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#tw austerity
allthecanadianpolitics · 11 months
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Alberta's decision to cancel funding for an elite wildfire-fighting crew in 2019 came despite pleas to keep the Rapattack program from at least three municipalities, including one that has since been evacuated during this spring's blazes.
"Rapattack is a pivotal program in the fight against wildfire and without them communities will be losing a valuable resource," wrote Jim Hailes, then mayor of Fox Creek, to Devin Dreeshen, then the United Conservative forestry minister.
Fox Creek's 1,700 residents are expected to be out of their homes until at least Wednesday.
Rapattack firefighters are rappelled from helicopters to douse wildfires while they still only covered a few hectares. They can extinguish small fires before they merge and clear landing spaces for other helicopters to bring in crews and gear. [...]
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Tagging: @politicsofcanada, @abpoli
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ellis I'm SURE your bitchass was the cinema owner. that's why you had that vault so the hatman couldn't get your tapes
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austereanimus · 2 years
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Good ol Kik, I miss it.
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valeskafics · 7 months
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"Asylum" - Osferth x Reader (AHS Asylum AU)
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Summary: Osferth takes a job at Briarcliff Manor and meets you, a young woman allegedly possessed by a demon.
Word Count: 3,000
Rating: 18+, Minors DNI
TW: afab reader, she/her pronouns, profanity, innuendo, blasphemy, religion kink, priest kink, choking, oral m receiving, orgasm denial, monster fucking, p in v sex, demonic possession, mentions of old-fashioned hysteria diagnoses
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the The Last Kingdom characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️
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Osferth, the unclaimed bastard son of famed politician Alfred, was ordained as a priest in the year 1964, the youngest in modern history. When asked where he wished to do God’s work, he surprised his teachers and, in truth, the religious world, by choosing to become the resident priest at Briarcliff Manor, an asylum for the criminally insane. In an interview, Osferth stated that the poor souls in the asylum were the ones who needed God’s love more than anyone.
His first few months working there are uneventful. The Mother Superior and other nuns working there are austere, but nothing he can’t handle. He meets some of the worst humanity has to offer, but he continues to work tirelessly on the salvation of their souls. After all, even the most wretched are worthy of His grace.
Everything changes, however, when you are committed to Briarcliff. Osferth watches as you’re dragged along by one of the orderlies, their grip bruising on your forearm. Your parents give you thinly veiled looks of disdain that they try to disguise as worry for their baby girl’s well-being. But Osferth knows that look all too well. He’s seen it in his father’s eyes too many times to count. When he looks at you, you look so small and fragile, with sweet doe eyes. All he wants is to take you into his arms and protect you, shelter you from the hand this cruel, cruel world has dealt you. You meet his gaze as they shove you into a cell.
“Her parents claim she’s possessed,” the Mother Superior tells him as the cell is locked, “You are to interview her and find out if there is indeed a case of demonic possession or if the girl is just suffering some form of hysteria.”
Osferth winces at the term “hysteria”. It’s so outdated, medicine has advanced from how it was when such diagnoses were used, but clearly the Mother Superior is old-fashioned. He nods and requests her to leave, giving him time alone with you. Osferth turns to face you and sees that you’re already looking at him, head tilted to the side as if out of curiosity, your gaze too alluring for him to resist. He feels drawn to you, more than he’s ever felt to anyone. Your eyes pierce right through him, to his very soul.
You finally speak after a long while of just staring at him, “You’re a priest?”
Your voice is soft and smooth, like honey being poured in his ears. He nods, eyes moving along your figure. You’re so beautiful, angelic almost, in the white hospital gown they’ve put you in, a contrast to this awful place. It must be a torment, torture for such a sweet soul to be shut in that awful cell.
You smile slightly, the sight making Osferth feel as though there are butterflies fluttering around in his stomach, as though it’s all in knots, as you muse, “But all the priests I’ve met are old. You’re nearly my age.”
He blushes at your words, taking a step closer to your cell, “I am very young, yes. I just finished my studies and here I am taking up my first duty.”
“An interesting choice,” you tease him, your playful tone of voice disarming him as he leans in toward the bars on your cell, grasping two of them in his hands. He watches as you step away from him, frowning slightly as you move toward the window, gazing out of it, “Did they tell you why I’m here?”
“I was told about your condition,” he says softly, as you continue pacing your cell, almost like some kind of caged lioness, “The Mother Superior said your parents believe you to be possessed but that it might just be a case of hysteria. I am sure that with proper care, I can treat you.”
Osferth knows his gaze is probably too intense to be considered chaste by any means, especially when you turn and give him a teasing little grin, “Do you know what the treatment for hysteria is?”
“Erm,” he mumbles, “A mental rest and some physical exercise?”
“Orgasm therapy,” you giggle, “Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?”
Osferth’s heart pounds against his ribcage. He can’t help but stare at your body, biting down on his lower lip, imagining giving you the type of therapy it is you’re talking about. His hands touching you, moving along the curves of your hips, your chest…
“You don’t believe in it?”
“They tried it on me before,” you say airily, “It didn’t work. But,” you step closer to the bars, resting your hands just below where Osferth’s are, so close that he can feel the heat of your body as you gaze up at him, a little smirk playing on your lips, “Maybe it’ll work if you’re the one giving me the treatment, Father.”
He feels his pants grow uncomfortably tight beneath his robes, adjusting his collar as he clears his throat, “I could try,” Osferth replies, his voice dropping an octave, barely hidden desire evident in his every word, his every glance.
“Do they have any books in here?” you ask, gazing up at him with those doe eyes, the slightest hint of mirth dancing in them.
Osferth is a puppet in your hands, unable to help himself from following your every command. You ask for a book? He’ll find one if only to see you smile. If you ask him to move mountains, he’ll find a way to do it somehow.
“I have this one,” he mumbles shyly, grabbing a book from the desk behind him, “It’s a compilation of religious poetry. It inspired me during my studies and I’d love to share it with you.”
You give him a playful grin, your voice a low purr as you reply, “I’m not religious, Father.”
He swallows thickly, his fingertips grazing against yours as both of you rest your hands on the bars of the cell. Your hands are so soft and smooth, he can hardly contain himself.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate the way they speak of divine love,” he says, a cheeky smile playing on his own lips as he begins to play your game.
You press yourself up against the bars, so close to him that he can feel your breath against his sin as you request, “Won’t you read to this poor sinner, Father?”
Your words drive him to the point of madness, feeling as though his blood is boiling beneath his skin. He picks up the book and gazes at you, meeting those eyes that he knows will haunt him for the rest of his life. He begins to read, feeling your eyes on him, reading the words but never having understood them until this moment, here with you.
“For thee, the sea is not too deep,” he finishes with a soft whisper.
The two of you gaze into each other’s eyes for a long moment, the air between you heavy with tension as he leans in slightly, his nose brushing against yours ever so slightly. He can feel your breath on his lips, nearly taste you. But then, the Mother Superior returns and drags Osferth away by the ear, like he’s a child. She rants that you could be possessed, that he must stay away from you. And you? You just laugh, that soft melodious laugh that has him turning back to meet your gaze once more.
“For thee, the mountains are not too high,” he says quietly, heart racing as a new flame burns inside of him.
You have bewitched him entirely, body and soul.
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A few days pass until he is given enough leeway to find you again. And it fills him with a very unchristian rage when he sees you sitting beside one of the other asylum residents, a troublesome one by the name of Sigtryggr. You sit beside him, playing with his hair, practically draping yourself over the man while completely ignoring Osferth. You turn toward Osferth and give him a coy smile before returning to flirting with Sigtryggr, whispering in his ear. Osferth’s jealousy knows no limits. That should be him, with you in his lap. He stares at you, pleading, desperate for your love, your touch, your kiss.
You stand up, moving toward the kitchen when one of the nuns calls you to do your chores for the day and begin walking. Osferth discreetly follows after you, uncontrollable desire filling his body. Once the two of you are in a more secluded hallway, he grabs you by the shoulders, pushing you against a wall. Your faces are barely an inch apart as you gaze up at him, lips so very close to his, tempting him into sin.
“Sorry, Father,” you hum, moving away, “I’m on kitchen duty.”
He grabs your hand, pulling you back against his chest, his lips crashing onto yours. It’s as though no one exists in this moment except for the two of you. His arms wrap around you tightly, as if he never intends to let you leave. His kiss is searing, heated, hungry. He pulls away, panting slightly before leaning to whisper in your ear.
“I love how you call me ‘Father’.”
You smirk at him, clicking your tongue in a chastising fashion, “That’s not very Christian of you, Father.”
“I’m not just a Christian,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with want, “I am a man. And you tempt me, a temptation I wish to surrender to,” Osferth strokes your cheek with his thumb, “Your scent, your lips, the curves of your body… My God, the way you move…”
“Haven’t you heard? They say I’m possessed,” you coo, “Do you believe them, Father?”
He shakes his head vehemently, caressing your face with his large, calloused hands, his form dwarfing yours, “How could any demon, anything of the devil, be this beautiful? You are a gift from heaven, full of love and passion.”
Osferth kisses you again, holding you close, letting out a low moan of delight as you nip at his lip.
“That’s what you think.”
He watches as your eyes go completely black. Osferth’s breath catches in his throat as he gazes at you. He should be afraid of this new side of yourself you’ve revealed. But he lusts after you more than ever before, his hand moving to run through your hair.
“Tell me the truth then,” he whispers, breathing growing ragged, eyes blown wide with desire, “If It means that I can have you. I want to be possessed. I will embrace the darkness and the pain if it means I can be with you.”
You run your hands down his chest in those black robes, your touch setting him alight with need, until you stroke his cock over the coarse fabric, a wicked grin on your face as you purr, “You’re pathetic, Priest. All this for little old me?”
His cheeks flush a bright pink and he closes his eyes, lips parted as he moans, “Pathetic? Is it pathetic to want the most beautiful woman in the world?”
You let out a dark little laugh, grinning at him, “I’m no mere woman, Priest. I’m a demon. I have power you cannot possibly fathom.”
A raw wave of need floods through him as he grows even harder against your palm, whispering, “Then come to me to devour my soul if that is what you wish.”
Your lips meet his again, tongues entwined in a passionate dance, your hands tugging at his hair as the two of you fall into your cot in your cell, transported there as if by magic. Osferth assumes this is one of the powers you possess, continuing to kiss you as you lay atop him, straddling his hips.
“Where is your love for God now, Priest?” you ask, tracing the shape of his lips with your finger, so soft against him.
He presses a kiss to your fingertip, muttering, “In this moment, all my desire is for you and you alone. All my love is for you. You are my only passion.”
You kiss his jaw, moving down to his neck, biting down on his skin, sending his entire body into overdrive, “Such a sweet little servant you are to my desires, Father,” you giggle, your hand moving to squeeze his throat ever so slightly, amused by the whimper he lets out at your touch, “Pathetic.”
“I belong to you,” he groans, hands cupping your ass, squeezing your flesh in his strong hands, “I will be your servant until I cease to exist if you will have me. My only wish is to serve you.”
His mind is only filled with thoughts of you, every sound, every touch. His lips crave your skin, moving to mouth at your collarbone, desperation in his kiss.
“Do you love me, Father?” you ask playfully, rolling your hips against his in a way that has his own bucking up against yours.
“Yes,” he breathes, gazing up at you, nothing short of devotion and worship in his eyes, “Even if you bring me nothing but pain, even if it kills me… I love you. Don’t destroy me, my love.”
You lean in, eyes flashing black once more as you look down at him, “Do you like my eyes, Priest? Do you still find me beautiful?”
He nods eagerly, caressing your face, in awe of you, your eyes that are so happy yet so cruel, his mind a void filled with passion and desire for you and nothing else, “I want to lose myself in them. To be a slave to them.”
You move away for a moment, chuckling at the weak noise of protest he lets out, only to strip your shift from your body and unfurl your massive black wings, smirking, “And these?”
Osferth gazes at you, wonderstruck, time standing still as he admires you. His hands move to touch the ebony feathers on your wings, jaw slack with admiration.
His voice trembles as he whispers, “Beautiful…”
You let out a moan as he touches your wings, your hands moving to cup your breasts, squeezing slightly as you grind your hips against his, “Yes, Father, just like that.”
Osferth watches in amazement as two curved horns sprout on your head, a long black forked tail moving behind you. You are a dark beauty, but a beauty nonetheless. The most beautiful creature he has seen in his entire existence. Your wings envelop the two of you as you lean forward to kiss him, moaning as his free hand moves to stroke your horns.
“Oh, Priest, you do know how to treat a girl…”
“I am no longer a priest. All I am, all I will ever be is yours,” he declares boldly.
You move your tail to wrap around his wrists, holding them together as you undress the main, eyeing him greedily as inch by inch of his alabaster skin is revealed. You kiss his chest, taking one of his nipples into your mouth, rolling it between your teeth, before sliding down further to take his long, girthy cock into your mouth. He groans, bucking his hips up against your lips, whining, begging for you. You gaze up at him through your lashes, your tongue moving along the underside of his cock, lapping at the tip before you take him all the way in, squeezing his balls gently as you bob your head on his cock. Your hot, wet mouth is nearly enough to make him cum immediately, his hips bucking up into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You bring him closer and closer to the edge, so close that he’s about to reach his release, before cruelly pulling away with a grin.
“Beg for me. Beg for my love. Beg for this foul demon to corrupt you.”
His head falls back against the pillow as he begs, “Please take me, have me, make me yours. I want to lose myself to you. You are all that matters.”
Pleased with his response, you sink down onto his cock, letting out a moan that is in harmony with his own. You begin rolling your hips against, your head thrown back in ecstasy. Osferth gazes up at you reverently, his hands holding your hips as you move against him, the sound of your skin slapping against his and the two of your sounds of pleasure combined filling the room. Osferth moves in time with you, your cunt squeezing around him so tight that it’s almost painful but only in the most delicious of ways. He thinks he could die like this, in your embrace, contented, as you lean in and press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his throat. He lets out a grunt of your name as he feels you clenching around him, that sexy, devious smile on your face driving him mad. You squeeze his throat gently, whispering in his ear.
“Cum for me, Father Osferth. Cum for your filthy demon lover.”
And he does, spilling himself deep inside you with a low, guttural moan of your name, your own release following soon after. He rests his head against your chest and you laugh softly as he nuzzles against you. You run your fingers through his hair, almost affectionately and Osferth all but preens at your touch.
If you are a creature of the Devil, then why does it feel like heaven when he kisses you? Why does it feel like he has waited his entire life for this moment, being held in your arms?
Osferth presses his lips to yours, your bare bodies pressed against each other, stroking your wings, your horns, everything that makes you so special, so dark, so unbelievably beautiful.
He makes up his mind that if the road to damnation begins with your touch, he cares not for his immortal soul. He will lay himself bare upon your altar, sacrifice everything that he is for you, his demon, his goddess, his love.
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Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 1
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A/N: Thank you for everyone's patience after the first chapter, I hope to write more of this; this chapter will explain more and include appearance!
TW: Some mentions of harassment and violence depicted. Slight swearing is used too.
Summary: Born as a witch to a powerful coven, Y/N is destined for greatness. But she finds herself alone, forgotten and hated for being a witch later in life. It's only when she seeks shelter, that she finds herself running into help she least expected.
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Chapter 1
13 Years Later.
1476
The screeching of chickens sounded awfully similar to the sounds of human screams.
Jolting alive as if sparked by lightning, you almost smacked your head on the shelf ever so close above your once sleeping form, thudding to the ground the books and papers, scattering like leaves on the wind.
“Shit.” You groaned, grabbing your head, relieving the awful headache you were experiencing by clutching it. Gods, let this torture be over already. You cursed yourself, unfolding yourself from the tangled sheets of your uncomfortable bed.
Your bones groaned with the need to be stretched, popping in satisfaction as you dressed. The cool morning air brought the hairs on your skin to pebble, so you opted for warmer cotton to guard your skin throughout the day. Having already not had enough time to properly ready yourself for the day, your work clothes were already being thrown on you – much to your dismay.
Tying the apron around you and the head scarf to keep your short curls out your face, you braced yourself just at the front of your closed door, outweighing whether you should just roll back into the comfort of your itchy and narrow bed.
But that would mean no money, and no money meant not being able to pay for food, and no food would mean I would starve quicker than a stray dog and I would never have a way of getting out of this shit village-
Your door rattled jarringly with life on the other side, scaring your wits out as you braced for the austere voice behind it. “Are you decent?”
“Yes, sir.” You braced yourself for the worst.
Stepping back a few paces, the door swung open and it shuddered on its hinges, groaning as the thin walls vibrated terribly. The man in front of you was aged, blotchy skin and pot-bellied. His hair was mousey-brown with a terrible bald spot that he tried hiding with a combover. Bogdan was the standard of men in this village: all leery-eyed with fingers that liked touching, and mouths that liked the sound of their own voice. He was the very same as the rest of his gluttonous family.
Bogdan disregarded you even standing in front of him, eyeing your room scrutinisingly slowly. “It’s messy in here.”
“Yes, I know.” You coolly responded, trying your best to hold your tongue. If only I didn’t have someone burst into my room.
“Well, Andrei is hungry, he needs his breakfast.” Bogdan chortled, and it reminded you all the same as how the little piglets on the farm would squeal if they were picked up. “He wants four eggs this time.”
Biting the inside of your cheek, you kept your head low. “I’ll be sure to check the coop for more.”
“Be quick then, girl,” Bogdan stepped to the side to allow you to pass, and you made sure to walk a bit faster to avoid his hands reaching for the back of you. You knew if you weren’t quick enough, and you learnt the hard way the first time he did it.
“Yes, sir.” You skipped a step to leave your room, keeping a safe distance between him as you walked quickly through the back of the kitchen, outside to meet the harsh cold of the air.
The coop was small enough that it held the hens sweetly in their little hut, and you couldn’t help but hold a close bond with them. Call it loneliness, call it madness, but they slowly began your little friends you spoke to each morning, softly to yourself.
“Morning, ladies,” the latch to their door opened, and a cluster of feathers was the first thing you saw before you heard the familiar noises of your girls—the two of them you had, with names you gave them to make you feel close.
Henrietta was your brown-mottled beauty, the largest of the two and sweetest in allowing you to hold her. She reminded you of a cat in telling you when and for how long she wished to be held. Your black mottled hen, Dutchess, was the younger, trilling in greeting when she sensed your presence.
“I know, I know. They haven’t gotten rid of me just yet.” You laughed, gently rummaging through to find the right amount of eggs. “Well, that’s if I get out first.”
Duchess is first to ‘respond’, pecking gently at your hand to guide you to some she was nesting on. “First chance I get, I’m leaving.” You tell yourself aloud, not loud enough to be heard. “I’ll make sure I take you both with me.”
Henrietta lets out a sound similar to a goose’s honk, a squeak some would say, and it brought a smile to your lips all the same as every other day. How you loved them more than you liked to tell yourself, regardless if others found it odd.
You fed them seeds from your palm, gathering the necessary amount of eggs and you stroked Duchess’ chest, thankful she was feeling very gentle. “Gotta go, ladies. But I’ll be sure to see you all tomorrow.”
You made sure they were shielded from the elements, shutting the coop door as you headed quickly inside. Andrei and his mother, Irina – a much younger woman to her aged husband – were sat stoically at the kitchen table, eyes a dull hazel hue, dull and dead inside.
“Morning to you both.” you greeted as politely as you could, stacking the eggs as you gathered a skillet and necessary ingredients of milk, pepper, ginger, saffron (which you had to pay for with your own wages) and cheese.
