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deansbeer · 1 day ago

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♡ a hunter's journey to fatherhood ⎯⎯ dean winchester.

📖 LIBRARY !

SYNOPSIS. dean struggles with anxiety about fatherhood, avoiding you until guidance from mildred helps him embrace love, vulnerability, and hope.

kari talks ◞ i saw these gifs of dean n mildred pop up on my feed this morning so i had to write something w a lil fluffy angst <3 don't hate me bc it does have a happy ending !!! + this may sound rushed, has not much dialogue at the end, n repetitive :) my apologies !

dean winchester is an anxiety-riddled mess.

you’ve always known he’s carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but ever since you told him you were pregnant, he’s been distant. not outright cold, but the kind of distant that eats at you—quiet moments stretched too long, averted gazes, and excuses to leave the room.

it hurts.

you knew dean had his doubts about himself; he’s never been shy about the scars his childhood left behind. but you didn’t expect him to pull away like this.

every time you thought about asking him where he stood—whether he was happy, scared, or maybe regretting it altogether—you stopped yourself. you didn’t want to burden him more than he already seemed to be.

so you busied yourself with little things, distracting yourself by cleaning the house, organizing your shared bedroom, or just sitting on the couch with a book, hoping he’d come around.

but tonight, dean isn’t home.

he’d slipped out a few hours ago, mumbling something about needing air. you didn’t push. you’d seen the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flexed and tightened at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

what you didn’t know was that dean had driven into town, parked the impala outside the local dive bar, and gone inside to drown his thoughts in whiskey.

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the bar was dimly lit and half-empty, perfect for someone who didn’t want to be noticed.

dean sat at the counter, nursing his third drink, his mind spinning.

he couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you. about the baby.

him, a dad.

he snorted bitterly into his glass. what the hell did he know about being a father? he’d barely survived his own childhood. john winchester had been a lot of things—strong, determined, relentless—but a good dad? not even close.

and what if dean turned out just like him?

the thought made his chest tighten, panic clawing at his throat.

he closed his eyes, swallowing hard. the whiskey wasn’t helping; it was only making his emotions come faster, harder.

he slammed a couple of bills on the bar top and left, walking out into the cool night air.

he sat in the impala, gripping the steering wheel as his breath hitched.

and then it hit him—hot tears stinging his eyes, rolling down his cheeks before he could stop them.

he wiped at his face angrily, cursing under his breath.

what the hell is wrong with me?

but then, through the fog of his thoughts, he remembered mildred baker.

she’d helped him and sam on a hunt years ago, and she’d been one of the few people who’d ever managed to get through to him. she was kind, wise, and had this way of making you feel like everything was going to be okay, even when it felt like the world was falling apart.

before he could second-guess himself, he started the car and drove to her place.

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mildred greeted him with the warmth he hadn’t realized he needed.

“dean winchester,” she said with a smile, stepping aside to let him in. “to what do i owe the pleasure?”

he hesitated for a moment, standing in her doorway like a lost kid.

“uh... sorry for showing up so late,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “i just... i didn’t know where else to go.”

she frowned slightly, concern flickering across her face, but she didn’t ask questions.

“come on in,” she said gently, motioning for him to sit on the couch.

once they were seated, mildred folded her hands in her lap and waited patiently.

“so,” she said after a beat, her voice soft. “what’s got you all tied up in knots?”

and that’s when it all came tumbling out.

words spilled from dean’s mouth faster than he could stop them—about you, about the baby, about how terrified he was of screwing everything up.

“i just... i don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “hell, i don’t even know if i can do this. what if i screw the kid up? what if i screw her up? she deserves better than me. they both do.”

mildred listened quietly, her expression soft but unreadable.

when he finally stopped, his chest heaving slightly from the emotional release, she reached over and placed a hand on his arm.

“dean,” she said gently, her voice steady. “you’re not your father.”

his head snapped up at that, his green eyes wide and vulnerable.

“but what if i am?” he whispered.

she smiled softly, shaking her head.

“you’re not,” she said firmly. “you’ve already proven that by coming here tonight. you care, dean. you care so much it’s eating you alive. and that’s what makes you different. john winchester loved you boys, but he didn’t know how to show it. you do. and that’s all that matters.”

dean swallowed hard, his throat tight.

“but what if i mess up?” he asked, his voice small.

“you will,” she said with a chuckle. “because that’s what parents do. we mess up. we’re human. but as long as you love that baby and love itd mama, you’ll figure it out.”

her words settled over him like a warm blanket, easing some of the tension in his chest.

“you’re gonna be a great dad, dean,” she said, her voice soft. “just follow your heart.”

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later that night, after mildred helped him sober up, dean drove back home.

the house was quiet when he walked in, the only sound coming from the soft clinking of dishes in the kitchen.

he followed the sound, stopping in the doorway when he saw you standing at the sink.

you were wearing one of his old flannels, the sleeves rolled up as you washed the few remaining dishes from dinner.

he leaned against the doorframe, watching you for a moment.

god, you were beautiful.

even now, with your hair slightly messy and your focus on the task in front of you, you took his breath away.

he took a deep breath, gathering his courage, and stepped toward you.

you didn’t notice him at first, too lost in your own thoughts.

it wasn’t until he wrapped his arms around you from behind that you startled slightly, your body tensing before relaxing into his embrace.

“baby,” you said softly, your hands stilling in the soapy water.

he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.

“where’ve you been?” you asked, your voice gentle but cautious. “are you okay?”

“yeah,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin. “i’m okay.”

you didn’t push for more, not when he mentioned he’d gone to see mildred.

instead, you leaned into him, letting his warmth settle around you like a shield.

he rubbed small circles on your stomach, his lips brushing against your neck.

and for the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of hope.

but when you opened your mouth to ask him where he stood on the baby, he didn’t let you speak.

instead, he started rambling, the words tumbling out in a rush.

he told you how scared he was, how he’d been afraid he’d ruin everything, that he’d turn out like his dad or disappoint you.

“but i want this, sweetheart,” he said finally, his voice breaking slightly. “i want you. and i want this baby. i just... i needed to figure out how to not screw it up.”

tears stung your eyes as you turned to face him, cupping his face in your hands.

“dean,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. “you could never be like him. you love so much, sometimes too much. you’re going to be an amazing dad. i know it.”

he closed his eyes, leaning into your touch as a single tear slid down his cheek.

“thank you, baby,” he whispered.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

after you’d finished the dishes, you drew a bath for the both of you.

you knew he’d been sore and achy from a recent hunt, and you figured the warm water would help.

he sat behind you in the tub, his arms resting on either side of the rim as you leaned back against his chest.

you brought the soapy cloth to your chest, letting the warmth soothe you before handing it to him.

he took it, running it over his own chest before reaching down to gently rub your shoulders.

the quiet intimacy of the moment was enough to ease both your minds, the tension of the past few weeks melting away.

when the water started to cool, dean helped you out of the tub, wrapping a fluffy towel around you before leaning down to kiss your stomach.

you weren’t even showing yet, but the gesture made your heart swell.

he wrapped a towel around himself, and the two of you went through your nightly routines before climbing into bed.

dean was already lying down when you joined him, his hands behind his head as he waited for you.

you turned off the lights and crawled into bed, settling on top of him with your head on his chest.

his hand rested on your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head as he pressed a soft kiss to your hair.

the two of you talked quietly about what to expect, about names and nurseries and everything in between.

and when you finally drifted off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you knew everything was going to be okay.

because dean winchester was going to be the best damn dad in the world.

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torturedtypewritersdept · 3 days ago

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blue eyes + bruises - part eight

✯ pairing:

doctor!rafe cameron x fem!reader

✯ summary:

a tragic car accident looks like it'll be the end for you, but dr. cameron is here to make sure that doesn't happen.

✯ warnings:

mature themes, mentions of anxiety, nostalgia, and fear, car accident, death of a spouse (not rafe or y/n), major surgery, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this was origianlly posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity back in 2021/2022 and i have rewritten + reshared it here :)

Your fingers danced across the black leather bound table that you laid on, the pitter patter of your fingernails could be heard from the hallway, that much you were sure of. Hannah, your favorite physical therapist and friend, worked diligently, massaging your hips and working her way down to your knee repeating the same actions. This was the warm up for every appointment, stimulating the muscles and helping them loosen up.

“Where’s Rafe today?”

She asked, bringing you out of your relaxed bliss.

“He’s in surgery, some kind of ligament repair.”

You responded, not pretending to know the technical jargon he had spat out earlier in the morning. She nodded in response.

“How’s this feeling?”

She questioned, pressing her fingertips a little deeper into the skin around your kneecap as she worked tirelessly to massage the muscles.

“It hurts a little.”

You replied through clenched teeth. She stopped her actions, removing the gloves from her hands and helping you sit up, legs hanging off the table.

“Let’s try to do your standing balance exercises, three times on each leg for thirty seconds.”

You nodded, gently sliding off the table and moving to stand on your good leg. You balanced for the allotted thirty seconds, doing your best not to grip the table that you stood parallel to. Once the timer went off, you switched legs and restarted it, the seconds counting down once again. At the twenty second mark, your kneecap went backwards, the stress of your weight causing it to buckle underneath you. It was quick – so quick in fact, that you hadn’t even realized what happened until you were on the ground clutching your knee to your chest. Hannah was beside you on the floor in less than a minute. You watched as she tucked her shoulder length chestnut colored hair behind her ears and called another therapist over to help lift you back on to the table.

“y/n, are you alright?”

The tears in your eyes clearly told her that you weren’t and she was worried.

“What hurts, sweetheart?”

She asked, laying her hand on your forehead to get your attention, but also to let you know she was here for you. Your eyes opened only slightly and you tried to turn toward her, a wince dancing across your features.

“Just hurts, Hannah.”

“Where’s it hurt, y/n?”

She questioned with intent, needing to know the source of the problem before she alerted Rafe that something was wrong.

“My knee.”

You croaked out, your throat fought against the words as they came out, creating an assault on your vocal cords. You sounded much like a bullfrog. ‘Shit’, she thought, grabbing the walkie-talkie from her pants where it was clipped onto her belt loop and speaking into it.

“Can someone give me the whereabouts of Dr. Cameron?”

A voice you recognized as Jenni spoke back.

“He’s in OR 2, finishing up on a compound femur fracture with an ACL repair.”

Hannah nodded, holding her breath before she spoke again, thanking the nurse before putting the walkie down and calling the operating room Rafe was in. It rang three times before Jenni, who was Rafe’s scrub nurse, picked up the phone.

“Jenni, how long is he going to be?”

She asked the nurse on the other end of the phone.

“He just finished up. What’s wrong? Do you need to talk to him?”

“Yes – it’s y/n.”

“Dr. Cameron, Hannah down in pt needs to speak to you about your girl.”

Rafe stood in the scrub room, delicately coating his fingers with soap and scrubbing them as he was taught to so many years ago. It had become second nature in the same way that loving you had. As his brain registered the words of his scrub nurse, the hair on the back of his neck stood – something was wrong. He finished washing his hands quickly and he walked at a fast pace, his long legs approaching the wall the phone hung on and taking it from the nurse, giving her a forced smile.

“Hannah? What’s the matter? Is my sweet girl okay?”

His tone was coated with urgency, a call he got in an operating room the day Molly died at the forefront of his brain. Him knowing that you weren’t her, this time, simply wasn’t enough and he could hear his heartbeat quicken as he waited for her reply; the beating of his chest like drums pounding against his ears.

“Don’t freak out, just yet. I need your doctor skills, not your boyfriend ones. She fell doing some balance exercises and she’s complaining of knee pain at a seven on the scale. Do you want me to send her to get images before you come up?”

A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he waited to hear the news of your fate. A knee injury he could fix, but your heart not beating he couldn’t and he knew that.

“If she’s saying seven, she means nine — How did she fall?”

He finally responded with a simple question, but Hannah knew that for an orthopedic surgeon that question was everything, that question told a story.

“I had her do the standing balance exercises where she stands on each leg for thirty seconds and when she stood on her surgery leg it collapsed underneath her.”

Rafe sucked in a deep breath, remembering the torn ACL behind your kneecap that still needed surgery. He hated the idea of stripping you of the little bit of independence you had gained almost as much as you did, but he knew eventually it would have to be done.

“Yeah, have Jenni take her for imaging; mri and x-ray; possibly a ct if those don’t show anything – but use that as a last resort. She had a torn acl from the accident that hasn’t been repaired. The physical therapy has helped her gain mobility in her hips but I'm sure it’s made the knee angry. Do me a favor and don��t spook her with it yet, let me look over all the imaging before we talk to her about it. I want to make sure surgery is even necessary before we scare her half to death.”

“Okay, will do, doc.”

She responded.

“One more thing before you go – will you facetime me off of her phone. I just need to see her for a moment.”

His heavy exhale let her know that he did indeed need to see you, if only for a brief minute. His anxiety was likely making him spiral, it was likely making him think about Molly; placing you in the same position she was in, yet again or placing his mind in a distant memory of her – a time when he couldn’t be there, just like he was unable to in this current moment.

“She’s okay, Rafe. You got it, give me just a minute, alright?”

“Yeah, no worries. Take your time.”

He said as he hung up the phone, swallowing thickly and wiping away the tiny tears from the corners of his eyes. He paced in the scrub room, back and forth in front of the sink, his thoughts overcoming him. He began to think back to the day just a few short months ago – the first time he saw you; bruised, beaten, and bloody, more bones broken than not. He thought about you laying there, unable to breathe on your own as he kissed your hands in the same way he kissed hers when she was in the same position. Rafe stood with his hands against the sink, leaning over it, realizing that you were like her in more ways than he was comfortable with and the only thing that set you apart from her was the fact that you were alive and she wasn’t. Rafe halted his pace, leaning over the sink with his hands against the metal and after a brief moment, he ripped the scrub cap he was wearing off of his head, chucking it at the wall. He took out his cell phone from the back pocket of his pale blue scrubs and scrolled until he found her contact – a photo of his arms wrapped around her from behind at a party from when they were sixteen. He remembered that night vividly; it was the night they kissed for the first time and though he was a world away from backwards caps and college plans, he still smiled at seeing her like that, happy and carefree and in love. Her blonde hair had made its home against her face from the wind of the water and as Rafe closed his eyes and held his phone to his chest he could still see her, just like that. He wished for a moment that she was still here and that he didn’t have to remember her in only fractures of broken memories, he wished for a moment that she was you. He quickly pushed his thoughts aside, dialing Molly’s number. Oftentimes, when things had become too much after her passing on from this life into the next, Rafe called her with no other expectation other than listening to the sound of her sweet voice on the other end of the line. Today, however, was different. He needed to tell her about you, even though he was ninety-percent sure she was the one who brought the two of you together, he needed to be the one to tell her that he wasn’t hopeless anymore and he wasn’t alone and that he was okay and he needed to tell her that he loved her. The line rang and rang until he got her voicemail – “hey this is Molly, sorry I missed you but I'm probably doing something fun! Leave me some words if ya can and i’ll get back to you soon.” Her sing-song voice penetrated his ears and suddenly he was no longer twenty-eight. Instead, he was nineteen watching her sing bon jovi at the top of her lungs in a college town, hole in the wall, bar. He was smiling at her and for a brief moment he forgot that she was gone. Rafe hung up, dialing it again and again and again four times before he decided to speak into her voicemail box. His cheeks were soaked with tears, his lips trembling and at the sound of the beep, he spoke.

