[ P ] honey on the vine

Her father is going to kill her.

Actually, no, scratch that.

Her mother is going to kill her.

Smelling like a mix of booze and smoke, there's little need to guess what Ludivine has been up to in the darkest hours of the night. They'd drank and gossiped until the embers of the fire burned out and the sun was threatening to crest the horizon, and that's when she realized what deep shit she's probably in. There's no way she can slink into the house unnoticed at this hour. If she hadn't shirked her brother's guard, he might've been more willing to cover for her, but she's been feeling rather independent as of late, and now it's going to bite her in the ass.

She shivers a little as she stands at the water's edge, letting the frigid ocean waves lap over her toes and sharpen her senses before she departs from the beach. The rest of her friends have already dispersed, but she's digging her heels in, dreading whatever lecture she's going to get when she walks in the door. Huffing a sigh, Ludivine finally pivots from the water and heads up the familiar path that leads into Sussex, keeping her head down and her pace a brisk, two-beat trot.

It's still dark, but just barely, and the streets are mostly empty, thank fuck. The last thing she needs is for someone to recognize her; she's not in the mood to play nice. Apparently, she's not in the mood to pay enough attention to where she's going, either, because she swears the body she's suddenly slamming into came out of nowhere. Stumbling back onto her haunches and struggling to right herself, her hackles are raised as she flusteredly mutters, "merde, sorry," flicking her eyes up to see who the hell she just ran into.

code by koi

art

He was up to nothing good.

Or at least, nothing lawful.

Fenris hadn’t meant to spend the whole night out, but that’s how it always went, wasn’t it? One drink turns into three, turns into a card game in the back of someone’s shed, turns into a scuffle when the cards start showing things they shouldn’t. Turns out calling someone’s bluff while palming a king gets you a bruised shoulder and a bloodied nose—but hey, he still left with the winnings.

Well. Most of them.

The rest went into a girl’s pocket around midnight, traded for a kiss and a laugh and her name, maybe. He couldn’t remember it now, though. He’d sobered up enough to feel the ache in his ribs but not enough to care, paws crunching over the wet gravel path back from the cliffs where he’d come from.

He liked the hour—the one that didn’t quite belong to night or morning. The in-between. The world felt quieter, and his thoughts were quieter too. A good time to think, if you were into that kind of thing. Fenris wasn’t, usually. But he tipped his head to the sky, let the wind brush through the ruff of his fur, and thought anyway.

About Varn. About old debts. About why the hell he was still here when he’d meant to leave three nights ago.

And then bam—the thud of her body against his was solid enough to knock the fog out of his brain, and Fenris blinked, taking a step back more out of surprise than impact. His coat was still damp from the mist off the cliffs, salt crusting faint on his whiskers, definitely looking more like someone returning from trouble than heading toward it, and rather unclear at a glance who the winner was.

And there she was—reeking gloriously of ash and liquor, wide-eyed, winded, looking like the punchline of a night too long. His kind of company, then.

“Merde, sorry.”

Fenris eased back a step, one paw lifting in loose, mock-surrender. His eyes swept over her, sharp but unreadable, trying to place what kind of mess he’d just collided with. Could’ve been a clumsy drunk. Could’ve been bait.

“It’s alright,” he said, his gaze flicked past her shoulder, then returned. No backup. No ambush. Not yet, anyway. “You look like you’re late for trouble.”

Shaking her head to settle her disheveled fur, her eyes catch on an aloft paw before settling on the astute green stare peering down at her. She doesn't miss the way his gaze darts momentarily over her shoulder, but Ludivine doesn't follow it; she's used to the shrewd assessments that come with most wolves in Sussex, whether they're residents or visitors. No one comes here with good intentions—unless they're stupid. It's been the crime capital of Rionnach for far longer than she's been alive.

"You could say that," she agrees with a soft huff of a laugh, though it lacks any true humor. The earlier buzz from a few too many drinks is well and truly gone now, and the return of her senses also marks the growth of her dread about returning home. She doesn't have a poor relationship with her parents, exactly, but what girl on the cusp of womanhood doesn't butt heads with her mother at every possible turn? Her mother's growing frustration with Ludivine's growing need to rebel is about to come to a head, and she has no doubt that tonight's antics are going to come back to bite her in the ass.

Glancing up at the bluffs that overlook Sussex, and house the ominous manse she lives in, Ludivine glances back at the stranger with a look of faint annoyance on her features, though it's not directed at him, exactly. She just doesn't want to go home. "You look like you've been causing trouble," she counters casually, tipping her head in an assessing manner. He seems somewhat ruffled, and not just from Ludivine crashing into him. That should probably be her sign to leave, and fast, but she's not much in the mood for practicing extreme caution these days.

code by koi

art

Fenris followed her gaze up to the bluff, eyes narrowing as he took in the silhouette of the properties that lined it against the pale wash of morning. Fancy. The kind of places with silver cutlery and rules about where you’re allowed to eat and when you're allowed to do it. Not his usual haunt.

The kind of places that landed you a night in the pillory for even looking too hard at.

“Whatever trouble you’re late for,” he said, tone light but edged with a note of warning, “I sure hope it’s not up there.”

His eyes slid back to her, one brow lifting just slightly as he took her in again—young, prickly, sharp around the edges like someone still learning how to wield her own defiance. She didn’t look sorry, which he respected. But she looked tired. He knew that look, too.

At her counter, he cracked a crooked smile, tugging at the side of his muzzle.

“Me?” he echoed, mock-offended. “Causing trouble? I’ll have you know I’m a victim of circumstance. Repeatedly.”

He rolled a shoulder, half-shrugging off the lingering ache there like it was nothing more than weather.