 Bogdan stalked his way into the kitchen himself, the silence was piercing, and even as you cooked with your back towards the three, you could feel their angry, harsh gaze stabbing into you. Their words were mean, their patience thin regardless of what you did or the size of the mistake, and the scars on your skin as their ‘punishments’ still stung with their reminders on your body.
“Hurry with it, girl.” Bogdan barked, startling you to move faster, nearly splashing hot milk over your hand in a hurry. The meal was as simple as poached eggs topped with cheese and served with bread, but Bogdan’s eyes were cold when he stared at the meal presented to him.
“You call this breakfast?” He held his plate up for your inspection.
You eyed it carefully, nearly laughing at his squashed, pig-like face staring back at you. “Your son always asks for this meal, sir.”
“No, I don’t,” Andrei wheezes, red-faced and whiny, and his face was punchable at that very moment. “She can’t cook what I like.”
“No, I don’t think she fucking can,” Bogdan added. It was only Irina who was the quietest of the three, but her eyes read the most emotion. The way her body was tense, eyes not looking at either of them and staring with such concentration on her plate.
You dared not step away in fright when Bogdan stood and strode towards you, glaring you down.
“Go on bitch, do something.” He goaded, twisting his fat head as if asking for you to strike him first. Your fingers flexed at the image, seeing him down on the ground after years of his punishments, his shouting matches with his son as you could only watch, hear it through the walls when his wife cried out in the nights.
Unclenching your hands, you could only wish you could do so much more for him.
Taking it as a sign of weakness, Bogdan turned to glance at his son momentarily. “One thing to know when you get a wife, son, is never let them have a go at you first.”
The strike was so fierce that your body nearly doubled over from the force. You buckled temporarily, clutching your already bruising cheek, staring in both horror and fury, wishing only the harm you could give him that only he could be treated with.
“Run along, bitch. Before I strike you again.” He threatened, and you had to ignore best the way his son snickered in your misery.
“Very well, sir.” You coolly replied, already listing what ways would get him to squeal like a pig.
-
The nights were short when you fell back into your room after a long day out.
It was a temporary measure after what had happened in Targoviste. Dracula was a temporary distraction from the world ending, yet his army of vampires and night creatures stalked across Wallachia, killing all in sight.
‘All for love,’ some said, yet you didn’t think Dracula could even conjure love after his heart was stone cold for centuries.
You had seen the bodies that came through after nights of their hunts, the way a human body didn’t look like anything after it was shredded from head to toe. It brought you to think of what those creatures were made from, how they were made,
Dracula was gone, but his servants lurked, his creatures too.
You didn’t even bother stripping from your clothes from today, throwing yourself onto your bed with a groan leaving your lips.
There was an odd comfort that came from your small bed, cushioning your weary body. You coiled in a fetal position in the darkness of your own relief, tucked away with the need for peace.
Drifting in and out of sleep, the need to rest was wanting to take over, but your mind was always plagued by nightmares of that day. The screams, the vampire you saw on the other side of the river—your mother’s lifeless body.
Blinking through bleary eyes, you shook the sleep from you, sighing heavily out a large, weighted breath. Holding your hands in front of you, you stared at them carefully. Spells had come with ease to you when you were young, but since the day you lost your coven and home, all was gone including your identity.
A powerful witch, they said I’d be. You could almost laugh despite the pain in your chest. But what is so powerful of me now for allowing some lecherous old man to strike me?
The sisters of your coven told you of your potential and sought it in prosthetic dreams and living visions. They spoke about how you’d be too strong for the world, even stronger than them. But what was now left was a girl who could only bring the smallest of flames to hand.
I can still feel them. You thought, cupping your hands and picturing the way they felt. They were inviting, the hug you needed after a long day, the way they warmed you like your mama did so many years ago.
‘The flames aren’t there to hurt you, Y/N.’ You could hear her voice in your mind, gentle and reassuring.
Yes, they’ve never hurt me. You thought, concentrating on them, feeling them spread from a small spark, growing and growing, imaging their colours blossom like the petals of flowers in spring, until-
“Ardeo.” You called out to the darkness, the darkness answered you eagerly back.
Like the spark of life, it started small, small flickers grew as they caught to your hands, yet they did not burn as you were informed. You smiled, the more they glimmered, the brighter they roared with life. They twirled around your fingertips like dancers, coiling and twisting around your fingers as you watched in glee.
I shan’t be scared any more. You let them die in your palms, the room growing dim with the little light now illuminating. I’m done with hiding. I shall not be something they mock, but rather someone they’ll know.
-
There is a harsh smell of blood that floated through your room, heavy and overpowering.
You retch as you rise, certain that something had made a meal just outside your bedroom window before the realisation hits you of what it could be.
Bolting out of your room, you almost crash into Bogdan as you rush past him, and outside to the coop. Please be okay, please be okay, please-
The coop door is already ajar when you slam it open, the crime is gruesome as you almost gasp at the sight. A heap of bloodied feathers greets you, with no chickens in sight. You find yourself almost weeping, before a cruel voice japes behind you.
“The night creatures took them away because you were too weird. Who talks to animals anyway?” He mocks cruelly. “They were just chickens.” Andrei’s shrill voice breaks something in you, as you glare daggers that make his words die down on his tongue. He doesn’t say much as you look at him in satisfaction, knowing you are not to be reckoned with.
“Fuck you, fat boy.” You move past him, ignoring the way he cries out from not even a harsh shove, but you head back inside to face the man you dreaded since bumping into him this morning.
He eyes you as if he’s thinking of the best possible thing to jape you about before you say first.
“I quit, I leave by the end of today.”
“You’re not serious,” Bogdan looks as if he was the one slapped across the face, red-faced as a tomato as he eyes you with shock. “Do you think someone will be willing to whisk you up just because you think you have a pretty face and decent body? You’re nothing without me keeping you from those beasts outside. You’re nothing without being under my roof.”
“Maybe so,” you respond, fingers clenched as you wish to speak the one word, but the anger rolls off you as you finally say what you wish you could’ve said a long time ago, “But I’m not a fat fucking fuck like you.”
“You little bitch,” he lunges for you, but you’re quicker, your hands reaching for the chubbiness of his forearm. With the strength of your sisters in spirit, the strength to keep living, you spoke the one word with as much fury and venom as you could produce. “Ardeo.”
You felt the heat first, the way it burnt through from your palms into his flesh, igniting as if beginning a fire, catching part of his clothes as he recoiled in startling fright. His screams are just as frantic as you imagined, the smell of burning flesh ignites memories from years ago, but you keep latched onto him, trying to ignore everything surrounding you and him.
It’s uncertain if you let go or he has enough strength to pull his arm out, and the ring around his arm is blotchy and red-raw, blistering and bubbling.
Bogdan was cursing you, howling like a wounded animal as he clutched his arm, but you did not wish to hear him, concentrating on keeping the flames in your palms alive.
“I’ll kill you,” he gritted his teeth, lips bloody from biting through them so harshly, “I’ll fucking kill you.”
You braced for a slap or something worse, body tense as no pain came. All you could hear was the wheezing sound of laboured breathing, a grunt of pain that didn’t come from you.
When your eyes focused on the sight in front of you, you saw that Bogdan’s body was tense, shoulder raised as if he had been struck in the back of the head. His eyes were wide like dinner plates, before he slumped to the kitchen table, something digging into his back.
“Get out whilst you still can,” Irina warned, her body tensed, eyes dead but tears flowed from her face as she pulled the item out from her husband’s back, silver flashing caught the light of the sunlight coming through, blood spurting like a faucet as you could hear him continue to choke.
You dared not look back as you bolted like a hare, hearing the continuous sound of the blade going in and out of the flesh, over and over again.
-
The more you ran, the more you relived being chased, running for your life once again.
Your lungs were aching, legs begging to rest, but you did not turn back in fear you were being followed. You had heard horror stories of sisters from covens being chased and hunted by men of the holy church, with pitchforks and flamed torches. You knew what became of them if proven guilty of crimes they hadn’t committed, but you knew that what you had done -regardless of witchcraft – was still an act of murder.
You didn’t want to imagine what it would feel like to burn, burn with flames you couldn’t control. The flames wouldn’t come from within you, instead, flames are used to ‘cleanse’ your soul clean for heaven.
Don’t turn back, keep running. You told yourself, watching the sky turn from purples and oranges to growing darker and darker. Run before something much worse finds you.
You didn’t know where you were: this was as far past as you had gotten and the woods seemed unfamiliar to you just as they were thirteen years ago when you fled the scene. It felt as if you were good at that: running from your past, running for a future you craved.
The treeline grew narrower as the night began, and before you, you ran through a clearing, a stream gently flowing as you jumped over it, trying to make sure you didn’t fall over your feet.
Trees grew and became deader, and before you could turn to take a look behind you, you gasped at the sight in front of you.
It was hard not to spot it, compared to the trees that seemed to blend with its black tall walls. It was a ghastly, spindly mass, a mass of destruction that caused dread for all to feel upon seeing it.
Dracula’s castle.
No, he was surely dead, wasn’t he?
Your head was spinning, body yearning for rest, throat gasping for air and water, and you garbled, eyes growing hazy. If he was dead, his castle would still be unoccupied, right?
Not wanting to take any chances, two parts of you were uncertain about what to do. Part of you screamed, that primal ‘fight or flight’ mode kicked in once again, and you felt like a little girl all over again, staring at your mother’s corpse. But the other part of you told you it would be shelter needed to keep you safe from anything outside.
Racing up towards the large, intimidating stairs, you chose to ignore the corpses that littered the entrance. You spotted many that resembled the corpses of night creatures, and two that were humanoid, propped on spikes as they blew gently in the breeze.
The doors came into sight, hesitating for a pregnant pause before you braced, pounding on them with three heavy knocks with nothing more than the side of your clenched fist. The sound the door made resonated within you as the sound vibrated throughout the outer entrance.
Nothing came from the inside for a moment or two, and before you could knock again - more desperately, urgently - the doors groaned with life, slowly opening. Not wasting time, you slipped through before they could shut, eyes adjusting to the harsh contrast of dark then light, eyes blurry, stumbling momentarily.
You didn’t have time to call out, before you felt something cold press into the back of your neck, silent as an apparition.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat.” A soothing, soft voice sounded as if he was both behind you and watching from afar.
You wheezed, heart, thundering, the blade pressed closer into your skin and you cried out, trying to plead through your sputtering.
“Please—help me!” You called out, body about to give way as you swayed, blinking in and out of consciousness. Your body screamed to rest, but your mind was alive and burning with the need to explain yourself more.
With a final cry out, your body fell, but before your head could hit the ground, it was not met with the cold, hard flooring, but something holding you as you were settled to the ground gently, eyes giving out as darkness consumed you whole.
-
Latin Translations:
Ardeo – (I) burn
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squid-god-supreme · 29 days
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Ode To A Prideful Knight
Augh this took forever but here is the next one from the more medieval writing of the disomnia boys
Word count : 2.8k
Tw : pining, fem/gn reader, no pronouns used tho, fluffy. Knight! Sebek. The rest under cut
Tall was the knight who adorned himself in the crest of his king, whose blade forged of steel was an extension of his will and pride. Boastful was the knight whose old gold eyes sparkled with green as if moss on the forest floor. Noble was the night who stood back straight as the arrow that never misses, whose brow forever was set firm in a scowl.
Uncharacteristically austere was the knight for one born half to the blood of those who dance in circles under moonlight and sing with trills of trickery, the prideful, nobal, frigid knight stood at post by his king.
Leafs and ferns lined the ground his boots touched as he marched through the forest. Fauna grew in spectacular color and mystic hues, even the cynical man knew not why his libs carried him through the trees as deep as he could venture and further still. It was as if a spell took hold and beckoned him to this place, ruins of mortal men swallowed by the weald that he grew in, statues grown with vines and tarnished with broken limbs. Crashing in his chest like thunder and beating like lightning his heart pulled him with a string towards flowers of thistle purple and coral pink. Soft petals that drape down and dance with the breath of the spring air.
They brushed against his soft locks of nyanza green and left cornsilk petals in their wake. Tranquility was steeped in the soft glow of sunlight that brushed so delicately acros his pale skin, but as if a stone was skipped in a calm pond the moment was broken when slitted pupils caught sight of such an enchanting image as your skin aglow with life. Sat atop that tall wall like a callow youth was the one that had so captured his gaze, burning intensely as the knight looked on but walked no further, not to the shallow pond that housed few rocks and the thick roots of a tree that grew from under the wall.
“But what's the harm if I explore! The woods are safe, are they not m'lady?” you spoke, words like sweet morning dew, the woman you talked with sighed “it may be safe for now but you know of the unease that festers between those who live behind the thorns! So please i beg you come down” exasperated the woman pleaded with you and the knight cursed the fate so cruel to trap his heart in this meadow only to pluck his favorite flower. Yet you seemed to relent a final glance towards the forest and only a glimpse of his figure that you thought nothing of before you were gone.
His breath fluttered in his lungs, had you spotted him? His unbecoming staring had the image of you seared into his blinking eyes, light of the spring sun giving warmth to your features. Old legends say that even those born to cynicism and stony resentment could become enraptured by bliss in but a glance.
The beauty you held was unlike else he'd seen, a beauty so unique to the golden green eyes of the fae that- for a moment- he wondered if even you saw it in yourself as he did, but thoughts like this he pushed from his mind, his awestruck gaze returning to but a crocodile scowl as the knight himself returned to the wild thicket. But his love was fated to grow next to those violet roses that crawled up your tall stone wall.
Fate was not in good spirits or clever humor he thought, how it brought his mind to you, a sight he could neither forget nor bring himself to accept. What dastardly spell had you cast with a glance? The incantation you must have muttered when he layed eyes on you that spring day? A week had passed and here he was, the snap of twigs and the crunching of pine under his heel as he marched with renewed vigor to those hanging branches of pastel flora.
Slitted pupils grew slim against the vibrant backing of his iris, rapidly he breathed, quickly he ran and even quicker he unsheathed his sword when the source of that scream was within his sight, a nor huntsman or wanderer was the man whose blade was taken up against you. “YOU THERE! DO YOU DARE TO DRAW YOUR WEAPON AGAINST THEM” what was he saying? He couldn't hear as blood rushed past his ears, a burning rage not concealed within pools of gold now bubbling and boiling over. Even as the rays of light hit his steel sword the unknown man cowered at a booming voice the tore baited silence. The knight had not raised his sword nor made any move to attack but the coward scampered off hurriedly threw filtered light and thick overgrowth.
“Thank you sir-” “YOU FOOLISH HUMAN” his voice boomed more light with annoyance than the rage which seemed quelled. “Tch what foolishness were you up to that elicited such a scream” he was worried, a thought he'd never truly admit. Your face held neither guilt nor shame, but was indeed painted with gratitude and security. “You have my thanks, sir knight, i simply wished to explore but found myself in errr…quite the predicament” brows creased and tension seemed to stiffen his broad shoulders. “I don't know who i can repay you”
There was no need. “Allow me to escort you home” your smile was enough repayment, allas those were words he could not utter to you.
He came often after that, skipping the stone in the pond by the wall as he extended a hand to yours, asking your accompaniment as you swept flower petals from his hair. Would he confess that his body felt alight with glee at your touch, at the almost loving way your fingers gathered petals from his shoulders? The words sat uncomfortably in his mouth, jaw clenched and lips pressed to a thin line when you drew near, he truly was a crocodile.
“Oh knight~” your voice sang as you leaned over the stone wall just out of his grasp as always. And just as always he stepped without hesitation or pause, onto the engorged branches of the old tree that grew and whose roots sprawled into the meadow beyond the wall. You yourself stood on the plank of an old swing made when you were young, the shift of weight and unstable footing causing you to seek stability against the wall, and letting you reach over to greet your knight.
Routine it had become to brush the petals from his hair and shoulders, and routine it had become to smile at the sight of such an uptight man covered in both the attire of a knight and the petals from soft flowers. “Have you heard the talk, sir knight?” he sighed “do not attempt to play coy with me, what are you getting at human” you feigned hurt, but as you leaned back into your dramatics your footing almost slipped. Your hands flew to the wall for stability but were caught but the knight, one hand holding you as the other firmly grasped your shoulder, the leather of his gloves where soft you thought, and the world seemed calm again. Soft trills of singing birds and the creekinging of roots were only marginally louder than the quiet breaths.
“Foolish human, what am I to do with you? Come on now, over the wall” and you climbed the wall, not released from his grasp for long as he lifted you safely to solid ground.
His arms where strong as they seemed to hold you a moment in the warm sun, as if unable to move from the light, as if you where the sun itself the knight stood a moment longer before allowing you to nestle yourself on the grass between spiraling twisting roots and shaded by foliage of the same weeping willow tree. You sat and he stood, arms folded behind his back and feet together as if on guard for danger. “You were saying something?” he inquired. “Well, I wondered if you had heard of the competition in a week's time, for knights of fighters- heh really anyone who fancies themselves good with a sword.” glancing up at him his expression was not the soft one from a moment ago, but the one he always had. “I have no interest in the affairs of humans” you frowned and twiddled with a small blue hued flower by your side. “Really? It's a great chance to prove your skill or represent your lord, aaannnddd the prize is a kiss from someone of your choice-” his eyes perked up and it excited you “perhaps i could impress my lord!” oh how his heart boomed.could you hear it? The way it shaked and rattled in his ribs at the thought of your kiss, but he would take this to the grave with him, to let this human know of his affections was…no he couldn't, he would pretend that his spine did not shudder at the thought, that his palms did not grow moist with sweat as he felt himself wanting that prize. His pride, that damned pride of the knight would not allow him to fall, to fall so desperately in love with this human, but his pride would not let him lose, he would win this competition for the honor of his love and for the touch of your lips. “Oh, yes i'm sure he'd be very impressed if you won”
Bright were the blinding rays that illuminated the dirt paths and vibrant colors of the cloth colored stands, strewn with the patterns of this kingdom in reds and greens and blues cheering crowds hollered at knights who prepared to fight. Up in high stands sat the king next to his own king malleus, standing alongside the king was his advisor and alongside malleus was lilia as expected. Next to the highest stands were slightly lowered stands where noble women sat and gawked in frilly petticoats and ruffles in spring hues, although like a blak sheep you stood out, sitting amongst them in simple clothing and a shifting uncomfortable glance around. He was curious as to why you sat with them out of place.
He began to prepare, putting on the thick padded clothing and the cadmium green fabric over his head, the panels of fabric covering his back and front adorned with the crest he wore as a knight as well as the crest of his family. He fastened his belt around his waist loose and checked his sword, a blade without an edge as to not cause impairment
The haughty voice of the king flooded the open air, a man devoid of dignity and a fool of a king. True, tension and unease was rampant between the kingdoms since the time of the old queen and the king philip. “As you all have gathered here, your gratuitous and splendid king, me, hosts this tournament between knights and those who take up the sword! Besides the price of honor and gold, the champion shall also receive a blessing and kiss from the one of their choice” the fool of a king gestured towards the stands that you sat in with the noble women, “eligible noble women and the kingdoms beloved (y/n)” he laughed to himself as if this was a brilliant idea. “Have you anything to say to the competing knights and fighters?” the king asked. You glanced around the field as though your eyes were searching in vain for something you could not find, until with joy they landed on the figure close to the stands.
“Yes m’lord i do have something to say!” all eyes watched you as your figure leaned over the edge of the stands just far enough to almost reach the knight with tresses of feldgrau and nyanza green. He reached a hand up to yours, hardly bowed as to your outstretched one, but they were held together. “i already give my blessing to sir zigvolt!” you stated matter of factly, voice heard by all as whispers and murmurs sprouted like blackberry seeds. His face bloomed scarlet like spring carnations, the tips of his ears burning brighter in hue than even his pale skin. A prideful smile crept its way onto his face, chest inflating with confidence as he shot you a smug toothy gin. “I will win, with your blessing I will be victorious” as he turned away he paid no mind to the scowls and glares that followed the path he walked and saturated the air he breathed so thickly.
