of his name. He could practically feel you tighten around him, willing him to finish you off as he leaned forward.

“That’s my girl, cum for me.”

He kissed you, muffling the sharp whine you released as that familiar heat snapped violently in your gut. The harsh pull of your pussy was too much for him to resist, his hips stuttering as his teeth sank into your lower lip. It was a hot, sticky and overwhelming feeling that rested deep in your womb as he slowly fucked his seed into you, the taste of iron seeping into your mouth.

He looked apologetic as his thumb swiped away the bead of blood forming on the vermillion of your freshly busted lip, but you had no heart to be angry when you met his glowing and tired eyes. There was a tremble to his arms as he effectively collapsed on top of you, trapping you under his weight. Your heartbeat was steady in his ear, your fingers tangling in his mussed hair. You could practically feel his entire body relax under your touch, hear his breathing slow.

“You don’t intend to sleep like this, do you?” You cringed at how hoarse you sounded.

“I’m never opposed to this if it’s with you.” He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a soft kiss to your palm. “But I should clean you up.”

It was a hollowing feeling, the loss of his dick that had been seated so firmly within your walls that you subconsciously clenched around nothing. You watched in silent surprise as a trail of fluids weeped from your used cunt and spilled onto the bed, a sense of abject horror striking as you caught the burning gaze of your lover locked onto the sight as well. You clamped your legs shut, shrieking as he easily pried you apart once more, his fingers scooping the viscous liquid back up and pressing it back into your pussy as you hissed at the sensation.

All at once he grabbed your ankles, dragging your hips to the edge of the bed. You propped onto your elbows, staring down his re-hardened cock that lay hot, heavy, and twitching against your hips before flickering up to his flushed cheeks.

“I'm sorry, baby, let me indulge in you just a bit longer.”

Rey, 2023

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #wriothesley x reader #genshin wriothesley #genshin x you

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divine-misfortune · 6 months

Text

Mist never thought she'd lose her droplet.

'Mist's little shadow' is what Omega called him before he was named, in the early days where he still carried the smell of the sulfuric pits with him. He never strayed far from her, always at her heel when she looked for him. She never prepared herself for the day she'd look over her shoulder and find him out of arms reach, only drifting further by the day.

She'd been happy at first, watching him grow into himself. Seeing Dew stand on his own, watching him take the stage like he'd always belonged there, seeing him bonded with his own pack.

Mist had been happy until the day another water ghoul came into his life, because that was the day she realized she was losing him.

She recognized the way Dew looked at this lithe, siren of a thing as he was guided from the summoning circle and felt her chest go tight. Dew looked at him with an immediate warmth that he never held for her, a yearning that she could not fulfill. Mist recognized desire that ran far deeper than she could ever satiate. It was the beginning of the end, no matter how hard she tried to pretend the signs weren't there.

Part of her didn't want to let go. Selfish in the way she missed her protege. Jealous in the way she observed them together. Devastated in the way Dew said his name like it was sacred.

But she still smiles despite it when Dew finds her, the happiest she'd seen him in months, excited enough to miss the faint sadness in her eyes. His flushed cheeks, the smell of cinnamon curling off of him so sweetly, his wide grin. He stumbles over his words as he grabs for her hands, skin running hotter than she'd ever recalled. He was not the ghoul she guided and guarded so closely. Bolder, louder, a fire ghoul by very definition, and a stranger to her at heart.

She should have known he was gone, that her place in his world was overshadowed. That she had done all she could for him, and that Dew didn't need her anymore.

Mist can only focus on the arduous task of maintaining her smile while he babbles on about the pretty new ghoul - Rain, again he says his name like he hopes to savor the way it forms on his tongue. Things between them were growing, blossoming, and he was happier than she'd ever seen him but despite that fact her stomach flips. Salt and lavender mixed underneath Dew's sweet smokey scent, nothing close to the way her protege used to smell. It made her feel sick realizing who it belonged to.

But she squeezes his hands dutifully and tells him how happy she is for him, for them. It's only a partial lie, and she traps the quiet plea for him not to leave behind her teeth when he lets her go.

When he turns, her smile drops and she brings her hands to her chest.

It feels like goodbye to watch him walk away.

#i think i should make mist sad and give her abandonment issues for funsies #void writing #writing #mist ghoulette #dewdrop ghoul #nameless ghouls #the band ghost #ghost the band

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unicyclehippo · 9 months

Note

15. kiss on the back for the prompt thing!

Imogen has spent years submerged in the sweet, babbling waters of Laudna’s mind so, while she may not be able to hear her thoughts now, she still remembers their current. And besides, some things don’t need to be said. It’s an unspoken agreement between them—a quirked brow, the tilt of an answering smile—to return Zhudanna’s coin.

