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roosterbruiser · 1 year

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𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱

✯ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 "𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐚𝐧" 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲) ✯ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A baseball game goes awry. Things are tender. ✯ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7.7k ✯ 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✯ 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲'𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 #𝟏 ✯ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞'𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 #𝟏 ✯ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝟖𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟖 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩, 𝐓𝐗

“Alright, Filly,” Jake shouts, grinning at you. His vision is blurry, his chest is warm, his belly is full--but he’s still sober enough to gesture that he has his eyes on you. “You don’t even know what’s comin’, girl!”

You’re drunker than you care to admit. This is really the drunkest you’ve been since that first night Jake touched you, when he was still with Emmaline, when you were in your bedroom together and he was playing his invisible guitar. You haven't’ eaten much today, either--just a scoop of ice cream on shift and a handful of Jake’s Doritos--so your belly is sloshing with all the lukewarm Pabst you’ve drank.

But still you stand on home plate the dinky dirt field at McAnthem Park, squinting under the buzzing street lamp above you and adjusting your grip on the wooden baseball bat you’re holding.

“You’ve got it, Filly! Don’t let him scare you, honey!” Hyde calls from third base, sending you a lopsided grin and a thumbs up.

“Just remember--you only get three chances!” Ruth follows, standing in the outfield beside Jake. She’s swaying on her feet, your flask tucked into the waistband of her shorts. “Not to make you nervous or anythin’!”

Hyde’s scratchy little radio is playing Rocket Man by Elton John now.

Jake is tossing the baseball up in the air jovially, grinning at you. You’re patting the bat on the dirt, trying to wipe that silly smile off your face and look more menacing.

But you’re happy, too happy to stop smiling: you’re with your three best friends at McAnthem Park playing a low-stakes game of baseball under a wide-open night sky, drinking beers between innings and switching teams sporadically. It’s warm outside and the crickets are crooning and the owls are hooting. Moths are gathering above you on the streetlamp and lightning bugs are flitting across the field, landing on dewy blades of grass.

“I’ve got nerves of steel,” you call, flexing your biceps as if to prove your statement. “You don’t scare me, Jake Seresin!”

Jake bites his lip, shaking his head in amusement. You look like a goddamn newborn deer, wearing a tired tank top and too-big jean shorts, all limbs and curly hair. You’re swaying on your feet, just like Ruth, but you seem to have just the slightest bit more control of your body--enough that you hold the bat at ready, even if it’s wavering in your grip.

“Hey, batter-batter! Hey, batter-batter! Swing!” Hyde croons, readying himself to sprint to homebase as soon as your bat connects with the ball.

Ruth is eying Hyde--she’s already decided that she’s going for him instead of you. He’s been so cocky tonight, somehow getting all the way to third base while she was busy scrambling after the baseball in the outfield. She wants to take him down a notch.

“Well, throw the Goddamn ball, mustang! I don’t got all night!”

Jake nods, sucking in a breath. He’s good at this--he knows what he’s doing. He’s the best pitcher the Silver Bullets ever saw; he knows that and he knows that everyone knows that. He winds up, planting his feet in the dirt and filling his lungs. And then he lets go, the ball hurtling through the air.

It’s maybe when Jake feels most in his element--throwing a baseball. That or when he’s with you.

It’s a low ball--which Jake rarely throws, but he is so very drunk--and you swing too early. You stumble at the perfect moment, just as the baseball sinks in the air. It collides with your bare knee with a thunderous clap, a shockwave of pain shooting across your body as you yelp and fall to a heap in the dirt.

Jake, who started for you as soon as he realized that the ball was low, curses as his dirty tennis shoes squeak on the grass. Ruth hurries towards you, too, her jaw dropped and her eyes wide. Hyde, who was too busy making a plan of action to notice that you were hit, sprints to home plate and promptly begins to do a victory dance over your crumpled body below him.

“Eat my dust, Ruth Gabriel!” He shouts, shuffling in the dirt.

Ruth, who has shifted her concern from you to Hyde, points an accusing finger at Hyde.

“Filly’s hurt!” She seethes.

Hyde glances down at you as you gasp, the very breath knocked out of your lungs.

“Well, how the Hell did that happen?” He asks. He plants his hands on his hips and then leans over, trying to catch your gaze. “You’re supposed to hit the ball, Filly. Not let the ball hit you!”

“Give me that fuckin’ bat,” Ruth growls, starting for Hyde and stepping over your form. “I’m gonna beat you dead, you idiot!”

You’re biting your lip hard, hands over your knee. Fuck, it hurts--which scares you because you’re the kind of drunk that usually makes your senses dull.

Jake immediately falls to his knees before you, body flushed with panic and a sheen of sweat on his tanned face. You’re looking up at him, eyes watery and slacked. Your lips are twisted and your face is pink. You’re in pain--he can see it clear as day.

“Shit, you alright?” Jake asks. Red-hot guilt is already sitting heavily on his chest like something forged in fire, gathering all the saliva in his mouth under his tongue.

“Just peachy,” you grunt through grit teeth.

You’re rocking yourself, still gripping your knee.

Hyde is sprinting away from Ruth now, his stringy hair blowing in the warm wind, as Ruth chases after him with the bat.

“Alright, lemme see,” Jake insists, reaching for your leg.

“No!” You hiss, pulling into yourself. “M’fine! Really!”

You’re perhaps a bit traumatized from the splinter surgery yesterday, your palms still sore and scabbed from the fish hook Jake was so uncareful with. You know that he knows what he’s doing--he’s basically been playing baseball since coming out of the womb--since there are very little parts of his body that haven’t been pelted with a ball.

Jake scoffs, swiftly grabbing your ankles and sliding you closer to him across the dirt. Again, he tries to reach for your wrists and you whine, shaking your head.

“You really are such a baby, aren’t you?” He sighs, perching a brow at you.

You stick your tongue out at him.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

But then you’re blushing. Not too drunk to forget the past few weeks you’ve shared with Jake, apparently.

“Where’s that spitfire?” Jake asks. He feels more sober now, the sound of the baseball ricocheting off your kneecap ringing in his ears. “Your daddy didn’t raise no baby, did he?”

