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tadpolesonalgae · 10 months

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Vampire!Rhysand x reader: Mercy, Devil

A/N: I meant to write this for October since it sounded spooky, but honestly I’m happy I didn’t because now I get to write something supernatural in the lead up to Christmas!

Warnings: blood, vampirism, eventual poly relationship

Word Count: 5,064

-Part 2-

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You’ve always had a strange fixation with the phantasmal night of all hallows eve. Something particular about the thought of ghastly apparitions being freed to sew discord and chaos through the monotony of everyday life entices your pulse to spike dangerously. Blood thrumming in your veins.

Clouds seal the full moon to the sky, casting shadows throughout the already dense and dark woodland. Twigs snap and crackle beneath your feet as you continue along the path through the ancient forest. Gnarled branches reach into your way, like talons of some malignant beast stretching to grasp you in its claws. Heart bumps against its cage, pale robes swishing provocatively in your wake, a pale glow of white contained within the darkness of night.

Before you, the abandoned castle looms, cutting a towering silhouette as it’s lit by a crack of lightening, splitting the heavens in two. Ravens caw and crow, taking sudden flight to the stormy skies, wind picking up as it whips the leaves from branches, thunder and rain coming on in an abrupt onslaught, seemingly out of nowhere. The water lashes at your skin, thoroughly soaking your robes, slicking the thin fabric to your skin.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to follow the tug toward the old castle site, a chill running up your spine as you’re lured closer, path quickly muddying beneath your feet as you stumble through the howling wind and screaming rain, reaching the base of the entry way. Hurriedly trample up the carved steps, passing by the large carved gargoyles hunched either side of the case. Lightening crackles again, bursting across the thundery sky and you dive for the cover of the hewn-rock archway, seeking shelter from the torrent of heavy droplets.

Plaster yourself to the looming door, the skull knocker digging into your shoulder as you rest against it. The wood gives way, and you yelp as you stumble back, tripping up over your feet, cloak getting caught as you’re sent falling onto your ass. A stray wind whips through the interior, door slamming shut before your very eyes, locked in darkness. Tendrils of hot breath curl before your face in the low temperature of the castle, and you hurry to your feet.

Flinch as the room comes alight, allowing your eyes to sweep across the grand entrance: rich, polished floorboards bathed with blood-red rugs, a glass chandelier hanging like an abnormal spider above the room, the two sets of large winding staircases, and the dark figure at their peak. Candle light warms the castle hall, and you press back into the locked door, breathing heavily.

“My, my,” the character calls softly, “what has the storm brought in?”

Blink quickly, returning to your senses as reason and rationality are returned. You hadn’t known the castle was occupied… “I’m so sorry, Lord,” you call, hoping your voice carries to his looming perch. “I was out in the forest when the rain came on out of nowhere,” you explain, “I came seeking shelter, but the door wasn’t closed properly, and I fell in.” Heat flushes your cheeks, and you self-consciously step back from the rich rugs, trying to keep the mud from the spotless fabric.

“Fell in?” He echoes, and you could swear you hear the faintest laugh. “There’s been many a grand entrance in these halls, and yet none quite as theatrical as your own.” Suck in a quiet inhale of embarrassment, smoothing down the cloak in attempts to look vaguely presentable for the young aristocrat. “If it’s not too much to ask,” you call out, thankful for the evenness of your voice. “I would like to request shelter until the storm passes, then I promise I will be on my way.”

“Of course,” he replies, “be my guest.” His arm sweeps across the grand hall, encompassing the room with a deliberately relaxed gesture. “What’s mine is yours. Stay as long as it pleases you.”

Almost immediately, your shoulders lose their tension, relieved to not be forced back out into the horrific storm—it really had broken out of nowhere. You dip into a light curtsey, the least you can do to demonstrate your gratitude. “My deepest thanks, lord…?”

“Rhysand,” he calls, voice smooth as velvet, sinful as silk. “You may call me Rhysand.”

————

Strangely, you hadn’t seen another soul since you had arrived, which can’t be right, since the place was clean enough you might have thought it unlived in. Missing the mess of life, a strange deathlessness stalking the flame-lit halls.

Perplexities aside, the lord—Rhysand, as he’d informed you with that strange smile—had been more than welcoming, offering a spare bedroom larger than your home, with clothes to change into. You’d had to fight to keep your mouth from parting in awe from the decadent luxury at his fingertips, the sheer mass of wealth he’s shrouded in. How blasé he is about the display of opulence, immune to the shock and wonder of it all.

“You are free to stay as long as you please,” he’d reminded, glancing over to you from where he stands on the threshold. “Dinner will be served at eight. I’d be delighted if you joined me,” he says, offering the invitation graciously. Brows raise on your forehead, grateful for your stroke of luck. Dip your head in confirmation. “That would be wonderful,” you answer sincerely, “I can’t thank you enough for your generosity, my lord.” He waves his hand dismissively, yet it comes across as charming rather than arrogant. “Rhysand will suffice perfectly,” he replies, sharp eyes cutting to you, lips fashioning themselves into a distinctly feline smile. “Rhys if you feel otherwise inclined.” There’s a suggestive lilt to his honeyed voice that has your hairs standing on end, toes curling in spare slippers.

