Academically, Lydia’s one of the finest students I’ve ever had. Her A.P. classes push her GPA above a 5.0. I’d actually like to have her I.Q. tested. And socially, she displays outstanding leadership qualities. I mean, she’s a real leader.
Laura got into rope tying before she got into domination. Summers at sea on her parents’ boat, learning all the knots her brother had gotten to learn in Boy Scouts, was enough to pique her interest but nowhere near enough to satisfy her new urge. The internet was a helpful resource and it wasn’t long before the concept of tying ropes on people came up in her google searches.
From there, it was tutorials and classes and self-tying practice, until she was ready to find a real rope bottom of her own to scene with. She couldn’t wait.
Lydia might have a forceful, take-charge approach in her day to day life, but that didn’t mean she always wanted to be like that. Sometimes she needed to put down all the stress, let herself relax, hand the burden of control over to someone else for a few hours.
Being restrained was freeing, in its own strange way. When she felt strangled by societal bonds, she could replace them with physical ones and watch them unwind in the aftermath of her pleasure.
It was beautiful, too. And there was no part of her that didn’t appreciate feeling beautiful.
The rope glided through Laura’s hands, pulling taut across peach-pink skin as she wrapped it around once, twice, three times. The muscle in Lydia’s back shifted as she allowed herself to be arranged to her Domme’s liking. Another few wraps, a twist here or there, a few simple knots, and she was secure.
All trussed up like this, face slack with the relief of it, Lydia was quite a sight. When Laura tugged at the rope, she arched like a drawn bow, graceful and trembling.
Laura pet her hair and leaned in close to murmur, “Good girl.”
Lydia is ten when she starts
dreaming of the…girl. Woman? It isn’t clear how old the girl is, or rather, the
girl appears at various ages in various dreams.
Sometimes the girl is young, a
toddler scrambling through underbrush, entangling in the leaves and bramble as
her family gives friendly chase. Dirt on red cheeks and twigs in wild hair. Innocent
smiles as she catches her breath.
Sometimes she’s older,
surrounded by younger siblings that clamber all over her, until she collapses
under the weight of their enthusiasm as they beg for warm cuddles on chilly
nights where the air nips at exposed skin.
Sometimes she’s not human. Eyes
that flash in different colors – red is alphamothersafetypower, yellow is packfamilycomfort,
blue is unknowndanger. Claws that grow out of human fingers, faces that
transform. Impulses that are hard to control as the moon tries to call out her
deepest, darkest desires.
When Lydia first starts
dreaming, trying to remember the dreams is like trying to catch a wave with
bare hands. The moment she wakes, memories start slipping out of her grasp,
until only hazy emotions remain – and those fade away too, as surely as hands
wet from a wave dry up. There’s no way for a human to capture a full wave but
there are ways to hold onto part of it. Cup your hands and have a container
ready to fill up with seawater. Lydia begins writing down the dreams the moment
she wakes up, neat words trying to bottle up loose trickles of memory.
There’s a journal Lydia starts
keeping, kept under her mattress for safety and secrecy, that tells the life of
a girl, a werewolf, as seen through the kaleidoscope lens of Lydia’s dreams. She
has no name – there is no sound in these dreams Lydia has, only emotion – but
she has a story. –
For Laura Hale Appreciation Week 2018 @laurahale-appreciation, fulfilling today’s theme of Femslash. (But also the previous days’ themes of Laura Didn’t Die and Pre-Canon.) Set in an AU where Laura is the one in a coma, and is connected to Lydia. On the backburner to be fleshed out into a full fic.
Dearest Lydia, You taste like meadowsweet and sunshine, press the flowers I braid into your fiery hair between the pages of your books to remember me by.
Dearest Lydia, Your intellect is summ’ry, divine, an ancient Goddess with a volcanic flare, and lips like a shattered glass of wine. Oh, lover, how you enchant me so clearly, how I hope your petals never tear.
Dearest Lydia, I do find myself afraid, sometimes of your fear, your ice, your cold, your closed-up, closed-off, scared. You’re a wintery woman who found a way to be kind, and all I am, now, I find, is my love for you, dearest Lydia, angel, mine.
“And what’s your specialty?” the woman asks, leaning her arms on the table and bringing herself closer to Laura.
“Tell me your name and maybe I’ll tell you,” Laura says, the nervousness she’d been feeling before leaving her.
The woman sits back with a smirk, “Maybe I’ll see how that milkshake tastes first.”
Laura grins, “Well then I look forward to figuring it out, Red. Can I get you anything else?”
Laura tries not to squirm as the woman’s eyes look her over, before meeting her gaze again. “I might think of something. But just the milkshake for now.”
theproblemwithstardust 