#Who had prevent his prayers from reaching her?

[backpackingspace]

Hey hey do you think Athena almost went to go visit odysseus out of habit because she was bored and wanted someone to mess with, because she found a new move that would be perfect for him, because she had to witness some absolute idiocy and if she has to suffer odysseus does too and maybe after she wants he'll make some dumb joke that'll make her find the whole thing funny, because she misses him and didn't realize how lonely she was until she didn't have his friendship, because she cannot sleep at night and cannot stop replaying their last conversation over and over and over how as he screamed at her he had tears in his eyes and she---

[reidmarieprentiss]

Ghost of You

Summary: Instead of Maeve, you, Spencer's girlfriend, are shot while Spencer is watching. Except, like Emily, no one confirmed your death.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, hurt, fluff, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: death, guns, shooting, light smut (18+), grieving and mourning, lying and deceiving, loss, funeral, mistrust, illusions to vomiting, spencer getting drunk, happy ending

Word count: 14.3k

a/n: again ,, i'm sorry i don't know what's wrong with me ,, i live and breathe angst like i need it to survive

main masterlist

The room was oppressively silent, filled with the tense breaths of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit team members who were either physically present or listening intently over the comms. The stark white walls of the abandoned warehouse where you were held captive only amplified the gravity of the situation. 

Spencer Reid stood, his body rigid, his eyes locked on you—his partner, his love, tied down to a chair in the center of the room. His jaw was clenched, every muscle taut with barely contained fury and fear. Diane Turner, the woman responsible, paced before him with a demeanor that was chilling in its calmness.

“All you have to do is kiss me, Spencer. Just one kiss to prove you don’t love her, and she walks free,” Diane's voice was soft, almost coaxing, as she gestured nonchalantly with the handgun she held.

Spencer’s response was a strangled mix of defiance and desperation. “I can’t do that. I won’t.” His voice was firm, unwavering despite the tremor of fear that threatened to undermine his resolve.

Diane’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk as she turned her attention back to you. “Well, then I suppose we have a problem,” she said as she stepped closer, the gun now pointed directly at you.

The team listened and watched, helpless. Hotch’s hand hovered over his weapon, his mind racing through any possible solutions. JJ’s face was pale, her fingers gripping the edge of the tactical table. Rossi murmured a prayer under his breath, while Garcia, back at Quantico, had her hands clasped tightly, her eyes closed as she hoped for a miracle.

The moment stretched, a torturous eternity compressed into seconds. Then, Diane’s finger tightened on the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening, a brutal punctuation that shattered the tense silence.

Your body slumped as the impact threw you backward, the chair skidding across the concrete floor. Spencer’s cry was guttural, filled with a raw pain that echoed through the room and the comms, reaching every member of the team.

As chaos erupted, with team members rushing into the warehouse, Hotch was the first to reach you. His experienced eyes quickly assessed the scene. Feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingers, he locked eyes with you as you barely managed to open yours.

“Let them think,” you whispered hoarsely, the effort to speak clearly costing you.

Understanding immediately, Hotch nodded subtly. As he called the medics over, he helped to obscure their view, ensuring that your whispered directive remained between the two of you. The medics, following his lead without question, prepared the stretcher and body bag with efficient, silent agreement to the unspoken plan.

As you were zipped up, hidden from view, the last thing you saw was Spencer, his face a mask of agony, being held back by Rossi, who whispered words meant to comfort but which couldn't touch the depth of Spencer's despair.

—

As the echoes of the gunshot faded, the stark reality of what had transpired settled heavily upon the entire BAU team. Inside the cramped FBI surveillance van parked discreetly a block away, the air was thick with grief and stifling silence. Each member of the team was caught in the throes of their own personal hell.

Emily Prentiss felt a crack in her usually impenetrable armor. Her hands, hidden from view, trembled slightly as she replayed the scene over in her mind, wishing there had been something more they could have done to prevent this tragic outcome. Rossi, who had seen too much loss in his years, wore a somber expression, his eyes dark with the weight of unspoken thoughts, perhaps reminiscing about losses past and the cruel repetitiveness of their job.

JJ, standing beside a silently crumbling Spencer, placed a gentle hand on his back, her touch light but filled with a world of empathy. Her eyes, usually so bright and confident, mirrored the horror and sadness that had momentarily overtaken her usual resilience. She knew all too well the pain of loss, yet knowing did nothing to soften the blow.

Penelope Garcia was a statue of despair; her colorful attire and vibrant demeanor dimmed by the shadow of your apparent demise. The screens before her that usually flickered with data and leads now only reminded her of the loss, the dreadful permanence of the moment your chair had fallen back, the moment that had seemingly snuffed out a light amongst them.

Derek Morgan, whose strength often served as a pillar for the team, stood rigid, his body tensed as if ready to spring into action, to undo what had been done. His jaw was set, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and profound sorrow. He felt a protective rage for the family he’d built here within the BAU, a family that had now been irrevocably scarred.

As the team returned to Quantico, each member was engulfed in their own silent reflection. The bullpen, usually abuzz with activity and light-hearted banter, was subdued, a somber shadow of its former self. Spencer's desk, a mess of papers and books, remained untouched, a stark reminder of the vibrancy of your relationship with him, now painfully absent.

In the days that followed, the team tried to navigate their grief while maintaining the facade of normalcy. Meetings were quieter, coffee breaks more solitary, and the weight of your absence was a constant, unspoken presence. Even as they delved into new cases, your memory lingered, a ghost in the machine, driving them forward but also holding them back, a reminder of the stakes at play in their line of work.

—

In the silence of the apartment he once shared with you, Spencer found himself enveloped in the echoes of a life that now felt like a distant memory. Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the loneliness settled around him like a dense fog, suffocating and cold. The apartment, once filled with the warmth of your presence, now served as a mausoleum of all the dreams and plans that would never come to fruition.

Spencer would wander through the rooms, his fingers trailing along the surfaces, half expecting to feel the electric touch of your hand in his. Your clothes still hung in the closet, and on particularly difficult nights, he found solace in the faint scent that lingered on your shirts. Pulling one out, he’d clutch it to his chest, sinking onto the bed as sobs wracked his body, the fabric dampening with his tears.

Books you had left on the nightstand, bookmarks still nestled between the pages where you had last stopped, became his new companions. He read every word you had read, traced the lines you might have touched, hoping to glean some part of your thoughts, your essence, from the text. It was a ritual that brought him a painful comfort, a way to feel close to you, to imagine that you were still there discussing the plot twists and character arcs with him.

Even your coffee habits became a part of his mourning. Spencer, who had always preferred tea, found himself brewing coffee each morning. He winced at the bitter taste, nothing like the soothing herbal blends he favored, but it was your taste, and that was what mattered. Each sip was a reminder of the mornings spent in shared silence, a newspaper between you and a mug in your hands, and he cherished these imagined moments as he sat alone at the kitchen table.

At work, Spencer's grief manifested in a quiet protectiveness over anything that had been yours. Your desk, an unassuming space cluttered with case files and trinkets, became sacred ground. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching your things, rearranging the chaos that was so distinctly you. When others offered to clean it or pack it up, he refused, his voice low but firm. It was a line he could not allow anyone to cross, not yet.

Despite the pull to isolate himself in the apartment surrounded by your belongings, Spencer knew he needed to be around people, around the living reminders of normalcy and duty. The BAU was a place of shared purpose, and being there, immersed in the work, allowed him moments of respite from his grief. Yet, even surrounded by his colleagues, the solitude he felt was profound, as if a vital part of him had been hollowed out, leaving him forever incomplete.

—

The arrangements for the funeral were meticulously crafted, cloaked in secrecy and necessity, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on Hotch as he orchestrated the somber affair. It was kept small, intimate, with only the BAU team in attendance. Hotch explained that your family was holding a separate, private celebration of life, a half-truth designed to protect the delicate fabric of the operation and to keep your true fate concealed.

Your family, forewarned by you of the possible outcomes of your dangerous gambit against a formidable foe, had been bracing for this day. You had instructed them with clear, calm precision: should news of your death reach them, they were to detach, to grieve privately and avoid any direct contact with your professional life. If Spencer—or any other team member—reached out, they were to embody the role of the bereaved, too shattered by grief to speak of you. This directive was to hold for three years, after which, if silence remained unbroken, they could assume you were truly gone.

At the funeral, the air was thick with a palpable sorrow, the team huddled together under the gray expanse of the sky, their expressions somber, eyes glistening. Spencer summoned a strength he didn't know he still possessed to deliver a eulogy that touched the very core of all who listened.

Standing before the small gathering, beside the casket that symbolically held you, Spencer's voice was steady, imbued with a deep melancholy. He spoke of your zest for life, your laughter that could light up a room, and your profound impact on his own life. He wove in lines from your favorite poets and authors, their words a tender tribute to your love for life, literature, and him.

"I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," he concluded, his voice breaking slightly, the finality of the statement hanging heavy in the air.

—

In the small, cramped space of the Kansas precinct, the air hung heavy with the kind of solemnity that often accompanies a tragedy. Spencer was set up at a makeshift workstation, papers and photographs from the case splayed across the table in a meticulous arrangement, his focus as sharp as ever. But even the most disciplined mind couldn't fully shield itself from the emotional tremors of personal loss.

JJ noticed the victim's boyfriend first, his face etched with grief and confusion, a mirror to the very emotions Spencer had been wrestling with since your apparent death. Her instinct was protective, maternal almost; she stepped forward, intending to steer the man away, to spare Spencer the inevitable surge of his own raw, unresolved grief. But Spencer saw the boyfriend and saw a reflection of his own torment.

He stood up, his movements a bit too stiff, the mask of the professional profiler firmly in place but his eyes betraying a deep, abiding sorrow. "I can talk to him," Spencer offered quietly, his voice firm despite the tremble he couldn't quite suppress. JJ exchanged a worried glance with Hotch, who observed silently from the corner. They were hesitant, aware of Spencer's vulnerabilities but also of his uncanny ability to compartmentalize his pain.

Sitting across from the boyfriend, Spencer's empathy was palpable. His voice was gentle yet carried the weight of his own grief. "I—I lost my girlfriend too, she was... taken, in front of me. I'm so sorry for your loss," he shared, the words costing him more than he expected.

The man's response was choked, the kind of raw emotion that comes from this kind of grief. "I can’t even imagine—I feel like I can’t breathe every time I think about it."

Spencer nodded, his professional demeanor flickering. "I understand. But it's not your fault, you couldn't stop this man."

"What if I could though? I could have been there, I could have done something," the man insisted, his voice tinged with desperation and guilt.

That sentiment struck a chord too close to Spencer's own heartaches. He was there, he watched, unable to save you, powerless and shattered. His response was visceral, a burst of emotion too powerful to contain. "It’s not always that easy, okay? It’s not my fault!" His voice rose sharply, his hands slamming down on the table with a force that startled both himself and the man sitting opposite him.

Hotch, who had been watching the interaction with growing concern, recognized the signs of Spencer's unraveling. Without hesitation, he stepped in, his presence commanding and reassuring. He gently but firmly guided Spencer away, leading him out of the precinct as Spencer’s façade crumbled, revealing the raw, unfiltered pain beneath.

Outside, under the less scrutinous eyes of the public, Spencer sobbed, his body racked with the kind of sobs that shake the very foundation of a person. Hotch, strong and steady, offered his shoulder, a silent pillar of support in the storm of Spencer's grief.

As he held Spencer, Aaron felt a profound sense of guilt and responsibility. He knew the reasons behind your decision, understood them intellectually, but the emotional fallout, the raw pain Spencer displayed, was a stark reminder of the human costs of such decisions. In that moment, Hotch vowed silently to do whatever it took to support Spencer, to help him find a path through the thicket of his grief. 

—

Spencer took it upon himself to dig deeper into the remnants of your digital life. The walls of your shared apartment closed in around him, every corner filled with memories, every drawer a repository of a life paused mid-breath. He should have been resting, healing, using the time Hotch had given him to mourn and gather strength. Instead, he was driven by a relentless need to understand, to unearth the reasons behind the tragedy that had unraveled both his world and yours.

Sitting at the dining table cluttered with your personal effects—emails printed out, texts transcribed, voicemails played back into the empty room—Spencer's initial hesitation about invading your privacy had dissolved into a desperate need for answers. With each new piece of information, the narrative of your last days became clearer, and with it, his anger and guilt intensified.

Why didn't she tell me about the threats? Spencer's mind raced as he sifted through the digital breadcrumbs you'd left behind, each one a stark reminder of the danger you had faced alone. He felt betrayed, not by your love, but by your silence. The team was a family; they protected their own. The idea that you had borne this burden alone, without leaning on him, on them, gnawed at him relentlessly.

Then, among the tangle of threatening messages and cryptic warnings, one email stood out starkly. It was meticulously detailed, outlining a chilling ultimatum: your life for the safety of everyone else you cared about. His hands trembled as he read it, the implications of those words slicing through the fog of his grief. Had you planned to sacrifice yourself from the start? Was this why you had kept silent?

The realization hit him like a physical blow. His blood ran cold as the pieces fell into place. You hadn't just been taken from him; you had walked into the maw of danger with eyes wide open, hoping to shield him, to shield all of them from further harm.

But who were they? This shadowy group that had orchestrated such terror, that had driven you to such an unthinkable decision? The question echoed in the increasingly claustrophobic apartment, bouncing off the walls lined with books you’d both loved, past the pictures of happier times.

Spencer knew he couldn't do this alone, not anymore. Despite your choice to keep the threats from him, he realized that to honor your sacrifice, he needed the team. They were stronger together, and this was bigger than any one of them—bigger than his grief, his anger, his betrayal. It was about justice, not just for you, but for the sanctity of the life you had all built together.

Determined, Spencer gathered all the evidence, his resolve hardening. He would bring this to the team, to Hotch. They would find them. They would end this, once and for all. And perhaps, in doing so, he would find a way to forgive you, to forgive himself, and maybe find a path back from the precipice of his own consuming grief.

—

As the investigation intensified, the entire BAU team, honed by years of profiling complex criminal minds, began to uncover a series of subtle discrepancies and cryptic messages scattered across the case files and your personal communications. These inconsistencies didn't fit the expected pattern, weaving a complex web of suspicion that permeated the office atmosphere.

"Have you noticed these anomalies in the communication logs?" Spencer asked during one of their briefings, his eyes dark with both determination and unspoken grief.

"Yes, and these tips coming in—they don't add up," Emily replied, looking over the scattered papers and digital messages displayed on the screen.

Hotch watched the exchange closely, his mind racing with the implications of their findings. He was caught in a precarious balancing act—eager to dismantle the network behind the threats while protecting his team from the explosive truth about your staged death.

"We need to tread carefully," Hotch interjected, his voice steady but laced with caution. "This isn't just about following leads. We need to consider the broader implications."

Spencer, fueled by a relentless drive to seek justice for your loss, responded with a hint of frustration, "I know, but we can't just slow down. They're still out there, and who knows what they're planning next?"

Hotch paused, the weight of his secret knowledge pressing down on him. "Spencer, I understand your urgency, but we must ensure we're not walking into a trap. It's not just about finding them; it's about making sure we're ready for what comes next."

The team nodded, though Spencer's expression showed his internal struggle to balance his raw desire for justice with the strategic caution Hotch advised.

As they delved deeper, connecting the dots between the obscure threats, the mysterious inconsistencies in your case, and the shadowy group behind it all, Hotch's role became increasingly complex. He had to guide and sometimes redirect their efforts, always careful not to reveal too much too soon, especially to Spencer, whose emotional state remained fragile.

"We'll get them," Hotch assured the team, his voice firm yet heavy with the gravity of their task. "And we'll do it the right way, as a team, ready for all consequences."

The challenge loomed large, demanding everything they had to stay united and prepared for the potential revelations ahead. Hotch's leadership was crucial, walking the tightrope between maintaining secrecy and steering towards disclosure and resolution, all while safeguarding the team's integrity and emotional well-being.

—

As the seasons shifted to Fall, the relentless march of time brought both frustration and a forced return to routine for the BAU team. Despite the lack of significant breakthroughs in unraveling the conspiracy that had seemingly claimed your life, Spencer and the team remained vigilant, their resolve undiminished but tempered by the demands of their ongoing cases. The initial fervor had quieted into a persistent, underlying current of determination.

Unknown to the rest of the team, including Hotch, you were far from idle. In a twist laden with risk and secrecy, you had enlisted Emily Prentiss in a clandestine investigation. Emily, with her own history of deception for survival, was a perfect confidante and co-conspirator. Together, you delved into the shadows, tracking the elusive threads that connected your apparent demise to a larger, more sinister plot.

"We need to be careful," Emily cautioned during one of your late-night meetings in a nondescript safe house. "If the rest of the team finds out, especially Spencer, it could jeopardize everything."

"I know," you replied, your voice full of determination and regret. "But we can't let them continue to threaten the team. Spencer... he wouldn't understand, not yet."

Your efforts were meticulous and calculated, driven by the dual goals of protecting the team and dismantling the network that had forced you into hiding. The data you collected was encrypted and stored securely, only accessible to you and Emily. You traced financial transactions, monitored communications, and connected dots that were invisible to those not initiated into your secretive endeavor.

As the leaves began to fall and the chill of autumn set in, you and Emily had started to piece together a comprehensive picture of the criminal syndicate. It was broader and more complex than anyone had suspected, with tendrils reaching into unexpected places. The stakes were high, and the danger to the team was real and imminent.

"Once we have enough evidence, we'll bring it to Hotch," you decided, knowing that the moment of revelation was fast approaching. "We have to be thorough. This has to end, Emily."

Emily nodded, her expression grim but resolute. "We'll get them, and then you can finally go back home. To Spencer."

The thought of reuniting with Spencer and the team brought a bittersweet pang to your heart. You longed for the day you could return to the life you had been forced to leave behind, to reveal the truth and hopefully mend the fractures your disappearance had caused. But until that day, secrecy was your shield and patience your weapon.

—

On a brisk October morning, the Manhattan streets were bustling with the usual blend of haste and routine. Hidden beneath a wig, colored contacts, and a prosthetic nose, you moved with calculated caution, tailing a key member of the criminal network that had turned your life upside down. Despite the disguise, certain features—a constellation of moles, the unique curve of your jaw—remained tellingly distinctive to anyone who knew you well. You were acutely aware of the risks, especially since Hotch had mentioned that the BAU team was in the city for a case. Yet, the opportunity to close in on one of the circle's members was too critical to pass up.

Meanwhile, Spencer, his morning routine altered by a mundane decision to grab coffee, found himself halted mid-step. Across the crowded street, a familiar pattern of moles on the skin of a seemingly random passerby caught his eye. His heart raced, his mind refusing to accept the ghostly possibility. Shaken to his core, he didn't head to the precinct as planned but instead found himself running back to the hotel, driven by a surge of hope and confusion.

Bursting through the hotel corridor, Spencer reached Emily's door, pounding on it with a desperation that bordered on panic. Emily, alarmed by the urgency, quickly opened the door.

"Spencer? Are you okay?" she asked, her concern deepening as she took in his pale, distraught appearance.

"I saw Y/N," Spencer managed to get out, his voice trembling.

Emily's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing as she struggled to maintain the facade. "No, you didn't, Spencer. That's impossible," she insisted, her voice steady but her insides churning.

"No!" Spencer's voice rose, too loud for the early hour, his agitation palpable. "It was her, I saw her moles."

"Spencer... we buried her. You were there," Emily tried to anchor him back to reality, her words heavy with shared grief.

At her words, Spencer's composure shattered completely. Tears streamed down his face as the weight of his grief, mingled with the surreal hope of what he thought he'd seen, overwhelmed him. Emily, her heart breaking for him, pulled him into her room and embraced him tightly, trying to offer comfort.

Inside, Emily felt like she was teetering on a precipice, the deceit weighing heavily on her conscience. Holding Spencer as he sobbed, she felt the acute sting of guilt—like the worst person, dead or alive, for keeping such a monumental secret from someone who was more like a brother to her. 

—

In the dimly lit motel room, the tension was palpable as you recounted the latest development in your covert mission to Emily. The stark, functional space was a far cry from the comforts of home, echoing the stark reality of the path you had chosen.

"I got him, that's four down," you stated, your voice devoid of emotion, focusing solely on the task at hand. "Em, he's gone," you announced, your tone cold, almost detached, as if to shield yourself from the gravity of your actions.

"Gone? Like, gone gone?" Emily's voice was tinged with caution, her words measured, probing the depths of what 'gone' really meant in this clandestine war you were waging.

"Gone," you reaffirmed, the finality in your voice leaving no room for ambiguity.

"Phew, okay. Don't ever tell Hotch that," Emily sighed, a mix of relief and concern flickering across her face as she paced the cramped confines of the room. Her hands settled on her hips, a gesture that spoke of her inner turmoil. "How many does that leave?"

"Three. I’m so close I can taste it," you replied, a fierce determination lighting your eyes. The end was in sight, but with each step forward, the lines of morality blurred further.

"Y/N... I want them put away, gone, whatever, as much as you, but I need you to think about what you’re doing. Please, let us arrest them," Emily implored, her voice heavy with the responsibility of her role both as your confidante and as an FBI agent.

"I didn’t kill anyone, Emily," you snapped back, frustration and fatigue bleeding into your words. "He’s gone, he can’t hurt us anymore. He's not dead."

"I don’t even want to know," she murmured, her voice low, resigned to the complexities of the situation. Emily knew better than to press further; the less she knew about the specifics, the better she could maintain her role within the BAU and support you from a distance. "Okay, who’s next? What’s the next move?"

The conversation shifted back to strategy, both of you aware that each decision, each action taken, drew you deeper into a web from which there might be no untangling. The mission to dismantle the network that had terrorized your life and threatened your loved ones was nearing its critical phase, and with Emily's reluctant support, you prepared to face what came next, each step forward shadowed by the potential costs of the choices you were making.

—

In the bustling heart of the BAU, the sudden exclamation from Penelope Garcia broke through the usual hum of focused activity, drawing everyone's attention toward her tech-laden sanctuary. Her screens flickered with streams of data, her fingers danced across the keyboard, and her eyes were locked onto a particular piece of information that had just surfaced.

"Hotch! I got something," Penelope called out, her voice a mixture of excitement and urgency, beckoning the team leader to her side.

Hotch, his expression instantly shifting to one of focused concern, made his way quickly to Garcia's station, the rest of the team's eyes following him. They gathered around, curious and anxious about the potential breakthrough.

Penelope pointed to a specific line highlighted on her screen. "This right here, this was one of Diane's contacts," she explained, her voice steady despite the rapid pace of her discovery. "He was seen here in DC."

The revelation sent a ripple of alertness through the room. This contact could be a significant link in unraveling the network behind the threats and possibly lead them closer to understanding the full scope of the conspiracy that had ensnared you.

"Good work, Garcia," Hotch commended, his eyes scanning the information displayed. "Do we have any current visuals or known associates in the area?"

Penelope quickly typed away, pulling up additional data. "Working on it now, sir," she replied, her concentration absolute as she sifted through security feeds and intelligence reports.

As Garcia continued her search, Hotch turned to the rest of the team. "This could be a major lead. I want everyone on this—start pulling together all we know about Diane’s operations and any other contacts that might connect back to this one. Spencer, I need you to help Garcia with the profiling aspects. We need to anticipate their next moves."

—

The operation at the abandoned military building, initiated by Garcia's crucial lead, was intense and fraught with danger. The structure, looming and dilapidated, its windows boarded and the facade scarred by the elements, was a fitting hideout for the remnants of the criminal network that had caused so much turmoil.

Derek Morgan, with his characteristic blend of bravado and precision, took point as the team approached the shadowed entrance. With a powerful kick, he sent the door crashing open, splinters flying, as he bellowed, "FBI! Hands where we can see them!"

The interior was chaos incarnate. The suspects, caught by surprise but desperate, reacted violently. Gunfire erupted almost immediately, echoing off the hollow walls, as the team took cover. Commands were shouted, and the sound of scrambling feet mixed with the sharp reports of gunfire. Despite the chaos, the BAU team's training and resolve shone through. They moved with practiced efficiency, their actions coordinated under Hotch's calm directives.

It wasn’t long before the situation was under control, with each member of the crime circle detained, their plans for escape foiled by the team's decisive intervention. However, amidst the takedown, Spencer Reid's actions stood out. His usual composure was replaced by a raw, almost visceral intensity. Observing from a distance, Hotch saw Spencer deliver a fierce blow to one of the suspects who had tried to fight back. It was uncharacteristic, a clear sign of the deep-seated anger and pain that Spencer had been harboring.

Hotch understood the cathartic nature of Spencer's reaction; he knew the young agent needed to vent the pent-up emotions that had been simmering ever since your supposed death. It was a moment of human frailty, one that Hotch knew he would address later in a private conversation to ensure it didn’t spiral into something more destructive.

As the dust settled and the suspects were secured, Hotch’s mind turned to the daunting task ahead. The team was unaware of the full scope of what you and he had orchestrated. The truth about your survival, hidden under layers of deceit and protective maneuvers, was going to surface, and Hotch was acutely aware that the revelation would not be received lightly. The trust they had in him, and potentially in you, would be tested.

He contemplated the right moment and the right words to use, knowing that the bond of the team, the very cohesion that made them effective, could be jeopardized by the forthcoming disclosure. Forgiveness, he knew, was not guaranteed, but necessary for healing. 

