#at least now his prison is a place that could be called home

[drolta]

not entirely sure how it works but I’ll go ahead and headcanon that Frey and Susurrus are intertwined at the soul now. So what happens to Frey happens to him. So if she dies he goes with her.

[yukioos]

hwang in-ho x reader fic inspired by prison for life by olivia rodrigo please i have a vision i cant fulfill

PRISON FOR LIFE

SUMMARY: hwang in-ho x wife reader // in-ho was a gentleman and always got you anything you wanted, spoiling you rotten. he wouldn’t hesitate for even a second to protect you from anyone with bad intentions.

AUTHORS NOTE: hi! i see the vision and i hope i carried it out well! tysm for this ask, it was so cool and fun to make. i hope u like it. this is 0.9k words

WARNINGS: not proofread, cussing, violence n blood, drinking, reader gets hit on by another guy idk, pet name

in-ho was a gentleman, at least to you. although he thought he was an important figure in society because he was the frontman, he never showed pride or thought he was better than you. he could be cocky at times, knowing his worth, but always tried to remain gentle with you and keep him and the frontman two different people.

he wouldn’t tell you much about his work in fear that you’d leave him because of his actions. but of course, he doubted you’d even think of finding someone else when he treated you like a goddess.

oh, you mentioned wanting a cute little plant to put on the windowsill of your bedroom? suddenly there’s a small plant on the kitchen counter with no explanation. you stared at a cute coat in a luxury store? it randomly appeared in your closet when you got home. you said you love candles and flowers because they remind you of home? you’re getting new ones every week now.

sometimes in-ho would spoil you terribly to the point where you became frustrated. you had enough money to buy anything you wanted, you could handle yourself, so why was he buying everything for you? you asked him about it once, only receiving a ‘because i like to,’ a short and sweet answer, but not enough for you.

and when you don’t resent and keep bugging him, he suggests you take a deep breath and calm down. once you did and realized you shouldn’t have been overreacting, you apologized. he would always forgive you and place his hand on the back of your neck, kissing your forehead and mumbling, ‘that’s my good girl,’ never failing to warm your face up.

but it’s not as if he didn’t need reassurance too. of course, he denied craving it, however, you always saw through him. you noticed the way his eyes would shine when you would hold onto his bicep or kiss his cheek as he talked to someone. fuck, he loved it when you showed he was yours in public. you would shower him with compliments and talk so highly of your husband, pretending you don’t know it boosts his ego.

when he had time off and his life wasn’t revolving around the games, he was spending time with you at home. most of the time, your mornings and nights would be slow and sensual. as he was surrounded by the smell of corpses and blood, the sound of gunshots and screams, it was comforting to smell your shampoo and candles, and the sound of food sizzling on the stove and random shows playing on the television.

instead of waking up to loud screams and begging to leave, he would wake up hearing soft snores, your arms holding him tight. in the rare occasions when you would wake up before in-go, you would admire his features before running your hands through his hair, praising him once he started shuffling around, slowly waking up.

he was oh-so-sweet to you, treating you like a queen everywhere you stepped, worshipping the ground you walked on. whenever you talked or called your parents, they would always ask about your ‘sweet husband, in-ho,’ always saying how proud they are that you found a respectful man. however, they weren’t aware of how he acted when someone even looked at you the wrong way.

whether it was lustfully or rudely, he would always step in if someone tried to get physical or verbal. he knew you could handle and stand up for yourself, but he couldn’t help but protect you! you shouldn’t have had to tell someone to stop doing something multiple times, so he had to teach them a lesson.

like when the two of you were at a bar, celebrating his return from the games, he was in the bathroom for a few minutes when you felt unfamiliar hands on your waist. as your body ran cold and he whispered in your ear, trying to move his hands lower, you warned him with a couple of ‘stop’s. as he didn’t listen and you told him to take his hands off, suddenly, the head of the man moved away from your ear and smashed into the bar.

when you turned your head, your husband was biting the inside of his cheek, sharp eyes glaring at the man. once the unknown man tried to swing back, in-ho grabbed a glass and rammed it into the side of the blonde’s jaw, cutting up his cheek. as blood ran down his neck, he kept screaming, ‘what the fuck, man? you’re fucking crazy—‘ but in-ho ignored him, gently grabbing your arm and pulling you into a cab. he would ask if you were okay, checking up on you multiple times throughout the rest of your night.

in-ho protecting you was the hottest thing you’d ever seen him do.

the way he didn’t break a sweat and didn’t hesitate to hurt the man, made your cheeks warm. he was aware he could’ve gotten in trouble and could’ve gotten sent to prison for his actions, but he believed if that happened, it would be worth it. after that night, he began to show pda in front of many people, whether it was a simple arm around your waist or a passionate kiss. he wanted everyone to know you were his, and he was yours.

[milkloafy]

A SMOOTH CRIMINAL

⋆｡˚ ❀ pairing: wriothesley x gn!reader ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 1.4k ⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: you play a harmless prank on your close friend, neuvillette, and he decides to retaliate by sending you to the fortress of meropide for your so-called “crimes” 

You weren’t exactly a hardened criminal. 

Sure you had some bouts of harmless thievery as a child but even then you always returned the item to the owner out of guilt. So, how you got sent to the Fortress of Meropide for messing with your friend was beyond you.

Naturally, it just so happened that your friend was the Chief Justice, and your little prank happened to be pouring out an entire salt shaker into his water as he took a small trip to the restroom. But in your defense, Neuvillette had ordered the last La Lettre a Focalors on the menu and wouldn’t even share a bite with you. 

You huffed at the memory. Salty water was too kind of a punishment, looking back at it. 

Still, you didn’t expect such a petty thing would have you branded as a criminal. If you had known, you would’ve added the contents of the nearby pepper shaker into Neuvillette’s water as well. That way, this sentence would have at least felt more justified. 

After your paperwork was processed, Madeline told you to enter the lift and wait for someone to give you a tour. This would be your new home for a whole…seven days. You hoped you could survive it. 

You tapped your foot as you waiting for your tour guide, eyes scanning across the dark, metallic room. Despite the dim lighting, the Fortress sounded more lively than you would have expected.

Just as you were starting to grow impatient, you spotted a familiar figure walking your way.

Wriothesley, you recognized. You had a brief run-in with him only one before in your life— When you were hanging out in Neuvillette’s office waiting for him to finish the last of his work, when Wriothesley decided to pay the Iudex a surprise visit. Judging from the amused expression on his face, it would seem he remembered you too.

Now, whether it was a good or bad memory, you couldn’t exactly say. Though, for the sake of your time here, you sure hoped it was the former. 

“Prisoner 8072,” he greeted with a chuckle.

You waved sheepishly. “That’s me, reporting for duty, sir.” 

“At ease, solider.”

You rolled your eyes, secretly please he went along with your antics. 

He beckoned you to follow him as he began to show you around the fortress. “Now, before we start the tour, would you like to tell me how you landed here?” 

With an innocent look on your face, you shrugged.

Wriothesley raised his brow expectantly. “My sources tell me it was an attempted poison of the Iudex.” 

Your jaw dropped. “Is that what Neuvillette is telling people?!”

“Just me,” he admitted. 

You almost laughed in disbelief. “Well, it’s a little too late to defend myself now—not that I had a fair trial in the first place, mind you—but I at least have to say that poison the Chief Justice speaks of is measly table salt!” With a huff, you folded your arms across your chest. “Powerful Dragon of Water my ass… If he thinks table salt can poison him…”

Wriothesley chuckled at your pouting, patting your shoulder as a sign of sympathy. “For a week-long sentence, I would have expected that you put pepper in there as well.” 

Your eyes lit up. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking!”

He nodded in agreement, humoring you as he showed you to the cafeteria, offering you a free meal that you graciously accepted.

“While a week-long sentence may be unjust for your the level of your…misdemeanor, I do still hope you can enjoy your stay here,” he said as the two of you finished up your food. 

You considered your thoughts before stating, “I might. If you keep treating me to these free meals.” 

Wriothesley laughed, the noise coming deep from his chest, and you grinned in return. 

“Oh, what would the other prisoners think if they saw their duke playing favorites?” he said in mock despair.

“So you admit I’m already your favorite?”

“Do you find pleasure in putting words in my mouth?”

“Amongst other things.” 

His eyes widened and you flushed as you realized the implication of what you had said.

“Salty water,” you clarified as you cleared your throat. “That is all I was referring to.” 

He nodded solemnly, trying his hardest to keep a straight face. “Of course. Words and salty water.”

“Exactly.”

“Noted.” After a brief pause, Wriothesley quickly changed the subject. “Before I lead you to your dormitory, let me show you my office.” 

You followed along dutifully, making sure your mouth was glued shut until the embarrassment wore off. When the door closed, he beckoned for you to have a seat on the chair in front of his desk.

“To earn your keep here, we use a currency called Credit Coupons,” he explained. “Now, typically, the most steady and secure way for an inmate to earn these is by working in the production line–heating an shaping metals. A physically demanding job even for the strongest of individuals.”

You almost broke out into a sweat at the thought. Neuvillette would definitely be getting an earful from you once you were free from this injustice. 

Wriothesley laughed at the horrified look on your face.

“But luckily for you,” he said, “by special order from the Iudex himself, it was request you do administrative work in the office with me instead.”

“Oh, my gods,” you sighed in relief. Neuvillette was safe for now. 

“Don’t get too excited yet,” he warned with a teasing lilt to his voice. “Are you sure it’s better to be trapped in here with me for seven days than to brave the production line?” 

You quirked your head to the side. “You seem friendly enough.” 

“I’m glad you think so.” He stood up from his chair, pushing it in and waiting for you to follow suit. “Though brief, I look forward to working with you.” 

“You as well.”

He nodded. “Now, it is getting late. Allow me to me conclude this tour by showing you the dormitories.” 

The thought of seeing your new bed for the week excited you. You were tired from walking around so much and you couldn’t wait to shower and collapse on a mattress—no matter how thin it may be. 

Wriothesley dropped you off at the door of your room, watching as you examined the place. You blinked slowly. 

He laughed. “Not to your liking?” 

“I’ve seen hotel rooms that look worse,” you said while shaking your head. “I can manage!” 

“If it is too uncomfortable, don’t hesitate to let me know. Perhaps I can provide you with some special accommodations.”

You hid a smile. “Such favoritism already. Is this what being friends with the Chief Justice does for you here?” 

“Connections don’t quell you any favor in this part of Fontaine,” he said. “This treatment is based on your own merit.” He paused. “And the fact that the Iudex specified that he didn’t intend for this to be a genuine prison sentence.”

You almost snorted at the revelation, the pieces clicking together. “Is this his prank in retaliation for me adding salt to his water?!” you groaned, only upset because you didn’t think of this first. “What an abuse of power.”

Wriothesley chuckled. “Such is the life.”

As he got ready to leave you to your bed quarters for the night, he paused at the exit. You looked at him expectantly. 

“Did you need something?”

He shook his head. “No, not at the moment. I only wanted to say, I look forward to your assistance around the office tomorrow.”

You smiled in agreement. Who wouldn’t want a break from real life and escape to a prison ruled by a surprisingly benevolent duke? 

“Also—“ you looked up to see his sideways grin “—tomorrow’s breakfast is on me.”

With a chuckle, you found yourself agreeing to his offer. “I’ll look forward to the morning then.”

“Have a good night in your temporary home.”

As Wriothesley left the dormitory, you couldn’t shake the smile from your face. If you were going to be here for a week, you might as well make the most of it. At least with the Duke, your time wouldn’t be so bad. 

Maybe even after your sentence, you would still come and visit him.

You closed your eyes as your head landed on your pillow. It was harder than you expected. Quite uncomfortable, actually. You made a face. 

Perhaps Wriothesley could come up and visit you when this was over instead. 

[plasticferal]

hey queen! can you pls do an angst story with chris. where they get into an argument and chris said things he never meant. then he apologizes to her afterwards. ( basically angst to fluff)

damsel in distress | chris sturniolo.

i added my own twist to this ask. it's my favourite prompt so thank you! 18+ protective!ex-boyfriend chris x fem!reader. fighting, touches on themes of unwanted attention, mentions of alcohol, explicit language. reader discretion is advised. p.s inspired by the unreleased olivia rodrigo song 'prison for life'.

the house is filled with familiar faces and strangers. a small gathering turned into a full blown house party from the moment the word got out. where the sturniolo triplets are, a flock follows. you sigh, pushing and shoving your way through the unwanted crowd.

all you want is to make it into the kitchen, miraculously being the only place no one wants to linger. the last person you need to see right now is your ex lover. chris is standing ahead of you, leaning on the kitchen counter, alone in the room. you shut the doors behind you, needing to escape. even if it means with him.

“if you wanted to get me alone, you could have just asked." he speaks smug, before taking a sip from his red solo cup.

“i'm not in the mood,” you dismiss. you open the fridge, eyes scanning the shelves but nothing calling your name.

you know you're not actually looking for anything, you just don't want to look at him. the entire night has you shaking with anger. from the mess in your home, the lack of care everyone is taking, the noise complaint you know you'll be getting later, and worst of all, that one guy who won't leave you alone.

you've never seen him before tonight, you don't even know his name, but all he's done is make you uncomfortable. try to dance with you, try to give you drinks. he brushes your waist every time he walks past.

all of your friends have been encouraging you to go for it, to get over chris. and honestly, you consider it for a moment. just to finally move on, but you can't bring yourself to. at least not with some random creep.

the break up is still raw. he tells everyone it was 'mutual' but it was a part on your request. he'd never throw you under the bus like that. he knows why you made your decision, he's never questioned it.

chris feels like it's unrequited love. although, you haven't lost any love for him, no matter how much you try to push him away. he has every right to despise you, but he doesn't.

every time you close a chapter with him, you find yourself in a sequel. it's like you're re-reading different stories, but the ending stays the same. your heart wants him, your brain wants to hate him.

"what's wrong?" he asks, sensing you're genuine in your frustration.

"nothing." you refuse to let him know what's happing in your world, let alone your mind. you don't need to let in him anymore, even though you want to let it out. he's the one person who could just sit and listen to you for hours on end.

"alright, just askin" his words trail off into a hush. he switches the tone, not wanting the conversation to stop.

“your friends are nice” he speaks in a sickeningly sweet tone, because if anyone knows how to kick you while you're down, it's him.

"you would think that" you scoff, implying that you've seen them throw themselves at him all night. him pouring them drinks, smiling and frothing over the attention he's receiving.

"the fuck is that supposed to mean?" his temperamental side seeps out, and you grow only more irritated.

"chris, can you get out please?" you huff, hands crossing over your chest. an unintentional way to seperate yourself from him, a metaphorical wall being put up.

"such a party pooper. you really gotta let loose, relax a bit." his words come out a lot more nasty that you hope he meant them, and it makes your face hot.

you give him the benefit of the doubt and think he's speaking with resilience, at the fact you keep shutting him down.

"i wonder why we ever broke up." you reply sarcastically, a fake smile on your face. he rolls his eyes, finishing off his drink and letting out an audible "ah," like a child finishing a juice box.

"i haven't seen you all night, y/n" his voice softens, and it becomes clear he's speaking for the sake of talking to you. he always wants to talk to you.

looking at the counter quickly to place his cup down, he looks back at you, tilting his head to the side slightly. he's not being horrible to you, he never has been. he's still in your life whether you like it or not, despite your hostility.

"sorry. i'm just tired." you lie. he knows it.

"your poker face isn't very good. i learnt that the hard way," he bounces his eyebrows, biting the tip of his tongue, eyes a bit wider as he stares at the ground and you can tell he's having a flashback.

you chuckle at the reference. the one time he caught you faking an orgasm didn't end very well, and he's been able to catch you out ever since. he's never been afraid to pull you up on your own fibs.

"sorry, again." you hug your body tighter, avoiding his eyes. he pushes himself off the counter with a stretch like hum and walks over to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

"stop apologizing, you sound like matt," he rolls his eyes lightheartedly, and you let out a small laugh. that's always his intention, to make you smile.

"c'mon princess, let's get you a drink. seems like you need it." he nods toward to the door, rubbing your shoulder enthusiastically.

you let him try to fix your mood, because god knows you do actually need to stop stressing. you can't control what happens, just how you react. that's what chris always used to say when you were together.

feeling safe in his embrace, he security guard style moves you through the party. he hollers "excuse me!" and "coming through!" and everyone just listens, parting like the red sea. he's not the biggest guy in the room, but he sure is the most assertive. especially with you under his arm.

when you finally get to the drinks table, he makes you a vodka lemonade, saving the rest of the can for himself to finish off. it's not the most thrilling drink, but enough to keep you settled. ease the tension a bit. plus, it tastes good. no harm, no foul. as chris is mixing the liquids into cups, you feel an unwanted hand snake up around your hip.

"there you are. are you hiding from me?" your stomach drops at the voice of the mystery man towering over you, and you look ahead to watch chris's eyes snap up instantly.

chris lowers the cups, holding his eyes on the man behind you. you watch as he kinks his neck and his jaw tenses, taking a step closer. you shake your head at chris, holding a hand up subtly to tell him not to come any closer.

turning around, you stare up at the man. his breath reeks of liquor, and his shirt is drenched is sweat. it makes you sour your face and tense your entire body.

"i don't know what you want from me, but it's not gonna happen. i think you should leave." you speak sternly, trying not to let your voice shake with pure nerves. not even liquid confidence could help you right now.

"the party's just getting started," the man smiles, stumbling toward you in what you think is an attempt at a hug, but you begin pushing his body away from yours with a shove.

"dude, she doesn't want you. walk away." you hear chris's direct voice over your shoulder.

the last thing you want is negative attention on chris in a room full of people who would spread the news like wildfire. you never want that for him.

"it's okay, i got this." you dismiss chris in the nicest possible way, but you're being serious.

"come on, we'll have fun," the man hiccups through his words, mumbling them and tripping over toward you again.

"get the fuck away from her." chris's breath hits the back of your neck as he moves even closer to you.

"christopher, i'm serious. stop." you speak through grit teeth, so people can't read your lips, as he lingers next to you.

you try to be as inconspicuous as you can in your rejection to his advances, but he won't give up. the man appears more annoyed, and he grabs your wrist with a tight grip.

"let go of me." you grab the mans hand, trying to pry his grip without making it obvious.

you’re shaking at the thought of attention drawing. not for you, but for chris. eyes are already on you, being his ex. it's not what he ever wanted for you either. if he could make it all disappear, he would. it becomes more difficult when chris notices, and this time, has no intention of backing down.

"i'm not gonna repeat myself, back the fuck up." chris walks around your body, face to face with the guy who has a hold on you now.

"please, chris." you beg, voice quivering.

you know his temper can change in the blink of an eye. him and matt both have that in common.

"she doesn't need your help, pretty boy." the man splatters his words, a malicious smile on his face as he leans toward chris, almost nose to nose.

chris smiles criminally, flashing his teeth.

