kimaracretak (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kimaracretak) wrote2023-06-08 01:08 am
kimaracretak) wrote2023-06-08 01:08 am
sapphic summer fills
I don't feel like posting stuff on AO3 these days so here, ficlets. Fill a prompt, leave three more, come play drabbletag with us!
flawless. dare me, addy/beth. character death, ghosts, book canon. 250w, rated m.
Addy will say after: I don't know what happened.
One moment there's Beth, on the top of the pyramid, on top of the world - perfect. One moment there's Beth again, flat on the ground, neck twisted on the spongy mats of the gym-floor ground - perfect.
Addy will think after: we were born for this.
She's crying over Beth's shattered bones in RiRi's arms before anyone notices Beth isn't breathing anymore, crying for the TV cameras before Beth is lowered into the dirt.
(Wasn't it, after all, Beth who taught her how to cry? It's easier than she'd thought it would be. Easy, even without Beth draped over her shoulders; easy, because hadn't they all known to expect this?)
After, there will be no blood on the floor, no marks, nothing to say: Beth was here, and Addy will know: it's better like this.
If there was something in the thick rubber flooring then Beth wouldn't linger in the point of every Flyer's toes, in the sharpness of every word out of Addy's mouth. In the summer heat, cross-legged and translucent at the foot of Addy's bed, lips smirking and eyebrows raised: You'll never forget this.
In the moment, though, there is only Addy. Watching Beth dive, fall - I don't know what happened, and it won't be a lie - watching the slow drift of a body finally succumbing to gravity, saying:
I love you.
You'll be flawless.
And nothing after that is a surprise.
Beth's landings were always so very clean.
untitled. law & order svu, alex/oliva. post-witsec mirror sex ft light breathplay. 100w, rated e.
untitled. law & order svu, alex/oliva. post-witsec mirror sex ft light breathplay. 100w, rated e.
She isn't used to it anymore, just being herself. Not Emily, not Caroline, not Sharon, herself. Only the mirror helps now, now that her hair is blonde and straight and her eyes blue behind clear glasses.
Now that her neck is flushed under the pale spread of Olivia's fingers, pressing into her skin forcefully enough that her eyes have to meet her reflection's. Now that Olivia's other hand is light between her legs, teasing over her clit and painting her inner thighs slick.
"Look at yourself, Alex," Olivia murmurs.
Breathless against, around Olivia's fingers, Alex does.
(The mirror helps, and.)
when you keep me. marianne, emma/marianne. post-canon horror. 250w, rated t.
when you keep me. marianne, emma/marianne. post-canon horror. 250w, rated t.
She's written this before.
Emma presses her back more firmly against threadbare sheets and it does nothing to even out her breaths, which stutter in time with the rise and fall of Marianne's humming in the kitchen.
Marianne will be wearing gloves. Emma is wearing the same black cotton shorts and purple nylon sports bra that Lizzie Larck had on the night Marianne cut her throat.
She's written this before.
It won't be fatal, Emma consoles herself. It'll hurt like a motherfucker, but Marianne had never killed Lizzie. Emma will survive the night, and so will Marianne.
It's so quiet, in the middle of Paris. Quieter even than Elden. Was there music in the book? Lizzie usually listened to -
The kitchen radio clicks on, Jour 1 loud enough to startle, not loud enough to mask the sound of Marianne's footsteps as she moves to the bedroom door.
She must have written this before. Lizzie Larck didn't like Louane, but never cared enough to change the station.
There's a pen and a notebook in the nightstand drawer, she thinks as the doorknob turns. She could have reached for them. But Lizzie Larck didn't write. Lizzie Larck didn't know she had to.
"I missed you," Marianne breathes.
Lizzie.
"Emma."
Well, Emma thinks, of course the name would be different tonight. She's written the first words before.
"You didn't need to come here." Lizzie Larck's words.
Marianne lays the knife across Emma's throat, her lips across Emma's mouth. "I did."
