#the state of things fic

[angelbitezzz]

okay....since i posted that TsoT Underfell Gaster design i will admit that awhile ago, I did make a UF design for the Reader...LIKE A SOLID YEAR AGO

(note: they are not a woman i just drew him saying that cuz it was funny)

[thesummerestsolstice]

Broke: Gondolin was a serious, conservative, prudish city.

Woke: The Gondolindrim were stuck in one city for 400-ish years with no Morgoth threatening them and basically nothing do to. If anyone in Middle-Earth was entertaining themselves with festivals and ragers, it was them. We're talking drunken moshpits, people getting thrown into fountains, endless romantic intrigue between most of the Lords, the whole nine yards.

Bespoke: The Gondolindrim were party animals but they all agreed that what happens in Gondolin stays in Gondolin and never talked about the parties after the fall; which is why Gondolin gets a reputation for being so serious and boring. Most of the Gondolindrim, and especially Turgon, think this is hilarious.

[writingadjacent]

“I’m tired of this,” Steve said, his eyes a little bit glazed over. He had taken a single drag of the join in Eddie’s hand so he couldn’t be that high. But the feeling of warmth was probably jetting through his body. “Of feeling like this.” 

Eddie, sitting next to him on the grass by the quarry, turned to look at Steve. The joint in his hand puffed in the air. “Feeling like what, Steve?” 

“Tired. Feeling tired and achy,” Steve said, reaching for the joint and inhaling deeply. The smoke exhaled his mouth in swirling tendrils, Eddie found it to be the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Every time he saw it was hotter than the last. “And just… done. I want to wake up rested.”

“It’s been so long since I woke up rested,” Eddie mumbled, his eyes moving from Steve’s silhouette to the horizon line. The trees were dark and the stars in the sky were sparkling in a way that Eddie was sure wasn’t real and was more a reflection of what Eddie wanted to see than reality. 

Steve nodded. “I want to sleep well and I want to wake up feeling invigorated. Is that something I’ll never get again?” 

Shrugging, Eddie took the joint offered by Steve. His hand shook for a second, simply from the tension Eddie was carrying in his hands. They just did that sometimes. 

“Dunno.” 

Eddie really didn’t. Who in the world would know the answer to that? It was something so unknowable about yourself that it was impossible to try and figure out someone else's. He wondered, for a second, his eyes on Steve’s profile, if maybe he could fix it for Steve. If he could figure out what was wrong about sleeping and fix it. 

“What sucks about sleeping?” 

“What?” Steve asked, turning to look Eddie in the eyes for a quick second before looking away just as Eddie’s skin started to crawl from the attention. 

“Like, what makes sleeping not right for you?” 

“Sleeping is right, it’s nice. It’s the only time everything is quiet and I get to be nowhere. I don't really know what’s wrong that makes me tired all the time,” Steve said, responding with a bit of a sigh. He looked back out over the quarry and Eddie followed his line of sight. 

It was just dark trees and the soft orange of the sky in the direction of the town. It wasn’t real light pollution, not like Indianapolis’ yellow in the sky. But it was the small-town equivalent. “So you don't know.” 

“Nope.” Steve exhaled roughly. Eddie watched as Steve just, gave up on holding his body up and flopped down on the blanket they sat on. His hair framed his face like a halo, beautiful and heavenly. Eddie’s brain always thought Steve was angelic when it was high, probably because Steve was, angelic. “How could I, I’m asleep when it’s happening.” 

“What if you slept next to someone who could tell you?” Eddie said, his voice probably a little rough as he took a drag. 

“Sure.” 

Well, Eddie wasn’t sure what he’d just done. Did he agree to something? Did he proposition something? What just happened? The sky was dark and Eddie lay down next to Steve. “Sleep at my place tonight, or we could go to yours, whatever you want. I’ll tell you if you’re, like, sleeping weird or something.” 

“Yeah, okay. Tonight?” Steve asked, his voice sounding kind of far away.

Eddie shrugged, “Why not.”

[oh-no-its-bird]

Raise your hand if you want elaborate Hatake warring states drama set maybe 40-50 years before Konoha was founded to help explain/elaborate on the start of the Hatake's downfall + provide cultural context for why they value their children so much !!!

Just kidding !! You're getting it anyways !!

Ok, so.

The Hatake's used to be made up of several small packs, ranging in sizes from 20-40 people, with a couple especially large or small packs here and there, as well as a few individual wanderers. But there were a good number of packs all together, so their overall numbers were like, a good few hundred.

Each pack was nicknamed after a part of a wolf + a direction. "The western fang", "the southern tail" (not to be confused with the eastern tail) "the northern paw", etc. The joke there was that together, they all make one wolf

Packs also had individual heads— there was no one overall singular clan head of all the Hatake, and they mostly operated independently of each other, but (most) would try and keep in contact to sure they at least remained on the same general page (they did have a few outliers, and honestly a lot of packs were just kind of... bad at keeping in contact. Some packs were much closer than others, while others were much more distant)

Whenever they needed to do any sort of political maneuvering, they'd converge, and the individual pack heads would choose a spokesman to represent them for the specific matter.

But about 40 years ago, just around when Hatake Haruka was born, there was a very sharp decline in numbers. The problem? Well, there were a few of them, but one very big specific one: They were being targeted by bloodline hunters. Hard.

So basically, fun story, there was this group of bloodline hunters specifically invested in wild clans. They'd try to kill as many as they can (to drive up scarcity) and capture any they deemed as 'tamable' that they'd then lock up and try and beat into submission in a facility nicknamed by those trapped there as the dog pound.

( This also relates to my previous talk about like. The fetishization of shinobi, particularly wild clans, and how they're often viewed as a status symbol. The wilder/more dangerous of a reputation they/their clan has, the more impressive it is for someone to have control over them )

So anyways like. The Hatake were very much on the list of targeted shinobi clans.