Dip your head again. “Thank you, Rhysand.”

Something pleasured passes through the darkness of his gaze, but it’s quickly covered as he nods, turning to leave, but pausing. “Feel free to adorn yourself as you please,” he adds on, framing it as an after-thought, despite embodying the antithesis of someone who would speak without thinking. He inclines his head toward the vanity, various sparkling gems strung together, contained within the jewellery armoire. Lips part to politely refuse—he’s already offered so much, it would feel wrong to take advantage of such an opportunity.

But he beats you to it, giving you a smile that suggests he knows exactly what you were about to say. “God turns a blind eye to my castle,” he purrs, lips sinfully curved. “Indulge as you like.”

Then he’s gone, striding away down the blood-red corridors, disappearing out of sight and leaving you alone in the offered room. Completely out of your depth, on unfamiliar ground.

Glance at the grandfather clock—you have a quarter hour to swiftly change into clothes of his taste. You waste no time, hastily closing the door before heading to the armoire provided. He’d told you everything was already prepared, which had initially drawn some questions, but you suppose someone with such a vastness of wealth would always have his doors open to passersby—a different way of displaying opulence.

You settle on the simplest gown you can find, still obscenely intricate, with tiny detailed patches of embroidered lacing the hem and sides. The bodice fits nicely, easy to change into and resting comfortably over your now-dry skin. The skirts are held up by an in-built petty-coat, giving the illusion of shape by flaring out past your waist, grazing your ankles. While the rest of you has been ridden of the lasting effects of rain, your hair remains damp, so you decide to allow it to hang at your back—you’d hate to sleep on the crisp pillows with wet hair.

A single look to the clock reveals you have five minutes before dinner is served, so you decide to peer at the jewellery, making sure to leave time for finding the dining hall. Within the small armoire are a menagerie of necklaces, but you pick out a small string of pearls, the clasps rendered in gold to match with the cream of your gown. Heart beats with infantile excitement at getting to adorn yourself in such expensive clothing, enjoying the cool brush against your skin, the weight of the pearls as they skim your breasts—plumped by the front of the bodice.

The clock ticks, and you turn for the door, leaving no time to change from the slippers that had been offered as you swish out into the hallway, returning the way you had come. Surely the dining hall would be located upon the ground floor…

You head for the swirl of stairs, pausing at their peak—where the sharp-featured lord had stood, surveying his lonely kingdom. The glass pendants suspended from the chandelier glitter and gleam like diamonds, and you span your hands delicately across the polished wood of the banister, taking the time to drink in and admire the antique beauty of his home.

Startle when a palm slides around your waist, spinning fully upon turning to see who’s approached. The banister presses to the base of your spine as you lean to it, his hands lightly holding your sides, resting without squeezing. “I’m glad you were able to find your way,” he says lowly, no need for volume with the proximity you are to one another. “I had worried you might find yourself lost in my halls, and I would have to go searching.”

A polite smile plays on your lips, attempting to calm the flush his silken words inspire beneath your features. “I was admiring your home,” you murmur, one hand pressing atop your breast to calm your heart—maybe also to direct his attention to the softness of cleavage. “The chandelier is wonderful, with how it catches the light. For a moment I thought it was winking at me,” you laugh quietly, demurely ducking your head, casting your gaze away from the sharpness of his own.

Rhysand chuckles lowly, “you have the eyes of a magpie.” Hand lightly raises to the set of shining beads at your throat. “Seemingly the taste of one, too.” He threads his fingers with those atop your breast, bringing your knuckles to the softness of his lips. “May I say, you look positively regal,” he purrs, pressing a kiss to your skin. You’re surprisingly relieved at the coolness of his mouth, soothing the fire that’s thrumming wildly in response to the delightful liberties he’s taking.

This time you can’t bring yourself to look away. Enchanted by the swirling depths of violet.

“If I look regal,” you breathe softly, “it is thanks to your exquisite taste in dress.” He raises a single, neatly groomed brow, and you’re rather glad to have the banister to lean back on. “A raw gem is beautiful even before it’s refined,” he purrs, cool lips skimming your knuckles with each word. “The clothing merely enhances what was already there.”

Open your mouth to deny his flattery, but once again he beats you to it, as if able to read minds. “Now,” he says, standing to his full height, “shall we?” He guides your arm to link with his own, hand pressing to the firmness of muscle beneath the fine fabric of his jacket. All you can manage is a dip of your head in acquiescence before he’s gracefully guiding you to the stairs, leading the way to the dining hall.

“In the mean time,” he says casually, “why don’t you tell me what you were doing, traipsing through the woods on such a morbid night?” Clasp your skirts in one hand, descending the case on his arm, quietly enjoying the gentlemanly mannerisms even if you’re undeserving of them. “It’s all hallows eve,” you answer, honestly, “I found myself yearning the company of the forest.”

