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targaryen-dynasty · 6 months ago

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WORSHIP ME INSTEAD.

Maegor Targaryen x Niece!Septa!Reader

The Gods have been unhappy with your uncle for some time now, but perhaps he's just needed to give them an offering… a sacrifice in return for a healthy heir all along. And what makes a better sacrifice than a septa?

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT - MDNI; very dubious consent, canon typical incest/targcest (uncle/niece), blasphemy, corruption, corruption kink, size difference, semi public sex, female reader (mentions long, silver hair as appearance)

WORDS: 3K

NOTES: you're all getting some big tiddy daddy as a special treat and to officially end my 3k celebration! thanks to everyone that has participated by asking questions, by writing their own fics, and by just supporting me. also a special thanks to @zaldritzosrose and @arcielee for betaing this. <3

The atmosphere in the newly completed Red Keep is strange. It never was comfortable or calm, not even when your father sat the throne, but it feels as though a dark veil is hanging low over the castle and its staff, not even sparing the king and your uncle, Maegor Targaryen.

You’ve been gone from court for quite a while, being sent to Oldtown to become a septa by the very hands of the man you’re serving now, which has made the change in atmosphere even more apparent to you.

Several deaths haunt the castle — Ceryse Hightower’s being the most recent one — and you can only fathom the pressure your uncle holds on his shoulders at this very moment. He does not have an heir, one wife after the other perishes, and the boy that poses the biggest threat to his claim to the throne, your brother Jaehaerys, has fled the castle of Dragonstone with your mother after the passing of the Dowager Queen Visenya.

You were not mad at being sent to the Starry Sept, for it allowed you to leave the insanity of your own House for an unknown amount of time. It was when you’d been called back to King’s Landing that you could feel your mood sour. You were brought there with no real task for you at hand which forced you to take over some duties Grand Maester Benifer assigned you with.

Your whole day has been spent in the Keep’s library, making you forgo your hood at one point and therefore allowing your silver tresses to cascade down your back freely. Wearing the hood is no necessity, hence your lack of concern should someone walk into the library and catch you without it.

With several books in hand, you sort some of the scrolls and books that had been brought to the royal chambers before, putting them back to where they belong.

You are too engrossed in your task to notice that you’ve been alone for the longest of time, only aware of that other presence the moment the raspy voice fills the room. “Septa,” he almost says it in a mocking manner, and you immediately know who it is that has joined you.

Turning on your heels, you crane your neck to meet your uncle’s eyes for a moment. “Y-Your Grace.” You dip into a slight curtsy, placing the books in an empty place on the shelf.

Heat warms your cheeks in his presence. Even during your childhood, you have always found a liking for your uncle and enjoyed the way he allowed you to leave the boredom of your princessly duties to take you flying on Balerion or let you watch him train with the sword.

“At ease, Septa,” he replies, flicking his hand as if he means to dismiss your stiff posture. The library is not well lit, a few candles sparsely placed here and there granting for most of the light, and yet you still notice the way his eyes rove over your form slowly and deliberately. “I trust that all is well in the Keep?”

Your heart races in your chest underneath his gaze, as if he contemplates eating you, and it makes you swallow thickly. “Oh, yes, of course. Everything is well, Your Grace,” you say, trying to keep your voice as calm and polite as possible, though you can not help but feel your pulse quickening at the hunger in his eyes.

His lips curve into a smile, clearly taking pleasure in the way you’re squirming beneath his gaze. “And your duties? All going smoothly?” He takes a step towards you, looming over your small frame.

You have to bite the inside of your cheeks to keep your composure, more so as his pleasant scent fills your nostrils in a way you can’t describe. Taking in a shaky breath, a shiver runs down your spine. It’s been easier being close to him when you were all but a child he’s bounced on his knee, not a woman grown.

“Well enough,” you reply a beat later. “The new midwives are coming along wonderfully. The Queen can know herself in good hands should she be with child soon.”

Maegor just hums in response, reaching out a hand to drag his knuckles over your cheek, his calloused fingers rough against your soft skin. Even from this little contact he can feel how warm your flesh is, and a heat grows in his loins at the thought of how warm and sensitive your skin would be if it was no longer covered by your septa robes.

“That is good then… Septa ,” he says, hesitating to use your title. His voice has dropped lower as his hand travels to your jaw, his thumb caressing your chin.

Your eyes widen, but you don’t dare to step away from him for fear of the consequences. “... Your Grace?” You eventually find the courage to whisper.

His fingers graze your jaw, gently tracing your features. A low hum rumbles in the depth of his chest. You don’t know that he’s always found you beautiful, much more than your younger sister Rhaena, and even more now that you’ve become a woman grown. You’re so unlike the women he usually entertains himself with. “Yes, Septa?” With these words leaving his lips, his hand travels down to your neck, gently wrapping around your throat, grasp firmly but not enough to hurt you.

Drawing in a deep breath, that is the moment you decide to bring some space between you again, taking a step back. But much to your surprise, his grip does not falter, hand still around your throat with his arm just outstretched. “I–” you swallow thickly, not able to keep your gazes locked. “This… This is highly inappropriate, Your Grace.”

Maegor merely scoffs, and although his hand follows your movements, it’s clear it’s meant to stop you from getting away from him. His thumb gently runs along the sensitive skin of your throat, feeling your pulse quicken beneath the pad of it. “Inappropriate?” he murmurs, his dark blown eyes drinking in the sight of your slightly parted lips. “When have I ever cared for what was appropriate, Septa?”

It feels as though the gentle brush of his thumb coaxes another shiver to run down your spine, and you catch your mind straying to the thoughts of what it would feel like if his fingers were anywhere else but your neck.

“Must… Must I remind His Grace that it was him sending me to Oldtown to become a septa? I–I have vowed–” you trail off, your voice shaking slightly. “It is not very proper for a septa to be touched in… this way.”

Moving forward again and closing the gap that has formed, his hand around your throat stops you from backing away. “It’s not proper, no…” he murmurs, leaning forwards to bring his lips on level with your ear. “But then again, I’ve never been a proper man.”

You suppress an involuntary gasp as you feel his hot breath fanning over your skin, enough to nearly melt you here and now. Perhaps his grip leaves you more as a willing prisoner to his mercy rather than his prey. A part of you wants to pull away, yet the other part is afraid of angering him by doing so.

“Y–Your Grace…” you whisper, the sound of your voice almost breathless as his domineering presence makes it difficult to think straight, “... please.”

The wicked smirk on his lips grows wider at your pleading. He can feel himself getting lost in your voice, so soft yet sounding so helpless in his presence. If it hasn’t been obvious before, he takes immense pleasure in the way he towers over your frame, making you appear so small and fragile clad in your septa robes.

“Please what, niece ?” he says, leaning in even more to brush his lips against the shell of your ear.

You try to tilt your head to get away from him, squirming in his grasp, but to no avail. “Īlon kessa daor,” you try to reason with him in the tongue of your ancestors, a small flicker of hope that this brings some sort of clarity back to him. We should not.

But Maegor just chuckles lowly, the grip around your throat tightening slightly. Your breathing is uneven, shaky even, with your body pressed against his, and he relishes in the feeling of your vulnerability. “Kostilus īlon kessa daor,” he replies, a dangerous lilt in his tone. “Yn gaoman sīr jorrāelagon raqagon ra nyke kessa daor.” Perhaps we should not. But I do so love to indulge in things I shouldn’t.

Before you can answer, you’re spun around by him, the movement unusually fluid and graceful, as if he’s done it plenty of times before. Your back presses against his sturdy chest, pinning you between him and the bookshelf with no way to escape. The hand from your throat rests on your waist instead, the fabric of your robe pinched between his fingers.

“That’s much better, is it not?” he teases in a murmur.

The vow of chastity you’ve sworn plays over and over again in your mind, but does little to stop your knees from growing weak at the proximity.

“This is not a good idea… uncle ,” you protest quietly. It’s completely out of place for you to address him as such, he is the king and you’re a mere septa that has set aside her last name, but neither the Mother Above nor the Maiden can stop him from getting under your skin.

“Perhaps, but where is the fun in a good idea, huh?”

You’re a septa, and you’re supposed to be a pious and celibate woman, but at this moment all you can think of is how good it feels to have him this close to you, so very close to giving you more – something you’ve craved for a long time.

Both your hands are captured by his paw, pinning them behind your back and making you unable to move. While his lips explore the side of your neck, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses, his other hand rucks up the skirt of your robe, bunching it around your waist. It’s pinched by the fingers of his other hand, held high and allowing him to pay more attention to your undergarments.

If you weren’t so distracted by the coarse hairs of his beard scratching the sensitive skin of your neck with each kiss he pressed to it, you would have attempted to squeeze your thighs together, making it more difficult for him to tug down your smallclothes. But alas, your mind and body are too far gone from all the summers you have spent untouched and unsatisfied, addicted to the rush his touch sends through your body.

He is hard and heavy behind you, the outline of his thick cock pressing against the curve of your arse. You're too desperate for something you have only imagined at night, making you arch your back as though you mean to make him hurry up. You can feel him fumble with the laces of his breeches, undoing them one by one.

“We’ll just have to be good at not getting caught,” he rasps against your neck. The robe you wear offers almost no liberty to push it down to reveal more of your soft skin and the curve where your neck meets your shoulder to him, and so he has to make do with your neck alone.

Your uncle is met with little resistance as he sheaths his hard cock inside of your warm cunt, filling you up at once. Not even the sharp pain of his teeth sinking into the skin at the curve of your neck grants you enough distraction from the stinging that comes with accommodating his size, your cunt struggling to take him completely.

“By the Seven,” you whimper, your hands clenching to fists in his grasp while your walls flutter around him.

Your soft whimpers are enough to drive him further into his need for you already, and the gentle rolls of his hips make your knees slacken, caught by him bringing his free hand to your chin to pull your body against his. “There is no need for the Gods here, my sweet Septa,” Maegor rasps into your ear, emphasizing his words with a particularly harsh thrust of his hips that makes you choke on a whine. “You may worship me instead.”

His grip on your chin forces you to tilt your head back and arch your back against him to hold up with the slowly increasing pace of his thrusts, and your teeth digging into your bottom lip is a fruitless attempt of yours to stifle a moan coaxed past them by that.

The sound of your moans and whimpers sparks something in him, prompting him to growl against your skin. It tightens the grip he has on your chin to the point it becomes borderline painful with how much he has tilted it back.

“Don’t hold back,” he grunts, resting his forehead against the crown of your head. “Let me hear you, sweetling.”

Although your mouth is agape, no more sounds than breathy whimpers and whines leave your lips, despite the reckless pounding of him. But when another moan manages to escape your chest, it strains your throat to the point you have to cough once.

Sensing your discomfort, he eases the grip just slightly, shifting it to your throat and allowing your head to tip forward again. You’re desperate to fill your lungs with air, yet each breath is knocked out of them by the merciless snaps of his hips.

“That’s it,” he groans, nudging your legs further apart with his foot. “The Gods have been unhappy with me for some time now, but perhaps I’ve just needed to give them an offering… a sacrifice.” He’s just rambling into your hair at this point, and your mind is too hazy to really process anything he says.

You’ve been so inexperienced and have spent so much time completely untouched that even the slapping of his heavy sac of stones against your pearl brings you a pleasure beyond imagination.

He towers over you, your small frame completely hidden by his significantly taller one. It’s such an easy game for him to keep you where he wants, to use you however he pleases, and at this point you’d let him do whatever he desires with you for as long as you get to relive the sensations you feel over and over again.

Your peak washes over you in an ambush, the pleasure all but soaring through your veins. But his assault on your cunt doesn’t stop, and when the urge overcomes you to squeeze your thighs together, it doesn’t seize.

“Perhaps the Gods haven’t been giving me a healthy heir because they need me to fill you up,” he growls as if he’s been waiting for this since the moment he’d sent you to Oldtown, his voice raspy and thick with need. “Perhaps the Seven will bless me with a son if my seed quickens within you.”

His words nearly send you to your knees if it wasn’t for his muscular arm wrapped around your frame. A renewed wave of your arousal oozes out of your cunt at the thoughts of you carrying his child, yet it also makes you shudder, a feeling of guilt lingering in the pit of your belly. “By… By the Gods… T-The Seven would not–” you protest weakly, your voice a little more than a gasp. But even to your own ears your protest sounds more like a pleading than denial.

Pulling you even closer against him, Maegor nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing the exposed flesh of your shoulder gently. “My little Septa,” he murmurs, the nickname almost sounding like an insult and a taunt. “You say we can not, yet you press yourself against me… are you so desperate for my cock?”

That is the moment you lose any resemblance of restraint you’ve held before, your mind becoming blank, his merciless pounding, and words forcing every thought right out of your brain. You whine a string of incoherent words, rambling one ‘yes’ after the other.

It’s as if he’s just as desperate, because you can feel his thrusts becoming more and more erratic, a sign that lets you know he is about to topple over the edge. With a few more thrusts, he forces his thick cock into you, until a strained groan heralds his peak. His twitching cock spills his seed deep inside of your quivering cunt, and you squeeze him ever so tightly in response, all but milking him for every drop.

He squeezes your flesh and trails both his hands over your body, mapping out the curves hiding beneath the robe. His thrusts grow leisurely, the feeling of pure bliss subsiding rather quickly for him.

Shame and guilt for what just has happened overcomes you, growing stronger the moment he pulls out and you feel the remnants of his spend idly trickle down your thighs.

You don’t dare pull around. You don’t want to meet his gaze, to see the smugness and satisfaction written over his features at having convinced you to give in to him.

“I suppose I have kept you away from your duties for long enough,” he says, his voice dripping with irony. “You’re a septa, and I believe you have some more duties to tend to.”

Nodding weakly in agreement, you can’t shake off the feelings of being exposed and vulnerable under his piercing gaze. It takes a moment for your brain to function again, the fog of need and pleasure only slowly clearing from your mind.

“You’re right, Your Grace,” you say, voice weak and shaky. “I should… I should get going…” Dipping your head in a nod, you’re quick to scurry off, hastily looking around on your way out of the library in hope of no one having seen you in your moment of indiscretion.

Maegor Taglist: @hypocritic-trash-baby @k4marina @foxyanon @peachysunrize @nats-whore

@palmer-hjp @sinarainbows @luvdella

General Taglist: @arcielee @userhotd @multyfangirl @zaldritzosrose @black-dread

@wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @thought--bubble @dixie-elocin @beautbuck

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bookmaker-untaken · 7 months ago

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your husband stays getting on your last nerve

Hayato Suo x Reader // Wind Breaker x My Happy Marriage AU

Summary: The first tranquil image of this man was highly misleading. Suo Hayato's calm facade hides a cheeky devil that loves to tease, and unfortunately - you are the perfect (blushing) target.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Making Out, OOC!Suo, Probably (Look, I Tried), Non-Graphic Torture, Implied/Reference Abuse

Word Count: 4,106

The man before you is the most beautiful you've ever seen.

He's leaning his cheek on his fist, a scroll rolled out over his lap. Cherry blossoms fly around the courtyard in a colorful tornado, some crossing the threshold and dotting the bright wood.

The wind rises to ruffle his brown hair.

"Hello," He croons. "Might you be my new wife?"

Your mouth feels dry. Everything - your fist, your jaw - is clenched tightly. "I- uh, yes."

His smile is polite, close - lipped, and his one eye is closed as well.

You can't read his face and it disquiets you.

"Lovely to meet you," He says. "I am Suo Hayato."

ii.

The first tranquil image of this man was highly misleading.

Suo Hayato's calm facade hides a cheeky devil that loves to tease, and unfortunately - you are the perfect (blushing) target.

You try to avoid them as much as you can, but it's not always enough.

Suo stares at you across the breakfast table. He's always watching, observing.

It freaks you out, warms your cheeks. "What."

He leans his chin on his palm. "You're cute."

"Huh!" You almost choke. How can he say such a thing so nonchalantly!?

The smile never leaves his face. "I just think your cute. I'm happy to have such a cute little wife,"

You are not little, or cute, but what comes out instead is, "I'm not your wife."

"Yet," He hums. "But you will be. And I, for one, am looking forward to it."

You cough. "Sure."

At least the maid, Yurie, does not share her young master's penchant for teasing. You were worried at first, not that you'd tell anybody, that she would dislike you as the maids at your house had.

To be wrong was a startling relief.

iii.

You have a few dreamless nights before the nightmares return.

In your dreams there are no monsters - only your mother and her mother, pelting you with subtle insults and ignoring your pleas.

You awaken in the middle of the night, eyes wet.

Unable to sleep, you start to make your way to the kitchen.

Across the courtyard, in an open door, sits Suo beside a kettle of tea.

His eye is closed and he seems tranquil, enjoying the cool night breeze on his face.

You retreat.

You will not allow him to see such weakness.

iv.

"I was asked to attend a banquet by my superior," Suo says. “I'd like you to come."

"Alright," You say, despite the very idea making your sick. Your mind flickers with candlelit dinners and thinly veiled insults.

“We should go shopping," Suo continues. "Your kimonos are from last season, aren't they?"

"I ... suppose," You shift awkwardly and hope he doesn't notice. Shopping, too, is an incredibly sore spot for you.

"Wonderful! It's a date!"

"D-date!" You jerk to attention. "It's not a date!"

"Why not?" Suo says, pout in his voice. "The two of us are going to do something fun together, aren't we?"

"It's just shopping! That's more like - a mission! Yes, a mission."

Suo seems to think for a second. "No, I like date better."

You scoff in disbelief.

The town is bustling, full of throngs of people moving to and fro like a rushing lake, some harking their wears, some enjoying the nice weather.

You stay close to Suo, careful not to get lost.

So close, you walk into his back when he stops.

"Hayato!" The person at the counter cheers. "And who is this?"

"My wife," Suo says easily.

"H-his fiancée!" You stutter.

"Same thing," He says. "This is Tsubaki. Their family has made kimonos for the Suos for generations, though I do prefer Tsubaki's unique patterns and eye for design."

Something about being preemptively called a Suo makes you cheeks warm despite yourself.

"What a flatter, am I right?" Tsubaki grins at you. "At your service!"

You give a polite nod. "Nice to meet you."

Fabric brushes against your shoulder and you turn to a kimono - a very expensive kimono, more expensive than anything you've owned - being held up beside you. "Hmm. No."

"Do you have any sort of patterns or colors you like?" Tsubaki asks. You realize too late that the question is directed to you.

You take your eyes from Suo to stare at them blankly. "Um?" Normally, your used to being told exactly what to wear, dressed up like a little doll at the mercy of others. "Surprise me?"

"Sure!" Tsubaki disappears further into the store.

Suo stands beside you, far too close. "Your in good hands. Tsubaki has excellent taste," You can feel the heat of his breath and lean away slightly on instinct. “I'm sure they'll find something amazing.”

"Okay," You say, trying to keep any hint of nervousness out of your voice.

