#BITES AND KILLS AND MAIMS < CONFUSED

[thestungunhero]

ohhh my god . head in hands

[beppothebadger]

i made a uquiz to find out what kind of gf you are

[galpalaven]

I don’t want to work I want to write Hythlazemet fanfiction

[iite-cool]

thinking about simon being like a cat. a mean ol' one all teeth and claws, scratching and hissing when you stretch a hand out to him. biting you because that's all he knows how to do - it's all he's ever done - and it's kept him alive.

that's what his whole life's been about - staying alive. surviving. maiming anything he sees before it can get to him first. so he doesn't know how to react when you don't bare your teeth at him but just smile and make him tea. he reacts like a stray cat does when it's offered warmth - he's confused. and his confusion gives way to anger and again he spits fire because what else is he to do? accept your kindness? bah! it's a hoax, he knows that. you'll tire of him and claw at his neck sooner or later so he'd rather not let you close enough to do so.

and when you don't give up, and you keep smiling that gorgeous, dazzling smile at him, he doesn't know what to do. no one's ever done this before - been all soft and sweet and only wanting to be allowed to scratch at his ears in reward. why were you doing this? why didn't you run away when you saw how he snarled at you? why do you look at him with those big, beautiful eyes like he's the only person in the world?

at a complete loss, he lets you pet him and oh that smile he'd let you tear his heart out if you would just keep smiling at him. "hey, simon!" god, he wants to drown in the sound of your lips wrapping around his name. you come close to him and his brain stops working, eyes wide and lost when you wrap your arms around him and pull him to you. warmth. is this what it feels like? he wants to live forever in the crux of your arms, creating a life for himself between them.

he couldn't stop purring if he tried, if he were a cat he'd spend the rest of his time on this earth, the earth that tried to bury and kill him and is now making amends by sending him you, running between your legs and swishing his tail around you. simon riley who's always had his head on a swivel, who's not gotten a full night's sleep in a decade lest he miss the chance to look his reaper in the eyes, now sleeps with his head on your lap, belly up and purring.

masterlist

please comment/reblog!! i have so many thoughts about this man that need to be talked about

[isuzuie]

remaining tenderness

cw ﾉ slight suggestiveness. petname: my lambkin (/ω＼) part one of my vamp!blade miniseries :3c (and the third repost akajdhdsf i hope this appears in the tags! T_T)

the thing about love is that you can find it on the most unlikely places and situations possible.

“are you comfortable?” love asks, his touch light as cotton on your waist, betraying the ever-present dour and morose look on his face.

(though you have begun to notice the way it softens ever so slightly in your presence.)

“very,” your reply is followed by a smile, blithe and bright and holding all the sweet wonders of the world, “thank you, blade.”

as the both of you—lone, worn souls slowly stripping away the tough bark that encased your hearts—lay together atop the silky-smooth sheets of his bed, you're brought back to the times when love wasn't as... loving.

when he first found you, his tugs were harsh and his teeth were bared, ready to ravage and devour.

“stay still.” the beast growls, holding you still with a searing touch; not the kind that brings comfort, but one that strives to destroy and ruin. it leaves a burning sensation on your skin, yet it is clear to you that escape sounds more like a faraway dream.

and so, you allowed him a bite. then it's doubled, tripled, until dew and clouds shroud your vision and the last thing you see is a leather-gloved hand prepared to catch your limping self.

afterwards, he took you in—unwilling to let go of such fine livestock as a source of energy. no other reason. nothing more, nothing less.

at least, that was what the beast told you a few moons ago.

“are you not going to sleep?”

love’s voice snaps you back to reality, where the homely view of his intricately carved ceiling and candelabras that line his desk greets you.

the phrase ‘home is where the heart is’ has never been truer until now, for you haven’t felt this strongly about any house you’ve resided in before.

and neither does any creature, human or not, have ever understood, touched, loved you as well as he does.

no one has ever paid attention to which vegetables you’d carefully remove from your plate, nor does anyone know the amount of milk you fancy in your tea.

those pair of rubies that are able to easily send fear running everyone’s spine are the same ones to watch over and guard you when you're asleep, and those two hands he use to maim and kill are the same ones to cradle your round face as he claims your lips between his, seeking your warmth and stealing your breath until your legs no longer can prop you up and he has to carry you back to bed to continue where he left off...

soon, you realize this: love reserves the gentlest bits of his marred soul for you. it may be hard to notice, with the way his display of affection lacks all the razzle-dazzle of the world, quiet and silent, but all the more beautiful in its own enchanting way.

even now, the concern swirling ‘round and about his crimson irises are more than enough proof of the fondness he holds for you.

“i just want to stay awake a little longer,” your voice came out groggy, laced with exhaustion you refuse to acknowledge.

there’s a faint crease forms in love’s forehead, a sign of his confusion at another one of human's strange affinity for destroying their own health, “you should go to sleep. i will be here when you wake up.”

that is a promise he swore to keep no matter the feebleness, and you understand him well enough to know that he would never speak a single lie to your face, and yet—

“but then i won't be able to look at you...”

love falls silent.

this is another rare case where he’s found himself flustered-shriveled organ now thrumming furiously behind the his ribcage, roses growing and spreading wildly to block his windpipe, sending his mind reeling with joy (at the simple notion that you cannot go a few hours without seeing him), excitement (for it feels like nothing short of a dream, having someone cares for him this much), and multitudes of other emotions pushing past the seams of his heart.

it's a sensation so alive, nourishing in its simplicity and peculiarly beautiful.

(just like you, he thinks.)

“...if fate allows it, i might be able to visit you in your dream.” love replies, ignoring the inanity of your words and instead opting to play along, his hand reaching for the quilt you’ve pushed away to tuck you in once more.

the edge of your lips curl up to form a tiny, lazy smile, amused by his willingness to entertain you, “you will?”

“yes.” i would pluck out every star in the night sky to create a perfect dreamscape for you, even—he wants to say, then seal it with a kiss so deep and dizzying that you’ll drift off to sleep immediately. but that's a trick for another time...

for now, love is content with having you near him like this; hair splayed across his lap, your index coiling around his pinky like a little baby as you finally begin to doze off.

and a smile that can no longer be bitten back now blooms across his face, accompanied by a huffed laugh as he plants a brief kiss over the crown of your hair (so you may be blessed with the sweetest of dreams—hopefully, one with him in it), and whispers in a bedroom-soft voice:

“good night, my lambkin.”

[astharoshebarvon]

Aemond/Lucerys ABO AU

Where everyone dies except for Aemond & Luke and his uncle and half-sister’s Daemon and Rhaenyra’s youngest children, baby Aegon and Viserys

Aemond is too tired and grief ridden and does his best ensure his youngest nephews/cousins safety and becomes king regent for them.

A lot of people are happy with him on throne since no one liked Aemond’s brother and were pleased he was dead but equal amounts feared the alpha king because alphas are unpredictable(reason why there had been only two alphas on the throne till then) and Aemond was not a drunkard or easy to mould.

Some foolish councilman brought up the topic of heirs and he was found maimed, his arm gone the next day. No one dared say anything again.

Whispers were abound as people across the realm spoke in hushed voices of how their alpha king had murdered his true omega mate, Lucerys Velaryon and thus had almost brought the dragon house to extinction. That he still loved the boy he himself killed in his anger.

Two years after the war Aemond learns something, he takes Vhagar to the remote island where rumors were heard of a boy falling from the sky two years ago.

When Aemond sees his lovely mate, looking at him in confusion and the slightest bit of fear he lets tears slip from his eye for the first time ever. His tears had dried after he’d thought he had killed his omega. After that, it was just an endless cycle of death.

When Aemond brings Luke back, his youngest brothers cry tears of joy at seeing their older brother back. Luke does not remember anything, his memories only consist of the kind old couple who took care of him, taught him how to fish and kept him safe.

Aemond again has to maim another councilman who suggests there might be an heir now for the throne since Aemond’s omega is alive and well.

Luke keeps his distance from Aemond after learning about the death of his mother, father, brothers and everyone. His whole family gone except for the young ones. He feels longing and love when he looks at his alpha mate but that feeling diminishes when he recalls hearing of the death of his family.

Luke does marry Aemond since he fears Aemond might try to hurt his little brothers if he doesn’t. Aemond laugh and laughs until tears slide down his cheek when he hears Luke reassure his brothers that he’ll keep them safe no matter what. He doesn’t understand why Luke thinks he would hurt them now when he didn’t before.