"you're right," chris puts his hands up in defence, a downward smile on his face as he chuckles darkly, taking a big step backward.

there's a feeling of relief, and intense fear as he actually does start to back away. but you know chris. unfortunately, it's unavoidable.

you try to catch his eyes, and speak through a begging stare without using words. he looks at you with sadness, and you mime the words, 'please don't'.

the moment the man tugs your wrist as if to leave with him, making you wince with the grip he holds. you regret your counteraction instantly, because chris reacts viscerally.

he flares his nostrils and squeezes his nails into his palm, balling up his hands by his hip. his knuckles are turning white.

before you can get pulled away, chris lunges forward with a tight fist, throwing a strong, perfectly aligned punch to the mans cheekbone. it throws the man to the ground in the blink of an eye, relieving the pressure on your skin. you stumble backwards, out of the line of fire.

chris steps heavily forward, shoving a foot into his ribcage before straddling his legs, completely overpowering him. the man projects forward to swing and hit chris's mouth. chris doesn't even flinch, like it was painless. you watch chris raise his arm up again to pummel down onto the now defenceless stranger.

the surrounding crowd gasps and yells, clearing the space that chris has created with his actions. iphone cameras flash, making you feel sick. the whispering and gossip you can already hear pounding in your head is overwhelming.

you feel so futile. chris is too in his own world to even realise the repercussions. you're not saying the guy didn't deserve it, you have no care in the world for him. you care about the aftermath.

in a fantasy world, a daydream, a fairytale even, this is attractive. a knight in shining armour, fighting for his lady. a world where there are no consequences, or social media, or fear. a reality chris has suddenly forgotten about.

he looks natural doing it, too. the veins in his arms so prominent, his tight mouth and huffed breaths as he gives it everything he's got.

you're frozen in shock, watching chris pelt another punch into the man, and you want to pull him off, you know you need to, but all your body can do is watch. watch the two men roughhousing and exchanging blows, chris taking every hit with pride.

you're numb to the feeling, screaming in your head.

appearing out of thin air, nick and matt are in your line of vision, hiding the chaos ahead of you. his brothers move into action before anyone else needs to.

they've obviously been summoned, but there's a part of you that believes they could just sense it. like they telepathically knew chris was getting himself into trouble by the lack of surprise they express.

nick grabs chris by the collar of his shirt, pulling him off. matt grabs his wrists, to stop him from using his fists. the fight comes undone, finally, but chris is disoriented. he spits onto the man as he's being escorted into the kitchen by his brothers.

your eyes burn with tears that refuse to fall, and matt sweeps your hand up, guiding you with them in a hurried manner. matt is trying to snap you back to reality, but it's just white noise.

chris hits his palm aggressively with frustration against the door frame of the kitchen as you all walk through, and you take a deep breath to compose yourself. your eyes are still welling as you choke back a sniffle, and you're not sure if it's shock, hurt, or anger anymore.

you're in a trance as you walk over to the freezer. your body is in autopilot, moving without you even knowing. you grab a frozen bag of vegetables out of the tray.

"so fucking stupid," you say nastily under your breath, slamming the door shut.

walking over to chris who's sat up on the ledge of the sink. you throw the packet at his chest, and he grabs it, questioning you for a second before matt walks over and shows him to place it on his bruised and red raw knuckles.

the room is filled with tension.

matt is biting his nails, you're leaning against the closed door, and nick finds himself squatting on the floor.

"what the actual fuck was that?" nick is too stunned to even yell, he just speaks aloud.

"i asked you not to, chris. i could have handled it myself." you shake your head, vision blurry as you stare vacantly ahead. you want to lash out at him, but for some reason you can't.

"yeah, it really looked like you had it under control." he crushes the frozen packet harshly against his hand.

"we'll leave you two alone." matt cuts through awkwardly, shooting nick a warning glare.

matt knows it's not his place to go off at chris right now. he'll do that later.

"but-" nick begins, and matt snaps toward the door. you hear nick sigh, knowing he would love nothing more than to stay and listen to you tear into chris. alas, they both leave promptly, matt flashing you a sympathetic smile on the way out.

you can hear from the other side of the door, both nick and matt are hustling trying to kick everyone out. it’s a weight lifted off your shoulders. the literal mess being left behind is the least of your worries now.

you're alone with chris in the kitchen again, the second time not being anymore pleasant than the first. you blame yourself fully for dropping your guard, even if for a second.

“i begged you not to, chris.” you repeat with a stern tone, laced with betrayal and genuine hurt.

he’s silent for a moment, staring at you from across the room with no emotion on his face. you know he feels terrible, he doesn’t have to show it. or tell you.

“did you think i was just gonna stand and watch?” he rebuttals.

“i would have preferred that, honestly.” you don’t understand how he can’t grasp the intensity of the situation.

"did you want him? go back out there then." he's bitter, pointing at the door. you roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief.

"chris," you start. he keeps talking.

“because i’m sure he’s still laying on the floor. go ahead. he might have a hard time talking now, though.” chris shrugs, speaking in a provoking manner.

“you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t press charges." you apprise.

“he should feel lucky i didn’t do worse.” he takes another step toward you, presumptuous in the way he carries himself.

"you've done a lot of stupid shit, chris. but that," you raise your hand as you speak, laughing in shock.

"that was unbelievable." you pinch the bridge of your nose, taking yet another deep breath.

"you know what's unbelievable is how you haven't even thanked me once" he ignores your words and bites back with irritation, face growing more twisted with upset.

"thank you?" you repeat, jaw dropping. you step toward him this time. you feel dejected trying to get him to understand.

"thank you for what? for causing a scene? for putting yourself in danger?" you step forward again, feeling like you could drive your heels into the ground beneath you.

"you're acting insane" he brings his hands to his head, tugging at his own hair with despair. his words sting, despite the back and forth arguing.

"you're the one that lashed out on that guy with no consideration for anyone else around you. that's insane" you speak with physical gestures unconsciously.

you're trying to reason with him, but with the state he's in, it's like trying to put a brain in a statue. you examine him, trying to search for his eyes but his body won't keep still, twisting and moving around.

"fuck, okay, i get it! i get it, y/n. you're not happy with me. you never fucking are apparently," his words trail off and he waves you away, turning his back to you. he sounds desperate for it to end.

you want to scream at him at the top of your lungs, and quite frankly, you could. your face burns and steam is about to shoot out of your ears.

"you don't need to protect me anymore, chris."

"i saved your ass out there." he speaks with his hand, four fingers direct to your chest. his words are like salt being rubbed into an open wound.

"saved me? that's a fucking stretch. your brothers saved your ass, because you don't think before you fucking act!"

"this is about YOU, y/n! what i did for you!" he slaps the back of right hand into the palm of his left.

"i'm not some damsel in distress that you need to sweep up and put in a tower, chris"

"yeah well at least in a tower you can't attract trouble." he speaks as if it's your fault, and of all the things he's just spit out, that's by far the worst. the most menacing and cut to the bone tone he's used.

"that was low, even for you." you huff, emotions at an all time high.

your breathing feels tight, but instead of reacting, you force yourself to seperate your emotions from the reality of the situation. you're both feeling very intensely, and expressing it the same way.

in hindsight, you could have redirected some of your emotions, but you also wish chris would take back some things he's said. there's no excuses.

chris re-collects himself and turns toward you again. he shrugs his shoulders, like he has nothing left to say. no fight left.

the closer chris is standing the more prominent his face is, and more specifically, his busted open lip.

you gasp in a mix of being upset, and shock. it feels like a piece of your heart is breaking off, seeing his delicate, pale skin so sore.

"your lip, chris." you exhale, stepping toward him.

he flinches when your hand raises to touch his face, and you know now that you've acknowledged it, it's hurting him. neither of you paid any attention to it amongst the turmoil.

"come here." you sigh, pulling his arm, bringing him over to where the paper towels are, in the corner of the sink.

tearing a white square into your hands, you rinse it under cold water lightly before squeezing the saturation out, leaving a damp cloth in your hand.

turning into chris's body, he looks down at you. he's still at last, and looks like he has no thoughts behind his now seemingly innocent eyes.

you cup his cheek gently, to turn his face downward. you bring the towel up to his lip, wiping his stained chin and mouth. he lets you, and doesn't even wince. he visibly gives into your touch. he's content.

"i need you to promise me you'll never do something like that again." you pull back, folding over a clean side and then wiping his lip softly, trying not to cause him pain.

"i can't promise that." he speaks in a whisper, as if he doesn't want you to hear his word.

with his lip no longer being red, you toss the damp and crumbling paper into sink, making it a problem for another time.

"why?" you look into his eyes, wiping your hands on your shirt.

his blue eyes are big but blameless, pupils dilated. holding his stare as your arm lowers.

"because if anyone lays a hand on you again, i'm going to prison for life." the piece of your heart that broke off earlier reattaches at his words alone.

chris's much shorter hair is spikey around his ears, and wet at the ends, turning dark brown from his sweat. you caress his messy curls, tucking it over the curves of his ears and taming the wispy strands. you hold his head in your hands, tiling him up and your mouths are inches apart.

"how hard did he hit your head?" you ask against his lips. he chuckles, genuinely.

he's an idiot, undeniably. but the gut wrenching, lawless love he has for you makes him that way. his low, smooth laughter, makes your heart skip a beat.

"i mean it, y/n."

"but i know, i know it was stupid." he admits.

"yeah, it was." you agree, shaking his head around slightly.

he grabs your hands with his own, engulfing them and holding them in his palms. he squeezes your hands, bringing them to his lips and kissing your knuckles.

"i'm sorry." he speaks on your skin.

"like really fucking sorry." he strains his head back with remorse, making his adam's apple more prominent, and he swallows hard. like he's swallowing his guilt.

"i said some nasty things. i wish i could take them back, y/n. i really do."

"i know, chris."

"no, you don't. i'll apologise to you everyday for the rest of my life if i have to. i've been horrible tonight."

"chris, enough," you hush him, the calmness in your tone making him understand you hear him. loud and clear. you need some time to forgive, but you absorb his words.

"i don't know how you didn't smack me in the mouth." he jokes, and you giggle through your breath.

"there's still time," you joke back. and he knows it by your tone.

"i could never bring myself to do that. as much as you deserve it." your banter eases the pressure, and you feel chris squeeze your hands in his again.

you rub your thumbs over his knuckles, looking at the little purple marks forming. he notices your face drop with stress, and he slips his hands away, moving to your hips instead.

"hey, i'm fine. i don't care what happens to me, i just need you to be okay."

"i am okay," you reply. he drops his face with a look that expresses he doesn’t believe you. you give a light eyeroll, and small smile.

"i mean it, i swear.” you raise your pinkie finger to him, to keep your promise. knowing it’s the only way he’ll actually believe you.

chris smiles, weak with his bruised lip, and wraps up your pinkie with his own, wriggling your hands around.

"i'm always gonna want to protect you." he pulls you toward his body. he's so warm, and radiates a magnetic energy that makes you want to collapse into his arms.

you know you don't need him to, but deep down, you would like his protection. his unconditional love. selflessness.

"i'll be sure to send you love letters in jail" you grin up at him, and laughs from the chest.

his voice is like a scratched record, fatigue taking over his body. you swallow hard, all of your senses coming back. he feels so real standing in front of you all of a sudden, like it's not just a dream you're about to wake up from.

"stay the night." you speak mindlessly.

chris brushes your hair from your face, cupping the back of your neck lightly to pull your forehead to his lips, kissing just above your eyebrows gently. he rests his chin on the crown of your head, pulling you tight to his chest in an embrace.

"i'll stay forever if you ask me to."

this is the feeling he fights for. requited love.

[the-upside-down-umbrella]

Partners? Partners.

Five Hargreeves x Fem!Reader

Summary: Y/N Hargreeves, formerly of the Sparrow Academy, finds herself virtually alone in the reset timeline. The Umbrella’s bring her in to their chaos and she builds something new for herself while still navigating the grief of losing her family. She’s happy in the simplicity. That is, until the one Hargreeves she can’t seem to win over comes to her with an offer she might not be able to refuse.

Warnings: Some cursing. Some angst.

(Part 1/?)

A/N: This one will be 4 or 5 parts. A bit of a coffee shop AU if you squint

——————

She missed her family. She missed them so desperately that sometimes when she dreamt of them at night, she would wake up in tears as the loneliness set in and she realized that her dreams were the only place she would see them again. They had been dysfunctional and as far as families go, not that close, but they had been hers. She would never understand how she had survived everything, how she had made it through the reset when the others did not. She technically had Ben but he had distanced himself not just from the Umbrella’s, but from her, as soon as they fell into this timeline. Now he was in prison for a white-collar bitcoin crime and he refused to have visitors altogether. She was well and truly the last of her family.

It got easier with time and she fell into a predictable, mundane routine. For the first time in her life, she was forced to slow down and be a normal human being. No powers. No Sparrow Academy. Just living and surviving.

She found an apartment with a roommate who mostly kept to themselves and a stable, if not a bit boring, job as a barista at a local coffee shop just a block from home. It wasn’t much and some months she was barely scraping by, but it was a start and she was happy.

The other Hargreeves children, the Umbrellas, brought her into the fold of their chaotic family and soon, she began to feel less alone.

She had brunch with Luther every Sunday at his club. They spent that time talking about Sloane, keeping her memory alive between them. She shared her childhood memories of her sister and Luther soaked it all in, grateful to receive any little piece of new information about his wife that he could get. She was thankful for that time with him and happy that someone loved Sloane the way she always deserved to be loved. Even if it was just for a moment.

Diego and Lila had her over for family game night at least once a month and she had coffee with Lila every week at the shop. Their children called her aunt and she made sure that they were properly spoiled, much to their parent's dismay.

She made the trek to Victor’s bar often in the evenings not just for the free drinks, but because he was actually wonderful company and he made sure to carve out time to sit and talk with her whenever he could take a break from running things. Like her, she suspected that he also felt a bit lonely.

Klaus and Allison came as a pair these days. Their dynamic was a sight to behold as Klaus navigated his newfound sobriety, and Allison pulled together a life doing what she loved, to support her daughter. She loved being around them.

But there was one particular family member that Y/N could not quite figure out.

Five.

Apart from their initial interaction at Sloane and Luther’s wedding where he had drunkenly accosted her about her powers, he had barely acknowledged her existence. While she was building relationships with his other siblings, he kept her at arm's length. Sure, he was cordial with her at family events and dinners, but that’s where he drew the line. He rebuffed every attempt she made at finding a connection with him.

That is until he started showing up every morning at the coffee shop she worked at. The same time every morning and the same, predictable order.

The first time he walked through the door she was taken aback. She knew he lived on the other side of town but she chalked it up to some work thing bringing him there.

He made his order, indulged her in small talk, and sat down, opening up a newspaper to read while he sipped his coffee.

She thought it was a one-off, but was very surprised when he turned up the next morning at the same time.

And then the morning after that and the morning after that.

He began conversing with her for longer periods of time, asking questions about her day-to-day life after the reset and even sharing some tidbits of information about himself. She knew he worked for the CIA and had recently moved into a new apartment.

A few weeks went by and each day was the same. It reached the point that she would have his coffee made and the donut he liked set aside before he even made it through the door.

But after a while, her curiosity began to get the better of her. Why was he here? Why was he suddenly showing interest in her and what she was doing with her life? It was making her crazy!

“Your black, boring coffee, sir,” Y/N said in the most sugary sweet voice she could muster, setting the cup down in front of the irritating man in front of her.

Five immediately picked it up and took a deep sip, “Fantastic as usual.”

She pulled the chair out across from him and sat down with a huff, “Cut the crap, Five. We both know you have much closer coffee shops to your apartment. Why, may I ask, do you insist on frequenting mine? Is it just to pester me?”

“Maybe I just like your company,” Five shrugged, leaning back to observe her.

This poked at her ire even more. He was always doing that. Just observing her like some sort of animal in an enclosure. Always there at his little table near the window. Rain or shine.

“Oh please!” She scoffed, “You’ve never given any indication that you even like me, let alone enjoy my company. In fact, until you started showing up here every day, I was pretty sure you hated me. So, again, cut the crap and tell me why you’re really here.”

“Fine,” he said, sitting his mug down so that he could give her his full, undivided attention, “I have a proposition for you.”

“This should be good.”

“My boss wants me to take on a partner,” he explained, “but the problem with that is that I don’t really trust…anyone really. But I’ve watched you these last few years, Y/N, and I know that you’re smart, analytical, and incredibly sharp. Your powers fine-tuned all of your senses and even if you don’t have them anymore, that’s still there. And that’s what I want in a partner.”

“Five, I’m not even trained to work for the CIA,” she reminded him, “I’m sure they’re not going to just let some random person join ranks without experience.”

“But you do have experience,” he insisted, “you’re a Sparrow. You’ve literally been trained since birth to be a fighter, a spy, or whatever else Dad needed us to be.”

“Need I remind you that neither the sparrows nor the umbrellas existed in this timeline? So none of that is going to mean jack shit to anyone.”

“It will if I forge a few documents,” he said, leaning forward so that he could get a clear look at her, “How do you think I got this far looking this young? I’ll do the same for you and everyone will think you’re an FBI transfer. They’ll be none the wiser. Trust me, not everyone high up is as smart as they’d like to think they are.”

She doubted anyone was that stupid.

“Five, this might come as a surprise to you, but I actually really like my life here,” she told him, “it’s peaceful and easy and I don’t really need any more than that. After so long of fighting and striving for perfection for the Sparrows, I’m ready to just settle down and live slowly. So, thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”

“You say that,” he chuckled, “you say that you want peace and quiet but I know that’s just something you tell yourself. Because I’ve told myself the same thing and it didn’t suit me. But let’s face it, you’re as unhinged as me. You NEED the chaos. You thrive on it.”

“You’re really not doing yourself any favors here, Five,” she hissed. “Besides, why me? Why haven’t you asked Diego? Hasn’t he been bugging you about bringing in his resume? Make him your partner.”

“Diego and Lila have enough going on in their lives,” he waved her off, “And Diego is a skilled fighter but he lacks in the brains department. Trust me.”

With that final statement, Five stood up and pushed in his chair before downing the last dredges of his coffee, “Just think about it, okay? And until then, I’ll be here every day, as usual. No one makes a cup of coffee quite like you.”

With a wink he left her sitting at the table alone, wondering why on earth she was actually considering his offer.

[sweetmage]

I love the drama of the "Varric sees Anders when he looks at Solas" posts that have been going around, but I personally do not vibe with the common "I should have stopped Anders from blowing up the Chantry" narrative that some of them have but instead "I could have prevented it from even getting to that point." I've been putting some thought into how I would spin this for my own purposes. I'll place it under the cut since it's a little lengthy :)

To begin with, this was not an overnight decision on Anders' part. He held out for years, tried to find other solutions, tried to rally a group of supposed friends who would not hear it. Varric thought himself a listening ear, a supportive companion, but he was as deaf as the rest of them. Varric had the resources and connections to keep the templars away from his clinic, he had the fondness to invite him out to drinks and trade jokes with him, but when the threat grew larger and more serious, Varric's response did not.

Anders, who had spent most of his life in a prison surrounded by uncaring jailors watched his home, his friends--family even--become no better. And Varric became one of them, meeting every silent plea or cry for support with words and actions that protected those walls, those structures, but not the people who lived within. That was, of course, unless they were quiet, uninvolved. It was easier to face than the reality that the city he loved was rotten and diseased.

In the end, he never gave Anders what he needed. He never used his resources to fight or his words to speak out, he never even told him that he understood him, that mages shouldn't have to go through that. And in the end, Anders had to do what he could alone and Varric lost his friend and the city both.

Anders lived, but at the cost of his own freedom, his home, his friends he had tried until the very end to convince. But that didn't settle in for Varric right away. It was easier to be angry, even if much of that anger was turned inward. He disparaged Anders in the same breath that he called him a fond nickname, he protected his and Hawke's location while claiming he never wanted to see him again, he placed blame upon him for what went wrong in the world while pretending to himself that the world itself was not at fault.

It wasn't until he was faced with another friend, another mage, in a situation all too similar that Varric realized what he had done. Or rather, failed to do. And what he must do this time in turn. It was too late for Anders, he could never go back to Kirkwall and the trust he lost for his old friends must have been near irreparable, but it was not too late for Solas.

So to me when he looks to Solas and sees Anders he isn't seeing some mage who did a bad thing, he's seeing the friend he could have saved, or at least could have tried to understand, but didn't. So it's personal. He throws every resource at tracking Solas down, every contact, every favor, and when it finally pays off and he stands before him, he tries, even when it puts his life on the line. But, like before, it seems too late. He could look back and see every moment he could have offered his ear or his aid to Anders before things reached a breaking point, but he didn't have that time with Solas. He may as well have been trying to talk Anders down that evening in the Gallows when the culmination of so many years of injustice were ready to boil over. But he never tried then, he had to now for Solas.

[ma1dita]

to catch a thief

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> love like a blister | next -> solipsism words: 3.7k summary: (post-TLT, sea of monsters compliant/spoilers) The one where duty calls at Camp Half-Blood. Again. Your reunion with Luke is nothing you both could have ever expected. (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: sorry for the post birthday hiatus on this, hope you like it! crack banter but err... she got a lil angsty (posted 3/22/24, semi-edited)

—

When you wake up to the gentle rolling of the sea, it feels like a comforting embrace in a distant dream. Tangled within pristine white sheets, you could smell the salt through the small opening in the bay window–though this was a far cry from a fairytale conjured by your mind.

This was your reality. 

You wouldn’t call it a nightmare per se, but the circumstances were definitely less than preferred. 

This is not the CSS Birmingham. No, that went up in flames. Retracing your steps to what led you to this—cushy cruise line of a prison, you reckon it’s been a few days now since you’ve become a stowaway, or a hostage. You haven’t quite decided yet. 

