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idkfitememate · 7 months ago

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I really like your stories, especially about the Creator otter. It would be great if when the truth is known, they take the Creator otter to the "true creator" and when he tries to hurt the otter, the attack returns on its own or something happens. to prevent him from harming the beautiful otter and so it is known that he is the true creator, I imagine he would have many more pamperings than before

The Otter Chronicles Pt.3

⋘ Previous Part » ♡︎

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : GN! Otter Reader x Fontaine

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. : 2.2k

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : Angst, some fluff, many mental breakdowns

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : I. Am. So. Sorry. You have been waiting for months for this but I didn’t know how to continue and then I got writers block and UGH-

But I’m here now :). And your gonna get your wish :3

Future note, this will probably be split up into at least one more chapter because I know for a fact I won’t be able to write all the idea, plus, I have an idea on how to finish it!!~~

As you snoozed peacefully, the quiet seemed to seep into the room, suffocating everyone within it.

“So… the otter sat on your lap… sleeping… that’s the creator?” Finally, Wriothesley broke the silence that had consumed the room, making Furina jump and you chitter under your breath, snuggling into her stomach.

“Do we have any proof?- I mean, besides what happened with the Primordial Sea-“ “Do you need more evidence?” Neuvillette interrupted. His face was stern and cold, hands gripping at his pants.

“Well… it’d be nice to at least know for certain?” Wirothesley sighed out, a hand pressing to his forehead. He leans forward in his seat and took a breath before speaking again. “I mean, genuinely, can’t you see where I’m coming from? Sure, you might trust your gut or whatever magical power you’re keeping from us, but this is a little hard to believe for a guy like me. I mean, who knows! Maybe it was coincidence the Primordial Sea went back into the lock!! Because I’ve personally never seen a creature besides a human jump in there, have you? Maybe it’s all just one big joke I just-“ He stopped, huffing, hands shaking.

“I… we gave our everything… to the Creator. And now I’m finding out it was all a lie? If it’s true, and they really are THE Creator… then I’ve just been lying to myself?? That everything I’ve went through, every trial I’ve faced, every man I’ve stared down as we sent him to his death, every challenged I’ve faced… that i convinced myself that I would get through for them… that it was just a test to prove my worth… my loyalty… would it be for nothing..? I’ve…” The man stood up, chair knocking back behind him as he rose, tears staining his cheeks. Neuvillette also stood, putting a hand in front of Furina. Chlorinde simply sat with hands drawn to her lap.

“I’ve devoted my LIFE to them!! I’ve given my EVERYTHING to THEM!! I thought… I THOUGHT… I THOUGHT THAT THEY WOULD SAVE ME FROM THIS DAMNNATION OF SOULS GRIPPPING TO MY CHEST, CRYING OUT THAT I COULDNT SAVE THEM!! MY SIBLINGS, MEN I KNEW COULDNT HAVE BEEN GUILTY AND AND- YOU WANT TO SAY ITS ALL BEEN FOR NOTHING?!?” “CALM YOURSELF WIROTHESLEY!-“ “NO! BECAUSE THIS IS FUCKING RIDICULOUS!”

A shouting match began between the two men, Chlorinde jumped up and wrapped herself around a now shaking Furina who was about to cry again, holding your form close to her chest. As the men screamed at each other - and teacups started being thrown - you finally stirred, opening bleary eyes at the scene unveiling before you.

Why were people screaming..? What… You looked up to see Furina shaking and silently sobbing over you, Chlorinde hushing her and whispering into her ear, though you couldn’t hear what she was saying. Wriggling around enough to face the shouting, your eyes widened at the sight of Neuvillette and Wirothesley screeching at each other, both Visions glowing wildly at the emotions of their wielders.

It was getting to a point where your ears were starting to hurt, so you leapt of Futuna’s lap, which led to her and Chlorinde whipping their heads to you, and ran over to the shouting men. You didn’t know what had come over you, seeing them both fight - something you never thought you would’ve witnessed honestly - and ran between them paws raised. Both paused for only a second, before Wirothesley started arguing again and Neuvillette followed. You tried to chitter and call over both of them, not getting anywhere with their raised voices.

You took a deep breath, focusing. This had been something you wanted to try since the beginning but just never had the time nor the energy to do so. But if there ever was a time, now was it. Your brows furrowed as you focused on any and all water in the current room, imagining the water following your command, as though alive and you its master. You grunted, catching Furina’s attention as she called for you to come back.

Cups suddenly started shaking in the room, only the Archon and Dualist taking note. It also didn’t help that the entire building was surrounded by water, though luckily you were able to mostly focus your attention on the small bits of water in the room. Neither Wriothesley or Neuvillette stopped to look at you as you raised your little paws to your head, the shouting mixed with your focus bringing on a headache.

Finally, it came to a close when Wriothesley shouted at the top of his lungs; teacups shattered and liquid swirled around the room, tea and water and otherwise swimming around the room like a raging typhoon, slamming into walls and knocking over objects. Finally the Duke and Sovereign stopped looking just as shocked as the Duelist and Archon. You pressed your paws forward, all the liquid slamming onto the arguing duo, pushing them into wall on opposite sides of the room.

Neuvillette looked remorseful while Wriothesley was shocked, eyes as wide as possible and jaw slacked. After a moment of silence you dropped your paws, allowing the two to fall to the floor drenched and standing in puddles.

“Holy… Holy Shit. They are the…” Wriothesley looked towards Neuvillette who nodded. Wriothesley fell to his knees, hands gripping at his hair and tears filling his eyes.

“All my life… was a lie?” You rushed to his side before he could spiral, rapidly chittering and crying, wishing you could speak so you could comfort him. In fear of another argument you began to cry. You sniffled and placed paws on his arm, practically begging him not to fall down that dark hole of spiraling thoughts.

Suddenly, you felt a hand on your head. Fingers gently carded through your fur, and you looked up, meeting Wriothesley’s eyes. They were still teary, filled with grief and sorrow, but there was something behind it, something bright.

“Mm… don’t cry little guy. I didn’t mean to uh… scare you?” His smile was shaky at best. You whined and climbed into his lap, paws pressed to his cheeks and small kitten-licks to the tears he evidently didn’t know about, rubbing away any others you couldn’t get. His eyes widened, quickly trying to rub away any stray tears he caught.

The others watched the scene, not daring to speak. Eventually Wriothesley picked you up to stare at you. All his life had been spent worshiping one person, they fell from the sky one day, and he figured that’d be it. He got live in the generation that saw the return of their blessed Creator. Never to have them look him in the eye or anything.

But here you were. An otter. And you had already done so much more for him than the Creator had in such a short amount of time.

It would take a while, he figured, till his mind really did say that you were, in fact, the real and true Creator, till his mind could finally let go of the notion that he’d never get to see them because here you were, in his arms, caring for him.

“… Y’know… you’re a pretty cute little otter.” Everyone’s eyes snapped over to him when he spoke, more tears falling from his eyes. You squirmed around, desperately trying to get close enough to wipe them but were caught off-guard when instead Wriothesley wiped tears out of your eyes.

You cried, squirming in his arms to wrap your own around his neck. Everyone was silent as this happened, watching as his arms gently curled around you, slowly breaking down.

Neuvillette turned away, ashamed that he had lost his cool, and watched as Furina got up from the couch and walked over to you and Wriothesley. She couched down and sat beside you both, laying a head on Wriothesley’s shoulder.

You chirped quietly into the mana chest, letting him silently sob into you.

Only the sound of moving water disrupted the calm.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍯🧁🥥୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

That meeting was weeks ago, and now your little group was coming up with a plan to bring this news to light before all the other nations.

It had been well established to them that creatures of Teyvat, from small bugs to the largest beast, would all listen to you under any and all circumstances.

Like now.

While they all spoke under the moonlight inside Wriothesley’s office - one of the most secretive places in all of Fontaine - you swam just outside the walls in a raft of otters, all in all just having a fun time until the inevitable.

The rebellion.

Naturally everyone in the room was pissed, especially since it had been years at this point that that false ‘Creator’ had sat on a throne that was rightfully yours. They could see the effect your presence had on Fontiane.

The sun shone brighter, the water seemed clearer, less Meka broke down, flower bloomed easier, crime even dropped. It was great.

Everyone and everything seemed and felt happier.

Much happier than with that fucking liar.

A map of the large, floating Sanctuary and Shrine that was supposed to house the Creator was laid out across a table, specific entry point circled in red.

“Next week marks the beginning of the *Creator’s Walk. Defenses will grow as this week passes but the first day of the walk, there will be no Acolytes.” Neuvillette broke the silence by pointing towards the circles on the map.

“But they’ll still be in the perimeter. I should know, I was apart of the last Creator’s Walk.” Chlorinde spoke up, adjusting her hat. “I can’t think of any entrance we may have left ungraded, even if from a distance.”

They were silent as they thought. The Creator’s walk was a Month Long holiday where the Creator would walk nation to nation - by themselves - in order to hand out blessings, push back monsters for a following month of no attacks and to retrace their original path between Nations, a show that they were all still connected.

The quiet was broken by the sounds of you chittering, the door opening and revealing you wrapped in a Melusine themed towel, Sigewinne trailing right behind you.

“Thank you Sigewinne for returning them to us, now if you would mind-“ Neuvillette started but was interrupted by the Melusine, “You’re talking about the plan right?” Everyone stared at her while you took it upon yourself to climb into Furina’s lap.

“How did-“ “Uh, duh. I’ve known all along? I would’ve figured you’d have guessed that by now, especially with all the other Melusine and Meka treating them so great? Come on Monsieur Neuvillette, you’re smarter than that!” The sentence was ended with a giggle as she skipped over to the still shocked older man.

Neuvillette shook himself from the sudden stupor, sighing and nodded, before his eyes lit up.

“That’s right. We have all the Meka of Fontaine on our side. They’d do anything for ma moitié. How in Archons name did we forget we have an entire army on our side?” Everyone stared at Neuvillette sheepishly, shrugs and mutters filling the room. Neuvillette sighs and hangs his head, but quickly rebounds.

“Well in that case, most Nations haven’t fought our Meka-“ “But they have fought Ruin Guards.” Chlorinde spoke again. Neuvillette bit his cheek, she had a point. While Meka were different, it wouldn’t take to much the Acolytes to find weaknesses due to said Ruin Guards.

Silence again.

“The Local Legends and beasts alike could be of use. I mean, I doubt anyone’s fought giant crabs before.” Furina mentioned, though most of her attention was on you, drying you off and petting you.

“That is true, Lady Furina.” Wriothesley agreed. Eyes drew back to the map, taking in every spot on the thing.

“There!” Sigewinne was the one to point to a point on the map, near the back to the left of the large estate.

