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defectivevillain · 7 months

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this broken design, ch16

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

some of this chapter is born out of me realizing, as i read The Red Dragon, that i essentially limited Alana’s presence in this fic to that one rather tumultuous interaction, instead of expanding on her potential as both a strong, intelligent side character and a friend to the reader. Hopefully this makes up for that a little bit. Alana’s pretty cool. I sort of lost sight of that.

warnings: negative self talk, suicidal ideation/thoughts, panic attack, hyperventilation, derealization, canon-typical blood, violence, & gore

The darkness swirling around you is relentless in its writhing, distorting and jerking you around in its shadowed grasp. For a while, you’re content to let the shadows take control. You float in an endless abyss. Memories flit before your eyes, just long enough for you to reach out to try to grab them. They never stay long enough, flickering and disintegrating before you get the chance to grasp them and dissect every miniscule detail.

Stay awake, says a whisper itching at your skin.

You take a deep breath. The next time you blink, you find yourself standing in a far too familiar place. Hannibal’s kitchen is quiet—eerily so, you think as your footsteps echo against the floors. There is hardly a sign of life on these countertops, hardly a stain or sprinkling of powder to assure you this place has ever been used. There is a single light boring down on the back of your head: a spotlight. You swallow hard and step to the side in an attempt to escape the light, only to find Hannibal’s rolodex sitting in the middle of the brightness. Your business card sits on top, displaying your name, phone number, email address, office location at headquarters, birthplace, height, weight, eye color, age, and any other demographic information you could possibly imagine. The font is tiny, yet you can read it with ease. Feeling a sudden urge to touch, you grab the business card and let it lie flat in your palm. There’s a tear in the corner, you realize. Frowning, you move to touch it, only for the tear to extend further down the flimsy material. Crimson dots appear on the white background, swirling and twisting until there’s blood collecting on your fingertips. You look down, only to realize that the dark red stains have permeated the fabric of your shirt. Puddles are gathering at your feet, marking your footsteps with every movement you make. The card melts into the blood gathered in your hands, and you’re left holding the tattered remains of your identity.

Stay awake.

You blink again. Abel Gideon is peering at you from behind the bars of his interrogation cell. “You have Lecter on a leash, don’t you?” Gideon remarks with a laugh. You huff a laugh under your breath. The thought amuses you, for reasons you cannot quite discern at the moment. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.” Your hands tremble at your sides and you restlessly shift your balance from one foot to the other. Gideon’s gaze is knowing and it pins you to the ground.

Stay alive.

A blink. You’re standing in the doorway of your office at headquarters. Everything is as you left it, save for your chair, which has an inhabitant. Franklyn Froideveaux stares at you with empty eye sockets and a gaping maw. Blood slips down his gaunt frame, leaving murky red-brown streaks down his cheeks and around the cavity of his chest. You blink and his skin turns a murky yellowish green from decay.

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons from over your shoulder. You can feel the smile on his face, feel his breath hitting your neck and provoking a deep nausea in your gut.

Another blink. Blood slips hotly down your fingers as you stand in a dimly lit hallway. Your skin feels lit with flames and the knife in your hand gleams a sickening crimson. You want to release the weapon from your grip, but your fingers are locked around the blade with unshakeable force. The smell of death and decay wafting through the enclosed space makes your stomach turn. None of these sensations are powerful enough to rip your attention away from the corpse at your feet.

“Killing must feel good to God, too,” Hannibal remarks with a hum, hands behind his back as he regards Abel Gideon’s form. There is a mildly intrigued expression on his face as he studies the body, before looking back to you with eerily crimson eyes. As he pivots, bloodstained antlers stretch from his perfectly coiffed hair. They disappear in a moment—a trick of the light. His voice is dark and airy all at once. “And are we not created in his image?” You swallow past the nausea building in your chest. Time stretches on with terrible slowness. His gaze is flaying you apart. “Don’t you want God To want you?” He asks softly.1

“See?” Stay awake. Stay alive.

Darkness, then light. “To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal says, a flicker of a smile settling on his lips. His hands are folded and he leans forward. Your chairs are close enough to force you to knock knees with him, but Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered by the prospect. “You are the first person to see through his façade, through the layers of his mask.” His skin looks strangely patterned, as if it's made of ceramic. You reach out to grasp his face, to yank off his mask, only for Hannibal to catch your wrist and hold it in a tight grip. Suddenly, your chair is tipping backwards precariously, lurching further into the abyss. You try to reach out and grab onto something, but Hannibal’s hold is the only thing that keeps you tethered. The void crawls up your skin mockingly, waiting to drag you into its umbra. Your momentum is slipping backwards and you’re filled with an unsettling anticipation. Contrary to your expectations, Hannibal’s grip remains strong. You look at him. The Ripper looks back, a bloodstained smile on his lips. You feel his fingers trace the edges of your skin with a mocking gentleness, before you’re falling backward into the darkness again.

You slip out of the darkness and bolt up, only to find yourself in a painfully bright room. You can’t quite stop the gasp that comes from your lips, nor can you suppress the urge to look around frantically, searching for the signs that this is a dream. The incessant pain in your abdomen is a harsh reality check. You look down at the area, only to find meticulously wrapped bandages covering your lower torso. Your upper forearm stings from the IV burrowing under your skin.

“Hey,” a voice says. You squint in the bright light, waiting for the blurred figure in front of you to sharpen. It’s a nurse—the same one who helped you the last time you were wounded. She holds her hands out in a placating gesture. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You were just dreaming.” Her eyebrows are furrowed in concern, a sentiment you feel you don’t deserve.

You bite back your questions—knowing the answers are clinging to the blinding white walls around you. The nurse asks you several questions about your symptoms and your pain level, before departing with the promise that she will return soon.

The events that transpired in Hannibal’s office cling to your skin with fervency. Your abdomen burns, especially when you remember that Hannibal inflicted the wound. You shouldn’t feel betrayed. You shouldn’t be afforded the privilege of being betrayed, not when you knew Hannibal Lecter’s nature since that night you sleepwalked out into the middle of the street.

Even so… you enjoyed being in Hannibal’s presence. You enjoyed the song and dance you had gotten so accustomed to playing. You spent so long spectating the game that you forgot your role in it. You were a pawn, and nothing more. The thought displeases you. With each passing second, the ugly feeling in your chest grows and swells within the confines of your rib cage. It’s getting to be too much.

There is no one to sit at your bedside this time. When she returns, the nurse pointedly does not mention your husband. You don’t have the heart to tell her that your “husband” was the same person who stabbed you, or that your husband was never really your husband in the first place. She seems to understand anyway. Pity is hidden beneath the kind smile on her face. You stop making eye contact with her.

Lying in this hospital bed is a lonely existence, dominated by a constant state of pain (at worst) or mild discomfort (at best). The only interaction you get is from the nurse herself. You get the feeling she’d be a good listener, but your tongue feels ironed to the roof of mouth and your conversations quickly morph into anecdotes about her life. You’re grateful for the small kindness—for the prospect of being treated like a human being, despite it all. These small moments of humanity push you to keep going, even amidst the several voices crooning in your ears about your cruelty.

You don’t expect any visitors. Indeed, your first visitor is entirely unexpected. When you’re first told that someone wishes to speak to you, you think of Beverly, Jack Crawford… hell, even Freddie Lounds. You certainly don’t foresee Alana Bloom walking through the door, a gentle, reserved expression on her face. Seeing her brightens your day, and her presence reminds you that you’re not entirely alone. You welcome the thought.

“Alana,” you greet her, your voice rather raspy. You cough to clear your throat. “How are you?” You ask.

“I should be asking you that,” she responds with a wry smile. She stands at the end of your bed, before walking to the side. Alana regards the lonely chair at your bedside, before placing her hands on the back. She looks well—albeit a little tired. “I’m good. And you?”

“I’ve been better,” you decide to respond honestly. There’s no point in lying to Alana—she used to be your psychiatrist, your girlfriend. She would be able to see through your dishonesty anyway. Sure enough, Alana seems to appreciate your honesty, because her eyes momentarily widen before she moves to sit down. Seeing her sit in that chair makes your stomach turn. When you blink, you see Hannibal sitting there—lithe frame effortlessly arranged, tupperware in hand. You rub your eyes roughly, dispelling the image to the recesses of your memory. Alana was courteous enough to visit you—the least you can do is acknowledge her presence, instead of imagining her as someone else.

For a moment, you stare at Alana. A mundane sense of envy strikes you, but it’s fleeting. You don’t deserve to be envious of her good health and safe wellbeing. Your own hubris is the reason why you’re currently confined to this cot. You look at her for a moment longer, before letting your eyes rest on the plain walls around you. You can feel Alana staring at you with concern. Instead of acknowledging that sentiment, you let the first question on your mind pass through your lips. “Where’s Jack?”

Alana is silent for a few seconds. Is it a difficult question? You don’t think so, yet Alana almost seems to falter. Eventually, she must manage to find the words. “Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she evidently settles for saying. Upon closer examination, her hands are clasped in her lap—whitened knuckles betraying her otherwise tranquil image. Alana’s next words are quiet yet firm. “He’s tracking Hannibal—the Chesapeake Ripper.”

You inhale slowly. Somehow, hearing her say that cements the reality of it all. Everyone knows Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper. It’s not just you anymore. You bring up an arm slowly, before tilting your head down and pinching the bridge of your nose. Somehow, it is this statement that reminds you of the pounding sensation behind your eyes and the aching clustered around your temple.

“Are you alright?” Alana asks, lips twitching into a slight frown.

“Yes,” you respond flatly. Your answer sounds devoid of emotion and purpose.

“Are you sure?” Alana persists. You don’t have the heart to lie to her twice in a row.

“...No.” You acquiesce. You rub a hand over your face, feeling rather small in this hospital bed. The sheets are slightly scratchy and the weight of them feels constricting, rather than comforting. You’ve never felt so small.

“I’m sorry,” Alana sighs. She seems entirely sincere and it almost makes you want to scream. You don’t deserve her sympathy. “I know you two were close. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” That statement is incredibly reassuring, despite the frenzy you had worked yourself into surrounding Alana. When you reflect on the events of the past months, you realize that you have few allies and even fewer true friends. One of those true friends is sitting right next to you.

“Thank you,” you nod. Guilt stirs in your chest as you stare at your old psychiatrist and ex-girlfriend. Every time you’ve seen her since she kissed you, you’ve purposefully cut conversation short. Somehow, the thought feels silly to you now. Perhaps almost dying a second time does that to a person. You stare at Alana for a moment. She looks well put together, as always. “Alana?”

“Yes?” She questions patiently. That’s another thing you envy about her—her unwavering compassion, her unflinching patience. You could stand to learn a few things from her, you think.

“I’m sorry,” you remark. The sentiment has been dancing on the tip of your tongue for the past several weeks, yet you never got the chance to verbalize it. Life has been a whirlwind lately. You’ve been so caught up in everything swirling around in your mind that you never paused to think about those around you, or how they were affected by the recent turn of events. “For…” You break off, unable to articulate it. You settle for a vague hand gesture. Alana seems to understand anyways, as her eyes momentarily widen before comprehension passes over her face.

“Don’t apologize,” Alana is quick to say, nothing but sincerity written in the lines of her shoulders. Her eyes look slightly glassy for the briefest of moments, before she shakes her head and looks at you once more. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry for kissing you without warning.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silence descends upon the brisk air, leaving the two of you to your thoughts. You’re not content to let this overbearing tension rule over your conversation. You clench your fists slightly, filled with renewed resolve. You stare at Alana for a few seconds, until she notices your gaze and returns it. “Friends?” You ask, extending a hand towards her.

“Friends,” Alana responds with a smile, rising from her chair to meet your outstretched hand. Your handshake is short but reassuring. It’s enough to convince you that there are no hard feelings between the two of you. Alana fills you in on some of what’s happened since your admittance to the hospital; mostly, though, the two of you talk about the small things. You know Alana is trying to give you some semblance of normalcy. You appreciate the effort, you really do… but you’re not sure you’re capable of pretending everything’s okay. Furthermore, the small things seem inconsequential—now that you’re entrenched in the middle of everything. Even so, you make sure to thank her before she leaves. You don’t know how you would have coped without seeing a familiar face. Alana smiles and promises to be back soon.

As you expect, Alana doesn’t turn up the next day. You certainly don’t expect her to stop by, since you know she’s always rather busy. Ultimately, you come to the conclusion that you want nothing more than to be out of this hospital. Even worse… apparently, the stunt you pulled with Beverly during your past hospital visit did not go over well. You’re firmly reminded to avoid any attempts at an early release. You’re too tired and embarrassed to argue. You don’t have anything better to do than rot in this hospital room, anyway. Besides, you’re certain you’ll be met with some unpleasant reminders of Hannibal as you get home. You think you have a few cardigans in your closet that you meant to give back to him. The thought sends a bolt of nervous excitement through you, and you have to actively talk yourself down that precarious ledge.

Alana does visit the day after. Beverly turns up the day after that and gives you several hugs. After that, at least one of your friends—Alana or Beverly— visits every day, which you’re extremely grateful for. You’re certain you’d go absolutely stir crazy in this hospital bed if you didn’t have anyone for company. Your conversations are typically fun and refreshing, like light breezes of summer air. Sometimes, though, you’re bogged down by your memories. Sometimes, you’re forced to remember the corpses you left in your wake.

Even with Alana and Beverly visiting, you’re given more than enough alone time to contemplate everything. You have ample time to pick apart Hannibal’s actions and discern his true motivations. So, when Jack Crawford finally visits, his shoulders drawn tight with stress, you’re prepared to recount that night to him. Jack is insistent on the fact that you don’t have to speak about anything you don’t want to, but you know the offer is more for pretense than anything else. He needs this information, needs to understand the Ripper’s past actions and how they govern his future. With that in mind, you wave off his concern and tell him about your late night meeting with Hannibal.

Jack is silent throughout, never once interrupting you or reacting in a manner other than an affirmative nod. It’s very characteristic of your boss; you think that you would have been unsettled if he responded with heightened or dramatic emotions. Jack’s cool composure is an anchor that you quickly latch on to.

“He wanted you alive,” Jack states, once you’re finished explaining everything. He says this with frightening assuredness. His utter conviction surprises you, prompting you to ask how he knows that.

Of course, you certainly considered that same possibility yourself, but it feels more real when you hear it from Jack. “The stab wound wasn’t fatal,” he points out. His gaze falls to the edge of your abdomen. The bandages feel extremely constricting. You wonder if they need to be changed soon. “It easily could’ve been. The Ripper is a skilled killer—he wouldn’t have missed unless he wanted to.” You take a shuddering breath in.

“He’s toying with us,” you manage to agree. Your hands fidget restlessly along the rough blanket thrown over your form. You feel restless once more.

“He’s toying with you,” Jack supplies. There is no room for argument in his voice. He doesn’t look restless, afraid, or frustrated. Not for the first time, you wish you had Jack’s control and constitution. However, you know Jack well enough to see the signs of tension in his clenched fist and drawn lips. “Taunting you, and the rest of us, by proxy.” That statement in particular sets everything in stone. Your theories are no longer just theories—they are unobjectionable facts.

“Jack.” you remark, trying to push the words past the dread settling on your tongue.

“Yes?” Jack asks, patient and restless all at once. You’re choking on the words. It’s such a simple sentence, yet so dangerous of an admission. If you told the truth—confided in Jack about how you suspected Hannibal the moment you met him, and grew to realize that he is the Ripper—you would certainly lose your job, not to mention all of Jack’s trust.

Selfish, your victims croon. Your psyche nods in agreement. It’s truly selfish of you not to provide Jack with your utmost honesty. You’re doing a disservice to every person Hannibal has ever killed, every waking moment the team spent hunting for the Chesapeake Ripper. You wasted so much time, so much space.

“I-” You try to continue. I knew. I knew and I did nothing. I am complicit in his crimes. Tears are slipping down your cheeks. You’re a rotten excuse for a human being. You don’t deserve to be alive. Why hadn’t Hannibal just finished the job? It’s cruel, almost. He allowed his other victims the mercy of death, yet he left you alive. You will forever be scarred—both by Hannibal’s knife and by the bone-deep knowledge that your silence made you an accomplice to his crimes.

Breathing is suddenly a far more arduous task. Your lungs burn and your throat feels as if it’s closing in on you. Your vision is extremely sharp and your shaking hands are drawn with harsh lines and even harsher edges. The world around you is suddenly rendered immensely inconsequential. The beeping of the machines at your bedside, Jack’s steady breaths, the traces of conversation slipping in from the hallway… It all fails in comparison to the chimes of the grandfather clock in your mind. You dig your fingernails into your skin, desperate for unspoken confirmation that you aren’t dreaming.

At this point, you’re panting. Drool falls from the sides of your mouth and hits the scratchy blanket. Every nerve in your body feels as if it’s on fire. You’re a puppet cut loose from the puppeteer’s careful hand, yet you’re still strung together with wooden bones and durable string. You bring your hand to your chest and try to breathe, but the more you try, the harsher and more rushed your attempts become.