Settled now from the shock of your statement the stands where envied with new life, howling and whistling cheers rang in the spring air and filled the ears of over confident knights and fighters.
Carried by wisps of wind, sand and dirt shifted and settled like dancing plumes of smoke around the footing of those who fought in the dirt flores arena. The world mattered not for the knight who stood tall and unflinching in the face of a steel blade thrust towards him. It was mocking really, the way he rolled his sinewy shoulders as if warming up, the lightning step of his feet that kicked up dirt and how the pommel of his sword struck his opponents center back. He was showing off, proving his capability in hope his love would praise his skill, and call him their knight.
Another one defeated, dules passing by quickly as the knight's gaze became more intense, predatory as light cast the hard shadows of his strong features soft. To take up a sword seemed to come as naturally to the fae knight you watched as breathing, as being the same passionate yet sullen man you admired in your own secrecy just as he did. Even as he mounted a horse, confidence rolling off him in waves and floating like clouds to dampen the opponent in cowardice, he held an almost tangible pride, one that he wore on his shoulder and carried in his crest.
You sat enraptured at the edge of your seat, palms flexing against the wood as your breath caught in your throat. Birds flap their bright wings within your stomach and you refused yourself to blink for the anticipation was too much.
The lines of his head were creased in concentration, the long ple spiraling in green and white readied at his side, the way his jaw held firm and his lips pressed to a fine line, the way the cheers of the crowd faded to nothing more than a dull ringing in your ears as a grin split the heavens of your face and the knight opposite to the one you fancied was knocked off his horse. The hardened gaze that met yours held much more than pride and jovial victory, that old golden gaze held for only you a love that the fae had not harbored for another.
You raised from your seat as soon as the cheers of victory brought you back from his gase, and you traversed down to the pit where your prideful knight dropped to his knee, gloved hands folded over his knee and head lowered to a bow.
Gentle hands like flowerpetles cupped his face, and tilted it to meet your eyes. “Congratulations my valiant knight” you teased, yet with a touch soft as morning dew your lips fell to his hairline where nyanza green hair was slicked back, and there that touch of your lips lingered, and would continue to linger until he felt it again.
For love struck was the knight who kneeled to two, and prideful was the knight who held that image of you in his mind. Sturdy was the knight who held you in his arms when you fell not only for him but from that wall. Foolish was the knight, truly foolish was the knight who thought love would escape him, that it would not encroach on him like winding vines in such a fleeting moment. But even old legends tell tales of those mystic beings who dance in night time meadows and drink sweet cream and talk of magic amongst themselves, and who find love at a glance no matter how fleeting it may seem to those not blessed with the eyes to witness it. Yes prideful and foolish, and hopelessly in love was the knight who was blessed with those golden eyes laden with moss green. Blessed was he to have seen you sit on that tall wall, to watch violet roses bloom before him and foster those feelings of love.
Blessed was that prideful knight to see the beauty you held, and blessed was he to love it, for he would always love what even you could not see.
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Twisted Minds Chapter One: Apéritif
TW: death, crime scenes, Cannibalism.
Warning this is Fem!reader. You can also find this on Wattpad and A03 @ HayleyMarieOfficial. Comment if you want to be added to the Taglist. ❤️
F.B.I. ACADEMY, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
I walk into a Lecture hall and stand in the shadows next to my new boss Agent Jack Crawford, head of the FBI's Behavioral Science Analysis Unit or the BAU.  I listen as the teacher describes the crime scene he witnessed. "Everyone has thought about killing someone one way or another. Be it your own hands or the hand of God. Now think about killing Mrs. Marlow." The man says in a tone i can describe as knowledgeable. A series of pictures of the Marlow home crime scene photos are projected on the screen behind the stoic man. He surveys the lecture hall for social appearances. He never meets an eye, at most he glimpses brows, lids, the occasional lash -- but never eye contact. "Why did she deserve this? Tell me your design. Tell me who you are." he asks Jack and I enter as the trainees file out of the classroom. There are scattered smitten glances tossed in the Teachers direction, who is naturally oblivious because he is actively avoiding eye-contact with everyone, even as he warns his exiting students: "The sad, dull truth of these crimes is they can usually be reduced to a male penetrative control issue. I am expecting a higher level of scrutiny." he says in a wise tone, the last of the trainees leave and the teacher notices he's alone in his lecture hall with the weathered, austere man and put together, classy young woman. "Mr. Graham." Agent Crawford says as the man i have now put together is Mr. Will Graham quickly puts on a pair of glasses as Jack and I approach. The top rim of Wills glasses are strategically positioned to block Me and Jacks eyes and prevent direct eye-contact. "I'm Special Agent Jack Crawford. I lead the Behavioral Science Unit. I want you to meet Dr. Y/n L/n, shes a psychiatrist and my new criminal profiler." jack introduces himself and me to the man. I smile kindly at the man as i hold my hand for him to shake, i don't look him in the eyes as i don't like eye contact; eyes tell to much and make it hard for me to focus. "its nice to meet you Mr. Graham, I've heard great things." i say in a kind and polite tone
"its a pleasure to meet you Dr. L/n" Will says shaking my hand and giving me a bittersweet and slightly uncomfortable smile. " You've hitched your horse to a teaching post. I understand it's not easy for you to be sociable." Jack says as he looks at me and will analyzing each other "I'm just talking at them. I'm not listening to them. It's not social." he says still looking at me doing the same as i am Analyzing. Jack gently pushes Will's glasses up the bridge of his nose so he's forced to make fleeting eye contact. "Where do you fall on the spectrum?" Jack asks Will picks up the rhythm and syntax of Jack's voice: so do I "My horse is hitched to a post closer to Aspergers and Autistics than narcissists and sociopaths." will says looking down avoiding eye contact with Jack. "But you can empathize with narcissists and sociopaths. Like Dr. L/n can correct?" Jack asks in a curious tone, "I can empathize with anybody. Less to do with personality disorders than an active imagination." I say and Will nods to agree with me Jack smiles at that "Its the same for me, i can empathize with anybody but like Dr. L/n said its less to do with personality disorders and more to do with an active imagination." Will says as he packs up his bag. "Well, Can I borrow your imagination?" he asks will Agent Crawford leads Me and Will Graham across a field of Trainees on a Firing Range as another group of trainees in matching sweats jogs by. "Eight girls from eight different Minnesota campuses abducted in the last eight months." jack says briefing me and Will on the case, "I thought there were seven." i say slightly confused, i look over at will and it seems like hes in the same boat "There were." jack says looking over at me "When did you tag the eighth?" Will asks Jack in a similar tone that i used. "About three minutes before Me and Dr. L/n walked into your lecture hall." jack says, he didn't mention this to me "You're calling them "abductions" because you have no bodies?" Will says curious "We have nothing. No bodies. No parts of bodies. Nothing that comes out of a body. We have lonely swabs in used evidence kits." jack says in a tone twinged in desperateness " Then those girls weren't taken from where you think they were taken." i say in a sarcastic tone "Where were they taken from?" jack asks look over at me then at will "I don't know. Someplace else." will says smiling sarcastically, i chuckle at that.
Seven blue squares dot the Minnesota map corresponding with seven graduation or casual pictures of the seven missing girls. "All abducted on a Friday so they're not reported missing until Monday. However he's covering his, tracks he needs the weekend to do it." Jack says as he Guides me and Will over and hands me a picture of what i assume is the eighth victim. "Number eight?" will asks looking at the picture over my shoulder and no longer wearing his glasses "Elise Nichols. St. Cloud State on the Mississippi. Disappeared Friday. Supposed to house sit for her parents over the weekend. Feed their cat. Never made it home." jack says i roll my eyes "One through seven are dead, don't you think?" i ask sarcastically humoring will "He's not keeping them around. Got himself a new one." will agrees by taking the words out of my mouth "We're focusing on Elise Nichols" Jack says agreeing with Me and Will. Will and I take in the smiling hopeful faces next to the corresponding blue squares . "They're all very uh Mall of America. That's a lot of wind-chaffed skin." Will says as he gazes at the girls faces "Same hair color. Same eye color. Roughly same age, height, weight. What is it about all these girls?" jack asks looking at Me and Will "It's not about all of these girls. It's about one of them." i say as I pin Elise Nichols' photo next to the eighth blue square.
"He's like Willy Wonka. Every girl he takes is a candy bar. Hidden amongst all those candy bars is the one, true intended victim, which if we follow through on the metaphor, would be your Golden Ticket." Will says following my train of thought "So is he warming up for his Golden Ticket or reliving whatever he did to her." jack asks as he steps to stand right next to us "Golden Ticket wouldn't be the first taken and she wouldn't be the last. He would hide how special she is. I mean, I would. Wouldn't you?" i ask looking up from the girls faces to jack "I'd like you and Dr. L/n to get closer to this." jack says looking at us, will starts to shake his head "You have Heimlich at Harvard, Bloom at Georgetown and now Dr. L/n. They do the same thing I do." will says as he turns around and starts grabbing his stuff. "That's not really true, is it? You and Dr. L/n have a specific way of thinking. and from what i see so far you and Dr. L/n work very well together." jack says as i turn around to face will crossing my arms and leaning against the table "Has there been a lot of discussion about the specific way Me and Mr. Graham think?" i ask pointedly "Both of you make jumps you don't explain." jack says looking at me then will dead in the eyes.
"The evidence explains." Will says seeing that jack is upsetting me "Then help me find some evidence."jack says Will studies the beautiful milquetoast faces on the map. "That may require me to be sociable." Will says sarcastically   DULUTH,MINNESOTA      ~ THE NICHOLS' HOME~
Elise's parents are from what i can deduce, sick with worry. Mr. Nichols is rationalizing while Mrs. Nichols seems almost resigned. "She could have gone off by herself. She was a very interior young woman. She didn't like living in a dorm. I could see how the pressure of school might have gotten to her. She likes trains. Maybe she just got on a train and..." Me, Will Graham, and Jack Crawford sit opposite Mr. and Mrs. Nichols as he trails off. Hard to convince even himself. Will continues to avoid eye contact with the Nichols. "She looks like the other girls." Mrs. Nichols says anxiously  Jack nods as Me and Will stand up to look around at the home " Yes, She fits the profile." jack says calmly "Could Elise still be alive?" Mr. Nichols asks cautiously, I feel bad for the couple knowing the odds of their daughter being alive is very slim. "We simply have no way of knowing." jack says solemnly, A previously silent Will Graham offers an odd question: "How's the cat?" will asks turning around looking at the Nichols "What?" Mrs. Nichols asks confused i continue Wills line of questioning "How's your cat? Elise was supposed to feed it. Was the cat weird when you came home? It didn't eat all weekend. Must have been hungry." i ask looking over at Will and the Nichols.
The Nichols are initially unsure how to respond to my question, then: "I didn't notice." Mr. Nichols says absently, I look over at Will and Jack. Will looks at me and seems to know what im thinking and nods, my suspicions were correct he took her from here. "would you give us a moment" Jack ask and he pulls Me and Will aside "He took her from here." Will says softly so that the parents don't hear, Jack gives Will a look that says 'go on'  "She got on a train. She came home. She fed the cat. And he took her." I continue for Will, i look at Jack dead serious Jack nods understanding.  Jack doesn't hesitate to pull out his phone and dial. "The Nichols house is a crime scene. I need ERT immediately. Zeller, Katz, Jimmy Price, and a photographer." Jack says into the phone. The Nichols are trying to wrap their minds around the quick flurry of action and what it means to their little girl. Me and Will turn to the parents "Can we see your daughter's room?" Will asks the Nichols "the Police were up there this morning." Mrs. Nichols says softly
Mr. Nichols leads Will and I, who are pulling on gloves as we approach. Will warily eyes the cat pawing at the door eager to go inside. I stop  Mr. Nichols from reaching the door knob. "I'll get that. Mr. Nichols, would you put your hands in your pockets and avoid touching anything please?" i ask sincerly, not wanting to be rude but also not wanting the man to disrupt the evidence "We been in and out of here all day." Mr. Nichols responds "You can hold the cat if it's easier." Will says continuing my notion, Mr. Nichols picks up the cat as instructed. I wrap a gloved hand around the knob and open the door. The light from the hallway streaks across the floor and up the wall as Will and I enter. We stand  just inside the door, immediately noticing the open window. Will flicks on the light switch, illuminating the room. I stare at the sight in front of me. Elise Nichols. She lays coffin-style in her bed, dressed in pajamas as if she had just gone to sleep. The gray pallor of her skin, the clean puncture wounds visible under her pajamas, and her un- breathing bosom are immediately evident to Will and I. Sadly, Mr. Nichols fails to notice. Blinded by hope, he steps forward. "Elise?" Mr. Nichols asks Hopefully, my heart aches for the father. Will raises a gloved hand, stopping Mr. Nichols. as i take a step forward to assess the situation without touching the body. "I need you to leave the room." Will says to Mr. Nichols still holding him back. Realizing the worst, Mr. Nichols abruptly drops the cat.
~20 MINUTES LATER~
"You're all wired. You talk it out to us when you feel like it, don't say anything when you don't feel like it. Take as long as you want. We will come in when you tell us." Jack tells Me and Will, Will nods but i just continue looking at the body. Jack stands and exits the room. reflected light flashes across my face, lighting up my cobalt blue eyes. All sound is dulled as if my ears were blocked, the ambient noise of my circulatory system provides an organic hum. The crime scene photographers takes pictures.  Jack  herds Price, Katz and Zeller out the door. Will scoops up water in his hands from the faucet in the sink to wash down the last two Aspirin from his now empty bottle. He splashes water on his face, dries it with his shirttail. I have climbed out the window onto the porch roof. I sit on the gritty shingles. I hug My knees, my damp shirt pressed cold across my back. I snort the night air to cleanse the smell of Elise Nichols death from my nose as Will climbs out and joins me. From Our vantage point, we  can see police officers, police cars and other crime scene specialists assembled on the lawn.
Mr. and Mrs. Nichols are treated in the back of an Ambulance. I take a breath, exhales, then close My eyes. A PENDULUM  It swings in the darkness of My mind, keeping rhythm with my heart beat. FWUM. FWUM. FWUM.  I open my eyes and  i am standing outside Elise Nichols' Bedroom Window. The neighborhood is quiet and empty. No Police. No Police Cars. No Ambulance. I look through the window glass to Elise Nichols sleeping soundly in her bed. I quietly open the window.  I stand over Elise Nichols, very much alive. I watch her for a quiet moment. Tears well in My eyes, then... I bear down on Elise's chest with my knee, cracking ribs as I simultaneously squeezes her throat shut with my hands. It's sudden and horrible and violent. Elise is immediately startled out of a deep sleep into terror, I feel her fear and confusion. Elise struggles, her face swelling with pressure, capillaries in her skin and the whites of her eye wrinkle and burst. Tears stream down her cheeks as she tries to scream but cannot. The bed board finally SNAPS and with it, Elise dies.  i feel the killers, who my mind is potraying me as emotions hes or i've in this case killed her with love and care and mercy but also rage.
"You're Will Graham. and your Dr.Y/n L/n." i snap my eyes open now standing in the room next to Will as hes also been startled, doing the same thing i was. i look at the person who interrupted my design. but before i can say anything to the woman. "You're not supposed to be in here." Will says annoyed and breathing heavily. "You wrote the standard monograph on time of death by insect activity." The woman says while looking at will with curiosity then gives me the same look. She indicates her tweezers and what's between them. "Found velvet in two of the wounds." she says non-chalantly she then looks back at Will "You're not real F.B.I.?" she asks smirking, i look at her annoyed and with a pointed look.
"I'm a special investigator." Will says looking at the body still "Never been an F.B.I. Agent?" she asks in a tone of disbelief. "Strict screening procedures." I say for Will, "Detects instability. He unstable?" she asks me, Jack Crawford hurries in, as annoyed with The woman as Will and I are. " you Know You're not supposed to be in here." Jack says as he looks towards the woman, her badge says Beverly Katz, "Found antler velvet in two of the wounds. Like she was gored. Was looking for velvet in the other wounds but I was interrupted." Beverly says now looking towards Me and Will. Brian Zeller is now standing next to Will. "Deer and elk pin their prey, put all their weight on the antlers and try to suffocate them. That's how they would kill a fox or a coyote." Zeller says in a know-it-all tone. Me and Will very subtilely retreats from the conversation. "Elise Nichols was strangled and suffocated. Ribs were broken." Jack says stating the facts everyone in the room already knows.
"It's not rutting season. Male deer aren't competing for female deer this time of year." Zeller says thinking, "Antler velvet is rich in nutrients. It actually promotes healing. He may have put it there on purpose." Will says turning towards the group, "You think he wanted to heal her?" Jack asks Will and I, "He was trying to undo as much as he could, given he already killed her." i say following Wills train of thought yet again. "He put her back where he found her." Jack says looking at us, "Whatever he did to the others, he couldn't do it to her." Will says softly and staring off, "Is this his Golden Ticket?" Jack asks looking at Elise's cold dead body, i shake my head and turn to the group "No. This is an apology." i say softly and sad The "apology" catches in My throat and hangs in the air. Will runs his hand over his forehead and takes a deep breath. "Does anyone have any Aspirin?" Will asks, disassociating.
F.B.I HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA  ~NEXT DAY~
Will stands over a sink, splashing water on his face, rattled. Will pats his face dry with paper towels as Jack enters, impatient, having been looking for Will for some time. "What are you doing in here?" jack asks obviously upset "I enjoy the smell of urinal cake." Will says not looking at Jack, and leaning on the sink. "Me, too. Lets talk." Jack says as he points to the door and walks to his office with  Me already being in there. Will eyes Jack as he enters Jack closes the door, realizing he's not getting by without conversation. "Do you respect my judgement, Will?" Jack asks Will, Will looks down  "Yes." he says looking up at me, he has dark circles under his eyes he obviously didnt have the best night. "We have a better chance of catching this guy if you Two are in the saddle." Jack says pointedly at us "I'm in the saddle. Just confused which direction I'm pointing." Will says, i cant help but agree with his statement.  "I don't know this kind of psychopath. Never read about him. I don't even know if he's a psychopath. He's not insensitive. He's not shallow." i say as i start pacing, thinking. Just because i am a psychiatrist doesn't mean i don't need one myself.
