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yomogi-mogi-mochi · 9 months

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Honey Lemon Crescendo

Pairings: Trey Clover/Vampire MC

Summary: The gods should have made you better, so that they could love you.

The days you pray for the abolishment of your abhorrent form are rare in the centuries you have lived since your family's death, and your turning. Sharpened claws and teeth, the hellfire of your gaze are concealed for your own convenience, you tell yourself, especially as you enroll into NRC. The tonic of human affairs rarely interested you, yet when you find the truly curious case of Trey Clover, someone who is made only of that plain sort, you cannot help but to promise yourself one conversation, some several hours of the thousand thousand you have lived to taste what it is like to be treated, and be human again. But you're a fool, and a hypocrite‒ you find yourself breaking that promise over, and over, and over. Your fragile resolve frays at every sunbeam smile, every ringing laughter of his.

MC is a vampire, unique magic is telepathy, being able to unconsciously hear everyone's thoughts

Notes: Once again I am alive lol. Barely. Just finished my first semester in my Master’s program so I’ve been experiencing a bit a burn out, so I apologize if this isn’t my best work. Also, every time I'm like "hm is this too much trauma?" But then I remember the child murder, kidnapping, and child endangerment that's canon in twst and I'm like ooh wait right nvm I’m good. Fits within the canon. Anyways, I would have liked to explore the concept of BPD and its allegorical connections to Vampirism more in depth, especially due to the social sigma associated with it‒ but I feel that it would be waaaay too long for a one-shot if I did so.

Also, all stand alone quotes that are in italics represent inner thoughts (with some exceptions depending on your personal interpretations)

TW: References to depression, references to religious trauma, exorcism, and cults; references to child abuse; survivors guilt; referenced to verbal abuse; anxiety; panic attacks; slight mentions of eating disorders/disordered eating (suppressing appetite); BPD

GN Terms for MC

AO3 Link Here

Masterlist

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“There is no sin within this child. Only the devil which lives within them.”

Those were the words that had prevented your burning during the trial, among other things.

Perhaps it was also the way you would keep your claws obscured under thickset leather gloves, conceal your crimson gaze under obsidian shades, or the terror that seized you every night that left you so evidently unraveled in all of your unforgiving guilt and abhorrence for your new form. The pity that could be provoked by the wetness and flush of a child’s face was something many adults in the future instructed was a bias you should have been more grateful for‒ as it triumphed over whatever horrors people held when you spoke a decibel too loudly to show your sharpening fangs, moved too swiftly to confirm the power that swelled within you like simmering, spoiled blood‒ pungent, and nauseating.

It reminds you of the smell at the state of decomposition you found your family in when you returned home from a several day trip with your cello instructor‒ and the smell of its mouth when its sharpened teeth lurched towards your neck, before you felt the metallic taste drip cold into your gasping mouth.

It was first the elongated fangs. Then came the claws, the lack of reflection, the original color of your eyes draining, replaced with a bright vermillion. The enhanced senses and physical power were less noticeable‒ but the subtle power that swelled in your hands when you broke skin and meat with your own grip upon your arm did not go unnoticed by the Supreme Leader who examined your body and soul during your trial.

“This thing should be useful to me, I hope. I was right to send that “Cello Instructor” with them to take care of business here. I’ll continue my divine plan as usual.”

The words themselves terrified you. Should you run? Hide? Die? Where would you go‒ with your small feet and hands? What could you do? The more oppressive horror lay in the confirmation of the whorling suspicion inside of your small, ten-year old mind that your new form allowed for telepathy‒ the exact “usefulness” the Supreme Leader had suspected lapped inside of you. You were absolutely sure of it, days later, when you read the color of the townspeople faces‒ their leering eyes and curled lips, squeezing their children close behind them‒ back towards your home, set ablaze by their torches and oil. The scramble of noise wasn't needed to confirm their disgust of you, but it came anyway.

“Hideous.”

“Demon. Probably killed that poor family.”

“That disguising appearance‒ must be the child of the devil.”

“Murderer. Things like you deserved to be burned. Supreme leader is truly a blessing to take care of such vile things.”

You cowered at their stares‒ but you remember considering it distantly for a moment, even in the midst of your situation. That night you had been found by shaking candlelight, your mouth drenched with blood and fear, palming numbly at your family's cold bodies. You couldn't blame them, you supposed. The townspeople feared you. You feared you. Stay with me . The Supreme Leader told you. And you did.

He defended you during your trial with a kind smile, tying the rope around your wrists loosely with gentle hands, spoke softly of good deeds, good gods, all forgiving and loving. When he convinced the council to graciously join his family , you didn’t run.

“Don’t you want to be loved by god?”

You shakily rolled the breath that seized in your lungs, your small hands clutched in a prayer against the heartbeat that thundered against your bones.

“How pitiful child, that you choke on your sorrow. You, abhorrent creature, abomination of god‒ let me love you .”

“Let me be your god.”

He held a copy of Dissertations Upon the Apparitions of Angels, Daemons, and Vampires of Wonderland in his hands‒ he pressed a finger onto each part of your body, comparing it with his‒ what made him human, and what made you not. He gifted you your own room‒ different from all the other children, deep at the belly of the earth. The cobblestone walls reached high into the heavens where you could not see, even with your enhanced vision‒ the light falling just where your vision could reach. One of his attendants presented him with a pair of cuffs, made specially for your size. The ones they had did not yet fit you. However, he placed them on the ground‒ crescent smile and blackened eyes. You would not escape.

You kept your secrets for a while‒ despite the unquenchable jealousy, festering sin, and violence that sprouted abundantly in the minds of his chosen advisors, who pinched your skin and snaked their cold hands under your shirt. In your ever dwindling, coastal town‒ you'd seen denial was the first reaction to loss. You'd felt a modicum of humanity in your ruthless rejection, letting the inner noise of others curdle in your mind.

Their words on the surface stuck of cheap, saccharine perfume, ones you recognized in the town's alleys and such. Yet you swallowed your nausea down, digesting their words one by one. You still had faith then, capable of religion . So easy to fool back then‒ you think now‒ children rarely doubt the material world. Why would people hurt you on purpose?

You were still a child then‒ an infant in vampiric years.

“ Don’t you want to be loved by god?”

“To be useful to god?”

"Useful to me?"

“They’ve done so much for you.”

“I’ve done so much for you.”

“Don’t you want to repay that?”

You revealed it all, in your childish trust, and his soft hands. You thought perhaps, that adults, despite their true intentions, would help you somehow. Belief in good will. Faith. It grips you with force.

It wasn’t all violence at first. But you began to fear the day where their actions would finally twist into something reflective of their actual intentions. That day came rather quickly, or so you think. Time did not matter in the small confines of your chambers below ground. The bloodletting, lashings, the vivisections were then all to vanquish the spirits that germinated inside your sinking flesh, possessing you to reveal such “impure things” in front of the people. Purification , he called it, no matter how many times you dried your throat from apologies, or promised you would do better next time. Next time I will speak your truth. God’s truth . You say the way their desires for a monster began to shape every laceration, every break of the bone.

Still, you couldn’t be their monster, nor a human. It seemed that the seeds of sacrilege had been sown firmly into you, and flourished each passing decade in its grotesque power.

The gods should have made you better, so that they could love you.

You’d beg through a dried throat and spinning vision for forgiveness and to appeal your usefulness‒ you knew the moment the priest resumed his kind smile, gentle hands, and his flowery voice‒ that he had found a use for you. Work for me , he said‒ and you obliged. He held your hand again, with a firm grip, and brought you to trials, his grand meetings with thousands of his followers‒ and you’d do his bidding, pointing a shaking finger at “non-believers” and spies‒ watching closely, where the supreme leader’s eyes leered and narrowed in order to anticipate your next move of survival . By then, you had learned to tune out a significant portion of the noise of people, to live in ignorant bliss for the few hours he would spend mending your gashing wounds, let you fiddle around with your cello that had survived the angry mob that burned down your family’s bakery, and home. Soft touches, sweet voice, he spoke.

"Good child, one of god, of forgiveness, of love. "

And you could tell he had meant it‒ knowing that when he lied to you‒ he always clasped his hands unconsciously in prayer. If there were opposing intentions twisting below his perfumed words that you had somehow failed to pick up with your trained senses‒ you couldn’t be bothered to unravel them. It was just nice. To be held again‒ forgiven . By someone at least, if not yourself. You were good. You were good again.

Decades pass‒ the people and the landscape move and breathe. It was only a matter of time your hometown would dwindle into a ghost city, being built on scrappy mines and poor fishermen, controlled by a con-man and his desperate believers. Even with nothing to lose, the remaining residents exiled you. Perhaps it was their humanity that they grasped onto with that final action.

You stand against the passing aches after aches‒ drinking it all from your chalice‒ vessels gilded with gold and hammered with human desire, sitting high to the heavens on altars to hold the blood and wine offered to the gods. You’d been hollowed much like that grail, gouged from the sharpened image of your still, immutable face against the shifting harmony of the world you could not enter. You have no reflection, no face, no name people would call out to take shape as your own, no proof of your corporeal form but your own, cold touch. And the hunger. The hunger seized you at every moment‒ aching through the gums of your fangs, and pounding your heart with the lifeblood that chased it. You were at least alive in your

You'd fashion something from the use you'd have to other people. A frankenstein skin stretched over your bones. You still feel the Supreme Leader’s gaze hollowing your senses.

"It's like they're reading my thoughts."

"Those sunglasses and gloves, what are you trying to stand out? So annoying."

"Why don't you read the atmosphere for once?"

"Arrogant asshole."

"What are you, pretending to be all high and mighty."

"Liar."

The noise never stops completely. But you've learned to shut the world out, better now with the advancements on potions and ear plugs‒ courtesy of the Night Raven College’s curriculum‒ hands free to grasp at every opportunity to prove you had existed in some way‒ a being that was real enough to feel the light of gods' love and forgiveness. Useful. Good.

“How did you know I used browned butter?”

Light‒ feather soft, honey sweet music that streams into your mind.

You always sat alone in the end. There was a composition to everything, as you saw it. And you had perfected the score of distance‒ being able to orchestrate a friendly, carefree facade, an absolutely stupid and undoubtedly shallow passion, pruning the space between you and the world. A gothic mirror to parody themselves, so they could not truly look at your monstrous, yet absent form‒ something you were sure would absolutely rupture the thick skin you've fashioned together out of pieces of the real people unlike yourself. You'd break apart into nothing but dust.

It was like the volume, moods, and rhythms created in the scores you played‒ you charged the room with boisterous laughter and directed the eyes at that, instead of your fervent efforts in composing the most fantastic detachment. In the end, you were almost giddy to see that no one saved you a seat, or spared you a glance when you slipped outside for a cigarette wedged hungrily between your fingers. The nicotine was enough to starve off the ache beginning to turn swiftly to nausea between your wobbling footsteps, and you were glad, you think, to have served your use in the social spiral to be afforded a moment of peace.

Or, you thought.

“Huh?”

“You forgot your prize.” The boy in front of you thrusts a frosted cupcake towards you, prompting you to switch the cigarette to your other hand to receive it. In the subtle moonlight, you see the sugar melted into the cream glitter a bit when you inspect the pastry.

He adjusts the hat on top of his green head of hair as he continues. “The competition to see who could guess all the ingredients in the cake correctly‒ you won, it was perfect, actually.”

You stare at him dumbly and you find yourself scooting over to make space for him. His eyebrows are tilted in a way that made his face a little sorry, a little roguish‒ a combination you found curious raised above those soft honey lemon eyes that hung like that summer fruit above the lush curve of his lashes.

“So‒ how did you know? I’m curious.”

You exhale the rest of the smoke resting in your lungs. “I…used to know people who were bakers. Their secret ingredient in their famous brownies was browned butter. I’ve eaten so many trays I’ve come to know the taste. The rest is just luck.”

He laughs. Not like you had seen out of the corner of your eye when he had been talking to all those people, but a loose, genuine chuckle. “I’d hardly call it luck‒ you got the measurements down pretty close. Impressive, if you ask me. May I ask‒ are you a baker?”

“I…” You find yourself smiling through the cigarette pushed to your lips, careful not to show your teeth. “I used to be. I used to spend a lot of time there, they must have rubbed off me.”

How long has it been since you’ve thought about them? You could remember the distinct nutty smell from the pounds of brown butter your sister was in charge of making‒ the click click click of your mother’s footsteps as she worked from the counter to the rack of trays, preparing the bread dough for proofing. Your father in the background, fiddling with the radio, beaming when he heard a recording of your cello performance on the morning radio. Warmth, sunlight. The beat of your heart, and the heat of your blood.

“You’ll have to give me the recipe then. I’ve been looking for a good brownie recipe.”

A moment to contemplate if you should end this conversation here. Something switches inside of you, perhaps a remnant of that warmth you remembered.

“You have something to write with?”

His face flowers gently into a brightened expression before he pulls out a small notebook from his breast pocket.

“...Thank you.”

You hum apathetically to work through the dreadful loom of warmth you feel when you hand the paper back to him with the recipes you’ve committed to memory from your laborious days at your family’s seaside bakery. The smoke still hanging in the air shifts sharply when you stand, and you flick the cindering cigarette to the pavement to stomp it out. You can tell there is more he wants to say that sits bubbly on his tongue, but you turn towards the door leading back to the Heartslabyul dorm before the words can take form through his smile.

There’s a moment that you stand by the door where you reflect on what you saw of him while he was inside, mingling with other humans.

“You should loosen your shoulders more when you smile, like that." Under his hat, you see his eyebrows raise up in slight surprise. Surprise isn't enough, you decide, and add, "If you want to convince people."

You hope those words leave him a bit cold, a bit cruel that he doesn’t come seeking after you anytime soon, feeling the scramble of thoughts threatening to pool into your ears through the plugs. It’s all noise to you. You step inside once more‒ feeling a little less sick, a little less raw to be able to orchestrate again.

Trey finds your handwriting as pretty as you were in the noise of the room, inspecting all the curls and loops of each word. It takes him a moment before he notices what you left behind.

“They forgot their prize…”

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The next time you meet him is during band practice. Or, more precisely, hear him would be a better descriptor.

"Have you seen (Name)?"

The thick walls of the storage room muffles his voice, but you still hear it loud and clear as you lean against the door, cello in hand.

"I just saw them a minute ago. I think they went to run a few errands or something since the school festival is soon." Carter replies.

"Ah it seems like I'm on a wild goose chase. I'm starting to wonder if such a person even exists…"

“They’re everywhere and nowhere all the time.” Carter chuckles. "I didn't even know you two were like that."

"Hm. I guess. We only really talked once." He hums.

"But I'd like to get to know them better ."

The sharp inhale you suck in makes an audible sound when you hear those words brush the back of your neck. You press the palm of your hands flat against your ears in panic to prevent any sound‒ voices, noise, the world‒ all of it, from entering your mind.

Quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet‒

You time his steps, the pleasantries he's likely throwing at the rest of the members, the time it takes for him to get far from your radius of power. Slowly, you release your hands from your head, and take a few moments to gather yourself before exiting the room.

Carter is the first to notice you. "Eh? (Name)? Since when were you there?"

"Since 10 minutes ago, dear. I told you we were going to take a break from group practice today and do individual practice today didn't I? We've been rehearsing so much for the festival I figured we could take a break for today."

"Really?? How did I miss this? I totally just sent Trey to the wrong place."

Lilia continues to tune his bass. "You were on your phone when (Name) briefed us on the schedule 3 weeks ago, Carter."

"I wanted to do a group rehearsal today! I feel like I finally got the hang of the last couple measures this time!" Kalim interjects.

"Don't pout, my dear president." The hand you place on his head is as gentle as ever. "You can practice without a vocalist for today, can't you? I have a lot to catch up on the Monstero Lounge gig I have coming up."

You bid your fellow members goodbye, dragging the instrument all the way to one of the empty classrooms.

Finally, a moment of peace.

You shuffle through your folder, fishing out the piece you had picked to play for a talent night that Azul had insisted you come and play at, excitedly chattering about how it was going to be brilliant for business.

Chopin's Cello Sonata in G Minor, Largo .

The cello sonata was one of the composer's last pieces. It was spectacular to you. A final, dazzling eruption before dwindling to the mere echoes of what had once been there‒ a fantastical piece with a pressure combed through every measure that would well an incomprehensible rawness that began at your chest, and would weave through the fibers of your throat that clenched in its emptiness.

But perhaps it was not so incomprehensible‒ humans in your life had been much the same. The ones you held dearly would rupture from this world, leaving you empty, aching with the sharpened, receding fragments.

When you slip off your gloves to press your bare fingers against the strings, you try not to let this thought consume you.

"But I'd like to get to know them better."

Bitterly, it seeps.

You know it's wrong‒ the piece is supposed to be for a simple, ten minute performance‒ a monotonous activity of human affairs that you would be pleased to check hastily off the list with a presentable smile and lightness. However, the decades you have lived until this day weigh upon you at once, spinning your hands in such a way that threads your grief heavily into the mellow air. The murky rust of the setting sun swells with the florid volume of your own misery, and the silence of the world that ripostes it.

The song falls softly, a slow stroke that gradually quiets until there is nothing. A diminuendo‒ to shatter, to finish. There's a small comfort, that unlike living things, the scores that stood on the iron music stand could be revived time after time, on trembling strings and resin scented maple. But, not much.

The flesh at the back of your eyelids are sparked with purple and blue stars as you squeeze your eyes shut, head leaning against the body of the cello to steady your breaths. It may have been the dizziness steadily climbing from the ache of your empty stomach to your head, but you felt like you were swaying in that concoction of color and bursting light.

"Don’t you want to be loved by god?”

You're afraid that if you open your eyes, the world may still be there. The noise, it will still exist, and reel you in‒ tangling you among its grotesque allure until the moment you reach towards it. Then, it will furl inwards, somewhere far from where you could detect it. The air feels sharp in your lungs‒ you feel like if you take too much in, you’d burst. The bow splinters in your hand, drawing blood.

"Pretty ."

A voice strikes through your bleakness, a gentle, but clear sound.

Trey stands at the center of your view. His face holds a glossy look for a moment, before he shakes his head and apologizes.

"Sorry‒ I just‒ I just heard you in the hallway, I thought you sounded really…" He laughs, shifting his gaze to the side. " Pretty ."

You look down at your instrument, and notice your bare hands, you remember you don't have your sunglasses on either. The cello echoes when you lean it against the desk, turn away from him to slip on your gloves and glasses.

You clear your throat, feeling each word stumble in staccato breaths. "Ah. Well. Um. Thank you. It's all, rather, very wrong though."

"Wrong? But it was incredible."

"Pretty."

The thoughts that enter his mind that churn into yours are ignored best you can before you swivel, veiling yourself in your disguise once more. "Perhaps wrong is not the best term. It's not tasteful for the audience, I suppose. There was no control."

"Control?" He parrots.

"Yes, you know." You wave your hand in flutter movements. "If someone like me performed like I just did‒ ha! I’d become the laughing stock of the entire school. " You clasp your hands together. "Now, darling. I must get going. Did you want to marvel at my music some more, or is there anything else you needed?"

You work quickly to gather your things, expecting Trey to leave after you've dismissed him. But when you drag your cello case around to leave, you see him still standing in the doorway, leaping towards your hand that rests on the cello case.

"Can I help you? It seems heavy."

"I'm alright. I've dragged this thing around this school, I am perfectly capable‒" When you go to lift the full weight of the instrument however, a dizziness digs into your temples, nausea quickly following suit.

"Oh‒ are you alright? Are you not feeling well? Let me at least help you with your instrument back to your dorm."

You stare at him, feeling your power rise within you, waiting for his thoughts to flood through your system‒ a confirmation to your suspicions you filter every person through, to pick them apart.

“You’re hurt.” He goes to examine your hand, you pull back.

"They don't look so well. Maybe they need something to eat? I should whip them up something after I help them carry this back to their dorm. Hm. Yeah. That sounds good. Something hearty."

Those words are inspected with great skepticism in your mind before the dizziness takes over, muddling your brain to a jumbled mess. Whatever, you think. He seems harmless enough.

“Fine” As soon as that curt response slips from your lips, you cringe internally. You clear your throat, attempting to redeem yourself. “I’ll take up your offer if that's alright with you. Pretty boy .”

He seems to hold the air in his throat when you give him that name, before he releases it in a puff of laughter. "Pft. Alright, yeah. Let's get you back to your room before you spout any more nonsense."

"Me?"

You're a bit taken back from his internal response. But you trail behind him, the weight of the nausea lifting slightly off your steps.

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"What kind of cocoa powder did you use?"

"I think…just the regular brand stuff."

"Use Dutch processed next time. If you activate it correctly, the alkalizing process gives the batter a richer color and flavor."

He had somehow used his devilish charm to string you into this, you tell yourself, sipping on the tea you brewed for the both of you. But it would be rude to kick him out of your quarters without a proper thanks. You're no longer human, but you'd at least act civilized.

The tea has run a bit cold from the two whole hours he's managed to rope you into a conversation on baking techniques‒ slipping out the same notepad and pen he pulled out that night you met, and a box of various pastries and baked goods that he seemingly prepared out of nowhere. Truthfully, you weren't supposed to eat human food without proper sustenance from blood‒ however the look he gave you had absolutely pleaded that you do. So, how could you refuse?

You clear your throat to break through your endless flood of doubts and excuses. "I heard you were looking for me during band practice. Now that you've wormed your way into my life by bribing me with sweets‒ what did you want from me?"

"Oh!" He pulls another, smaller box from the bag you saw him rummaging through for the sweets laid out before the two of you. "Ah‒ I forgot about this. It might be a bit melted since there's ermine cream on the top."

The simple white box is opened, revealing a similar cupcake that you (purposefully) forgot the night you met him.

"It's not the same thing‒ it might be better actually‒ I used buttercream last time but it's pretty heavy so I substituted with ermine cream this time." He remains composed but you can tell something is bubbling below it. "Tell me what you think."

" I'm so excited to see what they think…I worked hard on this recipe since it seems it wasn't up to their tastes last time."

You make a face when you hear his thoughts, wondering how absolutely normal someone can be. “You mean to say you came all the way here to deliver me…this cup cake?”

"Yes I mean‒ I don't mean to pressure you into eating it, obviously." His eyebrows bunch upwards in his usual sorry expression. "I just. Wanted to hear your thoughts. Since I haven't met someone this knowledgeable on baking techniques at this school."

People usually had ulterior motives when approaching others with gifts, kindness, words slathered in polite niceties and compliments. You eye him suspiciously as he calmly sips his tea, scribbling away in his little notepad.

Drawing a little closer to him, you lean against the table, feeling the heat of your crimson eyes when you concentrate your magic to wade through the noise‒ pulling the thread of his thoughts from it all. It requires a bit of power through your ear plugs and rising nausea, but you manage to unravel it.

" I'd really like to get to know them better. Friends, maybe . Cater says I should get out there more, this is what he meant, right? "

It was impossible to ignore the truth of the matter‒ that the person sitting in front of you is so absolutely unbearably bare, plain. You'd thought you'd seen clarity before, in how salient the cruelty of people was, but you had been wrong. No doubt this was true clarity‒ the candor of normal, mundane life that you normally blocked out with the rest of the noise of the world. The tonic of human lives rarely interested you, but it seemed like all this person was, and it seeped deeply into his treatment of you. Normal, bare, plain.

Human .

It was so baffling you could not suppress the smile that spread on your lips.

Ah, maybe just for today, you think. Just this one conversation. Just one moment, and I'll forget the taste of human life again.

"Hm, alright. Just this once, pretty boy ."

The sugary cream melts instantly in your tongue, and the airy sponge is sweet when you swallow your determination to forget this honey sweetness he brings. A hint of vanilla, cinnamon, sugar, spice, and everything nice. You let it settle deep in the dark of your belly, feeling the warmth still lacing through your blood from the tea you've sipped with him slowly cool under your flesh. You devour it all, with his words and smile, hiding it deep inside so you can’t remember its sweetness.

But the honey you've added at his request still runs golden sweet on your tongue. You roll it through your mouth, trying to extinguish the taste, but it spreads further, coating your throat as you swallow it. Unlike the contents of the cupcake, it runs raw against your flesh, and you must wait until it seeps deeply into the fibers of your throat before it dissolves.

The hours pass as you talk with him, but the sweetness does not fade.

------------------------------

"You alright?"

The silvery tone of your voice breaks through Trey's thoughts. He had been lagging behind the Heartstlabyul group to take a break from all of the frenzy of today. The responsibility, the pressure. You'd been with them a moment ago, mingling as you always did, but now you've slowed your footsteps to match the slight drag of his own‒ something he's sure you've noticed. Heat tingles at his cheeks‒ he doesn't know whether it's from the way you've broken his image so swiftly with your keen eyes, or if it's from, simply, your thoughtfulness. For him, of all people. For him.

"Yeah, fine. Just tired. Today has been such a long day with these underclassmen."

His laughter rings clearly, even though the obstruction of your ear. With each note emanated from his lips, you feel it slipping through the cracks of the foundation of your feeble resolve, crumbling so endearingly that you smile sincerely when he speaks. It had been disgust, revolt at first, feeling the distance between your world and his inching closer and closer‒ but before you could notice the absence of nausea stinging through your chest and stomach, you felt the feather-lightness of your own smile chiming with his own, completely eclipsing the discomfort you had felt previously in the proximity to other lives. To him.

"You need to relax more. Stop fussing over these no good children." You massage his shoulders in a playful manner.

He feigns pain then quirks that smile on his face‒ you know the one, the one where he bunches his eyebrows and laughs with the back of his throat. In that moment, you're as confident as ever, charging him with laughter‒ letting your inhibitions lose. Control didn’t matter, for a moment. The world doesn’t seem so sharp at that moment, like you were going to tip over the edge.

When the pads of his fingers brush against your fingers, all that sense you had withers so easily in your chest. Through his shoulders, you can feel the vibration of the hum he emits in agreement, a musical accompaniment to the warmth that radiates from his hands.

"Maybe. They're good kids. You're right‒ maybe I do need to relax." You retract your hands from him, allowing him to toss his head over his shoulder. "Any tips?"

The seconds you weigh out whether to lie or not seem to shorten with every moment you spend with him. "I guess…music. I like to sing some of the warm-up pieces I used to know.”

"Warm up for what?"

"Ah for the…church choir."

Liar .

He makes a face, an airy laugh escapes your nose. "What?" You ask.

"...you just don’t look like a religious person.”

You look down at your feet, a slight smile as a comfort to him. “I haven’t been in a while. I don’t think I’ve had faith in anything in a long time.” A quiet lull in your words.

Your stomach turns. It's always a look of pity, or some casted look that drags you as some pathetic creature, cold and inhuman. The words die in your throat, you quiet your breaths, feeling then stick to the prickly flesh of your lungs and throat.

“I get it.”

But the look Trey gives you as he digests your words is a sadness as sincere and clear as water. It was not such a clawing, dried look that transformed you into something you didn't want to be. Instead, he swallows your words whole, as they were, his gaze reaching far beyond the pain. His sound‒ clear as a summer's day, dotted prettily with the honey lemon droplets of his gaze‒ finds you.

“I got you.”

A tranquil, silvery symphony‒ each sweetened thread weaving itself magnificent, deep within your nerves. It takes everything to pull yourself from it.

"Now, I have the perfect blend of tea for you then, darling. It goes wonderfully with those lemon shortbread cookies you made yesterday‒ absolutely divine."

Quick to shake the feeling off, you mask the dread of warmth with your usual stupid passion and fire that carves an expression of slight surprise into Trey's face, just for a moment. But it surprised you, instead, to see that it dissolved completely, and replaced with an elated burst of laughter. It takes him a moment to gather himself, and many more for you to do the same with the words he says.

"You're actually a really good person, (Name)."

The feeling returns, swiftly.

You don’t want to breach into the borders of his mind, but you found yourself reaching for the silvery thread of his sound from the noise, picking apart the gray mess of things to find that glimmering thing. Your mind had learned the scent, the exact hue and melody of his inner voice to be able to pluck it so naturally from everything else, and you were growing fearful that you had committed yet another thing to memory that would eventually be lost to time. But the words that you hear from him‒ you think it will consume you for the rest of your eternity.

"God. You're wonderful."

It nearly chokes you to hear such clarity in that declaration. Foolish . You think. Only a fool would say such a thing. You fix the shades slipping down your face, turning your energy to block out any sound and voice.

"You flatter me, my dearest."

Lucid, pure. His voice. His laughter. It wasn't just noise to you anymore. You think of what chord his voice would be, how it would sing against your fingers on your cello. Or perhaps a heavenly instrument would be more befitting.

"But you've got me all wrong."

You smile. Perhaps you were the fool.

A few weeks later, he admits: "Truthfully, I tried to avoid you best I could before we officially met. Because of your blase attitude and the rumors about you‒ I thought I wouldn't mesh well with people like you."

"Is that so?" A wolfish smile curves onto your lips, eyes turning crescent. You fiddle with the flier for the monstero lounge show coming up, debating whether or not you should have really accepted Azul’s request. "It seems most people think I'm that way."

"Yeah. But I'd like to think you opened up to me a bit, and I discovered something about you that made me want to talk to you. You're real strange, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm the weirdo? I'm not the one whose hobby is brushing their teeth."

"Dental health is important." He states matter-of-factly, before his hardened look is broken with a breathy laughter. "But really. I would have liked to be friends earlier in my life if I had just known you were the way you actually are."

You remember his words, turning your eyes downwards. "I'd really like to get to know them better."

Hesitation curdles in your mind, but the words come instantaneous, eager to his statement. "Which is?" Perhaps too eager, you shrink.

He hums, thinks for a minute. "Just‒ kind ." He says. "I never noticed before, but you're always making sure people are included, checking on people. It's like a sixth sense‒ you can easily pick up what people are thinking, but also feeling. Like a guardian angel or sorts."

You stare at him with a blank look, a breath in your lungs that doesn't make it past your parted lips. Then, gaze downwards, again.

"I wish more people would know how much good you have."

It takes great effort not letting his words sink deeply into your heart, constricting it. Sometimes, when you replay the scene in your head at night‒ an inevitable occurrence when he's on your mind‒ you try your hardest not to let it well something inside you so floridly that it bleeds heavily in your chest, and sprouts the salt in your eyes. But, it does. Idiot , you think, if only you knew what I really was.

You make a noise, unclear yourself as to your response to his statement, crushing the flier in your hand. Attempting to redeem yourself, you casually begin rolling the balled up paper in your hands, giving Trey an exasperated expression.

“What’s that?” He points to the paper.

“Oh‒ nothing. An Azul thing. Or a Monstero Lounge thing. Whatever, I’m probably going to bail on it anyways.”

“An Azul thing?” The hint of disappointment in his tone confuses you. “Oh! the Monstero Lounge show that’s coming up? I’ve been looking forward to it‒ you’re bailing? Don’t let Carter hear you say that‒ he’s been talking about wanting to be in it for weeks.”

A smile quirks on your face. “Has he now?”

Trey nods. “Why are you bailing? I thought you had a real passion for playing?”

“Performance is another matter. You know, the difference between baking for yourself, and baking for other people.” Trey nods in understanding. “Besides, what makes you say that?” You make a face which fails to fully contain the disgust towards yourself. Passion. It curdles on your tongue.

“How do I put it…You…” He pauses, thinking. In a moment, his words flood forth. “Your expression seems heavier when you’re playing. But, maybe a good kind of heavy. You always seem light and bubbly, but now that I think about it, you never talk about yourself.”

“I don’t.” You confirm, a sweet smile.

“You don’t.” An averted gaze. “I never asked.”

“How unusual of you‒ mother of Heartslabyul.”

“So,” His gaze pulls you in. “What’s your favorite color?”

You take a moment to reply, a bit surprised that he would actually follow through with his words. You’re reminded of the reason why you were so taken with him in the beginning‒ despite his sheepish deflection of compliments, despite the playful smirk that curved on his face‒ his words always matched his actions, his gaze, his expression.

“Yellow. A lemony, summery yellow. Reminds me of the flowers my sister used to grow.”

“You just have one sister?”

“One and only. My older sister.”

“I’m envious. I’ve always wondered what it was like being the younger sibling.”

You chuckle, searching the vast landscape of memories stored inside you. “You know‒ teasing, fighting, hand-me-down clothes, the like. But I love her, especially when she makes her brioche bread.”

“You’re close with her?”

Time, space‒ the difference between you and the world, him. It comes in waves as always, flooding you, and your hands which search for distant memories. You’re not sure if it was his ignorance towards your nature, or plainly his presence that seemed to pull your discorporated humanity closer to you once more.

“Very. She’s my rock. She was the first to encourage me to pursue music.”

“Do you play other instruments?”

“Of course. Cello, piano, guitar, accordion, harp, violin, flute…” You trail on.

The conversation goes on, until the two of you notice you’ve been walking around the campus, completely separated from the others. You laugh about it.

When you separate, you watch him walk across the hills, his form roaring against the sunset. There’s a twinge in your stomach, which you swallow with great effort. The distance between you and him seemed like it didn’t matter for the vivid moments you spent conversing with him‒ but now with his back towards you, as he headed towards the light‒ the feeling wades back. You search through the flood as you always do, but you cloud your own vision when you look back to the things you said, the faces you made, the memories you shared. Blackened, like yourself. The sun hisses against your skin. At times like this, you’re reminded of your stunted development‒ you had forgotten what the sun does to creatures of the night.

It scorches your retinas as you look at the heart of the sun, but you let it‒ reminded of the sweetness of his honey lemon eyes.

Bitterly, it seeps.

------------------------------

Every time Trey stands by your door, for some reason, his nerves rise to the surface, tingling at his feet and the hand that raps at wood. He doesn't understand why his body gets this fussy every time‒ he's seen you a dozen times before. That crooked, fanged smile; the delightful way your hands move in conversation, the charming little way you hum when pouring him tea (2 sugars, a touch of cinnamon, just the way he likes it)‒ these are all things he's almost gotten used to that he doesn't feel near faint when you grace him with such pleasures.

" Pretty boy ."

He remembers the nickname you call him, along the standard " darling "s and " my dear "s you seem to call everyone else. Just for him, you've fashioned something that can instantly unravel him, much like now, as he waits in front of your door with fresh pastries. He feels special when you call him that‒ but it feels good, unlike the times he tries to undermine himself under a barrage of flattening statements that stomp out every potential for expectations . Like he could make a difference, a change in anyone or anything. He’s just a normal guy. Nothing more. Riddle was a vivid reminder of that.

Except when he’s with you‒ it feels extraordinary.

The millions of things that seem to arise out of conversation‒ the sheer possibility of what wonderful things he can share with you beats like thunder in his chest, reaching the tips of his ears where they flush. That fullness he felt before returns‒ the only way to alleviate it it seems is to converse and spend time with you. He hopes the redness at least dies down when he's around you, all his senses seem to fly out the window when you're by his side.

We're just studying together. That's all. He tells himself.

He secretly holds his breath when you open the door with the creak‒ but he releases it when his lips part in surprise at your state.

"O-oh. Hello, Trey." Rather than your usual, slurry, elegant demeanor, your voice scrapes against your throat‒ the sound coming small and frail, something Trey had never associated with you before. Elegant, honey-like, and sure of yourself‒ it was never like this. Diminuendo , he remembers from you, and his favorite piece that you play. Like you'd depart from him, where he could not follow.

You fix your glasses, feeling them slipping on your nose, before you run your hand through your knotted hair. The cigarette wedged between your fingers weaves smoke between the two of you, mixing with the smell of alcohol on your breath. "I'm afraid something came up, darling. I have to cancel today, I'm sorry I didn't ring you in advance." You go to close the very small gap you've allowed yourself to open‒ Trey stops you before you can. The bold move surprises even himself.

"...You're sick? In that case I could‒"

" D-don't touch me." A crackle in your voice, fear striking your expression. "A-apologies. No. It's fine. You musnt do anything for me."

"But I want to?"

The prickly air that had been kindling on the inside of your lungs flares all at once at that moment, puncturing something inside.

"You don't know what you want." You spit.

" Oh‒ what?"

"I said you don't know what you want. But allow me to make it easier for you. You don't want this. So go away‒ get out of my sight ."

Hellfire. It stains you.

"I‒" He swallows the lump in his throat. "I-I don't understand?"

"I said . Get away from me, Trey ." His name comes cold on your tongue. He feels it coil around his spine.

What are you saying?

"But‒"

You launch the door open, almost breaking it off the hinges. The crimson of your eyes glow in your power as you bare your fangs, clawing the wood of the door with your sheer grip. A lurching feeling wells inside you, as you grow in size, in power, in sharpness. All the qualities that separate you, from him.

"I SAID GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME."

You don't recognize your voice. Trey's feet crumble from underneath him as you tower over his form. With the fear that seeps into his eyes, you decide it's enough, and shut the door with a slam.

You swallow the breaths that come faster than you can handle, looking down at the chips of wood that embed into your nails and fingers, beginning to bleed. You lean on your table, raising one hand to grasp at the root of your hair, catching a glimpse of the crimson glow that emanates off your eyes. The hair that falls in front of your face cages you in that bloody vision‒ red, and violent.

This is what you are, it's what you've always been and always will be. A monster . Fanged, clawed, hideous‒ thick, violent strokes of inky black on one of those books the priest used to carry around with him. Swirling into a void so corroded of color‒ the truest black‒ immortalizing your revolting form, permanently baring your fangs, carrying hellfire in your eyes and throat that you’d swing senseless with an animal violence. Fixed in that abstracted abyss, forever‒ eternal as you are. How pitiful that you choke on your own sorrow.

You fall into a rage, your body dragging itself by the spine‒ swinging your hands and legs throughout the room. A sound tears from your throat, far from a human cry. Music scores from missed practices fly, used plates and cups tumble to the ground, chipping. Your ashtray falls heavy on the grand piano that sits at the center of your room, slamming down the heavy lid, reverberating the strings, hammering into the air a chaotic symphony of ash and disorder.

For a moment you think to pick everything up, tidy yourself up and make amends with Trey‒ but you know the drill by now. In a week, you'd come to terms with yourself again‒ all the things you make and destroy‒ and sever yourself from this place, and its people. In just seven days you'd swallow the bitterness of your own self as you always had, clean your mess, throw the pieces you'd broken away. It ends all the same.

Before you know it, you have a half empty bottle in hand, the days old wine weighing heavily in your palm. You twist your body furiously in attempt to rupture the surfaces of rage you have rising like fire inside of you, to at least reach to the gnawing feeling inside your chest. But it grows even restless, even hungrier‒ eating away at the breath in your lungs and the beat of your heart when you come face to face with your reflection. Nothing.

What sort of monster doesn't have a face?

You couldn't have even be given that, to be remembered and touched‒ even if it was fear and abhorrence‒ to exist as a creature who is seen, and heard on their own. You were merely an image created by others.

Control‒ you never had any of it, ever since your mouth was held open by its hinges and forced to down that creature's blood. It was laughable to even call yourself a musician, a conductor, a person. There was not a moment in your life where you had genuinely orchestrated the fullness of musicality, or anything. When you plucked on the strings of your cello‒ it was always just that. Noise. There was nothing inside of you that could transfigure that dead noise from the strings into something meaningful, something that could exist in the realm of adoration. Loved .

Don't you want to be loved?

How could you be? You're just‒ this .

Crumbling to the ground, you sob, remembering the fear laid plain on Trey's face.

Surely‒ he’s gone. If you had ever held him in that way, at least. Arm’s length, prickled air‒ you had been weaving this inevitable goodbye yourself. Regret curdles heavily in your stomach as you bring your knees to your face on the floor.

I was doing so good. I was good again‒ I am good. You clench your jaw, imagining those portraits of violence from the Supreme Leader’s book. A realization‒ fuck . Nausea rises to your throat.

You want to sleep. Or drink. Or smoke. Something to sedate you out of this emptiness clawing itself all over your insides.

A knock startles you out of your daze. You assume the door is broken by the sound of the rusty hinges creaking open, the light of the hallway pouring behind you. A silhouette‒ but you don’t want to be found, or seen. You stay quiet, hoping he just leaves. Forever, maybe.

“(Name)?”

His footsteps creak against the floorboards, inching closer and closer. You wish you had the energy to tell him to leave again. Instead, you bury your face in your hands.

You hear him shuffle a bit, close to you on the floor.

His breath tickles the hairs on your arm, his voice reaching far into your head, the vibration from his throat rippling to your empty chest. “I’m not leaving.”

With some kind of divine courage, you speak. “Why won’t you?”