“So you decided to play at red-riding hood,” he drawls, mirth coating his teasing words. You manage to shoot him what you hope is a playful glance. “There are no wolves in these forests, Rhysand,” you smile, returning your gaze to the steps. “Besides, these robes are white, not red.”

The two of you reach the base, and he moves to escort you through the archway on your right, leading away from the entrance hall. “That’s the lovely thing about white though, isn’t it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So open to change.” Your brow dips in a subtle show of confusion, narrowing. “What do you mean by that?” Lips carve themself into something distinctly vulpine, sharp canines gleaming beneath the warm light. But he shakes his head, murmuring a “never mind” before continuing through the ornamented room.

“Tell me more about this so-called yearning for the forest,” he goads, drawing you through yet another exquisitely decorated hall, rugs a shade darker now you’ve strayed from the entrance. It’s your turn to shake your head, unsure how to describe it without sounding utterly off your rocker. “It’s hard to say really,” you say truthfully. “The temperature was crisp but not biting, and the sky was overcast without promising a storm— well, I had thought not, though I was clearly mistaken,” you smile, though there’s an intensity to his gaze you hadn’t noticed before. You quickly avert your eyes, peering instead at the large banquet table you’re swiftly approaching.

“I think, if I’m being quite plain, the quiet suited me in that moment,” you admit softly. “I didn’t know those forests were capable of being quiet,” he mutters, “they must like you.” You shoot him a questioning look, but he simply smiles, again shaking his head. “I was merely thinking out loud,” he clarifies, pulling out your chair. You politely take the seat, smoothing out your skirts as he tucks you in. “I’d be interested in hearing more of your inner thoughts,” you say, “they sound quite intriguing.”

Rhysand pauses, hands resting atop the back of your chair, “would you now?” Spine stiffens when you feel icy air brush your temple, tilting your head to figure where the stray breeze came from. Freeze when his lips graze the shell of your ear, fingers halting in your lap. “Would you like to know what I’m thinking right now?” He inquires lowly, startling heat simmering in your lower abdomen. Manage a slight dip of your chin in tense confirmation. Lips trail lower, ghosting below your ear, brushing your neck. But then he pulls away, standing straight, offering a charming smile. “I’m thinking it would be a shame to be seated so far apart from you, and that I will have to move to be at your side.” Then he’s striding to the end to retrieve the crockery laid out, cutlery held in his free hand.

While his back is turned, you take the moment to try and calm your racing heart, startled by the vivacious beat being drummed against your ribs. You should be better equipped to face him, yet he’s seamlessly pulling you apart, stitch by stitch. All effortless charm and debonair grace. By the time he’s returned, you’ve managed to reach a state of near relaxation, just an edge of tension still gnawing at your spine.

“So, Rhysand,” you say quietly, nervous to intrude too deeply into the air of the castle. “Does your family live with you?” When he begins taking food to his plate, you follow suit, assuming the dinner has commenced, and that it will be fine for you to now start on the delicious meal laid before you. “Occasionally they fly by,” he answers with that playful smile, its reflection mirrored upon your lips. “I have two brothers who will visit from time to time, though they have their own hunting grounds to preside over.”

He hunts? You would have thought someone dressed as finely as he is would have little interest in such a superficial task. Particularly if there’s no one to converse with during the process. An image of him dressed in hunting leathers flashes through your mind, as if put there by an encouraging hand. “Preside over?” You ask, raising a forkful of food to your mouth.

Rhysand nods, smiling faintly as he watches you. “Indeed. They require a surprising amount of attention. Making sure the game are well-kept so none are driven from the lands,” he elaborates, and you nod along, surprised to find yourself interested in the subject. “What counts as being well-kept?” You ask once done with the food in your mouth, eagerly moving to the next piece. “Making sure they are well-fed,” he answers with a playful smile, “that generally keeps them happy.”

You blink, then smile. It’s nice to know he takes care of the animals on his land. That they’re looked after before their death. More humane than some of the things you’ve seen in your small hamlet. “I take it you hunt for pleasure?” You asks, eager to learn more about the charming lord. But he shakes his head, “not regularly. Or rather, not as regularly as some others I know.” A frown seems to dip his brows, and you wish to change the subject. His knife slices through the meat on his plate, carving it up into neat little squares for polite, bite-sized snacks. “Besides, I fear if my game notices it’s being picked off, it will run for the hills.”

Laughter bubbles across your breast-bone with his little quirks. The idea that his prey would be at all self-aware is rather amusing, while also strangely heart-warming. “If hunting is not a hobby of yours, how do you spend your time?” You ask, relaxing into the pleasantly stimulating conversation. “Welcoming rain-soaked women into my castle, of course,” he drawls, a wide smile spreading across your lips, quickly raising your hand to cover your mirth-filled grin. “You’ve given me no reason to doubt, yet I haven’t laid eyes on a single other soul here,” you reply, peering at him.