—

As Hotch and Emily prepared to meet with Spencer, the weight of what they were about to disclose hung heavily in the air. Choosing a neutral location, they rented a separate room in the motel you’d been staying in to ensure privacy for the sensitive conversation.

Upon Spencer's arrival, his knock was met with a quick response. "Spencer, come in," Hotch greeted, his voice betraying none of the apprehension he felt.

As Spencer entered the room, his eyes immediately found Emily seated casually on the bed. His mind raced through a myriad of possibilities, his initial confusion giving way to a fleeting, inappropriate guess at their intentions. However, as Emily gestured for him to take a seat, it became clear that the gravity of the situation was far from what his fleeting thoughts had entertained.

"Spencer, this is hard, but we have something we need to tell you," Emily began, her tone serious, cutting through any lingering misconceptions.

Hotch took over, his expression somber. "I need you to know, Spencer, that everything we did was for the protection of the team and all of our loved ones. And at the request of Y/N."

The mention of your name caused a visible reaction in Spencer. He stiffened, his face paling slightly as the name he'd mourned in silence was spoken aloud. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice tight with a mix of hope and rising anger.

"Y/N...she’s—she’s alive," Emily stated bluntly, her words deliberate.

"That's not funny," Spencer snapped, standing up quickly, his chair clattering to the floor. The suggestion seemed cruel, a twisted joke at his expense.

"Reid, it's not a joke," Hotch intervened firmly, stepping forward to emphasize the truth of their words. "She never died that day in the warehouse. She went into hiding."

Spencer's reaction was immediate and fierce. "You're telling me this now? After how long—how long have you both known about this?" His voice rose, a sharp edge of betrayal slicing through the thickening tension in the room.

"Spencer, please understand, we—" Emily tried to interject, her face a mask of sympathy and regret.

"No, don't 'Spencer, please' me, Emily!" Spencer cut her off, his voice laced with sarcasm and hurt. "You both lied to me. To all of us. How could you possibly justify that?"

Hotch met Spencer's gaze steadily, recognizing the pain and anger boiling over in the younger man. "It was Y/N's decision, to protect everyone. We were respecting her wishes, Spencer."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to accept that? That you all decided my mental and emotional torture was worth the cause?" Spencer's voice was cold, his usually warm eyes now sharp and accusing.

"We thought we were doing the right thing, Reid," Hotch replied, his voice even but firm. "I know it's hard, but she did it thinking of you, of all of us."

Spencer shook his head, his emotions a whirlwind of anger, relief, and unresolved grief. "Hard doesn’t even begin to cover it, Hotch. Not even close."

The room fell silent, the heavy truth settling around them like a shroud. His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tensed visibly as he stood towering over the small coffee table separating him from Emily and Hotch. His voice was sharp, laced with a bitter edge that neither of them had often heard before.

"This is some kind of sick test, right?" Spencer snapped, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You pull me in here, say something like that—"

"Spencer, please," Emily interjected, her voice steady but her eyes revealing the strain of the moment. "It's the truth. Y/N is alive. She's been in hiding. We couldn't tell you—"

"Couldn't tell me?" Spencer's laugh was hollow, humorless. "Or you chose not to tell me? Which one, Emily? Because last I checked, we're supposed to trust each other."

Hotch stood up, his presence a calming force in the room, though it did little to soothe Spencer's frayed nerves. "We did it to protect her and everyone else involved. It was Y/N's decision, and she specifically asked us to keep it from the team until it was absolutely safe. You of all people know the dangers that come with our line of work."

"That doesn't give you the right to lie to me, to us!" Spencer’s voice rose, a rare flash of anger crossing his normally composed demeanor. "To fake her death? Do you have any idea what that did to me? To all of us?"

"We understand it was hard, Spencer," Hotch said, his tone softening. "But we had no other choice. The threat was too great, and it still is. That's why we're telling you now—because we need you to understand and to help us finish this, the right way."

Spencer shook his head, his anger mingling with a resurgence of pain, the old wound torn open anew. "And you think just telling me this now makes it all okay? That it justifies everything?"

"It's not about justification," Emily added gently. "It's about trust, and yes, we're asking a lot of you. We're asking you to trust us now, after we've kept this from you. But we need you, Spencer. Y/N needs you."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Spencer's shoulders slumped slightly, the initial surge of anger giving way to a complex storm of relief, betrayal, and confusion. He sat back down slowly, his mind racing as he processed the enormity of what he'd just been told.

"I need to see her," Spencer said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "I need to hear this from her."

"And you will," Hotch assured him. “But right now, we just need to ensure it's completely safe—"

Hotch's assurance was cut short by Spencer's sharp retort, the anger and betrayal he felt boiling over. "No fucking buts," he seethed, each word dripping with venom.

"Spencer," Emily chided, taken aback not just by his tone but by the raw edge of his language.

"Emily," Spencer shot back mockingly, his patience frayed to its very ends. "Where is she? Take me now or accept my resignation from the BAU."

The room fell into a charged silence, Hotch and Emily exchanging a look that conveyed the gravity of Spencer's ultimatum. Hotch knew this was no idle threat; Spencer's entire demeanor screamed of a man pushed to his limits.

Understanding the stakes, Hotch pulled out his phone without breaking eye contact with Spencer. He quickly sent you a text, concise and to the point, indicating he was bringing Spencer to your location. Once the message was sent, he pocketed his phone and stood, gesturing toward the door with a nod.

"Come on then," Hotch said, his voice firm, as he led the way out of the room and down the breezeway.

The walk was tense, each step echoing hollowly in the corridor as Spencer followed, his mind racing with a tumult of emotions—anger, anticipation, confusion. What would he say? What would he do? The scenarios played out in his head in a relentless loop.

Finally, they arrived at your door. Hotch knocked, a formal, almost perfunctory sound against the heavy wood. Spencer held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, a mixture of dread and desperate hope coursing through him.

The door swung open slowly, revealing you standing there, alive, a sight that was both immensely relieving and incredibly infuriating to Spencer. For a moment, he could only stare, taking in the reality of you—so familiar yet so distant after everything that had transpired.

The moment was fraught with tension, a silent standoff as emotions swirled palpably in the air. Spencer's relief at seeing you alive was overshadowed by a barrage of questions and accusations, his previous affections now tangled with a sense of betrayal.

“Hi, Spence.”

The moment you spoke, a simple greeting barely above a whisper, the atmosphere thickened palpably. Spencer's gaze was intense as he took in your appearance, noting every change that the months of separation and stress had etched into your features. The person before him was both deeply familiar and unsettlingly altered. You looked worn, shadows beneath your eyes, and a tension in your posture that spoke volumes about the ordeal you had endured.

The sight of you, so changed yet still unmistakably you, ignited a complex torrent of emotions in Spencer. The pain of your loss, the relief of your presence, and the sharp sting of betrayal all collided in a devastating rush.

"Fuck you," he spat, the words harsh, laced with hurt and anger. Without another word, he turned sharply, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he stormed off, leaving the tension of the room to coil tighter in his wake.

Hotch, standing a few steps behind, remained silent, his expression grim. He understood the depth of Spencer's reaction, the relief and betrayal too potent to process in the heat of such a sudden reunion.

Emily, who had lingered by the doorway, gave you an apologetic look, her eyes conveying sympathy and concern. She knew the road to reconciliation, if it was even possible, would be long and fraught with emotional landmines.

As Spencer's retreating figure disappeared around the corner, the reality of the situation settled in. The revelation of your survival, meant to be a moment of shocking relief, had instead reopened wounds that had never fully healed.

—

Spencer's return to work was a study in silent turmoil. He moved through his days mechanically, engaging only when absolutely necessary and avoiding any unnecessary interaction, particularly with Hotch and Emily. The news of your survival and return had been a bombshell he was still struggling to process, and his feelings were a tangled mess of betrayal, anger, and an unwillingness to face the new reality that you were back, alive and in the same space as him.

When you officially returned to the BAU, the team's reactions were mixed. While betrayal hung heavy in the air, time and distance from the initial shock allowed some semblance of forgiveness to seep through the cracks of strained relationships. As you walked in, the emotions were palpable: hugs were exchanged, tears were shed, and in a moment of overwhelming emotion, Penelope, the heart of the team, slapped you, only to burst into tears and apologize profusely soon after. Despite the rocky reception, it was clear there was relief mingled with the hurt, a complex welcome back.

Observing your old desk, untouched and exactly as you left it, you couldn't help but express your surprise. "Wow, my desk hasn't been touched?" you remarked, a mix of nostalgia and sadness in your tone.

Derek chuckled sadly before responding, "Reid wouldn't let us move your things."

At Derek's words, Spencer, who had been passing by, couldn’t hold back his biting retort. "She was fucking dead, you can trash it all now for all I care," he spat venomously, his words laced with unresolved anger.

The harshness of his comment drew a heavy sigh from Hotch, who had been monitoring the team's dynamics closely. Knowing he needed to address Spencer's ongoing struggle, he called him into his office for a private conversation.

"Look, you don’t have to be okay with what happened, or forgive any of us," Hotch began, his voice steady yet empathetic, understanding the depth of Spencer's pain. "But you do have to be professional. We're a team, and we need to function as one, regardless of personal feelings."

Spencer, standing rigidly across from Hotch, his jaw set and his eyes cold, listened without responding. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the deceit, sorrow for the past, and a grudging acknowledgement of Hotch’s words. 

—

Your first week back at the BAU was a tightrope walk of navigating old connections and mending frayed bonds. By the end of it, you realized a conversation with Spencer was inevitable and necessary. The tension had been palpable, and his avoidance was a clear sign of unresolved issues between you two. With a tentative breath, you approached him, your voice carrying a mix of hesitation and resolve.

"Spencer… hi, I just have a quick question," you started, trying to keep your tone neutral.

"What?" His response was curt, clipped with an edge that made you flinch slightly, though you weren't entirely surprised.

"Um, well all of my things are still at the apartment. I guess I was wondering if I could come get them? Or I could have movers do it, I—I found an apartment," you explained, the words tumbling out more quickly than you intended.

Spencer's reaction was immediate, his stomach twisting painfully at the implication of your words. "You’re—you’re not going to live with me anymore?"

"I didn’t—I didn’t think you would want me to," you replied softly, the hesistence evident in your voice.

"Of course I want you to, I mean, Jesus Christ, I don't know. Maybe you're right, maybe I don’t," Spencer confessed, his emotions raw and conflicted.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself for the conversation that needed to happen. "I think we need to talk about more than living arrangements…"

"No shit, Y/N." Spencer's reply was deadpan, his frustration boiling over. "You can come home tonight, for a bit."

"Okay, okay. Of course. I'll see you at, let's say 7?" you proposed, hoping to set a definite time for what would undoubtedly be a difficult discussion.

"Yeah," he agreed, albeit tersely.

As Spencer turned to walk away, not wanting to extend the conversation any longer than necessary, Emily, who had overheard the exchange, called out to him. "Reid!" She jogged to catch up to him at the elevators, but he ignored her initial call.

"Spencer," she tried again, her tone pleading, "please."

"What, Prentiss?" he snapped, his use of her last name marking a clear sign of his irritation and distancing.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and—and I hope tonight goes well," Emily offered, her apology sincere, though it did little to soften Spencer's demeanor.

"Hey, maybe don’t fucking eavesdrop and focus on not being a shitty friend instead?" Spencer retorted sharply, his words cutting through the air like a knife. He didn't wait for her response, stepping into the elevator and disappearing from view, leaving Emily standing in the hallway, her expression one of regret and concern.

The elevator doors closed on Spencer, encapsulating him in his turmoil, a storm of anger, betrayal, and lingering affection swirling chaotically within him. Tonight’s conversation would be a turning point, one way or another.

—

At precisely seven in the evening, you stood outside the apartment that had once felt like a sanctuary, a place filled with love and shared secrets. Now, it held a different energy, charged with tension and unresolved conflicts. Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door, bracing yourself for the conversation ahead.

Spencer opened the door swiftly, his expression unreadable. He stepped aside to let you in, his movements precise, controlled. "Before you say it again, no, nothing has been touched," he stated right away, his tone a mixture of resignation and bitterness.

You nodded, taking in the familiar surroundings that now seemed somewhat foreign. "It looks nice, I missed being here," you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

"Yeah, well I missed you being alive, and now I miss when you didn't lie to me and fake your death!" Spencer retorted with mock enthusiasm, his words sharp, each one landing like a blow.

You couldn’t help but wince slightly at his tone, the raw edge in his voice a clear reflection of the pain he felt. "You got me there," you admitted with a sad chuckle, acknowledging his anger and the legitimacy of his feelings. "Can I explain why I did it?"

"You better," he responded tersely, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall, his posture defensive yet expectant.

With a heavy sigh, you began to unravel the story, the words heavy with the weight of the decisions you had made. "When the threats started coming in, they weren't just directed at me—they were aimed at everyone I care about, including you. The people we were up against... they made it clear they wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted. I couldn't risk your safety, or the team's."

You paused, the heaviness of the moment settling around you as you searched Spencer's face for any sign of softening, any hint that he might understand the depth of the desperation that had driven your actions. 

"They, um, they got to Sam,” you managed to say, your voice breaking into a sniffle. Sam had been your closest confidant, a spy much like Emily once was—a detail Spencer was unaware of, which fueled a fresh wave of anger within him. 

The revelation that there were still secrets kept from him, critical pieces of your life and decisions made without his knowledge, stirred a renewed turmoil in Spencer. His brow furrowed deeper, confusion and betrayal etching his features as he processed the new information.

You drew a deep breath, steadying yourself as you pieced together the narrative that had dictated your life for the past tumultuous months. "Sam was highly trained, I think they went for them first to show how serious they were. I knew if they started there, it wouldn’t be long before they got to my family, or you. And the thought of losing you was more than I could bear."

The words hung heavily in the air, laden with the gravity of the choices you had faced, each decision infused with a desperate instinct to protect.

"I thought by faking my death, by disappearing, it would draw their focus away from you, from everyone. It was supposed to be temporary, just until we could neutralize the threat," you explained further, your voice thick with emotion and regret. Each word was a plea for understanding, a bridge you hoped would span the chasm of hurt and betrayal that had opened between you and Spencer.

The room felt smaller, the air between you charged with tension and unspoken questions as you awaited his response, hoping for understanding, yet bracing for further backlash. 

"It was the hardest decision I've ever made," you continued, your voice faltering slightly. "Leaving you, lying to you... it went against everything I believed in. But I did it because I believed it was the only way to keep you safe. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now how much hurt it caused."

The room was thick with emotion, the air charged with the weight of revelations. Spencer pushed off from the wall, his movements slow as he approached you. The distance between you felt immense, filled with months of pain and separation.

Spencer's anger, simmering just beneath the surface, erupted as he struggled to reconcile your reasons with his own harrowing experience. 

"Let me get this straight…” he seethed, his words laced with a palpable bitterness. “You faked your death, let me believe I lost you because you couldn't stand the thought of losing me? That sounds a bit fucking selfish, now doesn't it?"

You tried to interject, to explain further, but Spencer was relentless, his pain turning his usual precise speech into a torrent of raw emotion. "Spen—"

“Why was watching you die supposed to be better for me?” he cut in sharply, not allowing you to get a word in edgewise.

“I—I,” you stuttered, floundering under the intensity of his gaze and the force of his anger.

“I—I, nothing. Because it wasn’t. I mourned, grieved, suffered. I watched. You. Die.” His words were punctuated, each sentence a hammer strike, his voice rising with each syllable, expressing the depth of his anguish.

Seeing Spencer in such raw, unguarded turmoil was a stark deviation from the composed, analytical person you knew. The pain etched across his features, the fury in his voice—it was all too much, a vivid portrayal of the deep scars your actions had left on him.

"I'm so sorry, bug," you murmured instinctively, using the affectionate nickname that had always been reserved for softer, happier times.

"Don't!" he exploded, his voice filling the space between you with a harsh, jarring intensity. His next word was softer, but no less intense, "don't," he repeated, the anger subsiding into a plea.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, it slipped out," you quickly apologized, realizing too late the mistake of using such a personal term in such a fraught moment.

Spencer stepped back, putting physical distance between you as if the space could help shield him from the emotional barrage. His next question was quieter, vulnerable, "Did you think about me? At all?"

The simplicity of the question, asked with such genuine uncertainty, twisted at your heart. "Spencer... every single day," you responded, your voice thick with emotion. "The thought of getting back to you was the only thing keeping me going."

"Don't you dare say that to me," he snapped, turning his back to you abruptly, a clear signal of his overwhelming feelings of hurt and betrayal. His body language closed off any further attempts at consolation or explanation.

You stood there, helpless, watching his shoulders tense as he wrestled with the revelations and his own feelings. The divide between what you had intended with your actions and how they had devastated him was now painfully clear. This conversation, necessary as it was, had unearthed a torrent of pain and resentment that wouldn't easily be soothed.

"Where do we go from here?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper, almost drowned out by the gravity of the moment.

Spencer paused in his pacing, a physical manifestation of his inner unrest, and faced you. "I don't know, I'm really, really fucking mad at you," he admitted bluntly, his voice a raw edge of honesty that cut through the tense air.

You nodded, accepting his anger as just and warranted. "I know," you replied softly.

"I’m mad at Hotch and Emily too, and it’s your fault," Spencer continued, his frustration spreading outward, casting a wider net of blame.

"Don't be mad at them, please. They were just helping me," you tried to explain, hoping to shield your friends from his anger.

"And lying to me! God, Y/N, I buried you, I gave a eulogy!" His voice rose, the pain evident in his exclamation, each word underscored by a memory of grief.

Your heart ached anew, the sorrow palpable. "Oh, Spencer, that must have been so hard," you murmured, your voice tinged with genuine remorse.

"Were you there?" he suddenly asked, a sharp turn in the conversation that caught you off guard.

"What?" you were taken aback, not fully grasping his meaning at first.

He fixed his gaze on you again, intensifying. "Were you at the funeral? Hiding somewhere? Did you have to listen?" he demanded, his inquiry sharp, seeking uncomfortable truths.

"No... I wasn’t there," you responded quietly, the truth laying bare another layer of separation between what he had experienced and what you had chosen.

Without another word, Spencer turned abruptly and stormed off towards his office, leaving you frozen in place, rooted by fear and regret. Moments later, he returned, holding a piece of paper — his eulogy, written for a ghost. "Allow me to share," he spoke cruelly, the words dripping with bitterness.

He thrust the paper into your hands, his eyes not leaving yours, challenging, daring you to read the words he had prepared to say over what he believed was your final resting place. The paper trembled in your grip, each word a testament to his grief and the depth of his betrayal.

“I mourned someone who was alive, who had decided that faking her death was better than trusting the people who loved her,” Spencer simmered, his voice sharp as a blade. 

You looked down at the eulogy, the words blurring as tears welled up in your eyes. “Spencer, I...”

“No,” he cut you off sharply, stepping back. “You chose this path. You chose silence and deception. How am I supposed to move past that? How are any of us? You can at the very least read what I felt, I hope it hurts.”

The room felt suffocatingly small as the reality of what had been broken between you settled in. Spencer’s words were a clear signal of the chasm that had formed, a divide possibly too wide to bridge. He had shared his pain in the most tangible way, leaving you to grapple with the enormity of the hurt you had caused.

As he turned back to his office, leaving you standing there with the eulogy in hand, the silence that followed was a painful reminder of all that had been lost and the long, uncertain road ahead if there was ever to be reconciliation.

—

When Great Trees Fall

Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance, fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of

dark, cold

caves.

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.

—

Reading Spencer's eulogy, filled with such heartfelt pain and profound love, shattered the last defenses around your heart. It was as though all the sorrow you'd held at bay came crashing down, overwhelming you with a grief so intense it felt physical. His words, "I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," echoed in your mind, each syllable a poignant reminder of what had been lost between you two. The emotional weight was nearly unbearable, leaving you feeling as if death, the one you had faked to protect him, was now clutching at your soul for real.

Once you managed to gather yourself, a semblance of composure clinging by a thread, you dragged your feet to Spencer's office. The door was open, and you paused at the frame, leaning heavily against it. When Spencer looked up and saw the raw anguish on your face, his heart constricted with conflicting emotions. On one hand, seeing you so broken stirred a vindictive satisfaction within him; on the other, it tore at him, hating to see the woman he loved in such profound despair.

"Did you read it all?" Spencer's voice was soft, cautious as he watched you struggle with your emotions.

You nodded, barely managing to keep the sobs at bay. Speaking was beyond your capability at that moment; even breathing felt like a chore.

Spencer observed you with a complexity of feelings churning inside him. "You loved Maya Angelou," he started, his voice trailing off a bit, "but you didn’t like that poem, it made you sad." 

You sniffled, wrapping your arms around yourself, a meager attempt to find some solace in the hold of your own embrace.

"Y/N…this isn’t forgiveness, but—" Spencer hesitated, his offer hanging in the air, "—do you need a hug?"

Your response was immediate and desperate, "Oh god, please," you sobbed out, rushing into his lap. The physical proximity to Spencer, once so normal and now so charged, brought a rush of comfort and more tears.

You curled into him, your arms around his shoulders, your face buried in his neck, and your body fitting into his lap as if molded to be there. Spencer, after a brief moment of hesitation, wrapped his arms around you as well. One hand gently stroked your hair while the other soothingly scratched your back. He couldn’t help but inhale deeply; you smelled different, tainted by the generic scents of motel life, yet underneath it all was your natural scent—a reminder of countless shared moments, grounding him even in the midst of turmoil.

In that embrace, a silent acknowledgment passed between you both. This wasn’t reconciliation, nor was it forgiveness, not yet. It was a moment of mutual need, a complex dance of grief, love, and countless unspoken words, each seeking solace in the simple presence of the other amidst the chaos of emotions unleashed by your return and the revelations that followed.

—

After the intensity of the emotions shared in that long, clinging hug, a tangible shift occurred between you and Spencer. As the wave of your sobs finally subsided, Spencer, with a gentle firmness, eased you from his lap. It was clear he needed some space, a moment to gather his own scattered emotions, and you understood immediately. The depth of what had transpired, the shared physical comfort, had been a momentary reprieve in the storm, not a resolution. With a heavy heart and tear-stained cheeks, you whispered a tearful goodbye, preparing to leave, feeling the ache of separation anew.

As you reached the door, Spencer's voice stopped you. It was hesitant, filled with a vulnerability you hadn't heard in a long time. "Don’t move into an apartment, I want to try," he said, his words tentative yet filled with a profound significance.

You turned around, gasping slightly at the implication of his words. There was hope there, a delicate thread of possibility that perhaps not all was lost between you two. His statement, simple yet heavy with meaning, suggested a willingness to mend the fractures, to rebuild from the debris of heartache and deception. You nodded, unable to form words, your heart swelling with a mix of relief and cautious optimism.

Feeling a sense of hope for the first time in over a year, you left Spencer’s apartment with a sense of hope. Spencer’s words echoed in your mind, a promise of potential reconciliation and healing. The journey ahead would undoubtedly be fraught with challenges, but the mere possibility of trying, of working through the layers of hurt and betrayal together, was a balm to your bruised heart.

—

The situation was precarious. The joy of knowing you were alive was shadowed by a chaos of emotions Spencer couldn't neatly categorize or understand, and in a moment of weakness, he turned to the one thing he had avoided for years—alcohol. The few bottles you had left behind became his solace for the evening, a poor substitute for dealing with the whirlwind inside him.

When his call came through in the middle of the night, your heart skipped a beat at the sound of the special ringtone you had set for him—a signal of the deep bond you still shared despite everything.

“Hello? Spencer? What's going on?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep and concern.

“Y/N!! What's up?” Spencer's voice was unusually buoyant, slurred with the unmistakable tinge of inebriation.

“I'm sleeping, bug. Are you drunk?” your words were tinged with worry, not just for his state of intoxication but for the underlying turmoil that must have driven him to it.

“Bug,” he giggled, a sound so out of character that it tugged at your heartstrings. “Why do you call me that? Do I look like a bug? You look like an angel, you almost were an angel.”

The mix of humor and pain in his voice was disconcerting. “Spencer…” you began, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters.

“Did you know I almost called my old dealer? I wanted to forget so bad, your death made me want to do drugs. Isn’t that crazy?” His tone was light, almost flippant, but the words struck a deep, alarming chord.

Hearing him so vulnerable and on the edge, you knew you had to act. “Spencer, bug, I'm going to come over, okay? Are you home?” you asked, already pulling on your clothes, preparing to head out.

Spencer laughed, a sound that was more unnerving than reassuring. “Duh, love!”

“I’ll be there in 15,” you assured him, your voice firm, trying to convey both your love and your resolve.

“Make sure you aren't wearing anything!” he called out just as you were about to hang up, his judgment clearly impaired.

Ignoring his inappropriate comment, you quickly gathered your things. The drive over was tense, your mind racing with worry about what state you'd find him in and how you could help steer him back from the brink. This was a Spencer you hadn't seen before—raw, unraveling, and dangerously close to old demons. 

—

As you stood outside Spencer's apartment, your concern heightened by the minute, you called out softly yet urgently, "Spencer! Open up, please!" It was late, and your voice was hushed to avoid waking the neighbors, but the silence from inside the apartment only fueled your worry.

When there was no response, you swiftly used your old key, the one you'd luckily thought to bring, anticipating a situation like this might arise. Pushing the door open, you stepped quickly inside, scanning the apartment for any sign of Spencer.