“Moll – baby, shit. I fucking miss you. If you were here, things would be so different. But you’re not and I can feel myself pulling away from your memory, from our marriage – Moll, I met someone and she’s good and she’s pure and she’s perfect and she’s so much like you and yet, so different. Sarah set us up, can you believe that? I know if you were here you’d be friends.”

For a brief moment, Rafe breathed into the phone, somehow expecting her to pick up, to breathe back, to tell him it was okay. Yet, somehow without the confirmation of her words, he knew it was, he felt her telling him that it was even a world apart.

“Moll – I don't want to ruin this thing with her, baby. So, this will be my last call. I just wanted to tell you that I love you and that I’m sorry. I should’ve done so many things differently. But, I’m happy, Molly. For the first time since you left, I’m happy and I think I gotta hold onto that, isn’t that what you always told me, sweetheart?”

A beep infiltrated Rafe’s ears and he pulled the phone down, glancing at the screen – incoming facetime sweet girl – displayed across it. He wiped his eyes and straightened his shoulders as he dragged his fingers across the screen and your sweet face appeared in front of him.

“Hey, sweetheart. Hannah said you were feeling pretty bad?”

His eyes softened as he took in your form, one of the many t-shirts of his that he had given you draped over your chest and your eyes were bloodshot; you had been crying.

“I’m okay, Rafe, baby, don’t worry.”

You choked out the words.

“You’re gonna have to get better at trying to fool me, baby girl. I can tell you’ve been crying.”

You swallowed thickly, looking up at Jenni as she pushed you toward the x-ray room in a wheelchair. Your leg was propped up and laid out straight in front of you with a bag of ice on top of it.

“I’m just worried this means more surgery.”

You responded and it was like Rafe could see the wheels spinning in your brain, which he needed to put a stop too. He wasn’t about to let you spiral the way that he had only moments ago.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself yet, baby. We’ll look over the tests once they’re done and figure out what’s wrong.”

You felt numb, a feeling of dread looming over you. Rafe felt it too.

“I guess it pays to have a doctor boyfriend, huh?”

You chuckled lightly as the words left your mouth.

“It does indeed, pretty girl.”

He replied, a boyish grin displayed heavily on his lips. The only thing you could do was stare at him in all his glory and admire how beautifully and perfectly sculpted he was.

“Okay, Rafe, she’s gotta go, we're in the radiography department.”

Jenni’s words brought the both of you out of the bliss of each other’s company.

“Okay, pretty girl, it’s time to go. I’ll see you soon, alright?”

“Okay, Rafe.”

He watched your shoulders droop and he could almost feel the anxiety through the phone as it rattled through your chest and your eyes met your hands.

“Hey, baby girl – look at me.”

You obliged, your eyes flicking up to meet his blue ones.

“You’re okay, baby. Everything’s okay. You trust me don’t you?”

“Of course, I do, Rafe.”

“You trust that I'll take care of you like I always have, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do, Rafe.”

“Okay, then there’s nothing to worry about. No matter what it is, baby. I’ll get you through it.”

You nodded, pursuing your lips into a forced smile.

“None of that, baby. Give me a real smile.”

You giggled at how well he knew you and how well he could read your expressions. He paid attention – you’d give him that.

“There she is.”

He cooed.

“I love you, Rafferty.”

You softly spoke, your voice sending shivers down his spine.

“And I love you, sweet girl. I’ll see you in a little while.”

He smiled – the Rafe Cameron smile – and kissed two of his fingers before placing them against the camera and watched as you repeated his actions before hanging up the phone.

Rafe’s worst fears had been confirmed – you needed another surgery. He sat at the nurse's station, studying the images of the inside of your knee over and over again, racking his brain for any other solution, but he couldn’t find one. You had a complete tear of your ACL and MPFL which could only be fixed with surgery and he wanted more than anything in this moment not to be the bearer of bad news, not to be the doctor; for once, just to be the concerned boyfriend. He made his way into your room, taking in your sleeping form, your top half still draped in his clothes and your hair a mess, stuck against your face through the sweat that your sleep had brought on. He smiled to himself because he loved seeing you like that and he’d love it even more if it was in the bed next to him, not in a hospital. He moved towards you, kicking his tennis shoes off and scooting your body slightly as he nuzzled his into yours. You quietly stirred, blinking rapidly trying to gain your bearings, chasing the warmth that your body was draped in. You looked up at Rafe and smiled sleepily, like a newborn baby seeing it’s fist glimpse of the world.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

He whispered, moving your sweat drenched hair from in front of your face.

“Hi”

You croaked back to him. He pulled you in, laying his head against yours and draping his arms around your back, hugging you like your existence, put all his broken pieces back together and it did in a way.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

You asked him, he was sad and you could tell. But, you weren’t sure what was plaguing him.

“I just looked at your test results, sweet girl, and it’s not good news.”

The look on his face was somber and you knew what it meant.

“I need surgery, don’t I?”

He gingerly nodded his head and you no longer contained the dread and the anxiety within you as the dam broke and your tears began to soak his scrubs.

“I know, baby, I know.”

He whispered into your hairline as he laid kisses upon it and rubbed the back of your head. You held onto him for dear life, clutching to his biceps with more force than he thought possible.

“I-I can’t do it again, I won’t.”

You breathed out amidst stutters and his blood ran cold. He pushed you forward so he could look in your eyes and confusion laced his features as he took you in, tear stained cheeks and all.

“What do you mean, baby? We need to do this, okay?”

“No, Rafe!”

You snapped. This is what he was afraid of; he couldn’t force you, not really. But, he needed to take care of you in a way that he couldn’t take care of her.

“What do you mean no?”

He pushed with a hardened look in his eyes. His features were still gentle, the anger and frustration that bubbled beneath him dancing subtly against his skin.

“You — You don’t get it, okay?”

Your voice came out broken and frustrated and for a brief moment he almost smiled.

Sweet girl, I get it in more ways than you understand. You don’t understand why I need to take care of you and that’s okay.

“Why don’t you tell me what I don’t get, baby.”

He spoke softly, bringing his fingertips to your cheek and brushing them gently against your skin.

“You don’t understand — you don’t get that I just got my independence back and you want to take it away again!”

You raised your voice and Rafe was shell shocked but he also knew it was because you didn’t feel heard. Molly only yelled when she felt misunderstood and she had yelled at him the day of her accident because he wasn’t listening to her point of view. Suddenly it at all made sense, the parallels of the accident were indeed a second chance. He sat up straight and vowed to change things, to make you feel heard in a way that he couldn’t do for her.

“Baby, I’m sorry for not listening to you. I don’t want to take your independence away, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. You’ve torn some ligaments in your knee, sweet girl, and without surgery it’ll cause lifelong problems, you won’t be able to stand long enough to teach, baby. I only want to help. I didn’t mean to make you think otherwise.”

You swallowed the weight of his words and they felt thick against your throat.

“Rafe, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

He moved quickly pulling you back to his chest and kissing your forehead.

“Can I tell you something, sweet girl?”

He asked, cradling your head in his hands as you cried into his chest. You simply nodded in response, as your cries turned to sniffles and you clutched tighter to his chest.

“My wife, Molly, died in an accident very similar to yours and I've struggled for a long time with being unable to save her, to take care of her the way that I've taken care of you. So, I just need you to let me, yeah?”

You nodded your head in response before laying it against his pectoral muscle once more.

“Rafe, were you working when she was brought in?”

You looked up at him, thinking surely he wasn’t.

“Yeah, baby. They called me while I was in the operating room. She and I had a fight, a massive one and she had left to go be with her parents. She never made it out of the city, her train crashed ten minutes after it left.”

“I’m sorry, Rafferty.”

You couldn’t do anything other than cry for him and with him and clutch to him like your life depended on it, because it very well did and maybe so did his.

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alittlegiraffe · 2 days ago

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Title: 5 Times Marshall Thought About Having Another Baby (+1 Time He Brought It Up)

@marshall-is-my-husband and @shady1-daddy I blame you

1. The Time He Saw You Sleeping with Her

Marshall had always been a light sleeper. Years of long nights in the studio, paranoia from fame, and just the way his brain worked made it damn near impossible for him to stay knocked out for too long.

So, when he woke up in the middle of the night and rolled over to see you curled up in bed with your daughter nestled against your chest, he stayed still, just watching.

Your arm was draped protectively around her, your breaths slow and steady. The soft glow of the nightlight made everything look… perfect.

And just like that, the thought hit him.

"What if we had another?"

The idea settled deep in his chest, warm and dangerous.

But he didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

2. The Time You Held a Friend’s Baby (Again)

It was funny—before you had your daughter, Marshall had always caught himself staring when you held a baby. Now, he still did, but for a different reason.

You were at Hailie’s house for a get-together when one of her friends passed you her newborn. You took him easily, adjusting the tiny bundle against your hip, rubbing his back gently.

Marshall had been in the middle of a conversation with Alaina when he glanced over and saw you.

That same feeling from before crept in.

That same what if?

He shook his head, turning back to the conversation.

But the thought didn’t go away.

3. The Time He Found Himself in the Baby Section

He had gone to the store for diapers. That’s it.

But somehow, he ended up in the baby section, staring at tiny onesies and wondering what it would be like to go through it all again.

Would it be a boy this time? Another girl? Would they have your eyes?

Marshall ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. What the hell was wrong with him?

He grabbed the diapers and got the hell out of there before he did something stupid.

Like bring it up to you.

4. The Time He Saw Your Daughter Kiss Your Belly

You had been lying on the couch, half-asleep, when your daughter crawled up beside you.

Marshall had been sitting in the armchair, watching absentmindedly, when she leaned over and placed a tiny, unprompted kiss on your stomach.

His heart stopped.

You cracked one eye open, amused. “What was that for, baby?”

She grinned. “For the baby!”

You laughed, ruffling her hair. “There’s no baby in there, sweet girl.”

Marshall felt the words before he thought them—But what if there was?

Damn it.

5. The Time You Called Yourself ‘Done’

It had been a long day. Your daughter had been fussy, the house was a mess, and you looked absolutely exhausted.

You flopped onto the bed, sighing dramatically. “I don’t know how people have more than one. I’m done.”

Marshall chuckled, lying beside you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You turned your head toward him. “You’re not secretly hoping for another, are you?”

He hesitated for half a second too long.

Your eyes narrowed. “Marshall.”

He smirked, reaching over to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I mean… no. Not secretly.”

You groaned, covering your face with a pillow.

Marshall just laughed.

+1. The Time He Actually Brought It Up

It was late. Your daughter was asleep, the house was quiet, and the two of you were curled up in bed, your head resting against his chest.

Marshall exhaled, running his fingers through your hair. “You ever think about having another?”

You stilled for a second. “Like… seriously?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “Do you?”

Marshall hesitated, then nodded. “I mean… I didn’t think I would. But ever since she was born, I just keep thinking about it.”

You searched his face for a long moment. “You really want another baby?”

He shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I mean, we make cute kids.”

You laughed softly, but then your expression turned thoughtful. “I don’t know, Marshall. I love being a mom, but I don’t know if I’m ready to go through it all again.”

He nodded, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I get it. And if you don’t want to, that’s okay.”

You exhaled, resting your forehead against his. “Can I think about it?”

He kissed you gently. “Take all the time you need, baby.”

And for now, that was enough.

#eminem #eminem x reader #marshall mathers #marshall mathers x reader

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sunbl3achedfly · 2 days ago

Text

Do the dead comfort you? Pt.2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: Spencer does all he can to save you from the hands of a psychotic unsub, and he makes a promise to remain by your side in the aftermath of the ordeal.

Content: Dead bodies once again, (tw) torture, stalking, breakdowns, hospital visits, blood, (tw) sexual assault, trauma, Spencer to the rescue & being a tad protective of the pretty girl he only met once before, the reader realizes she can't use her morbid sense of humor to cope with everything, hurt/comfort I guess?

Author's note: Here’s part two!!! I was listening to Ethel's new album while writing this and holy moly I was in the zone and wrote most of it in one go. (Pulldrone is exactly what was playing when I wrote the scenes while she was kidnapped and I feel like the eery ambiance encapsulates the utter sense of dread and despair that hits the reader once she realizes how serious the situation is). Hope you all enjoy <33

Let me know if you guys want a part 3!!

5,331 words (it’s a long one aha)

part one

masterlist

When you finally managed to open your eyes again, a sharp, dull pain radiated through your skull. The harsh fluorescent lights above didn't help as they glared down at you. At least you weren't on the floor. Nope, just restrained to an ice-cold metal slab. Fancy that. This must be how all my patients feel before I embalm them.

You attempted to look around the room but the bright lights from above prevented you from doing so. As you regained consciousness, you began to realize that both your wrists and ankles were restrained to the embalming table. And you were only in your underwear. The panic had begun to set in and you tugged at the restraints, but to no avail, they wouldn’t budge.

"Struggling won't help", a voice echoed through the room, "I made sure of that."

Your head snapped to the right as you took in the man who now began leaning over you. At first, he didn't even look real. He stood over you, bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the morgue’s overhead lights, his figure stretched and distorted by your disoriented mind. A nightmare stitched together from shadows and flesh, from surgical steel and the sickly scent of embalming fluid. His eyes��God, his eyes—weren’t just looking at you; they were studying you, cataloging every inch of your body as if you were a specimen he was about to dissect.

On any normal day, his face may have been forgettable, the kind you’d pass on the street without a second thought. But at this moment, in this place, it was the only thing in the world. The sharp angles of his cheekbones cast deep, skeletal hollows in his skin, making him look half-dead, like something that had crawled out of the very slabs you worked on everyday. His mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer—just wrong, like he wasn’t used to making expressions that mimicked human emotion.

Then came his voice, it slithered into your ears, so sickly sweet that it made you nauseous, "You’re quite the fighter, aren’t you? But they all stop fighting eventually.”

You tried your best to focus on anything else at that moment, the details of everything else but him. The thin, latex gloves that he wore, they were stretched way too tight across his knuckles. The way his coat —a pristine white lab coat, because of course it was—fluttered slightly as he moved, the motion strangely elegant. You could smell him too. He smelled clean, too clean, like antiseptic and soap, but underneath that all was something rotten, something decayed. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it wasn’t.