Also on the list were the Orochi, actually, which is also part of why, by the time konoha came around, there were only 3 left willing to step out into the sun. (There may have been more somewhere out there, but they'd refused to leave their hiding places)

Other targeted clans included the Hoshigaki, Inuzuka, and a couple other unnamed more "animalistic" clans that would be virtually extinct by the time of modern Naruto (in large part because of this entire mess, actually)

The Hatake's were the hunters primary target though and made up the majority of those they'd captured / killed.

The Hatake's nature to wander was used against them, as packs were systematically picked off— the bloodline hunters already had several stolen shinobi among them, as well as very powerful backing from some political powers which helped to feed and arm them well.

The packs would only communicate with each other so often, with some packs being more isolated than others, so it actually took a little while for some of them to actually realize what was happening— which meant even that more of them were taken by surprise

By the time Haruka was around 10, her pack (the western fang) had been very thoroughly picked through, and were down most of their shinobi.

They ended up making the very dangerous treck across Iron, continuing to be picked at every step of the way, in an effort to unite with the southern fang, which had already picked up several other stragglers, and merge into one pack

(At the time, most of the remaining packs were doing something similar— scrambling to try and merge, to try and gain some sort of power in numbers. Very few managed to make it)

At some point in all this mess, young Haruka herself actually ended up falling victim to the bloodline hunters, getting tossed into the pound. She'd be stuck there for some years, and ultimately her position inside of it would help the Hatake's destroy the dog pound once and for all.

The battle that did it in for the pound was a big one. Lots of blood, lots of fire, lots of death and destruction, all that good stuff. Everyone involved in the attack (and the Hatake were not alone in the battle, there were multiple other clans invested in seeing these bastards put down for good) was out to turn the entire place into a crater of dust.

In the end, there were no survivors on the bloodline hunters side. The pound was absolutely demolished, and it's safe to say that any remaining bloodline hunters in the area got the message loud and clear: "Don't fucking steal blood from the Hatake."

—but it also killed... a lot of Hatake. A lot, a lot. The entire events of the past couple decades did.

Afterwords, a lot of effort was put into keeping quiet on exactly what had gone down within the pound and how bad things had become for multiple clans involved in the whole debacle. In general, unless the clan was directly involved in the matter, few people— shinobi or otherwise —knew all he details of their little war.

After all, no clan wanted to be perceived as weak or vulnerable

So then Haruka becomes head of her pack somewhere in her 20s. But by that point there's like. 2 actual "packs" left, and maybe a sparce handful of individual Hatake's. And their numbers are just really low and they're having a hard time with birthing in general, so their numbers continue to be whittled down with each passing year.

It's also very important to note that this whole mess is also part why the Hatake's are so violently private.

While it was a known fact that the clan had taken a hit, no one actually knows how great of a blow they'd taken, or how many Hatake are left.

And no Hatake is willing to give that game up, because the number? Well, it's lower than any of the estimates other clans have made. They are actively dying and terrified that anyone will find out and try to once again use their isolation and numbers against them

They're trying very, very hard to hide it, and the big show of strength they flexed in that big final battle totally helped to cover their asses

By the time Konoha is founded, there are only 2 Hatake packs left— Haruka's pack, which was left with only 21 Hatake; And another unnamed one, somewhere way out west, who they lost contact with years ago.

So then skipping forward some decades, to only some years before Konoha's founding.

In Here Before and After Me there's a moment where Hashirama says,

The rare few times a child had been taken, the Hatake's had kicked up such a fuss that they'd heard of the blood baths even in Fire Country. The stories reached as far as Wind country, if you asked in the right places.

^ This is actually directly referencing an event where, sometime recently (within the last 10 years of the fic, so within ~13ish years of Konoha being founded) some idiots tried to take a Hatake child.

And the Hatake, being VERY thoroughly traumatized as a collective by the events of. Everything I said above. Went absolutely scorched earth "tear their fucking hearts out and put their heads on a pike" batshit insane on them.

Just, pulling out all the stops, total slaughter. They honestly went more than a bit overboard (but also not really, all things considering)

They were NOT about to risk another dog pound situation. They did not want to risk anyone even THINKING it was safe to so much as LOOK at them wrong. They wanted to send a message to any bloodline thief who thought they were "weak" enough to pick off (again)

And, you know, I mean, it did work. So.

Anyways this entire event lasted like, a couple decades actually. Anywhere from 20 to 30 years, with a couple lulls here and there. (the hunting technically began a decade before Haruka was born, it just hit its height around her birth)

It was a very traumatic couple of decades, and left a strong lasting impact on the Hatke's as a whole, culturally.

It's a very big part of why the Hatake are so insanely protective of their young. A good few decades of being actively hunted and preyed upon, having their kids stolen, watching other clans also lose their own children— it instilled a very healthy dose of ✨ child shaped generational trauma ✨

(It also came with a few other lasting impacts and hang ups, especially within the few still living Hatake who escaped the dog pound. Of which there are (as of writing this) three)

Fun fact! The best way to get adopted by a Hatake (particularly the older ones) is to actually specifically have them rescue you from bloodline hunters, bc it activates a primal protective rage in them instilled by years of war against those bastards

The Hatake's biggest secret being their totally shitty position also makes for some fun scenes when they finally join Konoha and sort of have to expose themselves along the way. They are making the long journey across Iron and into Fire country, and because they're taking the whole clan + all of their things in proper caravan, they have to stop at every other territory to explain themselves and where they're going and why

They are getting SO many stares from just about everyone they run into

(This is the most Hatake's anyone has ever seen, but also... Doesn't it feel like there's barely any of them...? Didn't they say that they're moving the whole clan to the new ninja village? Where's the rest of them? Is there a second caravan coming soon, or...?)

Then they finally get to Konoha and its like, !!! Welcome !!! We're so excited you're here! Where... are the rest of you?

It also makes them choose to come to Konoha so much more of a Thing™ for them, because this is genuinely a hail mary "fuck it we ball" show of trust for them. They are being forced to show their full hand and reveal the secret that they've kept so carefully guarded for the past few decades— that they're dying.

(Meanwhile, Tobirama, who is one of like THE only people ever to visit the Hatake's while still being aligned to another clan is conspicuously avoiding eye contact w Hashirama, who is sending him a very alarmed ??????)