Lips quirk, and he reaches for his glass of red wine, thoroughly opaque, darkened in the flame light. “Everyone else has gone home for the night,” he answers, sipping at the thick liquid. “It’s just us, my lady.” Flush at the title, returning to concentrate on the meal. “I am no lady, Rhysand,” you respond softly, cutting into the rich meat on your plate. “And yet if I were to walk through those doors and find you dining alone, I would not think you looked even a spot out of place in my home,” he says, equally hushed.

Cutlery stills in your hands, raising your eyes to swirling violet. It strikes you then what a spectacular colour it is. Manage a shy smile, “your flattery is outrageous.” He’s quiet for a short spell, before also lowering his cutlery. “Do I look like I’m lying to you?” You’re surprised by the sincerity of his tone. Throat rolls as you observe him, head still lowered shyly. “I’ve known you for not even a night,” you murmur, unable to quite pull your focus from him. “You could,” he answers lowly, voice pitched down a few keys.

Blink, taken aback. You must be misunderstanding. Swallow thickly, making to return to your plate, but— “Don’t look away,” he instructs softly, coaxing your eyes back to his. Mind swims through heat, the world dimming around him, as if blanketed by a thick fog. “I…I couldn’t say,” you manage, a strange wariness prickling at the nape of your neck. Hairs rising with the intensity of his gaze.

The lord is quiet again, watching you with those strange, wonderful eyes. But then he pulls away, spearing a sectioned piece of meat with his fork. “Forgive me,” he says, “I shouldn’t have been so crass with you. I find myself so rarely with civilised company my manners are often forgotten.”

You shift in your seat, a bout of cold icing your skin in the absence of his attention. “No, it’s fine,” you say, finished with your meal, gently setting down the knife and fork. “I was simply caught off guard. The truth is I would feel as though I was taking advantage of your generosity, Rhysand.” You notice he’s also finished, but are unable to recall at what point. “What’s mine is yours,” he reminds lowly, eyes glinting.

Pulse spikes in response, something dark in that look that has you urging to run. The question is: in what direction?

“You seem tired,” he observes, glancing at the grandfather clock. Brows raise as he reads the time. “Appropriately. It’s nearing midnight,” he drawls. Lips part in surprise, how has it been that long? It feels like you sat down to eat less than an hour ago, yet it’s already beginning the ascent into morning. “Nearly midnight?” You echo, following his gaze. The clock indeed reads twelve, the hour hand raised as if poised to strike down.

Rhysand stands from his chair, refolding the napkin before stretching out his hand. “I would hate for you to sleep poorly because of me. Allow me escort you back to your room,” he asks quietly, all traces of previous heat removed, replaced by well-mannered charm. You manage a nod, arm once again overlapping with his own, making to follow him through the labyrinthine halls.

It hits you then, the vastness of his castle—how desolate the space must be. Especially with how rarely he apparently gets to meet with anyone he cares for. “You know, before tonight I had thought your castle was abandoned,” you say absently, taking in the elaborate decorations with more appreciation. “I’ll admit, it sometimes feels that way,” he replies, deep voice tracing down your spine. Push the heat aside for the moment, turning to glance at him. “Do you ever get lonely?” You ask quietly, aware of the ice you’re treading.

He hesitates, momentarily meeting your gaze before continuing onward, reaching the stairs. “Quite possibly,” he answers, “it would certainly be reason for my appalling lapse in manners earlier tonight.” His lips are lifted at their edges, yet you can’t quite manage to return the smile. It must be difficult, having all this space with only his self to fill it. Then again, with the intensity he’s occasionally pinned you with, that doesn’t seem like a particularly hard task.

“Tell me about your own hobbies,” he requests, breaking from your inner thoughts. “I feel as though I’ve spoken more than enough for tonight.” But you’re shaking your head before you can help it, speaking before you can stop it. “I like the sound of your voice,” you admit quietly. Violet eyes flick to you, weighing on your cheek…your neck. “It’s soothing. Like a lullaby.”

You don’t know what’s gotten into you.

He stares, and heat blossoms beneath your skin. That was incredibly uncalled for on your part.

“I hope not,” he says at last, humiliation burning at your insides as you hastily look away. But then he comes to a stop, hand reaching for your jaw, drawing your helpless gaze to lock with his own. “Because putting you to sleep right now is the last thing on my mind,” he breathes lowly.

Oh.

Chest rises and falls steadily, becoming aware of how breathless you feel, how utterly bare you are beneath that look of his. Tongue flicks out over your lower lip, mouth parched. “Tell me…what’s the first thing on your mind then, Rhys.” Attention pierces to the plushness of your lips, and you’re suddenly in need of that banister from earlier. “You want to know what I’d do with you if you let me?” He asks, voice rougher than it was moments before. Pulse spikes beneath that intensity, breath shallowing, but you manage a nod.

He groans lowly, hand dropping to your waist, lightly resting along the seam of the bodice. Cool fingers stroke away a lock of hair, pads grazing the heat of your cheek as he stares down at you. “I’m not sure such things are for your ears, magpie,” he grits out, applying a light bit of force to your waist. “Tell me anyway,” you breathe, hands raising to the fine lapels of his jacket, more eager to put them in his hair.