He shuffles closer, lacing his fingers through your tangled hair. “Because it seems I like you too much.”

“You’re a fool.”

You were the fool.

“Birds of a feather flock together.” He says, matter of factly. “Because you’re an idiot if you think I’m just going to leave you here. You…”

You feel him swallow, pausing his hands to hold your head at the crook of your neck. “You’re special to me.”

“I’ve got you.”

It feels like you're being enveloped completely by him‒ his smell, his sound. It smells faintly of candied violet, vanilla, and your honey lemon blend of tea. Trey thinks it complements well with your smell. Old books, and well-read letters tucked preciously into cookie tins. Faintly, iron.

In a shaky voice, you apologize. Over and over. "I-im so sorry.There's something wrong with me." He rubs your shoulder, measuring his movements carefully so as not to overwhelm you. "I'm sorry I'm this way. I-I didn't mean to yell. I didn't mean to send you away. I want you here. I-I'm sorry. I lied. I’m a liar.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay. We all have our things‒ we’re human, right?”

You cry harder. "No, you don't understand."

"Are you fae?" He asks, looking at your pointed ears and teeth he'd seen in the students in Diasmonia. "There's nothing wrong with that. You're still‒"

Wonderful .

He chooses his words with care in your state. “- my friend.”

You swallow the bitter taste in your mouth. "N-no. I'm nothing of the sort. I-I…" Everything is so unbearable‒ you're unbearable . Your fangs pierce into your lips when you bite down, suppressing the wailing pressure that threatens to leak from deep inside your throat. It burns all the way down when you swallow it, only leaving you with a portion of your dwindling volume.

" I'm a monster ." You spit, looking directly into Trey's eyes‒ like you did moments before‒ hellfire stirring within them. The palms of your hands face him, framed with the sharpened claws of your hands that spot with blood from the splitters still embedded within them. Slowly, you furl them onto yourself, drawing red upon your palms when they ball into fists. "A vampire‒ like the ones you know from books and stories. That's me ."

That is all I am.

Your vision blurs, and you tuck your limbs into yourself as if you brace for impact.

Instead, softness‒ honey lemon eyes, sweetness, golden.

"You're hurt."

You make a sound through your sobs when he takes your hands. Impossibly soft, feathery under your own, he picks the sharpness out of them. The blood is wiped away with his handkerchief, staining the light clover green fabric with blots of red. Now it's dirty , you think. I’ve poisoned it.

"You're not a monster." He says, unfurling your hand further, prying apart your sharpened fingers from your palm. They twitch at his words.

"I tried to hurt you‒ send you away.” You feel like your throat is going to collapse.

He’s quiet for a moment, you can see him roll his saliva through his mouth, and the doubt and anxiety which passes across the movements of his downwards eyes. A barbed look‒ you feel it prickle familiarly against yourself‒ so you ever so slightly inch your pinky towards his hand that rests near your own, making a small gesture with your pinky to intertwine it with his‒ I’ve got you .

A heavy breath pushes past his lips. “People do that all the time. I get it‒ I mean‒ I know how it feels to be anticipating the color and tone of people’s faces. I grew up doing the same. From a certain point‒ you can kind of sense when people begin to tear themselves away from you‒ like you thought they would do eventually‒ it’s kind of a relief, isn’t it? To confirm that the distance you were placing between people at least did something .”

You nod, giving him a small quirk on the lips to agree. He continues. “I’m really just a normal guy‒ you know? I don’t really have the power to change things, or have an effect on people. Like you do.”

“Me?”

He hums, rounding his expression with a small curve on his lips. “You light up the room. You charge everyone with a certain energy. A je ne sais quoi .” He jokes‒ you laugh. “It’s probably a lot of pressure, a lot of fear. But you face it. I like that about you.”

“ I’m not like you .” You hear from him. You want to remind him‒ you're a fool.

“You-” You gulp. “You do that for me too. You light up my day. But‒ I don’t know. I feel bad feeling these things. It’s like I can’t wait, you know?”

Trey scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “Can’t wait for what?”

“I can’t wait. For the moment you‒ or people‒ leave, like you said. I’m always anticipating it. I digest people inside of me‒ pick them apart. I’m really not a good person. Sometimes there’s just something inside of me that switches when I’m faced with anything pointing to people confirming my suspicions‒ like I’m always tipping off the edge. I don’t know‒ people are…” A baited breath. “Bad. And I’m something a lot worse.”

Trey takes your hand again, drawing circles with his thumb.

“I don’t know who I am. I have no reflection, no substance, no form‒ nothing . All I know is that I’ve been emptied to carry this filth that terrorizes me‒ and whenever I lash out at it, I end up hurting other people.” The afternoon light that weaves in between the curtains illuminates a streak of dust and smoke in the room. “My story ends all the same. Like any good fabled monster.”

“What if this time it ends differently?”

A weary smile wobbles onto your lips. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” You stand, dust yourself off, and offer a hand to him. He accepts.

“It will.” His assertiveness almost surprises himself, but he reminds himself why‒ it’s you .

“Why‒ aren’t you certain?” Bitterness seeps your tongue.

“You’re the reason for it. You’re all that.”

There’s a feeling that wells inside you that replaces the tension that slips from your shoulders‒ something a tinge sour, sweet, and warm. You don’t search for the underlying tones and clandestine beats of his words. Clear as day‒ you accept this feeling. Hesitantly, you lean against him, soaking with the feeling that seems to also radiate from him.

“You’ll stay today?”

Trey feels you relax against him.

“For as long as you'll have me.”

He doesn’t let you go.

------------------------------

"I've never seen snow before I came here." You watch the soft speckles of white float gently down from the skies. "I'll never get tired of this scene."

Trey slows his pace a bit, so you can linger on the white landscape. "Really? Not even in the Queendom of Roses?"

You nod. "The island I lived on before I was exiled was exceptionally warm. I wasn’t allowed‒ ”

Quickly, you shift your words. Control.

“-I wasn’t much of an outside kid, on account of the whole sun thing before potions could handle it. And after I had left I hopped from one island to another‒ most of them were too warm to have snowy weather. And when I visited the main island it was always during the warmer seasons.”

You remember the supreme suggesting warm climates‒ quiet, sunny peaks in the outlands, away from people. Those suggestions grew on you with time. You liked warmer climates anyways, . The room you had at the temple had always been cold and damp, the only light that would peek through snuck in through the stone that had eroded over years of negligence. You shiver.

"I don't like the cold, too much. But the snow is beautiful."

You suddenly feel wool, warmth on your neck. Trey fixes his scarf on you, you almost jump away, but after the initial moment of surprise, you relax into his scent that has melted into the wool. Lavender . He always smells like sweet floral, you note. It reminds you of the patches of grass and wildflower that would sprout sparingly in the parts of your room where the sun would kiss‒ the dew that would form on them like opals would be sweet like the fragments of light that wove in soft petals on the hard stone flooring. When you touched that light refracting in honeyed rays in those small drops of water the morning chill brought, you could remember a fraction of your humanity. Summer like a warm blanket and the crickets that chirped outside while you and your sister sat beside the window sill, giggling at the lantern light. The verdant coolness that swept the bakery while you helped your papa prepare the bread rolls for proofing. Silly, small things. It could make you cry, even now, as Trey diligently wraps the scarf around your neck.

“...You were exiled?” He chooses his tone, his words very carefully, softness like velvet honey.

You smile, a shape meant to comfort him. “I was. My hometown was very poor. People needed something to believe in, and they already had their hero.” Supreme leader, in his gilded cloak. "You're going to catch a cold‒ and this scarf‒ it's from your siblings, is it not? I feel bad, you shouldn't give stuff so easily to people." Despite your words, dive your nose deeper into the yarn, threading your claws carefully within the chunky pattern.

"I’m warm enough‒ besides, you wear things like this well.” He finishes fussing with the scarf. The warmth that had welled into the wool from his skin melts into you like cotton candy‒ sweet and soft. “And you’re cold, aren’t you? If I catch a cold I’ll just have you take care of me.”

You press your cold fingers onto his bare neck to hide the rosy heat coloring your cheeks. With a shiver and a smile, he yells "Hey!" while laughing.

"Well I guess I have no choice then.”

A moment of silence after your laughter dies down‒ Trey hardens his expression. “You’re still shivering. The blood supplements haven’t helped?”

A sigh pushes through your nose. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t feel too keen on asking hospitals for donations either. I’ll be fine, pretty boy.” A curt smile curves onto your lips to reassure him.

Trey makes a face. “What if you get sick again?”

The smile you wear tightens. “I’ll be fine .”

“It’s worrying.”

“I don’t need it.”

The silence of the snowfall roars against your ears when he says‒ “What if you fed off of me?”

The dense crunch of your footsteps packing the snow stops as your chest rises and falls with a thickened rhythm.

“Don’t joke about such things.”

“I wasn’t.”

"Then don’t say stuff like that. I said I don’t need it."

"But you do! Look at you! You're emaciated‒ a few days ago you were barely standing!"

"That's‒"

"It’s not healthy, you know. You need blood to survive."

“It’s scary to see you like that.”

You’re genuinely taken back from his internal voice, a slight treble which rings against your ears. “I don’t understand. Why would you be scared?”

His answer is instantaneous, exasperated. “Because you’re my friend.”

You bite the words climbing your throat. As much as it pained you to see Trey like this, you could not swallow that thought threatening to simmer through your lips, a burning notion that had engraved itself into every piece of yourself.

I don't need you I don't need you I don't need you I don't need you I don't need I don't need‒

"Why won't you accept this offer? Accept me?" It chokes you to hear him like this‒ but the familiar nausea that seizes your throat overpowers it.

Because I could never make up for it. Make up for it being me that you choose.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“ Fuck‒ yes I will!” You hiss. Quieter, you muster. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I will. I’m made that way.”

His silence drives a hot coal down your throat‒ prompting you to push down that blackness that gnaws at you.

“Sorry‒ I‒” A release in the tension of your shoulders. “I apologize. I was just…overwhelmed. It’s a serious proposition‒ you really shouldn’t take it so lightly. I haven’t interacted so much with my own kind but from what I heard, it would be almost a lifelong commitment. At least for you that is. When you die, I will..." You attempt to swallow the tightness in your throat- a hunger. "I will not forgive myself."

“I’m sorry‒ I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. We should talk about it more‒ alright?” He rubs circles with his thumb across your skin, and you feel the ridges of his fingers drawing shapes. “But if it’s regret you worry about‒ know that I would never regret spending my life with you. At any capacity.”

There were stories you heard of centuries after you were reborn as a vampire about beautiful things spun by poets and artists. To reach to the monster‒ approaching it with gentle softness rather than stakes and silver. Risking sharpened teeth with lethal maws, defying the hardwired fear and repulsion against something that has tremendous capacity for violence. Saintly, divine touch. You had deemed it one of the most beautiful things‒ sublime, and completely unfathomable to you.

But when Trey reaches to you in that moment‒ in your moments‒ you think‒ this is what it is. This is what it must feel like to be touched by something beautiful. This is what it must feel like to be touched by god. You almost understand the Supreme Leader, in a way. You understand faith ‒ it’s a terrible thing.

He cools the tindering hellfire in yourself with his touch. It burns as a searing stake through your chest.

He doesn’t let go as you walk through the ashen landscape.

------------------------------

He makes you promise you’ll talk about it. And you do‒ hesitantly accepting his proposition with a box in hand.

“I think it’s a good time to give you this.”

The smell of oak flushes his nose when Trey draws closer to inspect the intricate honeysuckles that weave through the wood.

It’s an old, tattered thing‒ something given to you when you were young by your parents. The flowers were meant to be a gesture of nostalgia and deep affection‒ and you manage to remember the fragments of your mother’s many sayings‒ something about always been meant to be with you, how she felt a strange sense of reunification when she had bore you and your sister.

A bitter taste spreads on your tongue when you move the box towards Trey, and the contents inside clack against the wood. How furious she would be if she knew what you had done.

"What is it?"

“ Insurance .” you answer, quickly.

He gives you a confused look before taking the box into his hands, opening the rusted latch on it. You only hear the eroded hinges creak as he cracks open the chest, the speckles of rust falling onto the table.

You made sure there would be enough to pack the box‒ but it seems that there is still some air when they rattle against the walls of the box. Sharpened to perfection‒ you hope they won’t wear down too much from this motion.

After a minute, there’s the same sound again, then the closing of the box before it’s shoved towards you‒ back fully in your vision once more.

“I don’t need this.” Strained, his voice comes thickly between his constricting throat ‒ a similar feeling proceeding to his chest, flaring at the ends of his fingers which tuck tightly into his palms.

The face he makes worries you.

For him, of course, but for yourself as well. You're afraid you're going to break right then and there, throat etched in silent shame‒ but you pull yourself together with a sharp, willow breath sucked into your lungs. You feel the air settle cold on your tongue, and it almost shakes.

"It's just insurance ." You say, opening the box. A wooden stake is rolled across the table to him. He averts his eyes as if it burns him. "If the time ever comes‒"

"If it comes?" The voice pounding heavily at the back of his throat raised with his breaths. He parrots your words angrily. " If the time comes? Then what‒ I have to kill you? I have to be the one?"

"I would like it to be you, yes."

He gathered his eyebrows further into the center of his forehead. "Me?"

"Only you. It could only be."

You hear his shaky breath. No‒ you feel it press deeply into your bones, a vibration that makes its way from the tremble of his fingers, through the table, into your own flesh, far inside you that its precise throb stretches the growing cracks he's made in your resolve.

"I can't."

"You must ." You feel your claws scratching against the leather of your gloves. "To protect yourself."

He feels terribly selfish, childlike for the quiet volume of his voice. "From who?”

You feel the hungry thing inside of you flourish at your own words. “From me.”

He calls out to your name. “I don’t think I could ever be afraid of someone who is so afraid of themselves.”

You have no response to that.

An inhale‒ before he continues. “You’re the reason to the certainty in my words‒ that’s not really something I had before. Nothing feels normal with you‒ but it’s the good kind. You‒” despite the situation, he laughs, cracking the expression you love. “-you really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

A sharp finger presses against your palm to confirm this is truly‒ really‒ actually real. You doubt yourself, telling yourself that you somehow tricked him into thinking you were this good. It must have been all those pet names‒ the saccharine composition that had somehow trapped him into your siren spell.

He faces you with all his sincerity‒ revealing the sharpened claws of your hands when he slips the leather off of them. He holds them softly, hoping if his words don’t reach you‒ at least this language that you had both curated against each other, might. You feel that it does, unable to find a trace of deceit, doubt, or anything besides the honey lemon hue that basks you in all its sweetness.

For the first time in centuries‒ you feel the blood inside you churn warmly in your cheeks, your eyes avoiding his gaze.

“I suppose I didn’t.”

So of course, when he first allows you access to his blood‒ the first action you do is to cover his eyes above all else. He makes a small noise when your cold fingers fall softly on his eyelids.

Without even thinking, he reaches towards your hand‒ he sees the crimson light that weaves through your hands that eclipse into pitch darkness when he lays his hand on top of yours. In the darkness, his voice seems louder when he calls out to you.

"Can you move your hand?"

The fibers of his neck tickle against your stiffened breath.

"Not yet."

He feels your teeth open his flesh, his skin parting like a ripened fruit. The curve of your soft lips that cup warmly around the wound, leaning deep into his scent‒ to dive further into the sweetness of his blood. He groans as a moment of pain passes, but his sound relaxes‒ slurry‒ in his throat when he feels sweet pleasure, thick as honey, feathering from where he feels you feeding. His breath quickens, and you feel the warmth of his exhales. As close as a lover’s breath.

He lets out a shameless sound of pleasure‒ a whisper you drink in with his sweet ambrosia.

"Ah, this isn't so bad."

He feels the fingers you keep firmly on top of his eyes twitch.

"Sorry. 'M sorry." You mumble against his skin. His senses feel so jumbled, flooding as thick and raw syrupy mountains. He blindly accepts them‒ unlike your words, which he makes sure to affirm should not be so. I am not sorry, he thinks. You do not have to be either . There’s a tremble in your lips when he slips those words into the air, humming sweetly against his skin.

He doesn't trust his voice, but the heaviness that clouds his mind barely filters his thoughts.

"A-are you done already?"

"Mhm. Sorry, are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I just need a minute." His chest slowly rises and falls. He notices he's gripping your hand. "Can you move your hand now?"

"Let me see you. I want to see you."

"Just a moment." Even in the sensory deprivation, your voice feels particularly far off. "Not yet."

Trey closes his eyes, waiting for the tight pleasure that still prickles under his skin to pass. When he opens his eyes again, he finds your hand gone, the sun seeping through his fingers. You're facing away from him, sitting at the edge of the bed, bloody handkerchief in hand, unnervingly quiet.

"I'm sorry if I caused you any pain. I'll go get bandages and some pain killers for you."

You turn a bit towards him, but he doesn't see your face. He grabs your hand before you could walk away‒ calling your name.

A beat of silence. "Yes?"

"..."

It seems his senses have returned to him when he confirms the weight of your trembling hand‒ how it feels a fraction of a degree warmer than before.

"Why can't you look at me?"

" Why won’t you show me your face?

Your expression?

You?

Are you smiling? Are you mad?

Why can't you show me?

Am I‒ "

"No ." Your back gives out as you press all your force into that word, making the bed creak when you fall into it. "No. It's not you. It's not you. I just‒" A breath. "I don't want you to look at me. While I’m like this. It is a mercy. ”

Waves of scrambled noise crash through you. You want to squeeze your hands over your ears, shut your eyes until all you can feel is the vast darkness, and your fading form within it. You’d congeal with that void, rot until there is truly nothing left of anything you had‒ to to the dust as dead and far as the remains of your home.

"I don't want to just look at you. I want to see you."

You don't trust your voice, so you shake your head. When you swallow the lump lodged in your throat, it tangles in your shaky breath when you feel his hands wrap around yours.

"I want to see you." He repeats.

The noise parts with the lightness of his voice. Slowly, you turn towards him. Instantly, his hands are molded to the curve of your shape, as if they were forged by the decaying whispers of your labyrinth heart. In secret, they were cast by your hearth, and now they are cooled, and formed around the salt and tears that etch florid down your face. These hands are made for you, you think. Only the starlight has come this close to your monstrous form. Only the starlight.

"I'm sorry‒ I shouldn't be so‒ this right now. But I just can't‒ I'm so sorry." The apologies bubble from your trembling lips, as you try to form a coherent thought. But the softness of which he touches the cruel sharpness of your form‒ it wells a crescendo symphony of desire that you withheld, lurching upon you all at once.

He pulls you in, tighter.

This was home. You had always stood at the edge of it, drawing a line before the entrance to remind yourself‒ you had not been welcomed yet. But he had always welcomed you. It felt as if some speck of his soul had always done so, with the relief you feel when you step within it. The room inside your heart when you merge your warmth with his does not feel so full‒ nor so empty. It is filled with potential. Future. Something that had risen from him, infinitely.

"Don't‒" you place your fingers over your mouth. "Not while I taste like this."

He breaks your lips with his words. “Trust me?”

The warmth that folds over you feels like a prayer. Have faith . When you open your mouth, flesh is at your mercy, but you do not bite down as you expected the thirst inside you would have. Stars, the world stripped of its layers until it was only you, and him. For once infinity does not seem so much of a curse.

You must be intoxicated by the sweetness of his blood. Bittersweet‒ it seeps.

"I'm not…" You gulp down the swaying warmth. "I'm not supposed to like you."

"But…?" His smile curves so high the whites of his eyes are almost completely eclipsed by his honey lemon hue.

You intwine your hand with his. Another prayer. "Foolishly, I do."

“It isn’t foolish at the slightest.”

“It’s alright.” You smile. “I’d like to be the fool for once.”

------------------------------

You fidget with your suit steps away from the spotlight, holding your cello with your other hand.

“Stop fidgeting.” Trey instructs you, flattening the creases you’ve made to your suit jacket. He smiles. “It’s just nerves, they’ll pass when you get up there‒ you’ve told me so before..”

“I don’t‒ I don’t know if I’ll be able to play it right. I haven’t been this nervous in ages.” You still straighten the tie around your neck. “Maybe I should tell Azul‒”

The cloth is straightened again, before he glides his hands to your shoulders, bringing you an inch closer to feel the warmth that radiates off his skin. “You’re going to be amazing.”

Your eyebrows crease. “How can you be so certain?”

“You’re all that.”

His hand guides you towards the curtains, lingering when his fingers reach yours before you step into the spotlight. Azul finishes your introduction as you look towards the audience, searching for a familiar face. You find his eyes, and there is no need for any magic, any power‒ for you to find the faith in his eyes. You let it guide your bow, and the strings vibrate like golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, marrying sweetly‒ your internal harmony guided by his sweetness.

The music swells, breaks, heaves‒ before it dies out once more. The lounge fills with the sound of applause, and you sheepishly smile again the few whistles and whoops your club-mates send your way. Each and every thread of sound resonates within your body, vibrating with color.

Once you get off the stage into the crowd, you see Trey march towards you, before almost knocking you down with the force of his embrace. You allow a bit of your power to spin him off his feet, before you separate‒ wanting to see the look on his face.

"Will you come with me?" You pull his hand away from the crowd, breathless in your excitement.

"Where?" He asks, similar in his bursting fruition.

"Out there. Here. Over there. Wherever."

He smiles, the warmth moves the beat of your heart to the tip of your fingers, back into his palm when you lace your other hand with his. You think‒ I'd be a follower, a devotee, a dog for this. Have faith. I've got you. It’s terrifying, and it shakes you with excitement.

"I can't wait."

------------------------------

Notes:

The book I mentioned the priest had is based on the real Dissertations Upon the Apparitions of Angels, Daemons, and Ghosts, and Concerning the Vampires of Hungary, Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia that 18th-century Benedictine monk and distinguished biblical scholar Antoine Augustin Calmet wrote. It was actually a large source of inspiration to Bram Stoker's dracula. Basically a collection of reports and examinations of vampire/monster attacks emerging in eastern Europe during the late 17th to early 18th century. The accounts of the undead rising and infecting whole villages, reaping of their health and blood that were recorded in this compendium of monster attacks formed a lot of the imagery and characterizations associated with vampires.

Historically, bloodletting was a popular method during the 19th century to cure medical conditions, especially psychological‒ as it was based on the concept of humors. Fun fact, this is why there is a distinction between surgeons (“barbers”) and physicians, and is why the striped barber sign is red and white‒ red symbolizing blood and white the bandages. This method was used from everything from hysteria, insanity, and heartbreak, to things like scurvy and epilepsy.

Bloodletting, transfusions, and vivisections (experimental surgery) both appear in Dracula because they were the hot new science of the Victorian era. Stoker's father was actually a physician so a lot the medical cures and information in the narrative frame the work very closely to the social, religious, and medical attitudes during the period.

Though Victorians still believed the world of humors (ie blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm, or more commonly known by their four counterparts: sanguine, choleric, melancholic, and phlegmatic)- the era began to see a rise of Heroic medicine which sought to shock the body of its ills (ie bloodletting, drinking blood, etc etc)

During the New England vampire panic of the 19th century Victorian era, it was believed that consumption (Tuberculosis) had a strong connection with vampires and the “rise of the dead”, because of the seemingly unexplained rapid spread of this disease that would “consume” its victim and its family at an alarming rate (this was mostly just due to general hygiene issues and the cures for TB being syrups and elixirs of like literally just morphine and cocaine). TB victims usually had pale, emaciating skin, and in combination with how to identify a suspected vampiric corpse (ie grown fingernails = sharp claws; plump skin = immortality/fast healing); the common cures to TB other than those concoctions during the period such as bloodletting, blood drinking, and the “climate cure” (spending a lot of time outside in sunny, warm climates = aversion to the sun); as well as the spread of TB (highly infection, if one person got it in the home, it would spread rapidly to other members of the family = seems like that originally infected person was “consuming” the rest of the family members) kind of makeup the symptoms, physical aesthetic, and indicators of vampires we know today. Pre-Christian notions believed that a body could be “infected” by evil spirits, the concept of evil, etc.. if not buried properly, which translated into the Christian context as demonic or satanic influences entering the body. And because Churches were often the ones dealing with burials, and setting the precedent for burial rituals‒ they had a lot of influences in setting the precedent for burial rituals, how dead bodies should be handled, etc

Because of the strong religious influences during this Victorian romantic period, and the seeming “failings” of empirical science and thought‒ a lot of people turned to the church

Historically, during the New England vampire panic in the 19th century Victorian era, it was believed that consumption (Tuberculosis) had a strong connection with vampires and the “rise of the dead” because it would “consume” the entire family, beginning with one of the family members, then spreading to everyone else because it was highly infectious. This is why things like pale skin, and vampires needing to feed off of blood is a thing because it is connected to the symptoms and infection of TB (blood drinking was also a cure at some point??)

Everytime I'm like "should I add this ultra specific detail with an irl artist's name??? Does it make sense with the twst universe?? Ah whatever‒"

Anyway I choose Chopin for a lot of reasons. The primary reason was that his music moves me deeply (please listen to the piece if you haven't heard it before). He also suffered from TB (aka consumption), and most likely suffered through a chronic version of it his whole life, which caused a lot of suffering and medical complications through his youth, and into adulthood when rising to fame as a composer. This cello piece was the only sonata that wasn't on the piano, and was played at his very last public concert in Paris. He also had kind of a miserable love life because of his weak health (a condition he could not fix), I thought it would be an interesting connection with MC along with the emotional value the song has on its own.

BPD is very misrepresented and incredibly stigmatized in media especially but also the mental health and treatment spheres in general so I did a lot of not only personal introspection but also research on it as well. I thought vampirism would be a good metaphor for BPD because I imagine the concept of eternity and also having to physically drain someone of their life source would cause a lot of attachment and abandonment issues in addition to the feelings of shame and guilt that often come with having BPD (“why am I this way?”). The monstrous appearance described and often visualized in Dracula/vampire related films and media, as well as the myth that vampires don’t have a reflection also not only conceptualizes BPD and its affect on self image, but also visually narrates the aspects of mentioned shame, guilt, and self hatred that come with BPD and the emotional regulation issues that affect relationships. Anyways I not only wanted to do BPD justice because I feel like its very rarely represented in media accurately and with a happy ending, but I also wanted to explore

I didn’t want to go too in-depth with the cult stuff because I feel that could veer off track. I drew from my own experiences (I have a close family member in a cult), as well as some research + some inspiration from a game series called Faith: The Unholy Trinity. But of course the central ideas of isolation, salvation (under a specific pretense), and dependency are there.

119 notes · View notes

railingsofsorrow · 4 months

Note

Hiii i saw ur tortured poets department requests and these two came to mind instantly!!

idk if u still write for TVD but I feel like “who’s afraid of little old me” for Klaus mikaelson would fit, (it’s could be him 1000 years ago before & after he was a vampire) x reader

As well as Kol mikaelson w ‘guilty as sin’ x reader (it could be human reader watching him from a distance before he notices and makes a move??)

Even if u don’t write for these characters anymore/atm I appreciate u reading this :)

Guilty As Sin

[kol mikaelson x reader]

A/N: your idea was amazing (need more kol mikaelson requests tbh!) and I immediately thought about turning it into a slight darker plot... I hope you don't mind. since you didn't specify, reader will be gender neutral, though they will have some characteristics regarding hair and eye color and style, but that's it, gender isn't specified. and the klaus mikaelson request is in the process of being made.

A/N²: you will see "month signs" at some point but that means zodiac signs, this error is on purpose to depict that kol has no idea what astrology means. (he would probably hate it lol)

summary: and so the lion fell in love with the lamb. . . but what if the lamb also became the lion? pairing: kol mikaelson x gn!reader w.c: 2.9K warnings/content: blood and gore; descriptions of child abuse; sexual activities (my attempt on trying to write smut); moral values are twisted; good vs. evil; graphic descriptions of violence; language; morally grey characters!!; there’s fluff; paragraphs in italics mean it’s a memory.

navi

masterpost

the originals masterlist

the vampire diaries masterlist

[requested]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❝ my boredom's bone deep

this cage was once just fine

am I allowed to cry?❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Devil, for him, had short hair with dyed ends, dressed in ripped jeans, and carried the darkest pools in their eyes he had the pleasure of letting himself drown over and over again. He fell in love with the blood dripping from your lips and the taunting before proceeding for the final kill. You liked games when he created them. He thought he enjoyed the hunting, but you were born for this much more than he ever would.

Kol Mikaelson met Evil when he was only a child. He watched as he beat his brother until he passed out from the pain and he turned a blind eye to it so he wouldn't be caught in his bad temper of every evening. Evil had a name and a last name, but he hadn't spoken these or acknowledged it existed from the moment he felt blood on his lips and life draining from a human body. Because now, he had power. Now, he had strength. Now he didn't need to corner and lower his head for a man whose only language was cruelty. He had defeated Evil.

Kol was never a believer in God. He believed in the grey area between good and bad because he constantly leaned towards both once in a while — mostly the bad. Depending on his mood on the occasion. He didn't believe in a higher power, in month signs – because apparently, that's a thing in the modern world? People just have to seek something to feel less ordinary – or say something countless times for it to become true.

He did, however, believe in magic. Not only believed, but he trusted magic. Kol was skilled enough to use it with pride and knowledge even after he lost his powers due to having become undead.

Magic.

It was exhilarating. The world was in his hands and he could burn an entire forest or make a flower grow.

Some days, he missed magic like he missed breathing. So he would dig out his grimoire from an old box he kept his stuff and read it all over again like he hadn't memorized every single chanting and spell throughout his entire life.

They called him Devil after seeing the wreckage he could cause in five villages in a week. The carnage that was left for the Earth to claim back as its own. But, one thing that nobody knew was that Kol met the Devil when he was casually strolling through a college party on Whitmore College's campus.

Actually, the Devil was staring at him. And, surprisingly, it had blood pumping strongly to their heart. Life coursing through their veins. The Devil was human. And Kol was drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Like a man starved for months without food or water.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❝he's a paradox,

I'm seeing visions, am I bad?❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He thought he had found his prey that night when, in reality, he had been the one falling into their trap.

"I think you look too bored to be here." You observed, a normal tone of voice for someone who wanted the other person to hear in a loud party full of drunk people speaking loudly and fast. Kol heard it well, of course. Your voice was smooth like honey if he were to compare it to the awful music they had playing.

"And you look like you're enjoying this."

You lifted a brow, a teasing smile spreading across your mouth. "I'm not. My friends dragged me, I couldn't say no."

"You've got a problem saying no?" He glared at a drunk kid who bumped into him and turned to look at you, who still had that look of satisfaction on your face. He didn't know why, not back then.

"Not really, but I lost a bet so..." You shrugged. "It was my dare. Part of it, actually."

Kol nodded. Why had he been so interested? Don't ask him. He won't know the answer. Maybe because the Devil had their ways of playing their little games, to turn saints into sinners. And what was Kol Mikaelson if not a sinner?

"What was the other part?" Kol found himself asking. He was about to take off at any second. He was only in town because of Klaus's stupidity and his family needed him again. Until they didn't. He could be halfway out of town by now. Why wasn't he?

You approached him slowly, head tilting as you surveyed Kol up and down. He noticed the ink in your neck, right where your pulse laid. A strong and inviting pulse.

"Well, the first part was that I had to come to this stupid party..." You said, tongue moving between your teeth and forming a teasing grin. “the second part,” You drawled out, lifting a hand to his shoulder, fingers rising to the back of his neck. Kol didn't move away as he was pulled closer. He didn't move away when your breaths mixed. “they dared me to take a handsome stranger home so I could have some fun.”

It was Kol's turn to smirk. And just like that, it took one night, a few minutes, for him to be whisked away into your world with no turning back.

A human.

How could he let himself get carried away because of a human?

Perhaps because it had been so long since he was a mortal and you reminded him what that felt like. A tad nostalgic and a lot euphoric. This is how Kol felt every time he was in your presence. The strangest thing was that there was no magic.

“I'm starting to think that paranoia may run in the family.”

He offered you an eye roll, perching against your windowsill as he watched the street. It was fairly empty. Quiet. Two of the five vampires he compelled to keep an eye on you were by the parked Black SUV.

“Kol.” You closed the book with a thud. He glanced at you, schooling an unimpressed look. “I do not need protection. I can handle myself.”

“Alright.”

You scoffed, annoyed at his ability to turn down a conversation because that would end in his favor.

“Alright doesn't mean shit if you're going to be a controlling prick.”

He raised a brow, “I'm being controlling? Do you know who my family is? How many times has my brother threatened y— Try to walk out of here without losing a limb, will you? That's what he's capable of.”

“I don't care.”

And maybe that had been the whole problem. You truly did not care.

There were few things you cared for, fewer were those you considered worth your time. Kol should have felt flattered to even be worth a minute of your time, but he took a lot of things for granted, including your safety.

Immortality was not something he asked for. It had been imposed on him like the heavy burden of life previously had.

He felt guilty for learning to enjoy it over time. He felt guilty for finding someone to keep him alive when he had been dead for decades.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❝why does it feel like a vow

we'll both uphold somehow?❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Then, he lost you.

Because of retaliation. Because of his family. Which was always the reason for his undoing.

He lost the human and met the Devil. Except that those were the same person in one and he only found out when he saw the glint of joy and the absolute exhilaration as you sucked someone dry and then tossed the body with a sigh.

“I was sad when you stopped looking for me.” You whispered into his ear like his nightmares would on particularly bad nights. This was real, he just couldn't believe it yet. “Thought I was important for a minute.”

“What happened?”

You leaned back against the wall, leather jacket scrunching as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“You sound disappointed.”

Kol forced himself to move and you watched as he took a cautious step towards you. That was the first time you saw Kol Mikaelson hesitate about anything. When you reappeared in his life.

Tilting your head a bit, you said in a casual tone, “I'm no longer fragile and broken, so your interest has vanished, is that it? The idea you had of me, that I needed your protection, it's completely shattered now. You're disappointed.”

The Devil, for him, had slightly longer hair than the last time he saw them, still dressed in ripped jeans and the ink in their body had grown in numbers. The eyes didn't change. They were still the darkest he had ever seen, the night sky was jealous of them.

Kol wasn't disappointed in you. He was disappointed in himself for not being able to protect too. Maybe he had grown a hero complex, Elijah had rubbed off on him, after all.

To grasp the fact that he didn't lose you — because you were still here — wasn't easy. There was the fact that you were always on a different wavelength. Two extremes. Mortal and immortal. Human and vampire. Protected and protector. Destroyed and destroyer.

There was no such a thing anymore.

But he never saw you as fragile or broken.

“Bonnie asked to turn my humanity back on.” You told him during a dinner in the Mikaelson compound. Kol placed the wine glasses on top of the counter, glancing up at you with careful eyes.

“Did you? Turn it off?”

He remembered thinking how cute it was when you scrunched your nose whenever confusion drowned your line of thought. He had never thought someone was cute. The person in front of him, nursing a glass of red wine as they pouted over something someone said to them a few days back, had killed around fifty wolves for threatening his family and somehow managed to acquire animosity with the Strix as well.

He found you cute. What was going on with him?

“How does one even do that?” You cracked a laugh, shaking your head at the idea. “What, you turn off your conscience to do unspeakable things to not remember them later? Is that a thing?” You placed the now empty glass of wine in front of the bottle so he could pour your another glass. “Then that means I'd have to grow a conscience first, wouldn't I?”

Kol blinked, his lips stretching slowly into a soft smile that he couldn't hold back.

He knew what was going on. You know, it's been known that Kol Mikaelson was an exceptional sinner and all the gods loathed him. So it made sense that he fell in love with the Devil, didn't it?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❝crashing over my grave,

without ever touching his skin,

how can I be guilty as sin?❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Do you remember your human years?”

You questioned him late in the evening. You were both in bed, you reading a book as he answered a text from Hope with one of the only memes he owned in his phone.

“Yes.” Kol replied, turning his phone off and putting it in the nightstand. It wasn't until a few months ago that he stopped complaining after texting people. Big technophobe. You said he sounded like an old man whenever he complained about modernity. “Vaguely.”

“Do you like remembering it?”

“It depends.” A pause, the bed shifted. His hand wandered through your body, ending up on your hip, the shirt raising a little as he drew circles with his thumb. “Those weren't my favourite times.”

You turned a page, avoiding his curious eyes on you. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. I like it better now.”

You stayed silent.

He gently pulled the book away to be able to take a look at your face.

“What's on your mind?”

A lot.

“Nothing.”

Kol pecked your lips once. “Really?” He did it twice. “You don't know how to lie to me.” The corner of your lips lifted in amusement, which was always his intended goal.

“Do I need to remind you what an awful liar you are?”

He shrugged unapologetically, “That's why we're a good match. We're terrible liars.”

You snorted, pursing your lips.

“Is that what you think?” You said. “That we're a good match?”

His forehead creased in confusion. He knew you were a bit odd during the day but he didn't push it when you didn't want to talk, figuring you would, eventually. But that? What did that mean?

“What's going on?” He asked, thumb traveling across the back of your hand.

“I don't know.” You bit your lip. “Sometimes I just feel like your life could be different. Without me.”

He withdrew his hand to sit down on the bed, one leg under the other. The blanket falling on his lap, exposing his naked chest.

“Yes, it would,” he said as if it was obvious. “It would be different in a way that I would never like to find out.”

Your face twitched into a grimace. “Are you sure? Because people have a lot of opinions. About you and me. They say I make you worse.”

“I was worse before you,” Kol interjected. “I didn't know you cared about people's opinions.”

“I don't.” And that wasn't a lie. Oftentimes you had to stop Kol from shutting you out because of other people, mostly his family, interfering in your relationship. “But I'm a vampire now. And you... you're a Mikaelson. You're destructive and selfish and a lone wolf, except when you're with me. Do you really need someone who's the same?”

“We're not the same.” He promptly disagreed.

“Kol, we're both destructive.”

“We were destructive before, what difference does it make now?”

You sighed.

“It doesn't bother you? That I'd kill and rip limbs out for you or my own benefit and not feel guilty about it?”

With an arm beneath your legs, he brought you closer to him with a pull.

“No. And neither should you.” He cupped your face, thump grazing your cheeks lovingly. “You didn't make me who I am—”

“I'm aware, Kol. Your body count was above average way before I met you.”

His forehead fell on yours as he chuckled in disbelief. “Fair enough.”

You managed to smile a little.

“If people tell you you make me worse, what do they say I make you?”

Shrugging, you replied, “Satan, probably.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❝oh, what a way to die

my bedsheets are ablaze

I've screamed his name

building up like waves

crashing over my grave

without ever touching his skin

how can I be guilty as sin?❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He hummed into your skin, kissing down your collarbones and your chest and your stomach, until you exhaled with your eyes falling shut.

“It's funny.” Kol mumbled against your lower stomach, his chestnut eyes boring into yours. “I thought you'd bored me out when I first met you, but it was the other way around, wasn't it?”

You were about to respond maybe when there was a slight tug in your shorts and your body just worked on automatically lifting your hips so he could get rid of it.

“You had a grip on me the first moment I heard your voice, darling.” He pressed soft kisses down the inner skin of your thighs with his raspy voice due to his position. “You don't make me worse, you make me better. Infinitely better.”

The mattress beneath your head crumpled under your hold.

“That's why I pledged my spot in Hell the first moment you laid eyes on me. I was yours. I am yours. And I will always be yours.” Your back arched as his mouth reached its final destination. “Proudly,” he whispered but you could hear it perfectly through the sounds that echoed throughout your bedroom. “Undoubtedly. . .”

The Devil, for you, had the most beautiful chestnut brown eyes you've ever seen, a rather basic sense of style and carried an uncontrollable thirst for blood like you. He knew how to dance but he hid that ability out of embarrassment. He knew how to love and was too scared to lose that capacity of feeling after centuries of working through it.

If people claimed that he was responsible for Hell on Earth,

“. . . Unrepentantly.”

Then you would gladly fall into the clutches of his undoing.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

#requested #reader insert #kol mikaelson x reader #kol mikaelson x you #kol mikaelson fanfiction #the originals fanfiction #the originals imagine #kol mikaelson imagine #the taylor swift anthology

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aylacavebear · 4 months

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Retribution Chapter 8

Summary: You had DID for most of your life, over forty years, since you were two. It wasn't until after you were forty-three that you were finally able to heal it and become a singular. You're a hunter and have been with Dean for a very long time. Once you become singular, you have to face the horrors that your mental illness subjected on those you cared about, loved. Can you get past seeing yourself as worse than any monster you've ever hunted down?