As he began mulling over which embalming tool to pick up first, his fingers hovering over them as if one of them was beckoning to be chosen, you realized just how exposed you were. For the first time since waking up, at the mercy of this thing, wearing a man's skin—you started to believe you might actually die here.

The sound of splintering wood as the mortuary door crashed open was deafening. You flinched violently, your body instinctively pulling against the straps that pinned you to the cold metal table. Relief and terror fought for dominance in your chest.

They’re here. Oh God, they’re finally here.

But then, just when you had begun to relax for the first time in hours, you felt the scalpal press harder against your neck. The tip of it broke through skin, not deep, but enough to make your breath catch.

"Don’t move,” the unsub growled under his breath. His voice was sharp, his calm façade cracking under the pressure. You could feel the tremor in his hands now, the desperation radiating off him.

Your pulse thundered, the pain from the cut on your arm flaring as you tried to keep still. The various cuts and injuries that littered your body were nothing compared to the fear the tiny blade at your neck instilled in you. You bit down on your lip to stop it from trembling. Don’t panic. Don’t make this worse. They’re here. They’ll get me out of this. Please let them get me out of this.

"FBI! Drop the weapon!" A commanding voice filled the room.

"Come any closer and I slit her throat!" The man bellowed. Up until this point he had not raised his voice once, and the sheer volume caused you to flinch again, the scalpal breaking through more skin. You could feel a warm liquid trail over your collarbone.

Your eyes darted to the doorway, tears stinging as you caught sight of the dark vests, the guns, the agents—saviors. But the unsub only pressed closer, his body partially shielding you. The scalpel was an unrelenting threat, cold and unmoving against your skin. The sharp sting at your neck anchored you to the moment. A hot tear slipped down your temple. I’m going to die here.

From Spencer's position in the doorway, his sharp eyes took everything in. The unsub’s trembling hands, the scalpel pressed against your throat, your bloodied arm, and—God—your state of undress. His chest clenched painfully, guilt and anger battling inside him. He only hoped the unsub hadn’t gotten too far before they arrived.

She’s absolutely terrified. One wrong move and she’s dead. Come on Spencer, think!

His jaw tightened as he saw the unsub’s gaze flick toward him, possessive and unhinged. Spencer’s hands twitched, his instinct to charge forward barely restrained. Stay calm. She needs you to stay calm.

"You don’t want to do this,” he finally said, his voice softer than usual. He took a slow step forward, keeping his hands visible. Carefully, he raised them, shifting the gun away from the man. He was acutely aware of the five other guns trained on him, ready to fire if he made a wrong move, which was why he was willing to take the risk. “This doesn’t have to end badly. Let her go, and we can talk this through."

There was a slight pause in the unsub's movements.

“You’re in control right now,” Spencer continued, his tone gentle, almost soothing. “But if you hurt her, that control is gone. You don’t want that. You don’t want to make this worse.”

Spencer’s gaze flicked to yours, meeting your tear-filled eyes. You looked at him like he was your only lifeline. The desperation in your expression hit him like a punch to the gut. The only thought running through his mind like a mantra was that he needed to get her out of there, fast.

The tension in the room was suffocating, each second seemed to stretch on for eternity. Then, the unsub shifted slightly, but it was enough for Derek Morgan to lunge forward like a strike of lightning.

The scalpel hit the floor with a sharp clang as Hotch slammed into the unsub, yanking him away from the table. Chaos exploded around you—shouts, the scuffle of bodies struggling—but it barely registered. Your chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, your throat raw as you fought for breath, tears blurring your vision.

Spencer was at your side in an instant, undoing the restraints that held you down, while simultaneously giving you a once-over to take in any serious injuries he may need to keep in mind for the first responders.

You were in such a state that you barely registered whose hands were touching you and your heart rate immediately spiked. Your eyes were shut and you began thrashing on the table whilst whimpering loudly.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s over,” Spencer’s voice broke through the haze.

You blinked, realizing he was kneeling beside you, his hands moving to undo the straps that held you down. You flinched as his fingers brushed your wrist, a sob escaping your throat before you could stop it.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “He can't hurt you anymore. I promise.”

As the final strap came loose, you tried to sit up, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. Your legs felt weak, your hands trembling so badly you couldn’t push yourself upright.

“Here—let me help you.” Spencer’s hands were gentle as he guided you into a sitting position, his movements careful, almost hesitant.

The moment you were upright, you instinctively reached for him, clutching his shirt as your body shook with silent sobs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you. His vest felt stiff under your cheek, but his touch was warm, steadying. “You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe now.”

You couldn’t stop crying, the reality of everything crashing over you. His hand rested lightly on the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles on your back.

Spencer’s heart twisted at how small you felt in his arms, how vulnerable. Gone was the sarcastic, spunky girl who had left such a strong impression on him after just one meeting. He held you tighter, his own breath uneven as he fought to keep his emotions in check. She’s okay. She’s okay now. But she’s so scared. I need her to know she’s safe.

When you finally managed to speak, your voice was barely a whisper. “He almost…” Yet another sob prevented you from continuing.

Spencer shook his head, cutting you off gently. “But he didn’t. He didn’t, okay? You’re here. You’re safe.”

You buried your face in his chest again, your fingers clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. And in that moment, he didn’t care about protocol or what anyone else thought. All that mattered was comforting the girl with the shattered spirit in his arms.

The sharp, sterile scent of the hospital was the first to hit you as the nurse wheeled you through the emergency room doors. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, their clinical glow exposing every bruise, every scrape, and every jagged line of your vulnerability. They reminded you of the lights in the embalming room. The embalming room. That man. The tools piercing your skin.

You were vaguely aware of Spencer at your side, walking just close enough that his hand occasionally brushed against the armrest of the wheelchair. You wanted to tell him you were fine, that he didn’t have to stay, but every time you opened your mouth to speak, the words got stuck in your throat. You didn't want to do this alone.

The nurse guided you into a small room, where a doctor was already waiting. Spencer stopped just outside the doorway, shifting awkwardly, his hands buried in his pockets.

“We’ll take it from here,” the nurse said gently, giving him a polite but firm smile.

Spencer hesitated, his eyes darting between you and the nurse. You could see the conflict on his face, his shoulders tense like he was bracing for an argument.

You managed to find your voice, though it came out weaker than you intended. “Spencer…”

His gaze snapped to yours expectantly, his features softening.

“Can you… stay?” The words were barely a whisper, but the way his expression shifted—relief, determination, and something almost protective flashing across his face—made you feel a little steadier.

“Of course,” he said without hesitation, stepping into the room. He pulled up a chair near the bed, sitting close but giving you enough space not to feel overwhelmed.

The doctor began her examination, her voice calm and clinical as she asked you questions. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Are you in pain anywhere besides your arm?”

You answered automatically, your voice hollow as your mind wandered. The doctor’s questions blurred together with the sting of antiseptic on your wounds, and the rustle of the hospital gown you’d been asked to change into felt deafening in the quiet.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the unsub’s hands on you, the way his gaze had stripped you of every ounce of dignity. The memory was suffocating, curling around your chest like a vice.

Spencer’s voice cut through the fog, grounding you. “Hey,” he uttered softly, his brow furrowed with concern. “You okay?”

You blinked, realizing the doctor had finished and was watching you with the same concerned expression.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction.

Spencer didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he waited until the doctor left the room before leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied you.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke up again, "You're not fine."

You looked down at your hands, the hospital gown feeling too thin, too revealing, despite being more covered than you were earlier. You didn't know how to respond.

Spencer hesitated, noticing the sudden vulnerability in your expression. “I uh... I need to ask you a few questions… about what happened. It’s just procedure—to make sure this guy gets what he deserves. We don't have to do it now, but I'm here when you're ready.”

The sincerity in his tone made something in you crack. You weren’t ready to talk, not yet, but the way he said it—as if there was no question that he would be there for as long as you needed—made you feel a little less alone.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said quietly, though the thought of him leaving made your stomach twist.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly. “Not until you’re ready for me to, at least.”

You glanced up at him, expecting to see pity in his eyes, but all you saw was quiet determination. It made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t expected.

You took a shaky breath, your hands clenching into fists as you tried to steady yourself. “Ask the questions,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but firm with determination.

Spencer’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but insistent. “You don’t have to right now. We can wait until you’re ready. You don’t have to rush through it.”

But you shook your head, a flicker of something fierce in your eyes. “No… I want to do this now. If I don’t… I won’t ever.” The words tasted bitter in your mouth, but you pressed on, your heart pounding as the weight of what you were about to do sank in. “I need to nail this bastard. For me, for them… for everyone he’s hurt.”

Spencer remained quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, weighing your words. Finally, he nodded, his expression unreadable but softening with understanding. “Alright..." he hesitated, "This is going to sound silly, but can you close your eyes for me and tell me... what he did to you?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the request. For a moment, you didn’t know how to react. But the quiet, sincere way he asked you made something inside you settle, just a little. The room felt quieter now, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Closing your eyes, you tried to push the memories to the surface, to bring them into focus. Your heart beat faster, but you steeled yourself, knowing this was the only way to make him pay.

"When I woke up from being knocked out… I was tied down to the embalming table in my underwear, the straps were tight," you began slowly, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly. The sensation of the straps still lingered, and it made your skin crawl. "I couldn’t move."

Spencer stayed silent, his gaze never leaving you, his presence grounding you even as the weight of the memories pressed in. "Take your time," he said quietly, voice gentle but firm.

You took a shaky breath, nodding, trying to find the strength to continue. "He... he just stood there for a while, watching me. I could feel his eyes on me, like... he was enjoying it." You paused, swallowing the bitterness in your throat. "I couldn’t even scream. I just had to wait for him to decide what he wanted to do next."

Spencer’s jaw tightened, his mind was piecing it together, filling in the gaps even if you didn’t want him to. But he said nothing, giving you the space to speak. You appreciated that more than you could express.

There was no avoiding it. You had to talk about it. You had to say the words, had to help the FBI put together the full picture. You took a slow breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

“He—he used different embalming tools.”

Spencer looked up sharply, he noticed the pained expression on your face and realised just how hard this was going to be for you.

Your heart started to pound. As soon as you said it, the memories came rushing back.

The metal table was freezing against your bare skin, your body trembling with something beyond the cold. You pulled at your restraints, but they were too tight, digging into your wrists and ankles.

“I’ve always been fascinated by preservation,” the unsub mused, his fingers trailing over a set of gleaming instruments. “The way death can be… delayed. How a body can be made beautiful again.”

You didn’t say anything. Your throat was raw from screaming earlier, and you were running out of ways to keep yourself from panicking.

The unsub turned, holding up an embalming trocar—long, sharp, and glinting under the fluorescent light. “Did you know this is used to remove fluids and gases from a body before preservation?” He traced the tip lightly down your abdomen, not pressing hard enough to break skin. “It’s important to prepare the body properly.”

Your breathing hitched, and you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself not to react.

His expression darkened. “You’re supposed to be still,” he murmured, and without warning, he pressed down.

Pain flared white-hot in your side as the tip of the tool pricked your skin, just enough to draw blood. You gasped, your body instinctively jerking against the restraints.

The unsub sighed, shaking his head. “Messy,” he muttered, wiping the small bead of blood with his gloved hand. “I’ll have to try again.”

You inhaled sharply, coming back to yourself. The hospital bed, the warmth of the blanket, the steady presence of Spencer beside you—it was enough to pull you out of the memory, but your skin still burned where the tool had touched you.

Spencer’s knuckles were white where he gripped his knees. His breathing was slow, controlled, but his eyes—his eyes were burning with something deep and unsettled.

“He used a trocar,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “He—he didn’t go deep, but he wanted to see me flinch.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to will away the image forming in his mind. “And the other injuries?” he asked, his voice strained.

You swallowed. “A needle. He… he injected something into my leg. Some kind of preservative, I think. It burned.”

Another flash—

The burn spread up your thigh, a fire beneath your skin. You cried out, muscles seizing, your entire body locking up.

The unsub tilted his head, watching with interest. “Formaldehyde is quite versatile,” he said conversationally. “It won’t kill you. Not yet. But I wonder how much your body can handle before it starts shutting down?”

You bit down on your lip, hard enough to taste blood.

You took a slow, shaky breath, forcing yourself back into the present. The hospital bed. The warmth of the blanket. The steady presence of Spencer beside you.

Spencer’s hands had curled into fists. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching.

“What else?” he asked, voice strained.

You hesitated again. “He used the embalming pump.”

Spencer’s breath audibly caught in his throat.

The hum of the embalming machine filled the room, a steady, mechanical noise that only added to the horror of the moment.

You were still strapped down, too weak to fight, but your breath was coming in panicked gasps as the unsub adjusted the tube connected to the pump.

“This is a test,” he murmured, almost absently. “A small amount, just to see how the body reacts.”

You barely processed his words before you felt the cool sensation of liquid seeping into your veins.

Your vision blurred for a moment. It wasn’t enough to kill you—not yet. But it left you dizzy, sluggish, your limbs feeling even heavier than before.

“Fascinating,” the unsub muttered to himself. “I wonder how much you can take.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "The last thing he did... he told me exactly what he was going to do to me. Everything he'd done to his other victims—every single cut, every injection, every—"

Your breath hitched, your throat closing around the words.

"But I—I was going to be his favorite," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Because I had spunk. Because I fought back."

A shudder ran through you, your entire body recoiling from the memory. You couldn't say the rest. You didn't need to say the rest. The way his voice had darkened, the way he'd described it, savoring every detail like a promise—

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could block it out.

Spencer's hand closed over yours, grounding you. His grip was firm, steady, as if willing you to feel something other than that sickening sense of violation crawling under your skin.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low but unwavering.

You shook your head, your breathing uneven. “But you need to know—”

“I do know,” Spencer cut in, his voice sharp but gentle. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning with something unreadable—but underneath it, there was a quiet, unshakable promise. “You’ve given us enough.” He exhaled, slow and controlled, but his next words carried the full weight of his conviction.

“He’s never going to hurt anyone ever again. I swear to you—I’ll make sure he rots in prison for the rest of his life.”

A sob caught in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You weren’t ready to cry—not yet. But for the first time since it happened, you felt the faintest flicker of relief.

Spencer wasn’t just listening. He was hearing you. And he was going to make sure you got justice.

You weren’t alone in this.

And for now, that was enough.

As the night wore on, the hours began to blur together. You knew you wouldn't be able to sleep that night, and as guilty as it made you feel, Spencer didn't seem to mind. Throughout the night, nurses came and went, checking your vitals, re-bandaging your arm, and murmuring reassurances that didn’t quite reach you. And through it all, Spencer stayed.