“Though," He says, near the tips of your warming ears. "I'm sure you'll look wonderful either way."

You arch away from him. "Sure!"

Your thankful when Tsubaki comes around the corner. "What about this one? Would you like to try it on?"

You glance to Suo. "You can do whatever you wish," He says. "We'll probably end up buying a few, anyway."

You follow Tsubaki to the fitting room.

"Would you mind ... waiting outside, please?"

Tsubaki looks slightly confused. "Are you sure? It might be hard to get into some of them alone."

"I ... please."

"Of course."

In the mirror, you seem distorted. You're vaguely aware that you've seemingly gained some wight, a consequence of them feeding you well at the Suo household - but a potential target nonetheless. Your stretch marks ripple across your skin, shining lightly in the sunlight that sneaks though the top windows of the shop.

"It looks nice on you." Suo looks up when you walk out. "Do you like it?"

You pause. Do you? You don't know. "I -"

"You hesitated."

You slump, but go back into the fitting room.

Again you emerge, bashfully asking, "How about this one?"

"How about it?" Suo asks, seemingly fishing for an answer.

"No!" calls Tsubaki from the front of the store. "Not it!"

You return with the final kimono of the stack, padding your way out of the fitting room.

Suo's eye widens a fraction and he swallows.

You instinctively sink into yourself at the intensity of his gaze.

"Now we're getting somewhere!" Tsubaki says, bouncing over and turning you around. Looking between the two of you, they say, "Hey, this kimono is the same color as your eyes, Hayato!"

You look down, meeting the slightly hooded eye of your fiancée.

Tsubaki's right.

"What do you think ... Suo?"

Suo's eyes flicker up, then down once more. For not the first time, you wish he was easier to read. "We're taking that one home Tsubaki.”

vi.

You try on a few more Kimonos before waving goodbye to Tsubaki.

The sun has risen higher and the streets seem even more crowded, if that where even possible.

Suo takes your hand.

His hand engulfs your own - unnaturally cold, fingers long.

You stop in your tracks with a sound like a record scratching.

"I don't want to lose you, dear," He says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world.

"You don't need to hold my hand, though!"

"Of course I do." He says.

The two of you continue, stopping at one of the small stalls for a snack.

It drips down your hand and your eyebrows furrow as you debate licking it up. You feel Suo's eye on you. It would be unladylike.

Suo chuckles at your hesitation. "I'll go get napkins from the stall."

You nod, taking another bite of your food.

For a moment, you feel something... calm.

"Hello there, pretty lady."

The man looms over you, casting a long shadow.

"You seem to be enjoying that treat. How’s about we go into that alleyway and I give you another?"

"I-I'm waiting for my fiancée - " You force out tightly.

He looks down. “I don’t see a ring on that finger. Maybe if I got a closer look?"

He moves to grab your hand and you yank it away, but he's faster.

"Excuse me?" It's Suo's voice - but it's different.The teasing is still there, but his voice is lower. Colder. A dark growl. "Would you kindly unhand my wife?”

"S-suo- " Falls out of your mouth, and you hate how pitiful you sound.

The man turns his head, but you can’t see beyond his large stature. “That’s your man? Why not hang with a real man instead of pretty boy over there?”

Your throat constricts.

And then the man crumples, holding his arm and screaming. Spikes of ice, swirling with snowflakes, split his arm.

"Were my instructions unclear? I told you to get your hands off of my wife."

The man turns to Suo, panting. He starts to run at him, but Suo simply sidesteps the man, flipping him onto his back.

“Are you hurt?" He walks over to you and you shrink away on instinct. His lips quirk in a thin line.

"N-no."

He holds out a hand. "Can I see?"

Reluctantly, you extend your arm. He takes it gingerly, eye darkening at the blooming bruise.

"I'm alright," You find yourself saying, more for him than for you.

He sighs. "If I had been even a moment later, you might not have been."

"But you came."

Suo doesn't respond, eye swirling with unidentifiable emotions. He releases his gentle hold on your arm. "Let's go home."

When he takes your hand again, you don't argue.

vii.

You let out a sharp exhale of pain and bring your finger to your mouth, the salty taste blooming on your tongue.

You feel stupid standing in the Suo estate kitchen in an inappropriately fancy kimono over a boiling pot of water.

You'd never cooked alone before, so you didn't exactly know why you'd thought you should try it now. You could hear the low hiss of voices in your head, and you squeezed your eyes shut before opening them determined.

You would pay him back for his kindness.

You went to retrieve another bandage, returning to continue your clunky cuts.

The result was ... very ugly.

You were not going to serve this to Suo. Knowing him, he'd probably tease you for it. The voices were getting louder.

You weren't fit to be a wife -

"Hmm? And what might you be doing?"

You jerk. "Suo! I - " Your eyes dart around. You'd lost track of time, and now he was already home before you could disregard the evidence. The familiar heat warmed your cheeks.

"Could it be?" He moves smoothly into the kitchen, eye closed and smile curling. "My darling wife has made something for me?"

"No!" You squeak, heat crawling up to your ears. "Y-your mistaken! I was just tasting something - "

"Oh? Well, I'd like a taste, too. As you can imagine, I'm properly famished after a hard day's work."

You open your mouth to refute it but can't.

"...Go sit." You grumble.

"Hmm?" He leans forward slightly, and your chest pounds.

"Go sit!" You snap.

You concentrate on plating his food and setting it in front of him, before moving back. Your blush-darkened fingers hold on to the tray for dear life.

He raises the spoon to his mouth in a delicate, measured moment, chewing slowly. You want to scream.

"Delicious!" He says, grinning, taking another bite. "You did this by yourself?"

You don't meet his eyes. "Yeah. Yurie is busy enough," I don't want to be a burden, you don’t say.

"It's kind of funny looking - " He says, smile unchanging.

" - Why you - "

"But it's really good!"

"It's no big deal," You say, avoiding his eyes.

"Oh, yeah?" He says, eyes falling to your hands. You immediately try to hide them in the sleeves of your kimono. "I'm grateful to have such a loving wife."

"Just eat." You grumble.

viii.

The night of the bequest arrives faster than you'd anticipated.

You arrive stiff, but begin to loosen up when the plum wine begins to flow and your fiancée's fellow soldiers - Haruka and Akihiko - begin to regale you with tales of your husbands great skill and fortitude.

You commiserate with Haruka about how teasing he is, and Akihiko how mysterious.

"He is rather mysterious," You agree, laughing along.

During the night you feel a hand sneak it's way around your waist, you look up at Suo with a quirked eyebrow.

He doesn't smell drunk and he doesn't move his hand.

You blush all the way down to your fingertips.

"Alright," Suo says eventually. "It's time for me to take my darling wife home."

He leaves relatively quickly, tugging you by the wrist.

"Suo?" Your brows furrow. "Is something wrong? Suo?"

He doesn't answer. This increases your worry. What had you done wrong?

"... Suo?" He turns around then, stepping forward and caging you against the wall.

"You seem to be enjoying discussing how "teasing" and "mysterious" I am with my colleagues."

There's a different quality in his voice that you can’t read again, different still from that day in the market.

He is smiling, though.

"B-but you are!" You squawk in your defense, eyes darting around and quickly realizing you have nowhere to run.

"I'd tell you if you only asked,"

"Would you really?" You look up at him with something akin to hope.

His eyes dart down, and he looks as he's contemplating something. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. "Yes."

"So - so - " You stutter when he gets closer. "Are you ... mad with me?"

His eyes dart to meet yours once more. "Mad with you?"

"It's just that we left so suddenly, and I didn't mean to embarrass you, if I did - "

Suo's lips claim yours and you freeze. They move hotly against yours and you struggle to keep up with the slow dance he's leading. All you can think to do is hold your shaking grasp on his kimono under his army uniform as he grasps you tightly by the waist and seems to try to eat you alive.

He runs his tongue along the seam of your lips, but you don't respond.

"Open," He murmurs, without breaking the kiss.

"Huh? Why - " But he's upon you again, tongue exploring your mouth as you quake against him. He finally pulls away connected by a translucent string, scanning your face - the tears gathering in your lashes, your scrunched nose, your kiss bruised lips.

He kisses down to your jaw, then nips.

"D-did you just bite me?" You stammer.

"Oh, love," He coos. "That was hardly a bite."

He presses more kisses to your neck and then bites, hard, and it draws a sound out of the back of your throat that mortifies you.

You want to melt into the wall. Your hand flies up to try to cover your mouth, but he catches you by the wrist - pinning it against the bricks.

"Uh uh. I want to hear," He says, biting down again.

You do, indeed, reward him with another sound that chokes into a gasp when his cooling tongue soothes over the bite.

He moves away, eyes falling to your lips once more.

"Oops!" Suo pulls away, a smug quality to his smile. "Got a bit carried away there, didn't I!"

You stare at him, wide eyed, heaving and disheveled. Your cheeks are on fire.

"Sorry, love," He says innocently, rubbing circles on your hip with his thumb, as if he hadn’t just kissed you senseless.

You can't meet his eyes. You don’t know what to say first, but what comes out: "D-did you have to bite me?"

"Oh?" He asks, eye glinting. "Absolutely."

ix.

You can't wipe this kiss ... er, well, kisses - from your mind.

It's all you can think about.

You feel like a silly school girl, unable to stop your mind from wondering to his darkened eye swimming with ... desire, you suppose.

You didn't know what you'd done to deserve such a look!

You weren't even a very good wife or anything!

Hell, until he'd kissed you like that - you'd never really known he'd ... you'd just thought you where to be married on paper and nothing more.

Ug, you could still feel his lips moving on yours.

You really hated this!

When you almost chopped your hand off again helping Yurie prepare a meal, you decided that you where going to confront him about this.

You stood in front of the door to his office.

You where going to confront him!

But ... how exactly?

What would you say?

You hear a familiar chuckle on the other side of the screen. "Are you going to just keep standing there, or are you going to come in?"

You, very ungracefully, slam the door open.

Suo smiles at you.

You stomp across the mat, sitting before him.

Your hands fidget in your lap, already starting to darken with a blush. "About - about the other day."

"You mean when I kissed you outside of the banquet?"

Despite your embarrassment, your happy he doesn't beat around the bush. "Yes. Um, why."

"Why?" He echoes, brow quirked.

"Yes, why."

He tilts his head. "Because I wanted to?" He says. "Can't I kiss my future bride?"

You slam your hand down. "Not like that you can't!"

"Did you like it?"

"I - " You stammer, eyes darting around.

"It's alright if you did," He coaxes.

"It ..." You shift. "Surprised me."

"Really? But I've been flirting with you this whole time!"

You squint at him. "You've been messing with me! You say weird things all the time! I never know when you’re joking or not!”

"I've been honest with you," He says. "Very honest. In fact, so honest I deserve another kiss."

"You can't just decide -! "

"Please?" He says. "If not now, then when? If I have to wait too long again, it's going to build up like last time - and I don't think you want that."

"Look!" You hold a hand out to stop him from approaching you. "You can do it again! Just ... less. It was a bit ... too much ..."

"Hmm," He puts a finger to his chin as if thinking. "You where shaking,"

"Shut up!" You snap.

You move forward on your knees to him with the intent of shutting him up but you falter half way when you catch him looking at you in that way again. It's intense, weighty.

"I - " You swallow. You gulp, looking down at his lips - you can feel his breath.

You will yourself to move.

"Young master, breakfast!" Yurie's voice chimes.

You fall forward into his lap and start to skitter backwards, but he catches your wrist.

"Oh! Is the mistress in there with you? Breakfast!"

"Coming!" Suo sings back, pressing his lips to the inside of your wrist as he looks up at you.

You quiver, looking down at him with wide eyes.

"Let's go eat," He says lowly. "Shall we?”

One minute your shopping with Yurie, and the next minute you are gone.

When you awaken, a familiar stands over you face stands over you. "Mother?"

The woman looks down at you. "Mother, what are you - "

"There was no there way."

"What-what do you mean?"

"That man - he wouldn't let us see you, even when we called the marriage off."

"What?" You ask, mind racing. "Why would you do that?"

She frowns. "I do not need to explain myself to you."

"But I - "

"What? Love him?" She laughs. "Do you think he loves you?"

You pause. Could he? You remember the kimonos, and how he held your hand so gingerly, and the the kisses he'd spared after the first one that always turned searing. Yurie had laughed at the two of you, murmuring something about young love to herself.

"He does." You say, steadfast.

Something in your eyes glints and your Mother turns away.

"Well. It matters very little."

Suddenly you remember that look in his eye that day in the marketplace - the icy chill in his voice.

"Mother," You say, and she looks at you. "For your safety, I would request you return me to Suo. I ... I don’t want him to hurt you.”

She laughs again. "Bluffing won't save you dear." Her laughing cuts off, eyes dull and exhausted. "Not even I can do that."

xii.

The room they keep you in is dark, undisturbed - until the man in a suit and fedora comes.

He hurts you, plain and simple.

Your parents had done many things, but they had never laid a hand on you. The pain is unfamiliar and hard to bear.

And after what could have been days or hours, something strange happens.

The man moves to hurt you again and it bounces off. He tries again and his attack slides off of the iridescent bubble once more.

He seems satisfied with this, sporting a toothy smile that could make milk curdle.

He goes for another blow, then seizes. Icicles sprout from his chest.

The temperature of the very room drops, freezing the tears on your cheeks.

Your savior comes into view, eye hard and merciless. Cold air streams from his lips.

"Suo ... " You rasp, lips quirking. You are too weak to smile.

He gathers you into his arms immediately, holding you against him. "I'm sorry I took so long to find you, my love. But I'm here now."

"Everything ... " Pain flickers across your face. "...Hurts..."

He's clutching you so tightly. “I know, my heart, I know."

"Hayato - " You say, and you feel him freeze against you. "Hayato, I - "

"Shut up." He grits out.

"But, I - "

"Won't die here. Keep your eyes open for me."

"But I'm so tired," You say. "And..."

"You won't leave me," He snaps. "I won't let you."

"I won't," You agree, eyes lowering. "Hayato, I - "

"Shut up!"

"I ... love you..."

xiii.

Hayato is strange after that.

Both close and extremely far.

He stays silently glued to your side, even after he's sure your family is no longer powerful enough to take you from him, again, he still insists on coming with you to every shopping trip and excursion he can - asking you to postpone if otherwise.

He doesn't say those three words back.

You try not to be hurt about it, and continue on as normal as possible. Well, as normal as your injuries allow.

In time, your Mother's words begin to eat away at you.

Maybe you were mistaken after all.

You approach Hayato in the courtyard, taking a deep breath, saying his name.

He opens his eye to look up at you.

You take another deep breath, wring your hands. "I understand ... if after what my family has done - the grave insult they have caused ... if you do not wish to marry me anymore."

He looks truly taken aback, which would be funny in any other circumstance.

The brunt of his focus is heavy. "And if you left here? What would you do then?"

"I ... don't know," You admit, looking away. "But ... I wouldn't be a burden to you any longer."

"That's what you think I see you as?" He murmurs, more to himself than you.

You shift.

"Do you know," He asks, in a strangely hoarse voice. "Do you know how I felt when I saw you lying there? Beaten? Broken?"

You stay silent.

"It took everything in my being not to kill them all."

You glance to him and he's looking at you.

There is no remorse or regret in his eye.

"You don't deserve the love of any more monsters."

Your fists curl at your side. "You - you take that back."

His eye widens slightly at your tone.

“You - you saved me."

He starts to open his mouth, but you’re faster.

"I was afraid I was going to die there, all alone, in the dark, but you came for me!" You say, unshed tears in your eyes as you yell. "And you! You don't get to talk about the man I love like that!"

Hayato stays silent.

"And you - you love me too!" You accuse. "And you don't have to say it back, right now. Or at all, if you don't feel that way - ”

"I love you." He says, breathlessly.

"Oh," You says dumbly. "Oh."

His hands find your waist, pulling you into his lap. "Why do you sound so surprised? Didn't you say you knew?"

"Well, I wasn't - wasn't completely sure." You grumble. "And - and it's different hearing you - hearing you actually say it."

"I can say it again," He mummers, rubbing circles on your hip. "Until it becomes as natural as breathing."

You cover your face with your hands, wondering if your poor heart can take such a thing.

#wind breaker #wind breaker x reader #suo hayato x reader #windbreaker x reader #hayato suo #my fanfiction

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bixels · 7 months ago

Note

your tags about mercy being one of the most complex characters- YES!!! theres a log in one of ana's gun inspection modes where it mentions how mercy DESPISED her healing magic/science being used for evil on the battlefield, and there's an ingame line of her saying "power boost working as envisioned!" and it just reminds me how she was lied to, forced unto the battlefield when in reality she just wanted to help people with her inventions and thats the only way they said she could do it. AGH. Hippocratic oath!!

Which is why I never seriously bought into Moicy (I get the hatefucking though) as a serious ship because realistically, Mercy would absolutely abhor Moira with every fiber of her being.

This is gonna be a really hot take for gay Overwatch-knowers, but. I preferred when Moira didn't exist as a character in the story and her whole selfish philosophy of 'progress at any cost' existed as Mercy's darker side. I was really interested in Mercy's 'holier than thou' demeanor (her battle uniform is an angel costume, for god's sake). I found it so interesting that Mercy was the one who turned Gabriel into Reaper (it was assumed canon until retconned by Moira). Or that Mercy "saved" Genji by installing ninja stars into his knuckles and turning his body into a killing machine (which is why, imo, I don't think Mercy would ever be in love with Genji. He'd be a constant reminder of the power she holds yet tries to ignore, the ways she's unbelievably fucked her patients up in the past. A reminder that she's not as good a person as others believe her to be). I'm personally really into the idea that Mercy has two sides in her: the side who truly cares about healing people and the side who's so full of hate and anger for the perceived enemy that she unconsciously fuels her rage into the people who rely on her. Turning people into living weapons to "fix" them and fight her battles. Reminder that she watched her parents walk out on her as a child to volunteer medical work for the Omnic Crisis, only for them to die and leave her orphaned and alone. Is she doing this to take care of people, or is she doing this to avenge her parents (the official site says it's only the former, but I think that's boring as fuck)? I think it can be both at the same time, but sometimes she prioritizes one motive over the other. I think the "angelic, cheery healer" is a persona she instinctively uses to veil her selfish motivations, to everyone and to herself. Reminder that she was also lauded as a savant, a prodigy, a teenage genius who literally revolutionized medical science before she could legally vote. You cannot expect me to believe that she's truly altruistic, that everything she does is for the betterment of humanity and out of the goodness of her heart.

I don't think she's a malicious person at all, just someone who doesn't want to admit she has ulterior motives.

Anyways, she's not actually this interesting in the game or the story.

#delete later #this got longer than i expected #werewolfclaws #ask me #i personally loved when mercy was a bitch. and when her bitchiness came through in some of her voicelines #where she outright antagonizes her allies/friends or acts really snippy #was really mad when they removed that attitude and gave her 5 cups of coffee for her lines in ow2

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vespaer77 · 3 months ago

Text

I have a hot take.

