#i’m relieved… warden. i’m so relieved

[ilsanslut]

꒷♡꒷ STRESS RELIEF!

♰ featuring: wriothesley [genshin impact]

♰ note: i’m in heat and all i can think about is a stressed and tired wriothesley eating out his pretty gf from the back to relieve his tension.

sypnosis: get you a man who will drown in your pussy and call it “stress relief”! wc: 2.6k content/trigger warning(s): 18+. smut. femme/female bodied!reader. messy pussy-eating. dominant/feral!wriothesley. marking. biting. spanking. squirting. cursing. hand-holding. groping. hair pulling. ꒷꒦

It was almost as though Wriothesley was being crushed under the constant pressure of his job as the warden within the shadowy confines of the Fortress of Meropide. The burden of his obligations bore down on him like the merciless force of the sea that imprisoned them all within the stronghold. When a problem arose or strife broke out among the prisoners, he was the one they all turned to for help. Today, on the other hand, appeared to be the day that he would be pushed to his breaking point. There was a mountain of paperwork that was piled high on top of his desk and seemed to never end; the pipes seemed to trickle and leak indefinitely, necessitating constant repair; the elevators are out of commission for maintenance, forcing everyone to use the forgotten, decrepit, and mildew-smelling stairwell; and, to top it all off, there is a 'Credit Coupon' thief swiping people's credits beneath their noses. And, not to mention, he had been so backed up with dealing with everyone else’s problems that he had already missed his afternoon tea.

Anyone near could feel the ominous aura radiating off of the iron doors of his office.

Though, amidst the chaos and tension, one beacon of solace shone through—you. His light in the darkness. The one thing keeping him sane.

Your warm smile and unwavering support were the calming forces that held the key to unlocking his cold heart. He craved the comforting words you spoke, the softness of your touch, and the calm you provided amidst the chaos of everyday life. You turned into a haven for him—a haven from the relentless pressure that felt like it would swallow him.

Which is exactly why you weren’t surprised when a guard came to you while you were aiding Sigewinne with a patient, informing you that the Duke requested your presence in his office immediately. Lunch was usually shared by the two of you, but you expected that he would be too overwhelmed with work to remember to eat, let alone take a break, given everything he has been going through. The two guards outside his office gave you a pitying glance as you got closer, understanding that things were not good. Nevertheless, they let you cross the bridge and into his office. You went in, and the first thing you saw was Wriothesley sitting on the bottom two steps, as if he were waiting for you. You noticed that his tie was unkempt, his jacket was completely abandoned, and his hair had a disheveled tousle that suggested he had either been tugging or running his hands through it for at least a while. That, and it was impossible to ignore the worn-out look in his faded hues.

But as soon as your eyes met, his worn-out expression changed to something strange but familiar—something you had seen on many sultry nights spent by yourself with him in the past. His eyes were fixed on you, freezing you in place with an indisputable lust, a carnal hunger, and a burning desire. Pushing himself up from the steps, he moved toward you with calculated, deliberate steps, each one more heavy than the last, like a beast cornering its prey, his heavy steel boots clinking against the copper floors. Soon, he was towering over you, hands twitching at his sides as though he were refraining from tearing you apart where you stood.

“You look good.” You blurted, swallowing thickly in your throat, as you were cornered against the heavy steel of his office’s door.

He chuckled, throaty and sultry, as his hand met your waist, the other one coming to rest it’s forearm above your head as he caged you between the door and his muscular frame, “Yeah?”

His casual drawl had your knees going weak, threatening to buckle beneath you while his thumb rubbed slow, salacious circles into your hip. “I think I’ve been better.”

You shrugged nonchalantly with an indifferent hum, raising your hands to trail absentminedly over his large chest that bulged through his dress shirt, finally coming to toy with his tie. “Mhm. You missed lunch today, you know.”

“Did I?” His voice was husky—deep, the subtle rumble of his baritone voice going straight to your core causing your thighs to squeeze against one another—an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Wriothesley, who’s palms grew hungry on you, manuvering behind you to grope thick handfuls of your rear shamelessly. “I’ve been so swamped with work that it must’ve slipped my mind. But . . . I’m sure you understand, right, baby?” His arm that was poised above your head lowered, his partially gloved thumb stroking at the supple flesh of your cheek. “Why don’t you let me make it up to you, yeah? . . . I have an idea that will make us both happy.”

You had an idea as to what he was alluding to, but nonetheless, you nodded with a hum of agreement. This made Wriothesley smirk in response, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear so that he may lean in and press a kiss to your temple.

“Turn around.”

His dominant undertone left little room for argument as you did what he asked, turning around so that you were facing the metal door of his office. Without another moment's hesitation, you felt yourself pushed against it, your body pinned against Wriothesley's heated form with your cheek smushed against the cold metal face of the door. His body pressed firmly against yours, and you felt something unmistakable grinding into your ass, all the while his sharp canines drug themselves up your neck, a silent warning to stay put.

And you did.

Hot, sloppy kisses trailed themselves down the back of your neck as greedy palms groped and squeezed at your body wherever they could reach—almost as though they were attempting to alleviate tension with every heated touch. Sensing his descent, you eventually heard him drop to his knees behind you, his gloved hands reaching up to lift your skirt and turn it over to expose your plump, pliant rear. A growl, something animalistic and ravenous, came from the back of his throat, and one of those large palms rose for a split second before slapping your right cheek, making you squeal and making Wriothesley laugh.

“Careful, Y/N.” He chided, using his palms to massage the abused flesh as an imprint of his hand—ringed fingers and all—slowly began to appear on your ass. “This door may be thick, but this chamber echos. You don’t want the guards and—Gods know who else—hearing you on the other side, do you~?”

You felt your face heat up against the frigid door’s surface, now acutely aware of the silence on the other side, which meant his guards were now undoubtedly listening. Nonetheless, you nodded, casting a shy glance over your shoulder to your lover, who was already gazing up at you with half-lidded eyes and that salacious smirk on his face that just made your knees go weak and your folds gush with arousal.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that though,” He stated nonchalantly, leaning over to press a soft kiss against your ass as sinful digits reached up to peel your already soaked panties down your thighs until they pooled at your ankles. Wriothesley groaned inwardly, his pupils blown, as he used his thumbs to spread you apart in all your glory, admiring how your folds glistened in the dim lights of the lower floor of his office. “*I can’t promise that I’ll be going easy on you either, baby.”

Without saying another word, his hands reached out and took firm hold of both your cheeks, spreading them wide before plunging straight into your dripping folds. Immediately, your knees were buckling beneath you as a pleasured mewl escaped your lips, your nails dragging against the metal surface in an attempt to find purchase. With his hands leaving your ass to wrap around the front of your thighs, his tongue was unrelenting as it ruthlessly claimed every inch of your pussy to himself, drawing you closer to him so he could continue to devour you. His tongue was hot, heavy, and drooling as it spread you wide open, encircling your clit, and slurping up whatever delicious goodness you had to offer. His nose pressed deep into your wetness, drowning in your depths, but he did not seem to care in the slightest. He wanted more—craved more—and one thing about Wriothesley was that he was a man who got what he wanted.

His tongue and ravenous lips wrapped around your tender nub and sucked away like a starving man enjoying the sweetest nectar of life, leaving you a moaning mess above him and unable to stop your hips from moving on their own as you practically fucked yourself against his face. You didn’t care if the guards—or anyone else, for that matter—heard you. All you could focus on was how his sweltering and deft mouth had you practically creaming onto his selfish brims already.

“Wrio~!” You keened, nearly losing your footing had it not been for Wriothesley keeping you firmly in place by his grip. “I-I can’t! I-It’s too much!” You whimpered just as another cry drew from your lips from a jolt of pleasure from your nethers.

In response, you felt another sharp spank rain down on your ass, and Wriothesley finally withdrew, but only so that he could snarl out, “You can and you will. Fucking take it, Y/N.” He was breathless, panting—truly, a man starved in his most primal state.

He pulled away momentarily, strings of your arousal clinging to the lower half of his face, which was glistening in your translucent juices, to turn to your inner thighs. His jaw widened before clamping down harshly on your once supple flesh, biting and sucking the blood to it’s surface to leave furious marks in his wake.

“Wriothesley!” You wept with delight and surprise at the lewd action that made your folds rub together, and you were unable to ignore the disgustingly lewd squelching sound that came from your cunt.

He repeated the same action, this time on your ass cheek, taking the pliant flesh between his teeth and delivering yet another primal bite to your soft skin, effectively marking you. “Shit, Y/N.” His heated breath wafted over your clit, making you clench around nothing as he huffed and panted like a mutt against your thigh, an action that your attentive lover obviously noticed. “The things you do to me . . .~”

Without saying anything more, he plunged back into you, even more intense than before. With his deft fingers reaching around your front and rubbing quick, merciless circles onto your clit, he was aiming at his sole target, your sopping hole. Pushing his tongue in and out of your wetness, he slurped every last drop of your sweet juices onto his tongue. He was milking you like a machine—using your clit as the trigger to release more and more of your translucent fluids onto his tongue, which he rapaciously gluped down. All the while, your toes curled in your shoes, and as every one of his hot, heavy pants exhaled through his nose, you were able to feel it against your pretty asshole.

“Wrio, wrio, baby, please! R-Right there, I-I’m gonna . .” Your hasty pleas were cut off, your hand reaching back to tangle itself into your boyfriend’s smokey locks, holding him in place as you basically rode his tongue.

You felt him chuckling against your folds before you heard him, unable to stop the sharp cry that escaped you from the sudden vibration. His hand left your clit, however, it was soon replaced with his mouth in favor of meeting your hand with his own. He pried your death grip from his locks, intertwining his fingers with your own as his head shook back and forth between your thighs. His lips suckled away at you in such an unforgiving way that it made your head spin and your eyes roll to the back of your head. Anyone within the immediate vicinity could definitely hear the unabashed slurping and squleching sounds emanating from his efforts as they reverberated through his office's chambers.

He took your hand in his and massaged calming circles around your knuckles until you finally came undone in front of him, unable to contain your overwhelming euphoria. A series of cries and mewls left your lips, leaving you breathless as your juices came flooding out of you, drenching your lover’s face and attire in a torrent, which he happily gulped down. Had it not been for his grip on your frame, you most definitely would’ve collapsed, but he held you firmly against him, even using his face to support your weight at one point like your own personal seat—because it was. After all, he was yours just as much as you were his, and he’d be damned if anything tried to change that.

His hurried movements subsided during your high, his tongue now languidly stroking your folds to carry you through your blissful daze; still, you could not control your hips from lurching each time he touched your tender, pulsating nub. Before long, he began to back off, giving you some leverage and giving himself space to finally breathe. His hot breath wafted against your behind, his chest rising and falling with each breath, finally being kind enough to himself to give him the sweet, sweet oxygen his lungs had been begging for.

Slowly, he rose from behind you, your half-lidded gaze meeting his own through the tears that formed on your lash line, which he wiped away with a swipe of his thumb.

“Y’still with me, pretty?” He whispered in a honeyed drawl, placing a soft kiss against your shoulder as the hand that was holding your own moved to your bicep to rub soothing circles along your arm.

You nodded, albeit weakly, still recovering from the mind-shattering orgasm he had just put you through.

“Y’feel better now, Wrio?”

He responded with a hearty chuckle, rolling his neck in a tantilizing way that exposed his throbbing Adam’s apple and scarred throat. His gaze met your own again, this time with a familiar spark burning behind his dusky hues, “Ahh, a’litte bit.”

He leaned over you once again, his forearm resting above your head as his chest pressed against your back. You gasped, your hips jolting as you felt his rock-hard bulge pressing against you, just barely managing to graze your sopping folds.

“Still feeling a little ‘tense’ here . . . but you’d be willing to help me out,” He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. Although you couldn’t see him, you could practically feel the smirk beaming from his stupidly handsome face.

“Right, baby?”

Oh, he was going to be the death of you someday.

ⓒ vampiie 2024 — all rights reserved. please do not repost my work outside of tumblr, modify, or translate my work in any form/means. please do not share my work to tiktok or any other site.

[trippinsorrows]

give me a reason + one

authors note: welp. here i am, once again. granted, i'm a bit excited about this one, as it's a unique storyline, at least not as cliched as maybe 'ltye' or 'with me'. trope is essentially age gap x best friends brother x second chance romance x something else that'll be revealed by the end of this chapter and my own creative flairs.

the age gap between mariella and joe is four years, and nothing romantic happened between them until she was in her twenties. just putting that out there now. ari don't do that grooming shit.

their story will be told in a mixture of flashbacks and present day. how they ended up where they are now will eventually be revealed, but until then, it's expected that ya'll are confused.

words: 9k

song inspo: just give me a reason by p!nk and nate ruess

warnings: angst and fluff

if i tag anyone and you don't want to be tagged, please let me know!

taglist: @annfg8 @whatdoeseverybodywant @sayyestoheav3nn @cyberdejos2 @prettybitxhnica @shayaaaaaaa

Summer, 2003

“Ladies, next week officially starts the beginning of the rest of our lives. No longer will we be lowly 8th graders. No, we will be official high schoolers! Next week is a new beginning, a new era, a new decade of wonderful, fabulous, life changing—”

“Baby girl, do you want a hot dog or a burger?”

Mariella releases the loudest, most exaggerated sigh known to mankind that is possible for a 14-year-old. She turns from where she was pacing across the stones that line around her family’s pool. Sure enough, her 6’3 father stands before her with his spatula in hand, wearing his apron gifted to him for Father’s Day a couple years back. He’s using his free hand to shield his face from the blaring sun. 

“Daddy! I was in the middle of a monologue!”

Byron Holmes looks as disinterested as the tone of his voice. “Ella, you always talking. How am I supposed to know the difference?”

This time, it’s a dramatic gasp that's evoked instead of the previous one born from irritation. “I resent you saying that, father!”

“I’m sure you do, now do you want a hot dog or burger?”

Mariella might quite possibly be the most dramatic person to walk the earth, but the promise of one of her dad’s famous grilled burgers is too good to turn down. She can turn her strong feelings at being interrupted into a song at a later date and time.

Defeated, unable to overpower the desire for good food, she murmurs, “burger, please.”

“Thank you.” Byron Sr. shakes his head. Getting an answer from the prisoners is easier than getting one from his youngest sometimes. He then sets his gaze on her audience. “What about you girls?”

Promise Rose is the first to answer, that usual nervous smile on her face as she adjusts her thick rimmed glasses. “A hot dog, please, Mr. Holmes.”

Byron nods, committing her request to memory. He then turns to the other, already knowing what he’s in for. “Iris?”

Her hazel eyes that are obscured by the heavy set of eyeliner land on him with icy indifference. “I refuse to participate in the travesty and continued slaughter of the innocent just for the selfish pleasure and satisfaction of the greedy carnivorous species that occupies this stolen land.”

Byron releases a heavy sigh. It’s always something with this one. “Is that a yes or no, Iris?”

Iris lifts her chin, answering just as coldly, “I’ll just take the bread.”

Relieved and eager to be away from the only fourteen-year-old who could unnerve him, even with his twenty plus years as a prison warden, he walks away, mumbling to himself, “I swear something is wrong with that child….”

Returned to the previous topic at hand, Mariella plops down on the pool chaise across from her two best friends since third grade. “Now where were we before I was so rudely interrupted?”

“The inevitable extinction of mankind.”

“Surviving high school.”

Mariella rolls her eyes. It can so difficult sometimes to get her two polar opposite besties on the same page.

“We just have to make sure we do everything perfect.”

Promise Rose chews nervously on the corner of her lip and criss crosses her legs over each other. She looks between the two of them, anxiety growing by the second. “Ella is right. With BJ and Joe graduating this year, we’ve gotta make sure we elevate our social status or else we’re dead meat.”

Confused, Mariella asks, “what do you mean?” She then adds, “our social status is fine.”

Promise Rose looks over at an uninterested Iris. “Help here?”

“I refuse to subscribe to the patriarchy of social hierarchies.”

“Oh geez.” She should have known better. Iris refuses to get hip with anything if it’s not sticking a finger to the man. “Ella, it’s only because of your brother and Joe that we haven’t been bullied out of school. We are literally only semi-popular because of association. Without the guys, we’re nerds.”

Mariella would have preferred an actual dirty, jagged edge dagger be shoved into her chest. “We are not nerds!”

“Ella, you’re weird. I’m scared of everything. And Iris contemplates murder every hour on the hour.”

Iris shrugs, pushing her Kaleidoscope colored hair over her tanned shoulder. “Only on exceptionally bad days.”

“I rest my case.”

Mariella isn’t beyond consideration of alternative perspectives. She takes Promise Rose words to heart, trying her best to see it objectively.

She’s also not above admitting that having her brother and Joe look out for her over the years has only been beneficial. Even with them being out of middle school for almost four years now, their popularity has existed since damn near elementary school. Them and her twins sisters, Everly and Olivia, really. But especially Byron and Joe, mostly because of their standing as football players, two of the best on every team they’ve been on. Because of that, there’s not a soul in town who doesn’t know her as BJ’s little sister and Joe’s adopted little sister.

She’s always seen that as protecting her from guys messing with her but never associated it with social status.

And just as she’s undergoing a life changing realization, the creak of the side gate snatches her attention, revealing the two people who can clear all this up for her.

“BJ!”

Mariella untangles her legs from off the pool chair and jogs over to her brother and Joe.

“Damn, not even home for five minutes, and you already sweating me.”

Glaring, she shoves on his chest, muttering, “you’re such a dick sometimes.”

“Aye, watch your math. You too young to be cussing.”

She ignores him. With his 18th birthday right around the corner, Byron Jr., BJ as everyone calls him, has been on some weird power, superiority trip. 

Mariella redirects her focus to Joe, accepting his side hug. “Whassup, Ri.”

Mariella has a variety of nicknames. Her parents bounce back and forth between Mariella and Ella, mostly everyone else calls her Ella, but with Joe, she’s just Ri.

It’s kind of an unspoken rule that only he can call her that.

Joseph Anoa’i. 

Mariella can’t think of a time Joe wasn’t in her life. Not only does he and his equally large family live just a few doors down, he’s played football with BJ since they were six-years-old, before she was old enough to know what football even was. An almost quiet, level headed balance to her sometimes hot headed biological brother, Joe is Mariella’s big brother from another mother. Hes has always looked out for her just as much as BJ, if not more. 

He’s essentially been informally adopted by her family as BJ’s brother for life. 

“Hey, Joe.” Separating from him, she turns back toward the two of them. “Okay, I have a question, and it’s imperative you provide me with the raw, honest truth.”

Joe seems at least somewhat interested, but BJ is the one to make the smart comment. “Make it quick. I’m hungry. Practice was brutal.”

A brief brow lift from Joe is confirmation BJ isn’t exaggerating, so in a moment of rarity, Mariella bypasses all of the theatrics and skips right to the point. “Am I a nerd?”

Mariella expects contemplation, some level of astonishment that she could even fix her mouth to ask such a thing. Instead, she’s met with her brother shrugging with a simple, “of course, you are.”

Mouth ajar, hand to her chest, she asks, “what?”

“Come on, Ella, you know you’re kinda weird. Be talking to yourself and stuff.”

“It’s a sign of genius, thank you very much.”

“It’s a sign of weirdness.” She crosses her arms over her chest as a sign of unspoken protest. “If you wasn’t my little sister, I’d probably bully your nerdy ass.”

Completely done with the young man she once considered brother, Mariella looks over at Joe to see he’s on his phone. Probably texting his latest girlfriend of the week. Latisha, or something like that. He seems to cycle through girls faster than BJ. “Joe?”

He lifts his gaze from his phone, and Mariella readies to remind him of the initial question when he answers. “You’re just you, Ri. That’s all that matters.”

She’s not sure why she expected more. Joe can be of so few words at times. She just wishes this wasn’t one of those times. 

“While I do not agree with the expressed opinions, I appreciate the candor.” Chin lifted, she bids them farewell. “I will leave you be now.” Mariella can briefly overhear Joe saying something about Latisha, but it’s pushed away, outweighed by this new shocking piece of information.

In walking back over to her best friends and future members of her team when she’s a world famous singer, Mariella is unsurprised to find Promise Rose sitting on the edge of her seat while Iris simply glares at nothing and no one. 

Promise Rose is the first to speak, asking with all of the anxiety she carries on a daily basis. “Well?”

Mariella would love to lie to them, but these are her best friends. She could never do such a thing, even if the truth sucks more than the rumors of a pending B2K breakup. “You’re right.” Shoulders slumped, she groans loudly and throws herself back on the pool chair. “We’re dead meat.”

—-------

Present

You, you love it how I move you 

You love it how I touch you 

My one, when all is said and done 

You'll believe God is a woman

Watching her perform has always been an experience, a treat, a vision in some ways. The way she moves across the stage, so demanding, so in the moment, the eye contact and engagement with the crowd creating such an all-encompassing experience. 

On the stage, performing, is her element. It’s always been where she shines the most, and tonight is no different.

She’s up for a couple Grammys, already snagging two, as expected. He knows the ones she’s really anxious about are the coveted Album and Record of the Year. It’s something she’s always dreamed of achieving, and while there have been whispers that she’s a shoe in, Joe has known Mariella long enough to know that’s not enough.

It’ll only mean something to her when they’re in her hands.