The hospital room had settled into an almost eerie calm. Machines beeped softly in the background, and the dim lighting made everything feel slower as if the world outside had paused. You were sitting up in the hospital bed, the scratchy blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Spencer sat in the chair beside you, his legs crossed, thumbing through a book he’d found somewhere in the waiting area at a speed you didn't think was humanly possible.

The silence was interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. The FBI agent that had first pushed the unsub away from you in the embalming room stepped inside. At first, his presence intimidated you, his muscular frame and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure, but there was an undeniable warmth in his deep brown eyes. His smooth, dark skin contrasted with the sharp angles of his jawline, and a hint of stubble shadowed his face. He was holding two cups of hospital jello, one red, the other green.

“Thought you two could use a little pick-me-up,” He said, holding the cups aloft with a charming smile. “It’s not gourmet, but it’s better than nothing.”

You managed to return a weak smile back, taking the red jello as he handed it to you. Spencer set his book aside and accepted the green one without hesitation.

“Thanks, Morgan,” Spencer said.

Morgan gave you both a once-over, his gaze softening when it landed on you. “If you need anything, just holler. But I’ll give you two some space.” He gave Spencer a pointed look as if to silently remind him to keep an eye on you, then slipped out of the room.

You began poking at the jello with the plastic spoon. The silence stretched between you and Spencer, not uncomfortable, just heavy with unspoken things.

"You know", you said finally, your voice a little raspy, “jello might be the most depressing food ever invented.”

Spencer glanced up from his cup, his lips quirking in a faint smile. There she is. “It does have a strange texture. Did you know it’s made from gelatin, which comes from—”

“Animal bones,” you finished for him, giving him a sidelong look. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

He blinked, a little surprised, then nodded. “Right. I guess... you would know that.”

You smirked faintly, the smallest flicker of your usual sarcasm peeking through. “What can I say? I'm full of fun facts. Comes with the job, really.”

Spencer tilted his head, studying you once again. "Your job... I can't imagine it's easy," he said carefully, his voice gentle.

You hesitated, your spoon hovering just above the jello. For a brief moment, you considered brushing him off with a joke or changing the subject like you usually would. But when you met his gaze, there was something about the way he was looking at you. God, stop looking at me like that. His unwavering, earnest stare made you feel safe enough to answer honestly.

“It isn't most of the time” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “But it’s worth it.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he kept his gaze on you, his expression soft yet intent—like he was trying to unravel everything you weren’t saying. His eyes, sharp with quiet intelligence, searched yours as if they could decode the weight you carried, the thoughts you never voiced, the depth you kept hidden from the world.

There was something about you that fascinated him—not just your words, but the silences between them, the guarded way you spoke about things that mattered. He could tell there was so much more beneath the surface, layers of emotion and experience you refused to share. And yet, just for a moment, it felt like he could see them anyway.

He finally spoke, "Why?"

You sighed, setting the jello cup on the bedside table. “Because… when I embalm and prepare a body, when I make someone look like the person they were before…” You paused, swallowing hard. “I get to give their family one last chance to say a proper goodbye. One last moment where they can see the person they loved, not the person the world left behind.”

Spencer kept his gaze steady as he took in your words. He could tell how much those words meant to you. Surprisingly, his expression held a little bit of understanding and even awe.

"That's... incredible." he said finally, "I had never thought of it that way."

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well… not everyone thinks it's incredible. Most people just think it’s creepy."

Spencer’s lips quirked into the smallest smile. "I mean, technically, you do spend a lot of time with dead bodies."

You gave him a pointed look. "And you spend a lot of time profiling serial killers, but you don’t see me calling you creepy."

Spencer tilted his head, considering that for a moment. "Fair point."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the heaviness of the conversation lifting just a little.

Before the conversation could continue you blurted out, "Thank you."

Spencer glanced at you, “For what?”

“For staying,” you said simply.

He hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I couldn’t leave,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Not when you…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands. “I just couldn’t.”

You nodded, understanding more than words could convey. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel completely alone.

As you leaned back against the pillows, your eyes growing heavy, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you were going to be okay.

After your third day in the hospital, you were finally discharged. The hospital doors slid open with a quiet hiss, letting in a crisp evening breeze. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with fresh air—something that didn’t reek of antiseptic or overcooked hospital food. The gauze beneath your shirt still tugged slightly with each breath, but the soreness was manageable.

Freedom. Finally.

Beside you, Spencer hovered with the same quiet intensity he’d had when you arrived at the hospital, arms crossed like he wasn’t entirely convinced letting you leave was a good idea.

“You know, I appreciate the escort,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your good shoulder, “but unless you’re planning on kidnapping me back to my hospital bed, I think I can manage from here.”

Spencer blinked. “I just— I wanted to make sure you got out okay.”

You smirked. “What, did you think I’d trip over my own feet and fall into traffic?”

“I— statistically, you’re not at full mobility, and with your pain medication, your reflexes might be slightly impaired—”

You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’m not going to faceplant into the street.” Then, after a beat: “At least, not immediately.”

The corners of his lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile but failing miserably.

The silence stretched for a moment. For all his intelligence, Spencer still looked like he wanted to say something but hadn’t quite figured out the words. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was debating reaching out.

You tilted your head at him. “You okay there, Doc?”

He cleared his throat, straightening. “I just— I hope you know that you, um… don’t have to go through this alone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I was alone in the embalming room with a serial killer, so technically—”

Spencer shot you a look.

You snorted. “Okay, okay, I get it. Not the time."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… I know how trauma can make people isolate themselves, and I just wanted you to know that you have people who care.”

You nodded slowly. There was a warmth in your chest at the sincerity in his voice—softer, earnest.

“Well, in that case,” you said, shifting your weight to your good side, “since you care so much, would you... wanna get dinner sometime?”

Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, you know. The thing where people sit at a table, order food, and consume it?” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I mean, unless you don’t want to—”

“No! I mean— I do! I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, looking both overwhelmed and adorable in a way that made you bite back a grin.

You decided to put him out of his misery. “Spencer," your voice softened, "I’m trying to ask you on a date.”

He froze.

“Oh.”

You smirked. “Yeah. Oh.”

Spencer’s brain seemed to reboot in real time. “I—yes! Yes, I would like that.”

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “Good. You can pick the place.”

He nodded, still looking slightly dazed. “Right. I, um, I’ll text you.”

You chuckled, stepping back toward the curb where your ride was waiting. “See you soon, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer stood there as you got into the car, still blinking, like he was trying to process what had just happened.

As you pulled away, you saw him through the rearview mirror—standing there, hand running through his hair, a small, boyish smile tugging at his lips.

For the first time in a long time, despite everything that had happened, something felt right.

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vshiftsss · 2 days ago

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ROSEMARY ‘ROMY’ ZABINI. - (HOGWARTS DR INTRO)

being the youngest of three siblings, rosemary gillian zabini had a lot to prove.

she had to be the best of the best — had to turn heads, command rooms, and rule hogwarts, all while making it look effortless. everyone was depending on her to uphold the zabini name in all its glory (or rather, infamy. romy’s mother wasn’t the friendliest person. quite the opposite, actually). rosemary was supposed to follow in her mother’s footsteps, becoming a powerful witch that would inevitably be a woman with enough money to last her three lifetimes. even her twin brother, blaise zabini, held her up to the same unrealistic standard everyone seemed to possess when acknowledging her.

“be the best of the best. you can’t be anything less.”

but what if she didn’t want to be the best?

all she really wanted was a breath a fresh air. a brief reprieve from the suffocating clutches of everyone’s expectations, a glimpse of solace amidst the overwhelming shitshow she had as a life. was she going to find it at hogwarts? hell no. but rosemary could at least find some semblance of individuality there, without her mother breathing down her neck.

little did she know, a certain someone named mattheo riddle would take her precious breath of fresh air away as soon as she stepped onto school grounds. both figuratively and literally. rosie was in for a rude awakening; she wasn’t getting a break until the sky turned upside down and her mother finally got a husband.

she was going to need all the luck, all the help, and all the alcohol she could get to survive.

overview… so i’m trying something new! as you can see by the layout switch up…i was so inspired by like everyone on here having the prettiest posts ever and i changed everything. i also wanted to match the house i’m in, cause i’m gonna be a ravenclaw, so yeah! we’re not gonna talk about how i was completely wrong about everything i thought the marauders era was! it happens to the best of us. also, just wanted to mention that this dr is set in university (because i’m in college currently) and also set in modern times.

sidenote… i really tried getting into my creative writing bag and making this intro a bit cooler than what it was gonna be, but then i realized halfway through that i am incredibly rusty. give me the benefit of the doubt, y’all, writer’s block is real…

sidenote pt. 2… if this is formatted weird shhhh no it’s not, also feel free to ask any questions about any dr because i’m happy to answer! i finally figured out how to open the asks thingy lols just be respectful please!

anywho, i’ll go more into depth about what this dr is all about in due time. i just wanted to post a lil something because i love it here and i want to stay active. love you guys bye bye <3

#shifting realities #shifting blog #shifters #shiftblr #reality shifting #shifting motivation #desired reality #hogwarts dr #hogwarts desired reality #shifting script #shifting diary #vshiftsss #shiftingrealities #shifting community #shifting antis dni

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11queensupreme11 · 2 days ago

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okay question! will we be seeing a prego percyy? and if so who will be the most protective baby daddy? + plus her pregnancy cravings with each of them?

i initially said no to that question, but recently i've been contemplating it solely for the drama of her being pregnant while in TARTARUS.............. but idk, it doesn't fit with the rest of the stuff i have planned, so i don't think i can...?????

this is just for arsenic blues tho! i DO plan on making a separate book that's just a series of oneshots and short stories about percy's babies with the yans!!!

i didn't get whether you meant who would be the most protective of percy while she's pregnant or who would be the most protective father, so i'm just gonna do both

PROTECTIVE OVER PREGNANT PERCY:

7: hades! his solution would be to keep her locked up in the palace 24/7 until the pregnancy's over. now that she's spending all her time in the palace under his watchful eye, he won't stress so much.

6: apollo! the reason why he's so low is because he's 10000% confident that he can give percy the most comforting, stress-free pregnancy ever. all of his focus goes on making sure she's happy and okay. yes he still frets from time to time, but unlike the other yans (aside from loki) he actually knows what to do if anything goes wrong

5: cú chulainn! he's protective cuz he has no idea what he was doing so he's just hoping for the best! he's a lot more careful with percy than usual and more pushy towards keeping her home.

4: loki! he's gonna cast the most protective spells all over percy's body, the palace, the palace perimeters, etc. runes, enchantments, spellwork, he'll go above and beyond to make sure she and the baby are safe.

3: anubis! usually he's more on the hyperactive and playful, but when his mate's pregnant his protective tendencies 📈📈📈📈 he's gonna be more territorial than usual and the chances of him letting percy leave the palace is very very VERY slim. if she wants to go outside, he'll simply just expand the palace garden so she has more space!

2: poseidon!!! do you know how much danger his precious daughter-wife keeps getting into? SO FUCKING MUCH! if he were human, he'd be dead from cardiac arrest ages ago!!!

1: beelzebub. absolutely beelzebub. he is the most overprotective yan ever for obvious reasons, but also because he's terrified that his baby might hurt percy in the womb. so he's not only worried about outside threats but... well... inside threats too lmao

PROTECTIVE FATHER:

7: poseidon. he has thousands of sons. and if they're actually worthy of being his sons, then they BETTER not need his protection.

6: beelzebub. he knows very well that his children can take care of themselves. even if they were in any danger, he still wouldn't step in, but he would step in if they were actually about to die.

5: hades. he's up in number five cuz it mostly depends on the gender. this dude literally locks up his daughters in the palace and rarely lets them out. so he'll be protective mostly towards his daughters, and while he cares greatly for his sons too, he won't be as insane over protecting them lol

4: loki. loki is a great dad who loves and cares for his kids, but he also lives with the guilt of causing narfi and vali to die. so he's now extra careful, making sure any of his tricks and antics don't cause punishments towards his children.

3: anubis. this dude LIVES for his family and will go absolutely feral if anything were to happen to them. sure if they were in a fight, he'd cheer for them, but when things actually get ugly, he'll lose his shit and do whatever it takes to protect his kids.

2: apollo. this dude literally got turned into a human over his children. he loves his children very very VERY much and is intensely protective over them and would do whatever it took to keep them safe, even if it led to him getting hurt.

1: most protective daddy would be...... 🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁

CÚ CHULAINN!!! i know, surprise, right??? 😂 well there's a very good explanation for this and it's that this dude has a hundred fucking daughters (and maybe more, idk i might add more lol) and only one son. a hundred daughters just as giggly and lovely and airheaded as their mother, so it's no wonder he's so protective over them 😭 he has so many enemies too, and he knows the best way to hurt him would be to hurt the most important girls in his life: his wife and daughters 😭

#👸🏻| asks #👸🏻| arsenic blues

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phantomoftheorpheum · 3 days ago

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School Spirits Season 2 (episodes 1-3) liveblog/thoughts

**Spoilers for School Spirits Seasons 1 and 2x01-2x03

note: so last season I wrote up a lot of really detailed timeline stuff as I watched, and I don't think I'm going to do that this season, because 1. it's not a murder mystery anymore and 2. since a lot of the "mystery" elements of last season didn't tie back to Maddie at all, I can't expect all the little details to necessarily come together for the main plot. There are a couple of loose threads from that which I will keep an eye out for (honestly, I think they're just accidental loose threads), but my approach this season is more just ~vibes~

2x01

ROFL I completely forget Xavier got hit by a car at the end of season 1, like it completely slipped my mind. I possibly should have done a rewatch leading up to this, but I didn't and I'm here now, so I'm gonna go with it. I am watching the recap, though.

First question remains the same- what does Mr. Martin want? He tells Janet "the only way out is to go back in" and tells her that she needs to "go in deeper" which she does not want to do. He later tells Maddie that he wishes he had never pursued "this," though we know we can't trust him, so who knows if he actually has regrets or not. However, the fact that he runs from Maddie (and vanishes to who knows where?) suggests to me that he is genuinely afraid of something. If he were completely in control, I don't see why he would run away, what are the ghosts going to do him? Kill him?

Okay, Simon, my boy, please think clearly. Maddie literally gave you information that would have been impossible for you to have otherwise. The only reason you even found out Claire was involved in the blackmail was because of this stuff.

Lots of setup, some refreshers for the start of the season, fairly standard for a season opener. The budget feels higher already.

Unsurprisingly, it looks like Janet's past is going to play a big role in the season. Her dad seems like he sucks. I guess my immediate question is- are we getting all this backstory because it's emotionally relevant to Janet's storyline, or are we getting all this backstory because there's going to be a big plot element around it? When Janet goes to the graveyard, we see her grandmother's and her father's grave. Are those characters still in play as ghosts?