You found him in the bathroom, a heart-wrenching sight: curled over the toilet, visibly shaken and unwell. "Oh, baby," you murmured as you knelt beside him, "I'm here, do you need anything?"

"I need you," he sobbed through gags, his voice desperate and raw.

"I'm here, Spence. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," you reassured him, rubbing his back gently as he heaved, trying to soothe him with your presence and touch.

Once the worst of his nausea had passed, you helped Spencer to his feet and supported him as you both made your way to the bedroom—what had once been your shared space. You carefully propped him up with pillows and fetched him a glass of water.

"Drink," you instructed gently, raising the glass to his lips. He complied, taking large gulps of water, his actions still a bit clumsy from intoxication. "How much did you drink?"

"Your wine," he mumbled, leaning forward to rest his head against your chest, seeking comfort in your closeness.

"How many bottles?" you pressed, trying to assess just how much alcohol he had consumed.

"Two," he admitted, his voice muffled against you.

"Oh, Spencer…why?" you asked softly, concern and sadness threading through your words.

"I miss you...but you're right here." His words were a poignant reflection of his struggle to reconcile the you he had lost with the you who was now before him. "It’s like...I can't put together the you that's sitting here," he continued, taking a deep, shuddering breath, "and the you I watched die. How did you not die?"

You began to scratch his hair gently, a familiar gesture that always soothed him. "Let's not talk about that right now," you suggested with a soft smile, wanting to keep the mood light and focused on his immediate comfort.

He huffed a bit childishly, the alcohol still loosening his inhibitions. "Okay. Can you get naked then?" he asked, half-serious.

"Spencer!" you laughed, both amused and a bit shocked by his bluntness.

"What? It’s been a long time, a guy's got needs," he retorted, his tone playful yet earnest, clearly still under the influence. Your laughter filled the room, a light moment amidst the heavy emotional backdrop. 

Spencer's playful inquiries, despite his inebriated state, lightened the mood, and you couldn't help but respond with warmth and amusement. His words, though tinted with alcohol's bluntness, reminded you of the intimacy that had once defined your relationship. 

"Okay big boy, how’s this, I’ll spend the night, and you can ask me in the morning?" you suggested softly, your smile attempting to bridge the gap between comfort and the promise of discussing things more seriously once he was sober.

"Mmm, I like it when you call me big boy... Are you going to sleep in our bed?" Spencer's voice held a hint of hope, his earlier flirtatiousness blending with a genuine desire for closeness.

"Yeah, Spence, I can," you affirmed, committing to staying close, to help anchor him through the night's emotional turbulence.

"Naked?" he ventured again, half-teasing, half-serious.

"Spencer!" you laughed even harder, shaking your head at his persistence. 

Your laughter, mixed with gentle chiding, reminded both of you of the deeper connection that still lingered, resilient despite the trials. As the night settled around you, the decision to stay seemed to offer a tentative step towards reconciliation, a quiet acknowledgment of the unresolved feelings and the potential for healing that lay ahead.

—

Spencer lay awake for a few moments before you stirred, soaking in the reality of having you beside him once again. The complexity of the past year's events seemed to blur at the edges as he focused on the simple, profound comfort of your presence. As he gently brushed your hair away from your face, he was struck by a wave of affection and longing that had been suppressed under layers of grief and anger.

When you murmured his name, his heart swelled. "Good morning, my love," he whispered back, his voice low and filled with emotion.

Snuggling closer to him, you found solace in the warmth of his chest, a familiar haven that felt both nostalgic and right. "Morning, you feel so good," you mumbled, the words muffled against his skin, conveying more than just physical comfort—they hinted at the deep emotional connection that neither time nor circumstances had been able to erase.

"Yeah?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest, a soft rumble of contentment that you felt more than heard.

You nodded, pressing a little more firmly into him, affirming your shared comfort. "Best pillow in the world," you declared, your voice a sleepy murmur of contentment as you pressed a kiss above his heart. 

Your playful banter brought a lightheartedness that the room hadn't felt in a long time, lightening the weight of the past's shadows that had settled between you. Spencer’s heart lifted with every laugh and every teasing remark, feeling more like himself than he had in months.

“Thank you for coming over last night,” he said, his voice soft with genuine gratitude, feeling the echo of your kiss still warming his chest.

“Of course, bug. How are you feeling now?” you asked, your concern for his well-being shining through despite the jokes.

“Not great, definitely need some water, and a warm bath,” he admitted, rubbing his temples lightly.

“This isn’t another ploy to get me naked, is it?” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Spencer tensed for a moment, a flush of embarrassment coloring his face. “Oh god, I did that, didn’t I?”

“You did, but it’s okay. I’d say we’re even, but I’ll let you tease me for two years,” you replied, your smile broadening as you looked up at him, inviting a lightness back into the moment.

He sighed, half in exasperation, half in amusement. “Three years and you’re taking the trash out for the next month,” he countered, trying to maintain a semblance of negotiation despite the smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” you sat up abruptly, feigning shock but quickly breaking into laughter.

Spencer laughed too, a sound so warm and genuine it filled the room with an ease that had been missing. “I told you I want to try, I meant it.”

“So, I can live here again?” you asked, the question loaded with more than just the inquiry about moving back in; it was about rebuilding, about truly coming home.

“Do you want to?” Spencer asked, his voice tinged with a nervous hope, his eyes searching yours for an affirmation.

You leaned forward and kissed him, a soft, meaningful gesture that spoke volumes. Your hands caressed his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. His hands responded instinctively, pulling you closer, securing you atop him in a gesture that reaffirmed his need for your presence.

“Is that a yes?” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and inviting.

“Yes, now can we make up for lost time? I heard a man has needs,” you whispered back, your voice playful yet thick with emotion.

Spencer’s response was a low chuckle, his arms tightening around you as he rolled, reversing your positions with a gentle but firm maneuver that spoke of his longing and the desire to reclaim the time and intimacy lost. The morning light, the soft sheets, and the rediscovery of each other's touch warming the pit of your stomach.

“Is that a gun in your pajamas or are you just happy to see me?” you smirked, teasing him playfully.

“It’s the morning, but I’m happy to see you, all of me is,” Spencer replied with a low, seductive tone, leaning down to gently bite your lip in a playful yet intimate gesture.

You gasped, delighted by the escalation, and put your hands on Spencer’s ass, pulling him closer into you. Spencer's lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, his kisses light yet purposeful, tracing a path that sent shivers down your spine. 

"You know," he murmured against your skin, his hands deftly and gently lifting the bottom of your top to remove it fully, "I've thought about this, about you, about us, every day."

Your response was a breathless laugh, tinged with the weight of everything unsaid, everything you'd both been through. "And here I was thinking you might have forgotten me," you teased, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

Spencer chuckled, the sound warm and rich, vibrating against your skin. "Forget you? Impossible. And God, you’re just as beautiful as I remember." His hands continued their gentle exploration, reaffirming his familiarity with you as he groped your breasts, twisting your nipples between his fingers. Each touch was reverent, as if he was memorizing you all over again.

The air between you grew warmer as you twisted and groaned, the morning light casting dancing shadows across the room as you moved together. Spencer leaned down then taking your nipple between his teeth and tugging, just how you liked. Your back arched, pulling on his hair harder and making him groan. 

"Is this how you always greet people in the morning?" you whined, choking out the words as Spencer’s hands found the hem of your pants, pausing as if asking for permission without words.

"Only the ones I love," he replied seriously, looking into your eyes with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. With a slow nod from you, the fabric slipped away, forgotten on the floor.

As Spencer’s exploration continued, his fingers danced across the fabric of your underwear, tracing the edges with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity in his eyes.

"You make it hard to stay mad at you," Spencer whispered, his voice low and husky with emotion. His fingertips brushed lightly over the delicate fabric, sending a shiver through your body. His touch was gentle as he familiarized himself with your core, as if rediscovering something precious that he thought he'd lost forever.

You responded with a soft moan, encouraging him with a slight arch of your back, pressing closer into his touch. "Maybe we should focus on making up for lost time instead of remembering," you suggested, your breath catching as his fingers pressed on your clit through the fabric with more confidence, his touch growing bolder.

Spencer smiled against your skin, his breath warm on your neck. "I like the way you think," he murmured, his hands gliding around to the small of your back, his fingers deftly and carefully making their way under the elastic. The slight tension of anticipation was palpable, your breaths mingling, quick and shallow.

As the last barriers of fabric were gently removed, you felt so vulnerable “Spence, bug, baby…can you please–,” you cut off with a moan as Spencer rubbed direct circles on your clit now. “Take off your pants, please. Want to see you.”

Spencer responded immediately to the soft urgency in your voice, the intimacy of the moment enveloping you both. There was a pause in his movements, a brief moment where his eyes locked onto yours the intensity of his gaze was a silent promise, reassuring and raw.

"Of course," he whispered back, his voice slightly rough with emotion. With a nod, he pulled back just enough to comply with your request. The sound of fabric sliding over skin mixed with the quiet breaths that filled the room. Soon, Spencer laid back on top of you, the last remnants of clothing discarded, his vulnerability matching yours.

The sight of him, bare and unguarded, reignited a familiar warmth that spread through your chest, an ache of longing and love that had been tempered by time and trials. As he returned to you, the space between you charged with anticipation, your hands reached out, tracing the lines and contours of his body that you had memorized long ago but felt like you were discovering all over again.

Spencer's hand resumed its place at your core, slipping a finger inside of you, his touch sending shivers across your skin. His movements were perfectly calculated, exactly what you needed, he knew how to play your body like an instrument. As he curled his long finger inside you, it brushed that sweet spot deep inside your walls, causing a deep whine to spill from your parted lips.

"Spencer!" His name was a plea, an acknowledgment, your voice carried through the quiet room, a mix of delight and affection. 

Moved by the desire to reciprocate the overwhelming sensations, you reached down, intent on giving Spencer the same pleasure he was giving you. But Spencer, aware of his own limits after such a long separation, gently caught your hand as you grabbed his cock under the sheets.

"Oh, my love, darling, no. It will be over too soon if you do that, it’s been too long," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly with need and restraint. The sincerity in his plea, the raw admission of his vulnerability, made you pause, a giggle escaping you despite the intensity of the moment.

"That’s kind of sweet—OH," your words cut off abruptly as Spencer added another finger, allowing his palm to catch on your clit as he increased the pace, pounding into you. “Fuck! Fuck, oh my God, Spencer!” You cried, arching further than you thought possible.

Spencer's movements became faster if possible, trying to bring you to orgasm, not knowing if he’d last long enough once he was inside you. 

"That's the spot, darling?" His voice was a low hum, filled with both satisfaction and anticipation as he sensed your approaching climax.

Unable to form coherent words, you simply nodded, the overwhelming sensations rendering you speechless. His chuckle was low and resonant, adding another layer of intimacy to the moment. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, a thrilling contrast to the warmth of your shared skin.

"Are you going to finish for me, love?" His words were both a question and a gentle command, spoken softly yet with an undeniable intensity that urged you closer to the edge.

His presence, so close and so attuned to your needs, enveloped you in a sense of complete trust and surrender. As you approached the brink, the world narrowed down to the here and now—the feel of Spencer, the sound of his voice, and the gushing of your core around his fingers.

“Fuck! I love you!” you screamed

Spencer slowed his motions, letting you calm down from your high. The intensity in his eyes softened as he processed your heartfelt declaration. The room was thick with emotion, tangible and raw.

"You love me?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, vulnerability lacing his tone. It was clear he needed to hear your words again, to believe them fully in the context of everything that had happened.

"What?" You were still coming down from the intense high, your mind a bit hazy, but his question drew you back sharply to the moment.

"You said you love me, is that true? You mean it? Still?" His questions tumbled out, each one underscored by a yearning for reassurance.

"Spencer Walter Reid," you said, propping yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze more directly. The use of his full name was both a playful and earnest touch. "I love you right now more than I loved you yesterday, and I'll love you more tomorrow than I do today."

His expression flickered with relief and lingering doubt. "What about a year ago?"

"I love you a year's worth more," you responded firmly, your voice steady and sure. 

The simplicity and depth of your words seemed to reach him, a visible relaxation in his posture as if a weight he'd been carrying was lessening. There was a long pause, a silent communication as you both lay there, the emotional distance narrowing as understanding and love filled the gaps.

Spencer's response was a tender whisper, "I love you too," filled with relief and affection. He leaned up to kiss you deeply, a kiss that spoke of reunions, healing, and promises. It was a moment of pure connection, a reaffirmation of everything you meant to each other.

Breaking the kiss, you looked into his eyes, the playful sparkle returning to your own. "Spence?"

"Yes, love?" His reply was soft, the term of endearment slipping out naturally, a sweet note in the quiet of the room.

"Can we have sex now?" You mumbled out shyly, with a silly smile.

"Yes, love," he laughed, the sound rich and joyful, dispelling any remaining tension. 

As Spencer leaned in to kiss you once again, the connection deepened with a palpable intimacy that seemed to resonate through the room. Each kiss was a deliberate exploration, his hands moved with a familiar reverence, tracing the contours of your body with a gentleness that spoke of profound love and respect.

The softness of your skin under his fingertips felt like the finest silk, each touch igniting sparks that seemed to travel through every nerve, awakening a hunger that had been suppressed by the pain and separation of the past months. Your responses to his touches, the soft moans and gentle sighs, encouraged him further, each sound a melody that he had longed to hear.

Your hands were not passive; they roamed across his back, feeling the muscles tense and relax under your touch, a silent dialogue of push and pull that drew you ever closer. The warmth of his body against yours felt like a balm, soothing away the remnants of any lingering pain, the physical closeness helping to heal the emotional scars.

As the pace of your heartbeats quickened, so did the rhythm of your movements together. Each motion was synchronized, a dance refined by years of intimacy and renewed in this moment of reunion. The emotional intensity of the connection made every touch, every kiss, feel more profound, filling the room with an energy that was as nourishing as it was exhilarating.

Lying there with Spencer, wrapped in his arms as the early morning light began to fill the room, you felt a peace that had been elusive for too long. It was as if each ray of sunlight was blessing your reunion, affirming the rightness of your being together. In these quiet moments, tangled in sheets and each other's arms, the world outside didn't matter. What mattered was the love that had survived the greatest test, emerging not just intact but stronger, a testament to both your resilience and the depth of your bond.

—

“What happened to all of my coffee?” You teased, turning around with the mostly empty canister in hand.

Spencer's response to your playful accusation about the coffee was met with an equally light-hearted rebuttal. "Okay first, it's stale," he quipped, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes in mock indignation, holding up the nearly empty canister. "Then why didn't you throw it out?" you challenged, enjoying the back-and-forth that felt so natural, so reminiscent of easier times.

"I could never throw anything of yours away," Spencer replied, his tone shifting to something more sincere, the levity fading into a genuine expression of his feelings.

"Spence, that is so sweet, baby," you said, walking over to him and cupping his cheek in your hand, touched by his sentimentality. "But I hope you threw away my lettuce, I know it wilted and I know you hate it."

He scoffed, a playful look returning to his eyes. "I do not hate lettuce, it just has no flavor!"

"You put it in salads and put dressings on it!" you countered, emphasizing the normal use of lettuce in a way that made him chuckle.

"Well, if you make it, I’ll eat it," he conceded, his tone softening as he looked at you, appreciating the lightness of your banter.

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a more seductive whisper, trailing a nail down his chest suggestively. "As long as I can eat you," you teased, watching his reaction closely.

Spencer groaned and laughed simultaneously, a sound that was music to your ears. "I forgot how insatiable you are," he admitted, his eyes alight with amusement and something more—anticipation.

"Oh baby, you have no idea what's coming your way," you continued, your tone playful yet promising as you caught his nipple with your nail, eliciting a sharp gasp from him. "You didn't think you could get that haircut, put on this muscle, and I wouldn’t want to jump your bones?" 

—

Walking into work hand in hand with Spencer, you both presented a united front that hadn’t been seen in a long time. The sight was indeed refreshing and brought a hopeful buzz to the team, who had been through so much uncertainty regarding the two of you.

Derek leaned back in his chair as you passed by. “Pretty boy, you forgive little miss?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, a hint of his usual teasing tone laced with genuine curiosity about the status of your relationship.

Spencer, without missing a beat and squeezing your hand slightly, replied with false seriousness, “No, just leading her on,” his eyes twinkling with mischief as he played along with Derek’s banter.

“Oh perfect,” Emily laughed from her desk nearby, relief evident in her voice. She caught your eye, giving you a small, hopeful smile, her own guilt and desire for forgiveness palpable. Her comment, though light-hearted, carried an undercurrent of hope that Spencer’s playful demeanor might be a good sign for their own reconciliation.

Spencer's smirk grew wider at Emily's response, and he gave a playful nod, “Yeah, she doesnt know though, can you keep a secret?”

"I think you know I can," Emily had said, her laugh echoing.

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[sarawritestories]

Unwavering Presence Chapter 1

Cassian X Archeron Sister (Reader)

A/N: Hi, I am so excited to share this first part with you! I wanted to point out that I am following major plot points in the books, however, this is in the Reader's perspective so some of the interactions may not line up with the text exactly but the major plot points will be there.

Content warnings: Nightmares, Grief, mentions of death, mentions of trauma,

Summary: Y/N accompanies her twin sister to the Nigh Court after Rhysand crashed Feyre's wedding. Where the reader finds herself lost in the memories of under the mountain and finds herself in the company of a Hazel eyed stranger

Word Count: 3.1k

tags: @hellodarling1357

If you want to be added to the tag list for this series let me know!

“Hello, Feyre, Darling.”

My head whipped toward the end of the aisle; the High Lord of the Night Court was flicking an invisible piece of lint from his dark lined suit. My gaze moved to my sister who before his arrival, had looked like she was ready to bolt from Tamlin. Lucien’s casually stepped closer Feyre as the Violet Eyes meet my own, “Y/N.” His gaze lingered on my long sleeve pink tulle gown, “You look healthy.”

I straightened my posture and tried to hold the arrogant air that would make Nesta proud, “Rhysand,” His gaze lingered on my long sleeve pink tulle gown I responded, trying to move toward my sister, a firm hand keeps me in place causing me to still completely.

Tamlin’s voice roared in my ear, “What the fuck do you want, Rhysand?” The High Lord of the Spring gripped my arm too tightly and I clenched my jaw to prevent a wince.

Rhysand did not miss the little action and tucks his hand in his pockets, “I am here to collect Feyre and Y/N. Unless Feyre Darling wants to go back on her end on the bargain.

I grimace as the memory of Feyre making that bargain:

I couldn’t keep my body from trembling, I knew I had a fever and Feyre was trying to bring my temperature down by putting a soaked piece of her shirt and pressing it on her forehead. Amarantha had split up the challenges between the two of us.  Taking the first challenge, The Middengard Wyrm was more challenging than I had originally anticipated. When we were living in the human lands, I would occasionally go out hunting with her and she would teach me a few things and those skills came in handy when going up against the Wyrm and was able to slay the beast.

  It wasn’t until we were back in our cell that I was aware that I had the gaping wound. It only took a few days for the infection to seep into the wound and my fever spiking.  “You must hang on just a little bit, Lucien will come and help. You just have to hold it out for a little bit longer.”

Steps could be heard down the hall from our cell and the grating of our cell door creaked open and Rhysand stepped in. Feyre covered me with her small frame, “What do you want?”

The Violet eyed male simply ignored her question and made is way to my side. I was to weak to cower away his presence alone was intimidating. He reached out his hand about to touch my wound when it was whacked away by Feyre, “Do not touch her,” she said through gritted teeth. The High Lord gave my twin a playful smirk in response.

A groan of pain escaped my lips as a violent tremor tore through my body both Rhysand and Feyre gazes meet mine, “I’m only here to help.” Rhysand says.

“We don’t need your help.” Feyre spat, tucking me closer to my chest always the protector.

Rhysand’s face began to blur in and out of focus but in a brief moment of clarity I saw his face hold a cool indifference as he met my stare. “Would your sister agree with you, Feyre?” In a fever haze it sounded as though he said her name like a prayer. “She will die if you don’t act quickly. Make a bargain with me and she will be safe.”

Feyre took her bottom lip between her teeth as her eyes met mine, I gave her what I hoped was a smile but was probably more of a grimace as a coughing fit erupted from chest. Feyre’s grip on me tightened as tears welled in her eyes. She looked up at Rhysand, “We were told not to make bargains with fae.”

I closed my eyes listening to his voice, “And yet you still made one with Amarantha. If it wasn’t clear she’s dying.”

Feyre shook her head, “Lucien will be here, and he can help us, I trust Tamlin.”

Rhysand sighed and I opened my eyes, my lids feeling heavy, and I used most of my energy to keep them on the former High Lord. “Lucien could get here tomorrow, or five days from now,

I gripped my sister’s hand and gave it a weak squeeze, “Feyre,” My voice cracked my throat and my mouth extremely dry from dehydration. “I trust him.” My gaze met Rhysand’s and I could have sworn there was a flicker of stars in his gaze I reached out my hand to him, he quirked his brow, but my hand met with Calloused ones. “I trust you,” A fit of coughing took over and there was a brief squeeze of my hand from his almost comforting.

 “What do you want?” Panic laced Feyre’s voice as my eyes began to flutter shut, loosening my grip on the High Lord’s hand. Rhy’s grips may have tightened but my mind was in a haze.

“I heal her, and you come and spend two weeks in the Night Court with me.”

“No,” Feyre said her voice strained. “I won’t do it.”

My eyes creak open slightly, as the feeling of soothing circles are brushed against my wrist. “Well, that’s a shame,” Rhysand released the grip on my wrist and rose.

Feyre shrieked and amplified my already pulsing headache. “No wait!” Feyre’s eyes meet my gaze tears are brimming, “Five days. I will give you five days, but my sister has to be with me.”

Rhysand scoffs, “Bargaining?” There was a pause, “10 days.”

Feyre countered, “one week.”

Rhysand hummed for a moment, “One week it is. You have a bargain.”

There was a flash and I slipped unconscious.

I met the stare of the High Lord of the Night Court, and he looked as though he was recalling that memory as well. As Tamlin snarled, “You cannot take them,” His grip on me tightening to the point of eliciting a small whimper that caused Lucien’s head whipping over to mine. A scolding look to his friend caused Tamlin to release me as I moved swiftly to my sister as I lace my fingers with hers.

“You want to wage a war on interfering with a bargain that Feyre willingly agreed to than by all means Tamlin be my guest.” He approached my twin and I and held out both of his hands with the palm. “Ladies, if you don’t mind.”

Feyre looked at me, fear extended to her features I gave her hand a comforting squeeze and a nod of my head that seemed to put her at ease. She reached out her free hand and I followed suit. Rhysand grips our hands and before Tamlin can make a beeline toward us, we were consumed by darkness and landed on a balcony and Rhysand ushered us inside to a large dining room area with dark red and black décor.

I looked back at the balcony ignoring Feyre’s bantering with the High Lord. Where we were, was on the side of the mountain and the scenery was breathtaking, the sun glinting off the snow on the mountain. The sun is beginning to set in the sky turning to hues of pink and purples painting the sky. I wish Feyre would take in the scene in the hopes that she would find inspiration to paint again.

Rhysand yelp of pain pulled me from the beautiful seen to see that he was rubbing the back of his head. Feyre has her second slipper in her hand, “Don’t you-“Rhysand growled as she threw the second slipper at him and the High Lord catches the slipper and smirks.

Feyre just scoffs, “Just take us to our room.” Tapping her now foot impatiently the way she crossed her arms I could have almost mistaken her for our eldest sister.

Rhysand’s lips formed a tight line. Crossing his arms in answer to hers, and I had to cough to cover up my laugh. The High Lord’s eyes twinkled with amusement and in a blink, it was back to normal, and he was scowling at my sister. “Follow me.”

Rhysand walked away not waiting to see if we were following him, I began to follow him and a small hand gripped mine. I paused and looked at Feyre her eyes were sunken, and her face had thinned since we came out of Under the Mountain, “I don’t like this.” Feyre whispered, “When we get home, I’m going to see if Tamlin can break the bargain.

I gave her a comforting squeeze giving her a warm smile fighting the disgust at her calling the Spring Court home. “Keep an open mind, Fey.” You paused, “He did save my life,” I looped my arm into hers, “Come on.” I dragged my sister into the hall and rushed to catch up to the High Lord who was leaning against a set of double doors.

“I figured the two of you would want to share a room.” Rhysand smiled and pushed off the door, “Does that work for you?”

I was shocked as I thought back to when we were taken to the manor in the spring court.

Feyre and I had our hands intertwined, the only thing preventing them from shaking, as we followed the High Lord of the Spring court through his manor. Tamlin, as we found out his name, was on our journey to the fae lands. The blonde fae male paused at one of the doors and opened them, “This is where room for either of you. Which one is up to you, of course.”

Feyre and I exchanged a look of pure panic, Feyre was the one to speak first, “Can’t we stay in the same room?”

Tamlin bristled, “You have spent the last few years in a room sharing a bed with your two other sisters and you still want to share a room?”

I glowered, “Well maybe, we’re in a strange place, with strangers and strange creatures, and maybe we seek comfort in each other’s company.”

Tamlin returned my glare and through gritted teeth, “You have two separate rooms, use them or don’t, I don’t care.” Tamlin walked past the two of us purposely bumping into my shoulder. “Dinner will be ready in a couple hours. Feel free to join.”