Gods, this is what you get for passing up on that summer research internship. 

Dropping off Percy, Annabeth, and Tyson at camp was supposed to be a fun walk down memory lane—until meeting with your dad, finding out Thalia’s tree had been poisoned, watching Chiron get fired, and essentially getting kicked out by the troll of a man who originally got sent to the Fields of Punishment for marketing the taste of human flesh made you remember that nothing at camp is the way it used to be.

Not like before, when you and Luke used to run it.

Your dad told you to go home and wait till you were needed. Home. Driving away from it this time around was harder than you thought it would be. You’d never been the patient type, and to drop everything just because a god told you to?

Hilarious, really.

But almost a week later, after rejoining your friends on an undead ship that you let the kids commandeer, your vital mistake was thinking that Clarisse’s quest would be a breeze. Rookie move, since the last one you were on left you almost as scarred as Luke was. Even thinking of him now, you run your thumb over the rough patch of skin on your palm. 

At the very least you hoped Tyson was okay. The last memory you have of the young Cyclops was watching him from your place on the ladder as he stopped the engines from overheating. Maybe it was the ex-head counselor in you, or your increased threshold to pain, but there was no way in hell you were leaving that kid behind.

The sound of voices from outside your door gets louder now, your throat feeling like you’ve been swallowing wads of cotton and a persistent ringing in your ear that hurts just as bad as when you watch Chris Rodriguez walk in with a plate of food. The last one he slid through the door bumps against his boot, still uneaten and he sighs. 

“So what, you’re on a hunger strike now? I forgot how difficult you could be.”

You bark out a laugh. Thankfully it’s loud enough that it almost conceals the rumble of your stomach. Gritting your teeth, you mumble, “Wish it could be an idiot strike. I forgot how much of a bitch you are when it comes to your brother, Rodriguez. How long are you going to keep me here? It’s been days.”

Your former friend rolls his eyes at your dramatics like he doesn’t hold the key to your freedom.

“Three since you woke up, actually. Come on, you’ve gotta eat, or I’ll get my ass kicked,” he grumbles. You raise an eyebrow at that, walking towards the window to dodge the uncomfortable tension that fills the room. He plucks an apple slice off your plate.

“He couldn’t splurge on a balcony view? Monsters aside, it’s not like you’ve reached full occupancy.”

“There are more mortals here than you think. To be honest, he was worried you would find a way to overthrow us,” the tanned boy admits, placing the tray on the dresser. It was always a wonder to him how you and Luke were more alike than you think, even now—even when Luke hasn’t come to see you. Talking to you reminded him that you’re both pains in his ass, and Chris was still unsure of who to be more wary of, but he’s been in charge of watching you for the most part.

“Well tell your stupid captain he has no right to be worried about me. I’d much rather try to jump if given the opportunity.”

There’s no response, so you turn to face Chris who’s eating a croissant with a bashful grin.

“Seriously dude?”

“Listen, I’m hoping if I think of the right words to say, he’ll come in and deal with you himself. Opposite sides of a war and you’re still both giving me a headache. Just like old times,” he chuckles, flakes of pastry dotting across his chest plate. Your mouth quirks into a bitter smile. Old times, when Luke would shove you if he couldn’t think of a reply fast enough. When you’d punch him to get your point across if he wasn’t listening. How a kiss could end any waging war between the both of you.

You swallow, turning slowly to watch your reflection in the glass of the windowpane.

Why hasn't he come to see you? The first day, you remember spending out on the sea—treading water with no land in sight, calling out to your friends until your voice went hoarse, but you didn’t cry. You know better than to show weakness now, even when no one’s around. Chris tells you over a gulp of orange juice that you washed up next to the Princess Andromeda on the second day like it was fate. Though fate was never truly that kind to anyone; it felt like it was laughing in your face. Knocked out cold for two days after, and ignoring all of Chris’s attempts to keep you alive in the days that followed, you’ve been in this room ever since. You barely notice Chris’s departure. 

Entering the ensuite bathroom, you splash your face and sip on water from the tap before stopping at the doorway. A shadow flits at the seam near your feet, someone standing just out of sight when you peer through the peephole.

But you know Luke’s there. Sons of Hermes have almost undetectable footsteps, however, Luke walking in and out of your life for as long as he has—there’s no inconceivable way to not know him. Perhaps you couldn’t hear the sound of his feet, but there’s a way the wind shifts your hair, your heart slowing in ease at his presence, and the scent of him reminiscent of skin kissed with the peel of an orange. The skin you used to kiss and greet and know like your own.

The shadow fades just as your hand reaches out towards it, leaving like he always does. Always out of reach.

Even as the Princess Andromeda continues to set sail upon the calm waters of the Atlantic Coast, you look out to the unending horizon and still feel like you’re drowning.

—

“Status report, soldier?”

Chris rolls his eyes, popping the last piece of apple into his mouth as he strolls into the command deck. The both of you had a flair for the dramatic—it serves as his reminder of why you two worked so well. Luke is sitting in his captain’s seat, watching the waves crash against the hull as the sun begins to set on the skyline.

“She’s angry. Anyone would be if they were locked up like that.”

“Well, yeah, but tell me something I don’t know. Something useful, Rodriguez,” Luke says, flicking his pocket knife closed. It’s still sticky with the juice of the fruit, catching onto his finger. He hisses, but then the sound of loud footsteps boom down the corridor, along with the sound of maniacal laughter as the door slams open. The two sons of Hermes look at each other curiously, knowing it all too well.

“You know, the next time you send a 9-year-old to stand guard, remember to not make it the one we used to throw into the lake,” you drawl, sauntering into the bridge and looking around until your eyes land on your ex, “and also remember that you taught me how to pick locks.”

Ethan Nakamura heaves behind you, hands on his knees before he stands to attention and salutes his captain.

“Sir, I was just following orders… and I’m not 9 anymore!” he snaps, glaring at you. Laughing at the absurdity of the situation makes it easier to get through. You thought being surrounded by the undead on the CSS Birmingham was scary enough, but standing in a room with ghosts from your past was somehow worse. Honestly, you learned a lot more by being in that room than if you were to jump ship like you wanted to.

“I taught you how to tie your shoes, Ethan. You’re always gonna be a little kid to me,” you scoff, brushing him aside and walking towards Luke, “your new digs are fancy, by the way. I could tell by all the teenage soldiers chasing me through the tourists.”

He stands up and meets you head to head, as the both of you inspect each other closely. 

It’s been a long year without you.

You look thinner. You’ve lost the softness in your cheeks and your eyes are tired. He wonders what you chose to major in, who your roommates are, if you still think of him with a smile on your face. You’re still beautiful.

“You know me, I like to travel in style,” Luke says offhandedly, a half smile on his face. For someone leading a war against the gods, he’s calm in your presence.

“Back when I knew you, we traveled in a tin can that we also called a car.”

His clothes are nicer than anything you’ve ever seen him in. He looks really fucking good, for someone on the run. It’s almost frustrating to see how brawny he’s gotten, muscles rippling as he crosses his arms. You suppose he has nothing to do now but practice and spar (that or he’s definitely flexing for you). Pulling at the drawstring of the joggers you wear, you realize his initials are embroidered on the pocket. Pretentious fuck. Did he change you once you got on board?

Chris and Ethan suddenly get the feeling that they’re interrupting something—a reunion in a blockbuster romantic movie they’ve seen the mortals play out on the ship deck’s projector on Friday nights. The two of you stand there arguing like a married couple despite the fact you are no longer lovers and the bickering continues even when more of Kronos’ army files in. You laugh again at the sight of children walking in—some strangers, others you’ve sung to sleep in cabin 11, all still children, even back from the time before when laughter didn’t have to have a reason, light and airy in the summer sun.

“You’re sick, you know that? Did you just plan to let me rot in that room until it was all over? You didn’t even talk to m—”

“Classic, you’re more mad that I didn’t talk to you over the fact that you’re a prisoner,” he seethes, but you don’t stand down—not now or ever.

“Prisoner? I walked out and none of your Boy Scouts could do anything about it!”

His face is turning red now, jaw tightening at the angst but deep down he misses this—the banter, the thin line between hate and love you both tread on. You may be a damsel. But you were not in distress.

To further prove your point, you swing an arm toward one of the boys in black (their uniforms were annoyingly corny), and they all take a step back toward the wall. Your eyebrows furrow, “What type of prison has guards terrified of the prisoner?”

He shrugs, “It was only time before you came and found me. I even gave you a bay window.”

That was not the right thing to say.

“I’ll fucking kill yo—”

“Sir? So do we try and detain her, or….” one of the demigods you don’t know interjects, and Chris Rodriguez sucks at his teeth before he responds. 

“Alright. We’ve seen enough of the show. Everyone file out and let Castellan reunite with his girlfriend.”

“GIRLFRIEND?”

“Girlfriend…”

The both of you look at each other, one in anger, the other in sheepishness now that you’re alone. It's even funnier that neither of you deny it.

“You left me there in that room, and by the sight of things around here you prefer being in the company of monsters than being with me, so by the gods, what do you want, Castellan?”

You fall into the captain’s chair exasperatedly, watching him watch you.

“I’m giving you a choice,” he says simply. “You can stay here with me, or you can go.”

“A choice? You captured me to tell me I have a choice,” you spit, as if that was the stupidest thing he could say. “You didn’t give me a choice when you left me.”

“It was a matter of the circumstances. And I didn't capture you—are you mad that I betrayed everyone or not, because I can’t really read you right now, Trouble…”

Your eye twitches and your hands are in fists across your lap. Another wrong thing to say.

“Keeping me here until I get the nerve to talk to you is not a choice, asshole. Do you think you could just hide me away until the bad part’s over? To save me until everything's good enough for you?” Your eyes catch onto the droplets of blood that fall onto the hardwood flooring near your feet. His hand is bleeding, and like it’s nothing of the sort you reach out for it.

Luke thinks that if he lets you your hand will still perfectly fit in his, so after a moment, he pulls his hand away out of your reach. Pulling a handkerchief out of your pocket (also embroidered with his initials—note to self, never let a son of Hermes have money), you stand to wrap it around his hand to stop the bleeding. You pretend not to notice his heartbeat increase through the throbbing of the cloth.

“Don’t let my actions make you believe that what we had wasn’t good, Trouble.”

“Stop calling me that. Why are they all scared of me? Why won’t you let me touch you?” you whisper, putting pressure on his finger until the blood clots. It doesn’t even hurt, to tell you the truth. Not touching you when you’re right here in front of him is a pain he can’t find the words to describe. But what he’ll never understand is that he’s right. You two were good together. You’d have him through the bad too, if only he let you.

“Because you might think you can fix me.” Or worse, you might change his mind. You don't have to say you love him for him to know it. A part of him wishes he didn’t have to do all of this to prove to you he feels the same. 

“Would you have left with me?” he mutters. A wistful look cuts through your anger and he knows he’s finally said something right. His pocket knife is on the control board and your hands drop to your side again when you realize that he may have forgotten to tell his battalion of who you are to him, but he still remembers how you like your apples cut. The silence is loud, even with the twinge that comes with the pain in your eardrum as you sway a little on your feet. Your body still knows it can relax with him, knees buckling with a false sense of security despite your willpower.

“I would've made it so that there was no other option for you but to want to stay.”

A soldier bursts through the door and apologizes for the intrusion, but the both of you have found out all you need to know. The moment is over and Percy Jackson has been captured by the army in his efforts of trying to save the day. There’s a look shared between the two of you that wonders if this will become a trend.

—

Licking your lips as your… Luke guides you out onto the main deck with your hands behind your back, you can taste the salt in your air. It’s almost as evident as the surprise in your friends’ faces when they see you alive. This time, they don’t question your allegiance but in the chaos that ensues, for a moment, you do.

For a moment, you wonder what would change if you decided to stay with him. Would the sky fall under your feet? Would the gods kneel like Luke said they would? Looking at him in your periphery, you realize it’s not what the both of you want, even if it’s the easier way out—to be together despite it all.

The two of you against the world instead of the world against the both of you.

But he won't even touch you—he’s holding you over the sleeves of your shirt, too scared of what you’ve become in his absence. You suppose you’re scared of what he’s become too. 

The realization hits that you could defect from your friends, family, and home. You could undo everything that you and your friends have worked towards. But nothing he can say will change the fact that he didn’t choose you.

Luke was right, then.

You did have a choice, one that he still forces you to make as you nod at Percy to flip his last drachma into the open water, opening a direct line of communication to your father to catch the thief—of both lightning and the beat of your heart, in the act.

You realize that if the gods were the least bit grateful that you’ve kept their kids alive for the past half-decade, perhaps fate would be on your side and Luke would still be yours. But life has a funny way of working itself out when Luke admits to the open air of another crime to tack onto his list.

“Kronos was right. I should’ve killed you, Percy.”

The son of Poseidon goads Luke into another duel and you survey your surroundings for a way out. Annabeth burns holes into the side of your head and it gets you thinking, moving faster than you have in days as you walk towards her and Grover. At the raise of your hand, the demigods holding onto the pair drop to the deck, incapacitated with illusions of madness they will never comprehend. The more of them that surround you drop like flies as Luke’s eyes flicker between you and the boy he has at swordpoint.

You’ve gotten stronger in his absence—you never needed to touch him to use your powers after all. Just waiting for the right moment to strike, attacking when Luke finally let his guard down for you. He cracks his neck, knowing you’ve made your choice, so he makes his. 

“Get them.” 

The monster scrambles across the deck but it approaches you first, clawing at the wood and barely missing your feet as you scream for help, defenseless without a sword and you hear Luke yell your name in alarm before a punching glove-tipped arrow sends it hurtling overboard.

Your eyes lock with his again as you disembark with the Party Ponies, you with your crew as he corrals the mess you made of his. It has to be the salt air that makes your eyes seem a little misty.

Your fates have always been tied. 

You protect your home, and he does what he can to protect you. Luke looks over your form like he’s checking if you’re okay, even from a distance— and it makes you wonder if this is how it's supposed to be. Someone leaving, and the both of you apart. 

It’s weird to be the one leaving this time, but it isn't as easy as Luke makes it seem each time he does it.

You avert your eyes once you see him put his hand in his pocket, him finding what you snuck in on the way to the deck. Luke pulls out a leather bracelet with a black camp bead, the one he missed in the year he’s been gone. He rolls the bead between his fingers, the thing you last touched before leaving him, an emblem of his archnemesis and the summer that changed everything—the consequences of his actions ripping you away from him. When he slides it on his wrist, it lightly clinks against the hilt of his sword, the lone clay bead a force of its own against Backbiter's reverberating power. He feels nostalgia for what could have been crawling through him—though Luke supposes he’s always been too vulnerable when it comes to you.

Is this what you’ve been feeling every time he walks away? 

It starts to rain after you leave. Luke watches his crew take cover from the downpour, running in all different directions to hide away from the storm that ravages the Princess Andromeda. 

But he stands still, looking up at the sky and hating it for how openly it’s able to cry. Luke is far away from home again—from you and it makes him wonder how much longer he’ll have to be away from you when being with you is what he truly wants.

The mission continues and the ship keeps pushing forward even as the rain washes over him, soaking through his armor and straight to the bone. Raindrops pelt through every crevice, though this onslaught is much kinder, more gentle, even when it’s angry. He closes his eyes and lets it touch his skin. 

For a moment, it feels like you. 

—

A hand penetrates the tide searching for yours, gripping onto your unconscious one. He’s spent hours ripping holes through time to try to find you, an advantage given to him in a dream by the Titan. The agreement, what keeps him from not running back to you is that you live—and as Luke pulls you out of the ocean waterlogged and turning blue, he wonders if it’s all a farce. 

Losing you isn’t worth the wrath of the gods if you’re lifeless in his arms like this. 

He shouts your name, pumping your chest with his fists and breathing life back into your lips until you cough out saltwater, head lolling against his knee. Luke’s fingers stroke your hair, touching you for the first time in a year. As life slowly brings the color back into your cheeks he silently thanks Hestia for keeping your flame alight. His soldiers call out to him from the deck, and he steels his resolve as he rows the lifeboat back to the ship. Still, Luke has to uphold his side of the agreement. 

He wonders if you’d stay. Even if he knows the answer, Luke wonders if you would ever change it for him.

—

And they tell me you are evil and I answer: Yes, I know. –Patricia Smith

 ½ luke taglist: @kissingyourgrl @dorcas4meadowes @lorarri @andrewgarfldsgf @noodlesketchbook @10ava01 @poppysrin @ashisabitgay @timhalamet @liv1104 @leeknows-wife @mxtokko @bugcuti3 @luvvfromme @midmourn @2hiigh2cry @yuminako @niktwazny303  @lukecastellandefender @intergalactic-padawan @iliketopgun @annybah @dangelnleif @thegrinningghost @alyssajunelle @obxstiles @m00ng4z3r @visndcaitswhore @b0ok-lover @elegant-face-tree @this-barbie-is-having-breakdowns @amortencjja @idonevenknow1359 @maliaaaa @targaryenluvs @sakyira @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri

[mosaickiwi]

Home Away From

I love hopeless agony almost as much as tooth rotting fluff??

Post-kidnapping Angel adjusting (badly) to the new normal.

might do a part 2 where it gets even worse idk ← my last words before i get thrown out of the plane

Kidnapping, imprisonment, codependency, etc.

proceed with caution

Eyes straight forward, you had to keep yourself occupied fiddling with the edge of a couch cushion. Every single one had a few loose threads from how often you worried away at them. 

Twelve… thirteen… fourteen neatly aligned book spines on the lowest shelf behind the dark haired man kneeling in front of you. A full, hardcover collection of your favorite webcomic, each book signed and dedicated to you. Maybe you'd force yourself to read them all again. For the third time since your arrival.

"Angel."

It was hard to keep track of how long you'd been here—in this house far removed from Corland Bay, with everything you ever wanted in a forever home. All those wild, fantasy-ridden dreams you joked about with Ren, and then [REDACTED], were true now.

And yet your supposed fiancé carried you over the threshold of that forever home kicking and screaming. 

"Still not talking?"

His hand reached for yours, fingers gently lacing between your own before you eventually pulled away. You saw their real reaction in the corner of your vision. By now, you knew him as obsessively as he knew you—there wasn't much he could hide anymore. The pain in his blue eyes lingered for too long this time.

It hurt. You hated to see that look on his face. But you hated being trapped here so much more than that. Why couldn't he understand?

Realistically, a silent treatment would get you nowhere. A few hours had turned to days, then weeks, and he was still soft-spoken and doting towards you. There was hardly a difference in the man you proposed to, and the one that bolted the front door shut from the outside on the few occasions they left for supplies.

You were too used to domestic life, too docile compared to that first day—sometimes you'd lose yourself and forget you were a prisoner. All your old hobbies still occupied your days while he sat nearby, and it just felt natural to include the only person you ever saw. To call his name and read a passage from a book aloud for him to laugh, or casually scoot closer to him for warmth during a movie.

Those moments when you forgot felt like they could slot in between all your old memories with ease.

"I'm sorry, love. I only wanted t'keep you safe," he whispered.

His breath almost tickled your legs, followed by the feel of his forehead resting against them. The urge to brush a hand through their hair—an innocent gesture you did at least daily back home—hurt just as much to ignore.

Were it not for their words of apology, even now could've been another memory. Who could fault you for falling into habits of comfort with the one who lived for you, and you alone?

The silent treatment was the best you could do.

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Tired and disoriented, you woke up alone in your bedroom. The pink haired plushie you normally cuddled had disappeared somewhere, probably tossed to a corner of the room in your fitful sleep. Your usual replacement for a space heater was nowhere to be found, either.

Had he stayed up late? You called their name. "Ren?"

A muted commotion in the hallway outside, then the door creaked open. "Angel?" your beloved hacker answered back cautiously.

"Are you coming to bed?"

There was no response for a long moment. But soon enough, his familiar footsteps sounded against the floor.

You sat up and pulled the blanket to the side for them. As he settled in, you cuddled close, resting one arm over their chest while your head laid in its rightful place atop his shoulder. You managed to lean up and find their lips for a quick kiss before closing your eyes.

Though you couldn't see his face, you imagined the blush that painted his cheeks at every piece of affection you gave. With the thought fresh in your mind, you drifted off.

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Hours later you woke again, your rest this time far more peaceful in their embrace. A pitiful, lazy groan left you as you stretched, then opened your eyes to greet your partner.