So far it does seem like the ghost characters are going to get the majority of the emotional weight. Rhonda, Charley, and Wally all already feel like they've been set up for some character development, while Nicole, Claire, and Xavier (until the end) don't have particularly clear set up for anything. Simon and Maddie have always been central, so no surprises there.

Okay, tbh, I did not think the car hitting Xavier looked that bad, but I'm going to assume he suffered a head injury or like that thing where if you get hit really hard at just the wrong moment it stops your heart, or something like that until told otherwise, because otherwise I can't figure out why he literally died for a minute.

So, my big question for the end of episode 1 is- how will this tie Xavier to the ghost world? Will he be able to see ghosts now? (I can see them not wanting to do this because Simon being the only person who can see Maddie is portrayed so heavily as a special bond, but also linking Xavier to the supernatural seems like the obvious reason they would kill him briefly, so....) Maybe it's just to get him onboard with everything because Claire is clearly not going to buy this story and Nicole seems pretty skeptical, too. I guess I'll just have to keep watching to find out.

Also seems important to mention that Janet is clearly pretty messed up from both what she's been through (and possibly her life before her death) and she appears to have been locked in a basement for like a year and I didn't miss all of that, I just don't have much commentary for it other than- I can't blame her.

2x02

Okay, so far it does feel like Xavier's brush with death is mainly to get him to be more open to everything, but I think it would be cool if he has some sort of lingering supernatural effects of the experience. Having a character die and then be brought back feels like the sort of thing that majorly changes them. If this weren't a supernatural story, I would assume that would be emotional/metaphorical change, but this show is about ghosts, so I'm kind of expecting something more than that.

I hate to say it, because I adore Wally and I hate love triangles, but it's making me itchy to watch all the Simon/Maddie/Wally scenes where Wally very clearly feels threatened. It's not there for no reason.

New additions to the cast, Yuri and Quinn. I wonder why Yuri never thought it was odd that Janet could make permanent stuff? Does he also have that skill? Because if not, surely he would notice that his stuff resets and (at least some) hers doesn't? I do like Yuri so far, though. I'm about halfway through the ep, don't feel like I know much about Quinn yet.

So we now know Janet's dad definitely sucked a lot. With that confirmed, and with the scene of Janet hiding under the stairs (as Maddie) with the person going up and down, do we think that's her father's ghost? (It wouldn't surprise me at all if Janet sees ghosts even though she's technically alive now). And... How did he die? did she (or her grandmother) kill him?

Xavier, my dude, I know I was tough on you last season, but cheating on Maddie does not mean you deserved to be hit and killed by a car.

Mr. Martin is engaged? (well, was) Interesting.

I hope someone realizes how triggering the Mr. Martin & Janet stuff clearly is for Rhonda. Obviously (so far) in the flashbacks we aren't getting the impression that it's an exact reflection of Rhonda's experiences, but close enough.

Okay, I wasn't expecting the Wally conflict to directly come up so soon, but I hope this at least means that we'll get some happy-go-lucky glimpses of him this season because it's one of my favorite elements of his character and (as Maddie basically called out) it's been very lowkey recently. I understand why he's upset/struggling, I like the layers, I just hope that's not the only side we see of him this season.

Alright, they just said Xaiver has a concussion. I'm no MD, but I did do some sports medicine training (unfortunately saw my fair share of concussions, including a couple that required ambulances, paramedics, and a trip to the hospital) and I do not think if you actually almost died of a head injury that anyone would let you back in school like the next day, even if you aren't expected in class. The lights alone would be problematic. But that's probably just me nitpicking.

So what you're telling me is Yuri saw a ghost with extra abilities and he was just like "eh 🤷‍♂️"? honestly, kinda valid. I'm glad Charley is addressing that.

I just had a thought that probably won't happen, but could be interesting, since Simon & Xavier are headed to the house that Janet is burning down, is it possible that Xavier will see Janet (Maddie) as Janet and not as Maddie? That would be an interesting effect of his death that's different from Simon's ability to talk to Maddie's ghost. I don't know how it would be helpful, but it could be cool.

Also was I right and Janet's father's ghost was actually there, or was she just imagining/remembering him? Clearly we don't know the extent of her abilities, or how the other ghosts factor in, but considering Janet's love of science and all the documentation, it would follow that she was running different experiments and she needed a bunch of different test subjects to do so. The big question being- what negative effects did she know/assume this had on them, because if it didn't have any, there would be no reason to hide it and they might do it voluntarily (they have very little to lose). Is it just that she was actively keeping them from crossing over? It seems like it would be something worse than that.

Mr. Martin is afraid of something "bigger," so clocked that. I do have an idea of what the red light means from the trailer, so not going to pretend to be super confused or speculate a lot, but not gonna explicitly say here because in case people haven't seen the trailer that addresses this.

2x03

So... do we think Claire is going to get an actual storyline, or?

Ah, there's some Wally lightness I was looking for.

Just got to the scene with Nicole's brother who I do not believe existed last season & I could be wrong, but he very much feels like a character that's been introduced to provide Claire with a new love interest and I am questioning if this would have absolutely anything to do with the central plot.

Janet's quite possibly a genius, but also she managed to leave her bag in a bathroom and lose all the money she stole, so brains aren't everything. I can't even laugh at her because I left my purse in a public bathroom a few months ago and didn't realize until I had driven an hour and half away and then had to drive an hour and half back (luckily it had been turned in) and then an hour and half the other way again.

I didn't realize I wanted more Xavier & Simon detective squad scenes until just now, but I do. I think they're really funny together, the actors bounce really well off of each other.

Okay, wait, wait, I immediately take back what I said about Nicole's brother because Janet's just been offered a ride to a college, and they just told us five minutes ago that Diego is in college, so what are the odds on "Diego sees his sister's missing best friend"? High, I'm guessing.

Well. That happened a lot faster than I was expecting it to, but okay. lol.

Can someone explain to me how the hell is Mr. Anderson is not in jail?? Stealing that much money is definitely a felony.

I can't tell if we're setting Nicole and Xavier up for a legit romance or just absolute horror and hilarity, like right now I could honestly see it going either way.

I just had to pause for like ten minutes from the secondhand embarrassment of the Wally/Janet scene. I know that's not the important part of that, but omg.

I don't understand how everyone else thought what Rhonda relayed about the party made Janet look bad instead of Mr. Martin. She literally says "no more experiments" and it seems like she wanted to give back the objects taken from the other ghosts, and I don't really get why Rhonda had to spell that out for everyone, like exercise some common sense my guys. I'm not saying that I fully buy that Mr. Martin is the ultimate evil (the man is scared of something) or that Janet is the ultimate good (setting aside the whole "stealing Maddie's body" thing, she was willing to kill Xavier with a car, so not a paragon of good morals, but still), just that I don't get what they missed about Rhonda's story to see Janet as the bad guy there.

I'm back to "Diego exists as a character solely for Claire" even though they technically used him for the plot briefly.

How did five of you lose Janet? She was literally right there.

So is it (the "hellscapes" so to speak) like a "you have to confront your death before you can move past it" kinda thing, or??

Unexpected MVP dynamic Simon & Xavier! But also Xavier should not be driving either and the girls really should have dropped both him and Simon off.

I'm not sure where Janet falls on a morality scale, but approaching Maddie's mom is rough if she doesn't intend to try to give Maddie's body back, because she has been through enough and like... oof.

It took me several hours to get through these episodes because this show has the misfortune of being on the most buggy streaming platform of all time, so my brain is tired at this point. I'll start a new post if I have any additional thoughts.

#school spirits #school spirits season 2 #school spirits spoilers #school spirits season 2 spoilers #lb #mine #text #long post #idk i am so tired y'all

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mikilavellan · 6 hours ago

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Ooo okay

1. Hawke looks more like Leandra. Makes act 2 on very hard. Bethany and Carver look more like Malcom.

2. Hawke was always too soft to be a soldier and hates conflict unless it is in someone else’s defense. She loves words more than her bow. Her belief that the world is largely good fades, as does her self confidence.

3. Hawke always wanted to leave Lothering, but not like this. She now regrets not appreciating it more.

4. Hawke had to be the strong one. She hasn’t processed it properly. She cries over his death at the same time as Leandra’s because it takes that long to let herself.

5. Hawke has always been close enough to Bethany. Protecting Bethany is why she didn’t leave Lothering. Her relationship with her mother was fraught as she often ended up parentified. Sometimes she resents that the twins are given more leeway and lighter punishments than she did as a child.

6. Hawke would beat the crap out of Gamlen if it weren’t for her mother. After her mother’s death she never speaks to him unless prompted.

7. Hawke joined the mercenaries. It felt more honest as an option to be a hired sword than a smuggler. She would be proved wrong quickly.

8. Hawke never considered not taking care of her family as an option. It’s such a part of her she doesn’t know how to put down the weight until it’s taken from her.

9. Repay the witch and be done. Dealing with trickster dieties never end well.

10. She finds Varric charming, but also a lifeline. A pleasant person who makes her laugh and gives her hope.

11. She did recruit everyone! She feels fiercely protective of all of them, but Varric is less a protectee to her than a confidant and best friend. Isabela makes her loosen up, but still stresses Hawke out with her decisions. Aveline taking care of her is flattering but she is not used to it so she’s often caught off guard.

12. Hawke is closest to Varric. He makes her laugh and they keep one another grounded.

13. Hawke cannot stand Meredith but will aid her if it keeps her eyes off Merrill, Bethany, and Anders.

14. Hawke mistrusts blood magic, knowing only Andrastian descriptors of it. She’s supportive of Merrill because she understands Merrill’s motivations but also very scared of losing her friend to it. She tried to convince Merrill to give up blood magic after Leandra’s death but ultimately acquiesced for the sake of the Eluvian.

15. Hawke wants to stay out of it. She’s a rogue and out of the way is where her sister is safest. She tried her best to play both sides and stay as neutral as possible until she couldn’t anymore. In which case she sided with the mages because of Bethany. She comes off as a very non confrontational, even wishy washy, in all matters but her family.

16. Bethany dies in the deep roads. Hawke is gutted. Bethany was her closest friend all her life. She wishes she had died in her place.

17. Hawke likes the Arishok! He seems a decent sort. Or so she thought. After all, he is a refugee too.

18. Hawke mistrusts Cullen by virtue of being a potential threat to her sister, but thinks him a decent sort. Her expectations of him are so low to start that every interaction pleasantly surprises her. He wins her over completely when he stands up to Meredith on her behalf in act 3.

19. Hawke sends Feynriel to the circle because she believes the circle is the only one who will help with his dreams. She’s seen how the elves treated Merrill, neither curbing her blood magic or helping her find safer solutions for the eluvian. During Feynriel’s dealings with demons, she accidentally frightens him into begging her to make him tranquil. She obliges. She never forgives herself for it.

20. She absolutely helps Aveline get married! She and Isabela go over the top scheming. Aveline is family now and family gets what Hawke thinks is what’s best for them.

21. Hawke helped Merrill fix the Eluvian. She understands the importance of wanting a piece of your ancestors. She wanted to know the Amells just as badly. Merrill keeps the mirror intact.

22. Hawke understands Justice. Does she consider him slightly unpleasant and nerve wracking to be around at first? Yes. But his protectiveness of Anders and his loved ones is familiar. Soon he’s just a member of the gang.

23. Hawke loves Fenris deeply. She is willing to give him the “been making decisions for himself for less than 10 years of course he’s adjusted terribly” pass but still will jump in to defend Merrill and Anders. The fact that he’s willing to let her drag him on mage related rescue missions also makes her think he’s not a lost cause. Because she tries to see “both sides” she often manages to piss off both Fenris and Anders equally.

24. Bertrand is alive, the idol piece is gone. She’s not about to lose Varric to that BS.

25. She did not recruit him

26. She only felt betrayed when she thought Isabela wasn’t coming back. All was forgiven as soon as Isabela returned.

27. Hawke blames herself for Leandra’s death, for not being faster and solving the mystery sooner. She also becomes far more disgusted by blood magic than before. She becomes overwhelmingly more angry and depressed. Part of this is that her mother dies the day after Fenris breaks up with her. If not for Varric and her she would have descended into immobility.

28. Hawke friendmanced Fenris. For Hawke, love is taking care of someone. Somewhere in teaching Fenris to read, hunting slavers, and ensuring his continued freedom, caring about Fenris became love.

29. Hawke gained the arishok’s respect. She dueled him one on one but was not happy about it. She still believed these issues could be solved by words. She admired the Viscount and is angry on his behalf, but mainly grieving the city she cared about changing so drastically overnight and so many prejudices “vindicated”

30. Hawke has grown to love Kirkwall enough that she wants to protect it. She wishes people in power would stop leveraging her though.

31-32. She cannot stand Meredith. Hawke hates how Meredith abuses her power, how much fear she stirs. She grudgingly works with Meredith mostly to ensure her eyes are off Anders and Merrill. She quite likes Orsino and is disgusted to learn he worked with the man who killed her mother. Yet another person she respects or looks up to gone. She wishes the pair would stop using her as a messenger. This is neither her circus nor her monkeys. Elthina has her respect. She would do anything for elthina and subscribes to her line of thinking, that it can be fixed still.

33. CONSIDERABLY BETTER NOW THAT HES BACK

34. :(

35. :( :( :(

36. Betrayed. She knows he knows if he told her, she would never have helped him. She also wishes she would have because she loves him a lot. Even though she wouldn’t have helped. It breaks her heart.

37. Delighted she’s not the last hawke!

38. She introduced charade and gamlen for charades sake. Not gamlen’s. He is not family and will never be family.

39. Heartbroken. Of course she can’t kill Anders. But the violence seems senseless to her. She knows why. Of course she does. But she didn’t realize how far gone the city was. She held out some hope that decency and non violence would win out in the end. She overestimated the good in her city leaders. Still, she sticks with Anders to the end.

40. Mages! That’s her sister and her two best friends. It’s amazing how fast wanton violence can make a complex situation suddenly clear.

41. She travels with Fenris. The plan is to find a place far enough away from the madness and settle down. They never do, often rotating between staying with friends.

42. Yes of course!!

43. She doesn’t read it except for the excerpts Varric reads aloud to her. She knows Varric was kind to her in his retelling but she sees her failings in the story. She supports Varric however and thinks the idea is fun.

Questions for Hawke

Mixed some Act 2 and 3 stuff for the companions so that I didn't have to ask the same thing twice.

Questions for the Warden/HOF can be found here.

Does Hawke look more like Malcom or Leandra? Do they look like their siblings?

What is Hawke's personality and does it change during the years?

How did Hawke feel about Lothering? Did they like their home?

How did Hawke react when Malcom died?