Laudna distracts their elderly friend with an enthusiastic—and slightly gooey—recreation of recent journeys while Imogen carries the groceries to the kitchen. She unpacks jars of olives and honey and jam, every pickled thing they encountered, wax-wrapped cheeses, smoked and salted meats, dried fruits and beans, bags of fine-ground flour and spices. She leaves the fresh fruit and vegetables on the countertop with the pumpernickel loaves and, as she does, pulls Zhudanna’s lockbox from its hiding place beneath the beans with a subtle bit of magic.

It’s easy to use her powers now. She knew she was getting stronger but something about being here—where she spent much of her time in degrees of agony with no way to control it or stop it, her powers flaring whenever they wanted to—the difference is stark. How reactive her magic is now, how finely-tuned to her will. A thought, and the lockbox opens. Imogen busies herself selecting and slicing an orange. Another thought, and the coins lift out of the shopping basket and zip over to the box. She arranges the orange segments on a colourful plate. The box clicks closed and slides back into place beneath the beans. It’s all done in a matter of seconds with Zhudanna none the wiser, even if she had peeked over to check on Imogen despite Laudna’s distraction—though how anyone could look away from Laudna for so much as a second during one of her stories - vibrant, enthralling as she is - Imogen doesn’t know.

She lingers a while, helps herself to a slice of orange. It’s tart, almost sour, the way she likes them. The sun blankets half the kitchen in a square of light. Standing in that warmth recalls fragments of an old dream—baking, home, Laudna. The details are too faded and vanish when she reaches for them; in the space where they had been, her memory provides instead the aroma of baked bread and the cool press of Laudna’s lips against her own. Fingers sticky with orange, Imogen twists her wrist and presses her smile to the back of her hand. We kissed, she thinks, giddy, and suddenly the handful of steps separating her from the sitting room and Laudna is too far.

‘—a shape like dripping tar, a great blob of malice, hovering in the air. It struck Orym with a spiralling bolt of shadow, pinning him against the rock!’ Imogen hears as she rejoins the story.

‘Oh!’ Zhudanna squeaks. Her eyes are wide, both wrinkled hands covering her mouth in horror. When she speaks, she sounds so old—had she always, Imogen tries to recall, or is it all of this…this fucking mess around them? The solstice, the god-damning speeches, the fear suffusing the streets like thick jungle mist, the moon, the way oncoming way tilts the axis of every heart. ‘Oh,’ she says in a small, quavering voice, ‘oh dear, oh no, is he alright?’

‘Who?’

‘Your friend. Orym.’

The question makes Laudna’s smile falter. Zhudanna, half-blind, probably doesn’t notice. Imogen does. She fills the agonising pause, steps between them to put the plate down next to Zhudanna. By the time she plants herself on the footstool, twin to the armchair Laudna has claimed, Laudna has recovered.

‘Yes. Yes, of course! He’s a warrior—a hero!’ Zhudanna heaves a sigh of relief at that, claps her hands. Laudna continues. ‘He pulled free of the shadow spear with a horrid yell and spray of blood—’

Geez, Laud, don’t forget she’s old as shit.

And? She has such a creative soul, she’s enjoying—ah. I suppose…heart attacks…hmm. Should I…tone it down?

Imogen rests her chin on her hand as she settles in to listen to the rest of the story and, catching Laudna’s eyes, offers a small smile. Just for her, darlin’.

With a wobbly nod—one that makes Imogen want to yank off the circlet and dive deep into Laudna’s thoughts, wade through them muck and all, hear for herself the knotted tangle of fear and nervy tension and trust she knows is causing havoc in there—Laudna launches back into her tale.

‘Together with our dear new friend Prism–’

‘I like her,’ Zhudanna says. ‘Sensible, for one of those wizard types. Getting out there and having a go of it. Good for her.’