A rough sound of conflicted pleasure rumbles in his chest. “Such lovely things,” he promises, violet darkening with desire, swirling and dancing as he drinks you in. “So lovely you wouldn’t be able to pull away once I’d started.”

Heat numbs rationality, mind melting as the words warmly splash over your bones, sinking into marrow as you become soft and supple beneath his touch. Step into the lines of his body, feeling as his fingers press to your sides with tension. “Do it,” you breathe, quietly. “Please.”

Cunning satisfaction releases through the male, pleased with how quickly you changed your mind once he applied himself to the task. He’d gotten a sense of your taste before dinner, when he’d pushed you in, and it had been enough to convince him even though he’d fed not even a week ago, he would have to sample you. Now here you are, head tilted, eyes having fluttered shut, offering yourself to him for an entirely different set of wants. Maybe he will indulge your desires—if you satisfy his, that is.

You’ll be on the floor colder than ice if you fail to do so.

He moves in, hand cupping the nape of your neck as he lowers his mouth to yours. Lamb had been served over dinner, and he finds the taste pleasant on your tongue, stoking the embers of his hunger as he presses himself against the soft shape of you, partially hidden by the blasted dress and pearls. A small sound gets caught in your throat, and he revels in the feeling of your fingers tightening on the lapels of his jacket. As if you’re experiencing even a fraction of the hunger he has for you.

Works his way down your jaw, taking his time as he descends to your neck. Nosing at the pronounced pulse, liking how you tilt your head to one side, freely gifting him access. Lips graze the spot he’s chosen, tongue flicking out to drag along hot skin—so hot it practically burns.

Razor-sharp canines scrape, and he feels the exact moment you go rigid in his arms. But by then it’s too late, his teeth piercing your throat, injecting his philtre-laced venom into your bloodstream. The familiar taste of adrenaline and arousal spills on his tongue, bursting from the small puncture marks he’s made, quick to heal over with the aid of saliva. Drinks you down, savouring the richness of your blood, sealing his lips over the incisions, taking more, and more, and more—

He forcefully drags himself away, vision turning hazy, the scent of your life-force spinning his mind. Breathes heavily, the rich and spicy tang still prominent in his mouth, sapid and hot. Tongue darts out to wet his lips, gathering up faint traces that remain there, and then he’s being pulled back, already so deeply enamoured.

Canines re-pierce that same spot, reopening the incisions as your blood burns his throat, inspiring heat in his long-dead body. It’s as if he’s returning to life, having it shot through his veins, snaring him in the addicting flavour. Lips seal over the puncture marks, drinking deeply, swallowing down more and more.

He should stop.

He knows he should stop—he’ll bleed you dry, and then he’ll never have another taste. Arousal coats his tongue, and heat spreads across his skin, bone-deep aches making themselves apparent, as if forcefully dragging him to you. Your hands have dropped from his jacket, instead weakly rubbing at his shoulder and chest, unable to do much more than hold yourself up.

But the taste—the sheer heaven you’ve put into him again. If he stops drinking, it will pass, and he’ll return to that permanent state of death, cold and solitary. But you’re bleeding sunlight into him, sunlight that’s dappled and controlled instead of the unrestricted blaze that would incinerate him in the blink of an eye.

A quiet gasp slips from your lips, fingers losing their grip on his clothing, beginning to slip, but just a little more…one more gulp…one more sip…

“Mercy, devil,” he breathes onto your neck, as if in pain. “What God-damning angel are you?” He growls, trembling hands cupping your cheeks, sharp violet eyes locked on the small marks to your throat. “You’ve bewitched me. I must…” Then he’s surging forward, slamming you against the wall with inhuman force, hand gripping your jaw as he roughly tilts your head to the side. Groans, hot tongue licking over the soft skin, elongated incisors pricking as they again pierce.

Pulse spikes beneath his grip, growing dizzy as he drinks deeply, hands pressed to your shoulders to pin you still. Vision blurs, lips parting as you raise your arms in attempt to push him away, but end up desperately clinging to the finely spun fabric cloaking his back. Limbs go weak, turning limp in his hold as he feeds, a pleasurable spin overcoming your mind, turning pliable beneath his teeth.

He groans, pulling away only in favour of going lower, suctioning now-hot lips over a new, unmarked patch of skin. Blood bursts on his tongue, rich and spicy, not yet too ripe but void of the sour bite that’s present in the young. Heaven and hell blend together in his mouth, mixing so appetisingly he could never—

“Rhys…” you whisper, pleading. Less than a breath left before you—

Your body slumps, and his is trembling so violently the best he can do is go with you as you slide down the wall, blood trickling down onto the pure, white pearls. He knew they’d get in the way.

He hauls himself away, shocked at the utter lack of control you had subjected him to. How his discipline shudders in your presence, practically brought to its knees for a single drop more.

Earlier he had considered making a bottle or two out of you to send off to his brothers, ready for consumption.

Looking at you now, he can hardly stand the thought.

What’s mine is yours…and what’s yours is mine.