What was Hawke's relationship like with their family prior to Lothering's destruction? Who are they closest to?

Does Hawke like Gamlen?

Who did Hawke join - the mercenaries or the smugglers? Is there a particular reason for it?

How does Hawke feel about taking care of their family? Do they feel like they're carrying a burden or do they assume the responsbility?

What are their thoughs on Mythal/Flemeth?

What's their first impression of Varric?

During their first year in Kirkwall, did Hawke recruit everyone? And what are their opinions on the whole group?

Who is Hawke closest to in their group?

Is there someone, from the Kirkwall gang or an NPC, that Hawke does not like? Why?

How does Hawke feel about blood magic?

How does Hawke feel about the rising tension between mages and templars?

What happened to Bethany/Carver after the Deep Roads expedition and how does Hawke feel about it?

Does Hawke like the Arishok?

How does Hawke feel about Cullen? Do they like him?

What was Feynriel's fate?

Did Hawke help Aveline get laid married?

Did Hawke help Merrill fix the Eluvian? And did Merrill break the eluvian or is it intact?

How does Hawke feel about the whole Anders-Justice situation?

What are Hawke's thoughts on Fenris and his opinion of mages?

Is Bartrand dead or alive? Did Hawke let Varric keep the red lyrium?

Did Hawke recruit Sebastian? What are their thoughts on him?

How did Hawke feel about learning the truth of Isabela's artifact? Did they feel betrayed or did they understand her?

What were Hawke's thoughts after Leandra is found dead? Did they blame themselves or someone else? How did they grieve?

Did Hawke initiate a relationship with any of their companions? If so, why were they attracted to that companion? Was it a frienship or a rivalry romance?

Did Hawke gain the Arishok's respect? And how did they handle the Qunari invasion?

How does Hawke feel about being the Champion of Kirkwall?

What are Hawke's thoughts on Meredith, Orsino and Elthina?

How does Hawke feel about helping Meredith and Orsino?

How is Hawke's relationship with their love interest after 3 years?

If Bethany/Carver is alive, how is their relationship after so many years like? And how is it after Leandra's death?

What is the fate of Merrill's clan?

How does Hawke feel about Anders behaviour (in regards to him being secretive about the 'potion') in act 3? Are they suspicious of him or are they understanding?

Did Hawke find Charade and how do they feel about discovering a new cousin?

How is Hawke's relationship with Gamlen after all these years?

How does Hawke react to the explosion of the Chantry? How do they feel about Anders's actions and do they kill him or let him live?

Who does Hawke side with - Mages or Templars? And why?

What does Hawke do after they flee Kirkwall (if Viscount, after they are disposed by the templars)?

Do they try to keep contact with the other companions?

How does Hawke react when Varric publishes the Tale of the Champion? Have they read it?

#hawke #my hawke #da2 #yeah she’s a centrist eldest daughter loser but she’s mine

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nickeverdeen · 2 days ago

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Taken pt. 6 | Mom!Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Pairings: This part is mainly focused on Yelena x reader (unaware family), Natasha x reader (family)

Type of fic: Action, Light Angst

Warnings: Weapons, Fighting, Some Memory Control, Fake Death, Grieving

Parts -> 1 -> 2 -> 3 -> 4 -> 5 -> 7 -> 8

Age: You are 23 years old and Yelena is 32 years old

Summary: When a mission goes wrong and you gain your memories back things go down the hill a bit more than expected and you and Yelena have to go on a run and make yourselves more blending into the regural crowd. Meanwhile Natasha who’s convinced of your death is grieving on your birthday.

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The sharp crack of the sniper rifle echoed through the cold, empty air. You exhaled slowly, your breath visible in the chill, as you kept your scope trained on the mission target. The plan was simple: Yelena would handle close combat while you covered from above.

Through the scope, you watched as Yelena reached the target—a middle-aged woman holding a small satchel of glowing glass vials. The target fought desperately, but Yelena was relentless, her knife flashing in the dim light.

It was over in moments. The target collapsed to the ground, her hands trembling as she reached out for one of the vials. It slipped from her grasp, shattering against the concrete.

A fine, red mist escaped the shattered glass, and Yelena froze, her posture stiffening unnaturally before her knife clattered to the ground.

“Yelena,” you called over comms, your tone sharp. No response.

Frowning, you descended from your perch, your rifle slung over your shoulder. Yelena turned toward you, her expression flickering with something you didn’t recognize: fear.

“What’s going on?” you asked, keeping your gun at the ready.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed another vial from the satchel and hurled it at you.

“Yelena—!”

The vial shattered at your feet, and the same red mist enveloped you. You staggered, coughing, your vision blurring as dizziness overtook you.

And then the memories hit.

Like a flood breaking through a dam, faces, voices, and moments you hadn’t known you’d lost came rushing back. Natasha’s laugh. Her hand brushing your hair. The sound of her voice calling you kiddo.

Your knees buckled, and Yelena was there, catching you before you hit the ground.

“It’s okay,” she said softly, her voice steadier now. “You’re free. We both are.”

You looked up at her, tears streaming down your face. “Mum,” you whispered, the name like a prayer.

Yelena nodded. “She’s out there. But first…” She gestured to the tracking chips in your thighs. “We get rid of these.”

The process was brutal. With nothing but a knife and sheer determination, the two of you carved out the devices that had tethered you to the Red Room for so long. Blood stained the ground, but the pain was nothing compared to the freedom that followed.

Meanwhile, halfway across the world, Natasha sat alone at the small gravestone she had visited every year for the past seven years.

Your name was etched into the cold stone, accompanied by dates that carved a hole in her chest every time she looked at them.

“Happy birthday, kiddo,” she murmured, placing a small box beside the stone. Inside was a delicate bracelet she’d made herself, woven with red and black thread.

She sat in silence for a while, her fingers brushing the name on the stone as if you might somehow feel her touch.

“I miss you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’ll never stop missing you.”

Eventually, she stood, wiping her eyes and leaving the gift behind. She turned back once, her heart aching, before walking away.

You and Yelena stumbled into a thrift store hours later, your mission suits bloodied and torn. The clerk shot you a wary glance, but Yelena ignored it, immediately rummaging through the racks.

As Yelena held up a green vest, her face lit up in a way you hadn’t seen before. “This,” she declared, inspecting the pockets. “It’s perfect. Look at all this space. You need this much room for things.”

You couldn’t help but smirk. “Practical.”

Your eyes wandered to a small display of accessories, landing on a pair of fingerless gloves and a faded, oversized sweater. It was absurdly impractical, but something about it called to you.

“You want it,” Yelena said, glancing over her shoulder.

“I don’t have any money,” you muttered.

Yelena waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. I ‘borrowed’ some from a guy on the way here.”

She tossed the sweater and gloves at you. “You’re taking it.”

Dressed in your new clothes, the two of you made your way to a nearby dumpster, where you unceremoniously discarded your Black Widow uniforms.

Yelena grinned as she tossed her bloodied suit on top. “Good riddance.”

You hesitated for a moment before throwing yours in as well, watching it disappear among the trash.

It felt like shedding a second skin—one you no longer wanted.

As the two of you walked away, blending into the crowd, you couldn’t help but glance at the sky. For the first time in years, you felt a flicker of hope.

#imagine #mom natasha #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff mom #yelena belova #yelena aunt #family #mcu

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the-daydreaming-show · 3 days ago

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(3.) Dreams Made Heavy.

SUMMARY: It's the celebration of Nyx's first birthday.

Your time in illusion is running out and the past is ending, unable to bear its own weight any longer.

NOTE: I love this chapter because Feyre is so excited to bring the reader into her life and introduce her to her son, it's adorable. Let me know what you think of this chapter and how things are going, I'm always happy to hear your thoughts. As always, English is not my first language so sorry for spelling mistakes and mistakes of the type, any comment on it is welcome if it is respectful. I am always trying to get comfortable and improve my writing in this language. I hope you like it. XOXO Ella

Memories/Thoughts in italics

Dragon Language in bold italics

Previus Part: (2.) EMBRACING ILLUSIONS

AO3 / Story Masterlist

“What lived and died between us—haunts me still.” – «The Chronology of Water: A Memoir» by Lidia Yuknavitch.

Lying on your back in bed, you held the hand-painted parchment invitation above your head, looking up at it with the expression of someone who knew they had flown too close to the sun.

Feyre had painted the invitations herself—each one was different—and, in her words, they were meant as a sort of souvenir, something for each recipient to keep as a memento of the very special occasion that was Nyx’s first birthday. You didn’t know what the others looked like, but you guessed that not all of them had the shadows of three little dragons flying in the corner of the invitation. The boy’s name and what looked like a tiny fingerprint also decorated the small square of parchment, proving that he had helped create it as well. You ran your thumb over the shape of the boy’s print, which seemed to reach out to the three dragons in the corner.

“I told you that you should have brought more of a variety of outfits,” Mayhem reminded you flatly from her spot on the balcony, sitting cross-legged with her dress bunched around her as she settled in for her prayer.

With that, you snapped back to harsh reality, dropping your arms carefully so as not to ruin the invitation, and rolled over onto your stomach, wanting to drown yourself in the mattress as you let out a tearful cry.

As if that was the main problem in the whole situation, you thought, too hopeless to put it into words just yet. Of course, you wouldn't tell your court how deeply you had gotten yourself into the mud of this situation—not when they had clearly warned you it would happen, and not when you had known, deep down, that it would.

But I think it’s what I need, you had told Armin when he warned you about the consequences. And maybe you really did need it. You needed to see the beauty of the life Feyre had now, to let her go, even if it would break your heart. But you didn’t want to. You realized you weren’t sure how you would survive that. Still, there was no way out now—you were up to your neck in the consequences of your own decisions, of what you had asked for. You had wanted to see Feyre one last time, to know she was okay. And now you have gotten your wish.

“I don’t think a kid’s first birthday has much of a dress code, especially if it’s just a family gathering,” Luka added from his spot in the desk chair, practicing his penmanship on different birthday gift card options while experimenting with different ways to hold the pen with his missing finger. “Let's just be grateful if the gift has a decent bow.”

“It’s the birthday of the heir to the court. For all we know, it could be a gala, even if it’s just a family affair. It wouldn’t be unusual for people with the kind of money that the High Lord and High Lady have,” May said without changing her tone as she placed her hands in position to begin her prayer.

“It wouldn’t be the first time she’s shown up in riding gear to an event like that, either,” Luka whispered, focusing on his movements on the paper.

“What’s wrong with my outfits?” you finally asked, wanting to divert the conversation, lifting your head from the pillow. “They’re all very nice and comfortable.”

“And they all smell like ash and burnt leather,” Mayhem stated before beginning to whisper her affirmations.

You gulped. You needed something to do, and figuring out party etiquette suddenly sounded like a great activity. You didn’t say anything, and no one paid you any mind as you got out of bed and walked out of the room, into the hallways of the house, on a mission to find Nesta and question her about what she might be planning for her nephew’s birthday party. Would she give him a birthday card or just the bow? Who was going? And any other information she was willing to share so that your anxiety could drown in the comfort of knowing a little more about what to expect.

When you had offered to give Feyre Nyx’s gift so she could take it to him, she had ended up handing you that beautiful invitation with the child’s name, time, and place for the party. But she had told you that the birthday hadn’t happened yet, and giving gifts or celebrating early was a no-no in mortal culture, as it was considered bad luck. So, she couldn’t accept the gift, and instead, she had invited you to the party, pulling the invitation out of her pocket and handing it to you.

You told yourself that you wanted to see if Feyre was happy, to see if everything was as it seemed. This is the perfect opportunity to do so. Don’t complain. You repeat to yourself as you walk.

As you turned into a hallway, you came across Morrigan walking toward you.

“You look like a woman on a mission,” Morrigan declared as she approached. “May I help you with it?”

“Indeed, you can,” you replied with a knowing smile. Morrigan simply followed suit.

Morrigan took you out of the house the next morning with Mayhem in tow. Your bodyguard had refused to let you go alone, following you in deathly silence despite your insistence that you could manage on your own.

It was interesting to see your friend, Mayhem—thin, pale as a ghost, with long, straight dark hair falling past her waist and piercing eyes like stone—contrast with Morrigan, who was tall, blonde, and radiant, her smile dressed in reds and golds as she walked elegantly through the city. Morrigan talked a lot, while May watched her out of the corner of her eye, expressionless, merely analyzing. She took you both shopping, exchanging gold for the currency used at court.

“Personally, this outing suits me well. I don’t know what I’ll wear yet, and if Feyre paints a picture of the occasion, I want my nephew to see that his favorite aunt was the best-dressed since before he could even remember,” the blonde commented, linking her arm with yours as she walked.

“At this point, the only standard I have is that it not be riding clothes, as has been widely pointed out,” you replied, casting an accusatory look at Mayhem, who simply shrugged, knowing she wouldn’t regret her insistence.

“I’m afraid I have to agree with that—you need more variety in your wardrobe.” Morrigan shot May a knowing look, which she didn’t return. Instead, your friend put on a pitying expression and looked away. Morrigan, however, didn’t seem offended or put off by her reaction. “Uh, let’s start with this store. It’s one of my favorites.”

Morrigan pulled your arm into a sudden U-turn that nearly made you trip, while Mayhem hurried to catch up, trying to return to your side as quickly as possible. You managed to straighten up before entering the store, where a kind woman immediately greeted Morrigan by name, and the scent of lavender filled your nostrils.

Your escort broke away from you to chat about the occasion she needed an outfit for, expressing her excitement about the birthday, while you and Mayhem wandered slowly through the store together.

You quickly let Mayhem take the lead, walking ahead of you and browsing options on your behalf, given your clear lack of enthusiasm and ideas after the first two rows of hangers. You rejected skirts of any length—not because you didn’t like them, but because riding a dragon in them often led to painful scrapes on your legs. And since you never knew when you’d be flying Balerion, you avoided them whenever possible.

Instead, you picked out a loose-fitting pair of pants. While they wouldn’t be ideal for riding due to the excess fabric, they would suffice in an emergency. You left Mayhem to decide on the color and wandered toward the shirts, where Morrigan was supposed to be—though you couldn’t see her among the hanging clothes.

Taking advantage of the illusion of privacy, you asked a question.

“Morrigan, will you give the birthday boy a card along with your gift?” You spoke into the air, waiting patiently for an answer as you admired the shirts, t-shirts, and tops around you. But when no immediate response came, you suddenly felt the need to justify your question. “I know he can’t read—it’s only his first birthday. But Fey enjoys keeping memories.”

“First of all, I’m giving him too many presents to include a card with each one.” You jumped in place when her voice sounded much closer than expected. “Second, call me Mor. And third—” Morrigan rounded the corner of the same row of hangers you were hiding behind, looking at you in amusement. “Fey?”