"You could tell something about him or you wouldn't've said this was an apology. What's he apologizing for?" Jack says towards Me, Will joins me in my pacing " He Couldn't honor her. He feels bad." Will says flustered and a little upset. " Well Feeling bad defeats the purpose of being a psychopath, doesn't it?" Jack says angrily "Yes. It does." Will growls back "Then what kind of crazy is he Y/n?" Jack yells at Me, I take a shaky deep breath "He couldn't show her he loved her so he put her corpse back where he killed it. Whatever crazy that is." I say looking at Jack, as I and subsequently Will stop pacing. "You think he loves these girls?" Jack says confused "He loves one of them, and I think by association, he has some form of love for the others." Will says quickly and with a emotion i couldn't say. "There was no semen or saliva. Elise Nichols died a virgin and she stayed that way." Jack says He probably think we Mean love in a sexual or romantic way. but no thats what sets me off "That's not how he's loving them. He wouldn't disrespect them that way. He doesn't want these girls to suffer. He kills them quickly and, to his thinking, with mercy." I say angrily and with anxiety. "A sensitive psychopath. He risked getting caught to tuck Elise Nichols back into bed." Jack says putting together what Me and Will are saying. "He has to take the next girl soon. He knows he's going to get caught. One way or the other." Will says looking at me. I leave Jacks office Will trailing behind me, he grabs my arm and turns me to look at him. Will looks at me, his eyes tired and dull but still beautiful in a haunting way. His mind is a complicated, sometimes impossible puzzle. But that's what made him so good at what he does. Will can see things, make connections that other people can't. He's not afraid to look into the ugly parts of himself or others. And he's not afraid of the darkness of life. He knows that he has to go there sometimes. And he is brave enough, and humble enough, to admit when he needs help. I look Will in the eyes and for the first time in a long time i feel Ok looking into someones eyes. "I'm sorry for my outburst in there" i say in a calm and kind tone giving him a sweet and genuine smile. "It's fine. Don't worry about it." Will said with a warm smile, he was very forgiving. "Jack doesn't fully understand How we think  but we have to work with him." he said, he would always find some way to make a situation better.
i chuckle as i start walking towards the Examination room and lab My heels clicking behind me as i walk. "that we do. You know its kinda nice having someone understand the way my mind works" i say smiling  Will follows behind Me, His footsteps echoing Mine. "It makes things easier." Will says with a  genuine smile. "We can help each other, and work together like this. I like being able to be myself with you." He continues, I look at him with a smile and a curious look "And how do you act with others Will" i ask still smiling happily. "Different." His smile fades away for a second, he looks away from me before continuing his sentence. "Most people i work with don't want to see me completely unmasked. Especially because they don't understand. But you. You do understand. And i like that." he says with a soft smile, He likes how he could talk openly with me.  "I feel the same. You know its always difficult trying to explain to people. but with you its easier i guess" i smile sweetly and continue walking, "Being understood is the most valuable thing." Will says looking at me, "i mean it really is. when people can understand you without you having to explain, its beautiful. and its very difficult, very rare. but with you Y/n I have that." He continues, smiling as we reached our destination. I smile, as my stomach fills with butterflies as we walk into the room.
F.B.I. HEADQUARTERS - EXAMINATION ROOM - DAY
Beverly Katz and Brian Zeller hover over the examination table as Jimmy Price continues to UNZIP the BODY BAG, all wearing gloves, aprons and splash visors. "Tried her skin for prints. Of course, nothing. We did get a hand spread off her neck." Jimmy says looking at the body "Report say anything about nails?" Beverly asks Price, raising her eyebrow. "Her fingernails were smudged when we took scrapings. The scrapings were where she cut her palms with them. She never scratched him." Zeller says looking at the report "Curly piece of metal is all we got." Beverly says as she looks over and see's Me and Will enter the room smiling, she starts smirking. "We should be looking at plumbers, steamfitters, tool-workers." Will says absently his breathing is amplified in his ears as it fogs his vision. He takes a breath and forces himself to look in the bag. There is no body, only darkness. And the sound of Will's breath bouncing off the splash visor. Elise Nichols She stands naked in that darkness, a deathly pallor. ANTLERS SPROUT LIKE BRANCHES from her WOUNDS. Tiny CRIMSON STREAMS defy gravity, climbing antlers and floating upward in beads. Will snaps back to reality: As before. Zeller, Katz, Price continue their examination.
"Other injuries were probably but not conclusively postmortem. So not gored." Zeller says that last part pointed towards Beverly. "She has lots of piercings that look like they were caused by deer antlers. I didn't say the deer was responsible for putting them there." Beverly says, I look up at Will and he nods once again saying that he knows what I'm thinking "She was mounted on them. Like hooks. She may have been bled." i say looking at the body Beverly and Jimmy glance at Will and I. Brian Zeller is too distracted by his investigation of the abdominal wound. "Her liver was removed. He took it out and put it back in. See."  Zeller says pointing to the liver of Elise Nichols, it has sutures in it.  Price looks confused "Why cut out her liver if he was just going to sew it back in again?" Jimmy asks confused, All muscle tone in Will's face goes slack. i look at him, realizing what he just did. "Something was wrong with the meat." Will states swallowing hard, Zeller looks up from the liver -- with a look that says 'how did Graham know?' "She has liver cancer." Zeller states in disbelief The facts briefly ricochet around in my mind and probably Will's too, then: "He's um- He's eating them." i say, then cover my mouth with my hand, then placing it right below my neck on my collarbone. F.B.I. - JACK CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY
Will and I sit with  Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Jack Crawford. "Tell me then, how many confessions?" Dr. Lecter asks Jack, "Twelve dozen last time I checked. None of them knew details. Until this morning. Then everyone knew details. Some genius in Duluth PD took a picture of Elise Nichols' body with their phone and shared it with a few close friends. Freddy Lounds ran it on Tattlecrime.com." Jack says annoyed, Me and Will both roll our eyes at the so called journalists name. "Tasteless." Will says, i couldn't agree more. "Do you have trouble with taste?" Dr. Lecter asks Me and Will, "Our thoughts are often not tasty." I say, that's an understatement. "Nor mine. No effective barriers." Dr. Lecter smiles at Me and Will "I Build forts." will says raising his eyebrows and tilting his head and taking a sip of his coffee. "Associations come quickly." Dr. Lecter says nonchalantly passing me a cup of coffee. I nod my head as a thank you "So do forts." I say before taking a sip of the coffee, Dr. Lecter notices Will  and I avoiding looking anyone but each other in the eye.
"Not fond of eye contact, are you?" Dr. Lecter asks us, Me and Will sigh as we unapologetically continue to avoid eye contact. "Eyes are distracting. You see too much. You don't see enough." Will says as he rolls his eyes " That and it's hard to focus when you're thinking those whites are really white or they must have hepatitis, or is that a burst vein?" I say looking into Dr. Lecter's eyes for a second, Dr. Lecter isn't deflected from making our observations. "I imagine what you two see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love." Dr. Lecter has just described Will and I to a letter, but We are not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. I realize something and i guess Will does too. "Whose profile are you working on?" Will asks Dr. Lecter pointedly, "Whose profile is he working on?" I ask Jack angrily. "I'm sorry, Dr. Y/n, Will. Observing is what we do. I can't shut mine off anymore than you can shut yours off." Dr. Lecter says sincerely, I cant believe this Jack is having Me and Will psycho-analyzed, Will doesn't appreciate the intrusion into his psyche and neither do I.
"Please don't psychoanalyze Us. You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go give a lecture on psychoanalyzing. Lets go Y/n." He scoots out of his chair and grabs my hand and we exit the room, leaving Dr. Lecter and Jack Crawford alone in the office.
MINNESOTA FIELD - THE NEXT MORNING
Will, Jack and I step over the police tape and look at the crime scene in front of us "The head was reported stolen last night about a mile from here."Jack says briefing us Will tilts his head in confusion "Just the head?" he asks Brian Zeller, Beverly Katz, and Jimmy Price are combing the immediate area for forensic evidence. Jack, Will and I stare as Beverly and Brian Zeller attempt to shoo the crows away."Minneapolis homicide has already made a statement. "They're calling him the 'Minnesota Shrike.'" Jack says raising his eyebrows "Like the bird?" I ask confused  "Shrike's a perching bird. Impales mice and lizards on thorny branches and barbed wire. Rips their organs right out of their bodies. Puts them in a little birdie pantry and eats them later. At its leisure." Zeller says morbidly, i furrow my brows and purse my lips. This Wasn't Our Killers Work.  "Sounds about right." Beverly exclaims, Jack shakes his head "Can't tell if it's sloppy or shrewd." He says tensing his Jaw, "He wanted her to be found this way. It's the homicidal equivalent of fecal smearing. It's petulant. I almost feel like he's mocking her. Or he's mocking us." Will says, i nod my head agreeing.
"Where'd all his love go?" Jack asks as Me and Will crouch beside the body. "Whoever tucked Elise Nichols into bed didn't paint this picture." I say solemnly, i almost lose my balance but Will puts his hand on the small on my back to keep me steady. I look up at him and smile. Brian Zeller looks up from Cassie's mounted corpse. "He took her lungs. I think she was still alive when he cut them out" Zeller says, i frown looking away from Will and back at the bodies Jack Crawford and Brian Zeller stand over the table that is CASSIE'S BODY. Beverly Katz and Jimmy Price work nearby. "Our cannibal loves women. He doesn't want to destroy them. He wants to consume them. Keep some part of them inside. This girl's killer thought she was a pig." I say shaking my head, "You think this is a copy cat?" jack ask Me and Will, Will and I take in the open field, considering the stage. "I don't know. Cannibal who killed Elise Nichols had a place to do it and no interest in field Kabuki. He has a house or two, or a cabin. Something with an antler room." Will says in annoyed tone but has determination on his face. "We're already looking at Minnesota steamfitters and plumbers and people with hunting licenses." Jack says, I realize something
"He has a daughter. Same age as the other girls. Same hair color, same eye color, same height, same weight. She's an only child. She's leaving home. He can't stand the thought of losing her. She's his Golden Ticket." I say walking off with Will heading to the rental car "What about the Copy Cat?" Jack asks "An intelligent psychopath, particularly a sadist, is hard to catch. There's no traceable motive. There'll be no patterns. He may never kill like this again." Will says annoyed with Jack. Will  turns and crosses under the POLICE TAPE, tossing back: "Have Dr. Lecter work up a psychological profile. You seem to be impressed with his opinion." I snort at Wills remark
MINNEAPOLIS MOTEL ROOM -  NEXT MORNING
Will wraps a robe around himself as he shuffles to the door of his and my shared Motel room. wiping the fresh sleep out of his eyes. He opens the door revealing Hannibal Lecter standing outside holding Three cups,a thermos and a small thermal food storage bag. I sit up in my bed rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and go to the door where will is standing. "Good morning, Will. Good morning, Y/n. May I come in?" Hannibal says as Me and just Will stare at him. "Where's Crawford?" Will asks Hannibal "Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours, mine, and Y/n's today. May I come in?" Hannibal asks once again, me and will step out of his way as he heads towards the small table in the room. A beautifully presented breakfast for three served on tupperware containers on top of place settings. Freshly brewed coffee is poured into the three cups Hannibal carried.  Hannibal peels lids off the tupperware dishes. "I'm very careful about what I put into my body. Which means I end up preparing most meals myself. A little protein scramble to start the day. Some eggs, some sausage." Hannibal says passing Me and Will our food. Hannibal watches Will and I take a bite of our breakfast scramble. "It's delicious. Thank you" I say, it truly is delicious.
"My pleasure." Hannibal smiles, He is genuinely amused and successfully hides it. "I would apologize for my analytical ambush but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you'll tire of that eventually so I have to consider using apologies sparingly." Hannibal say in a tone i just cant put a finger on. "Just keep it professional." Will says, I look at him with confusion as he looks at Hannibal with pointed eyes. "Or we could socialize like adults,god forbid we become friendly." Hannibal smirks at will, i chuckle. "I don't find you that interesting." Will states nonchalantly, "You will. Agent Crawford tells me you two have a knack for the monsters." Hannibal says, I smirk as i take another bite of my breakfast. "I don't think the Shrike killed that girl in the field." I say after swallowing that bite of food, "The devil is in the details. What didn't your Copy Cat do to the girl in the field? What gave it away?" Hannibal asks i shake my head "Everything. It's like he had to show us a negative so we could see the positive. That crime scene was practically gift-wrapped." I say wiping my eyes and taking a sip of coffee, "The mathematics of human behavior. All those ugly variables. Some bad math with this shrike fellow. Are you reconstructing his fantasies? What kind of problems does he have?" Hannibal asks curiously, "He has a few." Will says almost with a wink:
"Ever have any problems, Will?" Hannibal asks looking over at Will "No." he responds softly and annoyed, "Of course you don't. You Two and I are just alike. Problem free. Nothing about us to feel horrible about. I think Uncle Jack sees you as a pair of fragile little tea-cups, the finest china used for only special guests." Hannibal states, Me and Will  laugh and lean back and look at him with curiosity "How do you see me?" Will asks curious as to what the answer is, "The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by." Hannibal responds "and Me?" i ask "You Y/n are the beautiful butterfly that needs to stay protected, otherwise when in danger the butterfly will die. Finish your breakfast." Hannibal says gazing at me
RENTAL CAR - DAY - Will throws the car into park and begins to unbuckle his seat belt when he notices Hannibal smiling."what are you smiling about?" Will asks Hannibal raising one of his eyebrows, "Peeking behind the curtain. Curious how the FBI goes about its business when it isn't kicking in doors." Hannibal replies smiling, i let out a relieved sigh as i unbuckle my seat belt "We're lucky we're not doing house to house interviews. We found a little piece of metal in the clothes Elise Nichols had on. A shred from a pipe threader." I say, shrugging "Must be hundreds of construction sites all over Minnesota." Hannibal points out, Will shakes his head "Certain kinda metal. Certain kinda pipe. Certain kinda pipe coating.So we're looking at construction sites that use that kinda pipe." Will sighs, "And what are we looking for?" Hannibal asks curious "At this stage, anything really. But mostly anything peculiar." I say getting out of the car and head towards the trailer office. Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter step out of the rental car and cross towards the trailer office  following behind me.
CAMPER TRAILER OFFICE - DAY -
flustered, mildly suspicious secretary named DIXIE stares at Will, Hannibal, and I leafing through pages as she talks on she phone in an ineffective hushed tone. "Two fellas  and a chick from the F.B.I. They're going through drawers now. Putting papers in file boxes. Yes. They're taking things. No. They didn't say whe -- Yes, they can. what did you say your names were?" The secretary asks wearily Just then, Will finds a resignation letter of note. "Garret Jacob Hobbs." Will asks in a questioning tone "One of our pipe threaders. Those are all the resignation letters. Plumbers union requires them whenever members finish a job. I'll call you back." The secretary Dixie says as  she   hangs up the phone and scoots out from around her desk. "Did Mr. Hobbs have a daughter?" I ask placing my hands on my hips looking at the woman "Might have." the woman says suspiciously, I eye her analyzing her every move and noise. "Eighteen or nineteen, wind-chaffed? Plain but pretty? She would have auburn hair. About this tall." Will continues questioning her "Maybe. I don't know. I don't keep company with these people." she rolls her eyes and sits back down at her desk.
"What is it about Garret Jacob Hobbs you find so peculiar?" Hannibal asks Will as he looks over at us, "Left a phone number. No address." Will responds, i look over his shoulder at the file "Therefore he has something to hide?" Hannibal asks, Will shrugs not putting too much weight on the matter. "Everyone else left an address. You have an address for Mr. Hobbs?" I ask the secretary, Will, Hannibal and I haul file boxes from the make-shift office building to the trunk of their rental car. Hannibal allows himself to knock a box out of the trunk, scattering papers. Will and I stoop to pick them up. "I got it." Will says squatting down with me to start picking up papers. As Will and I pick up the pages, Hannibal returns to the make shift office Hannibal waits as the door hinges closed and latches with a CLICK, watching Y/n and Will clean up the mess he made. Satisfied, Hannibal picks up the phone with a Tissue. "You don't know me and I suspect we'll never meet. This is a courtesy call. Listen very carefully. Are you listening? They Know." Hannibal says
HOBBS HOUSE - CAR - DAY -
Will pops an Aspirin behind the wheel of the rental car. Lector and I unbuckle our seatbelts. Will thinks a moment before getting out. Hannibal smiles, a hint of excitement. Will and I walk purposefully to the front door,  Will is trying his best not to look uncomfortable. Hannibal purposefully lags behind. Will and I are halfway to the door when it suddenly opens: LOUISE HOBBS Bleeding and wheezing, she is shoved down the porch steps in a heap, the door slamming shut behind her. Me and Will rush to DYING LOUISE HOBBS. Her alabaster skin in sharp contrast to the crimson pouring out of it. Multiple wounds puncture her torso and arms. She grasps haltingly for Us, streaking Me and Him with her blood. Her cold hand clutches My wrist as her body spasms. She's already gone and Will knows this and I know this. He pries her slick, red fingers from My wrist, trying not to see the last flickers of pain and fear exiting her face.
Will smashes into the door with everything he's got. It's hard to say whether the sickening crack was from his shoulder or the its wood frame. He gives it a well-placed kick, and another, splintering it little-by-little until he and I can stumble INSIDE.  Hannibal strolls casually up the walk, barely glancing at the lifeless body of Louise Hobbs stepping deliberately over it. He pauses in the broken doorway, listening closely. The wild-eyed contrast to Dr. Lector, Will and I work our way from room to room, guns first. Adrenaline allows Us to ignore the splatters of blood defacing the walls and floors. "Garret Jacob Hobbs? F.B.I." I yell pointing my gun Me and Will stop cold at the sight before us as we move  into the kitchen Garrett Jacob Hobbs behind his DAUGHTER, ABIGAIL, slashing at her throat. The wide-eyed girl has her weight against him, chin tucked down, gasping for air. TIME SLOWS TO A CRAWL as the SOUND YIELDS to the AMBIENT NOISE of My circulatory system. Will raises his pistol. BLAM. BLAM. BLAM. He fires into Hobbs's exposed upper chest, one after another. Hobbs doesn't go down. I drop to my knees and go to help Abigail, putting pressure on the wound. Will keeps shooting. BLAM. BLAM. With one last deep cut, Hobbs finally falls. Hannibal steps into the kitchen, his inscrutable expression suddenly registering genuine pity and regret as he sees ABIGAIL HOBBS Her struggle to breath underscored by the WHEEZE of air through her slashed wind-pipe. I apply pressure to the wounds, scooping Abigail onto My lap. Will now beside me trying to help me with abigail looks up to see: GARRET JACOB HOBBS He hisses at Will Graham through dying, jagged breath. "See? See?" he whispers, Will's eyes are glazed. He's shutting down. Behind him: Hannibal moves swiftly to Abigail, addressing her wounds as she stares at her dying father even as her own life ebbs. I gently raise her glassy eyes to My own as Hannibal works. Will doesn't look away. And neither do I.
HOSPITAL - PATIENT ROOM - NEXT MORNING -
Will enters to find Abigail Hobbs integrated into an elaborate weave of life-saving technology. sleeping in a chair next to her bed is HANNIBAL LECTER. and in another Y/n. us both holding one of her hands, offering a tiny comfort. Will Graham quietly sits in the empty chair next to Y/n watching their unconscious care for the girl they all saved.
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aphroditelovesu · 3 months
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yandere eris from acotar maybe?
''You know very well my reasons for doing this.'' — Eris Vanserra.
❝ 🍂 — lady l: yes, yes and yes! Ah, finally someone asked him! As soon as I saw this request I couldn't control myself and wrote 👀. I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! 🧡
❝tw: obsessive and possessive behavior, jealousy, mention of murder, manipulation, unhealthy relationships.
❝🍂pairing: yandere!eris vanserra x gender neutral!reader.
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Eris Vanserra projects a strong air of arrogance, of superiority, as expected from the heir of a Court. He appears to be someone who is violent and has ulterior motives and that is true, at least for the most part. But there is something about Eris that few know.
He is very intelligent and observant, his gaze is always sharp and a mischievous smile on his lips. You will never know what he is thinking or planning unless he wants you to.
Eris is very manipulative, he always knows how to say the right words to convince anyone to do whatever he wants. Including his darling, although he prefers not to manipulate you, he is not above doing so if he deems it necessary.
Not much is known about him, not even you know. The few times he let his feelings and thoughts show are when he allows himself to be vulnerable by your side. These moments are rare, but when they occur you realize how much he cares about you.
He has done many bad things in his life and there are few that he regrets, and yet he will always be insensitive about it. Eris doesn't care about many things besides himself and what he truly values. Yet he cares about you, more than he has ever cared about anyone. You became his most forbidden desire, his obsession.