She hadn't written that before.
solis. critical role, keyleth/vex. post-canon bittersweet cuddles. 240w, rated t.
solis. critical role, keyleth/vex. post-canon bittersweet cuddles. 240w, rated t.
Sunlight filters through the leaves above them, dappling shadows over Vex's sleeping face, glinting off the soft grey hairs at her temple that Keyleth so loves to run her fingers through. Keyleth watches the rise and fall of Vex's chest, affection clenching so hard in her own she wonders she isn't blinded by it.
As if sensing the scrutiny Vex stirs, setting the druidcrafted hammock swaying. "Morning, Kiki," she murmurs, reaching over to squeeze Keyleth's bare knee. "Happy solstice."
"Happy solstice." Keyleth smiles, but she can feel her mouth trembling at the edges of it. How many more times will she be able to say that to Vex? How many more summers do they have together?
Vex, as always, seems to know exactly what she's thinking. "Oh, darling," she says. Maybe it's that understanding that's going to be the end of Keyleth. Vex rolls over to rest her head in Keyleth's lap, and Keyleth can't resist ducking down to press a swift kiss to her dry lips.
Easier that than looking her in the eyes.
"Stop it, darling," Vex whispers against her lips. "You're not rid of me yet."
"I know," Keyleth says. Kisses Vex again, because Vex's hand has come up to tangle in her hair and because she loves her, the weight of her head and the taste of her mouth.
"Every summer," Vex promises. "Every summer, as long as you're thinking of me."
And Keyleth believes her.
a magical bouquet. star wars sequel trilogy, amilyn/leia. soft plant-based body horror. 250w, rated t.
a magical bouquet. star wars sequel trilogy, amilyn/leia. soft plant-based body horror. 250w, rated t.
Amilyn's house is clean and quiet, and while Amilyn doesn't say I've been expecting you as she puts the kettle on, Leia imagines she can hear the words brushing at the edges of her thoughts anyway.
A good sign, really, that Amilyn can still bring fancies to mind. Can still ask the questions Leia needs to answer, can still make all the promises Leia needs to hear.
(And, yes, the rest of the galaxy feels so far away from Leia's bare toes curling into the mosses carpeting Amilyn's patio, but knowing she won't face it alone -)
When dinner is cleared Amilyn pulls Leia into her lap on the grass. She pushes up the long, loose sleeves of her dress and Leia can see, now, the leaves and petals that always blossom when she spends too much time planetside. Free of the fabric, they're a colourful, tangled burst of life as luminous as Amilyn's hair, completely obscuring her skin.
Leia leans back, kissing alongside Amilyn's jaw so she doesn't have to watch the next part.
"Hawthorn, I think." There's the rustling of leaves, the soft creaking of wood as Amilyn plucks the plant from the thicket, from her skin. "Rue. Ash, so you don't drown in the Force."
Leia's kisses move to the corner of Amilyn's mouth, tongue flickering against her lips as Amilyn tries to concentrate on weaving the crown.
When it's finished, the thorns bite into Leia's temple, sweet as Amilyn's teeth.
She wouldn't trade the pain for anything.
violet. the witcher, triss/yennefer. mostly book-canon post-sodden healing. 250w, rated t.
violet. the witcher, triss/yennefer. mostly book-canon post-sodden healing. 250w, rated t.
Yennefer wakes, and sees nothing.
In front of her open eyes is a vast, featureless expanse of black that even the hum of Chaos around her cannot pierce. There's a hand in her hair, the scent of bergamot drifting over her cheek - her other senses sharpening in sight's absence.
"It's temporary, isn't it?" A voice says, and then another, "Yes, of course," but hesitant.
Triss. Tissaia. The rest of the room is silent. They can't be -
She wants to scream so badly she's choking on nothing, flailing out for their hands.
Her throat hurts. Her eyes hurt. She is held.
**
Yennefer wakes, and sees a blur.
"Triss?" Only when her hand sinks into a tangled mess of curls does she believe it's real. Seeing, not remembering.
"Yenna," she murmurs, "Oh, Yenna, Tissaia managed -"
Yennefer blinks. Triss's features sharpen, partially. Yennefer realises - she's crying. Has been crying since before she woke.