Aemond and Luke remain virgin even on their wedding night. The alpha king just bites his omega’s nape before turning around and falling asleep, leaving Luke wondering if Aemond really is as horrible as the stories he’d heard. He could have taken him if he really wished but he didn’t.

Eventually Luke again falls in love with him again. He tries his best to not but his emotions get the better of him and when his heat hits him after nine moons of their marriage, he urges Aemond to take him to bed.

Aemond and Luke spend weeks in their chambers with only prince consort’s young brothers allowed entry in the rooms.

When Luke is in third moon of his pregnancy his memories return. He hits Aemond, hurls obscenities at him but in the end tearfully confesses he still loves him.

“You will never hurt my only family left! You must promise me that Aemond! My baby brothers will remain safe, you will not take their right from them like your family took from my mother.”

Aemond smiles wistfully as he caresses his beautiful boy’s cheek, “I won’t. Some may argue though you are the second son, so you and I should rule together with our children being our heirs.”

Luke laughs incredulously, “they hated a lady on the throne, they dislike an alpha on it, you think they’ll want an omega on it?” His gaze turns fierce, “I don’t care what they want. I don’t care for the iron throne. I don’t want it anywhere near me. It was my mother’s, then Jace’s. Neither of them are alive. It will be my baby brothers.”

“Then your will be carried out, my darling.” He gently brings Luke closer and brushes his forehead with his, making Luke release pleased pheromones. “Whatever your heart desires, I’ll give you, Luke.”

The alpha king, Aemond Targaryen and prince consort omega Lucerys Velaryon Targaryen welcome twin boys after six moons, both having Targaryen hair and eyes of their alpha father with the beautiful features of their omega bearer.

Aemond once again decrees Aegon III or Viserys II will inherit the throne once they come of age at 18.

He names his sons, Daelon and Rhaegal Targaryen as future heirs of Dragonstone and Driftmark.

“He was kind to us, we didn’t think, you know — he would be.” Viserys says, smiling softly at the infants, Daelon and Rhaegal. “It’s odd he named them after — ” he looks at Luke who smiles at him as he leans down and lays a soft kiss on his head, making his brother smile happily. “Our parents?”

“Yes.”

Luke ruffles Aegon’s hair who was looking at baby Rhaegal with curiosity, “Aemond did bad things,” he smiles sadly as his brothers look solemnly at him, shifting closer so they were leaning on their older brother.

Luke wrapped his arms around them, squeezing them in reassurance, “but he has the courage to admit his wrong doings. There was death on both sides. Aemond knows none of it would have happened if he hadn’t chased me across the skies.” He looks at his children and gently caresses his newborns heads, “ more importantly he loves me like I love him.” His voice is soft as he speaks again, “he won’t hurt me again.”

“My brothers find it hard to believe you let me name our children after my parents.”

Aemond hums as he drops a kiss on his head, “did you tell them the next one will be named Laenor if it’s a boy and Aemma if it’s a girl?” He glances at Luke’s flat abdomen knowing it will be a while before he shows.

Luke shakes his head, “no. but I believe that would make them just as happy.” He lifts his head to meet Aemond’s gaze, “do you regret your part in my mother and father’s death, my brothers? Your family?”

Aemond nods slowly, trying to ignore the pain that goes through him, “I do.”

Heavens, the way Luke had yelled at him when he’d learned how they had taken out his father, by trickery and cowardice. He didn’t want to hear that tone ever again. 

“I am surprised you didn’t steal his sword after he was dead and take it for yourself!” Luke yelled. He should stop, this much anger couldn’t be good for his babies but he couldn’t. His alpha father was a man of few words but he had cared a lot for all of them. Daemon loved them as much as their father Laenor did.

Aemond clenched his hand into a fist, “I did not touch your dear father’s sword. It was placed next to the skull of Balerion as a prized artifact.”

“Really? That doesn’t sound like you, alpha of mine.”

Aemond snapped. He glared at his mate, knowing he shouldn’t say the next words but he couldn’t stop. Luke was the only one who could make him feel like a hopeless fool in love in one moment and a deranged fiend in next.

“You would have loved it if I had died by his hands instead, wouldn’t you my omega!” Aemond spat, not caring how Luke flinched and backed away from him as much as the bed could allow. “You would have been happy if your mother’s beloved husband Daemon, your alpha father would have driven that sword of his through my body. Would that have satisfied you my sweet Luke if I was dead?!”

Next second Aemond cursed himself again as Luke burst into tears, his slender frame shaking as sobs wracked through his body. He tried to touch his husband but Luke hunched in on himself, clearly conveying he did not want his touch.

“How—how— could you—” Luke sobbed. “How? I never — never wished you—” He glared at his alpha husband, his eyes shining with tears, “you almost killed me, your nephew, and your omega mate! Your actions drove my mother and father to grief, my brothers to their demise! You led your whole family to death. Don’t you dare say I wanted you dead ever! You know exactly the circumstances which led to the loss of your eye.”

Aemond looked away as familiar pain washed over him as Luke said what he’d long accepted.

Luke was right, everything he’d said was true. Maybe that’s why it hurt to hear him. He was the reason rest of their family was dead. Luke was right about Daemon too. That was the only way they could ever get rid of the Rogue Prince.

If they hadn’t, Aemond was sure the alpha father of Rhaenyra’s children would have relished in ending his life. Daemon had literally burned the whole storm’s end save for one small child since he saw them as accomplice in his son’s demise. He had ended boros’ line, the child he spared was his cousin’s. boros and his daughters had been fed to Caraxes, that’s how livid he’d been.

Luke goes back to rest his head on Aemond’s chest, making the alpha come out of his thoughts, “then you will be forgiven.”

Aemond laughed bitterly, “they are all gone, Lucerys. The only one’s forgiveness I seek is yours.”

Luke feels his heart clench in pain, “It will hurt, you know that. it will always hurt.” He doesn’t say anything for a while. When he does speak again, his voice is soft and broken, “you have it. We would have never had Daelon and Rhaegal if I didn’t forgive you.”

Aemond tries to hold back tears that threaten to fall from his eye but fails. His anguish only becomes greater when Luke leans in and presses a soft kiss to his scarred cheek, his sapphire in his eye socket, his forehead. “I love you, and I’ll always stay with you, my alpha.”

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch13

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

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

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

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

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

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: cannibalism, vomiting/throwing up, canon-typical blood, violence, & gore. If you'd like to skip the vomit part, stop reading at the bolded "The clock ticking incessantly on the wall,” and continue reading at the bolded “Must not have agreed with me.”

You wake up with burning eyes. There’s nothing but blinding white on all sides. It takes several moments for your eyes to stop watering but, once they do, you realize that you’re in a hospital bed. There’s a nurse hovering over you, asking questions that you can’t comprehend. Her voice sounds warbled, as if you’re underwater. You try to say something, but the effort hurts and you abandon the notion. It takes several moments for your ears to stop ringing enough to hear what the nurse is saying to you. 

The ensuing few minutes are painfully awkward, as you have to gulp down an entire glass of water and cough several times to clear your throat. When you finally do speak, the effort stings and hurts your throat. You answer a few of the nurse’s questions as she busies herself with checking your vitals. 

“You’ve gotten a lot of visitors,” she says, as she writes something down on her clipboard. You raise an eyebrow and look around the room, looking for signs of these so-called visitors. The room is rather bare—nothing to suggest that you’ve had several people stop by. 

“Really?” You ask, unable to shake a bit of your suspicion. 

“Yes,” the nurse nods, meeting your gaze with a kind smile. “Your husband is quite nice.” You stare at her in confusion. After all, you don’t have a husband. The nurse senses your perplexment and clarifies. “The European man. Well-dressed, very polite.”

“Oh.” There’s only one person you know who fits that description seamlessly: Hannibal Lecter. You’re surprised that he visited. You say as much to the nurse as she’s checking your vitals and she raises a brow at you. Her reaction prompts you to utter the question lingering in your mind. “Did he… visit often?” Normally, you wouldn’t assume that he did. However, if you were to analyze the nurse’s assumption that he was your husband… Well, Hannibal must have visited at least a few times for her to make that assumption. Indeed, the nurse nods. 