“Prick.” You muttered. As you and Feyre walked into one of the bedrooms.

“Y/N?” Feyre’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, bringing you back to the hall, Rhysand’s brows furrowed in what looked like concern. “Are you alright?”

I nod and give a smile, “I’m fine, are you okay with us staying together? I know that our ‘arrangement’ is different back in Spring.”

“You can call it home,” Feyre straightened, as if she realized who was standing and listening, “I’m fine with sharing a room.” She once again gripped my hand and dragged me to the room and slammed the door, not even muttering a goodnight to our host.

“My home is the cottage in the human lands, Feyre, considering,” I tuck my hair to reveal my round ear, “By their standards, I shouldn’t be here.  The only reason I’m here and tolerated is because of you.” Feyre flinched at the confession. I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Look, I don’t want to fight. You asked me to stay with you and I will, but please let me adjust at my own pace.”

Feyre nodded and, in a flash, she grabbed you and embraced you in a hug, “I love you, Y/N,” you wrap her arms around your sister and squeeze. “Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course,” you pull away and flick her nose, “Alright let’s get you out of this hideous dress.” She laughed and nodded. As if on que the doors of the wardrobe opened and there were two-night outfits. One was in a beautiful violet that looked too small for me and one in a ruby red.  “Well, that’s convenient.” I mutter as I pull out the red shirt and pants, running the cool silk through my fingers. “I have to say,” Feyre blue eyes, met mine, “The Night Court has style.”

We changed into night outfits, and I grumbled over my exposed mid-drift and how they accentuated my curves but overall, they were comfortable. I took a glance at Feyre and my heart ached. I could see her ribs protruding, I knew she was having a hard time, but every time I would ask her about it, she would brush off my concern, tell me that others had it worse under the mountain. Tamlin could barely look at me most of the time, so I was never able to bring it up to her betrothed.  Lucien made himself scarce ever since Ianthe came to stay on the property, so no one was there to help me help her. Feyre smiled at me, “Shall we get some rest? It’s been a long day.”

I nodded and we crawled into bed and cuddled close together and fell asleep.

Tears were falling down my cheeks as I watched Amarantha raise my sister’s body off the ground and throw her down like a rag doll. I was ready to run up to her, but Lucien pinned me to his chest concealing me from Amarantha’s sight. Feyre’s mouth moved and the rage on the red haired fae’s flared in her eyes. Amarantha smirked, “Well you figured it out, but you failed to be specific of when I free you.” Rhysand lunged at Amarantha and with a flick of a wrist he was flung against the wall.

Crack

The tether to my other half had snapped, and Lucien gripped me tighter as I screamed, my sobs uncontrollable. Lucien was whispering in my ear, but I couldn’t discern what he was saying, past my screams. I didn’t even notice how he stilled as the power shifted, and Tamlin unleashing his full power on Amarantha. “Feyre,” you whimpered as Lucien returns to consoling you as Amarantha was torn to shreds. Lucien let me go as I crawled to my sister; her limp body unresponsive. “Feyre, wake up, please wake up.” I sobbed leaning over body sobbing into her should, “Come back to me. Please I can’t do this without you.”

I jolted awake from the nightmare of a memory that plagued me every night these past three months. Sweat coated hair clung to my forehead as I turned to find my sister sleeping peacefully beside me her now pointed ears, proof that she was alive. It should have been me. I thought to myself. I shook the thought, knowing I had to be brave for her. Knowing she needed me to be strong enough to help her through this. I silently slid off the bed and snuck out of the room, knowing full well I would not be able to fall back asleep I figured I would explore our home for the next week.

My feet pad across the carpet and wander through the hall, as far as décor goes the halls are bare. Though the walls are dark the fae lights create a comforting ambiance. A door creaks open that catches my gaze, and I press myself against the wall hoping the shadows conceal me though no one ever came out. Deeming it safe to peel myself from the wall I walked toward the open door and my eyes widened. I stepped into the room and was mesmerized by the books lining the walls and the fireplace sending warmth down my spine. A window showcased the night sky, the room was breathtaking, and I began tracing the tomes with my fingers.

Nesta and Elain sometimes would pull me aside and teach me how to read when we had spare time. Though I could never read books at the same rate they do. Some words were still hard, and my understanding of the words sometimes went amiss so by the time we lost our fortune I had given up on it entirely.  Though I always loved the idea of reading to get lost in a story and transported to far off places.

“Someone having a hard time sleeping?” The deep voice that could cause anyone’s toes to curl, caused me to jump and I spun to find the source of that voice. My eyes met Hazel ones and I came face to face with the most beautiful male I had ever encountered.

The male was tall my head barely met his chest, dark raven hair the same as Rhysand’s fell to his shoulders his face was one blessed by ancient gods his chiseled jaw line and sultry lips. He wore red jewels on his chest and atop his hands and I gaped as I noticed his wings were tucked tight to his body as he leaned against the door frame. His face showed concern. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” He spoke again. “Are you Feyre?”

I shook my head words lost on me, I shook my head and continued, “Afraid not, though I am her sister.” I picked up the book that was in my hands and put it back on the shelf, “I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t sleep and the door kind of opened on its own I was curious.”

The male raised his hand, “Rhys wants you both to feel comfortable while you’re here. You are more than welcome to be here.” He walks in deeper and faux whispers, “I technically shouldn’t be talking to you right now?”

You take a tentative step closer to him and faux whisper back “How come?”

He gives a wolfish grin, “He doesn’t want us to scare you away.”

I quirk a brow at him, since he made his presence known I’ve only felt this overwhelming comfort. “Are you someone I should be scared of?” I asked.

His hazel eyes glance at my night ware and it’s then that I notice that the color matches his rubies, interesting. His eyes linger on my exposed stomach that I wrap an arm around feigning a chill. His eyes meet mine noticing the shift and gives me a full smile showing his teeth, “Here? No. On the battlefield? Absolutely.”

I laugh, a sound I haven’t heard out of my mouth in a while. “I don’t think I’ll be on the battlefield anytime soon, so I’ll have to take your word for it.” You noticed how eyes are bright, “Well, it’s late and I don’t want to deter you from whatever it was you were doing.” I walk around him as he straightened, “It was nice meeting you.”

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” He asked right as I reached the door. He turned to face me.

I shrug, “What keeps anyone from sleeping? Nightmares.” I give him a small nod, “Goodnight…”

“Cassian, my name is Cassian.”

“I’m Y/N. Sweet Dreams, Cassian.”

I leave and I could have sworn before I did, I heard a soft, “Sweet Dreams, Princess.” Before bolting back to my room to my twin.

Chapter 2

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Five - A tourney is held to celebrate Lord Stark's appointment to the small council, and your sworn sword is taking part.

Ch 6

The journey home from Winterfell was long, the journey there had been long, but now you were able to return to your chambers. To lay in your bed, to shed your fur lined cloaks and return to the light, airy fabrics you much preferred.

The Keep is a flurry of movement, arrangements for new small council members and meetings, noblemen switching out their sons and daughter within the Keep, new servants and merchants arriving.

You attend your lessons with Sansa now, she is slightly behind you, being younger, but she is a quick study. Myrcella enjoys having her in lessons as well, and the three of you quickly become close. The three of you spend time in the godswood, picnicking and gossiping, filling Sansa in on all the rumors that swirl around the Red Keep.

It is one such occasion that you first hear it. “I have heard tale that my Uncle Renley prefers the company of men.” Myrcella whispers as she passes a lemon cake to Sansa.

Sansa’s shocked expression makes you giggle. “Come now, Sansa, you must know there are men like that.”

“I have heard of such things but…” She trails off, taking a bite of her cake.

“It seems to be much more prevalent in Dorne, all manner of things are allowed there.” You take a sip of your tea, spotting Jon lingering on the edge of the godswood with Ghost, Theon lounging in the grass beside them.

“I pity whoever is to be married to him, how will she ever have children?” Myrcella laments, her golden tresses falling forward as she reaches for a blueberry scone.

“Why would that prevent her from having children?” Sansa asks, her eyes cast to the blanket you all sat upon.

“Because he will not…you know…” You lean forward, dropping your voice to a whisper. “Be able to get it up.”

The confusion is clear on her face, and you send a prayer to the Mother for forgiveness over the innocence you are about to ruin.

“A man’s…member must be erect in order for marital acts to be completed, he will not be able to spill his seed otherwise.” You continue feeling your face heat up. Your father had instructed a septa to give you a very frank talk about intercourse when you first bled, it was informative but jarring. Then you sought out some of the older maids to fill in the gaps of knowledge in a gentler way.

“So, if he is not attracted to his future wife, or women at all, it will not get erect?” Sansa asks, putting the pieces together in her mind.

“Which means no children.” Myrcella finishes Sansa’s thought for her.

Sansa wrinkles her nose, a gesture you are certain she picked up from you. “I cannot imagine.”

“Perhaps the marriage will be a strategic one?” You say, tearing some grass out and letting it blow away in the wind.

Lady raises her head and watches them go, then sets it back down in Sansa’s lap.

Sansa runs her fingers through Lady’s fur, mulling over your words. “I do not think I could marry for strategy; I want to marry for love.”

Myrcella rakes her teeth across her bottom lip. “I do not think I will have a choice.”

You rub your cousin’s back soothingly. “You do not know that.”

Sansa perks up. “Let us play a game, we shall describe our perfect husband and then see if it matches to any lords in the court.”

You smile, her childish innocence perfectly distracts Myrcella.

“I shall go first, then?” Myrcella says, thinking for a moment before beginning. “I would like someone my age or a little older, but not by much. Tall with dark hair and dark eyes, the exact opposite of my brothers. Intelligent, a good swordsman, gentle, and a good dancer. And if he had sisters or female cousins for me to befriend, I would like that as well. Oh, and am I terrible if I say I would wish him to be tan? I do so love the look of bronzed skin; it looks so warm.”

You nod at Sansa, who begins. “Someone my age as well, with light hair and emerald eyes, a golden prince who enjoys festivities and is noble like a great knight.”

You and Mycella share a look.

“Sansa it is supposed to be your perfect husband, not your potential betrothed.” You remind her, thanking the gods that Sansa and Joffrey’s betrothal had been delayed thanks to all the excitement when you left Winterfell. It seemed Lord Stark could not think of betrothing his daughter while Bran lay in a coma, so the matter had not been brought up in many weeks.

“Come now, Sansa, we will not tell Joffrey, speak from the heart.” Myrcella encourages, poking Sansa’s arm playfully.

“Joffrey is my perfect husband, but if I must give a different answer…” She trails off, and you can see her eyes flickering to Theon unconsciously. “Perhaps a little older, tall, and strong, but not too broad like The Hound, with light eyes and hair that looks as if it has been tousled by the sea, someone who can make me laugh, and is loyal to those he cares for.”

“That sounds like a very good man.” You say, drawing Sansa’s attention away from Theon.

“Yes, well, Joffrey is many of those things. Now y/n, it is your turn.”

“I agree with you both, no old men, someone strong, a good swordsman, but I must side with Mycrella on looks, I would like a dark-haired man as well, with dark eyes and a gentle soul. Perhaps someone loyal and well-read? And I would like to be friends with my husband, as well as be his wife.”

“It would be nice to be friends with your husband, so many women are simply wives or mothers or broodmares.” Myrcella says, tearing her scone into tiny pieces. “I pity whoever Joffrey marries.”

“Prince Joffrey is a good man; I am sure he will be a wonderful companion to his wife.” Sansa sniffs.

You purse your lips. Your father said you are not to interfere, to let Sansa realize Joffrey’s true nature on her own, but it is difficult.

“House Beesbury has many men like you described, Sansa, perhaps we should look for them during the next feast.” Myrcella says, brushing her hands off on her skirts.

“House Beesbury is a good house, or House Royce, both I believe will be sending knights for the Tourney of the Hand.” You add.

Now it is your turn to clutch Sansa’s hand as Jon faces off against Thoros of Myr. You knew the Red Priest would not hurt him, it was Jon’s first tourney, but you still feared for him. Anything could happen, he could be blinded by the sun, the Red Priest could be seized with divine madness, or the others that Jon had already defeated to reach Thoros could try to interfere and sabotage him.

Jon’s stance is steady, his sword—which glints in the sunlight, a gift from you, for his nameday—at the ready. Strong and sturdy made of the finest steel outside of Valyrian, the pommel set with an emerald, a direwolf carved into the crossguard.

“May the Lord of Light have mercy on you, my son.” Thoros says as he and Jon circle each other.

Jon says nothing, only nods and watches the older man.

Thoros’ sword is aflame with wildfire, the flames dance as he swings it gracefully, waiting for Jon to strike.

“Will the fire burn him?” Sansa asks, watching the two men through her fingers.

“Never seen Jon get burned before.” Theon shrugs.

Sansa hisses a reply at him, her head whipping forward when you gasp.

Jon strikes, fast as a whip, their swords meeting, the sound of iron on iron echoing in the ring. He has been training with Lord Aron Santagar, your uncle’s master-at-arms, or your Uncle Jaime whenever he has free time. Which is often as you do not have much to do most days, besides lessons and subtly attempting to convince Sansa to realize her feelings for Theon.

Thoros lunges, nearly catching Jon by surprise, but Jon side steps, kicking up dust as he moves.

Your heart is in your throat, and you stand, your hand still in Sansa’s when the duelers meet face to face once more. It is a show of strength, and you send a quick prayer to the Warrior, your eyes never leaving Jon’s form. Thoros is gaining, pushing at Jon, his feet sliding in the dirt, his arms trembling.

“Knock him flat, Jon!” Sansa’s voice surprises even you, as she jumps to her feet, Theon’s laughter ringing behind you both.

You are not even sure if Jon can hear her, but he seems emboldened, and he shoves the older man forward with a grunt. Thoros stumbles back, an ecstatic grin on his face.

“There it is, boy, show me your fire.” Thoros cheers, clearly enjoying the match far more than anyone watching.

Jon moves quicker than you can blink, throwing his weight behind his sword and knocking the man flat, just as he had Joffrey all those moons ago. He holds Thoros at sword point, and the crowd erupts.

Robert calls out Jon’s victory cheerfully, and you see Lord Stark smiling as Robert claps him on the back.

Sansa sinks into her chair with a sigh of relief, but you cannot do the same, you rush forward, pressing yourself against the edge of the dais. Jon is your sworn sword, and your heart will not return to its place in your chest until you have seen he is whole.

“Lady Y/N.” Jon calls, his helmet in one hand, his curls wild, a grin born of victory on his handsome face as he approaches the dais, a crown of roses hanging from his sword.

“Ser Jon.” You smile, graciously accepting the crown from the tip of his sword. It is half a hand longer than a normal sword, something you found an odd request of his, but it serves him well.

Sansa helps you arrange the crown on your head, looking at it wistfully. “It is beautiful, and it suits you.”

“Perhaps for the next tourney I will forbid Jon from fighting and Theon can crown you.” You suggest smiling devilishly at the Greyjoy.

Theon makes a sound of protest, Sansa’s own interrupted by Jon’s appearance on the dais. He has not even cleaned himself off, and he sets his helmet down on the railing, barely having enough time to speak before your uncle calls him over.

“Ser Snow, come, let us toast to your victory.” He says, raising a full cup high, Thoros is with them, his own cup full, his smile bright and genuine as he waves Jon over.

Jon looks at you, and you shoo him towards the throne. He has grown taller and stronger, though he is less broad than some other knights, there is raw strength in his every move. He is quick too, evident by the very fact there is barely a scratch on him. He fought six men and all he has to show for it will be a small scar on his cheek and sore muscles in the morning.

Theon’s voice draws your attention away from Jon. “Sansa—”

“Lady Sansa.” She cuts him off.

He leans over and plucks the crown from your head, giving you a quick wink. “Lady Sansa. If you wished to be crowned my queen of love and beauty, you need only ask.” Theon says smoothly placing the crown on her head then giving her an elaborate bow.

Sansa freezes, her eyes darting to where Joffrey sits, his attention completely consumed by the archery competition. “Theon…”

“Though I dare say you are far more beautiful without that frilly crown.” He says, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger.

“I happen to like that frilly crown.” You interject, trying to hold back your laughter.

Theon can be quite humorous, his bawdy jokes and shameless manner often sending color rushing to Sansa’s cheeks.

“You have to win me this crown, Theon, that is how it works.” Sansa says, ripping the crown from her head and shoving it at Theon.

“And where is your queen, she must come celebrate with us.” Your uncle’s voice booms, carrying over to you, as you take your crown back from Theon.

He helps you adjust it as Sansa did and gives you a secret smile. “Promise you will keep Jon from fighting next time?”

You smile back. “I promise.”

“Y/N, come over here, the people wish to see you congratulate your champion.”

You pick up your skirts and hurry over to your uncle, who is already deep in his cups. Your aunt is watching him with an air of disgust veiled by wifely concern. “My King, do not embarrass the poor girl.”

Robert waves her off. “It is only proper; it was the reward I would receive from you when I would crown you my queen of love and beauty.”

You glance at your father, who is still seated. He inclines his head towards you. It is your decision, whatever your uncle is asking of you.

Jon shifts his weight, his skin sweat soaked and dusted with dirt, a mug of ale in his hand.

“Embarrass me?” You search your mind for whatever your aunt could be referring to, there were not many times your uncle would compete in tourneys, especially as he aged, the only reward you can remember him receiving…

Thoros slings an arm over Jon’s shoulder. “A kiss, you must bestow your champion a kiss.”

Your eyes widen and you glance around. Everyone is watching, even the crowd seems intent to see what the King will encourage next. They are chanting, you did not realize they were chanting for Jon, too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

“I—I am unwed, would it not be improper?” You ask, looking to your aunt for help.

“Robert, please she is only a child—”

“On the cheek then, there is no shame then, your father is here, I am here, there shall be no besmirching of your virtue.” Your uncle says, clapping his hands together with a tone of finality.

Series Masterlist here!

Jon Snow TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

Dark Moon | Chapter Ten

Pairing | yandere!Jimin x Reader

Word Count | 3,6k

Warnings | 18+, smut noncon, yandere themes, triggering content, drunken sex, forced anal sex, rimjob, fingering, sadism, violence, lots of crying and screaming, teasing, humiliation, blood, hatred, angst, attempted murder, serious injuries, use of a knife, sea of blood, first hints of Stockholm Syndrome, be careful: this chapter is darker than the other chapters and from now on Dark Moon will be much more violent.

This fanfiction is yandere, if you don't like the genre, don't read and if you are not of age, don't read.

I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | She just wanted to escape her past, take charge of her life and break out of her steel cage, praying in God for a miracle that could change her life for good.

And her prayers were heard, but it was not the Divine that answered her.

That was certainly the devil in the guise of an angel, she thought as those corrupted and empty eyes searched her soul with extreme voracity.

He turned a sweet, false smile on her, before pushing her into the abyss.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys ❤️ Today's chapter was particularly difficult to write, it is very dark and from here on we get into the heart of Dark Moon, which I always remember is a highly yandere story, I recommend reading it to readers who are age +18 and who already have experience with the yandere genre, Dark Moon is not a story with a normal relationship, it is a yandere. For those who will read the chapter, let me know what you think of it and what you believe will happen in the future!

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @dragons-flare, @m00njinnie, @seokjins-luigi, @pjmsneverland, @jimincrystal, @ajkwww, @ungodlyjoon, @hecateslittlewitchling, @namjoonsbuspass, @darkuni63, @xicanacorpse, @jiminismine4ever

Taglist is open!

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Perhaps it was the alcohol swirling in his body or perhaps his sadistic nature, but he didn't think twice about ripping off even that one too many garments, Y/N squeezed her eyes shut huddling her head between the blankets that smelled of Jimin, everything about that room smelled of him and she felt suffocated by his oppressive presence.

Jimin ran two fingers over the entrance hidden by the young woman's panties, reached out to her clitoris circling it through the fabric, but did not dwell on it for long, without uttering a breath he lowered Y/N's panties badly, finally putting on display what he was really aiming for.

He eagerly squeezed the girl's soft, perfect buttocks, his hands carefully palmed that velvety flesh, she could not understand what his intentions were, why was he talking one way but touching her another?

The boy lowered himself to kiss her back, inhaling her scent that reminded him of the scent of his bubble bath present in the bathroom, she had not confined herself to books, he thought amused, there was something sick about her, something she did not even admit to herself, even as she actively sought something that would make her closer to the man she so professed to detest.

"Jimin..." there, she had once again used his name, the man couldn't hold back any longer, spread her buttocks revealing the small, tight pink hole, and lowering his head the boy left a wet, warm streak of saliva in that never-violated spot, "What the hell-?!" exclaimed Y/N, stiffening in shock.

Jimin was... he was licking her right there?!

Between shame and disgust she tried to slip out of his hands, but the man squeezed her tightly and together with his weight prevented her from moving, continuing to circle around that ring of muscle with the tip of his tongue, occasionally entering a few millimeters.

Forced there and under those attentions, Y/N felt strange, with horror she realized that she was not just trembling with fear, she was feeling a strange warmth that was affecting her lower abdomen, the sinuous movements of the man's tongue continued to wet and stimulate the little hole, saliva slowly slipped from her buttocks to the throbbing, soaked cleft of her pussy.

Pleasure and humiliation mingled causing her emotions so strong as to be unbearable, she untangled herself once again from his grasp and this time managed to free herself, crawled away and by a hair's breadth the man came back to grasp her ankle again, bringing her back under him.

"You're a goddamn animal!" exclaimed Y/N between her teeth, Jimin sneered pushing his pelvis against her, who distinctly felt the rigid presence between his legs.

"Now I recognize my little whore" he murmured in her ear making her shudder, "From the way you're acting I bet no one has ever touched this cute little ass" he slapped a buttock as if to punctuate his words and the woman winced, "Somehow I'll still have a virgin part of you" he growled forcefully and without any regard pushing two fingers into that tight and rigid hole, a scream dictated by pain and shock left the girl's now pale lips.

"No, no, no! Stop, I don't want to!" she was in a panic, Jimin's fingers made no hint of leaving her, the stretch was uncomfortable and burning like hell, the man was already anticipating that moment, he wanted her to scream in pain and sorrow, he wanted her to regret that stupid attitude she had held with him all along.

As he penetrated that tight little cave, he finished lowering his boxers with his other hand, freeing his hard, aroused cock.

He slid down to the young woman's slit without penetrating her, merely gathering over the entire length what little liquid arousal Y/N had produced against her own will. The girl felt the thick presence behind her and feared that it would end like last time, too bad Jimin had something much worse in mind.

Without saying a word he released those tight muscles from his fingers, Y/N almost collapsed from the pain, but Jimin grasped her hips tightly sinking his fingers into her flesh, the girl buried her head between the pillows already imagining the painful twinge that would rip through her core, but she was not prepared for the excruciating pain Jimin's thrusting caused her when he forcefully entered her ass, a sharp, breathless cry left her throat in despair, she wriggled on the bed like a trapped animal, but Jimin easily pinned her down by pounding inside her without any mercy, his hoarse breaths increased in volume as he sank repeatedly into that hole that clenched hard and in pain around his cock, he fell back on the young girl's small body with all his weight, forcing her to spread her stiff, trembling thighs wide.

"It hurts, please stop! It hurts so much, I can't take it!" she cried for air, she had thought Jimin's fingers were enough to feel pain, she had not expected a situation like that, his thick, hard cock was practically opening her in two, she frantically shook her head against the pillow with each stroke of the man's hips, who smiled addicted to that pleasure.

"How can I stop when-uhm..." he paused for a moment trying to contain himself and not explode inside her right away, "When you hold me so tight?" he finished in a voice pregnant with lust, penetrating her completely, who arched her back with a choked scream at that umpteenth assault.

"Now tell me, do you prefer it when I fuck your pussy or your ass? " he asked, increasing the speed of his strokes, aware of the harm he was doing to her not only physically, he wanted to humiliate her to such an extent that no light of defiance remained in her, his balls began to slam violently against her empty, dripping slit, the walls tightened around nothing, and another wave of tears slid down her face, realizing the strange combination of pain and pleasure that was being created in her.

Jimin moved his body slightly from hers, just the slightest bit that helped him to see himself sinking into her once more, the tiny ring of muscle had finally adjusted to his size despite the force with which he still enveloped his cock, he spit a trickle of saliva between them increasing the lubrication of the intercourse and began to give deeper and slower thrusts.

"You didn't answer me," he chuckled, penetrating the entrance to her intimacy with his middle finger, finding it incredibly moist.

He groaned breathlessly as he imagined himself in there, squeezed by that infinite, delicate softness, cradled by the elastic grip of her trembling walls.

"Fuck, can you hear yourself? If you hadn't behaved so badly this is where I would have come in, and we would have both enjoyed it," he growled in her ear, "But that's okay too, isn't it? You're soaked all the same, maybe you really are perfect for the Dark Moon" he taunted her, ramming into her countless times, feeling his balls swell and his cock shake, Jimin's small, intense moans of pleasure slid over the girl's now helpless body, which catatonicly welcomed the man's semen on top of her, he stood there still between her buttocks, pouring the white, viscous cum inside her asshole, before climbing out of her and gazing with satisfaction at that destroyed little hole soaked with his essence, Jimin slid away wearily on the bed, gazed breathlessly at the ceiling, a glance between his legs and noticed on his still half-erect cock drops of blood.

He grinned, satisfied with his work.

"Now you are no longer a virgin."