Your blood is his, and his only.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

#rhys x reader #vampire!au #vampire!rhys #rhysand x reader #mercy devil #a court of thorns and roses

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wish-i-were-heather · 1 month

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"JUST A DAMN DREAM" ⤵ ROHAN X SAVANNAH GRAYSON

ABOUT: 3016 words, not proofread

STORY: savannah comforts rohan after flashback to his earliest memory

WARNINGS: descriptions of drowning and panic attack. swearing

TAGS: @littlemissmentallyunstable @gretag13 @lanterns-and-daydreams @whatsamongus @alwaysthefangirl @zuzanna-jadw1ga @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @low-caloriesmonsterultra @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @jimcarreyfann42 @maybxlle @xoxo-vee @elysianwayy77

A/N: obviously everyone is going to have different experiences with panic attacks, so this is just one of many based on my personal experience. also i dont really like how it turned out but :/

Rohan was drowning.

Just a moment ago he’d been comfortable, warm, safe, a child in his mother’s arms. She’d been humming a soft tune, the same song she’d always hum whenever he was upset. The melody had wrapped itself around him like a blanket, keeping his small world safe from whatever lay outside. Just a moment ago, he’d been happy.

And now he was drowning.

The strong arms cradling him to his mother’s chest were gone, dropping him and leaving him alone in the cold, unforgiving water. He couldn’t see through the darkness surrounding him, couldn’t even hear his own screams. Panic seized him as he thrashed around wildly, but there was nothing for him to hold onto, nothing to save him.

His lungs burned as he attempted to inhale, only swallowing water instead. He kept sinking deeper and deeper, like the bottom of whatever body of water he was in didn’t exist. Kicking and flailing still proved to be useless, the heavy water only dragging him deeper. He was a small, helpless child against the endlessly deep water, pulling him impossibly lower.

He couldn’t swim, couldn’t do anything but keep drowning.

And just when it felt like his lungs were about to burst, something wrapped around him and yanked him upwards. The water only resisted a little against the invisible pull. It felt like his chest was on fire with the need for air.

He finally broke the surface with a violent gasp of air, oxygen flooding his lungs much slower than the water had, and in that same moment-

Rohan’s eyes snapped open.

His body jerked awake with a sharp movement that was stopped by something around him. The same something that must’ve pulled him out of the water.

There was no water, he had to remind himself. It was just a dream

Just a damn dream.

It took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t something, but it was someone.

Savannah Grayson was lying next to him, her arms wrapped around his waist, spooning him from behind.

And as much as he normally loved it, that position was suffocating now. Too much touch, too close, too much to feel. For once, Rohan didn’t want to have her face nuzzled into his hair. He didn’t want her arms around him, For once, he just wanted needed to be alone.

And not to be touched.

Rohan’s breaths came in and out in ragged gasps as he tried to figure out what to do. He needed her off of him, he needed space, but he wasn’t going to wake her up. He couldn’t let her see him like this. No one, not even Savannah, should be allowed to see that a memory, a mere dream, could reduce a grown man like him to this.

So with trembling hands, he grabbed her wrist and gently removed her arm from his side. He tried and failed to quiet his panicked breathing; the last thing he needed was to burden her with this.

Once her arm was free, Rohan slowly inched away from her. He slid his legs out from under the blanket and sat up. There was a tightness in his chest, like he could still feel the water in his lungs. But there was no water. Just him, Savannah, and the bed.

But if it was just a dream, why did it feel so real?

The room was too small, too hot. There wasn’t enough air. Rohan couldn’t do this. He needed to breathe, he needed air, he needed to get out of there before it got worse.

He climbed out of the bed, the tightness in his chest only getting worse. His palms were wet and suddenly his whole body was again, drenched in water, his wet clothes sticking to his skin and-

No, not water. Sweat. It was just sweat. His palms were sweaty.

Rohan stood and stumbled his way out the room. He was underwater again, the world around him too blurry to see past the water surrounding him. He could hear it rushing past his ears, the only sound louder than the pounding of his heart. The water was thick, slowing his movements down as he rushed to the bathroom.

Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream-

He slammed the bathroom door open and then slammed it back shut. The light was off, and he felt blindly against the wall until he found the switch.

The fluorescent lights were so bright that he had to squint his eyes at them, but Rohan didn’t care. It was better than the darkness- anything was better than the darkness. The light made everything more real, more solid, but the walls were still closing in on him. His head was spinning, not quite dizziness and not quite a headache. His vision was blurring once again and he couldn’t tell if it was more water or simply his own tears.

Rohan forced himself to look into the mirror, resting his still-shaking hands on the edge of the counter with a vice-like grip that turned his knuckles white. The reflection that stared back at him was a version of himself he never wanted anyone to see. Wide eyes, pupils blown with fear, tears staining his cheeks.

It was a stranger looking back at him, a stranger he knew all too well.

But his chest was still heaving and the water was still surrounding him. Stop it, he told himself. You’re fine, it was just a dream. But no amount of rationalization could remedy it. He was broken, choking back sobs in front of the mirror, his throat closing up.