“He sat in that chair; must’ve come by at least once a day.” Once a day? The thought both amuses and frightens you. Of course, you’re very appreciative of the thought of Hannibal visiting you every day, even when you were unconscious. However, your unconscious state meant you were vulnerable in front of the Chesapeake Ripper for days. That could have provided him with an ample opportunity to kill you, maim you, steal an organ. Yet, as far as you know, he didn’t take advantage of that opportunity. You frown. You suppose you can’t be completely certain that he didn’t take advantage of your vulnerability. The idea of Hannibal taking an organ of yours—plunging his hand into your bloodied skin before neatly stitching it back up—sickens you. 

Thankfully, your unsavory reverie is broken by a rapping sound against the door. It seems you have a guest. The nurse walks over to the door, opening it just enough for her to see the newcomer, before glancing back at you. She’s positioned in a manner that blocks the visitor from your sight, silently asking if you’re comfortable with the prospect of having a visitor. You’re touched by the gesture and it takes you a few moments to ground yourself to the moment and give your permission. The nurse nods and swings the door open, allowing you to see your visitor.

Freddie Lounds stares at you with a complex expression. She looks far better than you do, with nothing more than a few abrasions on her wrists from her bindings to indicate her captivity. She wears a smokey grey sweater and blue jeans in lieu of her professional journalist attire. There are dark circles under Freddie’s eyes, which indicate that the events that transpired still weigh heavily on her conscience.

“Hi, Freddie,” you say. Your voice is still a bit raspy—evidently a combination of the lack of use and your fight with Gideon. You have to put almost all your effort towards pushing the memories out of your mind. You don’t want to think about your time in captivity right now. You don’t want to think about the fact that you murdered Gideon. Sure, he would’ve killed you first. Even so… The thought nauseates you. A pointed cough from Freddie separates you from those thoughts. You wave a hand in an attempt to invite her closer. She takes a few steps forward, looking rather restless. You finally allow the question plaguing your mind to fall from your lips. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting you,” Freddie responds without hesitation. 

“Ah,” you remark dumbly. Indeed, Freddie had been forced to sit at that dining table, in the company of Abel Gideon, Frederick Chilton, and you. You blink and you see the redhead with blood spattered across her face, a glazed gleam to her eyes as she stares blankly ahead. You blink again and you’re thrown back to the blinding white hospital room. 

“You saved my life,” Freddie remarks, once the silence begins to grow painful. You startle and turn your attention to her once more. Sure, you may have saved her life, but you certainly hadn’t expected a word of gratitude from her. That wasn’t why you did it, anyway. Those thoughts must be evident in your expression, because Freddie shakes her head. “I know that wasn’t-” She stops for a moment to collect herself, “Regardless. I would’ve died.”

“So…” Freddie then says, a grimace overtaking her lips. She looks vastly uncomfortable. You have to quell the urge to preemptively reassure her. Freddie clasps her hands and takes a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior in the past. I wrote some rather unflattering things about you—things that weren’t true.” She doesn’t need to go into any further detail, as you remember the times you’d seen your name in bold black lettering on the Tattle Crime website. 

It doesn’t take very long for you to come up with an answer to her apology. “It’s alright,” you answer easily. Freddie sends you a wary look. She clearly doesn’t trust your mild-mannered expression. You suppose you could’ve been mad about her press coverage over the years but, truthfully, it never impeded your work or affected your life. “Really, it’s fine,” you continue, “I get it—you were doing your job.”

“I accused you of murder,” Freddie argues. Is she trying to provoke you? The thought perplexes you. You fiddle with the thin, scratchy blanket haphazardly thrown over your form. The movement makes you aware of the IV connected to your arm and it stings tauntingly for a moment. 

“Happens to the best of us,” you shrug, wincing as the movement sends a bolt of pain down your shoulder and through your side. Freddie stares at you in evident disbelief. 

“You’re not mad,” Freddie says uneasily. Indeed, you’re not mad. In reality, you don’t have the energy to be angry. Perhaps, if you were in better physical condition, you’d be able to scrounge up some ferocity. But something about seeing Freddie Lounds in your hospital room—the first visitor you’ve seen since you’ve woken—humbles you. You almost feel strangely appreciative of her honesty, appreciative of the maturity with which she conducts herself. You don’t realize she’s waiting for an answer until you see the apprehensive expression on her face. 

“I’m not angry,” you confirm. “Next time you write about me, just… don’t be so eager to drag my name through the mud.” You mean for the remark to be sarcastic rather than accusatory, but the journalist’s eyes widen and her lips part in surprise. Freddie then has the good grace to look mildly embarrassed, before she takes a deep breath and lets a resolved expression dominate her sharp features. 

“Thank you,” Freddie murmurs. It looks as if the act is difficult for her. She’s avoiding your eyes. Even so, she went out of her way to visit you as you’re recovering—just to thank you and apologize. Honestly, you feel undeserving of her gratitude. Freddie never should’ve been in a hostage situation in the first place. You should’ve gotten her out of there sooner. You should’ve- “Seriously.” The sincerity in the journalist’s voice destroys those self-deprecating thoughts. 

You feel a smile tugging at your lips. Honestly, you never would’ve expected to grow an exasperated sort of fondness for Freddie Lounds. You almost want to credit your generous mood to the painkillers, but you get the feeling they aren’t having that kind of impact. Freddie seems eager to leave, so you give her the opportunity to leave. “Bye, Freddie.” With that, the redheaded journalist exits the room. She has a rather uncanny talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, you think to yourself as she departs. 

Your conversation with Freddie was nice, but now that she’s gone, you’re painfully aware of the headache forming in your temple. You close your eyes for a moment in a half-hearted attempt to rest. You don’t have your eyes closed for long before you suddenly sense another presence in the room. An ordinary person may not be able to sense it, but your years of training greatly developed your spatial awareness. You keep your eyes closed for a few moments, wondering what this new presence will do. After a few moments of silence and evident stillness, you give up the act and open your eyes.

Hannibal is standing before you, a mild smile on his face as he regards you. You stare at him for several moments, unable to move past the overwhelming rush of conflicting emotions. Relief and distress, happiness and grief, hope and despair. You were so focused on Gideon that you neglected to remember the killer standing right in front of you.

“What are you doing here?” You manage to say, your voice still raspy. Hannibal takes another step and closes the door behind him. The steady beeps from one of the monitors are the only sounds to break through the silence sticking to the air. 

“I’ve brought supper.” In characteristic fashion, he neglects to truly answer your question. You don’t have the energy to keep yourself afloat in these mind games. Since you first woke, you’ve spent an immeasurable amount of time in this nondescript hospital room, scrutinizing every action you took that led you here. The last thing you need is another conversation to feel lost in. 

“Oh,” you remember to respond. “That’s very nice of you.” You stare at him for a moment, taking in his perfectly coiffed hair and fine-trimmed clothing. Your eyes meet and a shiver rolls up your spine. What is this feeling you’re suddenly overwhelmed by? It’s almost déjà vu. How could you be getting déjà vu from this moment? You’ve never been to this hospital before. Perhaps it’s the expression on Hannibal’s face…?

“You were there, weren’t you?” You realize aloud, as glimpses of that fateful day come back to you. You vaguely remember being wheeled through the blinding white halls of this hospital, Hannibal gripping your hand tightly. Now, you can’t help but stare at him expectantly. Weirdly enough, the man focuses his gaze on the wall next to you for a minute.

“I must admit, you made for a rather harrowing sight,” Hannibal then says, apropos of nothing. Your eyebrows furrow. That comment doesn’t quite make sense. Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper—surely he’s seen far more gruesome sights. Also, negating his murderous tendencies, he used to be an emergency room surgeon. Your injuries weren’t quite fatal. Your eyes track Hannibal as he crosses the room, taking out a stainless steel capsule reminiscent of a Thermos. He unfolds the small wooden table that extends from the side of the bed and places the capsule in front of you, before placing a napkin and silverware next to it. Hannibal then procures his own meal and takes a seat in the chair at the side of your bed. He seems unusually determined to skip the necessary pleasantries that typically characterize his behavior. That’s not quite like him. You’re sidetracked before that thought comes to fruition in your mind. 

Looking down into the container on the tray, you realize you’re not sure what to call the food inside. It appears to be some sort of stew. There’s an unfamiliar smell wafting from the food. It’s not exactly unpleasant, but it’s such a multi-faceted scent that it makes your stomach turn. You grasp the fork provided to you, unable to shake this irrational unease.

