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quietblueriver · 3 months

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

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

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

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

“Imogen?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Imogen? Are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

“Imogen?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit, maybe she should fake a concussion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think that’s true at all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#imodna #imodna fic #modern au

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 3 days

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Hold Me Like a Knife (ii) (ao3)

Chapter 2 for @nessianweek day 6…. because uh… viking!Cassian is a legend? We're squinting with this one.

After an evening spent in the lord's mead hall observing the Danes and their ways, Nesta finds herself in trouble when an unfriendly Norseman follows her through the streets of Jorvik. Fortunately for her, she's already caught the eye of a man who'd sooner spill a river of blood than see her harmed...

(previous chapter // next chapter)

The business of negotiating land, it seemed, took hours.

In the lord’s hall, behind a wooden door carved with the image of a great tree encircled by a snake, the men disappeared. After briefly being shown to their lodgings, Nesta and the other ladies of the court had been escorted back to the hall, like the Danes didn’t trust them enough to give them free reign about the city just yet. And so, as the king and Rhysand and their most trusted men remained ensconced behind those doors, locked away for hours to debate the lines of their treaty - which towns and rivers would fall under the rule of the Danes, and which fields and roads would remain Saxon - Nesta studied that tree. Seated on a long wooden bench, she traced each meticulously carved branch that stretched towards the edges of the door, admiring the craftsmanship as she followed the tail of the snake that curved around the tree.

Somebody had told her, once, that the Danes thought their world was a mighty tree, and as Nesta sat and watched, she wondered if it was true. If the world was cradled by the boughs of a great oak, then where exactly did they sit, now? Were they in the branches, high enough to feel the light of the sun? Or was their little corner of England the roots of the tree, buried underground, so near to the scales of the beast that surrounded them?

She didn’t know who to ask to find out.

Every now and then, Tomas would leave the room, letting the door slam behind him as he left to fetch whatever parchment or deed the king had requested. Her husband muttered under his breath as he went, glaring at the walls, and not once did he stop to tell her - or any of them gathered outside that room - what was happening inside.

It was only when Rhysand stepped out into the hall and cast his eyes over the court of Wessex assembled before him - interspersed with Danes - that the news was shared. The Norseman’s face split into a ruthless smile as he took in the scene before him, the gathering lit by candlelight as the sun beyond the windows started to wane. The hall seemed to glow, the fire in the middle stirring as logs were added to the dwindling embers.

With a smooth, slippery kind of smugness, Lord Rhysand announced that the vast swathe of territory henceforth to be known as the Danelaw cut diagonally across Britain— so many miles and miles of land, surrendered to the heathen invaders that had looked at these shores and decided to make them their home, at any cost.

It was a wonder, Nesta thought, that King Alfred had left the room with the crown still upon his brow.

“This land has given me many things,” Rhysand began after his announcement, his violet eyes casting over the crowd with an intensity that made Nesta want to shudder. Beneath his eyes, somehow she felt like he could see into her soul— read her mind. “It has given me a new home, and comforts that I could not have dreamed of across the sea.” With a smile that felt almost genuine, Rhysand looked to Alfred like one might look to a brother. “With this treaty between us, I look forward to days of peace.”

Murmurs rose among the crowd; whispered agreements.

But Nesta saw the way Rhysand’s eye glinted in the firelight, the curve at the corner of his lip that made his smile more wolfish than anything else. And somehow, she didn’t think the peace would last.

There was a hunger in Rhysand— in all of his people, too. Did Alfred think a pretty parcel of land might be enough to sate that hunger, to slake their thirst for blood? Nesta looked to the snake carved on the door, its jaws wrapped around the tree that made up their world. The sharp teeth were shadowed by the firelight, the branches of the world-tree seeming to shake as the flames trembled, the light quivering like the sails on one of their ships, caught in the wind.

Servants appeared along the walls, and as Rhysand announced the feast and welcomed the Saxons to his hall and his hearth, Nesta looked back at that snake, and wondered if they hadn’t just walked right into its jaws.

***

In the lord’s hall, woodsmoke tangled with the scent of spices imported from far-off lands— places Nesta had only ever heard about in stories. Places where there was sand underfoot more often than stone, places where the sea was so blue it was deeper than the colour of a summer sky.

We had a ship arrive last week filled with spices— pepper and saffron and cumin. Entirely foreign to these shores without our extensive trading networks, of course, Rhysand had said, filling up his goblet with mead.

Nesta had never tasted anything like it— the meat so delicately spiced, the taste of smoke lingering deliciously on her tongue. Suddenly, she was ravenous. She tilted her head at the mention of the spices the Danes imported. Her father was a merchant after all, and yet… they spoke of lands so distant, where floors were made of tile and temples were erected in the name of yet more gods she couldn’t recognise. She followed the tales Rhysand told with interest as platters of food were laid out on the long tables that housed Dane and Saxon alike, the embers in the fire-pit glowing a vibrant red as smoke drifted up to the hole cut in the roof above, curling past the decorated wooden beams that stretched up from the floor; all of them carved with the faces of great beasts: serpents and dragons, wolves and bears. Mead and ale were poured liberally as conversation rose like the tides, and through it all Nesta sat silently, observing.

“Not good for the soul,” Osbert muttered as he plucked up a piece of chicken between his thumb and forefinger. “Such a rich diet. It heats the blood, fosters sin.”

Tomas scowled, poking at a piece of meat with the tip of his silver knife. “Everything about this place fosters sin, father.”

With a grimace twisting his features, he set his fork back down, the meat untouched. Like to break bread with the heathen was a sin all its own.

Indeed, as the meal ended and benches were pushed back from tables as the Danes rose from their seats to fetch more drink, Nesta noted with a sharp eye how more than a handful of Alfred’s court made haste to retire. Thegns and their wives made their excuses to their king, slipping away into the safety of their lodgings, like they couldn’t bear the peace any longer. Nesta, for one, found that she didn’t so much mind the food or the wine or the hall they found themselves in, and though there was a healthy dose of reservation as she looked at the Danes assembled on long benches either side of the hall, she had to admit that her curiosity was burning like a pyre, so many questions balanced on the tip of her tongue that she knew she could never ask aloud.

What were the creatures carved on those columns lining the room? What stories did they tell, and why were they deemed so important, so beloved, as to immortalise them in the wood?

Further along the table, King Alfred got to his feet. In a move that echoed, Rhysand did too, plucking up his goblet with lithe fingers as his assembled guests began to filter through the tables, the din of conversation rising all around them as formality was shed a little. The Northern lord took a different seat, closer to the fire, and beckoned to Alfred— to the empty seat beside him, illuminated by the flames. Both king and Dane might have claimed that they had left political discussions at the door as soon as dinner had been served, but Nesta knew the world of men too well to think differently. Negotiation continued, only this time it masqueraded as pleasant conversation.

Beside her, Tomas moved too, taking up a position directly behind the king, like he thought himself some kind of protector.

He didn’t sit down.