Pairing is Dean Winchester x Reader/You

Warnings: Talk of DID - Dissociation Identity Disorder (AKA MPD), Mental Health Issues, Angst, some Fluff, Healing (yes, this is a warning).

Please, if you suffer from any mental illness, seek help. There are people out there who can help you get through it, no matter how alone you feel now or how hard it may seem.

A/N: This is going to be very dark, darker than anything I've written thus far. It will include many triggers - abuse both sexual and physical - in memories and what happens to the reader. I'm hoping it will have a happy ending but right now, I am not sure where this will go. This is your main warning before you begin reading. A/N: Dreams and Memories are indented in italics. Thoughts are in italics only.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 8 - Picking Up the Pieces Pt. 2

You spent the rest of that day in your old room, writing out the thoughts that hadn’t stopped moving through your mind. You needed just to get them out, find any way to get them to stop or at least slow down. Dean had even brought you dinner in your room.

The following week was a battle. You’d compelled yourself to venture out and mingle in the bunker. When you spotted Sam engrossed in research one of those days, you attempted to extend your assistance. He’d barely acknowledged you, and now, he didn’t even cast a glance your way when he said he had it under control.

Cas, on the other hand, found moments to converse with you. He was like an older brother, a comforting presence in your storm. He kept assuring you that the other personalities were truly gone. Yet, there was still that lingering fear in the depths of your mind, a fear that they might return. Cas urged you to follow the lessons you had learned before you integrated, to confront what emerged, and not to push it aside.

Then there was Dean, still walking on eggshells around you, waiting for you to snap. That probably hurt the most, as did the fact that you understood. You were still surprised when he would get close to you and let you be close to him.

You hadn’t shared a bed with him during that week, though. He heard you crying yourself to sleep at night and had just wanted to hold you close but was respecting the aloneness you had asked for. What you truly wanted was to be wrapped in Dean’s arms and feel loved.

He sees them, not me, you’d told yourself. That was usually your main reason for crying.

It was partially true. He did see them when he looked at you, but he also saw the differences that regular people couldn’t. It hadn’t stopped him from his own fear that your other personalities would come out, and it would start all over again.

Week two wasn’t much better. Sam was giving you the silent treatment with harsh looks from a distance. You found it hard to be in the same room with him for any amount of time. He always gave you harsh looks when his brother either wasn’t around or wasn’t looking. Cas even tried reassuring the brothers, but fear is a monster that lives in the mind and thrives on the unknown.

You did what you could around the bunker, mostly just cleaning, trying to keep yourself busy so your thoughts would slow down. Writing hadn’t been much help during this second week. You felt as though you kept writing out the same thing, just in different ways.

Near the end of the week, Dean approached you cautiously while you were sitting in the library, lost in your thoughts. He told you that they had a case and would have to go take care of it. There was an awkwardness between the two of you that hadn’t been there before, and it hurt.

“I can stay here, if it would be easier,” you replied quietly, fighting with the pain in your heart.

“Will you be here when we get back?” he asked, and you sighed silently.

He had that front up, the mask that kept his emotions and thoughts out of his expression. That always gave him away that he was feeling something he didn’t want you to see. You knew what he was really asking you.

“I promise, I will be here when you get back,” you answered, and he at least heard the sincerity in your words. “When are you heading out?”

“In about an hour, why?” he asked, cautious but also curious.

“I was just hoping that a hug wouldn’t be too much to want before you leave,” you practically mumbled.

You wanted to be close to him, but you wanted him to see you, not them, when he looked into your eyes. You just figured you were wanting too much, something unreachable or unattainable. Things between the two of you felt strained over the last week and a half, so much so that you found yourself hiding in your room more often than not.

“Is that your way of asking me for a hug before I head out?” he asked in that masked tone, and all you could do was nod. “I don’t see why not.”

Everything felt like it only caused more pain, more depression, and you wanted to hide away in some dark corner of a far-off place. He turned and went to pack his things, leaving you alone in the library. That was when Sam showed up, and you had a feeling that whatever happened would only make you feel worse.

“I hope you know that you aren’t going with us,” Sam told you flatly, with a coldness that made you want to shrink away.

“I know,” you replied, keeping your gaze on the floor.

“I wouldn’t even be upset if you weren’t here when we got back. I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but I swear, if you hurt my brother one more time,” he paused as you looked up at him, “I’ll kill you.”

“If I hurt him again, I’ll hand you the gun,” you told him without emotion, but the sadness in your eyes gave away how badly you hurt.

“You won’t even see me before you hit the floor,” he snapped before he walked away.

You pulled your feet up onto the chair and hugged your knees as close to your chest as possible. Tears burned at the corners of your eyes when Cas appeared in front of you.

He sighed before he squatted down and looked up at you, “Y/N, while we’re gone, work on the kind of person you want to be. Then, just be you. Keep parts of the personalities that are gone, the parts that you want to keep. Get rid of the rest and fill that space with what makes you, you.” Cas set his hand on your ankle, “It will take time for the two of them to truly see you, but they will. Just like bad things that happen make wounds, healing them takes longer.”

With that, Cas stood up and disappeared. You knew he’d flown himself to the Impala to wait for the brothers. His words tickled their way through your mind, and you got the sudden urge to write again. The feeling of needing to cry vanished. You stood up and headed to your room, which was across from Dean’s.

You closed your door, grabbed your notebook and pen, and then got comfortable on your bed before you began writing. At first, your thoughts were jumbled, coming out in pieces and partial paragraphs.

A knock on your door pulled you from your thoughts, “Come in,” you told whoever it was as you set your stuff down.

“Thought you had wanted a hug before I left?” Dean asked as he cautiously opened your door.

I can do this.

Your mantra repeated as you stood and slowly walked over to him, “Only if you want to.” It was hard to ask for anything from any of them due to what your personalities had put them through, and it came out in your tone.

He gave you that slight smile again as he hugged you. It felt different, like he was holding himself back, and your mind raced with thoughts.

“Please come back to me,” you asked quietly, fighting back the tears that again were burning the corners of your eyes.

You felt him stiffen slightly and then kiss the top of your head before he pulled away, grabbed his bag, and left. You then climbed back onto your bed where you’d been, wiping away the tears that had slipped out, and continued writing.

Cas’s words stayed with you as you wrote, giving you the push you needed to stay strong. You still felt like a monster for the things in the past, but now, you wanted to be a better person. You never wanted to hurt anyone like that ever again.

The three of them were gone for three weeks on this case. You hadn’t asked for details about it, so you had no idea what they were even hunting or how dangerous it could be.

During those three weeks, you wrote a lot, managing to organize your thoughts comprehensively in your journal. You had decided to keep all the best parts of the personalities, the parts that you found yourself liking. Things like coloring, painting, being goofy, a love of cars, the softness they had, and their love for Dean. It gave you something to build on.

You got rid of the other stuff. The stuff the mean ones would do, like the need for other men, finding women attractive as you didn’t feel that way toward them, the manipulation that they seemed to thrive on, and all the other abusive traits they held.

With that done, you could dig a little deeper, and those things made you cry, a lot. You realized that due to the shaming you saw during your childhood, you needed other personalities to deal with it, as you couldn’t.

Something your kinder personalities wanted, needed, was to be physically close to Dean. It was something you didn’t see a lot of growing up between your parents. So, your meaner personalities never allowed the other personalities to do those sorts of things. You also realized that the abuse they inflicted was only to perpetuate the abuse and trauma so the DID system could stay the way it was.

At night, you’d reach over to the other side of your bed and sob, missing him just being there and holding you close. You cried for how they missed him, even though they were gone. It was like you felt everything they had, and it was hard to face it all. Again, Cas’s words helped push you on, though, when facing these things.

You grieved for the loss of the personalities. It was something you needed to do: acknowledge that they truly were gone, and it hurt more than you realized it would. Even keeping the parts you had, it hurt when you would do those things, like coloring, which you had only attempted twice.

Near the end of the third week, you had a new mantra: I am allowed. You had finally realized that due to what had caused your DID had to do with you not being allowed to feel things like a ‘normal’ person. That had traversed to other things, like being physically close to anyone you cared about in a healthy way.

You finally knew what you wanted. You wanted Dean to see you and want you for who you were now. You wanted to be close to him in all the ways your personalities always wanted to be. You also realized that you loved him. It was the kind of person he was. Throughout his relationship with your personalities, he’d never raised a hand to them, he’d never left or kicked them out, and he’d never cheated on them. Hell, he’d tried to help more times than you even knew, due to what Cas had done to slow down your memories.

Cas had popped in a couple of times to check on you and keep you updated on how the case was going. It was how you knew the day they’d be back.

The morning of the day they were due to be back, you woke with a new sort of determination. You’d decided that you were just going to be yourself, and hopefully, the rest would fall into place. As you drank coffee, you pulled out the ingredients you needed for what you had planned.

One of your personalities had been amazing at baking, and that had been something else you’d chosen to keep. While you continued with your task, you felt a sense of calm, peace, and joy. That brought a small smile to your lips. You knew you’d have to test some things to see if you still wanted to keep them, and this was definitely a keeper in your mind.

Two hours later, you were finishing the pot of coffee you’d made and letting what you’d baked cool on the countertop while you sat at the kitchen table, lost in your thoughts. You were smiling a little, though, finally feeling a sense of contentment.

One of the biggest things, other than Cas’s words, was learning that the only thing you had control over was yourself. It was a simple concept that took you those three weeks to fully comprehend. All you could do was choose how you’d respond to things. You could control anything about other people.

I’ll just be me. They’ll either like me or hate me. I have no control over that.

Glancing down at your phone, seeing the time, you smiled softly and headed out to the war room, knowing they’d pull into the garage within minutes. You leaned against the staircase, your hands in your pockets, waiting patiently as you heard the Impala pull into the garage, then went silent.

The three of them came through the garage door, Dean leading the way with Cas bringing up the rear. At first, none of them saw you as they set their bags down on the map table. You made your way over to them, standing near Dean. He jumped when he noticed you.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” he said as he held his chest, attempting to calm his racing heart.

“I’m sorry,” you told him apologetically, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” You leaned against the map table and looked up at him.

Sam eyed you from the other side of the table but said nothing as Cas came around to face you, “Back in one piece,” he said as you reached out and hugged him.

Cas gave you a soft smile and hugged you back, “Thanks for looking out for them, and bringing them home in one piece,” you told him softly.

After pulling away from the hug, you looked over at Dean, tilting your head just a bit with a soft smile that was all for him. “I missed you.”

For a moment, you saw that glimmer of hope in his eyes before the mask came back up, but this time, you didn’t let it affect you like it had. Instead, you just wrapped your arms around him and held him close.

He was momentarily stunned but finally embraced you, returning the hug. You knew it would take him time to see you, but you would give him all the time he needed.

“I made you something,” you told him, pulling away only enough so you could look up into his comforting green eyes.

Dean raised an eyebrow, and the curiosity that played across his expression made you smirk playfully. “Come on, I’ll show you,” you giggled, pulling away and taking his hand, leading him into the kitchen.

Cas smiled as he followed. Sam, on the other hand, wasn’t amused or intrigued. He figured it was just part of some elaborate trick to get his brother to let his guard down so you could hurt him again.

You felt like a giddy teenager as you brought Dean into the kitchen, smiling from ear to ear, showing him the pies that were sitting on the counter.

“They’re apple. Hungry?” you asked, now looking up at him, but then your smile faded, seeing his expression. You looked away and released his hand, “I’m sorry. I was just trying to do something nice.”

You’d seen the tears he wasn’t letting fall, even through the mask he’d put on. The moment you began walking away, he reached out and gently grabbed your arm, pulling you into him and holding you close.

“I should be the one apologizing. I’m just… I’m not used to…” he attempted but couldn’t finish his sentence. You could hear that he was fighting tears.

I’ll have to go slow with him. I don’t want to make things worse.

“I can go at your pace,” you told him quietly but softly, holding him just as close.

He gave you a gentle squeeze before he pulled away, taking a deep breath and looking down at the pies on the counter. He couldn’t even hide the smile that began tugging at the corner of his lips.

Mom’s recipe, he’d know that aroma anywhere, please let my Y/N still be in there, somewhere.

You went over and pulled a fork out of the drawer, handing it to him with a playful smirk, “You don’t even have to share, if you don’t want to.”

Dean chuckled as he took the fork, grabbed the pie, and sat himself at the kitchen table. Sam went back out to the war room at this point, pissed. Cas set his hand on your shoulder, giving you a reassuring smile. “Thanks, Cas, for everything,” you told him softly, setting your hand on his.

“Sit with him. Even with his guard up, he’s hoping for exactly what and who you are. He needs you, even if he won’t say it,” Cas told you quietly.

Your heart beat a little faster, and your breath hitched in your chest for a moment before you took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Your new mantra repeated in your mind as you made your way over to the other side of the table and sat down quietly.

He looked happy as he took another bite of pie, but he didn’t look up at you. You watched him, letting your emotions flow through you instead of locking them away. A smile played along your lips, seeing him at least slightly relaxed as he ate. You didn’t even notice that Cas had left the two of you alone.

You slowly slid your foot across the floor, finding his. You were in socks, so he didn’t notice at first. It wasn’t until you let your toes play along his lower leg that he practically froze where he was sitting. You internally cringed at his reaction and sighed quietly, pulling your foot away and resting it next to your other one on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you told him again, looking down at the table, allowing yourself to feel the sadness instead of pushing it away as you had done in the past.

Dean looked up at you for the first time since he’d pulled away from you earlier. “It’s just…” he began, then looked down at his pie and sighed, “I’m worried that they aren’t gone, that’s all.”

“Me too,” you replied quietly, “It’s why I had been sleeping alone.”

He looked back up at you, somewhat surprised. You hadn’t remembered the times it had happened. In the past, he’d had to tell you about it the following day. Dean knew you had at least some of the memories, but he wondered just how many you had gotten.

“I don’t know what you remember and what you don’t, but,” he paused and searched your expression before he continued, “...sleeping somewhere else wouldn’t stop those things.”

You began fidgeting with your fingers, “I also didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, sleeping next to me.”

Dean took a deep breath, set down his fork, then reached out and put his hands over yours, causing you to look up at him. “Do you want me to sleep next to you?” There was a softness in his tone, along with what you could only describe as a yearning that both broke your heart and made it beat faster.

“Only if you want to,” you answered, mostly breathless.

He sighed, slightly frustratedly, “That’s not what I asked you.”

You pursed your lips and looked down at his hand that was still over yours, “I know. While you were gone on this last case, I did a lot of soul-searching. I figured out what I wanted and the kind of person I am. Even if I wasn’t your abuser, my appearance hasn’t changed. I still look the same.” Your emotions came out with your words, far too many, even with your voice quiet.

After taking a few calming breaths, you continued, “I want you to see me, not them. I want you to do things with me, not hope that I’m them and do those things. If there’s something you want to do with me, then do it. That’s what I want. If you’re thinking about them, please don’t treat me like I’m them. That’s all I ask.”

You brought his hand to your lips and kissed the back of it, then headed out of the kitchen, not giving him time to respond. Cas was sitting in the library with Sam. The only bag left on the map table was Dean’s. A smile crossed your lips as you picked it up and headed to his room.

Carefully, you put his things away and tossed the dirty clothes in the laundry pile, which you realized was rather large.

I have those memories.

With that thought, you picked up his laundry, walked through the war room, and then down the opposite hall to the laundry room. Sam had just watched you with an annoyed expression. You hummed quietly to yourself as you put his clothes into two piles and loaded up the first load.

It was nice things like this that your other personalities had always wanted to do, doting on the man that they loved and would have given their life for. These were things you had decided you would do, things you truly wanted to do.

As you headed out of the laundry room, Sam’s presence startled you when you saw him in the doorway. He had that look on his face again—cold, angry, almost cruel.

“What are you playing at?” he practically demanded as he took a few steps forward, making you back up and away from him.

“I’m not playing at anything, Sam. I’m not them,” you snapped back. It was different than how your personalities would have snapped. You were standing your ground, not letting him bully you. You weren’t being manipulative to make problems.

Your reaction startled him more than he let on, but his expression didn’t change as he pointed a finger at you, “You’re not fooling me. They’ve done this before. Things would go good between you and Dean for a week or two, and then it would all go to shit again. I’m keeping my eye on you. I don’t trust you, never have.”

With that, he turned to walk away, “I’m not them. I’m glad you’re watching me. I’m not going to hope though, that you see the differences. I’m just going to be me. That’s all I can do.” There was a calm in your tone that surprised Sam, but when he turned back around, his expression hadn’t changed. If anything, he looked pissed now.

Sam got close to you, closer than you were comfortable with, but you had decided you were going to stand your ground. He pointed at you again, his expression strained, his fist practically white with how hard he clenched his hand. You just stood there, looking up at him.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t touch you. Sam just glared at you for a few moments before he turned and left the room. A heavy breath left your lips that you knew you’d been holding. Your body shook slightly at the confrontation. Sam was a whole foot taller than you, and he could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be.

You slowly sat down on the stairs in the laundry room near the foot of them, holding your arms, attempting to calm your entire body. Cas’s words played through your mind again, give them time. Honestly, you weren’t sure how you would get through things if that type of confrontation happened too often.

Something you noticed was that Sam never did anything like that when his brother or Cas was around. It was always when you were alone. You sat there with your thoughts untill that first load finished, so you put it in the dryer and the other load into the washer before making your way back out to the library. You’d had an idea.

Sam and Cas were still in the library, but you didn’t see Dean around, so you headed to the kitchen. He wasn’t there either, but you smiled, seeing the empty pie container in the sink. You put the other pie in the fridge before heading to the garage, but he wasn’t there either, and you sighed.

Duh, he’s probably showering.

You rolled your eyes with the realization. He’d just gotten back from a hunt, of course he’d be showering. Thinking back to the confrontation between you and Sam, you realized he had already showered.

You took a deep breath, heading to the library and sitting across from Cas, “So, I was thinking, maybe Eileen and perhaps Charlie could come over. It’d be nice to at least talk to them about what’s happened,” you mentioned.

Sam gave you a fake smile, and you knew it, “Yeah, we can do that. Did you ask Dean how he felt about it?”

You eyed him for a moment before you spoke, “Not yet. I figured since she was your girlfriend, I’d ask you first. I would have asked all three of you together, but I’m guessing Dean’s showering.”

Even Cas could feel the tension between you and Sam, “It might be a good thing for them to visit,” Cas piped in. “They deserve to see for themselves.”

“I already told them about what happened. So they’re at least aware of it,” Sam added, looking up at you, and you saw the hatred in his eyes.

Keeping yourself calm and your tone even, “It’s one thing to hear about it. I’d like to let them see so they can decide if they want to be friends with me.”

“What’d I miss?” Dean asked as he sat down next to Cas.

“Y/N was asking about Eileen and Charlie coming over and hanging out for a bit,” Sam answered, his expression now hiding how he really felt toward you.

Damn Hunter’s mask.

Dean considered that before he glanced over at you, then back at Sam, “I don’t see why not. I’ll message Charlie, you message Eileen.”

“Sounds good,” Sam chuckled, picking up his phone.

Neither of them noticed that Cas had been looking at his lap while they’d been speaking. You had, though, but you weren’t entirely sure what he was doing, until you saw how his shoulders barely moved.

He’s texting someone.

You didn’t say anything, though. You decided to keep that observation to yourself and looked back up at Dean. It was hard for you to sit across from him and not be close to him like you wanted to.

I wonder if this was how he felt when I had DID? More alone than being alone when the person you love is literally right there, sitting across from you.

The thought brought the sadness again. You’d put him through so much in the past. At least you’d told him what you wanted. The ball was in his court now, and you wouldn’t push anything with him. He’d have to make the next move.

You partly felt like it was something you deserved, feeling at least a fraction of what he might have gone through. Slowly, you stood and headed to your room. It was easier to be alone than end up in tears sitting there with the three of them. You didn’t want to give Sam any sort of pleasure at seeing you in pain. Although, he’d probably think it was just some sort of act.

Then there was Dean. You hadn’t wanted him to feel guilted into being any way with you. That would have hurt you even more. You flopped down on your bed, face first, buried in your pillow, then curled into a ball as the tears fell, and you let them.

Cas slowly opened your door sometime later and sighed, seeing you in this state, again. “The girls said they’d come over. They’ll be here in a couple of hours,” he told you from the foot of your bed.

“Who were you texting?” you asked Cas, then sniffled.

He sat down on the foot of your bed, “I was texting Eileen and Charlie, telling them the truth. I know Sam is angry, and he probably sent jaded messages to both of them. I want them, and you to be able to figure things out without the bias.”

“Thank you, Cas. That means a lot to me,” you sniffled, turning so you could look over at him.

“You deserve a real chance at this. They’re all just as afraid as you are that the DID isn’t gone. I know it’s gone, and I wish all of you would trust me on that,” he told you softly, but you saw the hurt in his blue eyes.

“It’s hard not to be scared that it will come back, that it's really gone. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m just worried,” you explained, sitting up. “While you guys were gone, I decided I wasn’t going to let my fears keep me from being the kind of person I want to be. Life is too short for that.”

Cas gave you a soft smile, “I’m happy to hear that. Did you have something specific planned for dinner tonight?”

“I was thinking burgers and fries. They’re easy, and Dean really likes them,” you answered.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea. Try not to get upset with how he reacts. This is harder on him than he’s letting on,” Cas explained.

You looked down at the bed, “I know. I gave him some food for thought earlier, in the kitchen. We’ll see how it goes. That’s all I can do.”

Cas set his hand on yours, “I have enough faith for both of us.”

That made you smile a little, and you looked up at him, “Thanks, Cas. It’s been really helpful that at least you believe the DID is gone. Shit! I need to go take care of Dean’s laundry I started earlier.”

You quickly jumped off the bed and practically ran to the laundry room, not even glancing at the brothers in the library. You pulled the clothes out of the dryer, then tossed the other load in there, getting it started.

Damnit. I can’t believe I got so wrapped up in my emotions I forgot I had started this.

As you sat on the floor, you folded his dry clothes, making neat stacks of the items. There weren’t many things that Dean hung up, but you laid those neatly to your side. When the basket was empty, you placed the folded clothes inside it, laying his hanging things over top of it all. You smiled, proud for allowing yourself to do something that you had wanted to do.

You stayed in the laundry room until the last load was done, then folded those items as well before grabbing the basket and heading back to Dean’s room. This time, the brothers noticed you walk through the war room. Their gaze followed you until you disappeared down the hallway.

You didn’t hear Dean ask his brother if that was his laundry you’d had in your hands, as you were already too far away. After setting the basket on his bed, you began putting his clothes away, starting with the hanging items. Dean had crept his way down the hall, watching you from his doorway, silently.

Humming quietly to yourself, you carefully placed his items in his dresser where they belonged, a sense of happiness spread through you that you hadn’t felt before.

This is nice, even if he might not want me.

Grabbing the laundry basket and turning toward the door, you squeeked, started at seeing him standing there and watching you.

“Now you’re doing my laundry?” he asked, hiding most of his emotions behind that mask of his again.

You took a deep breath, determined to just be yourself around him, “I’m allowed to do nice things for you. Unless… you don’t want me to.”

Dean blinked blankly at you for a bit, even after you tilted your head and just looked at him, waiting for him to say something, anything. But he didn’t. He just stood there and looked at you, hiding everything he was thinking and feeling from you.

A silent sigh left your lips, and you walked toward his doorway, “Excuse me, please,” you asked quietly, looking down so you didn’t have to focus on his lack of expression.

He moved to the side, letting you pass, but as you walked away, he watched you still. You walked normally back down the hall, through the war room, even with the tears slipping down your cheeks. Then, down the next hallway and into the laundry room, where you placed the basket on the floor, where it typically waited till someone needed it.

That was when you sat on the floor and sobbed again. Your emotions were different now. You’d allowed yourself to feel them and what they truly stood for. You wanted to let yourself be angry, but you knew the anger wasn’t the truth. It was, in fact, a mask for the deeper meaning of it. You were sad, upset, and feeling alone, and it hurt, deeper than anything you’d ever felt before.

You didn’t bottle it up, but you did sit there and let it all out. You refused to cry in front of the brothers, for different reasons. Cas at least understood, and he wasn’t judging you because of your past.

At least I have one friend.

When the tears subsided, you dried your face and headed into the kitchen, pulling out the burger patties so they could defrost in time for you to cook later, along with a package of bacon. You then double-checked the beer count in the fridge. Seeing it low, you grabbed two more six-packs, pulled out the bottles, and put them behind the cold beers.

Neither Eileen nor Charlie drank whiskey often. They typically preferred beer when they hung out at the bunker. This way, there would be plenty of cold ones, even if Sam had some. You figured Dean would have whiskey as he typically drank it.

You pulled out your phone and glanced down at the time, feeling slightly anxious again.

They’ll be here, really soon.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, and you were forcing yourself to take slow, deep breaths.

A panic attack? Seriously?

These were things you weren’t used to, as they’d never happened when you had DID. You did your best to search your mind for the skills you’d learned on how to cope with things like this, but a fog had begun in your head as your hand came up to your chest, gripping your shirt. Then, you sank to your knees as the world felt like it was spinning while a loud ringing began drowning out all sound.

You didn’t see Cas crouching next to you, nor heard him trying to talk to you. Then, everything went black.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 9 - Picking Up the Pieces Pt. 3

Retribution Master List

Tag List: @jc-winchester @nancymcl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx

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the-brainrot-central · 1 month

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This story is gonna kill me one way or another, either that or I’m gonna kill it. Whichever comes first. Anyways here’s a miscellaneous scene of my favorite asshole suffering through hyperemesis gravidarum (severe morning sickness). More headcanons here ⬇️

ANYWAYS without further ado, enjoy the misery

Hard Day’s Night (rough chapter for Atom Heart Father)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: vomiting, like a lot of it, domestic abuse, manipulation

Also sorry the italics didn’t copy correctly so you get no italics. Suffer

This nausea was debilitating.

It had been at worst a nuisance at first, just making him queasy about smells and tastes. If it was a particularly bad day, he’d even throw up. But I’m spite of that, he could still mostly go about his day without a hitch.

Now, however, it was becoming downright unlivable.

He’d woken up at three am this morning feeling like absolute shit, and ended up spending the rest of the night kneeled on the floor, heaving into the toilet.

He’d managed to fall asleep after that for another hour. However, upon waking up the nausea once again had his body in a chokehold, and he spent a good ten minutes at the sink, trying to get himself feeling well enough to move around without vomiting. He had no such luck, however; despite the fact that nothing was coming out, he was queasy as all hell, and his head ached from the lack of sleep and food.

Eventually, he somehow managed to get to the kitchen without throwing up on the floor. He hadn’t been able to brush his teeth; he knew better than to put something in his mouth right now—his gag reflex was clearly alive and well. For this reason, breakfast was also a no-go—even the thought of eating crackers or rice was intimidating.

He made it out the door in spite of his nausea, and miraculously didn’t throw up until he got off at his stop from the train. He instantly dashed to the nearest public bathroom and had a go at it, for what had to be the fourth time that morning. He was wholly mortified by the fact that other men were there pissing in peace, minding their own business while he hacked his guts out into the sink.

Once he’d gotten somewhat of a hold on the nausea, he made a beeline out of there and hustled his ass to work—he knew he couldn’t be late. He managed to get there on time today, miraculously, but it almost didn’t matter anyway—he spent half of the day camped out in the office bathroom, waiting for more vomit to come as waves of nausea washed over him. His stomach was starting to throb from just how much he was throwing up lately, and the anxious part of him was afraid he’d tear his esophagus with all the forceful heaving.

He made his way home the usual route today, but stopped to sit on a street corner when he started to feel dangerously lightheaded. Luckily, this was back in Morioh, which wasn't as populated as the city, so he didn't have to be paranoid about prying eyes judging him. He winced as he crouched to sit, his back throbbing from the strain—it seemed to be doing that a lot more lately. He brought his hands to his face, closing his eyes in an attempt to stop his head from spinning so violently. He was just on the verge of throwing up again (as if he hadn’t done enough of that today), his stomach roiling with nausea. He let out a low groan, hoping no one could see him in such a pitiful state. It was a bit later in the evening, so not as many bodies wandering, but a few still staggered across the streets. He could practically feel their pity, like gamma rays—he hated it. He didn’t like getting any kind of attention, especially not this.

All the same, someone had the gall to walk up to him and ask him how he was.

“Sir, are you alright?”

It was a youthful, gentle voice—a young woman. He looked up slowly to see her—she had neat black hair, swept back into a ponytail, and wore a cream colored blouse.

He feared he’d be sick again if he tried to speak, but nonetheless tried to.

“I’m…okay…”

“Are you sure? Do you need an ambulance?”

“Please don’t…no…”

He sighed. God, this was absolutely mortifying.

“I’m just a little lightheaded, that’s all. Haven’t eaten much today.”

What a lie. He hadn’t eaten anything today, period. And it was finally biting him, perhaps—he felt like he might just pass out right then and there.

“Oh, I see. Do you need help? I can go get you some water, or something.”

“No, it’s alright—I’m fine.”

She gave him that pitying look. God, he hated this kind of attention—absolutely loathed it. As if he didn't have enough of a headache already.

“Please, just, leave me alone…I’m fine, I promise…” He sighed, rubbing his forehead, eyes closed—any excuse to avoid eye contact.

She seemed unconvinced, but finally dropped it.

“Alright then. I’m sorry you feel sick.”

Finally, she walked away, leaving him to stew in his shame by himself. This was awful. He hated the attention he was garnering—he didn’t look around intentionally, but he could see people staring at him. And God, his head was throbbing—he wished that it would stop. It only aggravated his nausea, which had been violently rising and falling all day now—it never fully went away, but it was definitely stronger or weaker at some moments than others. A sudden wave of it overcame him and he sighed, trying hard to grip tightly to whatever dignity he had left today. He could not, would not vomit, again—not here, not now. He’d already made such a spectacle of himself just by sitting on the side of the road, hunched over, cradling his head in his hands. What a sight he must’ve been.

Breathe, just breathe, come on…you’re better than this.

You just need to stand up and go home, then you can rest. Just get up.

A simple task, really. At least, he knew it should be; but in his current state, it was terribly daunting. Part of him doubted he even had the strength to stand on his own; the only leverage he had right now was the raised sidewalk, which wasn’t much to work with. And with the way his back and feet throbbed? He might as well just forget it and sleep here for the night.

God, how the hell was he going to get home? He was only a few blocks away now, but that distance seemed insurmountable in this state—even one more step and he’d pass out.

It seemed like forever passed, when out of the blue someone came up to him again.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

Oh, great, more of this shit.

“Never better, thanks for asking,” he groaned.

The stranger hesitated before speaking again.

“Do you need anything?”

He sighed. God, what the hell was wrong with these people?! Didn’t they have any fucking tact?! All he wanted was to be left the fuck alone, and yet they kept nagging him.

But the more he thought about it, he could really use some help…as much as he hated asking for it.

“Could you help me stand up?” he said, his words faltering. Just uttering the phrase out loud was mortifying enough to make him want to disappear. God, he was only forty one! People must’ve thought he was ancient, decrepit—some old, senile geezer with hemorrhoids and dementia or something.

The young man aided him eagerly, with an alacrity that really rubbed in the shame—he must think himself so goddamn noble and kind, helping out the elderly.

“Thank you,” he said, forcing himself to make eye contact. God, he just wanted to die right now.

“No problem, sir. Do you need help getting somewhere?” he said patiently, his arm still wrapped around Yoshihiro’s back. Now this pissed him off.

“I’m fine, thank you very much,” he said, practically shoving the young man away—his headache was raging, and he knew if he stayed any longer he’d start yelling at this poor guy.

However, almost four steps away and his body swayed, collapsing to the pavement. He stifled a groan and almost cried; out of all the things he could’ve had to deal with today, this was arguably the worst—people.

“Sir!”

His head was swimming furiously. More people were stopping to stare at him, mostly young people, but they all looked blurry—God, who did they think they were? Why’d they have to fucking gawk at him like a freakshow?

The young man rushed to his aid, only to be shoved away.

“Fuck off! I said get away from me you retard! God, what is it with young people these days?! You never listen!”

Angrily, he brushed off his suit, stumbling to his feet and trying not to trip this time—his whole body felt like jello, so he was extra cautious.

“I’m fine.” His voice quavered.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Fuck it…” he said, breathing heavily, his head throbbing behind his eyes. God, just standing up was exhausting—he just wanted to lie down right there on the sidewalk. What he wouldn’t give for a bed to just appear right there and swallow him forever.

He knew that wasn’t an option, so he stumbled along, his vision going a bit blurry and his head still spinning.

Dammit…I didn’t mean to yell at him…

The guilt was sinking in.

I should apologize.

But he didn’t, and he kept walking, without stopping, till he reached his house and collapsed in the yard.

—————————————————————————————————

He was glad no one came to fetch him—he had a peaceful moment to himself where he could finally just rest. He knew soon enough he’d be seen, though, so he made quick work of hauling himself back up, laboriously, and stumbling into his house.

Fumiko was there in the entryway, a look of fury plastered across her face.

“Hi, honey.” The words barely made it out before she started yelling at him.

“And just WHERE the fuck were you?! You’re two hours late!” she barked.

“I…don’t know…”

Had it really been two hours later than his usual arrival? It felt like less. Perhaps his sense of time was fuzzy, from the exhaustion—he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Oh…you don’t know? You don’t…fucking know?” she whispered, voice harsh and straining. Her eyes terrified him—they were just like his father’s when he was angry.

“All I fucking ask of you is to do your fucking job, get home on time, and stay healthy and you cant even fucking do that!”

Her voice rose at the end and she slapped the kitchen counter, making him jolt.

“Do you have…any idea, whatsoever, the hell you put me through?!”

His whole body was shaking, rather violently—it was from blood sugar, he could tell. He felt like his knees would give out any second now.

“WELL? DO YOU?!”

He thought it was rhetorical, but he quickly scrambled to find the right words amidst his panic.

“I…I don’t…”

“OF COURSE YOU DON”T! YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!”

Two hands slammed the kitchen table, making plates rattle—he hated that noise.

She turned to him and stuck an accusatory finger at him.

“YOU NEVER SEE ANYTHING I DO FOR YOU! You’re ungrateful, needy, whiny, pathetic, helpless….God, I just can’t fucking stand you!”

She was pacing as she yelled, not making eye contact—her eyes bore holes into the wood floor as she gestured sharply and furiously, her arms swinging and hitting in the air.

His ears were ringing, and she was just so loud, and he just wanted to sob. Today was a mess. Everything was awful, and it was all his fault.

“You’re so lousy! Worthless! You just can't do anything right, can you?”

Another horrid silence, followed by a piercing shout:

“WELL, CAN YOU?”

The tears flowed before he could stop them. He looked at the floor, heart thrashing, thinking about how many ounces of vomit he must’ve expelled in the past week, the past day even, and how much weight he was losing, and—

“ANSWER ME WHEN I FUCKING SPEAK TO YOU!”

A hard, sharp slap across the face shocked him enough to look up, and to start sobbing.

“AND LOOK ME IN THE EYES!”

She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him into her, bringing their faces uncomfortably close. His heart was beating so hard he feared he might be having some kind of cardiac event.

“Please…Fumiko…darling…” His voice wavered.

Her eyes were boring into him, scrutinizing him—this was it—the eye of the tiger. Moments like these felt infinite in their sense of terror, suspended in time. Her furious eyebrows shifted, and she pulled away.

She was quiet for a moment as he sobbed, just staring at him with those strange, bewildered eyes—he could never quite read them.

Stop, stop, stop, don’t cry, what the fuck are you doing, she’d gonna yell at you again, why the fuck are you crying?!

Her hard expression melted into something gentler. He didn’t trust it yet.

She suddenly, without warning, lunged forward and squeezed him into a hug—he nearly jumped with a start. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he didn’t know why he was still panicking, because the danger was over now, but he felt so tense in her arms, waiting for her to hit him again, to do something, anything—

“Oh, honey…it’s alright. I didn’t mean it like that. No need to cry about it.”

She had a point. He knew she didn’t mean it—she never did—but it was just too much to handle. His sobs wouldn’t stop.

“Shh…hey, I didn’t mean it. I’m just a little stressed, okay? You bring that out of me.”

Her voice was soft, reassuring. All he could offer was a soft “mhm” between sniffles. She combed her fingers through his hair, and he melted under the touch.

“You’re so sensitive, y’know. You should work on that.”

He tried, he really did. He hardly cried as much as he felt like it, which was every day now. He tried to hold it in as much as he could, but God, it was hard when she yelled at him.

“Do you want something for dinner?”

He gently shook his head. In truth, he was starving and would’ve killed for some of her cooking—but he knew his stomach couldn’t handle it.

His head was swimming again, and before he could catch it, he was starting to slump into her arms.

“Hey, hey, hey, watch it—HEY!”

He practically collapsed all of a sudden—his knees just gave out, finally. She caught him before he hit the floor, in a sort of awkward hold.

“Christ, are you trying to kill yourself?! Jeez…”

“Sorry…” he mumbled, his vision blurry. God, he was exhausted.

She helped him get back upright, but his vision was going blurry and a bit dark, and he almost fell right back down.

“Fuck! Don’t do that!” she scolded, scowling at him as she helped him, once again, slowly rise to his feet.

“I’m sorry. I’m just…really lightheaded.”

“Did you eat lunch today?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“No…”

She let out a frustrated sigh, carrying his weight as she guided him to their bedroom.

“I’m sorry.”

“You really gotta work on that, you know—we can’t have you starving. It’s not good for either of you.”

He felt a fresh wave of shame at that mention. She didn’t outright say it, but she might as well have.

“I suppose you’re right…”

That was true—he worried about that. Fetal nutrition was important, and god knows he wasn’t getting nearly enough of it through what he ate; that was concerning. He ought to go back to the doctor early about it.

He practically collapsed onto the bed, hardly having the energy to move slowly and cautiously—his back instantly punished him for it with a violent twinge.

“Do you want anything to drink? Tea or water maybe?”

God knows he couldn’t handle anything, liquid or solid, going in his mouth right now—but all the same he nodded, not wanting to upset her.

“Water.”

“Alright.”

She gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead.

“Be right back.”

Moments after she left, he passed out.

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ottovonruthie · 1 year

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A Little Life: Final Review

I copied over my review, and the italics parts are my new thoughts after letting this book sit with me for a few more hours. If you haven't finished reading the book, you might not want to read this, as there are some spoilers. Feel free to comment about your thoughts!

There are two types of readers for this book: those who love it and those who loathe it. Unfortunately, I am the latter.

This book receives a lot of praise for its beautiful writing, and I can understand why. However, I wish Hanya (the author) had done more with the story. The idea of introducing us to four friends, Jude, Willem, JB, and Malcolm, initially interested me as I thought I would get to see how their lives change throughout the book. But I feel cheated out of that experience.

Now, here comes the bad part.

This story is completely unbelievable, even laughable in its incredibility. Someone on TikTok described this book as "trauma porn," and I wholeheartedly agree and would call it that to this day. Let me explain why it's unbelievable. If we correctly form the timeline of Jude's life, it goes something like this:

He was abandoned at birth, taken to a monastery where he was molested and abused, then pimped out and molested by Brother Luke. Later, he gets abused and molested by counsellors, followed by a hitchhiking journey where he conveniently encounters only pedophiles, selling his body for a ride to Dr. Traylor, who causes spinal damage and also molests and abuses him again. If you think that's shocking, there's more. In the present-day timeline, despite struggling with immense trauma, Jude opens himself up to love and meets Caleb, who turns out to be another abuser and rapist. But it doesn't end there. After spending 100 pages discussing why Jude doesn't want to have sex due to his past trauma, Hanya forces a romantic relationship with Willem (after previously insisting that their friendship was platonic and joyful). This contradictory portrayal continues when Jude, who initially (and still) didn't want to have sex, ends up having a sexual relationship with Willem, creating another problem in the book.It raises the question of is it still consent if the person is just engaging in the act for your benefit but not because they truly want to?

Jude's relationship with JB is no better, with JB mocking Jude's disability and misreading a moment, leading to a kiss that Jude perceives as sexual assault. Do you see how implausible this is? It's not that bad things don't happen to people, but in Jude's case, it seems like only bad things happen.

This book is a mockery to anyone who has experienced sexual assault or abuse because it diminishes the authenticity of real-life experiences and seems to rely on shock value. I almost felt as if Hanya's thought process was that the more he gets assaulted, the more deserving he is of our love, and we should feel sorry for him. But no, this is not a competition of oppression when it comes to sexual assault. Getting assaulted once is already inhumane.