And I understand that a lot of it comes down to opinion and interpretation. The "official canon" for the game is your own damned canon, and I frankly love that for all of us. It's beautiful and freeing and sets us up to celebrate a variety of different worlds and that's pretty rad.

But (of course there's a "but") I'm coming to understand that…

…my canon interpretation of this line is very different from a large majority of this fandom.

And I guess it's not really a hot take. No one's interpretation is wrong, and I would never want someone to think that. No one should ever have their fun taken out of the game, it's a game. I think mostly I'm just looking for folks who read this the same way I do. Because to me?

Solas' greatest fear is not to literally die all alone.

Like, all by himself.

Not only do I believe that that's a large oversimplification of the meaning behind that statement, but I'd also argue that dying all by himself is precisely what Solas intends to do. He has had every opportunity to avoid it, especially in a Solavellan run, yet he's made zero moves to do so whatsoever.

At the end of Inquisition, he was still a member of the single most powerful and influential religious and paramilitary organization across the entire southern half of their continent. Aside from defeating a sea of demons and darkspawn horrors, and closing a breach in the sky between the Fade and the material world, they've also singlehandedly redesigned the flow of commerce between two nations, they've seated a ruler on the throne in Orlais, and chosen the next Divine to serve on the Sunburst Throne in the Chantry. They're responsible for shaping the future for the whole of southern Thedas, and the leader of that organization is potentially very sympathetic to Solas' beliefs and perspectives. There was much they could have accomplished together, and yet…

He left. Vanished into thin air, even, for two years. With no word.

And when we finally got the chance to confront him, and wrestle a larger kernel of truth out of the man, he told us that he walks the din'an shiral. A journey of death. And he made it unequivocally clear that he intends to walk it alone.

By himself.

There are a lot of ways to interpret what the din'an shiral even is, but the solemnity and weight he used when he referred to it carried a sense of finality. He intends to bring about the death of the world, that much we know is true, whether he sees it that way or not. But could his own life be the cost?

His ritual artifact is a blade, believed to have been fashioned from his red lyrium idol after having been recovered and cleansed. But it could've remained an idol, or it could've been made into an orb. It could've been a staff or a crown, or a necklace with the jawbone of some other critter. But it's a blade. Is it simply because rending the veil involves a certain act of piercing or tearing? Or is it still a weapon? An implement of violence or self-defense? Or even… of self-harm?

Regardless of the interpretation, there's nothing about Solas' future that suggests to me that he's safe. Or accompanied by anyone who intends to keep him safe. And there's nothing about Solas that suggests to me that he isn't acutely aware of all of this.

I don't think Solas has any fear whatsoever of literally dying all alone, at least according to my personal canon. To me, I think Solas views his death as his duty and he will not bring anyone down with him.

I believe that "dying alone" means something much bigger and deeper and more meaningful to Solas than it does to us, the player. And he goes to great lengths to identify and define what this fear means to him through a series of conversations he has with Varric during party banter.

There's quite a bit of self-discovery Solas conducts through this dialogue. It starts when tells Varric that he read Hard in Hightown. He then asks him if there are other trickster figures in dwarven literature, presumably because stories of Fen'Harel stated he walked as kin amongst both the Evanuris and the Forgotten Ones and there could could be some tie or some clue about that here, whatever that means. He goes on from there to begin asking pointed questions about Orzammar and what he perceives to be a lack of dwarven ambition. He makes remarks about how they could have a larger hand in shaping global affairs through their control of the lyrium trade and he seems genuinely confused why Orzammar would never consider reuniting with Kal-Sharok.

But he really circles down into the heart of the matter when he asks Varric if he ever misses a life beneath the stone. Varric responds by asking how he could miss something he'd never had, having been born a surface dwarf. And he tells Solas that even if the stone called to him in the manner he's describing, he's very happy with who he is and the life that he has, and he has no wish to change anything.

And from there, we watch Solas grapple with his answer. To him, Varric is someone who is just as sundered from his own identity, and he cannot fathom finding satisfaction in a life like that - a mundane life without magic or the song of the stone. He cannot rationalize it against his guilt and his regrets and his pride, and cannot let it go. So he then spins up an anecdote of a man he saw in the Fade.

He saw a man, alone on an island. His tribe had fallen to beasts and disease, and his wife had died in childbirth.

He was the only one left.

He could have left to find a new land or a new people. But instead he stayed. He spent his days catching fish in a little boat and he spent his nights watching the stars and drinking fermented fruit juice. (That's wine, Solas. That's called wine. You can just call it wine.)

To Solas, this man has surrendered to his defeat. And he gives us our first glimpse into what his fear might actually mean, right here.

"Knowing it will all end with you."

From there, Varric even asks him, "What's with you and all the fallen empire stuff, anyway?" And they go on to discuss what it means to give up and what it means to fight back, what costs are truly associated with each, and how those meanings can vary so widely between individuals whose lives have been so different. The analogy we didn't see at the time however, that we can now examine through hindsight, is that the man on the island wasn't just a representation of the old dwarven empire, but also of the Elvhen.

The man on the island was supposed to be representative of Solas himself.

(I also think it's cool that Varric mentions Orzammmar being too proud to ask for help.)

We are supposed to hear the anguish in his voice when he asks Varric whether he has any concept of what his capitulation to live as a surface dwarf has cost him.

Because Solas knows. For whatever reason (that we're about to discover in Veilguard), the remaining Evanuris were so horrific after the death of Mythal that the only solution he could devise that had any hope of protecting the world was to create the Veil and drive a wedge between the dreaming and waking worlds. To create a divide between magic and reality. To silence the song from the stone. To create a barrier that the blighted gods could never cross.

But one that also trapped the spirits.

And afterward, while he slept a dreaming sleep for centuries, the toll of creating the Veil having been so great, he watched as his people also began to quicken and die. He watched as their spirits also crossed the Veil to be trapped behind it forever. Everyone he ever knew and loved. All the chains of slaves he broke were for nothing. They simply traded one cage for another. Because of him.

And while Abelas and his company still guard the Well of Sorrows, they are bound to Mythal. (Also, I'm pretty sure you can make a choice to kill them? I never have, but I think you can?) They are still creatures that are beholden to her, and thus they are expendable. Mythal was even willing to sacrifice Flemeth to gift her power to Solas, to cure his weakened state after waking from uthenera, and hopefully prevent the risk of future mistakes being made. Like Corypheus.

Even Solas is expendable in the line of his duty, if it means he will succeed. He would gladly sacrifice himself to rectify his greatest mistake, and restore his people to themselves. Because they've been sundered for so long, they've forgotten who they are. And they are not his people anymore. He will make them remember.

He will restore their connection to the Fade, he will reveal lost paths to ancient libraries, and he will reawaken their relationships with their spirits - archivists, and spirits of purpose and wisdom and valor and faith and all of their ancestors that lived before them. He will make them what they were, as they were when he knew them. Because without that, they are incomplete. The spirits are incomplete. He is incomplete.

Our job in Veilguard will be to either help him find a better way to accomplish his goal, or help him find a way to find satisfaction and completion in this world. (Or, you know, kill him, but not in my canon, thanks.) Either way, we have to get him to accept help.

Because the burden that he carries within himself is the sole memory of a vast nation, and it is heavy. Far too heavy to bear alone. He is the last living key, a fragile remnant, a final, solitary link through dreams to the history, the knowledge, and the entire cultural identity of the Elvhen people. (The People people? Is that redundant?)

And without him, all of that is lost.

Forever.

To him, he is the last of the Elvhen.

So, my interpretation of Solas' greatest fear is not that he is afraid to die all by himself. It is something I feel is truly much more heartbreaking.

It is that he is afraid to die the last of his kind.

He is afraid to die alone.

#dragon age #dai #dragon age inquisition #dragon age trespasser #datv #datv spoilers #da4 #da4 spoilers #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #veilguard spoilers #fen'harel #the dreadwolf #what it really means to be afraid to die alone

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vhagarys · 4 months ago

Text

Thunderstorms and Lightning

aunt!helaena x reader

summary: Your childhood best friend was to marry her brother Aegon. You would give the world to be in his place.

warnings: canon-typical incest, angsty, reader loves helaena (and it’s mutual), yearning <|3

She was so beautiful.

You watched in awe as your aunt descended the steps into the throne room, a halo of light seemed to cling to her frame.

Her delicate frame had been woven with a forest green gown, long sleeves with a heart-shaped neckline showcased her curves deliciously. A thin veil with small silver and gold dragons were littered across the sheer fabric, effectively covering her face.

You forced your eyes away. It was improper to ogle at the soon-to-be queen, though you couldn’t seem to avert your gaze.

Helaena would be wed to your uncle Aegon. Your fingers itched to reach out and stop her as she walked past.

As if you were observing a specimen in a museum, you could observe but could not touch.

Since childhood, you had quite the close relationship with Helaena. Her being only five years your elder, you spent much of your adolescence scavenging for bugs in the garden, failing miserably at high Valyrian, and sneaking out of the castle during the night together.

After Aegon was named heir to the iron throne, your time with Helaena began to slowly dwindle away. You knew she had no desire to be queen, yet her mother deemed it necessary to strengthen her families namesake.

News of her marriage was an illness that left you bedridden for days. Strange, ugly feelings clawed their way up your throat, emotions you had not properly understood until after your mind began to mature.

This friendship you’d developed had morphed into something far deeper, far more intimate, in your eyes at least.

You loved her. You craved her.

And she had been taken from you.

Tidings of her marriage locked you in your chambers for what felt like a fortnight. By the third evening of you not leaving your chambers, your mother Rhaenyra softy knocked and entered.

While she knew of your sadness for your dear friend’s predicament, she was ignorant of the full scope of your despair.

“My sweet daughter, it pains me to see you in such a state. Come, you must eat,” she stroked the side of your cheek, a tinge of sadness at witnessing your state.

Turning away from your mother’s touch, you laid on your side, wishing to melt into the mattress.

Childish as it may be, a sliver of you had hoped she may have reciprocated your affections. You felt pathetic as you yearned from afar, foolishly clinging to the fairytale of you running away together and forgot your regal duties.

“He does not deserve her. He is cruel and a drunk, she is kind and gentle. This marriage will destroy her,” you murmured.

Your mother sighed, “I harbor similar feelings for my half brother, dear, but this union is in our families best interest. Surely you can understand this.”

You rolled back over to face her. Deep, indigo bags rested beneath your eyes, hair knotted and unwashed. You looked absolutely dreadful.

“You know she’ll be devastated if you do not attend,” your mother pleaded, her hands finding yours and gripping them warmly.

Scrunching your eyes tightly, you attempted to rub the dried tears and sleep from your eyes.

“I will be ready,” your handmaidens soon ushered in to prepare you for the day.

————-

As expected, the ceremony was an unsavory affair. Aegon adorned a shit-eating grin practically the entire time, and when he leaned in for a kiss you had to avert your gaze, repulsed.

At one point during the exhanging of vows, Helaena swept her eyes through the crowd, until they landed on you.

A ghost of a smile was all she could give, and you’d hope your eyes did all the talking for you. You supposed you deluded yourself to the reality of the situation.

Soon, the maester degreed them wed and were promptly paraded out of the throne room.

You grimaced as you looked down to see red marks in the shape of crescents in your palms.

“May I be excused, mother,” you asked as everyone began to file out of the room.

“You may, though the banquet begins at sundown, please do come. Thank you for being brave today, sweet girl,” your mother pulled you in an embrace.

Her words were heavy in your mind as you quickly retreated back to your room.

———-

Lords and ladies from all parts of the seven kingdoms had traveled far and wide to witness the royal wedding. Hundreds filled the various tables assembled in the banquet hall.

Your maidens had dressed you in your favorite gown, with subtle lace details sewn through the neckline and sleeve cuffs. In the valley between your breasts was an intricately embroidered gold dragon, symbolizing your beloved dragon Vermithor.

Ushering them out, you daringly added a final touch to your ensemble.

As children, you and Helaena had decided to make your own family crest in the form of a stag beetle.

“Many say these creatures bring good fortune to those who treat them kindly, others say they are an omen that summons thunderstorms and lightning,” Helaena mused as she watched the bug crawled up her arm.

You watched, fascinated. “Perhaps they can mean both. Let it bring good fortune to us and storms to those against us.” She snorted, amused with your dramatics.

“Absolutely genius. To the mighty house of the stag!” She held the beetle up to the light and you both broke into a fit of laughter at each others antics.

Placed right below your collarbone, you quickly attached the pendant she had made for you of the infamous creature.

Pleased with your appearance, you made your way into the room of festivities.

Your eyes instantly locked onto the bride of the evening, sat at the royal table with her brothers, mother, and grandfather.

She shone like a star, illuminating the expanse of the room with her shimmering gold dress. Her hair half-up, half-down, she was the epitome of regal beauty.

“Is everything alright, princess?” You were shaken out of your trance by Ser Criston Cole, who managed to sneak up behind you.

Clearing your throat, you nodded. “I’m quite alright, Ser Criston, thank you.”

You scanned over the room observing the trays of small foods and goblets of wine floating around the table. Absentmindley, you reached for a glass and took a large gulp, the bitterness making your eyes scrunch in displeasure.

I’m going to need a few of these to get through the evening, you snorted to yourself.

You greeted your mother, your father Daemon brought you in his embrace and murmured how you weren’t the only one who wished to be anywhere else but here.

That made you smile. You began to scavenge the trays for vegetable pastries and skewered chicken, a goblet permanently taking residence in your left hand as you had your fill of the food.

A few more sips and you finally mustered up the courage to approach the newly weds and pay your respects.

The mere five stair ascent felt daunting. Once you reached the final step you were met face to face with your beloved friend.

Time seemed to stop as her eyes locked on you.

You froze, words escaped you as all eyes fixated on your awkward form.

You’re supposed to bow, idiot.

You bent your legs and dropped your head.

“Congratulations, your Grace,” you sheepishly lifted your head to meet your uncle smiling mischievously at you.

He lifted his goblet in acknowledgment and took a gulp of the rich, red substance.

You shifted your gaze to Helaena. Bowing again you offered softly, “Congratulations, my Queen.”

There was a tinge of sadness in her eyes at your use of such formalities.

“Thank you, dear Y/N,” her eyes drifted across your tense form. Your hair fell loosely around you in soft curls, your violet eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

She’s so beautiful, Helaena fawned.

You tossed a piece of hair behind your back just in time for her to notice the shiny pendant atop your breast.

She grinned at the fond memory.

“You look lovely this evening, your grace,” you kindly offered. The tension was palpable as unspoken words lingered in the purgatory between you both.

You tried to hide the disappointment on your face when she offered a quick thank you and directed her attention back to her plate.

Before she could open her mouth, you turned to pay your respects to the rest of the table and quickly descended the steps once more.

You exhaled. I need a drink.

———

As the hours labored on, those still left in attendance soon dwindled down to your close family, everyone taking a seat at the shared table.

You had consumed about four goblets of the tart liquid, and were properly buzzed.

“A toast to Aegon and Helaena! May this union be blessed and fortuitous,” Otto toasted, everyone raising their glasses in acknowledgment.

“To Aegon and Helaena!” others parroted.

Your eyes shifted down, wishing to cannonball into your glass of wine and disappear into the liquid.

Emotional turmoil swirled dangerously through your conscious, it’s almost over.

Aegon loudly stood from his chair, slurring his words as he proclaimed, “To my beautiful wife, Helaena. I know this union will bring nothing but good fortune to our family. I plan to fulfill all of my duties as husband, especially after tonight’s celebrations,” he smirked suggestively.

Helaena’s cheeks grew pink at his suggestive words.

A blaze of annoyance surged through you as you witnessed the embarrassement on your friend’s face.

To everyone at the table, your vexation went unnoticed… Almost everyone.

Perceptive as ever, your uncle Aemond observed the irritation etched onto your features, fingers digging into your palms, eyes flitting back and forth from your goblet to his sister.

He was well aware of your interesting relationship with his sister. Tonight, he decided to test his theory.

Rising from his seat, Aemond decreed, “A toast to my niece and nephews, Jace, Luke, Joffrey, and Y/N. I have no doubts in my mind they too will bring fortune to our family through their marital unions. Though, I know how unfortunate it may be for at least one of you that my dear sister is no longer an option.”

He stared at you just long enough for you to realize his meaning. Your cheeks flared a hue of magenta.

You felt an absolute fool that your uncle could read you so easily.

When you dared to look up, you felt Helaena’s heavy gaze on you. As if you were one of her caged creatures, you felt her scrutiny tear you open from across the table.

Whether it was the buzz from the alcohol or the emotional damn finally bursting, you abruptly stood.

“To my dear aunt and uncle, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you both in such good spirits. I can only pray to the gods that I may be blessed with such a happy union as yours. Cheers!” You emptied the rest of your cup and plopped back down into your seat.

Aemond smirked at your antics. You evaded Helaena’s gaze as you engaged in meaningless chatter with your brothers.

———

Soon, everyone began to retire to their chambers for the evening.

Sufficiently embarrassed with your performance tonight, you excused all of your maidens and locked the door behind you.

You sighed loudly, absolutely exhausted from today’s endeavors, and deliberating sneaking into the dragonpit and flying back to Dragonstone.

Perhaps in the morning.

Just as your fingers began to pull at the the laces of your dress, a soft knock rang from your door.

You rolled your eyes.

Cracking the door, you’d anticipated your mother or father may pay you a visit.

Helaena.

“May I come in for moment?”

She came to your chambers. On her wedding night.

You glanced nervously behind her, fearful of potential onlookers witnessing the pair of you.

“Shouldn’t you be with your husband on your wedding ni-”

“Y/N,” her eyes pleaded with yours.

You couldn’t deny your delight in seeing her. Opening the door wider, you allowed her in.

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” was all you could manage, voice barely above a whisper as you fixed your gaze on the tile floors.

She moved closer to you, until you felt her fingers graze the tips of yours, her warmth seeped into your skin.

“Look at me, please,” she begged. You obeyed.

Tears were gathered at her lash line, threatening to spill as she gripped your fingers harder.

Her violet orbs shimmered like amethysts in the soft glow of the evening. You loved her eyes.

“Y/N,” she started, and you couldn’t resist reaching up to catch the single tear that teetered over the edge.

Leaning into your touch, she continued.

“Today was very hard for me.”

“It was quite a special day, was it not?” the freckles on her cheeks had grown more prominent since adolescence.

The pad of your thumb began to lightly map each one of them, committing them to memory.

She broke away from you with a small shake of her head. Finding purchase on your bed, she buried her face in her hands.

“I did not want this,” she began to weep. You found yourself sitting next to her, hesitantly tracing circles on the silk fabric her back.

You wracked your brain for any words that may ease her pain. Your heart cracked at the sight before you.

The pair of you sat in silence, she shifted further into your embrace and you wrapped your arms around her trembling frame.