“Agent.” There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s enough pressure to make you feel as if you’re melding with the thin mattress below you, sinking into the floor and the shadows. For a moment, you can see Hannibal looking down at you in your mind’s eye, a contentious expression on his face as he lets you fall to the darkness below. “Breathe.” Jack grabs your hand and brings it to the inside of his wrist. His pulse beats steadily beneath your fingertips and you latch onto the rhythm. Jack begins counting, prompting you to breathe in time with him. You’re not sure how long it takes you to clear your airways—you just know that, at some point, Jack migrated from where he stood at the end of your bed to the side of the bed.

“Jack,” you try again. Your lips part but nothing slips out. It’s such a simple confession—a mere few words, yet you can’t utter them.

“Agent,” Jack interjects, before you can choke on the words you don’t want to say. His expression has returned to a combination of rigidity and anticipation. You know what Jack will say before he says it. “Can I trust you to handle this case? Do I need to remove you from this case? ” He doesn’t say that last part, but you hear it anyway. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face. Your eyes burn from all the tears you shed.

“I can handle it,” you assure him.

“You’re close to all this,” Jack remarks. He gets up from where he had been sitting and walks back to stand behind the edge of the bed. His gaze meets yours, but you know he isn’t really looking at you. That expression on his face means Jack is looking through his options, puzzling out the future in his head. You wait for him to refocus. “You know I don’t typically assign agents with personal investments in cases… But, you’ve been on this case for a long time. You know the Ripper better than anyone else does, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You stare at Jack silently, daring him to take you off the case. You know that your words will fail you here, so you hope your conviction shows through in your eyes. Jack stares back and, for a long moment, you’re both trapped in silence. Eventually, Jack seems to ascertain that you think yourself capable. He takes a deep breath.

“In terms of the Ripper, we currently have a unit determining his whereabouts,” Jack begins. “The Ripper—Lecter—covered his tracks very well. The last time he was seen was…”

“When he stabbed me,” you say for him.

“Yes,” Jack confirms. “As you know, Lecter is proficient at leaving behind very little—if any—evidence.” You nod, thinking back to all the crime scenes he created. There was hardly any evidence left behind. Hannibal was always meticulous and careful in his crimes.

“He only leaves clues when he wants to,” you continue. “He is not so kind hearted as to leave us clues for the hell of it, or because he slipped up. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“We found very little in his office,” Jack concedes with a sharp nod. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Stress seems to tighten the line of his shoulders. “We did manage to find several concealed weapons, upon closer examination.”

“He stabbed me with a knife that was disguised as an antler on a deer sculpture,” you recall flatly. The thought makes your side flare up with pain again. “I shouldn’t have gone to his office. I should’ve come to you first. I knew, and yet…”

“Frankly, Agent, that is not my concern,” Jack states matter of factly. “The past is the past. If I were to dissect every minute mistake we’ve made along the course of this investigation, we’d never be able to proceed.”

“True,” you answer. You still don’t think Jack has truly comprehended the implications of what you just said. You knew Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper long before that night. After all, you didn’t explicitly state when you first discovered the identity of the Ripper. Of course, you suppose it is also likely that Jack was able to intuit that from your response. If that were the case, you can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t kicked you off this case or fired you.

You know it’s best for you to drop this particular line of questioning, so you do. For the duration of Jack’s visit, he debriefs you on what the team has deduced so far—both in terms of his current location and where he’ll go next. After an hour passes, however, your luck runs out. Your nurse enters the room and promptly shoos Jack out, claiming that you need time to rest. She is entirely impervious to his objections, even when he tries to pull rank on her. You’re rather impressed. Jack manages to get a last remark in, before the nurse can guide him out of the room.

“Lecter will turn up soon enough,” your boss states. With that, Jack departs. His cryptic remark leaves you with a lot to think about. You spend the rest of your hospital stay grappling with the implications of that statement, with the implications of Hannibal deciding not to kill you. You’re released from the hospital a week later with a troubled conscience and another scar to add to your collection.

Somehow, news of your battle with Hannibal has reached the press, Jack tells you as he drives you home in the dead of night. Ultimately, Jack decided it would be best to get you home during a time when most people are sleeping. You’re grateful for his foresight, because when you return home, there are no flashing cameras or microphones shoved in your face. You thank Jack for the ride and he nods, sending you one final unreadable look before driving away.

When you unlock your front door and swing the door open, you’re surprised to find that your house appears the same as when you left it. You close the door behind you and take in everything before you. Dust is beginning to collect on the shelves and surfaces—the space desperately needs a dedicated cleaning, but you know you don’t have the energy just yet. Right now, you’re content to cautiously walk to your closet and grab clothes. Despite the fact that Jack brought you a pair of old trainee clothes to change into when he arrived, you know you need a good shower to feel clean. The lukewarm water sliding down your skin is rejuvenating, but it doesn’t wipe away the dirt of your sins. You step out of the shower with clean skin and a muddy conscience. Drying off and putting on your clothes is an annoying affair, but you manage.

After your shower, it’s safe to say that you’re entirely lost. You don’t know what to do next. You need to eat, you remember. Unfortunately, your fridge is pretty much empty. You sigh and survey the space that you call home. It doesn’t feel familiar, despite the knowledge that it’s been yours for several years. These are all your belongings, yet it feels as if you’re standing in a stranger’s shoes. You look around the room, pausing when your eye catches on a scrap of newspaper. The TattleCrime article from before rests innocuously on the kitchen counter. You walk towards it immediately, as if possessed.

Criminally Insane. You stare at the photos featured in the article. The second photo—the one of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane—led you to realize that Frederick Chilton had been kidnapped. The first picture… It unsettles you. There are hints of the dark circles under your eyes that you now possess, but there’s also an unspoken confidence in your posture in the photo. You choke on a laugh, running your fingers along the rough newspaper.

It’s a miracle you’re still alive. Well, it certainly feels that way… but you know your survival can’t be put down to mere fate. Inexplicably, Hannibal did not aim to kill you. You contemplate what would’ve happened if he had aimed that way. You would have died in that office, certainly. Would you be free of this terrifying helplessness, this aching despair?

You manage to tear your eyes away from the article. After a moment of thought, you stuff it in a drawer—hoping you will never need to look at it again. Unsurprisingly, you still feel incredibly restless. You begin pacing slowly around the room, desperate for something to do. Perhaps this urge to do something is indicative of a deeper sentiment.

The cicadas buzz from the trees outside. You’re suddenly struck with a perplexing urge to step outside. You follow that urge and walk mechanically to your front door. Maybe someone is on your porch. You peek through the peephole, unsurprised to find no one there. After a second’s contemplation, you step out onto your porch, letting your arms rest against the railing.

The brisk night air doesn’t help your worsening mental state. You still feel numb, empty. Nothing feels real anymore. As you look out at your driveway, at the other houses lining your street, you’re hit with an immense sonder.2 How did you end up in this situation? How did you end up here, staring out at the suburbia around you and wishing you could take on the life of another person—someone who isn’t desensitized to blood, gore, violence, and murder?

You don’t know where to go from here. Your feelings are a dizzying combination of remorse, regret, and contempt—combined with an unhealthy amount of wishful thinking. You raise your arms and put your head in your hands for a moment. Succumbing to darkness has never felt so comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Lecter will return soon enough.” Jack had said. There was a certainty in his voice in that moment—a sincerity that was surely unfounded. He was making a prediction and nothing more. Yet… the conviction in his tone made it seem as if he knew the Ripper’s next move. Surely, Hannibal hasn’t grown so predictable. Surely, he will continue to elude capture for as long as he wishes.

A car’s headlights reach your vision, and you watch as it slowly cruises down your street. There is a certain nonchalance to the way it slowly rises on the horizon. You frown, wondering what this person is doing driving down your street at such a late hour. Perhaps it’s a neighbor. You continue to watch warily. For a moment, you swear it seems as if the car’s slowing as it approaches. Surely that can’t be the case. It’s too dark to make out the details of the car—let alone the driver. You settle for staring in silence as it moves along. Within the blink of an eye, the vehicle moves past your driveway and into the dark expanse enveloping the space past your street. You exhale in relief, just realizing that your breath had hitched during the car’s brief stint in front of your house.

Why were you nervous? What were you expecting? You don’t want to acknowledge the answers to those questions—those solutions will only bring more problems. You shake your head. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, and everyone knows. There should be nothing to be afraid of, except for a single thought that never seems to leave you. He will return for you, a voice whispers against the wind. He wants to finish the job.

You’ve never gotten so close to a case before. You almost wish you could travel back in time, to the first time you locked eyes with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. In that moment, you hadn’t been able to rationalize the intense foreboding and trepidation that seemed to crawl up your skin as he stared back at you. You had no true grasp of the danger you would soon experience, the lives you would soon take. When did you stop trusting your instincts? Your intuition is part of the reason why you’re such a successful criminal profiler, yet you were more than willing to entirely ignore it.

A chill hits your skin, but it’s not from the brisk breeze of night air that gently rustles your clothes. The unsettling feeling comes from the car in your driveway, the bright headlights illuminating the woody forest behind your house. Were you so lost in thought that you neglected to notice someone approaching your driveway? You squint and take a step closer to the driveway, wavering on the edge of your porch. The car looks familiar, and that realization nearly pitches you off the porch and careening to the ground below. The driver turns the car off and swings the door open with taunting slowness. A roaring sound fills your ears.

“Hannibal,” you remark. The driver closes the door and takes a step forward, close enough to the porch that the light hits their face and reveals familiar angled features. His lip is bleeding and there are droplets of blood scattered about his face. His clothing is ever so slightly rumpled. Other than that, Hannibal appears at ease. The Ripper looks at you, and utters your name in response.

You don’t know what to do, what to say. Your hands clutch the railing in front of you with enough force to send bolts of pain through your fingers. It feels as if your heart is racing faster than humanly possible. You’re reminded of the pain in your abdomen, the scar slicing dangerously close to your eye. You clench a fist at your side and walk down the steps of your porch, before turning and moving to stand at a strategic distance from Hannibal: close enough to see his face, far enough to have an illusion of control and safety.

The night is still. If it weren’t for your unexpected visitor, you might take solace in the tranquility of the midnight sky. Now, the stars seem to wink at you in warning. When Hannibal speaks, you nearly convince yourself that you imagine it. “I have evaded capture for long enough.” An ugly, foolish sort of hope settles in your chest. You try to push it away.

“You’re… surrendering,” you remark cautiously, waiting for him to dispel that notion. The Ripper does nothing of the sort. Instead, Hannibal stares at you, making strangely heated eye contact with you as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife. The moonlight briefly hits the metal, causing it to glimmer mockingly. Your stomach turns. The moon’s warm glow reveals more than just a shimmer—there are murky brown stains on the blade. You recognize the splatters as dried blood and your skin crawls. Hannibal is holding the very same knife he stabbed you with. He maneuvers it expertly, holding the blade and extending the handle towards you. Everything about this moment feels like a trap, but you willingly reach out and take the proffered knife, fastening it at your belt.

After a stretch of time in which neither of you elect to say anything, you decide that Hannibal must be telling the truth. Eyes locked on the man, you fumble around in your pocket for your phone and pull it out, dialing the only number you have memorized. Your intended recipient answers before two seconds pass. “Jack,” you say, your gaze still firmly fixed on the Ripper.

“Agent,” Jack responds. Hannibal is staring at you with intense scrutiny, evidently attempting to decipher what Jack is saying to you. That recognition causes you to pause for a moment. At your hesitation, Jack’s voice takes on a concerned yet impatient tone. “What is it?”

“I have him,” you say, vaguely satisfied that your voice sounds clear and composed despite the emotional rollercoaster you’ve been subjected to. “The Ripper. He’s in my driveway.”

Jack’s end of the line is quiet. You know it must be nearly impossible to believe. You look at Hannibal and then look back at the phone, realizing what you need to do. Taking a deep breath, you bring a shaky hand up and press the speaker button. Despite every instinct in your body screaming at you, you take a small step forward—and another—until Hannibal is close enough to the phone. For a moment, he stares down at the device pensively. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grabs your wrist and tugs you closer—evidently to get to the phone. You glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal remarks, voice laced with amusement as he grasps your hand— the phone, you tell yourself—with unshakeable strength. Despite the severity of the situation, you can’t do anything but roll your eyes at his chosen greeting. It seems Hannibal’s dramatics know no bounds. Even when his very freedom is threatened, he will continue to wear his carved mask of politeness and elegance. You try to listen for Jack’s response. There’s still silence on the other end—Jack is probably dispatching a unit as you speak. You’re sure Jack himself will be on his way before long.

Indeed, Jack confirms that a team is on the way. He hangs up and your phone screen fades to black. Despite the call’s termination, Hannibal is still holding your wrist. “Can I have my hand back?” You ask wryly. You try to shake his grip off and pull away, but he doesn’t budge. Your heart is racing as you try to find an escape. Hannibal doesn’t seem keen to let go, instead looking at you with mild amusement written all over his face. It doesn’t take you long to come up with an idea. You attempt to shake off his grip once more, knowing it will not work. The moment you try to pull your wrist back, you take advantage of the momentum and aim a harsh kick just above his knee. Per your expectations, he doesn’t anticipate the attack and is forced to fall down to a kneeling position to avoid falling over. You lock eyes with him and tear his grip off.

Hannibal looks up at you on bended knee, entirely silent. You begin to realize just what you’ve done—you just disrespected him. You were the epitome of the rudeness Hannibal abhors. You swallow. If you weren’t dead before, you’re certainly dead now. The Ripper is still silent, before tilting his head down to hide his face. Fuck, you’ve really done it this time. You feel yourself taking an instinctual half step backwards, and you’re moments away from turning on your heel and running when you hear an odd sound.

Hannibal is laughing, you realize. It’s a far cry from the typical gesture of joy you’d associate with laughter, but his amusement is still evident. He brings his head up once more and regards you with interest. “You never fail to surprise me,” he remarks amiably, getting to his feet and pushing the dust from his pant leg with a quick swiping motion. Hannibal doesn’t give your threat any consideration, instead simply regarding you with that same eerie look you’ve grown to associate with his full attention.

Your hand twitches to grab the bloodstained knife at your side. You imagine yourself plunging the blade into Hannibal’s side, watching his smirk falter and his victorious expression crumple. The vindictive thought thrills you for a second, before you come back to yourself and feel immense revulsion and disgust. Hannibal almost seems to sense the mental gymnastics you're going through, as an intrigued expression flickers across his face before it’s gone in a flash.

Truthfully, you don’t know how long you stand there—across from Hannibal, staring him down as he stares you down, prey regarding predator—until Jack arrives. It feels like an eternity. Time seems to entirely stop during those moments. Somehow, the quiet is more informative than a conversation ever could be. You don’t need words—not when you can see the tight line drawn across Hannibal’s shoulders, the persistence in his gaze.

Even eternity must come to an end, though. Police sirens blink in the distance, drawing you away from your thoughts. You watch as several police cars find their way to your driveway. Jack sits in the passenger seat of the car at the front, and he’s quick to step out of the car. S.W.A.T. officers swarm out of the cars, weapons pointed at Hannibal. There is a horrible tension settling in the air, thick enough to make your breaths occur just a little faster.

Despite the exorbitant amount of fully-armed S.W.A.T officers, you’re still afraid. Hannibal is closest to you. If he wanted to, he could kill you—even with so many people present. You don’t doubt his strength or agility. These recognitions leave your heart drumming in your chest at an incessantly quick rhythm. You glance over at Jack and he nods, holding a hand up to the officers and walking towards you.

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack remarks. Even now, he is incredibly composed. You latch onto his composure and try to emulate it, though you know it won’t look convincing enough. The headlights from the cars are blinding and you turn your head, giving your burning eyes a brief reprieve.

“Jack,” Hannibal responds, his hands raised in the air in surrender. The Ripper is indeed powerless, yet the gesture looks mocking. A few officers step closer and surround Hannibal, who kneels down with his arms still raised high. “You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper.” His hands move to rest behind his head.

Jack stares at the killer with an indecipherable expression. “You surrendered.”

“I want you to know exactly where I am,” Hannibal responds to Jack. After that remark, his head turns and dread rises in your chest as you realize he’s looking towards you. His eyes are glittering in the moonlight. “And where you can always find me.” You’re frozen, limbs locked as his crimson eyes pierce through you.

Vaguely, you hear Jack order for Hannibal to be placed in his car. The officers pull Hannibal up from his knees and escort him to the police car. The Ripper’s gaze is locked on you until he enters the vehicle. Jack remains where he stands, sending you a look. You incline your head slightly, to wordlessly encourage him to leave you. Jack seems hesitant to do so, but his sense of responsibility must win out, because he walks back towards the car. You still feel as if you’re being watched, and you get the feeling Hannibal is staring at you from behind the dark tinted glass. The police car slowly reverses out of your driveway, before heading down your street and eventually out of sight.