Y/N turned her head away, unable to move, feeling pain everywhere, even inside her soul.

Jimin had ruined her forever.

"I hate you" was the only thing she managed to say between dry, trailing lips, lost in a spiral of thoughts that only she knew.

Jimin stared at the walls of his bedroom with a sigh.

"You can hate me all you want, it doesn't change what you are and where you are," he muttered, beginning to close his eyes to fall asleep.

You are my whore, mine to have and mine to torture.

He had not said it, but that was what he meant.

The woman felt the man's breathing become lighter after about twenty minutes, twenty minutes of interminable silence.

Her gaze was no longer lost in the void, but steady on the boy's closet, there where she had previously discovered one of his little secrets.

She tried to calm down, not to do rash things, but he had no respect for her, had used and raped her, going so far as to force her into anal intercourse for which she had not been properly prepared. He had used her like a rubber doll, she thought with disgust written all over her face.

She lifted herself up slowly, preventing her complaints from escaping her lips, although she felt destroyed, her legs staggered on her own weight, and lowering her gaze she saw the blood etched between the sheets.

Panic gripped her chest, that same sordid spectacle she had experienced years before, when she was just a naive little girl who did not understand the malice of the world. The girl's tears became constant, but she still maintained silence. No, she could not relive such a thing and do nothing about it, not this time.

She angrily wiped away her tears and with another glance at the closet opened the doors slowly, rummaging through the bottom and finding what she was looking for, she forced her fingers on a small raised dowel and slid the wooden wall to her right, which revealed the presence of a dark duffel bag.

With unsteady hands she unzipped the thick zipper, revealing its forbidden contents.

She tightened her lips, casting a glance at the sleeping figure of the boy, the alcohol had finally taken its toll along with the sex, that monster would no longer be a threat to her.

That morning Jimin woke up with his mind strangely silent, his demons were not there, he stretched out casting a glance to his side and found the place previously occupied by Y/N, empty.

She was gone.

A gnawing in his stomach caged him, making him incuporated. Why the hell should he have cared?

He couldn't remember exactly what he had done that night, but he remembered perfectly well that he had enjoyed it, that was the important thing, wasn't it?

He got up slipping on the boxers left on the floor and headed to the bathroom to clean himself up.

He washed himself by eliminating the smell of sex from his skin, he looked at the bubble bath without a hint of emotion on his face, just remembering the smell of the girl, indeed it was one of the few things he remembered from the previous night, but his mind was still fixed on her, who would not decide to give in for good, he had come back pissed off like a hyena that night; Because she would not give in to him, because Hoseok had made those insinuations, because now everyone believed that he depended on her.

He wasn't. He was still Park Jimin, the independent, strong man. She, on the other hand, was just his tasty and tender plaything.

When he finished his shower he emerged from the bathroom with a towel tied to his hips, his athletic, slender figure a joy to behold, his dark soul sighing in pleasure at the screams of his victims.

He returned to the room to dress and had only time to put on clean boxers and a pair of shorts before he heard the thud of an object falling and shattering on the floor.

He frowned, immediately heading toward the source of that sound, "Y/N?"

He went to the living room looking around, on the floor were the broken and scattered pieces of a vase, but no trace of the girl.

"Y/N? Y/N!" he was getting pissed off, "We don't have a cat, I also doubt it was the wind, so I suggest you-!" an excruciating twinge blocked the breath in his throat.

His gaze dropped to the silver blade of the knife that had penetrated his side, the handle of that knife was clasped in the small hands of the woman who only hours before was under him in his bed.

Now there was shock and surprise on his face, he watched the girl wordlessly before his eyes narrowed in pain.

Y/N, whose face was transfigured with anger, watched the boy take deep breaths, as if he was used to those kinds of blows, and that pissed her off more.

She had waited all night for that moment, she didn't want to hit him while he was unconscious, she wanted him to be lucid and awake so she could hear him scream, but he wasn't screaming, he didn't look scared, and that made her angrier. She wanted Jimin, for once, to show that he was human and not just a crazed kidnapper and heartless killer.

"Why don't you scream, why?! Fuck!" she shouted before pulling out the blade with a revolting sound, then sticking it again in a spot not far from the previous one, Jimin jerked it away from himself, holding tightly to a shelf to prevent himself from collapsing to the ground, gritting his teeth to try not to scream, he pressed his hand on the first wound, not daring to pull the knife out of the second one. Had he done so, he would only have caused more damage.

He squatted slowly on the floor, pale and unable to think of a solution; there was already sweat on his upper lip to testify to what was going on inside him.

He tried to reason lucidly without losing sight of Y/N, who looked like a lion locked in a cage, paced around the living room holding her head in her slimy bloodstained hands, crying and shaking to herself, he forced himself to keep calm because in that condition he would only hurt them both.

"Y/N, where did you get this knife?" he hissed between his teeth breathing hard, she didn't answer but there was really no need for her to, the man had recognized him, it was part of the set he used during the missions, "Never mind, now be a good girl and hand me the phone" he was shaking, his body couldn't handle that condition yet and he seriously needed help, he had to call Seokjin and get help sent, immediately.

But Y/N stared at him fearfully, if she called his teammates they would surely kill her, Hoseok's threat was still alive in her mind and she began to shake her head.

"The phone is in my room, Y/N...fuck, go get the phone!" he blurted out moaning breathlessly, in response the girl began to run to the front door.

But no, she couldn't know the security code, right?

Jimin's brain threw a warning bell when he heard the typical sound that signaled the apartment was open.

"Shit!" he threw all his good intentions to the wind, began to run after her heedless of the suffering he was subjecting his body to, found himself removing the knife from the wound, shrugging off the consequences, it was incredibly painful and slow to do so, but when he saw her go through the emergency exit he chased after her jumping up several steps at a time.

Y/N's vision was flooded with tears, she did not understand why Jimin had not reacted as she expected he would, he had not turned around screaming in pain, he had not railed at her, and that made her feel bad, made her feel like the monster of the situation.

She had stabbed a man in the back, no matter who he was, she had done it.

And now she was going to die, Jimin would never let her go unpunished, much less his friends, she was screwed in every sense of the word now.

She grabbed the doorknob of the exit, preparing to scream and call for help, but she never got as far as throwing it open.

Jimin was quicker, grabbed her by the hips lifting her off the floor, she screamed in shock as she was dragged away, back into the apartment.

The boy closed the door with a loud roar, but he did not let her go, he slumped to the floor with her still pressed against his body, Jimin's hot, labored breathing tickled her neck, he did not seem to be intent on punishing her, then she felt something wet her clothes, something that horrified her.

Jimin's blood was flowing copiously from his wounds, and despite the lack of a shirt she could not tell where it came from, the blood was so thick and plentiful that it covered the deep cuts.

"Y/N..." he said again, she clearly sensed the torment in his voice and if possible felt even worse, "I need your cooperation," he said bitterly.

The girl silently nodded after a few moments, Jimin closed his eyes, his complexion was increasingly ashen.

"My phone is on the bedside table, bring it to me," he let her go and she got up in pain, between running and the wild sexual intercourse she had a few hours earlier, she was not in a very good state, but she tried to be quick in retrieving the object in question. She could have called the police, asked for help and reported Jimin, but she did not think about those possibilities at all, what was wrong with her?

She felt like a horrible person, how had she become this way?

When she returned to Jimin she found him trying to hold his deep gashes to stem the flowing blood, his movements were getting slower and slower, but he reached for the phone, it took seconds too long to unlock the phone and find Jin's number, but when he did he was relieved.

"Jin," he called, licking his dry, purplish lips, "I have a problem," he coughed.

In the meantime, the woman hurriedly looked around, saw some tea towels in the kitchen and didn't think twice about picking them up, ran to the man who was continuing to talk to his boss and with trembling fingers pressed on the wounds firmly, causing Jimin to spasm, who immediately clenched his teeth. There was so much vermilion liquid that her head spun, she must have been crazy for doing such a thing, she did not kill people.

"... I lost a lot of it, yes... No, she is here with me," he was saying, and that made her blanch. It was over.

Her chest began to lower and rise more and more slowly, Y/N was witnessing the boy's condition and could do nothing, for either of them.

Fuck, she didn't know if Jimin would protect her, he would probably be the one to give the order to slaughter her, assuming he didn't keep the honor for himself, but dead Jimin was pretty much sure she would follow him immediately.

When the boy put down, he took to staring at her without saying a word, he was quiet, he wasn't ranting at her, he just seemed...surrendered.

"Why did you do that?" he asked weakly, she squared him with glazed eyes, "Why did you stab me?"

"You hurt me," she said with a knot in her throat, "Before, it was different... you were like him," she sobbed, leaving Jimin strangled and confused .

What had he done and who was "him"?

Jimin tried to remember his actions, he had come home drunk, this was clear to both of them, and he was angry, very angry.

Suddenly he remembered everything, frowned.

He had... he had....

Why did he feel so bad at the thought of what he had done? After all, this was not the first time, he had done it before, he was interested in feeling pleasure, and he had even punished her, she deserved it! But looking at those tear-filled eyes, it wasn't just the wounds that cut off his breath. Perhaps death was fucking with his brain.

"Y/N..." he seemed to want to tell her something important, perhaps it was about his last breath, but-

"Jimin! Jimin!" tense and nervous voices interrupted that moment full of unexpressed feelings, Y/N turned toward the men dressed in black who with weapons in hand began to check the whole apartment, some she recognized, she had already seen them in the company of the boy.

Other men ran to attend to him, beginning to check his vitals and oxygen, strong, angry hands pulled her away from the man and she found herself screaming in fear.

"It was you, right! Fucking-"

"Hoseok, let her go immediately!" exclaimed Jimin as he pushed one of the doctors aside, his pale, tired face glowering at the man behind the girl's back, "Do you hear me?" he huffed furiously, Hoseok tightened his grip on her, hurting her.

"What do you want me to do then? We can't leave her so fucking unpunished!"

"Lock her in her room," ordered Jimin with a cold stare, Y/N whitened, "She is not to come out of there, just as no one is to enter her room until I return, understood?"

The grip on her shoulders vanished, but another made her get up in a rush, the woman saw Jimin being carried away by the medics, while someone else slammed her violently inside her room, she fell ruefully to the floor and held her arm in pain.

She cast a glance at the culprit and recognized him as Taehyung. He seemed beside himself.

"If I don't kill you now it's only because Jimin doesn't want to, but don't expect mercy from us," he spat, distraught at the image of his friend reduced to that condition.

He slammed the door behind him and the lock was heard to close.

It was really over.

[ssplague]

Benighted Beloved

Prologue

Dragon King Bakugou x Reader

Haven’t decided on the title yet, didn’t want to take even more time to get this out.

Warnings ⚠️ BRIEF Mentions of attempted assault, sex trafficking, & murder.

As the last of the moon’s ethereal, silver light disappears from the skies, a harsh wind begins to blow. This kingdom’s inhabitants are hidden away within the confines of their homes. The silence is daunting as the wind begins to howl through the previously bustling capital streets.

Within the dimly lit castle a woman stares through the her window before shutting the drapes tight.

The atmosphere within the fortress is riddled with tension; Murmurings of prayers can be heard from various servants pausing their duties as they move about. Her bosom heaves rapidly from panting breaths, she fights in vain. Stubborn to prevent the vision attempting to shine through, ignoring the now blurry edges of her eye sight. Ebony hair is sticking to her sweaty face, she’s only standing on shaky legs from leaning against the edge of her vanity table.The door of her bedroom swings open and immediately slams shut. A man has come to see her, he’s briskly crossing the room, before coming to a stop at her side.

“What ails you?” The tired man asks, helping the woman stand upright by allowing her to hold his arm. Continuing to assist, despite her uncoordinated shuffling to sit on her bed. “If you are to be given a prophetic message, why fight it? Her majesty wishes to know what you have seen”. The woman wraps her arms around her middle, sharp nails nicking at her flesh as she draws in a shaking breath, “This night is tainted by darkness, the goddess is unable to grant us her full protection while her light is repressed…if my body will hold out until the darkness recedes, perhaps tragedy will be prevented from falling upon our kingdom once again”. Light from the single lit candle casted half of her face in shadow. The oracle was ashen faced, her black bangs plastered against her forehead, droplets of sweat leaked down her face onto the floor as she rested her elbows on her knees, shaking hands massage her temples.

“You cannot alter fate Midnight, you are destroying yourself all for the sake of delaying a message you were chosen to deliver” Aizawa says with a heavy sigh, rubbing at his eyes “I know you continue to blame yourself for the death of King Masaru but even the queen herself told you that you were not at fault, you relayed the message, and it was something that simply couldnt be remedied..”.

A shuddering breath racks the oracle’s body and she begins falling forward, only for the exhausted man to catch her,

“Stop this! You are going to die!”.

Midnight knew she was on deaths door, her body would give out soon, unless she relents…

Once again the bedroom door opens silently, the snap of it shutting alerts the two occupants of a new comer entering the room.

“Do it for the sake of the child, if you wish to atone for the death of its father then guide it as it grows, inform the future leader on how to avoid whatever negativity may come beforehand, so that it can be properly dealt with” the stern but soft voice of Jeanist seems to have been able to break through the oracle’s stubbornness.

“Normally only one of you would need to be the scribe for this session…but I would prefer it if there were two perspectives on whatever I report, considering the situation…” requests Midnight as Aizawa allows Jeanist to help the frail woman sit up. Making one more request as the blonde man fluffs and rearranges the pillows behind her:

“Please light the ceremonial pouperie and hand me both selenite and tourmaline towers”.

At the beginning of her life Midnight had been gifted with the ability to predict small things such as who would win a foot race or what she would receive for her birthday. As a teen her visions changed into predicting who would find love and eventually how relationships would end. Life was not always kind to her, and once she reached her late teens she had been enslaved and forced into prostitution.

Luck had been on her side as an adult; One night as the ebony haired beauty made her way through town. She had come across a drunken man attempting to asssault a young woman. Her amethyst eyes catch the glint of an intact bottle neck laying discarded on the alleyway’s grime crusted cobblestones. Those muffled cries of the female being violated brought her back to when she herself had first been enslaved. Slinking up through the shadows in silence, the angry woman would later on be compared to a panther as she came flying out of the darkness. The brute didnt have a chance to fight back as loose shards of glass were shoved into his eyes, the jagged spikes of the bottle were repeatedly slashed and thrusted into his neck, face, and chest until the pig was unrecognizable.

The woman she had saved turned out to be the daughter of a duke, visiting from a completely different kingdom. “Please accompany me for my journey home, your bravery will bring you great favor with my family, im offering you a new life, a fresh start”. Once the dutches and duke had learned about the gift of sight their daughter’s savior possessed, it was only a matter of time before Midnight was called to advise the current king and queen of her new home.

The darker haired man uses the candle to light to light the bundle of herbs, the scents of sage, lavender, and jasmine fill the room quickly.

Both polished stone towers are pressed into her shaking hands, Each man stood at the oracle’s bed side with quills poised and ready. Only then does the ritual begin;

She always hated lowering the walls of protection that had been built around her psyche. It made her feel as though she were stripped naked, vunerable, about to have her dignity snatched away, and soul crushed. Of course those feeling were always what prelude a tainted and unfortunate vision. Her eyes buldge in their sockets as they widen, her plump lips fall open and an amplified emotionless version of her voice spews out the sacred information from her gaping maw.

In this realm,

a blessing descends,

a child of fate,

Whose power immense,

destined to determine

earth’s fate

Born beneath the moon's shadow,

a tale quite bizarre,

A beast hides within,

a spirit touched by mar.

Not at the outset,

but time's relentless flow,

Unveils a name in

history's annals to grow.

Victories numerous,

A heart encased in sin

With a chance encounter,

love's dance shall begin.

Strings of fate weave

a love, pure and oh so divine,

The dragon king seeking

a mate with whom his

Soul shall intertwine.

This love is true,

by impurity shunned,

Great Darkness out shone

by Celestial radiance

Who’s light could

Outshine the sun

Blessings abound

if the moon's grace prevails,

However her failure

unveils hate

as darkness assails.

The Earth shall quake in fright

silence descends in despair,

The dragon king ruthless,

his mate to ensnare.

Land soaked in blood,

tainted with gore

at that moment

T’will be decided

peace within this kingdom

will become a distant lore

Decay befalls living souls,

cursed evermore.

Oh how can one’s feelings

spin a tale so profound?

For only true love shall

Determine whether darkness

Or light shall abound?

In a wing located on the complete opposite side of the castle, a feminine shriek is permeated by the sharp wails of an infant.

“It’s a boy your majesty!” Exclaims a mid-wife who held the freshly delivered baby.

She is quick to clean off the continuously shrieking child, immediately swaddling him in a soft blanket. Queen Mitsuki held out her trembling hands to receive the bundle of joy. “He’s beautiful my lady, I’m sure the king is looking down from heaven with pride” stated one of the other servants as she took away the soiled linens. “Yes he is…my beautiful little boy…my precious Katsuki” the queen whispered, kissing the boy’s head. His tiny whisps of blonde hair tickled her face as she holds him close. A little fist slips out from the blankets, waving about as his wails grow louder. Another servant enters the room, her arms laden with fresh blankets and sheets, “The moonlight has returned!” She happily reports, setting down the bedding and drawing back the curtains some.

Soon as those first rays of the shining silver light landed on the baby, his shrieks cease instantly. Finally opening his small crimson eyes to stare up at his mother, a goofy smile appearing and soft cooing replaced his cries. Everyone in the castle seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as the dreaded eclipse had come to an end.

“My Katsuki, you’re going to grow into a strong, dependable man, eventually you’ll become the greatest king the world has ever seen…isn’t that right Masaru?” Mitsuki snuggled the baby, tears rolling down her cheeks. She wasn’t able to see the man standing beside the two of them, but Katsuki could. The spirit of his father placed its hand on his little head, and the baby began to giggle happily. “I cant do much in this form, but I’ll do whatever I can to help you make the right choice when the time comes…take care of your mother for me…I love you both so much”.

A/N: We’re starting a NEW series!

What did you think? Pay attention to that prophecy, any ideas on what it’s talking about?

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗨𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗛𝗢𝗠𝗘

　　　　　　　　　𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 x reader

SUMMARY: Where Matt helps Y/N get through an anxiety attack.

REQUEST?: Yes, on Wattpad.

WARNING: Anxiety attack, panic attack, toxic home, toxic father, fighting between parents.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Y/N closed her eyes tightly feeling her head spin from the loud voices coming from downstairs. Unfortunately, her parents fighting was nothing new, and even less so was her father starting the fight.

Y/N's father has always been the type of father who is physically present but emotionally absent, living in the same house as the girl since her birth, but never really playing the role of a kind and welcoming father.

Quite the contrary, her father has always been a very demanding and controlling man, Y/N having witnessed his first attack of stress when she was just a week old, when her mother cooked lunch for both of them, but couldn't bear to eat everything on her plate due to the exhaustion of being a first-time mother, and her father started a series of screams demanding that she eat all the food, after all "he pays the house bills and the food in the cupboard and refrigerator and didn't want to see anything being wasted", ignoring completely the scandalous crying of the little girl, who understood nothing at the time.

And it was exactly in an environment like this that Y/N grew up, learning that staying silent all the time at home prevented fights from reaching huge peaks, but suffering the consequences with the fights inside her head, which grew more and more. With all of this, the girl ended up developing panic attacks and severe anxiety, which she only discovered through a quick diagnosis from her school psychologist, as her father refused to pay for a consultation for her and her mother did not have enough money to do it.

Y/N grew up with constant fights outside and inside her head, experiencing the most bitter moments inside her own home, where she had to face her anxiety attacks alone on the floor of her room, muffling the loud sounds of her sobs with pillows.

But whoever was listening to her cry through all this time, listened to her prayers and sent an angel into her life. Y/N met Matt two years ago in a cafe in the city completely by accident, the barista at the cafe ended up getting confused with their orders and handed Matt's to Y/N and vice versa, the two only realizing it after the first sip.

And since then Y/N no longer had to face her fears alone, her refuge in difficult times stopped being her cold and lonely bed and became Matt, with whom she could lean on in all the sad and happy moments too, and the best thing being that she, having experience with herself, could help him with his own anxiety attacks, the two of them moving towards a better mental place together.

But despite the willpower to improve and all the effort, there were days when it became more difficult. Y/N had woken up that morning with a bitter taste in her mouth and a heavy head, feeling like something was going to happen, and she wasn't wrong.

The day went by with a heavy air, the girl staying at home all day since it was a Sunday and Matt spent the day filming with his brothers the podcast that would be posted the next day, and all the weight that lived in the walls of her house seemed to have been transferred to Y/N's back, she couldn't remember the last time she felt that, and the fact that she wouldn't see Matt that day only made it worse.

At the end of the day Y/N understood why she woke up with the heavy feeling. Her mother was cooking something in the kitchen for dinner that would be served soon, which the girl was sure she would just grab a plate and go up to her room to eat alone, but during the process of making the food, her mother let some glass escape from her hands, making a thunderous noise.

Y/N was startled by the sound, getting up and running downstairs without thinking, just worried about her mother and wanting to understand what had happened, but while the girl calmed her mother who seemed in shock over the broken plate, her mind began to scream danger.

Seconds later the sounds of heavy footsteps became present and it didn't take long for the male screams to be heard, her father releasing several curses along with insults towards her mother and, consequently, towards herself as well.

Y/N felt numb, her father's voice becoming a background sound as a buzzing settled in her head. The girl wasted no time and ran upstairs, all she wanted was to get away from the fight.

It didn't take much more than a minute and she found herself closing the door with a bang, throwing herself on the floor next to her bed and curling up in a fetal position, her throat making horrible sounds as she tried to draw in air, which never seemed to come enough.

Her heart was beating fast and her hands were shaking tirelessly.

In a moment of sanity, the girl crawled to the end of her bed to get her phone, thinking about the only one who could help her at the moment. Her fingers raced to the emergency contacts, seeing only one in the listing, Matt.

She quickly clicked it, putting it on speaker and dropping the phone on the floor.

"Hello my love, we're almost done here. I was thinking about calling you next, what do you think about... Y/N?" The boy answered with a smile in his voice, stopping talking when he noticed a sound like a strangulation in the background. "Y/N? Baby, please, what's going on?" He asked desperately, standing up quickly from his seat in the recording room on the other side of the phone, fully gaining his brothers' attention.

The girl couldn't respond, barely able to hear him properly, her mind just processing that she needed air, her eyes closed tightly as she felt as if her room was shrinking in size around herself.

"Baby stay with me, I'm coming, I'm coming. Stay with me..."

The male voice seemed to come and go in Y/N's ears, and what took less than 10 minutes seemed to take hours in her fragile mind. The sound of her bedroom window opening echoed through the room as Matt entered the pink-walled room after climbing the roof of the two-story house, already used to the action.

The boy quickly ran towards his girlfriend, throwing himself on the ground, kneeling next to her and hugging her tightly, trying to bring her mind back.

"I'm here, baby. I'm with you." He whispered incessantly against Y/N's ear, feeling her smaller body tremble against his. "Baby, I need you to take a deep breath for me. Stretch, come on." He spoke, helping her straighten her spine and stretching her legs, leaving her sitting in an L-shaped position. "Can you breathe through your nose for me?" Matt asked, watching carefully his girlfriend's face, feeling his heart tighten at her state, her lips trembling, her cheeks hot and rosy, her face tense and her eyebrows furrowed.

Y/N tried to do as requested, finally being able to identify her boyfriend's voice, but the action seemed to lead nowhere.

"Come on, my love, I know you can do it." He asked in a whisper, feeling his eyes burn with tears. Upon seeing Y/N's difficulty in fulfilling the request, he quickly approached and sealed her lips tightly, briefly remembering when the girl did the same to himself during one of his worst crises.

Y/N stood still, her hands still shaking and her heart beating hard, but her mind seemed to contain itself and the loud noise inside her fell silent.

The girl felt tears roll down her face, opening her eyes, her vision slowly getting used to everything after being in the dark for several minutes. She calmly pulled away from Matt, drawing a breath of air into her lungs, feeling relief at being able to do so.

Y/N looked at her boyfriend's face, seeing him smile in relief as tears rolled down his own eyes.

"Don't cry." She asked weakly, pulling him into a tight embrace, pressing her cheek against his, their tears mixing together.

Matt let out a tearful laugh, sniffling as he brought one of his hands to Y/N's hair, stroking the spot.

"I'm just glad you're okay."

"Thank you Matt." She thanked him, hearing him sigh happily. Y/N snuggled closer into Matt's arms, still not having the strength to get up from the floor and he didn't seem to want to do so yet either.

"I love you so much, my love." He whispered a few minutes later, kissing the top of her head. Matt slowly moved back after getting silence in response, looking at his girlfriend only to see her with her eyes closed and breathing lightly, sleep having taken over her weak body from the intense moment.

The sound of two knocks on the door made him look up, looking intently to the door and ready to protect his girl if necessary, but relief filled his heart when he saw that it was Y/N's mother.

The woman had her face between the door and the frame, ready to check if her daughter was okay after the mess in the kitchen, but her worried features were replaced by a soft smile when she saw her daughter and her boyfriend cradled together.

"Thank you." She whispered truthfully to Matt, earning a nod before carefully closing the door.

The mother walked towards her own room with a light heart, knowing that Matt would do anything to take care of and see her daughter well.