‘Indeed. Very sensibly, she and I harried the foul spirit with our joined magic, giving our companions time to protect the Heirophant and dragging them clear of the danger of this hungry shadow. We threw everything we had at it—flaying it of its shadow piece by piece, cracking its sallow face, until there was nothing left of it but a slug of tarred shadow that I crushed, sending it back to whence it came, into the merciless dark,’ she hisses, hand closing in a tight fist, eyes a brittle, glossy obsidian. After a moment, her intensity relents; the faint gloom in the corners of the room disperses like an audience post performance, and as it leaves, air rushes in to fill the empty space. ‘Anyway,’ she trills, ‘apparently that wasn’t the first time it had appeared there, can you believe that? The Heirophant—the elf Orym and Ashton saved—told us that they had fought it before—or was it their order that had? Hm. Don’t recall. But yes - it’s like a recurring thing. Like a bad ex turning up on their doorstep. But not a bad ex because Evithorir—’

‘Evi- Evirerth-’

‘Evithorir. I think. It was so hard to tell, it hissed a lot. Regardless, the shadow spirit, it turns out it was some, like, ancient terrible hungry fey spirit that sought to devour everything in the world, blah blah, the usual. Starting with Oma-Dua who is this - get this - equally ancient druid who buried herself in the last moments of her life in the depths of this cavern centuries ago to sustain the land around this mountain for the rest of time and took on the form of an enormous glowing green crystal…’

Laudna drifts into an odd silence and sinks back into the plush armchair, into herself, looking small and troubled. Her teeth dig well-worn trenches into her bottom lip as she loses herself in thought.

Imogen clears her throat. ‘It’s been an awful long time since we got a proper rest, Zhudanna—d’you mind if we rest a while?’

‘Not at all, not at all. Let me move my easel, dear, and - ‘

‘No, please, don’t go to any trouble. I’ll set it aside, if that’s alright?’

‘Certainly, certainly.’

Zhudanna lets herself be distracted gracefully, pulling an old knitting project from the box by her chair. Her eyes—wrinkled, worried—linger on Laudna as Imogen helps her up from the chair, curling a gentle hand beneath each elbow.

She looks so exhausted and Imogen is certain she’s bearing most of Laudna’s weight for her when she pulls her to her feet but she’s so fucking light it nearly has Imogen stumbling, off-balance. A dozen questions cluster behind Imogen’s teeth, on the threshold of her mind. Did you eat at all? Did you rest? Who took care of you? The thought might’ve made her jealous a month ago but now it just hurts. Laudna is too light, bordering on frail. Her hair is stringy—dirty, greasy, like its been a week since she washed it, brushed it, cared for it (for herself)—and Imogen knows the answer. Knows Laudna. She cares like caring is what keeps her alive, will drag the energy out of her own fucking marrow for everyone else and when it comes to her, she shows them something dead and dying, shows them a grinning skull. Something beyond repair, beyond need of care.

Red flickers behind her eyes, smoulders in the cracks that split the tips of her fingers. But her hands stay gentle as Imogen helps Laudna to their old room.

The door shuts behind them, shuts out the world. Blissful. There’s no window in here to show them the ruddy moon. There’s no crowds, no intrusive minds. No guards, no traitors, no one but the two of them.

Laudna’s slow walk turns to a hobble. She sits at the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched.

Giving her a little space, Imogen puts their bags at the footboard of the bed and Pate’s birdhouse on the bedside. He’s sleeping in there or pretending to be. Creepy, beloved spy. She moves the easel like she said she would, tucking it into an out of the way corner.

‘She’s really very good, don’t you think?’

Laudna stirs. Glances over, dark eyes flicking between the easel and Imogen, and the smile she manages is a wavering thing but it holds steady at the corners.

She’ll be alright, Imogen decides. Promises.

‘Yes. Very talented, our Zhudanna.’

Her words trail off again and Imogen watches as Laudna begins to fidget, fingers twisting, tugging, pull and plucking in her lap. Was the closed room not blissful for her? Was it too crowded, with Imogen and her and all her thoughts and Delilah and now Bor’dor haunting her? Or was it as simple as the strain of her journey taking its toll? Or was it…

‘Do you regret it?’ Imogen blurts. Laudna stills. ‘The kiss, I mean. Me, kissin’ you. Because I know I asked and I know you kissed me back but if - if you got caught up in the moment or thought it’s what I want - Laud, you gotta know, it doesn’t matter to me how you care for me, I’m so - I’m so happy. So lucky. Just to have you near me. Truly.’

It takes a hell of an effort to shut up then—to bite her lip and give Laudna the room to speak.

Her stomach flips from nerves and her traitor heart follows suit; it flips, flutters in her chest, so gentle and so warmed by the memory of getting to take Laudna’s face between her hands, getting to touch her after so long of only being able to dream about it, getting to lean in and—that kiss! The memory of it fizzles through her, sweet lightning, and it’s ridiculous, actually, because her hands start sweating and her lips tingle and her skin goes hot all over, sensitive. It’s such a silly feeling; she feels like a stumbling foal - clumsy and awkward, unsure, but so fucking eager to get up, go, explore. It’s silly - she feels silly with it, giggly and warm - and then, of course, sense reasserts itself firmly because Laudna hasn’t said anything yet—is staring over Imogen’s shoulder with a tiny, worried frown—and Imogen’s stomach sinks, veins flooding with ice. If she could just take off the circlet, but…

‘Laud?’