**
Yennefer wakes, and sees herself.
Aretuza's guest rooms are far from lavish, but they do have reflectors. From the opposite wall Yennefer's violet eyes stare back at her, Chaos brimming, spilling over her cheeks.
It's unnatural, even by their standards. She hasn't asked what Tissaia Healed, what was else. Triss kisses away the tears that fall, kisses across the lilac glimmer dusting her eyelids. She offers no explanation, her own Chaos rough to match her body's new scars.
She can see. Triss is here to be seen. The Continent stands, more or less.
There is enough that hasn't changed.
this head you dwell in. wheel of time, alanna/liandrin. coming home to something that is no longer home and having bad-idea sex about it. 225w, rated e.
this head you dwell in. wheel of time, alanna/liandrin. coming home to something that is no longer home and having bad-idea sex about it. 225w, rated e.
To be back in the Tower is to have the combined energy of her sisters and the Tower itself an inescapable presence resting heavy at the back of her skull. It's a restless, formless thing that sets Alanna's teeth on edge and has her fingers itching for the battle-weaves even as it leaves her incapable of knowing where those weaves would be directed.
It is everything and nothing like sharing Logain's shield with Liandrin, and it makes her want.
She's familiar with wanting. Less familiar with wanting Liandrin, and this, too, she blames the Tower for. It was easier outside, the sky above and the road ahead. Inside, the high stone ceilings steal her breath as surely as Liandrin's presence does.
Liandrin lays her down in a bed so comfortable it is unfamiliar, licks into her with a singleminded focus that leaves Alanna trembling long after her orgasm is just a memory. Alanna hooks her fingers into Liandrin's cunt with a possessiveness that surprises her and wonders what they're becoming.
The Tower is falling, she thinks, Liandrin's nails sharp around her nipples, her own lips wrapped around Liandrin's clit, mouth overflowing with the taste of her, as if biting down could fix - what?
The Tower is falling at our hands, she thinks, and gives no voice to the words. Doesn't want to hear Liandrin agree.
returning. the witcher, rita/tissaia. tissaia survives thanedd and everything still hurts. 250w, rated t.
returning. the witcher, rita/tissaia. tissaia survives thanedd and everything still hurts. 250w, rated t.
Tissaia's wrists are still bandaged, though she no longer bleeds through the wraps. They rest in her lap as Rita runs the brush through her hair again, and again, and again, and she fixes her eyes on them, because to meet Rita's gaze in the mirror is still -
They've shared a bed in Montecalvo for two nights, sat together around Philippa's table for three days, and Tissaia has found herself unable to say any of the words Rita deserves to hear.
The brush catches on a stray hairpin, and Tissaia's head snaps up with the force of it. In the mirror Rita's green eyes are wide and damp, as if she'd felt the pull in her own scalp.
"Tissaia, I..." Rita, too has no words for this.
It's fine, Tissaia might have said, if she was a better person. But she just drops her gaze, flushing as it meets the swell of Rita's breasts, mostly bare under the plunging neckline of her nightdress. She pulls the cuffs of her own nightclothes down over her bandages, trying not to think about the last time she had tasted that soft skin.
There's a soft clatter as Rita sets the last hairpin down and resumes brushing out Tissaia's hair. "It doesn't have to be fine, you know," she says. "I don't regret finding you."
How long until I stop regretting that you did? Tissaia wonders. Leans back into the rhythmic press of Rita's hands in her hair and doesn't say a word.
encircled. the witcher, francesca/tissaia. francesca saves tissaia and everything is still sad. 225w, rated t.
encircled. the witcher, francesca/tissaia. francesca saves tissaia and everything is still sad. 225w, rated t.
On the riverbanks of your new home you sit with your oldest friend's head in your lap, and her exhaustion blankets you as surely as her unbound hair forms a shimmering chestnut carpet over the ground that has not yet blossomed. To the world outside she is a ghost; to you she is -
- she is, and every day you live with how deeply her resentment for that simple fact runs.