After several minutes her breathing began to even, your shoulder damp from the tears she spilled.

Your fingers moved up to her hair, and weaved through the curled silver tresses. You always loved to experiment on each others hair, practicing the most ridiculous styles that never failed to bring you both to tears from laughter.

You couldn’t help but smile at the fond memory. You were so engrossed in your thoughts the words escaped you before you could fathom the weight of them.

“I love you,” you whispered into her hair. As pathetic as it sounded, a weight of relief was lifted from your shoulders. You had finally mustered the courage to say it.

You felt her pull away, and your heart cracked at the inherent rejection.

Helaena cupped both of your cheeks, reddened eyes suddenly filled with the warmth you were used to seeing.

“I know.” she leaned and rested her forehead against yours.

“I love you, Y/N.” It was your turn to feel the tears form. You exhaled a deep breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in.

Before the consequences of your actions could stop you, you leaned in to unite your lips with hers.

She responded immediately, pouring her emotions into the kiss. Your lips moulded perfectly together, and you couldn’t help but indulge in the softness of her mouth, the sweet lingering of lemon cakes on her tongue.

It felt as though you were falling, plummeting towards the ground where you’ll meet your inevitable demise.

If this was the end, you wished to spend your last moments in her embrace.

The land below was much closer than anticipated, for a knock on the door felt like a bucket of cold water poured over you both.

Breaking away, you still felt the tether of your souls connected to one another. You stared deeply into her gaze, she smiled lovingly at you and nodded.

Desperate to keep her with you, you clutched you arms that began to retract.

Please don’t take her from me.

Helaena’s lips molded to yours one last time. Your fingers twitched, aching to feel her skin against yours again.

Your maid opened the door as Helaena stood abruptly from your bed.

Meekly, she bowed her head. “Apologies my princess, your Grace. The king requests your presence at once, my queen.”

“Of course, thank you dear,” Helaena turned to you and bowed.

“I hope you have a restful evening, princess,” the formalities a stark contrast to your previous engagement.

Painfully, you nodded.

“Thank you, your grace. Congratulations on your engagement.”

She reached over and tucked your silver hair behind you, lightly grazing the beetle pinned onto your gown.

Your heart beat erratically as she stared at the pendant, nervous as your maid awaited her at the entrance of the door.

Helaena leaned into you, a final tear traveled down her cheek as she whispered, “Naejot daomikydoso se ōños, Issa jorrāelagon.”

(To thunderstorms and lightning, my love)

ALICE TAKES ON ANGST?!?

— let me know your thoughts, I’m relatively new to writing angst

- enjoy!

#i love her #helaena fic #hotd helaena #helaena the dreamer #queen helaena #helaena targaryen #team helaena #house of the dragon helaena #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fic #helaena x reader #hotd fanfic

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evanhereonearth · 26 days ago

Note

Thank you for opening prompts! I have one that has been bothering me for a long time, but i can't write it myself, so i need help( ...

Solas healing the unconscious Lavellan and helping and protecting her in her dream in his wolf form like in this codex by Adan.

https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Patient_Observations

I know I know this is pretty popular topic for fics and art, but it's actually canon and I love this idea soooo much... I need all the details I just can't resist

Interlude, Tarasyl'nin

Day One

It was not supposed to happen this way.

Solas fights to keep his visage still despite being the only person within twenty paces of the prisoner. She is, after all, the only one in the Chantry dungeon.

Her hand spits and sparks with the Anchor's power even now, flashing green light through the cell. Even with layers of earth and rock between Solas and the open sky, he does not need to look to know it responds to each and every one of the Breach's fits and starts.

It will kill her; it is only a matter of time.

Yet, somehow, it has not killed her yet.

For all his years and experience, Solas is at a loss.

She should not have been able to walk physically in the Fade, not one of these creatures of today's world. Even a mage, or what qualifies for one here. His lip curls with the thought; it is akin to calling an Orlesian poodle puppy a wolf. He has awoken in a time where every living soul simply thinks Orlesian poodle puppies are wolves.

Yet she is elven. Perhaps that can explain it. Some remnant of the People in this distant shadow.

Her body thrashes as the Breach expands, and Solas instinctively reaches out to take hold of her left hand. His mana reacts to the touch even as his skin bursts into tingles where their skin makes contact. The Anchor jerks with such violence that he can almost hear it screaming.

"Need a Templar over there, mage?" one of the guards calls out, perhaps alerted by the sudden burst of light from the Anchor.

"No," Solas replies shortly. "This is no new development. A Templar negating magic would only seek to mask her symptoms, and for there to be any hope of understanding, I must see her symptoms as they arise."

It will not be long before Adan returns from his rest break. The apothecary has also suggested Templar involvement. Solas grits his teeth with the frustration of the thing. He could easily be overruled if something here does not improve.

The Breach once more wobbles back into equillibrium, at least as much as such a thing can be said. Solas places his thumb on the prisoner's wrist.

Her heartbeat flutters in her pulse, fast as the beating wings of a bat clawing its way through the air. Solas removes his thumb, using it instead to push back first her left eyelid, then her right. Pupils still dilated, so black they engulf all but a ring of verdant moss green at the edges of her irises. They remain evenly blown, however. A small mercy that this woman at least escaped without a concussion.

No small feat, considering she tumbled approximately twenty feet out of a rift to hit the ground.

As usual, she responds to none of his minstrations.

The Anchor ought to be his, but Solas has long since learned the futility of clinging to what ought to be instead of what is. What is dictates what is possible to change.

What is stretches his patience and his fortitude as tight as the veil itself around the Breach. He stifles an ironic chuckle. His own handiwork, the veil, the product of his own cleverness battling with his relative inexperience with blood magic and pure desparation. Even a year after waking, he can scarce believe he succeeded--and even scarcer believe the price.

For now, it is moot. He is weak. He was never equal to his ancient foes, and he is not, apparently, equal to this modern enemy.

Nor is she.

Solas gazes upon the prisoner. He has avoided looking at her face, only allowing himself to see blurs of pale skin and a smattering of freckles cast with green the colour of her eyes in lines he does not wish to acknowledge.

But he must. Acknowledge what is.

Here is what is.

First: He failed to appropriately caluculate the possibility of his orb not killing Corypheus. Corypheus lives, Solas's orb is in his possession, and this Dalish woman somehow thwarted Corypheus's ritual to claim the Anchor.

Solas would be a fool not to be thankful for that twist of fate.

Second: The Dalish woman has survived, despite all odds to the contrary. Survived the blast by instinctively using the Anchor to tear open a rift into the Fade and close it behind her--there is little other possible explanation--and survived walking in the Fade even with her middling connection to it after millennia of this world leaching away everything that made the People his People.

Third: She lives still, and the Anchor, while spreading, while certain to kill her eventually, is not spreading as quickly as he thought it would.

Fourth: The Anchor is far from the only threat to her life. The human Chantry in all their blind hubris may well murder her out of their own hysterical fear; they may do the same to him if he cannot help her sufficiently to keep her alive long enough to attempt to seal the Breach.

Fifth: The Breach is an abomination. Solas cannot linger too long on the emotions of its effects; if he allows himself to feel the pain of every spirit torn through the rifts or the Breach itself, he will tear himself to pieces.

Sixth: This woman is the best and only chance they have to seal the Breach at all. The Anchor may consume her, but she is no longer expendable.

A final thought, more fancy than finality, is that ironically, she may also be his single best hope for surviving this calamity.

He forces himself to look upon her face.

Her features are delicate without being dainty, the grace of a rapier against one of the Seeker's broadswords. She carries forward the strong nose bridge of the Elvhen, high cheekbones, a jaw well-defined with a chin that almost makes her entire face appear heart-shaped. Her lashes flutter in her fitful sleep, crescents of black against her too-pale skin. Despite her flesh being sallowed by her body's struggle to live, her freckles stand out in warm relief. Not unlike his own, Solas supposes, a dusting of them, invisible even at a few paces, but up close, they soften her. It's oddly charming. A single darker freckle dots the upper right corner of her lip. Not far from there, the indentation of a dimple rests.

A fleeting thought hits him like a lightning strike, that if she were to smile, that dimple may bury her right into the heart of him.

Absurdity. Solas shakes off the thought.

Black hair tangles in waves and loose curls around her head, a single curl remaining defined just behind her left ear. A perfect ringlet, pristine despite her predicament.

An odd detail to notice.

He is avoiding the rest, but he must let himself see.

The green inked into her face. It dances across her cheekbones, up the bridge of her nose, fans out over her forehead. He's heard the guards snort and scoff at the "tree" on the "knife ear's" face, but Solas knows it is no tree.

Even the Dalish think it is a tree, branding themselves slaves in their ignorance. Fools. And she is, very obviously, a Dalish fool for doing the same.

But Mythal's vallaslin is no tree.

It had to be hers, did it not? Perhaps he could look upon any of the other Evanuris' blood writing without flinching, but Mythal's? One would think that after ten millennia of struggle, the pain of it would have subsided somewhat. Mythal is thousands of years dead.

Yet here she is again, reminding Solas of how deeply her bindings worked their way into the flesh he never wanted. His still bears the scar; even when he cast her out of his skin, he needed the reminder to never allow someone such power over him again.

Mythal's vallaslin is no tree. It is not even veins, blood or lyrium or otherwise, despite its resemblance. It is neither of those things.

It's him. It's every spirit like him.

Mythal who nearly emptied the Fade of its Wisdom, built bodies for all like him, branded them all with their own self-portraits. "We are the best of both physical and Fade," she told him once as she wheedled him into following her into the depths of despair and ruin. Out of love. Love she always professed to return, but like a mother overrun with children beyond counting, his place as her favourite mattered little when all were only tools to her.

Solas tightens his lips, staring down at the prisoner. He seldom allows himself to even think so candidly; his love for Mythal, her turning away over and over to become what he despised, the glimmers and scraps of hope she tossed him until that final dreadful day, the reminder of his failure to reach her. All this time.

His own vallaslin had hardly healed on his face before he knew it to be naught but a reminder of everything he'd given up, everything he'd lost. Everything he sacrificed.

And now here it is, branded again on unwitting skin.

It was not supposed to happen this way.

For a moment, Solas is not certain what he means. His own existence? The Anchor? Corypheus? This tragic creature sleeping before him?

He has no answers. He does not even know her name.

Only that he must save her life.

His mana stirs as he delves through her, seeking any remaining injuries that could impede the progress of her healing mind. If her body strengthens, perhaps she will wake.

For this moment, at least, they share a fate.

***

Thank you so so much for this prompt!!! I got carried away and will have to probably do a Part 2 and Part 3. >.>

My little hearrrrt.

#a solavellan heart beats in my chest #solas #lavellan #ilaana lavellan x solas #my OCs #ilaana and solas 5evaaaaa #solavellan #my writing #solavellan prompt #for abelas-inan #pre-Inquisition fic #haven

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nadas-dirthalen · 6 months ago

Text

she, the mender; he, the break (1)

solas/lavellan, rated T.

synopsis: The one unfortunate enough to take in the Mark has, astoundingly, survived it. Whether that is a miracle or a terrible omen remains to be seen.

content warnings: canon-typical violence, depiction of a canonical seizure, canon-typical profanity, canon-typical religious references, canon-typical depictions of depression.

read on ao3!

One Solas

Four hours after a Dalish mage stumbles from a tear in the Veil, a thumb runs across her limp palm. Its wielder furrows his brow.

A pair of eyes seeks to burn a hole between his shoulder blades, judging by the force of the glare behind him.

“I have no answers,” he tells the human without looking over a shoulder, though it’s not what she—or anyone who knows what befell the Conclave—wants to hear. It’s true enough, at least.

He has no answers as to how this Dalish mage survived what he knows, with grim certainty, should have killed her. Would have killed her lessers. He had counted on it: that his focus, pent up with millennia’s worth of neglected, unspent energy, would eliminate the one unfortunate enough to open it.

The first survivor is enough of a loose end. A walking, talking threat of peril upon all Thedas.

The second is a miracle, for she, at least, is mortal.

Probably.

Under his touch, the mark of his magic thrums, rattling up her nerve. Mercifully unconscious, she does not stir—but even through the thick robe covering most of her form, the summer-grass glow brightens her arm enough for the Seeker behind him to audibly wince.

The magic, from what he can tell, forges deeper into her tissue. Whether to twine with the fabric of her being or rip it apart at the seams, he cannot rightly say.

In these early hours, the only clue she gives is the quick rise and fall of her chest, her breaths shallow. Kept on the floor of a cell, robbed of dignity that she cannot fight to keep, much of her pale blonde hair has fallen free of its high braid. Sweat beads on her forehead one minute, only to cool before the hour’s up.

“You have no answers?” the Seeker behind him prods.

He forces his shoulders not to tighten, knelt by the Dalish’s side as he is. Smiles falsely, even where the Seeker cannot see, so his tone stays congenial. “Not yet.”

Would that he were alone, that he could knock on the bounds of this survivor’s dreams and ask.

What would she offer him, if he did? Would she confess to what ails her, or turn her nose up at his unmarked face, as so many of her kin? Or, so far from home, would she turn a kinder eye to the human behind him, paying an elven apostate no heed?

In the Fade, none might delay him much: none left alive can rightly keep the skies of their dreams from darkening with their unspoken fear. And when the realm folds around them, confounding mortal senses, none can truly flee far.

Whatever the truth of her prognosis, one thing is certain. Even under the press of his thumb, summoned by his silent call, the magic of his focus will not uncoil from her bones.

Whatever the Dread Wolf of her people’s legend has unwillingly given her, she is doomed to the consequence.

He could almost call it irony.

As day lapses into night, the Dalish survivor is unaware that every witness within a mile bickers over her fate.

They are calling her a miracle. They are calling her a monster.

It has not dawned on any of them that she could ever be a victim.

He has, in spite of the Seeker’s objections to flame and ammunition, been generously afforded a candle. Its light throws long shadows over the survivor’s drawn expression. Like this, he must lower himself from resting on his heels to squint, inches from her face, in order to track the movement of her eyes behind their lids.

She is dreaming. At least there is that.

His mark has buried itself into her left hand, the green of rifts lighting a slice in her palm despite her skin remaining unbroken. Thus he sits on her left, now, furthest from the cell door. A better vantage for the Seeker, who has left to argue, to scowl at him from all evening.

A poorer vantage to scowl back unseen, but one must accept their occasional losses.

At least like this, his back can rest against the cell’s rear wall, and he can watch the door when he is not watching over the survivor. He keeps it in his periphery while his gaze lowers, half-lidded, as he once again puts two fingers to her wrist to measure her pulse.

Two hours ago, he insisted to the human healer that he could count it perfectly well. The healer looked down at the survivor’s valasslin while he passed over a clipboard, mumbling a request that her pulse be measured and recorded every hour through the night.

That human healer neglected to leave any thanks.

The Dalish’s heartbeat is almost furious against his touch, pounding as though her limp body is sprinting: a pulse that would roar in her ears, if she could hear it. He counts sixty beats in thirty seconds, ignoring the twist of his insides when he releases her to record the finding.

Ten higher than last count. A battle her body has begun to lose.

The healer should be measuring more than her pulse, but his efforts are farcical at best: make a play of trying to keep the survivor alive, keep meticulous record of all the ways this prison has failed her, justify her death was unpreventable because so many watched it unfold. To those yelling over the Dalish’s fate beyond this row of cells, that would be enough to satisfy.

It would assuage their worry, to watch her fade to nothing. To some, it would provide relief. Their Chantry, no longer under threat—nor scrutiny.

They should be measuring her temperature. Whether she perspires. Whether, and how often, she stirs.

It is due diligence—and perhaps atonement—that an elven apostate from nowhere does all three in their stead.

Her brow is warm against his knuckles, but less than it was. Her body adapts to fight the mark. In the harsher chill of night, the cell damp and lightless, her brow is free of sweat, the loose curls once plastered to it hanging free over her temples.

He thinks the barest trace of a frown passes over her at his touch, but it vanishes, her face again serene at rest, too fast for his tired eyes to register.

Once he makes record of all three, writing in the margins of the healer’s notes, he rests his head on the cool stone behind him, allowing his eyes to fall shut until the next hour demands he rise anew.

The survivor screams before the sun can crest the mountains.

He must give her credit: it earns her the attention of all those who’d been content to debate her survival from afar. Within moments, the cell is crowded with everyone endowed with both local renown and an opinion.

The Seeker’s voice is loudest. He supposes he should have expected as much.

“Surely you know what this means, Adan?”

The healer—Adan—is clearly in the Seeker’s good graces enough that his sneer doesn’t earn him retribution. “I don’t understand. Her pulse is normal now. Her fever, gone. And the screaming comes in fits… but why?”

Then, naturally, he turns his puzzled frustration on the nearest apostate.

“You wrote her pulse was high through the night.”

That nearest apostate, still knelt at her side, commendably ignoring the bruising on his tailbone, keeps his voice perfectly level. “I did.”

“And that it didn’t change until the thrashing began.”

“I did, yes.”

“And after administering elfroot to hasten her wakening, it had stopped—”

“Very observant.”

That earns him a scowl from the Seeker and more than a fair few muttered insults from the other half-dozen people inside the cell. More soldiers, someone in Chantry robes convincingly pretending not to tremble behind them.

“Don’t play coy with me, elf,” Adan sneers, pulling the apostate’s attention back.

Before he can brace for some spit curse, the survivor’s hand jerks out from under his. Her spine arches, her ear scraping over the stone when her neck follows suit. His palm lands gently on her shoulder before she can tip herself onto her back, but does nothing to stop the kick of her leg.

“The grey,” she slurs, lips catching the dirt of the cell floor. “The grey…”

“Maker’s fucking breath,” Adan hisses, reeling back. “What is she…?”

“The grey,” the survivor groans again, muscles still tense, unconscious eyes screwed shut.

Every gaze in the room finds his mark on her palm—save for hers. The magic lights stronger, rift-green blazing up the veins of her wrist. Only when it dims do her convulsions ease.

“So it is true,” the Chantry member mutters, soft as prayer. “She is chosen.”

“Chosen?” Adan echoes, whipping back long enough to fire off what is probably a scowl. By the time his attention returns to the Dalish survivor, a more dangerous sort of ire has hardened on his features. “No. This—this mage shit cannot be a sign of anything good.”

“Is that what you call it?” Indignation burns up the apostate’s throat before he can think to smother it. “What you belittle with the profane may well be the only hope you have against the demons amassing beyond these doors.”

“Watch yourself, apostate,” the Seeker warns, a hand on the pommel of her blade.

This time, he meets her glare. “Are you so sure that I am wrong?”

“Enough of this fucking charade,” Adan declares, throwing up his hands in distaste. “Andraste’s ass—there’s not a healer alive who could understand what so possesses her. If she makes it past midday, someone pry me from my drink.”