You purse your lips, before walking back up the steps to your porch. Everything seemed to have happened far too fast. In the blink of an eye, you’re left to stand alone, with nothing but your conflicting feelings of grief, anger, and remorse for company. Memories burrow their way under your skin. Each breath is a testament to your own cruelty.

Inexplicably, you reach up to touch the jagged scar cutting down your face. Your fingertips brush against the marred skin and you jolt. Your abdomen burns in remembrance. Hannibal Lecter has given you the quiet evenings, the comfortable silence settling in the air, and the thrill of an attentive, burning gaze that sends warm embers dancing up your skin.

But he has taken so much more from you in return.

Gone is the gentle caress of a hand on your cheek and the comfort of having unquestionable support. Gone is the hard-won feeling of being truly seen for who you are. Gone is the excitement, the anticipation of knowing that your companion can never truly be predicted. All of it is gone.

You look up at the moon glimmering in the dark night sky. You idly wonder if Hannibal sees it too. It’s a foolish thought. His cell likely won’t have windows. He has probably been confined to four walls of cement, a metal toilet, and a thin, dingy mattress on a cold metal frame. There is no hope for someone like Hannibal—he will earn several life sentences and spend his entire life in that cage. You have to wonder: why? Why would he surrender?

It was a tactical surrender—that much you know for certain. Hannibal could easily have spent the rest of his life moving from place to place, taking on new identity after new identity. He could have spent however long he wanted, camouflaged but free.

Freedom. Maybe that’s the answer. After all, that kind of aggressive mimicry is not necessarily freedom. Hannibal Lecter values being an enigma. The mystery that surrounds him, in part, relies on his reputation. Life spent in hiding isn’t really life at all. Even someone like Hannibal—someone with arguably everything to lose—would understand that sentiment.

You exhale slowly, watching as your puff of breath fades into the air. You suppose Hannibal’s statement may have carried some truth. You will always know where to find him; you won’t be able to bury the memory of him next to the other skeletons in your closet and leave him to rot. Whenever your psyche falters, Hannibal will be there—imprisoned within your mind palace, gathering strength and lying in wait.

Your phone rings in your pocket. You pull it out, momentarily surprised by the time displayed. It’s getting late. You hadn’t realized how long you spent lost in thought. When you answer, your voice sounds unfamiliar to your ears.

“Crawford,” Jack clarifies, cutting right to the chase, “We got him.” There is no further explanation needed.

“We got him, Jack,” you echo. The recognition sounds hollow, empty. Your gaze is pulled towards your driveway once more. Jack’s voice reaches your ears, but you can’t discern what he’s saying over the ringing in your ears.

Hannibal Lecter is behind bars now, yet you’re the one who feels trapped. You’re a prisoner—trapped in a cage of your own broken design.

1. Dracula by Bram Stoker

2. Sonder refers to the feeling of realization that everyone, including strangers and passersby, have lives just as complex and vivid as your own.

Sorry if the intro parts were confusing. I wanted to *try* to write it in a way that showed how weird and unusual dreams can really be, especially after traumatic events.The mind is infinitely powerful, able to conjure up a new reality at a moment’s notice. I liked the idea of the reader drowning in a whirlpool of their own mind’s creation—as they fight to get back to reality. (also, I found the word “umbra,” which is apparently used to describe the shadow created by an eclipse. I think that’s cool as hell, so I included it.) Dream logic never quite makes sense and can be extremely convoluted, which is why the intro is a messy assortment of memories with no clear beginning or end.

Y’all seemed to like my rationalization for the previous chapter, so I’ll include some similar notes for this chapter if you’re interested:

Hannibal’s surrender in this chapter is very much calculated. He realizes that he’s no longer free—since the FBI are onto him. There is a sort of cruelty in the life he would have to lead, as his “freedom” would include lots of mental effort, relocating, and subterfuge. Hannibal likely weighs his options, and decides between a life of constant stealth and relocation, and a life behind bars. It’s reasonable to assume that he also would have realized that his status as the Chesapeake Ripper would grant him special privileges as a prisoner—he’s aware of how much the Ripper has dominated the cultural zeitgeist and knows he will be able to use that notoriety to his advantage in captivity.

Of course, Hannibal also knows how to best dominate your thoughts: by remaining in one place. As he mentions, you will always know where he is and where to find him. You will not have to track him down by following the calculated clues he leaves behind—rather, you will constantly have to live with the underlying knowledge that Hannibal is accessible at any and every moment. In this case, Hannibal’s surrender is quite a tactical and manipulative move. He truly chooses to go to prison. It would be unsettling to know that the Ripper was on the loose, yes. But, the Ripper has been on the loose and free for several years already. On the other hand, it would be downright disturbing to know that Hannibal’s presence in prison is a willful choice—one that can be taken back at any moment. That can easily manifest a constant lingering fear in the back of the reader’s mind, in addition to an eternal desire to pin down exactly why Hannibal is remaining captive, chained. The chessmaster is willingly surrendering, but the game is far from over.

And now… Act 1 of this story is complete!

Never fear, Hannibal will return in Act 2! As for the other characters… Well, you’ll have to wait and see. ;) I will say that Act Two embraces some elements of The Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs. Don’t worry, though—you don’t need to have read either of them. :3

Here’s a scrap for your efforts! (*throws you this unused dialogue like a scruffy middle-aged man with grey hair and a scratchy quarter-zip throws a piece of raw beef to the wolves outside his cabin*) This was one of the MANY options I had considered (but never used) for the big reveal:

“How long have you known?” Hannibal asks. “From the moment you invited me into your home,” you answer. There’s silence for a dreadful moment. “And you stayed.” “I did.” “Why?” “I like talking to you, I enjoy your company.… Does one really need a reason to keep the company of another?” You finish. A beat of quiet. “... I suppose not,” Hannibal acquiesces.

Act 2 will be posted as the second part of this series. Here's the link to the AO3 series: these jagged scars. I'll also post it over here on Tumblr. :)

Thank you so so so much for all the support! Your likes, comments, and reblogs keep me going! <33333

taglist 🖤: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

#male reader #x male reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal Lecter x reader #hannibal x reader #Hannibal x gn reader #hannibal x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #yall get the idea #transmasc reader #I CAN'T BELIEVE I FINISHED THIS FIC #LITERALLY ALMOST CRIED HAPPY ACCOMPLISHED TEARS LAST NIGHT

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megumri · 1 year

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GOOD GOOD - PART I

ISAGI YOICHI X AFAB READER X ITOSHI RIN

↬ you’re careful to never sleep with your pro-footballer boyfriends at the same time; but, all that changes when rin comes home unexpectedly early…

wc: ~2.1k | genre: porn with tiny plot

cw: established poly relationship; unprotected sex; isagi has a thigh fetish; pussy job; cum play; hickies; biting; edging; fingering (fem receiving); vaginal sex; (super) minor spoilers; please lmk if i missed something

All characters are +21. Minors don’t interact.

notes: my tumblr writing swan song; named after tanerelle’s “good good” more at the end !

series masterlist | part ii

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Balancing Rin and Yoichi is your own subconscious state of flow. The act evokes memories of mind-numbing rainy days huddled in a makeshift fort aglow with buttery lamplight. There you concocted masterpieces to satiate your thirst for entertainment: bottles filled with oil and water. An experiment rooted in patience, observation, and curiosity.

The relationship itself felt often like the construction of your make-shift toy. The process was simple: portioning equal amounts of both liquids with surgeon-like precision, a few squirts of food coloring, and testing ensued.

Rippling waves from gentle cants of your wrist. Furious bubbles with a few pumps of your hand. An explosion of riotous emulsion when dropped to the floor. Perfect stillness from a gentle grip.

It took practice to settle into your roles: Rin, bitterly fluid; Yoichi, bracingly adaptive; and you, resolutely miscible. It wasn’t easy to intervene, passively and occasionally aggressively. You often felt like a small wedge of wood shimmying below their enormously powerful legs to bring everyone back to even ground. Nowadays, equilibrium reigns supreme.

Their time with you is a calculated cycle beginning with their between season homecomings. First Yoichi, sweet and affable; second Rin, scintillating and emphatic. And substitution upon Rin's arrival is seamless. Yoichi slips out for a meandering stroll while a weary, slightly grumpy, Rin presents himself.

It's as if they reached a prior agreement before returning to your side. A deal to ensure minimum intrusion… although, you know better than to believe that. No, more likely you solidified their established habits. Or, likelier still, they wordlessly arrived at the same conclusion, much like their relationship on the field. Forever caught in an undulating dance of unspoken wills. Oil and water indeed.

A muted click sounds like an alarm through the halls. You lick your lips, a flutter of anticipation alights in your stomach. He fills the doorway with a bashful smile, marred only by the wedging of his teeth in one corner of his lower lip. His presence permeates the room like a peaceful sigh, a glimmer of delight amasses in your chest.

In a few short paces, Yoichi greets you with pliant lips.

Feather-light kisses dot your face until they coalesce into the firm honey-sweet press of his mouth against yours. A warm hand grasps the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him. His tongue sneaks between your lips and flicks against yours as he stretches alongside you on the bed. Warmth seeps from his body into yours and like a flower starved for the light of day, you soak it in.

“How was it?” you sneak in as his lips brush down your neck.

“Won ‘em all,” he replies, breath tickling your collarbone. His hand slides into yours, squeezing your fingers. He pulls away revealing his signature sunshine smile you automatically reflect.

“Glad you’re back,” you hum, leg hooking around his waist.

Snuggling closer, his lips tickle their way to your ear. You catch the fresh scent of his shampoo still clinging to the damp tips of hair prickling your cheek.

“Glad to be back,” he hums.

You pull him closer and rub against the bulge in his pants. His hips rock with yours, matching you swell for swell. Arousal springs like a fever throughout your body. Hands mold around the curve of your thighs. Lightly chapped lips graze along your jaw as he careens his head, gaze cementing on his fingers pressing into your bare skin.

"Can I… mind if I put it between them?"

"Do it," you breathe.

A gleam, too quick for diagnosis, shoots across his eyes. He stands, shucking off his pants. Eyes greedily glued to your hands, he watches as you wiggle out of your bottoms.

Scooting down the bed he parts your legs, laying his cheek against the skin of your inner thigh. A heavy exhale skitters straight to your exposed, leaking cunt. He nuzzles his face in the plush muscle.

A scrape of teeth—and scorching open mouth kisses weave down to the inside of your knee. A shiny sheen of spit follows his snail-like descent.

His arms encircle your outer thighs, scooping them into the circle of his embrace. He buries himself in the crevasse of their union. Moans shoot a pitiless hunger through your body. He peeks at you with an ill-concealed drunken desire.

“Can we do that new way I wanted to try?”

“Yeah, yeah let’s do it,” you don’t bother masking the excitement in your voice.

He settles behind you, legs propping up your back, chest warming your legs. Wedging a hand between your thighs, he lifts your legs as if parting a divine sea of flesh, and lays his cock against your slick center. Your breath titters, and you fight the urge to snap your legs shut.

He lowers your leg, crossing one shin over the other, sandwiching his cock. Only his pink tip protrudes from the makeshift cocoon. You pillow an arm under your head and get comfortable.

Lazily, he ruts, adjusting his angle with each movement. The bed begins to creak as he anchors a hand on your lower thigh. Each roll of his hips further saturates his cock. Each glide nurtures the acute ardor simmering in your hips.

He catches on your clit, your muscles twitch. He picks up his pace. Sweat and a faint trace of Isagi's soap taint the air. A curl of white-hot fervor unfurls in your stomach.

"Close, I'm close–" He grits out.

You focus on withholding a smirk. He never lasts long in the beginning; but, it’s not like you have much ground to stand on either.

"Uh, mhm, m–me too.”

Teeth prick the tender skin of your Achilles's heel. A sharp sting shoots tremors from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. You curl inward, fighting not to bend at the knees, and pinch your legs around his erection. Your arms gather the sheets to your chest in a clammy embrace as your muscles spasm in release.

His hand descends lighting fast to cup his tip as it spits hot ropes cum. An erotic thrill shoots through your relaxing muscles as you watch it pool in the palm of his hand. Release drips onto the curve of your thigh. He slows his pumping, panting filling the air.

"I want to, can I still—"

“Yeah,” you sigh.

Slipping an arm between your shins, he lathers the inside of your thighs with his seed. It's warm and runny, coating your tacky skin in an egg-white jelly.

His cock twitches from its perch below your cunt as he carves a path of swoops and swirls with his thumbs. The air thickens with the sweet musk of sex. His tongue darts out, licking your calf as if in anticipation of his next meal.

With a gentle push, you flop onto your back and Yoichi settles himself between your thighs. Sucking, licking, slurping—his mouth inhales his self-portrait. Lewd wet pants, absent of shame, cause blistering want to bloom in your center.

Two rogue fingers scoop up a congealing stripe of cum and seamlessly glide it to your clit. His tongue follows. It picks up the residuals, parts sticky slopes of skin, and reveals your dripping cunt.

His fingers stain your throbbing heat: one teases your aching center; another timidly dips inside; a third drags against your clit. They coat you in his seed and voracious weeds spring in its wake. They thicken, tangle, and twine. You squirm. Mouth returning to your leg, he bestows bruising kisses.

Your patience splinters. Fingers fisting in his blue-black locks, you yank his head. A bleary, intoxicated Yoichi greets you.

"Fuck me," you demand.

A wickedly content smile shines through the fluids coating the bottom half of his face. He raises himself from the bed and pulls you onto his lap. His cock, coated in your slick, smears against your hip.

A soft expression at odds with his vicelike grip on your thighs encompasses his face. His eyes grow into twin navy mesmeric marbles reflecting back a deep-seated longing as his face looms over you. Suddenly, you feel small under his gentle scrutiny. You shrink back, nerves preparing for whatever may come next.

“Must’ve missed me quite a lot…” he murmurs, nose tapping your cheekbone.

“Yeah, I missed you,” you petulantly admit.

He hums with delight, pecking the corner of your mouth.

“How much did you miss me?”

Gnawing on your bottom lip, you wind a hand between your feverish bodies, you find his cock. Your fingers pitter-patter along his shaft. He shivers.

“Thought about you everyday,” you whisper, “saw all your games.”

You hesitate. His mouth parts as if to draw out your next confession. You drag a finger up to his soft mushroom tip. Brushing your lips against his, you breathe into his mouth.

“Touched myself everytime you scored.”

A wide, devilish smile swallows his saccharine seduction. His mouth slams into yours knocking your teeth. The momentum sends you reeling into the bedsheets.

You scramble for the back of his shirt, clawing your way underneath, hands tingling at the electric hum that emanates from his damp skin. You lift your hips and wrap your legs around his waist. The tip of his cock grazes your pussy.

He draws back, eyes two pinpricks of desire in the center of your tunneling vision. Smearing his leaky tip against you, a prickling heat tickles the back of your neck. You shiver, every fiber of your body screaming with esperance. He leans down, lips hovering over yours. Your breath falters.

Nipping your lower lip, his mouth slothfully slides against yours. Tongue molding, lips dancing—each movement settles like sand in an hourglass. Granules stack, lying in wait until one of you breaks and sends the grains flowing once again.

Grasping your hands, he intertwines your fingers and pins them against the sheets. His nose skims your cheekbone. Your legs loosen around his waist.

Slowly, he guides his cock into your throbbing heat until his pelvis presses against you. Adapting to the intrusion in a gleeful shudder, you squeeze his hands. Bliss sloshes through your body, filling you to the brim until it precariously plateaus at the rim. Leveraging the hold on your hands, he pushes up, lofting himself. The shift in angle drives him a little deeper, creating a delicious friction.

Languidly he rolls his hips, settling into a steady pace. Pleasure drips like a leaky faucet, adding to the cohesion in your brimming cup. He releases one of your hands, and you plant it between his pecs. A light sheen of sweat greets you.

"How does that feel?"

"Perfect," you sigh.

A pleased rumble vibrates against the flat of your palm.

He picks up his pace, each stroke chipping away at your rapidly dwindling composure. Your legs clamp back around his waist. Black devours the indigo of his eyes. Slick fingers rub your clit. Mouth falling open, you overflow, releasing with unbridled euphoria.

He trades precision for speed. His pelvis rams into yours, making your thighs quake from the force of his thrusts. Lifting the hood of your clit, his finger runs tight circular laps. You writhe beneath him, hand fisting against his chest. Wet, skin-slapping squelches fill the room. You groan, toes curling, legs trembling.

He continues to bully your clit, to drive deep inside you until the edges of your vision blur. You spasm around him again, losing any sense of direction, and tumble down into an abyss, gasping and whimpering.

"Y-Yoichi—too much," you splutter.

Engaging your core, you hook your arm around his neck. You try to anchor yourself to ride it out with him. An ache blooms in your hips.

His hips jolt. Tossing back his head, he exposes the pale length of his throat as he releases deep inside you. Groaning, he hangs his head. Intermittent thrusts ease you both into a disjointed gasping heap. Listless blinks cloud your misty eyes. You deflate into the mattress, body buzzing.