‘Imogen.’

‘Do you?’ It’s harder to ask the second time. ‘Do you…regret it?’

‘No,’ Laudna says in that barely-there way. Imogen wants the shadows back. Wants the intensity. Wants Laudna cackling over one of Pate’s horrendous comments, or chiding her for mussing the bedsheets. Anything but this ghost. ‘No, darling. I was - I was only thinking,’ she sighs, ‘how silly it is, how hard it is to talk about…well. About what we want.’ She blinks, dim and distant. ‘I often think that if only everyone were honest, there would be less space for misunderstanding and heartbreak –’ The words send Imogen’s heart sinking ever lower, but Laudna doesn’t seem to notice and continues, ‘– and cruelty and war and, oh, I don’t know. People wouldn’t get away with murder or inheritance trickery and such. I think about all the people who lie whenever they speak and how foolish it is and then it is my turn to speak and I…I’m terribly afraid.’

At that, Imogen crosses to sit beside Laudna on the bed. She takes one of her delicate hands in both of her own. It’s so light; bird-boned, Imogen thinks distractedly, mind cluttered with midnight-plumed ravens and the Duskmaven, of scavenging vultures and red seeping into cracked desert soil, of a canary in the dark. She hopes—as it gets harder to breathe, lungs struggling to contend with the weight of hope and panic—that Laudna won’t warn her away.

‘You can tell me,’ Imogen says, and her words stay blessedly steady. ‘Even if you think I don’t want to hear it. I do. I do.’

For a long moment, Laudna examines their hands. Intertwined. Her own—delicate, long-fingered, pale. The dark web of stagnant veins. Imogen’s—broader, tanned, calloused. The cracked skin, red seeping out. Squeezing Imogen’s hand, Laudna says,

‘I won’t lie, darling. I won’t tell you I wasn’t surprised. I was. I am. You are—’ Dark eyes lift to meet Imogen’s; without thoughts to skim, all Imogen can see in the depths is warmth, a glittering fondness. Sorrow lurks there too, somewhere, even if she can’t see it. ‘You are extraordinary. Young and beautiful and so very alive. I - you wishing to kiss me - you understand why I might be startled. I don’t know what I can offer you, darling. I will always be at your side, of course—to protect you, to wake you from your nightmares, to support you, to - to tether you against the storm, as you said, but - ‘

‘But what?’ Imogen shakes her head with a gentle laugh. ‘Who could ask for more than that?’

‘And the kissing?’

‘We don’t have to do it again. If you don’t like it.’

Laudna tilts her head; it’s not a no, but neither is it a yes. ‘You could choose anyone—’

‘I want only you.’

‘Even though I am—’ Laudna cuts off the words with a snap of her teeth. Turns away, sending a gloomy look to the dim corners of their room.

Imogen’s heart thuds, hard, against her ribs. She rubs at at it, sympathetic. Her bruised heart. She wants what it wants—to be close, ever closer. To hug her, hold her tight. To love her. To rip Delilah out of her—fry the bitch, burn her to ashes, and the ashes to smoke, and the smoke to nothing at all in white lightning—and then offer up her own heart to fill the lack. To welcome Laudna into the red hollow of her ribs, already wondering what kind of home she could make out of them. To take back the ruby ring and present it again, with all the ceremony Laudna deserves. To kiss her. Again and again.

But right now, Laudna doesn’t need a storm, even one of love. She only needs Imogen to listen to her. So she asks,

‘Even though you’re what?’

Laudna’s hands curl into talons and a snarl erupts from her throat. Earlier, Imogen hadn’t known what to make of the idea that Laudna could summon a wolf but she gets it now. Hears it in that mournful, ragged sound.

‘Dead. Broken.’ She claws at her heart. ‘Weak.’

‘No. You’re not, sweetheart, no.’

Imogen cannot resist reaching forward. She keeps her touch feather-light. Skims a high cheekbone before sliding back to the strand of dark hair that has escaped its high bun. She tucks it behind Laudna’s ear with exacting care, thumb grazing the gold ear-cuff. I see you. Every bit. Laudna’s eyes fill with inky tears and, when Imogen lifts her other hand to cradle her precious, lovely face, Laudna leans into the touch.

For a moment, Imogen can only stare.