The seasons are turning and she does not ask you about the Lodge. You do not ask her about Aretuza. Sometimes she asks you, why, and the justifications that came so easily to your lips when Filavandrel asked you the same are silent.
You know it's not really what she means, anyway.
She stands in the unseasonably cold waters of the land that will never be her home with her closed eyes fixed years in the past, and when you look at her you yourself do not need to ask why; you know her too well and not at all.
In the river you wrap your arms around her waist and press your lips to her temple, her cheek, her mouth, never her wrists, and it is nothing like the life you once dreamed you might have.
You would let her go, if she asked.
You would apologise, if she asked.
(She doesn't.)
here's to the moment. marianne, aurore/marianne. aurore wants to be chosen. 250w, rated m.
here's to the moment. marianne, aurore/marianne. aurore wants to be chosen. 250w, rated m.
At fifteen, Aurore learns loss. More: she learns what it means to speak a wish into the world and have something answer.
(She is unsure how she survived those lessons.)
She stops praying, after that. She is no Emma, to face a demon with steady hands and the will to do what is necessary. She is just a girl, with hands too small to hold all that she wishes to remain in her life.
At thirty, Aurore learns the reversal of loss. She gains her friend back for one more funeral - and then there is only another pile of corpses, another loss sliding through her ribs, another space where Emma should have been. Emma, she is learning, will always choose Marianne, and Marianne her, no matter the cost to those left behind.
Why not me?
Alone in bed, Aurore runs her hands over her new scars. Her fingers run through the empty valley between her breasts, stifle the gasps before they can slip past her open lips.
Take me, she thinks, and does not, anymore, know what she will do if Marianne complies.
Take me, she whispers, hand between her legs, and prays for an answer.
(When it comes, in dreams of Marianne's insubstantial body on her thighs, Marianne's solid knife at her throat and Marianne's smoky lips on her mouth, she is not sure how she will survive this, either.)
At thirty-one, Aurore's broken body lies safe in Marianne's hands and she learns there are things worse than loss.
serpentis. star wars sequel trilogy, amilyn/leia. the goodbye scene from tlj except a vampire: the masquerade au. 248w, rated t.
serpentis. star wars sequel trilogy, amilyn/leia. the goodbye scene from tlj except a vampire: the masquerade au. 248w, rated t.
The box Amilyn is pressing into her hands is cold, colder even than the skin of Amilyn's forehead where it rests against Leia's.
"No," Leia says, before she's processed more than the shape of what Amilyn's asking. What she's promising. "You -"
Can't, she wants to say, but they've been fighting too long. They've always known the rising tide of the Ventrue could sweep them out to this particular end.
"Have to," Amilyn fills in the empty space of Leia's sentence. She's smiling, the glint in her eyes the most anguished thing Leia has ever seen. "Just hold on to it for me, please. Either I'll need it when I get back or ..."
She pulls Leia closer than should be possible with the unassuming clay digging between their ribs, and Leia, as always, realises she can't deny Amilyn this.
At the edge of something that may or may not be her lover's Final Death, Leia kisses her in the cargo bay like she has a thousand times before and refuses to believe today is any different. She maps the shape of Amilyn's mouth like she once traced the Mesu Bedshet's path across star charts and pretends Amilyn isn't crying.
"Go," Amilyn says, when she has swallowed the single wrenching sob that passed Leia's lips, and nothing else.
So Leia does, and the single word pulses against the inside of her skull as the Supremacy shatters. Keeps perfect time with the beat of Amilyn's heart tucked safely against her chest.
all with you. star wars sequel trilogy, rey/rose. navigator!rey takes rose home to jakku. 245w, rated t.
all with you. star wars sequel trilogy, rey/rose. navigator!rey takes rose home to jakku. 245w, rated t.
"You grew up here?"
Rose is sure she sounds far too excited, her voice too loud as it echoes off the carved stone walls of Rey's old home. She runs a tentative finger along the edge of a shelf, and imagines she can hear the sands sigh as they rise in a gentle cloud.