[REDACTED] was silently looking down at you, propped up on one arm. 

You reached up to cup his cheek and smiled at him. He leaned into your touch like always, but their usual loving gaze was laced with hesitation. As if waiting for something. Anxious of what could bother him, your hand followed the line of his jaw down to their neck, past the tattooed heart of your name, and settled on a piece of jewelry. 

Was that correct? It felt off. A long moment passed as you fiddled with it, trying to figure out what was so out of place about that silver chain, until it hit you.

The golden ring was back on his necklace, instead of on your finger where it belonged. Where it used to belong.

Weeks, or maybe even months ago, when they kept you in a careful hold while locking the bedroom door behind them—you'd thrown that ring in his face the second he let you go. 

For all the scratches and bite marks you'd put on his arm, tearing at skin that was already long scarred, he hadn't shown a hint of worry. Not until they bent down to get the ring that hit their chest and clattered to the floor.

It was the same worried face you saw now.

Your hand stilled, and before you could even whisper the words you wanted to yell, he slipped from the bed to give you space. The door clicked shut behind them to trap you in with your thoughts.

How could you be so stupid? Weak? They didn't have to try at all to wear you down; you did it all on your own. He tore you away from friends and family, yet here you were, forgetting yourself to play house with him. Then you took it a step further and let him sleep in your bed.

Nails dug into the pillow under your head, but instead of throwing it you squeezed it tight to your chest. You bit your lip to hold back the tears, glaring down at the empty spot on your ring finger that had only now begun to match the skin around it.

Another foolish dream to pile with all the others.

As much as you wanted to hope they would see reason one day and bring you back home to make things right—a thought far past irrational by now—you had to mourn the life taken from you.

You knew them, you knew them. Always seeking your favor so quickly that any argument quelled before it had a chance to begin, but stubborn when he felt it necessary.

If the first answer was a no… the next one and the next one wouldn't change. You should've accepted it the second he locked the door.

Ren was the only person you'd ever see again.

[yestrday]

: ̗̀➛ LOVE BITES. yan! isagi yoichi / gn! reader / yan! kurona ranze

you don't know what to do but spit fire and hate at two kidnapping psychos who can't even keep their lips off each other. they could at least have the decency to not do it in front of you :/

+ waaaah idk this writing feels lazy but i love love loooove poly yanderes and i wanted to try exploring it...

( once again. how do kissing scenes work. slight bl00d. poly relationship. implied other poly relationships who are also out to getcha )

ever since their blue lock days, kurona had always been isagi’s partner-in-crime. of all the partners yoichi could have chosen, he who had came later in his life was the one who won isagi’s trust and hand. and now he and isagi conquered together– in every match, in every television appearance, and now most importantly, you.

“kurona,” isagi murmurs, his delicate yet calloused fingers running up and down your bare hips. called by his silent command, kurona leans in closer, and his lean body presses itself on your shivering back. there is a silent intimacy in the air, simply indescribable by words. alone in the shadows of their shared living space, with only the occasional sliver of moonlight whenever the curtains flutter, the three of you press your heated bodies together.

isagi casts his gaze upon him, benevolent and possessive. it’s a cross between the kind off-field isagi and the cruel maestro of the court, and kurona finds himself shuddering under his gaze. “kurona,” he calls again. “talk to [your name] for me, please?” he sends him a pleading look, obviously disappointed that none of his attempts to consoling you is working. “i think they’re still scared of me.”

“mmm, is that true, [your name]?” he nuzzles into your nape and hugs your waist. your breath hitches when you feel his fingers dig into your skin– not harsh and blood-drawing as you expected, but well, who can blame you for your paranoia? “why’re you scared of isagi? of me? hmm?” your nape is soft against his nose, and he lets out a content sight. “we’re taking good care of you, aren’t we?”

you can’t help but whimper when he finally places all his body weight on you, treating you like a mere plushie as you’re now squished between isagi and kurona. “that’s right,” isagi hums, idly playing with your hair. “whatever you want, you can ask. we’re pros now, [your name]. we can buy you anything you want.”

you bite your lip, sending a teary glare up at isagi. he smiles so kindly, just like the kind boy you once cheered on blue lock tv. you can feel kurona’s gentle touch on your stomach too, and keenly aware of how capable he is of hurting you with just one clench. “i want to go back home.”

kurona and isagi share a quiet laugh. “everything except for that, that is.” the blue-haired boy even has the gall to send you an apologetic smile. “sorry.”

“we need you here with us,” kurona whispers, as sweet as he can be. his teeth graze against your nape once again but before he pulls away he takes a nip at your skin again, with more warning than the last. “you’re our prize, our trophy, our love. all of us love each other, yeah? you love us, and we love you too. how could you handle being away from us?” he has the gall to say all of this like it’s fact, imposing their feelings on you even when your face contorts into disgust with every delusion he spouts.

“i don’t think i would wanna live without you and isagi,” kurona whispers into your skin, as if sharing a secret. isagi’s one arm slings itself around kurona, now having the two of you huddled in his arms. “i think i’d die. yeah, i’d die.” sometimes, you think that kurona might just as much of a prisoner as you are. isagi likes to play nice all the time but both of them know how cruel and manipulative he could be, and how tightly he has kurona wound around his finger. but you watch as isagi smiles endearingly at the boy, pressing a kiss on his lips. then when he pulls away, kurona lets out a low whine, isgai’s breath hitches, and he dives in again for yet another albeit messier kiss. you cringe and look away.

chuckling, isagi gently holds the back of your hair— slightly squeezing the strands as warning— and guides your vision back to them. isagi is watching you from the side of his eye, smirking as he continues with that messy and drooly kiss. kurona struggles to even open his eyes, too pleasure-struck as he leans into the kiss. “watch, [y. name]. you could learn a lesson or two,” he chuckles. “kurona’s always so good for you and me. you should see what you’re missing.”

 “i’m not missing out anything,” you sneer, though you’re only speaking to air as isagi redirects his energy into making out with kurona. “you two are sick. keeping me here and subjugating me to your every whims. you’re perverted psychos, that’s what you fucking are.” 

kurona’s eyes slant slight, looking somewhat like a kicked puppy as you spout venom at the both of them. isagi just looks more amused than anything and he finally releases kurona from his hold. the sharp-toothed holds both of your hands in his as he looks up at you pleadingly as he presses your cold palm against his cheek. “[y. name], you’re here because we want to protect you. everyone out there wants a piece of you… kaiser and ness… nagi and that millionaire. isagi just wants the best for you.” he presses a soft kiss to your palm. “for the both of us.” 

you want to refute this, that the only reason why they locked you away is so their other equally psycho competitors won’t find you and take you for themselves. but kurona’s eyes and gentle acts have a way of prodding at your heartstrings and you feel like you were falling for this stupidly effective manipulation tactic of his. so instead you sigh and look away from him, gritting your teeth with hardened eyes.

“now, now, don’t be too stubborn,” isagi laughs, pressing a kiss to your temple and nuzzling into the crook of your neck. “you’re going to be with us for a lo~ng time. might as well learn how to love it.”

you bite your lip to silence yourself and watch as kurona smiles gently at you, nestling himself right beside isagi’s head. “love you so much, both of us,” he murmurs into your skin. his sharp teeth graze the soft flesh, making you stiffen and your fingers dig into isagi’s thigh in alarm. “you’ll accept our love, won’t you?”

“of course they will, kurona,” isagi affirms, not even waiting for your response. “don’t feel too guilty.”

a silence between them happens, sharing some sort of secret message you’re not privy to. soon, kurona’s lips twitch into a smile—

and his teeth dig into your neck, blood seeping from the broken skin as you scream at the pain. warmth shoots through your neck, something trickles downwards and under your shirts, and you stare wide-eyed at the ceiling as you hear nothing but your own shallow breaths. kurona hums beside you, licking the marks in apology, and one fearful glance at him has you flinching at how he licks the blood from his lips with that ever-gentle expression.

“looks s’ pretty on you, kurona,” isagi says appreciatively, pressing down on his lower lip with his thumb and kurona opens his mouth so he can get a full view of the mess within his mouth. “must taste really good, huh? especially with the way you’re blushing.” 

he’s right, your mind manages to comprehend. his eyes are lidded as his tongue swipes at his teeth to get every drop and the blush on his pale face tells you just how much he’s enjoying this. the man’s a sick pervert. how could i fucking forget?

“don’t be so angry, [y. name].” isagi swipes a trickle of blood from your skin and presses it against kurona’s lips, who too eagerly sucks on his finger to get more of the taste. “it’s the least you could do for hurting kurona’s feelings. our feelings.” 

you don’t quite have the energy to even bite back. in defeat, you slump against isagi and close your eyes to the sound of kurona’s hungry slurps and isagi’s encouraging moans.

sick fucks.

maybe you should let yourself get kidnapped by reo. better the collar than getting bitten. probably.

[starfxkrinc]

from the moment jj stepped out of prison it was like he took over your life. you wonder if he was able to sniff you out, if he looked between the lines of those letters for that raw, aching, weak spot and dug in. or maybe he just got lucky.

but as you watched him overtake your apartment, filling the walls with the smell of smoke and alcohol and bodies reeking of motor oil you realize you didn't stand a chance. jj was very good with his words.

like when he convinced you to send a couple pictures in the mail.

you know what i look like. doesn't a man deserve to know who he's talking too?

or when he called as soon as he came out and convinced you to see him.

what? not excited to see me? then what was all that shit in your letters then?

or when he got you in that hotel room.

it's been a while and you promised, can't pussy out on me like this.

so really, it's you're fault you let him move in. when jj told you he needed a place to stay while on parole or he'd get locked back up you couldn't tell him no. after 8 years he deserved more than a taste of freedom. as long as he kept his act up it shouldn't have been too bad.

then one day you came home, music booming from your apartment, loud cacophonous voices echoing out and you knew you made a mistake.

but again, jj's good with his words and his hands and his mouth and by the time he was done you were hazy and pliant as he went back out to his friends. when you woke up the place was clean, the smoke aired out as much as possible and you figured you can ease up. and jj hadn't asked for anything really, he got a job, helped pay rent, met up with his parole officer and that one night of celebration was just that.

so you thought at least. but jj was smart, he pivoted.he knew he couldn't spring things like this out of nowhere, so instead he took a more delicate approach. coaxing whimpered agreements from your lips as he sucked your clit into his mouth, pounding out gasped 'yes's' as you shuddered when you would cum.

now was another one of those times, you were trying you best to crawl away, one hand reaching back in effort to put some space between you, but he wasn't letting up. if anything he was getting rougher, lifting a leg up to reach deeper inside.

"you're so fuckin perfect sweetheart," he punctuates his words with a hard thrust, wrapping a hand around your throat to force an arch and presses his lips against your ear, "lemme capture the moment. cmon, don't you wanna see how pretty you look?"

you can barely squeak on an answer before he drops you with one palm flat on the back of you head and the other spreading your cheeks open. whatever response you may have given dies on your tongue when you feel him spit on your puckered hole.

"s'just for me, i promise."

the hand on your head is gone, and suddenly you're spooked by a bright light. when you turn your head all you can see is the shine of the camera, obscuring the rest of him until he was nothing but a big, hulking shadow.

"no! jj turn it off, it's embarrassing!"

he doesn't answer, just slowing down his movements as he spreads you open for the camera with a deep groan, "look at that shit. takin it like a champ."

if you could see yourself you'd see the image of utter debauchery--lips swollen and wet, the edges of your hair curled and the hazy fucked out gaze in your eyes. you dreaded the moment you heard yourself on the playback, moaning and whimpering like a slut.

"look at the camera cupcake, say hi."

jj's words float right past you, all you can do is lift your hips and fumble a hand underneath your body to swirl over your aching clit with a soft whimper.

but he wasn't having that, not when he was making you his own personal star.

jj lands a sharp smack to your cheek, pulling out a sharp squeal from your lips when he wrenched you up by the back of your head and pressed tight and hot against your cervix, "i tell you to do somethin, it aint a suggestion, be a good girl and say hi to the camera."

you looked a pitiful, teary mess as you forced a wobbly smile, one that didn't last long before he was pounding into you again, dropping the camera back down to focus on the tight clutch of your cunt creaming all over him.

"the boys are gonna fuckin love this."

@whinyangel

[cultofdixon]

Huddling for warmth

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Pronouns • A blizzard occurred during the harsh winter after the farm and before the prison. You and Daryl got trapped in it and things didn’t go perfectly…• ANGST/SFW/NSFW - Nudity • TW: Hyperthermia / Minor Injury / Anxiety / Scars / Illness

Requested by: Anon

When the fire happened, everything changed. It came naturally that Rick became the leader of this group but everything was icy.

Now they were starting all over in finding a place to call home…or at least a temporary shelter for the upcoming winter

“Here” Y/N shrugged off her jacket giving it to Carl for an extra layer of warmth as the weather was getting colder for winter.

“She’s going to freeze to death if she keeps giving her coats to Carl and Lori” Glenn makes the comment to Maggie after she finishes getting a fire going in a house they were holding up in for the night. Little did he know the archer was listening to such.

About an hour passed and Rick returns with a deer that Daryl obviously got. But they also went through a few homes and Daryl approached Y/N who was leaning on Carol near the fire, dropping a jacket over her shoulders and didn’t stay for her to get a word in.

But he saw the smile on her face and that caused an old familiar feeling to burn in his chest.

“The winter will get worse and we should scavenge a few places before holding up for a good month” Hershel tells Rick while looking out at the snow that started to fall.

“I’ll get Glenn, Maggie, and Carol to come check a few houses with me. You and Lori can keep an eye on the rest” Rick stated adjusting his jacket and giving Daryl a look. “Think you can hunt some more game before the weather gets thicker?”

“I’ll try but the second the tracks ain’t clear, I’m coming—-“

“You ain’t going alone. Take Y/N. She has huntin’ experience. She’s hunted with you before” True. Before Rick returned from presumed dead, Daryl went hunting with his brother and the previous hunter before the Dixons came…also known as Y/N. But she didn’t join him on the trip before he heard his brother was left on a roof.

Y/N was ahead of Daryl following tracks they’ve caught on at the edge of the tree line by the neighborhood they’re held up in. He half expected her to be a chatterbox like how she was before the barn fire. But something always had to be off.

Before he could say anything to her, she readied her hunting bow and landed the shot on the unlucky rabbit.

Opportunity “Yea ever heard of a lucky rabbit’s foot?”

“Yeah, but doesn’t it usually have like…an amethyst with it?”

“Thought it was an amulet” Daryl questioned only to get a short lived laugh out of Y/N causing a hint of a smirk on his face.

She rises to her feet with the rabbit in hand brushing the hair out of her face to look at the archer. “You want the foot?”

“Sayin’ I need some good luck?”

“Dunno. You’re the one that said it” Y/N kept a smile on her face that soon faded when the cold breeze was a bit more intense than she expected. “Hershel said winters will be bad. Just. Didn’t expect that”

What was just a breeze seemed to pick up the more they trekked along in the forest…

“Have the winters always gone from mild to extreme?”

“You aren’t originally from Georgia?” Daryl brushed his hair back when the wind blew harder than before.

“That a deal breaker?” Y/N jokes only to suddenly trip and fall into the snow that’s collected since the morning. “Jeez. Maybe I need that lucky rabbit’s foot”

The crimson in the white became clear to Daryl as he knelt down to make sure she didn’t hurt herself to a certain degree. Thankfully just a scratch from the tree root they couldn’t see in the snow, which started to concern Daryl with how the weather started to pick up the more they were out there.

“We should head back. Or try to find our way back”

“Before it gets worse?” She added while cleaning up the blood with her bandana as it’s going to have to do until they can get a better look at it. “It’s already there”

“Our foot prints got swept” Daryl frowns knowing that would likely happen. He rose to his feet helping Y/N up as he tried to take a moment to listen to the surrounding but even the wind was picking up as much as the snow fall.

It got to blizzard level pretty quick.

“This is getting bad” Y/N had to shout for Daryl to register anything, but as they continued on through the blind scenery…the sound of something moving through the snow caught both their attention until the archer turned around.

No Y/N.

Daryl’s panic started to set in because on top of not seeing his surroundings. He had zero clue on where Y/N could’ve fallen or been dragged to.

The hiss of the wind continued to throw the archer off when he followed the trail before it disappeared right away. He quickly realized when he slipped falling on his ass that she had fallen…but fallen into the river they passed before the blizzard became more prominent.

“We have to be careful, Y/N” Daryl states gesturing to the river they were currently passing when the snow started to pick up in inches.

Y/N laughs at the man. “Okay captain obvious. We aren’t going to be able to see it later if this blizzard picks up”

“Hopefully not. We’ll be fine”

But we aren’t fucking fine! Daryl thought as he carefully made his descend toward the river and while the rushing water picked up in his ears…he couldn’t hear anyone.

“Y/N!” He screams and was about to step in the water when something grabbed at his ankle.

The new instinct was to take his knife out and plunge it into the water skull, but when he knelt down it came clear.

“Holy fuck. Thought I’d have to go swimming”

“I-I-It’s a b-b-bit c-cold” Y/N coughed out a bit letting go of his person to lay in the snow like before. The moment she felt into the water, she was wide awake and knew she had to get out. But the second her soaked body met the cold harsh weather, it brought her to this semi frozen weak state. Crazy how quick the body reacts.

“Can yea move?” Daryl shouts only to ensure that she can hear him but with no response only shaking breathing he could barely hear, he brought his arms under her armpits starting to drag her to the main path out of the ditch by the riverbank. “Think warm thoughts” he kept repeating even if every fiber of her being wanted to curl up and scream.

Y/N wanted to scream when the cold only got worse for her as Daryl brought one of her arms around his shoulders.

“We need to hide out somewhere”

“F-Fast” She gripped onto him trying not to succumb to the cold making her falter in her steps.

Daryl tried his best not to stumble because of how she was. His anxiety eventually got the best of him and he didn’t care if she’d protest getting him wet given her soaked person when he picked her up bridal style to get a faster pace going.

The two ended up in a small house nowhere near the neighborhood they were originally in. There was no time to question how they even got far from where the rest of the group is. Daryl had to barricade the doors to the room they were in and try to get a fire going to help warm up Y/N as she was placed on the couch in the living room shivering.

“R-Remind me, n-n-never t-t….s-shit” Y/N groans pulling at the soaked clothes on her person wanting to take them off as she hated the uncomfortable sticky feeling. But there was more going on and it started to concern her.

And the man that was currently trying to start a fire in the fireplace knowing he might have to move Y/N closer to the fire. The second it started, Daryl rose to his feet rounding the couch and pushing it closer enough for her to feel it. But even then it didn’t work in its entirety.

“Gotta strip yea”

“W-Woah. B-Bu…Buy m-m-me dinner f-first” Y/N scoffs in a playful manner listening to the man groan before he went further into the house scavenging for anything and found a blanket he had to shake out before even thinking of wrapping Y/N in it.

Daryl set the blanket on the arm rest. “Strip. I won’t—-“

“N-Need h-he—help” She coughed slightly after and Daryl instinctively pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. She was starting to get warm and not in a good way.

“Fine but I need your—-“

“F-Fuck Daryl! I-I-It’s fine!” Y/N snapped gripping the back of the couch to get her to sit up as Daryl brought himself beside her helping her get out of the wet clothes.

Her clothes laid in a pile beside the couch as Daryl was about to straighten them out close to the fire to try and dry, Y/N pulled the blanket over her shoulders more but manage to trap Daryl by bringing herself into his lap. She couldn’t speak given once the clothes were off she was even colder. The blanket wasn’t going to instantly help and the archer had been inside for some time that the snow melted off of his person so that she could do what she was currently doing.

The archer froze when she climbed into his lap curling up against him taking in his warmth and tugging the blanket to cover every exposed bit on her person. He didn’t look at her, for a sense of privacy. Not that she cared. There was something else but now wasn’t the time. Daryl carefully wrapped his arms around her bringing her close and eventually shifting his body to lay down with her trapped between him and the couch.

“…please pull through” Daryl whispers hoping she would respond even if it’s intentions were for her not to hear. But given she hasn’t said anything in a minute, got him worrying again. “Y/N?” He shifted slightly going to check her pulse but just the smallest movement jostled her eyes to open with a glare before closing once more and hiding her face in the crook of his neck.