Anyways, few individual character notes:

Haruka would actually meet and become close to Hatake Maru and the Hoshigaki girl who'd one day be Tetsuo's mother in the pound. The three became friends and in the end, managed to escape only because of each other

Maru was from one of the smaller, individual 3/2 person packs, and had been training to become a samurai before captured. Being in the pound actually only strengthened his resolve to be a swordsman, and he'd often chant the core tenants of the samurai's way to try and calm/center himself

Haruka was also captured with her brother, but he would not survive the pound and died fairly early on into their residency there. Their sister, Tobirama and Hashirama's mother, was never captured and managed to escape relatively unscathed.

While all Hatake's have the chance to earn their clan stripes via leading their first hunt when around 14/15, Haruka was trapped in the dog pound at 14/15. As such, that 'first hunt' she led as an adult ended up invertedly being the attack on the pound which she helped to lead. The stripes it earned her are known as 'mountain stripes,' and are meant to symbolize an unshakable, unstoppable iron will. Deeming her an immovable force of nature, all on her own

By the time of Konoha, Haruka is actually all that remains of what was once the western fang pack. The last other member from that pack (the twins' father, actually) died to sickness the winter before Konoha was founded. She's actually decently fucked up about it but hides it incredibly well.

Uhh final thoughts:

Hatake Haruka, age 18— she got a hundred problems and bloodline hunters are 90 of em

[flying-cat]

sorry i'm like 70 years late to the party but this paragraph is crazy wtf

[uh-oh-its-bird]

Offshoot of my "team Ro time travels to the founders era" post because @prinzgnomeovonchaos infected me with brain rot in the notes

So buckle in baby it's time for

Sakumo and babyKashi time traveling to the warring states ✨️

So first thing to get out of the way; Modern Hatake's and warring states era Hatake's do not hold up to the same standards.

The Hatake's during the states were a very small clan with a very big reputation. Hailing from Iron, they were an almost famous wild clan even all the way in fire country. Distantly related to the Inuzuka's but leaning more towards wolves than dogs.

They had a proper kekkei genkai and everything, unnaturally fast and strong, often born with some form of enhanced senses— be it smell, sight, taste, or even touch. Their white chakra fed into it, and they'd feed their chakra with diets of raw meat and the occasional light cannibalism during some special clan celebrations and rituals.

Unfortunatley Sakumo knows very little about the above because he was very young when his clan was pretty much all wiped out. He was raised by the only other survivor, his grandmother, who was pretty young herself when the clan got wiped, and unfortunatley was never all too concious of many of the rituals and traditions of her clan until it was too late.

Sakumo grew up to village standards and was mostly declawed because of it, and Kakashi is only doubly so. And with that dulling of all the different traditions and specific diets also came the slow fading of their bloodline limit, which was already pretty subtle if you didn't know what you're looking for.

Anyways moving on, and if you want more details for my headcanons ab warring states Hatake's vs modern standard Hatake's look at my other time travel post bc I talk ab it more there.

So Kakashi is like 6 (holy shit he's a BABY baby)

Google keeps giving me conflicting numbers for Sakumo's age at his death so we're just gonna shrug and say he's in his early 30's.

Then for the founders;

Madara (23)

Hashirama (23)

Izuna (19)

Tobirama (18)

Sakumo is staring at these guys going through it bc they are BABIES to him. And like look, he's used to working with or even occasionally under people much younger than him, but like. Oh man that's the shodai hokage. And he's like a toddler.

(He's a 23 year old man but Sakumo is kind of having a crisis so he can't register that)

So like. All the founders have major daddy issues, right? Like we can all agree that's plausible? I'm so sorry I just think it'd be *really fucking funny* if they look at Sakumo and just kinda. Yeah.

You know what I mean.

Anyways;

No idea how they got there!! This is set maybe a week before Sakumo offed himself but now he can't kill himself bc that'd mean abandoning Kakashi to the fucking warring states.

Kakashi fits the warring states standards alarmingly well actually. Honestly I think even for that time period he's still scarily young to be on the field. People are giving Sakumo looks like 'it's so hard what we've been forced to do to our children, the battles we've pushed them into, the things they've seen and done all too young'

Sakumo is going *hrrg.* and having a good long look in the mirror actually. Proper crisis, lots of guilt, Kakashi should not be out in the field this young and at least before he was mostly getting baby missions but now they're stranded in time and keep running head first into trouble.

I want Izuna and Kakashi to fight and even though Kakashi absoloutley should NOT win that battle I want him to win just so that Madara and Tobirama can make fun of him for losing to an actual child

Izuna is mortified he wants that brat DEAD

Uhh I have some more but I'm at work and actually hit post too early on this post so I had to come back to rush add all these edits bc I meant for it to stay a draft I could keep adding too later. So I'll just come add more later fr

[samwinchestermydude]

I think we as Sam fans should be more annoying and loud about the fact that his crossroad demons were men twice.

(This is me being pissed off about how people will say dean is of course bi due to some dumb shit like the siren, which was his brother, and “bi lighting” or something, and then turn around and say Sam is the straightest character. Like what.)

[jangmo-othewarrior]

Out of context memes about my latest fic because even if I write slow fic don't leave the brain

Plus a Me at work bonus:

[anthonycrowley]

i think this will get me tarred and feathered if i don’t word this properly but i do genuinely think that fandoms with canon relationships - gay or straight - as the most popular pairing kind of suck a little. like as a rule. not the media itself, that usually is very good. and especially in the case of actual lgbt rep i would rather that over well written fanfic every day of the week. but. man. something really is lost when you no longer have to have a downward spiral of madness with your friends for 2-4 weeks before you go ‘fuck it they’re in love i’ll do it myself’ and instead you’re all shaking hands going good game good game. a kinder world, truly. but none of you are going to write a 150k word fanfic set in an alternate apocalypse universe that showed up in a single episode out of 200 just to prove your blorbos truly Are in love.

[angelbitezzz]

Does this count as fanfiction spoilers when this is technically not canon?