With that, he shoves through a half-dozen humans, neither sword nor glare leveled against him on the way out. Instead, the prattling Chantry member follows on the healer’s heels, and the Seeker on the Chantry’s, and the soldiers on the Seeker’s.

With them gone, the cell falls silent. Not for the first time, death and the Dread Wolf loom together over the body of a mortal.

The next spasm starts: rigid spine, arching neck. This time, his hand finds not her shoulder, but her wrist. Thumb driven deep into the meat of her palm, he feeds the mark a morsel of his own magic, a beacon sent out over the churning forces inside the survivor’s skin.

A flare of dull green light, and the spasm stops.

Rather than a scream, she surrenders a murmur. “The grey…”

He eases her onto her back, careful not to relinquish her marked palm. Smooths hair from her face with his free hand, another sliver of his magic employed to mend her abraded ear. Dignities the Chantry, the Seeker, and the prison guards, for all their talk of prophecy, still do not afford their Dalish charge.

“I know. I know, lethallan,” he answers, once he is sure no human ears are near enough to question his tongue. “Ir abelas.”

The first attempt on the survivor’s life comes, brazenly, at dusk on the second day.

While the apostate takes a meal a floor above her cell—only at the Seeker’s stubborn insistence—the cell lies guarded by another. When he returns, that other is bent over her motionless body, a dagger unsheathed from their belt.

At his shout, the Seeker barrels down the stairwell past him, shield drawn. She collides with the would-be assailant a second after the noise turns their attention away from the survivor, pinning their body to the floor. Another soldier clamps manacles around the assailant’s wrists, but murmurs assurances that certainly, all was done with the best of intentions.

It is all the apostate can do to quell the urge to send a streak of rift-green sailing past both their faces, goading them to speak their so-called assurances for all the fortress to hear.

As they draw close to move up the stairwell, he meets the assailant’s gaze and mutters, “You know not what you trifle with.”

The Seeker, though she is in earshot, does not listen to the assailant’s bitter retort. Rather, she faces the apostate after several moments, dark circles under her topaz eyes, a hand raking through her short mop of dark hair.

“Do you really think…” she pauses, folding her arms. “Do you really think she could be our only hope?”

She will not look at the survivor, so he does. His mark burns bright even across the room, steadier now. If it hasn’t killed her by now, it won’t.

“I am certain,” he answers. Then, because it is what most everyone here has already decided: “She is a miracle.”

But they have not lived to see millennia wax and wane. They forget a crucial detail.

Miracles, be they borne of flesh or circumstance, have one thing in common.

They should never have been real.

The second attempt on the survivor’s life comes far past nightfall, when the apostate’s eyes are closed.

This time, her would-be killer is the very soldier to have clamped manacles on the first.

When heavy footfalls thunder down the stairwell in answer to the screaming, the apostate watches as they rush toward the soldier—only to reel back when their torchlight glints in the ice pinning their comrade to the wall.

The apostate claims it was self-defense with hardly more than a shrug, failing to flinch in the face of six pointed blades.

Afterward, the Seeker only leaves the cell to sleep.

The dawn of the third day is the last he has the survivor alone.

Bleary-eyed, he parts her lips with the knuckle of his thumb to administer three more drops of elf-root tincture on her tongue, disparaging the common name. When he does, he whispers its name in the language her people have taught her—vhenanalas, heart-root—because it is similar enough to the one he knows.

Once, it was said that all elvhen would wake to their own tongue, like a mother calling children home.

All the Dalish survivor has done, thus far, is frown.

Through the night, the roar of demons from beyond the cell climbed louder. Whiling away the hours, pretending not to hear, he found that the magic of his mark swims through her veins to follow his touch, unless he wills it not to.

Three days, and still he does not know if the mark pains her, or if she’ll do more than knot her brows together or press her lips white-thin when she’s conscious of the new power in her marrow. What he does know is that each hourly administration of elf-root twists her face the same way. When she stirs enough to tilt her jaw, the digits of her right hand curl, but not her left. When the mark of his magic flares brighter, a noise always rises from her throat—one that stops sooner if he makes a single sound, like it had only been seeking an answer. Any answer, he found, once he’d made a series of unintelligible syllables in reply to test the theory.

She fights it on her own, now, even though he no longer risks the press of his thumb over the gash-shaped green. He does not know her name, and yet is powerless to deny her stubborn will.

“Perhaps that is why they have marked you for the Keeper of Secrets,” he mutters to no one, watching the blood-markings beneath her lower lip smooth as she falls motionless once more.

No tip of the jaw, no curled fingers on right hand or left. She slips into relative peace, the ailment of his magic overcome, for now.

He almost laughs, but the sound cuts short. Instead, he whispers, “You will need that stubborn streak, with what lies ahead.”

She never gives him an answer. The next time she frowns, and the next and the next, he speaks in her language until the Seeker wakes.

Vhenanalas. Vhenanalas. Vhenanalas.

Ir abelas. Ir abelas. Ir abelas.

Demons encroach too close to the prison, nearer by the hour. The derisive look the Seeker snaps to him says that where she goes, so, too, will he.

He leaves the survivor because there is more he can do to ensure she lives by holding back the horde outside these walls. He swears she stirs at his hushed goodbye, mouth hanging parted the last time he looks back.

The sun strikes him too brightly, after days without it, worse for its glint on the snow outdoors. The first demon to fall before him collapses with a splinter of ice through its core, and the apology he cannot speak aloud sticks thorns in his chest. There is nothing he can do for it, or anyone, without the focus he’d so callously lost.

By the fifth, a haze settles over his awareness, a guard against the lapping tide of remorse.

The thrum of his magic outside his skin pulls him out of it. Every shriek of these unwilling spirits, painful against his eardrums. Worse, when crossbow bolts find their mark, when the Seeker’s sword sings as it is pulled from her sheath.

He cannot turn with a shade pressing its advantage, instead forced to arc his staff and pull forth the power behind another icy blast. The green of his mark careens into his periphery while he stands rooted, and then the survivor pulls it back—

To shove a lone blade through the demon with her opposite hand, crackling with violet energy.

Then, with his vision still blurred, his ears still ringing… quiet. The last demon of this rift, vanquished. Only his erratic pulse and the remains of his focus thrumming in time with it from the gash-shaped glow in the survivor’s palm.

“Quickly,” he gasps, already moving. Just enough to alert her to what is to come. “Before more come through!”

He has no time to process that she is awake, standing, before his grip curls around her wrist, thumb pressed into the soft of her palm. As with each time before, the magic within—his magic—follows his touch.

In a mockery of his every hope for the Veil, a verdant ray erupts from her skin. Its power plunges into the rift above them both and, under his guidance, sews it shut.

After, only wintry sky remains in its place: no touch of Fade nor lick of its magic. This time there is no great urgency to the quiet that falls. Only the rhythm of the survivor’s ragged breath, as fast it had been the first night.

She slips the mark—her hand—from his grasp. A sliver of warmth leaves his core as it goes.

When he pries his eyes from where the rift once existed, she is already peering up at him. The sight drives another guilty lance through his sternum before any haze can dull the blow.

The green of rifts is threaded around her pupils, tainting even her otherwise stone-grey gaze. His mark—the one that’ll end her life—rooted in her every inch.

Her white-blonde hair is still streaked with the dirt of her cell floor. Her ear’s still red from where he mended scrapes. Dark circles beneath her eyes betray the weakness these days have awarded her.

And under, her panting mouth curves into a disbelieving smile.

“What did you do?”

“I did nothing,” he answers, too fast, avoiding the Seeker’s cutting stare that looms behind the survivor. He neglects to append save for cause the curse that’ll end your life. Instead, amid the stench of slain demons, heedless of the cries of battle still raging on ahead, he summons a pleasing smile. “The credit is all yours.”

The Dalish lowers her eyes, brow furrowing. His world narrows on the way she studies her palm, her own thumb running over the mark, following the curve his had just taken. She concentrates on the motion, repeating it, a thin press to her mouth not unlike the one she makes when heart-root lands on her tongue.

Calculating, now that she is conscious. No longer a simple show of distaste, but an equation she visibly puzzles over.

Her eyes lift to greet his again, something in them hardened now. “You mean this.”

He tries to ignore the way the mark’s thrum strengthens in response to his own dogged pulse. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” he says, just as he’d told the Seeker hours ago. He leaves out and I’m sorry for my role in it. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—and it seems I was correct.”

The Seeker seems just as pleased now as then: barely. “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.”

“Possibly,” he says, just true enough. Something guaranteed, from millennia of knowing, is indeed also possible.

The survivor, meanwhile, watches him still with open curiosity—the sort that borders dangerously on hope. The expression is a dozen questions in itself.

He scrapes another apology from his tongue, searching for some other answer to her wordless prying. Something that will buy them all a little more peace, a little more time.

He manages, if only just, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know!” the dwarf from the cells near theirs interjects, striding closer to the survivor in spite of how her muscles tense. Bearing a wide grin, he jests, “I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

The survivor flexes her fingers around the hilt of her dagger, a mirror of the way her right hand would curl in discomfort. Deliberate, now. Alive. Alive.

The dwarf goes on, “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

The wink he gives the Seeker is met with a scowl.

“It’s…” Blearily, the survivor manages a nod, a new set to her jaw she hadn’t had the mind to employ before. The line of it is sharper as she forces a smile. “Good to meet you, Varric.”

She hadn’t heard his idle chatter in the cell, then—or anything else, apology or otherwise.

“You may reconsider that stance, in time,” the apostate asserts, suppressing a flinch at the line he knows he’s toed. He affixes that careful smile to his face as three sets of eyes land upon him, though only watches the survivor’s.

He’d assumed something of her. Too much. He looks for disdain in her raised brow, or perhaps for ire in the line of her mouth.

“Awww,” Varric mocks, wrenching him from the study. “I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

Chuckles, in truth, can do no else but blink, just once. The survivor weighs the expression, watching in silence—whether a haze like his, simple fatigue, or something else.

“Absolutely not,” the Seeker takes over, voice stern. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but…”

The raven blood-marked in the Dalish’s face shifts as she borders on a smirk. Haughty, irreverent, when it is her braids pulled half-free from days of unconscious tumult, her ill-fitting armor stained with all manner of dirt and damp.

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?” the dwarf goes on a distant two steps away. Neither the apostate or the survivor turn to watch. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

“Ugh.”

“My name is Solas,” spills from the apostate’s mouth, heedless of his will, near an entire minute too late. “If there are to be introductions.”

Varric and the Seeker stop to raise their brows in unison. The survivor, understandably, fails to mask her confusion.

“I am…” Pinned under three stares, he has no hope of uttering even a false explanation, nor an apology, nor anything to explain away the same dirt and damp staining his coat, three days and nights of foregone hygiene. “Pleased to see you still live.”

Pleased does not touch the bone-deep relief, nor the chill of dread that none of them can hope to grasp, but he still does not know her name. This will have to suffice.

Varric only laughs sharper, grins wider. “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

That, too, Solas supposes.

The survivor hums the beginnings of a laugh, low in her throat. Her crooked smile dimples a cheek, undeterred by the biting wind tousling the knotted strands of her hair. The green of his mark blazes in her eyes, crinkled at their corners. “Then I owe you my thanks.”

And her wrath, but that seems inconsequential, with demons in uproar higher on the hill.

Everything does, outside of the fact that she still draws breath. That all this might yet be undone.

“Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process,” he tells her. And, because three days and nights with her life in his hands is too long not to know: “Tell me your name.”

Ithalia.

One of the many names rippling across Haven on whispering tongues. Ithalia Haleir Lavellan. Herald. Miracle. Divine.

They can afford to whisper, to do anything but run for their lives, because it is she—without his touch—that has sealed the Breach and mended the heavens.

Three more days and nights she sleeps, but this time, no seed of doubt roots in Solas’ core.

He is certain: she will live long enough to mend the very world he aims to break, before it can be made whole again.

#this is my first attempt at dragon age fanfiction #i am doing my best!!#i just had to figure out how these two nerds fall in love ok #solavellan #dragon age inquisition #solas x lavellan #solas dragon age #dragon age #da:i #da:inquisition

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bingerzone · 3 months ago

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Hey!! So about the OCs in your most recent art post, what’s going on there? I see a lot of drama there and i would love to know more 👀

I love you for asking this. Insane amount of lore under the cut. I'll also be adding the art I've already done when I talk about that part of the story! Btw fair warning this Yaoi sure can toxic!!! (Some light cnc and sex is mentioned)

So, firstly, I'll explain who these ocs are :)

So, this is Dios Apate- he is a hexblood who, after running away from his mother at 14, was raised by a thieves guild known as The Veil- mostly by it's leader, Erwin Mourningmoon. He's a cocky, flirtatious conman who probably? Maybe? Has a heart of gold under all of his greed, but with him actively trying to hide any hint of goodness in him, who's to say?

(^Art by @kiwibyrd ) Ok, next up,

Dante is the son of Erwin Mourningmoon, Heir to The Veil and Dios's childhood friend. They were trained side by side by Erwin, who, much to Dante's chagrin, treated Dios like a second son (Although they never saw each other as anything even close to brothers- in fact, Dios had a crush on Dante from a young age). One day, Dante overheard his father and a higher-up in the guild discussing which of Erwin's "sons" would inherit the guild- and the moment Dios's name left his father's mouth Dante ran off, not listening to the rest of the conversation... So, Dante planned to have Dios arrested by tipping off the guards where the next place he would be robbing was. That... didn't quite go as planned. The guards decided one dirty street kid wasn't worth the trouble, and decided to just kill Dios outright. However, Erwin, who had a bad feeling about the job, had been tailing Dios, and jumped to his rescue- only to fall after taking down well over a dozen guards. Dios believed he was caught because of his own stupidity- and therefor, that Erwin's death was his fault... so he ran. However, in The Veil, when you fuck up, there is a way to atone. A gift is traditional- but it must be as valuable as the mistake you made. So, Dios set off to be the richest man the city had ever seen, hoping to give everything he had to Dante- the new leader of The Veil- and beg for forgiveness for causing the death of his father. Dios finds himself in a new land- a new continent altogether, about to start the pre-written adventure Call of the Netherdeep (We haven't started yet, we gotta finish Strahd, so to stave off my brainrot I have been just talking about possible things that could happen with my partners- after this point none of it has actually happened yet, and might not happen at all, but I consider it a type of canon, even if it won't be canon to the main timeline) So, that's when Dios meets Harlow

Harlow Goldbriar belongs to my boyfriend @aberranteidolon ! He is an Earth Genasi paladin who has a stick so far up his ass that you can see it when he talks. Harlow is a walking weapon, and is treated like nothing but a tool by his peers and family. He is serious and convicted, which makes him the perfect toy for Dios to play with. And, even better, he's married! (Little does Dios know it's a loveless, abusive marriage- his wife married him only for the precious little gem in his chest. She has plenty of jewelry made from his amethyst heart). Still, Dios has zoned in on this man and is dead set on fucking him and ruining his marriage, for fun. Dios is a little shit. They get into many, many arguments and physical altercations, and whether they admit it or not, getting each other bloody and panting is the most they've ever enjoyed themselves. And yet, when he finally see's Harlow's heart for one reason or another (probably in a 'only one bed' situation lets be real) he realizes two things. 1. Inside of Harlow is the biggest gem he's ever seen, and not only is it huge, it's laced with magic. This alone could pay off his debt to Dante, and 2. He can't do it. Harlow is asleep beside him, and his fingers are wrapped around the sharp stone- it would be easy, just one tug and it was his and Harlow would be gone. But he can see the way Harlow's chest is rising and lowering in his sleep, and the way his expression is so soft, so serene... and he lets it go, deciding to make his fortune in other ways.

They grow increasingly obsessed with each other, and just closer in general. Dios starts sneaking copies of Harlow's favorite book series (trashy vampire romance, of course) into his bags while he's away. Dios's flirting starts to really get to Harlow, and he can tell there's something... wrong. He's actually considering cheating on his rich, powerful wife with this sneaky little thief... all because it's the first time he's ever felt loved.

After weeks of adventuring together, the tension FINALLY snaps and they fuck. We have many, many ideas for how their first time would go, but my personal favorites are "A fight gets so sexually charged that Harlow just starts fucking him" and "Dios says it's not cheating on his wife if Harlow doesn't consent and fucks Harlow while Harlow half-heartedly goes 'wait, dios, no, please' and makes absolutely no move to stop him".

The second one is extra fun because if Harlow wanted to he could easily toss Dios across the room, and has before. From there, it goes from sexual tension to romantic tension...

And then, Dante enters the picture again. We don't know why yet or how it will go down, just that we will have the ability to have him in our party at some point. So, of course, Harlow and Dante don't get along at ALL. Harlow is jealous of how sweet Dios is around Dante, and of how close they are/how long they have known each other, and Dante is jealous of how head-over-heels Dios is for Harlow and how Harlow has actually had sex with him. Dios has been in love with Dante since they were kids of course, but he is also deeply in love with Harlow at this point and terrified of it. It leads to some fun possessiveness and probably some rockin "I bet I could pleasure him better than you" sex that Dios gets stuck in the middle of :3

Eventually, though, they all start to get closer. Still- Harlow confesses to Dios first. Dios is the first person to ever treat him like... a person. The first person to be upset on his behalf, the first person to learn about his interests, the first person to hold him softly and treat him with reverence, like he was fragile... It sort of breaks something in Dios to hear the confession, so he completely reverts to his old self and laughs in his face, "Love me? You don't even know me! I... I can't believe you fell for my loverboy act, are you an idiot? I... I could never fall for... I would never..." And he just runs off, and Harlow is left alone. Dante tells him to chase him- and Harlow does- he finds Dios hiding, nearly sobbing in a closet, and he holds him. He holds Dios tighter than he's ever held him, and Dios scratches and bites and says awful things to try and get away, but Harlow doesn't let him. He holds him and takes every bit of it until Dios calms down, telling him over and over again that he loves him and that he's not going to let him run off so easily... and once Dios's body is exhausted from thrashing and his voice raw from yelling, he says "I love you too."

And, this part is far less developed, but eventually Dante and Dios get together romantically as well, and it becomes a hinge polycule... Dante starts off a shitty little asshole- he's always treated Dios like his property, and he didn't start getting better until he realized if he didn't start treating Dios well, someone else would. He does love Dios- I think he has for a while- but that doesn't mean he respects him as an equal. On his adventure, Dios gains a lot of self confidence and the ability to stand up to Dante, which scares Dante to death. He has to learn to respect Dios, or lose him forever, and he mostly does the former, eventually. Because Harlow puts the fear of god in him lmao. I have no idea what would happen if Harlow found out that Dante is the reason that Erwin died, and was the reason Dios almost died... but the drama would be fucking INTENSE. If Dios found out (which he probably would) He would attack Dante, using only his fists, no daggers or rapiers, and Dante would take every hit while Dios dissolves into a sobbing mess above him. I love the idea of Dios's voice cracking "I... Dante I loved you..." and him responding through busted lips, "I love you too."