Hannibal is already eating. You take after his example and stab a piece of meat inside the container with your fork, before bringing it out of its steel confines. A drop of sauce dribbles from the meat and back into the Thermos-like capsule. The clock on the wall seems to grow louder with each passing second. You inhale sharply, before taking a bite of your meal. The flavor is something you don’t think you can even describe in words. It provokes such a strange and unfamiliar sensation—one that leaves a weird (although not inherently unpleasant) aftertaste in your mouth. Inexplicably, you take another bite. Judging by that reaction, you must like it in some capacity. 

For a few minutes, the two of you eat in silence. You only get through a few bites before the potent gamey taste of the meat makes itself known. At that point, you’re not sure what to do. You don’t want to be rude. You also don’t want to make yourself sick by eating this… mystery meat. Trepidation sends goosebumps down your skin. Dread has been crawling through your chest ever since you took a bite of this stew. Something is wrong—you just can’t figure out what. Hannibal has always enjoyed rather eccentric tastes, yet you can’t help but wonder what would possess him to bring you a stew in the hospital. Every single one of his actions is purposeful, as you’ve grown to accept in the time you’ve known him. There’s something about this interaction, a hidden undertone of anticipation and amusement that forces you to scrutinize the little details. 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking…” You trail off, trying to find a way to word the question delicately. For a moment, you contemplate letting the question fade into silence. Perhaps it’s better not knowing. Perhaps… You bite your lip. The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them. “What is this protein?” You gesture down to the meat scattered about the stew. 

“Chicken kidney,” Hannibal responds. Somehow, that answer doesn’t provide any additional clarity. The meat doesn’t taste like chicken. You’ve tried a lot of different foods before, but you’ve never tasted something like this. Alarm bells ring in your ears and you put your fork down on the tray. For a moment, you settle with staring at Hannibal. You soon give up on staring when you ponder his syntax, the way he emphasized the nature of the organ before naming it. 

Realization crashes down on you. The restrained look of amusement on Hannibal’s face. The wry smile ever so slightly visible on his lips. The strange taste of the meat. Your paranoid thoughts earlier. The recognition that it would be frighteningly easy for Hannibal to slip into your room disguised as a surgeon, to use your existing wound as a disguise for the removal of organs. Chicken kidney. The gleam in the killer’s eyes. Prey trapped by a much stronger predator. The clock ticking incessantly on the wall. 

You stumble out of bed and race to the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before your throat burns and the food you just ate exits your mouth. You groan. Despite the fact that you only took a few bites, your body seems intent on purging your system. After a minute or two, you’re left to dry heave into the toilet bowl. The porcelain exterior is cold against your hands and you grimace. Your skin feels like it’s on fire, as sweat trickles down your temple and the back of your neck.  

At some point, your eyes catch on the emergency assistance button on the wall near the toilet. It’s tempting to jam it, to explain everything to the nurse. Unfortunately, you don’t think that would work. Hannibal is just outside the door—he would certainly hear you. Even if he didn’t hear you and you managed to complete the phone call, the nurse wouldn’t believe you. Hell, no one would believe you. Perhaps that’s been a part—albeit a small one—of the reason why you haven’t tried to turn Hannibal in yet. Your public reputation is still rather poor; while you know the majority of your coworkers trust you, there would certainly be outcry if Jack were to act on your suspicions and arrest Hannibal. No, you’re well and truly trapped. The Chesapeake Ripper doesn’t leave evidence; he doesn’t make mistakes. 

The thought makes you nauseous once more. You grasp the toilet and close your eyes, praying that you won’t throw up again. You’ve always despised vomiting: the horrible rush of dread and anxiety leading up to the act, the act itself, the clean-up... Thankfully, the universe is merciful and you don’t throw up again. You wait a few more minutes to ensure the nausea passes before flushing the toilet and pushing yourself to your feet. You mechanically wash your hands, making sure to scrub for a few minutes. Once you’ve finally dried your hands, you open the bathroom door and walk back to the side of the bed, pretending not to notice Hannibal’s eyes on you. 

“Must not have agreed with me,” you shudder, grabbing the glass of water at your bedside and taking a small sip. Your heart is racing as you come to terms with the fact that your paranoia was founded. You grasp your bedside railing and slowly maneuver yourself back into bed. Once you’re settled, you meet Hannibal’s gaze. 

“It must not have,” Hannibal acquiesces, looking entirely unbothered by the events that just occurred. His reaction is far too muted, even despite your unshakeable knowledge that his expressions of emotion are always muted. There’s an undercurrent of vicious pride in his smile, in the way his legs are neatly crossed as he regards you from his seat. 

The air remains dominated by a tense silence. There is nothing you can say to diminish the horrors sticking in your mind. Time resembles a thick, gelatinous sludge—dragging on and on, dirtying everything it touches. Your hand twitches to investigate the wound at your side.

Hannibal leans forward in his chair, his gaze focused on you. He looks as if he’s about to speak when there’s suddenly a demanding series of knocks on the door. His left eyebrow ticks a half centimeter, the most minute of gestures. “It appears you have a visitor,” Hannibal remarks, turning to the door. You resist the urge to grimace. You’re not sure you have enough energy to get through a polite conversation with yet another person. Hannibal opens the door and the newcomer steps into the room. 

“Jack,” you say, unable to quite hide your relief. Jack Crawford takes one look at Hannibal Lecter, who is smiling politely at him, and promptly shoos him out of the room. You send Hannibal an apologetic look, but in reality, you’re glad that Crawford made him leave. You don’t have the wits about you to keep yourself afloat in Hannibal’s mind games. There’s no telling how you would have fared in a drawn-out conversation with him. “It’s good to see you.”

“Agent,” he responds. Jack’s stance is broad and self-assured (as always), but there’s an unfamiliar expression on his face. He almost seems remorseful. You grapple for something to say. 

“Jack,” you repeat, unable to fight past the ugly feelings running through your mind. Your boss must sense that something’s wrong, because he takes a step closer and his lips pull tight in a frown. You try to say what’s been weighing on your mind: that you’re Gideon’s killer, that you murdered him instead of sparing his life. The words don’t come but, thankfully, Jack seems to understand what you’re thinking regardless. 

Crawford takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, before sighing resignedly. It almost seems as if he expected that remark from you. “You stopped Gideon from inflicting any further harm. You acted in accordance with FBI protocol.” 

“I know,” you interject, before Jack can carry on any longer. You pinch the bridge of your nose. 

“Agent,” Jack says, his voice commanding enough to pull your gaze up from the thin blankets covering you. Despite the intimidating figure he poses, his eyes are forgiving and his expression is one of exasperated patience. “Do I look worried?” You shake your head. “Then you shouldn’t be worried.”

“Yes, sir,” you choke out. 

“Is there something you needed to tell me, Agent?” Jack asks, perceptive as always. His eyebrows are furrowed and he’s studying your face, as if trying to pull the truth right out of you. You press your lips together firmly, lest you say anything stupid. After all, what could you possibly say? Yes, I think Hannibal Lecter took a nurse’s clothes and impersonated them, before ripping my wound open, removing my kidney, and sewing me back up. Hannibal has built significant rapport with Jack—you don’t think Jack would believe you. Besides, you’re still on a decent amount of painkillers. There’s no way in hell that Jack would believe whatever you have to say at the present moment. 

You’re not sure how to proceed. Now that Gideon is no longer a problem, Jack’s focus will rightly shift to the Chesapeake Ripper. The Ripper will operate seamlessly, killing without leaving a single shred of evidence, until he dies or is somehow eliminated. There was a momentary lapse in his activity—one that you selfishly want to attribute to the beginning stages of your friendship with Hannibal—but the Ripper will kill again soon enough. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep this act up: feigning ignorance, looking past the glaring warning signs that only seem visible to you. 

“No, Jack; that’s it,” you bite out.

“Good,” Jack says, a small smirk rising on his face, “We’ll be having a conversation about obeying my orders once you’re recovered.” A slight smile falls on your face. Jack sends you a stern look before gripping your shoulder reassuringly. For a fraction of a moment, you contemplate telling him the truth. He deserves to know, you think. 

“Who would ever believe you?” Franklyn Frodieveaux asks you. He laughs—a cruel, mocking thing. Abel Gideon cackles with him. Your victims’ voices blend together, creating an awful symphony that rattles in your ears. 

“Rest up, Agent,” Jack says, his hand slipping from your shoulder. You’re promptly jerked out of your thoughts. There’s a conflicted expression on Crawford’s face, as if he doesn’t quite want to leave. You put it down to your imagination. “That’s an order.” Jack turns on his heel and walks away. Once he crosses the threshold and enters the hallway, the door clicks shut behind him.