[whimsical-musingss]

Chapter 1: Rhaella

Amongst Gods and Men

Warnings: GOT universe, childbirth, language, religious themes, Viserys is a creep who shouldn’t have married Alicent (SHE WAS 15) (GET A JOB STAY AWAY FROM HER) (yes I’m team Black but I’m also lowkey team Alicent she was a VICTIM).

Queen Alicent Hightower did not make her fears of childbirth known to anyone except the Gods. Every morning until her condition prevented her, she would visit the Great Sept of Baelor. She preferred the quiet atmosphere of the Sept, as it calmed her. She would kneel before the candles, lighting one for her mother, and then clasp her hands together in prayer.

Please grant me a son. Please let the labors be easy.

Please, let Rhaenyra and I be close again.

Only one of those prayers came true for Alicent.

She labored in her chambers for one day, in summer, mostly alone except for a handful of her handmaidens. Dressed only in a shift, she would pace the room, clutching her belly, as if to reach inside and quell the pain herself. It was the greatest pain she’d ever known, but once the babe was in position, Alicent barely had to push.

Outside, a storm raged on; rain pelting the stained glass windows. If Alicent could, she would have given birth completely alone and without her handmaidens. However, as the babe was delivered easily and without much fuss, the small crowd of handmaidens grew to accommodate some maesters and her father, Otto Hightower. The Hand of King Viserys, who was Alicent’s husband. He was not present, and for some peculiar reason, Alicent was relieved.

Otto Hightower glanced at the fussing babe who was being cleaned by the handmaidens, then back at his exhausted daughter. Alicent was shivering, despite being hot to the touch. She wanted to run out of her chambers, out of the Red Keep, out of Kings Landing, never to be seen again.

“You will have to try again for a son,” was all that Otto said, his voice soft so only she could hear. Alicent said nothing, but her sweaty face paled as she watched her daughter being swaddled. Otto turned and left the room, undoubtedly bringing the troubled news to King Viserys. Alicent did not know if Viserys would be displeased with her, she hoped not. One of her handmaidens presented her daughter to Alicent, who was still trembling on top of bloodied sheets, her weak hands in her lap. She did not raise them to hold her daughter, who she did not name. She left that decision with Viserys.

“Rhaella!”

Alicent glided into Rhaella Targaryen’s bedchambers, her deep green skirts swirling around her as she walked. Rhaella could hear her mother’s footsteps closing in, but did not bother to rise from her bed and nest of blankets. She refused to leave her bed when her handmaidens tried to get her up for her lessons, because Rhaella already dressed for something else.

“Rhaella, you must get up this instant,” Alicent’s voice was firm, yet tired. As always. Her hands grabbed Rhaella’s blankets and tugged, but Rhaella tugged back. “You are ten and four, you are a lady now. You must act like one.” Alicent’s voice was strained as she fought with her eldest daughter.

“No,” was all that came from the pile of blankets, but Alicent persisted. She threw the blankets from the bed, finally revealing Rhaella. Her silvery blonde hair was sticking up in random places, and instead of wearing her nightdress, Rhaella wore her brother’s tunic and leather pants with boots. The clothing Rhaella terribly; the tunic was too big and the pant legs were too much to stuff into the leather boots. Alicent froze, unsure of how to go about this.

“My darling, what is this?” Alicent finally asked, gesturing to Rhaella’s state, who only turned away, a frown evident on her face.

“I do not wish to attend lessons with the Septa, mother,” Rhaella grumbled. She crossed her arms for good measure.

“That is not your choice, I’m afraid,” Alicent sighed, approaching her daughter. She sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in front of her, avoiding her daughter’s glare.

“Why not? Aegon and Aemond get to fight. I want to fight, too, mother,” Rhaella maintained her icy look in her mother’s direction, who just stared at the floor.

“That is the way the world works,” Alicent managed to say after a moment. “Our fight lies elsewhere than the training yard. Our war is here, in this bed, delivering children.”

Rhaella was shaking her head as her mother spoke. “I refuse it. I want to claim a dragon, ride on its back, and fight like a Dragonlord. Like Visenya.”

Alicent often wondered how her eldest child became this way. When Rhaella was young, she did have her moments of outbursts and acted unladylike, no matter what the Septa or Alicent did. Helaena did not act this way, so perhaps Rhaella’s defiance and abruptness came from her father and the dragons. It was a question that plagued Alicent’s mind often, especially during moments like these.

“Sweetling, you are not Visenya,” Alicent finally looked her daughter in the eye. “You will claim a dragon, I have no doubt.” Rhaella’s dragon egg that was placed in her cradle turned to stone, same with Aemond’s. Thankfully, her eldest son, Aegon, did have his own dragon within his cradle. Rhaella and Aemond both complained about their lack of a dragon; Rhaella expressed to her mother constantly that she will be weak in this world without one.

“There are no dragons to claim here,” Rhaella’s resolve began to crumble. “Mother, I want to be like my brothers.”

Alicent’s heart was heavy as she watched Rhaella cover her face with her hand, her shoulders trembling. “I just want to be strong.”

“My king, your firstborn daughter is too rebellious for her studies,” Alicent is out of options, scrambling for one last attempt to make her daughter turn to more ladylike hobbies. She grits her palms into fists as she paces around the King’s chambers. “Just this morning, I have found Rhaella dressed in her brother’s training attire.”

King Viserys looked up from his makeshift Valyrian structure and lets out a small laugh. “Rhaella is young, and she is acting like Rhaenyra when she was that age as well. My sweet wife, she will outgrow this…”

As he talks, Alicent frowns at the mention of Rhaenyra’s name. Just the other day, Rhaenyra mentioned the prospect of marrying her eldest son, Jacaerys Velaryon, to Rhaella. Alicent quickly admonished the proposal, but Viserys seemed to beam at it. Uniting House Targaryen, he called it. But Alicent knew Jacaerys, his true parentage. She saw it, the court saw it, but Viserys remained blind. Alicent would not taint her daughter’s blood with the blood of a bastard. She resists the urge to bite her nails.

“Viserys, I worry,” Alicent’s voice cracks, stopping in her tracks. Her brown eyes study Viserys as it sinks in for him. “Rhaella is not just rebellious, Viserys. She’s rebellious because she is scared.” Alicent’s hand grasp her throat, as if to keep her shaky breaths in.

“Scared of what, my dear?”

“She has no dragon! With a dragon, she could, perhaps, turn to dragon riding to quell her unladylike passions!” Alicent’s voice rose. Viserys set down his tools, brows furrowing.

“Might I suggest she do an amount of studies with me?” Viserys asks, searching Alicent’s eyes. “You already know of my knowledge of our Valyrian history and what is expected of a Valyrian woman. I could turn her towards the right path for a lady of her station.”

Alicent’s hand falls from her throat and she tilts her head up towards the ceiling, as if to ask the Gods to give her an answer.

“I do not see another choice, my king.” She relents, now staring at her husband, regret immediately setting into her bones.

“Very well. Send her to my chambers,” Viserys picks up his tools again; Alicent leaves without a word, biting her tongue and clenching her hands into fists.

“You asked to see me, father?”

Rhaella stands in the doorway to her father’s chambers. She could count the number of conversations she has had with her father, just the two of them, on one hand. Her mother had forced her to change out of her brother’s training attire and into a dark green dress. Her mother had also ordered a handmaiden to brush the nest that is Rhaella’s hair. The handmaiden did succeed, and also managed to add delicate twists in Rhaella’s long hair.

“Yes, my dear girl. Come,” Viserys beckons from his chair, and Rhaella steps towards him, her large book on learning High Valyrian in her arms.

“Father, why am I here?” Rhaella almost frowns, and Viserys suddenly sees a glimpse of a younger Rhaenyra in his daughter. Both fiery as the Seven Hells, both stubborn, both unafraid. Viserys feels a shred of melancholy before shoving it away.

“Your mother has asked me to assist you in your studies. As it seems you do not wish to partake in them,” Viserys motions Rhaella to sit next to him, and she does.

“I do not wish to study, I wish to fly on dragon back and eat lemon cakes,” Rhaella declares, letting her book fall on the table with a thud. “I already told mother the same.”

“My dear girl, your dragon egg turned to stone in your crib,” Viserys laments. “It is a tragedy to befall a Targaryen, but alas, it does happen.”

“It happened to Aemond,” Rhaella agrees, “but I want to try and claim one. After I do so, I will then travel Westeros and perhaps cross the Narrow Sea.”

“Where would you like to go to in Westeros?” Viserys asked.

Rhaella paused in concentration. “Perhaps the North. I read about the Wall, and the mysteries that lay beyond it.”

“Well,” Viserys chuckled. “Do you know anything else about the North? It’s people, their customs, and that dragons cannot cross the Wall?”

“I knew about dragons and their refusal to cross the Wall, but the people…” Rhaella trailed off. “No, father.”

“One of the most important things a highborn lady must do,” Viserys leaned back in his chair so he could study his daughter. “Is to learn about the world around them. Learn the houses, the people, their strengths, and customs so that knowledge can be passed down.” Viserys motions towards his miniature model of Old Valyria.

“Not all the knowledge we have gained from our ancestral homeland is from men, you know,” Viserys says, quietly. “Without women, there would be no men. Without women, we would not be here, as that would mean no Daenys Targaryen. Our line would be lost amongst the sea and fire.

If you want to be a dragon rider, Rhaella, you must learn the language of our ancestors. Learn the ways of Westeros and its people. You must show me that you are ready to claim a dragon.

Then, perhaps you may go to Dragonstone yourself and attempt what Targaryens are destined to do.”

A/N: thank you for reading the first chapter! I’m excited to keep on writing this and I hope you are excited to continue reading. If you would like to be added to a taglist I can set one up.

A like and a reblog would be most appreciated! Thank you for your support.

[theladyofbloodshed]

Nesta x Eris Halloween Fic

Chapter 2 of 6

When the weak October light filtered through the glen, Eris found himself bartering for a horse with Kallias, a horse master. His son, a wide-eyed young lad fed the horses pieces of hay while they agreed upon a price for his fastest steed. His wife, Viviane, was busy in the home; her calling as a midwife was necessary to their small village.

‘Did you know the victims?’

‘We all did. Sleepy Hollow is a small place, Mister Crane.’

Eris nodded in agreement. There wasn’t a soul who didn’t already know about his arrival to the place – or the manner of his visit.

‘I cannot find a common thread amongst the victims. A father and son. An old widow.’

Kallias frowned. ‘Who told you she was old? Briar was comely. Widowed young then dead before the bloom was off of her.’

That could radically alter the motive. Before he could open his mouth, however, gunshots sounded in the distance. A horse galloped towards them, the rider still brandishing his gun into the air.

‘Murder, murder! The Horseman has killed again.’

Without a moment to lose, Eris mounted his newly-bought horse – Gunpowder – and rode out with the villagers into the woods. Branches snagged at his red hair and dark suit. The forest had a way of reaching out its claws for them.

A body lay supine on the floor as though he had been running before the murderer killed him. Eris would not be washed away with talk of a Headless Horseman.

‘Interesting,’ he murmured, peering down at the neck. ‘The removal of the head is usually to prevent identification of the body.’

Cassian, who had ridden out with them, rolled his eyes. ‘But we know who the body belongs to. It is Bron – a manservant of the Van Garrett family.’

‘Precisely,’ Eris replied. ‘So, why remove the head? What purpose does it serve?’

He knelt down, a finger running over the detritus on the forest floor. There was a great hoof print near Bron’s shoulder. He mixed a concoction of water and powder to produce a runny plaster which he poured into the imprint.

‘Say Cassian, you are a blacksmith. Have you ever shoed a horse with a hoof quite so large?’

‘I have not.’

The townsfolk exchanged a worried glance, but Eris refused to give into ghost stories. There would be a logical explanation for it. There always was.

‘The attacker rode Bron down then turned his horse… came back…’ he tracked the horse’s steps. ‘Came back to take the head.’ Eris touched the dry leaves. ‘There is no blood.’

‘An apt conclusion,’ Cassian muttered.

Eris felt himself frowning as he gingerly examined the wound. ‘The wound was cauterized in the very instant as though the blade itself were red hot and yet, no blistering, no scorched flesh.’

‘The devil’s fire,’ one murmured.

The body was returned to the family for burial when no further conclusions could be drawn. Whispers were rife in the village that the Horseman had struck yet again. Out of courtesy to the dead, Eris watched from a short distance away as prayers were said for the man and his coffin was lowered into the ground.

Moving like a spectre across the church yard was Nesta Van Tassel. Her grey gown matched the heavy clouds above their heads.

‘Another murder, Mister Crane,’ she said in greeting.

‘It is ill news,’ he agreed.

‘With no head to be found again.’

‘It is not a ghost, Miss Van Tassel, I can assure you of that.’ He tipped his hat to her before departing back towards her home.

Without the revelry of the previous night, the home had a sombre feel. It was too large a home for such a small family. His steps echoed as he climbed the two flights of stairs to the attic. There, upon the table in his bedroom, was a note.

Bron was not the fourth victim, but the fifth. Five victims. Four graves.

He looked out towards the graveyard where the new mounds of earth marked the graves of Atwell and Tamlin Van Garrett, the Widow Briar, and Bron. His gaze paused upon the hole marked for the widow. Not an old woman, but a young one – a beauty, Kallias had said.

Nesta was approaching the home, her face drawn.

Eris raced down the stairs to meet her in the yard.

‘Are you a woman of strong countenance?’

‘I am.’

‘And do you have a strong stomach?’

A few hours before the dawn struck, Eris and Nesta dug through the pile of earth laid atop the Widow Briar’s coffin. Even in the depleting temperatures, a vile smell hung upon the cadaver. They hauled the body from the grave onto a wagon that Gunpowder pulled towards the doctor’s residence.

‘This is most unusual, Constable,’ the doctor said, blinking sleep from her eyes.

‘We will need to operate, Madja,’ Nesta said, before reaching for the arms to move the body onto the operating table.

Although Eris had little experience with women in any sort of domain, Nesta was quite unlike the ones he had met. She had retched only twice before composing herself. She had not wept or complained, even when mud wedged itself beneath her nails. Nesta was committed to solving the murders, just as he was.

‘I would ask you both to step outside. Such sights are not meant for ladies.’

When Eris was finished examining the body, a crowd had gathered outside the doctor’s office. Nesta remained but she had returned to her home and stood washed and dressed in a new gown. The only hint of their morning spent in the graveyard were the smears of shadow beneath her eyes.

‘I am finished,’ he announced.

‘What in God’s name have you done to her? Magistrate Azriel, you are the word of law here… put him in irons.’

Azriel pursed his lips. ‘And what did you find out, Constable?’

‘That there are not four victims, but five. The Widow Briar was with child.’

‘What of it?’ The doctor asked. ‘She should have been left to make her peace with God and not cut to bits by the Constabulary.’

 It could very easily turn into a mob, he realised. Eris was a stranger to this equally strange town. He held out his hands then noticed the blood on them, so promptly clasped them behind his back. ‘A sword was thrust into the womb – and no farther. A symbolic murder by one who knew she was with child. We are dealing with a madman.’

His dreams that night were plagued by his mother. Eris could no longer pick out memories from dreams. It had been many years without her. Light seeped from the hallway downstairs, suggesting that he was not the only one with a restless sleep.

Opposite an elaborate loom, nestled into a chair by the fire, Nesta was reading by candlelight. She closed her book upon his entry then hastily stowed it into her lap.

‘Oh. Pardon my intrusion. I saw a light.’

‘It is no intrusion,’ Nesta insisted. ‘I come here to read when I am wakeful.’

‘To read books which you must hide?’

‘My brother frowns upon my books. He believes such stories rot the brain and killed my parents. My mother died when I was a child. My father died last midwinter.’

Eris nodded in understanding. ‘I saw it written in the front of the household Bible.’

‘Yes. And the male who supported my younger sister through her grief stands as Lord Van Tassel now.’

He caught the bitterness in her tone even if she tried to hide it from her expression. Her family’s home should have been Nesta’s as the eldest daughter, but a marriage trumped everything else.

‘There was something else too in the Bible. Why did nobody mention that your sister was once betrothed to Tamlin Van Garrett?’

‘They did not walk down the aisle. It is old news, Mister Crane. When we came to Sleepy Hollow as motherless children, the Van Garrett family provided my father with an acre and a broken-down cottage and a dozen hens. My father prospered. He built us this home. I remember those days living poor in the cottage. Should I show you?’

His heart gave an unexpected gallop at the offer. He forced his head into a bow. ‘I would be grateful.’

***

Nesta showed him their old home from her childhood. It was a far cry from the sprawling home they occupied in Sleepy Hollow now. Eris had remained quiet as she ran her fingers over the broken-down walls in contemplation.

When they returned, the dark was sweeping in to the village. It seemed to arrive earlier and earlier each day that Eris lingered. As he moved to draw the curtains, he spotted the figure of Lucien making a somewhat hasty departure from Sleepy Hollow.

Eris cantered down the stairs, as swift as his feet would take him, and apprehended him.

‘What does an innocent man run from?’

‘Damn you, Crane,’ he grumbled.

‘You are one of the men who serves on the night’s watch. Why do you run?’

The man shook his head, dark hair sweeping into his eyes. ‘I put myself in mortal dread of powers against which there is no defence.’

Eris held the reins of Lucien’s horse. ‘What do you speak of?’

‘It was I who left the note for you regarding the widow Briar,’ he said, most severely. His face drained of colour as if he wanted to take back the words.

‘Then I presume you are the father.’

‘I am not,’ he said. ‘I hope your deductions serve you better in your contest with Jurian.’

‘Jurian,’ scoffed Eris. ‘Am I to believe your ghost tale impregnated a woman too?’

‘The damn Horseman did kill her.’

Eris had had enough of the fearmongering of this town. There was no such thing as ghosts.

‘The Horseman? How often do I have to tell you that there is no Horseman! There never was a Horseman – and there never will be a horseman.’

The horse bucked against him, wrenching the reins from his grip. Sheep bleated as they ran towards the edge of their field, pushing themselves against the fence. The wind blew stronger and beneath it… thundering hoofbeats.

‘What have you done?’ Lucien whispered.

There, from the gloom of the forest, came a monstrous horse. Bigger than any that Eris had ever lain his eyes on. Its massive hooves churned up the ground as it galloped towards them. And its rider was without a head.

Lucien gripped the reins and tried to make haste.

Eris could only watch on in horror as the Horseman rode him down. One fell swing of his sword parted the man’s head from his body.

Eris fell upon the ground at the sight of Lucien’s head rolling towards him. No spray of blood came – the wound cauterised instantly. Then the Headless Horseman turned his steed. He galloped forwards, straight in Eris’ direction. He raised his sword then plunged it downwards, impaling the head upon it, before returning back to the forest – back to hell.

[elisajdb]

A Dream Meeting

AN: This story is inspired by the Sparkling Zero game where Chi-Chi wishes to meet Bardock and thank him for sending Goku to her.

Goku stood in the doorway watching Chi-Chi kneel before the window in silent prayer. He noticed this ritual from Chi-Chi since his return to life. It was Chi-Chi’s private time. She told him it was a miracle he returned to the family and will give thanks every day.

Ch every dayi-Chi unclasped her hand and stood. She saw Goku standing in the doorway. Goku took this signal to come in. “Still giving thanks for me being back?”

Chi-Chi pulled back the bed comforter. “Yes, but I also thanked a new person.”

Goku pulled the sheets back. “Who?”

“Your father.”

“My father?”

Chi-Chi climbed into bed. “He knew Freeza was a threat. He had the foresight to send you away. I’ll always be grateful for his decision. It brought you to me. It gave us our sons. I hope I can meet him in the next life and thank him.”

Goku didn’t want to dash Chi-Chi’s hopes but she needed to know the truth. “He wouldn’t be where I went, Chi-Chi. My father did the right thing at the end of his life but he did a lot of killing before that.”

“So, he’ll be in Hell?” Chi-Chi guessed.

Goku got in bed and settled his long legs under the cool sheets. “Or reincarnated.”

“I see.”

Goku thought his words would sadden her but Chi-Chi kept her smile. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because you were taken from me for seven years. You told everyone you wouldn’t return, but I knew I would see you again. I didn’t know if it meant you would return to us or if it’d be in the next life but I knew I’d see you again.” Chi-Chi closed her eyes as she placed a hand over her heart. “On my worst days, I prayed to see you again. It’s happened. I know if I pray hard enough I will meet your father and thank him.”

Chi-Chi was always a determined one. From marrying him and after years of marriage, finally getting him to work. When Chi-Chi set her mind on something, Goku knew she’d succeed at it. It was one of many things he admired about her. “I’ll be a fool to think you can’t do it. So if you see my father, tell him I said, ‘Hey.’”

Goku’s approval gave Chi-Chi hope. “So you believe it’s possible, too.”

“The living world and the dead can cross paths in dreams. Sometimes the dead can be felt by the living if ya not sleeping and if the alignment is right.”

He spoke so exact. It made Chi-Chi curious. “Did you do that? Did you try to reach me while I was awake?” Goku’s silence confirmed he did but Chi-Chi didn’t know when that happened. “When did you?”

Goku wasn’t sure if he should tell her. It might be painful for her. “I forget. Let’s go to bed.”

Goku turned off the lamp and nestled under the sheets. Chi-Chi wasn’t fooled. “You know but you won’t you tell me.”

“I forgot,” he lied. “It doesn’t matter. I’m back.”

“It matters to me.” Chi-Chi did know and wouldn’t tell her. What is he hiding?

Whatever it was, Chi-Chi knew she wouldn’t get it from Goku now. Goku fell asleep fast when his head touched the pillow. As Goku drifted off to sleep, Chi-Chi laid awake thinking over what Goku said about the world of the dead and living crossing paths.

Did Goku connect with me while he was dead? Can I communicate with his father, Bardock?

The latter Chi-Chi wasn’t sure. His death was over forty years ago. He could have been reincarnated or he could still be wandering in the afterlife waiting for the right alignment. The chances of them crossing paths were slim. Bardock did a noble thing at the end of his life but it wouldn’t make up for the sins of his life.

He wasn’t evil Chi-Chi reasoned in her mind. He did evil things on the orders of a monster. It was the way of life he lived under and he couldn’t say no without sacrificing his life. That would’ve prevented my Goku from being born and coming to me.

The chance to cross paths wasn’t strong but a chance was a chance and Chi-Chi had hope she and Bardock will cross paths where she could give her thanks.  

That belief lingered in her mind as she drifted to sleep.

*****

I think we can stay one more hour and then we should go back to our hotel room. What do you think, Goten?

Goten answered with a babble as he chewed his toy. He was happy with whatever Chi-Chi wanted. The decision to stay relied on Gohan as he played with the children in the park.

Chi-Chi brought her sons to Metro East for a vacation. They have spent the past two years at Mount Paozu being a happy family of three but Chi-Chi thought the family could use a change of scenery. They traveled to Metro East, visited Orin Temple, city shops and the memorial shrine dedicated to the victims of the Saiyan attack. They were now at a park Chi-Chi remembered coming to Goku with when Gohan was a toddler.

If she closed her eyes, Chi-Chi could remember Gohan’s playful shrieks as Goku pushed him on the swing, went down the curvy slides and chased him around the pond. She remembered Gohan’s reluctance to play on the monkey bars. He cried, unwilling to go unless Goku held him and helped him across.

Gohan was all laughs now as he easily climbed those monkey bars. He even wowed the kids doing it with his eyes closed. This is what Gohan needed Chi-Chi thought. A change of scenery to run and play with children his age, put down the books and enjoy being a kid.

A cry suddenly erupted from Goten. Chi-Chi checked his diaper. It was dry. She took out his baby bottle and rubbed the rubber end to his lips. He refused. Goten never refused a bottle. Even when he wasn’t hungry, he’d drink a few sips out of habit. Chi-Chi pulled Goten from his stroller and held him to her breasts. “Oh, what’s wrong, Goten? Are you getting bored? Do you want Big Brother to play with you?”

“He has a strong pair of lungs,” a man observed. “I hope that means he’s strong.”

Chi-Chi turned her head to the man lowering himself to sit on the bench with her. The sunlight oddly blocked her eyes from seeing his face. She could see his body; strong and big. His hair, wild and defiant, looked familiar to one who used to hold her and was forever gone.

It wasn’t him but if only she could see his face and…..

Was that a halo over his head?

“Oh, Goten will be a strong one just like his Daddy.”

“Goten?” the man let the name roll off his tongue. “Strange name.”

Maybe it was her gently patting his back or the man’s voice sounding strong but soothing, but Goten quietly settled. His eyes were fixated on the man. Goten could see him but Chi-Chi couldn’t.

“His name represents sky and heaven in memory of his Daddy.”

“Ah,” the man sounded disappointed. “His father crossed over.” The man’s head turned in the sunlight. “Must have been young. Unfortunate. I thought living on a peaceful planet would spare him the tragedy I endured.”

Chi-Chi’s lips parted as the sunlight faded from the man’s face. His face was the same as her beloved; strong and handsome but marred with a scar on his left cheek. His wild hair was a giveaway but she failed to see who he was until now.  

“Bardock….” Chi-Chi whispered the name.

Was this real? How could he be here?

“My grandson,” Bardock gently touched Goten’s pudgy arm. “He’s second born. Second sons resemble the father.” A smile tugged the corner of his lips. “My son had two offspring.”

“The other is on the swing,” Chi-Chi whispered unable to take her eyes off him.