Y/N went in and out most of the night but her shivering stopped after a couple hours. She clung onto Daryl with a bruising grip taking in all the warmth he gave…he didn’t dare letting go for whatever reason afraid she freeze all over again.

But after being in that state for two days and her clothes dried eventually with the help of the fire…Daryl let go to help her redress keeping his focus on her actions as she fumbled trying to work the buttons of her flannel that he eventually helped her.

The archer wore his crossbow on his chest, the rabbits on his belt, and carried Y/N on his back still wrapped in the blanket on their way back to where the others were.

About halfway there, Rick and Glenn met them as they had come to a decision recently to go out and search for them once the blizzard passed…

“Is she okay?”

“She’s sick” You don’t survive freezing temperatures without a cold or flu to follow.

“Is she bit?” Glenn gestures to her ankle wrapped in bandages Daryl had.

“No, she fell. Fell once before falling into the river” Daryl states walking passed to make it to the house as the two who joined them kept an eye on their surroundings.

“You’re lucky we found some Tylenol on the run we went on when y’all went hunting” Rick states. “Should help with the fever”

“Hershel is gonna want to isolate her when we get back. Just in case—-“

“Don’t yea dare finish that, kid” Daryl snapped while pushing the door open with his foot as Rick took care of keeping it open for him to come through.

Out of instinct, Hershel rose to his feet gesturing to the other room to keep Y/N in even if it was the kitchen and Maggie laid a blanket on the floor before Daryl laid her down.

“Wish I had a thermometer to get an actual reading, but she definitely feels warm. I’m guessing you held up somewhere to try and warm her up to avoid hyperthermia” Hershel gave Daryl a look listening to him hum in response. “Well yea did good, son. Kept her from getting worse”

When she woke, Hershel got her to take some of the medicine they collected along with some water before leaving her to sleep once more. Daryl waited til the old man left the room before pushing the table in the doorway in case of emergencies. He sets his crossbow down against the wall kneeling beside her adjusting the blanket to cover her more watching her roll over to face him.

“Hey…”

“You can speak clearly now” Daryl jokes about the shivering stuttering mess she was before and that got a small laugh from her.

“Thanks for keeping me alive…” Y/N whispered shifting a bit to get comfortable on the floor as Daryl gently brushes away the hair in her face.

“Had to…I wanted to…I needed to” He whispered to her as he brought himself to sit on the floor keeping close to her watching her extend her hand from under the blanket to hold his.

Daryl stayed with her the entire time…the entire time.

[buggysangel17]

The Bride of A Warlord

Summary: You have arrived to what you now call your new home, it was scary and confusing, but at least you have someone else to keep you company. Characters: Dracule Mihawk x Wife!Female Reader (Amihan). Perona Word Count: 1,198 Chapter Warnings:  Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence (I am still in episode 20 of OP Anime so please bear with me on the fucked up timeline of events here)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist || Send Me An Ask?

You were consumed by a cocktail of fear and excitement.

But that was only natural to feel in your current predicament. Taken from your home due to circumstance that was no longer in your control. You turned to what you now call your husband. Dracule Mihawk was a man not to be trifled with, one of the Seven Warlords and dubbed the Greatest Swordsman in the world.

“I will have your room prepared as soon as possible.” Mihawk spoke, interrupting you from your train of thoughts.

All you could do was nod. You were taken from your own home, miles away from what you had once been so familiar with, a place that you had deemed had become your own prison. Any form of freedom you would take, even if it means being under the circumstantial marriage with one Warlord such as Mihawk.

“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, having no right to complain or react negatively for a short wait.

Even without looking at him, you’ve noticed his sharp yellow eyes glued fall to you. Turning to looking up at him, you noticed his narrowed eyes, a frown that was something you had gotten so used to rest on his lips.

“You will call me by my name, I do not agree to have you calling me of anything else while under you are under my care.”

You gulped, but nodded your head in agreement. This man, as handsome as he was, still scared you. Having caught firsthand the destruction his sword could make to your entire island should his will make it.

“You are not here as my prisoner, you can freely explore the castle should you wish to do so. All I ask is you not to leave unless you tell me or have me to accompany you, is that understood?”

“Yes—Mihawk.” You responded quickly.

As you step off the grandiose boat onto the rocky shore of Kuraigana Island, your heard races with anticipation and uncertainty. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and new adventure, but it’s the sight before you that leaves you breathless. Your new husband’s castle, looms high above, perched on a ragged cliff that seems to defy gravity.

The castle is a dark, imposing fortress, its jagged spires reaching towards the heavens like the fingers of a giant’s skeletal hands. The stone walls are as grey and foreboding as the thunderclouds that hover over the island. You can’t help but shudder at the stark contrast between the castle and the vibrant, tropical island that surrounds it.

Your arrival has not gone unnoticed. From the castle's towering parapets, you catch glimpses of shadowy figures watching your every move. As you start to climb the narrow, winding path that leads to the castle gates, your footsteps echo in the eerie silence.

The closer you get, the more details you can make out. The castle is adorned with intricate, Gothic architecture, with gargoyles leering down from the eaves. The windows are narrow and slit-like, like the eyes of a predator, and they seem to be keeping a watchful gaze on you. The walls are covered in ivy and moss, as if nature itself is trying to reclaim this imposing structure.

You can't help but feel a sense of unease as you approach the massive, iron-bound gates. The air feels heavy with centuries of history, and you can't shake the feeling that the castle holds secrets, both wondrous and sinister, within its ancient walls.

As the gates slowly creak open, revealing the cavernous darkness beyond, your heart pounds in your chest. You have entered a world unlike any you have ever known, a world of mystery and danger. And as you step across the threshold, you can't help but wonder what awaits you in this forbidding castle on Kuraigana Island.

As you step through the imposing gates of Mihawk's castle, your heart is still pounding with trepidation. The exterior of the castle had filled you with a sense of foreboding, but as you cross the threshold and enter the grand foyer, you are struck by a stark contrast.

The interior of the castle is a complete surprise. The space is bathed in warm, inviting light that spills from ornate chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. Elaborate tapestries hang on the walls, depicting scenes of epic battles and exotic landscapes. The polished marble floors beneath your feet reflect the glow of the many candles that line the corridor leading deeper into the castle.

Your husband, Mihawk, takes your hand and leads you forward, his expression unreadable. His grip is reassuring, grounding you in this unexpected change of atmosphere. You exchange a glance with him, and for a moment, you both share a silent understanding of the paradoxical nature of the castle.

The air inside is fragrant with the scent of fresh flowers, and the walls are adorned with vibrant paintings and delicate porcelain vases filled with blossoms.

As you explore the interior of the castle, you discover cozy sitting rooms with plush sofas and grand dining halls set with opulent feasts. The contrast between the grim exterior and the opulent interior is almost surreal, and you can't help but marvel at the transformation.

Mihawk guides you to a balcony overlooking a breathtaking garden bathed in moonlight. The sight of it takes your breath away, and you realize that the castle holds a world of beauty and wonder that you could not have imagined.

As you stand together on the balcony, surrounded by the enchanting sights and sounds of the castle, you can't help but feel a glimmer of hope and excitement for the future that awaits you here, in this magical, enigmatic place.

It wasn’t your home, no, far from it, but with this new found freedom, all you could think of right now is what the world could possibly be able to give you now.

“You have a guest along? That’s surprising from you.”

You tensed, immediately finding yourself stepping closer to the man you now call your husband. Turning to the owner of the voice, the sight of a pink-haired girl over a decade younger than you had floated towards your direction with what you think were ghost accompanying her.

“Not a guest.” Mihawk explained his gaze was on you, you tensed as his hand had rested on the small of your back. “My wife.” He introduce without much of a hesitation in his tone.

“Wife?!” The girl gaped and was immediately all over you, questioning you and your life decisions and how much of a sour sport Mihawk was to her especially as he had left her all alone in the castle.

“You have a daughter?” You inquired.

“No, just an unwelcomed guest.” He explained earning the offense of the girl that you now learned was named Perona. “But she will keep you company for the instance that I will be out for a while.”

You nodded turning your attention to the package that came with now living in the same home, in the same castle, and in the same Island as your new husband. It was a chaos that you were slowly but surely coming to enjoy as time goes by.

[cannibalisticskittles]

wingmanning - pt. 1

also on ao3 here :)

Lucanis has become accustomed to waking in odd positions in the months since Spite was forced into him, so finding himself half-crouched on the floor, thighs tensed like he’d been in the process of rising, isn’t much of a shock. 

What he is less accustomed to is regaining consciousness with another person present. 

Ward Ingellvar, called Rook by everyone around her and holder of his current contract, is currently peering down at him, worry etched between her brows.

“...Lucanis? Are you… back?”

Is he in control, or is Spite?

But Spite does not press at his mind, clamoring to wrest control away. Instead, he skulks about the edges of Lucanis’ consciousness, faintly grumbling – and yet, relatively quiet. 

“...yes.” For now. Which means he should get up and figure out what damage has been done while he was out.

Rook’s fingers twitch at her side, but she has the good grace not to offer him a hand up and worsen his embarrassment as he stands. She does, however, stare at him with that same look of worry. Intently. Lucanis takes a moment to assess his surroundings more thoroughly.

The last he recalls, he was writing notes, and now… well, at least Spite has not brought them far. He is still in the Lighthouse, not far from the pantry he has recently taken residence in; Spite’s escape attempt only brought them as far as the dining room.

The fire is out. The scent of wet woodsmoke hangs heavy in the air. There are potatoes scattered across the floor – as well as a few of the place settings that were formerly at home on the table. 

What exactly was Spite doing?

“What… happened?” he asks carefully. The words are spoken with great reluctance. It is… less than pleasant to have to rely on others to get answers for these missing moments.

“Spite… got into a few things,” Rook says. “Well. A lot of things. Tried to talk him out of the more, ah, dangerous ventures, but that wasn’t hugely effective, so then I tried to… distract him.”

“With – the potatoes?” 

Rook laughs, suddenly, then claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. You just sounded so – …sorry.” She clears her throat. “No, the potatoes are my fault, but it wasn’t intentional. I came in to take stock of how many we had; Harding wants to make stew. But when I went to check, it… drew his attention, I suppose? He came out of the pantry, startled me, I dropped them, they scattered everywhere… then he started to poke around the room.”

“Just in the room?”

“Mmhmm. He said something about leaving, or wanting to leave, but he didn’t seem to be actively trying to go anywhere. More… seeking new sensations?” She shrugs. “I imagine there’s a lot here that was not present… before.”

In the Ossuary, she means. 

It’s been mere days since stepping foot on solid ground, and in that time alone, the demon has witnessed far more than he ever did when they were trapped down in that accursed place. It should be more than enough to keep Spite occupied – but it is not. 

Spite has been incessant with his questions since getting out, pestering him about new sights, new concepts – and yet, between all this, Spite makes demands to leave no matter where Lucanis goes, and complaints of being trapped when he declines. It makes no sense. The demon has always been insistent when he wants something, and he does seem to struggle to understand much about this world that is different from his own, but how could walking free of their prison have made Spite more restless? 

Now, it’s like he rankles whenever Lucanis isn’t in motion. Even in the Ossuary, the grousing was less frequent. It’s enough to drive a man mad. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to it, nor does there seem to be any rhyme or reason to what Spite has been doing here.

But… he considers Rook’s words. Is that what it is? Curiosity? The desire for these new sensations? Mierda. If that’s true, he’s not sure the demon is ever going to be satisfied.

Lucanis spots a bent spoon amidst the fallen tubers, and a fork with its prongs bent back by the fireplace. “Spite’s handiwork, I assume?”

Rook nods. “Mmhmm. He did get ahold of a few more than that, though I’m not sure where they ended up.” She peers around the room as Lucanis sighs, then  adds, “it’s not so bad – there weren’t enough place settings when we got here, but the Fade spit more out, so I’m sure replacements will show up eventually. And while he was preoccupied with that, I was able to move the knives out of the way.”

“The knives?” 

Lucanis glances at the far corner of the kitchen, where he can detect a flicker of violet – a telltale sign that Spite is lurking nearby. The demon does not deign to chime in, though. His silence feels purposeful. 

…or perhaps he is simply bored and wandered off. Maker knows he did it often enough in the Ossuary, even if the wards in place kept him confined to their erstwhile cell. 

“Half the kitchen knives were laying on the countertop,” Rook says. “Felt like the sort of thing he should probably know his way around, but not without some… supervision. So. I moved ‘em. Set ‘em outside the doors, on the little balcony.”

Spite does pipe up now. “No fun,” he grumbles, then disappears from view, in the direction of the door.

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” Lucanis fires back.

He realizes too late that he has spoken aloud, when Rook stops in her tracks and shoots him a puzzled look. That’s a habit in need of breaking. 

“That… was for Spite,” he explains with a sigh. 

“Ah!” Understanding dawns in her eyes immediately. “Is he – still here?”

“He’s never far,” Lucanis says, “but I believe he has left us for the moment.”

Rook nods, but her eyes still drift in the general direction Lucanis was facing when he spoke to Spite. “I wonder how far he’s able to wander from you,” she murmurs. “And… does actual, physical distance have any bearing on how well you can communicate with each other? Are there sound waves moving through the air and it’s a matter of attuning to it, or is it entirely magical and facilitated by, or through, the Fade? Is there a way to become attuned to it?”

As she muses, Lucanis surveys the damage once more. It could be worse, all considered. Though the fact that Spite was able to take charge so soon – so easily – is… worrying. But there is little to be done about that now besides fixing the disorder the demon caused. He bends to pick up one of the wayward potatoes at his feet. 

This, at last, breaks Rook from her reverie. “Oh! Sorry, here, let me help.” And she begins to do just that. She takes to the task with fervor, scrabbling on her knees to scoop up nearby tubers and coax them out from the nooks and crannies they have rolled into. 

“Rook,” Lucanis says, “you don’t have to do that. It isn’t your mess to mend. It’s Spite’s fault – which means it’s mine to handle.”

But Rook is not to be deterred. 

“Oh, no,” she says. “There wouldn’t be a mess if not for me. Not this one, anyway; I suppose he might have still gotten to the silverware later on. Even so, this?” She waves a potato in the air demonstratively before, for some reason, tucking it into one of the many pockets adorning her coat. “This one’s my fault.”

“You were only preparing for dinner. There’s no fault there.”

But she grimaces. “Weeeell, if it was that simple, I might agree with you. However…” Another potato, another pocket to stash it in. “I… may have come to, ah, hide them.”

“To hide them,” he repeats. “Is that why you're keeping them in your coat?”

Rook pauses, shoots him a glance, then… tucks yet another potato into her coat. “Yes. Better here than within reach.”

“And why exactly is that?”

“Harding wanted to make stew.”

“Yes,” he says, “you’ve mentioned that.”

“Ah. Right. You weren’t here the last time this happened. Harding made potato stew once before, soon after we came to the Lighthouse, and it was… well…” 

She pauses for a moment, staring off into the middle distance as though beset by a terrible memory.

“The taste was… passable.” Yet the wrinkle around her nose and the way her lip curls slightly as she says that suggests otherwise. “But the texture… I don’t understand it. It’s like every mouthful, there was something different wrong with it. Crunchy, then mushy, then gritty, and sometimes even rubbery.”

“In a stew?”

Rook nods. 

Suddenly, a comment Bellara made the previous night about acquired tastes makes sense. 

“I don’t know if it’s a Ferelden thing, or if it’s because we’re in the Fade, or what,” she says. “When it was just her and Varric and me, we almost never had access to a kitchen, so I can’t say I really had a reference point for her cooking skills outside of the sort of things you could throw together on the go. But I know she could make a killer sandwich. I had so many of the Lace Specialty when we were tracking down Solas, and her yam and jam slam was perfect for traveling, too.”

“...yam and jam slam?” The words sound bafflingly foreign together. 

Rook nods. “Y’know, just… buttered toast, slices of roasted yam, and some butter in between. Keeps for a surprisingly long time.”

That… sounds heinous, but he lets it pass. He won’t bother asking about the Lace Specialty – it might be best to keep that one a mystery. 

“Whatever it is, though, when Harding said she wanted to make it again tonight, it seemed like it might be for the best if the main ingredient was to be… conveniently lost. But they were heavier than I expected, and I dropped the bag the first time I tried moving them, and then Spite came out, and I dropped it again and spilled them… so really, if I hadn’t been so uncharitable, maybe Spite wouldn’t have come to investigate in the first place. No noise, no mess.”

“Or,” Lucanis says, “perhaps Spite would have done more than bend a few spoons – he may have wandered off without any eyes on him.”

He is loath to admit the limitations of his ability to control the demon, but it does no good to ignore the potential threats it poses. 

“Mmm.” She considers this. “You may be right. Still, I say I’m at least half responsible for the mess,” she says, and resumes her efforts to tidy. 

Lucanis does the same. 

A few minutes pass in silence this way, filled only by the sound of quiet shuffling and tiny clang of silverware being scooped up.

Lucanis is the first to speak. He has done much for the sake of a contract in his life – much that was miserable, or injurious, or torturous, even – but the thought of rubbery stew will not leave his mind. That… cannot come to pass. 

“What did you plan to tell her?” he asks. 

“Hmm?”

“Harding,” he says. “When you went back to her empty-handed. Surely she would find that odd, knowing that there had been plenty here, before.”

“Honestly, I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Rook says. “Maybe that we misremembered what we had? Or the Fade did something to them? Or… I tripped and fell and lost them all in the abyss.”

“And… what did you plan to eat, then?”

“Had not thought that far either,” she admits. 

He makes a contemplative noise and picks up what seems to be the last of the ruined silverware. Unless, of course, Spite has stashed more elsewhere in the room. Lucanis wouldn’t put it past him. 

“You know,” he says, “I do know how to cook.”

“You do?”

Perhaps he ought to be offended by her tone, but amusement wins out. “I do,” he confirms. 

“The master assassin has kitchen skills?”

“The master assassin has to eat.” 

“I suppose so.” She cocks her head to the side and blinks owlishly at him. “Wait – are you saying you’d be willing to make dinner tonight instead? Really?”

“Seems a waste of perfectly good potatoes to hide them away,” he says. “That is, of course, if you do not mind a master assassin handling your food.”

Rook scoops up the last handful of potatoes at her feet and rises. “If you poison me with something edible, I’ll die happier than I’d live if I ate that stew again.” And then her expression reflects a sudden panic. “–not that I really think you’d do that!”

“It’s natural to worry about,” he says. They ought to consider the possibility, at least. He won’t be poisoning anyone today – but a little more caution on their part wouldn’t go amiss.

“But I really don’t think–” She cuts herself off before finishing. Instead, she worries her lower lip between her teeth, then asks, “are you sure you’re alright doing this for us?”

There is apprehension in her voice, in her expression, but he is unsure of the reason for it. “I would not offer if I did not mean it,” he assures her. 

“I only mean – we’re asking a lot of you, as it is. Killing… gods, or ancient mages, if that distinction means anything. That’s your contract, not… playing scullery maid or chef. We really should be providing for you, not the other way around.”

Ah. The fear of overstepping. That, he can do something about. 

“If I allow myself to be sickened by tainted food and am too weak to hold a dagger straight, my odds of fulfilling my contract become… low,” he says. “And I do not fail contracts.”

Rook nods slowly at that. “Point made. …you don’t think it would do any harm to tell Harding a little white lie, do you? Say that you were already making food when I came in – something with potatoes, so, alas, we’re fresh out, and dinner is taken care of for the night. You know a recipe that involves potatoes, right?”

A recipe?

“I'm sure I can think of something,” he says mildly.

“Excellent. And… maybe Harding will just forget about stew by the time we get more.” She rolls her shoulders. “…I suppose there’s no need to hold on to these, then.”

Rook crosses to the kitchen area and begins to set tuber after tuber on the countertops, first arranging the ones from her arms, and then pulling them from her coat pockets. Lucanis brings his armful over as well, placing them beside her pile until there is a nice, tidy row. 

“We’ve got sort of a hodgepodge of various ingredients,” she says, “and they’re a little… scattered.”

“I’ve noticed.” The pantry has plenty of root vegetables, but not nearly as many essentials beyond that, and while he may not have had much time to examine the areas of the Lighthouse besides his erstwhile living space, even a quick perusal of the cabinets did not turn up much more.

“Honestly,” she says, “it’s been difficult to keep track of what was here before we got here, what we brought in, and what’s just… appeared. Still! There ought to be enough to make… something other than that stew. Would you like some help?”