Another laughable aspect of this book is that Jude never attended formal school or received a proper education, yet somehow manages to get into college. Not to sound elitist, but come on now? Just off Brother Luke teachings?

Another problem with the book is its ableism and homophobia.

Ignoring the sexual assault aspect for a moment (I hate that I even had to type that), Hanya excessively plays on Jude's injury, portraying him as less than human, broken, and unlovable. This reinforces dehumanising perceptions of disabled people. However, individuals with disabilities, especially physical disabilities, do not hate their bodies every moment of their lives.She even does this with Willem's deceased brother! You can't just reduce disabled people to their disability. That's akin to reducing Harold to just being a man. There's no control over that.

Regarding homophobia, it's concerning that every romantic or sexual encounter Jude has with someone of the same gender results in them becoming an assaulter in his story. I thought we’d see some change with Willem and Jude, but that also led into this.This sends a troubling message that gay men are somehow wrong or problematic. But this book is advertised as pro-LGBTQ?

Now, moving on to the topic of self-harm. Jude engages in self-harm throughout the book, and while I understand that it's a real issue, especially for someone with trauma, it's disturbing that everyone seems to know about it but does little to help him. Even Andy, a licensed doctor, doesn't fully report it, only advising Jude to stop cutting. This lack of support from those around him is inconsistent and problematic, particularly when Andy later blames Willem for not being there for Jude when his self-harm worsens. It's Andy's responsibility as a doctor to provide appropriate care and support. Even Harold and Julia does this weird thing of doing the bare minimum to address it, you adopted this man, act like actual parents.

Another aspect Hanya fails to analyse is that, as readers, we're supposed to feel sad or pity for Jude, but at times, it becomes apparent that he is also part of the problem. Dealing with trauma is undoubtedly difficult, and healing is not linear, but Jude's actions, including self-harm and suicidal tendencies, seem somewhat performative and manipulative, despite the support given to him by his friends. But maybe manipulative is not the best word to use here, it could be an oversimplification, but as I read a lot of the times he self harms, he essentially keeps people coming back to him?

The reason why this caught my eye was that originally, we are introduced to Jude as one of four characters. However, one of the other three characters also deals with trauma while interacting with Jude. Willem, who was one of the other three, copes with his own trauma stemming from being the perfect child his deceased parents wanted. He also had to form a relationship with his disabled deceased brother, whom his parents seemed to disregard. Seeing how Jude treats himself could act as a trigger for Willem, bringing up memories of his own unresolved trauma.

Witnessing Jude's self-harm and struggles could be emotionally challenging for Willem, forcing him to confront his own pain and perhaps triggering survivor's guilt. While Jude copes with his traumatic past and its consequences, Willem may grapple with complex emotions, considering that he is alive and his brother is disabled and deceased. This contrast might evoke feelings of privilege or survivor's guilt within Willem. Like does Willem ever randomly think would his brother would have pitied himself if he had a chance to grow into adulthood? Unfortunately, Hanya doesn't provide us with further insights into this dynamic.

We know trauma is interconnected, but Hanya does such an abysmal job of connecting it. Exploring this connection would've added depth to the narrative and examined how relationships can be both a source of solace and distress in times of struggle, instead of simply portraying Jude as a figure deserving only of pity.

Was any of us actually surprised that Jude committed suicide? Hanya hinted at it in the earlier chapters, and many times throughout the book, Jude was referred to in the past tense. The saddest part about that wasn't even the actual deed; it was Harold believing he was the failure that caused it, and Hanya dragged us along for 800 pages.

Returning to my original point about the 4 main characters, the story falls apart around Part 2. Hanya takes a huge leap, where these four struggling college friends suddenly become top achievers in their respective industries without explaining how they got there. In addition, Malcolm just becomes a background character floating in and out, and at times I forgot about his character. There's a lack of character development, and they seem to remain mentally stagnant despite ageing 30 years. They’re basically battling at the same issues in this book with no new perspective as they get older.

Just for guidance to anyone reading this, I'm not a novice when it comes to books about people struggling with mental health. However, I feel that this book doesn't accurately represent it well. If you're looking for a great book that does portray how trauma presents itself in one's everyday life, I recommend "The Vegetarian" by Han Kang. Han Kang is also another Asian woman author, so if you're interested in supporting and continuing to read Asian authors, she's a wonderful choice.

#book review #a little life #hanya yanagihara #mental health #trigger warning #jude st francis #bookish #bookblr #books #book recommendations #booktok

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amberjazmyn · 10 months

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westlife one-shot

𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓮 - make you feel my love 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 - tears, fluff, workplace homophobia, mentions of abuse, mentions of illness 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓻𝓲𝓹𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 - through the lyrics of shane filan's "make you feel my love" we see the four members of westlife loving their partner through everything and anything 𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮 - this came out of nowhere lol, please enjoy! also bold italics is lyrics, italics is like flashbacks and everything else is the regular font.

masterlist - - - mark:

when the rain is blowin' in your face and the whole world is on your case, i could offer you a warm embrace, to make you feel my love.

today had been the worst day in the world for you and you wish you could understand why. also wishing that you were exaggerating. first off, it was raining cats and dogs outside, so loud you personally thought your work building would collapse in on itself and it utterly terrified you. and two, it seemed as though your whole office building and everyone inside of it was on your case and trying to nit-pick at every little thing you did. whether that was in regards to you doing your job properly or just breathing, someone in your office had something to say about it and it almost made you want to scream. but, you remembered you actually liked this job and didn't want to lose it all because you lost control once at a time when you were defending yourself from everyone else's ridicule and judgement. you knew that when things like this happened, when the rain was blowing in your face and the whole world was on your case that your boyfriend, mark, would offer you a warm embrace, making you feel his undying love for you.

however, he still hadn't returned from a summer show in dublin so unfortunately, your boyfriend wasn't going to be home the same time you returned home from work. so, you just sucked those tears back up and pushed on through the rest of the work day. only hoping that no one else would try to test you otherwise you would start to bawl your eyes out and not have the ability to stop. cause once you start, you could find it quite difficult for yourself to stop crying.

continuing your customer service job, which truthfully you didn't need due to your boyfriend's extravagent job but, you still loved it. it started to eventually come to the end of your work shift. when you and the two other work colleagues that were incessant on causing you to almost have a mental breakdown, you just hoped it wasn't you getting yelled at again. and, you somehow managed a shaky breath of relief when you saw the body language your boss had in regards to your colleagues in comparison to you.

"---sir, i'm sorry but, what on earth are we doing in here with...him?" the older work colleague of yours jeered with attitude in his voice as your boss gave him a sharp look whilst you stayed silent, looking anywhere but at your boss and the two other colleagues

"why do you think, todd?" your boss matched todd's attitude as the man stepped down as he gulped before your boss couldn't stop himself from continuing

"why do you both think it's okay to constantly bother y.n when he's just peacefully doing his job like everyone else, just like he's supposed to? don't you ever get tired of being incessant bullies? don't you ever think that i can actually hear all this bullying and abuse that you're aiming at y.n? do you ever step back and think to yourself how much stress and harm you are putting on him? do you ever step back and wonder if your words actually cause harm to your fellow work colleagues or are you just so ignorant that you no longer care anymore? because that's what i think of you todd and of you as well, richard, and i wish i had found out about this earlier so i could have let you both go before it could have escalated this far. and y.n, i am so incredibly sorry that it's taken this long for me to take action because this behaviour...this homophobic behaviour is never and will never be tolerated in my workplace, not today, not ever! so, todd, richard, it's with my greatest pleasure that today is your final day at this job and you will be fired. because how you behave towards your other work colleagues is simply not tolerable any longer. i'd like to say i wish you both the best but, i'd honestly be lying if i said that so, let's hope the next time i have to see or hear about either of you, both your guys' heads will have been removed out of arses. but in saying that, i don't have high hopes for that...grab your things the both of you and leave, i want you guys clocked out and out of the building before the end of the day..." the man was no longer allowing this abusive behaviour and you couldn't help but feel thankful to him, it was also quite hilarious to see how todd and richard reacted

for those who wanted a mental image of the way these two grown ass adults reacted to their firing was them basically throwing fits in the way a child would if they were told "no, you cannot play on the tablet (child's name) your screen time for the day has finished". as much as you wanted to laugh, you found yourself not being able to because you were just so exhausted from this long and quite frankly traumatic day that you just wanted it to be over. just so you could go home and cacoon yourself in blankets on the couch as you then wait for your boyfriend mark to return home from his show in dublin with westlife. but then you remembered that you still had a job to finish and, just as you went to leave your boss's office, he stopped you.

"...oh, y.n, before i let you go, i am terribly sorry that you had to deal with todd and richard constantly on your case today and every other day. you didn't deserve it and it was completely unwarranted every single time. i wish i had done this firing sooner because they truly don't deserve a place in my workplace if they are being disrespectful to my fellow employees. but especially because of their sexual orientation which is something that is uncontrollable. also, if you wish to, i give you full permission to clock out earlier today since i know how exhausted you are from all of their abuses you've recieved. all i ask is that if you do leave early, that i get a text message reassuring me that you've got home safely, alright? and another one when mark gets home from dublin since i remember you telling me that he returns back tonight, because i want to know that you're being taken care of properly, okay?" tears welled in your eyes as you smiled, making eye contact with your boss as you nodded your head

"thank you sir. all of this has been well appreciated and, i'll be leaving work early since i don't think i feel like i'm in the right headspace to continue so, i'll clock out early. and, i promise, as soon as i get home and then as soon as mark gets home, you'll be receiving text messages from me, don't worry. again, thank you for firing todd and richard and for sticking up for me. i know everyone else has but, having you also stick up for me just makes it a little bit better..." you trailed off as your boss nodded his head and watched as you left his office, a little less of the world weighing you down as you walked out then what you had when you walked in

let's just say you were happily surprised and relieved when you came home to see your boyfriend already home. with his arms open ready to comfort you whilst you just unloaded on him after sending a message letting your boss know you had got home safely and that mark had too and was there with his arms open waiting.

nicky:

i know you haven't made your mind up yet but i would never do you wrong. i've known it from the moment that we met, no doubt in mind where you belong.

you hated being in this position. your childhood best friend, nicky byrne (yes the nicky byrne from westlife was your childhood best friend) had just professed his undying and neverending love for you just hours before he was to leave for westlife's next big world tour. yet, you couldn't give him a yes or no answer. so, you just stood there, in the lounge room of his baldoyle home in dublin, ireland, like an utter loser as you just stared at your best friend.

"...umm, i...i'm sorry what...what did you just say nicky?" you managed to finally stammer out as nicky let out a shaky breath, letting you know he was about to cry and you hated it - you hated being the reason that your best friend was crying

you could tell that nicky didn't want to repeat himself and was about to leave so you stepped forward and grabbed his hand, "no, don't...please don't leave nicky...i just, i know what you said, i heard it but i just...can i...maybe...have some time to think about my answer?" you stammered out as you held nicky's hand tighter as his tears started to trickle down his cheeks as his lip trembled

"umm...yeah, sure....that...that's fine, y.n. i...i'm sorry, i shouldn't...i shouldn't have put you on the spot like that i just...i wanted to tell you before i leave for tour with westlife and i just...truthfully, i panicked and i just--"

"--hey, nicky, calm down bubs. it's fine, you didn't put me on the spot, i just wasn't expecting it but, that doesn't mean i shouldn't not have expected it at all either. but, i'm still okay to think about my answer?" you reassured nicky as he nodded his head to your question of still wanting to think about your answer and if it was okay

"yeah, absolutely, you can think about your answer, take as long or as little as you want. there is no timetable whatsoever, i just wanted to tell you before i left so, yeah..." nicky smiled shyly, wiping away some extra tears off his cheeks as you smiled and moved closer

"...yeah, i get it nico. you didn't want to leave anything unsaid before leaving so you said it all now, it wouldn't be the first time we've done this. because, if i remember right, we had a similar if not same exact conversation when we were fifteen and sixteen right before you left for leeds united and i gave you the same exact answer. except, i never gave you the answer to your question but, this time, i promise i will. because i think this time i'm ready to accept the truth and not be selfish anymore..." you trailed off, giving a quick kiss to nicky's head leaving him confused as he turned around

"...selfish? you're never selfish, y.n..." nicky whispered but you still heard it and you smiled as you opened the front door

"...i never intended to but, yes, i was this time nico. have fun on tour love and i'll be there at the airport waiting for you five to come home!" you smiled and left without another word as nicky was still confused but didn't try to pursue anything more since he was needed at the airport within minutes

nicky had been having the best time on tour with his westlife bandmates but, even that fun couldn't stop the fear of what your answer to his question was going to be when he reunites with you later tonight in dublin airport. he loved you dearly, you both knew this since like mentioned earlier, it wasn't the first time nicky had professed his more than platonic love for you and you had rejected nicky's advances. and honestly, looking back on your fifteen-year-old self now as a twenty-year-old, you thought it was quite selfish. as you remembered the same tearful, devastated face that little sixteen-year-old nicky shared with the same but older, twenty-year-old nicky the second time you "rejected" him. you couldn't keep on pretending that you too hadn't fallen head over heels in love with nicky like he had with you. because, you really had fallen in love with him and probably first fell in love with him when you truthfully first met him when you guys were in primary school. never realising it until you were fifteen, when nicky first tried to ask you out after expressing his love for you. you knew he would never do you wrong and he'd treat you like an absolute queen. seriously, he had seen you be mistreated since you were fifteen, after he left for leeds united and it bothered him so bad that he couldn't do anything to stop it. even after he pleaded with his dad, nikki sr, to keep an extra close eye on you to make sure there were no physical injuries. you still refused to believe that your ex-boyfriends were abusive and bad because you didn't want to believe you were in love with your childhood best friend who you'd known since first grade in primary school.

except, now that you had the conversation a second time with nicky at an older and slightly more mature age and just before you two would be apart for the best of a few months. you finally realised you couldn't be selfish anymore and you could no longer hide your true affection for nicky anymore. so you didn't want to hide it anymore. as you impatiently waited at dublin airport with the other westlife girlfriends, kerry and gillian, bryan and shane's girlfriend's, you went back and forth in your mind of how you were going to tell nicky that in fact, you too were in love with him and you wanted to be with him for as long as forever. but, just as you could think up of what you wanted to say to nicky, you heard kerry and gillian let out the loudest screams in the world, kerry yanking on your hand as you looked up.

and all of a sudden, you couldn't stop your hand from sliding out of kerry's or your legs from moving forward. bursting out into tears, you ran as fast as you could as you barely noticed the way nicky's face lit up in excitement and slight anxiousness as you ran closer to him. since you were a loud crier, you basically had the entire arrivals terminal staring at you. and not just because there was an award-winning, irish boy-band returning home via a normal commerical airplane and walking through a regular airport terminal rather than a private one right at the back of the airport where no one else would see them return home and potentially infiltrate them.

you finally got closer to nicky who quickly dropped his duffle bag and opened his arms knowing you were going to jump into them since it was something you always did. however, this time, it was different and he couldn't understand why until...

...you grabbed his face and kissed him in the most passionate way you had ever kissed anyone before in your entire life. nicky, at first, of course was shellshocked and understandably, mortified. but, as soon as he tasted the saltiness of the tears streaming down your cheeks on his lips, he didn't hesitate a second longer and started kissing you back. as cheers, applauses and wolf-whistles galore filled the arrival terminal at dublin airport as nicky's bandmates, kian, bryan, shane and mark watched on as kerry and gillian held tightly onto their own boyfriends with the biggest smiles on their faces. all of them happy that nicky would no longer have to be devastated or fearful of his best friend not reciprocating her obvious love for him anymore.

"...i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you nicky! i love you so fucking much and i am so sorry for being so selfish in not telling you. i didn't really need time to think ahout my answer, i just said those things because i didn't want to allow myself to believe that i was in love with my best friend. and it was so selfish of me and i cannot believe i made you cry like that and i just wish i could---"

kissing you again, nicky pulled apart this time after initiating the second kiss, "---shut up will you, y.n, you really must love the sound of your voice if you're still too thick in the head to think i don't forgive you because i do forgive you. believe me, it took me way too long to pull my own head out of my arse because i also refused to believe that i was in love with my best friend as well. but, i put on my big boy pants and i told you two times, once when i was sixteen and about to leave for leeds and the second time when i was twenty and leaving for westlife's first ever headlining tour. and it was because i didn't want to leave you without thinking i had forgotten anything and i didn't because i told you that i was head over heels in love with you. and unlike anyone else i'd ever loved before and it broke my heart hearing you say you needed more time to think about it even though you had given me the same answer the first time and actually never gave me a response. because you just couldn't face it at the time and that's okay because this time you did and i couldn't have loved you anymore y.n. i mean...i...i've known it from the moment we met and there was no doubt in my mind where you belong and that's with me and no one else..." nicky trailed off, tears welling in his eyes as you smiled as you initiated a third and one last kiss as the both of you couldn't stop laughing and crying and hugging each other

although it had taken years upon years of selfishly pretending you weren't in love with your best friend, you were glad it had taken a westlife headlining world tour to kick your arse and head into gear. as well as it (your head) being removed from your arse and realise that you couldn't be selfish anymore. and you had to acknowledge that you couldn't fall in love with someone else because it was always going to be nicky. and now, as you held tightly onto one another as you walked through dublin airport with the rest of the westlife lads, kerry and gillian, you couldn't be any happier with your life. especially now that you had nicky with you forever and he was more than just your "childhood best friend".

kian:

i'd go hungry, i'd go black and blue, i'd go crawling down the avenue. no, there's nothin' that i wouldn't do, to make you feel my love

you struggled to believe it. kian utterly refused to believe it. and he wished there was something he could have done to prevent it from happening...

"...mr egan...did you hear what i just said?" kian lifted his head up from staring at the carpeted floor in your, his wife's oncologist's office, with eyes that couldn't lie - your husband hadn't been listening at all to anything your oncologist had just said during the entire duration of them being in there

"ah, no i...i didn't, sorry, what were we talking about doctor marshall?" kian gulped as he squeezed your hand tighter as you smiled with a soft and tenderness at him as doctor marshall smiled too

"don't apologise mr egan, things like this can happen. especially because of how difficult it can be to comprehend your spouse having what can turn into a terminal illness, a lot of spouses will often pretend they didn't hear the diagnosis because they don't want to believe that their other half could be so sick..."

oh, that's why they were visiting doctor marshall, he was giving a diagnosis to you, kian's wife, in regards to all the blood tests and other scans that you had been doing after you had been dealthly sick. and no one, not even your local gp in strandhill, sligo, could provide you with an answer so they referred you over to doctor marshall in north-west dublin. kian had completely forgotten about that since he had been worrying about everything else that he couldn't even remember why he was in north-west dublin with his wife and almost bursting out into tears in doctor marshall's office.

"...oh, umm, doctor marshall, will...is y.n able to undergo rounds of chemotherapy or any other form of can...treatment for her illness?" kian stammered out as tears started to get him choked up as you stayed stoic and comforted your husband - you had a feeling that this doctor's appointment wouldn't be a happy and easy one to get through

"now, mr egan, of course she is able to. we always suggest that the smartest and most logical idea, especially when we detect and diagnose the cancer early that going through treatment will give us and your wife the highest rate of surviving her cancer which is what we want. but, of course, we can't just force y.n to undergo treatment just for our own selfish needs. it has to be of her own wishes and accord because we don't know if the person suffering with the illness really wants to go through the process of the treatment and its side effects that it comes with as well as the long and constant hospital stays as an inpatient. so, if the both of you need some time to hash it out, i am absolutely fine with giving you guys a chance to chat and decide whether or not you, y.n, would like to go through with treatment or if you don't and after that, we can go from there, alright?" doctor marshall explained as you and kian nodded your heads as you held each others hands tighter

"thanks, doctor marshall, we shouldn't take long..." you trailed off for the first time since the beginning of the appointment as you could hear your husband attempt to quieten his sobs as his body shook, his free hand covering his mouth as his eyes clamped shut tight

you knew this was breaking your husbands heart. he had lost his own dad to cancer back in 2009 just before westlife returned from their year off and now, he had to go through that all over again with his wife? how on earth was that fair to kian? it wasn't, it wasn't fair at all. however, you were determined to survive and beat your cancer for kian's dad kevin who wasn't able to. you were determined to get to the end of your chemotherapy and ring that goddamn bell at the end of it all for those who never got to.

reaching over doctor marshall's desk to the tissue box, you grabbed a few and handed them to your husband as he wetly giggled. grabbing one of them and wiping his tears after pocketing the others, "...thanks babe..." he muttered as you kissed his temple softly as you continued to squeeze his hand comfortingly

"...so, doctor marshall wants us to discuss the idea of me going through treatment. so, how do you feel about me doing that?" you questioned, your head tilting to the side as kian looked at you as though you were insane - which, in fairness, you were a little bit but, that's why kian fell in love with you in the first place

"why are you asking me this, y.n? how do you the one who's actually going to through it, feel about it? this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you. just like doctor marshall said, just because i may want and heavily suggest you do it, if you don't want to do it, i respect your decision. and i will do everything i can do to make this journey easier for you! this is not my decision to ultimately make, babe!" kian's tears were still heard in his voice although his sobs had calmed down as you sighed and nodded your head, smiling softly

"okay. well, it wasn't a hard decision, kiki. i want to go through with the chemotherapy, especially because doctor marshall said that we caught it early that i have a higher chance of surviving. i...i want to ring that bell at the end of chemo because dad never got to, kevin never got to ring that bell and i want to do that. i can't bare the thought of you losing another person you love with your entire beating heart to cancer because that's just unfair. so, it's best i start now when it's still early in the cancer to do so..." you trailed off, your heart breaking as your husband's sobs returned at the mention of his dad's death to cancer alongside the possibility of his own wife losing her cancer battle as well

"...i can't either, y.n. i can't lose you either! i barely survived losing dad, i can't lose you too! i don't want to!" kian sobbed as he folded in on himself, his pain immeasurable as you reached over the chair's arm and hugged your husband as tightly as you possibly could as he weeped

"you won't lose me baby! i'm going to get through this cancer, i'm gonna ring that bloody bell. and then we're going to rest and then after that, we're gonna have as many kids as we possibly can and we're gonna live happily ever after, i promise..."

...psh, yeah, happily ever after my arse! once again, almost like a coda to the day you were diagnosed with cancer, you were stoic and unemotional. whilst kian, your husband was almost weepy at doctor marshall's check-up with you at the cancer hospital in north-west dublin. for some context, not too long after that doctor's appointment where you were first officially diagnosed, within a month, you were admitted to north-west dublin's cancer hospital as an in-patient. and that was so you could start your cancer treatment basically straight away to give you the best chance of survival and eliminating the cancer all together.

however, this is where the "pssh, yeah, happily ever after my arse!" comes from. because, just this last couple weeks, you'd been blindsided with a dangerous infection in your bloodstream which nearly rendered you into a coma if the nurses hadn't noticed it in time. and, even though, like your cancer, the nurses caught the infection early, it still didn't stop you from being in dangerous waters. so, you had to constantly fight every single day by forcing yourself to keep your eyes open. force yourself to eat, to drink and to walk around the upper cancer unit for ten minutes a day before returning back to your hospital room so you could then spend a couple of hours with kian and someone else that he'd invite to come with him. the "someone else" was usually nicky, shane or mark but today, it was all three of them because your oncology team had a terrible gut feeling. and whilst they wished it to be a false alarm, they wanted to make sure kian had enough people around him to comfort him if their gut feeling was to follow through and come true.

kian was currently sitting uncomfortably, with his legs crossed like when you were kids at primary school sitting on the floor. his right elbow resting on the arm of the chair and his left arm stretching over to hold yours as you rested, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. your chest ever so slightly rising and falling tucked away under the sheets of your hospital bed. tears were constantly threatening to dribble down kian's cheeks as he constantly willed them away as he breathed shakily in and out. his hand occasionally coming up from the chair arm and covering his mouth for the times he couldn't help a sob and it's escape. and standing all around the rest of the room were his three bandmates, shane, nicky and mark and they were helpless in knowing how to console their bandmate. none of them had gone through the loss of someone they love due to cancer. nicky did lose his dad to a heart attack but, obviously, that was different then the loss of kian's dad to cancer and now the possibility of the same thing happening to his wife. although you were currently unconscious but breathing, you just knew that kian wished it was him in the hospital bed with cancer and this mysterious yet dangerous blood infection. it was completely obvious because kian had been that way ever since you two started dating and even before that when you two were just best friends.

i mean, this man, this lunatic of a man who was crazy in love with you would go hungry for you. he'd go black and blue for you. he'd go crawling down the avenue for you. there was absolutely nothing this looney toon wouldn't do for you because if it showed you how much he loved you, he'd do it. he'd even switch places with you, have himself go through this cancer, the treatment and this awful, stressful, heartbreaking, scary blood infection. if it meant that you were okay and not worried every single day about whether or not you were actually going to end up ringing that bell at the end of your chemotherapy.

and, suddenly, out of pure fight that you still had left in you, you opened your eyes more determined then ever. whilst kian wailed the same way he did when his father took his last breath with shane providing him with some comfort as he kind of rested on top of him. his arms around kian's waist which moved each sob which made shane move slightly. mark and nicky not too far behind kian and shane when nicky's eyes widened, his teary eyes, since kian wasn't the only one in a grief-like state, spoke up in a whisper.

"...ki...y.n's woken up..." nicky whispered and as kian and shane both heard that sentence, their heads shot up and more tears poured down kian's face as he touched your face, shane's arms letting go of his hold on kian

"...oh, baby! are you okay? are you hurt? what hurts? do i need to get the nurse what's--"

"--calm down babe, breathe. yes, i'm okay darling. i'm not hurt, i'm just a little numb and stiff due to the way i've been lying down. and yes, getting the nurse would be a great idea, and i think you should do it because you've been holed up in this room longer than anyone else has. shane, nicky and mark will take immense care of me for the five or so minutes you step out of this room to grab the nurse so don't have a freak out, alright love? i'm still here, i haven't left and i won't leave...now go, get the nurse and doctor marshall," you may have just woken up but that didn't mean you were tired or exhausted because you weren't, truthfully, you felt more alive than you'd ever felt before

agreeing and too tired to think about arguing, kian nodded his head and unlatched his grip from yours and left the hospital room to fetch the nurse and doctor marshall, "okay, i'll be back love. have some water, you must be thirsty, shane'll help you if you need it," kian smiled softly with a tender kiss to your temple as you smiled as you watched him walk out, wiping away his wet cheeks and to the left to the reception desk so they could page for the nurse and doctor marshall

let's just say, from how calm and smiley both the nurse and doctor marshall were, it seemed as though their gut feeling was wrong. and the blood infection had been caught early and it looked as though you were going to make an amazing recovery. from not just the infection but also from the cancer. and that was why the rest of north-west dublin's cancer hospital could hear cheers, screams and just outright excitement coming out of room 4580.

shane:

when the evening shadows and the stars appear, and there is no one there to dry your tears, i could hold you for a million years, to make you feel my love.

you couldn't stay strong anymore so you didn't. you had returned home from ireland to wales, uk, to hold a vigil back in your childhood home for your father who was dying due to respiratory distress. and it had just been confirmed that your father had died. you didn't want to believe it. i mean, what nineteen-year-old wanted to believe that their father has just died after months and months of being bedridden after being diagnosed with respiratory distress? the doctors promised you, promised your whole family that with some sort of miracle drug that was very new but already so revoulationary and able to cure the disease that you were beside yourself that their promise fell on deaf hands and deaf ears. how dare they lie to you and your family? how dare they provide you with such comfort and solace that your dad was going to survive. only then for him to die months later in his bed in the very home you had every single childhood memory in up until age twelve when you moved to sligo, ireland after your parents civily split up. and right now, you just cried. your body fell forward as a loud and guttural sob that sounded as though it was from an animal that was dying fell from your mouth as your knees hit the ground. your arms falling onto your father's bed on which he laid on in his final moments.

it was in that moment that the rest of your siblings, mum and doctor left the master bedroom as you continued to weep. wishing only for the dark to become light again, wishing for your father to open his eyes and just say he was joking. even though he knew that would be too crude a joke to play on his ever-loving family who had never done a thing wrong to deserve that type of tasteless joke. your mum, whilst devastated over the loss of her ex-husband, knew you'd be the most devastated about this and was thankful. praising god that she remembered that shane filan, your boyfriend and member of ireland's boyband westlife, were in wales, cardiff. specifically, for a week-long run of concerts and made the smart decision to ring him up to let him know that your father had died and that you needed comfort. but the only person who could really provide her with the right comfort was shane.

due to your wailing and complete ignorance to the world around you, you hadn't noticed the gentle touch of your gorgeously talented but ever so empathetic and sweetheart of a boyfriend, shane. however, because you could feel the slight change in the air, you could tell without lifting your head up off of your father's bed and current resting place that someone was next to you. it wasn't until you heard his soft voice that you knew instantly by the way of his accent. and how it was obvious he too had spent time crying himself. that it was your boyfriend next to you and not a family member who just carelessly decided to check in on you just for the sake of it.

"...y.n, baby, you can rest now..." shane's soft voice, that sounded like he too had been crying after recieving the phone call from your mother sounded from beside you as you finally lifted your head up from the warm blankets and sheets of your father's bed

"...shay...what...what are you doing here? you're supposed to be in cardiff with the boys, what..." you trailed off, your voice croaky and hoarse from all the wailing you had been doing for what felt like eternity at this stage

"...you are more important, y.n. your mum called me, she told me what had happened..." shane's voice stopped as he got all choked up as tears welled in his eyes as you struggled to hold yourself together again

"...he...my dad's dead shane...he...he isn't coming back...he...he's never going to wake up again..." you sobbed as you fell, instead of collapsing forward onto the bed, you fell sideward onto shane who caught you and held you as more sobs jolted your tired body

"...i know darling and i am so sorry. i wish i could say anything that could ease this hurt but i know nothing can do that!" shane whispered as he held you, rocking the both of you back and forth as tears streamed down the both of your faces whilst your dad's lifeless body laid in rest on the top of the bed that you were still hunched over

the evening started to shadow the master bedroom of your childhood home and you could see the light of the stars started to appear. there was an obvious star that shone the brightest out of all of them. it was clear that that star was none other than your dad reassuring you and the rest of the family that he was safe and that he'd always be there to shine bright every single night. last time your family went through a bereavement, you and shane were only best friends and he was in ireland and you were in wales. which meant that he wasn't just a 45-minute drive away to wipe away all your tears over the loss of your grandpapa when you were a mere twelve-year-old returning back to wales in the same way nineteen-year-old you had returned to wales to stand vigil at your now-dead father's bedside. it was a weird sense of deja vu or like a coda in a movie or song. but, this time you were just grateful that you had shane here with you to comfort you and to dry your tears, to hold you for a million years.

"...shay...i love you so much..." you whispered, your eyes only just staying open since it was now midnight and you and shane were still sitting vigil in your father's bedroom hours after his death date had been called

"...i love you too baby...i think it's time we get some rest and go to sleep? what do you think?" shane whispered as you couldn't help but agree, although you wanted to stay in this room with your father for the rest of eternity, you knew you couldn't do that

"yeah, i don't think dad would want us crying at his bedside for the rest of our lives. i think if he had the ability to become a ghost, he'd definitely tell us off for crying over him *tearful giggles*. besides, i'm exhausted and it's nearly thirty minutes after midnight and you have a concert tomorrow that i don't want you falling asleep during so, it's time for bed..." you trailed off with a broken smile, standing up off the floor from your kneeling grief position and held out your hand for shane to grab it

and he did. with an identical broken smile, he grabbed your hand and stood up as well as you guys walked out of your father's bedroom. not forgetting to quietly close it behind you cause, even in death, it would be rude to loudly close your father's door when he's trying to sleep.

- - -

this was a bit of a fun little thing to write but it was very sad so i do apologise for that however, i do like this chapter very well. i realised the first few of these chapters have been depressing so i need to write happier ones!

ok ily bye xx

wc; 6732

#westlife #mark feehily #nicky byrne #kian egan #shane filan #angst #make you feel my love

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alltooreid · 4 years

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As Spencer struggles to overcome his dilaudid addiction, Y/N is dealing with an addiction of her own, to her toxic, manipulative boyfriend. This is an account of a full year, following their joint journeys to sobriety and new love.

A/N: Hi!! I have another Taylor Swift inspired Spencer Reid one shot (but of course you do not need to know the song to understand the one shot). Although originally I was going to write something more fluffy, I switched to this song to write something more angsty and interesting. However, to change pace from my last one shot, this one has a much happier, hopeful ending. However, it is very triggering so please read the trigger warnings before you start. Also, if you have any songs you want to read please let me know!! Also, if you just have a general request please send it my way! Thank you so much for the love on my All Too Well one shot, I never thought my first fanfic on here would be so well received!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Type: Angst, but hopeful angst

Word Count: 7.6K

Content Warnings: Cursing, mentally and physically abusive relationship, relationship cheating (ie, reader is being cheated on), blood and cuts description, drug addiction (these parts are kept short purposefully), lots of fighting and yelling both in reader’s relationship and between Spencer and reader, however, there is a happy and hopeful ending. Reader is struggling to get out of her toxic relationship, please no comments about her being stupid. If you are in a situation like Y/N, please don’t use this fic as a guide. Get help immediately. https://www.thehotline.org/

Things to Know: Italics and bold are flashback moments, the time and date headers serve as time skips :) let me know what you think! Please request any songs you would like to see be made one shots!

“You're still all over me Like a wine-stained dress I can't wear anymore Hung my head as I lost the war And the sky turned black like a perfect storm”

3:27 AM, April 16th, 2007.

You have known Spencer for a long time. In fact, you’ve known him longer than you’ve known Randall, and you’ve felt like you’ve known Randall your entire life.

Maybe that’s because you let him become your entire life.

Still, although you had known Spencer for 7 years, 2 years longer than the entirety of your on again, off again relationship with Randall. You still felt weird calling him. He was going through a lot right now, not that he wasn’t normally. Spencer had one of the most difficult jobs you could think of. You know Spencer has shot and killed people before, and you know every time he did it ate him up inside.

And every time he did he called you.

You also knew that Spencer is one of the kindest people you have ever met, you struggle to imagine him wielding a gun on a daily basis. He just seems too sweet, too perfect.

Yet there was a lot you didn’t know about the young genius.

You have no idea that as you stand in the street, contemplating whether you should call Spencer to come and get you, Spencer is making a difficult decision of his own. As you worry about the possibility of waking Spencer up this early in the morning, Spencer sits wide awake and ponders if he has enough time to get high before he has to leave for work in 3 hours.

As you sit on the side of the road, debating between your very few options, Spencer leads up against the side of his bathtub tears pouring down his cheeks, tears that he doesn’t even register as being there.

Fortunately for the both of you, at the same time Spencer reaches into his bag to search for that tiny glass bottle, his phone begins to ring.

“Y/N? Are you okay?”

You sigh, “He kicked me out again Spencer, is there anyway you can come get me?”

Spencer looks around his apartment, frantically hiding the belt and the needles he had gotten out for the events he was anticipating. “Yeah, of course I can come get you, um, just give me a couple minutes and send me your location.”

3:52 AM, April 16th, 2007.

You’re in the passenger’s seat of Spencer’s car, both of you sitting in silence. This situation isn’t new to either of you, Spencer has picked you up plenty of times before, in fact he’s done it for years now. One time, about 3 years into your relationship with Randall, you were permitted to go out by yourself with Spencer’s team, they wanted to meet you, apparently Spencer talked about you all the time. While you were at dinner with them, Morgan asked you if you had a car of your own. You explained that you did, but that your boyfriend had it a majority of the time, and that when he didn’t he hated you using it because you always had to mess with everything. He hates you touching his stuff. Morgan made a weird face about that answer, so you quickly followed up, explaining that you didn’t mind.

You do mind though. You hate how he never lets you touch anything or go anywhere, and you hate how much he despises your only form of transportation.

Spencer.

Randall hates everything about Spencer Reid, and he especially hates seeing his car pull into your driveway. That’s why after the 8th time he kicked you out, you started walking half a mile to the nearest gas station before calling Spencer.

The first time Spencer came to get you Randall came out to talk to you before you left.

“What are you doing? Who is this?”

“It’s Spencer, he’s gonna take me to his apartment.” you explained, confused why Randall was so angry you were leaving when he was the one who had kicked you out.

“Oh so just because I don’t want to look at your bitchass all night that means you can go sleep with another man? I knew you were a whore Y/N. You know him and his stupid fucking car aren’t going to be able to deal with you the way I can. How old is that thing anyway?”

“Randall, calm down, I’m not sleeping with Spencer. I love you, I don’t want to sleep with anyone else. But I’m not gonna sit out here all night, where else should I go?”

“Well maybe if you weren’t so quick to whore yourself out to the easiest man you could find I would invite you back inside,” he said before slamming the door in your face.

So you got in Spencer’s car, the one Randall would grow to hate so much.

“Are you okay Y/N? He didn’t hit you did he? You know you can come live with me, you should really get out of that house, I can get Morgan tomorrow and we can go get your belongings. I have plenty of-”

You snapped at him, “No Spencer he’s not hitting me! Why do you always jump to that conclusion, Randall is a great guy! I would’ve never called you if you were going to jump to conclusions like this. You’re supposed to be a genius, yet you’re acting like such a dumb ass right now.”

Spencer looked at you, and immediately you regretted your words. You knew Spencer was just worried about you and with his line of work he had reason to be. However before you could apologize he spoke again.

“I’m sorry Y/N, forget I said anything.”

You both sat in silence for a few moments before you even knew what to say, and yet all you could think of was, “Hey Spence, what kind of car do you drive?”

He smiled, “It’s a 1965 Volvo Amazon P130 122S, it’s horizon blue, that’s the color they refer to it as. Did you know they’re known as so reliable that the 4 door models are still used as police vehicles in some places. This one’s a two door, but still runs great. . . “

You smiled, how fitting a man as reliable as Spencer Reid had the perfect car to match.

When you get to Spencer’s apartment something seems off. Spencer has always lived in organized chaos, but this just feels different. Unlike his normal mess, this one feels like a blatant disregard for his things, even some of his most prized possessions. His books are strewn across the floors, his clothes overflowing from his laundry basket, which was a mix of both folded, clean, yet to be put away things and worn items. Weirdly, the one place that looks untouched is his kitchen, as if he hasn’t used it in months. And you mean that in the most literal interpretation, his counters are covered in visible, undisturbed dust.

“Thank you so much Spencer, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

He smiles, but his eyes look so tired. “Don’t worry about it Y/N.”

And at 4:47, you finally fall asleep in Spencer’s bedroom, which he insists you take, and he stays awake until he leaves for work just a few hours later.

9:33 PM, April 17th, 2007.

You leave Spencer’s apartment the following night, after an unfortunate screaming match with him. You have never seen him so angry, so easily ticked off. Yet as soon as Randall called you Spencer became aggressive.

“Yeah babe, I’ll be home as soon as I can. I’ll take a cab and be home within the hour. Of course I’m not mad at you sweetheart, I know you didn’t mean it. I love you, see you soon.”

Spencer exitted his kitchen in a huff, and opened his mouth to start talking before you spoke up.

“I’m sure you’ve overheard already, but Randall’s letting me back in the house. Thank you so much Spence. I really appreciate everything you do to help me. Call me soon please, I definitely owe you lunch,” you said, grabbing your coat and your phone, the only things you had managed to grab from your home before your unplanned eviction.

“Why do you even stay with him Y/N? Why do you keep going back there?” Spencer yelled. You had never seen him like this before, so livid and irritable.

“I love him Spence, and he loves me,” you explained, and you were telling the truth. You do love Randall, and you know that in his heart he loves you too, even if he got a little angry sometimes.

“If he loved you he wouldn’t treat you like this Y/N! Don’t you think I would know? I see this everyday! It’s my job! And yet my best friend is too stupid to realize she’s been in an abusive relationship for almost 6 years!”

You were just as angry now, “You’re wrong Spencer, I don’t wanna hear this okay? I love Randall and he loves me. We deserve each other.”

Spencer’s face softened before growing angry once more, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fuck you Spencer, I’m going home. I don’t need you and I don't need your help,” you said, grabbing your things and slamming the door open. You were lying, you need Spencer and you need his help more than anything, but you didn’t want to admit that while he was being such a dick.

“Fine!” he yelled, “Go run back to him then, but you better not call me when he kicks you out again. I don’t care anymore!”