Yoichi bows into your hold. The room quiets—save the faint pounding of your slowing heartbeat. Puffs of air ease into deeper, longer exhales. You pulse your arms around him and he pulls back to give you a shy, sweet smile. You return it with a fatigue-ridden one of your own.

"Tapped out already?"

Rin's flat baritone, off-key and unsettling, punctures the membrane of your haze like an egg splattering on the ground.

You start, cunt involuntarily constricting at the sound of Rin's voice as you twist. He slouches against the doorframe, hands tucked carelessly in the pockets of his shorts.

"Didn’t expect anything less from a second rate striker."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

a/n: hellloooo welcome to the first installment ~ these two are my unhinged favs and there is absolute filth coming, reblogs/ comments appreciated :)

disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters or people mentioned in this piece & all characters are +21 plus regardless of published canon

please do not copy, translate, nor repost this work nor other work belonging to @megumri

masterlist ⎸ series masterlist

#itoshi rin #rin itoshi #itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x you #rin itoshi x you #itoshi rin smut #isagi yoichi #yoichi isagi #isagi yoichi x reader #yoichi isagi x reader #isagi yoichi smut #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #if you interacted with the series masterlist post and didnt get tagged its cause you were a blank blog #and/or i couldnt tell how old you were !!#no hard feelings !!

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youchangedmedestiel · 2 months

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As promised I said I'll give you fic recs to celebrate the fact that I have more than 100 followers now. Again, thanks a lot! This makes me happy! :)

So now, here's my gift to you:

Every fucking fic by xylodemon

The writing is always perfect! I'm not kidding, this is my favorite writer so far! I've never been disappointed by their fics. NEVER! I haven't finish to read all of them but I certainly attend to.

Fics written by deancaskiss

If you like reading about Cas and Dean "just" kissing, then you should try reading those, if you haven't done it yet. I haven't read all of them yet, I read only around 10 fics for now, but same I'll attend to read more.

Then, more specifically:

Blackberries Wild by SaltyWords (agent4hire22) Angst, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Canon divergent after 13x12, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, brief mention of suicidal ideation - around 2500 words

This is so well written, the descriptions are everything, especially the ones for the kisses. It could totally happened like that. It's very true to their character if you ask me.

a kiss for every season (literally) by sobsicles and it is also available as a podfic here read by Scintillating Gatria (LadyLoralye) Canon typical level of violence, Canon Compliant, Brief Dean Winchester/Benny Lafitte - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Kisses, Smut - around 22000 words

The title says it all, a kiss between Cas and Dean happens every season and since there's never enough kisses between these two, that fic is therefore perfect.

People Who Are Good Like Pie by sobsicles Blowjob, NSFW, Castiel is a Little Shit, Dean is In Over His Head, Flustered Dean, Confused Dean, Creatively ties eating pie into sex, Sounds disgusting but it's really not I promise, it's hilarious, fluff and porn - around 1800 words

And it is indeed hilarious imo as well as very hot. It's short and easy to read, really different from the above. But it's human!cas and I'm weak for him in a sense that there is so much potential with him in a fic and that I love him.

You and I Know the Way by aishitara Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Series, Canon Compliant through 15x18, Fluff, a smidgen of angst, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Mentions of Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort - around 4300 words

There is human!cas in there too, so yeah I'm sold. Plus some amazing, beautiful, stunning art from winchester-reload is included in the fic so it's even more perfect. This is smut yes, but, BUT you can really see all the love there is between them and that fucks me up. That's the type of porn that makes me cry. I never thought I could say that about porn one day. But maybe it's because it isn't, this is just LOVE!

Humans Do It Better by Hatteress Episode: s06e10 Caged Heat (Supernatural), Excessive Drinking, Light Angst, First Kiss, Second more heated kiss, Kinda Funny.

I invented the tags here because it isn't on AO3. I need to mention this fic because it was like one of the first fics I read. It was more than a year ago and I still remember it. Maybe because I wished it had a next FUCKING chapter. I want to read more about it. I want to see what happened when they meet again later. I want to see what's going on in Dean's mind the next morning when he realized what he did, thinking about how he corrupted a fucking angel. Feeling guilty about it because it's Dean. I - I, maybe I'll fucking write this second chapter one day. But I don't know if it's a thing, you know, writing a sequel to someone else's fic.

Anyway, I hope you'll like reading those if it's not already done. I for sure have more fics to recommend but I have to save some for the 200 followers I guess lmao. One can dream.

BUT if you need specific fics, like from an episode in particular for example, you can still ask me because I sort them by episode tag too.

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meowzfordayz · 1 year

Text

low self esteem — inosuke, tanjirou, tengen

Author’s Note: started writing these as headcanons re: how they were requested, but ended up writing them as preferences. 😅 Sometimes a fanfic just writes itself the way it wants to be written, ya feel? 🤷🏻‍♀️☺️

low self esteem — inosuke, tanjirou, tengen

Hashibira Inosuke x Reader, Kamado Tanjirou x Reader, Uzui Tengen x Reader

Word Count: ~1,400

CW: explicit language

Emergency Request Fulfilled: Hi... I saw yo do emergency request... I was looking for one, my body dysphoria it's been getting pretty bad this days and tomorrow I'm going to a swimming pool and it's killing me inside, I love swimming but this is ruining it for me... So, can I have some headcanons for Inosuke and Tengen with an S/O with low self-esteem? Thank you, ILY

Suggestion Fulfilled: Can you write a tanjiro x reader fic where reader is insecure of her body hair? (Like me?🥲)

I wanna know how he reacts so bad:(((

~faqs~

Inosuke doesn’t know what’s been said or done, but he recognizes the strain in your smile, how you linger in the bathroom longer, heart squeezing when you gently brush his fingers away from your hips as he comes up behind you.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” he grins, propping his head on your shoulder.

“Nothing,” you mutter, turning the sink on, then off, then on again.

“We brushing our teeth?” as he reaches for his toothbrush, chest pressed hot and solid against your back.

“Nope, just thinking.”

You turn off the sink, small sigh sitting heavy in your lungs.

“About how pretty you are?” he smirks, nipping at your earlobe, “Your hair smells nice.”

“At least I’ve got something going for me.”

“Hey,” frowning now, forearms strong and secure as he places his palms on the counter, body boxing you in, protective warning in his tone, “Did someone talk shit? Why’re you saying that?”

“Nobody said anything,” leaning into his embrace, eyes closing, “I’m fine.”

“You are fine!” voice loud and riled, “You are so fine! From your nice smelling hair to your gorgeous smile to your squishy cheeks to your-”

“I’m not sure your opinion counts,” you chuckle wryly, “You seem to believe I’m faultless.”

“Oh you aren’t,” Inosuke quips, fondness in his eye roll, “You can be very annoying,” ignoring your indignant huff, “But you’re definitely more wonderful than you are annoying.”

“That’s… sweet.”

“That’s the first compliment you ever gave me,” he declares proudly, “It suits both of us.”

“I guess it does,” finally wiggling around to meet his gaze, lips hesitant and light as you kiss his clavicle, “Thank you.”

“I got a kiss!” he exclaims, “A special, one-of-a-kind kiss!” the tightening of his arms your only warning before you’re lifted slightly, his joy and devotion carefully spinning you.

Maybe he doesn’t know what’s been said or done, but he does know how brightly you shine: how full his life and heart are because you’re seeped into every vein and every crevice — because you glow through his darkest tremors. I wish you knew how special your kisses are as he holds you, bathroom mirror soft with affection as you hand him his toothbrush Minty fresh or garlic bread savory, they’re my favorite part of every day.

“Yor kithes ‘re mahical,” he informs you, toothbrush in mouth, toothpaste dribbling down his chin.

“Oh?” you raise an amused eyebrow, “I’m glad you noticed,” eyes crinkling as you smile, “They’re imbued with my love for you.”

And although the moments ebb and flow, Inosuke’s reminded of how perfectly you scintillate, your brilliance glittering as it drifts warm and slow onto his skin. Special, one-of-a-kind, magical indeed.

“I love your thighs,” Tanjirou grins, muscular frame spooning your legs, adoring eyes peering up at you.

“You’re gonna suffocate down there,” teasingly lowering the blankets till you can barely see him, “Taaanjiiirooou?” letting go of the blankets, “Where did you gooo?”

Cool fingers stroke your shins as he sprinkles your kneecaps with kisses, lump squirming happily when you scratch at his head, I could stay like this forever warm in your hearts.

“You’re so cozy!” he declares, affection audible even through the layers of blankets, “So fuzzy!” nuzzling at your calf.

Uh oh he winces as your legs jolt upward, force clipping the tip of his nose, eyes watering as he quickly resurfaces.

“Did that tickle?” his brow furrows, taking in your suddenly scrunched position, “I didn’t mean to!”

“Didn’t tickle,” you murmur, avoiding his gaze, cheeks burning as you swath yourself, forehead barely visible.

“Why’re you hiding from me?” amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “You know I didn’t mean to tickle you, and I won’t do it again… unless you want me to?” eyes sparkling as he winks at you.

Instead of your typical quip or declaration of Tickle war!, your body curls further into itself, Tanjirou’s gut clenching at the sour tinge of frustration and shame encroaching on your usual soft scent.

“You know being cozy is a compliment, right?” he asks carefully, “You’re home and heaven to me,” voice quiet, ��I can let my guard down when we’re together. We take care of each other.”

“I know,” you mumble, “I don’t mind being cozy.”

So then why… “What did I say?” not accusing or angry, but gently worried, “How did I hurt you?”

Relief filling his chest when you uncurl a sliver, anxious hands reaching for his—which he happily provides—his skin indented with tiny crescents as you grip firmly.

“I’m… fuzzy?” breaths shallow, tone higher than normal, “What does that mean? Is that okay? Should I go shave? I didn’t think it mattered since I didn’t go anywhere today, but I guess I wasn’t considering your preference,” kicking away the blankets, “Give me five minutes. I’ll shave, and then maybe we could continue-”

“I love you,” Tanjirou interrupts roughly, throat tight at the fear in your stare, “Your body hair is beautiful. Fuzzy is never bad. It’s inviting. Huggable. Sometimes it tickles a little, and sometimes it itches, and I love it. It’s absolutely okay. If you feel like shaving, then shave. If you don’t feel like shaving, then don’t. Where you’re going or what you’re doing doesn’t matter: what matters is how secure and safe you feel — how much you feel like you. My preference? I appreciate you showering every so often,” cracking a wry smile, “But beyond that? I just prefer you,” raising your knuckles to his lips, kissing delicately, “Now do you want to shave, or continue cuddling? Either way, I’m here for you.”

“What on earth?”

“Tengen, don’t give me attitude.”

“Don’t ask me stupid questions!”

You’d smack his bicep if you weren’t so curious and eager for his answer, quiet fear simmering in your stomach, eyes narrowed in what you hope comes across as sly or playful.

“You’re not fooling anyone, least of all yourself,” he sighs, gentle stare bypassing your act in an instant.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, mouth pursed, eyes closing tightly.

“Are you going to cry?”

“You can be really insensitive,” you huff, wiping harshly at your face, “I mean, look at you!”

“I’m a man of muscle and flashiness. That’s all.”

“Bullshit,” you snort, gesturing wildly at his hair, his torso, his legs, “You’re tall and handsome and charming and-”

“And I choose to love you,” hands catching your wrists, tenderly tucking your hands into his sternum, “There is no competition between us. If I’m enough for you, then I trust in you. Do you not trust in me?”

Swallowing thickly, you exhale loudly, frustration building in your voice, “That- That isn’t the point! Of course you’re enough for me! You’re YOU!”

“I think that’s exactly the point,” as he steps closer to you, “How do you think you’re enough for me?” breath blowing warm on your hair, “By not being you?”

“Stop speaking in riddles! I DON’T KNOW. I don’t know how I’m enough for you. Maybe you’re so damn generous that you-”

“I do not pity you,” tone warningly sharp, “I admire you. I appreciate you. I’m in awe of you. And I don’t understand how on earth you could believe otherwise. Do you ignore the bathroom mirror every day? Do my compliments go in one ear and out the other?” urgency digging into your skin, “Does my gratitude mean so little to you?”

Stifling a sob, you shove yourself into Tengen, arms locked around his waist, expression buried in his chest, bitterness coating your tongue. You don’t understand bouncing hollow through your skull; I understand echoing inaudible through his own.

“I apologize for being insensitive,” he murmurs slowly, palms steadying and calm against your back, “I’m sure I upset you whenever I say I’m going to hell, just as I feel upset that I haven’t adequately assured you of my affection toward you — that I haven’t provided the same security that I feel with you, for you,” thumb reaching up to smudge a teardrop as you pull away slightly, “I feel disappointed in myself. Of course, confidence develops most sincerely from within, but I doubt my attitude has helped,” sheepish smile gracing his lips, “I want to build you up. I want you to build yourself up. I want you to feel as loved by me as I do by you.”

“I want that too,” you whisper softly, “It’s so difficult though.”

“And that’s okay,” he chuckles fondly, pecking your nose, “As your muscly, flashy man, I’m more than happy to lift what I can for you, and to cheer you on through whatever I can’t.”

#preferences #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #modern au #hashibira inosuke #inosuke x reader #demon slayer kamado tanjirou #tanjiro x reader #uzui tengen #tengen x reader

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sixteenstrikes · 25 days

Text

“Then let us remedy the dereliction! The Blade has been rarely blessed to fight at the side of such a warrior, scintillating as a silver sword.”

“You waste your breath on drivel.”

“Must the gods’ own truth be so disparaged?”

“Regain your senses. Speak plainly, or not at all.”

“Your mighty company is indeed a heady pleasure, but my wits and words are my own.”

“Ch’k. I prefer the Blade’s sting to his poetry.”

#fooling around here lmfao.. <3 #my stuff #wyllzel

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rottenpumpkin13 · 7 months

Note

I think Sephiroth and Rufus should be weird, unlikely friends. They mostly bond over their shitty dads. They share plans on how they want to kill said shitty dads. Maybe give eachother constructive criticism

The gentle wind cooled Sephiroth's skin the moment he stepped outside, serving as a confirmation that it had indeed been too hot in the ballroom.

The mindless conversation, bragging and pathetic groveling clung to the air like heat waves, making every corner of the room suffocating and intolerable to so much as idle in.

Sephiroth's breaking point had been Professor Hojo. It was always Hojo. He was the one pulling him into whichever tight-knit circle the president was in, bragging about his creation, showing him off as if he were a prized, sacrificial lamb.

He had squeezed his way through the crowd and hurried to the nearest opening that gave way to the balcony outside.

The green lights of sector Seven scintillated through the fog in the nearby distance. The Shinra building was situated in the heart of the metal and mako. Everything could be heard from there; the bustling nightlight of sector zero below, the din of police sirens and helicopters polluting the air, and the permanent humming of the reactors.

Sephiroth let his eyes fall shut, taking in a gulp of breath and letting his lungs fill with the dense air.

"What did it for you?" A voice sounded from beside him.

Sephiroth gradually let his shoulder slump, opening one eye and sweeping his peripheral view to see another person leaning over the banisters.

Sephiroth turned to the side. Rufus Shinra stared at him expectantly, holding a silver flask in one hand and a lot cigarette in the other.

He didn't know how to reply.

"Was it Scarlett bragging about her new prototypes and comparing them to SOLDIERs or Heidegger pretending to be a materia expert and suggesting we force the troops to swallow materia for extra power?"

Rufus raised the cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag from it and refusing to break eye contact. Sephiroth looked away, shaking his head.

On any other night, he would have been cordial to the Vice President and excused himself to find a more secluded area.

Tonight, however, Sephiroth was too tired to wonder just how drunk Rufus was, and if he would remember anything of their interaction the next morning.

"Hojo."

Rufus sunk deeper into his slouched position, widening his eyes briefly in show of understanding.

They fell into uncomfortable silence rather quickly, something which Sephiroth was compelled to morph into anything else.

"What about you?" he asked.

Rufus took one last drag of the cigarette before shooting it into the air.

"The president."

Sephiroth piqued one eyebrow curiously. "Your father?"

"Mm." Rufus straighted his legs, unfurling himself from his slouched position and standing to his full height. He sighed, tapping the railing lightly with his hands, gripping it.

Rufus looked at Sephiroth, opening his mouth and closing it. He did that twice. From the micro-expressions Sephiroth could decipher, it looked like he was gathering the courage to ask something.

"Forgive me for prying but..." Rufus jerked one shoulder. "He's your..."

Sephiroth nodded slowly.

"...Ah.."

There were a few more beats of silence, and then Rufus extended the flask towards him.

Sephiroth looked down at the offering.

Rufus jerked his hand, insisting.

Sephiroth's gloved fingers wrapped around the cold silver carefully, only then beginning to wonder how drunk the VP was exactly. Sephiroth knew the alcohol was strong before bringing the flak to his lips.

The strong scent was telling, and he didn't need the enhanced senses of a SOLDIER to know that much.

