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ficlet 01

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Nobody’s ever belonged to Laura before. Not for who she was, at least. Not for herself. Just because of her being the alpha, which is a thing she was born into. Nobody’s ever belonged to her because of the way she finds strange things funny, or the way she sings in cars, or because she knows lyrics to all the bad songs from the 80s.

People were obliged to accept those things in her, all the small quirks and big flaws ‒ family, pack. There’s never been anyone else, not really. Nobody she’d want to stay around, anyway. Laura never really cared much about it, it just was. She wasn’t her own person, she was supposed to belong. To her parents, to Derek. And after that, to the wolf.

And then there is Lydia.

Lydia is a human, and Laura loves her for that: for how she doesn’t understand what pack really means, for how quiet and focused she is when she works, for her lofty comments and pouting lips.

Lydia is also pack, and at first it’s so confusing. Laura thinks she wants Lydia to belong to her like that, just like that. For Lydia to recognise her as her alpha, and for them to just be.

But Laura stops thinking about making the pack bigger ‒ she wants Lydia and just Lydia, no other werewolf to trespass on their little hideout in the woods, and no other human, either ‒ and starts turning the entire idea around in her head.

She wants to belong to Lydia, too, and that’s not how it should work at all. There’s clear hierarchy in pack, and that hierarchy means Lydia should answer to Laura; but instead, Laura finds herself seeking Lydia’s approval, and struggling to be a good human for Lydia.

She finds a job in town, and even though it’s nerve-wrecking and just plain difficult to be around so many humans for so many hours, Laura makes herself wake up every morning and go through the motions. When she gets back home, Lydia is there, and sometimes Laura is shaking from things she can’t repress, from listening to echoes of her family around the town. Lydia lets her curl next to her, then, as the wolf or as the woman.

The latter, Laura likes better. She likes Lydia’s fingers in her hair, and her absentminded murmurs that are meant to sound like irritation, but are oddly soothing (“I need to work on this, Laura. Just close your eyes, okay? I’ll deal with you later”). She likes that Lydia takes it for granted than Laura will sneak into her bed, and press her face into her neck (Lydia smells of the forest, but also of rainstorms).

It could be said in fever words, too: Laura loves Lydia. Lydia‒ Well. Lydia doesn’t love her quite the same way.