Or maybe it's Rey sighing, shifting from foot to foot as she shoves her hands deeper into the draping sleeves of her navigator's robes. "Grew up is ..." She circles Rose until she can wrap her arms around her from behind, resting her chin on Rose's shoulder. "Sure."
Rose can't see the Force, but she imagines it curling around them anyway, thin wires connecting Rey to the artefacts littering the Observatory floor. Connecting Rey to her?
She tips her head back, brushing Rey's temple in the ghost of a kiss. "Thank you for sharing this with me," she whispers.
"Don't," Rey says, and there's a resignation to her voice that sets Rose's teeth on edge even as she turns to meet Rey's gaze, black in the dark. "Don't thank me for this, Rose."
I do love you floats just at the edges of her mind, and she can't tell which of them the thought belongs to. Maybe both.
"Wh- "
Rey cups her cheeks with freezing hands, kisses away anything else Rose might have said. "You won't be alone," she says.
And then Rose doesn't hear anything else for a very long time.
stitched with its colour. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, corona/ianthe. codependency-facilitating needleplay & flesh magic. 250w, rated m.
stitched with its colour. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, corona/ianthe. codependency-facilitating needleplay & flesh magic. 250w, rated m.
You ascend with your cavalier's eyes rolling in your eye sockets and your twin's name stitched in blue thread across your inner thigh.
It doesn't last.
*
Corona loved decorations - of your rooms, of her clothes, of her body, of anything she could get her hands on. And since her hands were often on you, and her body was yours in all the ways that mattered, she decorated you, too.
Her favourite and yours were those designs born from needle and thread. They were nothing, compared to what you could do to yourself by the time you were five, but they meant that Corona was trying, in her own way.
And of course, you helped. There was no one else you would make your skin so pliant for, no one else you would teach the map of your veins or the force needed to pierce them.
You let her inside you, in all the ways you both needed.
*
Your lyctor's body heals despite yourself. It identifies the thread as foreign and pushes it past veins and layers of fat until it falls limp to the floor.
You grow a thin layer of epidermis over thread to seal it to your body, twist inner layers of fat into ropes that you knot around the interior portions of thread, and for the first time, your body, which is now your God's hand and fist, does not obey forever.
So every night you set your wards and stitch her name again.
saved in the flower of death. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, cytherea/mercy. first time post-lyctorhood sex. 250w, rated m.
saved in the flower of death. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, cytherea/mercy. first time post-lyctorhood sex. 250w, rated m.
Five hundred years after the worst thing that could ever happen to you happens, you fall into bed with Cytherea.
(Well, she falls, trembling and smiling and probably calculated - you were more graceful.)
The counter resets.
She's on the edge of something, so insubstantial you think she'd be floating if not for how her body anchors itself, ropes of blood dribbling from the sides of her mouth and tear tracks trailing from the corners of Loveday's eyes.
"Turn over," you say, and Cytherea does. The jagged planes of her shoulder blades cut up against the diaphanous teal of her gown, every knob of her spine standing out in sharp relief. It would be easier to rip the bones from her than to let her use Loveday's eyes see you like this.
It's been five hundred years and you're starting to forget why you didn't want to see Cytherea like this and it isn't fair.
Maybe some part of Cytherea knows this, because her body is so pliant under you - opening easily for three, four fingers, for your whole hand until the slick sound of your fist inside her drowns the shuddering little gasps that sound too much like laughter for you to bear.
You should feel something, after, as she slides down your body to bury her face between your legs. Her tounge is inside you and the sheets are a mess and all you are is grateful you can't see her face.
Or think too hard about your own.
hide the demise. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, abigail/cytherea. abigail senses loveday's soul and cannot resist saying something. 250w, rated t.
hide the demise. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, abigail/cytherea. abigail senses loveday's soul and cannot resist saying something. 250w, rated t.
When Abigail finds Dulcinea alone on the terrace, something has the Seventh House necromancer between its teeth. Above the cancer a secondary spirit hums, resonating in Abigail's own temples, and it makes her want in the way only a really good puzzle can.