Without further ado, Jake holds onto your wrists and pries your hands away from your knee. You let him, thinking about your daddy telling you to buck up, buttercup. As if he didn’t pretend to have to take a phone call outside of the room when you got stitches in the third grade and cried the whole time.

The wound is nasty. The ball hit you just right, the loose stitching slicing your already-welting skin. Blood drips down your knee, stains your hand. It’s starting to roll down your bony shin and into the dirt beneath you.

Jake does his best to keep his face neutral, especially when you grimace at the blood. He doesn’t want your flip-flops to be stained with blood so he carefully holds your ankle, pulling your leg straight.

Pain sits heavy in your chest. So much so that you hiss and bring your balled fists down on Jake’s shoulders a few times.

“You son of a bitch!” You cry.

He takes the hits, holding your calf in place.

“Girl, I’m tryin’ to keep those damn flip-flops from gettin’ stained! You’re welcome!”

Elbows against the dirt, you glance over and squint through the night around you. Ruth and Hyde are still going at it, always at each other’s throats. But Jake is right here, not even thinking about moving.

“How am I bleedin’?” You ask.

“Loose stitchin’ on the baseball,” he explains.

“You cheap-ass,” you mutter.

He smiles, rolling his eyes. He’s delicately wiping the dirt off your leg, trying to keep it from getting too close to the wound. If the cut on your leg was bigger, he would be rubbing dirt in it by now. But it’s not very sizable, just a little gash--but you’re a bleeder.

“Ruth!” Jake hollers, not turning away from your wound. “Toss the flask!”

Ruth, who’s out of breath, narrows her eyes at Hyde.

“This ain’t over,” Ruth says to him. “I’m still gonna kill you. When you least expect it.”

“Lookin’ froward to it,” Hyde teases, grinning.

Ruth begrudgingly hands the flask to Jake, tucking her hair behind her ears as she gazes down at you. You look like you’re in pain, biting your lip and watching every one of Jake’s movements.

Jake quickly unscrews the cap of your ugly flask, motioning for you to open your mouth. You comply, tilting your head back. The Everclear burns your tongue and throat alike, lighting a fire all the way to your belly.

“Here,” Jake says. “Need somethin’ to bite down on?”

“Hyde, this is your chance to help!” Ruth calls. “Quick, we need your dick!”

Hyde slings his arm over Ruth’s shoulders, much to her dismay, and pretends to start undoing his belt.

“I always knew this is how I’d go,” he says wistfully, grinning as you glare at him. “With my dick in Filly’s mouth.”

Blindly, Jake reaches out behind him and taps Hyde in the crotch, rolling his eyes when Hyde doubles over with a groan. Ruth is delighted by this, assisting Hyde in crumbling all the way to the ground with a swift push to the shoulder.

“Bite down on this,” Jake insists, pressing his wallet into your mouth. It was his daddy’s, a tired old thing he left behind in one of the kitchen drawers. And between your lips, with your teeth sunk into it, Jake hasn’t ever been more fond of it. He pulls your leg over his lap and then nods at you. “Ready, girl?”

He doesn’t wait for you to nod. He spills some of the Everclear out and onto your wound, holding your thigh against his so you don’t jerk away. You groan, biting down hard on the worn leather, digging your fingers into the dirt.

The crimson blood becomes watery with the alcohol, dripping on the ground. Jake wipes the rest away with his hands, gentle not to press down too hard on your already-swelling skin.

You spit the wallet out.

“Well, Goddamn!” You cry. “No need to be gentle!”

Jake just sticks his palm before your mouth, biting a smile.

“Spit,” he commands. You do without a moment of hesitation, the saliva warm and beer-flavored in his hand. “Good girl.”

Something about hearing him say those words to you make your thighs ache, makes your throat quiver. You squirm, readjusting, and he pretends not to notice.

“She gonna make it?” Hyde asks, still on the ground holding his crotch. His voice is strained with pain.

“It was touch-and-go there for a while,” Jake says softly, smearing your saliva over the wound to staunch the bleeding. “But she’ll be fine.”

“Will she ever play baseball again, doc?” Ruth asks, winking at you when you scowl up at her.

Jake sits back on his haunches, rubbing your calm gently.

“Not tonight, I fear,” he says, smiling softly at you. “We’ve gotta get the girl home.”

He takes his wallet back, brushes the dirt off it. There are teeth marks pressed into the leather now, distinctly you--a little gap between the front teeth. He lets his finger drift across the indents, which are still wet from your mouth.

“Damn, Filly,” Hyde exclaims, pointing to the wallet. “Gotta get those teeth filed down or something!”

“It’s alright,” Jake says, pushing the wallet into his pocket. That wallet, the one Wade left behind probably on accident and doesn’t even remember leaving, is suddenly more precious to him than ever before. “Can you walk?”

Hyde and Ruth walk ahead, collecting their flimsy backpacks full of empty beer cans and the remnants of your baseball game, towards Rusty sitting in the parking lot.

You can’t walk--at least not without shockwaves of pain rolling up through your tense thigh and through your taut belly. You try to, though, until Jake has enough of seeing you bite your lip and squeeze your eyes shut.

“C’mere,” he says, sighing. You try to keep walking, your shoulders squares, but then he swiftly hits the back of your knees so they buckle and scoops you up in his arms. “Hardass.”

You hold onto his shoulder, a hint of relief in your belly at not putting pressure on your knee.

“How the Hell am I gonna be a cowgirl in these conditions?” You mutter.

Jake grins. Of course that’s what you’re worried about. He holds you close, pulling your bony shoulders against his chest and slowing his pace. He wants to hold you for as long as you’ll let him, which is oftentimes not very long at all.

“With a trusty ranch-hand at your side,” Jake answers. He takes a moment to breathe you in, that lewd citrus sitting so heavily in your curls and over all your skin.

It’s quiet for a moment, just the crickets singing. Silverkeep is always quiet past ten o’clock, especially on Sunday nights when everyone’s getting ready for the work week.