And he’s confident they will be. She’s had yet another stellar, groundbreaking year, her album somehow doing better than her last. No one’s seeing numbers and sales like her. Her pen game is unmatched, not to mention her album is almost entirely written and produced by her, something unheard of these days.

She truly is an icon in the making. 

And the way she ends her performance with a standing ovation from some of music’s best is just more proof of how much she’s killing it.

Joe watches her walk backstage after nervously basking in such a response from people she’s looked up to her whole life.

She doesn’t return to her seat next to him, as expected. The final two categories are about to be announced, and he realizes it would be easier for her to remain backstage when her name is called. 

And the minute it is, he finds himself nodding with a small smile. He knew she could do it, knew that there was no way she could release such accomplished work and not leave with acknowledgment of such.

There’s an almost awkward but appropriate pause as the attendees stand and applaud, Mari suddenly rushing out from the back while holding her dress up. For a brief second, he thinks she’s gonna fall flat on her face. It wouldn’t be the first time.

She's a talented dancer, but the textbook definition of a klutz.

Always has been. 

But, she doesn’t. Thank God. He knows that’s something she would never let herself live down.

Seconds later, she’s at the mic, panicking, “oh my god!” Her breathing is uneven, and he can bet it’s because she was in the back wearing a hole in the floor with her nervous pacing. “I’m sorry, I was in the back having a panic attack.” That might not be entirely untrue. “And also, my dress is not dressing for some reason, so I’m just gonna awkwardly hold this up to avoid flashing anyone and getting sued by the FCC.” He shakes his head. Even with all the fame, she’s remained the same. “Okay, but seriously, this is insane? Ummm, thank you! I don’t— have no idea what to say. God is so good. My mama would kill me if I didn’t say that. Ooh, I want to thank my parents, of course! My big brother and two older sisters for always putting up with me singing and dancing all over the house.” Always isn’t an exaggeration. Joe can’t recall a time where he walked into the Holmes adobe and wasn’t met with or overheard Mariella working on some aspect of her craft, whether that was writing, creating beats, learning a new dance. She’s always been so focused on getting exactly where she is now.

She continues to thank her team, rushing through the litany of individuals she attributes to helping her stand where she does with the awards that she’s been awarded this night. And when he doesn’t hear his name included, he knows right away she’s in a relatively good mood, willing to play up their Oscar worthy performance.

“And lastly, to my amazing husband,” her eyes search the room, finally landing on him. “Joe, you are my best friend and my biggest supporter. I love you so much. Thank you for always being in my corner and putting up with all of my crackhead energy.” Her eyes are teary, but he has no doubt she’s pulling from the emotion at crossing off yet another box from so long ago versus feeling so moved by her inauthentic words. 

But again, he follows along with this song and dance they’ve mastered at this point, mouthing once again that he loves her too.

The music begins to play indicating that she’s maxed out her time, and he hears her quickly throw out, “I’m not on crack, by the way!” before she walks off the stage, ushered by Pharrell and Diane Warren.

Theres’s something both treasured and uncomfortable about those words leaving her mouth. They’re so freely used these days. By both of them. But the meaning and impact behind them is long gone, some place in the past where demons and skeletons lie, often tampered with but never fully addressed.

It now just leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

—-------

“I have a show on the 13th you need to be at.”

Joe is sitting on the edge of the bed, undoing his tie, focused on the balcony doors across from him instead of to his right where she sits at her vanity, removing her jewelry. 

“What?” He doesn’t need to be looking at her to know she’s angled toward him, face turned up in disgust. “Of March?”

There’s no need for a wordy answer. “Yeah.”

“I can’t.” Mari has made it a goal of hers to stay on top of her calendar as she prepares to enter the next era of her career. With the Grammy’s now over, the end of this award season is upon her, and preparation for her next album is underway. It’s why she knows and communicates in the moment of the scheduling conflict. “I have a meeting with my label to start discussing my next album.”

Joe can’t deny the fact that he half-expected her to come up with some excuse, some reason as to why she yet again can’t do her part of this joint collab of theirs. “Can’t you move it?”

“Why should I have to move my stuff around for you?” Mari can count a variety of times where she’s done so before, but that was then. This is now. They’re miles away from where they once were, and she’s not willing to inconvenience herself for him.

Not anymore. 

Meanwhile, Joe doesn’t understand why everything that’s inherently so simple has to be made so fucking complex. It’s never a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ with her. “You can tell Jax if a date doesn’t work for you. I can’t do that shit with Paul.” And she knows that. Mariella is well aware of how the WWE works. Dates are set in stone months in advance, years in advance sometimes for PPV’s. She’s just being difficult for no damn reason.

As per usual. 

In a perfect world, Mariella would be celebrating right now, would be in attendance at the prestigious Grammy’s After-Party celebrating her major accomplishments. Instead, she sits in the room with a man who seems hellbent on stealing her joy in any way he can these days.

It makes her sick. 

She’s fully turned toward him, even as he refuses to look her way. Intentional, of course. He knows how big she is on eye contact. “I did that the last time I went to a taping, Joe. I’m not gonna keep doing it.”

He glances at her, and she instantly knows he’s not backing down, not willing to let this lie. She knows she’s in for another pow-wow. A signature finish for most outings these days. “But, I can show up for you?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t act like this isn’t as beneficial for you as it is for me.” One thing she won’t put up with is him acting like their arrangement isn’t just as great for his career as it is for hers. The press and fans of both of them eat up any type of public appearance, especially when he plays the role of the loving, supportive husband who wants to celebrate his wife’s big wins with her. “And you know how busy I am after award season.”

He knows that’s typically when she gets back in the kitchen to start cooking up her next album, where she locks herself in the studio for hours on end writing, producing, escaping.

“And WrestleMania season isn’t for me?”

Truth be told, she’d briefly forgotten about that, forgotten that the biggest night of his career is only two months away. A small part of her hates that. Hates how far they are from where they once were. There was once a time where she had every single event committed to memory, would bend over backwards to attend as many of his shows that she could.

Now, she couldn’t give two shits. 

The same way he feels about her.

“I don’t know why you care so much.” She turns back to the mirror to safely remove her diamonds. They’ll need to be returned tomorrow to the designer, and the last thing she wants is to drop or lose something because of his ass. “You got your little whores there anyway. What do you need me for?”

It’s a petty but truthful jab. Mariella knows good and well that her showing up to one of his tapings after he attended the Grammys with her will be ate up by their fans. It’s good press. Great, even. 

But the thought of sitting there, with the full, painful, embarrassing knowledge that the women behind the scenes, the women who are hidden behind NDA’s and WWE hush money, see her for the fraud she is. Know that Joe will end up fucking them when the night is over and returning home to her with the scent of their cheap perfume and not an ounce of regret.

It almost makes her stomach turn. 

He chuckles, and that’s what makes her gaze snap back onto him. She hates when he does this, when he makes it seem like shit is funny. There’s nothing comical about this tragedy. “Did I say something funny?”

“Forget it.” And now he’s dismissive, trying to shut down an argument that he started. “You don’t fucking listen anyway.”

“Are you serious right now?” Mari’s eyes go wide as she stands up, finally rid of six figure jewelry but basked in growing rage. “I don’t listen? Joe, you don’t listen! You never listen! You haven’t in years.”

Joe feeds off her energy, the quiet anger he’s usually well adept at concealing bubbling its way to the surface. No one’s ever been able to get him riled up like she does. “Naw, you not gon’ do that. Make it seem like this is on me. You do what you want and then expect me to just be okay with shit.”

“Wow. This is rich. Absolutely rich.” Mari can only laugh, because this part is funny. It’s hilarious. His lack of insight is astounding. “You are the most selfish bastard I have ever met.”

“Here it is.” He’s now standing as well, hulking body angled towards her, towering over her even with her designer heels. He motions with his hand for her to continue, to go on with the victim narrative she loves to clothe herself in. “Keep going. Tell me all this shit you already know about me, how awful I am—”

“Because you are!”

Something about the intensity in her voice sends him, makes him snap back easily. “And you’re a fucking saint?” His volume is also rising, which he hates. He never allows anyone to have access to that button, to know what to press and how to press it to get him this worked up. “You don’t never do shit wrong?”

Mariella feels her anger intensify as he turns to walk away from her. She’s hot on his heels, following him into the bathroom. “God, you always do this! You always put it back on me. It’s never your fault. Always mine!”

“And this is what I’m saying.” He has his big hands planted on the bathroom counter, looking at her through the large, mounted mirror. “You’re not even hearing what I’m saying. Always so fucking defensive. I’m not the one who don’t listen, Mari! You are!”

She can’t deny there have been a number of occasions where she’s jumped into defensive mode sooner than what’s necessary. Mariella isn’t above acknowledging that. But for him to make it seem like it’s not for a good reason, if not for his role is something she won’t stand for. “So what if I am defensive, huh? Who made me this way? You did, you bastard!”

“Just stop fucking’ talking, alright?” He’s pulling his suit jacket off, tone a mixture of defeat and exhaustion. Emotional or physical, she’s not sure. She knows she certainly feels both. “I don’t wanna hear this shit anymore.”

“And now here you go, always walking away, always taking the easy way out.” Because this is his MO. He loves to accuse and gaslight, and the minute she calls him out on his hypocrisy, he wants to shut everything down. It’s infuriating.

“Fine!” He slams his fists down on the same granite counter Mariella still remembers him once making out with her on, a starting point that ended with him carrying her to their once shared bed where he would make love to her throughout the night. Such a far away, almost unfamiliar time. “You want to sit here and continue yelling, be my fucking guest. I’m not saying shit though!”

“There you go again with more avoidance. God, you’re so predictable! Shit gets too hard, you shut down. You run away.”

“Don’t fucking act like you ever want to talk about shit with me—”

“Don’t tell me what I want, Joe. You don’t know what I want, okay? You don’t know anything about me anymore!”

“And whose fault is that, Mariella, huh? You don’t tell me shit! You never tell me shit!”

“Why should I? You don’t deserve to know shit about me anymore!” It’s more emotions than anything that fuels her to add on the accusatory, “It’s not like you care in the first damn place!” It also has to be the emotions that have her eyes watering, because it’s been forever and a day since an argument between them—and there have been plenty—has made her feel anything other than anger.

This is different.

This is sadness.

 Mariella watches as Joe punches the adjacent wall, the action taking her by surprise and making her jump back from said shock. “What do you want me to say, huh?” It’s been years since she’s seen him this upset. “No matter what I fucking say, what I fucking do, nothing’s ever right, so what’s the goddamn point!” With almost desperation, he shouts, “what the hell do you want from me!”

“I want you to love me again!” She snaps with a burst of visceral emotions. His anger simmers instantaneously. Joe knows that was the last thing she wanted to say, the deep down secret she’s worked hard to keep hidden and tucked away suddenly laid out in the open for all to see. The devastation on her face gives it away as she says more to herself than him in an equally devastated tone, “but that’s gone, isn't it? Everything we had…..everything we were…..is gone.”

An eerie silence settles over them. Joe closes his eyes and does his best to regulate his conflicting emotions. Everything is felt at once. So strong, so confusing, so pressing. That was the last thing he expected to hear from her, the same way the last thing he expected to feel at said words is longing. It’s so unfamiliar and confusing. She has so much power over him. To evoke such strong emotions with just a single sentence. To make him suddenly battle with the array of feelings he’s felt toward and about her at any given point in all of the many years they’ve known each other.

It’s just a fucking mess.

But then, the focus isn’t on his emotions anymore. It’s on the quiet sniffling he hears that makes him close his eyes. Joe instantly feels something different, something similar yet almost stronger than guilt.

She’s still standing at the doorway, but her hands are covering her face, failing to hide what is both visible and audible. 

Tears. 

She’s crying.

Something else unfamiliar settles over him, something almost nostalgic, that once upon a time uncomfortable plethora of emotions he’d find himself battling whenever he saw she was upset.

It never sat right with him to see her cry. 

His tone immediately shifts to something significantly calmer. “Mari….”

“I’m just tired, Joe. I’m so so…..tired.” And it’s with an almost whisper into the enclosed palm of her hands that she grabs the nail for the coffin. “And I don’t want to do this anymore.”

He’s dangerously still, rendered almost physically unable to move. The air around them is suddenly so much more noticeable, heavier, weightier, debilitating. 

She lifts her head, revealing a tear stained, distraught expression that makes him almost as equally distraught. “I don’t want to live like this anymore, Joe. I’m not happy. You’re not happy.” Each word leaving her mouth chips away his anger and replaces it with something unidentifiable. “It’s obvious you don’t love me anymore, and that’s—” Her throat catches as she forces herself to continue. “—that’s okay. Our careers are stable enough to where we don’t have to keep up this facade anymore.”

“Mariella—”

“I want a divorce.”

For some reason, there’s always been this belief system that any argument between them is just a part, a part that’s followed up with another one, then another, and then another. But, it never dawned on him that a single part could be the final part.

The final straw.

“Mariella, we—”

He’s stepping toward her, and she’s instantly stepping back, lifting her arms. She doesn’t want him near her, doesn’t want him touching her. It’s a sting, that’s for sure. 

“Don’t.” And he won’t. Won’t cross her boundaries even if everything in him is screaming to do so, to bypass her wishes that are being fueled by something temporary. Something that will fade by the time morning rolls around. “Just….don’t.”

She’s wiping at her eyes and mutters, “I need some air.”

He doesn’t like seeing her walk away in this manner, doesn’t like ending on this point. It’s one thing to leave off with the promise of another chapter, but it’s an entirely different thing to know that what could follow is the back cover without the anticipation for a sequel.

But, he says nothing. 

Does nothing.

He just lets her leave.

—-------

2007 

The phone ringing less than ten minutes after Joe plopped his big body in the bed was the last thing he expected and needed. Coach put them through hell today, and he’d completely forgotten about an assignment due the next day, so he’d forced himself to power through his physical exhaustion to get it submitted. 

Unlike a lot of his teammates, Joe does care about his academics as much as he cares about football. He recognizes it’s important to have something to fall back on. And as a senior, he’s really at the point where failure just isn’t an option.

He’s come too far now for that shit. 

When the phone rings a second time, he realizes it might be worth answering, even if everything in his body wants him to let it ring 18 times if that’s what it takes for the caller to get the message.

Not even bothering to check who it is, Joe grabs his cell and hits the green button. “Yeah?”

He’s met with soft sniffling followed up with a quiet, “it’s me.”

At that, Joe sits up in his bed, all attention on the person on the other end. “Ri?” He’s wide awake now. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry to call so late—”

“What’s wrong?” He doesn’t care about that anymore, just wants to know what happened to make her phone him at such a time. To phone him crying, at that. That’s the part that makes him concerned.

He can’t remember the last time he’s seen or heard her do that.

He hears shuffling on the other end as she chokes out, “can you—can you come get me?”

It’s not even a question. “Send me your location. I’m on my way.”

—--

Joe nearly knocks down the damn mailbox in front of the frat house with how quickly he pulls up, his truck coming to an abrupt sudden stop. He’s barely got the truck shut off when he’s ripping the door open and jogging up the path to the house of entitled, elitist pricks who get off on the misery of others.

But, he’s more focused on Mariella who meets him halfway on the path of said house, arms wrapped around her body. 

He’s assessing her from head to toe, using the dim streetlight as a guide in the stark darkness of the night. “What happened?” Realizing she’s still hugging himself, Joe’s blood goes cold. “Did he touch you?” And when she doesn’t say anything right away, he’s trying to move past her, murder on his mind. “I’ll fucking kill him—”

“No.” Her hand is on his chest, restraining him as much as she can. The truth is that it would be nothing for him to carefully move her to the side and beat the living shit out of her asshole of a boyfriend who he’s never liked from day one. “He didn’t.”

Joe doesn’t put it past her to try to say what she thinks he wants to hear. “Ri, don’t lie to me.”

“I promise. He didn’t. We just—” and the emotion rises back up, making her pause as she pleads with him. “Can we just go? Please?”

Joe knows why she called him and not Byron. Because Joe nods and guides her to his truck without further protest. Byron would have beat Damien first and maybe or maybe not asked questions later for the mere fact that he made his baby sister cry. 

The ride back to his dorm is silent, and it’s not until they are sitting outside on the steps of Joe’s residence hall that he asks again, much calmer, still as curious, “what happened, Ri?”

It takes a few minutes for her to start talking, and while he does his best to be patient, it’s also really fucking hard to not just bypass the conversation and go straight back to the original plan of murder.

“We were—we were messing around.” Instantly, Joe’s anger suddenly shifts to disgust. While he recognizes his best friend’s little sister isn’t so little anymore, eighteen and a college freshman, she’ll always be that goofy, klutzy, theatrical kid who was always trying to hang out with him and Byron. So, hearing about her messing around is the last thing he wants, but he also doesn’t want to interrupt and allows her to continue. “He wanted to have sex, but I—I told him no.” And before the murder plan can be revived, she clarifies. “And he stopped, but then we started arguing, and he—he told me he was tired of waiting, but I said I’m not changing my mind and….and he broke up with me.”

In some strange sort of way, Joe is more relieved than anything, mostly at the fact that nothing physical happened. It sucks, and he hates seeing her upset, but it’s really a blessing in disguise. Even if she doesn’t see it yet.

Still, he’s sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Ri.”

She sniffles again, wiping at her eyes. “I really liked him and—and I thought he liked me.” 

Joe wants so badly to tell her that Damien never liked her. He liked that she was a virgin. 

Mariella had made the cardinal mistake of sharing with her ex that she was still a virgin, something the bastard, like Damien, thought he could change. When that didn’t happen and a breakup followed, that same asshole took it upon himself to share her virgin status with several friends, several teammates. And it’s become a bit of a contest almost among the basketball team, to see who can take it from her first.

It’s fucking disgusting and makes him sick, but it’s also the culture of college athletes. 

Some, at least. 

“He’s an idiot, Ri.” This is said both because it’s true but also because he just wants her to feel better, to not feel like she lost out on some prize. If anything, she dodged a bullet. 

“Maybe I’m the idiot.” She shakes her head and shrugs. “Cause I keep finding myself in the same situation.”

He’d like to call it an exaggeration, but Joe also knows that this has been an issue in almost all of her relationships for the past few years. Less an issue and more a deal breaker. Sex is something that’s deeply personal and important to her, and he’s happy she’s that way, that she isn’t just sleeping around with anyone. Especially since she seems to have a penchant for athletes. 

They can be the worst.

He would know.

“Athletes can be hoes, Ri. That has nothing to do with you.”

“You and B aren’t like that.” She then corrects with an ounce of her usual sense of humor. “I mean, you guys are hoes, but you’re nice hoes.”

He laughs. That’s a bit of the Mariella he’s used to. “True, but maybe we’re the exception.” He then takes a deep breath, speaking to her from the heart. “I’m not really sure, but what I do know is that Damien was an asshole who never deserved you in the first place. You’re better off without him.”

It’s the god’s honest truth. Ri is like his little sister, and it pained him to see her give someone like Damien the time of day, but he also respects that while he still sees her as a little kid, she isn’t. She’s a legal adult capable of making her own decisions, and he respects that.

“He had pretty eyes though.” Joe gives her a look, and for the first time, she actually, truly laughs. It’s music to his ears. “What? If I don’t laugh, I’ll just keep crying.” Her eyes light up with something other than sadness, and he watches her pull out her phone, suddenly typing away.

He doesn’t even need to ask. He’s seen this before. She’s inspired and is getting out the lyrics before they escape her. And a few minutes later, she reads to him what she’s come up with.

If I don't laugh, I'm gonna cry 

Don't wanna hear your name tonight 

I'm finally happy, not in the mood 

I don't wanna think about you

“I like it.” It’s the truth. He likes most of what she writes, outside of the shit that’s way too girly for his musical preference.

She offers him that brilliant smile, eyes twinkling with something similar to appreciation. Mariella grabs his bicep, laying her head against his shoulder. “Thanks, Joe.”

He looks down at her. “I’ve always got your back, Mariella.” And that’s a promise. “Always.”

—-------

“Mariella, this is fucking ridiculous.” Joe pulls the phone away from his face to get a specific, accurate time. “It’s almost 3 o’clock in the damn morning. Get home now before something happens to your ass.”

He then quickly jabs the red end button. It’s an unkind voicemail message to leave, but also one of several he’s left over the past two hours. The first was a lot more understanding, almost apologetic. Now he’s just fucking annoyed, because she said she needed air. He figured she’d go sit outside, on the patio, maybe even sit poolside. 

Not for her to take off for a late night car ride without telling him anything. It’s something she used to do once upon a time, when they were both broke nobodies trying to keep the dream alive. 

Such a far off, distant memory. 

Joe wishes he didn’t care. Wishes he could head to bed and let her be in her feelings. He’s got an afternoon flight out to a taping and needs to be at the airport by 10am. At this rate, he’s not going to get any quality sleep, and that shit annoys him to no end because he likes to be well rested for work. Especially in his line of work. 

Sleep deprivation can make a wrestler more prone to unnecessary injuries. 

Still, he also knows that even if he were to try to get some sleep, he’d twist and turn the whole night. He’s never been able to sleep well until she was home and safe.

But, she’s not, and that shit just pisses him off all over again. He grabs his phone, ready for yet another call to go straight to voicemail when it lights up, generic ringtone filling the sizable kitchen. He doesn’t even bother checking the caller, just hits the green button and jumps right into questioning. 