He knew he was fine, he knew he was just in the bathroom after a bad dream. Savannah was waiting for him. He needed to pull himself together and go back before she realized he’d left. There was no reason for her to need to know this happened.

But he couldn’t.

In a moment of desperation, Rohan turned on the sink. He stared at the water rushing down the sink, the same way he’d gone down in the memory.

But this water was safe, he tried to tell himself. He snapped out of it and brought his hands from the counter to the sink, using them to splash the cool water onto his face. It was supposed to have helped him, to ground him, to calm him down, but the moment his face was wet he was drowning again.

Down and down and down and down and-

Rohan wasn’t sinking deeper into the water, but he had fallen back and hit the wall with a loud thud.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered under his breath, barely able to speak at all. Rohan let himself slide down against the wall until he was sitting on the floor. “No, no- fuck…”

His hands clutched his chest like his life depended on it, because in that moment it did. He sat on the bathroom floor, his lungs refusing to take in enough air, drowning in his tears and dying.

Savannah was normally a light sleeper. Ever since she was a kid, it wouldn’t take much more than a tap or soft whisper from Gigi to wake her up.

Since Rohan, however, she'd learned to let herself relax. It was much easier to sleep with him, the warmth of him in her arms, his body against hers, the two of them molding into one. And with that newfound comfort, she started sleeping much more deeply.

But that night, she’d woken up to the sound of a door slamming shut. A noise that normally she’d sleep through, but something was different this time- something was wrong.

“Mh,” she muttered quietly, still half asleep. “What was that, Ro-”

When she reached out to tap his shoulder, he wasn’t there. Savannah’s eyes opened slowly, a frown of confusion making its way onto her face. Rohan wasn’t in bed next to her like he always was. The bed felt strangely empty in his absence.

Savannah’s initial thought was that he was just using the bathroom. She’d heard the door close anyway, so it made sense. But there were muffled sounds from inside, the water running, and then a loud thud was something hit the wall.

That got her attention.

She sat up immediately and pushed the blanket off of her. There were no more noises, and she didn’t know if she should be relieved or worried about that. So she stood and made her way to the source of the noise, running her fingers through her newly short hair in a hasty attempt of tidying it.

When she reached the bathroom door, Savannah knocked softly. “Rohan? Are you okay?”

He was frantically muttering something to himself, words she couldn’t make out what the words were. It took just a little longer than it should have for him to respond.

“I’m fine.”

And it was clear by the way he said it that he was anything but. Rohan was clearly hyperventilating, and his words came out barely audible between his heavy breaths. Savannah didn’t understand what was wrong with him, but she knew he needed help.

She reached for the doorknob but realized it was locked. “I need you to open the door for me,” she said softly.

“No!” He shouted. But even if he’d shouted, she knew it wasn’t because he was upset. Whatever was happening, his voice was broken. And whatever was happening, she wanted to help. She used a harsher tone, demanding more than asking.

“Rohan, unlock the door.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the lock clicked.

Savannah opened the door quickly, and the sight she was met with made her heart sink. Rohan was sitting on the floor, back to the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, his hands tugging at the collar of his shirt.

She’d never seen him like this- so vulnerable and completely unlike his usual, confident self. Their relationship was open and honest, but never had she seen him like this.

She rushed over to his side and crouched down next to him, unsure of how to help. The only person she’d ever really seen cry was her sister, and even then it was never anything this serious. Savannah wasn’t fully sure what was happening, but this was more than just a few tears.

“Rohan…” she whispered. That got his wet eyes to meet hers. The complete panic and fear behind them was enough to sink her heart even further. She reached out slowly to place a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched away before she could make contact.

“No-” he snapped breathlessly. “No, no- please don’t… don’t touch me.”

Savannah’s hand froze midair. She retracted her hand after a few seconds, trying not to take offense to the rejection. But she knew something was seriously wrong- and she needed to figure out what.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry, I won’t touch you,” she told him. Rohan was still struggling to breathe, only heightening her worry. “Can you… can you tell me what’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you hurt?”

Rohan shook her head, still tugging at the collar of his shirt. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words escaped him.

Savannah nodded patiently. “Not hurt, that’s good. Did you…”

Oh.

She realized then what it must’ve been, why he was sitting on the floor hyperventilating.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

At the question, Rohan squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back against the wall. To Savannah’s relief, he managed just a few steady breaths before falling back to his erratic breathing. His hands continued to tug at his shirt, pulling it away from himself.

She watched, realizing this was more than just an attempt at soothing himself. Rohan’s movements grew desperate. Savannah wanted more than ever to just wrap her arms around him, but she knew that would only make things worse.

“Are you-”

“Off,” Rohan interrupted her, his eyes still closed. She hadn’t expected any words from him, let alone that one. “Panic attack,” he spoke again. “Off.”

“Okay, we can get it off,” Savannah told him, finally understanding what was wrong. He had a nightmare that caused a panic attack, and now she could only assume the shirt was only worsening his panic. “But if you want help, I’ll have to touch you. Is that okay?”