But as she asks this, another voice steals away his attention. 

“Smells. Like earth.”

Lucanis has the composure not to jolt or visibly startle when the demon speaks into his ear – but it does delay his response by a moment. What was it she said? She asked if he needed help? 

“There’s no need,” Lucanis says, “you’ve already done more than enough, straightening out Spite’s chaos. I shouldn’t require any further help.”

“I’m sure you’re quite capable in the kitchen and you don’t need help,” she says, “but would you accept some anyway? To speed it up, or to give you less to do? I can’t say I’m particularly practiced – I never spent all that long on a cooking rotation – but I also never had my rotation ended early after giving the whole hall food poisoning like some of the other Watchers did, so…”

Spite chooses now to hover around her, craning to peer over her shoulder, and then looks back at Lucanis. “Lucanis. Why?”

Lucanis does his best to ignore the demon and process her words.

Does she ask out of that fear of overstepping again? Not wanting to give him too many duties outside of his contract? Lingering distrust, despite her insistence on the contrary? Wanting to be sure he isn’t going to slip something in the food and poison them after all? Or is it simply a genuine desire to be helpful?

He’d like to think he would have a better read on that, normally – when there isn’t a demon speaking incessantly into his ear. 

“Different. From potatoes. Different. From the others. Lucanis.”

“...Lucanis?”

Rook, this time. Her brow is once again knit with something akin to worry. She has said something else, he realizes, that he did not catch, preoccupied with Spite as he was. 

“It’s… Spite,” he admits. “He is… curious again.” 

Rook tilts her head and narrows her eyes as though doing so will allow her to hear the demon. As though this is something to desire instead of something to endure. “What is he asking?”

But Lucanis shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Best not to indulge him, it will only encourage him to try this again.”

She frowns and opens her mouth as if to protest, then shuts it again. Which is just as well, because Spite continues to pester him, needling him with increasing agitation. 

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?” she asks, just as Spite growls, “Lucanis!” 

He needs —

A moment to himself. Some quiet. Rare though that may be.

Lucanis runs a hand through his hair as he gathers his thoughts. “…didn’t you say you were going to tell Harding her efforts were no longer needed?”

“Yes!” Rook clasps her hands together. “Right. I should let her know. Then she can rest of it longer, after all that rock magic she did today. Why don’t I do that and then I can come back and… peel? Stir? Scrub? Any of those tedious little tasks you don’t feel like doing, foist them onto me, yes?”

“Yes,” he agrees, though really, he has only ever been able to tolerate the presence of others in the kitchen with him in small doses, aside from those who had the kindness to teach him the basics in the first place – and Illario, though his cousin usually tested his patience before too long.

He shouldn’t refuse, though. What grounds does he have to turn her down?

Rook nods, and then she is off. 

When she is gone and Lucanis is as alone as he can be, these days, Spite redoubles his questioning. 

“Like dirt,” says the demon, “earth. But not like. Harding.”

“No,” Lucanis sighs. “Not like Harding.”

Harding smells like… loam. Fresh, healthy soil, flecked with green and growing things. Rook smells more like… old earth. Drier, dustier. 

“Why?”

“Why does it matter?” He cannot keep the exasperation from his voice any longer. 

“You notice. But won’t. Say why.”

He does notice. It’s an old habit, and one he intends to keep sharp. Things left unnoticed are things he cannot account for, and even a scent can be a warning sign of some danger lying in wait. 

“It isn’t important enough to interrupt,” he says. “Spite, I cannot focus when you’re speaking over someone. Others… notice.”

“But why? Why not. The same?” 

“It’s just different. There doesn’t have to be a reason.” Even if there is, it’s not one that the demon is likely to understand. What does he know of gardening, or catacombs? And he does not have the time required to give Spite an answer that would satisfy him.

“Is,” Spite grumbles. “But Lucanis. Never wants. To say. Why.”

Spite continues to voice his discontentment, but Lucanis turns his focus away from the demon and towards the task at hand, taking the opportunity to take stock of what’s in the cabinets.

It isn’t much. The shelves are in dire need of restocking. But… there’s olive oil. And several glass jars with the names of various spices written on them in what looks to be Bellara’s handwriting. 

Below, pots and pans of… sufficient size and quality, at least for now. Right. He can make something of this. 

He diverts, briefly, to the pantry, and returns with root vegetables, as well as a few onions. It won’t be the stew Harding envisioned, but there is enough for soup. 

As he sets these on the counter, besides the row of potatoes, he says, “Spite.”

Spite is entirely uninterested in his attempt at conversation, preferring instead to stare intently at the vegetables. He bends until his face is almost flush with the countertop, then reaches out and pokes at the pile, watching one of them wobble.

Lucanis isn’t sure if that actually does push it forward or if it’s simply unbalanced. Truly, he’s not certain how much influence Spite can exert on the world when he isn’t considering Lucanis’ body. There wasn’t much to test this on in the Ossuary; the venatori did have enough sense not to provide a practiced assassin with anything that could be used as a weapon. Which was, well, anything, when you’re a Crow. So the only thing Spite could consistently attempt to influence was… him.

If Spite is able to influence physical objects even when incorporeal... well. It’s something to watch out for. Another layer of danger to this whole situation. Even if Spite is only using this influence to poke around at root vegetables. 

“Spite,” he says again, firmer. 

The demon glances his way, which might be the most acknowledgment he’s going to get.

“You cannot – we cannot – be walking around whenever you want. And you cannot just… take over like that. My body isn’t yours to do as you wish with it, and – besides that, a demon in the midst of everyone, outside of the Fade, it scares people.” As it should. 

“Wasn’t. Outside it! And she. Already knows! About us!” Spite protests.

“Yes,” he says, “but losing control like that – not knowing where I am? – it’s… unprofessional.” 

Spite grumbles but makes no other reply. Lucanis opens the cabinets again and begins sorting through the jars of spices. 

“We – I – seem less… competent. Less trustworthy when this happens.”

Spite doesn’t even bother to grumble in response this time, only presses his face closer to the counter, watching how light filters through the glass jars. 

Lucanis sighs. His professional reputation has surely been marred enough by his absence; that he has been made an abomination and cannot seem to keep a tight enough leash on Spite for this fact to stay secret forever… well. It will not help that. The whispers back home may not have started yet, but it is only a matter of time, and all his past deeds, all the respect and good regard he once had earned, may crumble in the face of his new, permanent guest.

And he can’t even say this isn’t exactly what ought to happen. Who would trust a man – an abomination – who could lose himself at any moment to the capricious whims of a demon? Even here, now, amidst all their kind words, these excursions cannot foster encouragement about his ability to fulfill his contract. 

“What must they think…”

Spite pokes at a potato now.

“Rook thinks. You have. Nice hands.”

Lucanis pauses. He closes the cabinet to get a clearer look at Spite.

“…Spite,” he says quietly, voice carefully restrained, “how do you know that?”

Spite barely spares him a glance between examining root vegetables. “She said so!”

“Yes, but – why did she say so?”

A thousand different scenarios flash through his head. Rook said Spite bent silverware, chased potatoes, was interested in knives, but… what part of that could have inspired a comment like that? What else could Spite have done while Lucanis wasn’t in control?

Spite spares another glance at Lucanis, but seems faintly baffled by the question. “No. Fun.” 

That’s hardly an answer. 

“Spite.” Lucanis is terse, now. “What. Exactly. Did she say?”

“Careful, Spite. Don’t want to ruin. His nice. Hands.” Spite makes a face – with his face, which should feel stranger, but doesn’t, after so many months with only reflection of his own face gazing back at him as his only company. “And then!” the demon says, no longer mimicking, “she put. It. Out!”

“The knives?” Lucanis asks. 

“The fire!”

Spite’s expression – his expression – suggests this is an offense of the highest order. He practically pouts, jerking his chin towards the fireplace, which he now gazes balefully at. “Wouldn’t. Let me touch,” he complains. 

“…ah.” That… makes sense. The smell of wet wood, the decidedly damp logs in the fireplace… “Spite, fire is not to be touched.”

“Why. Not? Rook makes fire.”

“And Rook still doesn’t go sticking her hands in fireplaces. You shouldn’t, either.” He sets another jar on the counter, then adds, “or ovens. Or candles.”

Spite’s lips twist down. “Lucanis is no. Fun. Rook. Is no. Fun. Only want. To see! Not fair!”

“Touching is not seeing, Spite.” Lucanis can hear the sound of footsteps, faint but growing nearer. Rook is returning. “You’re welcome to watch and see all you like, now, but keep quiet. …I’ll see about relighting the fireplace if you can manage it.”

This, at least, elicits a positive response from the demon, and Spite is grinning as he says, “deal!”

It is a deal Spite is likely to break before long, but Lucanis will cherish the brief moments of silence he gets all the same. 

[heylittleriotact]

*banging pots and pans* Come get your angst! Delicious, heart wrenching Emmrook angst!

𝑀𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒷𝓊𝓃𝒹

adjective

1. near death

2.  stagnant; without force or vitality

One of us needs to consider my mortality.

Had he known what would happen hours later, he would have chosen very different words indeed.

It was a foolish assertion in hindsight - a weak argument and he knew it: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s.

A study of Emmrich's perspective after Rook goes missing: we get to bear witness to a scruffy, smelly, devastated man up to his neck in self-loathing, as well as the spirits that help him.

Contains heavy Act 3 spoilers - proceed at your own risk!

Full under the cut or on ao3

Day 0:

It was extremely unorthodox thinking - there was no evidence or theory supporting any circumstance where it might work: without a body on this side of the Veil to serve as a ballast, it was wishful thinking at best, but he had to try. Not trying meant accepting, and he refused to accept that she was gone - lost forever to the Dread Wolf’s prison. Not with their exchange from the night before being what it was…

That couldn’t be the end. 

He excused himself curtly from the others upon their arrival back at the Lighthouse, expertly sidestepping any inquiries after his own wellbeing that followed him doggedly until they were silenced by the laboratory door slamming shut behind him. Might he have come off as callous? Perhaps. Did he care? Not presently. The time for contrition would come later.

Questions lingered about the specifics of what had happened, but it was easy enough to infer by the fact that Solas walked free and Amina had seemingly vanished from existence, she had been made to take his place in the prison he’d been trapped in. Solas had been able to survive there in that pocket of the Fade, so that meant that Amina could too… for a time at least, if not indefinitely. 

He was going to get her out. 

But first…

He stood in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in, holding it… then slowly letting it go in a measured, disciplined exhalation that helped to slow his racing heart as he forced his body back into a state of calm: no mean feat when one comprehended the heaviness of the air as it pressed in around him, the tragic gravity of his task weighing on him.

He lifted his hands, felt the comforting susurrations of the Veil playing over, through, between his fingers as he trailed them through seemingly empty space: a lonely conductor at the podium, leading an invisible orchestra… the melancholy composer of a poignant dirge. 

Threads unravelled with the morose, introspective swell of a cello’s baleful hum, and the vast mystery of Beyond sang to him, a faceless, nebulous chorus of voices, ageless and legion. Some were joyful, others despondent, but they all maintained a pristine harmony that would cause even the most cruel and unfeeling of souls to take pause for the sheer perfection of their sound.

He swallowed away the tightness in his throat. Forced strength into his craven voice. Focused on the familiar verdant light that filtered through his eyelids. 

“Hear me, Amina - with my voice I am calling you!” He sent the words beyond the Veil, where no one may ever hear them again. “I set this beacon for you now: a beacon that will guide you home. Follow my voice. Follow me home: we are waiting for you…. I am waiting for you.” 

With a gesture of his hand that would look very complicated to anyone observing, he tethered the invisible line he had cast into the Fade to the only body in the room: his. Traditionally this particular spell was called upon to guide wayward spirits back to their hosts, or in rare cases, draw the spirit of a dying person back from the Fade before it was too late to resuscitate them. That anchor point in the world of the living was vital for the magic to work, but since Amina left behind no body, Emmrich could only live in hope that her spirit was as tightly bound to him as he suspected his was to her. 

It was likely folly: what affection could survive his cowardice? His preening ignorance? His vainglorious proclivity for driving something away as transcendentally pure as love itself?

But he had to try: at the very least she could live to despise him for the rest of her days. 

The green light faded as his hands stilled and the notes of the symphony resolved. Silence returned so harshly it physically hurt. He opened his eyes and clasped his hands together as he so often did. 

“I need you, dear…”

Perhaps she would hear that too. 

Day 2: 

He was awake well into the early morning hours communing with the dead, listening through the Veil for a whisper, a rumour - any rumblings amongst the spirits that would avail him of his darkest thoughts: even confirmation that she was alive would be enough. 

The spirits were indeed talkative, but not a single one seemed aware of the presence of a mortal woman in their realm.

He wept for the first time that morning as her absence in its totality hit him all at once - the first of many times that tears would be shed in the coming days as he curled around her scent-heavy pillow on the settee in her room. 

The couch which ordinarily felt rather cramped when they both shared it now seemed devastatingly wide and empty without her tangled up in him, giggling softly as she slotted her thigh between his and slipped a hand up the back of his shirt to shock him with the coldness of it against his skin.

Gone. She was gone, and it was entirely his doing…

Day 4:

It had taken precisely eight words to destroy everything, as Johanna’s remains were so eager to point out before he had her temporarily removed to a quiet alcove elsewhere in the Lighthouse. It was an astute observation, and he couldn’t find it within himself to offer a rebuttal to her further assessment that he was a ridiculous gloating twat with a truly awe-inspiring gift for cataclysmically fucking things up for every single poor soul that happened to cross paths with him.

One of us needs to consider my mortality. 

Had he known what would happen hours later, he would have chosen very different words indeed.

It was a foolish assertion in hindsight - a weak argument and he knew it: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s. If life was a sentence in a book, death was simply the appropriate punctuation that marked the end of it: without it, the sentence lost all of its weight and meaning. 

She always spoke so romantically about the inevitability of that final mystery - the peace and freedom from pain and fear that would come with it, and the comforting guarantee of an end in a world where one could seldom rely on the guarantee of anything: food, fortune… love. To her, it was part of a treasured natural order, responsible for everything from the stars in the sky to the worms in the dirt. She was enchanted by mortality… he loathed it.

He dragged his hands through his greasy hair, hunched over an old and fragile tome.A tear splashed on the page, and not wanting to damage the delicate paper even in this state, he wiped it away.

His eyes itched and felt swollen - he didn’t need to look in a mirror to know they were bloodshot from long hours of focusing on print, missed sleep, and periodic bouts of pain and regret that would descend upon him like some great, vicious bird of wrath. It ravaged him with its talons and plucked at his insides with its wicked beak, discarding his guts methodically as it rooted around inside of him for its favored meats: his liver and his kidneys - bloody and succulent. His heart was left untouched by the cruel raptor… it wanted him to feel everything, and he welcomed its agonizing ministrations as he toiled endlessly, trying to find a way to fix his mistake. 

It was his mistake after all. 

“It wasn’t your fault!” Neve had insisted the first time he dared to speak the truth aloud. 

A thoughtful sentiment, but worthless when held up to the light: he had instructed Amina to seize the dagger from Ghilan’nain’s corpse, and she obeyed without question because she trusted him implicitly.

He had been told after the collapse that the death of his parents wasn’t his fault either - as if that was of any real comfort to a traumatized child, newly orphaned and numb with grief. 

Of course it wasn’t his fault - even as a young boy he knew the catastrophic failure of the building wasn’t his doing, but people said ignorant things when they didn’t know what else to say. Things that took root in the heart of a young man, replacing his grief over the years with a solemn and defiant indignance: ‘it wasn’t your fault,’ ‘it was the Maker’s will,’ ‘they’re in a better place now,’ ‘at least they didn’t suffer…’

Why would the benevolent and loving Maker will that a small child should be made to grow up without the love and protection of his Mother and Father? What divine goodness was there in stripping him of that and forcing him to carry the burden of their fates for the rest of his life?

Did people really put any thought to the shallow platitudes they babbled to fill space and tidily rationalize that which is utterly and completely irrational? Or was it merely a performance to give the one who offered them some measure of absolution - a sense that they’ve done the ‘right’ and ‘helpful’ thing in such a circumstance, when in fact they’ve unknowingly heaped another layer of despair on top of an already smothering, lonely mound of it?

Dizzying, petulant questions he had pondered for years… bitter, angry little things that buzzed around his head like grave-flies: when one died, three more seemed to take its place. 

A small, dark part of him - a squirming, fanged thing with gnashing teeth and a tongue like a wooden switch had been sorely tempted to enlighten Neve to the futility of her words… perhaps subject her to what would come across as an overly curt and somewhat sardonic lecture on what one might instead choose to say to a bereaved person that wasn’t the verbal equivalent of spitting in a wound and rubbing salt in it. He might have made her cry, and he would have felt shameful for it later, but in the moment he would have taken what glee he could find in the seed of misery he planted in the world.

Instead he stuffed that wicked, bristling, fanged shade of himself away and reminded himself that Neve was grieving too… as were the rest of them. Not only was Rook gone, but Harding had bravely given her life to defeat Ghilan’nain. Bellara had been captured by the enemy, her fate unknown…

The Lighthouse had taken on the solemn stillness of a mourning parlor, and he should have been the most understanding and compassionate among them of their shared sorrow. He should have been helping them:  shepherding them ably through the tribulations and challenging waves of emotion they would grapple with over the days and weeks to come like he was solemnly sworn to do, but he couldn’t… not when his every thought was occupied by her and the sheer, unrelenting compulsion to right this wrong: he was responsible for her being caught in Solas’ trap - it fell to him to get her out. 

Her hips swayed with her familiar feminine gait as she strolled away from him in a memory, and her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a messy knot… she was breathtakingly radiant in the morning.

He never got to tell her that every morning he got to spend with her - disheveled, heavy-eyed, and often in a state of partial undress - was more precious than life itself to him. He never got to tell her how much he admired her maturity and well-organized mind, because the truth of it was that despite his enviable list of accomplishments and considerable years of experience, Amina possessed an enterprising bravery he knew could not be learned from a book. 

Before the day ended he called through the Veil to her again, and as it had each time, the echo of his words came back empty.

“Oh darling…” He said to the absolute silence of the laboratory. “I’m so sorry.” 

Just like Neve, he knew she’d tell him it wasn’t his fault.

Day 7: 

He had been immersed in the dagger: the act of shaping the raw shard of lyrium into something deliberate and precise. It hung in the air, rotating slowly as he manipulated the Veil around it, giving the material form and purpose. Solas’s dagger was the key to the prison, and he had reclaimed it when he freed himself. Rather than wasting valuable time trying to get it back, it had been communally decided that attempting to duplicate it would be a wiser course of action. Letting Amina go - abandoning her to her fate - was no more of an option for their companions than it was for Emmrich.

He had thrown himself into the work - it gave him purpose and an outlet for the despair that threatened to overwhelm him when his hands and mind stilled for too long.

It was momentum. A direction. 

“Pondering, planning, praying–”

Emmrich nearly leapt out of his skeleton - the shard of lyrium clattered to the workbench. He put out his hand to keep it from bouncing over the edge and shattering on the floor. 

“Never a man of faith - but what else is there to turn to when reason has fled? ‘Please keep her safe.’ Words whispered through a curtain of song: ‘Darling, come home.’”

He took a breath and turned around, finding himself face to face with a spectral woman with ragged, dirty hair and a tattered, stained gown. Her translucent, faintly glowing form was in an advanced state of decomposition: her tongue dangled morbidly from her mouth, attached by the smallest scrap of connective tissue. Her skin was mottled and discoloured and sagged tenuously from the outline of her skull. He could see all of her teeth - not due to a smile or a snarl, but because her lips had dehydrated and withered away.

A rather unusual form for a spirit of this variety to take, he decided. It was a blessing she decided to manifest here in the laboratory and not Taash’s room - she would have given them quite a fright. 

But was he truly so wretched that he had drawn Yearning to this place?

The spirit seemed to pick up on his moment of self-pity and it stiffened slightly, smoothing its decayed hands over the skirt of its ruined dress as it tossed what remained of its hair testily. 

“At least there exists one Watcher who can identify me correctly.” Her voice was an autumn breeze, sharp and stinging. 