There is no one in the world like Laudna—so starkly beautiful, so sweet, so enchanting. There is no one half as creative. She knows Laudna’s story—saw her die—but no one could spend an hour in Laudna’s presence and leave thinking her anything other than vibrant. How could that be death? And as for broken, well, Imogen thinks of the mosaics in Uthodurn’s royal halls, and of stained glass windows in the Dawnfather’s hall—what little she had overhead of that part of Laudna’s story—and thinks of Laudna’s mendings and crafts and the hundreds of achingly beautiful smiles Laudna has made up just for her and yes, maybe she’s been broken, but who hasn’t? How can that make her less? Less lovely, less wonderful? It doesn’t. It doesn’t. She thinks of faith and lets her pinkie slip down to touch, so gently, the ragged mark of Laudna’s first death. She thinks of destiny and meets Laudna’s eyes.

Beautiful, she thinks, and then - because they are being truthful, because they are telling each other the truth - she says it out loud too.

‘You’re beautiful. You’re my—‘ Imogen falters, tries to think of a word that doesn’t stick in her chest like a knife, but pushes on because her love doesn’t make her fearless, it just makes her brave. ‘My favourite.’

Her blush blooms purple under Imogen’s hands. Laudna glances down, shy, then up from under lashes dark and sticky with inky makeup, splayed like delicate spider legs.

‘It is strange,’ Laudna says, covering Imogen’s hands with her own when she starts to pull away, worried. ‘Don’t leave, darling. Let me… Let me?’

Let her lean in, yes, let her press close, forehead to forehead, yes, stay so still when Laudna touches her cheek, fleeting. Laudna trembles—afraid? excited? damn this fucking circlet—but the contact settles her and when she retreats, she pulls Imogen’s hands from her cheeks but doesn’t let them go. She breathes in and out. Then says,

‘Waking from death is much like waking from sleep, except it hurts. Only a little but all the time.’

Imogen’s fingers brush over Laudna’s wrist, where her pulse plods away. ‘Laudna,’ she whispers, not to interrupt. Only because Laudna ought never go a moment thinking she didn’t care.

‘For all those years, even though I…I ran and built my huts and Pate too, of course, and of course I felt things—fear and loss and joy, too, sometimes—I was alive and awake but. So much of me was still dead. I was so - confused. And angry, often. I was surviving, you see. I had strength enough to hold myself together and fix things, here and there, but no more than that. I was hungry, all the time, I had so many teeth.’ Laudna searches her face. ‘And then I met you and you helped. Cared. These past years with you… It used to be that when I wanted something, it - it was hunger I felt. This endless hunger. A great pit in my chest. And it was hard to tell, you see, what it was I wanted except for everything, anything I could get my hands on. Do you understand?’

Imogen gnaws at her lip. Slowly, she shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’ She dips her head, catches Laudna’s eyes. ‘Explain it to me?’

Laudna’s fingers shake as she slides them over the backs of Imogen’s hands. Long fingers curl around one of Imogen’s wrists and she lifts it to press a chaste kiss to her knuckles, lips cool against the burning ridge of her oldest lightning scar.

‘You have given me so much. You gave me friendship and purpose and trust. Food. Fun and stories. Strength. A bed. A home. And the hunger…it doesn’t gnaw so terribly, darling. Now, when I - when I want something, it isn’t an impossible task. I needn’t lose myself in that great black pit, blinding searching for what I lack. It starts to make sense. I start to make sense. What I want. Outside of her, and hunger. You’ve given me so much,’ Laudna tells her, and her voice creaks with the weight of her words. ‘How can I possibly take more? How - selfish, how greedy it would be to want… To want.’

‘Do you want me to kiss you?’ Imogen asks, voice soft. She tries not to sound to hopeful.

Launda holds her hands for a long time. It’s maddening, because Laudna never stays still for long; she doesn’t now either, instead stroking tiny patterns against her skin, fingers sliding over and between her own. At the occasional scratch of her nails, a frisson of electricity crackles down Imogen’s arms, through her body. Finally, Laudna nods.

‘I do. Oh, Imogen, I do. I didn’t know it - I knew I would be content for centuries, the rest of my days, if only I could sleep in your bed, stand at your side, content with any touch or favour you might share with me. And then - to be kissed?’ A shy smile creeps across her lips. ‘Would it be terribly unfunny to say it struck me like a bolt?’

Imogen snorts. Pulls her hands free so she can shove at her—lightly, though, barely enough to make even Laudna sway. Her hands settle on the tender branching of Laudna’s collarbones. The fabric of the new dress is silk-smooth under her palms; the lace neckline, though, catches against her work-rough, scar-rough fingers. She strokes it again, entranced. It’s so soft, the lace, in its reluctance to let her go. It’s so beautiful, the whorling patterns of leaves and flowers, and the contrast of blue-black fabric against Laudna’s pale skin is enough to make her glow. And beneath lace and skin, the steady tap of Laudna’s pulse—a knock on the door, on the coffin lid, here I am.