Tilting your head back, you look up at the vast sky above you. It’s beautiful tonight, not a cloud littering your view. All those bright stars twinkling overhead, that big old moon that you used to think followed you everywhere you went, all that endless black--it makes something settle in your chest.

You and Jake were born under the same sky. Soon, you won’t be living under the same sky. Soon, he’ll be in Austin and you’ll be here. You will look up and see the same stars and he will see the same moon but you will be too far apart to ride your bikes to each other’s houses.

Jake feels it when you pull into yourself, feels it when a shiver runs across your body. He looks at you, his feet practically dragging to prolong this walk, and sees that you’re gazing up at the sky. Your jaw is flexed and your lips are pursed and your eyes are wide.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Mmm,” you hum, sighing. “Thinkin’ about bein’ born under the same sky as you.”

He scoffs quietly.

“Everyone’s born under the same sky,” he says.

You tut, giving him a less-than-enthused look.

“You know what I mean, smartass,” you whisper. “Don’t you feel lucky?”

“What do I have to feel lucky about?” Jake asks, wrinkling his nose.

He’s wearing a shirt that’s older than the both of you combined--one his mama got at a garage sale a couple years ago. His shoes have holes in them. He has to get up before the sun rises and shovel horse shit.

Jake isn’t looking at you now. He’s looking ahead, his hair flopping over his eyebrows and his mouth in a solid line. He’s thinking, you can tell. He gets pensive when he drinks sometimes.

“To know each other,” you answer softly.

That nearly stops him in his tracks. If he was less careful, he would’ve tumbled forwards and dropped you. But he would rather chew rocks than topple over with you in his arms.

His heart is sitting low in his belly, pulsing.

“Of course I feel lucky to know each other,” Jake says. “You’re drunker than a skunk if you’re admittin’ it, though.”

You roll your eyes.

“I’m not,” you insist. You are still pretty drunk, though. “Just feelin’ reflective.”

“God, did you hit your head on the way down?” Jake teases. You scoff, shoving his shoulder. “I can’t say you’re beautiful but you can get all mushy on me?”

“Oh, shut your trap,” you hiss.

Jake laughs, grinning at you.

“Filly, I know I’m the luckiest guy in Silverkeep. I think everyone does.”

Pink paints your cheeks and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip, tasting all the dirt that’s landed there during your game. You tangle your fingers in his hair, scratching his sweaty scalp softly, sighing.

“I don’t think everyone does,” you whisper. “But I’m glad you know. Knew you were smart. Must’ve been all that studyin’ you did.”

Rusty rumbles to life just ahead in the parking lot, Ruth already clamoring into the front seat. Ruthless Ruth isn’t going to let you sit in the cab, even injured. She hates sitting in the bed of the truck--which she calls the smoking section.

“Not sure all the studyin’ matters, anyway,” Jake says quietly. “I’ll just pay all the nerds to do my homework for me.”

“Spoken like a true athlete,” you laugh.

He sets you down on the bed of the truck carefully, letting you squirm and scoot yourself until you’re resting against the cab. Then he climbs in beside you, closes the bed, and knocks on the cab window.

Hyde throws Rusty in reverse and then you’re all moseying away from McAnthem Park.

There’s a bead of sweat dripping down the side of your face, tracing every freckle on its way to your flexed throat. Jake’s watching it happen. If you were alone--thoroughly and completely alone--Jake would lean forward and let it fall onto his tongue. Not even in a sexual way--not entirely. Just to have a piece of you inside of his mouth, just to taste something that your body made. He thinks about it often: having pieces of you in his mouth, having pieces of you wrapped around him. It’s in his dreams sometimes: droplets of your sweat on the flat of his tongue, your thigh around his neck, those dirty nails tangled in his hair.

You light up a cigarette, wrestling with the pockets of your jeans. Your knee is throbbing, but at least you’re sitting now. Jake is watching you as you bring the cigarette to your lips, looking out over the desolate town fading past you.

“Can I come over tonight?” Jake asks.

You take a long drag, eyebrows pulled together.

“Figured you’d wanna stay the night,” you tell him, smoke drifting from your parted lips and up to the night sky. “Figured we could…you know.”

Jake’s thighs are tense just thinking about it. He’s anxious suddenly to get back to that little trailer of yours, to get you settled on the bed, to taste your mouth and kiss your breasts and feel your hand wrapped around his cock.

“We could what?” Jake says.

He’s teasing and you know it.

You roll your eyes, ignoring the rapid pace of your heart.

“Fool around,” you answer.

Honestly, you’ve been thinking about it all night. Watching his Adam’s apple bob with every swallow of warm beer, watching his capable hands grip that baseball, watching his arms flex, watching his hair billow in the wind, watching his grin light up the field. Even watching him pour Everclear on your gash and spitting into his hands has a spot of arousal dotting your underwear now, has a tickle sitting in your belly.

Jake throws his arm around you, pulling you against his chest. It’s a movement that you are both used to and it doesn’t feel different now that you’ve made him cum and he’s touched you the way he has. It still feels like it always has: safe, natural, warm, solid.

“What’s sex like?” You ask after a moment.

The Pabst is apparently sitting between your throat and mouth now.

But Jake doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t chide or tease. He just swallows, inhaling your Marlboro and sighing gently.

“S’different with everyone,” he answers. Then he reaches over and plucks the cigarette from your fingers, taking a long drag. He resists the urge to cough as the smoke coats his throat and lungs, his fingers drawing nervous shapes on your bare arm. “Like, it ain’t the same with Emmaline as it was with Grace Lynn or Christy.”

You think about Jake’s cock, the thing you’ve held in your mouth, the thing you think is so pretty. And then you think about Emmaline’s pretty hands wrapped around it, her nails clean and trimmed and her palms soft. God, she’s such a priss that she probably wore gloves to touch Jake--the bitch.

Something pulses across your chest, a little flash of white lightning. It hurts, makes your toes curl in your flimsy flip flops. It’s a worse pain than your throbbing knee.

“Okay,” you sigh, taking the cigarette back from him and bringing it back to your own lips. You’ve been wondering about this, like everyone does, since your very first encounter with Jake. You haven’t gotten anything even remotely close to the sex talk--you’re not sure where to begin. “So, what was it like the first time?”