Only Nesta remained where she was. Even Osbert rose, a grunt of displeasure leaving him as he drifted to the edge of the room, taking up a seat against the wall, like still he feared someone was going to stick a dagger in his spine. Nesta didn’t think she could blame anybody for trying; Osbert watched with scrupulous eyes, speaking to no one, and giving no one leave to approach him. His silver cross shone in the low light, and every now and then the priest would wrap his fingers around it before lifting it to his lips, like showing his reverence to the cross might protect him in a hall so filled with heathens.

And yet Rhysand, she noted, recently baptised as per the terms of the treaty with Alfred, didn’t look particularly overcome with religious zeal of his own.

She supposed she wouldn’t be, either. Alfred and her husband might have thought Rhysand had taken the sacrament in all honesty, but he had been raised to believe in so many gods— what was one more added to his pantheon?

What was one more, when it brought him England?

Such a small price to pay, and even as he attended Mass on Sundays, she suspected he would still make his offerings to Odin.

She had said as much to Tomas, when he had first informed her of the king’s plan. The treaty they had made.

He had told her to stop trying to understand the politics of men— that it was too difficult a topic for her delicate female mind to comprehend. When he’d turned his back that night, she’d spat in his ale.

And now he stood behind the king, his chest puffed, engorged with his own self-importance, and as the firelight cast shadows across his face, Nesta half wondered if it would make her a terrible wife to wish that peace fell apart. To hope for a Danish blade to find a home in Tomas’ spine.

There were certainly enough Danes gathered beneath that roof to do the job.

She cast her eyes across them, taking in the way they raised their drinking horns, and the game pieces scattered across so many tables as they played a game she didn’t recognise. Her gaze roved across them all, until—

Across the hall, her attention caught on one Dane in particular.

Caught and held, like no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t bid her eyes to look away.

It was the one from earlier— the one who had been fighting outside the hall. He lounged against the wall now the banquet was finished, one foot up, clad in leather with hair down to his shoulders. He looked… cleaner now. The blood had been washed from his face, his shirt exchanged for a fresh one, dyed a deep burgundy with not a single crease to mar the fabric. None of the men were armed, but there was a space at his hip where a dagger might rest, and over the broad span of his shoulders, she thought that the hilt of a sword might look at home there, peeking out from above his back. His eyes glinted in the firelight, and a well-trimmed beard graced his jaw. Silver beads were threaded through his hair, which was braided at his temples. The Northmen were known for their… vanity, Nesta thought wryly, but perhaps it wasn’t such a terrible thing. The leather he wore was polished and smooth, if a little worn, and his hair shone in a way that was unseen amongst the Saxons.

He was… curious, Nesta thought, tilting her head as she watched him beneath the candlelight.

The distance between them felt like nothing— like she might reach out and feel the fabric of his tunic beneath her fingers, and as she watched, not quite sure of whether she wanted to widen the space between them or diminish it, he lifted his chin and found her staring, their eyes meeting with something that felt like a thunderclap, a bolt of lightning to her soul.

He raised his goblet; a toast across the fray.

His eyes sparked, and at his side, the warrior with the scarred hands muttered something before shaking his head. The first leaned close to whisper something in the ear of the second, and when the second pulled back, his lips were curved with an indulgent smile as he rolled his eyes. In tandem, both men looked across the room, pinning Nesta to the spot when their eyes found her. The first tilted his head, his eyes still trained on her as he drew his lip between his teeth, eyes aflame as he let drop the foot that he’d had resting against the wall.

Slowly, he ran a finger across his lip, his interest written plainly across his face.

And when that look in his eyes said he was about to approach her…

Nesta’s heart stopped.

Without hesitation she tore her eyes away, back to her husband and her king, and Nesta really did feel apprehension then, like a knot in her gut she couldn’t loosen. Her blood felt too thin, like there wasn’t enough air. In her chest her heart hammered, because what would happen if that Dane decided to cross the hall to speak to her? Her mind reeled.

Did she want to know the sound of his voice? To know what her name might sound like when shaped by his northern tongue?

Tomas would have her flogged when they returned to Wessex.

She looked to him now, but her husband did not smile or speak as she rose from her seat and joined him at the king’s back. Tomas only glanced at her and the wine still in her hands, his lip curling. After a moment, he took a single step back from Alfred, gripping Nesta’s upper arm with a tight hand. Silent, a muscle ticked in his jaw.

The Dane across the hall retreated.

And still Tomas’ hand curled into the soft flesh of her shoulder, like she was one of his hounds to be restrained, and no wedding ring circled his finger the way it did hers; her golden band little more than a collar binding her to a single master. Had she been given the choice, she never would have married him. Might never have married at all, in fact. There were women in convents who dedicated their life to prayer. Who read history and theology and lived in peace, when the Danes weren’t raiding, and didn’t that sound like a better life than this?

Her father had sold her to Tomas, a landless thegn, in order to better his standing with the king. She had been a bartering chip, no more. Tomas had never viewed her as anything more either, and the fact that she had yet to bear him a son and heir had him growing impatient. He was not gentle nor kind nor loving— he was everything she had feared to find in a husband, and she dreamed of that convent life now, every time he touched her.

Nesta spent all of a single heartbeat in her husband’s grip before deciding to retire.

“I’m tired,” she said, setting down the goblet that was still half-full. “The journey left me weary.”

Tomas only made some non-comital sound in his throat. His hand fell away from her arm and without even glancing at her he said, almost as an afterthought, “I may join you later.”

Nesta knew well enough what he meant. If he didn’t find a place in a whore’s bed, he’d come looking for his place in hers.

She said nothing, only dipped her chin to hide the way her jaw clenched. She turned without a goodbye, cutting through the crowd and noticing that most of the other women had already left, too. As if they could sense that the night was about to shift, that the men were getting too deep in their cups. It was a sense all women bear, Nesta thought, an instinct engrained within them all, to know when the men they were surrounded by were about to shed civility and turn into beasts, with nothing but blood on the horizon.

In that regard, no man was different, be he Saxon or a Dane.

Their hands would wander, their ears deaf to any protest.

Quickly Nesta ducked outside of the hall, into the darkness and the cool air of the street outside, and looked towards the lodgings only a short distance away.

Beneath the moon, the narrow streets were silver. The corners were bathed in shadow, and she’d only made it a few steps before she realised there was someone watching her from the darkest of those shadowed corners. She saw the glint of something silver— the moonlight reflecting off a ring or a necklace.

Or a blade.

She pushed down the fear, lifted her chin and slowed her steps. Refused to be cowed.

“Who’s there.”

A dark chuckle answered her.

“Saxon,” a voice said, nasal and pitched too low, like the man it belonged to was trying to sound larger and more imposing than he was. Nesta might have scoffed had she not been certain that it would end with her blood on his hands. Her heart started to hammer.