“What’s the spot?” She asked, Wriothesley took one look and responded.

“That’s a window to their wine cellar. Pretty unused but still guarded, why?” Sigewinne looked up with a grin.

“Because it’s closest to a body of water.” Chlorinde looked closely at the spot, and her eyes widened a bit.

“She has a point, and on top of that, while it is still guarded it’s much more lax, especially considering it’s not to far from where the ‘Creator’ will be leaving but far enough where anyone would doubt an entry. On the other hand, it could only appear that way.”

“That’s where Meka and monsters could come in.” Wriothesley started. “When we’re protecting the place we more expect other people than monsters considering they’re all scared of the place.”

The plan started to come together, more pieces being added and who should go first and so on and so forth. Furina was too busy playing with you to really care, but looked up with a confused expression.

“When are we going to tell the others? Vision users, I mean. And… how?” Everyone looked towards her.

“…Fuck.” And a new can of worms now needed to be opened.

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : IM SO FUCKING SORRY I CANT DO IT!! I swear I will be keeping this idea in mind tho because I now have a plan to map out all of the creator stories I swear it I’m just tired omg I’m sorry but I hope this suffices for now-

… This is so disappointing I’m sorry-

#genshin impact sagau #sagau x reader #sagau #x reader #x gn reader #gn y/n #x gn y/n #yandere x reader #yandere x you #Otter!Creator #asks <3 #anon <3

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hoe4hotchner · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter 6 - Fractured trust

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Summary: The story follows you a figure skater training for nationals and Aaron Hotchner as your lives intertwine during an investigation into the abductions of young athletic women, including the your close friend, Leah. As the BAU delves deeper into the case, you find yourself captivated by Hotch’s quiet strength and protective presence. When Leah’s body is tragically discovered at the rink, the tension escalates, surrounding you in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: Blood, murder, death, suicide, grief, guilt and confusion. Heavy themes. Reader is a little delulu

A/N: Hotch is a very professional man and therefor doesn't get horny on the job, but there's a part somewhere where he definitely has a mental boner. You'll understand later. ;)

For the record, this was written before Liam Payne died… but some of the feelings are very relevant for a lot of people right now.

Masterlist

The lights overhead flickered briefly, casting long shadows across the conference table where the team had gathered for the night. The quiet hum of the overhead lamps mixed with the steady tap of Garcia’s fingers flying across her keyboard filled the air. The sound was almost rhythmic. Her brightly painted nails moved with such speed and precision that would leave anyone besides the BAU silently in awe. Each tap felt like a countdown, pulling more and more information to the surface.

Garcia’s monitor was a chaotic spread of files, timelines, and news clippings. Photos of Thomas Mercer in his prime, dressed in sparkly costumes, flashed alongside detailed records of his skating career: a golden boy once destined for the Olympics, now reduced to tragedy — one of the headlines wrote. His once-promising future was chronicled in the endless stream of reports and interviews — headlines of victories, discussions where his potential was praised, and then, the downfall — the dreaded downfall of Mercer. The articles began to shift in tone, highlighting his short temper instead of his extraordinary skating techniques, the scandal at his final competition, and the career-ending outburst that left him blacklisted from ever competing within the skating world again.

Hotch paced slowly near the head of the table, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, the tension in his movements mirroring the weight of the case. His steps were methodical, like he was trying to unravel the complexities of the case with each circuit he made around the room. Occasionally, his sharp gaze would fix on Garcia, brows furrowed, his expression intense and unreadable. If it had been anyone else, that look might have felt like a warning — but his team knew him better. It wasn’t frustration aimed at them; it was his way of focusing, of dissecting every piece of information being fed to him.

Garcia was used to his demeanor. Her fingers never faltered as they danced across the keyboard, pulling file after file from the databases, cross-referencing details, and hacking through the sea of data in front of her. Each time she uncovered something relevant, Hotch’s eyes would dart to the screen, laser-focused as if willing the information to form the missing link he was looking for.

“Here’s another record,” Garcia murmured, scrolling through a dense report. She highlighted sections as she spoke, she was calm, but the urgency in her words was unmistakable by the tempo of her voice. “Mercer’s last known address was right outside Arlington — it seems he moved there a few months after that competition — Before he went completely off the grid, he had several altercations with other skaters, coaches… even some journalists. It looks like his rage wasn't limited to just the rink.” Garcia looked up from her screen, waiting for Hotch's thoughts about her findings — or perhaps just his next request for information.

Hotch paused his pacing, his eyes narrowing on the paragraph displayed on the screen as he processed her words. His arms remained crossed, tension building in his shoulders. “Anything from the past few months? Any signs of contact with anyone involved in the case? Or sightings of him?”

Garcia shook her head, pulling up a timeline of Mercer’s movements. “No Sir, nothing recent. The last confirmed interaction with any of the skaters from the pavilion we have is almost five years old, just before his disappearance.”

The rest of the team sat quietly, reviewing the profile. There was a sense of anticipation in the room. They knew Hotch well enough to recognize when he was locked onto something, and right now, that something was Thomas Mercer. Despite your gut feeling — your firm belief that Mercer wasn’t the guy — Hotch wasn’t about to let his name fade from their investigation without turning over every possible stone.

Morgan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as he rubbed his face, he looked tired — but it was understandable, none of them had slept much the past couple of weeks. “Any chance he stayed around the Virginia area after the incident?”

Garcia's fingers paused for a second, listening to his question, before resuming their dance across the keyboard. Her tone shifted slightly, more somber than their usual banter. “Actually, no,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the screen. “After his last public appearance in New York, Mercer packed up and left. Looks like he was hoping for a fresh start somewhere else.” She sighed softly, skimming the news article further. “He tried to rebuild his career in Chicago, then moved through a few other cities in the Midwest, but nothing ever stuck in seems. No coach wanted to take the risk on him again after what happened.”

JJ’s brow furrowed as she considered the information, her motherly instincts confused and sad for Mercer. “He didn’t have anyone to help him? No family, or friends? Someone he could've turned?”

Garcia shook her head with a frown on her face as she opened another file. “Not that I can see. His family didn’t seem too involved, at least not after he spiraled. His mother passed away when he was young, and he bounced between his grandparents and father's house. No close friends from what I can tell, either. Most people distanced themselves after his temper started ruining things.” She grimaced, scanning through more of his records. “By the time he left Virginia, Mercer was pretty much on his own.”

Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly, he couldn't quite figure out why they weren't seeking him out yet. “So, he’s isolated, burned every bridge, and has no support system. Ding ding ding, that's our unsub! Can we go get him now so we can wrap this case up?”

Garcia hesitated, and then her voice softened even further. “That's not exactly the case I fear. He didn’t snap, at least not in the way we’d expect." She took a deep breath, mostly bracing herself to say the words in front of her, at least more so than she was preparing the team for the grim news. "He took his own life six months ago. The last record of him was an obituary. Suicide by overdose.”

A heavy silence settled over the room, they all knew what this meant for the investigation. The team exchanged glances, the weight of the revelation sinking in.

Morgan sighed, shaking his head. “So, we can rule him out as the unsub. I guess it's back to the drawing board then.” Hotch could tell that Morgan wasn't happy, debating whether or not he should send his team home for some well-deserved rest. He could after all just continue the investigation himself — at least now that they were back to square one. 3 dead bodies and a profile with no matches.

Hotch nodded slowly, his expression was just as tired as the rest of the team's as he processed the information given. "His anger could’ve influenced someone else. If someone was close enough to him and shared his views on Leah, they could be carrying out his vendetta in his place — that's if Leah was the target all along."

Hotch’s eyes darkened, his mind already working through the next steps. “We need to look into anyone who was still in contact with him, anyone who might’ve followed him when he moved. Friends, training partners, anyone who sympathized with his situation.” His gaze moved from the screen to the team as he pinched his nose for a brief moment. He exhaled, the weight of the revelation about Mercer hanging in the air. “We’ve done enough for tonight,” he then said, his voice was low — he too sounded tired. “Go home, get some rest. I’ll handle the next steps from here.”

Morgan furrowed his brow, glancing at the chaos of files scattered all across the table. Papers were everywhere — profiles, crime scene photos, timelines — forming a disorganized sea of details that he couldn't quite make head or tail of, each file more confusing than the next.

The weight of the case had long since seeped into other aspects of their lives, thickening the air with fatigue and frustration everywhere they went. They all knew it had become increasingly more personal to Hotch, even if he didn't want to admit it — they all knew just why he wouldn't let this one rest. Maybe even let some of the B-team agents take over the less crucial parts of the profile to catch the killer quicker.

Morgan’s eyes scanned the scene before letting his eyes rest on Hotch, concern etching deeper into his expression. “You sure, Hotch?” Morgan could tell how exhausted Hotch was, maybe even more exhausted than the rest of them combined. “We can stay — there’s still work to be done.”

Hotch shook his head. “We’ve hit a wall for now, and pushing through it while we’re all running on fumes won’t help. Besides—” Hotch hesitated for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have a very uncomfortable visit to make to the ice pavilion.”

Emily looked at him, catching onto what he wasn’t saying. “You mean Y/N?”

Hotch’s expression tightened his mouth a firm line as he gave a short, confirming nod. “I have to inform her about Mercer.” His voice was quiet but resolute. He wasn’t just delivering bad news; he was about to shatter your childhood star, one he could tell you had clung to despite his downfall, and that knowledge clearly weighed on him.

The gust of cold air hit Hotch the moment he pushed through the heavy doors of the pavilion, the chill biting a little at his skin despite his overcoat. He pulled it a little tighter around him. His breath formed small clouds in front of him, dispersing into the open space of the arena.

The rink was mostly silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigeration system and the sharp sound of your skates gliding over the ice. He stood still for a moment, scanning the pristine stage of glistening ice. He was searching for a sign — a sign of danger, any sign really.

Most of the non-competing athletes had been relocated to another arena for the duration of the investigation, the once busy rink now lay eerily quiet without the usual crowd of skaters and coaches filling up the space. The echo of several skates cutting into the ice no longer mingled with laughter, casual conversation, or the occasional shouted instructions. Instead, it felt like the ice itself had absorbed the tension hanging in the air.

Only the top few competitors, including yourself, had been granted permission to continue practicing on the rink’s grounds, a privilege meant to ensure that the investigation didn’t interfere with your training schedules. But the shift in the atmosphere was undeniable. What used to feel like home, a place to push yourself to new limits, to hang out with your peers, now felt cold and deserted — a place where shadows lurked, and each practice session was haunted by the weight of what had happened to Leah — and what could happen to you.