“Where the hell are you?” At this point, he’ll go pick her up his damn self just to see her two feet planted in their LA mansion. “This isn’t—”

“I’m sorry—” Joe is the one who’s sorry because that certainly isn’t Mariella. Confused, he pulls the phone away from his ear again to see that it’s an unfamiliar local number. Bringing it back so he can ask who the hell this is, the caller beats him to it. “I’m looking for Joe Anoa’i.”

The woman’s voice is professional, but there’s also a hesitation there. A hint of emotionality almost. 

Frowning, he answers, gruffly, “This is Joe.” He’s quick with the follow up. “Who is this?”

“My name is Leslie Owens, and I’m an officer with the Los Angeles Police Department.” And just like that, Joe knows his entire world is about to be flipped upside down. “I’m sorry to inform you, but your wife has been involved in a car accident….”

—-------

2013 

“Just a couple more steps….”

“Ri, this is stupid. I’m gonna open my eyes.”

He can hear her dramatic gasp as she squeezes his hand. “Don’t you dare ruin this moment for us, sir!”

“The moment’s gonna be really ruined if your accident prone ass makes me fall down these damn steps.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m only accident prone when it comes to myself. Not others.” She sounds so proud of this fact too. “Thank you very much.”

She makes him smile, but that’s a given. There’s always an immense amount of joy and contentment when he’s around her. Her positivity, while excessive at times, is calming. Always has been. 

He’s happy when he’s at least done with the steps and on a leveled surface. Recovery from face planting on pavement has to be easier than a tumble down three flights of steps.

That reminds him. “This place doesn’t have an elevator?”

She’s quick with the answer followed by the jangling of keys. “Naw. That was the other place, but it was out of our budget.”

He says nothing. It seems like a lot is out of their budget these days.

Joe can hear her insert the key as well as the turn of the door knob and subsequent creaking of a door. She’s pulling him forward and he naturally steps over the mantle that she surely would have let him trip over because of her obliviousness in the moment. 

It’s when she drops his hand that he knows the end of this unnecessary dramatic introduction to seeing the apartment for the first time is nearing an end. 

“And…..open!”

Joe doesn’t need to be told twice.

The first thing he sees is her beautiful smile as she stands before him with her arms stretched up and in a ‘v.’ “Welcome to our first place together as husband and wife!”

Looking around, it’s clear as day that Mariella is probably the nicest thing in his line of vision. It’s not a bad looking apartment, at all, just plain and clearly in need of some modernizing updates/renovations. 

He can tell she’s tried to make it a little more homey with the rug and curtains, as well as family photos, but it’s still a far cry from the kind of place he’d love for them to call home.

“It’s….something.”

Mariella rolls her eyes. “I mean, it’s not the Hilton, but it’s ours, and that’s all that matters.” She moves over to him, reaching to wrap her arms around his neck. His hands plant on her hips, holding her to him. “Sure, the balcony is basically a ledge, and our view is of a park, so it gets loud sometimes, and I may or may not have witnessed a crime the other day……hope he’s alright.” Her brows cave together in brief confusion before she shrugs and back to smiling like they just won a million dollars. “But that’s besides the point because every couple has their struggle origin story. This is just ours for now.”

He’ll be happy when they’re out of this chapter of said story. This is one of those times he somewhat wishes he waited to marry her until they were both in better financial places. More him than her. She deserves so much better than this. She deserves the world, and he’s going to give it to her one day. 

He just prays that day is sooner rather than later.

“Hey.” He looks down and refocuses his attention on her. “As long as I have you….I’m good.” She moves to lay her head against his chest, murmuring, “I love you, and you love me. That’s all I’ll ever need.” And in true Ri fashion, she gasps and pulls away, looking up with almost childlike excitement. “I almost forgot!”

In many years of knowing Mariella, Joe has learned it’s always best to just let her do her thing and see what happens versus trying to navigate the eccentric workings of her chaotic mind.

So he watches silently as she rushes over to the counter to dig through her purse and pulls out her phone. She does that rapid tapping and sliding of her fingers that she does when in a self assigned rush. Less than a minute later, he’s hit with an all too familiar opening piano followed by even more familiar lyrics.

It's undeniable

That we should be together

It's unbelievable

How I used to say, that I'd fall never

Joe smiles as she moves her way back over to him, reaching for his hand. “Our wedding first dance song to christen our first place together. We have to dance. It’s literally in the marriage rule book.”

He chuckles. “Oh, really?” 

“Duh.” She gasps and bites down on her bottom lip when he quickly yanks her toward him. Joe’s hand is on the small of her back as hers move up his check, locking behind his neck. “See….not so bad after all?”

He dances with her, but his attention is focused less on the music, even the dancing and just her. “Anything’s better if you’re there.” She beams up at him and giggles as he spins her so that her back lands against his chin. His head dips into her neck, as she places her hands on his forearms.

He’s taking her in, enjoying this moment with her when she says leadingly, “you know there’s another first we haven’t done yet to christen our place…..”

Joe makes a sound and presses a kiss to the side of her neck. “Hmm. And what is that?”

He can only imagine the way her cheeks must be tinged red as she answers almost as if she doesn’t want anyone to overhear. “That thing you’re really good at.” He smiles against her skin and holds her tighter. “I especially like when you do that one thing with your tongue and—Joe!” Too much talk, not enough clothes being taken off. He doesn’t hesitate to lift her over his shoulder, eager to show her just how much he also likes to do that ‘one thing’ with his tongue.

—-------

Present 

Two weeks.

Two weeks since he’s seen her big, beautiful smile.

Two weeks since he’s heard that infectious laugh.

Two weeks since he’s heard her voice.

Two weeks since the night that changed everything, the night that some idiot decided to drive drunk and crashed into her vehicle head on. 

Two weeks since she was airlifted to a Level 1 trauma center where her injuries were so severe that they immediately took her into surgery that saved her life in one way but couldn’t in another.

Because she has yet to wake up from the initial accident. 

Because it’s been two weeks since Mariella slipped into a coma. 

It’s been two weeks of that cruel waiting game, that slight smudge of hope that rises where the doctor comes in with just as much desire it’ll be a different prognosis only for the same thing to leave his mouth every time with that same disappointed expression.

“We just have to continue to wait.”

Joe isn’t sure he’s ever hated a saying more than he now hates that one.

Just like her mom and other family members, he's been at the hospital every day, just sitting for hours at her bedside, holding her hand that’s much colder than he’s used to. Than it should be. 

The room is silent, a type of silence he’s unused to. There’s never silence when Mariella is around. She’s always talking, always smiling, always laughing.

But not anymore.

Now she just lays there, unconscious, Joe praying more than he ever has in his entire life that he gets to see her pretty eyes yet again, hear her beautiful voice scream at him, sing to him, laugh at him, anything.

He just needs her.

The love and support from her fans has been astounding yet expected. She’s America’s Sweetheart. Music’s new queen. Everyone loves her. She’s received an endless amount of support, kind words, prayers, and well wishes from both fellow artists and fans. Though the fans seemed to have done the most. Even holding several vigils outside the hospital. And though he’s still pissed that piece of information got leaked, he knows she would be so moved by the love. 

Joe wasn’t entirely in agreement with sharing Mariella’s coma status with the world, but it was the decision that was eventually settled on by Iris, her manager, and the rest of her team with the family’s eventual blessing.

The specifics regarding her injuries, however, have remained confidential, and for that, he’s grateful.

He’s sitting on the side of the bed yet again, taking over the shift from April, Mariella’s mom, whose devastated expression hasn’t changed from the minute he had to tell her and the rest of her family what happened to now, as they all wait with all of the hopes and prayers in the world for the prognosis to change.

“This is the longest I’ve ever gone without hearing your voice.” Just saying it aloud feels strange, wrong even. That he gets to sit here and talk while she lays there, plugged up to a million machines, deprived of even that basic right. “I never knew I could miss something so much until now.”

And it’s the truth. 

Realizing his NFL dreams weren’t going to become a reality was devastating, but this….this is another level of hell.

“You said…you said you want me to love you again, but….but I can’t do that, Ri.” His hand is over hers, thumb rubbing the skin that’s not covered by the IV and large bandage. “I can’t do it again because I never stopped loving you in the first place.”

It’s a disgusting, pathetic feeling. To know that the words he should have said to her when everything first started falling apart can only leave his mouth after something like this occurs. After he’s so brutally reminded of the fragility of life and the importance of telling people how you feel when they’re still around.

There’s so much he needs to tell her, so much he needs to clear up, so much he needs her to tell him.

She deserves clarification.

He deserves answers.

Joe just prays he gets the chance for that to happen. 

It’s nearly seconds after that thought crosses his mind that he feels movement under his hand. His eyes snap up to see the one thing he’s prayed for every day for the past two weeks, the one thing he deep down was scared he would never see.

Mari’s brown eyes. Glossed and confused as all the outdoors, he sees them darting all around the room and feels her trying to move her hand. 

He’s not sure he’s even breathing anymore. “Ri?” It’s as she continues to blink and try to move her head that he realizes this isn’t some cruel hallucination. She’s awake.

Mariella is awake.

When the shock wears off, he all but runs to the door, ripping it open as he calls for the doctor, the nurse, any medical professional available to tend to her. 

Joe is right on the doctor’s heels as he moves quickly to her bedside, digging for something out of his white coat pocket. Joe moves to the other side of her bed, closely observing any and all interactions of both. 

“Mariella, I’m Dr. Reynolds, and I’ve been overseeing your care here.” Joe then looks back at his wife who seems more awake by the second but still with her mouth turned downward, like she’s lost at what’s happening. 

Mariella squints when the doctor shines the light in her eyes, wincing almost, and Joe has to catch himself from telling the doctor to be careful. 

“Do you remember what happened?” Dr. Reynolds asks, and Joe watches closely as she looks at him with the same level of confusion. “Can you tell me what year it is?”

His stomach drops when she shakes her head no.

“You were in a car accident.” The doctor’s voice takes on a different tone, something not as optimistic, more….ominous. “Can you give me your full name?”

Again, a slow shake of the head to answer no.

Joe goes to ask the doctor what’s going on, if this is some side effect that people can have when waking up from a coma, but the man is pointing in Joe’s direction as he asks a final question. “Do you know who this is?”

And it’s then, as she shakes her head ‘no’ yet again that Joe realizes what’s happening. A new kind of ruination overcomes him, making his throat suddenly feel almost as heavy as his heart.

It’s a heartbreaking realization that he has to say aloud because it feels almost too unreal to be true. 

“Her memories are gone….”

[magicalbats]

Kinktober 2024 Day 21: Wriothesley x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 5459

Warnings: Afab!reader, prison, handcuffs, solitary confinement, abuse of power, desperation play, noncon, vaginal fingering, watersports, piss

A/N: Once again cutting it close but I made it!

⭐

Evidently kicking one of his guards in the face was enough to warrant a personal visit from the Duke of Meropide himself. Go figure. 

Cautiously straightening up from the grumpy slouch you’d fallen into against your cot, you look over to the narrow doorway at his sudden and unexpected entrance. You can’t help noticing that he appears to take up most of the doorframe with his tall, stocky build, the solitary confinement cell they’d shove you into so small that he seems to fill the already cramped space with his presence. And you don’t exactly like the way he shuts the door behind himself either. 

You’d only been a prisoner in the Fortress long enough to know its head warden was a rather elusive fellow who didn’t often make public appearances aside from the brief glimpses one could catch of him walking down the steel lined and reinforced corridors. Being on the receiving end of a one-on-one talk with him so early on in your sentence did not seem to bode well for the rest of your stay in this deep sea prison. 

“… what are you doing here?” You hedge, warily watching him lean back against the opposite wall directly across from you with his arms folded over his broad barrel chest. This was your first time seeing him up close like this, and you were admittedly rather impressed with how very large he was. 

Or maybe intimidated was the better word. 

Sighing faintly through his nose, Wriothesley settles into place and pins you with a level stare that doesn’t tell you much about his reason for being here, but it does seem to solidify that your initial thoughts on the matter were correct. This couldn’t be anything good. 

“You should be glad it’s only me.” He drawls in a surprisingly light, affable tone for what he was saying. “A few of the other guards wanted to handle our newest troublemaker themselves, but I know how they do things and I told them I’d take care of it. You’re a lucky little inmate if I do say so myself.”

You restlessly shift on top of your cot, shooting him a suspicious look. “Why would you do that?” 

He gives those broad shoulders of his a rather disinterested shrug. “You’re a woman. Simple as that. I generally try to be a bit more lenient with the fairer sex when I can, even when they foolishly decide to kick one of my guards in the face.”

You self consciously draw your bare feet in at that, tucking them under yourself where he wouldn’t be able to easily see how naked and bare they were after the penitentiary officers relieved you of your standard issue shoes for the transgression. As far as you saw it, your penance had already been paid. Both in the form of how very chilled your toes were and also the last few hours you’d spent in here with absolutely nothing to do. 

But the way he looks over at you with a vague air of stern authority reflecting in his chilly blue gaze seemed to suggest he was not in agreement with that estimation. 

“That doesn’t sound very on the up and up to me,” You murmur, listlessly flexing your wrists where they were restrained behind your back to test the give of the cuffs around them. Nope. Still just as unrelenting as the last time you’d checked. “Does the surface world know about this? Something tells me The Steambird would love nothing more than to run a scathing exposé about the questionable practices of not only the Fortress staff but its own Duke as well.” 

“I’m sure they would too. Luckily though they’re not going to get their hands on this information any time soon to run that article in the paper.” 

“You - -“

“I think that's enough banter for now.” He smoothly cuts across you, his mild tone leaving no room for argument on your part. “Let’s talk about you instead. Wanna’ tell me why you decided to attack one of my guards like that?” 

Primly sniffing, you turn your head to look elsewhere in the room but there’s not much else to focus your attention on other than the stand alone toilet in the corner and the wall. You settle on the wall. “I don’t see why I should explain myself to you.”

“You should do it because I asked. Nicely, I may add. I don’t have to be polite about it, just keep that in mind.” 

You can’t quite stop yourself from prickling slightly at the soft note of warning in his voice. What was with this guy? Either he was on a massive power trip down here where no one of a more civilized nature was there to keep an eye on him or he had an ego the size of Fontaine with the attitude to match. You really didn’t think you liked him very much. 

“Fine. I kicked him because he grabbed me even after I told him not to. I was defending myself. Simple as that.” 

Stirring at the bitter vindication in your voice, Wriothesley slowly unfolds his arms to let them hang loose down at his sides. It’s so slight and subtle, but something about the change in his body language does not make you feel very optimistic about how this was going to play out, and you anxiously shift on your cot again. 

“Interestingly enough, I heard a somewhat different story. You were refusing to cooperate and go where he was telling you to go. He only grabbed you, as you put it, to get your butt in gear. Isn’t that right?” 

“It was unnecessary.” You hiss back, hackles starting to rise. 

“Not in a prison it’s not. You’re expected to follow orders, little miss inmate. Without question. The guards are well within their rights to make you do something even if you don’t want to do it.” 

“Well, he didn’t need to touch me to accomplish that!” 

His brows taking a sedate trip up to his hairline, Wriothesley looks at you like he’s equal parts impressed and puzzled by your growing anger. Could he really not see what the problem was with having an unknown man suddenly putting his hands on you like that? If he'd get close enough you wouldn’t have minded giving him a good kick in the face too, and you think he must see that in your expression because he lets out a quick laugh.   

“Goodness, you’ve certainly got a short temper. I’m starting to see now how the situation escalated like it did. Maybe I should give you a bit more time to cool off and we’ll see if you’re feeling less mouthy when I come back.” 

You’re so shocked by the abrupt shift in the conversation that you just numbly watch him push off from the wall and make the short pivot towards the doorway, reaching out for the handle. It’s only when he’s got it halfway open and you realize he’s actually serious about leaving you in here even longer do you lurch forward with a jerk. 

“Wait!”

Wriothesley pauses and glances back at you. He doesn’t say anything though so you quickly rouse yourself, cobbling together a haphazard entreaty on the fly. 

“Please don’t go. I don’t like it in here. I’ll cooperate, I promise. Please?” 

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before lashing out like a brat then.” 

“I wasn’t being a brat! I just … I’ve never been in a prison before and I’m so scared. I’m not used to being around this many men. The guards were yelling at me and I panicked. I didn’t know what he was going to do to me. He could have really hurt me or — worse. I swear it was just self defense, I didn’t mean anything by it. Really.” 

Batting your lashes at him, you fix the Duke with your best sad look of helplessness and even conjure a filmy sheen of moisture into your eyes for effect. It was one of the trusty ace’s you kept up your sleeve and one that tended to work on even the most resolute, emotionally unavailable men, but Wriothesley just stares at you with a less than impressed frown tugging at his mouth now. Dammit. 

You hadn’t expected him to be completely immune to your ploys and feminine wiles, and you don’t exactly have a back up plan in mind as he shifts his weight back to thoughtfully settle inside the tiny room again. 

“Hmm. If I remember correctly … you’re the one who’s in for scamming people, aren’t you? Is that poor little put out face how you got all those gentlemen to sign over their life’s fortunes to you?” 

A genuine flush starts to crawl across your cheeks, more than slightly embarrassed at having your innocent act fail so miserably. “That has nothing to do with this. I’m telling you the truth.” 

“I bet.” Scoffing a quiet laugh, he once again brings his arms up to cross them, pinning you with a pointed look. “Cute trick though. I’m sure you’ll be quite disappointed to find it won’t work half as well as it did on the surface down here. Well, maybe with the male inmates it might get you somewhere I suppose. But it’s not going to do you any good with my guards and it’s certainly not going to have any effect on me. Perhaps you could give it a try on one of the female officers next?” 

You shoot him a biting look of warning at that, making Wriothesley chuckle another brief sound of amusement at your expense. 

“Ooh, how scary. It looks like someone is in need of a major attitude adjustment to me. But don’t worry, we’ll take care of that in due time.” Still quietly laughing, he begins to turn back towards the door. “Enjoy the rest of your timeout. I’ll see you again in a few hours.” 

Your eyes immediately pop open, widening to the approximate size of dinner plates, and you lurch forward again when he starts to push into motion. 

“Wait!” 

Pausing once more, Wriothesley turns just enough to peer over his shoulder at you. “What is it now?” 

“You can’t … what do you mean ‘hours’? You can’t leave me in here that long!” 

“Oh? Is that so.” 

You sputter at that, realizing in a distant sort of way that he was actually, really truly serious about this. Not only did he plan to leave you locked inside this solitary confinement cell for who knows how long but he was also perfectly comfortable with the notion. Not even an ounce of guilt or shame! 

“This is — it’s a human rights violation, isn’t it?” You desperately stammer, foolishly thinking you might be able to get through to him if you just reasoned with him enough. “No food, no water. Nothing but a paper thin blanket in here to keep me warm. And I thought you said you like to be more lenient with female inmates. Or was that just a trick to make me trust you?” 

Studying you for a long, drawn out moment, Wriothesley finally breathes out a slow exhale and rocks back to stand inside the small room with you yet again, fully this time so he can swing the door shut with a casual flick of his hand. 

“That only applies to the female inmates who don’t test my patience and make everybody’s job harder than it needs to be. I gave you a chance to get in my good graces and behave but you refused. Tell me why you think that should have earned you any sympathy from me.” 

“It’s not about sympathy, you ass.” You growl at him, furiously working your arms against the unbudging handcuffs behind your back. “It’s about common decency! You can’t treat people like this just because you’re on some tyrannical head trip. But if you’re so dead set on doing this then at least take these damn things off. I can’t even use the toilet like this!” 

“Sure you can. I bet you haven’t even tried yet.” 

“Ugh! You are infuriating! How am I supposed to pull my pants down or wipe like this? And — and I don’t even see any tissue paper in here! What am I supposed to use, my hand?” 

He makes a considering face at that, as if it was a reasonable enough idea and you were simply too unreasonable to see that, which just pisses you off even more. Perhaps you would have been a little less on edge and a little less focused on this particular problem if you didn’t have to pee so bad. You’d already been stuck in here for a tortuously long stretch of hours since the incident first happened, no way could you last a couple more. 

“Please.” You sob, letting some of your desperation bleed into your voice now. “You’ve already taken everything else from me. My freedom, my life, even my shoes! At least let me keep my dignity.” 

“I’m telling you,” He intones, the abrupt drop in his voice down to a strict whip crack startling you somewhat. “You do not need your hands to go. You’re being a bit dramatic about this, don’t you think? Or is it just that you want me to help you with it?” 

Your spine snaps ramrod stiff, a curling tendril of real unease snaking through your cramping gut now. Surely he couldn’t be … “You wouldn’t.” 

“Oh, but I certainly would. It seems to me you’re forgetting a rather important detail, miss. I’m in charge here, not you. I can do whatever I please whenever I so choose. Would you like to try me?” 

You reel back in abject shock, feeling your shoulders quake with the impotent rage coursing through your system. There was even a hint of fear underneath that red hot current too, if you were being honest. It just didn’t make sense to you how he could speak to you like this, treat you like this and threaten you like this, all in good conscience with nary a sign of guilt to show for it. And this was all somehow legally sanctioned by the powers that be? 

Clearly seeing the raging confusion and uncertainty on your face, Wriothesley takes a casual step towards you and you suck in a sharp little gasp. Quickly drawing your legs up onto the cot so you can kick at the thin mattress and scoot as far back from him as you can. There’s nowhere you can feasibly go with your shoulders against the wall though, and you realize just how limited your options really are in such a cramped space with no shortage of sinking dread. 