"For lack of better words, they suck, don't they? Fathers? They suck the life they gave right out of you the minute you become a man." He scoffed. "I never thought I'd say this, but I truly miss the days where he'd barely look at me."

Sephiroth listened closely.

"Granted, he was never home." Rufus's voice was shrouded in reminiscence, and it wasn't the good kind. Even Sephiroth could detect that much. "And when he was...." A pause. "He wasn't a father. He owned me. Just like he owns everyone else."

Sephiroth stood up straighter. Rufus noticed, his eyes falling on the flask Sephiroth still nursed in his hands.

Sephiroth awkwardly raised it, taking a small sip. It burned his throat unpleasantly and promised nothing at all. Had he been a regular man, perhaps the liquor would've been merciful and numbed his nerves.

"Forgive me. You probably can't relate to any of it, right? You must've been under a constant microscope in that lab."

Sephiroth huffed in amusement.

"Something like that," he said. "And I belonged to no father. Professor Hojo often made it explicitly clear that he could erase me from the very same life he gave me."

Rufus hummed. "Haven't I heard that one before. Let me guess, was it with a gun pointed at your head?"

Sephiroth lowered the flask. "Scalpel to the stomach."

"Ah, well I'll drink to that." He extended his open palm. Sephiroth gave him back the flask, watching Rufus down the rest of its contents.

The conversation was flowing, so he tentatively asked: "And your mother? Do you–do you have one? Did you have one?"

He held his breath as Rufus lowered the flask, tore open his suit jacket and stuffed it inside.

"My mother died when I was very young. You?"

Sephiroth lowered his head. "She died... shortly after I was born."

They fell into a quiet, bittersweet understanding. Neither of them outwardly said it, but they thought the same things.

It was the start of a strange friendship.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Rufus asked. "I'm sure they'll leave us alone if they see us rubbing elbows. For all they know, we're talking business."

Sephiroth considered for a moment, then nodded with his version of a friendly smile.

"I'd like that."

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #rufus shinra #au #final fantasy vii #ffvii crisis core #ff7r #writing

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corvidcoreart · 5 months

Note

i know tumblr's harsher on nsfw content, but your slutwear rose from so long ago still gets me going every time i think about it, would something more teasing like a loungewear rose with peaking armpit and pubic hair go through? or anything scintillating with rose in these trying times. thank you for reading.

So sorry for the wait— these times are INDEED goddamn trying.

#moving is kicking my ass #davent arts #rose lalonde #suggestive #homesmut #anonymous #answered

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sheetsonfire · 1 year

Text

Beware Your Elders | Part 1

Fandom: Chicago PD

Pairing: Adam Ruzek x Reader

Genre: drama, angst, hurt/comfort, romance

Warnings: head injury, held hostage, murder

Word Count: 6154

Summary: When Adam gets assigned to patrol for the day, he is reunited with an academy classmate and friend. Based on Season 1 Episode 8 - “Different Mistakes”

A/N: I have been working on this for a long time, so long I fear I may never finish it if I don't post a 'part 1'. Huge thanks to @elius-learns-to-write for being so patient and helpful by reading this multiple times.

You approach Trudy Platt’s desk with a pep in your step, you felt like you were hitting your stride lately and being at the 21st was a good fit for you.

“Good morning, Sarge.” You offer to the desk sergeant, watching her remain engrossed in what was no doubt a mountain of paperwork that seldom grew any smaller.

Eventually, she pulls her eyes away and looks up, “Mornin’, Y/L/N. What’s got you all chipper today?” She eyes you curiously, but still with a slight smile on her face.

You play up your mood, “Oh nothing, just happy to be here, Sarge, under your tutelage.”

Even though you were hamming it up, the sentiment was indeed true. Trudy Platt was one of the most revered and respected of her generation, and you could understand why. It’s why the 21st was such a coveted placement.

She shakes her head, giving you a dubious look as she checks her list of squad cars available.

On the cusp of making a decision, Trudy spots Alvin Olinsky coming through the door with one Adam Ruzek. She leaves you waiting patiently in exchange for calling the older Detective over.

You give Olinsky a polite and distracted smile, watching briefly as Ruzek heads towards the gated stairs that lead to Intelligence’s bullpen, silently watching someone you used to be so connected with pass through like a stranger.

It irked you that he hadn’t gotten back to the messages you’d sent him since he got picked from the academy to join Intelligence; it felt like a small ‘fuck you’ from Adam - for him to just forget his classmates, to forget you.

You two had been inseparable; forging a true understanding and appreciation of how the other worked. Sometimes it felt like you were soulmates. Whether it was platonic or romantic, you’d never had the chance to figure that part out.

You sigh, glancing at Trudy’s desk to find she’s still talking to Olinsky. The conversation isn’t exactly scintillating, something about non-suit reports, so you take a glance around at the hubbub of the precinct for a distraction from your irritation.

People are coming and going every second, keeping the district ticking over and running as smoothly as Chicago would ever allow.

Passing by are Burgess and Atwater, whom you wave goodbye to as they head out for their day on patrol, they had become good friends and you really liked having them around.

As you’re about to turn your attention back to the desk, you hear the familiar voice of Adam once again. He had apparently stopped to talk to some of your fellow patrolmen, also classmates from the academy.

You watched the three men converse, the patrolmen were fascinated with Adam’s sunglasses and he appeared to be enjoying the awe his very presence seemed to inspire.

You roll your eyes, glancing at Platt and Olinsky, realising that their conversation had come to an end. Now, they were looking at you curiously. Before you can question their staring you see Olinsky divert his attention to Adam and the patrolmen, just as you had.

Tuning into the conversation not even a few metres away, Adam’s words are just about audible as he talks to the guys in uniform, “Yeah I don’t know how it is for the patrolmen here. I mean, I skipped that part.”

Olinsky looks on, his expression changing to one of a disappointed parent, and you find yourself smothering a smirk. Clearly, the senior officer wasn’t too impressed with Adam’s lack of modesty.

You gawk in amazement as Adam continues, glancing at Platt who waves you off so as to let her keep eavesdropping too.

“Yeah, put in your time boys. That’s my advice. Then maybe you too can join us upstairs, right?”

Before you know it Olinksy is on the move towards Adam and you’re giddy at the prospect of Ruzek possibly getting chewed out by his superior.

You can’t hear what Olinksy says next but suddenly the patrolmen are saying their goodbyes and Adam is being ushered in your direction, towards the sergeant’s desk.

Finally, Adam spots you and immediately avoids eye contact, having the good grace to look sheepish as he does everything he can not to acknowledge you standing there.

You internally scoff, cowardice wasn’t a good look on him and you were ready to tell him as such.

You don’t let it sour your mood too much, watching in sheer anticipation as Olinsky has a wry smile on his face, “Say, Sergeant Platt. Ruzek here needs to better appreciate the, uh, the journey, that he, uh, got to bypass.”

You wanted to cackle like a maniac, seeing how Adam looks at Platt in shock, watching your sergeant’s face turn gleeful as she responds, “Oh I’ve been waiting for this day.”

–

From there Ruzek is ushered upstairs to put on some uniform, and you decide to use that moment to try and get your keys. You were ready to get your day started, and you didn’t want to be saddled with babysitting Adam on patrol.

Yet, you fear it’s already too late when you notice your keys still haven’t materialised. Trudy was clearly slow-rolling you, waiting for something, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what or who that was.

The look Platt gives you makes you groan, yet you’re unable to protest too much as the sergeant preemptively holds up a shushing finger.

“Don’t. Ruzek needs a partner and you’re free, and one of my best. So don’t make me change my opinion of you, alright?” Her eyebrows go up in a pointed expression, daring you to protest further. You sigh in defeat, watching Platt nod and smile satisfied with your acceptance.

You weren’t one to want to disappoint Sergeant Platt, and it didn’t really feel like you had much choice. Besides, you did know Adam and you knew he was good police, you would just have to put aside your misgivings about his attitude for the day.

You're standing waiting for your 'partner' when you hear the gate open again, turning to see Adam in his patrol blues.

It’s a weird sight given he never got to have this moment when you did, and your whole body fizzles with goosebumps when he catches your gaze again.

“Ruzek.” You greet him, nodding with a smile, emotions imperceptible in your eyes.

“Y/L/N.” Adam smiles, somewhat cautiously, “Good to see you.” He offers.

“And you.” You manage to squeeze the pleasantry out, your swelling wave of feelings not yet washing you out to sea, but close to it.

Your new partner gives Sergeant Platt a small salute, “Catch you later, Sarge. Do you need anything?”

“Nah, I’m all good, unless you see Portillo’s on your travels! Now go ahead, you kids have a good time serving the community.!” She says with a smug smile, all too happy to watch Adam get a taste of patrol life.

“Oh, I’m sure we will,” He answers facetiously, slinging his arm around your shoulder. With that, Trudy shoos you off, and you turn towards the door as you almost immediately start extricating yourself from Adam, walking ahead of him to the parking lot.

He takes a deep breath, knowing he had a lot of explaining to do. So he braces himself for impact, hot on your trail to the car.

You slot yourself into the driver’s side of the patrol car, turning on the radio immediately to check in with dispatch and update your status.

Adam climbs into the passenger side and shuts the door behind him. He desperately wants to be excited about patrol and ask you how it’s going, but there was a walk of fire that stood in his way.

He clears his throat, ready to make a speech, "Y/N, I'm-" But the very notion of him explaining his actions somehow sets you off, you'd been waiting for this moment.

"Sorry? Is that what you were going to say, Adam? Sorry that you left without a word, sorry that you blanked me when I asked if you were okay and if you needed anything? Sorry that you said nothing when I congratulated you and asked if you wanted to celebrate. Is that what you're sorry about?"

You swallow, realising that your outburst was out there now, permeating the air as your heart thundered in your chest. You didn’t realise just how upset it had made you until you were ranting in Adam’s face.

He doesn't flinch, accepting your hurt with a guilty expression.

“Yes, exactly that. I totally ghosted you, and that wasn’t fair or right… There is no good excuse or explanation, other than I got caught up in the excitement of it all, not stopping to think about the people…the person I’d left behind. And I’m sorry that you’re stuck on patrol with me today, I know it’s probably the last thing you want.”

You sigh. Actually, being on patrol with Adam was all you’d thought about at the academy, it was something that you’d ached for when you were finally given your placement but without your right-hand man to accompany you.

Not all the wrongs had been righted, but just knowing Adam felt remorse, knowing that he hadn’t suddenly changed his mind about you… you could feel the storm clouds getting lighter.

“It’s fine… You’ve got some learning to do, and lord knows you need all the help you can get, Mr Intelligence. Being stuck with you is not the worst punishment ever, so long as you’re not expecting me to fawn over those sunglasses and the fact that you work with Voight’s team.” Your mouth upturns into a smug smile as Adam goes quiet, sitting obediently as you pull out of the lot and begin your patrol route.

Adam is sincere the next time he speaks, nodding in agreement with your words. “I definitely could learn from you, Y/N, and I wouldn’t expect you to feed any kind of ego, that’s not your style.”

Your smirk, glancing at your partner, “Definitely not my style.”

There’s another pause between you, and you sigh. You didn’t have it in your heart to maintain that venom. You knew Adam wasn’t inherently selfish or careless, you and he were both young and starting out, so it was partially understandable that he’d gotten caught up in the excitement of everything. “It’s good to be riding with you, Ruze. Let’s just make the most of it, alright? I can chew you out some more and patrol at the same time.”

“Yes ma’am, that sounds like a fair compromise.” Adam smiles genuinely, and your small smile is just as genuine in return. He holds out a fist for you to bump with yours, and you roll your eyes with a shake of your head. It was unreal how easily he could melt you down from being in an icy mood.

You bump your fist with his.

A large portion of your morning is uneventful, between some petty theft incidents and helping CFD on some of their scenes, you and Adam decide to call it time for lunch. It certainly wasn’t the most action you’d seen on patrol, and it definitely wasn’t shaping up to be Adam’s biggest day on the job. You’d even taken to responding to several cases of helping the elderly with their shopping, much to their gratitude.

Adam shrugs off his jacket and tosses it into the back of the patrol car, “Man, it’s October in Chicago, why the hell is it still so warm.”

“The earth is not our biggest fan right now, Ruze.” You huff as the sun beat through the windshield, agreeing with the fact that even the slightest motion in your jacket caused you to overheat at the moment. You decide to join Adam and take off your windbreaker, launching it into the back as you settle into your seat.

Both of you sit in comfortable silence as you listen to the radio chatter coming in, tucking into the grilled sandwiches and shared fries you’d got from the Deli down the street, sipping happily at some iced tea. This felt like old times to you, and it settled the disquiet in your stomach from this morning’s confrontation.

You hoped that you and Adam could actually rekindle the connection you’d forged, that he wouldn’t forget you a second time.

The last bite of your sandwich is taken when the radio crackles to life once more,

“Units on the citywide, reports of a 10-67 and 10-68 at 1655 West Cortez, nearby units please respond.”

You instantly put your wrappers in the door compartment, Adam picking up the radio as you pull the squad car out of the parking spot. “Dispatch, 2113 put us as responding to that call on West Cortez”.

The dispatcher responds once again as you hit your sirens, heading to your new location, “Copy 2113, holding you down as responding.”

Adam adjusts his position in the seat, more upright and ready to prepare himself for whatever you come upon at the scene.

10-67 Person calling for help.

10-68 Call for police made via telephone.

As you pull up to the row of houses on West Cortez, you take note of the uniform build, each house virtually identical to the next, save for some outside embellishments from the residents. The house next to the responding address is for sale.

You pick up your radio as you step out of the patrol car, Adam doing the same as he looks around for any immediate signs of distress.

“2113 to dispatch, we’re a 10-97, please standby.”

“Copy 2113, standing by.”

10-97 Arrived at the scene.

As you approach the front door of 1655 West Cortez to knock and announce your office, one of the construction workers from across the street approaches.

“You here about the screaming, officers?” The older man asks.

“Screaming?” Adam asks, and the man nods.

“Richard Barnes, I’m the foreman on this job." He gestures his thumb behind him to the bustle of men working along scaffolding.

You nod for him to continue.

"I heard it a few nights ago, as I was locking up, it sounded like a big fight at 1655. I headed over there since the old gal that lives there made me and the guys coffee a few times. Sylvia is her name. She answered the door and said it was her and her granddaughter just having a little misunderstanding, I’ve seen the granddaughter a handful of times too - seemed nice enough though. Sylvia apologised for the disturbance and that was that. I didn’t have any other way to prove something was wrong, so I left her to it, teenagers can get stressed out, right? Didn’t seem too weird. Everything seemed alright beyond the arguing. This morning I could hear Sylvia yelling again, only her voice though, and now nobody is answering the door. That’s why I called it in for you guys to take a look.”

“You sure the granddaughter hasn’t left at all?” Adam queries,

“No, sir, I don’t think she has. I have security cameras for the site and equipment, she hasn’t shown up at all the last few footage cycles.”

That revelation makes you wonder. You nod at Barnes, “Thank you for calling us, you did the right thing, we’ll take a look.”

He waves your thanks away, “Of course, holler if you need anything else.”

“We will, thanks again. We might ask you to make another statement once we’re done here, alright?” Adam checks and Richard nods, “Not a problem, officers. We’re gonna be going to lunch soon, but we’ll be back this afternoon, maybe an hour or so.” He gives a small smile goodbye, heading back towards the work site and his crew.

You turn back to the property and to Adam, “Okay, let’s find out what’s up with grandma and granddaughter.”

Adam nods, picking up his radio, “2113 to dispatch, we’ve just had a 10-62A, we’re going to do a knock and talk.”

“Copy 2113, standing by.”

10-62A Take a report from a citizen.

You knock heavily on the pristine white door, glancing around the mostly empty street for signs of anybody who could give extra information. Adam takes a step back to look up at the large windows on the 1st and 2nd floors.

Nothing happens, you both wait. Moving to knock again, your voice loud and clear, “Chicago PD, anybody home? Sylvia?”

In the background, you hear the low chatter of Richard’s workmen and their various trucks starting up as they move off the site to head to lunch.

You look at Adam and he gives a knowing nod back. Calls like this could be nothing, but they also could be something, and it was always better to make sure it wasn’t the latter.

Adam knocks this time, not much louder than you had but you knew he liked to feel like he’d had a go too. With a sigh, Adam’s on the cusp of hammering on the door when you catch a faint shadow of movement on the first floor, the definition of a ‘curtain twitch’.

“Ruze, movement on the first floor.” You announce, keeping your eyes fixed on the window as Adam does try the door a third time. “CHICAGO PD, this is Officer Ruzek and Officer Y/L/N, we would just like a word.”

There’s a lingering moment, then the sound of locks and chains being undone, the door opening a crack to reveal an older woman.

“Can I help you?” The woman’s hair is greying, she is round in the face, a slight blush to her cheeks, shuffling from foot to foot in navy slippers.