Eh

[inseparabiles]

want to be miserable? don't read this if you don't

imagine this being Geta and Caracalla after Caracalla gets worse and wants to feel something and does something to hurt himself again

https://www.tumblr.com/psychecreations/773368937409822720/nosferatu-2024-directed-by-robert-eggers?source=share

Why is this making me feel like 20 000 things at once and all of them are VERY COMPLICATED

[nburkhardt]

Robin watches from Steve’s car, sitting on the hood and wishing she was a tiny bit closer to hear what’s happening. She knows the plan; had him repeat it twice before deciding he’s ready and sent him off.

Steve walks closer to the school and waits for Hellfire to get out. He’s nervous, despite Robin’s pep talk.

The door is still firmly shut and no sigh of movement yet, he wipes his hands against his legs and holds back the absolute need to run them through his hair. Looks back towards Robin and gets a thumbs up before looking back at the still closed door.

He hears laughter before the door finally opens and there’s the group he’s been waiting for. Dustin somehow manages to smile wider, while Mike rolls his eyes and Lucas waves at him. The older members, eye him and he holds his breath as he meets eyes with the one he’s really here to see.

Eddie Munson has been the center of Steve’s head and heart for a while now. It wasn’t much of a surprise to him, not really, at least.

Taking a deep breath he makes his way over and pats Dustin on the shoulder as he passes him, stopping right in front of Eddie.

Eddie’s smile is gone and Steve wishes it would come back already. Hoping he can put it back, actually. Clearing his throat, he opens his mouth and-

“Dinner?”

Immediately shutting his eyes, cursing his brain for being dumb when a pretty boy is looking at him. Turning around he feels his face get hot as he moves at a reasonable pace - definitely not running.

“So?”

Steve looks at Robin, not daring to look towards Eddie, “the plan,” he sighed, “did not go as planned.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “You dumb fuck, Dingus. What happened?”

Groaning, he drops his head against the car and counts to three. Hopes she won’t laugh at him, but knows better. Knows she’ll definitely laugh and when they get back to work tomorrow, that he’ll see her giggling and adding yet another tally mark to the whiteboard.

“I lost all my words and just said dinner to him then ran away. Because he was looking at me!” He doesn’t whine, at least he hope it’s not whining.

Just as he knew already, Robin immediately starts laughing and patting his back, “oh you poor, poor soul. What am I going to do with you?”

I’ll be honest I started writing this in October and lost all the words ever made and couldn’t finish it. So now it’s just a small piece on how Steve doesn’t have any game when it comes to pretty boys 😇

If anyone would like, you’re welcomed to contribute either a follow up OR Eddie’s point of view of this. If you do, please tag me!

Permanent tag list under the cut!

@spectrum-spectre @itsfreakingbats @mysticcrownshipper @artiststarme @thereindeerlady @justforthedead89 @ronniescontinuum @freyaforestafay @littlewildflowerkitten @gregre369 @zerokrox-blog @flustratedcas @carlprocastinator1000 @marvelmwah @solliesolesito @navnae @i-less-than-three-you @grimmfitzz @estrellami-1 @cartercaptainofthemoon @strangersteddierthings

[fordford]

the thing about the npd ford headcanon is that he doesn't display like half of the symptoms and the other half that he does display are also symptoms of other disorders. so while i don't actually think there's anything wrong with the headcanon i think a lot of people also just either don't understand what npd is or fundamentally misunderstand ford's personality. which is something that's been going on since 2016 lol

[green-fifteen]

Boomerang

tags: platonic stobin, stobin child, OC, teenager problems idk, not!fic

word count: 795

@stobinmonth prompt: school

I'm thinking about Steve as a middle school teacher only because it's my favorite level to teach. How innocent they are! How evil they can be! And what a nightmare when his own kid shows up in class.

And, okay, Jules would want me to tell you that Steve is NOT her father, he just raised her with her mom and has been there every single day since she was born. It's an IMPORTANT distinction when the man in question is contractually obligated to teach her peers about condoms.

Right after the D.A.R.E. convocation the first week of school (a totally sexless function!), Kelly Nesbit made a button in Home Ec. that read, "JUST SAY YES TO MR. HARRINGTON" with wobbly little hearts in the O's. So you can imagine the kind of thing she is dealing with, here.

She sat her parents down the weekend before 6th grade to let them know the situation.

"Dad, you're not my father."

"I'm not?"

"You're very important to me, but we both agree that I am not related to you."

Robin cut in. "Okay so who am I? By your logic."

"You can be my mother, it's fine. It's on all the paperwork, you enrolled me."

"You do know my signature is on your birth certificate, right?" Steve reminds her.

"Unimportant. I won't be bringing my birth certificate to school and showing it off to my friends. If we're careful, we should be able to pull this off."

Robin and Steve shared a wary glance.

"And what are we pulling off, exactly?"

"Convincing the school that I am not related to a teacher." She gestured at Steve with a offensive amount of dismay. Robin made a mental note to have that 'terrible role model' talk with Erica that she'd been putting off.

Steve was eventually manipulated into agreeing when Jules said something like, "Aunt Nancy was right. She said you'd never agree because you're overly attached to me."

(Which I'm sure you can guess Nancy did not say. Her actual words were like, "If you ask him to pretend he doesn't love you at school, he might actually start crying in the hallways.")

So they don't speak to each other at school outside of 4th period, when Steve is careful to only call on her as much as he would any other student. No one suspects a thing for just over a month, at which point Jules manages to step all over her own careful plan.

It's something like this: it's 4th period. The bell is about to ring and Steve is handing back module one tests from the week before. Jules gets hers and just stares at it for a solid minute. He took off two points for that? FOUR points for THAT? And you see, Julia Buckley is something of a whiz and a perfectionist. A sense of indignation begins to build as she looks over the rest of the marks Steve left on her paper. And sure, she did get some things wrong. But what's the point of your dad being your teacher if he doesn't even let the small stuff slide? It's outrageous.

When she sees the little note at the bottom of the paper, a scribbled nonsensical little Good work, Bluejay! her frustration boils over.

"Dad!"