Jake breathes out, humming.

It was bad the first time. He was nervous, she was nervous. He came very quickly. She didn’t cum at all. She cried. He didn’t even take his shirt off.

“Not great,” he answers honestly. He knows you would call him out for lying if he dared. “Lots of people make real messes of it the first time. I definitely did.”

“Howso?” You ask.

This time, you hold the cigarette to his lips and he takes another drag despite the ache in his chest.

“Didn’t know what I was doin’, really. Didn’t use a condom, too, so I came, like, right away,” he laughs softly, shaking his head. You’re not laughing, though. The white hot pain is back. “And, you know, she just wasn’t someone that I wanted to have sex with again. We were just young and wanted it.”

You think about it: are you just young and wanting it or is it something more than that? You glance up at Jake, who’s looking up at the night sky. And then the realization just dawns over you all over again, all doubt fading instantly: it’s something more than that. It is unequivocally something more than that.

You let your hand rest on his thigh as you press your cheek against his shoulder, inhaling all that sweat and beer on his skin.

The night air is still warm and you know that Jake won’t confuse you for cold--but he still pulls you into him, letting his lips and nose rest in your curls.

“And what about with other girls? Like Emma?” You ask softly.

Jake’s palms are sweating.

“It was fine,” he answers. He isn’t lying--it was fine. He likes having sex. He just didn’t like anything that came attached to it after: the mind-numbing pillow talk, the cuddling, the cooing. But maybe it’s because of who it was with--it’s a feeling that’s dawning on him as he holds you against him, totally content. “What do you, like, wanna know?”

You shrug.

Everything. You want to know everything.

“What’d it feel like?” You ask.

His chest rumbles as he hums.

“Good,” he answers. “It’s like…a different kinda good. One that’s kinda overwhelmin’, you know?”

“No,” you answer, stubbing your cigarette out and flicking out of the truck. “I don’t know.”

He isn’t sure how to explain it, especially since he knows that it will feel different for you than it did for him. He thinks for a moment, chewing on his lip.

“You know when you rub your eyes real good? And you feel like you can’t stop and you’re, like, seein’ stars?” He asks. You nod. “Like that, kinda. Overpowering.”

The thought excites you--sends a jolt straight to your clit. You press your thighs together, your lashes fluttering.

“And it…it felt like that with them? Emma and everyone else?”

“Jesus,” Jake laughs softly, wrapping one of your curls around his finger. “You say everyone else like it’s the whole damn cheerleadin’ squad.”

“Well, isn’t it?” You ask.

You’re only partly teasing.

“No,” Jake answers. He grins. “Only half.”

You laugh--it feels like it’s the only sound in Silverkeep.

Jake thinks about it again--your thighs pressed into his neck, your body writhing above him, his hands holding your hips. Just thinking about it is making all the blood in his body rush to his crotch, is making his chest tingle.

“Let’s try somethin’ new tonight,” he suggests softly. “You’re gonna like it. Promise.”

You trust Jake more than anyone else in the world--so you nod, leaning into him, holding his thigh.

In your bedroom, which is just as messy as it always is, there is no sound besides your measured panting. The radio is off, the window is closed, and blood is rushing through your ears. It’s almost entirely dark in here, all except for the moonlight streaming in through the parted curtains.

It’s just enough light for you to make out the faintest curve of Jake’s features as he sits on his knees before your naked body, his palms resting on your thighs. He’s naked, too, and he feels like this is the hardest he’s ever been. He can see pieces of your body, too, like your pebbled nipples and the indent of your belly button.

You’ve been kissing since nearly the moment you climbed in through the window, discarding your clothing quickly and pressing your skin against Jake’s skin. You’re wet--but you have been wet since your discussion about sex in the back of the truck, just thinking about him pressing into you.

“Spread your legs,” Jake whispers, thumbs pressing into your thighs. You do, very carefully, and without saying a word about it, Jake helps move your injured leg to the side. “Your knee okay?” He asks.

You nod, a breath stifled in your throat.

Wordlessly, he leans down and presses his mouth to your knee. The skin there is hot, swollen. He can taste the Everclear and the blood staining your flesh and he lets his mouth linger there. He’s tender with you--so tender that your chest grows tight, tight like you can’t breathe.

“All better?” Jake whispers, letting his hand rest on your belly. He can feel how tense you are, every muscle in your body tight.

“Mm,” you mutter, laughing quietly and nervously. “This that new thing you wanted to try?”

He chuckles, his breath warm against your wound.

“No,” he whispers. “You’ll know. Trust me.”

Then he starts to kiss up your thighs, all that soft flesh making him feel a bit dizzy. You’re breathing rapidly already, your mind racing and your fingers fidgeting with the sheets.

Jake lets his body rest against that stupid small bed of yours, his feet hanging off the bottom, as he hooks his arms around your thighs. He continues kissing your legs, glancing up at your silhouette in the dark, watching your chest rise and fall.

You’re trying to keep yourself from moaning already. It feels so good--just this, even. Just the way his lips are tickling up your thighs and provoking gooseflesh, just the way his breaths are coming out hot and heavy on your skin.

And when that breath fans over your core, a plume of pleasure wafting up your body and practically making your hair stand on end, your head snaps up to look at him.

“It’s okay,” Jake soothes, squeezing the bend of your hips. “It’s gonna feel good, okay? I promise. And if you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

You nod rapidly, trying to calm that anxiety sitting so heavy on your hips.

But then it dissipates entirely because Jake reaches up and takes your hand in his. He squeezes it, squeezes you, then carefully sets your hand in his hair. His velvet locks between your fingers ease all that fear in your bones, all that uncareful panic.

Jake is nearly vibrating with anticipation, pressing his erection into the sheets in a desperate attempt for friction.

Then he buries himself against your core, lets his nose nudge your clit, lets his tongue dip inside of you. And then you are on a different realm, somewhere above this sky that you were born with Jake under, somewhere further away. It feels so good that it makes your chest raise off the bed, that it drains all the breath from your lungs.