“Ma’am we’re with the police department, we’ve had a report of distress being heard at this address. Is your name Sylvia?” Adam asks politely, offering a friendly smile.

If the woman doesn’t like his question she doesn’t show it, offering a small smile back. “Yes, I’m Sylvia Lupp. This is my home, and I told that nice man across the street that there was nothing to worry about, I do hope we haven’t wasted too much of your time.”

Most people would offer a more detailed explanation and some kind of reassurance, but the woman is quick to try and shut the door again, only stopped by Adam’s quick palm at the centre of the door.

The gesture is assertive but not aggressive, just enough to give Adam some extra talking time. You see the woman’s face sour for just a moment before putting back up the kindly expression.

In the motion of the door trying to shut, it had created a draft of air that carried a smell with it. It smelt simultaneously like bleach and off-meat, with a slight odour of faeces. You share a look with your partner, you already knew this wasn’t a call you’d be putting down as “nothing”. So you step forward too, letting her know that you and Adam wouldn’t be dismissed that easily.

“Uh, ma’am, please, it would really ease our minds if we could just check the house out, make sure everything’s as it should be and that both of you are okay. If it’s just a normal family dispute, then we’ll be on our way. Do you mind if we come in?”

At worst this was about to be a crime scene, at best it was going to be a severe case of hoarding and neglect of the property, you steeled your stomach for both. You rest a quick hand on Adam’s shoulder, silently conveying you had his back as the woman reluctantly stepped aside to let you in.

You start looking around at the peeling wallpaper and the damp spots on the walls and ceilings. The smell was much stronger even a metre into the house. You swallow hard, trying to not breathe in too much.

“I have been working on the house, we’ve had some…sanitary issues lately as I’m sure you can see. I don’t move as fast as I used to, but I am working on it. My granddaughter isn’t fond of contributing to the home, that was the reason for our argument.” She didn’t seem nervous, but she did seem like a car salesman trying to convince you of her pitch.

You let Adam take the lead, watching as he followed her into the first room on the ground floor. You used the time to radio dispatch as quickly and as quietly as you could manage.

“2213 to dispatch, we have entered the premises 1655 West Cortez, speaking with Sylvia Lupp. We are now investigating a 10-29h. Be on standby for a Code 8. There is concern for a 10-54 or 10-91D. Might have cause for CFD assistance.”

10-29h Caution - severe hazard potential.

Code 8 Request cover/backup.

10-54 Possible dead body

10-91D Animal, dead

A voice crackles through, “Copy, 2213, on standby for your Code 8, 10-54 and 10-91D. CFD are aware of the call.” You spot Adam and Sylvia coming out of the room again, Adam’s face tells you everything. Sylvia looks from you to the radio in your hand, turning on her heels as she beckons Adam to keep following, you make sure to stay in tow.

You were starting to worry about what you’d find beyond the stacks of yellowed and moulding newspapers, uneven piles of miscellaneous goods, the strewn cans of food, and the almost constant thrum of flies buzzing.

Eventually, you decide to broach the topic, “Sylvia, we’re not here to judge, but we are worried about your safety on the property right now, and your granddaughter’s safety.”

Her head snaps to you, looking affronted, “The house needs some love, that’s all. I wouldn’t pry into how you keep your home, officer.” Adam gives you a terse look, subtly shaking his head, encouraging Sylvia to continue the tour.

You hold your hands up by way of apology, deciding you’d try again once you’d seen more of the house. This would already constitute a hazardous environment by the city’s standards, you wouldn’t be surprised to find complaints from neighbours if you checked the city’s sanitation records.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, you can’t understand how you’ve managed to not lose your lunch all over the floor, the smell had only gotten stronger and one scent, in particular, had you covered in goosebumps.

The smell of death.

Sylvia stops at a door, unlocking it with a gold key she produces from the pocket of her cardigan. The door in front of you is older than the others, wooden and pale from losing its paint finish, scuffs and scratches litter the wood. She gestures to the rickety stairs dimly lit by an overhead orange glow of a lamp on its last legs. “My Luzie lives down here in the basement, spoilt girl gets her own space. She’s not home right now, out at college.”

For the umpteenth time today, you find yourself sharing a sceptical look with Adam, close to suggesting you both turn back and regroup outside.

It played on your mind that Sylvia’s granddaughter, according to Richard from across the street, should absolutely be in the home.

The older woman looked as if she was about to close the door again, but once again Adam stops the motion.

“Ma’am, we really need to inspect the entire property, if you don’t mind.”

Sylvia’s nostrils flare in what you sense is anger and frustration, but she steps aside and gestures dismissively downwards.

You let Adam go downstairs with Sylvia, keeping an eye on her from the top of the stairs, making sure you still had a view down the hall to the front door, just in case anything else or anyone else were to appear.

Then, there’s a crash and several loud thuds.

“Oh, officer, quick! He’s fallen!” Sylvia cries out, sounding frail for the first time since you met her.

Your feet carry you as fast they can down the rickety steps, coming upon the scene of Sylvia crouched over a motionless Adam. You fall to your knees on the cold concrete floor, assessing Adam quickly and methodically.

Adam was out cold but breathing. You take off your CPD gaiter to press to the wound on the side of his head, eliciting a soft groan from him.

“It’s alright, Ruze. I got you, we’ll get an ambo here.” You reassure, only receiving another moan in response. Picking up your radio, “Dispatch, 2213 in need of backup and an ambo to our last location, an officer is injured. A head wound.”

You wait, static is the only answer to your request. So you repeat it again, and again. Your stomach begins to sink with each passing moment. The basement was stopping you from calling for help, and you were stuck down there with someone you didn’t trust.

“What happened?” You ask Sylvia, noting that though she had her hand over her mouth in ‘shock’, her actual face showed no expression at all.

“I-...he just fell, I don’t know, he hit his head on the unit there.” She points to a scuffed, faded, display unit full of old china. However, as you look at the unit you can’t see any blood or any signs that it had been disturbed by the weight of Adam hitting it.

What you do notice is a golden bronze eagle statue laying a few feet across the basement floor from Adam. It was darker in spots, darker as though it had blood on it.

You couldn’t prove anything without taking a closer look, but you also couldn’t afford to let Sylvia know that you were beyond suspicious. You quickly avert your gaze, focusing on your partner once more, his eyes had half opened now.

“Hey, buddy.” You murmur, giving his arm a squeeze. “I need you to keep pressure on that wound for a sec, alright?” You ask, waiting for his confirmation of understanding.

“M’kay… Y/N, she-” He grumbles, you fix him with a look so as to stop him from talking, you figured he was about try and warn you about Sylvia, but you were already there. Instead, your partner returns to lifting a shaking hand to press to his own head with a small hiss. “Good, real good, Ruze. Just gimme a minute, I’ll be right back.”

There were too many variables. You had to make a decision. That decision was to detain Sylvia so you could leave the basement and radio for help.

You push up to full height, “Sylvia, I’m going to need you to stand-” As you turn to face Sylvia you’re cut off by the sound you knew all too well, the cocking of a gun. A gun that was now pointed at you.

Fuck, Y/L/N, you didn’t check for Adam’s weapon.

You stare at Sylvia, all your suspicions were now a reality and you were mad at yourself for not being harder on her, her age had well and truly stalled what would have been immediate caution and apprehension if it had been someone younger.

Your jaw clenches, shifting ever so slightly to stand directly in front of Adam, shielding his prone form on the floor. “Sylvia, I think you and I both know that pointing that gun at me is a big mistake. My partner is injured, and this house is now in our system and flagged, anything you try to do will only make things worse.”

Sylvia waves the gun gesturing downward, “I think you’ll do as you’re told, I’m sure you can guess by now what happens to people in my home who don’t obey the rules and give this house the love it needs. Sit down, officer, by your partner. There’s a good girl.”

You grit your teeth together, deciding you couldn’t risk trying to draw your weapon and giving Sylvia a motive to shoot. So you slowly sit on the cold floor of the basement, glaring as the old woman pushes forward, the gun never leaving the target of your head or your partner’s. Almost instantaneously the concrete makes your muscles tense and shiver, and you hear Adam’s chattering breaths on the ground beside you.

Satisfied you weren’t going to do anything, Sylvia bends awkwardly with her hip to pull your weapon out of its holster. You consider taking your chance to tackle her to the floor. You easily had muscle and speed on her, yet your surroundings did not give you ample opportunity to move or get help if something were to go wrong. You weren’t a fan of the decision, but you couldn’t risk Adam’s life like that.

You choose to instead trust that dispatch would try to check in, then they would contact Platt who would ultimately be pissed you hadn’t returned one of her patrol cars on time and come hunt you down. That, or somebody from Intelligence would notice Adam’s prolonged absence and come looking for him.

For the moment you’re resigned to watching Sylvia totter back up the creaking stairs with both weapons and the key to the door at the top.

Unsurprisingly you hear the door slam, and the clicking of a lock and bolt follow.

The first thing you do once you’re sure Sylvia isn’t coming back down those stairs is turn to Adam who offers you a sheepish smile, still pressing the gaiter firmly to his wound.

You sigh, checking him over as he chuckles with a pained wince, you couldn’t believe how calm he was - maybe he had several brain cells knocked loose.“Seriously, I’ve got us trapped down here and you’re giving me those doe eyes?”

Adams frowns, “Last I checked it was that old gal that got us locked in here. She saw me bending down for this…” Adam fishes in his trousers pocket, producing a gold chain with a pendant attached. “That’s how she got the drop on me.”

Your eyes widen at the revelation, the pendant was marked with an engraved “L”, it seemed a given that the L would stand for “Luzie”, Sylvia’s granddaughter.

You’re about to open your mouth again, but Adam knows what you’re about to ask, “I guess in the excitement of holding officers at gunpoint she forgot why she knocked my peanut loose in the first place.”

Frustration leaves you, kicking the dirt beneath your feet, “I should have been less patient with her, I should have knocked her on her ass. I shouldn’t have let you go down here alone with her.”

Adam scoots closer to you as best he can without letting go of his head, you reach out a hand to steady him, helping him lean against the wall. “Listen to me, you stayed up there where you should have to make sure nobody was coming in or out without our notice, you didn’t hand her that eagle, and you couldn’t have known she’d be so brazen… She already had me before you were even down the stairs, Y/N, so I don’t wanna hear anymore about it being your fault. Alright?”

There’s a pause as the realisation sinks in for Adam, feeling sorry for himself for getting caught off-guard, watching with some amusement as he groans again, “Man, she really got me good.”

You squeeze your arm around him gently, “I think she would have found a way no matter what, Ruze, don’t take it to heart, alright? How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got whacked in the head.” Adam retorts, meeting your unimpressed face he relents with an apologetic look, he knew you were worried for him.

“Sorry, it smarts but nothin’ I can’t handle.” The warmth of Adam’s hand on your arm makes your stomach flip, his reassuring hold burns through your shirt sleeve before he lets go again.

You try not to draw attention to your surprise at the contact, pushing yourself up to stand. “Well, for as long as you’re able to make your smart comments, I’m gonna see if there’s a way to get our radios to reach out of this godforsaken basement, or a way for me to go and get us help. Stay put.”

Adam wants to laugh at your lack of a request but rather an order, except laughing would hurt his brain, so he settles for a wry smile. “Yes, officer.” He quips, tickled by the roll of your eyes as you turn to start checking the walls of the basement for a window or alternate access point.

Adam’s starting to really feel the chill of the basement as he watches you move boxes and old bits of furniture away from the walls, he studies you with a pained expression, wishing he would stop feeling so dizzy so he could get up and help too.

“You okay over there?” Adam asks, trying to shimmy on his ass to not let his back and shoulders go to sleep, his butt already well past numb from the cold of the concrete.

You sigh, trying to not be annoyed by his concern, it was sweet and you know it was hard for him to keep still, “For the 4th time, I am absolutely fine, Ruze.”

He sighs, “Right.” Simmering in his own soup of thoughts until he feels compelled to open his mouth some more, “Y/N, I’m really sorry for everything, you know that right? I got so caught up with Intelligence, then I felt like I’d abandoned you, I didn’t know what to do with that, more time passed, and it just became this whole awkward thing.”

You stop your rummaging and periodical checking of your radio, something you were also surprised that Sylvia had forgotten to take - then again, people didn’t always consider everything when they were acting in a moment of rash behaviour.

With hands on your hips, you face your partner with an incredulous expression, “Adam, I have been trying to talk to you about this for weeks, and being trapped in a basement is the time you choose to circle back to it?”

Adam shrugs, “No time like the present, figured before we freeze or starve to death, I’d let you know that I know I’ve been a jerk.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, searching for the calm to not whack Adam yourself. “Please, pretty please can you just save for this for when we’re out? We’re not going to starve or freeze down here… God, even when you’re hurt you still find a way to be a little shit.”

Adam does smile now, gesturing nonchalantly with his free hand, “It’s why you love me, Y/N. Let’s not pretend it doesn’t charm you.”

You sigh, “Oh yeah, I love you because it’s really fun when you make things more difficult.”

Adam snorts, ignoring the stab of pain in his skull, “Ah, so you do love me then, didn’t deny that bit.”

The statement goes without an answer in return, falling back into ‘comfortable’ silence as you resume your hopeful task of finding something that will get you and Adam out of this. Finally settling at a tall storage unit, one that was somehow producing a particularly cold draught from behind it.

You brush your fingers behind the heavy mahogany, feeling the cold bite at your fingertips your heart picks up the pace. It certainly felt like something was concealed by the display unit, an open space to be precise.

“Adam, I think there’s something behind here.” You say it almost to yourself, afraid to declare it to the room should it lead nowhere.

“You need me to…?” Adam gestures in your direction, already trying to get to his feet with a slight grunt of surprise at just how unsteady he was.

“Will you please sit back down before you fall?” You chastise, taking quick strides to slip your arms around Adam and put him back on the ground.

“I know you want to help, but the best thing you can do is stay here and let me just worry about one thing at a time, alright?” Your voice loses its irritation, face softening as you can see the frustration on Adam’s face. Granted your irritation was because you were worried about him but you didn’t need to give him the attitude.

Your partner lets out a slight huff, “Okay, Y/N, yeah, I can do that. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, man. I know it’s not a great situation, I’d be pissed off too.”

Adam hums in acknowledgement, letting you wander back toward the display unit. It takes you a second to get your stance right, putting your weight into the side of the heavy wood as you push. Your boots crunch bits of concrete and gravel underfoot as you force the unit to one side with a noise of upheaval, revealing a blue door, metallic and rusting - the stench of death was stronger now.

End of Part 1 of /?

tags: @resanoona - @elius-learns-to-write - @dumb-fawkin-bitch

#chicago pd #one chicago #adam ruzek x reader #beware your elders

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rebelrebelwrites · 1 year

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Fic Friday! ❤️ Rebel’s Weekly Fic Recs

As always, this week's recs are...

As always, please mind the tags on any recommended story for your own personal preferences.

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The Classic You’ve Heard Of But Somehow Haven’t Read Yet: Of Desire and Despair by WildHarlow

What you need to know going in:

Mmm, another classic post-S1 fic where Sauron visits Galadriel in her dreams in an attempt to tempt her to reconsider his offer... with unflinching desperation, desire, and a semblance of honesty that scorches. Scintillating and spine-tingling in its gut-clenching conclusion, this is a quick, sinful read that you’ll want to return to over and over again.

Complete, Explicit

Read the story.

Follow the author on Twitter and AO3.

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The AU You Need to Immerse Yourself In Because, Well, Wow: Though the Gods and the Years Relent, Shall Be by @demonscantgothere

What you need to know going in:

Hnnnnggg, this fic. 😍 Another beautiful contribution to this fandom from @demonscantgothere, this sweet, steamy fic also offers a really unique premise: after the end of all things, Eru remakes the world, and in that world in Valinor, a young Galadriel meets a Maia named Mairon. In this world, Mairon does not become corrupted, and he and Galadriel have the chance to fall for each other without the obstacles they would’ve had otherwise. Don’t get me wrong, I love the tragedy of this ship, but the hope and the pure softness of this story is breathtaking and such a balm for the soul. ❤️

Complete, Explicit

Read the story.

Follow the author on Tumblr and AO3.

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The Complete But Never Forgotten Masterpiece: Queen Takes King by @coraleethroughthelookingglass

What you need to know going in:

10 years after she says yes to Sauron’s proposal, Galadriel reflects on the decision—and the dominance she wields over her Dark Lord—in the world where shadows lie where they both reign as equals. I love me a Dark Galadriel fic, and this one doesn’t disappoint! This two-shot delivers delicious smut and a delightfully devoted Dark Lord and his Queen. 🔥

Complete, Explicit

Read the story.

Follow the author on Tumblr and AO3.