The decision to allow only a select few skaters to remain was both a practical and psychological one. It ensured that the competition-ready athletes didn’t falter in their rigorous training, but it also placed a heavy burden on those left behind. Hotch had fought tooth and nail with the local authorities to completely close the rink, but in the end, had to realize that his energy was better spent elsewhere.

For those who remained, every glide on the ice carried the memory of Leah’s absence, you had all known her on a deeper level that the newbies and even the simple act of lacing up skates had become a reminder of her.

You were midair, your body twisting gracefully as you rotated, the fabric of your skirt rippling like water in the air. Time seemed to slow down as Hotch’s eyes locked onto you. The elegance and precision of your movement were captivating in their own mystical way — each twist, each turn measured perfectly. Every muscle in your body was taut with control and power, your focus undisturbed, completely immersed in the flow of your routine.

It was a stark contrast to the tension and unease that swirled in his mind every time he stepped into the pavilion. Here, in your element, there was no sign of the fear or darkness that had invaded your life once you stepped off the ice. Yet, even in the grace of your movements, Hotch knew he carried the weight of a truth that would shatter that fleeting peace.

For a split second, you seemed weightless, suspended in the air, and all Hotch could focus on was how serene and beautiful you looked in that moment — completely absorbed in your world. He hated that he had to break the news to you.

His eyes lingered on the way your dress for sectionals shimmered under the lights, the deep navy-blue fabric hugging your body perfectly, adorned with rhinestones that glittered like stars with every movement. He had never seen you in any of your costumes before, but he vividly remembered the day you had received it in the mail. You had practically dragged JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia into the bullpen to where you had dropped your gym bag, the three of them laughing with joy as you carefully unfolded the dress to show it off. You had huddled together like sisters, fingers tracing over the intricate details of the rhinestones and the delicate stitching, voices bubbling with excitement.

Hotch had caught snippets of the conversation — Emily had been the first to compliment the open back, her eyes widening as she had called it a “showstopper,” while JJ teased you about how you’d have to skate like you were wearing a galaxy. Garcia, of course, had been the most enthusiastic, gasping dramatically and insisting that the dress was “fit for a queen,” urging you to take a thousand photos and videos once you had it on.

It was one of those rare moments in the BAU office where the weight of their work seemed to lift, and he had watched from a distance, quietly amused by the way you all fussed over the dress like it was something sacred. But he guessed this was just a part of the girlhood Garcia once had tried to teach him about.

Seeing you now in it, gliding effortlessly across the ice, each rhinestone reflecting the rink's bright lights like a cascade of stars, he realized the ladies had been right — it truly was a showstopper. Every movement you made transformed the dress into a spectacle of grace, and Hotch found himself mesmerized, momentarily forgetting the heavy news he carried.

The sheer sleeves, dotted with delicate stones, gave an ethereal sparkle to your arms, and the open back added a touch of exposure to your elegance. As you glided across the ice, the dress moved effortlessly with you, enhancing every leap, every graceful spin. Hotch couldn't help but admire how the dress seemed to be an extension of you, amplifying the beauty of your performance.

For a moment, he felt a pang of regret — how could he shatter this peaceful moment with the weight of what he had to say? But he had no choice — you had to know. It was only right.

Time seemed to slow as he kept looking at you. The way you moved, jumped, and spun, and the way your body suspended in the air for brief moments, was like a work of art. Everything about it — the precision, the grace, the sheer effortlessness — was fascinating.

Hotch found himself momentarily lost, watching the way your arms extended, the way your muscles seemed to work in perfect harmony with the ice beneath you. You were beautiful and elegant, in complete control of your world out there.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sound of your skates hitting the ice after another spin brought him back to reality. A sharp crack echoed through the rink as the blade made contact, and you smoothly landed the jump, coming out of it with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. His chest tightened, not only with admiration but with the heavy knowledge of the danger you were unknowingly still in.

You spotted Hotch at the edge of the rink, leaning slightly against the boards with his elbows resting on top of them. A small smile tugged at your lips, and without missing a beat in your routine, you gave him a little wave before gliding toward him with effortless grace. As you neared him, the tension he had been carrying all day seemed to ease, if only for a moment.

When you reached the edge of the rink, you came to a graceful stop, the ice dust spraying lightly from beneath your skates. You leaned casually on the boards, still slightly breathless from your routine, your cheeks flushed from exertion but truthfully, some of it was accredited to Hotch's presence.

“Hey,” you greeted, your voice was soft as you tilted your head slightly with a curious smile. "I wasn’t expecting you to stop by." Your chest heaved with deep breaths as you slowly started regulating your breathing.

For a split second, Hotch found himself captivated by the lightness in your tone and the relaxed nature of your stance. You looked so peaceful. He hesitated, but the weight of his responsibility crashed back to him, but for just a few seconds longer, he allowed himself to linger in the relief he saw reflected in your eyes.

Hotch's lips quirked into a small, almost imperceptible smile. Despite his attempt at a warm greeting, the tension in his face didn’t fade, and it was clear something was pressing heavily on his mind. “I came to see how you were holding up... and to talk. We’ve made some progress.”

You nodded slowly, already suspecting where this conversation was headed. As you caught your breath, you peeled off your gloves, the cold bite of the air clinging to your skin for a moment before you grabbed your jacket and shoved them into the pocket.

"Let me guess — it’s about Mercer?" You tried to keep your tone neutral, but the underlying tension in your voice was unmistakable. Your brows furrowed slightly as you looked at him more closely, scanning his face for any indication of what he was about to say.

There was something about the way Hotch stood in front of you, the stiffness in his posture, the way he seemed to be choosing his words carefully, that made your stomach twist with apprehension — something was wrong. You could sense it.

You already knew. It had to be about Mercer. And yet, a part of you desperately hoped that it wasn’t. Maybe it was something else, someone else, something less personal and something easier to hear. But the serious glint in Hotch’s eyes told you otherwise, and as much as you wanted to delay the inevitable, you couldn’t avoid it. Not anymore.

His eyes softened, knowing this part of the conversation wasn’t going to be easy. He could tell that you wanted answers just as much as they did, but for now, he had to share the news that might complicate things even more.

“Can we sit down?” Hotch asked, gesturing toward the bleachers with a seriousness that made your stomach tighten further.

You nodded, your heart racing as you stepped off the ice. As you pulled on your jacket, the fabric felt like a flimsy barrier against the chill in the air. You walked beside him, each step echoing the moment. When you reached the bleachers, the cold wood bit through the skirt of your costume, sending a shiver up your spine as you sank onto the hard surface.

“What is it?” you asked, anxiety bubbling up in your chest.

Hotch exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as if bracing himself for your reaction. “It’s about Mercer.”

Your heartbeat quickened, echoing in your ears like a drum. “What about him?” The mention of Mercer had a way of igniting your instincts for the worse.

“He... we found out that Mercer moved away from Virginia after his career took a hit,” Hotch began slowly, his gaze fixed on you as he carefully watched your reaction. Each word seemed to hang heavy in the air. “He tried to restart somewhere else, several times, but they didn’t work out for him. A few months after that, he... took his own life.” Hotch paused, waiting for your reaction.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the shock sending your mind spiraling into chaos. “What?” you blinked rapidly, struggling to grasp the gravity of what he was saying. The words felt surreal, as if they belonged to some distant reality you couldn’t quite comprehend. “No, you’re lying,” you stammered, shaking your head in disbelief, the denial instinctively rising within you. “That can’t be true.” The thought of Mercer — someone you had looked up to, someone whose struggles had seemed so distant for the past couple of years — now felt like an insurmountable reality crashing down around you. Confusion mingled with grief, leaving you reeling as you fought to process the enormity of his loss.

You sat there, numbness spreading through your limbs as Hotch’s words echoed in your mind. How could someone who had once been so vibrant and talented reach such a devastating conclusion? The reality of his absence felt like a punch to the gut, leaving you gasping for air in the wake of an unthinkable tragedy.

Hotch didn’t say anything. He just held your gaze, his eyes filled with a sadness that seemed to resonate deeply within you. Although his sadness wasn't from Mercer, he couldn't care less about whether Mercer was dead or alive.

You stared at him, waiting for him to say something — anything — that would make it all make sense. You needed him to tell you that he was lying, to offer a glimmer of hope, some explanation that could ease the weight of reality. But he didn’t. He didn’t have to. The truth was written plainly in the way he looked at you, and it hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless and reeling.

“No… no, no, no,” you muttered, talking more to yourself than to him. “That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t… I don’t understand. He’s supposed to be…” The words tangled on your tongue, each syllable feeling heavy as your thoughts spiraled, struggling to catch up with the overwhelming truth. “How could I not know this?” Your voice broke in a whisper of disbelief. “How—”

You felt tears welling up, blurring your vision as the reality of the situation pressed down harder. It was as if the ground had fallen away beneath your feet. Memories of Mercer flooded your mind — moments you had taken for granted now twisted into reminders of what was lost. The guilt settled on your shoulders, heavy and suffocating, as you grappled with the haunting question of how someone like him could slip away without a trace.

Hotch’s hand found its way to your knee, his grip gentle but firm, grounding you in the moment as the world around you felt like it was slipping away. He didn’t say anything; words seemed inadequate in the face of such sorrow like nothing he would say would help. Yet, the warmth of his hand was enough. His presence was enough. It felt like an anchor in the stormy sea of your emotions, and it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart and shattering completely.

You wiped at your face, desperately trying to collect yourself, but the tears kept coming, each drop a testament to the pain that surged through you. The truth of Mercer’s loss felt like a dark cloud. You fought against the rising tide of grief, knowing you had to hold on.

The atmosphere in the BAU had shifted dramatically as the investigation dragged on. Each passing day brought new leads and new revelations, and with them came the undeniable sense that the stakes were rising with every hour. You could feel the pressure mounting, pressing down on your chest, leaving little room to breathe every time Hotch called you in to consult on anything related to the pavilion or figure skating.

The latest briefing had peeled back another layer of the investigation, revealing unsettling details about the unsub’s profile that sent shivers down your spine. The pieces were falling into place, but nothing had fully prepared you for what lay ahead.

When Hotch called you a couple of days later to witness an interrogation, you felt a surge of unease. You hadn’t expected to find yourself standing on the other side of a one-way mirror, watching someone you once respected face the full force of the BAU’s investigation.

Hotch’s intense interrogation techniques were on full display, each question designed to unearth the truth buried beneath layers of possible deceit. You watched intently as he leaned in, his voice commanding as it cut through the defiance of the suspect. It was a side of him you hadn't seen before, but witnessing it so closely now felt unsettling, especially knowing the personal dots connecting you further and further to the case.