She yells into the quiet classroom. Everyone turns to look at her and then at Mr. Harrington, who is frozen with his handmade "BEST DAD" mug an inch from his lips. He looks like a raccoon caught in a floodlight.

"Do you think I don't know what peer pressure is? I wrote you a very clear definition. Do you even have a rubric? I want to see it."

Someone laughs or she notices the looks on their faces and realizes she's really done it now. She only has two choices. She can either insist she called the teacher Dad by mistake in the most humiliating way possible and endure the shame of hearing her classmates giggle and spread it all over the school for the rest of the week. Or, she can own up and buy herself a much longer, slower mortification. One that doesn't let up until graduation.

Steve eventually clears his throat. "No rubric-- just the answer sheet, Miss Buckley. If you have a problem with your grade, please see me after class."

And she decides right there, 'Bluejay' in his messy scrawl and 'Miss Buckley' in that strained tone of voice.

"Why bother?" She rolls her eyes and tries to sound casual. "I'll just see you at home."

She doesn't stay to appreciate the wide, surprised look he gives her or the astonished little whispers of her peers. The bell rings like a sign from God and she high-tails it right out of there.

[angelbitezzz]

"i can't figure it out. he won't stop hiding away and clinging to some random laundry."

[arrowfortea-moved]

love flush in our sinew (da:i solavellan oneshot)

basically: lavellan goes down. hard. solas does everything within his power to save her. i saw an angst-inducing solavellan text post and i just.. yea. (spoiler for the oneshot's ending, but this is the post!) rating: T (16+) words: 4k content warnings: skippable metaphorical descriptions of severe throat injury (ctrl+F "snow" if you start getting squicked to skip to her being conscious and A-OK). lotta blood fr. girlie nearly kicks the big bucket big time.

“Scared.” Magic was readied over her muscles. Harpists’ fingers. Daggers. “Tired.” “Both will pass. As will the pain. I’m sorry—we are running out of time. I’m sorry to force you alive, vhenan, but in all of existence, there has never been a life like yours. I won’t surrender you to something so common as death. Live. Learn why.” The skin under Elanna’s teeth flexed; whatever it was had tendons beneath. “Bite instead of screaming. Never stop thinking. Dareth shiral.” Every bone burst out of her body.

🏹 read on ao3, or ↓

Pressure slid across the side of her throat, a quick, sharp tug; needle and thread, pulled taut. One of the trees ahead had an arrow in it. Sera? Ellana moved towards it. She could ask, of course, Sera was close by, somewhere behind, back, so, of course, backwards, she stepped back, and over, and—the world spun, her ribs jumped free, then ricocheted, slamming back against her insides.

Heat bloomed behind her tear ducts, shimmering, simmering, until the sky seared to white. Burning. Candle wax. Hands around her throat. Squeezing, to try stop the candles that speared down, one after the other, melting inside her, melting her insides; she swallowed flame after flame after flame, gagging through thickening, pliant spikes of agony—a searing pain lanced through her ears, and Ellana stilled, brainless. Her eyes baked under the white-hot sun. Thinking would not help, nor moving; she didn’t need to do anything. Oh. That was a relief. All she had left to do was to die.

“In..tor!”

Green light broke across the sky. Andraste took her hand—for certain, this time?—and pulled Ellana head-first into the Breach, upside-down-and-all-over-again—wet slams of pressure hit her throat and mouth, pushing her breath back, pushing her back into her blood, drowning her in red, red, red—stiff sounds across the reddening air—gurgles, pushing mushed flesh away—

“.. lease! Atish! Lethallan!”  

An elf. An ally. Lethallin. Help.  

“Atish. Atish. Peace. Peace, Ellana, it’s Solas.”

Solas. Her love, hidden somewhere in the encroaching dark. Don’t go. 

“Listen to me, and do not speak. Do nothing but breathe, shallowly, and through your nose alone.” 

Thank you. I love you. Please stay.  

“Almost. Breathing must start here, Ellana.” Soft voice. Soft pressure, middle. “Yes. Yes, excellently done. Continue. Good. I know what is wrong, I am healing you. The pain cannot go yet, but I will not leave your side, I promise. Be completely still, and breathe exactly as you are now.” 

The world was a pillar of blue light. I love you. Don’t go. 

“Shh. You must not speak. Please. Please, it’s important.” 

Blue light over her eyes. I love you. Blue on the breeze. I lov—he stabbed her, he must have, under the skin of her jaw, up into her head—a spear, it had to be, it would reach her brain if she didn’t—“no, no, stop, you’re safe, you’re safe, Ellana, stop, I am here, I know it hurts—I know, my—shh, atish, it will stop soon, you will be completely well.  I’m sorry. It has to hurt. It has to. I know. I know. Please stay in the pain with me.” 

A chill on the breeze. Perhaps her pulse could carry love to the blood beneath his hands. Her heart beat it out as best it could.

Night fell.

“.. our.. do.. lan.. Ellana.” Tugging on her skull. “Look at me. Here. Inquisitor Lavellan.” Get veilfire. Can’t see. “Move your eyes.” Don’t have any. 

Her head was a boulder, rolling down a hill. In the rain. Thoughts were mud. 

“You can move now. You can move, or say anything you like, you did so well, now, show me you’re here. Inquisitor. Inquisitor Lavellan. Anything at all. I know you’re here, just show me—forgive me, forceful language is not necessary. If you show me you are here, I could take you to Skyhold. I could. I can take you almost anywhere in Thedas. I shouldn’t, but I think I would, for you, vhenan, I think I would take you anywhere you wanted to go, just you and I, for as long as you’d like, if you could please..”

Wet.