He stepped into the moonlight. More boy than man, his dark hair was made black by the silver light, the sneer contorting his features making a caricature of the shadows on his face. A too-new scar cut across his nose, and his eyes were flat and cold. He manoeuvred out of the shadows until he was blocking the path ahead, and as Nesta looked behind her, she wondered if she could run back to the mead hall, make it to safety before he caught her.

She looked at the way he braced himself, and knew she wouldn’t make it far.

Her hand strayed to her skirts, where her dinner knife was tied to her belt. It was custom to carry a knife for dining, and though the blade was fine enough to eat with, she knew it wouldn’t do enough damage to the Dane before her. It was too short, too blunted.

He smirked, a cloud passing over the moon that cloaked him with shadow.

“I don’t like Saxons,” he whispered.

“Pity,” Nesta sneered before she could still her tongue.

It was unwise, she knew, and the Dane laughed, cruel and throaty.

“I never asked for an alliance with your king,” he spat, taking a slow step forwards as Nesta took a single step back. “I don’t want peace. I came here for blood— for glory.” He freed a blade from his belt, the curved edge of an axe raised. “And I’ll be getting it— one way or another.”

The moon was almost entirely masked now, plunging them into darkness. Only the sharp edge of his seax glinted.

And then— footsteps. Loud footsteps. Sure and confident.

The clouds cleared, and turning her head, Nesta beheld the Dane from the hall walking casually, carefully, down the street towards them. His eyes were fixed on the Dane with the weapon in his hand, though briefly they flicked to her, running across her from head to toe, as if to check for injury.

In his presence the Dane blocking the way ahead hesitated, the hand holding his seax raised dropping an inch, his fingers slipping on the short handle, as if searching for a stronger grip.

The Dane from the hall closed the distance quickly. His own small axe was tucked back into his belt now, and with one smooth, effortless motion, he freed the weapon and held it to throat of his fellow Northman.

The latter’s axe fell to the floor with a muted clatter.

Nesta took a step back, her spine hitting the wattle-and-daub wall of the building behind her. Even in the darkness she could see the scowl on the face of the Dane that had threatened her, and the unkind twist of his lips as the Dane from the hall pressed the sharp edge of his axe in a little harder, freeing a thin ribbon of blood that spilled down to the hollow of his throat.

“I’ve told you before, haven’t I, Kallon, about what happens to men who follow women down dark streets,” the Dane from the hall hissed. The one at the mercy of his blade - Kallon, Nesta presumed - tried to speak, but the effort was lost when the axe was pressed deeper against his throat, so perilously close to cutting right through. “Did the last scar I gave you fail to teach you well enough?”

Kallon tried to fight against the Dane’s hold, but his movements were pinned by the lethal edge of the axe at his neck. Resentment curled his lip even as his blood stained the ground beneath him, his eyes filled with such a bottomless, relentless hatred that Nesta’s own fingers traveled to her throat, curling around her necklace as if searching for something to grasp.

“Rhys will have my head if I kill you now,” the Dane muttered. “Something about keeping the peace while the Saxons are here. Not confirming their beliefs that we are naught but a violent and lawless people.” He snorted, the inflection in his voice making it clear that he was parroting Rhysand’s words, letting them echo in the otherwise empty street. He raised his free hand, grasping Kallon’s face roughly between his fingers. Blood spilled down the handle of the seax, coating the fingers of his other hand, but the Dane seemed entirely unconcerned as he lowered his face and met Kallon’s eye. When he next spoke, his voice was cold and dark, carrying no hint at all of an empty threat. “But trust me, the next time that I see you…”

He trailed off, letting the threat linger before pulling his blade away sharply. Kallon’s hand immediately banded his throat, covering the small wound.

He looked up at the man who had been but a moment away from killing him, and though his glare remained, he straightened. He was a full head shorter than the other Dane, and not nearly so well-built. Where the other seemed to have been born and raised on a battlefield, Kallon appeared to be the Norse equivalent of Tomas: cocksure, arrogant, and entirely devoid of skill.

Nesta pushed away from the wall, looking away from Kallon and finding her attention snared by the powerful span of the Dane’s shoulders, the way the muscles bunched at his arms as he slid his seax back into his belt.

“Leave,” the Dane hissed.

Kallon hesitated.

“Now.”

Kallon scrambled down the alley, his steps stumbling only once as he hurtled round the corner, bracing a hand on the wall to steady himself. A smear of blood was all he left behind, a crimson handprint made garish by the silver light of the moon.

For a moment, relief swelled in Nesta’s chest.

For just one moment— because then the Dane turned, and fixed all of that ruthless attention on her.

“Dangerous,” he said, his voice low and husky, “for a Saxon woman to be walking these streets alone.”

“Thank you,” she said, brushing a hand down the fabric of her cloak. “For…” she gestured to the mouth of the street where Kallon had disappeared, then nodded to the axe he’d just wielded in her defence. “…That.”

The Dane raised an eyebrow. A scar ran diagonal through it, and his nose was slightly crooked, like it had once been broken, long ago, and hadn’t set completely straight. It made him a rugged beauty, alluring and compelling in equal measure, and when the moonlight shifted and illuminated his face, Nesta thought he might have been the most dangerous man she had ever laid eyes on.

“You shouldn’t walk alone,” he said.

She bristled. “What else am I to do?”

He shrugged. “Do you not have a husband to escort you?”

Nesta scowled, forgetting that this man had just had a weapon against the throat of another. Somehow, she didn’t think he was going to hurt her. When he took a step closer, she didn’t retreat.

“I don’t need my husband to escort me anywhere,” she spat, hardly able to hide the venom in her tone.

His eyes darkened as he pulled his gaze across every inch of her. Even though every piece of her skin was covered, somehow she felt bare beneath his attention, like he was somehow able to see the parts of her she kept hidden. He drifted closer, those eyes like sparks of hazel, and he reminded her of something wild, something prowling in the dark.

He laughed— laughed.

“Tell me sweetheart,” he said, his voice a low brush against her senses. “Was he the man standing behind your king?”

She didn’t answer, letting her silence fill the space between them, but the warrior huffed a sharp laugh, one that was mocking and derisive, that should have made her afraid. But he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth again, letting his laugh devolve into a hum lodged deep in his throat, and as the moonlight drifted again across his beautifully rugged face, Nesta swallowed, and didn’t feel afraid at all.

“He looks weak,” the warrior continued, his lip curling into a sneer. “Can he even lift a sword?”

And oh, if Nesta were a good wife, she would have defended Tomas. She would have spun a tale of his bravery, of his strength, until the warrior before her backed off and left her alone. But she was not a good wife— not made for such things, to be shaped and moulded by her husband’s hands. So instead she shrugged, and looked the Dane before her straight in the eye. They liked their women outspoken, she’d heard. Allowed them to fight beside them in battle, did not consign them to breeding and childrearing— no, these brutish men from the north let their women be as fierce and as ferocious as themselves, and knowing that…

For the first time in her life, Nesta did not hold her tongue.