That's a lot of it, but far from all of it, so if you have any more questions or want more info on certain parts, PLEASE ask, I LOVE talking about them so fucking much!!!!!!! And here's the TLDR (An old thing I made honestly before they were very developed at all:)

#my art #dungeons and dragons #d&d #call of the netherdeep #cotn #dios apate #harlow goldbriar #dante mourningmoon #oc lore #lore drop #oc #gay #polyamory #polycule

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thewhumpcaretaker · 11 months ago

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The Broken Veil: Chapter 2 - The Price to Pay

Special thanks to this Reddit post for helping me follow the canon timeline as faithfully as possibly until the points that they diverge.

TW: suicide attempt, negative self-talk, grief, dissociation, canon-typical violence

Summary: John Wick has just agreed to kill Gianna D'Antonio, repaying the marker that gave him a life with Helen. However, Helen is trying to contact John from the afterlife, to show him that it is possible to stop the cycle of violence – not by forfeiting his own life, but by creating a fundamental shift in international systems and perhaps even the balance of good and evil in this world. But he doesn’t have to do it alone. She’s coming back.

“Heathcliff, if I were you, I’d go stretch myself over her grave and die like a faithful dog. The world is surely not worth living in now, is it?” - Nelly Dean, Wuthering Heights

John sets the rose down quickly and glances around the room, as if he expects to see a ghost. But of course he doesn’t expect that. This can’t be happening.

Don’t try to figure out whether it’s happening. Think about the message. What does it matter whether it was Helen or not? The question is, if she really could hear him, would she accept his offering of love in this form? In the form of killing an old friend and handing a win to a man like Santino? In the form of deepening his own damnation? No. Offer not accepted.

But this is all I have to give. His fists clench in frustrated confusion as he sinks into a chair. He’s been lying to himself because he’s desperate, because he has nothing left. What do you want from me, Helen? The only other option I see is death. Maybe he should just take that instead. If someone has to give their life for the time he spent with her, it should be him. He never deserved her to begin with.

There’s no time for this. It’s almost 6 PM. He has less than two hours to get ready and get to the concert at the D’Antonio Estate. He’ll figure something out. Just go, and figure something out.

***

She tried to reach him over and over again.

She tried to reach him when he was taking a sledgehammer to the concrete in the basement.

She tried to reach him as he stalked Iosef to the Red Circle.

She tried to reach him whenever he thought of her.

She tried to reach him as he rampaged over that fucking car.

She tried to reach him every time she felt something slam almost fatally into his body, whether bullet or fist. And that was quite a few times.

But the time had not yet come. She can see pieces of things, and she knows that she will come to him in Rome if she comes at all. It’s a matter of gathering her strength, and perhaps something more important, more like timing. Or fate.

This was the closest attempt yet. She celebrates an enormous victory. It required proportionally enormous effort. But she will have to keep trying. “The only other option I see is death.” It would be so easy for John to get it into his head that she’s given up on him. If only she had some way to be more specific, to use her own words rather than stolen snippets from his surroundings, but words are almost impossible. Almost. They feel so close now.

She can hardly tell if she is more exhausted or excited or hopeful. She cannot tell if her exhaustion and excitement and hope are her own or John’s. But she is herself, she has a self. It is almost like…existing.

She keeps clawing forward, towards that surface, towards that glass. “Forward,” yes, “towards.” Direction. Motion. Location. Effort. These are returning to her.

***

Sheer dread. It’s bad to go into a job not knowing whether you plan to finish it. It’s beyond bad. It’s lunacy. But he’s wearing hundreds of thousands of dollars in other people’s money just between the suit and the weapons, which feel suddenly heavy. There’s a good chance Santino’s people are watching, to keep him in line. To walk away at this stage…the humiliation alone is formidable, let alone the logistical challenges. And why? Because a ghost told him to - maybe. It’s lunacy. No. Finish it. Or at least keep clawing forward in denial for as long as possible.

His mouth is dry as he stalks towards the unguarded gate to the catacombs under the D’Antonio Estate, a hulking, dark shadow in time with the eight o'clock church bells. On autopilot, he places guns throughout the ruined tunnels, to collect on the way back after she’s dead. Distant music filters down through the rubble and stone. What he is doing now…this is a part of the kill. The kill is in progress. What the fuck is he going to do when he’s standing in front of the target?

He sees her, moving towards her chambers, and follows. Cassian, her bodyguard, walks at her side. He knows Cassian too – another old friend. Their gaits are easily attuned and their glances a little more tender than the role requires. And John…John is here to sever the link between them, to plunge her into the abyss where Cassian can never see her again. At the very least, Cassian should be spared if he can make it happen.

It’s his luck that she dismisses him from her side as she goes to her boudoir.

***

And Gianna is alone.

She circles the luxurious pool surrounded by aromatic candles, thinking over the day, allowing herself to slip into a moment of relaxation as she dabs at her makeup…and she sees John Wick in the mirror.

His body is perfectly poised; there is no feature of his expression that could be deemed any more or less composed than any other. Yet there is something profoundly and openly…embarrassed about the way he carries himself. Its total detachment betrays a sore spot to detach from. The way he waits to speak, arms hanging at his sides…if he were not about to end her life, she would say he looked sheepish.

“John.” The way she says it sounds like, “No, god, no.”

“Gianna.”

She turns to face him. “There was a time not so long ago in which I considered us as friends.”

“I still do.” He steps smoothly around the pool, making no effort to conceal the pistol in his hand.

“Yet here you are. [In Italian] Death’s very emissary.” She surveys him, all in black, his feet planted. “What brought you back, John?”

He places the words in front of her, more than speaks. “A marker.”

“Held by?”

He looks almost pained. “Your brother.” There’s pity for her…no, there’s real sorrow for her.

She glances away. Anger can’t rise too far in her, because of course this was coming. She should have known. The only thing to do now is to face it fighting. She paces closer to him and meets his gaze head on. “Tell me, John. This marker…is it how you got out?” A nod. “And what was her name? This woman whose life has ended my own?” She laces her voice with more disdain than she truly feels.

“Helen.” As always, a bitter joy stirs in him, just to say it. There’s wonder in that word.

“Helen,” Gianna repeats, lightly, almost mockingly. His head tilts as if he wants desperately to turn away from her, as if it pains him to hear say it like that. Yes, this is the right spot to hit. “This Helen,” as she casually approaches him even closer, within arm’s length now, “was she worth the price that you now seek to pay?”

It’s too difficult for him to speak and she gets another nod. How nice. “Now, let me tell you what happens when I die. Santino will lay claim to my seat at the Table. He will take New York. And you,” glancing up and down him in disgust, “will have been the one who gifted it to him.” Now her disdain is real and she lets him read all of it, then turns and walks back to the mirror.

She throws off her fur coat. His half squint seems to beg for mercy. If she would take a swing at him, if she would run, this would be so much easier. But she has no intention of making this easy for him. She lets her glittering gown slip to the floor, restraining the movement of his eyes, which lock respectfully onto her face. Slowly, she circles up the steps above the pool, and looks vulnerably over her shoulder at his unmoving figure, letting her curls fall to the center of her back. “What would your Helen think about that, John?” He walks towards her involuntarily. He’s afraid of what she might do. Good.

She takes up her concealed knife, and wades into the pool. He looks desperate, circling her as if hypnotized. She can see his longing to stop this. She turns away from him, totally exposed to gunfire, then looks abruptly back over her should, hovering the knife above her wrist. “What would your Helen think about you?”

It cuts deeper than her knife ever could.

“Stop.” She can’t quite believe it. He is too well trained – why would he let her get under his skin? This is her way of fighting back in her final moments, but for it to work…well, that’s almost a disappointment. More likely, this is a trick.

“So you can do it yourself?” He shakes his head. What a puppy. He looks utterly at a loss, and she can see now how fast he’s breathing. The moment stretches forever.

“I asked her what she would think.” He reaches into his breast pocket…and pulls out an orange rose. “Early today, I burned this rose as a symbol of the kill. Now it is whole again.”

Gianna looks at him in confusion, in pity. He’s lost his mind. Losing Helen destroyed him.

He places the rose on the surface of the pool, turns, and he’s walking away.

Her voice echoes down the stone archways after him. “John! You are prepared to face your death?” He stops. “You know what it means to deny the marker.”

“The price that I now seek to pay…is one life. Mine.”

Tragic, what has happened to this once-vicious man. She opens her mouth to speak, to call him back to his senses as she would want someone to do for her if she was ever so debased by love, but self-preservation halts her. Let him walk.

He walks.

***

It's a short walk out of the catacombs, into the palatial concert venue where strobing spotlights rise from the ruins into the blackness of night. There are so many people. Dancers in their 20s, old widows with grandchildren at home, couples, politicians, musicians. The sight of them is suddenly unbearable. He just stands there, still too close to the archway leading into the restricted access area in the catacombs.

“What would your Helen think of you?”

“Offer not accepted.”

The surprise on Gianna’s face, the relief, the purity of walking away…It drives home to him how much wrong he’s done. How many times he didn’t walk away.

I’m a murderer. I’m nothing but a murderer, and she would never accept it. I failed her. I can’t even bring myself to regret them all. Iosef, Viggo…but then so many of my own friends. And strangers. Sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers… How many people…? So many bodies… I don’t know how many people I’ve killed. Most men on this Earth haven’t killed even once and would never forget it.

He hates that a man like that has ever laid eyes on Helen. He hates that he’s ever touched her with the hands that he’s seen around so many throats, gouging out eyes, pulling triggers…over and over again, so many times that it’s muscle memory. He hates, and it makes him want to kill. He wants to kill, and he can’t.

He can’t kill others. But himself…a man may do what he likes with his own life.

John walks slowly forward. The world is glazed over with dissociation and the music is so far away. Is anything real? That stage, a kaleidoscope of lights. What a strange stage. That depthless black sky. What a strange sky. Has he really done all those things?

Did Helen really return the rose?

Are these people around him the people that he’s killed? People that he will kill?

“John?”

He’s pulled back to himself. “Cassian.”

“You working?” Cassian’s face says he sure as hell hopes not.

He hesitates. It might as well be Cassian. He’d rather die by the hand of a man in love than by the hand of Santino’s men. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long, horrible pause. “Good night?” Is she dead?

“Afraid so.” That will piss him off enough to fire.

There’s rage in Cassian’s eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He fires. John fires back at the same instant, knowing the body armor will hold. It’s a mere opening threat but it still hurts enough to level them both instantly to the ground. Pain shoots through his abdomen and awakens something in him. He scrambles backward and runs. Other guards are helping Cassian to his feet and he turns the other way, running for Gianna.

John doesn’t question why he’s running, or why he’s still clinging to his gun. All he knows is that the adrenaline has hit, sickening, sweet, instinctual, pulling him back into his body. God, he’s so afraid to die.

The guards pursue him. Cold metal in his hands as he vaults over a railing into the back of the stage. Get back to the gate, across the crowd. They’re on him as he stumbles forward onto the stage, he puts one down. The crowd goes wild, thinking it’s part of the show. He jumps down and he’s firing among them now, guards are falling dead in their midst. Screams drown in the techno beat. Dashing forward into an open stretch, almost to the gate, but they close around him from all sides. One, two, three, four, five, six dead as he pushes through, relentless.

He takes cover against a ruined wall to reload. Almost there. A gun swings around the corner into his face and he fires on instinct, then keeps firing at the next, then at four more coming at him from the side, flipping bodies to the ground, holding a man’s head flush against the gun to ensure he stays down. No one has eyes on him now as he lays against the wall taking shelter in the shadows, a monster at one with the darkness, too wired to bother quieting his ragged breathing. The catacombs leading to the gate are right across from him. He looks both ways and plunges forward into the near darkness of the tunnel, pierced only by periodic floodlights for safety.

For a moment, he’s still spinning with the gun at eye level, hyper-vigilant, but the tunnel’s empty. He’s alone. Finally, he allows himself to groan in pain and clutch at his own chest, stumbling backwards, miserable. At his touch, crushed rounds fall from the bulletproof lining and scatter, tinging on the rocky floor.

He killed again. He’s bad at not killing, and it’s not the sort of thing you get to try and fail at. He failed immediately. He panicked, and he didn’t want to let go of her memory, and he killed. The cost of his existence is other people’s lives, and he doesn’t have the willpower to stop it.

He feels worse than he did after walking away from Gianna. Lower than low.

The tide of reality is going out again. This is bad. He’s in a stone tunnel under the D’Antonio estate, but is he? Or is he in a misty void? Are these his arms, his hands? Is he hallucinating that strange vastness that opens out beyond the dark? Not even a vastness, but…a region without space, without distance or time. He sees it as if through glass.

He beats at his vest where the bruises are already forming, trying to flood himself with another hit of adrenaline. It’s just enough to get him walking again, staggering along the escape route he memorized a few hours ago, forward into that depthless region fazing in and out around him.

There’s someone standing in his path. Ares. The two size each other up at a great distance, a skylight pouring a street lamp’s yellow fire across them from above.

Santino must have sent someone to eliminate him if he doesn't follow through. He calls to her, “I’m done. For good.”

“You’re right about that.”

A long pause. Then his gun clatters to the ground and he drops to his knees. “I accept my fate.”

“You of all people?”

He nods.

Ares squints suspiciously but she raises her pistol. She fires.

Author's note: If that got you down, don't worry - the comfort is coming soon.

#john wick #john wick fanfic #john x helen #john wick whumpee #gianna d’antonio #whump fic #emotional whump #angst #hurt/no comfort #assassin whumpee #ao3 crosspost

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probssomethingorother · 11 months ago

Text

🚨NEW CHAPTER! 🚨

Derail the mind of me: a tlou fanfic

I made you all wait an incredibly long time for this update, so you get an incredibly long chapter. Hope you all enjoy :)

Winter after Silver Lake, Drug Abuse/Misuse, canon compliant-ish

Ellie, Joel, David (Mentioned)

Rating: Teen

“You feelin’ alright?” “-ffeelnnn,” she breathed, only to trail off. He was moving towards her in an instant, practically sliding into a crouch in front of her. Inches apart, he could now tell she was much paler than he realized, and a thin veil of sweat visibly coated her skin. His heart rate quickened as his eyes met her pinpoint pupils, before trailing down to her lips, edges just turning a hint of purple. Something was clearly not right. ----- Joel promised Ellie things would get better come spring. They haven't. Ellie goes looking for the solution at the bottom of a little orange bottle.

Chapter 2/5 --- Words: 14,322 -- UPDATED TODAY 2/15/23

Live laugh love, comment subscribe reblog - that's how it goes right??

Read chapter 2 on AO3 here or down below ⤵️

She thumps her feet heavy into the moist ground, shifting her weight from left to right, trying to match Joel’s big stride. She clunkily places her boots exactly where his were and it produces an audible squelch when her foot pushes further into the now puddly prints he leaves behind. The light of her flashlight hanging from her shoulder strap dances through the trees, bobbing around high and low as her body sways back and forth with each exaggerated step.

Months and months ago, he would have told her to knock it off - “this ain’t a disco, stop with the light show” - but he lets her get away with certain things more often now, corrects her less and less.

She knows it’s rooted in the same reason why he’s gotten more chatty when she goes quiet, scrounges around for cassette tapes and colored pencils when they should be looking for supplies, and hasn’t won a game of gin rummy in over a month - but, she doesn’t like to think too much about all that.

“How much longer?”

The words come crackly out her throat, dry from disuse, and it sounds much more sad then she actually feels - which surprisingly is tired but not bad - not like most of her other days.

Joel quickly glances over his shoulder at her, but doesn’t break his pace. “Don’t know exactly,” he mulls as he turns his head fully back around, “maybe forty? ‘nother two mile or so.”

She nods in acknowledgment with a low hum to match.

He’s having them walk well past dark which is a rare occurrence, but over dinner he said he could feel a storm “brewin’ in his bones” and wanted to reach the park cabins before they turned in for the night - if she could manage it.

The ask had been hesitant at best, apprehensive at worst.

That was two hours ago, or at least that’s what it feels based on the dull ache in her feet. She doesn’t want to complain - only asks the question to manage her expectations and stamina because she’s tired of always slowing them down.

So she does her best to keep her energy up, maintain pace with his alert yet increasingly weary gait. Dragging behind a couple of steps she can’t see his face, but she can still see his head moving just a hair from side to side, eyes scanning the shadowed underbrush with open ears to the rustle of leaves and distant animal cries that blend in with their footsteps. She occupies herself by counting the times he goes to crack his knuckles - sometimes against his thigh, sometimes folding his hands together and bending them back. She tries to mimic him once, but where he continuously gets big pops, she gets nothing.

They pause for a quick stop, Joel finding a sturdy looking tree and bracing one outstretched arm against it.

“What’s those things people used to use to find water?” she asks curiously, keenly watching him flex his knee back and forth like the stretching is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

“What things?” He counters, voice a little muffled as he bends and reaches his hand to wiggle around his knee cap through his jeans.

“It was like a stick or something?”

He straightens with a bemused huff and looks to her. “Divining rod,” he supplies with a small shake of his head and an eye roll, dropping his hand away from the tree.

“Yeah. That…,” she puffs out as she steps back and settles in next to him shoulder to shoulder, “...are you like a human one of those?”

With one final shake out of his leg, he starts walking again and simultaneously throws her a hard smirk, although unmistakably warm. “Those things ain’t real.”

“So -” “-It’s the air pressure..when you get -” he starts only to trail off.

Ellie’s face begins to light up, a smile slowly crawling up the sides of her face with anticipation. She knows she’s got him. “Say it,” she teases, her voice a mix of challenge and amusement as she bumps playfully into his shoulder.

“That’s not-” “- nope! finish your sentence!”

Joel drags in a long breath, his gaze momentarily lifting to the starry sky. With another small shake of his head, he relents, and Ellie’s smile grows even bigger, eyebrows raising up and down as she waits for the words to come out his mouth.

“When you get old…you can feel these things in your joints.” “Ha - see! You are an old hag.”

An honest giggle slips out of her mouth. It sounds foreign to even her own ears. Joel tries to hide his grin from her, ducking his head and smiling at the ground, but she sees it anyway. Pleasantly content and feeling suddenly more energized, she hustles a few paces past him.

She hasn’t caught him up in a good joke in a while - it wasn’t a pun or anything, but she used to be able to walk him into lame jokes like this all the time.

“Ole’ man Joel,” she continues to tease, turning around to face him as she walks backwards. Her flashlight hits his form, and his raised brows and goofy grin just adds more fuel to the sudden bubbliness in her chest. As she bumbles backwards with a pep in her step, she continues to push the joke amongst soft laughs:

“Or should I say elderly?” “Ellie -” “That’s like.. less offensive, right?” “Don’t be walkin’-” “- Oh come’on can’t tak- ”

She’s cut off by the sound of snapping wood and dirt shifting.

It’s a stupid misstep. Dumb, really.