You felt like a deer caught in headlights. Or rather, like Balerion when you caught him stealing cattle.

Mor, carrying several red and purple dresses in her arms, walked toward you with a friendly smile. Mayhem, as silent as your anxiety, appeared at your side, making you glance over as she placed three pairs of pants in your arms, giving you a knowing look.

Are you okay? her eyes asked as she carefully arranged the clothes in your arms, hangers included. You nodded quickly while she adjusted the garments on your elbow.

“Yes, it’s—” You swallowed, realizing your mouth was dry, then turned to Mor. “It’s what I called her when we were kids. Pronouncing ‘Feyre’ was too much for me back then—my country accent kept me from being understood.”

Mayhem settled next to you, browsing through the pants among the shirts. You mimicked her, and Morrigan wasted no time joining in, glancing at the pants in your arms before helping with the search.

“You had an accent?” Mor asked casually. “Sometimes I swear I hear something in Feyre’s tone, but not enough to place it. Is that it? Did she have one?” She then lifted the sleeve of a nearby shirt, holding it against the fabric of one of the pants to check the match, only to let it go with a frown.

“No, actually, in all the years I knew her, she never quite managed to shake off her posh, aristocratic accent. She sounds pretty normal now—I guess time has won in that regard,” you explained, recalling little Feyre elegantly asking how to set up a rabbit trap in the woods. Even now, the memory was amusing. Morrigan must have agreed because she let out a genuine laugh.

“And your accent? What happened to it?” Mor asked, looking up from the shirts to meet your gaze. This time, you didn’t avoid her eyes or her question. Instead, you met her gaze and answered.

“Courtesans with accents aren’t well regarded unless they sound ‘exotic,’ and I didn’t fall into that category by any standard. So, I was trained until I lost it,” you explained simply, turning toward another rack of more casual tops. Mayhem mirrored you without thinking, even though none of the clothes in front of her now matched the outfit she had been planning with the pants.

As you browsed side by side, Mayhem silently took your hand, squeezing your fingers. You looked at her. She smiled sadly—a quiet comfort, an “I understand you”. Because even though Mayhem had never been trained as a courtesan, when she was raised to be a hired assassin for a slave master in the bay, they had done the same thing to her as they had to you. They trained her to forget who she was and become what was expected of her.

“What was she like?” Morrigan asked. You had almost forgotten she was standing next to you, but you turned to her, murmuring in confusion.

“Feyre, when you were children. What was she like?”

You thought for a moment. You could have said more if you had started, though at the end of the day, it wouldn’t have changed the fact that you genuinely believed the answer you ended up giving her.

“Not much different from now,” you pointed out softly, to which Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “But smaller, of course, and with an insatiable need to learn.”

“And with an elegant accent?” Morrigan smiled mischievously.

“Yes, my lady.” The phrase, mimicking the elegant, exaggerated tone Feyre used to have as a child, made Morrigan burst into laughter.

“She sounded like that?!?” she asked between giggles.

“Don’t tell her I told you—she always said it was my imagination. But I swear to anyone that she sounded exactly like that,” you told her, while May, noticing that you were calmer, returned to searching for shirts to match the pants.

“I’ll take it to the grave,” Morrigan assured, her eyes glinting with honesty and amusement, a look that went unnoticed by you. “Come on, you need some good boots for those pants.”

With that, Morrigan led you toward the stairs of the store, May hurrying behind both of you, shirts in hand, as you headed up to the second floor where the shoes were.

To Mayhem's bewilderment, Morrigan made sure to give—and impose—her opinions on the outfit the black-haired girl was putting together for you, quickly realizing that you had little drive or interest in making choices yourself, trusting their judgment without much thought. As the day went on, you got the impression that the blonde had started to genuinely enjoy debating Mayhem’s choices, gradually drawing her into longer discussions, getting her to argue more and more as the hours passed.

You picked out the pants from the first store, but May wasn’t convinced by anything else there, so the three of you scoured nearly every shop in Velaris to piece together your outfit. Jewelry became the biggest battleground between Morrigan’s yin and Mayhem’s yang, reaching its peak when May delivered a twelve-word speech to Morrigan about why silver jewelry suited you better than gold. Morrigan’s defeat did nothing to deter her—if anything, she seemed to enjoy it. When you finally walked out with the silver jewelry May had carefully selected, your two shopping companions each latched onto one of your arms, and off you went.

“I’ll pick you up at the House. And don’t even think about putting those pants on that beast’s saddle.” That was the last thing she said before leaving you in the living room of the House of Wind—then she disappeared without another word.

You wished you had put on a riding suit. Leather would have made you feel safer than the soft, airy fabric of the fancy pants you had bought. You regretted the logic that had led you to avoid Mayhem accompanying you—and the fact that it had worked.

“If I’m going to be killed at the birthday party, there’s nothing you can do. It’s a gathering of the most powerful beings on this continent—and all the continents—so it probably won’t make any difference whether you’re here or not.”

You were right. Mayhem knew that. But once you arrived, you realized that her silent support would have been invaluable. Mor had dragged you into the house happily, as if there was nothing wrong with your presence. Yet you could feel the guests’ wary gazes, and soon after, she left you alone—standing at the entrance to the living room with your gift in hand—while she excitedly went to greet the other guests. There was no way to feel balanced, but at least now you knew that it wasn’t just your side that was the problem.

Someone called your name, and before you knew it, Elain Archeron was in front of you, wrapping you in a hug.

“Hi,” you greeted her tentatively, trying to hug her back without dropping the gift in your hands. The gift was a small, handmade wooden chest carved with stars and the moon, barely bigger than your hand, wrapped with a perfect bow—one that Luka had managed to tie despite having one less finger than usual. He had been very proud of it.

“Hello,” Elain replied, pulling away and looking at you with emotion in her eyes. “How are you?”

A glimpse of the human life she once had—that’s what this was, you thought. It was no secret in your court how unhappy the middle Archeron was about her life as a High Fae, and how she openly longed to be human again. Elain was not comfortable in her own skin. You could understand that, and you smiled back at her because of it.

“Well, it was refreshing to have a change of scenery after so much time in the desert,” you commented softly, watching as she looked at you intently before hooking her arm around yours and gently pulling you toward an armchair in the empty living room.

“I’ve seen the dragons in the sky since you arrived,” she explained, smiling as they sat down peacefully. “They seem to enjoy the mountains, and the blue one always seems to stay near the flowers.”

“Yeah, they’re not used to seeing so many colors,” you explained, carefully placing the gift on your lap and making sure the bow didn’t shift from its perfect position.

“Balerion is the oldest, right? He’s quite large compared to the others,” she commented softly, her curiosity genuine.

“Of those who accompanied me here, yes, he’s the oldest. He was born in the volcanoes, but he’s the second-born of all the dragons—they have an older sister and a younger one,” you explained calmly. Elain listened attentively, and you didn’t mind. You loved talking about your dragons. “The other two that came with me are Caraxes and Dreamfyre. They hatched in the desert.”

“You need to stop pestering the poor woman with questions,” Nesta’s voice cut in as she sat sideways at the head of the chair. “She’s been obsessed ever since you flew over the city when you arrived, and she won’t stop asking me questions,” she added, taking a sip of her fruit juice.

“And you have no answers, Nesta,” Elain complained, turning her gaze back to you. “The blue one of the two—the middle one. What is its name? I always see it flying over the flower meadows outside the city.”

“Her name is Dreamfyre. The flowers in the desert—the few that grow—don’t have much of a scent, so the flowers here fascinate her. That’s why she’s always camping out in the meadows,” you explained. Elain seemed ecstatic, her eyes lighting up at the information, but before she could say anything else, another voice interrupted the conversation.

“Elain, I told you not to pester her with questions as soon as she got here,” Feyre scolded, sounding somewhat embarrassed as she approached you at a quick pace. She was wearing a dress. “Sorry, she’s been obsessed with them ever since you arrived.”

“That’s what Nesta told me. But don’t worry, it’s nice to talk about them out of curiosity,” you commented, smiling softly at Elain.

It’s nice to talk about them as if they were nothing more than weapons to be used in war, you wanted to say, but that would be saying too much.

Elain, seeing that her questions didn’t bother you, prepared to ask another, but Feyre’s hand suddenly appeared in both of your fields of vision, drawing your attention away from your curiosity. Standing in front of you, dressed in the style of her court, her hair half-up and decorated with pearl stars in a style very similar to Nesta’s—though with more hair cascading down her back—Feyre offered you her hand, a gleam in her eyes.

“Come,” she said, gently taking your hand and pulling you toward her. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

Feyre lifted you off the couch and led you down a hallway that stretched deeper into the house. The sounds of the party faded as the steady tug of her hand guided you through the house, and you nervously held your gift to your chest the entire way.

The silence of the house was suffocating as you moved forward, and you became hyper aware of the way she wouldn’t let go of your hand. In a sudden turn that took you by surprise, Feyre took the opportunity to intertwine your fingers more firmly, and you didn’t know what disturbed you more—the touch of another human being, something you had grown sensitive to since leaving the volcano, or the fact that it was her hand holding yours. The one who hid so many secrets from you that simply being in her presence made you feel tainted. You felt disrespectful.

You two climbed the stairs and then turned the final corner of the path, at which point you saw Cassian and Azriel, both casually standing on either side of a particular door. Guarding. That’s when you realized, with the same feeling as someone who had just received a punch to the stomach, who you were about to be introduced to. You quickly adjusted the gift in your hand, praying that the bow hadn’t shifted from its place when you pressed it against your chest, and Cassian waved at you as you walked past him, entering the room.

There was a huge stained glass window that offered a beautiful view of the mountains and the meadow of flowers Elain had mentioned earlier. From there, you could see your three dragons in the distance. Standing in front of the stained glass and looking at them was Rhysand, with little Nyx sitting on his hip, pointing and babbling. You stood in your spot, watching the child interact with his father, squeezing Feyre’s hand, torn between your own decision.

You looked at her, as if ready to lend a helping hand if she was sure of what she was going to do. After almost a decade of not seeing each other, you wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t feel comfortable introducing her son. But she was looking at you with an excited smile, genuinely happy that you were there about to do what you were going to do, and guilt closed your throat as you let her happily lead you over to where Rhysand was holding the child by the window. He turned to greet you as soon as he heard your footsteps, though you had no doubt he had known you were there long before. He smiled softly every time your gaze met as you approached. He didn’t look uncomfortable either; in fact, he seemed the calmest of the three because Feyre was vibrating with excitement and you were almost frozen with fear. If he felt uneasy about the situation, he didn’t show it for a second. When he greeted you by name as you reached his side, you managed to sense that the arrangement held back a little too strongly.

The bow, you scolded yourself as you breathed, looking at him and checking the state of the bow.

Nyx noticed his mom standing next to him and reached out to her as he babbled, and Feyre closed the distance between them, happily receiving him and resting him on her hip. She whispered your name excitedly as she looked at the chubby boy in her arms, then raised her head to smile.

“This is Nyx,” she proudly introduced, then pointed at you softly, drawing the boy’s attention in your direction. “Nyx, this is y/n.”

The pride in her voice and the smile on her face as she approached you with the child in her arms were undeniable, and it was also the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. At that moment, you panicked; you didn’t show it, but you looked at Rhysand, trying to convey: This is the moment where you get protective of your child or something and end this encounter. But the idiot was staring at his wife and child, mesmerized.

“Say hello, Nyx,” Feyre asked sweetly, moving closer to you and leaving you no choice but to accept the situation. Ever since you had met Rhysand, you had tried not to think too much around him because of the information you had received about his abilities, but now you could only think about wanting to know what he was thinking. It had been planned that something very different would happen, and you had even been advised not to bring the gift for Nyx because it could be taken the wrong way. Yet Rhysand didn’t seem to be reacting to the situation, which made you more anxious than anything. Meanwhile, little Nyx, with his chubby hand, made a greeting motion towards you along with a little sound that you assumed was the closest he could get to saying hello.

“Hello,” you greeted back, shifting uncomfortably, not knowing what to do. “Umm, I brought you a gift; it’s some toys.”

“I’m sure you can’t get enough of those. Right, my love?” Feyre ran her hand through the boy’s curly black hair, giving you a moment to admire him more closely.

You noticed two things. The boy’s wings weren’t in sight, which meant they were either hidden or he had already developed the ability to hide them. He was the spitting image of his mother. Yes, he had his father’s hair, skin, and reportedly wings, but it was Feyre’s eyes, color, and shape, as well as his nose and the shape of his lips.

“He looks just like you,” you pointed out, reaching up to run a finger over the freckles on the boy’s nose, just as you used to do with Feyre. The little boy looked at you, his eyes wide with surprise and curiosity.

“Really?” Feyre asked, her eyes alight with excitement.

“Yes. It’s a mini you, Fey.” You assured her without looking at her. Feyre didn’t say anything else, but you could feel her beaming with happiness; her enthusiasm was almost contagious, to the point that you smiled softly at the child who was watching you intently. Nyx reached out his hand towards you, pointing and looking at his mother, asking a silent question, to which Feyre repeated your name. The baby babbled and looked at you, as if waiting for you to answer.

Rhysand decided to make a move at that moment. He stood next to Feyre and met your gaze before the questions began.

“May I?” he said, pointing to the wooden trunk you still held in your hand. You handed it to him without much thought, your hands feeling the loss of something to hold onto. You missed your gloves and regretted not putting on any rings.

Rhysand pulled at one of the strips of the undone bow, all under your watchful eye. Feyre peeked out a little to see as he removed the small latch from the trunk and lifted the lid, revealing your gift. Inside the trunk, resting on a padded base, were three toy dragons, carved in intricate detail from wood and with polished black stone eyes.

“They’re very popular in the bay. I chose these because I thought that since Nyx would probably be able to see them through the window, bringing him the same ones he would see would be more appealing than a regular dragon. Maybe he would enjoy them more. The kids in the bay even collect them, so...” you explained hurriedly as you watched Rhysand pull out the one that was Balerion and stare at it.

“They’re beautiful,” Feyre whispered breathlessly, pulling mini Caraxes out of the box and looking at the carved wood intently.

Rhysand and Feyre seemed fine with the gifts; they hadn’t moved the boy’s toys away, so you assumed they considered them safe. But the opinion that mattered to you was Nyx’s. So you found yourself staring at little Nyx expectantly, hoping he would like your gift.

You weren't lying when you said they were popular in the bay. Of your adult dragons, who constantly flew over the bay and its cities, all of them had been immortalized as wooden toys in countless numbers by this point, for children to play with and enjoy. It was rare to see a child on the street who wasn't walking with a wooden dragon in hand or one within quick reach, either in the hand of one of their companions or hidden in a pocket or bag.