“He says he can.” She paused, words balanced on her tongue that she’d longed to say out loud since the day she was married. She’d never had the courage, but here, in the presence of this man, she found it— found it in abundance. “But then again, he says he can use his prick, and I’ve never seen proof of that, either.”

The Dane laughed again— louder this time, a true laugh, deep and sure. It echoed. Delight shone in his eyes as he took another step closer.

“Why did you follow me?” she asked, breathing in the scent of him, all leather and smoke and honeyed mead.

“Because these streets are no place for a lady,” he answered easily. When she said nothing - because what was there to say anyway? - he hummed a little, shrugging idly before continuing. “Besides, you were looking at me. In the hall.”

Nesta blinked. “You followed me because I looked at you?”

He grinned. “I followed you because it was clear to me that you liked what you saw.”

God in Heaven, this man.

A breathless laugh escaped her, one softened with surprise. “Are all Danes so direct?”

“Usually.” He lifted his head up, looking to the sky as he took a deep breath. “Life is short, sweetheart. I am a man born and raised for battle. Valhalla could welcome me any day now, should an enemy blade pierce my flesh, so why waste time?”

He took another step, and Nesta swallowed. He was close— close enough to touch, now.

“When I want something…” he continued, trailing off as his eyes dropped to her lips. They flicked back up, catching her gaze and holding it. “I don’t waste the opportunity.”

Nesta snorted. “Spoken like a true Northman.”

He quirked a brow. “Did you expect anything less?” He dipped his head, leaned in close, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “Did you think all men are like your pitiful excuse for a husband?”

Suddenly, Nesta couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. She had never been one to lose her senses over a man, and yet here she was, feeling her heart racing for all the wrong reasons in the presence of a heathen. It would be so easy for her to reach up, to drag her fingers across his beautiful, rugged face. To feel his heat.

When he laughed, the sound was like honey. Thick and warm and sweet, washing over her as he lowered his head, his lips a breath away from her neck. His hand hovered over her hip— not touching, not yet, but close enough that one wrong move would bring them crashing together, colliding so forcefully she didn’t think there would be anything left of her by the end of it.

When I want something…

His voice echoed in her head, burning and burning in her blood until the heat made her tip her head back, searching for the cool brush of the night air. The Dane took it for an invitation, his hands coming to rest at her waist.

She was too stunned to move.

Her body froze, so entirely still that she half thought she might have forgotten to breathe. And yet the space at her waist was warm, his palm seeming to mould to the shape of her, like it was what his hands had been made for.

“Odin has blessed me, it seems,” he muttered, his voice sultry in the dark.

Still, she didn’t move.

And Nesta thought of those hands— the hands he had on her, spanning her waist, his fingers at her spine as his thumb grazed her hip. Strong hands, firm. She swallowed, fighting the urge to pull herself away, grasping for composure as his thumb made another pass over her hip, a long swipe that had her blood heating.

She didn’t think of what it meant that he was a Dane.

Of the lives those hands had ended.

Of the monasteries on the coast, raided and burned to the ground.

He smiled at her, all lethal grace and beautiful, exhilarating possibility, and Nesta didn’t think of what it meant that his hands were soaked in Saxon blood.

And wasn’t this the worst kind of treachery— the most despicable treason? To not pull back from a Norseman’s touch, when a century’s worth of Saxon blood had been spilled at the hands of raiders just like him?

Maybe it was the mead. Maybe she’d lost her senses.

But damn her— when he held her, when he touched her, part of her wanted to fall right into him, like he was the sea, beautiful and dangerous, and she was standing alone at the edge of a cliff, hands outstretched.

She tilted towards him, each pounding beat of her heart resounding through her with a force that she thought could shatter a shield wall, and when his hand lifted to drag a finger down the column of her neck, lingering at her collarbone, she felt her eyelids flutter, her lips part. It was a question, an invitation, and she felt the heat of him, his lips so close to her own, and knew that he had understood, that the hand he still had circling her waist was an answer in and of itself.

And then—

From the direction of the hall, suddenly light spilled out into the street. Warm and golden and bright— a candle or a lantern, held in someone’s hand. Voices drifted out from the hall, loud and raucous, accompanied by footsteps. Whether a Dane returning home or a Saxon seeking their lodgings, Nesta didn’t wait to find out.

She hurled herself backwards, her mind clearing as the Dane’s hands slid from her waist.

In the absence of his touch, common sense came screaming back. She stood in the dark, in a foreign city, with a Dane’s hands on her— a Dane’s lips close enough to kiss. Madness. It was utter madness. No matter what peace had been agreed between her king and his…

He had killed his way to these shores.

She cleared her throat, putting a safe distance between them. When she glanced up, the moonlight illuminating the planes of his face, she expected to find anger colouring his cheeks, or displeasure narrowing his eyes— the signs she’d grown accustomed to when a man was robbed of what he desired. Instead there was mirth lining the corners of his generous mouth, the starlight reflected in his dark eyes. He didn’t look like a man who had been refused something— no, he looked like a man ready for a challenge, the smile playing on his lips telling her that this might as well have been a game to him.

And the chase, it seemed, had just begun.

“Good night, then,” he said, offering her a shallow bow as he took a step back. The moonlight gleamed along the edge of his seax, the sharp end of the blade shining like mercury in the darkness of the street, Kallon’s blood still staining the edge, and as the Dane rose to his full height, he shot her a wink that had her standing stunned.

“Good night,�� she answered.

A grin answered her like a slash in the dark, one that imprinted itself in her memory, carved there like the beasts on the pillars in the hall. And as the Dane slipped away back into the shadows, Nesta didn’t look back as she made her way towards the rooms Rhysand had set aside for Alfred’s court, not daring to glance over her shoulder until she had reached the door, standing in the circle of candlelight emitted by the small tallow candle sitting on a ledge beside the window.

And a small distance away, like he’d followed a hundred paces behind to ensure she got back safely this time, Nesta saw a glint of silver— and that same smile, white in the dark.

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome @pyxxie

#nessianweek2024 #nessian

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thatliminal-wanderer · 6 months

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Pastel Rainbow Dog ID Pack

Requested by Anon

Names:

Aero, Akita, Amber, Amitola, Anuenue, Bea, Blossom, Blue, Blush, Brittany, Cain, Cairn, Canine, Capri, Celeste, Champagne, Coral, Crayon, Daffodil, Daisy, Dane, Dog, Doggie, Dusty, Goldie, Gordon, Green, Hina, Iridiana, Jack, Kaleido, Kelpie, Lab, Lavender, Lilac, Mal, Malinois, Manzat, Marigold, Mauve, Mutt, Orange, Pascal, Pasty, Paw, Peach, Peaches, Pearl, Periwinkle, Poly, Pooch, Pup, Puppy, Purple, Rain, Rainbeau, Rainbow, Red, Rose, Rosie, Rott, Russell, Scottie, Shepherd, Soft, Softy, Spitz, Splatt, Splott, Summer, Tosa, Tulip, Yellow, Yip

Zi don’t normally do noun names but did try a bit here? Sorry if it’s underwhelming!