“.. orry, your hair, I’ve ruined it, I can fix it, when you’re—no. No, I’ll fix it now. And if you are trying to speak, or move, please keep trying, we do not have much time until—until you—Ellana. You are alive, I know you are, but you need to try very hard to show me that, or I can’t—I can’t—please, vhenan. Hurry. I'm sorry to rush you, I am. You have Wicked Grace tonight, as well, everyone would miss you. You—you—you invited me. I declined, which I now regret, and I regret every time I did so. I would like to attend tonight. Could I? Let me play cards with you tonight, and I don’t know what went wrong. I don’t understand! I can feel your spirit, my love, I know you're here, but what did I do to you? I meant to save you, ar lath ma, vhenan! Vhenan, vhenan, my heart, my home, my love, Ellana, my heart, what did I—ir abelas, ma sa’lath, ara tela laima ma—”

Mud. Mud. Incomprehensible, incomprehensible, mud, incomprehensible, incomprehensible, incomprehensible, incomprehensible, mud, incomprehensible, incomprehensible, incomprehensible.

Asking would only embarrass her. And give him false hope, right before she died.

With death on its way, anything she learned wouldn’t matter.

Then again.

Death was always on its way.

“Sssss.” 

“Y—vhenan?”

Rustling.

“Please continue. Ellana. Please. You spoke. I missed the end of it.”

“Lass.”

“Yes. Yes, yes, Solas is here, vhenan, thank you, you are—you are marvellous—I am sorry to say we cannot converse properly.” Skin, wrenching her teeth open; skin, shoving between them. The Anchor thrummed up her arm and reached over her chest, languid as a lover.

Solas’ voice, velvet-soft, by her ear. “Because you need to listen to me. Pain is coming. I know. I’m sorry, it has to, ir abelas, it has to come very soon. But it will pass, and I will be with you. And you will forget it, you will forget all of this, afterwards, I promise. But when the agony takes your spirit—when everything hurts, or death wants you, you must think, and not stop doing so. Full, complete words. Reach the end of every word. Then move to a new one, continuously.” 

“Hchhh.. oh. Me.” 

“Home, yes. Full words. Follow nothing but the words you think, complete each, and let them carry you back to me. I can take you home. Skyhold. Your clan. Anywhere. I can take you almost anywhere you’d like to go. Come back to me.”

“Scared.” Magic was readied over her muscles. Harpists’ fingers. Daggers. “Tired.”

“Both will pass. As will the pain. I’m sorry—we are running out of time. I’m sorry to force you alive, vhenan, but in all of existence, there has never been a life like yours, and I won’t surrender you to something so common as death. Live. Learn why.” The skin under Ellana’s teeth flexed; whatever it was had tendons beneath. “Bite instead of screaming. Never stop thinking. Dareth shiral.” 

Every bone burst out of her body.

Warbling, guttural, agony emerging from the primordial deep of her, out of the red wet world, gasping for air, dying on land—

“No!”

No movement. No blinking. No screaming. 

But Ellana needed to scream. She needed to scream as regularly as she once breathed. Her bones were dribbling over their exit wounds. She needed to scream. Liquid marrow was leaking everywhere and burning her skin and she’d only hurt her neck a little, why was Solas doing this to her?

Syllables crushed against her skin. His voice, breaking and rushing. Fresh-fallen leaves. Autumn. Ellana would put leaves in piles, and scoop her foot through them. She was a child once, and those all grow up to die, after all, so it makes sense she was—

Solas’ voice, broken and rushed. Dry. Dry as leaf over leaf over leaf over leaf. Ellana used to jump and crunch the leaves, then gather them all over again, back into a pile. She’d do so for hours, with only the sound beneath her feet and the pulse in her ears for company. Eventually enough leaves were too flat for there to be any fun. There was no limit to what Ellana was capable of fatiguing. Anything could get tired of her if given the time. 

Nobody ever asked to play with me.  

In the simmer of death, a comfort arose: that finally wouldn’t matter. 

And death would be happy to see her. It’s where she was meant to be, after all; it's her end, ready and waiting. An abyss, as eager and empty and lonely as she.

Warm. I'm warm. Dark. Black. Like hot ink. Ink. In.. Incomplete. Incomplete word. That is bad. Ink.. In.. Ink. Inquisitor? Ink. The Inquisitor. The ink. Think. Think and do not stop. Solas is waiting for me. Solas had been waiting, somewhere, but likely forgot all about her by now. Smiling over her corpse, even, relieved to be free of her. He smiles even when I talk too much. Out of pity. Historically speaking, she was smiled at in pity; forever, she’ll presume a smile true, and will later learn it’s out of pity, until the day she died. Best to avoid further disappointments.

Solas was only one person, after all, compared to how many have hurt her? There are other people that like me. There could be more, one day. They’re not here now. They’re only not here because I’m not with them. Inkwell. Inkstain, ink, ink, Ellana screamed as she would in a dream, uselessly, inkstain, inkwell, inkstain, stained, all stained, towers all stained, gates once bright golden, forever shut. Having run out of words, Ellana had begun to recite the canticle of a prophet that wouldn't choose her at all, as if anyone would lower themselves to do so!

Indeed. What a lowly thing she was. Half in the ground. Hardly the gates of the Golden City. Stiff. Cold. Easily passed over. Easily unnoticed.

She was a cellar door in a blizzard.

C-e-l-l-a-r. D-o-o-r.

Solas threw her open.

Her neck swung back, away from his hands; desperation slammed its way inside—organs shrinking from the air—noise, everywhere, vibrating her ice-crusted innards, stalactites spearing her—wind against her face pleading at her mouth—begging her to breathe—if she didn’t breathe, the wind was sure to break her ribs apart to get inside, it needed a home, thus, she needed ribs. Her teeth clacked together and stuck shut. She drew one long, freezing inhale through her nose, endless, taut, endless and taut and this is how rifts must feel, she thought, delirious. Sealing.

The sky nudged a soft light between her eyelids. 

Then exploded.

Clouds spun above her, spun and spun, wool on the spindle. Above her. Ellana was safe, below. And her eyes were exhausted; their whites must’ve stretched out to relax, leaving her to look at their pale, foggy expanse. 

Her ribs dripped. Snow-melt on branches. 

The shy green spear of a tree. Lingering. It swayed, and sharpened; she could see the bristling of the leaves—she could see. And feel—and the wind caressed her, but the dirt was scared, stock-still beneath her hands. Her hands soothed it. She could move those, so too her leg—into a tent-like peak, before her foot slid and her leg thumped down; she was flat on her back, then. On solid ground. Ground solid as she was. Solid, whole, painless. 