He examined her closer, lifted a hand and felt her aura tingle against the bare skin of his palm. “Oh, my apologies,” he pulled the hand back and twined his fingers together in front of himself. “Devotion. I’m humbled by your presence given the circumstances. It couldn’t be that you’ve heard anything in the rippling currents of the Fade?”

“No.” The answer was abrupt but not unkind - the spirit did not dally with unnecessary semantics. “The Lost Watcher is hidden from all but the oldest and most sensitive of us, but she is a being of unique substance and did a great service and kindness unto me once - as she has done for many before me.”

Though the sting that came with confirmation that she was deeply, deeply hidden in the Fade hurt, he couldn’t help but be warmed with a sense of pride by the reminder that his Amina was a champion for spirits like Devotion and had spent her life aiding such beings… a fact that was clearly known amongst spiritkind. 

Glowing green eyes landed on the rough likeness of the dagger on the workbench. “I have heard of you, Professor Volkarin. The others whisper of you even in the deepest halls of the Necropolis as I soothe their loneliness and seek to mend that which has broken them. I would not have found them if not for her.”

He’d heard rumours months earlier of a spirit that had manifested in the deepest, most rarely travelled corridors of the Necropolis. Despite its lesser classification it allegedly sought out the maligned and tormented and cared for them stalwartly with a dedication that was nothing short of admirable. If Amina had been the one responsible for it manifesting in the Necropolis in the first place…

Another thing added to the ever-growing list of things he wanted to ask about - there were so many stories he wanted to hear… but he wanted to hear them from her.

“I will remain here with you, Corpse Whisperer while you toil to reunite with your beloved. I cannot do much, but I can keep the likes of Sorrow and Diffidence at bay, for they are drawn to your labours as I was. Work, Watcher… and I will keep you safe.” 

Day 11:

Was she even still alive? The thought burst into his mind unbidden, taking immediate precedence over the words he was half trying to read. Had she languished away by now, her mortal body incapable of sustaining itself in a prison designed for immortal gods? Beyond the need for obvious necessities like food and water, what horrors lurked in that place as retribution for the sins of the gods? Could she defend herself indefinitely? And if she had died, were those final moments peaceful: the welcoming of the sunset at the end of a long day? Or were they desperate seconds that stretched into eternity as she realized her impending and unavoidable demise, her entire being gripped with loneliness and terror as life slipped from her grasp like the finest grains of sand…

“No.” The assertion possessed defiance he didn’t think he was capable of. “I cannot think like that.”

She isn’t dead… she can’t be dead for the simple fact that there’s so much I have yet to say to her…

Denial, this was called, and it was a common coping mechanism amongst the bereaved. The mind was tremendously skilled at protecting itself during times of immense emotional and psychological strain. Comforting rationale would parse itself into a neatly packaged alternative that was easier to confront than the truth - a temporary neurological repair not meant to last forever, but rather allow one to withstand the immediate shock of a loss. But was he suffering the rigors of grief, or was he on the right path with his stubborn refusal to accept anything that didn’t result in Amina warm and safe and alive in his arms?

Did he even deserve her back after how he’d treated her? 

Devotion was a welcome companion and had been a tremendous balm to his soul with its presence alone, but as hours drained away and days seemingly raced past, it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the mounting odds that there may not be a favourable outcome to this problem. 

He heaved a sigh and straightened in his chair, his spine protesting at the sudden shift in positioning. He ran a hand pensively over his chin as he stared at the pages upon pages of notes, figures, and calculations before him, decently lengthy stubble rasping against his palm. He normally wouldn’t be caught dead with even a day’s growth shading his jaw, but these were extenuating circumstances indeed. That’s what he told himself at least - the truth was that he couldn’t bear to look himself in the mirror for the guilt he carried. 

He could have just ignored it - that persistent tightness in his chest that forecasted the all-encompassing terror that would consume him in short order, stampeding through his body and reducing him to a shivering, clammy skinned likeness of a man. He could have done the intelligent thing and kept it to himself instead of trying to appease it by feeding it more pain. But no. He was Emmrich Volkarin - a smart man; an overachiever; an academic and philosophical force of nature - he knew what was best for him in that moment… and what was best for her, because for all of her quaint cheerful talk about death over breakfast, she hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about, and honestly, that pointy, vile little part of himself that he kept shackled with clever repartee and gentlemanly manners wanted to break that naive innocence.

So he bit. He lashed out like one of the dirty, malnourished, terrified strays that scurried between the narrow gaps of the crumbling buildings in the part of the capital that he called home in his youth. His brittle fangs caught skin and drew blood as he called her age and maturity into question, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone hunted him down and put him out of his misery - too dangerous, you see: the world has no need for a creature prone to such violence, even if it was shaped by its circumstances…

Perhaps he belonged in that prison with the gods. Perhaps the Maker had seen fit to free his parents from him: if they were dead, they no longer had to deal with the burden of a third mouth to feed while earning enough gold to maybe sustain one. Perhaps death had been freedom and relief for Rupert and Elannora Volkarin, because there was something wrong with little Emmrich, and it was in everyone’s best interests that he was alone. Perhaps the Maker looked upon Amina with that same kindness and called her away too, not willing to subject this kind, lonely woman to the wrongness that was Emmrich, and his carefully crafted palisade of goodwill that could only temporarily conceal the utter rot that dwelled beyond it. 

He stared sullenly at the now room temperature bowl of roasted tomato soup Lucanis had brought him hours earlier. He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d eaten. Maybe a handful of the spicy peppermint candies that Amina was so taken with. Shortly after she started spending more and more time in the laboratory with him, she strutted through the door one day with a bowl full of them that she set on the mantelpiece, declaring that she was tired of going back and forth to her room to get more every time she fancied another. 

He was always telling her that she couldn’t live on mints and needed to eat properly and look after herself. He ought to take his own advice, but the very thought of food only made his already unsettled stomach turn on itself more. 

His eyes returned to the page as he tried and failed to summon the formidable academic concentration that had gotten him this far in life. 

It was so odd how the words on paper kept replacing themselves with the words he should have said to Amina that night instead of hurling insults at her.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…

He sniffled and rubbed his eyes again, wiping away tears with the heels of his hands. He was so tired of crying. He had cried so much already. Couldn’t he be finished with crying?

He knew if he asked her that question, she’d look at him with that serious but perceiving smile of hers… maybe run her hand soothingly down his arm and say, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, but I’ll keep you company if you’d like: shared sorrow is a halved burden.” 

Fade take him… what a fool he was…

“Professor?” 

Emmrich flinched at the unexpected greeting and looked up. Had Davrin been standing there long? His eyes flicked over to Devotion standing by the door only a few feet from Davrin - it seemed that she was invisible to everyone but himself.

“Davrin,” he put on what he knew to be a cheerful, amiable tone that might have been believable if not for the complete absence of vitality behind it. “What can I help you with?”

He’d spent so much of his life helping the living and the dead to avoid confronting his own horrors… the loss of his parents, his fear of death, the deep and persistent suspicion that he wasn’t worthy of love - why stop now? 

The warden considered him, his handsome face grim and somewhat drawn; that usual fiery spark gone from his warm eyes. Emmrich watched those eyes take note of the untouched tomato soup, then the tear tracks on his gaunt cheeks. “Assan is going stir-crazy, and honestly I think I am too. I thought I’d see if you and Manfred wanted to come for a walk with us. The fresh air and a change of scenery might do you some good… inspire some grand epiphany or whatever you want to call it.”

The mockery of a smile slid off of Emmrich’s face. Davrin surely meant well, but even the fact that he’d asked was yet another painful reminder that she was gone: Amina was the one that usually ventured out with them. “Oh. That’s… that’s very kind of you to offer, Davrin, but I simply haven’t a moment to spare. Every second that passes is precious, and I believe I’m nearing a breakthrough with the tuning of the metaphysical oscillations in the lyrium dagger… I dare not walk away now.” 

It was a blatant and terrible lie: the dagger was on the other side of the room on his workbench where it had sat untouched for two days. Despite this, Davrin seemed to possess the decency to pretend he bought the falsehood. 

“You’re always on her case about taking care of herself - maybe consider taking your own advice, Emmrich: you can’t find a way to bring her back if you’re dead.” 

There was truth in the warden’s words that echoed his own thoughts, but Emmrich struggled to feel inspired by them. 

If he had been the one to retrieve the dagger instead, he could be the one to die alone in the Fade, and she would still be here… safe. Broken hearted, surely, but she would have recovered in time…

He bid Davrin farewell and paced over to the workbench, sitting into his hip and wrinkling his nose slightly. He stared at the softly glowing twin of the dagger bound to Amina’s fate. It would not be arrogant to say that it was an impressive fake. He’d never handled the original personally, but he’d watched Amina fidget with it enough that he was confident that he hadn’t overlooked a single seemingly insignificant detail - he was willing to bet that it was identical right down to the weight. 

A shame that a pretty fake was all it would ever be. 

Their plan to duplicate Solas’ dagger had screeched to a gutting halt when it became clear that there existed no means to enchant the dagger such that it would function the same as the original - not without accessing the unique aural resonances of the Fade that remained a mystery to anyone who didn’t happen to be an ancient elf. His theory was that Solas and the evanuris’ connection to the Fade was fundamentally different on a physiological level than that of a modern mortal. Whether that was a byproduct of their spiritual origin, or the result of them manifesting physically millennia earlier, he couldn’t rightly say… all that mattered was that unless he found a way to transform himself into an ancient elf, the dagger would remain as useless as Neve’s platitudes... 

It was a petty, childish fantasy to stare at the dagger and imagine what it would look like buried up to the hilt in Solas’ eye socket, but when he could feel himself becoming overwhelmed with hopelessness and despair, it helped keep him going. 

Few could guess by looking at him, but he was a creature driven by quiet anger: injustices and wrongs, big and small, collected and deliberately curated; claimed with the same detached fascination one might feel when they spot an interesting stone on a riverbank and slip it into their pocket. 

As he amassed success and wealth and renown, he remembered those who had done wrong to himself and others, and he learned how to smile easily at them with warmth and kindness in his eyes as he shook their hands. He even learned to forgive some of them. 

But he never, ever forgot what they were capable of, and he never ever let himself be fooled into believing that they were good and decent people. 

This ire for a spirit was unusual for him, but impossible to let go of: had Solas known? Had he any idea what Amina meant to him? That she was a beloved person, and so much more than the piece on the chessboard that she was named for? Certainly as a spirit Solas would struggle with the seemingly static, immutable nature of people, but that hadn’t been enough to stop him from falling in love with the Inquisitor, had it? He was not so bound to his spiritual nature that the concept of love was beyond him. 

The fact that Solas was originally a spirit and Emmrich was sworn to protect his kind did not excuse him of the fact that he betrayed Amina… perhaps even killed her.

Her. Amina. Rook. The woman he’d known for such a short time, and whom he could no longer imagine life without. He needed her back - was that so hard for Wisdom to comprehend? Life without her was as much a shallow mockery as the dagger he’d crafted. 

He had waited so long for her - all but resigned himself to a life empty of the companionship and love that he craved with a desperation that had hollowed him out over the years, etching unwritten sonnets and love notes into his ribs until he was certain those words would die with him: an epitaph on the monument of his bones. He would take them to his grave where they would desiccate and become dust with him - imbibed and consumed slowly by uncaring, unfeeling time. 

He could have spent their last night together reading those words to her: letting her peel away his flesh and muscle so she could split open his chest and bear sacred witness to every secret hope and abandoned dream. He should have breathed them directly into her lungs between long, hungry kisses that would serve as his confession that the that his sacrosanct duty as a Mourn Watcher was little more than a facade now, for he no longer belonged to the living and the dead: he belonged to her, body and soul… with what life dwelled in his breast and what eternity his soul could endure. 

But he had done none of those things, and he could almost hear the Dread Wolf laughing at what his hesitation had cost him.

All he could do now was keep working… keep trying. Keep thinking. 

Day 15:

In his dream, he found himself in the vast center of nebulous nothing. There was no sky, no ground, no walls. Nothing with which to orientate himself - up, down - such things appeared not to exist here. 

The only other thing occupying it aside from himself was a faintly shimmering golden haze. It stretched into eternity in all directions. Endless. Incomprehensible.

He might have been gripped with terror at the idea of being alone in a place as strange as this, but he knew better than that: he was most certainly not alone. Of course he was terrified, but more awestruck than anything: if this was what he suspected it to be, this was a very, very rare encounter.

“To what do I owe this great honour?” He spoke into the golden eternity.

Two small suns burst into existence before him. They glowed with white hot fire, but radiated only a gentle warmth that permeated every cell of his being. Slowly the miniature stars rotated around each other, and a voice spoke that he perceived not with his ears, but with his soul, the agelessness and sheer power of it driving the breath from his lungs.

“One who has been drawn to this place many a time as I wander to and fro. Were you aware that it was once a refuge for the newly liberated?”

Its voice almost hurt - it felt like it was vibrating through him at such a frequency that it might rip him apart. Not its fault… it was a trait that likely came with being older than measurable time…

“I was aware,” he responded collegially. “It makes sense that such souls would attract Hope.” 

The orbs of light circled each other slowly… passed through one another in a smooth, hypnotizing motion.

“Verily,” it said. “It stood empty and still for a long time, but still I would visit now and again, if only to revisit the memory of that which dwelled here once.”

“And now?”

“A lone spirit called to me without knowing it. By the time I returned, it was gone. I found you in this place instead.”

The lone spirit it spoke of could only be Solas…

“It’s as plain as anything that you are most certainly not Wisdom. There’s a sort of… desperate imprudence about you that gives it away.” The suns stilled for a moment, shivered, and resumed their languid orbit. “So what are you?”

Did Hope just insult him? How unexpected…

“Only a man of little importance on a journey of great urgency.” He felt emboldened, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the spirit’s existence alone that made him feel such a way. “Perhaps you could be of assistance with the matter in question?”

The suns flared slightly, streaks of streaming colour sparking over its surface. His surroundings went slightly rigid, the auric mist prickling his skin. “You carry brittle echoes of death within your spirit. There is bone dust in your lungs. The scent of corpses lingers inside your nose though there are none nearby.”

Emmrich swallowed hard, but remained in place.

“You shepherd the living and the dead towards purpose and convalesce unsettled entities all while fearing your own demise. Despite this you willingly relinquished your only chance to live on in perpetuity - why?”

The immensity of Hope was overwhelming. The fact that a spirit of this magnitude existed was remarkable on its own - the fact that he was conversing with it… unimaginable. But it had asked him a question, and he knew that the manner of his answer was of utmost importance if he was to obtain the aid of this being.

“Because with her I am less afraid to face that fear. It may always hold sway in my heart, but with her beside me, I have hope that all of my days won’t be dark.”

The orbs of light rose and fell… trembled faintly as though excited…

“Fascinating,” it breathed and its air caressed him like a triumphant spring breeze, smelling of honeysuckle and luscious young grass. “I feel the pull of the one that you speak of: she is palpable.”

He was glad to know he and Hope were of the same mind in that respect. 

“The prison she is trapped in is designed specifically to keep me - and others like me - from penetrating its walls, but despair not - you are close to finding the one you seek: there is a ripple in the firmament that you may exploit - a fold in a place of significance to her… a crack.”

Emmrich’s stomach dropped - that could be almost anywhere, and even with a network of eluvians at their disposal…

“The beacon you have set for her is strong and although she cannot hear you, her spirit is joined with yours: look for her in the same place where the initial spark of curious infatuation between you quickened and became flame.”

He looked down at his hand slightly obscured by the actuality of Hope, and turned his mind to the puzzle: was there a single defining moment? Was it a culmination of weeks of stolen glances, shy smiles, and utterly fabricated excuses to find themselves in each other’s proximity once again - innocent and coincidental? 

Yes - there had been a lot of that: dancing around one another politely, both undeniably smitten but neither willing to set aside the consummate professionalism that their vocation burdened them with. 

It could have gone on forever. They might have passed like ships in the night for all their efforts if it weren’t for that one evening that seemed like so many other evenings until it wasn’t: a night of research and reading - both of them hunkered down in the library well past midnight when everyone else had retired. 

The comfortable silence that dwelled between the soft husk of a page being turned every now and then. The easy conversation that flowed between them as they discussed matters ephemeral. Their knees almost brushed more than a few times on that uncomfortable couch. Amina, smothered a yawn here and there; Emmrich glanced up at her every time. 

“What?” She’d ask, a confused little smirk on her divine lips.

“Nothing,” he’d answer. 

He suggested she get some rest: he could continue reading - it was more important that she slept. 

A defiant shrug and a polite refusal - but she did tuck her legs under herself and rest some of her weight against him - nothing familiar… just her shoulder against his. 

Shortly after, he asked for her take on Orlok’s Theory of Asomatous Transitory Regression, and he thought she was taking time to consider her response, but when she remained silent for far longer than he knew was typical for her, he chanced a look down to find her sleeping soundly, her head on his shoulder and her book still spread open on her knees. He thought to rouse her - send her to her room where she’d at least be able to stretch out properly, but something held him back and he found himself gently slipping the book from her hands and setting it aside. Felt himself readjusting his right arm slowly - carefully - so it was around her, and he could share his warmth with her in the drafty space. 

His heart had leapt into his throat, and apologies and placations lined up on his tongue a few minutes later when she made a soft noise from behind her curtain of hair and shifted, lifting her head enough so he could see slivers of green under heavy lids. 

His lungs ceased working.

But instead of lurching away from him, blushing furiously and stammering her own stream of awkward, rushed excuses, Amina just blinked… once… twice… smiled groggily… shuffled down the couch some, rested her head on his thigh and fell back asleep, her hand on his knee.

He read until the morning - the same book three times cover to cover, in fact - because he didn’t dare move her - didn’t dare be responsible for ending that moment because whatever he had glimpsed in her sleep-filled eyes when she looked at him was a kind of magic he had never seen before. 

Everything about it felt like home.

Even when he plucked up the courage to softly capture a strand of raven hair between his trembling fingers… even as he guided it away from her face as she slumbered, even as his touch lingered and he stroked down the silken length of it, his heart thundered. 

That was it. That was when everything had changed for him - and for her. 

“The library,” he croaked, throat tight. “It was in the library. I– I need to go. I need to go there now!” Tears filled his eyes as hope flooded him for the first time in days. A broken laugh burst from his lips and he clutched at his hair, aware that he looked like a madman. “Thank you!” He wept. 

The orbs flickered again - rather like twinkling eyes - and then blinked out of existence. 

“Live well, creature, and of all things that you may choose to abandon in the days to come, may hope be the last of them.” 

He woke on the too-large settee to the cool green light of an aquarium that made no sense. He scrambled to his feet, flipped his hair out of his face, and bolted for the door.

Muffled voices… all familiar - one in particular. His voice. 

Then his shape - his outline - a shape she would know anywhere. 

A hand - a beautiful, soul-shatteringly, heart-achingly artful hand that was capable of healing and holding… destroying, creating, and calming; teasing and caressing - and everything else in between. 

She heard herself sob as she seized that hand with her own and felt muscles and tendons reflexively tense in surprise for a fleeting instant before slender fingers clenched around her wrist in an unexpectedly bruising grip that wrung a clipped scream from her. Her feet left the ground as she was dragged into the bright light, and she was falling forward, up, down, and in directions that didn’t exist all at once. 

Then something solid. Something warm and firm. The feeling of well-worn wool and meticulously cared for linen against her face… a familiar scent, though it was more rustic than usual…

The excruciating pain in her wrist persisted as her eyes struggled to adjust and she looked up. She blinked… once… twice…

“Emmrich?” 

He had a decent start on a beard for one - that was new - and his hair was messier and dirtier than she’d ever seen it. The dark circles under his eyes were a particularly haunting shade of aubergine, and his sclera were dull and bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He looked terrible…

“Where’s Varric?” She demanded hotly, panic rising in her chest as she tried to step back so she could get a better look at him - he wouldn’t let her, and she already knew the answer to her futile question. The grip on her wrist tightened and so did her throat as her mind raced to try to comprehend the situation. The grief she felt in Solas’ prison at the revelation of Varric’s death was rapidly being replaced with incandescent rage directed at the Dread Wolf: she was going to destroy him - spirit or not, he had gone too far… “Emmrich!” She yanked her wrist free and let out a cry of surprise as he toppled forward into her arms, a disheveled, weeping mess that took them to the ground. She managed to keep them both upright and Emmrich caged her in an embrace that took her breath away.