Pronouns:

arf/arfs, bark/barks, blu/blue/blues, bud/buddy/buddys, canine/canines, col/color/colors, cor/coral/corals, cyan/cyans, dog/dogs, fluff/fluffs, gree/green/greens, ind/indigo/indigos, or/orange/oranges, paint/paints, pale/pales, pas/pastel/pastels, pastel/pastels, paw/paws, pup/puppy/puppys, pup/pups, pur/purple/purples, rain/rainbow/rainbows, re/red/reds, viol/violet/violets, wag/wags, woof/woofs, ye/yellow/yellows, yip/yips, ❤️/❤️s, 🌈/🌈s, 🌫️/🌫️s, 🍡/🍡s, 🍬/🍬s, 🍭/🍭s, 🎉/🎉s, 🎊/🎊s, 🎨/🎨s, 🏳️‍🌈/🏳️‍🌈s, 🐕/🐕s, 🐕‍🦺/🐕‍🦺s, 🐩/🐩s, 🐶/🐶s, 🐾/🐾s, 💙/💙s, 💚/💚s, 💛/💛s, 💜/💜s, 📒/📒s, 📕/📕s, 📗/📗s, 📘/📘s, 📙/📙s, 📚/📚s, 🖌️/🖌️s, 🖍️/🖍️s, 🦄/🦄s, 🦮/🦮s, 🧡/🧡s, 🩵/🩵s, 🩷/🩷s

Titles:

A Barking Rainbow, A Dog of Pastel Lighting and Colorful Hues, That Pastel Dog, The Colorful Puppy, The Dog of Pastel Colors, The Light Rainbow (In The Shape of A Dog), The Pastel One, The Puppy Covered in Colors, [prn] Who Barks in Many Shades

Genders:

Caninaesic, Dogstimmic, Kiddiepuppic, Pastelcutic, Pastelgender, Pastelpixelgender, Pastrasea, Puparciel/Pupaurciel, Pupgender, Pupsleepyic, Rainboscarfcloudic, Rainbowaesic, Rainbowgender, Rainbowquartzic, Rainbowsquish, Somnollisgender, Yellowdogplushic

Other MOGAI:

Alderainbow, Caninevesi, Canivior, Dog Omninoun, Dogperspesque, Dogvesi, Pastelaestelic, Pupperspesque, Puppyperspesque, Pupvior, Rainbowvesi, Rainbowvior/Rainbowalius/Rainbowperspesque, 🌈 Omninoun

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midnightgrimoire · 2 months

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FOURTH WING spoilers

I’m mostly finished with the book I’m on page 426 and Garrick has just interrupted Xaden and violet (and their fun time) saying they were under attack but once everyone got into formation xaden was like nah its war games. Like bitch WTF at four in the morning then as I’m reading further along and Danes dad is all like if this was a real attack and thee “gryphons” were attacking it would be serious. And that made me stop and think like actual gryphons?

IM SORRY GRYPHONS LIKE THE ONES IN HARRY POTTER?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!

I thought Tarin was supposed to be big like big big so (obviously I haven’t see and art for gryphons but like aren’t gryphons supposed to be basically big birds all the feather and that. So why would they a big threat as ya know big scary dragon v feathered gryphon????????) feathers can be very flammable!!!!!!

I have limited knowledge as i avoid spoilers online for the books but in my minde there shouldn’t be much of a war if it dragon against gryphon?

Aren’t the dragons breath fire were the gryphons don’t? LIKE BITCH JUST COOK THE BIRD AND HAVE CHRISTMAS EARLY?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

I have stopped reading to write this out ( i had such a good flow going too) cuz my mates don’t read the fourth wing and I’m running on no sleep.

Plz tell me dose Violet actually like xaden or is that the bond between both there dragons effecting them.

Imma read some more and find out

THE WORD ON THE PAGE IS MOVING AND I CANT KEEP MY HEAD UP BUT A FEW MORE energy drink’s WILL FIX THAT SHIT NO PROBLEM

WHO SAID READING WAS CALMING AND RELAXING IM SO STRESSED CUZ I HEARD ON TIKTOK VIOLET IS GONNA DIE LIKE NOOOOO NOT MY BBY GIRL!!!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

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justallihere · 7 months

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Wdym he shrugged 🤨 you don’t get to act like you’re in the right!! (I have no idea what the context is but I’m taking everything personally on behalf of Violet)

Just for that I hope he cries and begs on his knees for 30 days and 30 nights. I need to see tears come out of his eyes, I need to see the most pathetic love declaration. His life needs to be in shambles without his wife!

My baby Violet 🥺 I’m so happy she has the people she has in her life who will literally go down swinging for her and remind her she’s not alone.

One thing I’m wondering is if Aretia was tricked by Navarre. Obviously Navarre wants to hide the venin from Violet but what if they/Tauri had an ulterior motive? What if they’re hoping because of her lack of preparation, Violet dies because of a venin which results in Xaden’s death and the destabilization of Tyrrendor, without having to get their hands dirty. They could consolidate the hatching grounds back in the Vale. The political implications literally just occurred to me and if that’s the case, Aretia were gonna get end up in a war against the venin and Navarre either way and they chose the option that put them at a severe disadvantage.

I feel like this should’ve been the canon Empyrean storyline if I’m being honest. I’m seeing these characters in a whole new way and I personally think this is so much more compelling. I think this fic in particular could take the place of Iron Flame and book 1 could’ve focused on the breakdown of Violet and Dane’s and her taking care of herself during her first year without the help of Xaden. If you couldn’t tell, I love this story! Can’t wait to read the next chapter (whenever that may be, take your time 💕)

lol I love how everyone is ready to go down swinging for Vi 😂 his shrug makes a little more sense in context I think when you read what exactly she says that he’s shrugging at.

I keep saying “oh no fuck the politics of this story, I don’t care about the politics” anon I care so much about the politics of this story I want to throw up. This is awful. I want to not care but I can’t leave plot holes. Why did I do this to myself? Why did you all let me do this to myself? Can you all look away for the rest of this fic so I can stop caring?

Anyway point being yeah there’s a lot going on here and the political ramifications of some choices that are made very soon are going to bite everyone in the ass and god bless Lilith Sorrengail is all I’m gonna say

I don’t have the patience to go back and rewrite Violet’s first year at Basgiath in this universe but just know if I did it would be really cool. But I’m lazy so I won’t

Thank you!! 🩷🩷

#storm in the quiet

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kaladinsspear · 24 days

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Spoilers for Fourth Wing!!

Little rant because I….disagree with some of the choices Violet is making…..

So Violet is still pissed at Zaden for keeping secrets, but I’m so frustrated with her! Seriously! He was going to tell her, and he had every right not to. That wasn’t just his secret, that was all the marked cadets secret and it wouldn’t just be his neck at risk if it gets out.