He was trying to warn her.

She knows what’s happening right when her foot makes contact, heel hitting air when it should be hitting solid ground. The wet loose earth under the tip of her boot shifts, the edge of the obscured embankment breaking off from under her.

Her eyes go wide in disbelief and wth a hitched breath, she lurches backwards and falls down.

The world spins—a blur of dark tree tops and specks of starry sky peeking through the gaps in their branches. Her backpack digs into her spine as she collides with the sloping side hard, head quickly following suit and bouncing off the ground. Her feet are over her head before she can even try to stop it, and rolls and rolls like a ball down the incline.

Her arms flail about, trying to get ahold of something, but her hands come up empty - dirt just digging under her nails as she scratches at the ground. She fights to keep her eyes open - track which way is up - but it really matters little. It’s basically pitch black, moonlight obscured by the side of the hill and flashlight snuffed out as she and it gets beaten into the dirt. Her face scrapes against roots and rocks as she rolls and rolls.

A sharp crack against something solid halts her descent.

Her eyes shoot open, as the pain splinters through her. Her jaw goes slack as she struggles to blink the abrupt and agonizing sensation. She lies there, gasping, the forest spinning above, head still feeling as if it’s tumbling down. Her hand brushes against rough bark when she reaches out to see what she's nailed against.

Slowly, she peels herself away from the tree with a throaty rough groan, settling on her back, supine to the sky. She sinks into the cold wet ground, and it’s only then that she realizes she has lost her backpack sometime on the way down. When she looks up, little flecks of stars are filling her vision; she screws them shut for a long moment, hoping they will disappear, but of course they are painted on her inner eyelids just the same.

She tries to take a breath in, but it feels like someone has replaced the air with shards of glass.

Distantly, she hears her name, but it's muddled behind a much more prominent ringing in her ears. Her ponytail scrapes roughly against the ground as she moves her head in the direction it's coming from, and pries her eyes back open. The light of Joel’s flashlight catches her and she squints against its onslaught. It’s far away, dimmer than it could be, but it's still quite the contrast against the inky black where she landed.

"Talk to me, kiddo,” he calls, as he hastily makes his way the last few feet down from higher up on the hill. “Ellie?” Hitting a slick patch of dirt - her name comes out choppy from his mouth and she sees his feet slide, knees awkwardly bending, almost falling down on his butt with the misstep, but he recovers quickly.

She blinks - perhaps longer than normal - and when her eyes come open he’s at her side.

"I'm... okay," she lies, the words barely a whisper, more a strangled puff of air, laced with the effort it took to push them out.

For a quick moment, she catches his face passing through vision as he hovers above - a complex tapestry of concern, discontent, and relief - as he quickly sheds his rifle and backpack and sets aside the flashlight, before settling into a kneel at her side.

When she attempts to suck in another breath through her nose, and then her mouth, it doesn't get anywhere past her throat. Her chest rattles as she tries again, only slightly more successful this time. "Can’t... breathe..." she manages to hiccup, the words punctuated by her struggle for air.

“Okay..okay, don’t worry, got the wind knocked out of ya’ is all,” he tells her as one of his hands comes gently to the top of her head.

A weird sort of grunt takes the place of any words when she attempts to explain that she knows why, but was really more just thinking out loud. After Silver Lake he taught her about “ABC”s - airway, breathing, circulation. He muttered the letters to himself as he rushed through checking her when they finally had put a safe distance between them and the town. Days later, after a prolonged stint of quietness she sheepishly asked, “what was with the alphabet?” He explained and she cataloged it firmly in her brain. Minus the breathing she hadn’t done any of those checks after he was stabbed and wanted to be prepared for next time. She didn’t think this would be the next time, but “ABC” was still jingling through her head nonetheless. B - breathing, can’t breathe.

"Don't try to talk if it hurts," Joel instructs, his voice steadier than his hands - they betray a slight tremble as he reaches out to gently examine her. "Just... just nod or shake your head for me, alright?"

Her chest spasms with another failed breath. She nods and squishes her eyes closed. His dry fingers sneak behind her neck and then move down, anxiously giving little squeezes as he works from her shoulders to her hands. Ellie knew it was coming, yet still the primal part of her brain starts to take over; goosebumps wash over her skin while a voice in her head screams for her to get him off. Logically, she knows his hands can’t possibly stay on her forever, but her brain is intrusively telling her it's just the beginning.

She thought this was behind her - it hasn’t happened in a couple of weeks, and even longer because of him. The burgeoning panic mixes with a sharp twang of frustration. She clenches her jaw tight, focuses on the sound that fills her head when she scrapes her molars against each other and attempts to blink away the panic.

When his eyes flick to hers after coming to an end at her wrists, they dilate wide, and he immediately recalls his hands sharply, as if touching something hot. He whispers a series of soft “sorry”s as he shakes his head and snatches up his flashlight instead. He sucks in a breath through his teeth as he resumes appraising her legs with the light - one bent up at the knee the other splayed out straight - relatively unscathed minus a small tear in her jeans.

The air that seemed to be sucked out of her is starting to return and Ellie wiggles in her spot, trying to get some sort of traction to sit up. She lifts her head weakly, but it’s all a lame effort.

Joel's voice cuts through the heavy silence, firm yet laced with an underlying concern that's become all too familiar - borderline patronizing. "Just stay put for a second, alright?"

His tone brooks no argument, but it's the worry etched in the lines of his face that makes her drop her head back into the ground, more than the command itself. She hates when he has that look - like he’s handling glass.

He leans in closer and points the flashlight just past her so it doesn’t burn directly into her eyes. It illuminates the mud and dirt smeared across her cheek, and highlights a fresh scrape that's begun to weep a little. "You hit your head?" The question feels more like a formality; they both know the answer - he can see it, she can feel it.

Yet, she also knows what he’s really asking - “concussion?”

Ellie would rather eat rocks for dinner than have another. The last one slowed them down for so long, wore both their patience thin, and made her absolutely fucking miserable.

She shakes her head no - maybe in denial, maybe in fear of living that reality again. His eyes narrow, and she doubles down, voice still rough around the edges, “no, no - just scraped it I think.” She lightly brings her hand to the spot on her cheek that stings and wipes at it, like somehow that would also brush away his worry.

His gaze shifts, and so does she, propping herself up onto her elbows with a wince.

"Same ribs as before?" The question hangs between them, loaded and heavy.

The same ribs that were cracked by a steel-toe boot to the stomach. Ribs that caused ample bouts of tears, sleepless nights, and so much trouble. At least one had been broken, several others deeply bruised down to the bone , and even when her concussion started fading the ache from her ribs remained strong. Joel worried they weren’t healing up because she wasn’t eating as much - calcium deficiency or something. When they spotted a mountain goat one day, he even barrelled after it - thought if he could catch it, he could milk it, and get her the nutrients she needed. For many reasons, that didn’t work; and it took longer than either of them wanted, but finally her ribs had started to feel truly back to normal two weeks ago.

Short lived now.

With a weak nod, she can't help the roll of her eyes, annoyance flickering through. Better one moment, broken the next. Same story of the last couple of months.

Guilt worms its way through her as Joel solemnly shakes his head and drags in another deep breath that he releases through hollowed out cheeks.

“ ‘m good though,” she pushes out as she braces her arm around her midsection and propels herself into a sitting position. Joel’s hands immediately fly to her back in support, but she nudges him off with a roll of her shoulders.

“Not in any rush,” he tells her gently as he leans back on his haunches.

A distant clap of thunder says otherwise. It echoes not a breath after his sentence leaves his lips and his heels hit his butt. Comically timed, perfect really.

They exchange glances with the sky and each other, and then Joel is back to all work and no play in an instant. His old man joints squeak as he gets up from the ground, retrieves his pack and rifle, and slugs them over his back.

“We’ll walk back to that entrance area with the parkin’ hut. Wasn’t no more than twenty minutes,” he tells her as he walks around to her back and gently slips his hands under her armpits to hoist her up.

It irks her how he already has a plan. The way he deploys it - quick without a second thought- feels like it's been in his back pocket, ready to be pulled out the minute she gave up walking, like he knew this was an inevitable outcome.

A little unsteady, her feet scrape across the ground as she tries to rise quicker than Joel’s help allows - beat him at his own game - prove she is more capable than he thinks.

“I can keep going,” she tells him sternly, anger brewing in her chest like how the temperature climbs in Boston in July - hot and thick as the sun peaks high and humidity rolls in.

"We ain’t goin’ to outrun that rain.” He swiftly tells her as if he already practiced this whole conversation in his head. It dawns on her quickly that he probably did.

His hand brushes dirt off her back, a scratchy sort of sound filling the space between them as his rough skin skids along the plasticky polyester of her jacket. He adds, “sounds like it’s comin from ahead," before she can even pull a sentence together in rebuttal.

Her hair is tugged gently as he plucks a twig out from the back of her head. She wishes it was more of a rough sensation, then it would at least fulfill the want in her gut to pry out her own hair from his genuine kindness.

He should be frustrated - like she is. It’s always two steps forward, one step back. He should be mad about that, but he’s not.

He persists in holding the one sided conversation as he breaks away to locate her backpack. She unfurls her arm from around her side and squeezes her irritation into tightly clenched fists, anger mounting.

“You know… I think… you’ve been doin’ better lately,” he calls over his shoulder while casting his light around the hill.

She wants to scream back at him, but her head is torn between yelling that “she hasn’t been” and “of course she has been.”

Her heart skips a beat, a sudden worry superseding all irritation.

Her hand launches into her coat pocket, hoping her secret is still safe and not laying in the path of his flashlight somewhere on the hill. As his light lands on her backpack, her fingers enclose around the small plastic bottle.

The sigh she heaves pulls at her ribs, but the relief washing through her body basically makes up for it, and also bandaids over the festering anger cutting up her insides.

Still, it’s not lost on her the catastrophe that could have just been. She’s good at lying, but she knows in her gut that Joel would have seen right through anything she came up with. He would pluck it from the ground, inspect it with the light, and shake his head with disappointment as she tried to talk her way out of it. Or worse - he could have found it in her pocket when she was stuck on the ground, gasping for air, unable to move his prying eyes and hands away. Had her coat been zipped up, he certainly would have seen the bulge of it in her pocket, fabric tight against her body. That would have been the end.

A long temperamental zipper really is the only thing that has her listening to Joel’s encouraging affirmations rather than an endless lecture would have made her ears bleed.

“Just don’t want you to feel like you gotta prove yourself…” he says sweetly as he plucks her bag from its wedged spot under a bush at the base of the embankment, like this is something he does all the time.

He sort of does.

Thunder booms in the distance again as he crosses back over with it - already opening the straps for her to slip her arms through.

She squeezes the bottle firmly before reluctantly letting it go and withdrawing her hands from her pockets.

The corners of her mouth twitch in pain and a tight whimper scratches her throat as she carefully tries to slip her arms through.

He holds the straps open even wider for her.

“It’s tactical…it’s not ab- it’s good this way, ain’t a big deal - okay?”

The words come out more clumsily than the last several and it's such a stark contrast that she knows he was going off some self-composed script before. And, to only make things worse, the words are said now with the same tone that carried “better by spring” and “it just takes time.”

So she knows he’s lying. Yet, she nods anyway.

----------------

“Hut” is perhaps a generous description of it before.

It’s small - an eight by eight booth at max - with a large L-shaped desk that lines two of the walls accompanied by a set of rolling chairs that really no longer roll, and a tall rusty filing cabinet. The metal yells with a long coarse screech when Joel drags it across the tile, displacing it from the only spot it's known in probably two decades. He braces it tightly against the door to keep the old door from slamming back open under the onslaught of rain- hinges almost torn clean by a rather rough donkey-kick.

They've certainly had better accommodations, but at least it boasts a stable roof that shields them from the now torrential downpour outside, and a raised floor that keeps them from bedding down on sloshy wet ground.

“Coat n’ boots,” Joel gruffs, propping up the rifle carefully on a wall and slipping off his pack with equal care.

She’s shivering, teeth clacking against each other from the force, and she knows her coat has to come off - “wet is dead” he reminds her everytime it rains - but she can’t think of anything she would rather do less in the moment. Despite its damp exterior, the inside is still keeping her warm - or at least that’s what she tells herself- certainly has nothing to do with the almost brutal ache in her ribs after their short and wet backtrack.

In one fluid motion, Joel’s hand comes to her hood and pushes it back while moving past to drape his coat over one of the chairs. The metal creaks back to life with the sudden addition of weight. “Off and in,” he tells her as he leans over the desk with a soft groan, jiggling the window latches to make sure they are tightly closed. He says his stab wound doesn’t bother him anymore, but Ellie catches his hand snake to his side when he straightens – maybe it’s more of his blind optimism or maybe just straight denial, or some combo of the two.

“Don’t need eyes in the back of my head to see you ain’t moving.” His words are interspersed by rough smacking sounds, the heel of his hand driving hard into the frame of one of the windows open just a fraction of an inch.

With a glare Joel can’t see she gets moving.

Her body is stiff as she slips off her backpack - dipping one shoulder and wiggling the strap down with the help of gravity before doing the same with the other, albeit much more slowly and awkwardly. She lets it plop to the ground with a thump, not even trying to catch it; and Joel sweeps it up not a second later, and then promptly unhooks her sleeping bag from the outside and holds it out to her.

She is much more preoccupied with squirming out of her coat, then reaching out for her pack, so she dismisses his gesture with a fleeting glance before returning her focus to her struggle. When she tries to move the layer away, pushing at the fabric on her shoulders, it sends a jarring ache through her ribs. A grimace paints her features despite her best efforts to conceal it and although she hoped the scant light would be on her side, Joel of course sees it anyway.

“Here, let me -” he interjects, tossing the rolled sleeping bag on top of the desktop and moving back around her. His hands laces behind her collar, pulls the fabric up and away, and then holds it open and steady so she can slip out of it without twisting and turning.

She lets him do it, but she also doesn’t want his help. Stillness overtakes her for a moment as a weird feeling sinks into her gut, body unsure how to proceed with the conflicting signals.

She shakes away the confusion and slips out of it much easier than she was managing on her own - his help bringing a relief that is undeniable. Yet, still, her pride bristles at the assistance and kneads that weird feeling in her gut into something more concrete - embarrassment.

Joel takes the coat from her and plops it over the back of the other chair, retrieves the discarded sleeping bag, and holds it out to her again with a wiggle. “In.”

Or maybe that feeling in her stomach is annoyance - hard to tell.

She bites back a “You get in,” - a lame quip her brain supplies immediately. She knows there is no reason for her to be mad at him right now, she’s just cold and wet and tired and in fucking pain. She wonders if he can sense that too because he doesn’t bat an eye when she roughly takes the sleeping bag from his hand.

It’s not like he hasn’t experienced this with her before. She has some semblance of self awareness to know that her fuse is much shorter than it used to be.

Now, she is always angry. It’s a quiet sort of thing that lingers just below the surface, but it’s there. It’s not just about what happened with him, but she can’t help but wonder if a small piece of the rage she unleashed then is still stuck inside her, festering. She’s always angry at herself, and when she's tired of that self depreciation, she gets angry at Joel. And when she gets tired of being angry at Joel - well, now there is something to help with that.

Her hand drifts to her hip, slipping down into a coat pocket no longer there. It's autonomic, and only recognizes she’s done it when her fingers graze the fabric of her jeans rather than the plastic of the bottle - not finding the sensation her body was craving. She pauses, her eyes flicker wide and then dart to her coat- the coat Joel had in his grasp just minutes ago.

That’s almost twice in the last hour.

She whips the sleeping bag out of its tight bundle with a snap.

Need to be more careful.

Water droplets and earthy debris speckle the air before sprinkling to the ground.

It’s a big old sac, winter rated even though they are at the start of spring and an adult size when she really probably could fit into a child’s. She doesn’t have the height to properly do that airy turnout Joel always manages, so when she tries again with another whip the fabric just bunches up on the ground instead of lying flat.

A whimper, soft and involuntary, escapes as she bends forward to adjust its placement. Clearing her throat, she tries to cover it with a cough, but Joel’s ears are tuned to those sounds, and immediately, it draws his attention towards her again- flashlight slicing through the darkness and spotlighting her. She tries to ignore it, but the longer the beam lingers on her the more accusatory it feels - pins her under an unspoken interrogation as she continues to smooth out the sleeping bag and wedge it into a good spot under the overhang of the desk.

Joel's light doesn't falter, and his stare becomes more like a warm breath down her neck then some concerned glance - that anger and irritation just below the surface begins to roil more acutely. Just as she's about to snap a retort, "Dude -” Joel’s voice cuts through the tense air, "Let's see 'em."

The sleeping bag is now fully lying flat, but she continues to pat it into place. Joel presses gently again: "Come'on."

She goes on all fours to reach for the zipper and she can’t help her face from twitching up. The unconcealable grimace has him crossing the foot or so over to her, stepping over his sleeping bag in one long stride. His flashlight hits her dead in the eyes and she squints and pulls back, resting on her heels.

Dick move.

He drags the light down toward her stomach and motions with it up and down, "Lemme see what we're workin’ with."

"I can handle it," she asserts, though exhaustion tinges her defiance. They are feeling just as bad as they were after Silver Lake and they looked like shit then. If he sees them he’ll worry, and she doesn't want to give him another reason to worry over her.

"Fine. Can I see how much you're 'handlin' then?" His tone softens, a blend of jest and concern.

Ellie shakes her head, and rises up and out of the harsh beam of light. When she turns to retrieve her backpack, Joel gently pokes her side with the tip of the flashlight.

It truly is gentle, but jesus fuck did it hurt.

“Ass,” she snaps as her arm shoots protectively over her ribs and head spins to glare at Joel. When her eyes meet his, they are pushed wide by raised bushy brows. His forehead is crinkling into several rolls, and he’s giving her that look - like he is silently screaming “don’t lie to me.”

The glare turns into a stare - off - neither blinking for a solid moment, until Joel ends the war with a shake of his head. He reaches for the desk chair and tries to swivel it around for her, but it's far less smooth than he probably anticipated - grody wheels clogged in place and metal rusted together. A high pitch metallic screech echoes loud in the room reminiscent of when they used to have to drag the FEDRA lunch tables off to the side to clean the floors on chore day.

“Sit, will ya’? Take no more than half a minute.”

She relents with a roll of her eyes and lowers herself into the chair, hand still protectively braced over the tender spot. He motions again with a flashlight, urging her to lift her shirt as he crouches down in front of her. Her arm slides from her ribs to the base of her shirt and lifts the hem.

Deep bruises are already starting to form across her left side, red skin turning a blotchy maroon. The light lingers there as both of them take in the sight. It doesn’t look great, but Ellie is glad it doesn’t look any worse.

“Can I?” he asks, jutting his chin forward in time with the question.

He almost got a switchblade to the face the second after Silver Lake. She wasn’t quite with it - exhaustion and the adrenaline dump he said - and he had gone to check her injuries, raising her shirt without thinking. Neither of them even realized she had been holding her blade until it was almost too late. Now he usually always asks.