He didn’t respond, but his fingers loosened their hold just barely on the fabric. It was as close to a yes that she would get.

Savannah hesitated only for a moment before reaching for the hem of his shirt. Her fingers brushed against his stomach as she grabbed the fabric. Rohan flinched again, but he didn’t tell her no. So she continued, slowly lifting his shirt up oh so carefully. The last thing she wanted was to do something wrong and make his panic worse.

“Just keep breathing,” she said, half to herself. “In and out, Rohan. You’re doing so well. We’re going to get you through this.”

As she continued lifting the shirt, making its way up his torso, Rohan’s breath hitched. He flinched away, much sharper than before. He almost tried to move away, like he wanted to push himself into the wall.

Savannah froze. This was so far past anything she was used to dealing with, and the fear of making it worse was unrelenting.

But she couldn’t stop. He needed her to keep going.

“I need you to stay still,” she told him, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m just helping you take your shirt off like you asked, nothing else. You’re safe.”

Rohan still didn’t respond, but his body relaxed if only slightly. And once it did, Savannah was able to pull the shirt up and over his head. She tossed it aside and immediately moved just a bit back, giving him the space he clearly wanted.

And once she did, he finally opened his eyes. They were still wild with panic, but he looked at her with… almost gratitude.

It was hard to tell through his tears.

“See? That wasn’t too bad,” Savannah said, offering a weak smile. She still had no idea what she was doing, she’d never had to help someone through a panic attack before. “Focus on your breathing, just like I said. In and out, slowly.”

She was about to demonstrate until he blurted,

“I- I can’t breathe. That’s the damn problem, I-” he was cut off by his own ragged breaths. “I’m drowning, Savvy, I’m fucking drowning.”

Those words hit her like a knife through the heart.

“No you’re not,” she insisted. “You’re not drowning, understand? You’re here in the bathroom with me and you’re breathing. Look at me.” He did as she said only with a little struggle. Savannah made sure he was watching, then placing her hand on her torso. “Do what I’m doing.”

Rohan’s brow furrowed, his mind probably too overwhelmed by everything to process the words at first. But then he did, looking down as he placed a shaking hand to his now-bare torso.

Savannah nodded. “Good. Do you feel that?” She paused, offering him the chance to speak, but continued when he didn’t take it. “Up and down. Up and down. You know why that’s happening? Because your lungs move with each breath. Which means you are breathing.”

For a long while, he didn’t respond. Then,

“Oh.”

He was still clearly having a panic attack, but it was easing out. His breathing was still fast and erratic, but he was trying.

Savannah couldn’t have been more proud of him for that.

“Do you want to get up?” Savannah asked. “We can go lay down again.”

The worst had finally passed, and now Rohan found himself wiping the tears from his face and slowly catching his breath. The attack was over, but you didn’t just feel fine after something like that.

Especially not with a trigger like that.

He said no with a small shake of his head. “No,” he said, his voice raspy from crying. “Can… can we stay here for a bit?

“Of course.” She answered without hesitation. Savannah didn’t care where they were, she just cared that he felt okay again. And she was willing to wait as long as she had to for him to feel that way.

If he wanted to wait on the bathroom floor, then that’s exactly what they’d do.

She shifted herself so that she was sitting against the wall next to him, their shoulders touching but not quite. The silence was loud, but not uncomfortable. A calming silence, letting both of them catch their breaths after what had just happened.

Rohan’s hand moved, hesitantly reaching out towards Savannah’s. Without hesitation, she intertwined their fingers, letting him know that she was there and wasn’t going anywhere.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours. Time didn’t seem to exist in that moment between them. Everything else faded away. There was nothing else besides Rohan and Savannah, no other sounds than their breaths, no other feelings than their hands together.

Eventually, Savannah found herself resting her head against his shoulder. She did slowly, in case he was going to say no, but she wasn’t told to stop. It wasn’t quite the comforting hug that she wanted to give him, but it was something. Something small but significant after what he’d just gone through.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a long, exhausted sigh, tilting his own head slightly to rest against hers.

“Thank you,” Rohan whispered eventually, so quiet that she almost couldn’t hear.

Savannah shook her head lightly, careful not to disrupt their positions. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Oh, but I do,” he said, the slightest of smiles making its way onto his face. “You helped me. With… everything. I’m sorry that I was-”

“Don’t you dare apologize for a panic attack.”

Silence fell over them again.

“Thank you. Again.” Rohan swallowed hard. “I love you.”

Savannah grinned. “I love you too, British. Are you ready to go back to bed now?”

“I'd like that.”

A/N pt 2: im posting this at 4am and i didnt proofread it so sorry if theres any mistakes, ill try to check in the morning but if its already been reblogged idk 🤷‍♀️

#the grandest game #the inheritance games #the brothers hawthorne #savannah grayson #rohan tgg #rohan tbh #the devils mercy #tig fanfic #tgg fanfic #savannah x rohan #rohan x savannah #savrohan #the final gambit #the hawthorne legacy #tgg #tig #mightier than your sword𓂃🖋

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