Ellana had never experienced bliss. Now that she was in bliss, she was blissful, as well. Full of bliss. Nothing else will fit. She laughed, and hiccuped, without wincing, without ache. Even the pain long-folded into her heart had evaporated, or melted, or died along with her. Falon’din or the Maker must’ve taken pity on her. Sped her across the Fade, right into the Beyond. Wherever she was, however she’d gotten there.. she made it to a place where pain couldn’t reach her. Without having her soul snatched up halfway by the Dread Wolf. 

A pair of hands slid under her armpits, up to the forearm. Heaven leaned forward, and Ellana watched her legs drag along the dirt. Blood-speckled. Whose? Not mine. Wouldn’t make sense. It’s on top. Lower in her vision, more red—on the hands, avoiding touching her, some spirit, a fastidious one, pulling her along with its forearms. 

Solid ground behind her back. Textured. Another tree? She was sitting.. in a forest. Possibly. The grass paled and blurred.

“Ellana.” Savh. Or. Hello. Silk-smooth fingers nudged under her hair, pressing to her neck, seeking a pulse. Don’t worry. I promise I’m dead. “Can. You. Blink?”

The fingers folded into a weight that tucked itself beneath Ellana’s chin; the forest rushed over her. Shining through the blur were eyes too soft for hers to catch onto. Clouds. Her chin sagged, mercifully, the pressure beneath held it, so those kind eyes could sharpen into view as the tree had. Solas’ eyes. Not clouds. Lavender. And catmint. On a misty day.

“Continue trying.” His mouth quivered—firming and shaking, firmer and shakier—and his brow twitched. Tight-slip-tighten. Solas’ composure was an ill-tied robe he could not spare time to fix. Still, he spoke as if perfectly calm. Liar. “Keep looking at me, as you are now. Now, try to move your eyes.”

She did. 

“Ellana?” His voice cracked her name in two. Lightning to a tree. “Move any part of your body.” I did, she thought, exhausted. I moved my eyes. She did so, again. And again, and again, until finally, Solas’ composure fled. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, relief laid bare. “I saw that. Ma serannas, lethallan. You will be well soo—”

Ellana canted her head to the side in a bid for him to stroke her cheek, setting the world to spinning again; when it steadied, the back of his hand was against the nape of her neck, bracing her awkwardly. It stank. Coppery.

"I would advise you do not move. We are safe. You need not rush yourself. Even speech will take time.”

She'd forgotten all about speaking. Seemed greedy, really, since she was lucky enough to be alive. Before she could decide whether to chance it or not, Solas’ other hand reached for her, and her brain turned to affectionate mush.

“You will not bear lasting injury.” Blue flickered around her vision, and he began to stroke the sides of her neck, knuckles tenderly skimming over her skin. Back and forth. Back and forth. Patient. Loving. Her heart stirred. “There will be scarring, but.. tomorrow, perhaps, removing it will be no trouble at all. If you’d like that.”

“I..” The inside of her throat felt sunburnt. “Want..”

“Rest your voice,” Solas murmured, watching his hands caress her. “You can tell me soon.” 

Ellana pushed it to the front of her head instead: I want a kiss. She smiled, which he returned instantly, though his was smaller than hers, and far quicker. Echo, echo. Read my mind next: thank you. Thank you. When Solas clearly did not, Ellana closed her eyes, and leaned her jaw into his touch. He nudged it upright again with his thumb. 

“Please don’t,” he said. The gentlest of rebukes. “Your wounds were severe, Inquisitor, I am doing this to clean the blood away. When we rejoin the others, it would be best to not alarm them any more than necessary. And..” 

He glanced at her, lingering; his gaze traced her features until his eyes were half-lidded and her heart was skipping over itself. And he knows she can’t stand the feeling of blood once it’s caked. And he doesn’t want to leave her like this. “.. And.. Sera already has no dearth of opportunity to insult my appearance.”

Flashing a smile even weaker than the last, he began to pull away. “I hope you will forgive me some time to cleanse mys—” With the little energy she had, Ellana caught his hand in one of hers, fumbling against his knuckles.

He stilled.

Steadily, her fingers climbed until they rested between his—only a little, to avoid the red trim on the other side. His palms were still damp with her blood; she didn’t want to spoil the effort he’d made to clean it off her. Worth the risk. Red was red, and not as important as the desire to hold her love. Ideally, she’d like to hold him properly, in her arms, but considering her condition, she’d settle for his hand. Smooth, slender, delicate—beautiful, even when so bloodied—Solas’ hands were always beautiful. Just as he was. The only belief of hers he ever truly disputed.

“I..” Words broke to splinters in her throat. I love your hands, she thought, loudly. They saved me. You saved me.

Ellana hoped her expression could press against whatever forlorn thoughts lay behind his. Or, came the slow remembrance, there may only be one. A fear. Removed from reality, placed long ago, cold, heavy—even now, with his vhenan before him: the fear of dying alone.

Muscles screaming with effort, she turned her hand, brushed her knuckles against his, and hummed. His fingers trembled. Then tilted. Solas’ breath was shuddering in and out of him. He grazed his fingers between hers, gently. Barely. Even still, the stench wafted to her nostrils—vile, like the worst morning breath she’d ever had, alongside fresh and stale blood. The inside of her throat had been all over his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I.. I shouldn’t have..”

Ellana dragged her eyes up; Solas was looking at their joined hands, while he was looking miserable. “Did I.. upse..”

“You, Inquisitor, have never upset me.” With the back of his wrist, Solas eased her hand down. “I am the cause of our distress,” he muttered, pulling away.

“Don’t.. under..”

“Please—” His mouth snapped shut. Far firmer, he continued, "please don’t speak. Your throat needs rest, as does your mind.” 

Solas straightened his posture. Ellana's heart fluttered wearily. This was another tradition he liked to keep—some profound sorrow sat within him, which he usually kept neatened, and out of sight; misery hidden within a sachet of lavender, half-rotted, tucked in linen, perfuming a scholar’s poetic melancholy to passers-by. 