And Jake knows he’s doing something right when you pull his hair for the first time.

“Oh,” you mutter, your voice pitched and weak. “Oh, holy fuck.”

Jake can’t believe he’s tasting you now--this honey pot that he’s always wanted on his tongue. You taste just like he always imagined: just you. Nothing frilly about it. You’re all real, entirely authentic. And you’re so wet already, just from him stripping you, just from him closing his fingers on your nipples.

He laps at your cunt, pressing himself against you and holding you close as you writhe and tug at his hair. You’re biting your lip so hard that metal is starting to invade your mouth, eyes squeezed shut tight.

“Fuck,” you moan, voice low. “Oh, fuck. Jake, Jake.”

Then he moans against you, his cock twitching.

You said his name--you said it with no prompting. And it sounded fucking delicious in that voice of yours, edged with pleasure and overwhelmed with adoration.

He’s done this before, of course. Only a handful of times when Emmaline would let him. He likes doing it, especially when he can lay on his belly and rut himself against the mattress. But this is on another level--this is fucking intoxicating. He’s sucking your clit, pressing his chin against your entrance, moaning against you when you pull his hair.

And you’re both drunk still, drunk enough that every single bit of pleasure feels heightened. You’re the kind of drunk that would make every false promise under the sun if it meant that you would feel like this forever. And he is the kind of drunk that would let him eat you out forever.

“Fuckin’--Jesus, fuck,” you moan, rutting your hips against his. “Fuck, Jake. Fuck.”

He lets his hand slide down from its spot on your hip, carefully dragging it down between your legs until he’s nudging at your entrance. You let him in with little resistance, hugging him tight, coating his finger easily. You’re so warm, so tight--it makes his hips buckle.

“Oh,” you mutter, hyperventilating almost. You swallow hard, letting the sensation of his finger pumping into you slowly and his mouth attached to your clit wash over you. It feels like something is building, something rapid and all-consuming. “Oh, Jake. Oh, Jake.”

He curls his fingers and that sends your hips straight up into the air, away from his lips, away from the bed. You grip his hair so tightly that a few strands rip, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind at all.

You’re so overwhelmed with pleasure, so caught up in the moment, so unbelievably turned on, that you sit up and grab onto his shoulders. He’s shocked for a moment, leaning up. He’s about to ask you what’s wrong when you crash your lips against his, when you urge him to lay on top of you with a few careful tugs.

He does lay on top of you, his body alight with excitement. He’s so hard that it’s almost making him lightheaded, especially when your tongue is in his mouth, especially when he knows that you’re tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Fuck me,” you whimper. You mean it for a moment--you want to have sex with him. And you want it right now. You want to be the girl that he fucks, even if he cums quick, even if you don’t cum. “Please.”

He’s so caught up that he obliges for a moment. He brackets himself on either side of your head, pressing down on your curls. And he nudges your legs further apart, kissing down your throat and your chest.

Your mind is racing, pulsing. Your heart is thrumming. This is it. This is it. You won’t be a virgin when you wake up tomorrow. You’re going to have sex with Jake right now.

“Filly,” Jake whimpers, eyes nearly misty. He’s been waiting for this moment his entire life, it feels like--he isn’t entirely sure he’s awake, honestly. He feels like he’s going to wake up any moment and haul his ass to the Carolina’s as the sun rises. “Oh, Filly.”

Yes, it’s your name he’s whispering. It’s you he’s on top of. He’s about to press his cock inside of you and feel all of you, feel you hold him tight. And it’s making him dizzy.

“Fuck me,” you repeat, desperately digging your nails into his shoulders. “Please, please, please.”

He lines himself up, presses his forehead against yours. Fuck, even just feeling your lip around the head of his cock, even just feeling the slick that has gathered there--he shudders. You’re panting and so is he, your lips hardly touching.

“Yeah?” He asks.

You swallow thickly. Your mind is swimming.

“Yeah,” you answer, nodding.

He presses himself into you, just a tiny bit. But at the exact moment that he does, he accidentally lets his weight fall on your injured knee. And suddenly you’re hissing in pain and he’s jolting backwards, away from your heat, back onto his knees.

“Fuck! Filly, are you okay?” He whispers harshly, scooting down the bed to hold your knee.

You’re sitting up on your elbows now, tears dotting your eyes.

“Yeah, shit. Fuck, that hurt. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Jake insists. He presses his lips to your knee again, stroking your calf. “Fuck, I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

“It’s okay,” you insist, because it is. “It’s okay.”

But now you both feel more sober than you did a moment ago. You’re both still heaving, reeling. You’re wet and he’s hard. You fall back into the pillows, blinking yourself back into reality. And Jake watches, still holding your leg.

You almost lost your virginity a few seconds ago. Jesus Christ.

Jake almost took your virginity a few seconds ago. Fuck.

“Maybe we should just…stop for now?” He asks, voice thin.

You nod a few times, not trusting your voice.

Then you scoot over, making room for him on the bed. He collapses beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder. And you two stare up at your ceiling, trying to regulate your breathing.

“We should wait, I think,” Jake says after a few moments.

You nod.

“Alright,” you say.

He glances at you. You’re just twiddling your thumbs and staring up at the ceiling.

“Say what you’re thinkin’,” Jake insists. He tucks a few curls behind your ear fruitlessly and you nuzzle your cheek against his fingers.

You hum.

“We almost did it,” you say softly, biting your lip.

He sighs, nodding.

“Yeah, we did,” he says. He rakes his hand down his face, tries to calm the racing heart in his chest. “Jesus.”

“I liked it, you know,” you tell him. “Like, everythin’ you did before. Jesus Christ, mustang, where the fuck did that come from? I mean…Jesus.”

Pride swells up in Jake and washes over his chest, submerging him.

“Good,” he says, nodding. “Figured you would.”

Neither of you speak for a moment. He pulls you against him, just like he did in the truck, except now you’re both naked. He can feel every single bit of you against every single bit of him. All that endless skin, all that wetness, all that hot blood. You rest your head on his chest and count the beats of his heart.

“I think we should, like, make it special,” Jake says.