Eric Collins. The name echoed in your mind, carrying a weight of respect and admiration that felt almost nostalgic. He had been a well-known coach at the rink where you had started your journey, a place that now felt like a lifetime ago. You could still picture the early mornings spent training under his watchful eye, his voice echoing in the chill, guiding you through every jump and spin. He had been more than just a coach to you; he had been a mentor, instilling a passion for the sport and a sense of discipline that shaped your formative years.

His sharp eye for technique and authoritative demeanor both on and off the ice set him apart. He was, without a doubt, the best of the best. You remembered how other skaters looked up to him, their eyes filled with admiration and a hint of fear, as he commanded respect with his presence alone. But as you transitioned to training under Branson at the pavilion, the dynamics shifted. Rumors began to swirl in the community, whispers that you were too young to fully comprehend at the time.

Looking back, you realized how those discussions had lingered in the air amongst the older skaters at the pavilion, like an unshakeable cloud. You now fully understood why they had been as cold to you in the beginning as they had. Was it jealousy? Disappointment? Perhaps a mix of both? You hadn’t understood the implications of your choice then, but the murmurs had reached your ears, and they had certainly reached the ears of your parents. They stirred a mix of emotions that you now recognized — loyalty to your roots clashing with the desire for growth. Eric had been a pivotal figure in your life, but as you navigated your own path, you wondered if he held a grudge against you for the choices you'd made as a young teenager and the fallout that had followed between you.

Now, as you stood in the cold, sterile confines of the observation room, watching Eric sit across from Hotch, a new sense of unease gripped you. The years had changed him in ways you hadn’t anticipated. The once-confident figure now looked worn and weary, his shoulders hunched slightly as if bearing the weight of countless burdens. You studied him through the glass, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one you once knew so well.

His face was now etched with lines of tension that spoke of stress and anxiety. The vibrant spark in his eyes had dulled. As you watched, his gaze darted nervously around the room, flitting from what you could only guess was the famous Hotchner stare — that Emily had told you to look out for — to the sterile walls, as though searching for an escape from the uncomfortable situation.

He seemed to have lost that light in him you remembered from your early days as a skater, swallowed by whatever shadows had crept into his life since those days. You couldn't help but wonder what had happened to him in the years since you had last shared the ice. What struggles had he faced? What demons lurked just behind his mask?

Hotch sat directly across from him. The atmosphere crackled with tension, an almost tangible force that made it hard to breathe — even for you.

But it was the slow unraveling of Collins’ responses that tightened the knot in your stomach. You watched as he fidgeted in his chair, his fingers tapping against the table in a nervous rhythm. His answers came out short and to some extent evasive as if he were struggling to articulate the truth or perhaps deliberately avoiding it. Each word he uttered felt heavy with implications, and the more he spoke, the more unease settled deep into your bones.

With each passing moment, it became increasingly clear that something was very wrong.

Collins wasn’t just nervous—he was hiding something. The longer you watched him squirm in his chair, the more you realized that the respect you had once held for him had now become a distant memory, overshadowed by a creeping sense of dread. It was unsettling to witness a man who had once stood as a pillar of strength now appeared so fragile, unraveling under the pressure of a single unit chief of the FBI.

Hotch’s voice broke through your swirling thoughts. “Mr. Collins, we need to know about your relationship with Leah and any potential conflicts you may have had with her.” The directness of his question pierced the atmosphere in the room like a sharp blade, demanding answers that Collins seemed reluctant to provide.

You weren't even sure if he knew Leah, maybe only by word of mouth.

You could see Collins stiffen at the mention of Leah’s name though, his expression shifting momentarily as if Hotch had struck a nerve. Would he deny knowing her, or would he confess to something? As Collins hesitated, a flicker of something — fear? Guilt? — crossed his face, and you felt a flash of goosebumps running down your spine.

Eric shifted in his seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest in a defensive posture that immediately set off warning bells in your mind. It was as if something within him had suddenly flicked a switch, burying any nerves deep down where they could no longer be seen. This abrupt shift in demeanor was unsettling.

“I’ve never even met the girl. How could I have anything to do with her murder?” he snapped, the irritation sharp in his voice, cutting through the air like a knife. The fervor in his denial felt desperate.

His words, though defiant, rang hollow, as if they had been rehearsed for this very moment. The conviction behind them seemed more like a facade, a flimsy shield against the truth. Hotch didn’t flinch at the outburst; his expression remained stoic and composed. However, you noticed how his eyes sharpened, narrowing slightly as he focused intently on Collins. It was the look of a seasoned profiler who could sense the cracks in a lie, who understood that the truth often lay buried beneath layers of bravado and evasion.

“Your name came up in several interviews with Leah's friends and teammates,” Hotch said, his voice steady as he kept his focus on Collins. His gaze only flicked momentarily to the file in front of him, where he slightly skimmed the printed-out interview notes. “They mentioned that you were upset when Leah started outperforming your skaters,” Hotch pressed. The implication of his words was clear, and you could see the way Collins' jaw tightened at the mention of Leah's success. “Was there any reason you might have wanted to hurt her, Mr. Collins?”

As Hotch posed the question, you could sense the tension in the room ramping up. Collins shifted in his seat again, his body language betraying his increasing discomfort under Hotch's stare. The defensiveness that had initially shrouded him was slowly giving way to distress.

You watched as Collins swallowed hard, the color draining from his face. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his response carefully, as if calculating the repercussions of every word that might slip from his lips.

“I wasn’t upset,” Collins ground out, his voice audibly laced with irritation. The denial spilled from him like a plea, but it felt forced. “Leah had talent — more than most, I'll admit that.”

“I encouraged all of my skaters to watch her competition videos,” he continued, his tone growing more defensive. “I would never harm one of my skaters — past, present, or potential ones. This is ridiculous, what you're accusing me of!” The last words erupted from him with exasperation, echoing off the walls of the interrogation room.

As he spoke, you could see the agitation flicker across his face, the way his hands clenched into fists on the table, as if he were trying to anchor himself.

Hotch’s expression remained unreadable, but you knew he was picking apart every word, every twitch of Eric’s face. There was something more here, something beneath the surface, and you could see it in the way Eric’s defensiveness bordered on desperation.

It was becoming clearer by the second — Eric Collins was hiding something.

Memories of your time training under Eric Collins flooded your mind, each recollection a tangled web of emotions. You remembered the moments when his praise felt like validation, lifting your spirits and fueling your ambition. His approval had been intoxicating, making you believe you could achieve greatness on the ice. Which you had. But alongside those moments were flashes of resentment and jealousy you had overheard from fellow skaters — conversations whispered in hushed tones behind closed doors.

There had always been rumors about Collins' character once skaters moved on from his teaching. Tales circulated about the way he held grudges against those who didn’t meet his lofty expectations, and how he could turn a blind eye to their accomplishments if they fell short of his standards.

Those whispers, which had once seemed easily dismissible, now gnawed at the edges of your consciousness, transforming into a haunting echo of warning.

As you recalled the sharp glances and muted conversations, you began to question everything you had once believed about him. Was there truth buried in those rumors? The thought made your stomach churn, the contrast between the mentor you once admired and the man sitting across from Hotch became more pronounced.

You crossed your arms, closing your eyes, trying to calm your mind for a moment.

Could someone you once respected, someone you thought you knew, really be capable of such violence? If that were true, what did it mean for the rest of the people in your circle? — the ones you had considered friends, mentors, allies? Were the supportive voices you relied on truly as trustworthy as you had believed throughout your whole career?

Each name that came to mind — friends and mentors who had cheered you on, who had stood beside you through countless competitions — now became shadowed by doubt. The friendly faces you’d shared victories and defeats with suddenly appeared as if they might be masking darker intentions, leaving you questioning not only Collins’ integrity but also the loyalty of those around you.

“Mr. Collins, we have a source who mentioned that you had very high expectations for your skaters,” Hotch stated, his gaze locking onto Eric’s, refusing to let him evade the question. “She also mentioned that if someone didn’t meet those expectations, you had a reputation for being... cruel and degrading. Care to elaborate on that?”

Hotch’s tone was measured, his calm demeanor belying the intensity. Hotch was making half-statements now, twisting your words as the source in a way that felt almost accusatory of Collins. You had never experienced anything but motivation from Collins, who had always pushed you to be your best. Yet, as you looked at Eric’s posture, you couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that maybe there was more to the story.

“Cruel?” Collins scoffed. “I pushed my skaters to succeed because I believed in them! High expectations are part of coaching; it’s how they grow.”

You felt the urge to defend him, but the truth was, you couldn’t definitively deny the claims. While your experiences had been largely positive, you knew there were other skaters who had left his coaching, some of whom had openly complained about their time with him. What had they endured that you hadn’t witnessed? Was there a darker side to his coaching style that you were blind to because of your age at the time?

We need to understand how your methods affected your skaters, Mr. Collins. Were you ever frustrated with them when they didn’t perform to your standards?”

“Of course I was frustrated; I wanted them to succeed. But frustration isn’t cruelty. I cared for my skaters; I wanted them to be the best they could be.”

“But did that frustration ever turn into something more?” Hotch pressed his tone sharper now. “Did it ever make you cross the line?”

Eric’s eyes flared, his defenses rising once again. “I never hurt anyone!” he snapped, the denial laced with a defensiveness that felt more and more like desperation. “That’s a stretch!” Eric snapped, his voice rising defensively. “Do you know how competitive this world is? It’s about pushing your limits, not punishment. You push hard, or you get left behind. That’s how it works.”

Hotch didn’t flinch, his gaze steady as he countered, “Perhaps. But competition can also breed resentment. It’s human nature. You’ve got to admit, Mr. Collins, you’ve had conflicts with Leah. Whether you want to acknowledge them or not, they existed.”

“I had conflicts with a lot of skaters. It’s part of coaching! It doesn’t mean I wanted to hurt anyone. Leah was good, but she wasn’t the only one. I had others to think about.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his voice calm yet unwavering. “But Leah stood out, didn’t she? It’s clear she had potential that could overshadow your skaters. It’s understandable that you might have felt threatened, even if you didn’t intend for that to turn into murder.”

Collins opened his mouth to retort but closed it again, the fight leaving his eyes as he looked away. “I didn’t feel threatened,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I just wanted to see all of my skaters succeed. It’s what any coach would want.”

Hotch pressed on, sensing the slight crack in Collins’ defenses. “Yet, your behavior can speak volumes, Mr. Collins. Did you ever say anything to Leah that could have fueled her resentment toward you? Any comments about her performance or her place among your skaters?”

Eric’s expression shifted again. “I may have said things in the heat of the moment. But that doesn’t mean I wanted her gone! I wanted her to succeed! Just not at the cost of my own skaters.” He muttered the last part, hoping Hotch wouldn't catch it.