We know that Dane has been reading Violets memories now, but would Violet actually have believed that without proof? Would she have been willing to learn to shield perfectly before she was told what was happening? Would she have diligently kept her shields up around Dane without absolute proof of his betrayal? Would Dane not have found it suspicious if suddenly he couldn’t read Violets memories anymore?

Also, yes Violet and Zaden love each other, but they have known each other for a year. And over half that year was spent with Violet hating Zaden. I’m sorry Violet, but trust like that is built slowly, methodically, over years and through conversations. Zaden has every reason to be closed off, and he was opening up to her. She shouldn’t be demanding that he bear not only his soul, but the entire rebellion after, like, 3 months of secret dating. They haven’t even built a solid foundation for their personal relationship yet. Trust like that is earned Violet, earned through time, conversation, and commitment. You have not had enough time with him to get there yet.

Also, trust goes both ways. Part of trusting Zaden is trusting that his intentions are honorable even if he doesn’t tell you everything. Violet needs to read Mistborn and SLA because Elend and Adolin have it right. You don’t have to know everything to trust your partner.

#my thoughts #fourth wing #rebecca yarros #rant

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lavellenchanted · 1 month

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I was tagged by the lovely @emilykaldwen

rules: share the last line you wrote, then tag some people and have fun

this is a lot more than a line, but since one of the rules is to have fun ...! there isn't a really a full fic behind it, it's just part of a scene that came to me as I've been replaying BG3 and thinking about a scenario in which Astrid was betrothed to Wyll as a child but isn't the Tav that was captured and only meets him again when he returns to Baldur's Gate in Act 3.

“... Wyll?” The sound of his name is quiet, barely more than a whisper, and if it weren’t for his now demonic hearing Wyll might not even have heard it beneath the thrum of other conversations around them and the clash of metal on stone as the Flaming Fist move around the fortress. Even so, quiet as it is, he knows that voice. Hearing it again causes a sudden lurch in his stomach and a painful tightening in his chest. Heart drumming hard against his ribs, he turns slowly to face her. She’s standing across the hall, staring at him like he’s a ghost. Astrid Dane. Daughter of Lord Marcus Dane, who sat in the Parliament of Peers and was a close ally of Wyll’s father. The girl that once upon a time, Wyll had been meant to marry. The girl he had loved. And the girl that seven years ago he had left without a word, after his father had exiled him. Despite the years that have passed, she looks almost exactly as he remembers her - the lines of her face are a little sharper perhaps, her form leaner and more muscled, and her hair is shorter, curling around her shoulders where it used to fall to her waist. But for the rest, his memory has served him well; he’s never forgotten the exact violet shade of her eyes, the golden highlights in her brown hair, the sweep of freckles across her nose or the tapered point of her ears. He’s not sure if it hurts more or less to realise he hasn’t exaggerated her beauty in his mind. What is she thinking as she looks at him? For she certainly cannot say he has not changed. He wonders with a cold, sinking dread if she feels the same revulsion he felt the first time he saw his new reflection - saw the ridges that now mark his skin, the menacing horns bursting from his forehead, the red eye that seems to glow with Avernus’ own flames. Hells, come to that this will be the first time she’s seen his stone eye, not to mention the scars that curve down the side of his face where Mizora dug her nails into him as punishment for some infraction he can barely recall now. Mizora, who was talking to him only a moment ago. A bitter laugh sticks in Wyll’s throat. Seven years and he finally sees Astrid again - but not only does he look like a devil, she’s just seen him consorting with one. Not to mention the illithid tadpole in his head, the religious cult trying to take over the city, and the elder brain at the heart of it all. Can he not catch a fucking break?

tagging @apinchofm, @wheremermaidsdwell, @jamesandanthony, @beachy--head and my truest and forever meme buddy @theawkwardterrier

#tag game #my fic #wyll ravengard #wyll x tav #wyll x astrid #astrid dane

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blondeboyfriend · 1 year

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𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

[ PAIRING ] Yukako Yamagishi x f!reader [ SYNOPSIS ] You attend a Halloween party hoping to engage in some pleasant normalcy, but your night takes a turn for the worse at the hands of your classmate. [ WORD COUNT ] 3.4k [ CONTENT ] College AU, typical yandere behavior, alcohol, drugs (weed), seriously dubious consent, violence (murder), blood, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), tribbing, social anxiety, English literature references, y/n is implied to be around the same height as Yukako.

“It’s gonna be fine,” you said to yourself, smoothing out your Halloween costume. “Sure. I’m alone. I don’t know any of these people and would rather be back at home with my actual friends. But it’s okay. I’m gonna have a great time… And I’m gonna stop talking to myself because sane people keep that to a minimum.”

Every word sounded pained as they fell from your lips. You adjusted the straps of your dress and took a deep breath.

You were dressed as an angel, inspired by the costume Clare Danes wore in Romeo and Juliet. Your wings were white and delicate, the feathers of the finest quality. And your dress was… alright. Most of your effort went into the wings, leaving the dress an afterthought. You were lucky enough to find something at the thrift store, a gauzy cream-colored shift with thin straps with a hem that rested above your knees.

Skipping the house party did cross your mind. Going all the way to the secluded suburbs miles away from your university sounded nightmarish, but everyone in your program was going and you felt compelled to fit in.

It reminded you of high school, someone throwing a rager at their childhood home while their unsuspecting parents went out of town. You didn’t realize people still did that kind of shit in college.

The front door swung open, ripping you from your thoughts and startling you. A hulking man stood in the doorway wearing a Ghostface costume.

“Look at you! You look great!”

“AHHH! Th—thanks!”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stepped aside and let you in. “It’s just you were standing out there and I was like, ‘Is she comin’ in? Is she leavin?’” He laughed warmly. “I figured I’d take the leap!”

“Okay. I mean… Cool.” You paused, trying to recognize his voice.

There was a level of familiarity to it that made you feel like you should know him, but you couldn’t place it.

“Do you want a drink?” He asked, leading you inside.

“Maybe. Wait. Yeah. Uh, what are you having?”

“A slutty swashbuckler!”

You immediately regretted asking because now you felt obligated to drink whatever the fuck that was.

He recognized the trepidation on your face. “It’s spiced rum and blood orange soda. You’re goin’ to love it. Everyone does.”

You weren’t convinced. But you felt compelled to trust whoever the hell was under the mask. Passing through the crowd you tried to get a good look at everyone without being too obvious. You didn’t want to come off as desperate or let your anxiety shine through.

Faces looked familiar but you couldn’t place any names. The only named face you gazed upon was Yukako Yamagishi, a girl from your 19th Century English literature class. She was wearing a sweeping white Victorian nightgown with her long black hair cascading down her back. She looked hauntingly gorgeous, distractingly so. Her violet eyes met yours and she smiled warmly before redirecting her attention to a few drunkards trying to impress her.

“Here!”

A glass of repugnant brown-orange liquid was forced into your hand. You tentatively sniffed the glass and said thank you even though not a cell in your body meant it.