Undeterred by your frightened reaction, he comes to stand over you in only two short strides, further reiterating how very trapped and cornered you were in here. You try very hard to keep a brave face but you can’t quite manage to conceal it when he was looming there like that. He was just so big and obviously powerful, if the size of his arms was anything to go by, so of course you’d be scared! 

The helplessness of having your arms secured behind your back doesn’t help either, and all you can do is cower when he sedately reaches out a hand towards you. A multitude of possibilities fly through your head all at once, each worse than the last as you imagine what sort of humiliating trial he was going to put you through next. You probably should have just kept your big mouth shut. 

To your shuddering surprise though, he merely wraps his massive hand around the back of your neck in an unexpectedly gentle yet firm grip, nudging you from the wall just enough to fit his knuckles between. Wildly trembling there on the cot, you hesitantly tip your eyes up to look at him. You didn’t understand what he was doing. This was not what you’d imagined when he’d said he would help you, thinking he was going to drag you over to the toilet and take your pants down himself, or perhaps even make you urinate on the floor like an animal. That is not what seems to be happening though, and you have no idea what to make of it when he lifts his other hand to reach for your lap, tracking the motion with a great deal of fast mounting horror. 

He doesn’t even give you a word of warning before he does it, just unceremoniously shoving his broad palm between your legs to cup you through your pants, and you jolt so hard you nearly come right up off the cot. He keeps you in place with his hold on your neck though, leaving you with such a limited range of movement that all you can do is squirm in place, hissing at him like an incensed cat. 

“Wh - what are you doing? You can’t … you can’t touch me like this, you bastard!” 

“Well, that’s quite a mouth you’ve got, isn’t it? Perhaps you need to have it washed out with soap when I come back.” 

Whimpering softly when that casually delivered threat hits its mark, you uselessly kick your legs up in an attempt to fight him off but of course it doesn’t work. Even when you press your bare foot into the bend of his elbow and push he doesn’t even budge. The Duke just keeps holding your cunt in the palm of his hand like it was meant to fit there and you frantically clench the muscles in your lower body, the warmth of his hand suddenly making it feel like you need to go even more than before. This could not be happening. 

“Leave me alone!” You warble, starting to pant from the effort of trying to wriggle free while holding back the urge to empty your bladder at the same time. “This is — a gross abuse of power, do you hear me? You’re sick! W - what do you think you’re doing to me!”  

“I think I’m teaching you a lesson that you should have learned a long time ago.” He tells you, perfectly calm and collected despite all your restless fidgeting. “Given your attitude and the long list of crimes you committed, I’d wager you think yourself pretty much untouchable huh? And it may have even been true at one point but unfortunately for you that’s no longer the case.” 

Pinching your neck just tight enough to make you squeak a hurt little sound, Wriorhesley all but scruffs you like you were nothing more than a misbehaved kitten to make you be still. The sharp pinprick of real tears rushes into your eyes as you roughly seethe, painfully stiff and halting in his hold. Immobilized like this, you can only follow the motion of his other hand when he lifts it from your cunt to demandingly tug the waistband of your pants lower. 

“I’m afraid you’re playing by my rules now. And before you start in on it again, no, I will not be facing any recourse for it regardless of how much you throw a fit over it. This is my fortress, little miss inmate. You’d do well to remember that from now on.”

He reaches into your pants then, slipping rough, callous worn fingers straight down through the top of them, and you plaintively mewl at the gruff way he worms it lower to dip into the space between your legs. Even trying to squeeze your thighs shut isn’t enough to dissuade him and Wriothesley merely bullies them apart, stretching your bottoms out as he angles his hand downward to find your slit. 

The first indelicate swipe of a blunt fingertip over the fleshy crease makes you jolt so hard your head slams back into the wall with a dull thud. He doesn’t seem to care though, slowly working his digit back and forth for a drawn out moment to encourage the fleshy lips to part for him. And gradually, they do. Not of your own volition or even with any conscious thought to the matter, but the insistent nudge against your labia still has its intended effect. 

As soon as he can dip that finger inside you he does, spearing through fleshy creases and folds to locate your clit. He presses down on it firmly enough to make your thighs twitch around his wrist but he doesn’t hurt you, which manages to surprise you slightly. For a man who looked like he’d be more of a meathead than anything else, someone who was much too focused on stroking his own ego to concern himself with the pleasure of a woman, he’s unexpectedly adept at rubbing you just right. Not too soft yet not too hard, all while not missing his intended target completely. It was astounding in a way. 

You hate it though. Even when your body grudgingly responds to his steady ministrations and you feel your pussy start to warm up to the masculine presence between your legs, you still mentally curse him for everything he was worth. The one and only good thing about this is the more he keeps caressing over that responsive pleasure button the less urgent your need to go seems to be. Maybe this was good after all. If your cunt was too busy getting fingered you wouldn’t have enough time to think about how badly you needed to pee. 

“There. That’s a little better now, isn’t it?” He murmurs when you stiffly relax into it, rewarding you for your good behavior by bringing a second finger to your soft clit so he can caress you over a wider surface area now. “If you would have just listened to the instructions you were given we wouldn’t have to be doing this right now, would we? Maybe next time you’ll stop and think before you act out.” 

Groaning a soft sound of protest under your breath, you screw your eyes shut and try to turn your head away from him. He was far too close for your liking, his warm breath ghosting softly against your hair where he was bent close over you. But Wriothesley’s hold on your neck is as good as iron, and all you can seem to do is reluctantly shudder in place for him, earning a brief click of his tongue when you halfheartedly try to twist away from his hand. 

“Don’t get yourself all worked up again. And you were starting to look so obedient too. Just relax. I’ve got you, you little brat.” 

You noise a threadbare sound of disagreement into the suddenly static charged air, your legs flexing in vain against the sheets underneath you. It’s clear you were losing the fight though — and then he switches up the motion of his hand, going from carefully deliberate nudging at your clit to flattening those long, broad fingers over the apex of your mound so he can firmly drag them back and forth. The very sharp surge of sensitive arousal that shoots through you in response probably would have bowled you over on the spot if he hadn’t been keeping you held upright and in place, shuddering intensely with a faltering mewl. 

It makes your head positively spin from how potent it is as your hips reluctantly judder under the exquisite pressure. You were feeling more and more delirious by the moment, especially when you were aware of your pussy slowly wettening for him. He could feel it too, and he murmurs quiet words of praise at you for being so pliant for him. 

That alone is almost enough to lull you into a throbbing daze wherein you don’t even think to protest when Wriothesley finally directs his damp fingers even lower to press into your entrance. It’s only when he pushes in, smoothly sliding a thick digit into your cunt with enough soft, gooey friction that you woundedly lurch in your spot, and you abruptly snap out of it. 

Mild alarm registers in your mind at the unexpected penetration but it quickly ratchets up to full blown, squirming panic when you realize a moment later how insidiously cruel this really is. The heavy presence of him inside you puts additional strain on your bladder's muscle control, the resulting weak flex pulsing through your entire cunt to make your inner sleeve sensitively contract around his finger. All at once that insistent pressure to let go until you were mercifully empty roars back to life full force and you renew your struggle with a frantic little whimper. 

Wriothesley just shushes you though, sedately withdrawing his hand from your pussy just so he can then push in with two fingers. The mind numbing stretch to your body makes you weakly thrash and clench your teeth in an attempt to stop yourself from involuntarily pissing everywhere. But he seems to know what he’s doing and he’s hellbent on doing it, curling those broad digits inside you to push on up on your upper wall and jab towards where your heavy bladder rests inside you. 

“Oh - oohh — waaaah, stop it! Please! I - I don’t want to …” 

Readjusting his grip on your neck, Wriothesley pointedly nudges your face in his general direction to make you look at him even when your head drunkenly lolls in his grasp. “What’s not getting through that pretty little head of yours, huh? It doesn’t matter what you want. Your needs and desires are of no concern to me. As long as you’re here under my care you’ll do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Understand now?” 

Blubbering rather pitifully while he continues to almost idly fuck his fingers into your aching bladder, you just stare up at him in wide eyed disbelief. Not only were you incredibly taken aback by his misuse of power, his total lack of empathy for you, but the fact that he seemed to be actively trying to make you piss yourself strikes you as particularly alarming as well. Why would he want to do this to you? It didn’t even make any sense. 

But you stubbornly clench down even when the tears start to run over and track hot streaks down your face, fighting tooth and nail to keep your continence under control. It’s a losing battle when his fingers were so thick and heavy, churning your guts with every sharp little jab against your interior. And as the seconds tick by you can’t quite decide which is worse — the way his rough ministrations make your pussy noisily suck at his fingers, slurping loudly each time he plunges them inside, or if it’s the way your desperate attempt at tightening up just makes you squeeze down on him even harder. 

It’s a dizzying, confusing rush of sensation slamming into you all at once, head spinning so fast it almost comes as something of a relief when you feel the pressure in you start to tip. Wriothesley practically forces it out of you, demanding your body respond to him with such insidious precision that you simply can’t help but cum. 

And you do, seething viciously through your teeth while you tersely judder and shake into an unexpected yet not unwelcome orgasm. It leaves you reeling in his hold, woundedly lurching while you gasp and squeal, hips bucking uncontrollably as he continues to fuck his fingers into you. Deliberately milking your release for everything it’s worth and dragging it out until you sensitively angle your pelvis away from him, moaning a dire sound of frazzled distress. 

To your reeling, punchdrunk surprise, the Duke allows his fingers to carefully slide out of you and leave your tender cunt altogether, and you wheeze a grateful sigh at the reprieve. You’re not entirely sure how you’d managed not to vacate everything in your bladder throughout that process but you feel vaguely proud of yourself in the aftermath, in a far off, dreamy sort of way. 

You even manage to straighten up enough to shoot him a relatively sharp look of victory that you’re certain is not in any way diminished by the fact you were flushed hot and still trying to catch your breath. 

He just looks down at you though, those icy crystalline blue eyes taking some of the wind out of your sails for how unmoved they were. 

And when Wriothesley slides his hand out of your pants you foolishly think this bizarre trial is over, that you’d bested him at his own game and now he had no choice but to give up. 

Your triumph over him is regretfully short lived though, and a haggard, hissing gasp catches in your throat when he presses his palm down on your lower stomach. Jerking at the pressure, you immediately try to twist out of his grip even when it yanks on your neck but he holds you fast. A little more firmly he pushes down, not enough to crush or hurt you, yet it’s more than sufficient to make the tension in your bladder start to give out. 

You couldn’t stopper it. Not after being attacked from the inside and now the outside. All you can do is helplessly squeal and squeeze your thighs together as tight as you can but it’s no use. You feel it coming, eyes starting to roll back in your head when the first tiny trickle slips out of you. And once that small allowance is made, involuntary though it may be, it’s like you lose complete control all at once. 

Another dribble of piss quickly follows and then a full on stream, forced right out of you by the uncomfortable pressure on your guts. Wailing a stricken sound of humiliated defeat, you bonelessly slouch back into the wall and let your legs fall open in a wide spread while it just keeps coming out of you completely against your will. The warm, wet sensation rapidly spreads underneath you, soaking into the cot and even right through your pants. You’ve never felt quite so deeply embarrassed as you do watching that stain spread across the material as your hips twitch at the onset of great relief that comes with it, knowing Wriothesley was watching you piss yourself the same way. 

He doesn’t let up on your stomach until he seems to be certain there’s nothing left some few moments later, slowly retracting his hands from you and then straightening up to leave you sitting in your own soiled clothes. Weak and broken, you just lie there without even making an attempt to close your legs and hide the evidence from him. Not only was it much too late for that but there was also too much of a mess for you to conceivably hide any of it. 

Your pants were soaked. 

The middle of the mattress was as good as waterlogged. 

There was no way you’d ever be able to forget this mortifying ordeal for as long as you might live, and something told you Wriothesley was going to personally see to that himself. 

“Well,” He intones, casually straightening out his tie where it had gone askew. “I’d say that takes care of that. I trust you’re feeling better now, little miss inmate?” 

Listlessly rousing at that, you send him a halfhearted and tearful glare. “Screw you …” 

“Ah, so you’re still inclined to be mouthy with me I see. No matter. I’m sure you’ll be singing a much different tune the next time I check in.” He starts to pull away from the cot as if to leave but seems to think of something else, turning back to you again with a stilted exhale. “Seriously though, I hope you’ll take this opportunity to reflect on your behavior so we don’t have to have another demonstration like this one. I don’t like throwing my weight around unless I absolutely have to. You’re going to get yourself hurt down here if you start running your mouth with someone who’s a little less nice than me. Just some food for thought.” 

He does leave then, calmly walking over to the door which he tugs open and steps through, shutting it with a click behind him. The sound of a rattling set of keys turning in the lock rings loud in the tight, cramped little space as you’re left alone in a quickly cooling puddle of your own piss with only your deeply embarrassed feelings for company now. 

If this was how the Duke did things in his fortress then perhaps it would be wise to behave him from now on. At the very least you didn’t want to get on his bad side again. 

⭐

Crossposted: here

[yuurei20]

Jade and Floyd Info Compilation part 16: Jade, Floyd and Idia

Like most of the the main cast, Floyd and Jade do not seem fond of Idia: Jade banters with Lilia about Idia dying during Phantom Bride but retaining his position as a ghost-housewarden (which Floyd finds hilarious).

They come across Ortho looking at a fashion magazine with a special edition on sneakers in the library, and Ortho says that Idia has refused to craft legs for him that do not hover because, “Going terrestrial is for wimps.”

Possibly taking issue with Idia's view of "going terrestrial," Jade happens to recall “a rather fascinating snippet of information about Idia” that they use to blackmail him into fulfilling Ortho’s request for legs that can walk. (Floyd says “Pretty amazing to slap that together in just three days’ time. Good thing your secret didn’t slip,” implying that they may have given him a time limit of three days to grant Ortho’s wish.)

Jade observes, “Fashion begins with the feet, after all. It is incredibly narrow-minded to speak ill of those who do not fly.”

When asked what dorm he would join outside of Ignihyde, Idia considers Octavinelle but then refuses on the basis that he'd rather stay away from “those sinister twins," perhaps based on this interaction.

Jade comments that Idia’s Halloween costume displays “a level of obsessiveness that few of us laypeople could ever hope to reach.” Idia responds, “Somehow, that doesn’t feel like a compliment.”

When Idia visits Jade during the Wish Upon a Star event Jade says that he cannot think of anything to wish for and Idia says, “You’re the vice house warden of Octavinelle, a dorm that’s basically run by a perpetually scheming greed elemental. There’s no way you don’t want something.”

When Jade wishes for the ability to grant Floyd and Azul's wishes, Idia follows with, “You just won the trophy for Most Insincere Wish Ever (Source: Me),” apparently causing Jade to cry.

Ortho reprimands Idia for bullying an underclassman and demands that he apologize. Jade responds, “I’m so relieved you believe me. Heh heh heh…”

Jade and Idia find common ground during Harveston when Jade reviews the rulebook for the sled race and they both immediately agree on points such as destroying their opponents’ plushies, making other teams crash and setting up pitfalls.

Epel and Sebek insist on trying to win the race without sabotage. Jade observes, “You freshmen are so dull—ah, I mean, diligent” and Idia agrees, saying, “Ugh, such arbitrary ‘morals’.”

In his second birthday vignette Jade says he just happened to meet with Idia in front of a vending machine and Idia gave him a candy bar for his birthday.

[daitranscripts]

Solas Cutscene: Low Approval

How Does It Feel?

Solas Masterpost

The PC finds Solas in the rotunda.

Solas: Inquisitor. Tell me. How does it feel?

PC: How does what feel?

Solas: Being you. Are you blissfully unaware or, deep inside, is some part of you banging on the walls, screaming?

Dialogue options:

General: What did I do? [1]

General: Fine, thanks. [2]

General: Spit it out. [3] -Solas slightly disapproves

1 - General: What did I do? PC: Have I offended you in some way, Solas? Solas: Oh, in some way, yes. [4]

2 - General: Fine, thanks. PC: Being me feels great. Like pulling on a warm pair of stockings. Solas: Continue with your merry japes. It would be sad were you forced to examine yourself with a critical eye. [4]

3 - General: Spit it out. PC: If you have a problem, say it. I don’t have time for your feelings. Solas: Of course. Any criticism must be the crazy knife-ear whining. [4]

4 - Choice dependent dialogue:

PC claimed chosen [5]

Mages conscripted [6]

Templars allied [7]

Wardens allied [8]

None of the above [9]

5 - PC claimed chosen Solas: Although I should watch my tone. I speak to a demigod, after all. The Chosen of Andraste. Do you enjoy the worship? Does it make you feel infallible, or do you see them as fools, gullible for their belief?

Dialogue options:

General: I’m giving them hope. [10] +Solas slightly approves

General: I believe. [11] -Solas slightly disapproves

General: The lie is useful. [12] -Solas disapproves

General: This conversation is over. [24] -Solas greatly disapproves

10 - General: I’m giving them hope. PC: I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but people could use something to believe in. Solas: You give them a lie. Pride, defense, love of family, even the concept of the Inquisition… those are real things! You do them no favors by keeping them ignorant. But then, ignorance must be so appealing to you. [9]

11 - General: I believe. PC: You’re welcome to think whatever you like. I believe I was chosen. Solas: So your great Maker will stop anything terrible from happening. How’s that working so far? [9]

12 - General: The lie is useful. PC: I don’t get to be picky about the tools I use. If the story gets me more allies for this fight, I’ll use it. Solas: You’re not gaining allies. You’re gaining minions. Sheep driven by one false god to fearfully follow another. [9]

6 - Mages conscripted Solas: Are you relieved to have mages back under control? Perhaps when you’re done, you can leash them like Qunari do.

Dialogue options:

General: It had to be done. [13]

General: Mages earned their reputation. [14] -Solas slightly disapproves

General: The Qunari have a point. [15] -Varric greatly disapproves

General: This conversation is over. [24] -Solas greatly disapproves

13 - General: It had to be done. PC: Perhaps someday we won’t need the Circle. Right now, mages are too dangerous. Solas: Of course they are. They’ve been locked in a tower and told they’re monsters all their lives. [16]

14 - General: Mages earned their reputation. PC: I wouldn’t have had to do that if mages hadn’t blown up quite so many chantries. Solas: Yes, I’m certain they did that with no provocation. [16]

15 - General: The Qunari have a point. PC: I don’t hear of mages blowing things up where the Qunari rule. Solas: Of course. Everyone is happy under the Qun. What’s the sacrifice of a few lives to keep people from discomfort? [16]

16 - Scene continues.

Solas (Wardens allied): Why am I surprised? You supported the Grey Wardens. Their blind zealotry must be a solace. [9]

7 - Templars allied Solas: Are you glad to have the templars back at your side? A strong, proud organization founded on the fear of magic. What a wonderful job it has done.

Dialogue options:

General: They protect us. [17] -Solas slightly disapproves

General: We need their skills. [18] +Solas slightly approves

General: We need warm bodies. [19] -Solas slightly disapproves

General: This conversation is over. [24] -Solas greatly disapproves

17 - General: They protect us. PC: The templars protect people! Solas: Yes! From thinking! [20]

18 - General: We need their skills. PC: The templars have their faults, but I suspect we’re going to be fighting more mages before this ends. Solas: Templars could have helped as part of the Inquisition, not as a separate entity dedicated to spreading fear. [20]

19 - General: We need warm bodies. PC: The templars are a tool. I needed them intact. Solas: Regardless of the long-term consequences of their divisive goals. [20]

20 - Scene continues.

Solas (Wardens allied): Why am I surprised? You supported the Grey Wardens. Their blind zealotry must be a solace. [9]

8 - Wardens allied Solas: Are you pleased to have the Grey Wardens on your side? Do you wish you could join their proud little cult? How long, do you think, before their next attempt to control something beyond their comprehension?

Dialogue options:

General: You are too hard on them. [21] -Solas disapproves

General: You think you know a lot? [22] -Solas disapproves

General: We need them. [23] +Solas slightly approves

General: This conversation is over. [24] -Solas greatly disapproves

21 - General: You are too hard on them. PC: The Wardens deserved a chance to redeem themselves. Solas: Their only purpose is to protect the world from something they do not understand, something that corrupts them! [9]

22 - General: You think you know a lot? PC: So you’re an expert on the Blight now, not just the Fade? Or are you just an authority on everything strange? Solas: If current wisdom suggests you corrupt yourself with darkspawn blood, any suggestion I offer would have to be better. [9]

23 - General: We need them. Grey Wardens know more about the Blight than anyone else. They’re our best hope of fighting it. Solas: If that is true, then… (Sighs.) Let us hope otherwise. For all our sakes. [9]

24 - General: This conversation is over. PC: I don’t answer to you, Solas, and I don’t have time for this. Solas: Of course, Inquisitor. I won’t interrupt you further. Solas walks away. Scene ends.

9 - Scene continues.

Solas: I should thank you, Inquisitor. I had spent time with few of your people before this. From the stories, I thought you all thuggish, simple, and crude. Now?

Solas (killed the demon during All New, Faded For Her): After seeing you heroically defend the helpless mages from a demon they themselves unleashed? Solas (killed the sentinels at the Temple of Mythal): After observing you strike down some of the few true elves left for the crime of defending their temple?