Bardock looked away from her to Gohan pushing himself on the swing high, jumping off to flip and perfectly land on his feet. “I’ve never smiled like that in my youth. This world offers blessings my world could not give.”

Chi-Chi didn’t understand how Bardock could be here. She knew to take advantage of the opportunity. “How did you know Earth would be perfect for Goku?”

“Goku.” The name didn’t roll easily off Bardock’s tongue. “I didn’t. I knew it was far enough and too insignificant to concern Freeza. If Saiyans were hunted, they wouldn’t look for Kakarot here.”

“It was a smart decision.” Chi-Chi smiled as Goten reached for Bardock. “Would you like to hold your grandson?”

Bardock looked reluctant, almost fearful to do so. “I….. I…..”

Chi-Chi answered for him as she gently put Goten into Bardock’s arms. “He’s half-Saiyan so you know he’s strong and will not easily break.”

Goten’s curious hands touched Bardock’s uniform. Bardock’s eyes roamed wondrously over the child in his arms. “I never held Kakarot.” Goten raised himself to grab a piece of Bardock’s hair and tug hard. “Maybe that was a good thing.”

Chi-Chi quietly giggled. If only she had a camera, Chi-Chi would record the moment.

Relaxing slightly, Bardock raised Goten over his head. The child laughed happily while trying to grab Bardock’s wild bangs again. “If only Kakarot could have escaped my fate of dying young.”

“If it’s any comfort, Goku died saving everyone.”

“Hmm.” The irony wasn’t lost on Bardock. “Like father, like son.” Bardock looked around the park at his grandson and happy people enjoying the warm afternoon. “But where I failed, Kakarot succeeded.” His eyes settled on Gohan. He stood around a group of kids as a ball rolled to him. Gohan kicked it. The ball fired into the sky and disappeared from view as it soared from the park, astonishing everyone except the proud mother and grandfather on the park bench. “He’s strong.”

“So is this one,” Chi-Chi remarked her of curious baby. “I’ll make sure he’s stronger than Gohan.”

“You?”

“I’m a martial artist,” Chi-Chi proudly confessed. “Goku and I were promised to each other as children but I won Goku’s heart in the ring.”

Bardock laughed. Oh, how he liked that! “Like a true Saiyan.”

“Yes,” Chi-Chi agreed. “I got myself a good one. Like his father.”

The smile faded from Bardock’s face. He returned Goten to Chi-Chi. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I have done.”

Bardock’s sins didn’t matter to Chi-Chi. “I know all I need. You gave me Goku. That’s a blessing I will carry in my heart forever. Thank you for delivering Goku here to me and our little blue planet.”

“When I sent Kakarot away, I knew I wouldn’t see him again. I am at peace with the life he did have and the legacy he leaves behind. My soul is at peace.” Bardock smiled a man pleased to know his death wasn’t in vain. He began to fade with a parting message to Chi-Chi. “Thank you for giving Kakarot a life I could not give.”

****

Birds chirping outside willed Chi-Chi awake. Her mind was slightly foggy as she slowly pulled herself from the dream world to the living. She could feel Goku sleeping beside her but his presence wasn’t her focus.

I went to that park with Gohan and Goten. That did happen. Chi-Chi remembered it happened. But I was alone on that bench.

“The living world and the dead can cross paths in dreams. Sometimes the dead can be felt by the living if ya not sleeping and if the alignment is right.”

Is this what Goku meant? Did Bardock come to me in my dream?

Chi-Chi sat up. That had to be it. “It’s true. He came to me.”

“Who came to you?” Goku mumbled as he slowly awakened. He yawned and rubbed his sleepy eyes. He propped his head on his elbow. “Who’s ‘He?’”

Chi-Chi could hear the curious jealousy in Goku’s voice. “Your father. I dreamt of him.”

Goku’s eyes fully opened. “You did? He came?” Goku hoped success for Chi-Chi to meet his father in her dreams but thought the chances were too slim.

“Yes. I was at a park in Metro East. The one we took Gohan when he was a baby. I did go there after you died with Goten and Gohan. I was alone on the bench then but in my dream, your father sat next to me.”

Goku sat up happy to hear it. “What happened?”

“He watched Gohan on the swings and held Goten. He was sad you were gone but happy you had a good life.”

“Did you tell him I said, ‘Hey’?”

Chi-Chi put a hand over her mouth ashamed she didn’t. “No. I forgot. It happened so fast.”

“It’s all right.” His message to his father wasn’t important to Goku. He was happy Chi-Chi got what she wanted. Fighting off another yawn, Goku stretched his arms over his head and got out of bed. “What’s for breakfast? I’m starving.”

“It was the night of the Cell Game, wasn’t it?” Chi-Chi suddenly blurted.

Goku couldn’t take another step. Her words froze him and made his heart thump faster in his chest.

“I was crying in bed thinking how I lost you again. I thought I imagined it but I felt the shift in our bed. I felt your arms around me. I smelled dirt mixed with the pine of the forest. I smelled you. I thought I was hallucinating but I felt your kiss on my neck and your voice say….”

“‘Please remember.’” Goku turned around. Chi-Chi was off the bed and coming to him. “I didn’t know you if you could feel me. King Kai said you wouldn’t.”

“I did.” Happy tears sprang from Chi-Chi’s eyes as she embraced him. “You were here.”

Goku’s arms circled Chi-Chi. “Only a few seconds. It was all King Kai would allow. I want to talk--”

“Shhh,” Chi-Chi gently shushed him. “I never needed words as long as I had you.” It could have been one second and it would have been enough for Chi-Chi. “I thought I was hallucinating in my grief but it gave me comfort I will see you again. And here we are.” Chi-Chi smiled with happy tears. “Together again.”

“Forever,” Goku promised with a kiss.

They held each other happy to be reunited and grateful for this miraculous chance. Suddenly, Goku had a strange feeling they weren’t alone. There was a presence watching them. He looked towards the window and saw a figure fading in the morning light. He had a halo, wore Saiyan armor, had a tail wrapped around his waist and looked like him.

Father?

Father and son held a brief gaze before Bardock began to fade. Bardock couldn’t speak but Goku heard Bardock’s thoughts in his mind.

Kakarot. Your beautiful wife. Your strong sons. Take good care of them.

[sanemisstalker]

Idk why but like I really wanna die in somebody’s arms- it’s like such a beautiful but sad way to die?

(**kny spoilers**)

kinda like how Mitsuri died in Obanai’s arms bc that was such a heartbreaking moment but it also was kinda sweet at the same time? Idek anymore 😭 ty for your time btw <3

Broooo-

I hate to be that guy and point to your username, but I think dying in Giyu's arms would be the worst emotionally. I think it'd be actually devastating.

CW// Death / Implied Major Character Death/ Implied Suicide/ Angst

A part of me reasons that Sanemi could handle it about as well as he handles anything else. Poorly, but he'd continue like he always does. That's all he can do because he thinks anything else is a show of extreme cowardice and he doesn't deserve to feel that way.

But when you're in his arms, dying, more color is dissapearing, and he's fighting to see your face past the tears- he's wailing and screaming, and trying to command you to come back. That normally works. Maybe he's gotten scary enough to scare death, but no. He'll never be enough to fend off the inevitable.

I don't think Shinobu would be much different. She has an astonishing amount of hate in her heart. Enough to patch up the wound long enough for her to pretend it isn't there anymore.

You'd be lying in her arms, and all of it would be beating against her head. Every word you ever said, every piece of medical knowledge she had, and for her to be the only one able to know just how incapable she was of saving you- She'd start begging a higher power, probably, begging you to be strong in her stead- save yourself because she's not strong enough.

Rengoku wouldn't cry until you fully slipped away, doing all he could to muster his voice flat- you needed comfort, obviously. He knew it wouldn't heal the wounds, nothing could, but he was still denying that to keep his smile wide.

You wouldn't be in his arms but on his lap, his hand sweeping hair from your fading eyes. I think He'd sit there for a while. For too long, just trying to prevent tears, because you wouldn't make a move to wipe them.

Tengen would hurt, bad. You're in his arms, and he's rocking you, and he's having a panic attack- He'd deny it the hardest. For the longest.

There's a notable difference, Tengen understood, between the weight of a breathing person, and a dead body. He knew that difference the second you slumped against his shoulder, and his knees hit the ground. He'd try to wake you up, tell you to stop the act, it isn't funny, because God, what else could he do but joke in a half witted prayer to hear your laugh.

Giyu....

Fuck me , man. I don't think he's emotionally strong enough to handle anymore loss. He's already disliked by his peers, by himself, god, and everyone who breathed. You were the only person willing to talk with him- to waste time on him. To love him.

The imagery for this one is vivid- the rain. Ironic. Even in his own element he couldn't save you. He's hunched over you and mimics your shallow breathes, protecting your face from the down pour.

You can't get the words out to say how much you really, deeply love him. He keeps shushing you, trying to conserve your energy- He's panicking, too, hands unsure of their need. There were so many wounds, he couldn't possibly tend to them all.

The poor boy would whisper a beg- to let him go in your stead. He couldn't be left alone to survive again. Not again. He had too many lives he was carrying on his shoulders. Too many souls he was responsible for reaching heaven with, and he was never that good a man.

He's not asking God, he's asking you. And how cruel you were to not let him die.

'I can't- Y/N, I can't do this again.' He'd sound close to vomiting. A certain animalistic sound to his voice. Guttural, almost. 'You-You-God- no-no-n-'

But you'd be gone, unable and unwillingly to give him to permission he so desperately needed. Not deserved, He'd remind himself.

He'd all but rot next to you. The second your last breathe loosed, he'd stop breathing, too. Days would go by. Unmoving. Unfeeling.

I truly believe he'd die with you that day.

[star-farer]

like swallowing knives

Summary: Broken dreams water the seeds of bitterness. AU: Imperial Taglist: @kybercrystals94, @fionas-frenzy, @padawancat97

Author's note: If there's anyone who knows how to string Mando'a sentences, could you please verify the one line I've written?

Dark hair tumbles past a face hidden behind shaking hands. The red bandana does not serve its purpose, hanging limply between white-knuckled fingers, shuddering along with them.

Crosshair does not need his superior vision to pick apart each tell, each sign that make up his brother.

His stupid, broken elder brother.

There’s a perfectly good rack unfolded for him to sit on, but he’s chosen to hunch over on the floor with his knees drawn up and his elbows resting on them. He’s shivering as if a frosty gale is sweeping the room, as if its icy tendrils are creeping in past his armor and up his blacks, brushing along his skin.

He’s trying so hard to keep control of himself, to keep his emotions in check, to remain calm. Each imperceptible grunt or silent huff is a muted cry he refuses to let claw out of his throat. He’ll choke on his own voice if he keeps this up.

Crosshair presses the button for the ray-shield, watching Hunter’s head snap up.

Golden eyes so wide, he can see the red branching along the edges of his whites. Slack-jawed and haggard, hands dropping like lead weights at his sides as he gapes up at him. He looks terrible. Disheveled. Tired. Frightened.

“Kihvod.”

Almost flinching back, Crosshair’s mouth twists. Their native tongue has gone unspoken, unheard of for the past few months, washed from the mouths of the clones along with the colors of their armor. So has any semblance of warmth, any measure of gentleness or kindness.

It is this loss of familiarity that renders Crosshair yearning for and recoiling at the softness in the singular word his brother breathes like a prayer of hope. Like a whispered reassurance. Like a plea to come home.

He doesn’t pull of his helmet, therefore, when he steps into the cell, towering over Hunter. His brother cranes his neck to look up at him, swallowing thickly as he meets his gaze past his visor. It’s another one of Hunter’s uncanny abilities, to meet one’s gaze head-on despite a bucket between them.

Hunter breathes in shakily, and Crosshair watches as his expression shutters. Or attempts to. There are still slivers of cracks in his facade. He’s keeping them there for Crosshair to see.

“Omega?”

Ah, the object of their affection, their beloved little girl. Just the thought of her, so small and sweet and painfully young, pierces the very marrow of his heart. There is such fear in Hunter’s wide eyes, such horror, he cannot help but crouch down beside him and reach out, squeezing his shoulder.

“The surgery was a success.” His brother sags against his grip. “She’ll recover. She’s resting now.”

One of Hunter’s hands move to cover his trembling mouth as he turns away, a teardrop running down his cheek. He nods, jerky and turbulent, his eyes squeezing shut as his breaths come ragged and uneven.

He sobs, then, keeling over, so suddenly that Crosshair jolts after him, both arms slipping beneath his brother to stop him from planting face first into the floor.

“We nearly lost her.”

And stars above, if that isn’t the whole kriffed-up truth of it all.

It’s all his fault, seethes Crosshair’s psyche, burning with a rage that he deems righteous, It’s all Hunter’s fault, ever since he defected. He could’ve prevented all of this if he had just remained loyal. Omega would never have come to harm. None of this would ever have happened.

If only he had followed orders.

Like a good soldier.

Good Soldiers Follow Orders.

He wants to spit this truth in Hunter’s face, watch his oh-so-perfect ori’vod recoil at the sound of his failures and faults. He wants Hunter’s decisions to haunt him, like they have haunted Crosshair, with their could-haves and should-haves and wrong-wrong-wrongness.

But, as he listens to his brother’s racking sobs, watches his entire form heave like a tempest ravaging Kamino’s seas, the sharp words wilt at the tip of his tongue, falling flat and bitter. They roll behind into the crevices of his teeth, whetting themselves to be spewed out another time, another day.

Because Hunter knows this. Hunter knows all of this, and Crosshair would be doing little but echoing the facts that must ring in his stupid head. Her injuries, her wounds, her pain; they soil his brother’s hands, as if an animal has clawed his palms and left his skin to soak in the red.

He is the eldest, he is the Sergeant, even if he has long since given away his position for a so-called freedom from an Empire that refuses to concede to his morality.

A morality the Republic had never sought to consider in all their cadet-hood.

That is a thought he will entertain another time, and not when he oversees his brother’s descent to ruin. The Republic is a past Crosshair is eager to leave behind, along with his life on Kamino. Omega is a future Crosshair embraces with both hands, to grow alongside her and his brothers until death comes at last to claim him.

And Hunter, who will always be the Sergeant in Crosshair’s eyes, who is scarred and defaced by every mistake of his brothers, who is bent by the weight of love and care; Hunter has ruined Crosshair’s future.

There is no forgiveness to be found in Crosshair, no mercy for the man who has wronged him. Not when Crosshair had everything — joy, life, love to last him a hundred years — and lost it all to a single ill-made choice.

And who else is to blame but the Sergeant of Clone Force 99?

Without remorse has Crosshair weighed him, therefore, as brother, soldier and commanding officer; in each of these positions he has weighed this clone he must call his older brother, and found him wanting.

Severely wanting.

But when Crosshair weighs him as father, and he sets down the standard on the other end of the scale, his exceptional vision blurs and his aching head shrieks and the laughing eyes of a child he loves more dearly than his own breath fills his mind’s eye.

He cannot judge him as father, he finds. Not when he has been the cause for heartache as of late.

Eyes wide in disbelief; lower lip trembling, she bites to cease, but draws blood instead; little hands outstretched towards him; she begs him to—

“Please, Buir. Please stop. Please come home. Crosshair. Buir.”

“Aim for the kid.”

He’s never known raw, bone-chilling terror before. Not until he found himself peering at his daughter’s face centered in the crosshairs of his scope.

How tragic.

“Stop it.”

Why is his face wet? Why is he crouched on the floor? Why is breathing so hard?

Your daughter almost died.

It’s all Hunter’s fault.

“Can I see her?”

He blinks, vision still distorted by the sheen of moisture over his pupils. He hadn’t spoken, he’s fairly sure. His voice doesn’t sound half so gravelly or deep or smokey—

Oh. He follows his arms to where they end in hands clamped around broad shoulders.

Hunter.

He clears his throat, which ends in a coughed attempt to clear out the thick webbing in his windpipe. “What?”

The shoulders rise and fall, stuttering a jolting moment, before brass-knuckled eyes level upon him, ruined by the puffed and tired face they are set in.

“Can I see my daughter?”

His daughter.

His daughter.

A hysteric, cynical laughter bubbles in his chest.

Hunter wishes to see his daughter.

The daughter he almost got kriffing killed.

It isn’t his fault.

Yes. It. Kriffing. Is.

The shove he gives his brother is rough, loathing, enraged — even if it is half-hearted at best. He stands, towering once more over the pathetic form of his former Sergeant.

And Hunter must see it, the exact moment something snaps in Crosshair, because his posture straightens, his muscles stiffen, his lips press down in a twitching line. He pulls his walls down mercilessly, wrought with pure beskar when they slam in Crosshair’s face.

Hunter no longer sits crouched before him. Only CT-9901 of Experimental Unit 99.

Never has Crosshair felt safer behind his helmet and visor, never more certain when such a gaze has been shot at him like a blast to the heart.

He stands, he turns, he climbs out of the cell, he slaps the button for the ray-shield. All while desperately stamping out his burning, bleeding, anguished heart.

He does not face his brother when he finally gives him his answer, when he gives him his last word and leaves, just like Hunter had left him; another failure in a long and growing list for the ex-Sergeant.

“Nayc,” Crosshair growls over his pauldron, the language harsh and grating in his mouth from disuse, his tone equally coarse, “Nu’gar haa’tayli ner ad.”

In that instant, Omega becomes the only survivor of his entire family.

Good Soldiers Follow Orders.

[tragedybunny]

Slow Dancing In a Burning Room - Chapter 2

༺Summary༻

In a moment of weakness, Serafina helped Astarion ascend, forever altering him and their relationship. Irrevocably bonded in violence, can she survive life at his side, or will she be broken by the cycle of pain and terror.

༺Pairing༻ Astarion x Serafina (Female Tav)

༺Warnings༻ Dubcon / Noncon elements , violence, toxic / abusive relationships

༺Word Count༻ 2047

༺Masterlist༻

༺A/N༻ The consent is very much dubious here below, to reiterate the warning. It has been a bit of a treat to write Astarion being his worst self. I will have to take fluff breaks, so if you follow my other stuff, don't despair, more fluff will come. Thanks to @themadlu for the beta on this chapter read on AO3

꧁༺Chapter 2 - First, Thou Shall Obey Me as Thou Lovest Me ༻꧂

༺ In which Serafina learns the first of Astarion's "rules" for her existence.༻

Astarion did not set rules for her the way Cazador and Vellioth had for their Spawn. His rules were implied, unspoken commands that she would learn through trial and error. 

“Sera,” his voice was singsong, playful in a way she knew was dangerous. “Wake up, little love,” he called, from where he lay, on his side, behind her. 

Sleep was starting to release its grip on her when she felt the press of him at her entrance from behind. Then, he was plunging in, her struggling to accommodate him. A sound between a moan and a yelp escaped her as a hand tangled in her hair, yanking until her eyes opened wide. 

“Wake up, Serafina,” he hissed, thrusting his hips, the pain of it lessened by her mercifully growing wetness. 

Arching her spine, she positioned herself to give him the best angle to fill her with, and ease her own discomfort. It was something she had learned very early in her time as Consort to the Vampire Ascendant; Astarion would take his pleasure when he deigned, and she would need to make the best of it. “I am awake, my love.” She let out a breathy gasp as warm heat began to build in her core, her body responding to him as it always did, even when she wished it wouldn’t, even when she hated what he was doing to her.  

Groaning, he dug his fingers into her hip, leaving bruises that would heal fast enough. At the very least, nothing he ever did to her left a lasting mark. “It took far too long,” he snapped, thrusting into her with escalating violence. “Touch yourself,” he ordered. 

Without hesitation, her fingers found her clit, working the bundle of nerves quickly. Though she knew he cared very little for her enjoyment on days like these, it was still somehow an insult to him, if she didn’t reach climax. She offered a prayer to the gods that she could accomplish the task this morning, since something had him in a foul mood. 

Closing her eyes, she drifted far away, to a different time, to a different Astarion. Not the monster she made, but the sweet elf who had wanted something real, the one that was hidden from her so often these days. How he would hold her and touch her gently, and they would reach a bliss born of love together. 

Her breath came in little pants, she was so close. He was with her, whispering softly to her, and she was happy, safe, loved. “Ast-”

With one harsh thrust and another groan, he finished, tearing her from her beautiful dream. He pulled her hips tight to his, making sure to fill her with every drop of his seed. A mark of ownership, as her new life prevented her womb from ever carrying children. That very same dead organ had cost her the favor of her Patron.

Titania had been merciful, withholding her wrath until the Netherbrain sank beneath the Chionthar, allowing Sera to wield her warlock magic to help end the threat of the Absolute. Then, on a morning garden walk, protected from the sun as Astarion had promised, Titania appeared. A twisted reflection of their first meeting, gone was the kindly Fey who had called herself Godmother; now she appeared as the wrathful Queen of Summer burning like the sun. 

“You have betrayed our bargain, Serafina,” her golden eyes flashed and a halo of fiery red hair seemed to move with life of its own. 

Her gaze found the intricate stonework of the garden path and studied it. “Please, your Majesty, I can still be of use,” she pleaded, desperate at the thought of losing her power, and no longer being hidden from remembrance. 

“You had one use, girl, raise a house to serve me, as your ancestors served my sister. This creature that you’ve become is incapable of that. Consider yourself lucky that I merely take back what it is mine, and not hold you to the strictest terms we set. Though in a way, this is its own punishment.” 

Sera chanced a glance at the seething Queen, and swore she caught a hint of sadness in her eyes. 

“Serafina,” Astarion’s voice beckoned and she felt herself tense. She hadn’t been in the garden that long, but, in the short time since they’d moved into Cazador’s old manor, he’d become concerned with keeping her close to him as often as possible. 

“I will leave you to your paramour. We will not meet again, child.” Titania was gone in a burst of light, leaving behind the scent of wildflowers and warm forest, the scent Astarion had once said she carried. 

An emptiness crept through her veins, a hollow feeling where once her magic had dwelt. Another part of her that was gone, like her reflection or the breath in her lungs. Her legs wobbled beneath her and threatened to give out. 

“Little love,” he was closer and his tone had grown terse. He worried for her, everything had always been taken from him, and she could be too. 

“I’m here,” she called back, voice cracking. 

Then he was there beside her, as though he hadn’t been far away at all. Although she was sure he’d sounded closer to the manor. Strong arms wrapped around her and she let herself collapse into his chest, choking back her tears. 

“What is it, my darling?” He cooed at her, stroking her hair gently. “What happened?”

“Ti-Titania,” she managed, resisting the urge to sob. “She came, said our pact was over, she took my power.” 

His hands gripped her shoulder, tightening until she gasped. “Oh my sweet, silly, little Serafina. Why ever would you be concerned with losing that blasted pact?” 

“I…” She struggled to think of an answer that would explain it. These flashes of another Astarion hadn’t gone away once they were safe. More and more, he was there, the spawn she loved disappearing into him. 

“See? You can’t think of one good reason.” His lips kissed the top of her head, even as his fingers seemed to dig into her bones. “You don’t need her magic, you have me. I’ll always protect you, and you’ll want for nothing, just like I promised. Isn’t that good enough?” 

“Of course my love. It’s just…”

“Just what?” His tone turned dark. 

“It’s strange for me.” It was a mood she was learning well, one that would tolerate no argument. 

His grip relaxed and he pulled her to him again. “I suppose it is, but you’ll adapt quickly you have a talent for it. Now let’s get inside, we’ve a lot of decorating to see to and I want your opi-” He cut himself off and tilted her chin up to look into his eyes. “I know you, don’t I?”

She tried to shrink away, to find a way to deny it. But with Titania’s pact gone, the magic that had protected her was gone too. Everyone would remember her, even Astarion. “Lady Serafina Glacies. Your mother is quite infamous among the nobility, as I recall. And that night, Cazador announced your betrothal, you were terrified, poor little thing.” He chuckled. The man she loved, laughed at the worst moment of her life. “Looks like you're another thing I took from him, another thing that he was unworthy to have.” 

And here she was now, not the Summer Queen's Warlock, not the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, simply the Consort. 

“Didn't finish, love,” he clicked his tongue at her mockingly. “Poor little thing.” 

“It's fine,” something in his tone felt ominous.

“Nonsense,” his fangs nipped the back of her neck before he moved. Shoving her to her back, he kneeled between her thighs, hooking her knees over his shoulders, leaving her dreadfully exposed to him.

A finger ran along her slit, eliciting a whimper. “You know, things like waking up and finding release wouldn't be so difficult if you'd just drink sentient blood.” He began to trace rough circles around her clit, the pressure walking a line between pain and pleasure.  

“I just don't want to hurt anyone.” He'd been insistent it would solve all her problems, to just drink thinking blood once, and see what she was missing.

A snarl curled his lip upward and he glared down at her. “You know, there was a time when I would have given anything to feed as I wished.” A pale hand lashed out, wrapping around her throat, cutting off air she didn’t need, but blood she very much did. Once her instinct might have been to fight, but she had learned it only made him angrier. Instead, she fought to push down the rising panic and ignore the dizziness she knew would set in if he didn’t let go. 

His fingers continued their violent ministrations, her clit aching under his touch, and no way to escape him. Whimpers died in her closed throat, and yet she felt her body betraying her and climax building. “That was almost your fate too, in case you’ve forgotten. But look at how kind the gods were, delivering you to me instead.” 

He plunged inside her again, even as his hand remained around her throat. “If you would just stop being stubborn and listen to me,” every word was punctuated by the thrust of his hips and the throb of her tortured clit.