“Excuse me. I just… I’m gonna go sip this outside. Get some air.”

“Oh,” the masked man said, frowning. “Alright.”

You turned and headed towards the door, pushing him from your mind.

“Wait up!”

A heavy hand fell upon your shoulder, putting the breaks on your exit. You held your breath, hoping you didn’t spill the putrid liquid on your pristine dress.

“Do you play beer pong?” You couldn’t see the guy’s face but his posture seemed bashful. “I need a partner for the next game and I’d love it if you would, you know… play… with me!”

“Sure. Just find me when your turn is up.”

You slithered out the door, hoping he would get drunk enough to forget you agreed to anything. Once outside you rolled your shoulders, trying to release the tension that had been blooming in your back. You took a sip of your slutty swashbuckler and spit it up back into your cup like a baby.

“Foul. Fucking foul. Ugh.”

It was cloyingly sweet and acrid, and the carbonation made the taste linger on your tongue. You dumped out the rest on the ground and sighed.

“Heathcliff,” you heard a soft voice whisper in your ear. “It’s me.”

You jumped and turned around, seeing a very amused Yukako.

“Oh shit. You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” she giggled. “I couldn’t help myself.”

She was so beautiful; it was almost disturbing. No human was meant to be so ethereal. She took a step closer to you, her sweet scent filling your nostrils. She smelled like fresh cut wildflowers and amber. It was intoxicating and settled your nerves.

“You look great—I mean—your costume looks great.”

“Do you know who I am?” She asked, leaning forward.

“No,” you answered honestly. “No idea.”

She pouted and leaned back.

“I’m Catherine Earnshaw, silly.”

You cocked an eyebrow.

She narrowed her eyes and flatly replied, “Cathy from Wuthering Heights, the book we just talked about in class. Or were you not paying attention? Did you even read it?”

“I read it! Most of it. Part of it.”

“No wonder you weren’t very active when we were discussing the text.”

You paused. It never occurred to you that Yukako paid that much attention to you. It wasn’t like she acknowledged your presence much outside of benign pleasantries. She was barely an acquaintance.

“I do plan on finishing it for the record,” you said, still feeling the need to paint yourself in a better light.

“Promise? It’s one of my favorites. I really like how—”

She was interrupted by the shrill shouting of your name. You flinched as the voice washed over you.

“The game’s startin’!!”

You saw that the random guy dressed as Ghostface was standing expectantly by the door. Yukako looked like she was going to explode, her knuckles white with rage.

“I gotta go play beer pong, but we can talk after?”

She didn’t utter a single word, instead opting to glare at your beer pong partner.

“Hey, Yukiko,” he said, dumbly waving.

Correcting him crossed your mind, but you stayed silent. The words refused to leave your mouth even though you wanted them to. You couldn’t wrap your tongue around the syllables.

The guy put his hand on the small of your back, directing you inside. You felt as if your body wasn’t yours, like it was something that needed inherently to be guided and acted upon. Your mind was too overwhelmed to exert your agency.

“Woo hoo!!” He shouted upon seeing the wet table.

It was speckled with tiny puddles of piss beer. I should tell them to wipe it down, you thought. But of course, nothing came out. You just grimaced, and tried to look like you were enjoying yourself. The guy removed his Ghostface mask and you realized you had no idea who he was. It only added to your discomfort.

The werewolf you were playing against stared you down; you didn’t recognize him either. His face was a blur. “You played before?”

It was as if he was interrogating you.

“Like once in high school.”

He groaned.

A guy with a stained sheet draped over his head explained the rules, putting an obscene amount of emphasis on the fact that bounces were not allowed. You hated how seriously he was taking everything. It was a drinking game. Wasn’t it supposed to be fun? Weren’t you supposed to crack jokes and grin wildly under the hyper bright, fluorescent lighting of the kitchen while making memories that would last a lifetime?

Apparently not. The experience was anything but fun. The beer was room temperature and you couldn’t steady your aim, your nerves getting the better of you. It didn’t help that Yukako kept her eyes on you the entire time. You felt like you were on display.

Your partner tried to be supportive, offering kind words and remaining hopeful in the face of utter annihilation.

“You got this,” he said as you hesitated to throw the ping pong ball. “I know we’re pretty far behind, but I believe in you.”

His words were vaguely inspiring so you decided to try your best. Sadly your best was complete dog shit and you missed. The other team made their final shot and the two of you were cursed to chug the remaining beer.

“That was awful,” you said, dumping a cup into the sink.

“Hey, don’t waste good beer,” he said, hip checking you.

You smiled and continued dumping it down the drain. There was no way you’d be drinking that shit. If anything you were doing the world a favor by sending it on its merry way.

“I’m serious. At least drink the last one.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“C’mon. Get to drinkin’, angel. It’s a party.”

You stared down at the cup in your hands and held it to your lips. You went to take a sip, but Yukako walked up and snatched it from your hand. She chugged the beer like a professional. You never expected someone as elegant as her would drink watered down, warm beer out of a plastic cup.

“Damn, Yukiko.”

“It’s Yukako, scum.”

He blew her off and put his mask back on. Oddly enough it was more comforting than his actual face. At least Ghostface was familiar.

“Hey, do you, uh… smoke weed?” He asked, effectively cutting Yukako out of the conversation.

You nodded.

“Nice! Let’s go smoke a blunt. I got one in my car.”

“Okay,” you mumbled.

Yukako groaned and walked away muttering expletives to herself. You couldn’t make out what she was saying, though it clearly was dripping with disgust. You watched curiously as she opened a kitchen drawer, stealing something out of it.

Chasing after her crossed your mind, but you wouldn’t know what to say once you caught up with her. It was a compulsion, something about her drew you in. Maybe it was the way she walked, confident with her posture erect. Maybe it was because she skipped wearing a bra, leaving her nipples on display underneath the thin fabric of her costume. Or maybe it was because she seemed to be just as enchanted by you.

You shook the thoughts from your head, desperate to stop imagining yourself burying your face between her breasts. Lucky for you the brisk night air was enough to calm your throbbing cunt.

The guy failed to mention that he parked quite some distance from the house party. You assumed it would be a quick jaunt down the street, but instead you found yourself weaving through the suburb, deeper into its unnerving uniformity. When you finally got to his car you were displeased to see he parked beside a pocket of undeveloped land, a flat wasteland of dry dirt and dead grass.

“Just a sec,” the guy said as he opened his trunk. “It’s an indica, do you mind?”

“Nah. I could use the relaxation.”

You tacked on a laugh to seem personable.

He pulled out a pencil case and fished out a perfectly rolled blunt. It smelled delicious, musky and sweet. He removed his mask much to your chagrin, forcing you to confront his visage.

“Here,” he said, handing the blunt over along with a lighter.

It felt like the weight of the world was in your hands. You hated how dire everything felt. It was just a night out. It didn’t have to be complicated and yet you were befuddled by everything. You lit the blunt and took a deep hit, holding it in your lungs. You passed it to the guy and let the thick smoke seep out of your mouth.