Solas: Now I know I was right. You have no idea what a comfort that is.

Dialogue options:

General: So you’re leaving? [25] -Solas disapproves

General: Good for you. [26] -Solas disapproves

General: [Hit Solas.] [27] -Solas greatly disapproves [this one is confusing - the game files say greatly disapproves, but some people's games says greatly approves.]

25 - General: So you’re leaving? PC; I’m sorry you feel that way, Solas. Will you be taking your leave? Solas: No. PC: No? Solas: We have a world to save. Until I see a better option, I will stay and lend my services to this Inquisition. Perhaps one day you will even listen. Solas walks away. Scene ends.

26 - General: Good for you. PC: Happy to help, Solas. We should do this more often. Solas: We truly should. Solas walks away. Scene ends.

27 - General: [Hit Solas.] PC: (Breathes.) The PC punches Solas in the face. Solas: (Grunts.) Solas stumbles, and then stands back up clutching his face. Solas: How entirely expected. By your leave, Inquisitor. Solas walks away. Scene ends.

[good-beanswrites]

Hear me out:

Kotoko adopted Es, and Fuuta went ballistic.

Rip Fuuta... he can never catch a break... Asdfsdf thank you for this, it was a blast thinking of all the ridiculous ways this could have played out! (One possibility I toyed with was Fuuta's competitive instincts take over, he fights her for Es, only to realize too late "*I* don't want to be responsible for a whole child WAIT") It's a similar format to the last one, with a knock-at-the-door reveal, but I still think it works 😂

“Don’t fuck with me, Es.”

“I would never.”

Lying brat. Fuuta knew they would every chance that they got. It was the reason he was so relieved that Es decided to find somewhere else to live after Milgram’s end. Fuuta had nothing left to fear from his former warden, but the others’ suggestions that Es become his new roommate still made him shudder. Three interrogations in a closed space with the rude kid were enough for him, thank you very much.

However, it wasn’t all a relief. He couldn’t help feeling concerned about who they’d gone to live with. Given how cryptic they were being, Fuuta would have been convinced they walked into the woods to find a furry family of Jackalopes or something to raise them –except, they showed up for this walk with clean clothing and internet access. 

“I don’t believe you. You’re fucking with me right now. Why can’t you just tell me who it is?” 

“It isn’t any of your concern. Hey, I thought you swore to stay out of others’ business. You turned over a new leaf and all that?”

“Tch. I meant other people’s business. You’re different.” 

If Es had vanished off the grid like some of the other prisoners, Fuuta wouldn’t have cared. But they were here, near enough to arrange some lame meetup, which meant they were going to remain in his life for a while longer. And that meant, as the model citizen that Fuuta was, he felt responsible for ensuring they didn’t get themselves kidnapped by some creep. 

He asked, “how much do you know about them, anyway? I mean, what kind of person can house a random weird kid on incredibly short notice? That’s definitely suspicious.”

Fuuta pulled the mask up on his face as they turned down a more crowded street. He knew people were going to gawk at his eye anyways, but it still helped him feel like he was blending in. With his thoughts on the injury for a moment, he was glad that bitch Kotoko was one of the prisoners who had gone off the grid. Good riddance.

“I promise, she’s fine. Not weird with children at all. In fact, she’s really good with them, which is why she could help me on such short notice.” They muttered, “but it’s not like I’m that young…”

“That’s still not normal. Is she some old housewife or something?”

“Ah, are you trying to do the interrogation this time? Actually, I’d say she’s around your age.”

“It’s just you two living alone? I’m still worried about Milgram coming looking for us again – can a girl like that really protect you?”

“Is everyone supposed to live with a big, strong man, like you?”

“Wha–!” Fuuta’s cheeks burned red. “That’s not what I –!”

“I’m only teasing. It’s cute that you care about me.”

That only agitated him more. “It’s not cute! I’m being realistic! One of us has to think about your safety while you’re just distracted by some pretty girl.”

“What makes you think she’s pretty?”

“Well, why else would you be so careless in deciding to live with her?”

All of the sudden, he saw it in Es’ eyes: that spark of mischief that Fuuta had come to loathe. He could never tell what they were plotting, but it was never a good sign.

Es held up their hands in mock surrender. They put on a ridiculous, overdramatic voice. “Ah, you caught me, Fuuta! I’m hiding her identity because she’s the most beautiful, capable woman in all of Japan, and I want to keep her all to myself!” 

He groaned, but they weren’t deterred. “She’s got everything, I couldn’t risk you falling for her! She’s quite capable of defending me. She’s very strong, with protective instincts much like your own. She understands our situation like no one else could. She’s got intense eyes, and you wouldn’t believe her singing voice. She enjoys deep conversations, she’s a dog person, she –”

“ – now you’re being the creep! Just shut up, I get it already...”

When they finally had the decency to pull it together, they reassured him. “It’s all true, though. So there’s no need to worry about me. I’m in good hands.”

Good hands, his ass. In only a brief conversation, the caretaker had gone from sounding a little suspicious to sounding way too good to be true… meaning she was extremely suspicious.

“Maybe someday I’ll introduce you, if you’re lucky...”

He turned his eyes away. “At least let me run some background checks on her first.” 

(He would just stalk her on social media, but that still counted.)

“You’re just going to stalk her on social media. That doesn’t count.”

“Eh? I have legit methods!” He hid deeper under his mask.

Even after the topic was dropped, after he and Es parted ways on an awkward goodbye, Fuuta was left thinking about this mystery woman. It took a bit of digging (and maybe a tiny bit of social media stalking) but at last he found where Es lived with this stranger. Contrary to what they may believe, he had turned over a new leaf. There would be no more hiding behind screens or letting others do the confrontation for him. Now that he was a changed person, he’d do the healthy and normal thing with this information: he’d march on down there himself and confront her like a man. 

He made it all the way to the front door with his chin high. He knocked with confidence. 

Then he began to shift nervously. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the woman’s description out of his head. Sure, he was here to check on Es, but if someone happened to check him out at the same time, it was only right to be prepared… He straightened his shirt collar. He ran his fingers through his hair. He wondered if he should have covered up his eye to look more presentable.

The door swung open. 

The surprise on Kotoko’s face was nowhere near the amount on Fuuta’s.

“Oh, for fucks sake –!”

From somewhere behind her, Es’ laughter rang out.

[goodtimeswithlife]

Double Life One-Shot!

Before Reading:

1. This is the first time I’m sharing any of my work on here so I apologize if it’s not a good format

2. Some of the events from Double Life were changed a bit to fit the narrative of this one shot

ENJOY!

—————

Grian didn’t even have time to think. He knew somebody was coming up to kill him and the others and that they had to be stopped.

The stalagmite on the top of the ceiling was put there as a trap before in case something like this were to happen.

Without hesitation, he took his pickaxe and swung right through it. A crunching sound as the pickaxe scraped through the stalagmite and came apart, falling to the floor below.

A loud crash could be heard. As Grian looked down, he could see a body lying beneath the stalagmite, a small pool of blood pouring out from behind them.

He smiled and laughed, sounding both relieved and maniacal. He climbed down the ladder and observed the body closer.

It was Ren. He wasn’t a friend, but also not a foe. But at this point in time, anybody could be his enemy.

Grian could suddenly feel a sense of emptiness overcome him. He had never felt this before. It wasn’t like any sort of pain he would feel when Scar would do something stupid and cause an arm or a leg to snap. It felt like a part of him had suddenly left. But Scar was technically his other half, and nothing had happened to him, otherwise he would be dead as well.

Just then, the announcement could be heard:

“RenDog was killed by a Stalagmite. BigB died.”

BigB. Ren’s other half, his secret lover. He had killed him as well.

Grian fell to his knees. Etho and Scar both ran down to help him. They saw the look of defeat across his face. Etho immediately knew, Scar wasn’t sure.

“Grian, what’s going on?” Scar asked.

“BigB…” Grian mumbled, tears filling up in his eyes, “I’m so sorry…”

Etho placed his hand on Grian’s shoulder. Although he could never get Bdubs to be his secret lover, he would’ve felt the same exact way if it were him. He slowly helped Grian stand up. Grian kept his head down, tears strolling down his face.

Grian looked up at Scar, “We need to have another funeral…”

“A-Another one?” Scar asked, raising an eyebrow.

“For BigB…” Grian nodded, “I just… can’t believe what I’ve just done…”

“But we just killed Ren, why would we—?” Scar paused, slowly but surely putting the pieces together.

He slouched, shaking his head and sighed, “Fine…”

He walked out of the castle.

———

There was no body to bury. All the bodies just disappeared a few moments after they died. Grian simply took out some stone and carved Big B’s name on it like a gravestone.After he was finished, he sat down and just stared at it. He sat there silently for several moments before he finally spoke.

“BigB… I’m so sorry…” Grian said, “I hope you’re able to forgive me… I never intended for you to get killed…”

He felt a soft breeze pick up from behind him. His eyes suddenly glowing a bright purple, and he could hear voices in his head.

It was going to happen either way… With or without you…

“Well I’m not going to let this happen to me as well… As long as I’m staying alive, I’m keeping a part of BigB alive as well…”

Scar… He’s a part of you as well…

“He is… but not by choice…” Grian responded.

He has been of great help to you…

“He almost got us killed quite a lot! That’s not very helpful if you ask me…”

The voices grew silent. The purple in his eyes faded away.

He could tell they wanted to say more. That usually wasn’t a good thing. But what was wrong with what he had said? He wanted to stay alive. That was the whole point of this!

He needed to come up with something. Something that would potentially cause everybody to lose lives, possibly even permanently.

Tango had brought up the Warden before. However it wasn’t very successful. Grian knew he could pull something like that again, and with more lives on the line this time it could work.

But that would mean he would have to go all the way down to the deep dark to get it. That in and of itself was going to be risky, but he wanted to do it.

And he has never wanted to do something that risky before, at least by himself.

He should at least tell Scar what he was doing. He knew he wouldn’t care. But they were on their last life together, what if he did? What if Scar tried to stop him from going down there?

No, he was just going to go.

As he finally stood up and walked past his base, he saw Scar tending to his pandas.

Those damn pandas… I don’t understand his fascination with them…

Scar noticed Grian standing behind him out of the corner of his eye.

He frowned, “Are you done with the funeral?”

Grian was caught off guard, not knowing he would actually say anything to him. He thought he would only smile and wave, maybe be completely oblivious altogether.

Grian simply nodded, “I’m… going to talk to Joel real quick…”

Scar was silent. He knew Grian was plotting something. What it was, he couldn’t tell. He knew that they were on their last life, and that they both should be cautious.

“Maybe I should go with you?” Scar suggested.

“I won’t be long.” Grian said, “It should only be five, maybe ten minutes.”

He couldn’t tell whether Grian meant it or not. If he was telling the truth about anything.

He sighed, “Alright… just be careful, it’s getting late.”

Grian stood there for another few seconds, took a deep breath and nodded as he ran off.

Scar turned back around, tending to his pandas, and hoping that this wasn’t going to be a mistake.

———

Grian made his way down the long stairwell that led down to the deep dark.

As he turned the corner, he stared into the ancient city. He watched as the sculk sensors were swaying back and forth, the shriekers only a few feet away.

He didn’t have to go too far, he just had to summon the warden with the shriekers and run out of there.

This might be easy. It could be done.

He stepped foot onto the sculk, the sensors going off.

RRRRAAAAAAHHHH!!!!

Grian’s heart began racing, chills going down his spine as everything grew pitch black before what small amount of light was inside the ancient city returned,

He took another step, the sensors triggering once more.

RRRRAAAAAAHHHH!!!!

Everything grew dark again. He knew the third time he moved, the shrieker would go off and the warden would be summoned.

His mind was racing with second thoughts. Maybe he should turn around and run. Even though the sensors would still trigger the shrieker and summon the warden, he still could run out of there and have a chance at making it out alive.

The other part of him, however, told him to stay. That he’s made it this far and he shouldn’t turn back now. He could make it through this, get the warden onto the surface and hopefully cause as much harm and chaos as possible.

RRRRAAAAAAHHHH!!!!

Grian’s eyes widened. How did the shrieker go off again? He hadn’t even moved!

He could feel the ground shake beneath him and could hear the loud, thunderous noise as the warden came out from the ground only a couple feet away from him.

His legs started trembling, feeling like Jell-o, he couldn’t move them. The warden appeared much more ominous and threatening than it had the few times it had been summoned before.

The warden slowly started moving towards him.

I need to move! Why aren’t I moving???

Finally, as if a snap of a finger, he could finally move again and began running out of the ancient city and towards the long stairwell.

Nothing else was on his mind at that moment, he just wanted to get out of there, with or without the warden following him.

He suddenly heard a large gasp that almost sounded like it came from directly behind him.

Before he could even turn around to see just how close the warden was to him,

BOOOOOOOOOMMM!!!

A loud, thunderous, almost explosive sound erupted from the warden. Everything around him started to shake. His eardrums popping inside of him and everything within his body violently shook back and forth, several bones snapping, his organs beginning to melt inside of him.

He was still alive while all of this was happening. His unheard cries of pain and help echoed throughout the stairwell. He kept stumbling, trying to regain himself but it was of no use. Blood started trickling down from his ears and from both nostrils.

His body no longer had the strength to keep climbing. He just laid there, almost in defeat.

He couldn’t hear or see anything, but he could feel the vibrations of the warden continuing to climb up the stairwell.

Please… spare me… I’m sorry…

Another explosion rang throughout the stairwell. This time, it had finished him within a second.

———

“He’s not here?” Scar asked Joel.

“No, we haven’t seen him since he had killed Ren…” Etho shook his head.

“He told me he was coming to talk to you, Joel.” Scar explained.

“To me?” Joel asked. “What about?”

Scar sighed, giving a shrug, “I don’t know… but I think he lied…”

“I don’t know why he would lie to you and run off.” Joel said.

Etho thought back to when he saw Grian last. He looked heartbroken, almost defeated for having killed BigB. He knew with Grian disappearing so suddenly it wouldn’t end well for Scar.

“I think I might have an idea…” Etho said. “And I would try to get to him as quickly as possible.”

“Where do you think he could’ve gone?” Scar asked.

“That I don’t know but you need to go now.” Etho responded.

Scar had more questions, but Etho’s urgency kept him from doing so.

“Thank you.” Scar said as he ran outside and went on his horse.

Well, it wasn’t his horse, but that wasn’t important.

As the horse began to gallop away, Scar suddenly grew an uneasy feeling. Was it Etho’s words? Or was his connection with Grian warning him of something?

Almost as quickly as the uneasiness grew on him, he suddenly felt everything in his body tremble. Bones were snapping, his organs felt like they were burning and melting away. He fell off his horse and rolled down the hill as he lost his grip. He slowly began loosing his ability to see, hear and feel anything.

His body was in fight or flight mode, trying to do whatever it could to stop him from dying but it was no use.

He was so confused and scared as to what was happening to him.

GRIAN… WHAT ARE YOU DOING??

Everything around him was now blurry, and sound was muffled.

He saw two figures running towards him from a distance. The voices were muffled, but he could still recognize them calling his name.

“SCAR!” Etho and Joel shouted as they ran closer to him.

Scar couldn’t even move his mouth to ask for help, and just as they made it to him, everything grew dark.

Joel and Etho froze as they saw Scar go limp, his lifeless eyes staring back up at them.

In the distance, they could hear an announcement.

“Grian was killed by a sonic boom. Scar died.”

The two of them looked at one another.

“What the hell was he trying to do with the warden?” Joel asked.

Etho didn’t respond. He just shook his head and walked off.

———

Grian opened his eyes. Darkness surrounded him. He couldn’t tell whether he was alive or dead.

It wasn’t until he saw the purple glows around him that he knew where he was.

“What am I doing back here?” Grian asked.

You’ve disappointed us, young Grian.

“All I did was try and win…and the Warden killed me.”

The warden didn’t kill you… it was you who did that to yourself.

“I… was upset that I had killed BigB…”

And you chose to end your life and Scar’s in the process…

Grian nodded.

Have you no shame?

“…If I’m being honest, I really don’t know…”

You will make this right.

“How?”

That is up to you. But you will not let us down again…

The purple glow disappeared once more, Grian sat in silence. He thought back to the first trial. It was just him and Scar. He had grown an almost familial, loving bond with him and couldn’t bear to live with the thought that he had to kill him.

The second trial, he never really had that same bond with him. In fact, he almost bullied him a few times, only reaching out to him because he was desperate for more lives.

This, the third trial, he never even gave Scar a chance. He just kept running off to try and avoid him as much as possible and deny the fact that they were partnered together. Even going so far as to start another relationship to try and make up for it.

He understood now. Why they were paired together, and it only took until now to realize it.

Grian felt guilty. He felt terrible knowing he couldn’t go and apologize to Scar now or give him a hug. He had to wait until the next trial, and hope that by some miracle Scar doesn’t want to kill him for what he’s done. Although he wouldn’t blame him if he did.

He knew what he had to do now.

The fourth trial, that one was going to start soon. He couldn’t interfere with that one.

The fifth trial, everything was still being worked on. He didn’t have much control over these trials, but every once in a while he could suggest something and it was up to them to approve or deny.

I’m sure they wouldn’t deny this…this is my way of making things right…

The fifth trial… being Secret Life.

[thetismcave]

Another dramatic drabble with some more headcanons

Session 7 spoilers :)

It really is an apocalypse, Scott thought, watching the carnage from atop the cliffs.

The world had gone mad. The plateau below was splattered with blood, and death was spreading like an infection through the ranks of the players.

He was hiding in his own base, from his own teammates. Maybe it was stupid to keep hanging around, but he knew this place well, and he was pretty sure they didn’t think he’d come back. He’d nearly been killed getting chased out by his own teammate, for fucks sake.

He’d gone to ground after that, but he knew that without info he was a sitting duck. So, here he was, on one of his increasingly rare ventures to the surface, crouching in a tree and watching the grasslands below.

When Cleo dug through their wall, he couldn’t help but be relieved. His instinctive reaction was affirmed when they, treading just as lightly as he was, showed no signs of hostility or of alerting the hunters.

“Hi,” he grinned at her.

“Hi, hi!” They replied, a stressed little laugh in their voice as they creeped through the new opening.

“What’s happening? Why is there a Warden now?” Scott asked softly as she filled in the wall behind herself.

“They’re trying to get me,” she grimaced, easing into a crouch beside him, sheltered under the trees. “As the last- the last green.”

Scott hummed a tense reply, leaning against the rough bark of the oak, slowly creeping further into his- the base.

“Gem also has no band loyalty anymore,” he said nonchalantly, not looking at Cleo, “Because she died, came back as a red, and tried to kill me. So, I had to flee. I’ve been skulking around my own base all day.”

He said it offhandedly, like it was just another anecdote. Like it was an interesting tidbit instead of a near deadly betrayal.

He knew they could see right through him.

She knew what was genuinely laidback and what was a coverup. She knew how much he hated this, how deeply his loyalty ran.

“Widow’s Alliance?” She offered, holding out her arm. The shifting moonlight hit a tattoo, a blue rope winding down the inside of her wrist, its end frayed and orange. He’d known it was there. It’s partner was on his arm, after all. He could barely see his own now, however. The lava from his latest capital ‘D’ Death had burned away most of the skin on his arms. It was there though, the orange strands twisting along his forearm, just a little buried by scar tissue.

(The care was still there too, even though at the start they’d promised to go their separate ways. Even though their bond had been tried by nearly five of these damned games.)

If there was one constant in this mess, it was Cleo, and he could really use a damn anchor right now. He trusted her, and he hoped the feeling was mutual.

“I guess so.” He took her forearm, and the frayed ends of their ties met.

Later, after they joined up with BigB, the infected began closing in again. As they took shelter behind the walls, Scott let the other two know about his makeshift bunker, the one not even his teammates knew about.

“You know me, I’m not gonna go after you.” Cleo said, casually, as if it was a given, a law of nature that he could show her his secrets, his backup plans, without fear. And really, it was, wasn’t it? Even if Cleo didn’t have clear memories of the games before, they knew, somehow, that they could put their back to his and be defended.

He’d wondered sometimes if Cleo, ever the survivor, trusted him as implicitly as he trusted them. As they descended into the mines, he realized that now he knew. Even if neither of them realized it, they were each other’s safety net, a soft place to fall that went beyond alliances, or games, or even memories.

And even though they were being hunted, even though the rest of the world was baying for their blood, Scott felt, impossibly, like they could weather anything this apocalypse could throw at them.