Eris seems like an intriguing enigma, someone you could call two-faced. He shows his different sides to each person, but you are the one who knows his true side, his true personality. Eris is skilled at hiding his true feelings and intentions, but the connection you have allows him to be more vulnerable.
He feels connected to you in a way he's never felt with anyone before, maybe you're mates or just really close, but Eris knows he loves you and that's scary. The world is dangerous, people are dangerous and they may try to use you against them. He can't let that happen.
If someone dared to hurt you, Eris will be ruthless and merciless. You had never seen him so furious, so eager to kill, gut and burn. He seemed like a different person, so crazy and overcome with the murderous rage that consumed him. Only when he was left with ash and the smell of burning flesh did he take a deep breath and head towards it. His gaze softening and almost pleading with you. Your heart broke right there.
For him, you are something more than a simple fixation, than an obsession. You mean a beginning, a life away from the traumas inflicted on him. He reserves a softer and more affectionate side to you. This suggests a deep connection between you, something that goes beyond the manipulations or the more austere exterior he projects to the world.
Eris is quite possessive, but he is not consumed by these feelings. He deals with them in another way, usually by making it very clear to everyone who you belong to. An arm around your shoulders, a sharp gaze, and a stern expression usually do the trick. But if it doesn't work, he doesn't mind dealing permanently with that person.
He's no stranger to killing someone to get what he wants and that's no different when it comes to you. He wants you and he will have you, simple as that. Anyone who gets in his way will suffer the consequences.
Eris tries to be by your side as much as possible, he's not clingy but he likes to have some kind of physical contact with you. Like holding hands for example. He would spoil you with everything that money can buy and power can offer. This male will be willing to spend a fortune just to pamper you, to do all your wishes.
His dogs love you too and know that they must protect you at any cost, considering how important you are to Eris. He delights in watching you play with his dogs.
Having Eris Vanserra behind you is something complicated. His sharp intelligence and manipulative skills can be both captivating and dangerous, and if you try to escape, he won't let you. You are the only good thing, the only good person he has in his life and he will not lose that. He won't lose you.
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feefymo · 22 days
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Hii, if you're still doing the ask game, what about kit walker + "i feel nothing"?
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tw: mention of blood and sex. a/n: Oh, anon! Thank you for this request, Kit always fills my suffering heart! - Keep an eye Walker, Sister y/n. - Sister Jude called you as you left Doctor Arden's office and took Kit Walker into his room. Upon hearing the director's austere voice you stop your pace and, with you, the wheelchair containing Kit. - Sleep peacefully, Sister Jude. Look at him - you pinched the patient's chin between your index finger and thumb, raising his exhausted young face to the artificial, white and dazzling light of the ceiling. It was a miracle Kit hadn't slipped on the floor: he could barely keep his eyes open. A sharp gesture and you let the boy's head fall heavily between his shoulders. So, giving a knowing half-smile to your superior, you are dismissed. You started pushing the wheelchair again and, once you had lost Sister Jude, you covered the last few meters in a hurry. No one was wandering around in the dim light except you who, between creaks and faint moans, entered Mr. Walker's room. Not even having time to move him on the old mattress before you knelt in front of him: your head bowed and your entire little figure shaken by sobs. As if he were your only true God, you gave him an insistent nod of denial, even before finding the courage and looking him in the eyes. Kit had suffered yet another torture at the hands of Arthur Arden and he was becoming a ghost of himself. His beauty, still painfully looming, was gradually transforming into a heartbreaking work by Egon Schiele. He was sharp, Kit. Creased, grayed: a spirit of aching flesh and brittle bones. The moment your gaze met his, you searched through the fog of his irises as if in convulsions. - My love... - just seeing his distant expression was enough for you to express the need to look after him. To make up for every injustice he suffered. You were agitated, trying in vain to hold back the desperation of your actions. You grabbed his knees exposed by his blood-stained robe. You traced his profile through caresses and electric touches that reawakened him. However, Kit Walker was back to himself. Tired but gradually clearer, he continued to stare into space despite your pressing attentions. The kisses you covered his hollow cheeks, his neck. - I am sorry. I'm sorry, I wish I could do more than this... oh, Kit. Kit, please! Talk to me... kiss me! - in you, the desire to make him feel better grew enormously in the only way you knew and that Walker's presence in Briarcliff had taught you. Hungry for his gnawed person, you slipped a hand between his skinny thighs and vehemently touched his naked, annihilated masculinity. Your eye sockets leaked tears like broken faucets.
Were you really sorry? You really couldn't have done more? Did you love Kit or was he your clandestine toy? The more you pounced on him the less his body reacted. And just as a panic attack began to build in you, Kit's dry throat gave way to a sort of groan. His once lively eyes slowly settled on you, like an omen hidden by his expressionless face. He remained silent, he wanted you to get lost in the desert he was showing you. His eyelids fluttered in slow motion and his pupils retraced your presence without the other muscles breaking. - I... beg you. Stop it. I feel nothing. Anymore. -
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codename-mom · 4 months
Text
Happy Hotch Day
Summary: Penelope wants to cheer her boss up as he still suffers from what Foyet did to him. She reaches for her co-workers for them to help her preparing a little surprise for him.
Characters: BAU team
Contents: TW brief mention of Haley's and Morgan's father death, a tiny bit of anxiety (because Hotch is an idiot sometimes), outside of this, it's all fluff. :)
This is a text written for the CM Office Party challenge organized by @imagining-in-the-margins.
PS : English is not my mother language so they are necessarily mistakes. Sorry about that.
___
All was quiet that day at Quantico when Penelope stormed into the open-plan office, nearly spilling the coffee in Anderson's hand as she stepped through the glass doors.
“Guys! Guys! Guys!” She repeated, her cheeks red.
“Okay, calm down, tempered Derek as he left the corner of the desk on which he had been sitting temporarily. Slow down and put the handbrake on.”
“No time for a slot, pilot of my heart, I've just had the idea of the century!”
All eyes were on her, just as she wanted them to be. As luck would have it, Dave was also among those present, having left his den for a moment to ask Spencer a question. The only member of the team missing was their superior – who had been called upstairs – which suited the – now – bespectacled redhead just fine.
“What is it?” asked Jennifer, curious.
“Well, as Hoch is not feeling well at this time…”
“Which is understandable," interrupted Emily, widening her eyes.
Recent events had propelled the BAU director to the status of bereaved single father in the blink of an eye, and the brutal reorganization of his daily life was still suffering from a few bumps. He and Jack were getting used to each other's presence, but the agency head was struggling to come to terms with his ex-wife's death. He didn't mention it to his men and put on a brave face, but the profilers had their eye on him and sensed that the wound was still raw. To which Garcia added:
“I’d like us to prepare a little surprise to cheer him up.”
“You're going to need more than a little surprise for that," pointed out Morgan, partially serious.
“It’ll be a start.”
“What did you think about?” wished to know Agent Jareau.
“I wanted us to give him a present for Father’s Day.”
Silence fell over the group. Everyone stared at her with a mixture of surprise and incomprehension. They didn't ignore the fact that this celebration was going to take place, but:
“Hotch is not our father,” noticed Reid, eyebrows furrowed.
“I know! Snapped the analyst, expecting this reply. Biologically speaking, Hotch isn't our father; but if we take that aspect out of the equation, he fulfills all the criteria. He’s… he’s our office dad.”
“You mean mom,” joked the ex-policeman, a sneer playing at the corner of his lips.
He was the first to nickname the costumed giant in this way, and the company had naturally followed. Giving each other nicknames was part of their modus operandi – Penelope and Derek being the two who collected the most – and Aaron's had been adopted unanimously. Or almost.
“Yes, about that, hesitated the luscious ginger, he... he has a bit of trouble with that nickname...”
“He has a bit of trouble with many things,” declared Prentiss.
“Sure,” topped up Derek.
It would be a lie to say that Agent Hotchner had as much flexibility of mind as the staff working under him, and certain aspects of his flock's behavior met with some resistance when it came to involving the tall, dark-haired man. Blockages that the analyst couldn't completely ignore, even though she knew that the latter was far less uptight than his austere appearance suggested.
“Look, I only wish that, next Monday, we call him “Dad” in place of “Mom”. He’ll be pleased.”
“I won’t call Hotch, “Dad”. No way,” Morgan said immediately.
“Why?”
“He’s not my father and he’ll never be,” he affirmed without smiling.
The former police officer had lost his sire when he was still a child, and this tragic event had left an indelible mark on his mind. A trace that allowed no one else to occupy this unique place in his heart. For him, it was impossible to consider this man with whom he regularly clung as any kind of parental figure. Even as a joke.
“But you’ve got no issue calling him “Mom””, stressed Penelope squinting her eyes.
“And the way it's pissing him off, I'm not going to stop now.”
Behind his back, Emily and JJ chuckled, amused. Garcia felt the rage run in her veins.
“Penelope, Dave continued, why do you want us to wish him a happy Father's Day? That’s Jack’s job, not ours.”
“Besides, he hates surprises, Derek reminded her; he hates presents, he doesn't even rejoice his birthday.”
It was the truth. Every time they'd caught Aaron off guard – to good effect – they'd immediately seen him tense up and display a frozen grin. He had never clearly expressed his delight at suddenly being the center of attention. In the same way, he avoided every opportunity to celebrate himself: he took part in everyone's birthdays, but systematically omitted to feast his own. And when his team took the liberty of offering him gifts, he only seemed to accept them out of pure politeness. All the more reason for their reluctance to try again that day.
“I… I'd just like us to show him how important he is to us, she explained. He… he's in low spirits and I'd like him to smile again. Even for a minute.”
“If he’s still able to smile.”
Morgan and JJ giggled at the brunette’s jibe.
“Are you serious?”
“Baby girl…”
“No! interrupted the computer specialist, pushing away the hand he was holding out towards her. There is no “baby girl”! This man you're laughing at cuts himself to ribbons for you, and you despise him! Your ingratitude is disgusting!”
Furious, she turned her back on them and left the bullpen without succeeding in slamming the heavy glass door. A stunned silence fell over the group, who were now casting awkward glances at each other.
“I think she's angry," Spencer said, looking worried.
“It was a joke, Prentiss thought it necessary to point out. You… you've all figured it out, haven't you?”
“Yes,” abounded Morgan.
“Of course,” followed JJ.
“Anyway, we agree that it's not up to us to wish him a happy Father's Day?”
“Totally," agreed Emily, who had never known hers and didn't see the agency manager as a potential surrogate.
The pair's gaze turned to Agent Jareau, who was far less at ease than a few minutes earlier.
“What?” interrogated her coworker and friend.
“Well, that is to say, she's not entirely wrong. It's true that he's always there for us, at any time of the day or night.”
“That’s because he doesn’t sleep.”
“Derek.”
She had glared at him. If for some people, declaring their availability at all hours was a ready-made formula, this was not the case for Hotch. Until then, he'd always applied this credo to the letter, answering their nightly calls and cutting short his – rare – vacations to come to their aid. Morgan nevertheless sighed.
“No one ever asked him to do that. He's got it into his head that he has to take full responsibility for our every move.”
Having temporarily occupied his position while Foyet was still at large, he had had time to read up on the rights and duties of unit leaders. And nowhere was it written that he had to give in to the whims of his agents or put aside his own needs to satisfy the desires of his employees.
“In fact, shouldn't we be all the more indebted to him?”
Everyone turned their attention back to Dr. Reid, who had said this sentence in his most innocent tone. But the thought was not as innocuous as it seemed, and it shook the certainties of both refractors. The BAU co-founder, noting the embarrassed and pained expressions of the mocking trio, suggested:
“I think we should all take a few moments to reflect on a moment, a gesture, a thoughtfulness on his part that he didn't have to do, but did anyway, simply to make us feel better.”
Eyes focused on him, then turned away as the memories of all began their search.
“Then we can reconsider Penelope’s idea.”
The day flew smoothly, and the weekend passed quietly, giving everyone the rest they needed to recuperate. Then Monday arrived and, taking advantage of the calm, Garcia, holed up in her den of flashing tinsel, multicolored figurines and a few computer screens, put the finishing touches to her gift. It didn't matter to her that she was the only one making the effort; she had every intention of doing whatever it took to cheer her superior up.
A knock sounded at the door, and it opened to reveal half of Emily's face.
“Penelope…”
“Oh! she hiccupped, hastily placing her work in the first drawer within reach. We… we’ve got a case?”
“No. Well, not that I know of," she admitted, allowing herself to take a step into the closed office.
“Okay. So what did you come for?”
Tinkling her damaged fingernails, the ambassador's daughter closed the door behind her and approached a little closer. She didn't dare look the hostess in the eye.
“Uh… first, I wanted to apologize for... what I said last Friday. I... I didn't mean to hurt you.”
“I know someone who would have been more hurt than me if he'd heard you, she spat, unable to conceal her morgue. Good thing he wasn’t there to witness it.”
“Speaking of which, we... we had a little chat about it after you left and... er... it's probably not worth what you had in mind, but we came up with an idea for... him.”
“Really? Exclaimed Garcia, suddenly interested. What… what is it?”
Reassured by her colleague's reaction, Emily relaxed and explained what the team had been working on for the past two days.
“It's not much, but if you want to take part, there's still a bit of room.”
“It's a great idea! Rejoiced the redhead, delighted. I… Of course, I’m in! Where… How do we proceed?”
“Follow me. We put everything in the meeting room for now.”
Penelope leapt to her feet and was about to walk in her guest's footsteps.
“Where he is?” she asked with a blank voice.
“Up there.”
Prentiss pointed to the upper floors, where Strauss' office was located. The giant had been summoned to report to the section chief, without delay, some thirty minutes earlier and had still not come down. There was a good chance that the face-to-face meeting would drag on forever.
“Let’s take this chance.”
The two women left the former hacker's lair behind them and made their way to their destination. On the spot, the rest of the gang were busy getting the room ready, making do with what they had on hand, which wasn't necessarily suitable for redecorating. The rejuvenated analyst immediately came to their help, putting her experience in the field to good use.
                Two hours later, Hotch reappeared on the sixth floor, his features drawn and his eyebrows more furrowed than ever. Annoyed and exhausted by the interminable negotiation he'd just been through, he climbed the slope to his office without paying attention to the scenery around him, pushed open the door and walked with a heavy step to his chair. But he didn't even have time to brush against the furniture before:
“Aaron.”
The latter sighed, letting his shoulders fall back, and turned around to see Rossi on the threshold.
“Do I have the time for a coffee?”
“The younglings are waiting for you in the meeting room,” answered his most ancient coworker.
The titan in the suit wrinkled his nose, the adrenalin pulsing through his veins chasing away fatigue.
“Do we have a case?”
“Maybe.”
“What that’s supposed to mean?”
“You know where to go to have your answer.”
The ex-retiree smiled mysteriously and moved off towards the indicated location. Aaron, confused, remained statuesque for a moment, then left his office in turn. And, bypassing the coffee machine, went into the room where they usually gathered to discuss current issues. His heart pounding against his ribs, he wondered what else his men had planned behind his back. Not that he disapproved of their attentions to him – far from it – but surprises always made him uncomfortable. He felt systematically foolish, not knowing what to say or do at such moments. He knew that it was socially accepted to be ecstatic about a job well done, to rejoice at suddenly being in the spotlight, and to thank others for gifts received. On the other hand, sincere emotion and candor were expected of him, and not knowing what to expect stressed him out, and lying to his loved ones embarrassed him terribly.
                He arrived at the door of the meeting room, his heart rate racing.
“Happy Father’s Day!" shouted several intermingled voices.
The entire team was gathered under a silver banner bearing the words: "Happy Office Father’s Day!”. The "office" had been added on an A3 sheet stapled under the banner. Balloons of all colors floated limply around the room, and each agent wore a conical multicolored hat.
“… Wh… What?” was the only exclamation that managed to escape his lips.
“Kids have written little notes for you on this particularly discreet card, which I strongly encourage you to read," said the novelist, pointing to a folded cardboard sheet on the table.
It was a card probably bought in a bookshop on which JJ – he recognized her handwriting – had scrawled in red marker. His attention had been so focused on what was hanging over their heads that he hadn't seen the object, which must have been a good three feet high. However, he didn't have time to dwell on it any further, as Garcia emerged from the mass and rushed towards him with small, quick steps. She stopped an arm's length away and took a deep breath before launching into her own words.
“And I made you this plush. Initially, I wanted to make a hen, but I discovered that these birds are actually very bad parents. So I looked up where there were super dads in the animal kingdom, and it turns out that wolves are the best in the world. Whenever a cub goes missing, they worry about them and look for them. They feed them, wash them, play with them and protect them from everything and... in short, I've made you a wolf cuddly toy! With your name on the pads.”
She then handed him the animal in question without moving from her spot, her cheeks flushed red. Hotch, perturbed by the whole situation, was slow to react, but nevertheless retrieved his gift, which he observed attentively. The wolf's brown eyes were not set at the same height, and one ear was bigger than the other, but the fur was soft and the letters under his paws had been meticulously stitched.
“You… aren't you going to say anything?" worried Penelope, her eyebrows furrowed in a circumflex accent.
“Uh… yes, Aaron gasped, coming back to the present moment. Thank you. I… Excuse me, I… I didn’t expect that.”
“It's the principle of surprise," Emily remarked with a smile.
“I too would have been very disturbed by all this, Spencer admitted, waving his hands in the air. Fortunately, I'm too young to be elected office dad."
“It’s… that is, I... I didn't think I'd have the honor either," he stammered, not noticing that he was pressing the stuffed toy to his chest.
“Hence the card. So you can…”
Dave twirled his index finger in front of his temple, looking mischievous. The director realized that his men must have compiled anecdotes about him on the flaps of this giant card.
“Uh… okay. Do… do I have to read it in front of you?”
“No!” they exploded in unison, Rossi excepted.
“Read it at home. Quietly,” Jennifer advised him.
“Yeah. That's better," bounced Derek, suddenly embarrassed.
“Definitely," agreed Prentiss, not much more comfortable.
Clearly, none of them wanted their feelings for him to be revealed out loud in front of everyone else. A sudden shyness that discreetly stretched their leader's lips.
“… Fine. I imagine the glasses are there for a toast," he said, spotting the bottle and glasses waiting in the middle of the table.
“I thought you'd never say it," retorted his former mentor, breaking away from the group to take hold of the neck and start peeling off the aluminum foil enclosing the cork.
The supervisor smiled candidly, touched. Not because of the BAU co-founder's reaction – which he had expected – but because of the whole situation. He who was put off by surprises felt surprisingly well. All the tension he'd felt walking from his office to the hall had vanished and his heart had regained an acceptable rhythm.
“Let's toast then. And… thanks. Thanks for everything.”
They raised their glasses in his direction and he did the same for them, then they took a sip. The mood had relaxed and frank smiles had returned to light up the faces. If he had been afraid of what they had concocted for him, they had feared his answer, dreading to see the disappointment or disgust on his pale face. But none of this had happened, and everyone was catching their breath, scooping a few appetizer cakes from the mismatched plates Emily had brought along.
“By the way, what did Jack offer you yesterday?" asked Reid, curious.
“A sheet of paper with his hand and footprints, and a message: "For Aaron, my daddy whom I love most in the world."
“It's so cute!" said Penelope, cheerfully.
“He spelled my first name with three A's, but... yes.”
The team burst out laughing and he imitated them.
___
Okay, this one probably doesn't fit the timeline too but I wanted JJ to be there actually. ^^;
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valeskafics · 6 months
Text
"Apocalypse" - Ettore x Reader (AHS Apocalypse AU)
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Summary: The nuclear apocalypse isn't the end of the world for everyone, least of all you and Ettore.