And so you left, Spencer slammed the door behind you as you stormed out of his apartment. You didn’t stop to think about the fact that Spencer never acts like this. He has never lashed out at you, never questioned your relationship with Randall to your face, let alone scream at you and insult you because of it. You didn’t stop and think about what Spencer was on, or not on, that was making his act like this.

But you thought about it now.

You want to get home before Randall starts to get upset and suspicious, but now after your fight with Spencer you have to walk home. You couldn’t ask him to borrow cash for a cab, let alone ask him to drive you there. You were stuck walking, which also meant you were stuck with Randall’s wrath when you returned.

You already feel terrible about the way you treated Spencer. You think about going to apologize, and stand in front of the door for a second, weighing the pros and cons of doing so. Eventually, you go to turn away, ultimately deciding that you both needed to calm down before speaking to each other again.

Yet as you turn, the door opens. Spencer stands right there, strangely calm, seemingly out of it. All fury and anger you had seen just minutes before gone. In this moment he resembles Randall, and it's the first time you’ve ever been able to draw any comparison to the two.

It’s scary.

“Spencer I-” but you get cut off, not by words, but by an object. Before you can even register what was just thrown in your face the door is closed again. You duck down to grab what was thrown.

Twenty dollars.

For the cab ride home.

1:34 AM, April 23rd, 2007.

You light the final candle on your dining room table, before stepping back to admire your work. Randall always came home so late from work, so you rarely ate dinner together. But today was your anniversary, so you stayed up late, prepared his favorite meal and set up all of your fancy dinnerware so that you could have a very late dinner together before he goes to bed and you go to work. He should be home any minute now.

Yet 3 hours later Randall is not back. You’re just about to cut your losses and call it a night, and start to clean up the melted down candles and cold steak dinner as you hear your front door open.

“Y/N! What are you doing still awake?”

“Do you know what day it is Randall? Because I do.”

He looks down at his watch, checks the time, and looks back up at you, “Well it is now 3:57 AM, meaning it is now Monday. Which is why I’m curious as to what you’re still doing up sweetheart, you have to be at work in 3 hours.” “There’s something special about THIS Monday Randall,” you sigh, you’re disappointed but not surprised, this has happened for the past 3 years.

“Do you have a project going on at work baby? You know I can’t keep track of all that crap, your job is so silly and easy to lose track of. You have to remind me of these things if you actually want me to care about them.”

“It’s our anniversary Randall.”

He stops, but instead of looking guilty or remorseful (like you secretly hoped), he gets livid, “No it’s not, are you stupid or something?”

“Randall, baby it’s okay, it’s not a big deal.”

“No! You stupid fucking bitch, are you trying to make me look bad, cooking this stupid fancy dinner and staying up late. Trying to lie and act like I forgot our five year anniversary?! Stop playing the victim Y/N. So tell me, are you lying to make me feel bad, or is your brain really that fucking empty?”

“It’s our six year anniversary,” you whisper.

“What did you just say?”

“I said I was just being stupid Randall. You’re right baby, I forgot the date of our anniversary.”

He snarls. “I don’t think so Y/N, I think, actually I know that not only are you stupid, but that you’re a liar. I know that you just want to make me look bad by preparing our anniversary dinner a week early. And you have to push it by claiming we’ve been together for six years. I know it’s five. I’m not stupid.”

“I’m sorry, babe,” you cry.

“NO YOU’RE NOT!” he yells, pushing his plate of steak and mashed potatoes, letting your parent’s wedding china shatter on the ground. You cry harder. “You’re a stupid, waste of my time Y/N. Five wasted years I’ve spent on you. Do you know why I do it, huh. Do you know why I stay with you when I could have one of the beautiful, rich, successful, truthful women I’m fucking?”

You shake your head.

“It’s because I feel pity for you. No other man would want you. I’m the only one that will ever love you. You know that right Y/N?” He picks up a piece of your hair, gently tucking it behind your ear. “Tell me that I’m the only one who will love you, you know it’s the truth right?” You nod your head. In a swift motion Randall turns, grabs a glass full of red wine and chucks it at the wall, narrowly avoiding your left ear.

“I WANT TO HEAR YOU SAY IT.”

“You’re the only one who will ever love me Randall,” you croak out in between sobs.

He closes the distance between you two once more, gripping your chin and jerking your face so that your eyes meant his. It hurts, and makes you cry more, but you don’t say anything.

“Don’t you know it sweetness,” he lets go, delivers a sharp slap to your check and grips your wrist. “Now clean your mess up, and then I think it’s best if you get out of the house for a little bit, don’t you agree?”

You nod quickly. He smiles.

“Good girl, now I would normally be worried about you going to hook up with that string bean you’re always all over, but according to the last time I went through your phone, he isn’t in your recent calls. Glad to know he’s finally done with your bullshit. I’m sure a nice long walk alone will do you good. You can think about what led you to lying tonight, and then maybe you can come back in time for our real anniversary.”

He slips upstairs, so you clean up the rest of the uneaten meal and the broken wine class, cutting up your hands severely in the process. You spend at least an hour in a futile attempt to get red wine stains off of your wallpaper, before grabbing your phone and purse and running out the door.

Even after what Randall says, you still think about calling Spencer. Your thumb hovers over the call button for a minute until you switch the contact, phoning your boss instead. You inform her you need a personal day, and that it’s a family emergency.

You check the time, 6:53. Spencer is almost definitely on his way to work right now. You want to call him so bad, but the things he said you ring through your mind. You can’t ask for his help anymore.

For the first time, you are truly on your own.

Until a familiar horizon blue Volvo pulls up next to the curb you’re sitting on, and Spencer Reid sticks his head out the window.

“Y/N? What are you doing here? Get it the car, come on I’ll drive you to work with me.”

Confused as you are, this is your best option right now. So you climb into the passenger seat of his car, refusing to make eye contact with him, instead looking at your bleeding hands. “Oh my god, Y/N. You’re bleeding. Did Randall do this to you? Why didn’t you call me?”

“No, Spencer, Randall didn’t do this to me. He dropped a wine glass and I helped him pick it up. Now just drive.” And he does, drive that is. But you can feel his stares, on your cut up hands, and you forming bruises. You can feel him profiling the signs of abuse on your body.

But more than that you hate that you can feel he’s upset with you. Upset because you didn’t call him. Does he not remember screaming at you not too?

He pulls into the parking lot, parks the car and finally turns to make eye contact with you. He has tears in his, “I really wish you would’ve called me Y/N. If it’s getting this bad I want you to stay with me.”

“Spencer am I going insane?”

“Of course not, what do you mean?” he looks so gentle, so kind and you’re so confused.

“Do you remember what day me and Randall started dating?”

“Yes, it was April 23rd, 2001. 6 years ago today actually. Is that why he did this to you? Does it have anything to do with that?”

“How can you remember that but not our screaming match a week ago?” you laughed, your hands burned now, there’s definitely glass in there, you swear you can feel the tiny little shards in your blood.

“What do you mean, Y/N? We didn’t scream at each other? I haven’t even seen you in weeks. How long has he been hitting you? Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Spencer, on the 16th you picked me up and took me back to your apartment because Randall kicked me out. On the evening of the 17th I went to leave because Randall told me I could come home. You said I was being abused and called me stupid for going back to him. When we fought about it I stormed out and you told me not to call you if he kicked me out again because you didn’t care anymore. That’s why I didn’t call you.”

You look up at Spencer, and nearly start crying yourself when you see his crumpled face. Tears are freely spilling down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry Y/N. I don’t remember that,” he pushes his long hair out of his face, clearly frazzled, “I- I can’t believe I don’t remember that.”

Before you can say anything, Spencer pulls out his phone. “Hey Hotch, it’s me. I can’t come in today. I need to use a personal day. . . I’ll tell you later. Okay, thank you” He angrily pulls out of the parking lot, and you can tell he’s headed back to his apartment.

“Spencer it’s okay, I’m not upset with you.”

“No Y/N, it’s not okay. I said all those terrible things to you, of course you were scared to call me after them. The worst part is I was too high to even remember it all. I- I just can’t believe I helped him do this to you,” tears still freely flowing down his face.

“Spencer what are you talking about? I was with you all day, you weren’t high. You don’t even drink, how could you be high?”

He sighs, “do you remember when I was kidnapped by that unsub, Tobias Hankel? About 2 months ago?” You nod, encouraging him to continue. “Well, I told you about his multiple personalities, how one beat me to death and then Tobias resurrected me, how I had to kill Tobias in order to survive, even though Tobias himself did nothing to me. Well when I was in the barn, Tobias would give me drugs, dilaudid, in order to cut the pain of his other personalities’ abuse. When I killed him, I took the drugs he had one him with me, and I can’t stop Y/N. It’s affecting my life, my work, and now it’s affecting you.” He parks his car in his apartment complex’s lot and turns to look at you. “Hotch has never said anything about it, so even though the team knows I have no reason to quit, I think I do now. Y/N, I think we need to get clean together.”

Suddenly that night made sense, Spencer was irritable and strange, he wasn’t high, he was going through withdrawal. But when he threw the money at you, so loopy and out of it, he was on it. He was so high he didn’t remember the moments before.

“Spencer, I don't know what to say. I want to help you get sober, I want that more than anything, but I’m not addicted to drugs, I rarely even drink.”

“I know Y/N, you don’t have a drug problem like me, but you are an addict. You need to leave Randall. You know it, I know it, but you can’t.” You open your mouth to defend yourself, but Spencer continues to speak, “It’s okay, I understand why. But we both need to quit, and I think it’s best if we do it together.”

“Well how are we supposed to do that,” you whisper.

“Come on, let’s get started,” you and Spencer exit his car, he loops your hands together, leading you up to his apartment. When you get there, he digs through his messenger bag and grabs a couple of tiny glass bottles and a syringe. He throws them into his garbage can, and turns to look at you.

“Pull out your phone.”

“What? Why?”

“We’re going to block Randall’s number.”

You want to fight him on it, but you know he’s right. You need to leave Randall, and now’s as good of a time as any. Yet, you can’t forget the things he’s said to you. “I can’t Spencer, he’s my boyfriend, he loves me.”

“Y/N, please, please do this with me.” You shake your head, he sighs. “Okay, I get it, this is going to take time. Just, um, stay with me for a couple days. Please. We can go get your stuff tomorrow night.”

You think about rejecting Spencer’s offer, but you really don’t want to go back there. More than anything, you want to stay right here. You try to tell yourself it’s because you’re worried about Spencer, but deep down you know it’s more than that. So you nod, and Spencer wraps you in a hug, burying his head into your shoulder.

“Thank you, Y/N. Now let’s go get your hands wrapped up.”

9:21 PM, May 2nd, 2007.

You’ve been staying at Spencer’s for just over a week now. You haven’t seen Randall since your anniversary, and Spencer hasn’t taken dilaudid while you’ve been here. Things are going well. You’re watching a lot of bad reality TV, and Spencer has gone through about 7 packs of Gatorade, but you’re both doing okay.

Now you were just waiting for him to come back from his case in Idaho, you knew this one was pretty bad. They were searching for a woman in the middle of a huge forest, as she was being hunted and chased down. Spencer called you right before getting on the jet, and told you he would be home soon, so now you were just waiting for him.

While doing so however, you found something. A lump on Spencer’s side of the mattress. Under it, were two small glass bottles and a syringe. The same ones you had seen Spencer throw into the garbage days prior.

Now you need to talk to Spencer, so you sit on his couch, and wait for him to come home. When he comes through the door, he immediately sees you and smiles. “Y/N! I’ve missed you.” He hugs you, and for a second you forget why you’re even mad at him in the first place.

“Spencer, I need to talk to you. I found your bottles.” The mood in the room instantly shifts, but you don’t care, you need to get your words out. “You told me you were quitting, I watched you throw them away.”

He brushes his hairs through his hair, and begins to mess with his hands. “I am quitting Y/N, I haven't taken any, but. . . I just need them to be there.”

“Spencer, please, throw them away. I’m trying to help you here.” Suddenly he grows very angry, and you can tell you said the wrong thing.

“Well I’m trying too. To me it seems the only one not trying is you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you still haven’t blocked Randall, he still calls all the time! Why do I have to throw my addiction away if you can’t even do the same to yours?”

“That's not fair.”

“How so?” he yells. “How is it that you can’t block your abusive, no good piece of shit boyfriend but I have to throw away the things I enjoy? That doesn’t feel like trying to me.”

“I’m not addicted to Randall Spencer, I just love him. I don’t want or need to quit him.”

“Oh really? Then why are you even still here? Why haven’t you answered his calls? Or gone to see him? I think you know exactly why.”

And you do. You don’t want to go back there, but what Randall says is true. He is the only one who will love you, and you’re not ready to lose that yet. You’re not ready to cut off all contact with him.

“I can leave if that’s what you want Spencer.”

His face softened, “no, that’s not what I want. That’s the last thing I want.” He stops and thinks for a moment. “If you block Randall I’ll throw away my dilaudid.”

You ponder it, “Okay.”

He breaks into a wide smile. “Really? You’ll do it?”

You smile at him.

“Yeah, I promise. I’ll block Randall.”

6:56 PM, May 30th, 2007.

You did not block Randall.

Even after watching Spencer pour out his bottles, breaking up the glass and tossing it away for a second time, you couldn’t. Even after seeing him snap his syringes in half, and feeling him kiss your forehead, after seeing how happy and excited he was for your fresh start together, you just couldn’t do it.

Spencer thought you did, and it was easy to hide the truth from him. Randall hadn’t called since then, so you and Spencer continue to spend time together, last week you celebrated one month of sobriety. You got an ice cream cake and little, silly party hats and exchanged gifts.

And it made you feel like shit.

Spencer was so happy, so proud that you had both been clean for a month, but you still couldn’t decide if you wanted to be clean at all.

You still can’t decide if you should block Randall’s number.

You try not to think about it, instead focusing the energy into making you and Spencer virgin pina coladas, he was currently out picking up burgers from your favorite restaurant. When he returns, you were going to watch one of your crappy reality TV reruns, and then an episode of Doctor Who. It was Spencer’s idea a couple days ago, and quickly it became a regular occurrence.

Faintly over the loud whir of the blender you can hear your phone ringing. You run quickly to go grab it, just in case Spencer needed your help with something, but your heart drops when you see the caller ID. It’s Randall, trying once again to contact you.

Your thumb hovers over the accept button, but before you can make a decision, the call times out and sends Randall to voicemail. You let out a breath and set your phone down.

But then something possesses you, and you snatch your phone and dial Randall’s number. He picks up on the 3rd ring.

“Baby, oh my god baby is that really you?”

He sounds so excited to hear from you, how could you have stayed mad at him for so long?

“Yes baby, it’s me. I’m sorry I haven’t answered your calls at all. I’ve been busy.”

“Don’t worry sweetness, I’m so so sorry for the things I said to you, I need you to come home. You missed our anniversary you know? But it’s okay! We can celebrate now! I got you a really beautiful gift, one we can definitely experiment with tonight.” You could hear his smirk over the phone.

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to come back right now, maybe later baby, but not right now.”

You hear his breathing pick up, and tense. You can tell he’s getting agitated. He wasn’t expecting you to answer like that, you always come home as soon as he tells you you can come back. “What do you mean? You’re being ridiculous, I want to see my girlfriend. I’m sure you want to get off of the streets too, you’ve been squatting for over a month now.”

“I’m not squatting Randall, I’m living with Spencer.”

“What!?” he yells. “I thought I told you not to stay with him. I hate that guy, you know that.”

“Would you rather me be on the streets Randall? Spencer’s a great guy, and I want to stay here.”

“Frankly, yes I would. But don’t worry, you can still come home. Just send me the prick’s address and I’ll come pick you up. We can enjoy tonight together.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not going to send you Spencer’s address. I’m staying here. I don’t want to see you anymore. Leave me alone Randall. I’m done.”

Before he could say anything, you hung up. As you did so you heard the front door open, and Spencer made his way to the bedroom.

“Hey! I got burgers! Ready to eat?” he looks down to see your phone still resting in your hand, stuck on the phone app. “Who were you talking to?”

“Just an old friend,” you say.

“Think you’ll be talking to them again anytime soon?” you can tell he knows, and you’re surprised he isn’t lashing out at you. You’re so used to how Randall reacts when you go against his wishes, Spencer’s calm, understanding presence is like a breath of fresh air.

“No, I think I’m ready to leave them behind,” you smile at each other. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a sec okay?”

He nods, and goes to set up the food and TV.

It takes you seven seconds to block Randall.

1:12 AM, June 10th, 2007.

You haven’t gone out with your coworkers in months, you forgot how good it feels to just be present with people. You didn’t even drink tonight, wanting to remember every second of this time out with friends. You were beaming when you unlocked the front door.

Yet your smile slips when you enter what had become you and Spencer’s shared bedroom.

He isn’t there.

You pull out your phone to call him when you hear a thud coming from the bathroom door. You hesitate, scared of what you know you’ll likely find. When you finally throw the door open you’re already teary eyed, and these sobs escalate as soon as you see Spencer, tipped over, lying on the bathroom floor, the needle still sticking out of his arm.

You’re sobbing as you rip it out, hastily undoing the belt wrapped around his upper forearm. He looks up, even in his groggy haze you can see the guilty look in his eyes when they made contact with yours.

“Y/N. . . I- I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me but I just couldn’t stop myself . . . I-”

“Shhh, It’s okay, just breathe,” you whisper through your tears. “It’s going to be okay Spencer, I’m here, and it’s going to be okay. I’m staying right here.” You pull his head into your lap, stroking your shaking hands through his hair.

His head begins to shake, and you can feel his tears on your dress. You rest your head on his, and for a few seconds you just sit there, crying together.

“You’re going to be okay Spencer.”

8:09 AM, June 11th, 2007.

Your head is buried in his chest, you need to be able to hear him breathe. You need to hear his heart beating. You need to be as close to him as possible right now. He stirs as he wakes up, and wraps his arms around you.

“I’m so sorry Y/N.”

“Don’t apologize Spencer, this is a part of recovery okay? You’re still in recovery, just because you relapsed doesn’t mean we have to start over. You’re so much stronger than you were before. So much braver. So much better. You can do this.”

He smiles at you, “thank you, thank you so much.”

“Of course, now withdrawal is going to be even harder this time. I’m going to the store. We’re going to need plenty of Gatorade and water. We have to flush everything out of your system. Do you mind if I take your car to the store?”

He beams, even in his groggy state he manages to look so perfect, “You know my car is always yours to use Y/N.”

“I’ll be back soon okay? Don’t move a muscle,” you grab his keys and head out the door. And you really do mean it, you fully intend this to be the shortest grocery trip of your life. You’re terrified of leaving Spencer alone long enough to get high again, even though you spent all day yesterday searching for drugs and throwing anything you found in the garbage, taking it out the main apartment dumpster that night.

You get to the store, grab everything you need, 3 packs of blue Gatorade, 6 cases of water bottles, and the store’s entire stock of Jell-O and rush back to Spencer’s car. You were only in the store for 17 minutes, the majority of which was just check-out time. You smile, thinking of how excited Spencer will be when he sees all the Jell-O in the fridge, but feel your stomach drop when you see a familiar face examining Spencer’s car.

Randall.

Before you can decide what to do, he turns and sees you.

“Y/N! I was expecting Spencer, but this is even sweeter. I knew I recognized this hunk of junk. Where have you been?”

“I’ve been around, I’m kind of on a tight schedule here. I really need to get going,” you say as you load up your groceries into Spencer’s trunk.

“That’s a lot of Jell-O sweetheart, you hate Jell-O.” That’s not even true. You hate pudding, you love Jell-O.

As much as you wanted to yell at him for calling you sweetheart, you couldn’t deny that it felt good. You still missed him. Blocking him helped, but you still felt strong urges to call him sometimes. “It’s not for me, it’s for Spencer.”

“I thought I told you not to stay with him anymore.”

“What part of that conversation would make you think I would listen to you?” you say.

“You should always listen to me Y/N, I’m your boyfriend.”

“I haven’t seen you in months, we’re not dating anymore. I’m done.”

“You don’t mean that you’re just being irrational. Are you on your period? I bet that’s it. Come get breakfast with me. You probably just need chocolate, and the place down the block has incredible chocolate waffles.”

You open your mouth to reject him, but you can’t. Part of it is because you know if you do then he’ll follow you back to your apartment and the last thing you want is for him to know where you’re living right now. But the other part is much worse. A big part of you wants to let him try again. You can’t explain why, but you really want for him to redeem himself as your first love.

“Ok, you have 20 minutes, let’s go get breakfast.”

The walk there is silent and awkward. Randall grabs your hand, too tight for you to do anything about it, and keeps this grip until you sit down in your booth.

You don’t get chocolate waffles. You really don’t even like chocolate all that much. Randall knows that, or at least you thought he did. Instead you get cinnamon french toast, and within minutes it’s at the table.

“You know baby, Spencer doesn’t love you.” He says halfway through your french toast.

“We aren’t dating Randall.”

“Doesn’t matter, you’ve been with him in that apartment for a while now. I’m surprised he hasn’t given you the boot.”

You sit in silence, Randall takes this as a sign to continue. “We’ve been together for five years, sweetness. No one can love you the way I do. That’s just a fact. Spencer fucking Reid can not replace me, no one can replace me.”

“I hate that you’re right. I hate that I can’t breathe when I’m not with you Randall. I hate that you’re stuck to me. You’re this god awful stain on my life. I hate looking at it but no matter what I do I can’t wash it off.”

He smirks. “You’re not gonna get rid of me Y/N.” He pays the check, and gets up from the table. You go to get up too, but notice he didn’t tip your waitress, so you leave another five bucks on the table.

When you get outside he grasps your shoulders. “I knew you would come around Y/N, I knew you would get it. Now come on, we can go collect your stuff from that prick’s apartment and get you home. I know exactly how you can make it up to me.”

You pause, “I don’t think so Randall. I’m not ready quite yet, but I promise I’ll call you.” You meant it, you had already unblocked him from your phone.

“Oh absolutely not, you’re going home with me now.”

“No I’m not.” As you were yelling at each other you notice a strangely familiar face standing nearby, just in ear shot. You can’t place him, but you know you’ve met before.

“Yes you are! We’re happy together and you’re coming to live with me again!”

“We don’t love each other, Randall! Not right now at least!”

He’s livid, and once again you feel that scared, indescribable feeling in the pit of your stomach. “That’s not true! I’ll prove it to you.” He grabs your chin and pulls your face to his.

You feel as if water is filling your lungs, you’re drowning and no one is around to save you. Randall is physically stronger than you, you’re stuck in his grasp. It’s like you’re screaming and no one can hear you.

And yet, this flood of emotions you’re feeling is the first time you realize something.

You’re addicted to Randall.

You need to get out.

You need to get back to Spencer.

After what feels like minutes (but is actually about 3 seconds) of being unseen and vulnerable, you discover you’ve been protected the whole time. The man you can't place rips Randall off of you, “What’s wrong with you? Get off of her!”

It’s his voice that lets you place him. Derek Morgan, Spencer’s closest friend and coworker, punches Randall in the face. “Get out of here!”

“What the fuck is wrong with YOU? That’s my girlfriend! Sweetheart, tell him to leave us alone!”

They both turn and look at you, with tears in your eyes you look at Morgan and shake your head. “Please, get him to leave.”

And Morgan does just that, with a little yelling and a flash of his FBI badge, Randall is running for the hills.

“Come on baby girl, let’s get you back home. Did you walk here?”

You shake your head, “No, I drove Spencer’s car here.”

“Well, how bout I drive you home, and then afterwards I swing back and get Spencer’s car and drop it off?”

So you do just that. After profusely thanking Morgan, and him insisting that it was nothing, and also insisting to carry your groceries in from the car, you and Spencer are together once again.

“I’m so sorry Spencer, I didn’t believe you before. I was going to go back to him. How could I be so stupid?”

“Don’t talk like that Y/N, you said it best yourself. Just because you relapse doesn’t mean you aren’t trying, and it most certainly doesn’t mean you’re stupid.”

“I think it’s time we get clean Spencer. Both of us, once and for all.”

“I think so too Y/N.”

He pulls you into a hug and in between sniffles you manage to choke out what you’ve been wanting to say since you got into Morgan’s car. “I love you.”

He looks at you, and the look in his eyes almost makes you cry out of pure joy. He looks so happy, as if he’s been waiting for you to say that for years.

Maybe he has.

“I love you too.”

7:29 AM, April 16th, 2008.

You press your lips to Spencer’s, you know he has just woken up, but you know it’s a big day for him.

You both have been sober for over ten months now. Today is the day of his first group meeting. He found Beltway Clean Cops recently, and has been so excited to go. You’re excited for him. You know how proud he is of you, and you want to show him in every way possible that you’re proud of him.

He opens his eyes and smiles up at you. “What did I deserve to get a wake up like that?”

“What kind of question is that? You’re incredible, and an incredible boyfriend deserves an incredible morning. Do you know what else he deserves?”

He hums and waits for the answer.

“An incredible breakfast! That’s why I made blueberry pancakes. Now hurry up and come eat. You should leave soon if you want to make it to your meeting on time. Have I told you yet how incredibly proud I am of you?”

He smiles, “Only an average of 15.6 times a day since I told you I was going.”

“Well that’s not nearly enough, now come on, get up. It’s pancake time,” you say. “Oh, and Spencer?”

“Yes flower?”

“I’m so proud of you.”

He smiles, “I love you flower.”

“I love you more.”

You ate breakfast together and then forced Spencer out the door, making sure he had plenty of time to get to his meeting. You knew he would regret it if he was late.

You weren’t going to lie to yourself, you still thought about Randall a lot. You still missed him. You still love him in a way. But now that you had Spencer, now that you were clean together, you would never risk going back to him.

That day where you agreed to go to breakfast with him, Derek asked you if you wanted to press charges. You didn’t, you don’t regret that either.

You’re even more proud of yourself this way, because you know he’s still there, still accessible and available to you, and still didn’t run to him. You know that any trace of Randall in your future is gone.

You know you and Spencer are finally clean.

“Ten months sober, I must admit Just because you're clean don't mean you don't miss it Ten months older I won't give in Now that I'm clean I'm never gonna risk it”

- Thank you for reading! Please reblog and let me know what you think :))

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x reader #spencerreidxreader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #reid x reader #criminal minds reid #reid fanfic #reid #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds spencer reid #criminal minds angst

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ficsilike-reblogged · 4 years

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Death & Dowries

Summary: The Iron Bank of Braavos will always have its due. But dowries make things…complicated and the pride of men knows no bounds. A bargain is struck between a Keyholder of the Iron Bank and Tywin Lannister and the life of an adventurous woman is suddenly uprooted as she is made the newest Lady of Casterly Rock. But the wedding of King Joffrey Baratheon and Lady Margaery Tyrell brings a familiar face to King’s Landing and a Braavosi woman always has a backup plan.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand/F!Reader, (arranged) Tywin Lannister/F!Reader, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand

WARNINGS: Spousal abuse, death, murder, lite smut, my over-use of italics, mentions of child birth and babies (please DO NOT read if any of this will upset you)

Word Count: 12.1k (heavy sigh)

(banner by my love @starlight-starwrites )

A/N: The italics denote the “present” time. Circa Season 7 Episode 7. I’m going to throw a lot of ASOIAF lore at you so, if you have ANY questions, please just ask!

You can read this on Ao3, if you prefer!

She had hoped to never step foot into this wretched city again. But Cersei had called and she knew she must answer to keep the unstable queen from looking too closely. And, of course, she wanted to see a dragon.

What she did not expect to see was a familiar shade of yellow and orange while a recognizable laugh rang in the tense air. She froze at the entrance and her handmaiden smacked into her back. “I am so sorry, my lady,” she whispered.

The sudden noise drew attention and soon Oberyn and Ellaria were standing from their seats, kind eyes locked on her.

Westeros was nothing that her father had promised when he set her on the ship and sent her away from home. It was supposed to be exciting and new and beautiful and everything she wanted in a home. Instead, she had been gifted a cold castle filled with portraits of a woman who she was supposed to be replacing and an old man for a betrothed.

But even the Keyholders of the Iron Bank of Braavos knew of Tywin Lannister. "He is a powerful man. You will be well-cared for and loved by the people you govern, my sweet," her father said, his smile not quite touching his eyes. "That is all I want for you."

It was a lie. A pretty lie, but a lie all the same. Her father and a handful of other Keyholders all had daughters of the marrying age and had created a terrible, unspoken game between them. Everything had a price. Especially to the men and women who controlled the keys to the Iron Bank.

Dowries for their daughters were boasted and bartered. Whomever paid the most, bragged that their line was as coveted as a princess.

It was all ridiculous. A stupid game. Especially for people who usually wanted to protect their coin.

Y/N was thankful she had no sisters so that they would not be subjected to this prick-measuring game, too.

Whispers had spread through Braavos when her father had set her betrothal.

It was a dowry worthy of four princesses of old, surely.

But Tywin Lannister would not see a single coin.

An almost flawless plan, Y/N thought. Her father would pay half of the Iron Throne's debts to the Bank in exchange for Y/N becoming the new Lady of Casterly Rock. For as large as her dowry was, Y/N was only slightly amused at how small her wedding festivities were when she arrived at King’s Landing. A handful of people, mostly Lannisters and their bannermen, and the three handmaidens she had brought with her from Braavos. The furnishings were fine and the food was almost salted correctly but it was small. Tywin wrapped her in a crimson red cloak and kissed her with unmoving lips and she had become Lady Y/N Lannister, a lion of the rock.

And that was it. Little fanfare and her life was completely uprooted. And as the days continued to pass, she doubted she would ever find a bit of happiness in her new station.

She had to keep herself from yawning as Tywin rutted above her, grunting like an old boar. But he finished soon enough and rolled off of her and grabbed his robe. As soon as it was fastened around his waist, he strode out of her chambers without a look back.

The door opened soon after and her small horde of handmaidens quickly entered, already bringing her a steaming pot of tea and a balm for her skin where her lord husband always clutched too tight.

She had given up on telling him it hurt after the first fortnight and considered herself at least a little lucky that the old man still knew how to move his hips.

“How do you fare, my lady?” One handmaiden asked in the lilting tongue of the Braavosi dialect of High Valyrian. She quickly pressed a cup of tea into Y/N’s hands.

“Better, now that you are all here with me.”

One took to changing the bed coverings and another helped her stand and quickly began to wash her skin with steaming water scented with roses. The tea was bitter on her tongue but she quickly drank it and let another handmaiden take the empty cup from her hand as soon as it was finished.

“Have the kitchen maids asked what the tea is again?”

“Not since we told them it was a magical potion to guarantee a boy and that it was filled with the blood of a calf and ash from the Doom.” One of them smiled, remembering how the nosey maids nearly fainted at the sound of their lie. It was an ingenious ruse, if she was being honest. Y/N knew that most of the servants in Casterly Rock reported to Tywin about her movements and the company she kept. Thinking she was a witch who relied on bloodmagic easily discounted anything they whispered to her lord husband. And it also kept them from truly investigating her tea—not that anyone on this stupid continent would be able to name it anyway. The root her handmaids boiled for her every time Tywin visited her chamber was not anything magical or arcane.

It was an old recipe from the famed pleasure houses of Braavos—to prevent pregnancy. And it was working remarkably well. The maester had confirmed her fertility so she knew Tywin was probably doubting his own ability as the months continued to trickle by and she was yet to become pregnant. The thought made her laugh. As did the truth that Tywin would never get he had anticipated with the betrothal agreement he had signed with her father. She had decided that as soon as he had sneered at her on their wedding night and said, “I suppose you will do,” before taking what he needed from her body without care for her at all. And whenever he visited her bed, his hands were always too tight, too rough and would not relent even when tears pricked at her eyes and slid down her cheeks. He never stopped. He never cared. Even when his dislike of her as a person evolved to curling his hands into her arms and leaving her with swollen eyes and tender skin. He always made sure they were alone when he raised his hands to her, but he seemed fond of doing so whenever she ever disagreed with him.

She knew that other Keyholders thought her father foolish for her hefty dowry—a steep price to pay for pride. But her mother once said that while blood will open the door, clout will get you a seat at the table.

Her father had the gold to spare, she supposed. And she always wanted a kingdom of her own.

Now…now one was finally within her grasp. Even if it came with such a poor consort. That was what she told herself, anyway.

Just as she was dressed for the day, her chamber door opened again and a servant strode in, eyes darting around the gaggle of women as if searching for something to report. His mouth opened and he informed them all that Lord Tywin had been called to the Riverlands and left her in charge of Casterly Rock. She had heard whispers of the War of the Five Kings from high and lowborn alike. It was a shame that she was kept so far from the action she was so accustomed to at least witnessing with a spyglass from her chamber windows. The Keyholders often had a stake in the wars fought around Westeros and Essos. Having allies in positions of power meant they were in positions of power—and funding their successes meant that they had bargaining chips in collecting debts. Plus interest.

She almost smiled. Finally, a bit of intrigue.

Y/N took her seat under the canopy after dismissing her handmaidens and guards, telling them to treat themselves to a well-earned drink at a nearby inn as she noticed the incoming crowd of Dothraki, ‘escorted’ by a band of knights. She only let her eyes move to see Oberyn and Ellaria, the Dornish envoy, for a moment. Their reaction to her arrival had been just as unexpected as their presence. Dangerous. Dangerous.

This whole game was dangerous. And now the King in the North and the Dragon Queen had called for a temporary armistice for some strange reason.

“They tell me that the Westerlands have been flourishing.”

The voice at her side almost had her jumping. It was Tyrion, looking far more bristled than the last time she had seen him, when he had been carted away to the Black Cells. “Yes, well. Apparently I’m quite suited for the task.”

Tyrion’s answering smile was small and he nodded just once. “Yes, I suppose my father would have taught you well-”

“He had nothing to do with it.”

Casterly Rock was a delight to have to herself. Even the servants who would whisper her movements into her lord husband’s ear seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when each raven stated Tywin would be away from his seat of power for another fortnight and then another and another. When the Westerlands were being raided by Northmen, led by the adorably pugnacious King Robb Stark, she was happy to open the gates to allow some of the children and ladies of sworn houses to take shelter in the fortress and to give food and water to the knights and bannermen who made camp outside their walls before setting off toward battle.

She arranged marriages between houses and presided over small disagreements brought before her to settle. It reminded her of the time she spent with her dearest friend Bellegere at her famed pleasure house in Braavos and how Bellegere managed each and every bit of everything under her roof and made it all seem so effortless.

That was her kingdom.

And now Casterly Rock was Y/N’s, and she would let no one take it from her.

No one.

“You are happy, my lady,” one of her handmaidens said as they retired for the night. It had been two moons since Tywin had left her to play at war. “I have not seen you this happy since before we left Braavos.”

Y/N hummed and let her wipe the day’s dirt from her skin with a roll of silk dampened with cold cream. “I suppose I should start finding some sort of happiness, no?” She sighed. “Are you happy here?”

Her handmaidens nodded, varying degrees of smiles on their faces. “You know that we had no happiness in Braavos. You have given us hope, just as you have given these strange people hope, too.” They helped her into her sleeping gown and Y/N remembered the places she had plucked her handmaidens from. Cruel noble homes, cruel lowborn homes, temples with dark corners, merchant shops filled with bright tapestries, pleasure houses. Each of them found a new place beside Y/N. And she found friends with them, security and safety.

“We can find a home here,” Y/N whispered to each of them before bidding them goodnight. And she hoped it was true. She needed it to be true.

When the raven came, telling her to come to King’s Landing, she was hesitant to pack her trunks and arrange for the castellan to oversee the governance of Casterly Rock. But she had duties. And, despite knowing she was actively keeping herself from completing one of them, she knew she could not refuse Tywin Lannister. Especially after the Realm (or at least part of it) was hailing him as a hero for breaking the siege on King’s Landing and managing to gain the allegiance of the Reach—such a stupid name for a kingdom—for the Crown. So, she had her trunks packed with her fine gowns and made sure the guests she had allowed to stay in Casterly Rock would be looked after before having the traveling party readied for the trek across the continent. One of the knights, a man who reeked of strongwine and needed to trim his beard, spoke animatedly about the battles Tywin won across the Westerlands and Riverlands on behalf of his grandson, Joffrey. “For the betterment of the Realm,” the knight would finish each story. She doubted it. But she pretended to listen anyway. Y/N truly did not care to listen to the finite details or commit most of them to memory. What she did, however, notice was the distinct smell of piss and soured bread as soon as her wheelhouse and travelling party crested the hill just outside the city gates after several weeks of being confined to the wheelhouse or stuffy inn rooms.

“My lady,” one of her handmaiden’s muttered, “we are going to suffocate.”

Y/N patted her hand with a sigh before spilling a bit of perfume onto each of their kerchiefs to hold under their noses. “Perhaps they will have a garden where we can escape the stench.”

When they arrived at the Red Keep—and such an unimaginative name—she was almost pleased to see that most of the royal family and quite a few courtiers and servants had come to welcome them. Cersei, a face she knew well from the many portraits in the halls of Casterly Rock, only offered a quick sneer and an insincere, “welcome, Lady Lannister, to King’s Landing,” before she quickly left. Joffrey, the brat-boy-king if the whispers were true, looked suspiciously like his mother and also offered a sneer. Tommen was far kinder and offered to show her to her chambers but she declined, knowing that having a prince show her around like a servant would only gain her more ire from the queen dowager.

And then that left…

“Lady Stark,” Y/N said, stepping to the redhead’s side. Yes, she knew of Sansa Stark. The sad little Northern girl who saw her father’s head put on a spike—and apparently one of her brothers was one of the Five Kings running around causing amuck. How fun.

The younger girl curtseyed and murmured a soft hello. “I hope you find the capitol pleasing, my lady.”

She hummed and reached out to take Sansa’s and, wrapping it into the crook of her arm. “I doubt I will. But I shall like it if we were to become friends.”

Sansa’s blue eyes flittered across Y/N’s face and then to the small hoard of handmaidens behind her. “Whatever you wish, my lady.”

Weeks trickled by and Y/N found herself actually enjoying the company of the little wolf pup. She detested the Lannisters and had a quick but sweet wit when she was not in the company of Cersei or Joffrey who seemed to terrify her to no end. Y/N found it funny that Cersei assumed she would report anything and everything Sansa did while in her company. “What would you have her do other than enjoy a bit of tea and some lemon cakes? It is not as if you have given her duties beyond looking pretty.” Her handmaidens even told her that Cersei requested they report back anything they heard Sansa say.

“The poor girl,” they mused. “She is alone here.”

“Yes,” Y/N agreed, “and so are we.” And they were. They were still whispered about by servants and courtiers alike, their movements watched like a mummers’ performance and then hissed into the queen or the new Hand of the King’s ears. The only time they found themselves truly alone was when they were in the company of the Tyrells. Margaery and Olenna were gratuitous social climbers but at least they were smart and she did not feel the need to continue to play the dutiful Lady Lannister in their presence. They had no real love for the Lannisters aside from realizing that the golden lions were the true power in this stupid kingdom and knowing that they needed to at least have a few of them on their side. And Sansa seemed a little relaxed in their presence as well. After her betrothal to Joffrey was broken in favor of Margaery and the Tyrell gold, the young redhead was a tiny bit more…unclenched, especially after being pressed to detail the abuse she survived at the hands of the brat king. Y/N remembered gently wiping the tears away from Sansa’s cheeks after they left the Tyrells. Sansa had recounted her abuse at the hands of Joffrey and his mother. “It is over now, little pup. He shall not harm you again. I promise you that.”

Sansa only nodded and was still very guarded and it was smart to be so but Y/N was happy to see her smile a little more freely.

The smiles stopped when Tywin announced that Sansa was to wed Tyrion.

The girl cried and cried and cried. But only when they were alone and the lemon cakes she’d taken from the kitchen were only crumbs. Shae, Sansa’s handmaiden, always lingered after being dismissed. Y/N was sure she was another spy—but not for Cersei. But it did not matter. What mattered was the crying wolf pup in her arms.

“I can’t do it. I can’t,” Sansa cried, tears wetting Y/N’s dress.

Y/N could only shush her sobs, knowing that Tywin always had his due—well, almost always. “I will make sure you are safe, pup. I promise you that.”

Y/N stood, as she was expected to do, when Cersei entered the Dragon Pit and curtseyed as Cersei moved in front of her to take her own seat. The air was tense. Everyone was staring at each other, measuring threats with bated breath.