“I’m sorry, darling - I love you - I’m s-so very sorry…” He half-sobbed into her ear as he stroked her hair. His voice was so ragged... She felt tears splashing against her, wet and abundant, and her own joined them: confusion and anger and joy converged on her in a baffling wave - she couldn’t house all of this. And Emmrich…

How long have I been gone?

She managed to pull far enough away from him so she could cup his scruffy jaw in her hands and meet his gaze - his haunted, hollow gaze. 

“It’s all right now,” she soothed, summoning up enough calm for both of them - she was beyond furious, but he was despondent, and like any experienced Watcher she knew she needed to meet him on his level - manage herself for the time being. 

She softly traced her thumb down the familiar plane of his cheek and he leaned into her touch, his hand covering hers. “I love you too… I’m here and I’m safe, and I’m–” her voice trembled and broke. “Oh Emmrich… I’m sorry too.” If what she was beginning to suspect was true - if she had been lost to that place of regret for much longer than a few hours - it meant that Emmrich had been sitting on that argument for days at least, judging by the looks of him - her promise that they would talk about it at home a dangling thread that would remain forever untied if she never returned… 

She pressed her lips to his and he sighed into her, some of the tension finally leaving him. “You found me…” she murmured against his skin. “You got me out. Of course you did.” Her arms tightened around him and she kissed him properly - deeply. 

“I couldn’t live with myself knowing the state I had left things in.” He rested his forehead against hers and twirled a strand of her hair around a finger as they sat on the floor, both aware of their audience of companions - both utterly unconcerned about their presence. “Will you forgive me?” 

“If you’ll forgive me,” she offered: she carried her own regrets about that argument… though evidently not as long as he had.

His mouth curved into a smile for the first time and he chuckled weakly. “There is nothing to forgive, my dearest Amina.” His eyes continued to sweep over her as he took her in, mapping every line and angle of her, committing it to memory as if it would ensure she could never be taken from him again. 

“You really love me, huh?” 

“I have for some time, and I’m afraid that rather than embracing that fact with the deference owed to it, I acted like a cowardly fool. If I had only–”

She silenced him with another kiss, his mouth opening as her tongue brushed the seam of his lips. Her fingers stroked through the coarse, straight hair that covered his jaw and she realized with a jolt somewhere around her midsection that she rather liked it. She made a mental note to discuss the future of the beard with him later on, but for now…

“No academic theories right now, Professor…” she whispered. She was exhausted and overwhelmed. She needed to take a minute and just… come to terms with everything. With Varric, Harding, and Bellara; with how long she’d been gone… what the hell she was going to do next. What she was going to do to Solas when she got her violent, creative little Reaper hands on him… 

“Humour an old man,” he smirked tiredley. 

“I’ll consider humouring him in the bath.” 

“You’re no basket of roses either, dear.” 

“Regret bringing me back yet?”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss to the back of it, his eyes locked on hers - as red and puffy as they were, the love that dwelled within them was unmistakable, and Amina knew they would never be parted in this life again. 

“Never.” 

[shadowdarlings]

Blood Will Rain II

Azriel x Reader

Synopsis : After emerging victorious in the war with Hybern, you are learning to be a part of a family again. Your recovery after being captive is slow, but a certain shadowsinger makes it his responsibility to see that you get well again.

part one

Pairings : AzrielxReader , ReaderxInnerCircle!Platonic , ReaderxRhysand!Siblings

A/N : part two of idk. if you’d like to be tagged in any other series updates please comment!

Warnings : slight angst, mentions of captivity, az being sweetie pie hehe

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It had been weeks since you and your family had returned to the Night Court. After half a millennia you were thrilled to be back in the city of starlight. Velaris, your home, finally. You had taken up a semi-permanent residence in the House of Wind alongside Cassian and Azriel. Although the elation of returning woke something that had been long asleep within you, the scars of your captivity rang throughout your very bones. Rhysand made a habit of coming to check on you frequently. Sometimes under the guise of wanting to meet with his general or shadowsinger, but it was all to see you. You noted his efforts and appreciated his call to be your older brother, but you did not know how to be a sister anymore. You did not know how to be a friend. These titles had been forgotten, the only thing you knew how to do was be prisoner. You often caught yourself falling into old habits that had been developed during the 500 years you were Hybern’s pet. The chambers in which he kept you at the grey stone palace had changed throughout the years. The first 200 you spent confined to a small dungeon with little light or air. After much beguiling the King saw fit to move you into a room similar to what their servants were housed in. It was nothing compared to the space and lavishness of your quarters in the House.

This did not stop you from remaining mostly confined to that room. It was rare that you strode the halls or explored the libraries or training ring. Interactions with the rest of your brother’s court were kept short and polite. You did not want them to see that you now felt stranger to them, this world. Although you had grown up with the three Illyrian males they had become something you did not recognize. They too had gone through extensive changes during these years. Rhysand had become High Lord. Cassian a commanding General to the Night Court’s armies. Azriel had become something completely different than what you knew before. He was the same in some regards, still reserved and watchful, but his presence held a more powerful purpose than it did during those years in Illyria. These people were your family, yes, but they were also strangers. The Archeron sisters were also completely foreign to you. Feyre visited as Rhys did and made efforts to give you any comfort you requested. The other two sisters you hardly spoke to or saw at all. Strangers. They were all strangers. Except that this was their House, their family. There was a sickening realization that it was not them but you who was the stranger. So you kept to yourself, to your abominably large quarters, and to the small tasks you gave yourself each day.

You were up before dawn as you practiced each morning. The power that the Cauldron had bestowed on you was something that needed an outlet. These last hours of night were perfect, you would not disturb anyone as you released waves of magic. The stars winked at you from the lightening sky as you levitated each item in your room several inches then gently placed them back down. It was simple magic, not anything that could be used productively, but it was something to quell the ocean inside. One floor above you felt movement coming from Cassian’s rooms. The General was often awake early but typically not for at least another hour. The shock of it was enough that your bed landed with a dull thud instead of silent ease. Panic struck through you and it was an effort to control your breaths. “Relax,” you said to yourself, “he is not your enemy.” The footsteps and noises that came from the two Illyrians often sent your survival instincts into hyperdrive until you reminded yourself that they were not the guards. You were not prisoner. You were home. Loosing a calm breath you considered. His steps were no longer solitary but accompanied by a lighter pair, and they were making their way down to your floor. Then seconds later a soft knock sounded on the large wooden door to your sitting room just outside your sleeping quarters. You shouldered on the floor length robe that hung on your bedpost and pulled your midnight hair back from your face. Padding over gently you opened the door slightly to reveal a towering Azriel waiting to greet you.

“There’s breakfast,” he offered observing your entire figure. He seemed to note the thin sheen of sweat that adorned your forehead from your morning magic. He did not comment, but raised his palm slightly in invitation. “Let me change into something more appropriate and I’ll be ready,” you said assessing him in a similar manner. The shadowsinger was not in his usual Illyrian leathers, but instead he donned casual black pants and a loose fitting long black shirt. The swirls of ink on his chest peeking just above the neckline. Whispers of autumn were upon the northern territory, a slight chill had claimed the mornings while the sun still heated the afternoons. He bowed slightly, “Of course,” was all he said before you shut the door and turned to get yourself ready. The outfits you’d worn at the House had all been casual. Rhys did not deem it fit for you to take up any sort of fighting anytime soon, and you were inclined to agree with him. “Recovery,” is what he had said, “that is all I want you to focus on. If you need anything at all please let any one of us know.” You smiled slightly at the thought while pulling on a lightweight sweater that matched your violet eyes and a pair of black leggings accompanied by woolen socks. It had been longer than you could remember since such kindness had been extended to you. It was so foreign, but you welcomed it nonetheless. After tying your hair into a loose bun at the nape of your neck you strode to the double doors that entered the hallway. Upon opening them you were surprised to see Azriel still standing there waiting for you.

“You didn’t have to wait,” you said, willing the slight blush that threatened to climb up your cheeks to dissipate. “I know,” was all he said before gesturing towards the hall that led to the dining room. The two of you took the short walk in silence. Whether Azriel knew the silence was born by feeling like a stranger he did not let on, but silence with him felt different than with the others. With the rest of your family you were always searching for something to say, something to fill the emptiness that gave away your alienation from them. With Azriel the quiet did not seem so desperate. Perhaps it was just the nature of a shadowsinger, you thought.

The two of you entered into the grand dining room and the silence was broken by Cassian’s bellowing laughter and Mor’s palm thwacking against his bicep. Surely you did not want to know the words they had exchanged before your arrival. Rhysand and Feyre swooped into the main room not a second later, the two of them giving knowing glances as they strode in and joined the rabble. You were happy for your brother, and it was then you made a mental note to try and get to know his new mate better. When you halted a few feet from the group, Azriel stopped with you. Rhysand turned his attention from Feyre and his eyes landed on you and the towering Illyrian standing just to your side. “Good morning, Y/N. Good morning, Az,” he purred. Cassian and Mor paused their bickering to gaze over to you both as well. The sets of eyes that all laid upon you now had you toying with the sleeve of your sweater, but you simply replied “Good morning, everyone.” Feyre approached and wrapped her slender arms around your shoulders. “I hope you slept well,” she said pulling back after her short embrace. You nodded and plastered a cheery smile on your face. This was your family. They love you. “Good,” Rhysand stated, “because we have a long day ahead of us.” At your confused look Azriel leaned down to say gently “We’re going to celebrate your birthday.”

Taglist : @annamariereads16 @lilah-asteria @sidthedollface2 @todaywasafairytale07 @doodlebugg16-blog

[bg3daydream]

Together (Post-DATV Solavellan fanfiction)

Solas x Female Inquisitor Lavellan Fanfiction.

Summary: Lavellan takes care of Solas once they leave, finally together, after the last battle. Hurt/Comfort and Fluff. 2300 words. Please be mindful of Spoilers if you haven't finished the game.

Lavellan looked around once more, equal parts mesmerized and confused. She didn’t know what she’d expected when Solas took them into the Fade, or where she had thought they were going.

Considering how both Solas’ and Rook’s prisons of regrets seemed to have been, and her own unwilling ventures into the Fade, she’d braced herself for the outcome, and sure, she’d caught brief glimpses of darkness and ruin, but that was nothing like the room she was now in.

It was odd, it shouldn’t make sense, a room like that shouldn’t exist, but there it was, somehow making sense, a room that seemed to combine the places her heart had once called home. Her aravel, back when she lived and traveled with her clan, her room at Skyhold and Solas’ rotunda.

Those shouldn’t go together, they should clash, not combine, the construction made no sense, and if Lavellan stared at it too hard, it’d begin looking too odd, but she wasn’t going to. She supposed it was a thing of the Fade, how it took things from you, changing from people to people, and combined it in strange ways, much like dreams did.

She’d have followed Solas almost everywhere, but she wouldn’t lie to herself saying that she hadn’t been worried about what that somewhere might be. She might not have as heavy of a weight of regrets over her shoulders as Solas did, but she knew too well her own mistakes, and she was relieved she didn’t have to dwell on them.

She’d been confident, or at least had tried to be, that, no matter where they went, it wouldn't be that horrible if Solas and she were together. It seemed that, thankfully, she’d been right, and the Fade’d decided to be kinder.

Lavellan tore her attention away from the impossible, changing room, and focused on the beaten man with her.

Solas had seemed taken aback by their location too, looking at the room in wonder, but he was now looking at the ground, seeming defeated and almost cowering on himself, and he hadn’t said a single word. Lavellan was used to her tall, proud, confident Solas, and seeing him like that killed her.

Still, she tried to put on her best face as she approached him. She’d do everything she could to make him feel better.

“So…it seems we’re home.” She reached to take his hands and Solas let her but he still wouldn’t look at her.

Solas shook his head almost imperceptibly at her words. “I shouldn’t have dragged you here.” 

As many times before, his words seemed at odds with his actions, saying that while he held to her hand almost desperately, like he was afraid she might just disappear and leave him there, alone.

“Here looks pretty homey,” Lavellan tried to sound nonchalant, as if she wasn’t in the Fade, somewhere, just a bad step away from perhaps falling into a nightmarish Fade-pit of regret, still unsure if she could leave the Fade at will or not, or how everything worked.

Solas shook his head again. “You know what I mean.”

She did, he too wondered if he’d trapped her in a Fade-shaped prison, but she was not going to let him rethink his actions of taking her with him and add a new regret. Besides, she’d gone willingly, she was the one who had followed.

“You didn’t drag me, I wanted to go with you,” she assured him, “and we’re going to be okay.”

Solas looked at her with sad, liquid eyes, and Lavellan’s heart squeezed painfully. She tugged him closer so she could hold him and Solas folded into her, leaning his forehead against hers, and she could almost feel the weight of his sorrow.

“Thank you.” Solas’ voice was a choked whisper and Lavellan held him to her in silence, caressing the back of his head.

She’d have stayed like that for as long as Solas wished, and she herself wanted nothing more than to bask in his embrace now that they were together, but he was hurt and exhausted, and if he wasn’t going to tend to himself properly, then she would.  When she tried to move, though, Solas held to her tighter as if afraid of letting her go.

Lavellan pulled back so she could look at his face and give him a soft smile, reaching to caress his cheek with her knuckles, mindful of his bruises, and Solas leaned into her touch.

“I’m no expert, but I think one should rinse archdemon’s blood from their mouth.” She tried to sound lighthearted, even though she was worried Solas might get sick, but she tried not to think it much.

Solas nodded, and he finally let go of her to approach a stone sink that was in the corner of the big room, and that Lavellan thought wasn’t there before but she tried not to question it. She’d heard Rook and her team talking about their base, the Lighthouse, their rooms there, that kept appearing out of nowhere, how there was a kitchen with a dinning-hall, how it seemed to have been Solas’ home at some point, and they also seemed to think he’d made it.

Lavellan wanted to ask him about it, and she wanted to know how the Fade worked and the making of things in it, but that could wait until he’d rested and healed, and processed everything that had happened.

No sooner had Solas rinsed the archdemon’s blood, Lavellan was already pulling him closer to kiss him properly. His arms wrapped around her instantly, almost as if by instinct, as he kissed her back deeply, holding her like he was melting into her, and Lavellan could cry, she’d missed this…

Solas’d always made her forget about everything around them when they kissed, but a small, painted groan against her lips when she held him a bit too tight, reminded her that he was still hurt.

Lavellan pulled back and gently unwrapped his arms from around her but held to his hands. “You’re still bleeding, vhenan,” she told him softly. “Let me help.”

She walked him to the bed in the middle of the room, which looked comfier than Lavellan had expected from the Fade, and that reminded her of her Skyhold bed but with a dalish quilt. She pushed Solas gently so he’d sit down on it.

“See,” she began softly, trying to give him a reassuring smile. “Homey.”

Solas gave her a small smile, but his eyes were still pools of sadness. “Because of you. It’s only like this because of you.”

Lavellan wasn’t sure if he was right or not, and to what extent, but she’d decided not to question whatever good things the Fade decided to provide for them. Without a word, she leaned to kiss his forehead before she pulled back and headed to the stone sink.

There was a basin on the wooden cabinet next to the sink, along with a small towel and a clean cloth, and Lavellan tried again not to question how or why, if those things were there before or if the Fade had conjured them itself because she’d wanted them…and she was far too tired to wonder about maybe having conjured them herself.

She filled the basin with water and brought it to the bed, along with the towel and cloth, and left it all on the mattress, next to Solas, careful not to spill any of the water. 

Lavellan dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung the excess water, and began to carefully wash the blood and dirt from Solas’ face and head, mindful of his cuts, open wounds, and bruises. 

Solas let her do it in silence, allowing her to tilt and move his head as she pleased while she cleaned him. His eyes were closed, and a small sigh escaped his lips as he leaned into her touch, as if he were enjoying it. It warmed her heart.

Once his head was clean enough, Lavellan changed the towel from the cloth, and she carefully dabbed and cleaned the cuts over his face and head. She hated to hurt him and she flinched whenever she made him hiss in pain, but she knew it had to be done, and she soothed him with quiet, soft words.

The cut that ran from his forehead to his cheek, across his eye, was the worst, but at least it didn’t seem to have damaged the eye. Lavellan was inspecting it, caressing the bruised skin next to it softly, when she noticed Solas' eyes wetting with unshed tears She pulled her hand away, afraid she was hurting him.

“Did I hurt you?”

Solas shook his head, reaching to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close until he could bury his face under her chest. Lavellan noted his shoulders shaking as if he were crying, and she wrapped an arm around him, holding him tight to her, while her hand reached to caress his head.

“Vhenan…” She whispered, trying to comfort him, but she supposed that, after everything that had happened, crying was not a bad thing and a welcomed release. It still hurt her to see Solas like that.

“I am sorry.” Solas' sob was muffled against her shirt.

Lavellan knew he was, but she also knew that, even if it might be enough for her, it wouldn’t be so for everyone. She also knew he shouldn’t be the only one to be sorry. She was sure Solas’d fix what he’d wronged, he was set on it, starting now with the blight and the Titans driven mad, and she was sure too that she’d be there by his side to help him.

“You’ll make it better,” she tried to reassure him. “And I’ll help you, if you let me.”

“Thank you.” His voice was almost inaudible, muffled as he held her tighter to him.

Lavellan said nothing else and Solas held to her for a moment longer, but eventually he pulled back so he could look at her, but keeping his arms around her. 

His eyes were wet but he was smiling softly at her, the sight making Lavellan realize she’d do pretty much anything to see him smile like that everyday, and he was looking at her in that way that’d always made her heart flutter, like she was precious to him.

Solas leaned up to kiss her lips and Lavellan kissed him back, moving even closer to him, but when she placed a hand on his side, pulling him to her, he grunted again.

Lavellan pulled back. She’d seen him strangled, choked, and thrown around by the vines and the archdemon as the Dread Wolf, enough to make her fear she’d found him just to lose him again, this time forever. He must be hurt and she wanted to check how bad.

She began to unbuckle the straps of his armor and Solas let her, helping her with the stubborn ones that, until she could remove his armor, leaving him in his undershirt, and she lifted that too so she could check for injuries.

There was a big bruise on his side along with some smaller bruising and more cuts across his body, but all in all, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been after such a fight, even though the big bruise worried her.

“Vhenan, I am okay,” Solas told her as her concerned eyes roamed over his injuries.

“If you said so…” Lavellan sighed. There wasn’t much she could do anyway. 

She wondered if she could make the Fade be kind enough to provide them with a bathtub and hot water, somehow, so she could just get Solas inside until his wounds and cuts were cleaned properly and his muscles had relaxed. 

That could wait, though, right then, Solas looked exhausted and he needed to rest, but when she told him so, he shook his head, pulling away.

“The blight, I-”

Lavellan stopped whatever he was going to say with a finger to his lips. Solas blinked at her at that, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a small smirk, and he moved his head to kiss her hand.

“We'll work on that but not now. You said you linked the veil strength to your own and right now it’s looking like a light breeze coming from that window could knock you both out,” she told him, and Solas let out a weak snort but gave her a nod. “I’m tired too so let’s get some sleep.”

Solas nodded again, and he reached to untie the cloth wrapped around her waist as a belt, taking it off her. Then, he helped her remove the rest of her clothes until she was wearing only her undershirt.

Lavellan lied down on the bed, getting comfortable on the pillow and reaching out a hand for Solas as he beckoned him close. Solas took her hand but didn’t move close. Instead, he just looked at her in that way again, like she was precious, while a soft smile illuminated his face, and Lavellan felt as if her heart were squeezing and also growing in size at the same time.

It didn’t matter what someone else might think, she knew Solas loved her, and she loved him too, deeply, fiercely, as she’d always done.

Solas moved to hover over her, leaning down to kiss her lips again, before lying down with her, his head pillowed on her chest. Lavellan reached to pull the quilt over them and then she wrapped her arm protectively around him, holding him to her with a content sigh, while Solas snuggled even closer.

Lavellan knew there was much to do, much to research, fix, and fight, and there was much Solas and her had to talk about, but all that could wait, even for a moment. For now, all she wanted to was to lie there, Solas in her arms, basking in the feeling. The world could wait just a little bit longer.

*

I needed to give them fluff.

If you liked it, please let me know in a comment, and as always, reblogs are more than welcome.

I also have some other Solavellan fics linked in my tumblr if you want to check them, Inquisition based.

Excuse my English, it’s not my first language.