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The WIP That Will Wreck You (In the Best Way): The Trials of Mairon by @jackpotgirl

What you need to know going in:

This is another fic I got into in the earlier days of the fandom, and I need to catch up on the latest update, but what a binge-read! If you’re somehow unfamiliar, this story sees Galadriel after the events of LOTR in Valinor, and at the bid of the Valar, she must put Sauron through three trials to prove that he’s worthy of redemption. After two failed attempts, they’re both thrust back to the events of S1 of RoP…. But this time, Galadriel knows who Halbrand is. The two push and pull at one another on a tremulous path of redemption, but the trials aren’t limited to Mairon. 👀 Binge-worthy, indeed!

WIP, Explicit

Read the story.

Follow the author on Tumblr and AO3.

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The Can't Stop Consuming No Matter What Time It Is Fic: but i thought you might by @bad-surprise

What you need to know going in:

This. Fic! (Listen I realize I start all of these with an exclamation but I don’t know what to tell you, my feelings are my feelings and you guys are the ones doing this to me so… 😂) I binged the heck out of this story this week and got caught up this morning, and I knew immediately I’d be adding it to this week’s list. In this modern AU, Galadriel and Halbrand have a tumultuous, on-and-off-again romance throughout high school/college and as adults, marked by crippling anxiety, religious trauma, and a struggle to communicate… but a fierce (and often unspoken), love for each other that leads to them continuing to fight for happiness. It’s beautiful, dark, and achingly good.

WIP, Explicit

Read the story.

Follow the author on Tumblr and AO3.

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🤩🤩🤩

Me at all these fics:

Don’t see your story on this list yet? Keyword: yet. Please don’t fret! I can only recommend so many each week, but I am always looking for more stuff to read, share, and generally shower with love, so please feel free to reply with your own fics or your personal faves. I have plenty more to recommend… ❤️

Until next week!

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thecountessofkilmartin · 10 days

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My favourite quotes from On the Way to the Wedding..

1. “It was only a matter of time before he, too, found the woman of his dreams and settled down to be fruitful, multiply, and take on such baffling hobbies as papier-mâché and the collection of nutmeg graters.”

Nutmeg Graters?? I can’t 😂

2. “Where is the scintillating Lord Bridgerton?” he asked. “Oh, somewhere. I don’t know. We’ll find each other at the end of the day, that is all that matters.”

This book is every Kanthony stan’s dream follow-up to TVWLM 😭 I love that we got little glimpses into their marriage to see how they've evolved as a couple and people.

3. “She was without artifice, the sort of girl a man could trust. Rather like his sisters, he supposed, with a keen wit and a sharp sense of humor. Lucy Abernathy would never inspire poetry, but she would make a very fine friend.”

Bahahaha. Did he just friendzone her in his head? 😂

4. “It was nothing. She was nothing. No, that was not fair. She was something. Quite a bit, actually. But not for him.”

Ohhh Gregory! My poor, sweet, innocent, naive Gregory 🤣

5. “Lord Fennsworth took one look at the duo (more at one than the other, and suffice it to say that blood was not thicker than unrequited love), and he murmured, “Friday it is.”

Props to Gregory for being perceptive about someone’s feelings, if not his own 😂

6. “At least she seemed rather more like herself. The world seemed a bit steadier with Lucy Abernathy yipping along like a terrier. He’d felt almost off-balance when she’d been staring morosely at the trees.”

Signals!! He’s missing all of the darn signals. How?? 🙆‍♀️

7. “Auctioning your friend off to the highest bidder. You’ll be well-practiced by the time you have a daughter.” She jumped to her feet, her eyes flashing with anger and indignation. “That is a terrible thing to say. My most important consideration has always been Hermione’s happiness. And if she can be made happy by an earl . . . who happens to be my brother . . .” Oh, brilliant. Now she was going to try to match Hermione with Fennsworth. Well done, Gregory. Well done, indeed.”

Hahaha, Lucy is too nice for her own good. And Gregory just keeps making things worse for himself at every given opportunity 😂

8. “Didn’t you wish for time for yourself?” she asked, softly . . . so softly it was almost a whisper. Slowly, he shook his head. “I did,” he said, sounding as if the words were coming to him at that very moment, as if the thought itself was new and not quite what he had expected. “I did,” he said again, “but now I don’t.”

My heart 🥺 💕

9. “She later told Gregory that he had still not forgiven her for costuming him as Cupid at the Billington fancy dress ball the previous year.”

I will so pissed if I don't get to see Anthony dressed up as Cupid on the show. I simply must see it 🤣

10. “Surely she would not come over an hour late. If nothing else, Lady Lucinda would not have tolerated it. She was clearly a punctual sort. In a good way.As opposed to an insufferable, nagging way. He smiled to himself. She wasn’t like that.”

Omg, someone needs to hit him in the head!!! How is he missing this? 😫

11. “What happened to you? Are you all right? Did someone—” His grip loosened slightly as he looked frantically around. “Who did this?” he demanded. “Who made you—”

You’re a little too concerned about her safety, aren’t you, Gregory?? 😂

12. “And I didn’t have my mask, which made me stick out a bit.” “Like a mushroom?” “Like a—?” He looked at her dress and nodded at the color. “A blue mushroom.”

Trust him to be even cuter when he's drunk 🥺

13. “I will walk you to the stairs, then.” Lucy knew better than to argue. He would not relent. His voice was quiet, but it had an edge she wasn’t quite certain she’d heard there before. “And I will remain there until you reach your room.” “That’s not necessary.” He ignored her. “Knock three times when you do so.” “I’m not going to—” “If I don’t hear your knock, I will come upstairs and personally assure myself of your welfare.”

Omg. He's sooo cute 🥰

14. “I’m not, he thought, and he realized that it was true. He had a sudden flash of his life married to Hermione Watson, and he was.. Bored. Good God, how was it he was only just now realizing it? He and Miss Watson were not suited at all, and in truth, he had made a narrow escape.”

"A narrow escape" haha 🤣 🤣 At least he realized it rather quickly. Granted, his brothers have set the bar quite low when it comes to life-altering realizations lol

15. “And Anthony was worse. He didn’t even have to say anything. His mere presence was usually enough to make Gregory feel that he was somehow not living up to the family name. It was difficult to make one’s way in the world with the mighty Lord Bridgerton constantly looking over one’s shoulder. As far as Gregory could determine, his eldest brother had never made a mistake in his life.”

Oh, if only he knew.. Looks like Anthony hid his devilry from the younger siblings quite well. Props to Benedict and Colin for covering for him 😂

16. “The way she was looking at him, her hand on his arm. She’d been clutching him, and for a moment it had almost felt like she needed him. He could be her rock, her center. He had never been anyone’s center.”

Awwww 🥺

17. “She turned. She turned, and she saw him. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted, and it hit him squarely in the chest—It was good to see her.”

I would have found this so romantic if I wasn't so mad at him at this point 🥲

18. “He simply liked Lucy. Considered her a friend. And he wished for her to have a bit of fun. It was admirable, really.

Haha, sure Jan 🙄 It totally doesn't seem like you're in love with her. No one goes so out of their way to help friends. He would've never gone to Violet if she wasn't so special to him 🥺

19. “Anthony is exceedingly generous,” Gregory said quietly. “Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Violet said, smiling. “With his money and his time. He is quite like your father in this way.” She looked at him with wistful eyes. “I am so sorry you never knew him.” “Anthony was a good father to me.” Gregory said it because he knew it would bring her joy, but he also said it because it was true.”

My heart.. Anthony was so worried about living up to their father, and yet he has managed to fulfill all of his duties to perfection. Edmund would be so proud of him 😭

20. “I know what it means to work for something,” he said in a quiet voice.”

He's got so hurt by her implication.. And when Gregory is hurt, I'm hurt. It's a simple law now 😫

21. “I have found that most men do not notice anything that is not clearly spelled out, anyway.” “Even your sons.” “Especially my sons.”

Haha It's a universal truth 😂

22. “And then she saw him. Lucy saw him. He saw it first in her eyes, which widened and sparkled, and then in the curve of her lips. She smiled. For him. It filled him. To near bursting, it filled him. It was just one smile, but it was all he needed.”

Sighhhhhh 🥰

23. “His fingers gripped hers when they should have just brushed by. She looked up and saw that he was gazing at her. ”

Ohhh... How scandalous lol 😏

24. “Hyacinth regarded her with a delighted smile. “I like you,” she said slowly, as if she were deciding upon it right then and there. “You are wrong, of course, but I like you, anyway.” She turned to her brother. “I like her.”

Hyacinth literally showed up out of nowhere towards the end of the book and stole the show 😂

25. “He and Lucinda Abernathy were meant to be husband and wife. Hers was the face he was supposed to gaze upon over eggs and bacon and kippers and cod and toast every morning. A snort of laughter pressed through his nose, but it was that nervous, desperate kind of laughter, the sound one made when the only alternative was to cry. Lucy had to marry him, if only so that they could eat masses and masses of food together every morning.”

And the most endearing Bridgerton sibling award goes to... 🥰

26. “Her eyes glistened as they met his. In the dim light of the night, they looked a dark, dark gray, and achingly sad. He could imagine the entire world there, in the depths of her gaze. Everything he needed to know, everything he might ever need to know—it was there, within her.”

My man is soo wrecked in the best way possible 🥺

27. “Let me kiss you,” he whispered. “One more time. Let me kiss you one more time, and if you tell me to go, I swear that I will.”

The respect!!! No wonder Lucy fell in love with him so quickly 😭

28. “The night seemed to dance, sparkling and tingling, as if the air itself understood that nothing would ever be the same. Dawn was waiting on the other side of the horizon, and already the stars were beginning to look less bright in the sky. If he could have frozen time, he would have done so. Never had he experienced a single moment that was so magical, so.. full. Everything was there, everything that was good and honest and true. And he finally understood the difference between happiness and contentment, and how lucky and blessed he was to feel both, in such breathtaking quantities.”

Awwww! Happiness is seeing your favourite fictional men so utterly and hopeless in love 😭

29. “It was simply impossible to enjoy one of nature’s small miracles and not kiss her.”

Why is he soo cute??? 🥺

30. “I have sworn in my heart to protect you,” he said, his voice passionate and fierce and maybe even a little bit revelatory. Because today, he realized, was the day he truly became a man. After twenty-six years of an amiable and, yes, aimless existence, he had finally found his purpose. He finally knew why he had been born. “I have sworn it in my heart,” he said, “and I will swear it before God just as soon as we are able. And it is like acid in my chest to leave you alone.”

She's so darn lucky. She wasn't even looking for love and somehow found the best of the best 🥰

31. “Gregory had told Colin everything, even down to the events of the night before. He did not like telling tales of Lucy, but one really could not ask one’s brother to sit in a tree for hours without explaining why.”

What are brothers for, if not to sit in trees for hours in front of their sibling's girlfriend's houses? 😂

32. “Listen to me. I love you.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I love you,” he said again. “There is nothing in this world or the next that could ever make me stop loving you.”

Oh my god, whenever he told her he loved her an year was added to my life.. It's so damn adorable 🥲

33. “He would try with everything he had to make sure that they both came through this alive and unhurt, but if there was a choice—if only one of them was to walk out the door.. It would be Lucy.”

Chivalry at its finest 😭

34. “Nine children. Nine. It was only one less than ten. Which possessed two digits. If he did this again, he would be in the double-digits of fatherhood.”

Haha, Lucy wanted a large family, and Greg certainly didn't disappoint lol 😂

#gregory bridgerton #lucy abernathy #grecy #gregory x lucy #on the way to the wedding #bridgerton #favourite quotes

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talesofadragon · 1 year

Text

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬

Summary: After the second Wizarding War, Draco’s life was left gloomy and bleak. But an unexpected encounter with a certain girl makes him believe that the sun’s beams of light are far stronger than any cloud and any storm.

Warnings: None

Pairing: Draco x Muggle!Reader

Genre: Angst | Fluff

Word count: 1.6K

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.

Draco stood still, unlike time that seemed to run a marathon. His wand lay in his hand, his fingers curled around it. Piles and piles of clothes haphazardly littered the floor, waiting for the wizard to cast a spell that will neatly place them into a trunk.

Blaise and Theo were right. Unknown wizards were indeed threatening previous Death Eaters, and if Narcissa Malfoy’s letter was any indication, then it was only getting worse.

Draco sighed deeply, recalling his mother’s letter. It was less of an order and more of a plea, but regardless, the outcome was one: he was to return to the wizarding world and be placed under the Aurors’ protection.

With a flick of his wrist, Draco’s trunk was now fully packed, but something in the wizard felt empty. He looked at his wand, examining it in his fingers. He immediately thought back about someone who valued magic a little more than he did.

Biting his lower lip, he made his decision in a split second because truly, there wasn’t much to think about.

Draco grabbed his jacket and his keys. “Apparate,” he said, waving his wand. He found himself in the alley close to the familiar café he visited every day for the past month.

With careful steps, he made sure to look over his shoulder for any sign of threat. “Homenum Revelio,” Draco cast under his breath. He exhaled once he was assured that there was no trace of anyone but him.

He walked to Chapters and Verses, ignoring the “Closed” sign. The little bell on top of the door rang, but there was no sign of Y/N anywhere.

The room was filled with opened boxes and books. With furrowed brows, Draco crouched down to take a look, the book in his hands being none other than Y/N’s favorite genre.

He let out a half-laugh just as footsteps sounded from behind him. He whirled around, his demeanor shifting as the girl in question walked in.

“I’m sorry,” she said, dusting off her hands. Her scintillating eyes were on her hands, too focused on removing the dust to pay attention to Draco. “We’re closed at the moment.”

“And here I was hoping you’d make an exception for me, darling.”

Y/N eyes shot up, a bright smile taking over her features. “Draco!” she beamed, making Draco’s mind enter a state of frenzy.

“Hi,” the wizard greeted her. He already began to miss the delicate taste of hot chocolate made by her hands and the serene melody that was her voice. “I hope you’re not too busy.”

Y/N shook her head. She pointed at the box in front of her. “Not much. I’ve received a new shipment of books, and I’m trying to sort them out.”

“Oh. I can come back tomorrow—”

“No,” Y/N interjected while shaking her hands. “I can always sort them out later.”

“Nonsense, darling. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your work.”

“Well.” Y/N lips curled into a smirk, her eyes wandering to the box next to him. “You could always lend a hand.”

Draco chuckled at her cuteness. Without hesitation, he took off his suit jacket and bent down to pick up some of the books.

With a pep in her step, Y/N grabbed some books as well and began to guide Draco through the countless shelves. The first half of the hour was spent in peaceful silence. Y/N led Draco to the right shelves and pointed out where he needed to place the books. She did the same. And whenever her height failed her, Draco gracefully lent a hand.

They smiled bashfully at each other the whole time. And Draco loved every moment of it—the magical feeling of comfort around Y/N.

“So,” Y/N began. Her back was to Draco as she placed some books in their rightful place. “What brings you here so late?”

Draco kicked an invisible pebble, biting the inside of his cheeks. He was glad that Y/N had her back turned, else he would’ve faltered in front of her lustrous eyes. “I’m leaving.”

Y/N whirled around, almost tripping. The books in her hands tumbled, but luckily for her, Draco rushed to her aid. He steadied her and the books almost the way he did exactly a month ago.

“You’re leaving?” Y/N all but whispered, her orbs losing their shine.

Draco bowed his head, his eyes wandering to his left sleeve. “I’m going back home.”

“Home?”

“Wiltshire,” he stated. Y/N pursed her lips in response. “I’m leaving in the morning. I just came to say goodbye.”

“So, your decision is final,” Y/N muttered more to herself than to Draco. She realized she was still in his embrace, so she stepped back and cleared her throat.

“I’m sorry.” Draco paused, his heart aching at the sight of the girl he fancied so hurt. But Y/N gave him her usual smile, sincerity aligning her eyes.

“It’s okay. You must really miss it there.”

Not in the slightest.

Draco nodded. Shifting in place, Y/N looked at the ground and back up to Draco. “Wait here,” she told him. Before he had the chance to ask, she disappeared into the rows of shelves.

Draco admired her silhouette, thinking back about the month he spent with her. For a muggle, Y/N was the most magical and scintillating being he had ever met. And the thought of having to leave before he had the chance to admit this to her pained him… but it was for her own safety.

A tap on his shoulder awoke him from his reverie. He turned around, finding Y/N with a copy of their favorite book.

“What’s that you got?” he asked, his brows knitting together.

Y/N only smiled, extending the book. “I want you to have it.” Her fingers touched his as electricity sparked in their blood. “To remember me by.”

“Darling, I can never forget you in the first place.”

Y/N grinned. She approached Draco and took his hand in hers, squeezing it. “I really enjoyed seeing you here every day for the past month.”

“Same here, Y/N. I’m sorry I have to go.”

“It’s okay.” Somehow, he knew it wasn’t. Y/N shrugged sheepishly, looking him in the eyes. “One last hot chocolate?”

“What about the books?”

“Oh, they can wait.”

She led Draco to a table while she prepared their drinks. He was left contemplating her, regretting everything he was taught. Because if he had known Y/N before the second wizarding war--before Hogwarts even, he knew that he would’ve never made the same choices he made because the only right choice would be her.