Y/N had been surprised to see Theon Greyjoy present—after all, it had been a Greyjoy fleet that had destroyed the ship that was carrying little Princess Myrcella back to the Red Keep from Sunspear. It had been a Greyjoy that had given the final push for Cersei to descend into her carefully curated madness. But, then again, Cersei had a Greyjoy of her own, too. Verbal volleys were made and Y/N might have enjoyed listening to the traded barbs but she continued to feel someone’s gaze on the side of her face.

She knew who was looking at her—it did not take any stretch of imagination or serious thought.

She knew.

And a dragon roared overhead.

“Take this, pup.” Y/N curled Sansa’s shaking fingers around the small bottle with an even smaller smile.

“What is it?” Sansa was beautiful in her golden wedding dress—beautiful and sad. Handmaidens had just finished twisting her hair into the ridiculous braids Cersei was so fond of and then scattered when Y/N and her flock of Braavosi women arrived. They had taken to dashing away when the Braavosi women arrived after Y/N had all but screamed at them when they would not let Sansa have a moment alone after news of the tactlessly named Red Wedding had reached King’s Landing. Her entire family—gone. Y/N would not see the little pup suffer for another moment.

It had earned her a busted lip and a sore wrist from her dear husband.

“It is a gift.” Y/N patted Sansa’s hand. “One drop will give you a night’s reprieve from your husband. The entire bottle will give your husband…a reprieve of his breath.”

Sansa turned and turned and turned the bottle in her hand. “Poison?”

“Yes, pup. And it is merely a precaution. I would not have you fear for your life in your marital bed.”

“Do you think Tyrion would hurt me?”

“He is the gentlest of his siblings, but it is never unwise to have a dagger up your sleeve.” Y/N stood and took Sansa’s hands in hers after watching her carefully tuck the bottle away into the folds of her dress. “Come, I am allowed to escort you to the Sept.”

“We’ve been here for some time,” Cersei said through gritted teeth.

“My apologies.”

Y/N almost snorted at the complete lack of care in the Dragon Queen’s tone as she addressed Cersei for the first time but held a finger under her nose, attempting to hide her smile instead. But Oberyn did openly laugh, only stopping when Ellaria placed a hand on his thigh. When Y/N looked at them, eyes drawn to the pair like a moth to the flame, their smiles grew.

The sound around her died to a low roar. Y/N knew she should be paying attention—the meeting had been called with the premise of saving the Realm—but all she could see was them.

“I am not some lowborn trollop, husband. I will not be seen in anything other than the color that denotes my station.” Y/N stared down at the garish red and gold dress that her husband’s servants had placed on the featherbed just a few moments ago.

“Your station is cemented as my wife—Lady Lannister. You will wear your house’s colors and you will never fight me on something so frivolous again.”

“Oh? And what am I allowed to fight you on?” She retorted, feeling her upper lip curl in a sneer. “If not my clothes, what else? You have decided every bit of my life since I have arrived. Am I not allowed one bit of my home?”

Tywin reached out and struck her across the face. Pain bloomed from her eye to her jaw, throbbing in time with her hammering heart. “You would do well to hold your tongue. I have had enough of listening to your ungrateful words. You are the Lady of Casterly Rock—not a sniveling brat. You will wear this gown and I will not hear another word of it. Am I understood?”

Y/N only nodded, hand cradling her cheek and then Tywin swept from the room.

Silence washed over her like a wave in the big room. She stared down at the red dress. Gold lace lined the sleeves and there was even more of the gaudy lace around the neck—it would probably reach just below her chin.

It was a collar. Soft and expensive. But a collar, she realized.

“My lady?” She turned to see one of her handmaidens stepping in, a frazzled look on her face. “Are you ready for us to help you prepare for the wedding?” The girl’s eyes searched her face as if knowing something was wrong. “My lady?” She asked again when Y/N did not answer.

Y/N sucked in a breath and nodded. “Yes. And I believe we are running late.” She removed her dressing gown and let them start to tie her into the hideous gown. It itched. It did not move like the soft silks of Braavos. It was stiff and uncomfortable. It felt like a cage.

Perhaps that is what it was—a cage and a collar.

But she said nothing as she met Tywin outside his chambers and allowed him to grasp her hand and tuck it into the crux of his arm as he escorted her to the Sept. She said nothing as she took her place in the crowd. She said nothing as the stupid vows were exchanged and Joffrey named Margaery as his queen. She said nothing as she was led out to the grounds for the wedding feast. But she plotted. And her cheek throbbed.

She was seated on the raised dais at Tywin’s side but found herself slightly and strangely comforted by the fact that Sansa was within eyesight. When Tywin left her side to speak with someone—and she truly wasn’t listening nor cared who it was—Y/N quickly stood and walked to Sansa’s side, taking Tyrion’s vacated seat.

“How are you, pup?”

Sansa almost smiled. “Alive.”

“And that is half the battle, no?” She reached out and touched the girl’s hands. “Has he been kind?” Her head tilted just so to indicate Tyrion.

Sansa nodded. “I have no use of your gift yet.” They both sighed and looked out over the crowd. “Weddings are supposed to be happy occasions.”

“Yes, I suppose they are. But we have yet to attend one that is capable of making us smile.” She sighed again and looked back at Sansa, eyes catching the pretty, purple necklace around her throat. The jewels glinted…

“Careful with those, my love,” her mother chided as she pulled the little vials from her daughter’s childish fingers.

“What are they, Mama?”

“It was a gift,” Sansa said, providing an answer for the unasked question.

“From whom?”

“Lord Baelish.”

Y/N hummed and twisted one of the jewels between her fingers before letting it drop back against Sansa’s throat.

Y/N listened to Jon Snow blather on about saving the Realm, about how an army who doesn’t leave corpses was coming and could not be bargained with. Cersei had a few quips of her own and Y/N pondered if she truly needed to have shut herself into a wheelhouse for weeks to travel here just to listen to Cersei complain and foreign monarchs hardly disguise their contempt. But then Sandor Clegane emerged from the underground tunnel with a large crate on his back and the Dragon Pit grew quiet.

He set it down and…nothing happened, even as he removed the lid.

But then he circled back and kicked it over. With a scream, a creature emerged and ran at Cersei. Bone and dried skin and glowing blue eyes. That was all it was.

That and the terrifying scream.

“You look exquisite, child,” Lady Olenna said as she approached Sansa. “The wind has bit at you though.” Olenna glanced at Y/N in acknowledgement, bowing her head just a fraction before focusing on Sansa again, tugging at the ends of her pretty red hair. “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your brother. War is war, but killing a man at a wedding? Horrid. What sort of monster would do such a thing?” An aged finger traced against Sansa’s cheek. “As if men need more reasons to fear marriage.”

Y/N snorted into her chalice of wine and earned a wink from Olenna over Sansa’s head. But it was the next movement that truly caught Y/N’s attention. Olenna fiddled with Sansa’s necklace before inviting her and Tyrion to Highgarden just as the lion in question approached. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it is time to enjoy this food I paid for.”

Y/N pulled Sansa back into conversation as Olenna departed and noted that one of the strange little gems was now missing from the necklace. What was Olenna planning? Whatever it was, it was sure to be more entertaining than the pretention of this wedding feast. She stood and had Sansa do the same. “Come, pup. It is time we acted like Lannisters, no?” She linked their arms together and led them toward the obnoxiously decorated grounds filled with more food and entertainment.

They both found little enjoyment in the contortionists or the musicians who insisted on playing and replaying The Rains of Castamere on a variety of instruments. But the food was mostly seasoned well.

“Tyrion tells me that a Dornish Prince is in attendance. He’s traveled all over Essos, perhaps he has been to Braavos?” Sansa asked as Y/N found her some lemon cakes and they sequestered themselves away in a dark corner while Y/N sipped on a bit of sweet wine.

“Oh? It would be nice to hear of my home from someone who knows it.” She almost smiled. “I must take you across the Narrow Sea, introduce you to my home. And maybe I can know Winterfell, too.”

Sansa’s smile was small but genuine. “I would like that.”

“But tell me, what is this prince’s name? Perhaps I’ve met him when my lord husband was parading around.”

Sansa wiped the crumbs from her face. “Prince Oberyn Martell.”

Jon Snow was a bigger idiot than Sansa had ever said he was in her missives. Openly proclaiming that he had sworn the North and bent the knee to the Dragon Queen while trying to broker a tentative agreement with an unstable lion was very, very stupid. He could have, should have lied and just agreed to the terms Cersei had laid out, keeping her in the dark about his true allegiance.

But no.

Apparently he had more Stark in him than sense.

Everyone had separated after Cersei had stormed away and Y/N found herself walking toward one of the few places she hadn’t seen anyone retreat to but then-

“Mama!”

Y/N turned and caught the child that had leapt into the air, knowing his mother would catch him.

A soft murmur of her name had her freezing.

He looked so similar. Barely anything had changed since the last time she had seen him, all too briefly nearly a decade ago. The same self-assured gait. The same sparkle in his eyes. The same charming half-smile that had her mirroring the expression without a thought.

“Hello, little Titan.”

And with the next breath she was younger, visiting her friend Bellegere on her mother’s fine barge, evading her duties for the day. “You are not who I was expecting,” came a voice behind her.

Y/N turned and arched a brow at the young man looking in the doorway. “Nor was I expecting you.” He was either lost or an esteemed guest if he had found his way to Bellegere’s private rooms. With his fine clothes and self-assured smile, Y/N wagered he was the latter. “Who are you?”

He introduced himself with a growing smile and kissed her on the back of the hand before turning her hand over and pressing another kiss to her palm. And the first time in months, Y/N giggled.

The prince was eventually greeted by Bellegere’s mother and he was just as flirtatious with her but did not seem too preoccupied with bedding the famous courtesan as many of her other clients had been lately. In between meetings with the captains of the Second Sons mercenary company, Oberyn was found frequently upon the barge—and Y/N always found herself invited, too. Whether it was by Bellegere or Oberyn, they always seemed eager to pull her away from her duties again and again.

Bellegere had been calm, as she always was with her mother’s clients (Bellegere knew she would one day be the Black Pearl of Braavos and took her training very seriously), but Y/N saw how the Dornish prince had her smiling into her hand after whispering something into her ear, a far cry from the demure tilting of her lips her clients usually coaxed from her while buying her attention and company.

Anyone who could make Bellegere, with all her practiced manners and carefully curated gestures, smile like that was truly a force to be reckoned with. But even when he was on Bellegere’s arm, he took care to include Y/N in their conversations, wanting her opinion. “I like the sound of your voice, little Titan.”

And that wretched, silly nickname. While he called Bellegere by her name, or “my Pearl,” he called Y/N his “little Titan,” a play on how Braavos was known for the hulking statue of a titan at its gates. She was not sure if she loved it or loathed it.

“Have you two been introduced?” Sansa’s question pulled Y/N from her reverie.

“Yes,” Oberyn answered for her with a wink. “We met years ago in Braavos.” It was an understatement. Every time the Second Sons were within a handful of leagues of Braavos, Oberyn made it a point to visit Y/N and Bellegere. There was nothing overtly carnal within their relationship. In fact, they all seemed to be closer friends than anything else. Bellegere was free to be herself in his presence and Y/N was, too. Oberyn was always happy to be their escort around the city and pay for their attentions as if he were any other client, but largely they spent their time laughing and speaking of the world beyond Braavos. He disappeared a few years later only to return to Braavos, older and angrier, to meet with Illyrio Mopatis on business he could not discuss with them. But he had been just as kind with them as he always had been—always a dutiful friend. The last time she had seen him, he had whispered about the death of his sister and her babies, of how she was cruelly killed while trying to protect her children.

It would not be until Y/N reached King’s Landing that she learned that it was believed that Tywin gave the order for his loyal dog, Gregor Clegane, to kill the Princess and her babes.

If Y/N had known that, she would have taken Bellegere’s offer of working on her barge instead of allowing her father to barter her away to Tywin. She never would have betrayed Oberyn like that if she had known. Truly.

But it was too late.

Y/N noticed the beautiful woman at Oberyn side. Surely there were songs sung about her gentle eyes. “But I have not met your lovely companion, my prince.”

Oberyn’s smile widened and he took the woman’s hand and pulled her forward just a bit, obviously filled with pride to have her at his side. “This is Ellaria Sand, my paramour.”

Ellaria curtseyed, “my lady.”

Y/N returned the gesture. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ellaria.”

The woman glanced at Oberyn with a smile. “It seems you are one of the few who share that sentiment.”

Y/N waved it away. “The Westerosi have strange conceptions of honor and status.” She made sure to pat Sansa’s hand. “But there are a few who make it bearable.”

But then a noise drew all of their attention. It started with Queen Margaery screaming, “he’s choking!”

Joffrey heaved with stuttering breaths before collapsing. And the pieces were falling into place.

“You idiots! Help your king!” Olenna shouted. She was a good actress.

Movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention and she watched a poorly dressed fool grab at Sansa’s arm and try to lead her away. Without moving her head, Y/N reached out and snatched Sansa’s hand. “Stay, pup. You know not what you do.”

Sansa’s blue eyes flittered between the Fool and the Lion on her arm and then pulled out of the man’s grip.

Satisfied, Y/N turned to watch Cersei scream and scream and scream as her firstborn turned purple in her arms and Tyrion was carted away by a pair of white cloaks. What a pretty painting that would be. She took another sip of wine.

“It is almost as if you were avoiding me, Little Titan.” He still smiled as if no time had passed since their last meeting. But the easy expression faded as he looked down to the small boy in her hold.

Slowly, Y/N set her son down and brushed a bit of dirt from his cherubic cheek. “This is my son, Morgan Lannister.”

Oberyn’s hand shook as he reached out a hand toward the dark haired boy. “Pleased to meet you, little lord.”

Morgan smiled up at Oberyn, bright-eyed, as Oberyn’s finger traced over his brow. “You are Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell! Mama tells me stories about you—about your adventures across the Narrow Sea. And how you slew a mountain!”

“The Mountain, my dear boy,” his mother gently corrected.

“Hardly appropriate bedtime stories,” Ellaria chuckled.

“He likes to know when the hero prevails.”

Little Tommen looked so small when he sat on the throne. He was so…kind. So little. That stupid chair was too rough for his gentle soul. But she clapped when he was proclaimed king and smiled when his bright eyes caught hers, a nervous smile on his lips.

“He will be a fair king,” she heard someone whisper as the clapping and cheering continued. “Kind.”

He would be ruled by Tywin. Y/N knew it to be true. The young king was far easier to manipulate—and perhaps Olenna was anticipating that detail, too. Hm. Olenna versus Tywin in a battle of wills. That would be interesting to watch.

“You are contemplative, Little Titan.”

Y/N smiled at the sound of Oberyn’s voice whispering in her ear. They had frequently sought out each other’s company for the last handful of days, meeting in the sunny gardens to reminisce about their time together in Braavos and learning of their adventures during their time apart. Ellaria had proven to be a true, steadfast friend and Y/N was grateful to know her and hear her stories of her childhood at Hellholt in Dorne. And she wanted to hear what Oberyn thought of this newest pretentious display of power but her eyes darted to see Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys far too close for her liking. While she could rely on knowing where the various servants and Westerosi handmaidens to always whisper the ludicrous stories she had concocted into Tywin and Cersei’s ears, she was not sure how to handle the two men who were arguably more intelligent. “We have a new king,” was all she said. “Long may he reign.”

Oberyn’s nose wrinkled for a moment, confused by her response, but nodded as he noticed Pycelle glance in their direction. “Yes, long may he reign.”

She wanted so badly to simply speak with him. She was alone in the capital. Tywin had dismissed her handmaidens and sent them back to Casterly Rock, replacing them with women from the Westerlands who had once been Princess Myrcella’s maids. He was making sure she was alone. Y/N rolled her shoulders as she watched Tywin approach her. He held out his hand for her to take and she dutifully placed her hand in his, letting him guide her up the small set up steps and dais toward the ugly throne. Tommen’s face broke into a smile as she approached and curtseyed. “Lady Lannister.”

“Your Grace,” she replied. “May the Seven bless your reign,” she repeated the words she had heard droned over and over, knowing the little king found comfort in them even if she thought it ridiculous.

“Thank you, my lady.”

Tywin squeezed her arm and she bit back a wince as he led her away. His grip only tightened the further away they were from the mass of celebrators and they only slowed to a stop for a moment, in a dark corner of the hall for him to hiss in her ear, “you will retire to your chambers, immediately.”

Over his shoulder, Y/N spotted Oberyn slipping into the hall, his dark eyes narrowed at the scene. “Of course, my lord.”

But his grip only tightened. “I will not have you making a spectacle of yourself and my house’s name.” Tywin’s long fingers finally pulled away from her skin and he signaled for two white cloaks to flank her on each side. “Make sure she is waiting for me. Do not let her leave the Tower of the Hand until I have come for her. Am I understood?”

Y/N could only gape at her husband as two pairs of unfamiliar, armored hands grasped at her arms and started to pull her away.

And when she was all but shoved into her chambers in the cold tower, Y/N knew she would be facing the old lion’s wrath.

Time trickled by slowly. The tower she had been told to call home was quiet. No servants. No handmaidens (she would not be surprised if they had been told to vacate that morning). No lower-ranking Lannisters begging for a bit of attention.

She was alone.

And she waited.

A glance outside her chamber’s window let her know that the two guards were still standing sentinel at the entry to the tower. Maybe she had become a character from one of those songs children were so fond of—a princess in a tower, waiting for a knight to rescue her.

But she was not a princess.

She was a daughter of Braavos. And she was tired of waiting for something to happen to her, for continuing to allow things to happen. She was going to make it happen.

“My lady, I am so sorry,” an out of breath handmaiden sprinted to her side and looked down at the little lord. “He ran off when I turned for just a moment.”

Y/N looked down at Morgan who offered a guilty smile. “I missed you, mama.”

“I was only gone for a moment, little one,” Y/N murmured before pressing a kiss to his cheek and winking at the handmaiden, letting her know there was no harm done. Her son was hard to contain on the best of days. “We have talked about being patient, no? I will never leave you alone for long.”

“But Septon Martyn said you were…umm…” his little face scrunched up, searching for words. “I forget.”

“That’s okay, little one. You’ll remember later.”

“But did you see a dragon?” He nearly screeched, dark eyes lighting up.

“I did. And it was beautiful.” She bent and set him back on his little feet. “But you have to promise mama something, yes? You have to stay with Septon Martyn and Tyanna until I am finished.”

Morgan’s bottom lip jutted out and his gaze moved to Oberyn who was looking down at him with an intense fondness that made her sigh. And Ellaria was at his side, a gentle and curious affection in her gaze. “But what if I want to stay with Prince Oberyn?”

Y/N knew to protect her head even before she passed the first stone step. Down, down, down she fell, limbs smacking against the stairs and bannisters until she came to an abrupt stop on the cold ground. The ceiling swam as she finally opened her eyes.

Within a handful of pained breaths, blood coating her teeth and tongue, she watched Tywin loom over her. He had leisurely walked down the winding stairs, uncaring of how he had tried to kill her just moments ago. But perhaps he knew she would survive. This was simply a warning.

“You are a disgrace. You are my wife. I will not be made a fool of any longer. You will not be seen dallying with some Dornish tart prince or his whore. You will not cavort around as if you truly belong here. You do not. You have not earned your place yet.”

“What do you want?” She asked, tongue heavy in her mouth and blood coating her throat. “What do you want?”

“What was promised to me. I do not know what potion you’ve conjured or trick you have conceived, but I will be given an heir. Or I will have your head on a pike.” His thin lips curled into a sneer, the closest she had ever seen to him smile, before he stepped over her crumpled form and out into the sunlight.

And she let herself wallow for just a moment, only until the ceiling stopped spinning and then she rolled onto her side with a wince and grunted as she pushed herself up onto unsteady feet.

“If you want an heir, I’ll produce an heir.” The vow was snarled into the quiet air of the tower.

Y/N watched little Morgan toddle away, his hand firmly clasped in the handmaiden’s, babbling excitedly about dragons and princes. And then her eyes once again found Oberyn and Ellaria, both also watching the little lord walk away.

“He looks like you,” Ellaria said with a smile.

“Yes. A small blessing, I suppose.” She watched Oberyn’s smile widen and he unsuccessfully hid it behind his hand.

A sudden movement caught their gaze and they realized that Cersei had come back, apparently ready to parley with the Dragon Queen.

A cold cloth was pressed to the swelling of her cheek.

“How cruel, to hurt someone so beautiful.”

The scent of the pleasure house was almost comforting; filled with expensive perfumes and burning incense, it was a welcome reprieve from the stench of the city. But all Y/N truly cared about was how soft Ellaria’s touch was and how gentle the other woman was, even after Y/N had bodily climbed in through the window of their room and collapsed onto the floor.

In a strange stroke of luck, the pair had not been entertaining themselves with another person’s (or multiple people) talents and time. And perhaps she truly did look worse for wear if the pained looks and surprised noises they let out when she lifted her head were any indication.

Ellaria had quickly called for a servant to bring what she needed as Oberyn easily hid Y/N’s crumpled form in their warm bed from any prying eyes.

“I am sorry…” Y/N said, “I am so sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Oberyn asked as he took a seat beside her. Gentle fingers pressed at broken skin at her hairline and he frowned. “You escaped your gilded cage and sought safety with us—there is nothing to apologize for in this instance, Little Titan. You have trusted us. There is no higher honor.”

Ellaria hummed her agreement and continued to clean the cuts and calm the swelling around her face. “But how you managed to evade all those gold and white cloaks is surely a tale to tell.”

Y/N smiled but regretted it when pain bloomed across her entire face and Ellaria tutted as a bit of blood bubbled from a scab. “I do doubt it is anything worthy of repeating. Just a bit of Sweetsleep in some wine and hoping for the best.”

“It took you five days to think of Sweetsleep?” Oberyn teased but there was still a clear undertone of concern in his voice that made her heart clench. They cared.

She had a plan, true. And if they agreed vengeance could belong to all of them. Tywin had taken enough from them. “It took me five days to muster the courage to come to you.”

The simple sentence took the air from the room. Ellaria’s gentle touch paused and Oberyn grasped her hands, careful of the injuries. “Tell us, Little Titan. Tell us what you need.”

Y/N looked to Ellaria first and then Oberyn. “It is my lord-husband.”

“I knew it,” Oberyn said, looking to Ellaria who nodded. “I knew he would. He destroys everything he touches. Everything.”

“And I need to let him think he has—just for a few moons longer.”

“Why? Why wait? I can kill him now and be done with it-”

“I want to kill him,” Y/N said, voice steady. “But I want to take away everything he has created. Everything he has worked for, killed for. I want it all. And you are the only ones who would be able to truly take it from him, the only ones I trust.”

Ellaria and Oberyn looked at each other again before turning back to her. “What is your plan, Little Titan?”

She knew Cersei was lying when she said that she would send the Crown’s forces to aid in the fight against the Night King. But it seemed Jon and Daenerys would take her at her word.

Stupid mistake.

As the small crowd dispersed and Y/N continued to play the dutiful peon with a final curtsey, her mind churned. While Cersei had most of the Westerland armies at the capital, some had been allowed to keep to their posts in their homeland. They were Y/N’s to command. And she knew they would listen.

She would not stay in the capital. She did not care if Cersei had expected her to stay. She did not care if the polite thing would be to at least graciously decline the rooms probably readied for her presence.

She did not care.

Her son was in the city. And a war was coming.

The Dragon Queen and Jon Snow were trustworthy. Y/N did not care if the wrath of Cersei was turned on her after this—she could handle Cersei, if needed. But the Realm needed Dragons if they wanted to survive. Daenerys seemed much more reasonable and willing to listen than Cersei ever did so she would not mind if the petite Valyrian sat on the Iron Throne after the dead were dealt with. But that came first.

The small entourage Y/N had arrived with was waiting dutifully by her wheelhouse, also tired of the city, it seemed.

“My lady,” A soft voice said, gaining her attention.

Y/N turned to see Ellaria waiting patiently just outside the Dragon Pit. “Yes?” She took a moment to glance around and see that they were largely alone. Everyone was too preoccupied with their own retreat to pay them any mind.

“We must speak with you.”

Y/N gave one last look to her son, watching him laugh so easily at something a handmaiden whispered into his ear. For now, he was safe.

Y/N turned and linked her arm through Ellaria’s, once again finding an easy comfort in the other woman’s warmth. “I am all yours for a few moments, my lady.”

“Lady Lannister, what a sight you are!”

Y/N bit back the snarl at Maester Pycelle’s exclamation. Despite tending to her bruising, swelling and broken skin for nearly a fortnight, she still looked a fright. She knew it. But it was another thing for an old man in tattered rags to announce it so loudly.

“It is nothing. A servant spilled a bit of wine near the stairs and I did not see it. A careless mistake.”

Pycelle nodded. “Yes. Careless. But you should thank the Seven that you are still able to fulfill your earthly, wifely duties.”

Y/N felt her hands curl into fists and tucked them behind her back, ignoring the ache the movement caused. “Yes. Duties.”

Tyrion’s trial had finally started and Y/N was expected to attend. She retrieved Sansa from her locked chambers—a stark contrast from the Black Cells where Tyrion was kept—and had escorted her to the Great Hall, half a dozen kingsguard surrounding them. She had only a moment alone with Sansa in her chambers before she knew she would draw suspicion from the guards waiting outside the door. “You will need to lie, pup.”

“But-”

Y/N grasped Sansa’s chin in a loose grip but her eyes were hard. “You will lie, Sansa. Your life depends on it. I can only keep you safe if you do.”

“What would you have me say?”

“That you knew of Tyrion’s hatred of his nephew but you did not think he would go so far as to poison him.”

Sansa’s blue eyes watered but she nodded. “I can do that.”

“Good, pup. Then you shall be just fine.”

The entire Great Hall was packed with spectators and she took a seat toward the front, near the dais as Margaery’s side, and Sansa had been relegated toward the back, being treated like another accused instead of a witness. The whole thing smacked of Cersei’s bias.

But Y/N held her tongue, watching as Tyrion was escorted into the hall in heavy chains, and stood as Tommen did, following the rest of the crowd. Tywin briefly looked at her, a smug look on his face as he saw the black and red gown she wore—the stupid garment had been the only garment in her chambers that morning. He was not subtle.

“I, Tommen of the House Baratheon, first of my name, King of the Andals, First Men, and Rhyonar, lord of the Seven Kingdoms, hereby recuse myself from this trial. Tywin of the House Lannister, Hand of the King, protector of the realm, will serve as judge in my stead. With him, Prince Oberyn of the House Martell, and Lord Mace of the House Tyrell. If found guilty, may the gods punish the accused.”

As Oberyn moved to take his seat, he caught her eye for just a moment—and that look was all she needed to remember to breathe.

As person after person provided “evidence” against Tyrion, Y/N started to wonder if she would ever be able to leave this stupid hall. There was a slight reprieve in her sheer boredom when Sansa was called forward and she gave testimony that Tyrion did not care for Joffrey but she could not be sure if he truly poisoned his nephew. Her blue eyes glanced toward Y/N for her final words, “but I would not be so bold as to completely clear him of guilt or conspiracy.”

And that proved enough for Tywin to dismiss the little pup and let her retake her seat—without the small troupe of guards surrounding her. Sansa had been deemed innocent.

But this farce of trial was far from over. It continued on and on—and even included an appearance from Shae, who was apparently Tyrion’s lover. How quaint. Oberyn easily saw right through her lies and made nearly everyone present squirm with a double entendre. Y/N hid her smile behind her hand and ignored the blood bursting from her healing lip.

But the joy was short lived when Tyrion exclaimed, “I demand a trial by combat.”

Oberyn was waiting in a dark hollow of the dragon pit’s crumbling walls and drew both Ellaria and Y/N into his arms. He kissed Ellaria slowly and then pressed his warm lips against Y/N’s pulse. It sent familiar shivers down her spine.

“You are planning something, Little Titan.”

“As are you, my prince.”

Ellaria sighed. “You two are impossible.”

Y/N ducked her head with a smile. “A fair assessment, my lady, but I do not think you would enjoy us half as much if we were not constantly scheming.”

“You know the lioness will not honor her word,” Oberyn cut in quickly. His grip tightened around them.

“Of course not. She will wait for the Night King to both wipe out her enemies and then try to fight him herself, or attack after the battle is won and their numbers are depleted.” While Cersei thought herself Tywin’s true heir in manners of warfare and plotting, the only true manner she had inherited from her father was her inability to forget a slight. “I will not stand by and wait for the dead to reach Casterly Rock. Not while my son is…” the words died on her tongue.

But Ellaria grasped her hand and squeezed it tight. “You have something to fight for. We all do.”

“Dorne will fight beside you. We will fight for the living.”

“It is for luck,” Y/N said with a small smile. “Even the bravest in Braavos drink it. I have not seen a single man who drank this fall to his opponent.”

“I do not need to drink your potion to kill the Dornishman.” Of course, Ser Gregor Clegane would say something like that. His reputation and his (stupid) moniker of The Mountain might have been well earned but that did not mean Y/N any higher of him. In fact, his inability to think for himself when Tywin gave an order only made him smaller in her eyes.

Easy prey.

But that did not mean she would let Oberyn handle him on his own.

Y/N raised the cup a little higher, pressing a worried expression to her face. “It is more for my nerves, my lord, I assure you. I have heard of your prowess even across the Narrow Sea. But please,” she reached out to place a hand on his arm, a pretty picture of genteel worry, “calm my heart.”

Gregor nearly sneered as he took the cup and drained it in one gulp. “For you, Lady Lannister.”

Y/N reached out to take the cup back with a quick dip of her chin and another smile. “I thank you, Ser Gregor.”

She handed it off to a handmaiden and then let herself be escorted to her seat under the canopy, sitting aside her husband. She watched Oberyn and Ellaria speak to Tyrion under their own canopy, happily drinking wine and eating berries. The confidence they had in Oberyn was palpable—and for good reason. But Y/N never did like to watch an even match.

It was too boring.

Pycelle prattled on about how the gods would decide the fate of the trial by combat and soon the two men were engaged in battle.

Oberyn delighted in each blow and catch of his spear into the Mountain’s hulking form and made sure Gregor knew who his opponent was. “I am the brother of Elia Martell. Do you know why I have come all the way to this stinking shit-pile of a city? For you.” Another catch and parry. “I'm going to hear you confess before you die. You raped my sister. You murdered her. You killed her children. Say it now and we can make this quick.” Another clash of blades. “Say it. You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.” Y/N watched Clegane stumble, nearly fall to his knees, as Oberyn landed a kick to his hulking form.

“You murdered her! You killed her children!” Each word out of Oberyn’s mouth grew louder and louder.

Even over the din of the crowd starting to roar, Y/N heard Gregor’s shuddering breath as he struggled to his feet and his grip seemed to loosen on his broadsword.

Oberyn sank the end of his spear into Gregor’s side and quickly gave another, dodging a loose-gripped swipe of The Mountain’s sword at his neck. He stepped back only to watch the giant of a man stumble with a smirk. Oberyn charged at the Mountain to give him one final blow. Blood spurted out of Gregor’s mouth as Oberyn pulled his spear back.

The earth itself seemed to rumble as Gregor finally fell to his knees.

“Wait. Are you dying? No, no, no. You can't die yet,” Oberyn mocked. “You haven't confessed. Say it. Say her name. Elia Martell. You raped her. You killed her children. Elia Martell. Who gave you the order? Who gave you the order?!” Oberyn lifted a hand and pointed toward Tywin.

And for the millionth time since Oberyn had arrived in the city, Y/N had to hide a smile.

“Say her name! You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children. Say it. Say her name. Say it!”

Y/N did not move her gaze from the ring, uncaring of Tywin’s reaction. She would remember how the crowds gasped and started to murmur. In a single moment, the rumor that had almost been forgotten had been reignited. She was not surprised to learn that Oberyn had declared himself Tyrion’s champion when Gregor was called in for the crown.

And she wanted to make sure Oberyn was given at least a small bit of justice.

But Gregor could not answer. He fell forward, more blood pouring from his mouth, arms shaking to keep him from completely collapsing.

“Tell me!” Oberyn roared. “Tell me!” He leaned down to listen to something The Mountain said, whispered only for him to hear. But when he stood, Oberyn swung his spear and buried it into the Mountain’s head.

Y/N, Ellaria, and Oberyn plotted to move their loyal forces for only a little longer, keeping both the Dragon Queen and Crazed Lioness from overhearing. But soon-

“Mama! Mama!” And for the second time that day, Y/N was nearly leveled by her son throwing himself at her legs.

“We must work on your patience, my love. I was nearly finished.” She hauled the squirming boy into her arms and kissed his cheek. “We shall have supper at the inn but the hill when I am finished, hm? They have that pie you like.”

Morgan happily nodded and squirmed again, wanting to be let down. As his little feet hit the broken stone, he turned to look up at Oberyn and Ellaria, smiling wide. “Hello again, Prince Oberyn!”

Oberyn smiled and leaned down to Morgan’s level before gesturing to Ellaria who smiled fondly down at him. “This is Ellaria Sand, the love of my life.”

Morgan’s little hand reached out to Ellaria and he pressed a quick peck to her fingers, much to her delight. “My lady.” His following bow only continued to earn giggles.

Y/N watched Oberyn as he observed the little scene. His face was serene yet sad. And she knew why.

“You have a viper’s eyes, little lord.”

Morgan preened at the compliment despite not knowing what it meant. “Thank you, Prince Oberyn!”

King’s Landing was a powder keg.

After ‘the gods’ deemed Tyrion innocent, he fled in the night. But Cersei continued to rage and rage and rage, still offering a hefty sum for Tyrion’s head on a platter. Tommen and Margaery were married in another lavish ceremony and the Tyrells continued to press their influence over their city and the new king, only pushing Cersei further toward the edge. Tywin would hold daily meetings with the Small Council and with Lady Olenna, trying to keep the precarious balance of power decidedly in his favor.

And all that distraction proved very fortuitous for Y/N.

“Oh please, please,” she gasped as Oberyn continued to move.

Ellaria chuckled above her before moving Y/N’s mouth back to between her thighs. Y/N had always been very talented with her tongue. It was something Ellaria was happy to learn.

“Patience,” Oberyn said in a breathy huff. “You are always so greedy.”

But Y/N simply buried herself further into the soft patch of curls between Ellaria’s thighs as Oberyn canted his hips just slightly, letting her feel him nearly in her stomach.

They had done this every day—and almost every night—as Tywin was distracted.

Oberyn’s warm, calloused hands curled over Y/N’s thighs, anchoring them around his waist as his pace grew faster and faster. And Ellaria sighed, holding Y/N’s head still as she found her high and coated Y/N’s lips with her release—sticky and sweet.

“Are you nearly done, my love?” Ellaria’s voice was raspy and she did not move from her seat on Y/N’’s mouth, even as she shook with overstimulation. Y/N was greedy—Oberyn had rightly branded her so. And Ellaria tasted so good. “You do have a meeting to attend.”

Oberyn huffed but his pace did increase and the coil in Y/N’s belly wounded tighter and tighter, for the third time that morning, and then finally snapped as Oberyn groaned before leaning forward to press a kiss to Ellaria’s kiss-slick lips. Warmth bloomed and Y/N shook.

Yes. King’s Landing was a powder keg. But it was delicious.

And when Y/N passed the Small Council chamber later that morning she nearly snorted as she heard Tywin say, “You look tired, Prince Oberyn.”

And Oberyn, ever the viper, responded, “yes, my lover and I are trying for another child. I have heard you are trying for another heir, too, no?”

When the next morning came and Tywin left her bed, let him be for a moment before readying herself for the day. She slipped into his chambers and put on her dutiful-wife mask, one she had worn so well for the past handful of moons.

“I will be speaking with the Maesters this morning.”

“Oh?” Tywin responded, buttoning his tunic.

“Yes, I have been feeling poorly and I have missed my last moon blood. I am hoping I will have good news for you soon.”

Tywin was quiet for a moment before he hummed. It almost sounded happy. “You will tell me immediately what they say. Do you understand?”

“Of course, my lord.” She pulled his Hand of the King pin from atop one of his trunks and handed it to him. “I would have Sansa as a ward. King’s Landing has only made her a scared little thing—she will cow in front of the Northmen she’s supposed to rally to your grandson’s cause.”

“And you believe you may shape her into something-”

“Someone who will command respect and is loyal, my lion. Your daughter, for all her charms, was not suited to mold someone as gentle as Sansa. Her children were born with a steel core. Little Sansa needs a gentle, shaping hand.” Y/N slipped her arms around Tywin’s shoulders as he adjusted the pin over his heart. “I know you have an allegiance with Lord Bolton who you have named the Warden of the North in the Starks’ absence. The Northmen’s loyalty to them is tenuous at best. I know you strive for peace. If you could arrange for Sansa and the Boltons to find common ground, I know it would give you a small bit of reprieve to know you no longer had to worry about the North revolting. Again.”

Tywin froze—just for a moment. “Perhaps you aren’t as useless as I had been beginning to suspect.”

Y/N only smiled.

And after having the Maesters confirm that she was with child, she knew Tywin would come to her bed chamber again. She offered him a cup of wine in celebration and watched him drain it as he smirked. And she let him undo the laces of her dress. She let him pull her chemise over her head. She let him press her down into the pillows.

And then he paused. His eyes screwed shut with a pained groan. Tywin fell to the side and Y/N happily climbed over him.

“What…have you done?”

Y/N felt the slash of a smile grow across her face. “I have taken everything from you.” Her hands folded over her stomach. “You have only moments to live. But life grows within me. And your line has ended.” She watched the light fade from his eyes before forcing tears into her own. She let a few trickle down her cheeks for maximum effect before climbing off her husband’s lap and pulling on a dressing robe before dashing to the door and flinging it open. “My husband, please! Please someone help my husband!”

“Does he know?” Oberyn asked quietly as he helped Y/N lift little Morgan into the carriage. The child had fallen asleep at the table, nearly tipping over his prized pie. A day full of excitement had worn him out. He had caught a single glimpse of a dragon as their traveling party departed the city and had animatedly recounted the story to anyone and everyone who would listen. Oberyn and Ellaria had quietly followed.

“He knows his father is a brave, strong man. Who is loyal to his word, devoted to his family, and a hero for the ages.”

“Does he believe it is Tywin?” Oberyn asked, his fingers brushing the dark hair away from his son’s forehead.

“I believe he is smart enough to understand it is not.” She paused. “He is heir to the Lannister seat of power. He will hold everything Tywin worked so hard to build and protect. But the Lannister bloodline has ended. Yours will continue—yours will hold his seat of power until the gods deem this world finished. House Lannister is now your blood—your son.”

“But will he know the truth? Will he ever know me as his father?”

“Of course,” she said with a small smile. “When the time is right, and I know he can keep this secret, he will know your name as his true father. He will know you, love you.”

“And you? What of you?”

“What of me?” She repeated. “What would you need of me?”

Oberyn and Ellaria locked eyes for a moment before their penetrating gazes moved back to her. “We will want you as well.”

“Me?”

“We will always want you.”

Y/N sucked in a breath, trembling for the first time in decades. “Will you ever forgive me?”

Gone were the washes of gaudy crimson fabric and she was once again permitted to drape herself in black. She was a widow now. Perhaps that suited her. And now that Tywin was dead, she saw no reason to stay in King’s Landing. Tywin, before his tragic death of a bad heart, had announced to the court that Y/N was with child. It had only cemented her status as the true ruler of Casterly Rock.

Before she departed, Cersei called her into her chambers for tea. It was the most civil Cersei had ever been toward her and it was still laced with unsubtle threats and verbal barbs.

“The newest Lannister. A new brother,” Cersei mused, her eyes pointedly looking at Y/N’s stomach. “I hope they look like father.”

“I do doubt they will look like Lannisters.”

“Oh?” Cersei said, mouth tilting just so. “Are you so sure?”

“I do not look like a Lannister, your grace. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

“Yes, but the seed is strong-”

“Not strong enough. I assure you. The babe will look like me. After all, it seems you have taken all the luck and used it on your children—all of them, green-eyed and golden-haired. What are the chances? Hm?” Y/N finished her tea and stood. “I thank you for the company, your grace. But it is time for me to leave.” And Y/N turned and left without being dismissed, a smile on her face all the while.

And she left. She left without saying goodbye to Oberyn and Ellaria—her only friends in the city. She left knowing it would hurt them. But trying to find a moment to find them, to explain, would only cast suspicion on the paternity of her child. Because she knew she would not be able to stop herself from falling into their arms one last time.

Sansa gave her a small smile as they both settled into the wheelhouse and soon they were off.

Months slipped by and the pregnancy was largely uneventful.