Beautiful.

‘That’s dreadful,’ she scolds, wrinkling her nose.

‘That’s me. Full of dread.’ A ghostly visage flickers across Laudna’s face, there—skin and skull shifting, FRIDA’s inspiration?—and gone. ‘And you?’ she asks. ‘You too?’

‘Full of dread?’

‘Do you wish to kiss me, I meant, actually.’

Imogen swallows harshly. ‘Yeah,’ she rasps. ‘Yeah, I do.’

A frown pinches Laudna’s forehead. ‘Have you been afflicted with this desire for long?’

‘Afflict— You say it like it’s a sickness or somethin’,’ Imogen teases, but Laudna flaps a hand for her to hurry up and tell, so she shrugs. ‘Um. Yeah. I ‘spose I’ve been wantin’ to kiss you for a while,’ she admits, cheeks burning. ‘When I could hear you, it was… Do you remember when Dusk was hangin’ around, you told me you hadn’t thought about it? Hadn’t accessed that part of your brain?’ Laudna nods. ‘I know. I knew that. Because sometimes, when we were close and you…’

Imogen pauses. Sucks in a breath—it’s a little stuffy in their room, no windows, but it smells of freshly laundered sheets and paint and wood polish and Laudna and Imogen lets it steady her.

‘D’you know that you say the kindest, sweetest things sometimes? You always know what to do to calm me down or make me laugh, even when the whole world is—’ She gestures awkwardly to the south wall where the moon hovers in her minds eye. ‘You know. Going to shit. And sometimes—I wasn’t sure how much you…’ She stops again, lips twisting, frustrated. ‘I knew that you cared for me because, well, because you do.’

‘Naturally, of course.’

‘But sometimes I wondered if…if you wanted to kiss me, like I sometimes thought of doing. But when I looked into your mind, you were never thinkin’ about it so -’ Imogen shrugs, cheeks hot. ‘I never brought it up. You hardly ever thought about it when other folk were flirtin’ or talkin’ about it, so I figured it wasn’t something you wanted. And that didn’t matter to me! Just so long as you were with me, and we were together, I was happy with that. But then Dusk,’ Imogen strangles the name in her throat, hopes fiercely that Yu can feel it, wherever the fuck they might be, ‘put the idea in your head and then they…left…and you were confused and I’d sometimes catch flashes of it in your head but it didn’t feel right to bring it up, even though sometimes I thought—the way you were lookin’ at me, and not pullin’ away when I was lookin’ at you—I thought…maybe? Maybe it was - Maybe you could. Think like that. And when you died—’ Her voice cracks. ‘That wasn’t the right time either, obviously,’ she scoffs. Pulls a hand back to swipe at her eyes.

‘Darling,’

‘It had to be your choice. All of it. Everything, after what happened. And I was fucking terrified because of all those questions in my head like if I’d be pushin’ you if I asked, or makin’ you more of a target, burdenin’ you with all this Predathos moon shit—’

‘Never. Never a burden.’

‘—and then I got this,’ Imogen taps her circlet, ‘and I couldn’t hear you anymore, couldn’t check, and so, yeah, Laudna, you could say I’ve been thinkin’ about it for a while.’

‘Thinking about,’ she says, so carefully, like she’s afraid if she speaks it too loud or too fast the whole thing will break, ‘kissing. Me.’

Imogen laughs. Smiles at her with her whole face, her whole heart. Every soft, exposed, grotesque, tender part of it. ‘Yeah, sweetheart. Is that alright?’

Laudna nods jerkily. Eyes Imogen’s mouth curiously. ‘Can I - that is, if it’s alright with you,’

‘Please,’ Imogen whispers, and she isn’t sure if she’s reading her own mind or if Laudna’s is loud enough to overpower the circlet, if she’s letting the power of it subside in her eagerness to know if Laudna wants what she wants, but it’s so clear—Laudna’s dark eyes, warm and kind and wanting; her reaching hands, aligning them hurt to hurt, heart to heart; plum lips pressing, ever so gently, against hers.

The kiss lasts a heartbeat. Barely long enough to register the touch. Even so, Laudna flushes deeply. Touches her fingers to her mouth and breathes out, shaky.

‘Oh. Imogen.’