Sure, there were more expensive gold or silver versions sold to high-born children, but those were the ones you saw on the streets all the time, and they were the ones you enjoyed the most. You thought wood was the most worthy material to immortalize your dragons in; there was something about it that felt more alive than any metal. You had your own collection, as apprentice carpenters who learned to make them would give you the ones that failed to meet their standards so you could see if a dragon that looked like that would ever be born.

You had bought those three from an old carpenter who refused to die and continued to work on his craft with passion. He had been recommended to you on the streets, and he had ordered all three personally. The man hadn't made toys in years, according to his words, but he had made them for free despite your complaints and had exceeded the expectations you had for his work.

Nyx set her gaze on the dragon in Feyre's hand, looking at it for a second before glancing at the one Rhysand held. She reached out her hand towards the mini Balerion with eagerness, almost breaking out of her mother's arms to reach it.

“Looks like there’s already a favorite,” Rhysand laughed, letting Nyx reach for the toy in his hand. When she did, Nyx held the dragon in both hands, looking at it as she babbled excitedly. She shifted in place to face you and held out her hand with the dragon, babbling something in a questioning tone.

“Balerion,” you said, and it was immediately met with a determined babble.

“Bababa,” the boy said, looking closely at the toy, then immediately glancing at the dragon that Feyre still held in her other hand. He let go of Balerion without thinking and grabbed the other dragon. Rhysand managed to catch the toy before it fell. Again, he offered the toy to you with a mumbled question, grabbing it by the neck roughly, which you found funny. The long neck of Caraxes’ lizard was very different from the rest of your dragons; you called it Wyrm because of that.

“Caraxes,” you said, playing with your fingers and waiting patiently.

“Carrare,” Nyx repeated, stretching out the "r" so that it spit a little onto Feyre’s sweater. Rhysand offered him the third toy before he could ask for anything, pulling mini Caraxes from her hand to break his fall. The process repeated itself: Nyx offered the dragon to you, and you stammered in question.

“Dreamfyre,” and this time Nyx couldn’t even stammer a syllable; her attempt at pronunciation only got her tongue tied, ending with her tongue sticking out. “Two out of three is very good,” you assured him when he looked at you for approval, smiling sweetly at him. He mimicked the smile before turning around and searching for the missing toys in his hands.

Nyx babbled over to her mother, showing her the toys, and Feyre's attention shifted to the boy, her eyes shining as she looked at the toys and accepted the explanation of their names. It was lovely to see her interact with her son like this, but you soon realized that it left you and Rhysand in an awkward silence, or at least an awkward one for you.

When you glanced at him, checking to see if he was distracted by the sight of his wife as he had been a while ago, you found him staring at you with an expression you couldn't understand. You felt the heat of embarrassment build up in your neck.

“I’m glad he likes them,” you managed to say, looking at him with the softest smile possible. “Even if he stops playing with them, he can use them for decoration; I use them for that.”

“Do you have any of these?” Rhysand asked, his tone amused. Embarrassment crept up your neck and onto your face.

“Yes, I get them as gifts from time to time, and I put them on my mantelpiece,” you answered quickly, turning your full attention back to Feyre.

“I hear he has a taste for carved wood,” Rhysand subtly noted, directing the question at you but feigning indifference to your reaction.

You pressed your lips together in a tight smile and nodded softly, unable to stop yourself from telling him to fuck off if you spoke. The table—that was what he was referring to when he mentioned your taste for carved wood. When he had ordered the piece of furniture, you hadn’t thought that its acquisition would mean much, but once it was installed in the War Room of your mansion on the bay, word had spread that the new queen of Slaver’s Bay had acquired a table carved from wood and inlaid with stone, outlining in detail the shape of the great continent, with the lands and kingdoms of mortals carved into it, and the borders detailed. A huge wooden map, the map of a conqueror.

Everyone knew what that table was for; the cards declaring you queen had been an action long overdue on the continent, and that beautiful piece of art carved in wood was the reason.

“They are beautiful,” Feyre spoke to you, easing the tension out of your shoulders with just those words. “Thank you.”

You nodded with a softer smile this time.

The party officially started when they walked in with the birthday boy. Little Nyx happily passed from arm to arm for the first few minutes after his arrival, receiving hugs and kisses from practically everyone. You became a silent presence during this process, accompanied by a drink and the occasional snack that would allow you to eat because you were hungry, but you wouldn't be able to devour the food as your body demanded because there were so many people.

When people began to clear out around you, you felt like a child, sensing the gaze on your back—how you knew when one of the younger dragons thought to try and attack to see what would happen, or when you were within sight of the wolves in the woods in your youth. The eyes followed you as you walked to the drinks table and helped yourself again to the fruit juice you had been drinking.

The eyes fixed on your back followed you to the open doors in the courtyard, where you leaned on the railing that limited the unevenness of the floor, entering the building and the garden that you suspected was Elain's area. You felt her gaze as if she were looking at a bright red target on your back as she approached you with a calm step, as if she weren't stalking you or didn't care to be obvious in her pursuit.

When Amren stood beside you, the most primal part of you—the one that was more beast than person and as connected to Balerion as if they were one—wanted to growl in threat, and you were sure Balerion was doing it in the mountains, leaving room for you as the threatening sound bounced off his chest and tongue.

“Enjoying the food?” she asked with little kindness or dissimulation of her skepticism towards your presence. “I imagine you have a particular appetite since you brought your beasts to life.”

We are not talking about food. Of course not.

“My appetite is particular, but I only eat what I need,” you assured her absentmindedly.

“And if you are not satisfied, kovesh*? Where will you look to satisfy your appetite?” The question was cruel, accusatory towards you. And you smiled calmly at her because you knew what she was implying with the question.

Once you conquer mortal lands, how do you know you would not want more and look to us, conqueror?

Amren was not out of place. That was why her words did not affect you as much as they should have; you had expected these questions at one time or another. Dragons, as beloved as they were to you, were in the eyes of many like a strong brute, one that few defenses could stop or harm. You had conquered the bay in less than a year with them; you had already proven that you were capable of carrying out the actions necessary to take lands with only dragon fire as a weapon. And when you commissioned the carved table, you made it clear that the conquest of the bay and the liberation of the slaves had not been enough for you. It has not sated your appetite. You had already made the first move to conquer the rest of the continent owned by mortals. You offered peace before unleashing war again, but the statement was firm: you would not back down if the queen did not bend the knee. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, only your appetite for conquest and power moved you to seek to conquer those lands. You knew the truth; you knew what you had seen in the lava and what you wanted to avoid, but you didn't need anyone else to do it.

You sat up straighter and took a step closer to her, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Amren stood up straighter, as if ready to fight, but you just stared at the way her hair fell perfectly, framing her sharp jaw and slanted eyes; it was wonderful. Her eyes looked up at you, irritated by your boldness, no doubt. You weren’t sure if you were more irritated because, at this close distance, the height difference between you and her was apparent, even without her heels, or because you reached up and moved a strand of hair from her cheek delicately, leaning carelessly on one elbow on the railing beside you, daring not to fear the infamous second of the Night Court.

“On that side of the sea, dear and stunning Amren, it is not my appetite that is a problem.” You watched her as she blurted out the statement, her tone sweet, finding it adorable how beings like her could not see past their necks and did not understand the truth of life.

It was not you or your dragons. It was their kind, sworn to the gods with the lives of mortals even when the wall had been up for years and were now free to do as they pleased. It was them, not you, who planned to invade and sent their beasts to test the waters on the other side of the unprotected border the wall had left behind.

A name called out to you from inside the house. You turned your head to find Elain walking hurriedly toward you, followed by a man with stubby skin, hair that was more white than blonde, and a face that looked less than happy. Elain quickly hugged your elbow when she reached you, repeating your name with somewhat forced excitement.

“This is Varian,” she pointed to the grumpy male who came to Amren’s side and hugged her around the waist, looking you up and down skeptically. “You’ve been introduced to him; he’s Amren’s boyfriend.”

Elain stared at you, wanting to say something, but you weren’t sure what it was. You looked at Varian and Amren, searching for a clue as to what it was, but Amren had leaned against Varian, looking at you as you supposed she was looking at the people, and Varian was still frowning. You knew who he was and his relationship with her, but you didn’t think it was a state secret, so it wasn’t that big of a surprise or something that serious.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, not sure what else to say, moving your glass of juice in his direction. You're still confused as Elain pulled you into the house.

“Have you seen Feyre’s paintings? Let me show them!” the girl said hurriedly as you let her lead you.

Elain led you down the hallway of the house, away from the central area. It was long and ended in double glass doors that led to the patio, making it perfectly lit for the paintings hanging on both sides. There were no doors or hallways that branched off from this hallway, only walls displaying Feyre's paintings.

At the beginning was the most recent one. A painting of Rhysand, Fey, and little Nyx when he must have been a newborn was the first one that caught your attention. It was proof of how the talent that had painted wooden drawers, tables, and small wooden figures had evolved wonderfully until it became that divinely illuminated image, with colors brightened by the rays of sunlight that flooded the hallway.

“Wow.”

“I know, right? It gets better every day. Soon we’ll be trying to walk inside its paintings in search of experiencing their beauty,” Elain spoke softly, as if she had lost her breath. You watched her smile at the painting with pride before she pulled you toward the next one.

There was one of the three sisters, along with Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel, and one of Nyx alone. You were surprised by the one of Mr. Archeron, but you didn’t wince. There were also remnants of all of them individually, and one that depicted them as a whole. A family. At the end of the hallway was a painting leaning against the wall, as if waiting to meet its fate; the nail it should have hung on highlighted the empty spot where it had been or should be hanging.

“Oh, I should get back—”

“Elain, do you mind changing Nyx’s diaper for me?” Feyre’s voice rang out in the hallway. You looked at Elain, confused, not understanding why she wanted to go back, but she just gave you a sad smile before meeting up with Feyre in the hallway and taking the child from her arms.

Nyx didn’t need a diaper change; you could smell it quickly—it was an excuse for Elain to leave. Looking back at you from the hallway, at the place where the painting leaned silently against the wall, that was when Elain realized she wanted to get you out of there.

Feyre slowly approached you as you walked carefully down the hall, moving toward the painting leaning against the wall as if it were an explosive of some sort. Feyre didn't stop you, which you assumed was a sign that she didn’t want to keep it from you but rather wanted to be there when you saw it.

As you stood in front of the painting, you noticed that a corner of the cloth covering it was falling away, revealing the right edge of the canvas. Your breath caught. You recognized the snowy forest you and Feyre had walked through so many times, and the dark, curly hair, just like your mother's, peeking out from beneath the cloth. Feyre reached under your arm and hugged you, holding your hand and interlacing your fingers.

“I made it a few months ago, before you sent the letters,” which was before she knew you were alive. Feyre had painted it thinking you were dead. “When I found out, I repainted it. I wanted to give it to her, but when we sent Mor to the bay with the letter, I thought it would be too much for you. I don’t know the exact circumstances, so I didn’t know how you would take it on top of everything.”

Feyre spoke to you in a whisper, so only you could hear her, but you weren’t able to look at her or answer her, or even return her handshake. You felt her gaze on your profile, full of concern, as if it pulsed out of her to you.

“I hope I didn’t overstep,” she admitted, just like you had a few days ago regarding the gift for Nyx.

But you weren't able to reassure her the same way she had done with you, because she had crossed a line—one you had blocked years ago when you decided to fight for your freedom in the volcanoes, ignoring the emptiness that weighed down and bled in your heart.

You ripped the canvas off the top of the painting's frame with one pull, like tearing off a band-aid while holding your breath, and you couldn't breathe again when you looked at the painting in front of you.

The scene depicted a winter afternoon, with the forest covered in white. Rue, dressed in her clothes to accompany you on hunts when you deemed it safe for her, was half-turned, facing forward, as if watching you as she walked in front of you in the snow. Her hair, a massive, curly mass just like your mother’s, was tied into a makeshift braid. You had never been able to style it the way your mother knew how, so it was loose and low, with many strands flying in the wind around her face as she stood halfway into the forest, looking at you as if you had called out to her not to go ahead on the walk.

You stood there, frozen, feeling the pain in your throat as the lump that had formed there became unbearable, and the burning in your eyes as you refused to cry, despite your body begging for it. You stared at the painting for a long moment while Feyre looked at you, still feeling her concern against your cheek.

Finally, you set your jaw and stared at the floor, blinking rapidly. Feyre rested her hand on your cheek, her thumb caressing your hand, and you were able to squeeze back, turning your knuckles white, but she didn’t complain.

“She looks like she’s saying goodbye,” she finally said, looking back at the painting, and Feyre looked at it too, admiring for the first time the depth of her own act. “Since she left, I haven’t been able to remember her any other way. But I like the ability to remember her this way.”

You didn’t explain to her that the way you remembered her was covered in blood, terrified, and with the feeling of helplessness tearing through your chest. There was no reason to put that on her, but you wanted her to know that the line she had crossed was significant. You might now think that she had left you like that—smiling, with her hair free in the wind, in the middle of the snow that she loved to play in so much and that she missed during her years on the pirate islands. You could imagine that those were her last moments, going into the forest you had accustomed her to so much, where she felt safe, never to return again, becoming part of the nature and the snow of the place.

“Thank you,” you managed to say over the tightness in your throat.

Feyre smiled softly. You felt her warmth as she rested her head on your shoulder, and you stayed like that for a while before going back to the celebration.

You left the painting leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door in your room so that you could see it from your place, sitting in the middle of the bed. You couldn't sleep and had resigned yourself to waking up and asking for some tea.

You didn't notice Mayhem in the room until she was sitting next to you on the bed, the hot cup of tea in her hands. It was only then that you realized she had even come in. You silently thanked her and took the cup from her hands, but she didn't move. She just sat there, and you looked at the cup, your hands, and the painting, constantly shifting your focus among them, but never looking back at her.

A silent understanding formed between the two of you, and Mayhem stayed with you as you drank all your tea. It worked; whether it was the tea or her reassuring presence, when you finished your cup, your eyes closed, and you fell asleep as soon as you laid your head on the pillow.

You dreamed of Rue. You always dreamed of her being scared in her final moments, but that night, for the first time since you lost her, you dreamed of her happiness. You saw her answering you in the forest, playing with the snow. You woke up with the certainty that she had stayed there, happily making snowmen, and also knowing that Feyre knew what she would do here, happy for the rest of the eternity that the Mother had granted her for her sacrifices.

It was time for you to go to your war; the illusions ended here.

*kovesh: It means conqueror in Hebrew, which is the language I have decided to use as a representation of the first language of mortals, without any particular reason other than I do not have the mind to invent a language for this story. All words in this language will be translated by me as best as possible, but if anyone knows the language that I do and sees any flaws in my translations in the future feel free to point it out in the comments.

Next Part: ...

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