She had kept her distance when she had heard of the Greyjoy attack on Myrcella’s boat and the princess’ death. She kept all the sword hands she could within the borders of the Westerlands when Cersei seized power from the Tyrells after the mysterious death of Tommen. She declared herself queen and threw Margaery into the Black Cells, threatening to send her head to Olenna if the Reach rebelled. She had played the part of careful, dutiful Lady of the Rock very well. She had kept Cersei’s eye off her kingdom and focused on the threats she perceived from across the Narrow Sea or the North.

Sansa had been a dutiful student. When Lord Bolton asked if Sansa would be willing to marry his son, Ramsey, she accepted, even knowing the boy’s reputation to be cold and cruel. Crueler still after the mysterious and suspicious death of his father.

But he never touched Sansa. No. On their wedding night, Ramsey fell ill and then never woke.

But Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell again—a Stark was in the North.

And it was so easy for the North to rally to her cause and the North rose up in revolt again. It made Y/N laugh.

But soon the baby was coming—far sooner than she had anticipated. With a final scream, it was over. A baby’s cries filled the air and a bloody, squirming infant was placed in her arms, wrapped in black silk.

“A boy, my lady. A healthy boy. Have you thought of a name?”

Y/N felt tears start to gather in her eyes as she looked down at her son—her beautiful son. The spitting image of her—but then his eyes opened. And he had his father’s eyes. Viper eyes. “His name is Morgan.”

Y/N’s lips still burned from the kiss Oberyn and Ellaria left her with before they departed.

And her heart was lighter, too. They had forgiven her—had said there was nothing, truly, to forgive. “You were protecting your child. My child.”

Morgan stirred in her arms as the wheelhouse rode over a bump. “Mama?”

“Yes, my love?”

His viper eyes opened and she smiled, seeing them shine in the low light of the evening. “Will we see Prince Oberyn and Lady Ellaria again?”

Her smile widened. “Yes. I can promise you that.”

Please let me know what you think!

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @huliabitch @revolution-starter @starlight-starwrites

#oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell imagine #oberyn martell x ellaria sand x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones #asoiaf

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ivysimagines · 3 years

Note

Hey, love. 💞 I hope you’re having a WONDERFUL day! Can I request a Blurb w/ JJ x Fem! Reader? The Reader is John B’s younger sister, and it’s the Hot Tub Scene? JJ and the Reader planned on being married in the future. JJ fantasized buying her a gargantuan engagement ring, but the pair acknowledged they wouldn’t be able to afford it. However, alongside the Hot Tub, Generators, and Delivery, he bought her an engagement ring too? Angst w/ Fluff, please? Thank you! 💞

of course I can! sorry it took me a bit to get to this. I’ve had bad allergies n haven’t been in the mood to write. anyways, the scenario isn’t exactly the way it is in the episode but i made it pretty similar.

pairing: JJ Maybank x Fem! Reader

request: above.

warning: mentions of abuse, cussing, angst w/ fluff, and underage drinking.

Title: Catch

(thoughts are in italics and bold!)

I sit in the backseat of Pope’s truck listening to trees rustling and the tires driving over the old rocky pavement.

They seriously need to get this road redone.

“Guys, this has gotta be done before my scholarship interview in the morning” Pope says.

I roll my eyes.

Will he ever shut up about that?

Like, he’s smart as fuck.

You’ll get a scholarship somewhere.

“Oh my god, Pope” i say, making it clear i’m annoyed.

“What, Y/N?”

“Guys, no fighting” kiara adds while reaching for her seatbelt buckle.

Okay mom.

Pope parks his truck near some trees.

We all unbuckle our seatbelts quickly and hop out.

Pope and Kie are talking about the plan to get the gold.

I hate that John B gets into this shit.

This is exactly how our dad died.

He can’t die or I’ll have no one.

I walk to the back of the truck and slip my phone into my back pocket.

I lean against the truck while Pope and Kie talk.

I shoo away some nats.

“Damn nats” I say as I kill one.

I hear Kie laugh a little.

Suddenly a shit ton of lights come on around us.

We hear a whirring sound.

“What the hell?” Pope says.

I look over to them and back at the lights.

“Who the hell is that?” kie adds.

We all begin walking towards the center of all the lights hoping to find whoever the fuck did this.

I walk behind them and we hear a cork pop.

I cross my arms and nearly trip over a stick.

We stop and I see it’s my boyfriend, JJ Maybank.

“What did you do JJ?” Pope asks him clearly concerned.

JJ smiles a little, “i’ve got a jet going straight in my butt right now.”

“Y’all should get in immediately, you hear me?”

He grabs three glasses and pours the champagne.

I can tell he’s avoiding looking at me.

“Salud!” he says as he raises the champagne.

“How much did this cost?” Pope asks.

I look back and forth between Pope and JJ.

“Uh. well, with the generator, the petrol, and oh, hey, express delivery...uh, i’d say pretty much all of it”

“All of it?”

“Yeah, all of it”

He looks over at me and then back at Pope.

“You spent all of the money in one day?”

“Yeah, burned a hole right through my pocket. But I mean like, come on guys, like, look at this! Finest in jet-based massage therapy, at least that’s what they told me.”

I stare at JJ with a look of disappointment.

JJ looks over to me.

“Babe, what?” JJ asks.

“Can’t a man have a little luxury in his life! C’mon, all this scrimpin’ and scrapin’..i mean like...guys, we- y’know you only live once, right?” JJ says.

I look at Pope and Kie.

“Like, y/n couldn’t you use some fun in your life? You’ve been all down and shit since your-” he stops himself before finishing his sentence.

Asshole.

“Alright, enough of this emotional shit. Get in the cat’s ass. Come on.” he adds.

“In the what?” Kie asks.

“...in the cat’s ass. That’s what i named her” JJ says while looking off to the side.

It’s quiet for a maximum of 3 seconds.

“Oh, hey, yo, i almost forgot-”

JJ reaches forward and flips a switch and it turns on some disco ball.

“Yeah, that’s right, i know. Disco mode, baby” he says.

“Are you kidding me?!” Pope says in an agitated tone.

“You could’ve paid for restitution!” Pope yells.

“Or literally given it to any charity!” Kie adds.

“Or added it to a fucking fund to get the hell out of here!” i yell.

JJ looks right at me.

“Or bought supplies to get the rest of the damn gold out of the well!” (pope)

JJ turns away and rubs his face.

“Okay, well, you know what?” JJ yells.

He stands up revealing purple and red marks on his stomach.

All these different thoughts began racing through my mind and I could feel my heartbeat speeding up.

Oh my god.

He said things were getting better at home.

...i’m gonna kill that motherfucker.

How can he do that shit to his own fucking kid?

Maybe it’s a good thing my mom dipped and my dad’s dead.

“I didn’t do that!” JJ yells.

“I got a hot tub! For my friends- you know what? No, screw friends. I got a hot tub for my family!”

I look at him and tears start forming.

He looks over to me.

“And, I got something especially for you” he says as he reaches into his swim trunks pocket.

I look at him and he pulls out something small.

“Catch” (JJ)

I open my hands and catch a ring in my hand.

I take a look at it.

It’s not just any ring.

It’s a gargantuan engagement ring.

Holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit

I look up at him.

“JJ…”

It’s silent for a few seconds.

I walk over to the hot tub and step on the ladder.

I get inside with him as he rants about ‘everything being fine’.

I pull him into a tight hug.

He starts crying into me.

“I love you” i whisper into his ear.

I rub his back.

It’s quiet as we hug.

Kie and Pope get in with us and we all hug JJ.

“I just wanna do the right thing and I thought-” he says.

“We know, we know. It’s okay, love” i say.

After a few minutes JJ calms down and Pope and Kie leave us.

*now sitting on the edge of the hot tub talking to JJ*

I mess with the ring in my fingers.

“JJ...I don't need some fancy ring” i say.

“I know, but I wanted such an..important ring to be nice”

I look over at him.

“So, this is an engagement ring?”

He smiles at me and nods.

“I know we’re still teenagers and...obviously you can’t exactly get parental consent. Plus, John B would totally kill me if we got married this young. But, we can still be engaged.” he says.

I smile at him and look back down.

“You know, you haven’t asked me”

He sighs and laughs softly.

He takes the ring from out of my hand and looks at me.

“Alright, Y/N Routledge, will you make me literally the happiest man in the world and marry me in a few years?”

I smile at him and bite my lip a little.

“Definitely, one thousand percent”

He smiles and grabs my left hand softly.

He slips the ring onto my ring finger and then places his hand on my face.

We kiss a couple times before I pull away.

I look at the ring on my finger.

Holy shit.

I’m like...engaged now.

What the fuck?

I contain my excitement and just smile.

“So, we could get married when we turn 18...or whenever using our share of the 400 mil and then get the fuck out of here. Away from the obx, away from the pogue bullshit, just...everything” he says.

I stare at him for a few seconds.

“Okay, as long as we can get a dog”

He smiles and nods.

“Named willow?”

“Of course, whatever you want” he says.

I smile at him and we kiss again.

We continue our night together and eventually head to my house.

Hope you enjoy!

Once again, request whatever you would like.

I will also be experimenting with thing like ‘dating ___ would include…’ (i love those types of things lmao)

I might start writing a lot for atypical since i’ve gone back into my atypical phase (13rw as well but idk if ima write for that series or not).

Thanks for readinggg!

Upload schedule:

Monday @ 10 am (EST)

Wednesday @ 3 pm (EST)

Friday @ 8 pm (EST)

There may be random uploads here and there.

If you request something I will upload it on one of those days.

BYEEE <33

#jjmaybank jjmaybank x reader obximagine outerbanks john b new writer jj x reader #jj maybank x fem!reader

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fanboysfangirl · 3 years

Text

Make Me Sway- Rafe Cameron

i'm not in anyway romantizing a murderer 😃✌🏻 jsyk. i feel really bad for rafe tho because of his father. also i feel like rafe is a super softy underneath his bad boy persona. anyways hope you enjoy, leave your requests down below.

summary- so there's gonna be flashbacks in this so in the flashback the reader and rafe were together but not many people knew until the night of midsummers. in the present time the reader comes back to the outerbanks cause she heard about John Bs dad. she sees rafe and everything comes flashing back to her. reader is jj's older sister. flashbacks are in italics.

tw- mentions of drug abuse and physical abuse

—

When I heard John B's dad disappeared I knew I had to go back to the outerbanks. "Paradise on Earth" some people may say. I would disagree. I pulled down the gravel of John B's house. I sighed before getting out of my jeep. I made sure to lock the doors and then walked to the front door. I thought about knocking but instead I just walked in.

"Routledge! Anyone home!" I yelled in.

He peeked his head around the corner.

"No way! Y/n?" I nodded and went over to give him a hug.

"Long time no see kid. Where is everyone else?"

"Kie and Pope are on their way here now, and JJ's at your dads." He said grabbing a beer.

"Want one?"

"No I'm good. You said JJ was at my dads?"

He nodded.

"Alright I'll be back."

"Where are you going?"

"To get JJ." He nodded.

"I'll see you soon." I said before walking back out to me jeep and getting in it.

—

It didn't take long to drive to my dads house even though I thought I would never be there again. I sighed before slamming the door shut. I heard yelling so I ran over to the door which happened to be unlocked and walked in to see my dad beating on JJ.

"Hey!" I yelled pulling JJ away from him. I pushed JJ behind me.

"What do you think your doing y/n! You disappear for a year and now you think you can come back here! That's not how it works! He deserves it move out of the way!" He screamed in my face.

"I am 19! You don't tell me what to do anymore! Come on JJ." I said pulling him away.

"You can't stay with your sister forever boy! You'll eventually come crawling back!" We heard walking out. When we got outside JJ caught me off guard and held me in a hug. I hugged him back and then got into my jeep.

"I'm not gonna let him hurt you like he hurt me JJ. I promise."

"Thank you y/n."

"I'm serious JJ. How bad has it been?"

He lifted his shirt and I saw the blue and purple bruises all over his stomach.

"Oh my God." I muttered.

"It's okay, really. I can handle it."

I nodded and we stayed silent the whole way back to John B's.

—

I hopped out of my jeep once it was parked and I was surprised to hear familiar voices. I walked in with JJ behind me to see Sarah and Rafe. Sarah turned to look at us but Rafe stayed facing John, Pope, and Kie.

"See there he is now can you please apologize?" She said before turning around again.

"Wait! Y/n? Oh my God!" She ran towards me and gave me a hug. When Rafe heard her squeal my name he turned around himself.

I awkwardly hugged her back but as his eyes caught mine the memories started to flood back.

—

(2 years ago)

Rafe and I currently were on his boat that his dad bought him for his 17th birthday. The only place we ever got privacy. Ever.

"Y/n, I think it's a great idea just saying."

"Rafe as much as I wish it was you and I both know it's not a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Your asking me why it's not a good idea for me to be at midsummers? Really?"

"Yes." I sighed and sat up from where my head was resting in his lap. I now sat up against the boat and looked at him.

"I'm a pogue. Your a kook. That's why. If this stupid bullshit about kooks vs pogues didn't exist then I would come."

"Oh come on Y/n, it's just a stupid party and you and I both know that I would much rather be hanging out with you." He said playing with the straps of my bikini.

"Besides we can always sneak out after I make my appearance and my dad actually knows I went."

"Promise?"

He nodded.

I sighed.

"Rafe I have nothing to wear though."

"Sarah's like your best friend I'm sure she wouldn't mind lending you a dress. Please?"

"Fine Rafe." I said giving him a kiss.

—

Just like he said Sarah did help me get ready. In fact she was the only one who knew about our relationship.

"I don't know about this Sarah." I said to her from behind the bathroom door.

"Oh come on y/n! It can't be that bad, come out and let me see!" I sighed and unlocked the bathroom door before walking out to show her.

Her jaw dropped.

"You look amazing!" She said practically squealing. I had to admit the pink dress she picked out was really pretty.

"Sarah it is pretty it's just not my style."

"Oh please by the end of the night I'm sure it will be on the floor of Rafes bedroom anyway." I looked at her with wide eyes.

"Sarah! You are 14!"

"So! Wheezies 11 and she knows about sex!"

I rolled my eyes with a laugh.

"Yeah probably because of you."

We heard a knock on the door and when Sarah opened it Rafe stood there in a tuxedo.

I walked over to him.

"Okay thanks Sarah!"

"Have fun!" She said before Rafe sent her a glare.

"You look beautiful by the way."

"Thank you. You don't look to bad yourself."

—

After Rafe talked to his dad and made an appearance with his friends we snuck up to his room.

"See I promised didn't I?" I laughed.

"You did."

"There's just one thing."

"Rafe I don't wanna go down there again."

"We're not going too. It's just I really wanted to dance with you."

"Oh my God! Did I make Rafe Cameron go soft?"

"Would you just let me have this? Please." I could still hear the music coming from down in the yard all the way up in his room.

"Fine Rafe. But I don't know how to dance."

"It's not that hard. Here, put your hand on my shoulder and then put your other hand in mine." I did as he said and he put his other hand on my waist.

"Now just go back and forth." I followed his steps but I ended up stepping on his toes.

"I'm sorry." I said with a laugh.

"No it's okay. I didn't really wanna dance anyway." He said pulling me to his bed.

"Thank you for coming y/n. It would have been a lot more boring without you."

"Anything for you Rafe."

—

Sarah let me out of the hug and I got another look at Rafe.

"What your not gonna say hi to your ex girlfriend Rafe? I knew you were a douche but I thought you loved her?"

The pogues looked at us with wide eyes.

"Seriously Sarah! Your an asshole!" Rafe said before storming out of the house.

"What I thought everyone knew?" Despite my better judgement I still followed him out.

"What was that about Rafe?"

"Y/n don't!"

"Don't what Rafe!" He held his head in hands.

"Are you gonna say anything or you gonna continue to be a ass?" He cut me off by roughly kissing me. I pushed him away.

"What are you insane Rafe!"

"Oh come on Y/n! Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't still love me! Cause I still love you!"

"Are you still doing drugs?" I asked him. That was the whole reason we broke up.

"Y/n.."

I cut him off.

"Yes or no?"

"Fine! Yes!" I rolled my eyes.

"I might still love you Rafe but I can't love someone who's gonna love drugs more than me. We've been over this. Maybe in the future we can try again but not right now. Goodbye Rafe." I said leaving him standing in the warm air.

#rafe outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe cameron imagine #outer banks

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24hlevi · 3 years

Text

Numb

Mikasa Ackermann (Attack On Titan) X Gn!Reader

Genre: Angst, Slight Fluff

Warnings: Language, Talk about Domestic Abuse/Flashback

Summary: After a heated argument, Mikasa ends up hitting Y/n, resulting in them remembering their last relationship that led them to trauma.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: italics mean flashback, so i know i said there would be no forms of abuse on this blog but since it’s not an actual abusive relationship it’s alright, also i would like to say that if the reader has previous relationships that dealt with abuse i will write it but not if it’s a current relationship

To put it simply, you had been through quite a bit of hell in your past. Which had resulted in you having some very traumatic experiences, and led to your trauma to continue growing. When you broke up with your ex, your friends were so happy that you had gotten out of that terrible toxic relationship, but to you it felt like your world broke down. Yes, you knew what your ex did and was doing to you was utterly awful with the amount of hits you would receive, both physically and mentally, but you were still in love with them. It took years until you two broke up, and for years you were stuck in an endless pit of darkness, never being able to escape unless something bad went down and you would be able to slowly crawl out only to fall back down and land right back at square one.

Then you met Mikasa.

Sure, you had heard about her while you were in the 104th cadet corps. But you hadn’t actually met her nor talked to her once. Mostly because you preferred to stay with your friend group and didn’t like talking to new people. But obviously, your best friend Sasha convinced you to let her introduce you to Mikasa.

You were confused as to why Sasha offered to help you make new friends, but you let her do it anyway.

So you met Mikasa while at dinner, sitting next to Sasha, Jean, and Connie while Mikasa, Eren, and Armin were sitting in front of you three. Eren and Jean were glaring at each other, quietly bickering with one another while Armin was trying to convince them to stop but it didn’t work, like always. Sasha and Connie were talking to Mikasa while you spoke every once in a while, hardly eating because you were too busy staring at the extremely beautiful girl in front of you.

When you were taking a bite of the piece of bread in your hands, still staring at Mikasa, the raven-haired girl looked at you and your eyes widened, realizing you had just been caught staring. You were about to speak when Connie slung one of his arms around your shoulders, “Well would ya look at this, Y/n was caught staring!”

A crimson red blush covered your cheeks as you elbowed the male in the stomach. “Ow! That fucking hurt, man!” Connie exclaimed, leaning over and putting his head on the table.

“Y/n, don’t be mean.” Sasha told you with a frown, “You know he’s telling the truth.” She added after, continuing to eat.

You glared at your friend before looking at Jean, who was still busy arguing with Eren, “Jean! Help me out here, please!” You told him.

“Huh?” Jean turned his head, looking over at you. “What do you need help with?”

“Y/n was caught staring at Mikasa.” Sasha and Connie said at the same time.

“You little mothetfu-“ “OH I see, well that’s no surprise.” Jean cut you off before looking at Mikasa, “You see, Y/n doesn’t know how to act around pretty people so they just stare. You’ll get used to it.”

All you felt was embarrassment as you covered your face with your hands as you mumbled to yourself. “I’m going to kill all three of you.”

After that very embarrassing way of a first meeting, you still didn’t talk much whenever you were around anyone else except your three friends, but you were slowly opening up more. Well, attempting to at least.

Some may have said that it seemed like you weren’t trying hard enough to get past the trauma that your past relationship had given you, but you knew you were trying your best.

And for some reason, that was one thing that had drawn Mikasa towards you.

When the girl walks up to you and Sasha, you both look at her with very different expressions. While Sasha’s was excitement, yours was confusion and before you knew it, Sasha grabbed your hand and looked back at you with a wide smile, leaning towards your ear and whispering, “If you screw this up, you have to deal with Connie, Jean, and I teasing you for the rest of your life.”

When she pulled away and continued to smile, all you did was look at her with confusion. Sasha patted your head and said bye to Mikasa and you before leaving you two by yourselves.

You looked over at the girl standing next to you and decided to speak up after a few moments of awkward silence, “So, did you need to talk to me about something?”

Mikasa looked up from the ground and at you before nodding, “Yes. I was just wondering if you would, uhm, want to be friends, I guess.”

One of your eyebrows cocked up at her words, not expecting that to be what she wanted to talk about. “Oh. Yeah, sure.” You shrugged, trying to seem like you didn’t care that much when on the inside you were freaking out and you didn’t even know why.

When you glanced down at her you could see a small smile on her lips, and you knew from that moment that you wanted to see her smile more. Even if it was small, it was enough to show that she was happy.

Little did you know that smile was going to be one you would fall in love with, as well as the Ackermann herself.

You had no idea what you were getting yourself into when you became friends with the raven-haired girl, but you were definitely in for one hell of a ride.

The more that you two began to talk, the more you realized that maybe making friends wasn’t that hard as it had been when you were with your ex.

And soon enough,

you fell in love with the girl.

“You WHAT?!” Your three best friends stared at you with wide eyes.

“I think I’m in love with her.” You repeated quietly so only they could hear. “Help me out please.”

“How do you only think it? You have to know it, first.” Jean responded. “Then, we can help.”

Sasha and Connie nodded in agreement before Sasha spoke up, “Yeah, you can’t just think it, you have to know for sure.”

“Yeah, what they said.” Connie replied.

“Okay but how do I know? I don’t know how this shit works, you guys.” You sighed

The three went quiet at your question as they all looked at each other as if they were communicating through their thoughts. Jean looked back at you and told you, “Well uh, you’ll just, know? I guess?”

“None of you have any clue do you?” You questioned, crossing your arms over your chest as you looked at them.

“Nope.” All three replied while shaking their heads.

“Great.” You groaned.

“I do have an idea on how you could tell her, though.” Jean said to you with a small smirk on his face.

You looked back at him with confusion before noticing the smirk on his face, “Oh no, don’t do that smirk, Jean. I know what it means.”

“Awe come on! You should trust me, Y/n! I am your best friend after all.” The taller male wrapped his arm around your shoulders.

“I’m their best friend!” Sasha and Connie exclaimed, both of them going up to you and grabbing onto you.

“We’ll help you, Y/n. Don’t you worry!” Connie smiled widely at you.

“And we promise we won’t ruin it!” Sasha added with a smile just as wide.

You let out a short sigh and nodded, “Alright.”

That was a terrible decision that you chose. You should have known that somehow your best friends would screw it up because they were too excited about you talking to your crush. Yet it turned out not so bad.

“Okay, here’s the plan one more time.” Jean spoke to you, Sasha, and Connie. “Y/n will find Mikasa and ask her to come outside of the HQ to talk to her. Connie, Sasha, and I will be around the corner so we can hear everything but so we can’t be seen by Y/n or Mikasa. Do you remember what you’re going to say, Y/n?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, giving him a thumbs up.

“Great.” Jean smiled. “Now, let’s get Y/n a girlfriend.”

It was only a few minutes later when Connie, Jean, and Sasha went outside and left you alone to find Mikasa. “Alright. Let’s do this, I guess.” You mumbled to yourself before starting to walk around.

You eventually found Mikasa with Armin and as you walked towards them you took a deep breath before stopping in front of them. “Hey guys.”

Both of them turned their heads and looked at you, small smiles appearing on their faces. “Hey, Y/n.” Armin said to you.

You smiled back and looked at Mikasa, “Can I talk to you outside?”

Mikasa’s expression turned to confusion but she nodded. She looked back at Armin, “I’ll see you later, Armin.”

Armin nodded his head and smiled at you both before walking away.

“Let’s go.” You said to the girl and you began to walk the way you came that would lead to outside the HQ.

Mikasa followed you, walking beside you as she may have been glancing over at you from time to time, trying not to make it seem obvious that she was staring at you.

When you walked outside and felt the cool winter breeze hit you, you buttoned up your jacket as you continued to walk until you were in the position Jean told you to be at.

Upon you stopping, Mikasa looked at you, “So, what did you want to talk about?”

You glanced down at her and tried to remember everything that your friends told you to say, but as soon as you looked at the girl in front of you it all washed away like rain hitting chalk on the sidewalk. “Uh, well, it’s kinda hard to explain.” You forced out a chuckle that sounded completely fake.

Mikasa had a confused look on her face in response to your words, before she replied shortly with, “Explain it slowly, then.”

“That might make it worse, but okay.” You looked back at her and took a deep breath before speaking again. “So, I know we’ve known each other for quite some time now, and you have quickly become one of my closest friends. Now, what I’m about to say could ruin all of this but at this point I don’t care because I can’t not tell you. From the moment I met you, I thought you weren’t going to be important to me because I only talked to my friends, but I was wrong. Like, really wrong. So, uhm, basically I uh.” You paused for a moment, looking away from her as a hot blush crept up on your cheeks. “I’m in love with you, Mikasa.”

“Oh my god they said it.” Connie whispered as he stood behind the corner of the wall beside Jean and Sasha.

“Not the way we planned, though.” Jean whispered back. “This could go good or bad, now.”

“Shhh, I’m trying to hear.” Sasha shushed them and peeked her head around the corner, her eyes widening when you saw her and she ducked back behind the wall. “You should see Y/n’s face! They’re blushing so much!” She whisper-yelled to the other boys.

You glared at Sasha who you saw peek around the corner before glancing back at Mikasa who was staring at you, not saying anything. You could feel your anxiety levels rise higher than before as you looked at her, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

You turned on your heel, about to start walking away when Mikasa grabbed your hand, making you stop and look back at her. You quickly noticed the blush on her face when she looked at you and the smile she had before she spoke quietly, “I think I’m in love with you, too.”

Your anxiety washed away immediately after she said that and you smiled widely at her. You reached your free hand forward and carefully moved a strand of her hair out of her face which resulted in a deeper red showing up on her cheeks. “Can I kiss you?” You asked.

The girl in front of you nodded slowly, resulting in you giving her a small smile before leaning closer to her. You placed your lips against hers gently, kissing her softly as you felt her relax into your touch before she kissed back.

“They’re kissing!” Sasha whispered to the two boys whose eyes widened upon hearing her words.

“Let me see!” Connie peeked his head around the corner and a wide smile fell on his face. “Holy shit they did!”

Jean looked around the corner as well and he smiled, “See, I knew it would go well.”

“What the hell are you brats doing?” Levi stopped behind the trio, looking at them with his arms crossed over his chest.

The three all screamed out of shock and fell onto the ground, making it so that they would easily be seen by you and Mikasa.

You and Mikasa pulled away from the kiss when you both heard the screams and as you turned your heads you saw your three best friends on the ground laying next to each other, with Levi standing behind them. “I fucking knew it.” You mumbled under your breath.

The three friends just smiled at you and Mikasa innocently, acting as if they weren’t listening the whole time but you could tell that Mikasa already knew.

After that, the plan had succeeded and you had gotten the Ackermann to become your girlfriend. You didn’t exactly know how actual loving relationships were supposed to work, and neither did Mikasa, but it didn’t matter. Why? Because even though neither of you knew how to work an actual healthy relationship, you figured it out in different ways along the way.

And even though Mikasa wasn’t a woman of many words, she showed her love to you by often giving you gifts shyly, or just by simply spending time with you no matter what you two did.

You actually felt like you were in love, not just with someone who “loved” you and you not loving them back. The more you and Mikasa were together, the more you fell in love with her and every little thing she did. Like the way you could feel her lips curve up into a small smile whenever you kissed her, or hearing her giggle when you said something even the slightest bit funny when she was about to fall asleep. You couldn’t help it, you were completely head over heels for Mikasa Ackermann.

You had thought everything was going fine, minus the extreme amount of stress that you both were dealing with, but you didn’t think that anything bad would happen because of it.

You were so wrong.

“Why don’t you listen to me, Y/n?! I’m trying to help you!” Mikasa exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air to emphasize her point.

“Because you aren’t helping! I am perfectly capable of doing things by myself and I don’t need you hovering over me!” You spat out angrily.

“I’m not hovering over you, I’m trying to make sure you don’t get yourself killed!” She shot back at you.

“You are always watching my every move, Mikasa! I’m a grown adult and I can do things by myself!” You cried out, getting angrier and angrier as time went on.

“This is just how I am, Y/n! You know I do this with everyone! So why is it so hard for you to listen?!” Mikasa’s voice raised to a yell.

One of your eyebrows raised at her words as you quickly responded, “It’s not just me who doesn’t listen to you! Eren doesn’t listen to you either!”

“This isn’t about Eren.” Mikasa snapped at you, her eyes slowly filling up with more and more anger as the argument went on.

You could tell that she was getting nearer and closer to fully exploding from her anger, but you continued on, “Oh it isn’t? Well then please, tell me what this is all about. Because to me it seems like you are completely hovering over me with every little thing that I do and it feels like you are mothering me instead of being my girlfriend!”

“I am not mothering you, I am just trying to make sure you don’t get yourself killed! Just because we’re in the Survey Corps doesn’t mean we are invincible! Don’t you understand that?!” Mikasa yelled.

“You think I don’t know that? Obviously I knew we aren’t invincible, Mikasa. But it doesn’t mean I’m going to end up dead somehow because I know what I’m doing! We’ve been doing this for years! I mean hell, just because I wasn’t in the top 10 doesn’t mean I am shit at what we do!” You spat back at her.

Mikasa shook her head, letting out a sigh, “That’s not what I meant. But even Eren doesn’t go so far that he could end up getting himself killed.”

“You just said this wasn’t about him.” You growled out. “And yes, he does. He does it every fucking time we have to do a misson! And it’s always us who has to pay the price for his actions!”

“That’s not how it is and you know that!” She retorted. “He does what he thinks is best!”

“Why do you even care about him so much?! Aren’t I your s/o?!” You yelled angrily at her.

“Obviously you are! But it doesn’t mean that I have to just completely ignore him! I still care about him!” Mikasa yelled back.

“Then why don’t you just go be with Eren!” You finally exploded, not even caring about what you were saying anymore.

Suddenly you felt a harsh sting on the side of your face and a echoing slap. You stumbled back and immediately grabbed your cheek, eyes wide as you then dropped onto your knees, covering your face with your hands. “Please, don’t. I’m sorry. I really am, I swear.” You said quietly.

“Are you fucking stupid?! You can’t even do a simple task?!” Your ex shouted at you.

“No, that’s not what happened, I swear!” You said quickly.

Shortly after you said that you felt the force of something hitting you and you stumbled backwards, hitting the wall. All you could feel was pain on the left side of your face, and when you heard footsteps coming towards you, you lifted your hands up and covered your face. “Please, don’t do it again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You heard a ‘tsh’ as your ex grabbed your hands and pulled them away from your face before landing another hit on you, resulting in you shrieking out in pain. You got picked up by the collar of your shirt and your eyes shut, preparing for more hits that were bound to happen. Suddenly, another sharp pain went right through your stomach and you cried out, tears falling down your cheeks. “Please stop, I’m sorry, I swear.” You cried.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“I’m sorry, please don’t. Please.” You whimpered into your hands.

Mikasa looked at you with shock and sadness written all across her face, and she sat down on the ground next to you, grabbing onto you and pulling you into her chest. “Please don’t apologize, love. I would never hurt you on purpose.” She whispered to you. The girl gently ran her fingers through your hair as a few tears fell down her cheeks, “I’m so sorry. I should have never put my hands on you out of anger. I’ll never do it again, I promise.”

You stayed a quiet for a few seconds before you turned your head and looked up at her, “I know you won’t. It’s just that...my last relationship wasn’t good, at all.” You paused for a moment. “It was uhm...very abusive.” You stopped there, not being able to say anymore without most likely breaking down into tears.

Hearing those words made Mikasa feel even worse about what she had just done without realizing. She had no clue that you had even been in a past relationship, and definitely not an abusive one at that. All that she felt was shame on what she had done, and how much it had probably affected you. And she couldn’t lose you just because her anger went too far past logic and knowing what she was doing. “I’m sorry, Y/n. I didn’t know, but it doesn’t make my wrong doings okay. I’m just...so scared that I might lose you, and I wouldn’t be the same if I lost you somehow. I’m really so sorry.” She spoke barely above a whisper, looking at you with teary eyes and a few stranded tears falling down her face.

You wiped away her tears away with the pad of your thumb and you gently caressed her skin on her cheek. “It’s okay, darling. I know you would never hurt me on purpose, which is why I forgive you. And please, don’t think you’ll lose me. I would never even dream of leaving you on purpose, so please, don’t think that.”

Mikasa sent you a small smile before she leaned in and pressed her lips against yours with you immediately kissing back. Another thing you loved about her was how shy her kisses were, but they were still filled with so much love that you knew she would never try to hurt you.

After a few moments, Mikasa pulled away and rested her forehead on yours. “I love you, Y/n.” She whispered.

“I love you too, Mikasa.”

#attack on titan #aot #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #shingkei no kyojin #snk #snk x reader #mikasa ackerman #mikasa ackerman x reader

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thran-duils · 3 years

Text

Total Eclipse (P.2)

Title: Total Eclipse (Part Two) Summary: Fem!Reader x Sherlock Holmes (RDJ). Sherlock had an impression on the reader from a formative age but he was always so busy running with cases. Their moments of passions were coveted between the two but they were few and far between. He left with Watson on a case and in that time, her parents found her a suitable man to give her to. Wealthy and accomplished. Sherlock and her have not been able to let go of each other though. Words: 3,792 Warnings (for the whole fic): Angst, infidelity, smut, swearing, substance abuse, non liner storyline, character death, 18+ as always Author’s Note: There is heavy backstory here in italics! I was reading up on Victorian customs and tbh, I’m not privy to it at all, so I apologize if things are not historically accurate!

Part One || Part Three || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

You walked away from where your ladies tea was going on, brushing your skirts out. You had begun to become uncomfortable sitting on the blanket and wanted to stretch your legs.

“Do not wander too far,” your mother called out to you.

“Of course not, mother,” you called back over your shoulder.

She would not notice how far you wandered when she was this engrossed in the latest gossip from the castle.

Coming onto the cobblestone, your eyes set on the fountain. There were goldfish inside and you made a point to always come to the fountain when you visited this park. You nodded at a couple as you passed them, exchanging pleasant smiles. They did eye you somewhat curiously at the fact you were walking alone but pleasant, nonetheless. Reaching the edge of the fountain, you leaned over, peering into it.

Just as you were reaching into the fountain, a small gust of wind hit you and you felt your hat fly off the top of your head. You let out a noise of frustration, turning around, eyes searching. It was tumbling away and coming to the feet of a gentleman sitting on a bench. His eyes were on you, and you had a feeling they had been for a bit.

He dipped down, picking your hat up from the cobble stone and stood up from the bench. His hands came up to brush at it as he walked towards you. He was careful with the fabric, his own coat bristling in the small breeze at his sides.

“Your hat, miss,” he said holding it out to you, giving a small bow.

You thanked him and took it.

He was terribly handsome. Dark hair, tousled just so, not to the point that he looked unkempt. His eyes were an alluring shade of chocolate. There was a playfulness in them and they excited you.

“You must keep a good hold on that. It’s woven perfectly,” he continued.

“Perfectly?” you asked, putting the hat back on.

“Yes. It’s immaculate. The stitchwork. Whoever did it took great care. I believe it is the work of the hatter on Bishop’s Gate, east end?” Your mouth fell open in surprise as you pulled the ribbon down beneath your chin and you froze. He gave a light chuckle at your expression, “Sorry, I have a keen eye for detail and a memory to boot. May I?” He asked suddenly, his hands reaching ever so slightly towards your face, eyes on the ribbons for a moment to explain what he was asking.

You stilled, your hands falling to your sides, and he took it as invitation. You breathed easily even though your heart jumped at him being so close. You did not even know this man; he was bold. Coming forward, his hands latched to the ribbons, tying it better than you could. He had a nice smelling aftershave and you locked eyes, your breath hitching. He was suspended in your gaze for a moment before clearing his throat.

He gave a brief smile as he pulled away. “That’s better.”

Something had happened there. And you pressed it.

“Are you sure you would like to tie it that tight? I may want to lose it again if it means you’ll fetch it for me?” you asked.

He actually looked amused, and you were relieved. You were constantly scolded from a young age for being so coquettish. “Bold. Aren’t you?”

“I’ve been told so.”

“Miss….?”

“Miss Y/N L/N. And you?”

“Sherlock.”

“That’s it, then?”

Now he was coy. “For now.”

“So, there’s to be a future, then? Between us?”

He caught your wit, amused even further. Thankfully he did not think you crass and he did not chastise. He was returning your flirtations. “I think so, Miss Y/N.”

“Well, I look forward to the future then. You live in London?” you questioned.

“Yes. Do you?”

“Most of the time.”

“’Most of the time?’” Sherlock repeated and you shrugged.

“Sometimes I dream of escaping. It takes up some of my time, pulling me away from here.”

He smirked at that. “I suppose I should say most of the time too. My mind pulls me to places. As well as my job.”

“Lucky you,” you said sincerely, and his expression was warm. He was interested in you. He was older, not terribly but there was distance. Reaching out, you touched his topcoat. “You are a bit of a pyromaniac it seems. Or just terrible with the cherries of your cigars. Please tell me it’s not the latter.”

“What makes you say that?”

You cocked your head and pulled down his vest and his eyebrows rose at the movement as you exposed some of his chest hair peaking out from beneath his dress shirt. You ignored his stunned look, doing your best to not linger on his exposed chest. Your finger landed on his dress shirt, pointing out the singe. “Do you think I’m blind, Mr. Sherlock?”

He let out a small laugh.. “I thought I hid it well enough beneath the vest.”

“You must not move as quickly as you have been to keep it hidden. Now, tell me. Why would you not just get a new shirt? You surely have the money. I mean, if you know the hatters on Bishop’s. And it’s not just anyone that splurges on a silk tie.”

He cocked his head, eyes running up and down you. You smiled in response, seeing you had impressed him.

“I haven’t gotten around to it,” he shrugged.

“Busy man, then.”

“Quite.”

“Too busy to escort me through the park?” you asked.

He eyed you and asked, “Would that be entirely inappropriate? We did not set this up beforehand.”

You shrugged now and said, “I could tell the gallant story of how you saved my hat from getting dirty in the mud. And I asked for you to walk me back. I did get quite a look for being on my own on the way over here.”

Sherlock’s lips pulled into a smile, and he gestured for you to walk. You were thankful he had initiated it; it was societally appropriate for him to initiate everything. How you wished you could loop arms but that itself would be societally inappropriate considering you had just met. Your mother would simply have a heart attack if she saw that, especially with so many possible suitors in the park.

He came to a stop, and you stopped as well, watching him curiously as he left the path. He reached for the rose bush, and you grimaced as he reached straight into it. He could cut his hands. But he yanked, his fingers moving ever so, pulling a single rose off the bush. His hand was unharmed.

He presented it to you, and you took it gently.

“A token of appreciation of your company, Miss L/N,” he said.

Examining it, you observed, “Pink. Are you of grace and sweetness? Or is that to refer to me?”

“I would have given red would it have been readily available,” he smiled, and you felt heat creep. “Also, pink can symbolize admiration. That is breaching on the red, is it not?”

You shrugged, keeping it close. “Yes, I suppose so. A fine point.”

The two of you walked on and Sherlock asked lightheartedly, “Where is your escort, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I am here with a ladies group. They’re probably sitting at the blankets still, tittering about the gossip,” you responded. “My mother especially. She loves being in the center of all the gossip and drama.”

“My, I must watch my back returning you. Would not want to start any rumors.”

“Would rumors about us be so bad, Mr. Sherlock?”

He was tickled. “You really have no shame, do you?”

“Only in the presence of people I think I can trust. Not all women are complete straight laces. And frankly, most are only that way in public. Have you not spent a lot of time with women in private spaces?”

Sherlock chuckled, “That is a very loaded question, my dear. Where did you ever learn to banter like this?”

“I have an older brother. And your ‘dear’?”

“Have I offended you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

His eyes were alight, sharing a look with you. It was only interrupted as you passed another couple and nodded at them, Sherlock doing the same.

“Ah, like I said,” you said coming back over the bridge. You spotted them still eating their small cakes and sipping on their tea. Sherlock followed your gaze and you leaned in, “Thank you for providing me a walk. My legs had become quite numb sitting on the ground for so long.”

“My pleasure,” Sherlock responded.

You saw that one of the women had noticed you and Sherlock approaching over the bridge and you needed to hurry up the conversation. Pressing your luck, you asked, “Do you happen to have an invite to the Mayberry Ball?”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Would it still be unfortunate if I was there?” you inquired.