Imogen lifts a hand—‘Can I? Let me, please’—to Laudna’s neck, grazing the high collar she’d been so jealous of in the store for getting to touch Laudna’s neck, but adores now as she coaxes it down so she alone can see, can touch the soft skin of her neck. Feel the way Laudna’s breath hitches when she does, her shiver as Imogen’s fingers slide forward, following the path of her jaw and swiping beneath the hinge of it—tender, awed, lingering on the mottled silver marks of bullet holes and torn skin��before she slides her fingers into the curtain of dark dark. She presses gently, guides her forward for another kiss. Her lips find the corner of Laudna’s mouth and smiles at the noise of displeasure it pulls.

‘I think,’ Imogen whispers, kisses her more solidly. Tilts her head and loses herself in Laudna: Laudna’s nose nudging into her cheek; Laudna’s hands fluttering between her elbows and shoulders before laying gently on her back; a clumsy bump of lips, which is actually mostly chin, a giggled apology, and then something gives and Laudna’s lips are on hers again, steady and slow and careful, like they have all the time in the world, like now that she is here there is no where she would rather be. Imogen pulls back, licks her lips. Citrus bursts on her tongue.

Laudna stares at her mouth. ‘What - ‘ She has to clear her throat, voice breathy, like Imogen has kissed all the air out of her and the thought makes want crackle beneath Imogen’s skin. ‘What do you think?’

‘Amazing. Great. Perfect.’

Dark eyes gleam. Laudna smiles—no, she smirks. ‘Darling. You were saying something, that you thought…?’

‘Oh.’ Imogen starts to speak—and has to stop. She laughs. ‘Y’know, I’ve totally forgotten?’

‘Oh.’ Laudna’s blush deepens. She’s so fucking pretty. ‘It will come back to you. If it’s important.’ She fidgets. Reaches out a hand to touch Imogen’s elbow, her knee. She looks for a moment as if she is about to speak but then a calm settles over her and she only smiles and nods. ‘Do you mind, dearest, if I take a little time to fix the birdhouse? Only Pate said it’s dreadfully uncomfortable and I think - if I add some soft cushion fabric, maybe curtains - I can fix the place up for him.’

Imogen nods. She understands—and could do with a minute to calm down too. She crawls around Laudna up to the headboard, props herself up against it.

Laudna frowns. ‘Really? Boots on the bed?‘

She smiles, closes her eyes. ‘It’ll be alright, I’ll magic the dirt away after.’

‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ Laudna insists. After a few moments of Imogen ignoring her, Laudna sets aside the birdhouse and begins to unbuckle Imogen’s boots. Imogen watches, thoughts far too chaotic to pin down. It doesn’t take long—Laudna has helped her before, when migraines stopped her from doing just about anything—and she pats Imogen’s shin, tuts at the unhappy state of her socks, and mends the hole by her big toe with a needle and thread of black shadow. It looks good as new when she is done.

‘There,’ Imogen drawls, snuggling down into the pillow at her back. ‘What would I do without you?’

Laudna laughs. ‘You’d wear boots in bed and put your cups upside down on the shelves–’

‘First of all, I’m right about that and second of all,’ she nudges Laudna with her toe, ‘I never wanna find out.’

She smiles and, oh, Imogen thinks, Dawnfather, eat your heart out. You don’t know light like this. You couldn’t make a light like hers if you had a thousand solstices.

They spend a lazy afternoon together. They don’t kiss again—Laudna is far too intent on her work, and Imogen merely watches her and allows time and proximity to ease the tight, grating knot of nerves in her chest that had built with every moment of Laudna’s absence. She asks easy questions and retreads old, familiar jokes and stories, and everything resettles. In some ways, it is as it has always been. It’s the two of them, together. It’s also new in a way that makes Imogen’s heart flutter every time she remembers; I kissed her, I can kiss her.

‘Pate,’ Laudna croons, as she takes apart old clothes and blankets, stitches them into cushions for the interior of the birdhouse. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ she sings, and the rat-bird clambers out of his wooden house and up her arm, waits until she’s packed the cushions into place to skitter back inside, taking pride of place in the decadence. ‘What do you think of your new ho-ome?’ It’s so fucking weird. They both are. Imogen has to get closer to her. Tucks a foot under Laudna’s knee—who beams at her, wraps a chilly hand around her ankle and keeps her close—and makes a note to kiss Pate on top of his awful little skull soon. Just because. ‘What do you think? Will this be more comfortable?’

‘It’s nice!’ he croaks, little paws patting walls and floor. ‘I do have a suggestion, though—’

‘What! You’ve only been alive for a few months, what could you possibly know about decorating?’ she demands, aghast.