“You don’t have to be a monster to contribute to a toxic environment, Mr. Collins. Sometimes, even unintended actions can lead to devastating consequences. We just need you to be honest with us about your relationship with Leah and how it may have affected her.”

“I may not have treated her as kindly as I should have,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “I had high expectations, and maybe I let my frustrations get the better of me. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to see her hurt! I never wished her harm.”

Hotch nodded, allowing the moment to sink in. “You must understand how your actions are perceived, Mr. Collins. Words can wound just as deeply as physical actions, especially in a competitive atmosphere.”

“Fine! I’ll admit I didn’t always handle things perfectly,” Collins said, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. “But I still didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. I never crossed that line.”

As Hotch prepared to wrap up the interrogation, you felt a sense of bittersweet resolution. Collins wasn’t the monster you had feared he might be, but he was also not the respected coach you had once known.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Collins,” Hotch said. “We may have more questions for you in the future.”

Hotch approached you in the bullpen as you were gathering your few things. He leaned against a nearby desk, arms crossed and a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Are you starting to feel ready for sectionals?” he asked.

You paused, giving him a small glance as you rifled through your bag for your guards to your skates. “I think so. I’ve been training hard, but the nerves always kick in right before,” you admitted, trying to sound more confident than you felt with everything going on.

Hotch chuckled softly, an amused glint in his eyes. “Nerves are normal. Just remember all the hard work you’ve put in. You’ve prepared well.” He watched you as you packed. “What tricks are you planning?” He asked. As if he knew what the words coming out of your mouth would mean.

You shrugged slightly, your fingers brushing over the smooth blades of your skates. They needed to be sharpened you thought. “I’m hoping to nail my triple salchow this time. I’ve been practicing the entry and landing, but I still feel a bit off sometimes. Maybe it's my blades?” You glanced up at him, gauging his reaction. “Do you think I’m pushing it?”

“I'd like to say not at all, but I honestly have no clue what you just said meant” he replied firmly raising his brows a little with amusement. “You know your limits better than anyone. Trust your instincts out there. You’ve got the talent and the drive.”

As you zipped up your bag, a commotion near the entrance caught your attention. You glanced over for a brief moment, and your heart dropped as you saw Eric Collins being led out of the office by one of the agents.

His demeanor was stiff, and his eyes flicked around the room like a trapped animal searching for an escape. You didn’t notice his gaze land on you; you were too absorbed in your conversation with Hotch.

“Are you going to be at the rink to watch me practice?” you winked, trying to divert your focus back to your upcoming competition.

“If danger is lurking” Hotch replied, his expression softening. “I'll be there.”

You smiled at that, appreciating the effort. “Maybe you can give me some pointers after I skate.”

“I’ll try not to embarrass you too much with my lack of skating knowledge,” he joked, and you laughed lightly, the tension from earlier dissipating.

But from the corner of your eye, you noticed Eric’s eyes narrowing as he caught sight of you, his expression darkening for just a moment before the agent nudged him forward. The contact was fleeting; you were too lost in your conversation to fully grasp the change in Collins’ demeanor.

“Just keep your focus and enjoy it,” Hotch continued, breaking you from your thoughts. “Competitions are meant to be exhilarating, not just nerve-wracking.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Hotch.” You tossed your bag over your shoulder, feeling a sense of determination swell within you. As you turned to head out, you glanced back to look for Eric for a moment, but he was already gone.

“Good luck,” Hotch said as you headed toward the door. You turned, giving him a small smile before stepping out into the hallway.

As you stepped out of the academy building, the chill of the evening air enveloped you, it felt nice compared to the heavy air in the observation room just moments earlier. The sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving the world bathed in shades of indigo and deepening shadows.

Each step you took echoed on the pavement, the rhythmic sound barely breaking the silence that hung in the air.

You were lost in thought, replaying Eric Collins' defensive outbursts in your mind as you walked home while trying to shake off the lingering unease that had settled in your chest. Just focus on the sectionals, you told yourself.

Sectional should have been your main concern, you should've prioritized your training more, you thought.

You turned the corner onto your street, and a bizarre sensation skittered along your spine. Something felt off. Way off. The streetlights flickered erratically as if all the bulbs were about to die at the same time. They cast long, warped shadows that danced unnervingly on the pavement. You quickened your pace, eager to reach your apartment. Quickly. The comforting familiarity of home was just a few moments away. You needed to get home.

But as you approached your front door, your heart plummeted into your stomach. There, slumped against the door, was a figure. A figure you hadn't hoped to see. You froze, dread pooling in your gut as your breath caught in your throat. It was Mark. He was splayed awkwardly against the wood, the grotesque sight of him sending waves of nausea crashing over you.

The moonlight was the only source of light illuminating the horrific scene. Branson’s body was lifeless, his face twisted in a final expression of shock and pain.

An ice pick protruded from his heart, it looked to be buried deep, and a dark pool of blood blossomed around it, seeping into the cracks of the pavement. Your hands trembled as you took a hesitant step closer, your heart racing with fear.

But the real horror struck when your gaze flicked up. Scrawled in bold, jagged letters on your door, the words "You’re next" glared back at you in bright red blood, it was dripping slightly as if it had just been written mere moments ago. It sent a chill down your spine, a reminder of the threat moving closer and closer to you.

You staggered back, almost stumbling to the ground, panic rising in your throat. The reality of what you were witnessing crashed over you like a wave, drowning out all rational thought. This wasn’t just a sick prank or a random act of violence; this was something deliberate and calculated. Branson wasn’t breathing, his life extinguished in an instant. He had been alive only moments before your arrival, you were sure of it.

With your heart racing wildly, and your vision blurred with fright, you fumbled for your phone, your fingers slick with sweat as they trembled. You somehow managed to dial Hotch’s number, the ringing in your ear sounding almost deafening against the silence surrounding you. Each tone amplified your fear. When he finally picked up, the voice that came through sounded tired, as if you'd woken him from a nap.

“Hotch,” you gasped, the words struggling to form as the terror seized your throat. You barely recognized your own voice as you uttered a soft, broken whimper, “Help.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching between you. You could hear Hotch stumbling to his feet, the sound of something heavy clattering to the floor echoing in your ear as he processed the raw fear in your voice. His quick breaths came through the phone, each one heavy with concern.

All the while, your gaze remained locked on Branson’s lifeless body, the sight seared into your mind. The dark stain of blood beneath him only grew larger with each passing moment. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, transfixed by the brutality of it all — the blood, the ice pick, the message on your door.

"I'll be there!" The line went silent as Hotch hung up.

Tag list: @love4lando @therealbaberuthless @crazyunsexycool @pear-1206 @bookworm124 @itsmytimetoodream @c-losur3 @lumestar @evvy96 @booknerd2004 @werebearcocoon

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scruffyragdoll · 6 months ago

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In the dusky twilight of the highest realm, an empyrean domain of iridescent clouds and gilded cities dwelt a being of unparalleled radiance. Once the first life on the mortal ground, now an angel of eternal glory, how so exalted he was in the celestial chronicles. And yet, in the shadow of his grandeur, a seed of pride took root, flourishing like a golden weed amidst a garden of virtues. Sanctified by sin in the blind crusade, the creature fell to the blade of a damned and the divine judgement. Down he spiralled through the crimson firmament, his fall a silent testament to the celestial transgression. The world below, a churning sea of lost souls, of shouts and screams and hollow whispers, embraced him with the cold, unyielding grip of retribution. And thus, even the brightest luminary was extinguished by its own arrogance, leaving but a forlorn phantom of the former glory. Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanart #hazbin hotel adam #digital art #digital illustration #angel #fallen angel #sinner adam

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the-fallen-stones · 8 months ago

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I am bad at hiding. If you are my friend, you might recognize me. For that, I apologize.

You may call me anything you like. I enjoy and encourage nicknames. But if you need a name, Mica works.

If you would like me to write something for you, you can request it, and I will if I can. It may not be immediately. But I will try.

A warning, my descriptions can sometimes be graphic, or a little violent. It is usually metaphorical, though, don't worry.

I like both storm and calm. Chaos and comfort. I enjoy things that invoke thought, or creativity. I love hugs, snuggles, animals (especially dragons and cats), tea, fiction, and poetry.

Please do not bring up politics here. It's not that I don't care. But I've anguished myself enough over them and honestly, I need a break.

Never assume hostility! It was probably an accident. My tone comes across weird sometimes.

Tags:

#storm's eye - things that strike me, and I'd like to come back to.

#mica speaks - anything original, by me.

#mica reblogs - empty reblogs.

#mica elaborates - reblogs that are not empty.

#mica rambles - I have rambled.

#mica rhymes - my poetry.

#mika doodles - my art.

#mika's music - my favorite songs.

#mica recites - my favorite poems or stories.

#mika inquires - I ask questions.

#mika responds - I answer questions.

Credit for the image goes to @poetryforall.

My wonderful mutuals:

@kimu-dem - Keeper of comfort.

@thatrando13 - The wanderer.

@carrotsinnovember - A gentle friend.

@hersurvival - Blanket fort against thunder and snowstorms.

@caustic-splines - Writer of old love letters.

@abiethewizardduck

@randomshowerpoems - The wise wordsmith.

@poemsofanentomologist

@galaxys-universe

@literaryvein - The bright storm outside.

@same-skies

These titles can always change, as I know you better. If you'd like me to use a different one I certainly can.

Some of my favorite songs are;

One Day You Will Fly Too, by Aimee Carty,

Come Along, Does the Swallow Dream of Flying?, Egg and Soldiers, Pelicans We, Half Past Three, Run, and Linger Longer, by Cosmo Sheldrake,

Glow in the Dark by Vian Izak,

Rush of Life, My Neighbor's Car Alarm, Desire, and Rain, by Tony Ann. (Classical.)

Experience, Fly, and Eros, by Ludovico Einaudi. (Classical.)

Ilomilo by Billie Eilish,

Two, Sun, Eight, and Light by Sleeping at Last,

Big Black Car and San Luis by Gregory Alan Isakov,

Passing Through by Kaden MacKay,

The Mountain Song, Be Nobody, and Better is the End, by TopHouse,

Changing Days, Irish Eyes, I Can Never Give my Heart, and Rocket, by Rose Betts,

The Sound of Silence, by Simon and Garfunkel,

Walking in the Air, Time, Orinoco Flow, and Carol of the Bells, by Libera,

And many more.