You’re left alone once more. Your victims berate you for your cowardice and the tears come quickly. You grapple at your hospital gown with shaking hands, tugging at the fabric until it falls away to reveal your mangled side. There’s discolored bruising and swelling, in addition to dried blood scattered around the edges of the suture. The wound looks exactly the same as it did before, almost eerily so. You think back to all the medical awards and certificates covering the walls of Hannibal’s office. It seems impossible—the idea that he removed your suture and put it back. Although, the more you think about it, the more you realize Hannibal Lecter is characterized by his redefinition of impossibility.  The Chesapeake Ripper leaves no evidence. Dr. Lecter leaves no evidence, save for the horrible agitation that settles along your skin. You have no proof, but that in and of itself is enough. 

Another tear slips down your cheek, traveling mockingly along the ripped scar that Gideon gave you. Your skin burns with recognition, knowledge, horror, and something akin to grief. You will be forever marked by a killer. Yet, somehow, the unseen scars hurt even more. Your chest aches as you mourn the loss of the wholeness you never expected to lose.

next chapter

my search history for this chapter was so suspect…. “kidney recipes” “can you eat kidney” "can you survive without a kidney"....

I like how this turned out—specifically, the conversation with Hannibal. Him neglecting to engage in some of those pleasantries that the reader associates with him is an interesting way to portray his behavior as strange and unusual; I think it stays faithful to his characterization. After all, Hannibal isn't the type to display much emotion—we know him to be extremely calculated and calm. Therefore, "strange behavior" that he may exhibit is limited to things that may not seem strange to the average person (e.g. neglecting to wait for the other person before beginning to eat), but the reader can recognize that behavior as uncharacteristic for him.

thanks for reading! <33333

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

[serpentface]

The vampire worm

(An unusual but relatively benign parasite that breeds in rats becomes a nightmare if it matures in a person instead)

The vampire worm is primarily a typical intestinal parasite, spending the majority of its life cycle inside the digestive system of large mammalian hosts, feeding on blood. They will eventually be shed in feces and find their way into water, at which point they may be swallowed by a new (typically rodent) host and begin their reproductive phase. 

The reproductive worm colonizes the host's mouth and inflames parts of the brain (via a commensal bacterial infection), causing both unusual aggressive behavior and tameness towards larger animals. The host will be inclined towards biting large mammals (frequently cattle, humans, etc), so its worm tongue can feed on blood and lay eggs in the wound without killing  or maiming the host. The eggs form cysts in the skin, eventually hatching into larvae that move to the digestive system and begin the cycle anew. After laying its eggs, the worm will die, leaving its host relatively intact (though with some damage to the tongue and brain).

The vampire worm specializes in rodents for its reproductive phase, but is occasionally capable of developing in other members of the supraprimate clade and will grow proportionately to the host. Erratic infections occur most commonly in rabbits but can occur in primates, including humans and elowey.

This is very rare (to the point of being seen as a myth), as the worm in such a host usually fails to reproduce. It almost exclusively occurs in unusually crowded and unsanitary conditions where humans or elowey live in close quarters with rats, lack clean drinking water, and do not drink beer or boil water instead.

The reason they fail to reproduce in humans/elowey is that bites are much deadlier, with victims tending to be of comparable size to the 'vampire' (rather than say, a rat biting a cow). An infected human is liable to simply chew and tear away the flesh of another human. The victim is liable to die from the physical trauma or a resulting bacterial infection, and the worm's eggs will die with them.

Sapient hosts maintain awareness of what they are doing, though typically through a feverish sense of confusion. They do not experience the worm's influence to bite as being controlled by an exterior force, but rather as a strong impulse that seemed reasonable at the time, only realizing the horror of their actions when it's too late.

[progenycursed]

Progeny Cursed Chapter 14

A new type of pain confuses the Pure Vessel. What is done to stop it, just confuses them more. The Pale King voices his opinion on table manners. While Lurien learns tackling the Pale King is a bad idea.

<hurt> ?<pulling pain>? *confused*<hurt>What that?

<hurt> ?<pain>  Why hurt? Did heal. *shock*  ??<radiating pain>?? What mouth doing?

?<hurt>? why hurting?

?<pang> ?<Pulling pain>? ?<gnawing hurt>? 

?<Twisting cramp>? What (I) doing? Didn’t order stop

?<aching twinge>? What ‘eat’? Maybe. Okay. No.  ?<gnawing ache>? Want better

?<shooting pain>? *shock* *annoyed*?<pain>?

?<screaming pain>? <twisting>?<ATTACK> ?<MAIM>?<crushing>?<BITE>? ?<CONSUME>?<FEED>?

<feeding><hunger> Thing approaching [growl] [snarl] *aggression*[threat]

<feeding> <hunger> <hungry> <feed>

&lt;ATTACK> Idea! <MAIM> <KILL> <feeding frenzied>

{memories of strange pain} healing not stop pain}{weird uncontrollable mouth movements}{biting and eating wingsmold} Why wingsmold void not same as void? Sacred of void but okay with wingsmold void {thing approached while eating}{threatened it}

(You) will not bite

(You) ever eat?

*mischievous*

*nervous*no  *shock*irritated*

(You) bad liar

*annoyed* … Approximately 

*chaos*

*shock*irritated*

Answered one question

*chaos* MORE

NO!

MORE!!

*gasp* Answered 1 question! No more!

Answer question better

*angry*

*mischief* all night 

No mouth. Can’t eat. Merge

Merge? What merge?

Answered one question. Now SLEEP!!

*weeee*

Masterpost | Previous | Next

Void Translation Quick guide:  () a person  [] a void callout  {} memories ** emotions <> physical reaction  ~breath~

At last! It is done! Turns out the season of delays is running long for me. Shit just keeps happening. Really annoying shit. So, unfortunately, there might be more time between updates.

You all may have noticed the backgrounds changed between parts. That’s because I’m getting bored doing the backgrounds. I like the way they looked before, but its no longer fun to do them and are really slowing me down. I find myself dragging my feet when it’s time to work on them. Sketching, coloring, and shading are all still fun. But the backgrounds are just, tedious. So I’m going to start experimenting with them to try to make them more fun. Bear with me while I figure out what style will work best for me. 

[amongussexgif]

hey sorry to bother you

heard you declared war on earth

i dislike blogs that wage war on earth interacting wirh my things as i live on earth

if you could please delete your reblog of my death. blood. violence. murder. bite. rip. maim. tear. kill. that would be great!

also sorry for following you. at the time i didnt know as you didnt say you were going to destroy earth-

also your partner lives on earth but i heard you declared war on earth so uh, im a little confused

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Ducky anon is back! I'd like some Specimen 8 (Deer Lord) and Unknown Specimen 4 (Tirsiak) with a pacifist animal lover Reader that just befriended Violent Deer and Ghost Animals. I guess they just like being around animals

-duck🦆 anon

Specimen 8 (Deer Lord)

He senses a visitor in his domain and waits for the right moment to catch them by surprise.

He assumed it was just another hunter trying to make minced meat of the deer.

Little did they know..he'll swiftly claim their soul and leave their flesh behind to sustain his children's appetite.

However, when Deer Lord sees you in one of the "outdoor" rooms, he doesn't sense a single ounce of hatred or violence in your heart as he observes you interacting with the deer.

Despite being violent creatures, they're somehow calm as they allowed you to pet them, lightly brushing their fur with your fingers.

One even trusted you enough to lead you to some leafy foliage, where his mate, a sweet doe, has recently fostered a fawn. Even its sharp teeth were nearly fully grown.

You just coo in happiness, but the sound of Deer Lord's voice made your blood run cold.

"Are you pure of heart, child?"

Seeing this tall deer-skull monster shrouded in darkness has you terrified, but you calmed yourself down and nervously smiled up at him.

"Y-Yes, erm..my lord.." You weren't sure if that's the proper way to address him, considering all you've ever been doing was running from specimen. You never actually stopped to talk to one.

But clearly, this one had some morals left and didn't mindlessly kill like all the others.

"They lashed out at you." He pointed out the small bite marks on your hand. "Why didn't you retaliate?"

"Well..I can't blame them. You guys are probably used to seeing violent people," you tell him. "But all your children needed was a little compassion, right?"

True to your words, another deer calmly walked up beside you, sniffing your hand for nonhuman food.

It's safe to say you earned Deer Lord's respect, as he allowed you to rest in one of the cabin rooms for some time, calling a truce.