But in the void between her falling to the ground and then awaking in bliss, truth had slipped free; truth from Solas’ intense, miserable, messy something. Which he’d now gathered. And was folding back up. Soon, he’d shut it away. Ellana was too weak to distract him. She could do little but lay against the tree, obediently slack, as her own lover avoided looking at her.

His brows twitched with effort. After a few seconds, blue light bathed his palms. Following their movement strained her eyes, but Ellana wanted to stay present; ‘stay in the pain’, Solas had said, once. It strained her head to think of when, so that, she gave up on. 

When his hands moved to the wet outline of his knee, her stomach roiled. His lower half was soaked with blood. Boar drained after a kill left less behind. From his waist to his knees, the fabric of his robes had been drenched until it was thinned, and clinging close, her blood was sticking to him. Impossible, that she had lost so much; impossible, that Solas could’ve healed such a goring, and retain mana with which to cleanse its dregs. Impossibly, beneath the blue glow of Solas’ hands, her blood steadily evaporated. 

As if it had never been there at all. 

“Oh,” Ellana croaked. Solas’ eyes, lit to lyrium-blue, flicked up to her. Then back down. A frown tugged at his mouth.

Memories of the last few days dropped into her head and seeped through her; nauseating ripples breaking over her stomach, oh, my vallaslin, in Crestwood, when he left. Oh. We’re done.  

“It’s good that I was here,” he said quietly, and began to cleanse his other leg. “You wouldn’t.. I.. I don’t believe you’d have survived, if I was not. But I conducted myse—”

Whooping sounds in the distance. 

Sweat broke across Solas’ brow. The blue light blew white—Ellana winced—he panted a broken apology, then sagged forward, elbows carving into the dirt to brace his weight; a pair of leather boots skidded into view, stopping just short of knocking Solas over. 

“Bleugh! Ew, ew.” Revulsion flopped around Sera’s mouth. “Ick, yuck, and bleugh.” Words like asphyxiating fish in a wet grip, wiggling up and out, desperately plopping to freedom. No. Just words. “What in the saggy—you’re like a—like a fucking—fuck, Solas! Do village apos-whats take your baths in people?!”

Said apos-what pushed himself upright. Half the blood had been cleared, if Ellana's slow brain had to guess. Still, his robes were so saturated that, as he panted, the muscles of his stomach were visible. Wine-dark in places—a wave of nausea breached as high as Ellana’s throat, and she looked away. She fixed her eyes on Sera’s boots in the dirt. Dark brown against brown. Larger boots, landing beside.

“Damn, that’s, bad,” Bull. Huffs rolling over rumbles. Breathless. They fought something. “Seen, blood mages, with less on ‘em, Solas, shit.”  

“I did not cast any blood magic," Solas hissed. "The Inquisitor was gravely wounded, so I moved us both, to heal her undisturbed. I was about to—”

“Hey, you’re good, you did good. Got her out, fixed her up.” Bull crouched in front of Ellana. He moved a stocky finger back and forth in front of her eyes; the bulk of him blocked her view of the others, so she had little trouble focusing on the path he drew across her vision. “Shit. Seriously fixed her up. But, uh, next time, just yell what you’re doing when you’re doing it. Save us a sprint.” The finger disappeared, leaving a broad grin. “Looking alive, boss, glad to see it.”

Ellana blinked to greet him.

“Yeah,” Sera chirped, “save us a spri-i-int! Oh, and save us taking on six shits each while you wiggly-whoosh off for a pissing hour—”

“Do tell me, Sera.” Don’t worry, Ellana tried to tell Iron Bull’s eye as it looked her over. He doesn’t argue with her anymore. “Would you have preferred I remained? Reduced the count to four? Awaited your instruction and left—”

“Knock it off,” Bull grunted, then frowned at whatever Ellana’s face was doing. “You with us, boss?”

When she nodded, exhaustion saw opportunity, seized it, and thumped her chin to her chest. Ellana watched her legs disappear beneath creeping, fuzz-soft darkness.

“Alright!” One broad hand behind her back, another under her knees—“and up we go.” The world brightened, lurched along with her stomach—then was a soft thump against a broad chest, solid. Solid as the ground, the trees, solid as battlements.

“Home. Sklyhlold,” Ellana mumbled.

“Ambitious. How about I meet you in the middle. Camp’s close.” The muscled cradle of Bull’s arms rocked up, shifting Ellana a little higher. She could see his arms, his armour, and nothing else. Blurs. Grey on grey on grey.

“Uh, his most elfiest, where’re you going now? ” 

The response was distant. “Toward the slightly responsible arrow, which may have been poisoned.” Don't go. Even further away, “I will meet you at camp.”

“Saved her all dramatic like," Sera called, "but when a big strong Benny-Thing—what's it again?—big Qunari scoops her up, ooh, the heroic looover can’t bear to look for envy, ooh!”

“Ben-Hassrath,” Bull grunted, and began to move; if Solas gave Sera a response, it was lost beneath the squeaking of leather and rattling of buckles. Ellana closed her eyes, laced her fingers together, and pretended Solas was holding her hand. That he hadn’t left them—and didn’t leave her, that night—and wouldn’t. That they were still together, as they both wanted to be.

“Er, why’s—”

“Hey. Sera. If your mouth stays shut ‘til we’re at camp, I’ll introduce you to a big strong Benny-Thing chick I know.”

Surely Solas still wanted to be with her, deep down. It had only been a few days, he was in love with her, even if he wasn’t with her. Surely. 

“Get off. You swear?”

“Yep.”

Throat closing up, Ellana pressed her face against the cool metal of Bull’s armour. Solas had love for her, at least. Enough of it to perform an evident miracle, and pull her back from the brink. Isn’t my love enough to do the same for him? 

“Nobody but us for a mile or so. He teleported off,” Bull mumbled. “So. Let it out, boss. I got you."

─

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider going to ao3 and leaving me a kudos (you don't need to be logged in!) or dropping a Like/reblog here. Comments/replies are immensely appreciated too, but thank you for reading this far regardless!!