Some of my favorite poems are;

Tug'o'War of Heartstrings, The Night Sky, Together, With a Window Between, A Heavy Wait/Weight, A Veil Not Yet There, Sharks in a Zoo, A Faustian Deal, Denial, The Voice of a Loved One, Explosions, Tribute to the Ocean, The Vast Expanse of the Ocean, Nurturing, Stalagmites in my Brain, and How Can I Put Those Boxes Away? by The Shower Poet,

Fire and Ice, and Walking by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost,

The Sunshine Kid, Paper People, and 59, by Harry Baker,

The Spider, by Robert P. Tristam Coffin,

Run With You, by Atlas,

A Litany, by Gregory Orr,

Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors, and Details of the Woods, by Richard Silken.

And many more.

Some of my favorite books are;

The Chronicles of Narnia, by C. S. Lewis,

Breadcrumbs, by Anne Ursu,

Ella Minnow Pea, by Mark Dunn,

Holes, Wayside School, Small Steps, and There's a Boy in the Girl's Bathroom, by Lois Sachar.

Hoot, Scat, Flush, and Chomp, by Carl Hiaasen.

Where the Mountain Meets the Moon, Starry River of the Sky, and When the Sea Turned to Silver, by Grace Lin.

And oh, so very many more.

Poems I have written;

Teach Me, Silent Serenade, Space Can Die, Weak Resolve, Boundaries Drawn, The Candle, Vacuum, One Pace, Adventure With Me, Stagnant, Workaholic, Sirens Can Cry, Dreamt of Loss, The Chalkboard, Shush, and many more to come.

Once was a girl, who would talk to herself. Stories, tales, thoughts in passing, of the past, future, of the sky and leaves, wind and breeze, of storm and calm. She longed to speak in a cadence. One to soothe. To heal. Doesn't everyone want that, to heal? To be somebody to someone, to have a voice like an anchor, eyes like a vice, that soften, that go warm like a bird's shelter?

Storm seeks calm. Calm seeks storm. They find a balance. But never, never do they stay still. She couldn't stay still. Her mind was a hurricane. And sometimes a breeze, sometimes a song to put you at ease, and sometimes, tight, coiled like a spring.

The calm wasn't who she was. Nor was she as much of the storm as she thought she was. Dear, she was a fire. She'd dim, and grow brighter. Her voice would get high when excited, she'd smile. Her embers couldn't rest. She'd smoulder. Then big stewing pots would bubble over. She'd speak in paragraphs, eyes like beacons, stumbling over words and not always making sense...

But it was beautiful. She loved, she loved deeply. She wanted to be loved, too. And she was. But when the smoke gets high, water and frost meeting that bright smile all too many times, it blurs out the hands, hearts, the words reaching, seeking...

She was silenced. Of course, the embers still burned. But the very things she stifled were the things she was beloved for. And she couldn't hear them.

But slowly, wet wood dries, my dear. You can't always cry. Time passes by. Wounds heal, scars fade, even when clouds pass over the stars. She was stronger than that.

She learned again to love. And though she had times she couldn't muster the songs, the words, the strength to hold on so tight, she began to heal.

Please, my dear, have patience. She is still healing.

Burnout is a dangerous thing. If you are stuck it never eases, never ceases. And things that brought you peace are no less, then, but grievous. It feels like Sisyphus himself is in charge of pulling you out of that rut. My dear, he can't.

The world moves so fast... I can't help but be dizzy. The facts and the future, like stones, whizzing, past my head, I bustle, I catch them, I'm busy...

The earth turns fast but not as fast as my head. Live, die. Fireflies. On my deathbed. I crave a rest, but I get anger instead. For injustice, for fury, the memories I shed...

Give my hands to the stars, fire for every digit. They fall from the sky when in darkness I fidget. Tear through the clouds, but then cry when I can't fix it. My brain is a void and...

I just.

Can't.

Bridge it.

#intro post #mica speaks #mica rambles #mica rhymes #mica's music #atlas 🌏#freida 🍫#zanahoria 🥕#shower poet 🚿#dai 🐜#-i 📜#ki 🌊#mica remembers #lauren 🐦#storm's eye

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sirenscradle · 3 days ago

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the sandbox chronicles (m)

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

𓅰master-list: synopsis, character sheets, prologue, next

𓅰**content warning: brief mentions of gore and allusions/ brief depictions of a dead body. i also provided some music to set the scene. <3 enjoy!

prologue: the end before the beginning.

Everything is burning.

Your throat, your legs– your ligaments are in agonizing pain from having to push them to stretch themselves again and again with no clear end in sight. The pounding of your own footsteps hitting pavement in the seemingly empty tunnel began to lessen and you can’t seem to summon the strength to steel through the gelatinous weight of your own body. The erratic pace made you stumble onto a pile of broken cement and rubble– no sign of life is apparent here, since the area had been under construction for years before being abandoned. A vermillion gash began to blossom on your skin, and the sounds of the crashing waves are nearly hollow as they echo throughout the tunnel– haunting their way in with the blue hour. Shutting your eyes in horror to the resurfacing image of her bloated body seemingly dancing in the water, imprinted on the back of your eyelids– and begin to violently vomit once the stomach bile rose to your throat.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry–” The words fall out of you: choked, morose, and frail. Cupping your mouth in order to stifle the onslaught of sobs, you curl into the cement curve of the desolate tunnel, and weep. The paralyzing fear overwhelms your body, and you cover your ears from the foreboding sound of the sea.

You were once seventeen, running through this exact tunnel with your closest friends, crying from laughter after Yoon and Jin’s high school graduation–high on the dopamine of being an inch closer to getting out of this town and living your big city lives together. You laugh lightly when you recall Hoseok and Jimin dancing around in circles like the fools they were, singing a sea shanty, arm in arm. They danced to commemorate the upcoming funeral of their boyhood with the rest of you not too far behind. As if in slow motion, the memories flow through you in snippets– collaged into your very being. Their voices were distorted and layered in your memory, as if you’d been listening through an old camcorder or at the epicenter of a seemingly empty hallway.

Jin’s shiny gold tassel bounced as he jogged forward to scream in relief “We’re getting out soon!”

Then came Namjoon, throwing an arm over Jin’s shoulder to interject with what he thought life in the city would be like, his other arm waving in the air as if to paint the imaginary scene in front of him.

“We can drink our sorrows away whenever we get sad and try our best to not drown in the river. We’ll live in a huge apartment building, just floors away from each other. No matter what, we’ll never be separated, okay? Nothing can separate us.” His voice was wistful, but resolute.

Jungkook, still in his school uniform, trailed behind the beeline formation, smiling lightly at Namjoon’s dream. He still had that boyish air to him, features too big—waiting for him to grow into them. Although silent, he was warm and not exempt from the joy of the occasion.

And alas, this particular moment of that day you’ve engrained and dreamed of again and again, even as the years that have passed grow in number–was of Taehyung tilting his beautiful head to the side in order to gaze at you. His eyes glistened as he reached his golden hand out to brush your cheekbones, pulling you into a water-colored kiss. This was the night he had kissed you for the first time, the night you first tasted him and eased yourself into the blood red waters of womanhood. The streetlights casted halos on your arrogant and foolish bodies, ignorant to the ingratitude we held for our youth. You understand now that it was such a sacred time you ached to exist in again, even for one singular and final moment.

You could almost see the memory right there in the fog, glimmering yellow, and vanishing from you, leaving you to the horrors of the present and future. The palpable recollection is consumed by the deep dark blue of impending dawn, and you reach a trembling hand out to the phantom figures of your girlhood. Yet they continue to run and only the silhouettes of their back face you— shadows of laughter fading and choking into the white noise.

When did it all change?

When and why did all of this blood fall into your hands? You should’ve never grabbed that damn hand, but you were just a girl– a lonely little girl, and his golden hour was a siren song for the pathetic and aimless.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

sirens corner/authors note: and so, it's begun! i was able to churn a new prologue for the sandbox chronicles because the first chapter is more lighthearted-- but wanted to set the tone. the prologue is written from the reader/oc Rina's pov but will shift pov's throughout the story quite often. i preferred the flow of having an original character for the series, since it helps me build her up and have a better grasp on her-- but rina is also a stand in for the reader, so it's whatever you prefer to imagine during your time of reading this. chapter one will be posted by tomorrow since i don't need sleep and am on a roll LOOOOOL

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llaberration · 6 months ago

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Coyne's Chronicles: Shadow Over Yfiria- Chapter 22

A bugling call echoed through the crater, bouncing and rolling on the stone walls, silencing all of the quiet talk of the gathering and drawing every eye to the source. Oridingeon stood on the edge of the elder's plateau, his head raised, the sound echoing through his broad barrel chest. Whatever veil of silence was usually in place had fallen for the time being, allowing all to hear the elder as he called out for attention. Coyne hadn't heard a dragon make a noise like this before, but its intention was clear. Every individual in the crater had fallen silent, every head turned towards the huge dragon. Once silence had fallen, Ridgar lowered his head, observing the silent gathering. “I thank you,” he called, “for lending me your attention this last time.”

There was a rumble of thuds as the other elders moved to the edge of the plateau as well, their looming forms standing just a half step behind Ridgar. “I stand here to put before you my successor for your approval, as I step down from the council,” he paused for a moment, “Do you all understand, and agree to witness his ascent?”

The crowd seemed to come alive around Coyne as every dragon raised their head and let out a call in response. Not a roar, and not a howl, the sound was more like a thick, vocal humming. It echoed off the walls of the stone crater and all but made the stone beneath their feet vibrate. After a moment, the dragons stopped calling, and collectively, they all listened to the echo burn itself out before Ridgar continued.

Jintintaska stepped forwards now, his shoulder pressing against Ridgar's as he spoke. “Thank you. Please know that this decision is made with full approval from every member of this council. Ridgar goes to end a great danger to our world, a debt the dragons have allowed to become well overdue. We rejoice to know he will return to us as another of our kind, wiser and better.”

The dragons in the crater called once again, and this time, many of the assistants joined in, raising their arms in a shouting cheer. Coyne, caught up in the moment, and feeling compelled by the emotionally charged atmosphere, joined in the shout.

“Thank you,” called Ridgar, “It comforts me to know I have earned your respect and support like this. I eagerly look forward to meeting you all again through fresh eyes...” He hesitated a moment, his gaze visibly sliding to a gathering of blue dragons right up beside the plateau, then dropping to the ground. There was a moment of silence so tangible that even the other elders did not dare break it. It lasted perhaps a second or two but it seemed to draw itself out almost like an echo, going on longer than it had cause for. Then one of the Sea dragons, almost as large as Ridgar but not quite, a powerful build with many battered and damaged scales marking their body, sat up a little, raising a huge clawed hand and gently setting it on the blue elder's as it rested on the edge of the plateau. Coyne saw Ridgar's eyes flick up to the other dragon, their gazes meeting for a moment, and the blue dragon on the ground gave a little smile and a nod, and Ridgar straightened up, “I call Skerapiton to stand before you. If any dragon has a reason that he should not be placed on the council as the Sea dragon elder, please make your objection known now.”