He’s terrified that you’re going to shoot him down. He’s terrified that you’re going to laugh in his face. He’s terrified that he’s giving himself away, that you’re going to know how in love with you he is.

But your heart is swelling now, your eyes wet. If you speak, your voice will be broken. So, you just nod against him, just hold him tight.

“How do we do that?” You ask. You really don’t know--you’ve never done any of this.

“Maybe find a time when your parents aren’t home,” Jake suggests. “And we should use condoms.”

Jake is being coy. If he had it his way, he would rent a nice motel at the edge of town. He would shower the room with flower petals and bum some champagne. He would light tea lights and fuck you slow and sweet on the bed. It’s the most romantic scenario his juvenile brain can conjure right now--you, him, and a motel room.

“Yeah,” you agree. “That sounds good.”

You’ve never put much thought into losing your virginity: who will be there, when it will be, where it will be. But knowing that it’s Jake makes something click into place, like there was a missing piece. Yes, of course it’s going to be Jake. How could it be anyone else? The stars are aligned.

“I’m glad it’s gonna be you,” you whisper.

Now he can’t speak. He can’t speak because he’s worried that he’ll say he loves you.

So, he just kisses your forehead. He lets his lips linger there.

The next evening, just after sunset, you’re leaning against the glass-lidded freezer in Dairy ‘N’ Berries, just about to untie your stained apron when the bells above the door chime.

Sighing, you straighten your apron and turn so you’re lingering near the cash register. But you’re instantaneously relieved when you find that it’s not another ratty-haired brat waiting for another free sample before you--it’s Jake. He’s leaning over the counter, grinning at you, his eyes heavy but shining in the harsh fluorescents.

“Well, howdy,” you greet with a huff, mirroring his position so your elbows are pressed together. “Thought you were gonna be another rugrat. And you brought Misty!”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. He has his guitar strapped on him, resting against his back. He settles it beside him carefully, grinning.

“Disappointed?” He asks.

He’s trying to take you in without you growing uncomfortable--not that his gaze has ever made you uncomfortable. You’re wearing the ugliest hot-pink collared shirt with the Dairy ‘N’ Berries logo on the breast, a faded pair of blue jeans, and clunky tennis shoes that he thinks used to be white. Your hair is pulled back--as much as you can pull your hair back--and your face is free of any makeup. You’re tired, like you always are when you pull a double, but he sees the relief written all over your features in seeing him.

“Entirely,” you tease right back. You glance at the clock. Only another hour until close. You have time. “Pick your poison.”

Jake glances down at the buckets of ice cream, all six of them, and ignores the fat black fly buzzing around in the glass. Beggars can’t be choosers. He points to the strawberry and you nod at once, grabbing one of the shitty paper cups from beside the register and scooping the ice cream hastily.

“How was work, honey?” Jake asks, taking the cup from you and leaning against the counter. You don’t hand him a spoon so he simply digs his two fingers in the cup and sucks the ice cream off them. “Make enough money to get us the Hell outta dodge?”

You shake your head, frowning. You untie your apron again and hang it up on a crooked hook.

“Someone tipped me in fuckin’ dryer lint today,” you say, pointing to the measly tip jar. “Honestly, maybe they thought that was our trash can. Can’t blame ‘em, I guess.”

Jake is making a proper mess--like he always does. He’s scooping the pink ice cream out and sucking his fingers clean devilishly, making lewd noises when his tongue twirls around his fingernails. He has cream all around his mouth now, doing his damndest to finish the free cup of ice cream as you watch with an amused smile.

“You poor thing,” Jake tuts, sticking out his lower lip.

You nod, throwing your hands up.

“I know. People should just throw their money at me,” you say. “Like a stripper.”

“Would if I could,” Jake sighs, eyebrows raised.

That makes you laugh.

“Think I’m stripper material?”

Jake snorts, his eyes falling to his fingers dipped in the quickly-melting ice cream. His cheeks are dusted pink, which is strange because you hardly ever see his cheeks get pink. Not unless he’s pissed off or very drunk. But this is a new blush, surely--one that has something to do with the thought of you taking all your clothes off and performing for Jake.

This is your usual banter, something you’ve probably joked about before. But now there’s something sitting between you two, something that makes your thighs feel weak and your tongue dry. You almost had sex last night. He felt you grip the head of his cock, felt you take him inside for a few precious moments.

“I think you can do anythin’ you set your mind to,” Jake decides on, winking.

The two of you look at each other for a long moment, watching each other’s mouths.

“Slap that on a poster,” you whisper finally, biting your lip.

Jake looks at your face--how earnest and lovely it is, even in this dingy ice cream shop with the awful overhead lighting--and sighs softly.

“How’s the knee?” He asks.

“Hurts like a bitch,” you tell him, smiling.

He frowns, finally plucking a spoon from behind the counter so he can shovel the ice cream into his mouth properly.

“Poor Filly,” he pouts.

He wants to ask you if everything else is okay. If you woke up and regretted almost having sex with him as you laid on his naked chest. It isn’t that you gave any indication that you did--which you absolutely did not regret at all--it’s just that Jake has been fretting about it all day. Since he kissed your sleepy lips early this morning and left through your window, you’re all he’s been able to think about.

“Stupid games win stupid prizes,” you mutter. “And yes, I am callin’ baseball stupid.”

“Watch your mouth,” he teases, pointing the pink plastic spoon at you. “You could be talkin’ to the next Babe Ruth.”

“Didn’t know Babe Ruth threw low balls,” you say softly, furrowing your brows in faux-confusion.

Jake settles into a chair behind the counter, strumming Misty as you count the register. He’s tired, having been up since six in the morning, but he’s happy to be here.

It’s only the two of you in the dinky place, the fluorescents flickering and buzzing above. It’s hot in here, hot enough that you have the drive-thru window cracked open to allow fresh air in. At the very least, it smells like ice cream in here, even though you’ve already put lids on all the gallons in the freezer.

“Sounds pretty,” you mutter to Jake as you finger the crumbled dollar bills, not glancing up at him. “What is it?”

“It’s Leonard Cohen,” Jake says. “Suzanne.”