Sherlock’s eyes were locked with yours and you came to a stop in the path. You stared at him with sincerity, waiting for his answer.

He cleared his throat, looking away. “It would liven up the event, that is for sure. I am terribly bored at those events, but I am dragged along by my… partner.”

“‘Partner?’” you asked, your fiery hope getting water doused on it.

“Confidant. Flatmate,” Sherlock explained quickly sensing your discomfort, meeting your gaze once more. You visibly relaxed, and he no doubt noticed. He resumed walking with you down the path. “He encourages me to get out. It is why I am at the park today. I had only been out for about a quarter of an hour before you showed up and I had already been considering heading back inside.”

“What a shame, sir. To hide yourself away. Who knows who you’ll meet if you only ventured out?” you stated, shrugging in a lighthearted manner.

“Too true,” Sherlock returned, eyes bright. He shot a look towards where the tea was being held and then cleared his throat, straightening up. “Well, it looks like we have been found out, Miss L/N. I suppose I should let you get back to your lunch. I have taken up too much of your time.”

“The pleasure was mine, Mr. Sherlock,” you assured him as you reached the edge of the grass.

Sherlock gave you a curt bow and turned towards the ladies and gave them a smile and a bow as well in acknowledgment. The ladies bowed their head in return, and you kept yourself from smirking at the fact they all looked like chickens bobbing their heads in unison, eyes fixated on him.

“Enjoy the rest of your afternoon. Make sure to keep that hat tied tightly, Miss L/N,” he told you before turning on his heel and walking off.

You watched him walk off for a few moments before turning back to the tea.

Your mother was on you the second you sat down.

“Who was that man? And where did you get that rose?”

“My hat flew off and he fetched it for me before it went into the mud. I was foolish, I should have tied it before walking off. A gust of wind caught it,” you told her calmly, fixing your skirts around your legs as you relaxed in your sitting position. “And I made a comment about the roses, so he picked one for me. I was afraid the poor man was going to hurt his fingers, but he was careful. Very kind of him to do so, it does smell lovely.”

“And his name?”

“Mr. Sherlock.”

Your mother eyed where he had walked off and she said, “Why does that name not sound familiar?”

The other ladies looked at a loss as well and you merely shrugged in response. “Maybe he is new to the city. I am grateful he walked me back. Are there any cucumber sandwiches left? I am famished.” You acted as if you had little interest in him to get your mother off your back, but you were already thinking of what gown to wear to the Mayberry Ball.

<><><>

You looked down at your gown for the umpteenth time, making sure nothing had spilled on it. You had chosen a deep purple, silk brocade with silver detail. It was one of your finest and your mother encouraged it, considering it was the courting season and especially since it was your fourth season. Your father listened to you when you told him you were uninterested in the men who had tried to court you thus far, but you knew even his patience would wear thin with your pickiness and your hand would be forced.

Eyes wandering, you stood by where your brother was recounting a story to your father and mother. People spun to the dance, others off to the side, exchanging flirtations. You suddenly locked eyes with Sherlock across the room.

He grinned briefly before raising his eyebrows. He turned, disappearing back into the hallway behind him.

Your family was distracted with your older brother, and you easily slipped away through the crowd, following where he had gone. The hallway was empty and there were doors at the end of it. You pushed them open and were expecting him. But you were met with empty air and your brow furrowed.

“Sneaking away, Miss L/N?”

You startled hearing him from behind you. He was sitting on a bench against the wall, nestled between two tall plants.

Stomping over you glowered down at him.

“Did I offend somehow?” he asked as he stood up from the bench.

You scoffed, “You told me to sneak away! And then you startle me!”

“I did nothing of the sort! I merely made a face. And you assumed from there. I don’t argue your detection skills though.”

“Why do I feel as if you are jesting?”

“Never.”

You sighed before saying, “Well, I would accept a dance. But I am sure my mother would be on you in a second. She was already curious about the walk.”

“As you suspected. And she should be. A strange gentleman walking her daughter through the park. Especially during the season. And who said I danced?”

“Is that why you were standing on the outskirts?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You cocked an eyebrow and said, “If you haven’t noticed, I am single. I am to be escorted at these types of events. My father and brother were keeping me close until someone approached me to ask for a dance.”

“You’d already danced with three by my count.”

“You were watching me. For how long?”

“The detail on your gown is exquisite.”

“Will you always compliment my clothing? Is there nothing else about me to compliment?”

There was a pause, the two of you staring at the other. Sherlock’s lips twitched and he hid a smile. “It would be inappropriate of a me to engage in other compliments, no matter how much they are warranted.” Well, that answered your question in a sly manner, much to your pleasure. “But, being found outside with a man alone would tarnish your reputation. And yet you followed. Speaking of inappropriate.”

“And you encouraged it. Plus, it is not like I am a lady. I’m simply middle class. It would not affect me as greatly.”

“I would not say ‘simply’ in that regard. It is very respectable to be middle class. Especially since I can deduce your family is further into the elite side of it. And on the contrary, not being upper class, the situation which we are describing would certainly affect you greater considering you are closer to having less equity if a suitable match was not made within your own social class. Middle-middle class is less than lower upper class.”

He noticed your eyes were narrowed and he cleared his throat, stopping in his speech.

“Do you always speak so much?” you asked him.

“Yes.”

You spotted your brother going through the crowd inside in earnest, certainly searching for you.

“Well, do not change, Mr. Sherlock,” you told him, giving him a quick smile. His interest was piqued by the comment, and you added, “I’m quite serious. It amuses me so. You have intellect. But I must take my leave. I spot my brother who is certainly going to talk my ear off in an unpleasant way about wandering off alone. Even if I say I was using the lavatory and did not want to interrupt their conversation.”

“If you find yourself on New Bond Street…” you said in invitation. Sherlock looked taken aback and you quickly said, “I am sorry. I did not mean to be too forward.”

“No,” he recovered quickly. He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. You are just… very close to me. A few blocks actually… fascinating.”

You saw your brother cross again and you hurried, “Oh, well, yes, that is. What a coincidence. Well, good night. I hope to see you again.” You gave him a half curtsy before you turned.

He grabbed your hand and you stopped, facing him again. He brought your gloved hand up to his lips and gave it a kiss, keeping his eyes on you. “And I as well.”

A smile was on your lips as he let your hand go and you hurried back through the doors back to the ballroom.

<><><>

The day after your tryst with Sherlock, you were not surprised you were called on at home. Thankfully, Arthur was not home.

“A gentlemen is here to see you, ma’am. A Mr. John Watson.”

You greeted him in the parlor, the door cracked. You did not want to arouse suspicion about this gentleman visiting you while Arthur was out, no matter if he was known as an acquaintance. Although, he was far closer to you than anyone in the household would ever know. If the maids wanted to eavesdrop, they could do so gladly.

“John,” you greeted him and he took his hat off to greet you in turn.

“Y/N, you look lovely as always,” he complimented as one of your maids brought in a tray of tea.

John waited for you to seat yourself before he sat down as well. You reached forward, preparing two cups of tea for the pair of you.

“Thank you. You look well. Mrs. Hudson must be feeding the two of you well.”

“Quite,” he answered.

“Sugar?”

“Please.”

You handed him his tea and he placed it in front of him.

John asked point blank, “How was he?”

Of course John knew you had seen him. If Sherlock left 221B Baker, you were one of, if not the first, stops he would take on most of the time if John was not with him.

“He was Sherlock.”

John took a drink and you watched him closely. He met your eyes again and sighed, “He’s been manic.”

“Then it’s a good thing he’s coming back out to see us then, correct? He confirmed he would be at the masquerade.”

“It’s gotten worse since—”

“I don’t need to be reminded again,” you told John.

“I think you do. Are you happy here?”

You bristled at the comment. Why did men think they had such a liberty to comment on your choices? Maybe you should have closed the door, but you did not expect something like this from John of all people. Sherlock, certainly. But not him.

John noticed your expression and he opened his mouth, but you cut in testily in quiet tones.

“I wish you wouldn’t speak so loudly about such matters right under my husband’s roof.”

You did get up now and go to the door, closing it. This was turning into something else entirely than what you had expected. John was watching and you hoped he realized he needed to be quick about this to not give too much time for them to speculate what was happening in here. You sat back down.

He matched your quiet tones, thankfully, even with the door closed. “It’s the most sure-fire way to get your attention on the matter.”

Taking a drink of your own tea, you kept your eyes pinned on him. Swallowing, you placed your cup back down delicately. “I cannot leave my husband.”

“I wasn’t asking you to do that.”

Cocking your head, you asked, “Then what are you asking, John?” His lips were pursed and you knew you had caught him. You shrugged, “You’re asking me to leave my husband. Divorce is illegal for me to initiate if you have forgotten.”

“I know that. He’s always better after he sees you.”

“But?” you asked, knowing there was more.

“But he always reverts.”

“Because he’s not with me?”

John gave you a look now and he said, “You know it is true.”

“John, is this for you or for him?”

“Can it not be both?” he asked honestly. “I am concerned for my friend, and I can simultaneously be concerned for my own mental health and anxiety.”

You sighed heavily, looking out the window.

“I know it is near impossible for you to obtain divorce – or even a separation – but… if you simply saw him more.”

“How?”

“Bring him into your circle. Then it would not be suspicious if the two of you were speaking with each other. On the street, in a restaurant, at the park.”

“You know it not just speaking that Sherlock and I engage in,” you whispered.

John rose his brows, looking embarrassed, but said, “I know. But just seeing more often may encourage him to imbibe less and relax.”

“Do you understand how much I wish I could be with him?” you asked seriously. John was quiet and you shrugged. “There will always be a hole, John, for me.”

John leaned forward and said, “Then try what I am suggesting. Please.”

Studying his face, you exhaled, running the risk of the idea through your mind. Sherlock was unorthodox, but perhaps he could put up a front to be around the gentlemen your husband surrounded himself with. It was farfetched but… possibly.

“I’ll consider it. I am going to see him tomorrow night at the ball. I trust you are attending?”

John nodded, “Yes. I am.”

“Good,” you told him, getting up again and going back to open the door a crack. You did not see anyone in the hall but you doubted they had not been there and had only run away when they heard your footfalls coming towards the door. Facing him again, you said in your normal voice, “I am looking forward to the gooseberry pie myself.”

~~~

Fic tags: @undecidedsworld @mcnegan

#sherlock holmes x reader #rdj sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes rdj #my shit

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aylacavebear · 5 months

Text

Retribution Chapter 6

Pairing is Dean Winchester x Reader/You

Warnings: Talk of DID - Dissociation Identity Disorder (AKA MPD), Mental Health Issues, Alcoholism, Thoughts of deserving to have it all done to "you".

Please, if you suffer from any mental illness, seek help. There are people out there who can help you get through it, no matter how alone you feel now or how hard it may seem.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 6 - While You Sleep

Dean leaned down and kissed your forehead before tucking you in, turning off your light, and joining his brother and Cas back in the library. The last month had been hard on all of them. The two weeks you’d been gone had been the hardest.

Dean had lost so many people throughout his life that he thought that, in a way, he thought he was bad for everyone around him. When you left for those two weeks, though, he realized he couldn’t lose you, too. He also vowed that when he found you, he was going to do everything he could to help you heal your illness.

“Whiskey?” Sam offered, breaking the tense silence as he slid a full bottle across the table for him, which he caught. “She’s at least gonna get some sleep now. How you holding up?”

“I’ll live,” he sighed before taking a decent swig from the bottle, needing to dull the worry still consuming his mind.

“Cas, are you one hundred percent sure that the other personalities are gone?” Sam asked, still questioning it. He’d read up on enough to know that healing wasn’t always possible.

Cas met Sam’s gaze with a steady resolve, “When I looked in on her nightmare, I also looked at her memories from the night she left. They are gone. She was in a dark place. She needs people to give her the chance to trust herself again.”

Sam knew you’d never been like this before, seeming as though you were broken. Even with everything you’d done to his brother and the verbal abuse you had put them both through, seeing you like this was worrisome. Another personality always came out and took over when one got too depressed or emotional. He sipped his beer, considering Cas’s words.

“She’d different, Sam,” Dean began quietly, fighting tears that had been threatening to fall since he’d brought you dinner. “She’s… softer.” His voice was laced with uncertainty.

He didn’t know how else to explain it. It was just something he felt, and he always had a hard time putting his emotions into words. Unless, of course, it was anger. That was always easy. He sipped the whiskey, trying to think of other ways he could help you.

“How is she gonna be, when she wakes up?” Sam asked Cas, mirroring Dean’s worry.

“Hopefully, not as depressed. There wasn’t a lot I could do for what she has already remembered. I let her have some of the memories, just not as detailed, only a few. She will remember what she’s done over the last month and have a vague idea why. It will give her the time she needs to work through it, very slowly,” Cas explained, glancing toward the hallway where the rooms were, just as concerned for your wellbeing as the brothers.

“I don’t recommend her sleeping in your room yet, Dean. It could trigger memories to come forward too quickly, even after what I did,” Cas added.

All three of them were worried about you. The last month had been completely out of character for when you’d had DID. There were times your personalities would take off, but it typically only lasted a couple of days, and you always answered your phone. They were beginning to wonder if you’d ever hunt again, as that, too, could trigger memories you probably didn’t want to remember.

Dean and Sam remembered, though. Sam couldn’t count how many times he’d traced your phone, finding you in a different motel with some random guy. Dean had told himself it wasn’t the personality that loved him, that she would never do something like that. The one thing that circled his mind was how much of her was left in you.

“I’d say to stop thinking about it, but I don’t think either of us are going to be able to do that till we know,” Sam sighed, seeing his brother lost in his thoughts again.

“We’ll see how she’s doing tomorrow. For now, I’m just gonna go slow with her,” Dean told him, but there was a sadness in his tone even Cas was able to pick up on.

Dean’s mind wandered back to some of his favorite memories of you.

It was early in your relationship, and you’d had to sleep in the Impala that night, but Dean hadn’t minded. You were wrapped up in his arms, and he could hold you close against him in the back seat. Sam was still sleeping in the front. Dean was awake, though, just watching you sleep. The way your hair fell partially over your shoulder but not in front of your face. How your breathing was slow, like you were in a peaceful, dreamless slumber. Your hand was on his chest over his heart. When your fingers twitched, it made him smile, feeling the movement through his shirt. He watched you inhale deeply, then yawn before your eyes began opening. He rubbed your shoulder gently with the arm he had under you, “Morning, Sweetheart.” “Mmmm,” you hummed as a smile spread across your lips, too sleepy to say anything. “You sleep okay, cramped on this backseat with me?” he asked quietly, not wanting to wake his brother. “I love getting to sleep in the Impala with you. We have to stay close, or I end up on the floor,” you replied, giggling a little as you looked up at him. Dean caressed your cheek, looking deeply into your eyes. This was the moment he realized he loved you, at least this personality of yours. She was always so sweet and caring, and she knew how to laugh at things. You’d been hunting with him and his brother for half a year now, and it was these moments that had meant the most to him. You were a damn good hunter, well, that personality was, but this one had his heart.

“Dean, did you hear anything I just said?” Cas asked him.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean answered. Then he sipped his whiskey, realizing he had gotten completely lost in his thoughts.

Sam’s brows furrowed in confusion, “And your thoughts on the matter are…?” he asked, trailing off at the end.

Dean rolled his eyes, “Alright. I didn’t hear you.”

Cas sighed, slightly frustrated, “Tomorrow after she wakes up. I, was suggesting that perhaps she shower and you help her set up a room that is all hers. Something that has nothing to do with her DID. It might help her.”

“Huh, that is a good idea,” Dean mused, now letting the thought play through his mind, hoping she’d be okay with it. It might even give him a chance to ask you a few things without pushing other things. He did still want answers. He couldn’t hide that tiny flicker of hope that ignited within him, “Maybe it’ll give her a way to start over.”

In a way, that’s what they all felt like you were doing, starting over. The only difference, you were attempting to pick up the pieces of your life that your personalities had left shattered at your feet. You wouldn’t be alone, though. The three of them were your family, and even though the abuse you’d put them through, they all loved you in their own way.

Dean’s gaze fell on the bottle of whiskey, and a small smile played along his lips for a moment.

“Come on, share,” you begged, reaching over Dean again, trying to grab the bottle of whiskey.

“Kiss me first,” he told you playfully.

The two of you were lying on your shared bed in his room, which was now both of your room. He was on his back, and you on your side. You were watching him while attempting to reach over his chest to his other hand, where he held the whiskey bottle just out of your reach. Dean smirked, loving how playful you were being. “Fine,” you replied, quite playfully, before placing an intimate kiss on his lips. His other hand moved to the middle of your back, holding you against him as your hand rested on his chest. This was the personality he loved and that loved him. When you went to pull away, he held you closer, smirking against your lips, making you giggle. Music to him. Dean rolled the two of you over, careful not to spill the open bottle of whiskey before setting it on the night table on the other side of you. He never broke the kiss as his hand came down and caressed your cheek. “I love you,” he said softly, now looking into your eyes. He could see it, the way you felt for him. You were the only one who looked at him like that. “I love you too,” you whispered, smiling back up at him.

“Dean, are you even paying attention?” Sam asked, wondering where his brother's mind was.

He sighed heavily, “Sorry. What were you saying?” he asked, now looking up at Sam.

“Cas and I were talking about DID. It’s not something that just goes away overnight. Do you have any idea how long or if she had been doing any sort of therapy?” Sam asked, recapping what he and Cas had talked about.

Dean had to think about that before he could answer. He hadn’t seen you doing anything that could be therapy, “Well, I found her alone a lot, with a laptop.”

Cas furrowed his brow in curiosity, “What do you mean, and for how long?”

“Uh, well, she would disappear a lot around the bunker. When I would find her, she always had her laptop open to something but would close it and not let me see. I think for at least the last five years, she was doing that often,” Dean explained, wondering how it would even help.

Sam and Cas looked at Dean, somewhat puzzled, as he hadn’t said anything about it prior to tonight. “And you’re just now telling us about it?” Sam asked, trying not to sound annoyed.

“I didn’t think anything of it before. Some of her personalities did weird things,” Dean attempted to defend himself.

“If she’s been at it for five years, that would make sense as to why it recently happened,” Cas thought out loud, his gaze on nothing in particular.

As the brothers waited for Cas to say something else, Dean’s mind again drifted to his memories.

“But we watched a western last night,” you groaned, seeing the moving waiting to get played on the screen. “Come on, Sweetheart. We can watch something else after. I promise,” he attempted to convince you in that sweet kid way he always did. You rolled your eyes but gave him a playful smile before plopping on the couch next to him and cuddling up close, “You know I can’t tell you no when you get like that. It’s cheating.” You gave him quite the pout, which made him laugh. “Now, who’s cheating?” he teased you, slowly bringing his hand down your arm and to your side. You managed to keep the pout—that is, until he squeezed his hand on your hip, causing you to squeal with laughter. Dean was smiling ear to ear as he brought his other hand to hold you in place the more you squirmed. “That’s not fair!!” you squealed between fits of laughter as he tickled along your ribs. Dean loved hearing you laugh and seeing you happy and smiling, as they were few and far between those days. He didn’t keep it up long, tickling you before he stopped to let you breathe. You were the one he loved, and your eyes always danced when you laughed. He caressed your cheek as your giggles subsided, but your smile never faltered as he looked into your eyes with utter adoration, which you returned. That look spoke the words neither of you needed to say now.

“I swear, Dean. It’s like you’re not even here,” Sam snapped, pulling him from his thoughts.

Dean sighed, “I can’t help it. What’d I miss?”

“We were talking about what she would have been doing at Crowley’s,” Cas told him, puzzled as to what kept pulling Dean from the conversation.

“She wanted to get Crowley to somehow put her through the same abuse she put us through, for the same amount of time or longer,” Dean told them and shuddered at the thought. “Although, she wanted it done to her tenfold.”

“That’s why you asked me to help her, isn’t it?” Cas asked, finally putting all the pieces together.

“Yeah. It broke my heart to see her in so much pain,” he mumbled, then took another swig of his whiskey.

Sam sighed, “You’re not going to be much help to her if you go down the same path of self-destruction.”

“I can put my own stuff aside and be there for her when she needs me. I’m only drinking like this because I know she’s gonna sleep all night, and I don’t have to worry about her waking up in tears or trying to take off running again,” Dean told his brother firmly. He’d backed off the alcohol since Cas had brought her back, and he needed this tonight. He needed to relax as he’d been on edge for the last two weeks.

“For the first time in a long time, none of us have to worry about her,” Sam agreed, finishing his beer.

They’d all worried about you in different yet similar ways. Most of your personalities had been self-destructive, which always caused problems for those who cared about you. Like the random men in motel rooms, even when Dean was sound asleep in your shared one. The verbal conflicts they started on purpose, then hid the memory of from your other personalities.

Half the time, you didn’t even know there was a problem, and they all hated having to tell you about it. If they did tell you, it hurt you emotionally, and that always caused another switch. It was a never-ending pattern that none of them had seen a way to stop without forcing you into a mental hospital. Dean alone wouldn’t allow it. He had stayed firm in the belief that healing had to be your choice.

What none of them could fathom now was why you had chosen to do it all alone for the last five years. That was their biggest question, followed by what kind of person you not only were now but would be once you got through all of this.

“You think she’ll ever hunt again?” Dean asked as if he was lost in a daze again, staring at his whiskey bottle.

Cas turned his attention to Dean, contemplating an answer, “It’s hard to say. Only time will tell now. Let’s get her through this before we worry about that.”

“I can send any cases that come up to other hunters while we stay here to help her,” Sam added.

“Did you update Charlie and Eileen?” Dean asked, finishing off the bottle of whiskey.

“Called ‘em the night Cas brought her back. They wanted to come by, but I told ‘em now wasn’t the time and that I’d keep them posted,” Sam explained.

“Good. We’ll see how she is tomorrow before those two stop by,” Dean chuckled.

Charlie, Eileen, and you had hit it off the moment you’d met and were practically sisters at this point. The downside, a few of your personalities had a thing for Charlie. Charlie had reassured Dean numerous times that nothing had ever happened between the two of you, but he always wondered. That was mostly due to how thick the flirting had gotten, even if it was never physical.

Would you still be into chicks? Dean thought to himself.

“You think those two will still flirt with each other?” Sam chuckled, remembering how badly Dean had blushed numerous times hearing the things that came out of both your mouths.

All he could do was shrug. There were so many things he didn’t know. One of the ones that was burdening him the most was whether or not his Y/N was still a part of you. He wasn’t sure if you’d still feel the same toward him, and that would be worse than if you’d died.

“Dean, you might want to be there, when she wakes up tomorrow. If you’re up for the task, she’ll need a rock to lean on, even if she won’t know how to ask,” Cas told him sympathetically.

Dean sighed, tossed the empty bottle in the trash, then quietly went into your room. For the first time in a long time, you looked peaceful in your sleep. A soft smile crossed his lips as he just watched you sleep for a moment.

He slipped off his shoes before carefully sliding into bed behind you and snuggling up close to you. Dean let his hand gently move down your arm before he laced his fingers with yours, rubbing the side of your thumb with his.

“I’ll always love you,” he whispered before closing his eyes, hoping he would sleep peacefully next to you for the night.

Sam and Cas stayed up a little while longer, sitting in the kitchen mostly in silence. Sam wanted to believe that the personalities were gone, but something was nagging at the back of his mind. He’d done enough research on DID to know that it ‘didn’t just go away’, even after half a lifetime of in-depth therapy.

Part of Sam hated you for how your personalities had treated not only him, but also his brother and their friends. He kept this from both his brother and Cas, not wanting to make things harder for Dean than they already were.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 7 - Picking Up the Pieces Pt. 1

Retribution Master List

Tag List: @jc-winchester @nancymcl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx

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morgansmoreid · 3 years

Text

Do You Still Love Me • Derek Morgan • Chapter Nine

Chapter Name: " Reasonable"

Fic Masterlist

Italic writing stands for flashbacks.

Content/Trigger Warnings: Parental Abuse, Drugs Mention, Homophobia

Bold Writing stands for what happened at the station while Y/n was not present

---

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

Four.

Y/n's feet clacked against the concrete floor.

Rubbing the palm of her hand against the outline of the pills, Y/n moved along the cars as she slowly walked to the station, this time her mind as empty as an open field.

The station was in her view quicker than anticipated. She pulled open the front door, the bell above it causing everyone who was in ear's views to turn their heads. Scanning each face carefully, relief swayed through Y/n as no face was anyone she dreaded to talk to.

Her relief was cut short as Aaron walked down the hall to her left with the team, her father, and James.

"That was all we needed to know," She heard him say as Aaron shook her father's hand.

James was the first to see her, alerting the rest of the people surrounding him by clearing his throat. Y/n made eye contact with James, her breaking first as her eyes fell to her feet. Thoughts of turning around and sprinting on her heels again popped in Y/n's head, but she ignored them and just looked to the floor.

"Y/n Y/L/N-Fields, please come with us." Emily moved from the center of the group and to Y/n, reaching out her hand to lead Y/n the way of the interrogation room. Y/n took it, keeping her head down as they walked past the group, eyes burning through her back as the pills in her pocket scream her name.

Emily opens the door and lets Y/n take a seat before heading outside again. Everyone is looking at the young female through the one-sided window, their eyes still leaving the same burning gaping hole.

Aaron and David come in, both faces stoic and tense. In hand, Aaron has a yellow pad and a pee cup while David has a blood test. Y/n's eyes grow wide at the objects placed in front of her before she sits up straight and lays her hands on the table.

"You aren't drug testing me." She says, her tone assertive but calm.

"But we are," David replies, looking over to Aaron.

"You understand that this is a federal investigation now? If you comply, these samples will not go on record but will be used for further inference. If you don't, they will go on your job record and you will be on leave effective immediately." Aaron threatened, leaving Y/n no choice.

"I'm clean." She mumbled as she rolled her sleeve for the blood test. Even if she wasn't, it wouldn't show for another 2 days, so it would be negative anyway.

Aaron said nothing as he opened the blood kit and wiped Y/n's inner arm with a sanitary wipe. Y/n winced at the needle entering her arm, the pain lasting as blood filled four tubes. Placing a bandaid on her arm, Aaron disposed of the needle in a different bag before opening the door and handing it to a hand outside.

Y/n may have not seen the person who took the bag, but she saw Derek. He was leaning against the wall across from the door, arms crossed. They made eye contact, this time neither one breaking it, just before the door closed.

"Do you need water?" David's voice pulled Y/n out of her thoughts.

Yes. Her throat was dry and scratchy.

Yes. Water would go well with the pills in her pocket.

"No thank you," Y/n looks up to David. He gives her the look of pity and sorrow and she feels herself hanging on by a thread.

"Come with me then," David holds the look as he turns around, cup in hand, and opens the door for Y/n.

Walking out, Y/n and David turn to the right from the small room while the team and others are on the left. David stands outside of the unisex bathroom as Y/n pees in the given cup. Washing her hands, Y/n stares at herself in the mirror.

Her eyes are red and her arm is now in pain. She feels like she's in one of those bad teenage romcoms, where the main character fucks up her life and in the end, it gets better. She's just waiting for her cue.

The silence lasts in the bathroom as Y/n bags her cup and places it on the small window ledge. She could run right now if she wanted to, but it wouldn't be worth it. Y/n turns on the bathroom faucet again and pulls out the baggie of pills from her pocket. 7 white tablets look at her as she takes one into her hand and shoves the rest back into hiding.

Just before she could bring her hand to her mouth and consume the evil, little miraculous wonder, David knocked on the door causing her to drop the pill in fright. Right into a puddle of "water," the pill went as Y/n hissed at the closed brown door.

"Fuck!" Her words echoed in the small room.

"Y/n? Is everything ok in there?" David's voice is muffled on the other side.

Instead of answering him, Y/n grabs the cup and pushes open the door, slamming the cup into the elder's hand and walking back into the integration room. She passes everyone, this time not bothering to even acknowledge Derek's presence, or his attempt to talk to her.

She slacks down in her seat and waits for the next person to walk through the door. It's Aaron again, with Penelope's laptop and a tape recorder in hand as he carries a file in his armpit.

"Before we start, shall I address you as Fields or Y/L/N?" Aaron precautions.

"Y/L/N, and only Y/L/N," Y/n says, voice cold as ice.

"Ok then, for the record, can you please state your full name, your age, and the year?" The first question leaves Aaron's lips.

"My name is Y/n Y/L/N, I am 29, and it's the year 2008."

Hotch scribbles Y/n's words down and opens the laptop. When he turns it to her, it's already open to a cheer photo from Y/n's sophomore year of high school.

"Please state who you recognize in this photo." Aaron opens the file that was once under his arm.

Eyes read the screen multiple times as the memories resurface in Y/n's head and the names leave her mouth.

"Sabrina Chains, Joanna McCarter, Daisy Miller, Rose Henry, Arianna Anderson, Megan Smith, Daniela Choi, Christina Middleton, and Catarina Paredes."

It's not in order, Sabrina is actually next to Daisy and Joanna is standing next to Daniela, but when Y/n recognized the face, she said the name.

"And who is this?" Aaron hits the right arrow key to move to the next slide. Y/n is horrified by what she sees. It's not another group picture or even a single picture of one of the women, it's a crime scene photo.

It's Arianna's crime scene photo, the only crime Y/n wasn't surrounded by the group for. The hotel room is way messier than others, the behavior completely changed from the last 3. Blood is everywhere, money and jewelry are splattered across the floor and there are no numbers on top of the body or anywhere for that matter. If the other kills weren't personal, this was. Arianna was killed by someone in rage and mixed emotion.

Just how Y/n left the team.

She can only look at the gruesome crime scene for so long until she reaches for the hood of the laptop to shut it off. Aaron is quicker and pulls it out of her sight as he switches to another picture of the crime scene, this time the bathroom.

Two looks and Y/n is ready to throw up. She trained for this, she worked her ass off for the last 5 years on how to keep her composure, yet, she's failing to keep herself together. The bathroom is a mess, clothes are ripped and makeup is smeared on walls, this unsub lost control or this is a new killer. Either way, it's not Y/n and there is no way that the team can possibly deem her that low.

"Please turn it off." Her voice is tense and demanding.

Aaron does shut the laptop and turns it to him. He takes a minute to write down his observations and proceeds with the integration further.

"When you left the Police Station, you were gone for 2 hours and 13 minutes, where did you go?" He asks, writing down the question as he says it.

"James, where is she?" David asks, handing Spencer a miniature Newton's cradle to calm him down.

Everyone looks at James for an answer. After Y/F/N was questioned, he and James were separated for the sake of the case. James was working on a different case file, wrapping it up on the end of the conference table while the team focused on Y/n.

"I'm not positively sure," James lied, rubbing the back of his neck as his handwriting started to get sloppy against the manila folder and its contents inside.

"Well, where do you think?" Derek spoke, his tone snappy and agitated.

After Y/F/N gave up his truth about Y/n's past and her drug problems, Derek was also questioned, not officially, just about how much he knew and what he wasn't letting on. Derek was honest with Hotch and the team, telling them he had no idea about Y/n's problem. Yes, it was true sometimes it intrigued him when they had date night and she never drank anything besides sparkling water, but when she blamed it on "past issues," he assumed it ran in the family.

He assumed because he trusted her.

And she broke that.

"Michael? The guy that Chief Fields couldn't stand? He lived right over here." James gets up and points to the computer screen. Y/n's last coordinates were still up so he dragged his pen across the screen, measuring out the distance for the team as he landed on the only colorful house in satellite view.

"I thought Michael was who introduced her into the drugs in the first place?" Aaron walks over to James.

"It's not really his fault, I've always told Y/n that she could've said no," James responds, becoming silent from everyone's glare at him.

"Saying no isn't easy," Derek mumbles, so low, no one heard him.

No one could say anything as another policeman came into the room frantically about a new body.

Y/n had only been gone 34 minutes at most. There was no way it could be her so quickly, but that didn't stop everyone's thoughts from going to the deep end.

As the team flies into the SUVs, Aaron orders Penelope to keep watch on Y/n's coordinates and dig very thoroughly of the lives of the 9 women, 5 now potential victims.

"Someone has it out for these women, and I wouldn't put it past that Y/n is the glue." He said, tightening his holster.

"I just walked around, took time to clear my head." Y/n lied.

Everyone knew where she was, but Aaron didn't call her out on her false truth and asked the next question.

"When was the last time you purchased any narcotics of the sort, Opioids, Cannabinoids, Hallucinogens, and or Stimulants?" Aaron asked, unsure he wanted to hear the answer himself.

"Last time I was in town, 5 years ago." Y/n lies again.

This time, half of the team is unsure if it's true. James knows deep down it's a lie, but the rest of them don't want to believe it.

So Aaron doesn't push.

"And the last time you consumed any of the narcotics listed before?"

This question, everyone wants the truth, everyone is determined to figure out if they let another team member sink into their addiction before their eyes or if Y/n truly did put her life here behind her.

"As I said, last time I was in town, 5 years ago," Y/n says, her tone changing. It speaks of truth, which tells everyone, even her father that she lied about the last time she bought drugs and where she was, but they don't care about that at this moment.

All they care about is her sobriety, they were still her family after all.

Aaron smiles internally as he writes Y/n's answer on the yellow pad, then ripping the sheet off and sliding it underneath the cardboard. When he does this, the next yellow sheet visible is not blank, it's all of Y/F/N's previous questions. The horrible lights make it hard to see all of them but it still shines bright on the first one.

"What was discipline like as Y/n grew up?" Aaron asks his first question.

The question throws Y/F/N off guard. That had nothing to do with the investigation, what did the FBI want to know about his parenting?

"I believe you were asked a question," David says beside Aaron, arms crossed.

"This has to do what with the investigation?" Y/F/N asked, finally understanding the concept of what he was being asked.

"Agent Hotchner, are you implying that I abused my daughter?" He accused, now not feeling so compliant.

"I didn't say anything to imply, did I, Agent Rossi?" Aaron says loud and clear, bringing the tape recorder to him.

"Not at all, but I think you should repeat it, someone seems confused," Rossi taunted.

"Y/F/N Fields, what was discipline like as Y/n, your daughter grew up?" Aaron demanded an answer.

"Reasonable," Y/F/N said.

"Reasonable how?" Rossi pressed.

"If needed, I taught my daughter wrong from right," Y/F/N replied confidently.

"Did you at any given point in time, use your power as a parent to hit Y/n as a punishment?" Aaron asked bluntly. He hated abusers, it was something about finding pain and taking it out on others that he just could never understand.

"I did. But like I said when it was reasonable." His mouth forms into an undeniable smirk.

Y/F/N's hand went across Y/n's face.

"I said I was sorry!" The girl cried, she was only trying to show her dad an A+ she got.

"You're always sorry, there was no reason for you to knock that down." The angry male pointed to the empty cup on the floor.

Out of excitement, Y/n's elbow hit the plastic cup and knocked it down, but she was backed into the wall before she could pick it up, dropping her graded test midway.

"Reasonable," Y/F/N mumbled to himself.

Anger filled Y/n as her eyes went over the word reasonable.

Never once was Y/F/N reasonable.

Never.

Clenching her fists, Y/n sits up straight and zones back into her conversation with Aaron.

"Can you ask it again?" She says, making straight eye contact.

"Your relations to Daniela Choi?" Aaron asks.

Y/n doesn't know how to reply, she knows Derek is watching so she has to careful with her answer.

"I was-," She gathers her thoughts. "We were pretty close."

It's not a lie. They were close, extremely.

"Who would you say Y/n was closest to?" Aaron asks James.

The team started the investigation from the very beginning, so now everyone was a suspect.

"I've got a funny feeling about that dude, Hotch," Derek says, but his judgment is clouded, he's angry and hurt so to make him feel better, Aaron took James in for questioning.

"Daniela." James's answer is short.

"Why?"

"They dated, for a long time, blew up our whole group," James explains.

"What group?" Aaron flies through the files that he brought in.

Instead of answering, James takes out a picture.

"He's prepared." JJ points out.

The picture is a cheer team, James is nowhere to be found but the first person to catch Aaron's eye is the babyface of Y/n, she in middle, engulfed in a hug by a female with curly mixed hair- Arianna he later finds out. He wants to question why James has this but James continues to talk.

"Not everyone was supportive."

"What?" Rose asked.

"I'm dating Y/n," Daniela said slowly, it was time the two told their friends, the thought of banishment slipping their minds.

"You and Y/n? But your both girls!" Rose exclaimed, as the pastor's daughter, she was raised to what she thought was right.

"So? My mom said it doesn't matter and we both know Y/F/N won't bat an eye." Daniela spoke for both her and Y/n.

"Guys! Help me out here, tell them it's wrong." Rose looked around the booth, empty cups filled the large table as her high pitch voice filled the empty diner.

"How is it wrong?" Caterina scoffed, she could never have the courage to do what Danny and Y/n are doing but she'll stand by them no matter what.

"The bible-" Rose protests.

"For the last time, not all of us live by the damn bible!" James slammed his hand on the teal table before them.

Everyone loved each other, no one cared for anyone's flaws, like Rose's, who always ignored everyone when they try to tell her they don't want to hear bible quotes, or Y/n who always inserts herself into drama.

They were each other's little family and until now nothing has torn them apart.

"I refuse to be around them and their sins," Rose shoved her finger into Y/n's, finally the young girl to stand up.

"And we refuse to be around you." Y/n's tone is cold and tense.

"We all do." Arianna stood up.

"Christina?" Rose looked at the oldest for help.

"You heard them, you can't hate one without hating all of us." She said.

Christina's word was final. If she said someone was out, they were out, no discussion. She just had to say the words.

"Rose, are you staying or leaving?" She asked.

"I'm leaving, my dignity lasts." Rose proudly held her head high.

"Bye then. You longer are allowed to hang out with us." Christina said with much more pride.

The 10 at the table watched the first walk away.

"Not everyone agreed." James rephrased his sentence, fists clenching in anger.

As James told Aaron how the day that Rose left the group went, his fingers dug deeper into his hand, and when he finally let go, crescent marks left their place.

"When you say close, what do you mean?" Aaron wants to hear from Y/n, James is not trustworthy enough right now.

"I had a relationship with Daniela," Y/n admits.

Hearing the words makes Derek turn on his heels and leave the group in the hall. He needs air, he needs to be away from Y/n right now. He told her he was sorry about her friend and she just went with it, in his eyes, she lied to him.

She did the one thing that he always asked not to.

"Derek?" Spencer's voice called from behind him.

"Not now," Derek says, but it's more of a plead. He doesn't want to take his anger out on someone who doesn't deserve it, he wants to take his anger out on Y/n.

Spencer leaves him alone and Derek takes a few minutes to himself. When he heads back to the station, he refuses to join back with the group, he heads back to the table in the conference room and starts working, the way his handwriting fills each paper and picture easing his mind.

As the minutes feel like hours, Y/n's interview is finally done and she feels bare. She hates how much she revealed, she hates how much has been stripped, how her walls came down and she had no say.

She hates most of her answers were lies that found their way into her truth.

But she won't tell them that, they don't need to know.

They don't get to know.

Aaron lets Y/n head to the hotel first, but when she steps outside, it's dark. Her phone is dead and her body is tired, yet her feet take her to the hotel doors, they let her step into the elevator and into her room. Her hands ache but they plug her phone in and they pull her shirt off. Her hands ache but they turn the knobs of the shower and unbutton her pants. Her legs hurt but they step out of the jeans and help her feet kick them to the side. Her body is a temple of pain but as she removes her bra and underwear, as she steps in the shower, as her fingers run over her body and squeeze the soap out of her cloth out, letting it slide down her figure, she finds her self sitting in the middle of her bed, the air silent where she finally lets her self cry.

So many years of bottling up feeling, so many years of trauma, and it took 34 questions to strip her of who she was. Every single question she counted, every single time she felt betrayed, she counted, her life was out there to know, memories she hid taunt her.

A knock on her door pulls her out of her thoughts.

When she gets up, she takes notice of the black shirt she was wearing 24 hours ago. The feeling of Derek's hand run up and down her body in chills as she walks closer to the door.

24 hours ago everything was peaceful.

Now it's a shithole.

Cracking open the door, Y/n is surprised, to say the least. Both people are silent as she opens the door more and lets the person step in.

"Derek-" She tries.

"No. You don't get to talk. It's your turn to listen." He says, meaning every fucking word.

#derek morgan #derek morgan fic #Chocolate Thunder #derek morgan x reader #bau x reader #reader insert #mjmoreid #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds fic

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