From behind them, the huge blue dragon stood, walking forwards. The other elders parted, allowing the figure to come and stand beside Ridgar. They were both around the same size, and where Ridgar's face was broad and scarred, Skepton's was longer and smoother, and his body was more slender and lithe. One of his horns had been snapped off at some stage, but he looked overall less weatherworn than his predecessor. His face looked wise and kindly though, his amber eyes observing the crowd with an expression of curious calm.

The crowd was silent. Many of those present knew Skepton well, those who did not trusted in Ridgar's choice of successor. The council held the respect of all the other dragons here. Nobody had desire or need to challenge the decision.

“Then so shall it be,” said Ridgar, after some time had passed by.

The other council members backed up, leaving just the two Sea dragons on the edge of the plateau. Ridgar and Skepton turned to face each other, and Ridgar began to speak. This time however, he wasn't talking in any language Coyne knew. He had to assume this was the language of the dragons, as it sounded more natural coming from their mouths, as though the structure of their faces was built for these vocalisations. The exchange was stoic and serious, everyone remained silent, watching the two speaking. It all seemed formal, and though Coyne had questions, he sensed this was not the time to start whispering.

After a short while, this seemed to conclude with the two dragons speaking in unison, then Ridgar stepped back up to the edge of the plateau, “I thank you again for the trust you have invested in me in my time on the council, and hereby stand down from service,” as he spoke, a strange glow began to light in his chest, spreading outwards, glowing beneath his scales in a strange pulsing movement for a short time before passing through them, like drops of water gathering on the tips of the scales, a hundred pinpoints of light seemed to flow from the dragon, lifting into the air as they did so. Some of these seemed to disperse to the wind, some flittered around in the air before zipping off to individuals among the crowd. There was a pause as this happened, everyone waiting politely, as though it was normal. “In my last request, I now ask you to raise your voices in support of Skerapiton, your new council member.”

As the new elder dragon stepped forwards, the crowd all roared in a cheer, the dragons letting out their strange, humming call, the assistants all giving loud shouts or whoops of support, Gregorio's werewolf howl cut through the hubub like a knife. And as they cheered, Coyne saw a little tiny whisp of light escape each one of those gathered present, even himself. Precisely like the pinpoints of light that had just left Ridgar, they now flowed from the crowd of assembled creatures into the newcomer, spreading a powerful blue glow beneath his scales and throughout his body. Once the flow ceased, and the glow settled slowly into the huge creature's chest, he gave a slow nod to the crowd, and stepped forwards to give his first address. “Thank you Ridgar, and thank you all, for being here to witness this. Just as you were not expecting a new elder, I was not expecting to step up to the position yet. However, here we find ourselves. I hope to meet and surpass all expectations laid upon me, as I attempt to fill the void that is now left by Ridgar's departure.” He bowed his head to the crowd, showing his brief speech was done, and there was a rumble of cheers and shouts which dispersed into normal conversation a moment later, marking the end of the formal event.

Coyne took a long moment, considering what had just happened, then held up his hands as he turned to Fez. “Okay... I have so many questions.”

Fez smiled, gently patting the small man on the shoulder, “I thought you might,” he gestured to all three assistants to come a little closer, so he could hear them better over the hubub. “You may ask but keep them brief for now, the proceedings are not over yet.”

All three assistants spoke at once, each voicing a different question, and Windred chuckled at them. “A dragon might be a dragon, but it can still only answer one question at a time.”

Coyne held up his hands, “Alright wait...” he pointed to Alan, “you first.”

Alan cleared his throat, nodding, “What was... the little lights thing?” he said, gesturing up towards the plateau, “Ridgar sent some out then... Skepton took some in, little dots of light... I wasn't the only one who could see those right?” he asked, gesturing at his eyes.

“No, no everyone can see those,” said Fez, “Those are tiny fragments of life force being lent to the elder taking their seat on the council. It's a mark of our witnessing their rise to the position. Just as Ridgar returned those he borrowed by stepping down, Skepton will do the same when he eventually does the same.”

“Well that's uncomfortable...” said Trevor, rolling his shoulders and frowning, “Is that... safe? Giving up a bit of life force?”

Fez shrugged, “Hasn't hurt anyone yet... and it's not like you're using the entire thing at any given time.”

Alan looked a bit worried as well, but nodded.

“My turn,” said Coyne, “That language they were speaking... that's dragon language?”

“Draconic yes,” said Fez, “Our natural tongue.”

“But everyone also speaks this language we're talking now?”

“Well yes. A long time ago... before even Jintintaska was about, things got complicated with everyone speaking different languages so one was picked as 'common' and taught to all the races, allegedly by the gods.”

“I thought this was a human language?” said Alan, frowning.

“It is now,” Fez said with a shrug.

“Yeah but whose was it originally?”

“Uhh...” Fez glanced at Windred. “I forget?”

Windred let out a little chuckle and patted Alan on the shoulder. “You don't want to know.”

“Did you have a question too?” Fez looked at Trevor.

“Oh mine was going to be the life force thing as well,” said the druid, shaking his head. “Glad we know that's been resolved.... just... had my life force sucked out by a dragon...”

“Only a spot of it,” chuckled Fez, “You'll never miss it. Now, chins up. You're about to see... something special,” he gestured upwards with his nose, pointing at the elder's plateau just as there was a powerful whoosh of air above them.

As they all looked up, Ridgar and the other elders simultaneously rose from the plateau, their huge wings shaking off dust as they beat to gain altitude. They flew with Ridgar in the lead, up towards the enormous dome of magic that covered the crater. As they reached it, the shield opened up for them, splitting to permit them exit from the space.

“Can they do that? Just pass through it?” Coyne whispered to Fez.

“Only elders moving in multiples can open the dome,” the dragon whispered back. “Just watch... this is Ridgar's final flight.”

“The final flight of a dragon is something most humans will never get to see. Even the most magical are never permitted this close unless they are assistants so... make sure you take it in,” said Windred, his head between the two mages.

Their eyes all returned to the sky, the stars behind the dome glowing brightly, but not as brightly as the seven dragons now ascending into the velvet blackness. They were emitting a bright glow, perhaps so that those below were able to see them framed against the sky. Ridgar was out the front of the group, outlined in green-blue with the other six flying in a line behind him. The huge form of Jintintaska glowed a steely grey, Baltran a pale green-yellow, Daleynatrix as red as her scales, Tyn gave off a pale golden light, Glass, the Cave elder, seemed to glow with the pinks and oranges of a sunset, and finally, the new elder, Skerapiton, gave off a coral pink-purple.

The elders circled around overhead, their magic leaving bright, wisping trails in the sky behind them. Then Ridgar slowly drew ahead of the others, his trail glowing brighter as he separated from the group.

The air seemed to suddenly charge in the crater as an absolute silence fell among those gathered, every single eye fixed on the glowing form of the former elder as he wheeled around, gaining height with expert beats of his wings, his huge frame moving effortlessly through the sky.

As the other elders formed into a semicircle, Ridgar reached a point high above them, and slowed his ascent, looking down at what must have been just a speck of an island below him. There was a pause, and then he turned, his body angling downwards, and starting to glide.

As the downwards forces took him, he set his wing angle to gain speed, his massive body gathering momentum swiftly, the trail of light blazing out behind him brighter and brighter as he went, the green-yellow slowly starting to grow 'hotter' in colour, dominating the sky and blazing into orange, sparking out behind him as though he was leaving a trail of actual flames. After a moment, Coyne realised that was exactly what was happening, the elder was being consumed by fire of his own making as he descended. The mimic let out a little gasp, stepping back, his side bumping into Fez's leg, and he instinctively gripped to it, his eyes huge as he stared upwards.

Like a falling star, Ridgar's magic flared brightly in the night sky, his wings starting to disintegrate inwards from the tips, flaking away into a trail of magical light. It didn't seem to affect his flight though, his expression set as the fire consumed him.

Behind them in the crowd, a single voice rose in what Coyne could only describe as a howl, but not that of a wolf, or a werewolf. It was low and heavy, echoing from a much larger set of vocal chords, amplified by the walls of the crater. A glance told the mimic that it was the same dragon Ridgar had taken a moment with when he had been making his address.

Nobody said anything. Nobody joined in, this was meant only for one addressee, and as Coyne looked to the sky again, he could have sworn he saw a thin trail of glowing tears flowing from Ridgar's eyes as the last of the dragon's shape was consumed by the light, leaving only a glittering, shimmering ball of magic in the sky, falling like a comet through the heavens.

Jintintaska dropped into a dive from his lower position, skilfully flying to intercept the falling shape, letting it strike his chest, a perfectly timed flap of his wings cushioning the blow, and bringing the glowing ball of magic to a stop.

“He... literally burned out...” said Alan, his words barely there, so soft and under his breath.

“Like the brightest burning stars, the elder dragon slowly chars...” Windred's words were hummed as much as spoken.

“He gives his life to choose the next, so wish him all the very best...” It was Fez speaking this time, continuing some rhyme known to both of them.

“For someday shall we all char too, and take our turn at life anew,” Windred finished with a quiet whisper, a single, glowing blue tear sliding down his long face.

Coyne was a little shocked. It seemed strange to see a dragon cry, they were, after all, creatures sold as unfeeling predators and tricksters. but as he glanced around now, Windred wasn't alone. In the silent crowd, his sharp eyes could pick out lots of streaks of glowing tears. He was shocked to feel Fez quietly wipe an eye on his shoulder, and he reached up to gently catch the Cave dragon's muzzle, holding it gently beside his head, stroking with careful hands, but not trying to look at Fez. He wasn't crying, he had had little emotional attachment to Ridgar, but he could feel the charge in the atmosphere here that almost made it possible despite that.

The silence continued as the elders descended back down through the dome to land on their plateau one at a time. Jintintaska was last, his landing careful on three legs as his fourth held a brightly glowing egg, carefully cradled to his chest. “Thank you all, for your participation in this. We will all miss Ridgar's wise contributions to the council, but hope blazes in the knowledge he will return to us,” he bowed his head to look at the egg, then carefully held it up for all the other dragons to see.

Suddenly the crater was alive with cheering and roars of approval, tears still streaming down many faces as they howled their support into the night. Coyne, releasing Fez's muzzle to allow the dragon to join in, glanced to the side, and observed Alan reach up and slowly lower his glasses, looking at the egg with his special vision. For a moment, the mimic saw a pryzm of rainbow light flare in the mage's dark eyes, and then Alan visibly recoiled, pushing the glasses back onto his face, visibly pained. Whatever he had seen had been too much for his gifted eyesight to handle in one dose. Coyne made a note to ask him later what he had witnessed.