You wonder if Spooky's gonna get mad at him for this, but he assures you he doesn't answer to her for the most part...only someone named "Bayagototh".

Unknown Specimen 4 (Tirsiak)

Ruthless as she is, Tirsiak was also curious about you, watching you closely upon your arrival into her snowy forest domain.

Although she gave chase almost immediately, she stopped when you encountered your first shadow wolf blocking your path.

She wondered what you'll do...but is certain you'll strike it down with that sword/axe of yours and move along.

That's okay, though.

Soon enough you'll be brutally maimed out in the snow, just as you have maimed her precious creatures.

Yet you lower your weapon and instead..

Pet the wolf? Or at least attempt to as your hand phases right through its ear.

Yet it reacted as though you did, indeed, pet its fur, wagging its tail.

Tirsiak didn't know what to think, at first. She's never known a human who acted kind towards animals...only those who slaughtered them with blades, arrows, guns, etc.

So your strange actions have her too intrigued to kill you at the moment.

"You there. Why are you doing that....thing?"

"...uh..petting an animal..?" You look at her confused.

Honestly it's hard for you to take her seriously when she's cute and confused af about what you're doing. It makes you forget she's a dangerous specimen.

You explain the concept of petting animals to her, showing that her companions do love the affection and proving that you're not gonna harm any of them.

After giving it some thought, she floats to the ground and...asks for pets herself, bowing her head slightly.

Rather awkwardly, you pet her wolf ears, but you grin upon seeing her tail wagging, too.

"Aww that's adorable-"

"Call me "adorable" again and it'll be the last thing you'll ever say." She snarls.

'Jeez, guess someone's been around Spooky for too long..'

[carpexdiemm05]

Never After (SGE x Reader) - Chapter 3

Also read on Wattpad!

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

I wasn't sure why six wolves needed to punish Sophie instead of one, but I assumed it was to make a point.

They bound her to a spit, stuffed an apple in her mouth, and paraded her like a banquet pig through the six floors of Malice Hall. Lining the walls, new students pointed and laughed, but laughs turned to frowns when they realized this freak in pink would be one of their bunk mates. The wolves towed whimpering Sophie past Rooms 63, 64, 65, then kicked open Room 66 and flung her in. Sophie skidded until her face smacked into a warted foot.

I hastily slipped inside the room before the wolves could slam the door on my neck.

"I told you we'd get her," said a tall girl with greasy black hair streaked red, black lipstick, a ring in her nose, and a terrifying tattoo of a buckhorned, red-skulled demon around her neck. The girl glared at Sophie, black eyes flinting. "She even smells like an Ever."

"The fairies will retrieve it soon enough," said a voice across the room.

I swung my head to an albino girl with deathly white hair, white skin, and hooded red eyes, feeding stew from a cauldron to three black rats. "Pity. We could slit its throat and hang it as a hall ornament."

"How rude," said a third.

I turned to a smiley brown-haired girl on the bed, round as a hot air balloon, chocolate ice pop in each stumpy fist. "Besides, it's against the rules to kill other students."

"How about we just maim her a bit?" said the albino.

"I think she's refreshing," said the plump one, biting into the ice pop. "Not every villain has to smell and look depressed."

"She's not a villain," the albino and the tattooed girl snapped in unison.

Sophie wriggled from her ropes and stood, scanning the dorm. A moment later, she gasped. "Where's the mirror?"

"Let me guess," the tattooed girl snorted. "It's Bella or Ariel or Anastasia."

"It looks more like a Buttercup or Sugarplum," said the albino.

"Or a Clarabelle or Rose Red or Willow-by-the-Sea."

"Sophie." Sophie stood in a cloud of soot. "My name is Sophie. I'm not a 'villain,' I'm not an 'it,' and yes, I clearly don't belong here, so—"

The albino and the tattooed girl were doubled over laughing. "Sophie!" the second cackled. "It's worse than anyone could have imagined!"

"Anything named Sophie doesn't belong here," the albino wheezed. "It belongs in a cage."

"I belong in the other tower," said Sophie, trying to stay above their cattiness, "which is why I need to see the School Master."

"'I need to see the School Master,'" the albino mimicked. "How about you jump out the window and see if he catches you?"

"You all have no manners," snarfled the round girl, mouth full. "I'm Dot. This is Hester," she said, pointing at the tattooed girl. "And this ray of sunshine," she said, pointing at the albino, "is Anadil."

Anadil spat on the floor.

"Welcome to Room 66," said Dot, and with a swish of her hand swept the ashes off the unclaimed bed.

Sophie winced at moth-eaten sheets with ominous stains. "Appreciate the welcome, but I really should be going," she said, backing against the door. "Might you direct me to the School Master's office?"

"Princes must be so confused when they see you," said Dot. "Most villains don't look like princesses."

"She's not a villain," Anadil and Hester groaned.

"Do I have to make an appointment to see him?" pressed Sophie. "Or do I send him a note or—"

"You could fly, I suppose," Dot said, pulling two chocolate eggs from her pocket. "But the stymphs might eat you."

"Stymphs?" asked Sophie.

"Those birds that dropped us off, love," garbled Dot as she chewed. "You'd have to get past them. And you know how they hate villains."

"For the last time, she's not a villain," I said, folding my arms.

The three witches blinked, as if noticing my presence for the first time.

"Who are you?" Anadil asked hostilely.

"Y/n," I replied. "And there's obviously been a mix-up here. I mean, there were three of us children kidnapped this year. Not two. So if you could just point us in the direction of the School Master's office, it'd be very appreciated."

Hester scowled. "Are you. . .friends with this pink thing?" She nodded at Sophie.

I rolled my eyes. "Yes."

"Are you sure we can't kill the princess?" said Anadil.

I stepped forward. "There will be no killing so long as I'm around."

"Then leave."

"Where in the woods do you come from, loves?" Dot asked, diffusing the argument.

"Who the hell knows," I muttered.

"I don't come from the woods," Sophie said impatiently.

Three girls gaped with identically confused expressions.

"What do you mean you 'don't come from the woods'?" said Hester.

"We come from Gavaldon," Sophie said. She sounded close to tears.

"You three seem to know a lot about this place, so I'd be thankful if you could tell me wher—"

"Is that near the Murmuring Mountains?" asked Dot.

"Only Nevers live in the Murmuring Mountains, you fool," Hester groused.

"Near Rainbow Gale, I bet," said Anadil. "That's where the most annoying Evers come from."

"Sorry, I'm lost already," Sophie frowned. "Evers? Nevers?"

"A sheltered Rapunzel locked-in-a-tower type," Anadil said. "Explains everything."

"Evers are what we call Good-doers, love," Dot said to Sophie. "You know, all their nonsense about finding Happily Ever After."

"So that makes you 'Nevers'?" said Sophie, remembering the lettered columns in the stair room.

"Short for 'Nevermore,'" Hester reveled. "Paradise for Evildoers. We'll have infinite power in Nevermore."

"Control time and space," said Anadil.

"Take new forms," said Hester.

"Splinter our souls."

"Conquer death."

"Only the wickedest villains get in," said Anadil.

"And the best part," said Hester. "No other people. Each villain gets their own private kingdom."

"Eternal solitude," said Anadil.

"Sounds like misery," said Sophie.

"Other people are misery," said Hester.

"Gavaldon . . . is that by Pifflepaff Hills?" Dot said airily.

"Oh, for goodness' sakes, it's not near anything," Sophie moaned. She held up her schedule, "SOPHIE OF WOODS BEYOND" at its top. "Gavaldon's beyond the woods. Surrounded by it on all sides."

I glanced down at my schedule. At the top, however, was only my name. There was no "of woods beyond" attached to the end.

Just Y/n.

Not even a last name.

"Woods Beyond?" Hester was saying.

"Who's your king?" asked Dot.

"We don't have a king," Sophie said.

"Who's your mother?" asked Anadil.

"She's dead," Sophie said.

"And your father?" asked Dot.

"He's a mill worker. These questions are quite personal—"

"And what fairy-tale family is he from?" Anadil asked.

"And now they're just plain odd. No one's family is a fairy tale. He's from a normal family with normal faults. Like every one of your fathers."

"I knew it," Hester said to Anadil.

"Knew what?" said Sophie.

"Readers are the only ones this stupid," Anadil said to Hester.

Sophie's clenched her fists. "I'm sorry, but I'm not the stupid one if I'm the only person here who can read, so why don't you look in the mirror, that is if you could actually find one!"