"Duchess Septimus," Abigail says, her voice remarkably steady to her own ears. "I was wondering..."
Septimus pats the chaise next to her. "No need for that when we're alone, Fifth," she says. Blood shimmers at the corner of her mouth, and Abigail is seized with the desire to lick it away.
Seventh blood could tell her so much, and maybe that's why, when she settles and feels every ridge of Dulcinea's thin cold bones press up against her skin, it's easy to say, "Are we alone? Really? Because, your spirit - "
And Dulcinea flings herself into Abigail's lap with a desperation that takes Abigail's breath and topples them both nearly to the ground. There's a strength in her body that shouldn't be, the saddest sort of violence Abigail has ever seen in her eyes. "You shouldn't be able to feel her," she wails, "I killed her, I am going to kill you, you shouldn't -"
Every inch of her is trembling, pressed flat against the every part of Abigail's body, and she's filled with heat despite herself. Duclinea is beautiful, and fascinating, and perhaps very much not Dulcinea.
Abigail does the only thing she can. She cups the other woman's face in her hands and breaths, "Tell me everything."
destruction manual. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, cassiopeia/mercy. the night before number seven's river trip, and after. 250w, rated m.
destruction manual. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, cassiopeia/mercy. the night before number seven's river trip, and after. 250w, rated m.
The night before she goes into the river with Number Seven, Cassiopeia kisses Mercymorn gently and says, if it all goes terribly down there, you'll need to do something. About my body. And about my ceramics.
Mercy scoffs and considers saying something like obviously it will go terribly even for you, and just as obviously you have not thought about the effect this is going to have on me, neither of which Cassiopeia really deserves to hear but both of which would make Mercy feel better to say.
And then, because she refuses to be the worst person on a station that also contains Augustine, she says, Okay! But don't be horrible then! Because your brain on my hands — yuck!!
Cassy laughs and kisses her again, and Mercy bites her because it's what they do, and if she focuses on what they do she doesn't have to think about how Cassy is murmuring I know you'll do it anyway, I trust you—
*
Five minutes after Cassiopeia and Number Seven submerge Mercy thinks, but your ceramics - there are so many of them—
*
Once she turned Cassiopeia's body inside out, just to see what a Lyctor's body could survive. The body in front of Mercy when she surfaces isn't Cassy's anymore. The eyes aren't Nigella's anymore. All she'll remember is: she uses her rapier to split the head open.
And: when she sticks her fingers in her mouth she doesn't taste Cassy's brain, just the saltwater.
And: she doesn't touch the ceramics.
stay untethered. wheel of time, alanna/liandrin. emotional warfare over unasked-for dessert in bed. 250w, rated t.
stay untethered. wheel of time, alanna/liandrin. emotional warfare over unasked-for dessert in bed. 250w, rated t.
"Get out of my bed."
Spread out on the red sheets, Alanna shifts to part her legs a little wider, pops a handful of pomegranate seeds in her mouth, and does Liandrin the courtesy of not mentioning that if she truly wanted her out of her bed, Alanna would already be on the floor.
"Good evening to you too," she says, reaching out to offer the bowl. "Dessert?"
Her robe slips down her shoulder, exposing the swell of her breast in a blatant promise of seduction, and Liandrin bites her lip against unwilling admiration. Oh, it can't be wholly real, but the difference from how everyone else in the Tower plays their game gets under Liandrin's skin in a way that she'll never admit. That Alanna, all raised eyebrow and glowing skin, knows anyway.
She sets the bowl aside rather than knocking it away - no need to make an uncivilised mess - and sits down on Alanna's legs as if she wasn't there at all. "Why are you here?" She's learned not to ask what do you want?
Alanna laughs, low and not unkind. "Curiosity. You were gone months on your little hunting trip, Liandrin Sedai. So long one might almost think you were..."
In the time it takes her to avoid Moiraine's name, Liandrin thinks about taking a handful of those pomegranate seeds and suffocating her with them. "Don't."