“So are you really friends with that bitch?”

You coughed.

“Uh. Who?” You asked, playing dumb.

He passed the blunt to you. “Yukie or whatever.”

“Yukako.”

“Close enough.”

“Not really,” you snarked, exhaling a plume of smoke.

“C’mon, don’t be like that. It’s just hard to imagine someone like you is cool with someone like her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The guy took a few steps closer to you, his eyes radiating a hunger they hadn’t previously.

“You’re chill and down for whatever. She’s so fuckin’ uptight.”

“I’m hardly chill.”

“Yeah you are. You go with the flow. Most girls aren’t like that.”

“It’s called social anxiety,” you hissed, taking another hit. “It’s not really a choice.”

He plucked the blunt from your hands and stubbed it out on his car door.

“That’s kind of cute though,” he said, brushing your hair out of your face.

You smacked his hand away.

“Can you not? I think I heard something,” you said, hoping that would make him stop.

He just laughed and palmed his cock.

“Hush. You know you wa—”

Before he could finish his sentence a set of slender fingers laced through his hair and yanked his head back. Another hand appeared in front of his neck, dragging a steak knife across his throat. A spurt of blood splashed against your face. He tried to say something but all he could do was gurgle as the knife sawed through his Adam’s apple. He reached out to you, grabbing ahold of your white dress now stained crimson. Your teeth chattered and your skin felt like it was tightening around you. You pushed past him and broke out into a sprint and ran through the desolate undeveloped land, hoping you’d escape the assailant.

“Wait!”

You turned to see Yukako, the front of her nightgown drenched in blood.

“What the fuck?” You wheezed.

You found yourself frozen in place. It didn’t take long for her to catch up to you, her long legs allowing her to take sizable strides.

“Are you alright?” She asked.

You didn’t bother to answer her question; wasn’t it obvious?

“Why did you do that?! What’s wrong with you?!”

“I saved you.”

“From what?” You cried, tears now streaming down your face.

“From him. He was going to do something awful to you. I could tell.”

“Maybe so, but you di—you didn’t have to do that.”

She took your hands in hers. Her palms were soft, her fingers delicate. Her touch was almost calming.

“Yes I did. He didn’t deserve to bask in your presence.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?��

“Someone like you shouldn’t have to suffer being around someone like him. He’s trash with no room to grow. He’s stagnant in his existence.” She tightened her grip on your hands. “Not like you. You’re always changing, always striving. That’s why you came tonight, right? You’re trying to break out of your shell.”

“You sound fucking insane. I… Fuck! Please don’t kill me.”

She looked like she was going to break into tears. “How could I ever kill you? I love you too much. You’re all I think about.”

“We barely know each other!” You shrieked, trying to yank your hands out of hers. Her grip was impressive. “We, like, never talk to each other!”

“That's the thing about us though. We don’t need words. Our love is that strong.”

She pulled your body close to hers, pressing her breasts up against yours. You felt like you were going to have an anxiety attack. You regretted smoking weed with every ounce of your being.

“Please just let me go.”

“I can’t,” she said sadly. “I’ll have to kill you if I do. I can’t bear the thought of you ever being with someone other than me.”

“What if I promise to never fall in love ever again and we act like none of this ever happened? Like we never even knew each other!” You laughed nervously. “How about that? That sounds nice.”

She slipped her hand up your dress and rubbed your cunt through your underwear. You were ashamed to realize the fabric was soaked with your arousal. Terror coursed through your veins, but it was thrilling.

“That sounds like hell on earth. Besides, you obviously want me too. Don’t deny it. I hate liars.”

She pushed your underwear to the side and slid one of her fingers inside you. The sensation made your knees weak and your body limply rested against hers. She slid another two into your cunt and you mewled her name. You were embarrassed that she managed to break you down so easily. You knew you should have put up more of a fight, but she was right. You did want her.

Yukako brushed down one of the straps of your dress, letting one of your breasts meet the chill night air. She pinched your nipple between her fingers.

“You know I fell for you the moment I saw you. When you walked into class I knew you were the one for me.” She curled her fingers inside you. “I spent so many nights thinking about you and trying to come up with ways to tell you.” Her breath was hot against your ear. “But you never gave me any opportunities. You were so shy, always avoiding everyone. That’s why I was so surprised to see you tonight.” She pinched down harder on your nipple making you moan. “I knew this was my moment.”

She removed her fingers and sucked them clean before letting out a pleased hum.

“Take your costume off,” she cooed.

You gulped and did as you were told, dropping your wings and dress on the ground. You shivered as the cold air enveloped you. Yukako gazed at your naked body, her eyes radiating lust and hunger. You could tell she would do whatever it took to claim you as her own.

She pulled down your underwear and lowered herself so that her face was in front of your glistening cunt. She gazed up at you, her alabaster skin speckled with blood. She placed her hands on your ass and dug her nails into the soft flesh.

“Shit,” you croaked.

She lapped at your clit, giving it slow, languid licks. It didn’t take long for you to start moaning. Again, you hated how easy you were and cursed your inability to show restraint when it came to her.

Her tongue was soft and warm as it swept over your throbbing cunt. She was truly a master; no one had ever managed to make you feel such pleasure. You didn’t even think it was possible. You held onto the back of her head, unable to control yourself. She moaned as she continued to suck on your clit. You looked down and noticed she had started to finger herself. The sight alone was enough to make you come.

“Yu—Yukako, I’m close,” you whined.

“Lay down,” she ordered.

You could have slapped her for leaving you hanging, but you obeyed her command. The dirt was cold and uncomfortable, but you were too focused on the ache between your legs to really care.

She hiked up her dress and positioned herself so that her cunt could grind up against yours. She rutted up against you, your clits rubbing together. You felt like you were seeing stars.

“You feel so good,” she moaned.

You were both panting like dogs as you desperately got each other off. The sweet sounds of your moans filled the air.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she babbled.

You watched as her chest bounced under her blood stained nightgown. You quickly tore at the buttons and sucked on her breasts the moment they popped out. You swirled your tongue around her nipple, relishing in her ardor filled gasps.

“Ah!” She cried out. “Don—don’t stop!”

You moaned and held her nipple between your lips as your own orgasm overcame you. You clung to her breast, sucking away as your body gave way to euphoria. Your body sang with pleasure.

Yukako’s moans grew louder as she climaxed, holding your head to her chest while you continued to suck. She collapsed on top of you once her orgasm ended.

“You’ll never leave me, right?” She said in a small voice.

You paused and contemplated. Deep down you knew you should push her off of you and run like hell, but she had bewitched you. There was no way you could deny her, especially not after she let you drool all over her succulent tits.

“Right?” She growled expectantly.

You wrapped your arms around her and stroked her back, letting your hand brush down her spine.

“Never.”

She seemed pleased with your response and nuzzled her face into your neck. You knew there was no escape, that there was no way out. You belonged to her now.

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