[ashturnedtomist]

Song Lyrics that Remind me of the Redacted couples <3

Lovely & Vincent: “You take the breath out of my lungs, can’t even fight it, and all the words out of my mouth without even trying,” - Speechless, Dan + Shay

Angel & David: “My accidental happily ever after. The way you smile and how you comfort me, with your laughter. You were not a part of my book, but now if you open it up and come take a look, you’re the beginning and end of every chapter,” - Never Knew I Needed, Ne-Yo

Asher & Baabe: “It’s a beautiful night, we’re looking for something dumb to do. Hey baby, I think I wanna marry you,” - Marry You, Bruno Mars

Milo & Sweetheart: “Let’s start the day with breakfast in bed, think I’m gonna love you ‘till I’m dead. I can’t wait to buy you things, a brand new diamond ring. This is more than just a fling,” - Something About You, Eyedress

Sam & Darlin’: “I will not ask you where you came from, I will not ask and neither should you. Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips, and we should just kiss like real people do,” - Like Real People Do, Hozier

Gavin & Freelancer: “I know that I’m feelin’ so much more, than ever before. And I’m giving so much more to you than I thought I could do,” - Fly Love, Jamie Foxx

Damien & Huxley: “We don’t know where we’re going but we know where we belong. And, oh, we started two hearts in one home. It’s hard when we argue, we’re both stubborn, I know. But oh, sweet creature, sweet creature, wherever I go, you bring me home,” - Sweet Creature, Harry Styles

Lasko & Dear: “And I know I’ve kissed you before, but I didn’t do it right. Can I try again, try again, try again?” - Pink in the Night, Mitski

Vega & Warden: “Deadly fever, please don’t ever break. Be my reliever, cause I don’t self medicate,” - my strange addiction, Billie Eilish

Bestie & Blake: “Don’t you know I’m no good for you? I’ve learned to lose you, can’t afford to. Tore my shirt to stop you bleedin’, but nothin’ ever stops you leaving,” - when the party’s over, Billie Eilish

Avior & Starlight: “Look at the stars, look how they shine for you, and everything you do. Yeah, they were all yellow,” - Yellow, Coldplay

Sunshine & Elliott: “When I’m without you, I’m somethin’ weak. You got me beggin’ beggin’, I’m on my knees,” - Sugar, Maroon 5

Aaron & Smartass: “I figured it out, saw the mistakes of up and down. Meet in the middle, there’s always some common ground. I see what it’s like, I see what it’s like for day and night, never together ‘cause they see things in a different light like us,” - You and I, One Direction

Ollie & Baby: “And when I start to build my future, [they’re] the main component. Call it dumb, call it luck, call it love, or whatever you call it, but everywhere I go, I keep [their] picture in my wallet,” - Cupid’s Chokehold/Breakfast in America, Gym Class Heroes

Honey & Guy: “I don’t wanna go to school, I don’t wanna take the call, I just wanna be a fool and get lovesick with you,” - Lovesick, Peace

Geordie & Cutie: “You’re coming back, and it’s the end of the world. We’re starting over and and I love you, darling, and I am done, dear,” - I Want You, Mitski

Anton & His Listener: “I sit by myself, talking to the moon, tryna get to you in hopes you’re on the other side talking to me too,” - Talking to the Moon, Bruno Mars

Side note: what do you think Anton’s Listener should be called? Or Lasko’s?

[thunderwetter]

TransforMay Days 7 - 9 "Dare to Live"

Part 1 of the Two-Chapter Fanfiction that will be relating to Theme 2 (Life and Death) Check this post for the full prompt list! Read the second part here!

WORD COUNT: ~1200

WARNINGS: CHARACTER DEATH (Not yet here but next chapter)

TAGS: Canon Rewrite, Assassination Plot, Moral Dilemma, Justifiable Homicide, First Aid and Ambulon fucking snap

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Delphi was not a welcoming place. It hadn’t been when it was built, it hadn’t been when it was staffed and even less so it was now, now that Ambulon, Pharma and First Aid were the only staff members that were still fully committed to their job. Especially Ambulon found trouble in adjusting himself to the merciless atmosphere of Messantine, but it was not just the planet that rejected him. It was not the threat of the DJD that caused his discomfort. It was the forced smile that Pharma had flashed him when he first arrived. The half-sparked handshake. The disdain in his voice whenever he ordered him around. Pharma tried to cover it with professionalism, but he hated Ambulon. Despised him and his past allegiance. Ambulon knew it and he ignored it. He had expected nothing less back when he joined the Autobots, he hadn’t expected open arms and warm words. But Pharma, on some days more than others, was colder than any snow outside of their shelter. Colder than the ice that surrounded them on this primus-forsaken planet and Ambulon couldn’t even do anything against it. They often had to work alongside each other, handing around instruments, tending to the same patients, fixing the same problems and enduring the unpleasant presence of the other. Ambulon had tried, really tried, to get into Pharma’s favor. He worked hard, sometimes harder than necessary, he was diligent and cooperative, followed his orders and here and there attempted some light conversation. But to no avail. First Aid he had befriended, he would even dare to claim that they were quite close, but Pharma was nothing but closed off.

“Something is going on here,” First Aid said as he was welding his patient shut. Ambulon was hesitant to reply, but after a few seconds he agreed, “Pharma stopped glaring and evolved into ignoring me altogether.” First Aid looked up, a hint of annoyance and confusion in his EM field, which he freely allowed to graze Ambulon to make sure the emotion came across even as his mask was on. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, “I was talking about how we’re not only losing faders; we suddenly have patients dying that were doing fine just a cycle ago.” Now it was Ambulon who looked up, letting his optics wander to the ceiling to think about the statement and eventually dismissing it with a shrug, “We’ve had that happen on the other side too. ‘Ghost hunt’ the others called it. You can’t save everyone, First Aid, you know that.” Ambulon nodded to the back of the room where a huge body had been comatose for a long while now. Fortress Maximus. He saw no hope for him and quite honestly, he found First Aid’s persistence to save the warden a bit wasteful. He was draining resources every day, resources that could be used on other patients with better chances. He tried to cushion his words to not feed into the fire that First Aid’s mood was slowly turning into. “Maybe some of them could have been saved if we had more resources— “ “Ambulon,” First Aid said, keeping his tone in check and pulling back his EM field to suppress the anger that accumulated in his throat from the topic being brought up again, “I wasn’t talking about the ones that needed saving. I’m talking about the ones that were recovering. Ones that we woke up from stasis and talked to already.” Ambulon thought about it again. “Cases like Cyber?” “His name was Cryo, Cyber left three Mega-cycles ago, but yes,” First Aid corrected him, slightly relieved by the fact that Ambulon was at least showing signs of understanding what he was hinting at. “I don’t think this is just a ‘ghost hunt’ or a ‘bad phase’, there’s something going on here and whenever I try to talk to Pharma about it he just dismisses me,” he added with a desperate sigh, “I was gonna ask you to talk to him but I guess that won’t work either…” They each resumed their work, silent, pondering. Ambulon looked at the T-Cog in his hands. The cables that connected it to the rest of the frame were damaged, but still possible to save, he would have to ask Pharma for assistance though. He looked at the patient’s datapad and back to the T-Cog. There were no injuries related to transforming noted when he was admitted to Delphi. Ambulon called First Aid over, who agreed on the assessment and had a closer look at the log, the documentation of previous procedures and, more importantly, who was responsible for the treatment. “Deterioration of internal cables,” First Aid read aloud, “that’s oddly unspecific, wouldn’t you agree?” Ambulon nodded, “Especially considering that it was Pharma who wrote that log. Isn’t he always the one nagging about how we should be specific in our descriptions?” First Aid groaned in annoyed agreement. Pharma was a perfectionist. And right now, he was being suspicious.

Luck was against them though, before First Aid and Ambulon could resume their discussion, said perfectionist entered the room. Seeing two of his medics converse instead of working, his optics narrowed. “I didn’t know we relocated the break room,” he said, passive aggression wrapping his words in sarcasm. First Aid closed the document and rushed back to his patient; the fresh welding scar still warm as he started checking its integrity. Silence again as Pharma strode across the room, checking the progress made on each of the cases until he stopped next to Ambulon, looking over his shoulder and watching closely. Ambulon tensed up from the presence behind him and carefully placed the T-Cog back where it belonged. “The T-Cog cables are almost fully corroded,” Ambulon said, attempting to hide the shakiness of his vocalizer, “but if we work together he can be fixed and leave in a Deca-cycle.” Pharma stepped to Ambulon’s side and inspected the situation, picking at the damaged cabling and slowly pushing Ambulon away with his body. It wasn’t the first time he had acted like this and surely enough, he said exactly what Ambulon expected him to say, “I won’t need your assistance, go make yourself useful somewhere else.” Pharma looked up at First Aid, who was updating the log to confirm the success of his task. “First Aid, go with Ambulon. You can write the report later, I need this room empty.” First Aid allowed himself to be shooed out, pulling Ambulon with him and rushing to the nearest room that held a collection of unconscious bots. Luckily, a twin pair with a branched spark was available and had procedures due today, so Ambulon and First Aid prepared the medical slabs right next to each other. This time, Pharma wouldn't be able separate them again. Branched sparks were delicate, their owners always had to be worked on simultaneously. The atmosphere was tense and dark as the duo was rummaging through tables for the correct equipment, checking the respective logs for further information that was relevant to their mission. “If that bot dies, First Aid—” Ambulon said, opening up the first twin. The end of his sentence hung in the air as he took a sharp invent. He looked at First Aid completely aghast as he pointed to the corroded cables surrounding his patient's T-Cog. First Aid took it upon himself to finish the statement, his usually gentle voice being possessed by a grim darkness, “Pharma will die too.”

Find this Fic on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55796878

Chapter 2 coming May 12th 👀

[vanmarkham]

oc in 15

tagged by @foxboyclit, ty :3 this looks fun, i'm always trying to work on voice so this is relevant lol

Rules: share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

sooo I kinda wanna do multiple ocs so I'm gonna do a few lines for multiple ocs!

Gideon Trevelyan

“Fine. I go to the Chantry on Tuesday evenings, but I’m free after. You can help me then.” He moves to leave but stops himself. “Don’t bring Jowan.”

“I’m not afraid!” He is, he’s terrified. It would be slightly more convincing if he wasn’t breathing like he’d just run a race. “I just- I want it gone. I want it gone. I’m so confused. I don’t know what to think, so many different… voices in my head saying opposite things.” “If I lived in a grand estate in Amaranthine, I’d at least have silk sheets.” Gideon grins, nudging him with a shoulder. “Oh and a thick Antivan carpet and fennec furs.” He adds dreamily. He looks back at Rodaine. “I bet I can picture your room clearly. Immaculate and barren and austere and full of books.”

Grant Hawke this one was hard, i haven't written enough of him interacting with friends lmao, i promise he is not a hardass all the time

“You shouldn’t have run up to them like that.” Hawke reprimands. “What were you bloody thinking? I could have handled it.” "I'm not losing any more money and I'm not losing the shirt off my back. What does that leave me?" “I have questions about your maps, Warden.”

Valztefein Rilynval

“Got you this warm room and all and you’re whining. Don’t I deserve some attention, Elkantar?” “This is what we’re calling a best man these days? Surely I’ve already bested him and I haven’t even drawn my blade?” “This is true. You are weak. Far weaker than any cleric of Lolth should be.” “It seems our dear fresh-faced fighter has lost his tongue.” He presses his heel further into his gut. “Louder.”

Cyril Lodovka

Cyril smiles, rising again to his full height. “I have prepared the entertainment tonight, my dear. I have something for you… a gift, of sorts. That is, if you wish to see it.” Cyril chuckles, smiling into his own glass. “You may send him into a conniption. Throw in some reference to bacchanal blood-drinking feasts and the fashionability of the Undead and even the chirurgeons will struggle to mend him.” "I will endeavor to compliment you less until you can properly receive my attentions," Cyril teases. “I can make something that may relieve it a little. Help you rest. Unless you’d prefer your method of suffering in silence?” “Apologies. I did not mean to condescend. It is simply… charming, and I am not one to speak, my instructors abhorred reading my assignments.”

i tag @transprincecaspian @sinquisition @ysali @idolsgf

[solitaireships]

Reunion

So this is the longest fic that I've ever written for selfship stuff, and it's also unique in the sense that this is written from Anders's pov instead of from the pov of my self insert. I keep thinking about getting to reunite with him, so here we go <3

Rating: Teen

Words: 3780 words

Divider by animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Content warnings: Mentions of death, possession, and dissociation

Anders is done seeing patients for the day at his clinic when Abigail rushes in, her face a brilliant shade of red like she just ran all the way here from Hightown. 

“Anders,” she says, clearly relieved to see him. “There’s a Grey Warden looking for you.”

“What?”

The salve she was in the middle of making is immediately forgotten, though the smell of ground elfroot still lingers in the air around them. 

Anders had known that eventually the Wardens would come for him. In helping Bethany to find the Warden expedition in the Deep Roads a year back, she knew that it was only a matter of time before they were able to piece together where she had gone. He knew when he was leading Abigail and Bethany to the Wardens that he was making a sacrifice of the freedom he had worked so hard to get, but still it was worth it to save a fellow mage. 

Though now she supposes that the life she managed to make for herself in Kirkwall is about to be upended too. This would hardly be Anders’s first time trying to escape someone looking for him, but he does wish that he could finally get to settle down somewhere. That’s an impossibility for her, though— ever since her magic had first appeared, she was condemned to never having a life with the true freedom she desired. He will always be either locked away in a Circle or on the run, forced to live and die for the Wardens or spend his days running from them.

“A woman in their armor was looking around Lowtown, asking questions about you,” Abigail says. “Varric heard she had been last seen coming to Darktown. I don’t know if she’s here yet, but she— you might need to run.”

Anders tries to think of who they might have sent after her. Not Ji-won, obviously— last he heard, she had ventured off to try to find a cure to the Calling, and surely the Hero of Ferelden has far more important things to do than track down a rogue abomination. And she doubts that it would be Velanna or Sigrun, though either of them being sent to find her would have certainly sent a message. 

But it doesn’t really matter who’s coming for him. What matters is she either has to be ready to hide, run, or fight.

In the back of his mind, Justice urges him towards the only real answer. If the Wardens are trying to send a message, she could send one of her own, one that nothing and no one will be able to stand in the path of the mage revolution. 

“Dammit,” Anders breathes out, standing up from his seat so quickly that he nearly trips over it.

“If we move fast, I can probably get you to my estate. You’ll be safe there for a time— as long as no one opened their big mouth enough to say that we’re close,” Abigail says.

“If they’re already in Darktown, we wouldn’t have enough time to get out. And I’m done with running away.”

“A fight would be more exciting,” Abigail says. 

Justice clearly agrees. She can feel him clawing up in her, trying to take control. Part of him thinks that he should just let Justice handle this— he wouldn't have made it this far without him, and he’s more than capable of handling any threats to them. But it’s been getting harder lately to wrestle back control from Justice lately, something that she doesn’t want to think about the implications of longer than she has to. 

“Try to get out of sight. If whoever they sent for me is open to talking, we’ll talk first,” Anders says. “They’ll be expecting me, but not you. You can take advantage of the element of surprise and step in when I signal you.”

“You know I’m not Isabela, right?” Abigail notes with a cocked eyebrow.

“I don’t expect you to sneak up on them, I just expect you to startle them,” he replies. 

“Alright then.” Abigail sighs, expression softening when she looks at Anders. “Don’t do anything stupid. I like you here and alive.”

“I’ll do my best.”

It is nice having someone that cares about her again. The last time that Anders got close to someone was with Romilda, and now the two of them haven’t seen each other in about two years. Abigail is entirely different from Romilda, and the nature of their dynamic is different too, though they have exchanged a couple flirtations. But having friends in the form of Abigail, Varric, and Isabela is nice, even if Anders does worry about what would happen if any of them got closer.

Sometimes he thinks that it’s for the best that he had to leave Romilda. She doesn’t doubt that he broke her heart, and that’s something that eats at her every night no matter how she or Justice try to justify it. But he would have only ended up destroying her, and that’s a thought that’s even harder to bear.

Abigail’s expression becomes more serious again, her eyebrows furrowing like they do when she’s about to give orders.

“If this goes ass over tit, I can promise you that I will find you. I’m not losing anyone else,” she says. 

She doesn’t need to say that the loss of Bethany is still hurting her. Bethany is alive, but she hasn’t seen her since joining the Wardens, and it sounds like what she has heard from her has put the two on bad terms. Anders doubts that he should be nearly as important to Abigail as her sister is to her, even if he can appreciate the sentiment. 

“I know,” Anders says. 

“Good,” Abigail replies. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I thought doing stupid things was our specialty,” she teases. 

Abigail rolls her eyes in response, lightly shoving Anders’s shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

He does. And she doesn’t object as Abigail goes to tuck her way as best she can into a corner of the room, hidden behind a couple of crates for storing extra supplies. 

Anders knows that he’ll do whatever he has to to make sure the Wardens don’t try to take him back. She won’t be trapped anymore— not by anything or anyone. The mages in Kirkwall need him, and he won’t let them get in the way of what needs to be done. She’ll take the diplomatic approach first, but if anyone wants to drag her back to them, either to continue to serve as a Warden or to meet her fate for killing one, she will not be taken so easily. 

The door to the clinic opens again. The Warden has arrived, and Anders has to be ready. He can’t see who came in through the door, but it’s only a matter of time before they’ll approach. She holds tightly to her staff, just in case they decide to come in looking for a fight. 

“Anders?” 

He would recognize that voice anywhere. She’s imagined it while laying alone at night more times than she can remember, whispering comforts to her in her lowest moments. But this isn’t just his imagination, this is the real thing, and as his eyes settle on Romilda, he can’t help but feel his shoulders relax.

She looks mostly the same as she remembers. Her hair is done in the same style as before, mostly left down but with a pair of small braids pulled back to be like a circlet around her head. And her tattoos are just as lovely as he remembers, even if they have faded a little. She’s changed up her clothes a bit, wearing more armor than before though, and the scar across her left cheek sends a spark of anger through Anders’s chest. A sentiment that Justice seems to share if the bit of righteous indignation she feels is anything to go by. 

But now isn’t the time for anger. Instead he feels a mixture of surprise and relief as he looks at her and breathes out, “Romy?”

She moves without thinking, and it’s a relief to know that for once it’s not because Justice is guiding her. Instead it’s the need to be as close to Romilda as possible, to hold her in his arms when he hasn’t gotten to even see her for the first time in a year. 

Romilda meets her half way from the door, pulling her into a hug. It’s been a while since he’s felt so comfortable with someone, and even longer since he’s gotten to be close to someone like this. It’s refreshing— a moment of peace and warmth in a sea of pain and frustration. 

But Anders is also suddenly more conscious of her body than she’s been in a long time. Before Justice, he had always taken pride in his looks. Even after being sent to the Circle stripped her of nearly all positive attributes in most people’s eyes, she’s always been good looking. He took good care of his hair and body, dressing up in nice clothes and decorating himself with whatever shiny gold jewelry he could get his hands on. 

Now all of that’s fallen by the wayside. She doesn’t need to look good to run her clinic, and she doesn’t need to look good to fight against mage oppression. 

But Anders does wish that he looked a bit better for Romilda. She hasn’t bathed in a couple of days, and she had messily pulled back her greasy hair into a small ponytail at the beginning of the day. There are bags under his eyes and his stubble has grown out enough that it’s verging on a barely cared for beard. Her robes hang more loosely from her shoulders than they used to, and as Romilda wraps her arms around her, she hopes she doesn’t notice how much weight she’s lost since they were last together. That would only make her worry more than she no doubt already has. 

“You’re an asshole, you know,” Romilda says, though it’s hard to take that personally with how tightly her arms are wrapped around him. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, pretty girl,” Anders says.

She’s tempted to press a kiss to the top of her head, but it’s been a year since she’s seen Romilda. He doesn’t know if the two of them can even still consider themselves a couple, and he doesn’t know if she would even want that. She doesn’t know if either of them should want that. 

He settles for running his hand down her curls, a bigger smile on his face than he can remember having had in a long time. 

Romilda sighs, pressing her head against Anders’s chest. She misses the feeling of her this close, and the feeling of intimacy that comes with it is almost intoxicating. For a moment everything that was plaguing him before seems to be gone. She doesn’t have to think about the templars, or people needing her healing abilities, or how she and Justice may slowly be becoming one. All he thinks about is Romilda and the feeling of getting to be with her again after so long. 

Abigail clears her throat, reminding Anders she’s still here. 

“Well, it seems we won’t be fighting then,” she says. “Unless this is a very strange prelude to a battle.”

“I wasn’t planning on fighting my… fighting Anders,” Romilda says, casting a glance over her shoulder to Abigail.

“Uh-huh,” she says. “Well, I guess I’ll leave the two of you to, ah, reconnect. Assuming there are no other Wardens looking to pay a visit, anyway.”

“There shouldn’t be. I got rid of all the records mentioning Anders was somewhere around here. They’ll have word of mouth still, but nothing in writing that might help them trace my path,” Romilda explains. 

And Anders has always loved how thorough she is. She rests her chin on her head, too relieved to have her close again to even want to think about them separating. 

“Right. Then I’ll leave you two to your… whatever this is.” Abigail gives Anders a look as she goes, as if she’s still trying to assess the situation for a threat. “If you need anything, the offer to come over remains.”

“I’m sure that Romy can keep me very occupied,” Anders says, only realizing after that may be too forward. Though the way Romilda squeezes him a little tighter at that makes him think there’s little cause for concern about the state of their relationship. 

Abigail leaves the clinic with one last concerned look cast over her shoulder, and then Anders’s world is all Romilda again. She realizes that’s probably part of why Justice didn’t want to bother finding Romilda before they left Ferelden— Romilda’s distracting, and it’s easy to let other responsibilities fall to the side when she’s here. Not that he minds when she’s so intoxicatingly close that all he can think about is how she still uses the same vanilla scented perfume.