I ran my fingertips across my lips in thought.

Reader.

Why didn't anyone here seem homesick? Why did they all swim towards the wolves in the moat instead of fleeing for their lives? Why didn't they cry for their mothers or try to escape the snakes at the gate? Why did they all know so much about this school?

"What fairy-tale family is he from?"

My eyes found Hester's nightstand. Next to a vase of dead flowers, a claw-shaped candle, and a stack of books—Outsmarting Orphans, Why Villains Fail, Frequent Witch Mistakes—was a knurled wooden picture frame. Inside was a child's clumsy painting of a grotesque witch in front of a house.

A house made of gingerbread and candy.

"Mother was naive," said Hester, picking up the frame. Her face struggled with the memory. "An oven? Please. Stick them on a grill. Avoids complications." Her jaw hardened. "I'll do better."

My eyes shifted to Anadil. A bracelet made of little boys' bones was clasped on her roommate's wrist.

"Does know her witches, doesn't she," Anadil leered. "Granny would be flattered."

The poster above Dot's bed showed a handsome man in green screaming as an executioner's ax sliced into his head.

WANTED: ROBIN HOOD

Dead or Alive (Preferably Dead) By Order of Sheriff of Nottingham

"Daddy promised to let me have first swing," Dot said.

I looked at my three bunk mates in newfound clarity.

They didn't need to read the fairy tales. They came from them.

They were born to kill.

"A princess and a Reader," Hester said. "The two worst things a human can be."

"Even the Evers don't want her," said Anadil. "Or the fairies would have come by now."

"But they have to come!" Sophie cried. "I'm Good!"

"Well, you're stuck here, dearie," Hester said, plumping Sophie's pillow with a kick. "So if you want to stay alive, best try to fit in."

"No! Listen to me!" Sophie begged. "I'm Good!"

"You keep saying that." In a flash, Hester seized her by the throat and pinned her over the open window. "And yet there's no proof."

"Hey!" In a flash I was across the room, yanking Hester away from Sophie, who fell to the floor with a gasp.

I gripped Hester's shirt and shoved her up against the wall. "Stay away from her."

Hester struggled. "Who do you think you are?"

"I said. . ." I slammed Hester's head against the cinder and she yelped.

My eyes flashed. "Stay. Away," I repeated in a low voice.

Something had changed. Hester's eyes widened and she nodded rapidly.

I released my grip, and she slumped against the wall, gaze still trained on me.

I turned to Sophie, who threw a hand over her mouth.

"What?" I asked.

Anadil and Dot's jaws were dropped. They looked almost. . .terrified.

"Why are you all looking at me like that?"

"Your eyes," Sophie whispered. "They're glowing."

A commotion clamored outside the room, and the girls' heads swiveled to the door. It flew open with a crack and four wolves thundered in, grabbed us by the collars, and hurled us into a stampede of black-robed students. Students rammed and elbowed each other; some fell beneath the herd and couldn't get back up.

"Where are we going!" Sophe yelled.

"The School for Good!" Dot said. "For the Welcomin—" An ogreish boy kicked her forward.

As I watched another student take a tumble, I clung to the wall even more.

***

Each school had its own entrance to the Theater of Tales, which was split into two halves. The west doors opened into the side for the Good students, decorated with pink and blue pews, crystal friezes, and glittering bouquets of glass flowers. The east doors opened into the side for Evil students, with warped wooden benches, carvings of murder and torture, and deadly stalactites dangling from the burnt ceiling. As students herded into their halves for the Welcoming, fairies and wolves guarded the silver marble aisle between them.

I followed Sophie, grumbling, as she moved to the aisle seats, trying to get the attention of the Good fairies. I opened my mouth to tell her it was useless, but a hand yanked the both of us under a rotted bench.

Agatha tacked us in a hug.

"Agatha!" I gasped. "You're here! And. . ." I surveyed her outfit. "You're wearing pink."

"I know. It's horrible. Listen, I found the School Master's tower! It's in the moat and there's guards, but if we can just get up there then we can—"

"Hi! Nice to see you! Give me your clothes," said Sophie, staring at Agatha's pink dress.

"Huh?"

"Quick! It will solve everything."

"You can't be serious! Sophie, we can't stay here!"

"Exactly," Sophie smiled. "I need to be in your school and you need to be in mine. Just like we talked about, remember?"

"But your father, my mother, my cat!" Agatha sputtered. "You don't know what they're like here! They'll turn us into snakes or squirrels or shrubbery! Sophie, we have to get back home!"

"Why? What do I have in Gavaldon to go back to?" Sophie said.

Agatha blushed with hurt. "You have . . . um, you have . . ."

"Right. Nothing. Now, my dress, please."

Agatha folded her arms.

"Then I'll take it myself," Sophie scowled. But right as she grabbed Agatha by her flowered sleeve, she stopped cold. I listened, ears piqued, trying to hear what Sophie did.

It was then that Sophie took off like a panther. She slid under warped benches, dodged villains' feet, ducked behind the last pew, and peeked around it.

Agatha and I followed, exasperated. "God," I said. "I don't know what's gotten into yo—"

Sophie covered my mouth, and it was then I heard the sounds. Sounds that made every Good girl bolt upright. Sounds they had waited their whole lives to hear. From the hall, the stomp of boots, the clash of steel—

The west doors flew open to sixty gorgeous boys in swordfight.

Sun-kissed skin peeked through light blue sleeves and stiff collars; tall navy boots matched high-cut waistcoats and knotted slim ties, each embroidered with a single gold initial. As the boys playfully crossed blades, their shirts came untucked from tight beige breeches, revealing slender waists and flashes of muscle. Sweat glistened on glowing faces as they thrust down the aisle, boots cracking on marble, until swiftly the swordfight climaxed, boys pinning boys against pews. In a last chorus of movement, they drew roses from their shirts and with a shout of "Milady!" threw them to the girls who most caught their eye.

In the decayed pews, the villains booed the princes, brandishing banners with "NEVERS RULE!" and "EVERS STINK!" (Except for weasel-faced Hort, who crossed his arms sulkily and mumbled, "Why do they get their own entrance?") With a bow, the princes blew kisses to villains and prepared to take their seats when the west doors suddenly slammed open again—

And one more walked in.

Hair a halo of celestial gold, eyes blue as a cloudless sky, skin the color of hot desert sand, he glistened with a noble sheen, as if his blood ran purer than the rest. The stranger took one look at the frowning, sword-armed boys, pulled his own sword . . . and grinned.

Forty boys came at him at once, but he disarmed each with lightning speed. The swords of his classmates piled up beneath his feet as he flicked them away without inflicting a scratch. Sophie gaped, bewitched. I hoped he'd impale himself. But no such luck, for the boy dismissed each new challenge as quickly as it came, the embroidered T on his blue tie glinting with each dance of his blade. And when the last had been left swordless and dumbstruck, he sheathed his own sword and shrugged, as if to say he meant nothing by it at all. But the boys of Good knew what it meant. The princes now had a king. (Even the villains couldn't find reason to boo.)

Meanwhile, the Good girls had long learned that every true princess finds a prince, so no need to fight each other. But they forgot all this when the golden boy pulled a rose from his shirt. All of them jumped up, waving kerchiefs, jostling like geese at a feeding. The boy smiled and lofted his rose high in the air—

I saw Sophie move too late. I ran after her but Sophie dashed into the aisle, leapt over the pink pews, lunged for the rose—and caught a wolf instead.

It gripped her hair and pulled, dragging her back to Evil. Sophie screamed. "Hey!" I launched myself at the wolf and wrapped my arms around his neck. Then I pulled. Hard.

He wasn't fazed. He reached behind and grabbed me, yanking me around to his front. Sophie was long gone by now.

I writhed as the wolf's enormous hand closed over my throat. My feet shot out, catching him in the stomach, and I was dropped to the floor, coughing.

His claws dug into my upper arm like knives. I screamed, kicking to get away from him, but that only made his claws tear into my skin even more.

Then I bit his other arm. The bitter taste of his blood filled my mouth and he yelled, releasing me.

I breathed heavily and scrambled away from him, but my arm began to itch. I looked down where the wolf had sunk his claws into me.

The wounds were stitching themselves up until the skin was clean and pristine once more.

My lips parted in shock. I swiveled my head to Agatha, who was staring at me with her jaw dropped. Then I was being dragged away again, this time by three wolves.