TW: DUBCON, profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, afab reader, mentions of murder, masturbation, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex
Word Count: 2,565 words
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Grantchester characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️
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Just before the nuclear apocalypse that wiped out the earth’s population, a select group of people were taken from their homes and placed onboard one of eleven spacecrafts. The chosen survivors of the apocalypse were quickly separated into two categories. There were the “purples”, hand-selected elites chosen for survival and the “grays”, their servant counterparts.
You don’t know why you were chosen as a purple. Your family wasn’t crazy rich, you weren’t some sort of celebrity. You came from a normal family in a normal neighborhood. But for some reason, you were chosen to be saved. Well, if that’s what you can call it. Every day at mealtimes, you and your fellow survivors are given a cube of some gelatinous substance. The woman in charge, the austere Dr. Dibs, says it contains all the nutrients necessary for survival. Part of you thinks that you’d rather have been left behind on earth rather than be forced to live like this. Sexual contact between the passengers onboard the ship, known as “Outpost 11”, is also forbidden. You’re not sure what the reason for that is, but you do know that a lot of people have not been following that rule.
It’s a day like any other, the ship aimlessly orbiting through space, nothing in sight except for darkness and the occasional star. As you’re walking and gazing out the window, you collide with someone, sending the pair of you falling to the floor. You panic and rush to help the victim of your clumsiness to his feet, noticing that he’s a gray, and a handsome one at that. He has sharp features, brilliant blue eyes, and dark blond hair.
“I’m so sorry,” you say as he stands to his full height, over six feet, narrowing his eyes at you in a way that has you wishing the floor would just swallow you whole.
“You should bloody well watch where you’re going,” he snarks, “Guess I don’t matter just ‘cause I’m a gray, is that it?”
You flinch at his harsh words and meet his eyes, “I’m really sorry.”
And it’s then that he looks at you, really looks at you for the first time. And it’s like a shark smelling blood in the water.  His lips upturn ever so slightly, something dark in his expression as he completely changes his tone of voice. 
“Oh, it’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t stress yourself out over little old me,” he says, saccharine sweet, almost mocking.
You take a step backward, away from him, “Do you happen to know where Monte is?”
“Monte? The gray?” he chuckles, taking a step forward, “Why do you want to know where he is? I thought grays aren’t supposed to talk to purples.”
You take another step back, trying to keep some distance between the two of you and question, genuinely curious, “Is that one of Dibs’ rules?”
“Yeah, it’s one of the many rules that our good doctor has established,” he hums, the two of you doing your dance of one step forward one step back until you hit the wall behind you, “We grays aren’t allowed to approach or even look at you purples unless called on and so on.”
“That’s ridiculous,” you comment bluntly, taking the gray by surprise, “Dibs is insane.”
“Yeah, it’s all bullshit,” he agrees before smirking, “But you know what else is ridiculous? The fact that you’re still talking to me, even though I’m just a lowly gray.”
You avert your eyes, unable to deal with the intensity of his gaze, “Sorry. I’ll quit bothering you.”
You try to duck out from under his arm, but he quickly blocks your path, “Oh, no. You’re not getting away that easy. My name’s Ettore. What’s yours, my little purple princess?”
You wrinkle your nose in distaste at the nickname, “Don’t call me that.”
Ettore laughs, his eyes traveling along your body, admiring the figure hugging dress all female purples are given and the way it clings to you like a second skin, “Why don’t you like it? It fits you perfectly, just like that dress.”
You shy away slightly under his gaze, telling him your name before adding, “I should go before Dibs or one of her cronies shows up…”
“Don’t leave so soon, princess,” he says, his voice low and husky in a way that makes your stomach tighten as he crowds you up against the wall once more, resting a lean but well-muscled arm to cage you in, “You seem a bit tense. Maybe you need to relax, I can give you a little ‘massage’, yeah?”
“That’s not a job they have grays do,” you mumble, avoiding meeting his eyes.
“Who cares about that hag and her job list?” Ettore murmurs, moving his free hand to tilt your chin up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, “All I see here is a beautiful woman who needs my ‘services’.”
You hear a door open and tear yourself away from him, managing to eke out a goodbye. You hastily walk away, down toward the mess hall, though you can’t help yourself from glancing back over your shoulder at him. And, of course, he’s still staring at you, predatory and hungry.
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You’re completely taken by surprise when you wake up the next morning to see Ettore standing there with your breakfast tray. Your eyes go wide with surprise.
“Where’s Boyse?” you ask, wondering where your usual gray is.
“She’s… Indisposed,” Ettore says simply, that same smirk playing at his lips, “I’m going to be your gray now, princess. Need me to brush your hair?”
“I can do that myself,” you mumble, getting out of bed and grabbing your hairbrush.
���But wouldn’t you rather have me do it for you?” Ettore takes a step closer, his gaze fixed on the exposed skin of your neck, “It’s my job, sweetheart. Let me.”
He gives you no room for argument, pushing you down into the seat in front of your vanity, before he begins brushing your hair. He keeps eye contact with you in the mirror all the while, his hands caressing your hair as he brushes out all the tangles. When he hits a small knot, his smirk widens when you let out a quiet moan at the way the brush tugs against it. He continues until his task is complete, watching you all the while, committing that sweet sound to his memory for when he fucks his fist tonight and pretends it’s you.
“Has Dibs said if anything is happening today?” you ask, keeping your tone even and quiet, still embarrassed by your actions only a moment ago.
“I’m on cleaning duty other than taking care of you,” he informs you, “I believe there’s a mixer dinner of some sort in the mess hall for the purples tonight.”
You gasp as his fingers move toward your neck, trailing down your back. His touch is slow and sensual, and yet there’s something dangerous lurking behind his gaze when you meet it in the mirror. You quickly pull away, grabbing your dress and heading into the bathroom to change.
Ettore calls after you, “I can help you change, you know. It’s kind of my job, princess.”
Silence.
You finally come out a few minutes later, dressed in your usual lilac dress and give him a quick nod, “See you later.”
He watches as you leave your nightgown folded at the foot of the bed, no doubt for him to give to the laundress. But Ettore has other plans for it. He picks up the soft white cotton fabric and presses it to his nose, inhaling your scent. Jasmine with a hint of lavender. He makes sure the door is closed and lowers the gray uniform pants he’s forced to wear every goddamn day on this ship, his cock springing free. He begins tugging at his length almost violently as he imagines you laying in that bed with him, pounding into you, feeling your pussy squeezing around him. God, he wants to hear you moan like that again. He wants to taste you, to possess you completely. You’re his. You just don’t know it yet. His little princess.
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Later, just before the mixer, Ettore sees you again, standing around with some of the other purples as he scrubs the floor. The difference between your status and his hits him in an almost visceral fashion as your fellow purples giggle and smirk at him as he goes about his task. He can’t help but think to himself if these spoiled cunts knew just what he’s capable of that they wouldn’t be laughing for too much longer. He removes his shirt, using it to wipe the sweat from his brow and glances over at you, only to see you already looking at him, though you pretend not to - your eyes trailing along his sinewy muscles, the tattoo on his neck, admiring him. Ettore feels his cock grow hard against his pants, almost uncomfortably so, at the idea of you secretly longing for him. He flashes you a cheeky wink when you finally look his way again, loving the way you grow flustered and quickly look away.
He rolls his eyes when he hears one of your fellow purples, a spoiled girl who was some kind of influencer or something back on earth - Coco, whisper to you. Though it’s not really a whisper, as he was clearly meant to hear it.
“God, he’s so fucking creepy. He looks at you like he wants to eat you.”
Then he hears you, in that sweet voice of yours, “Shut up. He’s my gray. He’s nice.”
If Ettore had to define perfection, he’d use this moment - you defending him against one of the other purples, checking him out when you think no one’s looking. You want him, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not. And he’s going to have you, no matter what. He continues scrubbing the floor, staring directly at you as he does, waiting for your eyes to lock on his. You continue looking away from him, trying to talk to some of the purples other than Coco, some guy whose name he thinks is Tim. He seems to be trying to flirt with you and Ettore simply can’t have your attention on anyone who isn’t him. He moves closer to you, cleaning the floor right beside your feet before letting his fingers ghost along your ankle, up the back of your calf, gazing up at you for a long, heated moment before turning away as though nothing happened.
You look at him, frozen in place, before Dibs calls you and the other purples in for the mixer. As you’re all herded in, you cast one last lingering glance at Ettore over your shoulder. He can’t wipe the cocky smirk off of his face at the way you stare at him, the way you can’t seem to look away no matter how badly you may want to.
At dinner, Ettore serves you your cube and you eye it with thinly veiled disdain, poking at it with a fork, watching it jiggle as you sigh, wrinkling your nose, “Thank you, Ettore.”
He bites back a chuckle as he watches you struggle with your food, “Why so cranky, princess? Don’t you like your food?”
You give him an entirely unamused look, “No, I just love flavorless gelatinous cubes. If we were back on earth, they would’ve given Dibs a Michelin star.”
He smirks at your dry sense of humor, “Maybe if I feed you, you’ll like it better.”
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks and quickly stand up from your chair, ignoring the curious gazes from the other residents of Outpost 11 and walk back to your room as quickly as possible. Ettore watches you go, one eyebrow arched, knowing that he’s not going to let you get away that easily.
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Ettore waits a while before sauntering over to your quarters. He can hear you have a record playing, something that’s a bit surprising at this hour, but hey, he’s a literal murderer. Why should he begrudge you a little late night listening? He twists the doorknob and finds the room bathed in darkness. But you’re anything but asleep. Your face is twisted in pleasure as you lay on top of the bed, working your fingers against that pretty little pussy, whining softly, your back arching off the bed as you pleasure yourself.
And then? You fucking whimper his name. Ettore loses any semblance of self control at that moment and is on you within moments, his hand covering your mouth as he lays on top of you. You gaze up at him with wide eyes, panicking at the intrusion and at the potential of the two of you being caught in such a compromising position. But shit, Ettore, doesn’t care about anything other than fucking you, claiming you as his own right now. He pushes up the fabric of your nightgown, revealing your bare body to him, salivating at the sight. He quickly replaces your fingers with his own, groaning as he pushes three of his digits inside your wet cunt, pumping them in and out, feeling the way you squirm and squeeze around him, weakly protesting against his palm, eyes wet with tears. And he knows it’s sick and depraved, but shit, you look so pretty when you cry. As one tear makes its way down your cheek, he can’t help but lick it.
“Shh, princess,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly in your ear, “Let me take care of you. You know you want this, looking at me like you do. Standing up for me like that. You want me to fuck this pretty little pussy, don’t you? You wanna be my dirty little slut? My little fucktoy?” Ettore lets out a low groan as you spill yourself against his fingers, bringing them up to his lips to taste you, “Fuck, you taste so sweet, princess. Gonna fuck you so hard you won’t be able to get out of bed tomorrow.”
He finally removes his palm from your mouth, listening to your weak protests of, “Ettore, don’t, Dibs-”
“Shh,” he repeats, pushing down his pants and sheathing himself inside you.
You let out a strangled gasp at the sudden intrusion, and at the way he pushes your knees up to your chest, letting him fuck into you at a deep angle that you’ve never felt before, the tip of his cock hitting spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed. You’re helpless, unable to do anything but lie back and cry out his name as he ruts against you, the sounds of his pleasure and yours mixing in the air, his skin slapping against yours as he fucks you into the mattress. He moves his hand down to pinch at your clit, loving the weak little cry of his name you let out as you squeeze around him so fucking tight as you reach your peak, his own release following soon after.
Ettore lays there beside you for a moment, completely satisfied, loving the shaky breaths you let out, the way you cling to him as though he’s the only thing keeping you from floating away into the vast expanse just outside.
You tell him that this can never happen again, but now that he has you? 
He’s never letting go.
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Text
Through the Looking Glass
A snippet from an upcoming work of mine. It's not exactly canon, I'm still playing around with the concept.
tw sentimonster abuse, child abuse, fantasy violence, something that's essentially mind control
She’s a puppet on a string.
Ladybug dodges Ryuko’s first few strikes only to be blindsided by a quick kick in the ribs. It knocks her right out of the alleyway, but just as swiftly, the heroine recovers, taking advantage of the distance between them.
Ladybug throws her yoyo out, attempting to grapple Ryuko’s sword. Ryuko twists it in her grip, severing the line.
Ladybug grits her teeth as she reels its remains back in. She scans for another opening, still not touching the Ruyi Bang at her side, given to her by the merging of the Ladybug and Monkey Miraculous.
Her mother tells her to remain wary of it.
She’s always known it to be true. She’s just never fully understood to what extent.
Until now.
Ryuko narrowed her eyes; in one fell swoop, she pounced, and suddenly, the only thing standing between Ladybug and being skewered alive was a thin spinning cord, a microscopic thread of polyester, or whatever else Miraculous weapons were made of. It won’t last her long.
And Kagami... she should do something. She should keep fighting, shove her mother out of her head, regain control of her body before Le Défenseur de Paris is well and truly harmed.
But well...
Kagami’s tired.
She’s spent her whole life fighting to be the best- to be perfect, to be worthy of the Tsurugi family name. Just another cog in a long chain.
And when she wasn’t... she let Marinette down. She cost Félix his freedom.
She lost Adrien’s Amok.
So maybe this was how it was always meant to be. How it was supposed to go. Maybe if she stops resisting, it’ll end, finally. One way or another. Maybe Ladybug and Chat Noir will find a way to take down Gabriel Agreste once and for all. Maybe her mother will help him succeed. Maybe this world-ending war will end easier without her constantly mucking everything up.
She takes a deep breath in and relinquishes control.
She’s no longer fighting to control her actions, no longer an active participant. Merely a viewer.
She sees rather than feels her movements get quicker, more refined. More controlled.
She sees a flash of emotion on Ladybug’s face, indecipherable, brief.
A hand moves to Ladybug’s waist and she strikes Ryuko with her staff before she can react. Kagami watches her fall back.
Her mother was given the title of World’s Greatest Fencer- an accomplishment earned through decades of self-control, patience, and self-discipline. Simply put: it doesn’t faze her. She merely gets up and levels her blade, looking over it to find Ladybug doing the same thing with her pole.
The heroine charges.
Ryuko moves to meet her.
Instead of clashing in the middle, Ladybug swerves out of reach at the last second, sweeping her staff out to knock Ryuko off balance.
Ryuko’s eyes widen. “Wind Dragon.” She melts to thin air as the pole goes straight through her.
Ladybug stands at attention, Ruyi Bang held out, gaze darting around for the next attack.
She still doesn’t see it coming.
One second, Ladybug is upright, the next, the world tips over, and Kagami finds that Ryuko has pinned the heroine to the pavement, her sword held up with one hand.
“Lesson five: Always expect the unexpected.” Ryuko’s voice says above her- Kagami’s baritone timbre, drawn nearly unrecognizable by Tomoe’s cadence and austerity. Kagami would have grit her teeth if she were able.
And with that, she brings the blade down.
Ladybug brings her staff up to meet it at the last second- a fraction of a second later and there would’ve been a hole where the heroine’s heart had once been.
She holds firm, however (Truly, would anyone expect any less from L’héroïne de Paris?), keeping a firm distance between herself and the sword.
Ryuko’s eyes narrow, and she simply applies more force, moving the sword, probing the Ruyi Bang’s circumference for some kind of weakness, a breaking point.
A ghost of a smile flickers on Ladybug’s face. Lifting one hand off the pole, she lightly cups Ryuko’s cheek, brushing her thumb almost reverently against the golden gild of her mask.
Shock envelopes the puppet’s expression, but before she can react further, Ladybug speaks.
“Uproar,” she murmurs into the space between them- a whisper of a spell upon her lips, some ancient magic- before moving up and crashing Ryuko’s lips with her own.
Her mother’s shock, screamed through their mental link, suddenly dissipates from Kagami’s mind, replaced by flashes of multicolour and static.
She blacks out.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first thing Kagami notices when she comes to is a visceral throbbing in her head, the deafening ringing of her ears.
She pulls herself into a crouch, the ground slowly fading into view, palms scraping against the pavement. Her Miraculous lies dormant next to her. The world is all at once too loud, too raw, too overbearing.
A warm hand snakes onto her shoulder. “It’s okay. This is just a temporary side effect of the Monkey’s power. It’ll wear off in a minute.”
Too tired to push them off or even flinch in surprise, Kagami instead turns, panting, to find Ladybug crouched beside her. There’s a warm smile gracing her lips- the same warmth she had been greeted with back when Riposte had just been defeated. The heroine’s pigtails have come undone, hair a dark waterfall streaming down her shoulders, red ribbons lying uselessly against the ground. She’s scraped up from the fight. But what really catches Kagami’s attention is the flashing of her earrings, the dull sheen of her circlet.
“Ladybug,” Kagami gasps. “You’re about to transform back.”
Her smile turns thin then, sad, and she fingers one of her earrings. Only one dot remains. “Wielding two Miraculous at once drains a person. I thought this might happen.”
Kagami slaps a hand over her mouth, shaking her head as she stood up. “No. No!” She pivots around, dutifully refusing to look at the hero until she can transform again. “Ladybug, you shouldn’t have taken such a risk.” If Kagami found out Ladybug’s secret identity, her mother could use their bond to fish it out of her. First Chat Noir, then Ladybug. Paris would lose any fighting chance it once held. Hawkmoth would win, all because of-
“I needed to free you from her hold.”
“And then what?!” Kagami resists the urge to turn back towards her, to scream right in her face. “Did you honestly think my mother would leave it be?! That she isn’t searching for me right now?! That she won’t review this entire conversation once she finds me?!”
“Kagami.” The girl’s stomach drops at the familiarity of that voice. “I need you to trust that I have a plan.”
Kagami’s eyes go wide. She nearly turns back in shock but stops herself at the last second, dark bangs thankfully blocking her view.
She knows who Ladybug is. And it’s the last person Kagami would ever wish to harm.
She hears footsteps behind her. She doesn’t turn.
A hand slips into her skirt pocket, dropping a small item into its folds. She doesn’t let herself dwell on it.
“The Uproar’s disrupted your connection for now, but it won’t last forever.”
Kagami sucks in a breath.
“Tell your mother I escaped, but that you took the Monkey Miraculous.”
It’s not entirely a lie.
There’s a long pause then, and Kagami doesn’t dare let her thoughts fill the silence.
“Tikki, Spots On!”
Kagami waits. She waits, and waits and waits- minutes? Hours, maybe? Long enough that she knows she won’t see a trace of Ladybug when she turns.
All that’s left of her is a dull circlet on the ground, lying amongst the soot.
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youandtom2 · 2 years
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Hey I saw that your quick stables are open. I was wondering if you would do a continuation of ‘Big Brother Is Watching’? Absolutely no pressure, totally fine if you don’t want to write it!
The Great Escape (dark!tom holland)
a/n: This isn't a drabble nor is a continuation. It's more of a 4.1K extension of Big Brother's Watching that's been sitting in my drafts for ages! So thank you for giving me the motivation to finish it! I'm still accepting drabble requests!
Read 'Big Brother's Watching' // MASTERLIST tw: domestic/physical abuse - read at your own risk!
Not once had you ever thought he could become such a monster. A creature blinded by insecurity but yet powered by control. You can't even describe him as a human anymore, because there is nothing humane about what he does to you. And sadly, you could probably say the same thing about yourself; the way you are being treated is far from the standard care of basic human rights. Being held captive in austere conditions as a confined animal; that is what you must become in order to survive.
You've lost the ability to love, but yet that's all he wants from you. At first it was natural, it was easy to love his modest personality that enticed you the moment you met him. As well as his charming looks. And nothing could stop you indulging in his chocolate gems that he has been blessed with since birth. He was always craving your love and attention and you tried your best to provide, but it became increasingly worrying how, and how often, he would chase after your affection. Others considered it sweet, but you found it exhausting at times. That's when things started to change; when doubt was introduced and it diseased your mind, telling you that you couldn't love this man anymore for the person he had become: volatile, desperate and conniving.