Pate flies from the house, landing on the roof. There are no eyes in his bird skull but Imogen swears he rolls them anyway. ‘Pfft! What don’t I know? I’m the whole package, you know. Bird brains and rat cunning, fanks very much.’

‘Fine, then, if you’re so smart! What’s your suggestion?’

‘Curtains.’

‘Curtains?’

‘Curtains. For, you know, setting the mood, or sleeping in the day. Or if you two need a little, heh, private time to lock lips—’

‘Alright, yes, fine!’ Laudna yelps. ‘I’ll make you some damn curtains!’

Pate chuckles. His wings peel open with a wet squelch that Imogen is never going to get used to—how could he be wet, he’s been dead for years, that’s what she wants to know—and he takes off with one, two laborious flaps of his wings, gliding down to the bed covers and scampering back into his now-comfortable home. ‘Thank ye kindly,’ he calls out from within.

Laudna grumbles as she pulls together curtains rather quickly, delving in her pack for supplies. She pulls out shards of metal–splinters, almost, but as long as her palm.

‘What’re those?’ Imogen asks, as she tries to bully the pillow under her head into a more comfortable shape.

‘Hm? Oh - one of Ashton’s climbing pitons. It shattered.’

The pillow refuses to be comfortable; Imogen gives up, gets up to search the room for wherever the other pillow went. She finds it, after a while, on the top shelf of the little linen closet and jumps for it before remembering she knows telekinesis. How in the nine hells Zhudanna even got it up there, she has no clue. Wandering back to the bed, Imogen watches over Laudna’s shoulder for a minute as she crafts.

‘You went climbing?’

‘When we were separated, that’s where we landed,’ Laudna says. ‘On a cliffside. Jagged rocks, Steam vents. Now that I think about it, we were rather lucky, actually, that we didn’t appear in the air above a sharp spike or roll off the cliff. But yes, we had to climb,’ she says, and tells Imogen all about it— finding Deni$e - Mona, at the time—and the climb and the endless valley of verdant trees.

Imogen listens carefully, heart heavy. She thinks of a long, cold walk and finding truly kind friends at the end of it - a celestial bull they befriended - shopping - the warmth and bustle and commerce and, yes, anxiety, of Uthodurn, and meeting royalty—and she thinks of Laudna, who dislocates something whenever she sneezes, having to pull herself up a cliffside. She rubs Laudna’s shoulder and dips her head, presses a kiss there on her back—because she can, because she wants to, because Laudna wants it too. Laudna hums, a happy sound.

‘I’m sorry you ended up there.’

‘It wasn’t all bad. It was rather beautiful. I would have enjoyed it, I think, if you had been there.’

‘Maybe we’ll go together someday.’

Laudna smiles. Affixes one of the piton curtain-rods into place as Pate guides her—’Higher, higher on the left - other left - all of it lower now - perfect!’

‘I think Ashton will want to go back.’

‘Oh?’

‘There was something of the Hishari there - a town. Cursed now, apparently. He wants answers.’

‘Then that’s what we’ll do,’ Imogen agrees. ‘Kill the moon, then go on holiday to a cursed town in Issylra. Sounds nice.’

‘You were right, by the way,’ Imogen says later, as they walk back from the Windowed Wall to their friends.

‘Of course I was.’ Laudna beams across at her, tone bright, teasing; it’s such a shift from her mood of the morning that Imogen can do nothing but smile back at her. ‘About what, though?’

‘You said if it was important, I’d remember what I was gonna say. And I remember now.’’ Imogen wraps her arm through Laudna’s, pulls her in tight. There aren’t many people crowding the street but she doesn’t need an excuse to hold her close anymore. ‘You know, the thought you kissed right outta my head?’

‘Imogen!’ Laudna slaps her hand lightly, but her eyes gleam. Imogen thinks she might be pleased by the idea of driving her to distraction. ‘Well, go on then. What was it?’

‘You asked if I’d been thinking about it for a long time. Kissin’ you. I was gonna say, I think I’ll never get it outta my head. I’m gonna be thinkin’ about kissing you forever. If that’s alright with you.’

Laudna’s chin lifts - proud, pleased by the idea, clearly - and she gains what could only be called a strut. Her cheeks colour faintly. ‘I’ll be thinking about it too.’ Her eyes glitter brightly over a sweet smile. ‘After all, you’re very capable,’ she teases, and laughs, delighted, at the blush her words pull from Imogen.

They’re still smiling when they rejoin their friends. It earns them strange looks, but fond, relieved. No one pries—though Ashton has a stare like a crowbar—and they say nothing, for now.

#tagging my stories #prompt fill #cr tag #imodna my beloveds #imodna

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