"Hey!" I wriggled and struggled, but their grip was too strong.

I locked eyes with the blond boy across the room. He was staring at me, baffled.

Then the doors to the theater slammed shut, leaving me to be taken down the hall by the wolves. 

[themostwantedphighter]

*hesitant forehead kiss.*

Please don't shoot stab bite maim or kill me. Have a day.

*well she’s flustered… and also very confused*

“Excuse me-?”

[stabbyfoxandrew]

If I could make more than one request I would love some more Mafia Restaurant 🥺 (otherwise feel free to postpone it to next week) Thank u 🤍

WIP Wednesday (9/13) | Mafia Restaurant AU

It takes Kevin about six minutes to get the salads the way he wants them, but finally he allows Neil to take the tray. As he starts towards the door, Jean grabs the back of his collar and Neil nearly chokes.

 “What the fuck was that for?" He hisses, spinning around and ready to bite the bastard. Jean curses in French then slams down a few forks and spoons onto the tray.

 “You are the most pathetic excuse for a waiter I’ve ever seen. You didn’t even get the cutlery.”

“Pardon me, monsieur. I’m not used to wining and dining,” Neil snaps. “Killing and maiming, I’m good at. This… Not so much.”

“Well, here’s another hint before you go…” Jean says, tugging Neil backwards again. He twists him around and reaches for the front of Neil’s pants, which has him confused. And a bit worried, considering the amount of knives in the room. Then Jean’s hand comes back with his mother’s pistol. “... leave the fucking artillery in the kitchen where it belongs.”

“Oh. I can’t believe you just said that sentence,” Kevin whines in the corner. Jean places Mary’s gun on the counter and shoves Neil toward the door before he can say anymore.

<- previous | first | next->

[noah-moth-cursed-chaos]

Elbelion Bluepool is @cloudedgalactica 's dragonborn OC. This is something I wrote for the shared au!

"Okay! Try this." Elbelion looked up to see his traveling companion excitedly hand him a skewer, one that looked... A lot like something Elb would have eaten back home in Valenwood. "It probably isn't going to be exactly right-different ingredients and all-but I tried to get close."

"You made bosmer bites?" He took the skewer, trying it and-Zane was right, it wasn't the same, but it was close, and it was good. Zane did continuously prove to be one heck of a cook. "These are amazing." The Argonian straightened a bit with pride.

"I'll keep making them for you then."

And he did, it became the norm for the two of them traveling together that Zane would keep a couple skewers of imitation bosmer bites somewhere in his belongings, and just randomly offer them. It was one of several little habits of his that just became... Expected to Elb. Comforting even. Something familiar and normal in the chaos and confusion he so often found himself in.

And when his and Zane's travels began to drift he never would have expected them to diverge paths entirely. Or the ache that would be left where the company of a friend once was.

But while he had no clue if he had any intention of forgiving what had caused them to split ways, or if Zane would accept his forgiveness if he did offer it, today that wasn't what was on his mind.

Him and Brynjolf were traveling together, the weather was nice, and for once in what felt like ages there were no unexpected surprises in the ruins they were exploring.

No, all in all it was a good, normal day.

So normal in fact that when Brynjolf handed him a skewer, he didn't even think twice before responding, "Thanks Zane-"

The two stared at each other for a moment, and Elb then stared at the skewered meats he'd been handed, which definitely were not the imitation bosmer bites Zane would carry.

"... Didn't know I looked like I had scales, lad, but you're welcome." Brynjolf tried to lighten the suddenly tense mood with a joke.

"Thanks." Elb was much quieter now, eating the skewer as they continued to search for any loot they might have missed.

"... I didn't mean to make ya think of-"

"It's fine, Bryn, let's just keep moving okay?" He didn't want to talk about it. It was easy to forget how much he missed Zane when he was able to be just mad. But the slip up over the skewer brought up a very different set of memories than the bitter argument he'd been thinking of.

"... Right." Brynjolf nodded, pausing before, "... I'm sure he'll come to his senses eventually-"

"Stop. I don't-I do not want to talk about Zane, okay? It was just a slip of the tongue." He took a deep breath and was a bit relieved when Brynjolf reached over and squeezed his hand.

"Sorry, love. Let's check this last room and head back out for some fresh air."

"... Thank you." Whenever the fight did enter his mind there was one part that replayed over and over.

"If I let him live I would have been showing him and the Oculatis that what they did was okay. I could not let the deaths of the family I found stand unavenged, I had to send a message that what they did would not happen again."

And he remembered how willing he'd been to lunge at Mercer when he believed he'd killed Zane, or at the very least lead him to his death. How easily he could have maimed or maybe even killed Mercer just for the point that what had happened was not forgivable.

He hadn't even thought twice when he was asked to kill him. Even with Zane then definitely still alive and standing.

And if he thought too long about that it raised all sorts of questions on if he was that different from Zane after all.

And he definitely did not want to face those questions.

So instead he squeezed Bryn's hand back, and head into the last room.

[namedforvalor]

I'm just having a hard time trying to understand. The universe. The humanity. The soul, the mind. The way you gave me an infinite being who is capable of anything and yet you expect me to be grateful when they do anything. And yet you expect me to be grateful when they do nothing.

I'm just having a hard time trying to understand how you expect me to understand and then, when I can't, you tell me that's okay, you tell me that's normal, that I'm not supposed to be able to understand, that I could never understand and isn't that the joy of it? Isn't that the wonder? Knowing there's something so much bigger than you that you can't comprehend it? Doesn't that make you want to fall to your knees so maybe you'll be able to angle your head a little better and maybe you'll be able to see it for what it is in all of its immensity? And now its silly to try and understand because we're just humans, aren't we, and how flawed must we be to think that we could understand a god? How silly, how funny, how absolutely blasphemous to try and view the will of god through human eyes. We could never understand, and isn't that the joy of it?

The first sin was trusting each other. The first sin was understanding each other. And I have to believe Adam forgave her- I have to believe that first and foremost Adam forgave her. That when they got cast out, when they recognized their nakedness, when they felt all that shame and confusion, I have to believe Adam was looking at her and Adam forgave her. I have to believe that now that it was just the two of them, lost and alone, abandoned, I have to believe that Adam forgave her. Because that's what I would have done, and that's what most of us would have done. We would have understood and we would have forgiven her. Because we weren't made to hold grudges, we weren't built for hate. We want to understand and we want to forgive and we want to believe in the good and we want to love and be loved anyway- Above all, before anything else, we want to love and be loved anyway. And all Adam did was love her anyway.

To understand a religion is to reject your humanity- There's some part of you that has be suppressed, that has to be tamped down, that has to be tied down, led to the slaughter, forced to swallow something, there's some part of you that has to be killed if you want to live forever, and isn't that death part of the joy of it? To kill the part of you that worries, that wonders, that seeks comfort from other things? The part of you that's unconditional, the part of you that is so wholly human it scares everything spiritual. If you can just kill that, maim that, bite and scratch at it until it's a bloodied pulp, if you can just trust that there's a bigger plan you know nothing about, then you'll be okay. Maybe you'll get lucky and your parents will scoop it out of you before you turn five, when you're still resilient enough for the bleeding to stop on its own. Don't worry, they'll sedate you with talks of pearly gates, mansions, and milky rivers as far as the eye can see. What's your favorite flower? There will be a whole field of it planted for you when you get there, if you'll just let me... Maybe you'll get even luckier and it won't grow back when you turn twenty-five.

Mine came back. To tell you the truth I don't think it ever left. I think of fellowship halls and private schools, Bibles on the nightstand, grandmama's preaching blaring from the kitchen radio because she's too sick to go to church and I feel the spoon scooping into my flesh. I hear The Word and the hymns and the Sunday School songs and I feel the humanity struggling to stay in tact. I hear my mother on the phone, talking to her friends, my dad yelling at the TV about the war and the laws being passed and I feel every part of me trying and failing to understand where all the hate comes from, where all the anger comes from, where all these twisted up ideologies come from. Because I'm five and I want to understand. Because I'm fifteen and I want to forgive, I've already forgiven. Because I'm twenty-five and I want to believe in the good. Because above all, before anything else, I want to love them anyway and I want to be loved anyway.

And if I, flawed as I am, desperate as I am, ignorant as I am, human as I am, if I can love them more than you love them, what does that say about me? What does that say about you? All we ever did was love each other more than you could love us, and what does that say about us? All you ever did was call it a sin, and what does that say about you?