Anders sighs, appreciating the moment while she can. Romilda rubs his back with one hand, pressing herself so close up against him that it’s hard for him to keep his composure. Everything she’s missed about her seems to all come rushing back at once, and the thought of ever being separate from her makes her heart ache. 

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself,” Romilda says after a moment, more a statement than a question.

“I’ve been a bit busy,” Anders admits. 

“Because of things with Justice?” she asks. 

“Among other assorted things to do.”

She’s glad that Romilda already knows about Justice. He can’t imagine trying to explain to her that he willingly got himself possessed would be fun if she truly hadn’t known what happened since she left the Wardens. But her knowing and still going out of her way to seek him out has to be a good sign, one that she’s not put off by the idea of being close with someone who made the worst mistake any mage can. Justice was a friend— is a friend— but even Anders can admit that this would look bad to most. 

“Running a clinic suits you,” Romilda says. “You always have had a healing touch.”

“Don’t flatter me too much, you’ll give me a big ego,” Anders replies. 

She smiles in response. But there’s a serious look in her eyes, one that makes it clear she has something less lighthearted than their current banter to say. 

“We should talk, shouldn’t we?” she says.

“We should,” Anders says, though he wishes that they could just pretend that everything’s the same as it used to be. “Come to the back with me. We should be able to get at least a little more privacy.”

She leads Romilda into the back area of the clinic, the spot that she’s set up as her own makeshift home. It’s nothing all that impressive— a cot that’s a little too hard that he sleeps on, a table and chair, and a sparsely filled bookshelf with the latest copy of his manifesto on top. But it’s tucked away from the rest of the clinic, and there’s something nice about having Romilda here after months of imagining what it might be like for her to crawl into bed with her. 

“You can take a seat anywhere, if you’d like,” Anders says. 

Romilda settles for sitting on the bed. He joins her there, sitting just close enough that their knees brush together. She craves more contact from her than that, but knows now isn’t the time. 

“I wish you would have told me you were leaving,” Romilda says.

And that sends a knife through Anders’s heart like nothing else. She keeps her voice steady, but that only seems to heighten the feeling that he hurt her. She wishes that she could have told Romilda, that she could have brought her along with her to Kirkwall. But that's not how things worked out in the end.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t have time— and I don’t think that me and Justice coming back to the Keep would have ended well for any of us,” Anders says. It's better to say that than that Justice didn't want to seek her out.

“So you really did kill them then? Rolan and the others who went after you?” Romilda asks.��

She nods. He doesn’t think of his final encounter with Rolan and the other templars often. There’s a strange mix of feelings there— a mix of feeling powerful and powerless, of pleasure and horror at what she’s become. He knows in the back of his mind that Justice isn’t what he used to be, he’s not the friend that he had known back in the Wardens. He’s something angrier now, something twisted by the emotions that she had buried deep inside of her. They’ve changed each other into something new, something that Romilda probably shouldn’t love.

“Yes, I killed them,” he says. “They wanted me dead. Justice and I assured that wouldn’t happen.”

Romilda is silent at that. That’s not unusual for her, sometimes she needs time to collect her thoughts. Anders can imagine she has a lot to think about there. She knows that anything she would have done would have been out of self-defense, though Anders isn’t sure if that’s entirely true of what she did when Justice and she first joined together. 

“Well, I’m glad you aren’t dead,” Romilda says eventually. 

“I am too,” Anders replies. 

“What’s it like? Being…” She pauses, trying to think of a word to describe what Anders and Justice are that isn’t what they both know them to be— an abomination. “Being in a body with a spirit.”

“It’s hard to describe,” he admits. “Do you remember my moods?”

Romilda nods. “Of course.”

The two of them never came up with a better way to describe that either. Ever since she was a teenager, Anders has had periods of extreme highs and lows. They were never constant, each period of melancholy or mania usually lasting for a week or so before he would ease back into relative normalcy, but they happened frequently enough that Romilda had been there for some of them. Having someone she could talk to about her moods has been comforting, at least. He supposes that not having her around any more might be part of why he’s been having more moods lately, though Justice seems to be the main cause for that. 

“In some ways, it’s like those,” Anders says. “My body’s moving, but it doesn’t feel like I’m the one moving it, and depending on how much he’s willing to share with me, I don’t know why we’re doing what we’re doing. I have control most of the time, and usually it feels more like he’s there at the back of my mind, observing everything. He doesn’t say anything, but sometimes I get a feeling from him. Disapproval, usually.”

Anders doesn’t mention that like with his moods, sometimes he doesn’t remember what happens when Justice takes over. That would only make Romilda worry more than she should about her. 

“Have you been doing okay with… all that?” she asks. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve been busy.”

“Seems like you couldn’t completely escape Grey Warden responsibilities,” Romilda notes. 

“At least I’m not having to go into the Deep Roads as much anymore,” Anders says. 

She nods. “Less trips into the Deep Roads is a positive.”

“And I would consider you being here now another positive.” It’s not as direct of a flirtation as she used to exchange with Romilda. But it’s a way of testing the waters, of confirming if she still cares for him in the way he cares for her. 

The way her pretty brown eyes light up at that seems indication enough that things aren’t beyond repair. Romilda always looks pretty when she smiles, but Anders had forgotten how much he had missed seeing it. 

“I’d say it’s a positive too,” Romilda says. Her fingers brush against Anders’s. “I really meant it when I said I missed you.”

“And I meant it when I said I missed you too.” Anders pauses. She takes Romilda’s hand in hers. “And I meant it when I called you pretty girl too.”

“You’re sweet,” she says. 

“I’ve thought about you every day since I left,” Anders replies. 

“Me too. I’d been planning to come find you for months,” Romilda says. “Ser Pounce-A-Lot is doing well, by the way. I thought about bringing him, but I figured it would be too dangerous.”

“Well, thank you for the consideration on both our parts,” he says. 

“I do what I can.”

Romilda does more than that. She’s just never good at seeing how much she truly does. But Anders can see every bit of it, every kind thing she does even in the face of adversity. Romilda’s far better than she deserves. But Anders finds himself reaching up with his free hand, turning to face her. 

It’s been a long time since she kissed anyone. In the back of his mind, Justice demands that he stops. And maybe she will, but that’s up to Romilda. 

Romilda, whose eyes trace down to his lips. Romilda, who Anders wishes would stay by her side forever, though she knows she doesn’t deserve her. Romilda, who closes the distance between the two of them with a soft kiss. 

Her lips feel just as good on him as he remembers. She wishes that she could deepen the kiss, that she could drink in as much of Romilda as she’s missed this past year. He never wants to let her go, never wants to do anything but show her how much he adores her. That’s a thought Justice isn’t pleased by, and he’s quick to remind Anders they have more important things to focus on than her love life. But he lingers in the moment as much as he can, only letting his lips move from Romilda’s when she decides to pull back first. 

“I missed that too,” Romilda says. She tucks a bit of Anders’s hair behind her ear. 

“We probably have a lot more catching up to do, don’t we?” Anders says. 

She nods. “We do. But hopefully we’ll have plenty of time for that.”

“We will,” he promises. It’s not as though she has much free time between helping out with Abigail, the clinic, and work on her manifesto. But he can make the time for Romilda, regardless of if Justice thinks there’s a point to it or not. All that matters is he has her again.

[pxnsneverland]

Beauty and the Boss | austin!elvis x oc (part 7)

plot summary: Laura Jean Walker is the daughter to Louisiana’s most powerful mafia boss, but to her, he’s just her jail warden. When she sneaks out to the Louisiana Hayride with her friend she sees Elvis Presley perform and instantly knows something is special about this boy. Especially when he saves her from being assaulted by a townie. She thinks she’s on cloud 9 until she gets kidnapped in the middle of the night by the Memphis Mafia led by Elvis himself. Will Laura Jean try to free herself or will something hold her back from finding her way home?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

pairings: austin!elvis x oc

word count: 1938

warnings/notes: N/A

Chapter 7

               As our escape car made its way to the police station where Elvis was being held, minutes felt like hours. It was ridiculous. He had committed no wrongdoing. The riot had been sparked by the cops, not Elvis. The vehicle arrived at the police station, which was already encircled by protesters demanding Elvis' release. We were brought inside the station through the mob. Colonel left Gladys and me alone to speak with the officer in command. For once, I was relieved to have a smooth-talking conman among us. Ms. Gladys seemed beside herself, pale with a worried expression. I put a soothing touch on her shoulder.

              “It’ll be fine, Ms. Gladys,” I reassured her as much as I could, “They can’t hold Elvis in here. They can’t even charge him with anythin’.”

              Gladys sighed loudly, her hand over her heart. “I promised myself that after Vernon went to jail, I wasn’t going to let anything happen to Elvis, no matter what. Then he wanted to do this music thing and I thought it was harmless and…” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

              “It is harmless. Elvis isn’t the problem. It’s those bigots and prudes in society that are the problem. They’d rather have things stay exactly the same than even think about change.”

              Colonel approached us. “They will let us see him. They are holding him but nothing to worry about. The police want to make an example out of him, scare the kids, you know? Ah, they will send him home with a fine and nothing more.”

              My chest tension began to relax slightly. I'd feel better once this was all over and we were all secure back in Graceland. Until then, no matter how frightened I was, I would put on a brave face. “We want to see him.”

              Colonel turned and nodded to the officer who signaled for us to follow him. He took us down a poorly lit corridor before entering a code to unlock a door at the far end. It opened to reveal an interrogation room with two chairs, one long desk, and a lamp hanging overhead, much like on those cop dramas on television. Elvis sat in one of the seats, exactly as untidy as when they took him away. Gladys immediately hugged him, kissing his face and clutching him closely as if he would vanish.

She finished by hitting him in the arm. “What were you thinkin’?!”

Elvis touched the spot on his arm where she had struck him. “I was thinkin’ that I didn’t get this far by being a musician who wears tails and sings to dogs. You’ve always approved of what I done, Mama, and all my fans do too. That’s all that matters.”

Gladys shook her head as she sat down in one of the seats to rest, as if all her energy had vanished. Elvis shifted his gaze to me, encircling me and putting his cheek on the top of my head. “I am sorry for getting you involved in this, Darlin’. I never wanted you to get hurt.”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. I’m just glad you’re okay. It could have been so much worse.” And, to be honest, I wouldn't have known what to do.

“Worse? Quite an understatement,” Colonel replied from his corner seat, “My boy, I told you simple. We play this show as family style and then we go back to our show business. You just had to get through one performance.”

Elvis glared, but he wouldn't release my arms. “And I did, as myself. I’m sorry, Colonel. You done so much for me, but I just couldn’t do it. I can’t be somethin’ I ain’t no matter what happens to me. Not when it comes to music.”

Colonel shook his head, clearly agitated. “You are just lucky I snowed them. You will have to pay a fine, a hefty one, but it is better than jail. I don’t know where you get these ideas from, but they are going to have to stop.”

“Why?” I cocked my brow. “This is what his fans want. It’s what sells all that merchandise you make and pays for whatever it is you’re doin’ when you’re not at Graceland. Sounds like Elvis’s ideas are workin’ better for everyone than yours.”

Colonel grinned evilly. “Ah, I see. So, this is where you are getting these silly ideas. The pretty girl with the big mouth.”

“Don’t talk to her like that!” Elvis exploded.

“You’re smarter than this. Smarter than letting a little skirt distract you from the career you have worked so hard to achieve, the family you’ve worked to protect.”

“Laura Jean is my family now which means she’s in this just as much as you are. And ain’t no one distractin’ me from nothin’. What I did tonight was my choice! And I ain’t goin’ back to that family style Elvis you keep talkin’ about so hush up about it! I can’t sing if I can’t move!”

Colonel leaned back and nodded, but he still didn't seem persuaded. He had that dreadful look on his face again, this time directed at me. I didn't give him a second thought. Elvis knew music better than anyone. Being himself and singing his heart out was precisely what he needed to do. It's what made him so famous and endearing to his fans. It's what made me care so much for him.

Elvis smiled sheepishly as he peered down at me. “How did you like the show?”

“Besides the riot of teenagers, it was amazing.” I laughed as he kissed my cheek.

Then two cops entered the room. The expressions on their faces indicated that they were not there to accompany us home. Gladys rose from her seat, as did the rest of us, to see what was going on. One officer signaled to his comrade, and the other took out handcuffs, seizing Elvis and putting his hands behind his back.

“What the hell are you doin’? Let go of my son!” Gladys screamed.

Colonel approached the officers. “Officers, w-what is going on? I talked to the chief. He said we were all good to go as long as we paid for all the commotion caused tonight.”

“Change of plans, Parker.” The officer tightened the shackles around Elvis' wrists. “Looks like your boy here has been doin’ much more than causing riots and inciting violence.”

Elvis battled his bindings half-heartedly. “What are you talkin’ about? I ain’t done nothin’!” That wasn't totally correct, but he hadn't done anything that they were able to figure out about him in two hours.

Suddenly, the other cop grabbed my arm. I was struggling. “Hey, let me go!”

“This girl is all the proof we need. Elvis Presley, your being charged with the kidnapping and abduction of Laura Jean Walker.”

My eyes grew wide. What? How did they find out about that? Except for me, Elvis, and the Memphis Mafia, no one knew, and none of them would have informed anyone, especially a cop. But none of that mattered. Whatever had brought me to Elvis, I didn't want to go, and I wasn't a kidnapping victim. I fought harder against the cop's grip. “What?! No, he didn’t! Let him go! He didn’t do nothin’!”

I could still hear Elvis yelling down the hall as they dragged him out the door. The Colonel followed as taken aback as the rest of us. Gladys' expression had changed from worried to outraged. She raised her finger at the officer.  “Now, you tell me who is out here spreading these vicious lies about my son! He’s good boy! He didn’t kidnap Laura Jean! She’s his girl, simple as that! Ain’t no crime here!”

The officer softened as he spoke to Gladys, clearly recalling his manners. “With all due respect ma’am, the girl’s father has given us a completely different story. Until we get to the bottom of it, we have to hold your son and her as well.”

My mouth became parched. “Daddy? Daddy told you this?!” I should have known better. Instead of returning the money, this was his answer. In this manner, he might win the fight while also eliminating the leader of a competing gang in a single strike. I never imagined he'd descend so low. For good reason, the mafia avoided the police for the most part. I was curious as to who he had hired to back up his story. It didn't make a difference. He should have realized by now that I wasn't scared to fight him. “Is he still here? I want to see him.”

The officer nodded. “We’ll take you to him. Mrs. Presley, will you please wait out in the lobby?

              I was escorted into another room, away from the individuals I had considered family for the last month. When the door reopened, Daddy strolled in, cocky and unconcerned about what he had just done. I felt a strong urge to hit him in the face. I would have if I hadn't known he'd instantly block it.

              Daddy extended his arms to me. “Oh, my little girl…”

              Instead of hugging him, as I'm sure he expected, I began banging on his chest with all my might. It had no effect on him, but it made me satisfied. “You damned bastard! How could you do this?!”

              Daddy appeared to be perplexed. “How could I save you from the man who kidnapped you? The man who’s been…God, who knows what he’s been doing to you.”

              “He hasn’t done anything to me except treat me better than you ever have!”

              “So, he’s got you under his spell just like he’s deceived the whole world? Somehow, I figured you would be smarter than everyone else.”

              “And I thought you would at least be decent enough to give back what you stole instead of involving the police. You know how the law feels about Elvis. They want any excuse to throw him away!”

              “He should be thrown away! He kidnapped my daughter for ransom!”

              “Ransom you owed him anyway! And I wasn’t kidnapped! I was treated like family, like my own person. I was more of a prisoner at home with you than I ever was at Graceland. And let’s face it, Daddy, you don’t care one lick about me. You just don’t want to get bested by another mafia family, much less one headed by someone much younger than you.”

              When Daddy's cheeks became crimson, I realized I'd touched a nerve. He snatched my arm violently. His fingers were pressing into my skin. “You’re damn right! You belong to me! You hear me?! And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some little punk take you from me and give me the run around!” He drew me in closer. “Now, be a good girl and you tell the police that he abducted you and held you against your will or I really will give you somethin’ to be afraid of.”

              I was familiar with this speech and its intimidating air. He handled his employees who went out of line the same way he treated anyone who had slighted him. It was the mask of the murderer I suspected him to be. I almost thought he'd do something to me if I didn't cooperate, but even if he did, I didn't care. I couldn't care less about him or the authority he wielded. I was concerned about Elvis, Gladys, the boys, and Graceland. They were now my family, and I would go to any extent to keep them safe, just like Elvis. I would even defy my own father.

            “No,” I calmly answered, looking him down, I’m going to tell them that I left home to go live with my boyfriend and his family, and you didn’t approve so you lied to them and said he kidnapped me.”

             I struggled to stop myself from cringing as his grasp on me tightened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

             “Try me, Daddy. Elvis isn’t the only one the police would love to lock up.”

             Something about the way I appeared apparently made him hesitate. He seemed to be seeing someone else instead of me. He let go of my arm long enough for me to draw it back. He shook his head, but not in defeat. I couldn't quite put something in his gaze, but I didn't like it. “Your mother would be so disappointed.”

             “Thanks to you she’s not around to care.” It was a stomach hit, but he had gone too far, so I had to go just as far. I was, after all, my father's daughter.

             As he put his hands in his pockets, his jaw clenched in the corner. “I’ll see to it that the charges are dropped for the kidnapping and abduction.” He took a step closer to me, his finger in my face. I smelled cigarettes on his breath. “But just remember, Laura Jean…you wanted to play with the big dogs. I hope you’re ready for what that means.” He grinned slightly and kissed my brow like an adoring father. He moved carefully towards the door. He walked away, giving me one final glance.

             I knelt on my knees, panting heavily. I'd challenged one of the South's most feared men, and it wasn't some juvenile rebellious challenge. I had approached him as if I were a genuine candidate, which I knew I wasn't. But I'd have to be. Daddy didn't enjoy losing, and he'd already lost twice. This wasn't over, and unexpectedly, I wasn't afraid that I would be the one paying the price.

Stay tuned for part 8!! Click HERE to view!

[flowersonpebbles]

Week 1: Origins WEDNESDAY 2. Allegiances – Cadash

@elfroot-and-laurels

TW: violence, blood, character deaths, angst

Carika stares at the feeble mage in front of her pitifully. She’s heard of mages who can bend lyrium like only dwarves can but then they have this nasty sunburst scar on their forehead. “What are the Mages and Templars exactly planning to do? It seems they will gather soon, yes? Tell me, then I’ll let you go. You can even tell them a dwarf held you captive if you wish. I won’t hurt you.” She says coldly. He lowers his head, knelt in front of her, hands bound behind his back. “The Divine wishes to gather all Templars and Mages for peace talks, an attempt to stop the war…” “And what then? What about the lyrium trade?” she grits out in frustration, realizing the stakes are high. She needs to report – no. She needs to sneak in. See what happens and gather information. Then she can report her findings to the Carta. She grins, pulling out her dagger, cutting the ropes. “See you there, lil mage.” She muses, throwing her smoke bomb and rushing away. This will be good, maybe some Templars don’t want to bow and they can have other contracts instead, maybe it’ll pay more even! Or the Chantry will pay even more to not deviate!

Carika is relieved she had her hood and scarf covering most of her face. Now she can waltz around, just a merc helping keep people in order so they don’t attack. She raises a brow as another of those special mages rush past her, an elf girl. Hm… she goes into the direction she rushed away from curiously. Only to watch from a corner as a brunet mage attacks two other people, and those plaids shining through as they attack… those are Grey Wardens? One of them uses a blade made of blood to cut through his chest, making him cough and wheeze. Carika reacts before she could contemplate what’s happening, killing the mage from the shadows with two accurate daggers, one in the neck, the other in the head. The mage that I’m trying to save then blasts the warrior into a frozen popsicle. He breathes heavily as he collapses, “The… Di-Divine..!” she perks at this, kneeling beside him, trying to put pressure on his wound! He winces, shaking his head, then they both hear someone cry out!

“Someone, help me!”

Carika looks down at the dying mage guiltily but rushes at his urge to the doors the cry came from. Pushing them open, “What’s going on here!?” she cries out in horror as she stares up at a large, terrifying creature. It is covered in red… stones? Lyrium? Wardens are holding the Divine in some sort of red magic-! She smacks an orb out of the creature’s claw, making it roll to Carika. So, she reaches for it. It seems important if she was brave enough to do that-! Something painful, strong and foreign suddenly rushes through her entire body in a surge of terrifying power, concentrated at her hand holding the strange orb. Flinching back best she could as the hideous monster rushes at her, wishing she and the Divine and that poor mage could flee in an instant-

They did, in a sense. She and the Divine did – anyway - ultimately, she is unsure of the poor mage outside of the room.

[iambutmortal]

Chapter 4 for @elucienweekofficial Day 5: Sunshine

Summary: When Elain signs the divorce papers she’s sure she’s done with Lucien Vanserra. Until they’re offered the chance to recreate their honeymoon as a part of her job. For free. But reliving all those memories with Lucien proves leaving may be more difficult than she thought.

Word Count: 2.8k

Authors Note: I had a bit of a brain crash yesterday, so this was supposed to be for day four. I'm either going to post three chapters in the next two days, or two longer chapters to make up for it, sorry.

Read on Ao3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

True to Lucien’s word, Elain was confined to the bed for overnight, while he ran around actin as a dutiful nursemaid and she grumbled and complained.