You hum, nodding.

He’s good at playing the guitar--he’s been doing it since his mama scrounged and bought him Misty a little over a decade ago. Taught himself with sound, obsessively replaying songs and strumming until they sounded identical.

Glancing at the clock again, a breath finally leaves your lungs. You set all the cash down, lock the front door, turn off the neon open sign in the window, and shut off the front lights.

“Thank fuckin’ God,” you sigh, smiling at Jake when you return to your place at the register. “Today’s been so fuckin’ long.”

All that’s kept you going today is thinking about last night. You have to keep reminding yourself that it was real, that it happened to you. You can still feel his tongue against your folds, his cock against your thigh, his hair between your fingers. It makes you shiver just to think about.

“Miss me all day?” Jake grins, glancing at you through his lashes as he continues to strum leisurely.

“Yes,” you answer honestly, glancing at him. “Kept thinkin’ about last night.”

His fingers falter, Misty crooning notes randomly. His throat is tight as he lets his hands rest on his lap, arms resting on the guitar.

“Me too,” Jake answers. “Are you okay? Like, with everythin’ that happened?”

You don’t break your gaze from his as you nod.

“More than,” you answer. “And, you know, I think you’re right. We should make it special.”

His fingers are stiff now.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Any ideas?”

You shrug, pink coloring your throat. You stuff the money back into the register and close the drive-thru window, locking it.

“You’re the experienced one here,” you tell him.

He watches you move about the shop, wiping things down and double-checking machines. And he can tell that you’re just busying yourself, avoiding his gaze. But then when you’re in range, when he can swing it, he rests his guitar beside him and pulls you towards him. He wraps his arms around your waist and opens his legs so you’re standing between them.

You look down at him, heart in your throat, lip bitten. But relief courses through your veins to just be touching him. You want to sleep in the same bed as him every night this week, want to press your belly against his belly and feel his hunger. You want to sit inside his mouth and feel every word he utters.

“I’ll make it special,” he promises.

He reaches up, strokes your cheek.

You’re both very tired. But you both know, in a big and scary way, that you’ll never be too tired to fall into each other’s arms. It nearly frightens you, the way your bones seem to turn to liquid as soon as you’re in his arms. You want to give it all way, want to give it all up, want to give in and just lay against Jake.

“Okay,” you whisper.

And then you fall into his lap, your arms around his neck. You just breathe him in as he holds you tight. He smells like a barn--you love it. And you lace your fingers in his hair and nestle yourself against his face.

“Sure you’re okay?” Jake asks. He’s only asking because of all this sudden affection, all this closeness. “Cause you can, like, talk to me. About anythin’.”

You nod, sighing.

“M’just tired. Wanna sit here with you.”

His throat is warm.

“Yeah, we can do that,” he says softly. “We can do that.”

✯ 𝐚/𝐧: yeefuckinghaw!! did I trick you with the almost-sex?

✯ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

✯ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝

✯ 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

✯ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬:

@violetta-ximena

@hazyretina

@illicithallways

@callsign-cacti

@chicomonks

@royalpurplehuskies

@widemiffyhappy

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✯ 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝/𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬, 𝐃𝐌 𝐦𝐞!

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laudsimogen · 2 years

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This Hunger, It Isn't You (Ch. 5)

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Laudna didn’t expect to hear screaming in the distance.

The Fog was a near-silent place. Screaming was reserved for the trials, and the trials, as far as she knew, were sound-proofed from the outside. So, to hear a scream in the quiet between trials sent a chill down Laudna’s spine, and her immediate impulse was to help.

It came from the swamp bordering her woods. She’d never entered it, but she sometimes gathered the rushes and pitcher plants that grew near its edge. Now, she sprinted straight through the border and into the depths of the bog.

It wasn’t far. There was another scream, closer, and that was when Laudna caught sight of the altercation: the swamp-woman tearing into the new survivor, barely recognizable under a layer of mud and bleeding heavily into the swampy ground.

Laudna didn’t break her stride as she shifted into her form of dread, swiftly reaching out to catch the Hag by its neck to pry it off of the girl. She flung it away and took a defensive stance over the girl’s still form; she easily stood three times as tall as the Hag as it pulled itself out of the mud and glared up at her. It looked for a moment as if it would pounce and attempt to fight her, but it only spat and rasped out a garbled curse before turning away.

Laudna scooped the girl into her arms and hurried back into her own territory, then laid her on the ground as soon as it was safe. Was it too late? The girl was unconscious, but her body hadn’t been pulled away by the Entity yet.

Her heart dropped. What if the girl wouldn’t be granted resurrection outside of a trial? What if she just…died?

Laudna dropped her form and ripped into her skirts to press a handful of cloth into the wound on the girl’s neck. Fuck—she had to stop the bleeding. There was so much blood. It soaked through the fabric fast, and she had to tear more off to add on top of it.

It had been a very long time since Laudna had felt fear. That sense only lasted so long here before it was replaced with apathy and a dull ache. She didn’t look forward to the Entity’s punishments, of course, but they didn’t scare her anymore. Nothing did.

So, her heart beating hard and fast in her chest felt foreign to her as she desperately tried to staunch the bleeding. Something about the possibility of this girl dying for good, being gone, terrified her. Maybe it was because she’d felt some odd sort of connection with her before, or maybe she would feel like this if it were any other survivor as well, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was keeping the girl alive.

She packed the cloth down, and when she felt there was enough pressure, she took a deep breath and felt with two fingers along the uninjured side of the girl’s neck.

There was a pulse. It felt faint and fast against her fingers, like the beat of a moth’s wings, but it was there. The girl was still alive for now.

Laudna carefully shifted the girl in a way that she could keep pressure on the wound as she took up her form again and gathered the girl back into her arms. She’d take her back to her cabin, where she’d have a softer place to lay and recover, and where Laudna could make sure she was safe.

She lay the girl back down in her cot when she arrived and cautiously checked beneath the bloody fistful of cloth she’d been holding. The wound still bled, but not as freely as before. The bite, while messy, seemed to have left the arteries intact.