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

taglist: @lazydreamer19@marajillana@wanniiieeee@thezodiakwitch@homepuffs @abbygraceasd@slythermuf@maylaysia109@jackiehollanderr @hhesperidess@rosaliedepp @hhesperidess @ynalouis @kat-nee @dracosbloodychicken @danoodloo @sarah0210 @msrawog @caramia-mara @tinafuentes

I hope you haven't forgotten about me, witchlings! I know it's been a while, but be patient with me. I've got great things planned for Draco as well as two supersoldiers from another marvellous universe ;)

Stay tuned! The finale will be out next week. Are you ready?

For those who want to be tagged, head over to “The Owlery” section on my profile and send me a message!

Until the next one xx

#draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #draco x y/n #draco x you #draco malfoy fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco imagine #draco malfoy imagine

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defectivevillain · 9 months

Text

these jagged scars

[ao3 version here] (now accessible to both registered users and guests)

[spotify playlist]

Act One summary:

That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

this broken design | 16/16 chapters | 64k words

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Act Two summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instincts rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this winding labyrinth | 5/? chapters | 26.3k words

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

comment down below if you'd like to be added/removed from this work's taglist. the taglist allows you to get notifications whenever I post a new chapter of this work.

#finally adding tags ig so Tumblr stops yelling at me #male reader #x male reader #transmasc reader #gn reader #nonbinary reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #you get the idea #wanna cover all the bases

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timeashunger · 1 year

Text

#1: golden

In the end, Rin says on an early summer day, just as the sun is about to set. It comes out wrong, too. “Kaede,” she says, “is unusually long-lived.”

It’s this exquisite moment in which sunshine drapes the world—the village and the grass and the people—in the gold of jewellery or fine kimonos, a shade so precious she, too, feels silk-fine. Lord Sesshomaru makes a short, low sound in acknowledgment, and Rin notices his eyes flick towards the village below, past the slope of the hill and the scintillating stream of water irrigating the rice fields.

Kaede, bright red trousers and a frown, trudges out of the hut they have shared for years—looking for her, calling her home. Not that Rin can see her expression from here, but she knows she’s frowning. She usually is, when Lord Sesshomaru is here.

His eyes are on her, now, and somehow the bark under the palms of her hands becomes rougher, the log uncomfortable. She stretches her legs, her kimono riding up her calves to show a patch of skin that she began to cover years ago. His gaze, at time inscrutable, feels like scrutiny. This is new.

She’s just told him, as she usually does when he visits, about her days, and the harvests, and the births she’s assisted with, and her progress with calligraphy and the—limited—training with Kohaku, and never once have his eyes shown—this.

“Have you and the priestess had a disagreement?” he asks eventually.

Kaede is unusually long-lived, she just said. She realises, awkwardly, that it sounded like a statement of ill-wish. Lord Sesshomaru is puzzled. He, too, is bathed in light, and perhaps her words came out wrong because she was too busy admiring how the sun caught in the silver strands of his hair. So, with renewed intent, she looks into his eyes, his beautiful, amber eyes, and she clarifies: “One should be so lucky to reach her age.”

He hums again, but the intensity of his gaze does not falter. “Indeed,” he says, the tone a question.

“One should be so lucky to reach her age,” Rin says again. And then: “I should be so lucky to reach her age.”

And his eyes widen.

#hanyo no yashahime #yashahime #drabble #fanfic #vignettes #to be posted on ao3 #sessrin #sessrin positivity #part of a series!

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justforbooks · 1 year

Photo

The writer Martin Amis, who has died aged 73, delighted, provoked, inspired and outraged readers of his fiction, reportage and memoirs across a literary career that set off like a rocket and went on to dazzle, streak and burn for almost 50 years. His scintillating verbal artistry, satirical audacity and sheer imaginative verve at every level from word-choice to plot-shape announced a blazing, once-in-a-generation talent.

He seldom disagreed with Christopher Hitchens, the journalist and essayist who was his soulmate and intellectual lodestar. But when Hitchens published a tepid review of a book by the American novelist Saul Bellow – Amis’s literary idol and mentor, who ranked equally high in his affections – Amis rebuked his friend for ignoring “all the pleasure he gave you”. Amis stirred envy and emulation, ignited controversy, courted scandal. Above all, though, he gave pleasure.

He paid tribute to his father, the novelist Kingsley Amis, by praising his “super-humour: the great engine of his comedy”. However grave its themes – later years saw him preoccupied with losses, partings, and deaths – “super-humour” likewise fuelled the zest of Amis junior’s prose. For him, “seriousness – and morality, and indeed sanity – cannot exist without humour”. His gift of laughter followed him even into Auschwitz (in his 2014 novel The Zone of Interest). Critics could find its presence an embarrassment. Admirers never did.

He published 15 novels, from The Rachel Papers in 1973 to the hybrid Inside Story – which enfolds fiction into memoirs and essays – in 2020. His essays and journalism stretch from an account of arcade video games, through literary studies and critiques of pop culture, to a meditation on Stalin’s crimes: Koba the Dread (2002).

Until a quieter last decade, spent largely in New York, he combined fertility and versatility with a reluctant role as a writer-celebrity who epitomised literary fame in an age of glitz, hype and frenzied prurience. Keystone novels of the 1980s and 90s such as Money, London Fields and The Information channel the raucous urges of their time, and kick against them in dismay.

To a degree, he played the celebrity game: he dissected showbiz phenomena in witty articles, often for the Observer. But he found, in his case, that others played with laxer rules or none at all. For decades, the life, loves and family of a gossip-fed tabloid entity known as “Martin Amis” ran in parallel with the career of the hard-working author of that name. His fiction abounds in games of doubles, pairs and twins. In his own life, too, Amis struggled to negotiate the gap between the mask forged by fame and the true face of a serious writer.

Being the son of Kingsley might have sent him early warnings of the bill that a stellar career in literature can present. Martin was born in Oxford a year after his brother, Philip. His mother was Hilly (Hilary, nee Bardwell), whom Kingsley had met while she was studying at the Ruskin School of Art. Their third child, Sally, followed in 1954.

Hilly recalled the young Martin, bright and amiable, as “a child born under a lucky star”. The spectacular success of Kingsley’s debut, Lucky Jim (1954), brought prosperity but torpedoed family life. Kingsley’s many affairs, and his mother’s distress, became the background hum of Martin’s youth.

As his renown grew, Kingsley moved with his family to Princeton, New Jersey, for a year. Martin loved America: its speech rhythms rooted in his prose. In England, his father’s best friend – the melancholic poet Philip Larkin – supplied not only paltry gifts of a few pence to Martin, but a dire example of literary greatness allied to emotional squalor. The siblings spent happier times with their cousins, David and Lucy Partington. Lucy’s vanishing in 1973, and the final confirmation more than 20 years later of her murder by the serial killer Fred West, spread an ineradicable shadow over Amis’s later writing.

In 1961, Kingsley took up a teaching fellowship at Peterhouse, Cambridge. A rambling house on the city’s edge served as the rules-free, bohemian backdrop to the shipwreck of the Amis marriage. It ended in 1963 when Hilly moved to Mallorca while Kingsley began living with his lover, the novelist Elizabeth Jane Howard. Disharmony at home disrupted Martin’s education: he bounced idly from school to school. Relief came in the Caribbean when (for £50 per week) he acted in the film of Richard Hughes’s novel A High Wind in Jamaica.

As teenagers, Martin and Phil lived mostly in Maida Vale, west London, with Jane and Kingsley. They scoured Kings Road, Chelsea, for girls, and kept drugs in the fridge. Kingsley, lord of misrule, once bought his sons a gross of condoms. Jane, the much-admired “wicked stepmother”, finally presented the “semi-literate truant and waster” Martin with a reading list that ran from Jane Austen to Muriel Spark. She sent him to a Brighton crammer, where he thrived. Martin duly studied English at Exeter College, Oxford, with an “exhibition”: a scholarship, though of a minor kind.

After graduation, in 1971, he joined the Times Literary Supplement as an assistant, then as fiction editor. Starting with The Rachel Papers, his own apprentice fiction – smart, knowing, super-cool – flowed with little fuss. For Amis fils, “nothing is more ordinary to you than what your dad does all day”. In 1974, he moved from the TLS to the New Statesman: as deputy to the literary editor Claire Tomalin, then (until 1979), as books editor himself.

The Rachel Papers won a Somerset Maugham award. And the model for the “Rachel” fictionalised in his debut – his first love – introduced him to the Jewish themes that would draw him with increasing force. For a while, though, his fiction declined to grow up. Dead Babies (1975) performs stylistic somersaults around a country-house parody, although the warring foster-brothers of Success (1978) inaugurate the trademark Amis play of pairs.

Two sides of the Amis myth, or mask, solidified. With male chums – always Hitchens, often the poets James Fenton, Ian Hamilton and Clive James, or the novelists Julian Barnes and Ian McEwan – he adorned a sort of kebab-and-chips literary salon. They derided the old guard and lauded brave new voices. Yet Kingsley, old guard incarnate, remained an always honoured guest. Amis’s deep affection for his father, despite political and artistic clashes (Kingsley scorned his boy’s fancy technique, and reputedly chucked Money across the room), surprised and impressed their friends.

Like his father, Amis also picked up a reputation as an eager if inconstant lover. By his own account, he was a slow starter until the future magazine editor Tina Brown “rode into town and rescued me from Larkinland”. Soon, columnists began to chronicle – or fantasise – the romantic life of this literary wunderkind. Tomalin herself, Brown, Emma Soames, Julie Kavanagh: his liaisons with high-achieving women were mediated by salacious reporting, attracted awestruck gazes but also evil eyes. (His longest early relationship, with the photographer Angela Gorgas, left fewer media traces.)

Too short, too clever, too entitled, too rich: Amis became the author-ogre many loved to hate. Even his father remonstrated to Larkin when, in 1978, the son earned £38,000: “Little shit. 29, he is. Little shit.” Yet companions from that time recall no sneery seducer but a sweet, funny, sympathetic friend.

Come the early 80s, Amis as writer moved into higher gears. Other People (1981) heralded a mature interest in other minds and how to represent them. In 1984, the pyrotechnic satire and narrative trickery of the sensational Money both skewered an era of greed and glitz and, typically, embodied its appeal in the razzle-dazzle of its prose. The golden boy shone with a deeper lustre. His presence on Granta magazine’s 1983 roll-call of Best of Young British Novelists sealed his position on the crest of a new, media-savvy and PR-friendly, literary wave.

Also in 1984, the writer who had fretted that “childlessness will condemn you to childishness” married the American-born academic Antonia Phillips. Their son Louis arrived the same year, followed in 1986 by Jacob. With parenthood came an investment in the planet’s fate expressed in the bomb-shadowed stories of Einstein’s Monsters (1987), and the apocalyptic weather that roils around the large-scale comic dystopia of London Fields (1989). That book’s doomed antiheroine, Nicola Six, focused criticism of Amis as a serial fabricator of stereotypically damaged femmes fatales. The complaint, and the grounds for it, would persist.

At the same time, the comic craft that forged that novel’s darts-obsessed low-life Keith Talent could still make readers fall off their chairs with laughter. Visitors to the Amis work-flat in Westbourne Park loved to report on the blockish impedimenta of dartboard and pinball machine. Fewer clocked the neat editions of Bellow and Nabokov, twin touchstones of his art, on the shelves. The Holocaust motif and reverse narration of Time’s Arrow (1991) – shortlisted for the Booker prize – spoke of lofty formal ambitions, not laddish fun.

In journalism and fiction, Amis magnetised mimics and fan-boys (fewer girls) by the score. The essays gathered first in The War Against Cliché (2001) and, later, in 2017, The Rub of Time, recruited a tribe of wannabes – which rather missed their point. Hubris was ascribed to him, not espoused by him. Envious back-biters feasted on his every mishap or misstep.

The 90s saw his dental problems become a bizarre media fixation: he retaliated, gloriously, with the all-you-can-eat dentist-surgery horrors of his 2000 memoir Experience. Less reparable, his marriage broke up. He married Isabel Fonseca, an American-Uruguayan journalist and author, in 1996. Their daughters, Fernanda and Clio, were born in 1997 and 1999.

The media onslaught intensified with Amis’s most elaborate novel of doubles and rivals: the death-haunted, long-winded literary satire of The Information (1994). Its large advance drew sniper fire. So did Amis’s split from his agent Pat Kavanagh – and from her husband, Barnes – in favour of Andrew Wylie. Kingsley’s decline, after his parting from Jane, darkened his son’s horizons and turned Amis’s mind to “the information” (about mortality) that struck as a “negative eureka moment” in his 40s. What Amis called, after Kingsley’s death in 1995, the “passage to the main event” now suffused his work. He found death “always in my thoughts, like an unwanted song”.

In 2000, his sister, Sally, died, aged 46, after periods of depression and alcoholism. Griefs accumulated: the 1994 revelation of Lucy’s fate throws a pall over the superb Experience that wit can hardly lift. Still, in the mid-90s, Amis met his eldest child. Delilah was born in 1976 while her mother, Lamorna – who later killed herself – was married to the journalist-historian Patrick Seale. Larkin’s bleak emotional wilderness had terrified Amis. If anything, he overcompensated: so much life, so much love, but so much loss as well.

Amis, Isabel and their daughters set up home in London, at the other end of the Primrose Hill road where Kingsley had finally gone back to live with Hilly and her third husband. Post-millennium, his writing took a more political turn. Hitchens had always figured for Amis as the ideal type of the public intellectual. Now, the virtuoso storyteller – who identified as a centre-left gradualist – craved a slice of that gravitas himself. In Koba the Dread, Amis’s account of Stalin’s atrocities paid homage too to Kingsley and the ardent anti-communism of his circle: notably, the historian Robert Conquest.

It was 9/11 and its aftermath that propelled Amis into front-line polemics. Islamist terrorism revived a catastrophist strain in his work: the concept of entropy haunts earlier books. In the topical essays collected as The Second Plane in 2008, it threatened to elevate political foes into metaphysical demons. Rash interview statements prompted charges of Islamophobia. More soberly, Inside Story concludes that “the real danger of terrorism lies not in what it inflicts but what it provokes”. Still, the op-ed pundit Amis could drop his verbal, even moral, compass.

By the later 2000s, Amis began to look fragile, with the stiff gait of a veteran tennis player (he enjoyed the game, and wrote well on it). His mid-2000s fiction – Yellow Dog, House of Meetings – revisited old haunts: celebrity excess and tabloid depravity in the former; the lingering horror of Soviet atrocity in the latter. Calm spells with his family in seaside Uruguay raised spirits, as for a while did stints as a creative-writing professor at Manchester University.

With The Pregnant Widow (2010), his ambitions climbed again. Within its uproarious, comic-pastoral mode, the novel counts the costs of the sexual revolution that, for Amis, had devoured his vulnerable sister. To Amis, no longer a gleeful beneficiary of post-60s erotic liberation but its appalled historian, “the boys could just go on being boys. It was the girls who had to choose.”

In 2010, the Amis family began the process of moving from London to New York: Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. In Amis’s telling, the need to live near his elderly mother-in-law hastened the move. British media read it as a snub to his celebrity-mad homeland and its jeering fourth estate. Lionel Asbo (2012), with its scattergun satire on lottery-winning oiks in a plebeian nightmare, rather confirmed that view.

Amis enjoyed the Brooklyn weather, the freedom from spiteful gossip, his welcome on New York’s literary scene. But he missed British backchat: his west London patch, from the pub quiz-machines of Portobello Road to the sports clubs of Paddington, had served well as scruffy muse.

Thanks to Fonseca’s heritage, Amis now had Jewish daughters. Jewish histories, fears and hopes felt nearer than ever. Yet his concentration-camp novel The Zone of Interest affirmed that, for Amis, nothing stood beyond a joke. “How can you presume to laugh at Hitlerism?” asked a German critic. For Amis, how could he not? Any depiction of Nazi evil that overlooked its farcical absurdity lent it weight and credit it did not deserve.

His two wisest jokers had exited: Bellow, with dementia, in 2005; Hitchens, from cancer, in 2011. The loss of a virtual father and a virtual brother whetted fears of death but also (with Hitchens) sharpened the appetite for life: “the delight of sentience”. Kingsley had called a late novel The Anti-Death League, but Martin would never have signed up. “Without death there is no art,” he wrote. Bellow’s and Hitchens’s passing fed tremendous elegiac passages amid the multiform miscellany of Inside Story, where tricky “autofiction” sits beside heartfelt, no-frills memoir.

With its musings on “how busy death always is, and what great plans it has for us”, Inside Story felt like a valediction. If so, it was one in which Amis’s acrobatic wit defied both gravity and solemnity. He wrote with discipline and dedication, and wrestled with all the anguish of his age. Yet that pleasure-giving principle makes his long shelf of books feel playfully, buoyantly light.

He is survived by Isabel, and by his children, Delilah, Louis, Jacob, Fernanda and Clio.

🔔 Martin Louis Amis, writer, born 25 August 1949; died 19 May 2023

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