“I don’t think laying under an umbrella outside is going to change anything,” Elain moaned, for what felt like the thousandth time. “And I’m sick of this room.”

“Too bad,” Lucien said, handing her a mug of tea. “Interview is in three hours and you’re not stepping foot outside until then.”

“But—”

“Nope,” Lucien said. “And both Nesta and Cassian agreed before you start complaining about how mean I am. You need rest.”

Elain pouted, but took a sip of her tea. She felt the warmth work its way down her throat, and was relieved to find the sip didn’t leave her running to the bathroom. After a night of sleep her stomach had settled considerably, but she would much rather play it safe than sorry.

“Can I at least start to get ready?”

Lucien huffed and glanced down at his phone. “Give it another twenty minutes. I’ll get you a piece of toast to gnaw on.”

Elain muttered something rude at him, but grabbed the kindle from where she’d discarded it across the bed. She was still only halfway through the book she’d started on the plane, and the heroine had ended up in a small town. With her ex. Really it was getting far too realistic for her tastes.

Lucien, cruel warden, did relent when he came back and saw Elain was managed to keep the bread down.

“Go take a shower.”

Elain practically bounded out of bed, slamming the door on him.

“But sit down when you blow dry your hair,” he shouted at the wood.

Elain opened the door a crack, just enough to show him her middle finger.

Lucien’s laughter followed her, something warm burning in her chest. She did concede to sit on the bed to do her hair, definitely for Lucien and not because she felt a little light headed after standing on her feet for too long.

“Ready,” Lucien asked, when the clock hit four. He’d thrown on a pale yellow polo shirt and stiff tan pants, to match the white and yellow flowered sundress Elain had pulled out to wear. His hair was back in a neat ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame his face.

“Do we look home and garden approved?” Elain asked, sticking the last bobby pin in her hair. She’d done her best appropriation of beach waves, pinning the front sections gracefully behind her ears.

Cassian wasn’t officially on the job as photographer, but image had more power than anything in an interview.

“We’d fit right in Cassian’s magazine,” Lucien said, offering her a hand.

Elain took it, letting him pull her to her feet. And then held it as they walked through the resorts, savoring the feeling of calluses earned from the gym against her fingertips. Outside the air was so humid she could feel her hair curling in rebellion, frizzing around her temples. She cursed herself for not bringing anything to tame it with.

She reached up a hand to try and smooth it down.

“Your hair looks fine,” Lucien whispered, before throwing open the door to the conference room they’d be using.

Elain was almost instantly wrapped in a hug. “Oh my gosh it’s been so long,” gushed Mor, giving Elain a squeeze before pulling back to embrace Lucien.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Elain said. She had met Rhys’ cousin a handful of times, at the wedding and a few dinners around the holidays, whenever she could come from New York and had always liked the blonde woman. They’d had several long conversations over coffee on the latest fashion trends, or whatever celebrity was currently acting like a fool.

“I wasn’t,” Mor said. “But when I heard Viviane had you as an assignment I made her switch. She’s currently in Brazil covering fashion week.”

“That’s a hell of a trade on her part,” Lucien said, lacing his fingers with Elain’s and leading them over to the makeshift interview space set up. Three chairs, for Elain, Lucien, and Cassian, who was joining them later, stood across from the one Mor had already draped her red purse across.

“But I get to see you guys,” Mor replied, sweeping elegantly into her seat. “So I think I got the better deal.” She reached into her purse to pull out a small notebook and pen, both matching red, and flipped to an open page. “So,” she said, clicking the pen. “How are things going?”

“Good,” Elain squeaked.

Mor’s eyebrows arched dangerously close to her hairline. “Just good? A sharp decline from Christmas then.”

Elain could feel her face burning under the scrutiny.

Lucien tightened his grip on her hand, placing it on top of his thigh. “We’re in paradise, all expenses paid, with each other. What could be wrong?” His voice was innocently neutral, a perfect deflection of the question. God he would make such a good politician.

Mor tilted her head, golden blonde hair sliding over her shoulder in a silky sheet. “Alright, so what makes here paradise?”

“It was the first place we went while being married,” Elain said, meeting Mor’s brown eyes. “So it’s always going to have good memories associated with it.”

Mor tapped her pen against the notepad. “Bad answer. You could have stayed anywhere after your wedding. Why here?”

“Because I’ve always loved the beach,” Elain admitted. “We only got to go twice growing up because of money and both times it was magical seeing that much open water. Lucien took me to Santa Monica for our second date, so it only made sense to come to a beach for our honeymoon.”

Mor was nodding along to her story, scribbling furiously with her pen. “And Lucien? Why this resort?”

He cleared his throat. “I like to see Elain happy. And she never stopped smiling on our honeymoon.”

Mor gave a disapproving hum and Elain was reminded of why Mor was the top of the top in the industry. Every other interviewer would have gushed over that answer, and how romantic it was.

“And I didn’t get the chance to make a lot of good memories as a child,” Lucien continued after a moment. Because he’d grown up with his step father, Beron, who was by all accounts horrible. “So anytime I get to see someone I love happy I get a strong attachment to the place.”

“And how do you feel being back now?”

“It’s…different,” Elain said. Mor gestured for her to go on. “After three years we’re in a new place in our relationship retreading someplace old.”

“New good or new bad?” Mor asked.

“Just new,” Lucien answered quickly.

“So bad.” Mor underlined something on her notepad. “Elaborate.”

“It’s called a honeymoon period for, I don’t think people can be expected to stay in it forever,” Elain said defensively. “Not three years after the actual honeymoon.”

“Feyre and Rhys are still in theirs.”

“They’re the exception,” Elain said. “The rest of us don’t live in a fairytale.”

“Hard truth for a story about a fairytale honeymoon,” Mor said softly.

Elain was saved from responding by a knock on the door.

“Just a minute,” Mor called.

Cassian walked in anyway. “You’d leave me in the hall like a dog? I’m wounded.”

Mor rolled her eyes, but stood to press a kiss to his cheeks. “I missed you, you big oaf,” she said.

“Move back to LA then,” Cassian begged, taking the third seat. “Then I’ll never leave you alone.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Mor flipped to a fresh page. “We’ll come back to that conversation later.” She gave Elain a pointed look. “For now, Cassian, what’s the best part of working here?”

Cassian launched into a spirited discussion about the lighting and angles the resort offered, how he framed his shots, and what he was planning tomorrow when they went into the jungle.

“A lot of houses today are sharp angles,” he finished, “which is interesting, how do you make set shapes look dynamic, but this is just so different and it’s really pushing me to the limits.”

“Amazing,” Mor muttered. She looked up. “Anything to add, Nesta?”

Elain turned around to see her sister standing in the doorway. She’d been so engrossed in Cassian’s explanation about his work she hadn’t noticed her arrival.

Nesta cleared her throat. “I hadn’t quite realized how much work Cassian put into this, it’s nice to know I can trust my sister to him. I always thought this was just some blow off beach job for him.”

Cassian shook his head. “It was never a blow off job, Nes. None of them were.”

Nesta looked the most regretful Elain had ever seen her.

“So,” Mor said, “then what is it like to work with Cassian?”

Lucien was nice enough to take that question, gushing about how good of a director Cassian was while Cassian looked sheepishly pleased with himself.

Elain watched over his shoulder as Nesta slipped out of the doorway and back into the hall, with one final look towards Cassian, and made a mental note to talk to her about it later.

Mor worked her way through several more questions, teasing answers out of Elain, Lucien, and Cassian, until Cassian’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out with a frown, scanning the message before quickly typing out a response.

“Is there a problem?” Mor asked.

“Sorry,” Cassian said apologetically, setting the phone down face first on the chair arm. Only to pick it right back up when it buzzed again. “I sent some concept photos in and they’re just now getting back to me.”

Mor nodded, waving for him to carry on, and turned back to Lucien to discuss what his possible political career held. Cassian was still typing, his frown deepening.

Elain leaned towards him. “What’s wrong,” she hissed.

Cassian startled. “It’s nothing.”

“Is it about what happened yesterday?” Elain asked, feeling guilty all over again.

Cassian shook his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. It’s something I’ll handle.”

His phone rang and he sighed deeply. “I have to take this,” he whispered, sliding out of the room.

Mor and Lucien were still deep in conversation, and Elain made the split second decision to follow Cassian out. She had no doubt it was about yesterday, and had every intention of begging for forgiveness to the producers.

She made sure to shut the door behind her, lest Lucien find out and chastise her for making it her responsibility.

Cassian was pacing the hall, agitated. “I’m not doing it,” Cassian snarled at whoever was on the other end of the line. “So tell them to shove it.” A long pause. “What do you want me to say? Sorry your face looks like that, I'm only photographing the other side from now on?”

White hot anger shot through Elain at the words. She’d never quite understood the concept of seeing red before now, but her body felt like it was on fire. She cleared her throat, catching Cassian’s attention, and motioned for him to mute the phone.

“Tell them I’ll walk,” Elain said. “I’ll walk and they’ll have none of their photos then if they want to say a single thing about Lucien.”

“Elain—”

“And tell them that I’ll also make sure everyone knows what ablest assholes they are.”

“I can’t—”

“Tell them,” Elain ground out.

 Cassian unmuted the phone and put it on speaker. “It’s going to be a no from Ms. Vanserra on retaking from a different angle.”

“Tell Ms. Vanserra she’s not the one in charge of this shoot.”

Elain cleared her throat. “Well Ms. Vanserra would like to remind everyone that her brother in law is Rhysand Night, and I’m sure he has a magazine that would love to cover what Cosmopolitan had to say about people with facial scarring.”

Elain could almost hear silent panic on the other end of the line. Because Rhys’ dad had given him full control over their media empire, and he was currently trying to expand into the fashion space. Something Elain was sure had the executives on the line very, very worried.

“I think there’s been a miscommunication,” said a voice through the speakers after a pregnant pause. “We just wanted to make sure Cassian was capturing a full range photos from all perspectives. To make sure he wasn’t missing something special”

“I think Cassian’s photos are very special,” Elain countered. “Especially with the framing he chose to use.”

Another long pause. “Looking at them again, I think you might be right, Ms. Vanserra.”

“I know,” Elain said, her tone far too prissy for any model. There went her reputation for being easy to work with. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”

Cassian took the phone off speaker to say a few farewell remarks and then hung up.

“This is a new side of you, El,” he said. 

Elain flushed. “Sorry.”

“No, no, I like it.” Cassian swung open the door. “Besides, knowing your sisters I shouldn’t be shocked.”

They both took their seats. Mor didn’t miss a beat, shifting her attention back onto Cassian to ask about the logistics of planning a shoot like this.

“All good?” Lucien whispered as soon as Elain sat down.

Elain smiled weakly. “Peachy.”

“Okay,” Mor said, slamming her notebook shut. “That’s all I need for now.”

“Really?” Elain asked.

“No, but I have a dinner reservation with Cassian in twenty minutes,” she said with a wink. “And I have both your emails if you need anything else.”

“Plus you two also have a dinner to get to,” Cassian added.

“Do we?” Lucien asked slyly.

“A little treat from us,” Mor said. “For putting up with my questions. And yes, what you have on is fine.”

“Now go,” Cassian said, shooing them off. “Do something fun that’s not photographed.”

“Roger,” Lucien said, taking Elain’s hand and pulling her out of the room. Elain had a sneaking suspicion Lucien was in on it as he led her straight to the beachside restaurant in the resort and to a table overlooking the sea, candles already lit. The same one they’d sat at on the second night of their honeymoon.

“You know,” he said after they sat, “you’re sexy when you’re angry.”

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Elain said, mortified.

Lucien shrugged. “You don’t need to spare me. I already knew they were thinking it.”

“They shouldn’t have been,” Elain muttered. “Assholes.”

“See,” Lucien leaned back in his chair. “Sexy.”

“And it’s not sparing you it’s—” Elain searched for the word.

“Sparing.”

Elain sighed. “Okay maybe a little.”

“You can tell me things,” Lucien said, eyes imploring.

Elain smiled at him weakly. “It’s just hard for me sometimes,” she admitted. “I don’t want to rock the boat.”

“Calm waters are boring. Speaking of which,” Lucien’s eyes gleamed, “how long after dinner will it take for Nesta to find Cassian alone somewhere.”

Elain choked. “Oh god, you don’t think—” Lucien raised an eyebrow. “An hour, max.”

He snorted. “Ten dollars says he leaves halfway through dinner.”

“Twenty says he tries and Mor makes him wait.”

Lucien held out his hand. “Deal.” They shook on it. Their hands hung suspended, neither willing to let go. Lucien’s thumb ran down Elain’s skin, causing her to shiver slightly. It felt like middle school all over again, with how agitated she was getting by mere contact with Lucien. My romantic life has reverted to hand holding. Perfect.

“Dinner menu?” asked the waiter, appearing with copies in arm.

Elain went to drop Lucien’s hand but he tightened his grip, resting their hands atop the table. Another stroke of his thumb.

“We’ll take whatever you recommend,” he said, not looking at the waiter. His gaze was focused entirely on Elain, with an intensity that made her feel like she was burning.

“Of course sir,” said the waiter before disappearing.

“Your stomach feel okay?” Lucien asked.

Elain nodded. “I’m starving honestly. I think I could eat anything you put in front of me.”

“Good,” Lucien admitted. “Because I have no clue what I just asked for.”

Elain feigned shock. “And I thought you were so smooth too.”

“I aim to impress.”

Thankfully, the waiter had an excellent pallet, and the evening passed quickly, the two of them talking so easily Elain could almost convince herself the last couple months weren’t real. That this was their relationship.

And on the way out of the restaurant Lucien slid an arm around Elain’s shoulders. She leaned against him, resting her head on his chest. “You don’t have to set the pillow wall up tonight if you don’t want to.”

“Trust us to behave ourselves then?”

Elain hummed. “We’re both adults aren’t we.”

“I do want to do very adult things to you, yes,” Lucien said.

“That’s not what I meant,” Elain protested, smacking his chest.

Lucien pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I know. But let me have my fun.”

Elain rolled her eyes, but didn’t pull away.

[lasatfat]

hello and welcome to DADWC!! I am making heart eyes at your city elf mage, so how about Eireann Surana + A letter with a broken seal; the wax is stamped with a familiar symbol

happy writing!

-inquisimer

dragon age artefacts | @dadrunkwriting

Fun fact: this is the first DADWC prompt I ever got! It kind of ballooned a little bit. I hope you enjoy it.

Don't Look Back Into the Sun

In the newer quarter of Redcliffe, there’s a statue to commemorate the end of the Fifth Blight; a great griffon crouched upon a slab of black stone, held aloft by the twisted forms of scores of darkspawn half-crushed underneath. A bronze plaque is set into the stone, bearing the inscription, ‘the Hero of Ferelden.’

It’s flattering, Eireann supposes. It’s very…grim. More importantly, however, it’s a good landmark to schedule a meeting. She has new orders from the First Warden; there’s a scroll of paper in her hand, sealed with the image of a griffon she had split apart when she opened it.

She’d come back east because of the rumours of another ancient darkspawn, and the promise of new answers. Now, Corypheus is dead, and she learned nothing from him. A disappointment, but a journey she is endlessly glad she made. She’d reunited with Cullen, she’d met Kali, she’d seen Morrigan and Kieran again unexpectedly. She even has some new leads: Merrill Sabrae really had taken the Blight from a mirror, and Dorian’s medicines had extended the life of his friend Felix by years. New promises, new possibilities…and new potential for that same crushing disappointment. She’s so tired of it all, but she doesn’t have the luxury of stopping. Not if she wants to live past fifty.

“Warden Surana?”

Eireann turns. A certain bird is coming home to roost.

She had recruited Thom Rainier and kept him from a hangman’s noose: partly because the real Warden Blackwall thought him worthy – and he is, the perfect example of what a Grey Warden should be – but mostly for the sake of his family. His lover, Sigyn, and her daughter, Camile, are with him now. Looking at them now, it’s amazing to see how they’ve all changed. Thom’s head and face were shaved bare by his jailors, but he’s grown back a thick covering of salt-and-pepper hair. The way he carries himself is lighter, as if the mask of Warden Blackwall was a physical weight, now lifted. Sigyn is calmer, braver, more at peace. She bears the scars of her past with more confidence. Little Camile has changed the most, naturally. She was five when Eireann met her: painfully shy, at first, but curious in the way all young children are, and highly insightful. She too has grown in confidence, but she has grown physically, as well. She just turned seven last week.

She can’t truly understand what may lie ahead for the man she considers a father.

“Hello,” Eireann greets them, cordially. She bends slightly at the waist to address the child. “How are you, Camile?”

Not long ago, she would have hidden behind her mother’s leg instead of answering. Today, she smiles, politely, and says, “I’m okay. Thank you.”

“You asked to meet here,” Thom says.

She smiles. “I did. Thank you for coming.” None of them have good memories of this place.

“May I ask why?” he responds. The look on his face tells her that he already knows.

“I have new orders from the First Warden,” she replies, anyway. The scroll is supposed to be for her eyes only, but she hands it to him. “They want Alistair and I to escort you to Vigil’s Keep, for the Joining ritual.”

It’s strange. In the eleven years she has been a Warden, she has done surprisingly little recruiting. The people she’d taken from prisons were either shocked or relieved; to those already sick with the Blight, she may as well have been Andraste herself. This stoic, quiet despair is new.

“It’s alright,” Sigyn says, as much to herself as to the others. “We knew we’d have to go, at some point. We can collect our things…”

“This…this says you won’t be housed at the keep.” Thom manages to maintain composure as he says it, though Eireann doesn’t know quite how.

Sigyn lifts her head to glare. She is often quick to anger, though slow to act on it, if only because the threat of her rage is often enough to diffuse a situation. Somehow, even at her most nervous, she carried an exigent air of power.

“You said we’d be able to stay together,” she says.

“I thought you would be,” Eireann admits. “We were.”

That had been a bitter realisation. Farah had been allowed to stay with her parents. Their family was an exception, and now, she has to ask herself why. The innocent answer is that Farah had nowhere else to go, but she has a sneaking suspicion that, as the child of two Wardens, she was something for them to investigate.

She shakes herself. She didn’t come here today to stew over how the Wardens treat her. She came here to be a better kind of Warden.

“Walk with me.”

Eireann leads the three up the hill, towards the village gate. Autumn is fast approaching, heralded by the browning leaves and the slight chill that comes on the breeze. The late afternoon sunlight bathes the houses below in gold, and glimmers off the waters of Lake Calenhad, bright enough to leave bruise-coloured stains on her vision. If she hadn’t lived through the Fifth Blight, she would believe it had never touched the Hinterlands. There are places in the Anderfels where the dead still don’t rot, and yet here, the grass grows and the flowers bloom and the trees sprout fresh leaves every spring. They really had saved so much of this place.

By the time they reach the gate, the full weight of what is about to happen has fallen on Camile’s tiny shoulders. She clings to her mother’s leg, seeking reassurance that neither of her parents can honestly provide. Eireann could, and will, but not here. She needed witnesses, and she needs to be out of their earshot for the next part of the plan to work. If she’s ever asked, she can say she at least tried to do this properly. About fifty feet on, the path splits off towards Witchwood, and it’s at this junction that she stops to face her entourage.

“What are you doing?” Sigyn asks, incensed.

“Well, the way I see it, Thom can do one of two things,” she replies, casually. She meets his bewildered eyes. “You can come with me to Vigil’s Keep, do the Joining, and maybe get seconded to Skyhold, if I can pull the right strings. And that’s not a small ‘if.’”

“Or?”

“Or, you can hit me.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You can hit me, and then escape,” she repeats. “For goodness’ sake, make it look good.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Thom blurts. His entire face has turned the colour of raw rhubarb. “You’re the Hero of Ferelden. I can’t hit you!”

“I can,” says Sigyn, and her fist collides with Eireann’s mouth.

Her lip splits open on her teeth. The pain is sharp and stinging, and it blinds her for a moment. She doesn’t even realise she’s fallen until the other side of her face strikes the cobblestone, cheekbone first. “Fuck!” she yells, more out of surprise than anything else.

Camile screams, she thinks, and Thom definitely swears. “Sigyn! What did you do?”

Eireann wants to tell him not to worry – it was part of the plan, after all, she was just expecting more warning – but her mouth is full of blood and her lip is starting to swell. She waves her arm frantically. Go, idiot!

“Come on! The guards are coming!” Eireann manages to look up in time to see Sigyn grab Camile’s hand and run off towards Witchwood. Thom hesitates for a moment longer, torn between following his family and tending to Eireann’s face, which is no doubt turning some rather fetching shades of black and purple. She points, and he finally makes a run for it. He catches up to his girls, and scoops Camile up in his arms so she won’t lag behind.

“Miss!” The guards have reached her, it seems. One of them follows the escapees, and the other, a young man with a faceful of acne, is examining her busted lip. Maker, they’re letting baby children guard their towns now. “Are you alright?” he asks.

Eireann manages to half-smile without it hurting too much. “Very good, all things considered.”

“But your face…?”

“Even the face.”

~~

So, Thom Rainier goes on the run again. The Fereldan Wardens search for him, of course, though if Warden-Commander Eireann Surana doesn’t want them to find him, it’s unlikely that they will. At least, not officially. And if Eireann receives the occasional letter, or a series of gradually improving drawings, or dried flowers from the Hinterlands…well, that’s one secret she is more than happy to keep.