With shame, she felt herself clench around him, as she reached bliss in the midst of the madness. 

“Good girl,” he purred, releasing her throat, seemingly finally pleased with something about her this morning. Only for the hand still abusing her sex to suddenly pinch her sharply. “It really shouldn't have taken so much.” 

But a few more thrusts occupied him with finishing while she blinked back tears and felt the blood returning to her brain. He was still, and calm, eyes softening as he looked down at her. “Oh my sweet,” startlingly gentle fingers brushed her hair from her face. “I’m sorry, I got worked up. I only want the best for you.”

She relaxed into the touch, the soft words. This was her Astarion, the one she loved. The other she had to endure at times, but this one was hers. Turning her head, she kissed his palm as it trailed along her cheek. “I know,” she rasped, through vocal cords that would recover soon enough. 

“Shh,” he leaned down to kiss her softly enough that the fear melted away. 

Collapsing beside her, he pulled her onto his chest, where he could pet her and kiss the top of her head over and over. “Really my love, it just vexes me when you won't take care of yourself.”

“I love you,” she whispered, wanting to hold onto this moment of calm.  

“I know you do, my little treasure, my Serafina.” He squeezed her tightly and sighed happily. “I know. I just have to help you through this.”

Her stomach dropped, all the peace she'd found evaporating. “What do you mean?” 

Astarion rolled her off his chest, and sat up with a knowing smile. “You have this hesitation about eating properly. And you need help getting over it, so I'm going to help you.” 

“But Astarion…”

He cut her off with a finger against her lips and tutted. “Now, now, little love, you'll just have to wait and see. And do one little thing for me.” Astarion’s eyes began to glow red and she felt an itching in her mind. “You're not to leave our rooms until I return.” 

There was pain tearing through her heart and fresh tears pooling in her eyes. There was no choice but to listen to his command, the command of a sire to his spawn. He'd compelled her. “You said you'd never.” 

“If you were obedient. Starving yourself is not very obedient. What if you got weak and were killed and left me alone?” He stayed calm but she could hear the anger simmering beneath the surface. 

Rising from the bed, he began to dress for the day, while she lay there, still in disbelief. “When I return, we'll settle this matter.” 

He leaned over and kissed her, ignoring the tears silently falling. And then he was gone, leaving Sera to await what his idea of help would be. 

[lady-of-imladris]

CHAPTER 12 - IT WASN’T FAIR

Synopsis: Ever since the death of the Queen, relations between the Mirkwood and the other elven dwellings have been bad. Legolas gets to quizz Glorfindel on death and rebirth. Thranduil and Arwen finally meet.

Word count: 2.5k

Pairings: Thranduil/OC

Warnings: mentioned kidnapping, and as always it's sad.

Additional tags: hurt (comfort coming soon though). I am very bad at tags. Sorry.

Link to the chapter overview

We can plant a memory garden Say a solemn prayer, place a poppy in my hair There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair - The Great War (Taylor Swift)

Relations between Lasgalen and the other elven dwellings remained distant for centuries. Thranduil did not prevent his son from visiting Lothloríen or Imladris, but he never accompanied him and never gave his son a reason for his doing so. The Prince took notice of the sour expression on his father’s face at every mention of Elrond or Galadriel’s names soon enough. Yet Thranduil remained in constant contact with Celeborn over the years. He was the first person, apart from his own council, Thranduil reached out to for advice. The King of the Woodland Realm also remembered sending gifts to his niece and nephews on important occasions.

The twins, Elladan and Elrohir, who faintly remembered Thranduil from their childhood grew to resent him. He did not visit them and had made it clear that their father Lord Elrond was not welcome in his forest. Arwen however, who had never met Thranduil, one day asked her mother Celebrían why this King who obviously had enough of a connection with her to send her gifts never visited them. And so Celebrían told her young daughter a story of two sisters who grew up in an enchanted forest.

“One of the sisters was gentle and quiet. She enjoyed walking through the forest in the early hours of the morning and enjoyed music and art. She later fell in love with a King’s herald, married him and became the Lady of a great house.” Arwen’s eyes widened. “But that’s you Ammë!” she exclaimed excitedly. Her mother smiled warmly. “Yes my little star, but you have to let me finish the story.” Arwen settled down again and looked at her mother expectantly. “The other sister had always been different. She mastered every weapon she was handed almost immediately and spent her days training with common soldiers and studying the art of war instead of enjoying their peaceful dwelling.

“When the threat of Mordor became too large, the first sister took care of the people. She gave them shelter and safety in her home. The other sister went to war and on the battlefield, she met the King of Greenwood the Great. It is said that the King fell so deeply and irrevocably in love with her that as soon as he laid eyes on her, their fate was sealed. They married soon after the war ended and she became the fierce and beloved Queen of Lasgalen. But their happiness should not last long, for their Kingdom is Mirkwood, home to many dark things. And when their enemy reemerged, the Queen took up arms once more, and an army of elves chased the darkness away.

“That day, King Thranduil lost his beloved Queen and ever since then, he has not been the same. He grew resentful of Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel, for he believed they could have saved his wife. To this day, he refuses to speak with either of them, and has never even come to meet you. He cares for you greatly, little star, but his suffering is still too great.” Arwen was quiet for a while. “So he will not visit us?” Celebrían shook her head. “Then we should visit him. He sounds lonely.” The Lady of Rivendell smiled sadly. “What a sweet thought my little star. Maybe someday we will visit him.”

Hundreds of years later, Arwen finally got to meet her cousin. Legolas visited Rivendell long and often. Too long and often, Thranduil thought. However, that kept the king well informed of what was going on outside of his Kingdom and so the day came when a letter arrived from Legolas that piqued his interest. He wrote to tell his father that Glorfindel, a Lord of Gondolin, who had died during its fall at the hands of a balrog, had been released from the Halls of Mandos and decided to return to Middle Earth to serve Elrond. Thranduil vaguely recalled some relation of Elrond’s who had lived in Gondolin, but he did not care enough to remember it. The Noldor and their complicated family trees had always annoyed him greatly. Thranduil leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. A few thousand years. That’s how long this Glorfindel had spent in the Halls of Mandos. Thranduil dared to hope again. Maybe it would not be too long until he saw her again.

Legolas found himself going out of his way to avoid Glorfindel. He tried his best to suppress the urge to ask him every single question he ever had about the Halls of Mandos, worried that his questions may bring back unpleasant memories or overwhelm Glorfindel. He continued doing this until Celebrían decided that enough was enough. She spotted Legolas on a balcony, staring up at the night sky. Others merely thought Legolas enjoyed the stars even more than other elves, but the Lady of Imladris knew precisely what constellation he was looking at every single time. Glorfindel arrived promptly when he heard that the Lady needed him. “Talk to him,” was the only thing she asked of the Lord of Gondolin. So Glorfindel did.

He walked up to Legolas slowly, trying not to startle him. “Lord Glorfindel!” the Prince of Mirkwood exclaimed in surprise. “My apologies, I shall give you some space” and began slowly walking away. “Please,” Glorfindel called out, “please stay. The Lady Celebrían told me you might have some questions for me. I would like to hear them.” And so Legolas stayed and Legolas asked. Glorfindel did his best to answer the young Prince’s questions, but his answers were far from satisfactory.

“When one of the eldar dies, their soul splits from their body. It is a pain I do not wish upon my worst enemy,” Glorfindel explained, “but we are bound to this world and will return to it again and again and again. The Halls of Mandos are there so we can heal from this pain. The time spent there depends on how violent someone’s death was, and how they are handling it. I know few who returned from the Halls, but the world is yet young and many died a horrible death.” Glorfindel sighed deeply, as if recalling the atrocities he witnessed. Did he recall his death? “I do not wish to pry, but do you- do you remember how you… died?” Legolas felt stupid. How could he ask such an insensitive question?

“I do,” Glorfindel answered calmly, “but not in the way you may think I do. There is no pain, only acceptance. I had thousands of years to heal. But I remember the city burning, I remember the Balrog. And I remember falling to my death.” “I’m sorry.” Legolas felt bad for Glorfindel. For every elf that ever died. Having to remember your own death. Or even deaths? Technically, there was no limit to how many times an elf could die. Glorfindel gave him a reassuring pat on the back. “Your mother will return to you one day, I am certain of it.” Legolas looked up at the stars again. “I heard that Sauron broke her neck. They say that she could not even scream for help, that she could barely even breathe in her last moments. I doubt she will recover from such pain.”

“I heard that she was strong. Unyielding.” Glorfindel had heard stories of the great queen, and the tragedy that had befallen her. Legolas shook his head. “She was gentle and warm and kind.” “These things,” the Lord spoke, “do not contradict one another. I believe that your mother will heal, and that you will see her again someday.” Glorfindel left the young Prince who was still looking at the stars. However, this time, he was looking at the stars not in sadness and longing, but with the firm belief that he would have his mother back. Some day.

In the year 2509 of the third age, a concerning report reached Thranduil. His sister-in-law, Celebrían, had been taken by orcs. She had visited her parents in Lothloríen and was attacked on her way back home. Elrond had sent out search parties, but so far to no avail. Thranduil sent out search parties of his own the moment he received the report and made his way to Rivendell to meet with Elrond and Legolas. The King had not seen Elrond or his nephews since the day his wife died. He had never even met Arwen. Now she was there to receive him when he arrived. At least that’s who Thranduil assumed the woman was. After all, she looked so much like her parents.

Coming here had been a bad idea. Thranduil desperately tried to push down every single emotion he was feeling. “Your majesty.” She curtsied. “Thank you for coming to our aid. I am Arwen, the youngest child of Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían.” Thranduil dismounted from his horse. He decided to skip the pleasantries. “What is currently being done to locate and recover your mother? Is your father here? And Legolas?” Arwen was efficient. On the short walk to the parlour, she had filled him in on everything. Elrond was in the Misty Mountains, searching for his wife. Legolas had joined the search. Thranduil’s forces had found Elrond’s forces and were coordinating the search. Arwen kept track of everything and assured the king that he had done everything in his power. All they could do now was wait.

Thranduil spent a whole week in Rivendell. Most stayed out of his way. Some out of respect, some out of fear, some out of their childish principles to be on Elrond’s side of their feud. The King of Lasgalen could not have cared less. Arwen did not avoid him. She was, however, quite reserved, as she barely even knew him. With her mother taken by orcs and her father and brothers, as well as most soldiers of Rivendell possibly endangering their lives trying to save her, Thranduil was technically the closest thing she had to family right now. He did not know how to comfort her, how to break down the invisible wall between the two of them that had just always been there. They were complete strangers after all.

“If there is anything I can do to help you. Anything at all-” Thranduil assured his niece multiple times. Anything. He would do anything so she did not have to go through the same thing Legolas did. They would get Celebrían back, no matter what. Most days, Arwen just nodded politely, thanked him, told him that there was nothing he could do. Until one night, she finally snapped. “My mother was taken away from me. Is that what it takes for you to finally take note of my existence? I appreciate you being here, truly I do. But if you are only here to compensate for being a horrible uncle for the last age, then by all means, go back home to your forest and continue to ignore me.”

He deserved that. He knew that he did. “I am here,” he said, “to keep you from the same fate my son endured. And to keep your father from suffering like I do. I understand that you are angry with me, you have every right to be.” Glaring angrily at him, she rose from her chair and stalked towards Thranduil, who downed his glass of wine in one sip. “You claim to want to help me? Help my father? You hate my father.” “I do not hate your father.” “You hate him. Admit it, you hate him. Because he is kinder than you could ever be. He would never have abandoned you and Legolas and you hate him for it.” Thranduil rose from his seat calmly, towering over Arwen. His furious niece barely came up to his chest and yet he feared she would attempt to claw his eyes out.

“I know that whatever I say now, you will not listen. You want to hurt me? Get it out of your system? Hit me.” He expected her to pull back, storm out of the room in anger, or at least wait to consider the consequences for a moment. Before he could brace himself, Thranduil stumbled back three steps. Arwen had pushed him away from the table with her full force and she stalked up to him again, fists raised. He let her hit him, defending himself only as much as necessary. She deserved to let out her anger and he deserved the pain. The punches came in rapid succession, Arwen screaming out all her anger and pain with each swing. She aimed for his face. Thranduil caught her arm, momentarily taken aback to the point that the enchantment on his face slipped.

Arwen paused for a split second before attacking him with her free hand. Thranduil caught it with ease. She kept kicking and spewing profanities at him until she was too tired to do anything but cry. Thranduil never let go of her. “It’s okay,” he whispered as she relaxed into his embrace, sobbing into his shirt, “we will find your mother, I promise it.” One of the guards burst through the door. “My Lady,” he panted, “they found her. She is alive.”

Thranduil stayed out of everyone’s way. He was just glad they had found Celebrían and that Legolas was unhurt. His reunion with Elrond and Galadriel was less joyful. He paused when he saw them walk past, as did they. They simply looked at him, two people who now better understood his pain, for while Galadriel had loved Anarríma dearly, she had never loved her as much as she had loved Celebrían, and she hated herself for it.

After just standing there for a while, Thranduil just bowed his head slightly. ‘I know your pain, as you now know mine’. Elrond inclined his head briefly and kept walking. ‘I am grateful for your help’. Galadriel approached him. Slowly. Carefully. “I loved her too. Everyone seems to think that I didn’t, but I miss her terribly. I miss her every single day.” Before Thranduil could respond, Galadriel hurried after Elrond. ‘She was the loss of my life. I’m sorry I could not save her.’

Thranduil and Legolas stayed in Rivendell for another week. Thranduil had hoped for a chance to apologize to Celebrían. For everything. However, the Lady of Rivendell never showed any signs of even acknowledging his presence. She did not speak, she barely ate. Thranduil was not even sure Celebrían recognized her family. He was not even sure she recognized herself. “Death would have been kinder.” He heard the whispers in dark hallways. Nevertheless, he had to return to his home. Almost a year later, the king was not surprised when a letter arrived from Imladris informing him that Celebrían would sail to the undying lands. To heal. Thranduil could not imagine how hard it was for Elrond. For their sons. For Arwen. They might not see each other again for a thousand years or more.

For once in his life, Thranduil finally knew what to do. He wrote a letter to Elrond. He threw in a letter to Galadriel for good measure. He wrote to Arwen too, and her brothers. Thranduil decided that he had to be there for them, knowing now that one day, he would get his wife back. His beautiful, loving, happy wife, fully healed from all that had happened to her. Celebrían had survived. But she may never be the same. Anarríma had been spared from that fate at least.

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I am SORRY that it took me so long again, but I have my heart set on finishing this fic. I promise you that I will not abandon it and as soon as all chapters are written, I will put it on AO3 too. Probably with some major editing, after all it has been over a year since I wrote the first chapter. Thank you for sticking with me <3

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[wanderingthroughsands]

III. Come not as you are but as you wish to be seen

I close my eyes then I drift away Into the magic night, I softly say A silent prayer like dreamers do Then I fall asleep to dream My dreams of you

- "In dreams" by Roy Orbison

I spent the next few days searching for information about the Dream Lord. Afternoons found me in the library, poring over every available mythology, seeking any clue that might help me confront him or at least hide from him—both in the waking world and in the Dreaming. Unfortunately, the more I learned, the greater my fear grew at the thought of our potential next meeting.

Lord Morpheus, as Matthew the Raven had called him several times during our talk, was an infinite being, divine almost, more powerful than any other entity in the universe. He had the ability to take on human form, perfectly mimicking our gestures and words. He gave and took away dreams, imprisoned and freed from nightmares. He rewarded and punished both mortals and gods alike. His existence and all his actions were centered around bringing hope—or depriving it from those who incurred his wrath.

Someone like me, one may say.

I also read extensively about the nature of nightmares. Where they come from and why, how they affect the body, and ways to prevent them. Most sources attributed their occurrence to stress and prolonged emotional tension. Carl Gustav Jung believed that nightmares never speak of what we already know, but of what we do not know or refuse to know. Megan Chance on the other hand, in her book „The Spiritualist”, wrote:

You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness.

Nightmares are also said to signal trauma, a painful experience from years past. Within their terrifying images, they carry a message in an unknown language. The author of one of the many articles on nightmares I had read summarized her reflections as follows:

"The mysterious god of dreams, Morpheus, is described in Greek mythology as a being endowed with exceptional wisdom and insight. So when he sends you a message, read it carefully."

I couldn't shake the memory of Dreamlord's deep gaze from my mind. I saw it in the raven that, despite my outburst of anger, watched me from afar every day, sometimes allowing himself to be seen on rooftops and in the treetops. I saw it in the shadows dancing among the falling autumn leaves, and sometimes I felt I saw it in the nightmares to which I fled from him each night. I was certain that Lord Morpheus was out there, waiting for me, and that he would inevitably find me if I let my guard down.

The day after my conversation with Matthew, I decided to send a short letter to Rose Walker. I found her publisher's address in Florida and, before bed, penned a few words to her. The next morning, I sent it off, hoping that someone who had clearly encountered the Lord of the Dreaming might help me prepare for a possible confrontation.

Rose,

You don't know who I am, but I believe we have a mutual acquaintance. During my journey through the Dreaming, I encountered Lord Morpheus and his raven, Matthew. The Dream Lord wants to capture me to destroy the power that allows me to awaken dreamers from their nightmares.

I know your book won't be published for another month, but if there are any relevant details within its pages, or if you possess any information that could help me, please, reach out to me. I'm leaving you my address and my phone number. I hope we can talk soon.

PS His eyes are as dark as night and as deep as the universe. If you have met him, you surely know what I mean.

"I can help you, but only if you let me."

That night, as in the previous few, I tried not to intervene in the nightmares within I hid. However, merely observing them proved to be incredibly hard to bear. People, as always, dreamed of traumas, fears, loneliness, and escapes, but this time I did not want to, I could not free them, because the threat mentioned by Dreamlord had taken too deep root in my consciousness. So I limited my actions to single images of death, as they evoked the most intense, overwhelming sensations in people. I allowed dreamers to break away from the loss of a child, a spouse, a close friend... and from the loss of their own lives.

"Help my brother instead! I beg you!" We stood by a pool, where a young Asian girl was desperately trying to retrieve the pale, drifting body of a small boy. Despair on her face mingled with terror as she shed tears into the large pool and reached out toward her brother, drifting farther and farther away.

"I cannot bring him back to life," I replied, kneeling beside her. "But I can bring you back to the waking world. Come with me."

"I won't leave him here! I will never leave him! Please, please, help him!"

"Your brother will be waiting for you beyond those doors," I touched her face and directed her towards the courtyard, where a gateway to awakening appeared next to a small, colorful slide. "He will be in the memories you cherish, in the photos you sometimes look at, in the places you both visited. What you see in this nightmare is not your brother. It is your pain. Your grief."

The girl froze for a moment, bestowing upon me a lingering gaze.

"Why did I have to lose him so soon..." she sobbed, her voice filled with agony as she suddenly became painfully aware of her loss. "If only I hadn’t let him go outside that day, if only I had stopped him..."

"There are so many things we would change in our lives if we had the chance. The death of that boy was not your fault; it was nobody’s fault. You don't have to torment yourself by constantly revisiting this nightmare. Come with me, I will help you wake up."

I guided her to the door and finally opened it for her. I expected that once she disappeared, the nightmare landscape she had created would vanish too—the suburban house and the slowly sinking body in the pool.

But as I felt fear creeping slowly up my spine, I realized that I had been found. And now, until dawn, I would have to run.

"You did not do what I asked of you," I heard behind me, but I had no intention of turning around. Focusing all my power within me, I pulled the handle and ran into another nightmare, and then another, and another—yet I still felt the coldness of his piercing gaze on my neck.

I opened another doors blindly, rushing through them without thought, passing countless scenarios of horror, pain, and suffering, unfolding in various buildings, on moorlands, in mountains, and within families from all over the world. Naively, I believed the Dream Lord would not be able to find me in the nightmares of others. I must have done different something today that draw his attention. I longed to escape, tried to wake up, but at the same time, I feared stopping, knowing he wouldn't hesitate for even a second. I mindlessly passed scenes of catastrophes, hell, destruction, separation, betrayal, running as fast as my power allowed me.

"Stop running," I heard Dreamlord behind me again, so I slammed another door shut. I didn't believe it would hold him back for long, but I had to survive until awakening.

In my situation, I had no other choice but to keep running.

"I told you to stop, Rebecca Surrey," this time his voice appeared almost right by my ear. Fear tightened my insides so much that I had trouble catching my breath. Dreamlord was following me step by step, and I wasn't sure when I would be able to wake up. I hoped that behind some door I would finally lose him — though deep down I knew that this night all my attempts would prove futile.

"I won't let you kill me, Dreamlord!" I shouted into the void, running further through countless nightmares. "You'll have to chase me here for eternity!"

"Matthew delivered your message to me," I heard before I slammed the next door. As I opened another, his voice came again: "I want to show you what will happen if your power is not restrained. Just. Stop."

I still can't explain what finally drove me towards Fiddler’s Green. Perhaps it was the futility of running, which I grew more aware of with every passing moment. Perhaps it was the fear of what might happen if I didn’t comply with his demand.

Or maybe it was the calmness in his words, their deep tone devoid of threat. The hint of a deal the Dream Lord wanted to present to me.

I stood amidst the endless greenery, with its tranquil waterfalls and valleys full of flowers, feeling for the first time in the realm of Dreams an exhaustion—not of the body, but of the turbulent emotions within me, exhaustion from fear and anticipation. I closed my eyes—not to wake up, but to sense his presence among the trees. Dreamlord approached me unhurriedly, just as he had during our first encounter here. The closer he got, the more intensely I felt his strange energy. I looked at his face framed by dark hair as he stopped in front of me with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You are a brave creature, Rebecca Surrey,” he said, capturing my gaze with his own. “Frustrating, but brave indeed.”

“If you try to kill me again, Dreamlord, I will flee to the waking world,” I clenched my fists, ready to wake up if he so much as flinched. “And I will keep running until you finally leave me alone.”

“You would not be safe in the waking world if I decided otherwise. Matthew accompanies you there for a reason. There are things happening that you clearly do not understand and will not understand until you see them for yourself.”

“I’m not destroying anything, Lord Morpheus. Since I met you here, I have not interfered with most of the nightmares I enter. I will no longer travel through the Dreaming, but I need you to promise that you will stop tormenting me in both your world and mine.”

He remained calm, inscrutable, but something changed in his features.

“Your world and mine are in equal danger because of what you do,” he took a step towards me so I immediately took a step back. “And I intend to show you this so that you will return to me of your own accord the following night. Your actions are affecting the people around you. With each journey through the Dreaming, even more so.”

“Affecting... how?”

“You will see it as soon as you wake up,” this time I didn’t step back when he moved closer. I had to lift my head to look at him, and for the second time, I saw that slight, joyless smile. I was convinced that he could easily capture me now, but surprisingly, the fear I had felt earlier had almost vanished. “I will be waiting for you here, within Fiddler’s Green. In the meantime, it seems you have a Nightmare to dispel. And this time, Rebecca Surrey, I will allow you to do it. But in your world.”

I suddenly opened my eyes only to find myself back in my own bed and immediately heard a scream coming from the next room.

[elaho]

---Viewing Music - "Please Don't Be" by Hazlett--- "May the Skies Speak forth Your Will, Oh Spirit, As we Seekers of Divine Knowledge encapsulate Our essence in Sacred Ice, Forsaking All and Pursuing None But the Great Eye of Enlightenment" - Sacred Prayer of the Seekers

A WIP illustration for my long-term project (The Halfway Series), loosely based on the G1 Bionicle series. This was my first time doing a full illustration with background details and framing, but it turned out better than expected. For now, it's just the flats/tone blocking, but I plan to add colour and rendering at some point.

(Click here for a full view of the illustration)

More about this Illustration:

I always liked the idea of Nokama representing the moon. The moon and water are interconnected, with the tides directly influenced by the moon's gravity. Its presence in the sky is calming, persistent, gentle, and comforting. It shifts and changes through its phases yet still remains present.

Not so the stars. Stars in the night sky are constantly in flux and change. New ones light up the night sky while old ones collapse into oblivion and die. The Earth rotates and shifts with the seasons, the planets change their alignments, and what was once visible becomes hidden and vice versa. The stars appear cold and distant, their nature indifferent and inconsistent.

Wouldn't one whose sole purpose was to pursue them slowly become like them?

The Man Nolokai (Nuju) is a prestigious religious astronomer ("Seeker") who had spent his life in solitude searching for answers written in the stars. His fear of making uninformed and inaccurate choices in life, which would ultimately cause harm to those closest to him, causes him to become obsessively consumed by his work. His dedication to predicting and preventing fatal disasters leads him to radical self-isolation and physical harm; however, he's so blinded by his pursuit of knowledge that he fails to see how his own inaction is causing the destruction he is so desperately trying to prevent. (Bleeding eyes and falling stars)

The Woman

Noeli (Nokama) is a Blessed Vessel, High Priestess, and accomplished religious alchemist who has always been a guiding, stable, emotional support for Nolokai, even amidst his chronic self-isolating tendencies (she represents the moon, dressed in a sea of stars).

However, the pain and grief Nolo has caused her from his emotional abandonment and self-destruction in the name of knowledge will become too much for Noeli to bear, and she will eventually fade from his life. (Her see-through arms, star tears, and inability to touch him.) She reaches down to him, melting the cage of ice he surrounds himself in once more. The question is: Will he return to reality -- return to her -- before it's too late?