At the time, the signs were transparent and not enough for you to translate. But it was too late by the time you were able to decipher them. He already had you trapped.
"Love? I'm home!" Tom's voice echoes down the corridor and into your room. Well, you say your room, but it's really his. He just keeps you there.
You recognise the snide facade laced in his tone of voice; it's fake and he knows it's fake. Then come his trudging footsteps, bouncing down the corridor on his way to see you. Fear laced with utmost hatred spikes through your veins at the second the doorknob turns. In your corner you watch as he makes his way into the room, making sure to close the door behind him and in one split second, silence falls and there's nothing but empty air between him and you.
"Love," he murmurs deeply, his pet name for you being used far from its true meaning. "Aren't you going to welcome me home?" He spreads his long arms, standing there as if waiting for gold to rain down on him. You meekly stand up, nimble limbs aching from injuries as you shuffle closer to him, preparing yourself to be engulfed by him. As you approach him, his impatience closes the gap between you and his arms snake around your waist, squeezing you just that little bit tighter. "That's better." Being so close to him, the internal sound of his low husky voice reverberates through your hollow body. It's haunting to say the least.
As if in response, your body murmurs back to him, except it's your stomach and not your voice. Your empty stomach yearns for food.
"Hungry, darling?"
"Yes," you whisper. His arms uncoil themselves, but he still has a lock on you.
"Good, because Harrison and his girlfriend have asked us to dinner," he announces. He sinks his head lower, just enough that his lips delicately skim the corner of your ear. A wicked grin dons his face, you don't even need to see it to know. "If you behave I might let you get dessert. Remember, love- "
"I know," you spit distastefully. You already know the deal: if you happen to give away as much as an inkling about your situation to anyone, there will be trouble. If you dare to stray from the act, there will be trouble. If you say one word out of place, there will be trouble. Why? Well you are his girlfriend after all, why would you be begging for help? He is aware that if he doesn't let you out to see people, they would get suspicious. He's taking his pet out on a leash. 
Before you get his permission to move, he slides his hand underneath your jaw and his fingers curl around your chin, guiding him up to you.
"Watch that pretty, little mouth of yours," he moans, inching closer to steal a kiss from you. The only thing you're thankful for is that the kiss isn't too assertive. Ironically, they're gentle but compassionate. Maybe that's just part of his strategy to make you fall for him like you once did years ago, but given the circumstances, nothing could persuade you to do such a thing.
He hums into the kiss, snaking his arm back around your waist whilst you wait for it to be over. "Go and get yourself ready."
The clock ticks on as you patiently wait by the door for him, like a dog waiting to be walked. You can't bear to think of the humiliation if anyone were to see you like this; submissive, helpless, dependent. What's worse is that they would continue living not knowing that this was never your choice. Despite your desperation for redemption, you would scoff at people advising to 'just walk away' because it's never that simple. If it was, you would've walked away a long time ago. Unfortunately he's just too clever.
"Love," he beckons. Stop calling me that! "Be good for me, please. You don't want to ruin it for yourself, do you?"
You shake your head. Accepting your response as the correct one, he plants a kiss on your forehead.
"You know I only do what's best for you. For us." If only that were true. Tom swiftly guides you out of his home and your prison before you can protest. 
The restaurant was Harrison's choice, a lovely one too. Tom would never bring you to a place like this. It's magical. Across the table sits the power couple that is Harrison and his girlfriend. You can't help but gawk at the way they look at each other endearingly...but it's in that same moment that the pang of jealousy convinces you to look the other way. Tom was once like that, and as afraid as you are to admit it, you were too. Now there's nothing. You're hollow. 
The food arrives and the mesmerising meal in front of you has your mouth salivating. 
"God, I'm starved," you mumble. Your audience shares chuckles at your passing comment. It isn't a joke but they don't know that. You didn't spare a thought of the repercussions until after the words slip from your mouth, because now it has gained you your warning for tonight. Tom rests his hand on your thigh, curling his fingernails into your skin. You squirm at the pain, or rather, you try not to. When it finally ends you look up to find his menacing eyes, covertly disguised within his smiles. Message received, loud and clear. 
The conversation flows back and forth easily between the four of you and Tom seems content. Thankfully. No one seems to suspect anything. Sometimes it ruins you knowing that you are trying not to raise suspicions for the sake of your health, but then again, you could argue you should be raising suspicions for the same reason.
That's what hurts. 
"So, Tom tells me you've been writing a lot. How's that going?" Harrison asks. You look up mid-mouthful. You're trying to conceal the fact that you've been longing for such delicious food for days, and it doesn't exactly help when you have to resist the hunger, having to put down the fork to speak. Does anyone really care for manners anyway? 
"Um, yeah, it's going alright. Deadlines are coming up so I have very little time to get out these days." 
The well-rehearsed conversation goes to plan and the audience is convinced. You're not really a writer. You don't really have deadlines coming up. And in fact, you have all the time in the world to get out. If only you could. 
You've finished your role, now it's Tom's time to shine. "Yeah she's been working so hard, haven't you? I've been telling her to take breaks more often and to get out, but...she's dedicated. It's inspiring," he gleams. He reaches over to tuck a strand behind your ear while a thumb glides across your cheek, reminding you of where the remnants of a bruise remains camouflaged beneath your makeup. Again, another warning.  
Teeth grinding, fists clenching, blood boiling. You could almost scream at the irony and the facade, but you know the rules; you can't let anyone suspect a thing. 
As you wait for your second course, that's when time really starts to slow down. You don't know how long you can keep the charade going, especially if you're being toyed by Tom's incessant teasing of freedom. It's almost as if he wants you to get yourself into trouble. 
Ah. Now here's the real trouble. You need the toilet. Tom hates when you're not in his sight which is why trying to get yourself to the one place he can't go seems like mission impossible. In a hopeless attempt, you cross your legs, squeezing them together as if that's going to help for the unforeseeable future. You look to Tom for permission, but he's too engrossed in the conversation with Harrison that he doesn't pay you any mind. However, it's because he's too engrossed in the conversation that he doesn't notice the subtle clearing of Grace’s throat. 
Her concerned eyes meet yours.
Are you okay?
I'm desperate.
She can’t seem to interpret your ambiguous message until you subtly gesture to your hand where you enclose your thumb within your fist. Her eyes widen with shock and horror, taking a cautionary glance over Tom. She knows. Nervous, you observe intently as she delicately picks up her glass of water within the curve of her hand, bringing it gently to her lips, eyes fixated on yours. 
Get ready. 
Beguiling eyes watch as the glass of water drops to her lap, spilling water all the way down her dress. The boys are whipped from their conversation as they scramble to clean up the mess. 
"Silly me!" she exclaims. "Ah, shit. Would you mind coming to the toilet to help me out?" Her eyes turn to you and without a moment's hesitation you rise from your seat with a 'no, I don't mind at all!'. This is it, this is your opportunity. "You guys don't mind do you? We'll only be a minute!" 
You don't look to Tom for permission this time. He doesn't have that authority now, especially in a public restaurant in front of his own friends. With each step that carries you away from him and into salvation feels like a hefty weight of a year being relieved from your shoulders. Just simply out of spite, your head peers over your shoulder to find very, very agitated, but restrained, eyes following your every move. Although he loves to make the rules, it amuses you when he becomes detained by his own words. He won't stop you because he can't raise suspicions himself. Ha!
Grace drags into the ladies toilet, thankfully empty, and turns to face you. 
"Pee first. Explanation after."
Thank you, you angel.
"Please tell me there is a genuine reason I had to do that," she pleads as she dabs her silk dress. 
"Um...well..."
"Oh my god there is, isn't there? I knew it! I always knew something wasn't right! Harrison refused to believe me..."
"Wait...you knew?"
"Well I don't know what I know. I've always thought that there's something not quite right with Tom for a while now, with you-" she pauses when she takes in your skeletal frame now that you have stepped out from the cubicle. "Holy fuck..." Her gentle hands run down the lengths of your arms before engulfing you in a hug. A real hug; not something you're forced into. "Is it true?" You nod, words replaced by tears. "I didn't realise how bad it was, I'm so sorry, I should've done something sooner." Grace retreats, but close enough to run her thumb over your cheek, exactly like Tom did but this time you wince, he isn't here to reprimand you. "He's hurt you..." she whispers. The shock has reduced her voice into nothing, clearly in disbelief of the unimaginable pain you've suffered. 
"Still does," you sniff. "I-I need help, Grace, I don't know how to get out."
"I'll help you, darlin', I will, don't worry-"
"But he c-can't find out, he's too smart. You even said so yourself, if Harrison won't believe you, how can we convince anyone? No one would believe what he's really like!"
"I'll make him believe, okay? Trust me. I will do everything I can to help you. But first," she takes a step back, whipping out her phone from her clutch. "I know this will be painful, but show me where he has hurt you. Are there any...marks o-or bruises?" she winces. 
You show her, letting her capture every scar, burn, bruise, scab, cut and mark there is on your body, even the fingernail marks he made just moments before. Every single one of them has a story to be told, and they were all left there by Tom. It is humiliating, but it's a step closer to liberation. 
You're starting to become wary of how long you're taking, and you know that if you're not sat by his side in less than a minute, he will come hunting. You retouch your appearances, quickly devise a plan, and let Grace coordinate your redemption, praying with every ounce of hope you have left that she's successful. All you need to do now is wait.
"Okay," she sighs, "stay strong for me, yeah? I'll get you help as soon as I can. Just-" she sighs hopelessly, "just hang in there." She kisses your cheek and you both strut back to your table next to your counterparts. Tom's scrutinising glower already fixated on you, and it seems that he's relinquished control of his body to his temperament. He's fighting his own demons now: the fidgeting of his fingers, the non-stop drumming of his knee, the grinding of his jaw, the obsessive need to know his surroundings, it's all there. 
The facade perks up again as soon as you are sat next to him, already his arm slinging around your dainty shoulders. 
"Sorted?" Harrison asks, pecking Grace’s cheek. 
"Sorted," she ambiguously peers at you.
Sadly enough you didn't get dessert.
You and Tom very swiftly vacated after your visit to the toilet upon receiving an 'urgent message' that required Tom's immediate attention, leaving no time for Harrison or Grace to query this 'urgent message'.
Tom marches about three paces ahead of you and your pulse quickens at the sight of his front door. Key in hand - no, fist - as he slots it into the door, opening it and standing by it, waiting for you. Memories repeat themselves and you’re living deja vu. You've experienced his temperament before, the only silver lining being that you have a slight upper hand of predicting what he will do next. You think about your next steps carefully. He'll seize you the first chance he gets to interrogate you, but if you have the energy to sprint past him, which you should thanks to your nutritious meal, you could make it to the bathroom before he reaches you. Is it a risk you're willing to take? Hell yes.
Three, two, one. GO!
Everything happens so quickly. With a burst of adrenaline, your feet carry you past Tom, narrowly missing as he reaches out for you. With your escape, belligerent footsteps chase you in pursuit. You can't afford to look behind you, you have to keep your eyes forward, running in the pursuit of safety that is behind the sturdy lock of the bathroom door. Oxygen passes through your weary lungs but you won't give up now, not with the possibility that you could be free from this in a matter of 24 hours. Swinging left and right, nearly clambering over the mess in the hallway, you successfully make it to your temporary safety.
The door slams shut just mere seconds before Tom could get his hands on you. You stand breathlessly in the haunting bathroom as the aged, wooden door in front of you visibly rattles from its hinges. If it can just hold a little longer...
"Open the door!" he growls.
"No!" You shout back. The rattling stops and silence falls. Either your defiance has shocked him into silence or he really is listening. The latter of the two being an inconceivable suggestion considering tonight's events. How hopeful of you.
A minute passes by and nothing is heard. Panic settles in as you can't even begin to imagine what plan Tom has devised. Taking an inch at a time, you glide across the icy floor tiles, approaching the rickety door with immediate precaution. The cracks through the wood let you see through to the other side and Tom's nowhere to be seen. Not a single soul, but that doesn't mean you're safe. You don't even dare thinking about turning that door knob, not for one second because for every minute that goes by is one minute closer to freedom.
Footsteps approach again and Tom's silhouette floats towards the door but this time, his composure is scarily tame. Aside from the familiar, haunting footsteps there's a new sound, one that should be liberating but in your case could mean the end for you.
The jangling of keys. Specifically, keys to the lock that keeps you in and him out. You didn't know he kept spare keys...
You admit your defeat when the lock turns and unlocks. You don't even move, you can't. It's the paralysing hopelessness that renders your feet frozen to the spot as the rickety door eases open with a tantalising creak. Before you, Tom unveils his malice, his intention speaking for him as he closes the door in a calm demeanour that provokes your fear even more. With your back against the wall, all you can do now is pray.
"Please, Tom, don't. Please, please, please, I didn't say anything, I promise, please don't hurt me," you plead, your voice barely a whisper.
"Why don't I believe you?" He steps closer, his body testing his temper. He's a hair's breadth away now, but still he hasn't laid a finger on you. Unintelligible words are passing your lips, even you can't make sense of your desperate pleas. "Hm?" He cocks his head ever so slightly to the left and eases closer to your ear, forehead drilling into the side of yours. "What. Did. You. Say. To. Her?" he bites. 
"N-nothing! I promise-"
"Don't lie to me!" He swings and his fist collides with the wall beside you with an almighty blow. Specs of dust and rubble roll down your shoulder as you let out a piercing scream. All you can do is cower into yourself, it's the only thing that helps to physically block out his manic shouting, to stop him muttering hostile threats into your ear. Having lost your last line of defence, your knees give way and buckle beneath you leaving you a crumpled mess on the floor, eyes tearful and suddenly your camouflage dissipates. You can't hide the bruises now.
Tight hands coil your wrists, not in anger, but in desperation. Blood trickles down from his knuckles after the sharp blow to the bathroom wall. He sobs your name, completely unaware that he himself has taken an emotional diversion. As conditioned, you meet his eyes, both alike in appearance however as for motive, it's clear you both want different things.
"Please," he mutters, "for me. Promise me you didn't say anything."
In amongst the inconsolable sobs, you do somehow find the oxygen to lie to him hoping that it'll convince him and end this torture. He reconciles with his anger and sinks his head low, body drooping towards yours until finally, out of exhaustion, his head collapses rather uncomfortably into the curve of your neck still continuously sobbing.
He's defeated, he knows that. His insecurity has clearly gotten out of control and you hate to admit that you pity him. You do. You almost begin to speculate that he's just as lonely as you are. He yearns for attention, love and decent care. You just can't give that to him and due to his insecurity and despair, he can't accept that. He can't let go of his lifeline.
You take the opportunity in Tom's sensitive state to bring his wits about him with words you wouldn't dare speak if under any other circumstances.
"Tom, please, listen to me," you croak, voice worn away from terror. "I can't always be here for you-"
"You have to!" His words hit your collarbone.
"You need help! You can't live your life like this, and you know you can't live mine for me either. I can't give you what you want or what you need."
"But I need you," he pleads. He lifts his head, his hands circling your face and soaking up your tears. "You can't leave me!"
"Tom, let her go..."
A new voice enters the conversation. Relief washes over you as you find Harrison and Grace standing breathlessly in the doorway in front of the domestic mess that's ensued for the past year. Your liberation has arrived, your beam of light, your freedom. In that moment of sweet release, you could swear that you heard something break; maybe it was Tom's heart, maybe it was his sanity, or maybe it was his supremacy over you, but whatever it was, there's no denying that you could see it in his eyes. Betrayal and defeat are two very prominent emotions that are seeping from him as little droplets of tears fall onto your lap.
"You told her?" he whispers, lip quivering. If hopelessness was a person...
"I had to..." you whisper back. Harrison's hand cautiously rests on Tom's shoulder pulling him back from you. The space between you grows and grows until finally you are whipped from his clutches and your eyes disconnect for the last time. Grace leads you to the living room where you find two broody police officers waiting to escort you to the ambulance, one staying behind to deal with Tom in whatever way that may be.
"We told them we'd go by ourselves. Couldn't risk the police triggering a reaction from him especially if he was with you." You really didn't ask nor did you care, for now you are a free soul.
"Thank you, Grace."
~~~~
The rest of the night falls peacefully as you are tucked up into a hospital bed accompanied by Harrison and Grace. The doctor had completed his observation within a short amount of time and told you what you already know...
'Nothing broken, a few bruises here and there but you'll be okay.'
Will you? What about the colossal build up of emotional abuse? Or the scars disfiguring your skin? What will rectify that? Where's the justice in that?
You bite your tongue, frustration isn't going to fix anything.
As you lie there, you think back on the days you spent with Tom, not in sentiment but in remorse. Remorse for not taking action sooner, remorse for not realising Tom's symptoms sooner, remorse for not telling someone. You assume that the feeling won't leave you anytime soon as you dread the numerous visits to court, the recalling of the awful days to testify against him, and the public outcry from fans as you send him to jail. It will be the last battle to fight against him, but at least you know how uplifted you will feel when there comes a day where you can wake up to your own life, regaining back the days you have lost and finding love the right way. There will come a day where you can finally make your own decisions, dress how you want to dress, say what you want to say, act how you want to act and maybe, just maybe, you can be the liberation that other women, like you, dream of having.
And this time there's nothing holding you back.
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hopefulatrocity · 10 months
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From The Ashes Chapter 6
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Note: Daryl's POV of his first sights of Pheonyx. I'm excited to give a description of Pheonyx's tattoos. Meanings will be explained throughout the whole story.  This chapter ended up running longer than I intended so I split it in two.  Also, some of Daryl's thoughts are transphobic(thoughts about body shape indicating gender, etc) but he also doesn't have experience with trans people outside of just being aware they exist. It will take time for Daryl to relearn what he knows but it will happen. Also the internal denial and homophobia makes me so sad for Daryl. 
Chapter CW/TW: internal homophobia, transphobia, descriptions of past abuse, denial of sexuality?(Not sure how to describe it), tattoos, self-deprecating thoughts
Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @omiyours
Banner by: @liminal-creations​ 
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DARYL'S POV
When he pulled up in front of the picturesque farm house, he hadn’t expected…. Well, he hadn’t expected him. The old man, the older woman, the girl who had brought Lori to the farm, and even the two teens. They fit perfectly in front of the white house with the wrap around porch. They looked like the type of people who went to church every weekend with their pristine white clothes and floral dresses. The type of people who would preach love and acceptance but would be spreading hateful rumors during the church potluck. The same people who turned their noses down at him and Merle, when they were kids, just because they were related to Will Dixon. But the man standing on the porch definitely did not fit that profile. 
Leaning on the porch railing, a stocky hound mix standing at this side, was a man whose eyes radiated sorrow and hardship despite their steely edge. Both emotions were in ready supply since the world ended but this was different. With most people, their grief could be seen on the surface of their eyes. It was a recent pain for most of them, the ones in his group especially, because they hadn’t experienced loss or extreme austerity until a few months ago. This man’s pain was soul deep. Only someone who had lived through something terrible had eyes like his. They were haunted. Eyes that had obviously seen darkness in the world, whether it be recently or before the veil of normalcy was lifted when the dead rose. Daryl would know. He saw the same thing whenever he looked in the mirror. He saw it in his brother’s eyes as well. It wasn’t just the man’s gaze that made him noticeable, though. It was his appearance, too. 
