#fic: surrender

Read on AO3

I’m doing strict 100-word drabbles for whumptober, in an attempt to try to curb the growing wordiness and try to boil stories down to the bare essentials. Prompts 1-16 is a Rayla-pov continuous story, prompts 17-31 a separate Callum-pov 

And because I didn’t think I’d made this hard enough for myself, I tried to write it non-fandom-specific, that is, scrubbed of all proper nouns, since drabbles are already low-context. My thinking was to make them more easily readable regardless of fandom, or use as prompts in themselves. They’ll all be posted simultaneously on Ao3, link at the end.

———

Her cold fingers slip against the taut string of the snare.

It snaps.

She blinks at the treetops, at the world above her, white with softly falling snow, swimmy and blurry and alight with pain.

She squirms at the world under her, hard and freezing and underwear-soaking, not letting her stay down like she wants to.

The fumbling hand she raises to her face to prompts fast regret.

And… ow. So much ow.

Other hand then, can’t be worse.

It’s tangled in broken string.

She pulls, and it gives.

Her quest is a different bind.

She pushes, and it takes.

Read on AO3

Pairing: Trent/Atticus

Warnings: None

Rating: Explicit

Summary: In the face of sudden changes, Atticus tries to deal with insecurity and desire.

(Or, Trent gets buff and Atticus is a thirsty bitch with no confidence)

“That’s excessive,” she snorts. “No-one can eat all that.”

“Doctor’s orders,” he says sternly. “You… as in the general ‘you’… are supposed to feed a cold. And the specific ‘you’ are supposed to gain weight. That’s gotta mean twice the food. So, what’s your order? Drink? For the bread? Sides? Porridge topping?”

“Hot leaf-juice. Bee-vomit. Walloped chicken menstruation. Big leaves with expensive beans.” She sticks her tongue out at him. He asked.

“Wow, you definitely feel better,” he laughs.

“I feel… I feel.”

The feelings had been choking… clenching… stinging… darkness… inside her.

Released, they’re sparkling light against his fingertips.

She’s letting things that don’t matter get to her.

The empty snare and her empty stomach.

Her throbbing hand and face.

The loneliness and him, somewhere, probably hating her.

“You’re pathetic,” she says, to no-one but the choked feeling inside.

He’s alive and that’s what matters.

She has a mission and that’s what matters.

She straps her finger to the one next to it and wants to cry but doesn’t.

She holds a handful of snow against her face. It’s red, after.

“Blood’s no excuse for whinging. You can whinge when you’re bloody dead.”

She starts walking.

Ow.

“Shut up.”

“It’s just a cold,” she gasps out, as the coughs abate. The cracked ribs just make the coughing part a lot worse.

His hand rubs little circles between her shoulder blades. “I know, just… take the fussing, soup and painkillers, anyway.”

“Only if it comes with a side of rightful anger.”

He’s going easy on her because she’s injured, but she’s slept and eaten and cried about failing her mission and being stuck here and accepted his comfort and that she really is stuck here.

For weeks rather than days, too.

And she’s ready to take his not-so-fluffy feelings now.