Laudna breathed a sigh of relief and tore another strip from her skirt to replace the soiled fabric. Then, the arms—the girl’s arms were bleeding, too, so those needed bandages. Laudna’s torn ankle-length skirt reached her knees by the time she finished, but she couldn’t bring herself to care much about the loss. She was simply glad the girl seemed stable.

She didn’t know how long it would take for the girl to wake up, so she began cleaning her off as well. Her ratty comb wasn’t very effective, but with some time she could tease most of the mud out of the girl’s hair. And when she was done with that, she used her thumbs to gently wipe the mud from the girl’s face, wishing she had clean water to use instead. By the time she was finished, the girl had only a thin layer of dirt stuck to her skin—her freckles showed through it, and the pale purple strands of her hair shone through the bits of dry gray mud.

It was only when the girl began to stir that Laudna realized she had not thought through what she would say and how she would act. She’d never spoken to a survivor before. She’d certainly never rescued one before. Was that weird? Would the girl rather she had left her to die? Anxiety clawed its way up Laudna’s chest as she stared down at the girl’s face and nervously twisted her fingers together.

The girl’s chest heaved with a groan as she came to, and her hand immediately found the wound on her neck. “Fuck,” she murmured, and then her eyes landed on Laudna, and she stilled.

Laudna awkwardly raised a hand in greeting. “Hello,” she said, then cleared her throat when her voice came out thick and raspy. “Sorry,” she said. “I—I’m not going to hurt you.”

The girl stared at her, glanced down at her bandaged arms, and then met her eyes again. “You saved me from that thing,” she said. “I didn’t imagine that.”

“No,” Laudna said. “I heard you scream, so I came. I’ve never seen a survivor out here before. It’s dangerous.”

“I know,” the girl said. She was tense, but her gaze never wavered as she spoke. “Why?”

“Why is it dangerous?” Laudna had thought that was obvious, given the circumstances.

“Why did you save me?” The girl struggled into a sitting position, and Laudna fought the urge to stop her from getting up. She shouldn’t try to touch the girl, not while she was awake.

“Because you needed help,” Laudna said. “Was that wrong of me? Should I have left you?”

The girl continued to stare, and after a long moment, she breathed a weak laugh. “Well, I'd heal a lot faster if I died,” she said, “but it’s…it’s all right. It was…nice.” She laughed again. “This is fuckin’ crazy. Do you have a name?”

Laudna didn’t know what was so funny about this, but she nodded. “Laudna,” she said. “We met before. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

The girl shook her head in disbelief. “Isn’t that what you’re s’posed to do? And why don’t you wanna kill me?” Then, under her breath, “Ashton is never gonna fucking believe this.”

“I don’t have to kill you,” Laudna said. “Not now. Only in the trials—At least, I think it’s only in the trials. I don’t know. This is very new.”

“That thing in the swamp sure wanted to kill me,” the girl said. “You’re different.”

“So are you,” Laudna said quietly. “You’re not afraid of me.”

“Should I be?”

“I don’t know.”

Laudna hadn’t moved a muscle since the girl had woken up, frozen with her arms wrapped around herself. She didn’t want to cause any undue fear. And the last thing the girl needed right now was to raise her heart rate.

“I don’t think so,” the girl said. “I don’t think you’re going to hurt me. You let me escape the trial, too.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Laudna knew the question was coming, but she still didn’t know how to answer it. “I don’t know,” she said. “Something about you just…froze me up. I never want to kill anybody. But I really just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“This is fantastic,” the girl said. “You don’t want to kill? So, that means you’re bein’ forced. The Entity, right? Maybe there really is more to this place than the others think.”

“There is nothing here,” Laudna said, her voice low. “Soon, the Entity will call me to trial again, and I’ll kill again. I’ve been doing this for so long. It isn’t going to stop.” Laudna looked down. “You should go back to the campfire where you’re safe. I’ll go with you and make sure you’re not attacked again.”

“Wait,” the girl said. “I came all this way to talk to you. I’m not going back yet.”

Laudna blinked. “To talk to me? Why?”

“Because you’re different,” the girl said again. “Maybe some of the other killers are like you; maybe they wouldn’t kill if they had a choice. Maybe you’re the key to blowing this place up from the inside.”

“That’s an awful lot to hope for,” Laudna said. “I’m sorry; I…I don’t know how to help you. What we want doesn’t matter here.”

“Maybe not,” the girl said, “but isn’t it worth a try? What is there to lose?”

Laudna thought back to the torture she’d endured in her time here. Maybe there was nothing to lose, but there was always more excruciating pain to gain. Still, though, the resolve in the girl’s voice sparked something in her. Maybe she could try to fight again—if she wasn’t alone. Maybe she didn’t have to be alone.

“What’s your plan?”

The girl paused. “I don’t have one yet. But I can come up with one now that I know you’re not all senseless killers. There’s got to be something we can do.”

“Maybe.” Laudna didn’t want to let herself hope for anything better, but she couldn’t help it. This girl had died so many times—had been on the brink of death an hour ago—and still she wasn’t ready to give up. It was inspiring. “Well,” she said. “If you can come up with something, it will still take time. Please let me take you back. I don’t want the Entity to find you here.”

The girl hesitated, then nodded. “All right,” she said. “But how can I get back to you? You know, without getting disemboweled.”

“I’ll come to you,” Laudna said. “I’ll be near the campfire every once in a while. If you want to talk, just sit at the edge of the light and I’ll come.” She held a hand out to the girl.

“Okay.” The girl took her hand and used it to help her stand up from the cot. She swayed for a moment and clenched Laudna’s hand to steady herself. “Okay,” she said again. “I’m ready. I’m Imogen, by the way.”

“Imogen,” Laudna repeated, the name rolling off her tongue like honey. She hadn’t learned another person’s name in so long, and now it felt almost as if she had a friend. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Imogen.”

#critical role #imodna #laudna #imogen temult #my writing #can you believe it!!#five chapters in a row on a consistent schedule #i really have no idea how this has happened. i don't know how long i can keep it up #but i am very impressed with myself #i didn't even OUTLINE this shit #this hunger it isn't you

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