When Daryl first saw the tattooed man, he had to take a second to appraise him. His mind wanted to say this person was a girl. He had a softness to his curves and his face that hinted at femininity. The gray tank top he wore clung to his sides and silhouetted a slight hourglass shape that most men didn’t typically possess. As he started walking down from the porch, though, Daryl threw that notion out the window. This person was all male. There was no sway to his hips, like most girls Daryl had met, and his overall gait just emanated masculinity. His mannerisms reflected this. He placed himself slightly in front of his group, specifically the girl with short brown hair, and had his hand planted on the gun at his side. He was tense, and ready to protect these people with his life. The women Daryl had been around, before and after the world went to shit, didn’t stand like that. All of this had him concluding that this person was wholly male.
He looked to be just a couple inches shorter than Daryl’s 5 '10 " height with short, thick brown hair that was streaked with blonde from long hours in the sun. His skin reflected this and was tanned to a nice golden tone. The softness of his face made him look like he was no older than 16. But Daryl knew with professional tattoos like the ones adorning his arms, he would have had to be at least eighteen to get them at a tattoo shop. He looked young but Daryl’s instincts told him that the man was in his late 20’s.  The gray tank top he wore was clean but the jeans were worn from work and frequent wear. Knees torn and stained brown from dirt. The other people were all unarmed but this man had several weapons on his person. A curved, thin sword of some type was encased by an obviously homemade sheath.  The leather was sewn together with care and looked soft even from a distance. A handgun was holstered on the other hip with a hunting knife next to it. He also had a bow and quiver slung over his shoulders. Shoulders that were adorned with beautiful artwork. 
These tattoos weren’t the type that most of the people he knew had. They weren’t shitty pieces done by scratchers in dirty trailers. Hell, even a few of his own were pieces like that. Bad decisions made while drunk, under pressure from his brother, or just plain youthful stupidity. The man’s tattoos would have taken dozens of hours of work and months of healing. There was thought put into each, as they blended seamlessly with each other. As Daryl got closer, and the man moved to stand next to the girl that took Lori to the farm, he was able to decipher each one. On one arm, a large medusa was depicted in a gothic style. The snakes of her hair wrapped around his bicep, almost slithering with each movement of his muscles. One trailed up his shoulder and over his neck until the flicking tongue was just under his ear, almost as if the reptile was whispering secrets to him. The once-priestess’s eyes were completely black with lightning-like lines spreading from the voids. The only speck of color in the tattoo was the pomegranate that Medusa held in her hands. Blood seeped from the seeds and down into the tattoo on his forearm. The crimson drops trailed down the branches of a lifeless oak tree. The thin branches were all black and cracked, scratchy in style, leading to the twisted trunk that was covered in knots. Dead brown leaves hung loosely on some of the branches. At the base, the roots wrapped around his wrist, like a morbid bracelet. Like the Medusa tattoo, there was only one speck of bright color; a green oak leaf connected to a small acorn that was falling to the ground near the roots. The lines of the roots of the tree lead into the snarling wolf face on his hand, bright blue eyes seeming to glow from his skin. 
On his other arm, his hand had a skull that was shaped from smoke, all of the lines wispy and gray. The eye sockets were the same bright blue as the eyes of the wolf on his other hand. The smoke it was created from was coming from a geometric gothic style dragon that wrapped around his forearm like a snake. The scales of the body were made up of triangles and diamond shapes, almost like a creepy dot-to-dot piece. Smoke was leaving its mouth and, along with his hand, the smoke led into the tattoo on his bicep.  The muscled upper arm was decorated with a realistic scene fit from a dark storybook. Almost like a scene from the Rapture, red fire and smoke rose from the earth. Dead bodies littered the ground, swords through some, others broken like dolls. Creatures that looked like demons, their eyes an even brighter red than the flames in the background, were feasting on the corpses depicted on his arm. High in the clouds on his upper shoulder, an “angel” was looking down, as if watching the carnage unfold. But, to Daryl, the “angel” looked no better than the creatures on the ground. Its wings were black and broken. The feathers were patchy and some areas were bald. The gown the “angel” wore was torn and looked as if it was blowing in the wind. And the eyes. Its eyes were completely black. Fangs were descended from lips that smirked at the slaughter it was witnessing. Daryl wondered if there was any certain meaning behind the tattoo, because it was eerie. He wondered what emotions or events could inspire such an image. There were more dark lines on his chest that peeked from underneath the collar of the shirt he wore. But Daryl couldn’t make out what they were. All of the tattoos on his skin were masterpieces and evoked intense feelings from him. He tried to convince himself that that was the reason his eyes kept traveling over the man’s form. It definitely wasn’t the lean muscles that roped over his body. Or the way his skin glistened with a small amount of sweat from the blistering heat. Or the way his green eyes reminded Daryl of the woods he always found a home in. Or the way the jeans he was wearing encased perfect thig-
As he was appraising the other man, light green eyes locked with his own and he had to suppress the shiver that went down his spine. A breeze must have been blowing through and cooled the sweat on his skin. That was the only obvious reason for his reaction. He wasn’t gay or bisexual or whatever else. True, he found some men attractive, but most men did. Didn’t they? And while he rarely felt sexually attracted to women, he still did on occasion feel it. He wasn’t a virgin, he had had hookups with women in the past, so he was obviously straight. He hadn’t slept with or kissed a guy so he obviously wasn’t gay. In truth, Daryl had thought about it though. There were times where he wanted to do those things with other men. In those moments though, he could hear the raging voice of his father in his mind. He knew if Will Dixon had ever suspected that Daryl held carnal feelings for other men, that he wouldn’t live to see another day. He suspected the same for his brother. The Dixon brothers cared for each other and would die for one another. But Daryl knew that Merle was more like his father than he wanted to admit. Growing up, Daryl had learned to tune out his father’s prejudiced rants–mostly about black people but his father hated anyone who wasn’t a white straight male– but Merle had soaked in all the hate. Daryl always suspected it was because his brother wanted to connect with their dad in some way that didn’t involve a leather belt. Merle may have hated the man, but inside he was still a little boy that was vying for his father’s affections. And as he grew older, Merle used those hateful words their father used, to push people away. It was better to be alone than to have someone in your life that might hurt you in the future. Daryl did the same thing, but in a different way. He just avoided people. It was isolating at times, but usually he had his brother to fill the void of loneliness. When he was angry or wanted to keep people from getting closer, his anger would get the better of him and he would lash out. He always hated himself in those moments. Because it wasn’t his words coming out of his mouth, it was his father’s. The same cruel rhetoric, that damaged his heart growing up, was a weapon he used when he felt cornered. Like a wounded animal fighting tooth and nail to survive. 
Those moments aside, he tried to be everything his father wasn’t.  So, he tried to avoid the prejudices he grew up with as much as he could. He had no problems with people of other races and he felt that other people’s genders/sexualities weren’t any of his business. If anyone had bothered to ask, he would have told them that. But often people’s views of him were colored by his brother and father. They were racist, homophobic, xenophobic, transphobic, and sexist, so Daryl must be as well. While he missed his brother, part of him hoped that now the group would see him outside of his brother’s shadow. 
Having been lost in his own thoughts, Daryl almost missed the conversation between Dale, Lori, and Rick. Thankfully, Carl would be okay. A slight bit of relief filled his body. They had one kid missing, they didn’t need another to be on his deathbed. Truthfully, he liked the little guy. Of all the kids at the Quarry, Carl was never afraid to greet Daryl and his brother. He would often ask incessant questions about what they were doing and ask them to teach him how to hunt and skin animals. Merle would try to scare the kid away but Carl wasn’t easily swayed. Daryl had been tempted to teach the kid some survival skills but his mother’s reaction whenever she saw Carl near the Dixons was enough to put that idea to bed. She would immediately drop whatever she was doing and come pull the boy away, muttering apologies for bothering the men.  Lori babied the boy and Daryl knew she would never allow the kid anywhere near a knife to skin animals. Let alone spend hours alone in the woods with two rednecks. Otherwise he might have considered it. The kid was smart and he had a fire in his eyes that piqued Daryl’s curiosity. The idea of that flame being burnt out made him feel nauseous. 
Rick told the group that Shane was responsible for saving the boy’s life, and everyone gave him nods of appreciation. Daryl narrowed his eyes though. Something was off about the man now. Baggy clothing and buzzcut aside, something had changed in the man since he last saw him. Shane was a narcissist with a savior complex and normally ate up any praise or gratitude thrown his way. But now, he turned his head and avoided eye contact with everyone. Daryl couldn’t help but notice the way the tattooed man’s nose scrunched up slightly at the praise being directed towards Shane. He wasn’t the only one who noticed Shane’s odd behavior. 
“We owe a lot to Pheonyx too. He donated blood. Gave Carl time until Shane could get back with the supplies.”, Rick said and looked at the man Daryl was captivated by earlier. He saw the man stiffen and drop his gaze to avoid the curious looks from the rest of the group. It was something Daryl often did. 
Pheonyx, Daryl thought and ran his gaze over the man again. While Daryl never finished high school, he had been an attentive student when he was able to attend. He vaguely remembered the lessons on Greek mythology from his freshman English class. In the stories, the phoenix was a singular bird, only one existing at a time. Every 500 years, the bird would make itself a nest and die in a burst of flames. From the ashes, a new bird would emerge. While his teacher insisted that the phoenix was a symbol of immortality and resurrection, to Daryl, the bird was a symbol of survival, hope, and rising above death. With eyes traveling over Pheonyx, he concluded that the name suited him. The weapons, his protective stance, the look of emotional scarring in his eyes. Pheonyx was a survivor. Like Daryl, he was made for the world as it was now. 
The group exchanged hugs of relief with Rick and Lori. While Daryl was happy that Carl was okay, he simply gave a nod to Rick to show his support. Hugs weren’t his thing. Touching in general wasn’t his thing to be honest. Growing up, the only touches he ever received were followed by pain. Now it was something he expected. A slight brush as someone walked by and suddenly he was on the floor of their dirty trailer. His shirt torn, blood running down his back, while his father stood over him holding his belt. That same belt that he saw every night in his dreams. 
Daryl was pulled from his nightmares by the feeling of a warm, vibrating body pressing into his leg. Looking down, he saw the happy face of the hound mix that was at Pheonyx’s side a few moments ago. He had always loved animals, dogs especially. With an abusive father and a –mostly catatonic– alcoholic mother, pets were never in the cards for him though. But he did remember playing with the stray dogs in the neighborhood, sneaking them bits of food, and offering them offal from his hunts when he got older. Hounds were a common find where he grew up. Most men had them for hunting. Daryl guessed this pup was a Bluetick mixed with a Bully breed. His coloring was typical of that type of hound, from his speckled white fur to the lining of brown around the large black spots that encompassed his ears and eyes. Floppy ears aside, the rest of the dog’s body was all Bully. He was stocky with thick muscle and a brick-shaped head. The dog had to weigh at least 70 lbs, mostly muscle. Daryl felt his heart hurt as he noticed the old scars littering the hound’s body. Patches of fur were missing around old cuts all over his frame and the tips of his ears were ragged from torn skin. Too many injuries to just be from fights with other dogs. Someone had hurt this dog a long time ago. To some, he might seem scary. The scars, his size, and his breed. But Daryl could see a heart of gold in his brown eyes. Despite the obvious pain in his past, the dog had greeted everyone with love and affection. He was a survivor. Just like his owner, if Daryl’s instincts were correct. 
A small smile wisped over his lips and he dropped a hand down for the dog to sniff. His already-wagging tail began to swish faster and he pressed himself closer to Daryl’s leg, making the man vibrate from all the wiggling. A soft blocky head pressed into his calloused fingers and he scratched the dog behind his ears. Feeling eyes on him, Daryl lifted his head and caught Pheonyx’s green eyes looking between him and the dog. A plump bottom lip was caught between white teeth and Daryl felt heat rise in his body. Obviously from the ascending temperatures outside. Not from any sort of attraction to the other man. Pheonyx averted his eyes when Daryl’s eyes met his, a blush spreading over his cheeks. The younger man was obviously feeling the effects of the Georgia heat too. Because there was no way a man like him could find Daryl attractive. Daryl was…well Daryl. A no-good, old redneck with the emotional range of a can opener. No one would ever want him. His old man made sure to tell him that all the time growing up. 
Hershel, the doctor who owned the farm, announced that they were having a service for a man named Otis, who had died helping Shane get the medical supplies to save Carl’s life. Daryl watched as Pheonyx called the dog over to him, using a distinct three note whistle. A few steps behind the others, the pair followed the other members of the farm towards a thick patch of trees a distance from the house. 
To be honest, Daryl would have preferred to not attend the small service. For one, he needed to be out searching for Sophia. The girl was going on day three of being missing and he was worried about how well she was fairing in the wilderness. He still wholeheartedly believed she was alive, but without water and no food, she would be getting weak. If she did find a water source, it might not be clean. She might eat berries that were poisonous. The possibilities were endless. Secondly, Daryl was uncomfortable around strong emotions like grief. He didn’t know how to respond. Especially when people cried. 
But this man had sacrificed his life to save Carl’s. The least he deserved was the presence of Carl’s group at his service. Daryl may have felt like he didn’t exactly qualify as part of the group, but he still found himself staring as the strangers placed stones on top of a pile of rocks that was erected as a memorial to Otis. Hershel read from the Bible as everyone took turns placing their stones on the memorial. Daryl stood at the back, facing towards the members of the farmhouse. He would never admit it, but his eyes kept drifting to the face of one certain person. Pheonyx was also distanced from his family. He had his arms crossed over his chest, making his biceps become more defined and the snakes on his upper arm danced at each movement. The other man’s eyes, that looked at everything but the service in front of him, radiated grief, but only internally. Outwardly, his body radiated strength and composure. It was a coping mechanism that Daryl was all too familiar with. 
Hershel asked Shane to share Otis’s last moments, and Daryl saw the cop tense up and mutter something about not being good at speaking. He avoided eye contact with all the Greene’s. The older woman, who Daryl assumed was Otis’s wife, insisted on Shane speaking. She wanted confirmation that her husband’s death had meaning. It took a moment but Shane began to speak, sharing his story of what happened at the FEMA center. As he spoke, Daryl knew why Pheonyx had reacted oddly earlier when Rick praised Shane for saving Carl. He wasn’t the best at reading people, he often tended to lean towards the idea that all people were bad, but he did know when people were lying. It was an unfortunate side effect of having a mother, father, and brother that were addicts in some form or another. The story was embellished with the heroics of the dead man but Daryl knew something else had occurred at the school. Something Shane was leaving out. Daryl watched Pheonyx’s face scrunch up into a sneer for a brief moment and his fists clenched, making the muscles of his arm tighten. As quick as it came, the look on his face was gone, and he continued to stare out into the field, avoiding the grief radiating from his family. After Shane finished his tall tale, the group bowed their heads for a moment of silence. Daryl followed suit but he kept his eyes up, watching as Pheonyx moved forward to pick up a stone from the wheelbarrow next to the memorial. He gripped it in his hand for a moment, staring at the hard object, before gently placing it onto the memorial. As if he transferred all of his grief into the dirty rock, Pheonyx’s muscles lightened at the loss of it in his hand. He stood there for a moment before backing away. Watching the man intently, Daryl would have given anything to know what he was thinking in those moments. 
Taglist: @yoongibaybee
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aphroditelovesu · 1 year
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I just saw your little surprise and figured I'd ask, assuming you are taking requests at the moment. Could you do 💝 and 💓 for Ares? I think these prompts would really suit him!
❝💝❞- ‘’I have a gift for you. Open it, it's the heart of the one who dared to flirt with you.’’
❝💓❞ - ‘’I love you more than you can imagine. Please don't doubt or belittle my feelings.’’
tw: yandere themes, possessive and obsessive behavior, jealousy, murder, mention of blood, angst, unhealthy relationship.
"(Y/N)!" The young girl turned around quickly, as soon as she heard her name being called by an austere voice. She frowned when she saw who had called her.
"Oh? Ares, what is it?" She asked, as soon as the god of war approached her.
Ares smirked at the young beauty in front of him, licking his lips in anticipation. (Y/N) looked at him curiously until she noticed the small box in her hands, which were full of blood. It should have bothered her but it didn't, she was already used to seeing the god all covered in blood, the box itself that intrigued her.
"What is that?"
"I have a gift for you." Ares chuckled deliciously, handing the box decorated with a beautiful bow on top, hastily to his young lover. "Open it." He ordered, seeing that she was hesitating.
(Y/N) arched her left eyebrow as she slowly untied the bow on top. She was confused, Ares never gave her gifts in boxes and something was very wrong. She soon realized what was wrong with opening the box.
Inside that box was a heart. A fucking human heart.
(Y/N) felt like he was about to throw up. It could be a bad joke, but from the look on the god's face and she knows him well, she knows very well it's not a joke. It was real.
It was a real human heart.
"You liked it?" Ares arched a brow, lightly caressing his lover's petrified face. "Do you recognize it? It's the heart of the one who dared to flirt with you."
"W-Why did you do that...? He didn't do anything big!" She yelled, annoyed. Ares had no right to do that. He wasn't even flirting with her in the first place, for the love of it! They were just commenting on a common book they liked and it turned out to be a romance book. It was no big deal.
"No big deal, you say?" Ares scoffed, he continued in a bitter voice, "He flirted with you! No one but me is allowed to do that."
"He wasn't flirting with me, Ares!"
"Wasn't he? He touched you, I heard him saying romantic things to you, (Y/N)! Don't try to make a fool of me!" Ares uttered the words with hate.
(Y/N) took a deep breath, trying to calm down even though he was boiling with anger inside. "We were talking about a book we both liked and this book is a romance novel. Those things he was telling me were actually quotes taken from the book. He wasn't interested in me, he never was!"
Ares stared at her in bewilderment, blinking a few times to make sure he heard right. "What?"
"That's what you heard Ares. He liked someone else, never was me. You had no right to kill him!" (Y/N) felt the hot tears running down her cheeks. She was mourning her friend, he was very important to her and she knew she would miss him so much.
"I..." Ares didn't quite know what to say, he definitely didn't expect this.
"If you wanted to know the truth, why didn't you look it up? I would have told you!" (Y/N) turned to leave. But as soon as she turned one foot, she faced Ares back, "Don't ever speak to me again. We are done."
Ares's eyes widened as he heard the dreaded words come out of his beloved's mouth. He cannot accept this. He won't accept this. He can't live without her. Then, he quickly ran over to her and hugged her from behind tightly. "My little soldier..."
(Y/N) swore, trying to free herself from Ares' grip.
"You can't leave me!" Ares roared, squeezing her tighter.
"Ugh…" She groaned at the grip. It looked like he was going to break her bones! "Ares... You're going to break me!"
"Oh... Sorry, I just..." Ares muttered, releasing her from his embrace. He was really hurt. "You can't leave me!" And soon he went back to using his aggressive voice and pose.
"I can and I will!"
"No, you can't. You're mine." He growled.
"And why do you think so?" She questioned, knowing it would lead nowhere.
"Because I love you more than you can imagine." (Y/N) widened her eyes, this was the first time she'd heard that he loved her.
"Ares…" She muttered in disbelief.
"Please don't doubt or belittle my feelings." Ares closed his eyes, unable to take the look of disgust he thought he saw on (Y/N)'s face and the weakness he felt as he said those words out loud.
(Y/N) didn't say anything, she was moved. She knew it wasn't the right thing to do, Ares had killed a friend too precious to her, but here was the god who loved her so obsessively. It wasn't healthy and never would be, but she couldn't help but gently caress Ares's bloodstained face, who opened his eyes in surprise to meet his lover's beautiful eyes with nothing full of affection. Before he could say anything, (Y/N) kissed him softly, which Ares passionately responded to.
She knew this was wrong, that this whole situation was sick and upsetting. But what could she do, anyway? She's just a human and he's a god.
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