Alanna smirks. "Make me shut up, then," which means, like it always does, kiss me, then, if you want.
Liandrin does.
fading. elder scrolls online, oc/oc (birgitte/morgaise). ex-wives reuinitedish on the battlefield. 200w, rated t.
fading. elder scrolls online, oc/oc (birgitte/morgaise). ex-wives reuinitedish on the battlefield. 200w, rated t.
There is a cloud rising above the sea-mist, above the blood-mist and the birds, and when I see your silver hair in the centre I know you.
A century since I killed you, fifty years since I heard your name from a Dremora geomancer who told me death was just another lie between us. I never thought to see you again, yet you are undeniable: grief given mortal form.
I raise my shield against Sea Giant arrows and you disappear from my sight. In the breath before the next assault I think: I wish you hadn't come back to die.
I forgave you so long ago I hardly remember it. I hardly remember anything of the time after you left me and before I found Vaermina, but neither of us were blameless, neither of us deserving.
Perhaps no time has passed at all. I am still watching you through a veil of blood, still thinking you are the strongest woman I know - bravest of all Kyne's defenders taunting the sea giant's pets away from us.
Another harrowfiend throat splinters under my teeth, and I hope you do not see me.
I hope you leave this place free of my ghost.
hidden keys to light. wheel of time, liandrin/moiraine. pre-canon bath house encounters and yearning. 250w, rated t.
hidden keys to light. wheel of time, liandrin/moiraine. pre-canon bath house encounters and yearning. 250w, rated t.
Liandrin lets Moiraine slide uncontested into her bath, and wishes she were strong enough to regret it. It's late enough to be early; they both have their pick of other empty chambers, but neither of them move.
Moiraine's smile flickers, there and gone in the torchlight, and for a moment Liandrin allows herself to believe that something between them has turned as surely as the seasons outside have changed. Decades mean little to women like them, but it's been ten years and two Amyrlins since Moiraine left the first time, and maybe—
She channels the water a little warmer, sends it eddying around Moiraine's hips, soft like neither of their hands are anymore. Moiraine exhales, sinks a little deeper against the wall, and Liandrin traces the curve of her spine with the artificial current, imagines her hips tipping up in what might, in the past, have been an invitation.
Her tongue burns with everything she can't say, but Moiraine and her half-lidded eyes take to the silence as she has always taken whatever she wanted. And Liandrin, burn her, feels her body, her mind responding the way it always has. We could, we could...
The water is alight with the glow of saidar, illuminating the tangled mess of dark curls between Moiraine's thighs as she embraces the Source and Liandrin waits, breathless, to see what Moiraine will do.
In vain, because Moiraine does nothing but lean back into Liandrin's weave, and it's the worst thing she could do.
(We can't.)
witching hour. wheel of time, lanfear/liandrin, liandrin~moiraine. dreamwalking and unsatisfying orgasms. 250w, rated m.
witching hour. wheel of time, lanfear/liandrin, liandrin~moiraine. dreamwalking and unsatisfying orgasms. 250w, rated m.
Moiraine's head is heavy on Liandrin's shoulder, her Great Serpent ring steadily warming against Liandrin's hand the longer they sit by the fire with interlaced fingers. The camp is quiet around them, the wildlife less so, and though Liandrin feels she should say something, she can't bring herself to.
All her senses are heighted on watch; all focussed on the woman at her side. Fabric rustles at her shoulder as Moiraine tips her head up, pain prickles against her palm as Moiraine curls her fingers inward. "I missed you," she says, and realisation spikes through Liandrin's heart.
She closes her eyes, unwilling to witness the loss of the dream - or the source of her realisation. It's for naught: when she opens her eyes Lanfear's smile is there to greet her, quirked lips and sparkling eyes with just a hint of pity. She's Moiraine's ghost made flesh, and Liandrin realises with horror that the heat curling through her body was not simply an artefact of her dream.
"There you are," Lanfear murmurs, hand sliding down between Liandrin's legs. She finds her wet, and Liandrin grits her teeth, leaning into the touch. She's chasing pressure, chasing a half-remembered fragment, chasing anything to quell the ache that's lived between her ribs for decades.