After a long set of cheering, the crowd seemed to settle back to quiet conversation amongst themselves. The Sea dragon that Ridgar had visibly shared some connection with scrambled up onto the platform to take the egg from Jintintaska, holding it close, like a precious jewel, as they carried it off away from the crowds.

They talked quietly for a time, though the conversation was muted and softer than normal, as though something had taken the energy out of the dragons for the night. After a while, Baltran passed by them, whispering something to Fez as he went, and the Cave dragon nodded in acknowledgement. “Alright,” he said, turning to the others, “We should go,”

Trevor blinked at the dragon, “It still seems early for you,”

“It is. But now that we have an egg of light, tomorrow we will have to leave to see to our task. I will need to rest before the journey.”

“Alright... could you take Alan and Trevor first though? I have something I need to ask someone...” said Coyne.

“Hmmm?” Fez looked curious.

“I still want to know what's become of Iewan...” said the mimic.

“Ah yes, your friend. Alright, well go on then, Ridgar's family should know. Just be tasteful with them, alright?”

Coyne nodded, “Of course... I know they've just lost someone... but I'm worried.”

“Alright alright...” said Fez, “Quickly though, okay?”

“Don't worry. I will take him to see Heric,” Windred assured him, “We'll keep it brief.”

“Thanks Windred,” said Fez with a genuine smile, reaching out for Alan and starting to lift him off the ground.

“Don't get into trouble in the next five minutes, okay?” said Coyne, looking at Trevor, who looked affronted.

“Would I?”

“Yes. We both know you would,” said Coyne, turning, and jogging to catch up with Windred, who was already walking through the crowd, his huge form cutting a path effortlessly. The mimic followed the dragon, having to all but run to keep up with the larger creature's surprisingly graceful gait.

Windred moved easily over towards a blue dragon, currently sitting alone on the edge of the small lake. This was not the dragon Coyne had been expecting, the one that had taken the egg, but a dragon that seemed a little younger, not quite at the same size as the Windred yet, but older than Fez and Ditmar. “Heric,” called Windred, approaching the still form, who was sitting, quietly looking into the water, not looking distressed or sobbing, but sitting quietly calm and sombre with his tail wrapped around his legs, like a cat. At Windred's call, his long head raised up and looked around for a moment before fixing on the other dragon and smiling. “Windred, how can I help you old man?”

Windred gave the younger dragon a sound thump with the back of his wing, “Whelp,” he muttered. “My friend here has a question to ask you. He's worried, and needs an answer if you will humour him.” He ushered Coyne forwards gently with his tail. “Coyne this is Heracleon, Ridgar's eldest.”

“Oh,” Coyne stepped forwards, bowing his head in greeting, “I'm sorry to disturb you at this time... I don't mean any disrespect,”

“Do not trouble yourself,” said Heric, “My father lived an incredible a life, and made his choice willingly. I do not mourn his decision. I celebrate that he lived long enough to choose rebirth. Come, ask your question as long as I get to ask one in return.”

Coyne nodded, “That's reasonable. My question is about Iewan, your father's assistant?”

“Ah yes, the one from elsewhere. I remember the quest to save his world. What about him?”

“He's my friend and... I haven't seen him since the announcement was made about Ridgars's choice to rebirth. How is he taking this? He's alright?”

Heric let out a little sigh, nodding. “He has taken this as hard as you might expect. He was already struggling to take in a whole new world, and now his dearest friend here has left him.”

“But he's okay?”

“He's coping. He seems soft and confused but he's stronger than he thinks he is.”

“How do you mean?” asked Coyne.

“He chose to live. To come to our world, somewhere entirely unknown to him. He could have died, my father offered to make it fast. Painless. But he chose to come here instead.” He shook his enormous blue head, “Anyone can die. Death is easy and inevitable. Living in a new world... that's hard. He is strong.”

Coyne gave a little smile and a nod, “What will happen to him now?”

“Assistants are technically freed when their dragon rebirths or dies, but quite often choose to remain in service of the family. I expect he will stay with Deeg now, but the choice will be his to make.”

“Deeg?”

“Ridgar's better half. You saw them comforting him during the final address.”

“Oh right, yes. They get on alright?”

“Yes, very well. And they are currently both mourning a loss so, they will take solace in each other's company.”

“Well, good, that makes me feel better.”

“I will be sure to let Iewan know you are thinking of him. I am sure he will come to see you tomorrow before you leave.”

Coyne blinked, “How did you know...”

“You are the mimic hybrid are you not? Assistant to Mylfeziah?”

“Yes, that's me.”

“My father said that it was your dragon that had brought the situation on Yfiria to the attention of the council. I am aware it is your mission to take him back to your land to hatch him and deal with the problem. As such, it makes sense you would be leaving tomorrow.”

Coyne nodded, “You're not wrong. But thank you. I hope he can make time to say goodbye.”

“I am sure he will. Now. May I ask my question?”

“Yes, of course.”

“They say you have an ancient travelling with you. Is that true?”

Coyne felt a small twinge of concern but the dragon's yellow eyes, so much like his father's did not hold any menace or threat, merely a sparkle of interest. “It is true,” he confirmed, “They say Alan is an ancient, whatever that means.”

“Thank you,” said Heric, bowing his head to Coyne, “that answers my question.”

The mimic nodded, “Glad to uh... help.”

“Come then Coyne,” said Windred, reaching out to gently herd the man away, “Let us leave him in peace.”

Coyne dipped his head in a bow to Heric, and followed Windred as the dragon swayed his way back through the crowd.

Fez was sitting waiting when they returned to the spot they had last seen him, and the dragon smiled when he saw them, “Did you find your answer?”

“For now, yes,” said Coyne with a small smile.

“Good, thanks for taking him Windred,”

The Sea dragon nodded, “Glad to help. Now go, get some rest, you have quite a task ahead of you,” he walked past Fez, pausing to rub his chin gently on the smaller dragon's head. “Take care. We can ill-afford to lose you.”

Fez gently butted the other dragon's chin with his forehead, “I will,”

The two parted, and Fez spread his wings, taking off and gently grabbing Coyne from the ground, carrying the mimic carefully with him.

A short while later, Coyne found himself dumped on the dragon's bed again, with Fez curled around him like before. Trevor had claimed the assistant bed, leaving Alan to seek shelter from Coyne again. At first, he put the small man to sleep in his waistcoat pocket, as dawn was now fast approaching, and he did not want to risk anything happening. He dozed quietly like this until he felt dawn pass, then roused himself to wake Alan, who rubbed his face sleepily at being disturbed, but managed a sleepy smile as he expressed he was ready to go inside.

But as he sat, holding the small man, with Fez's head resting in his lap, the mimic paused, “Alan... can I ask you something?”

“Hm?” the mage looked puzzled.

“What did you see? Earlier? I saw you look at the egg when Jintintaska landed with it. Without your glasses...”

“Oh,” the mage looked a little sheepish, as though he wasn't sure if what he had done had been wrong. “Well I just... wanted to know what it looked like... dragons really look like something special to me, just... colours and waves of magic like I have never seen, it's incredibly beautiful so I wanted to know what an egg looked like...”

“And?”

“And... it was... almost blinding,” the mage held up his hands to his eyes as if the pain was still fresh, “Honestly I've never seen colours like that, it was like an overload of every colour, even colours that exist nowhere else, somehow moving in every pattern at the same time,” he shook his head. “I've still got a headache from it.”

Beneath him, Fez chuckled, awakened by their conversation, but not enough to move. “That's because you looked at an egg of light. Not a regular dragon egg. Don't get me wrong there's a lot of magic in a dragon egg but an egg of light is different. It's a rebirthing egg. It contains all the magic of the one who created it, and all the potential of what they might become. It's special. That's why we need it. Why no ordinary dragon egg could do what we will need it to do.”

“Well it was... really something,” said Alan, “I don't think I have ever seen something so magical...”

Coyne smiled, “Well, now the bar is set high then,” he gently lifted Alan a little closer to him. “You ready for some sleep? We have a long flight tomorrow.”

The little mage nodded, a shy smile on his face as he raised his hands up, showing he was ready. Coyne raised the small body to his mouth, opening up and gently starting to slide the little mage inside. They were both more than used to this now, and Coyne flicked his head back in a gentle but well practised movement, getting the mage's trip down started with a firm swallow. Alan could probably have spent the rest of their sleep quite comfortably in his pocket, but Coyne didn't feel safe to rest with him there, too concerned with him getting rolled on or squashed. This was much better.

A few gulps easily drew the small body into his throat, and he exhaled, leaning back against Fez as the heavy little shape squished down inside, making him feel oddly weak from the sensation of something alive passing by his organs. He folded his hands quietly over his stomach as the small mage was pushed inside, kicking as he tried to get himself upright. Coyne felt a smile twitch his mouth, gently pressing at the mage with his fingertips, feeling him push back, his tiny hands forming a noticeable pressure against his touch. He rubbed gently for a moment, until he felt Alan pull back and flop down, stretching himself out as much as possible on the soft flesh and going still.

Coyne smiled as he felt this, actually enjoying the sensation of the small body relaxing and going still against him like that... it made him feel trusted. He snuggled down a little more comfortably in the furs, turning himself slightly and resting his head against Fez's side as he settled down for sleep. With a quiet 'mrrp!' Bubbles clambered onto the mimic and settled, purring softly as he spared a hand to gently stroke her head as he drifted off.

For about six hours, the group slept, exhausted by the strangeness of what they had just witnessed, the emotionally charged experience. They all needed to think on what they had just been through, and sleep was the best way to process that.

Before any of them were getting close to that though, Coyne was shaken awake by Fez sitting suddenly bolt upright, his ears forwards and alert. “Whas appen?” he managed in a yawn.

“Something is wrong...” said Fez, his ears upright and moving as he listened. “That's an alarm call...”

Coyne frowned, straining to hear what was going on, but through the stone, he couldn't hear a thing.

Fez stood up, hurrying to the door and opening it up, poking his head out to listen, every one of the golden spines down his back standing on end. Other dragons along the same corridor were doing the same, and Coyne, standing up to follow, found that he could distantly hear something echoing down the hall. It was a high, jittering call that he hadn't heard before, but from the anxious look on Fez's face, he knew it was bad. “What's going on?” he asked quietly, keeping his voice quiet so as not to interrupt the dragon's listening.

“It's not good...” said Fez, his ears still perked forwards. “Someone has stolen the egg of light. It's missing.”

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Bit of an emtional chapter, I realise that's pretty off topic for a vore novel but if you've been reading my work for any amount of time you should honestly know what to expect by now!

#safe vore #soft vore #extreme cuddling #nonfatal vore #sfw vore #male vore

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