Ellie agrees with a nod.

The flashlight casts strange shadows up on the ceiling as he precariously keeps hold of it while cupping both his hands together and puffing warm into them in one long breathy blow. He transfers the right to his left, and then gently reaches out to inspect her side with the right.

His fingers aren’t cold, but Ellie flinches at the contact all the same - skin against skin still a strange sensation.

“Deep breath in.” They’ve done this before. The air tickles the inside of her nose. Joel’s fingers gently dance across her ribs. She wonders if he will say anything about how her bones are more pronounced since the last time they did this - he’s always trying to get her to eat more. “And out.” She releases in one long huff as Joel’s hand goes still. "Think this one might be cracked,” he murmurs, "- pretty sure it's one of those ones from before, probably wasn’t quite done healin’ up.” Before - he always is dancing around Silver Lake - not that he has all the details to go back to - she never told him the whole story. Ellie bites at her lip, almost pouting as she pulls her shirt back down.

“No more walking into holes, okay?” leveraging himself up with help from the desk and a groan deep in the back of his throat. “We’ll take it easy tomorrow so they can settle.” His hand trails through the top of her head as he turns back to his own sleeping bag. "I can keep up," she finds herself instantly retorting.

"It's gonna be mush out there, couldn't hustle through the mud even if we wanted to,” he explains, tossing the flashlight on his sleeping bag. “No need to push yourself,” he adds, cracking his knuckles, “ourselves,” he amends - quickly- joints not even done popping. His attempt to soften the blow is clumsy but well-intentioned. Ellie sighs - she is tired of taking things slow - she wants to just get to Utah and be done with it all.

He shakes out his leg again, repeatedly bending it at the knee before dropping down to the floor. "Try to sleep on your back," his voice mirrors in action, dropping low. "If you can," he clarifies, glancing back toward her as he unzips his sleeping bag.

She hates sleeping on her back.

She picks her thumb into the edge of the desk counter as she watches him slide into bed before begrudgingly sliding herself off the chair and into her own sleeping bag. He throws a soft “ g’night,” as he flicks off his flashlight the moment she finishes zipping herself in.

But sleep doesn’t come easy - nothing seems comfortable and everything hurts - the pain becomes even less tolerable as she tries to relax. And for some reason her fucking sleeping bag makes every little twitch sound like she is fully wrestling against the fabric. She tries to restrain her movements, but then her discomfort just gets broadcasted by groans and sighs that she's trying to stifle, but can’t. The minutes wear on and on and she truly begins to wonder if somehow putting her sleeping bag partly under the desk was like placing into an echo chamber.

The flashlight flicks back on with a sharp and loud click.

He doesn’t say a word, but the slow way he unzips his sleeping bag is more communication than necessary.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he reaches out to his backpack and drags it close. He rummages inside one of the smaller pockets and withdraws a small crinkled plastic sandwich bag, four big pills floating inside. They had found them a month or so ago in an overturned FEDRA supply truck that had basically been picked dry sans these few pills loose in the corner. Then, he had made a joke saying there must be a God cause he had been praying for days to find some Advil. She had figured he had used them already - apparently he hadn’t even touched them.

When he takes a pill from the bag and brings it up to his mouth, she thinks she misread the situation - his joints were hurting - but then he sticks the pill between his two front teeth and bites down, breaking it in half at the middle crease. He catches one piece in his hand and then promptly spits out the other end to match. He unconsciously rattles it in the palm of his hand as he leans toward the sleeping bag, offering it out to her: “Take it.” Ellie's nose wrinkles, her mouth barely suppressing a smirk. It’s sometimes jarring how comfortable they have gotten with each other. "Seriously? That was just in your mouth." He sighs, a mix of impatience and concern in his voice. “Your rustlin around like a rattler in a sack.” She hasn’t the faintest idea what that actually is, but she gets the message loud and clear- too noisy, too restless, you need to go to sleep. She props herself up and leans toward his hand. “It'll help." “Half?” She questions. The pill was big, and divided is now about the size of what she has been sneaking, but she’s also been knocking back two at a time. She’s not an expert on these sorta things by any stretch of the imagination, but two her smalls theoretically should equal one of his. So she has doubts that half of whatever this is, will do anything - she just can’t actually tell him that. "You're all ten pounds wet," Joel retorts. "Trust me, you don't need more." “I’m not that small.” “This ain’t some expired salvaged shit, it’s FEDRA - has a punch. Hydro.” Ellie’s eyes dart between the halved pill in Joel’s outstretched hand and his expectant gaze.

Part of her wonders how he knows exactly what is - didn’t come in a bottle- she was there, but a bigger part couldn't care less. Has a punch. If that’s true, it could be ‘smydro frydro’ for all she’s concerned.

She reaches out, hesitating for a fraction of a second feigning nerves, before her fingers brush against his palm, taking the pill. "Thanks," she mutters, not quite meeting his eyes as he leans back, grabs his water bottle, and then extends it out to her. She brings her palm to her mouth and throws the minuscule pill back, swallowing it with practiced ease. Joel's eyebrows meet his hairline, a mixture of astonishment and a hint of begrudging respect coloring his expression, as he awkwardly continues to extend his water bottle towards her, now redundant in its offering. “FEDRA,” she explains softly with a shrug - not wholly untrue. “Alright then,” he replies with a click of tongue, retracting the now awkwardly hanging water bottle. He puts the other half of the pill in the bag, tosses it into his backpack, and slides it away before settling back into bed.

He clicks off the flashlight again and turns on his side.

As she worried, it doesn’t do all that much for the pain - certainly isn’t putting her to sleep.

She attempts to convince herself that it just needs time to work, so she anxiously puts her focus on the rhythm of the rain pounding relentlessly against the brittle windows, hoping it will just suddenly kick in.

Her eyes constantly wander over to where her own pills hide - tucked safely in the pocket of her coat draped over the chair.

At the hour or so mark - she doesn’t have a watch, but Joel is snoring now - she really begins to contemplate giving herself a second dose.

Just one would probably do it. And it’s right there. A couple feet away. And it really would just be one. But it is only a couple feet away.

She would have probably dove into a while ago if it all wasn’t such a gamble with their close proximity. Her sleeping bag gives her away every move, and although she had stuffed some cloth into the bottle the other week to muffle the rattle of the pills as they walk, she’s not totally convinced that will make the endeavor completely silent.

But then again, maybe he wouldn't be able to catch the rattle of the bottle and the swish of the fabric amongst the echo of the rain and his own light sleepy snores.

She just has to be careful. Make it just a foot over. That’s it.

Cautiously, she shifts, attempting to sit up in the sleeping bag, not wanting to chance the opening of the zipper. She has to bite down hard to keep the pain away, abs tensing and pulling at her torso as she moves slowly and silently to a sitting position.

But Joel, even in his state of half-sleep, seems attuned to her every movement. His hand unconsciously stretches out toward her. His sleepy hum, halts her in her tracks, heart thumping wildly against her chest. She waits a moment, eyes him intensely, and then holding her gaze on him, scoots an inch forward in her sleeping bag toward the chair.

He mutters something indistinguishable and her heart truly skips a beat when his eyelashes flutter.

shit.

He sucks in a long breath and lets it out with a gargled snort.

With a resigned huff, Ellie flops back down onto her back, forgetting all about her ribs for a moment. The movement instantly stings and she sucks in a hitched breath through her teeth.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Joel’s hand twitch, petting the ground.

For someone half deaf he sure does catch a lot.

----------------

She wakes to the sound of birds chirping, the sun in her eyes, and the smell of something sweet in the air. Blinking to focus, she finds Joel, silhouetted against the morning light, scraping a metal spoon against a pot, the sound oddly harmonious amongst everything else.

She’s buried deep in the sleeping bag, the edge of it ending at the middle of her nose so just the top of her head is poking out from the cushy material. No matter where she starts the night before, she always wiggles down deeper in her sleep, sometimes sliding down so much that her head fully goes under and her eyes still meet darkness when they open to the plaid inner lining of the bag.

This morning, she wasn’t cocooned deep inside, but she surprisingly is still laying on her back. It doesn’t take her long to figure out why. Unsurprisingly, at some point in the night, Joel rolled and wedged his coat up next to her side so she wouldn’t turn over in her sleep.

“Really?” she murmurs, unearthing her left arm, and pushing the makeshift bumper away with a stretch that pulls at her sore muscles. The coat unravels as she lifts it, a hint of a smile touching her lips despite the discomfort. She gently tosses it away onto his empty sleeping bag - which is closer than she remembered it being last night.

“You were gonna roll,” he says pointedly, turning in the desk chair at the sound of her voice. He gives her a curt nod before turning back around and continuing to mix up whatever he had going on in their janky camp pot. “You always roll,” he reiterates - this time a touch lighter.

He’s not wrong, but it’s too early for him to already be in the right. “Cause I’m not some fricken mummy,” she mumbles back.

She rubs the remainder of sleep out of her eyes with the heel of her hands and then takes down her ponytail - already partly loose - and reties it. Raising her arms highlights just how much her ribs still hurt, but she also can tell it's not just her ribs. She’s sore everywhere, limber muscles feeling more like rigid bone, heavy and stiff.

“How ya’ feelin’?” he asks. “Fine,” she lies.

Tussling with the sleeping bag, she unzips it, rises slowly, and takes the seat next to Joel, sliding her ��hands across the dusty desk counter as she does, leaving a visible handprint on the surface.

“Stopped rain’.” She hums in agreement. Through grimey windows speckled with rain droplets, the forest looks dewy. The sun peeks through the trees, golden beams coming through not all that high over the horizon -not early dawn, but not late morning either.

She knows he likes to watch the rain - wonders how long he has been awake without her. He lets her sleep in more now, but sometimes it makes her uneasy. She used to beg him for ten more minutes, but now it just feels better to be up when he’s up. Dishing up breakfast, he seems to catch her thoughts - "woke up as it was endin’, half hour ago or so. Figured I'd wake you when everythin’ was ready."

It’s almost startling how quick the mental image appears in her head: Joel waking, watching the rain, and then doing all the normal morning chores. He pats at her coat, checking the dampness and finds the bottle in her pocket.

A low hum escapes her again, more timid this time. It could have happened so easily. Still could happen, really. Her heart beats quicker in her chest - maybe it did happen, and he’s choosing to ignore it.

She eyes him apprehensively as he slides breakfast her way. His lips twitch with a smile, but it does nothing to abate the nerves gradually developing in her core.

The breakfast is a simple affair: two packs of decades old Quaker instant oats - a concoction of “peaches & cream” and “cinnamon spice.”

Ellie's spoon scrapes against the bottom of her bowl, a satisfied smile playing on her lips as she pushes out her worries in favor of getting every last bit of mushy rehydrated fruit - he’s a sucker for anything sweet. Joel leaves a few heaping spoonfuls in his own bowl and slides it over to her, hand ruffling the back of her head as he gets up. Her spoon moves from her bowl to his in one fluid motion.

“You rushin’ through that for a reason?” he jokes in her periphery. Her front teeth loudly scrape against the metal spoon as she shovels a bite of oatmeal in. She slows at the call out - reeling in the ravenous - nervous- energy. She doesn’t have to see him to know he’s doing that little Joel headshake. “Got nowhere to be,” he drawls softly.

Her palm tightens around the spoon as she withdraws it from the bowl, digesting his last remark. Nowhere to be. The end the spoon knocks into the table top as she fists it like a pitchfork. Fuck that.

She’s not going to stay in a tiny space like this all day where one wrong brush of her jacket means the end of weeks of hard work - secret out.

Ellie speaks around her last bite, feigned curiosity lacing her muffled words. "How far were those cabins?" “Hm?” She swallows and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand while spinning in her chair to face him. “Like what, three miles or something?” “Yeah ‘bout, but -” “ - but wouldn’t you rather be there than stuck in here?” “I would rather we be in a whole host of places but -” “Bbuuttt,” she whines, even longer. “Bbuuttt,” he counters, equally as exaggerated, “ you walkin’ with those ribs is trouble.” Her shoulders drop, as she pushes out a deflated, “Dude.” “Ellie.” “They're fine, and I’m going to have to walk with them eventually.” Joel rakes his hand down his face and scratches at his beard. Ellie doubles down - “It’s nice out.” His hands travel to his hips as his eyes trail the scenery out the window. She twists the seat of the chair as much as its old joints will allow - his body language is saying he’s still mulling it over, but his face says otherwise.

She’s got him.

With a long inhale, and little shake of his head - again - his gaze does a final sweep over the small booth, then to her, and then to outside and back.

“Fine. But you ain’t carrying your backpack.”

No gripes there - she throws a smile with a brisk nod.

He can take whatever he wants as long as it’s not her coat.

----------------

“You’re shitting me.”

The cabins are a bust.

A heap of splintered and decaying wood under a massive uprooted pine. It fell directly atop their roofs, slicing them clean up in a line.

There is one cabin that the tree spared, but it's also not in great condition – wood charred black and burned to a crisp by a wanton fire that clearly originated in the front corner of the cabin - a massive gaping hole staring them in the face, mocking their hope for any good shelter.

Ellie knows God doesn’t exist, but it’s things like this that make her question if there is something bigger at play out there, some malevolent force delighting in their constant misery.

Between the sharp ache in her ribs and the mud sucking at their ankles, the walk had been a grueling sort of slow - a torturous tortoise pace. It was a short, sure, but every step had her wishing she was already here. And now here fucking sucks. She hadn’t complained one bit, held her tongue because this is what she asked for - and certainly didn’t need Joel knowing that he was maybe just a little right - but now disgruntled yell is sitting on the top of her tongue.

He- she- whatever is out there - is fucking with them. Has to be.

She hadn't even realized how deeply she had been hoping for this to pan out until the pain of the shattered promise settles heavy in her gut as Joel drops their stuff with a resigned thud. He marches away to pick at the remnants of the shelters, appraising their seemingly limited options with a pragmatism that she finds infuriating.

Nothing can ever just go as planned for them.

A pressure builds behind in her sinuses, water surging toward her eyes, heavy and ready to leak out. It’s just some fucking cabins - it shouldn’t feel like this - whatever this is. The reaction is unwarranted - her brain knows that, but for some reason her body isn’t quite getting the message.

The tips of her fingers dig into her eyes, trying to push away one type of pressure with another more in her control. With a shaky exhaled breath, she drags her hands from her lids down her face, tugging at her skin. Her hands slap down at her sides and then she moves them to steal a glance at her ribs, pushing the side of her coat behind her back and gently lifting her shirt up.

For all his efforts last night keeping her off her side, a massive purple patch has bloomed across her torso, blood pooling deep under her otherwise pale skin. It looks about as gnarly as feels- and it really does hurt like motherfucker.

“They bad?” Joel calls out, crossing back over to her, his voice laced with a concern that he tries to mask with a veneer of nonchalance. He closes the distance between them just as she finishes trailing her fingers lightly across the one that’s probably broken. “No. Just checking,” she tells him, pulling down her shirt, a lie so transparent she wonders if it's more for her benefit than his. “Can I check?” He asks gently, hand already extending toward her with anticipation, but not going further.

She’s not sure why she says yes, but she does.

It’s a quick glance, but the sight clearly bothers him. He lowers her shirt with a dejected shake of his head, his expression a mix of concern and frustration - like always. His head doesn’t stop wagging as he crouches down to their bags at their feet.

It's a fleeting thought, but she makes a mental note to one day craft a joke about his neck hurting from all his little head shakes.

He delves into the depths of his rugged backpack and quickly emerges with the crinkled plastic bag, standing back up right to face her. He fishes out the remaining half pill from last night and holds it out to her in an open palm.

As she plucks the white little drug from his hand it’s immediate déjà vu, but she can’t help herself - “Half?” Ellie questions,, voice laced with skepticism, eyebrows arching in disbelief. She leans into it, hoping that maybe this will end with a different outcome this time.

“Half,” he responds, his voice terse, leaving no room for negotiation as he squats back down and tucks the baggie away.

The eye roll is involuntary, the sigh she heaves is not.

"Half," he states firmly once more, the sound of the leather flap of his pack snapping shut punctuating his decision. "Half now, half later."

Her lips purse together as she taps her two front teeth to the pair on her bottom, trying to think of a retort that would secure her the remainder. It did basically nothing last night, she knows she can handle more, she just can’t make that overly obvious.

But, nothing comes to mind quick enough, and he’s already off the topic entirely.

Joel motions with his head towards their only real option now, “burnt one,” he murmurs.

Resignedly, she slips the pill in her mouth and swallows.

“Nature’s callin', but start checkin’ it out.”

She takes a glance at the cabin, as the pill works its way down. It leaves a bitter taste lingering on her tongue as it skids down her throat, dry and scratchy. It feels much bigger there than it did in her hand. She gulps down again and moves to retrieve their stuff.

“I’ll grab ‘em after, you just head in,” he interjects, his hand gently connecting with her elbow. Her brow furrows. “Ribs.” He supplies - explanation simple. He’s trying to be nice, but it comes across more patronizing than anything. Amidst all the other icky feelings dancing around in her at the moment, resentment steps forward into the spotlight - settling high and hot in her chest.

She clenches her jaw tight to not put it on full display, but the way she marches off toward the cabin doesn’t exactly conceal her emotions either. His hands shoot into her coat pockets and press down; her feet stomp heavily into the soggy ground.

“Ribs,” she mockingly parrots in her head as she pushes the door open with her shoulder. Inside carries the heavy scent of ash that also mixes with a musty dampness, walls singed and wet. Minus the rather large hole in the corner, and the char marks branching out from it, the majority of the structure has been spared from the burn of the fire.

With a half-hearted kick, she brushes at the dirt on the floor, moving more out of habit than hope, as she gives the place a once over. Her actions are automatic, mind preoccupied.

At this rate she’s never going to get back to normal, never going to be his equal, never be just some kid that he has to look out for all the time.

Her right hand fingers the plastic bottle residing in the safety of her pocket as she approaches a small kitchenette. When she stretches out her left arm to open an upper cabinet, a sharp pain shoots through her side and she winces - underscoring what she already knows.

It’s spring and she’s basically back to square one - damaged goods.

Half now and half later….

Or…

On the outside, she goes still as the thought forms fully in her head, but on the inside, her heart speeds up, bumping feverishly into her sore ribs.

She knows she’s alone, but she finds herself glancing over her shoulder nonetheless. Slowly, she pulls the bottle from the confines of her pocket. She keeps it close to her body - concealed between her stomach and the edge of the counter - as she takes a moment to listen, to make sure she really is alone.

The silence confirms Joel's absence and she breaks it - thumbing open the white lid with a pop.

She doesn’t have to wait until later, if she doesn’t want to.

With a swift motion, she plucks out the cloth that’s been keeping the rattle at bay and liberates one pill.

Half now, one now, half later.

She knocks it back.

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