"Does she know what she does to you?" Lanfear's fingers are unerring, familiar as the tendons of her throat ripple under Liandrin's teeth. "Or is this for me?"
Liandrin shatters under her hand, and knows she's given her answer enough.
we'll wake up very soon. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, harrow/ianthe + ianthe/coronabeth. dragging flowers out of the girl who lobotomised you's lungs because you're both coping with immortality real well. 250w, rated m.
we'll wake up very soon. the locked tomb series - tamsyn muir, harrow/ianthe + ianthe/coronabeth. dragging flowers out of the girl who lobotomised you's lungs because you're both coping with immortality real well. 250w, rated m.
Even the petals falling from Ianthe's lips were pale. More Ninth than Third, you might have said, if you talked about that sort of thing.
"I won't say I told you so," you said, because you'd lost count by now of the times you'd said you should have eaten your sister instead, and there was no difference. "But none of the other Lyctors have to deal with ... that." And then, because not saying I told you so chafed more than you wanted to admit, you added, "Not even me."
"You don't count," Ianthe said scornfully, and coughed up a handful of pastel blue flowers the colour of lips a few hours after death. "You're not a—"
"Real Lyctor, I know." But you were real enough to straddle her on the bed, to hook your fingers behind her teeth and dislocate her mandible enough that your fist could fit. "But I'm what you have, so."
Her throat relaxed and expanded as your fingers pushed past her epiglottis, into her trachea. Flesh magic did have its uses.
You thought you could grow to like this silent version of Ianthe, and the thought had your hand lingering inside her long after you'd gotten your nails into the plant — hydrangeas this time, a bit predictable — and worked it free from the lung tissue.
Ianthe's throat flexed around your wrist, but you didn't pull away. This wouldn't last, not while Corona lived with the Blood of Eden.
But you would enjoy it while you could.
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/canon related because *cough* i uh still haven't read the book (yet!) does beth die in them 'cause 👀
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beth does not die in the books but she fails a deadman fall stunt (loudly implied: on purpose to fuck with addy; specifically stated by known unreliable narrator addy hanlon: she wanted this to make me deal with what i took from her) and comes really close and it is so deliciously fucked up and you specifically please read the book ella!!
anyway the What If She Actually Died thought has lived in my head for a decade. the show could never and i have some THOUGHTS about a specific change they made but the book ending is SO. so very good.
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ohh how very excellent! it is the next book on my list i swear, i just haven't had the overlap of free time + being in the right mental state for a book /o\ but this year hopefully!
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when you keep me
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a magical bouquet
This is fucking gorgeous and I just...love the soft magic of it. The softness OF IT. Just...how they're so familiar with each other and how they're so comfortable with each other. BUT THAT SOFTNESS AND FAMILIARITY MAKES THE HORROR SO MUCH EERIER AND I LOVE IT. ITS ALL JUST SO GOOD.
Re: a magical bouquet
Re: a magical bouquet
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I finished a novella last night -- Yellow Jessamine, by Caitlin Starling -- that made me think of you wrt this stuff. The book didn't really work for me overall, but in terms of f/f intensity and floral weirdness, it is A++++. (In case you haven't come across it; if you have, please disregard.)
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me experiencing the consequences of that prompt: ahahahhaaa! oh dear!!!!! uh oh!!!!!!
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It would be easier to rip the bones from her than to let her use Loveday's eyes see you like this.
DAMN. Your Mercy voice -- or voice about Mercy! -- is just so good.
"hide the demise": I want 10K of your Abigail, if that's not too much to ask. She's so smart and curious, and self-aware, but also just so brave and observant. I love her mightily. And Cytherea! This tactic of...like aggressive vulnerability(??) feels so in-character for her. :DDD
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...I would also like 10k of this Abigail, tbh. I am historically bad at longfic but Abigail is SO MUCH. Hmmm.
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(Anonymous) 2023-12-09 01:20 am (UTC)(link)no subject