#I’m not usually thirsty on main

[mikeyisbrooklyn]

I want to be him and be with him

are you a leftist? A commie? A tankie, perhaps?

They call me a tankie for this

[seaslugfanclub]

Kool-aid Isn’t the Only Thing I’m Thirsty For

Happy 4th of July everyone!

————————————————————————

��Y’know my great grandfather was stationed in France?”

“No shit? My nephew was deployed there.”

“Yeah— Cant remember for the life of me what division he was in, but he was sent back to the states after he blew off most of his fingers.”

“Yeesh.. Makes me mighty glad I missed out on all o’ that! hey- make sure to keep flippin’! These need to be grilled correctly.”

“Don’t tell a man how to use his own grill…”

Sykes, Rourke, and Alameda hovered over the grill, Sykes in charge of the burgers as he shot the shit with the old commander and cow wrangler, a half-smoked cigar hanging from each of their mouths and a chilled beer bottle in hand.

It had been a while since Sykes had celebrated the 4th, but he had subtly dominated the command of the grill. And Rourke was more than happy to piss away time, puffing on his cigar as he talked about old war battles with the two other men.

The sun beat down on the men, who had stationed themselves in the old lot behind the main studio building, both Rourke and Sykes had exchanged their usually stiff outfits for their old wife-beaters. While Alameda wore a simple plaid button up. An old radio played classic yacht rock, sitting atop a splintering picnic table. And a cooler filled with drinks was placed beside the grill, a few spare wasps hovering around the yellowed plastic of the cooler.

“(Y/N)!!!” Sykes hollered, Rourke and Alameda flinching at the noise,

“How're you doing with the Kool-aid!?”

(Y/n) opened the door to the backyard, calling back, “Almost done!!!”

Closing the door, (Y/n) turned towards Medusa, who was finishing mixing the disgustingly sweet drink, limp cigarette between her lips

“Hey, don’t get any cigarette ash in it!” They whined.

“Oh please, I won't! At least the ash would cut back the sugar.” Medusa muttered, sweeping back her dangling American flag earrings.

(Y/n) nodded, pulling on the hem of their denim shorts that stuck to their sweaty skin. “Cool, Imma bring out the ketchup and shit, Facilier, do you wanna join us?”

Facilier, who was draped on the counter across from Medusa, top hat off and slightly fanning himself shrugged,

“Eh, I’m not too big on burgers Chére. And I’m pretty sure drinking even a small glass of that red monstrosity will put me in an early grave.”

“You sure? I brought some illegal fireworks that we’ll be setting off later? You could do the honors of lighting them?”

Facilier paused his fanning, “…Illegal you say? What kind?”

“Oh I’ve got; Snakes, sparklers, firecrackers, M80, black cats, Roman candles, screamin’ Mimi’s, ladyfingers, fuzz buttles, snicker bombs, church burners, finger blasters, gut busters, crap flappers, whistling bungholes, spleen splitters, whisker biscuits, honkey lighters, hoosker do’s, hoosker don’ts, cherry bombs, nipsa daisers with scooter stick, and whistling kitty chasers.” (Y/n) listed off with their fingers.

…

“….Well, I could never pass up a good ol’ Roman candle… sure. Just let me know when you bring ‘em out.”

(Y/n) laughed, nodding excitedly as they carried out all the condiments, paper plates, and napkins to the backyard, Medusa bustling beside them with the large pitcher of iced Kool-aid.

“I haven’t had a proper July 4th cookout since I was a girl! I still remember my ol’ mother and father screaming over the undercooked hot dogs… Oh, back when this country had proper domestic violence~” Medusa cooed, a nostalgic smile making her eyes squint.

The park attendant gave Medusa the side eye, brows furrowed before shaking their head, (Y/n)’s attention quickly turned towards the large men outside.

They tried not to blatantly stare at how tight Sykes beater was stretched around his chest, or how all of the men’s chest and arm hair were slicked with sweat, OR how an old anchor tattoo made itself known on Rourkes back whenever he flexed, OR OR how good Alameda looked taking a long puff his cigar.

…

“…Meat's back on the menu tonight…” (Y/n) thought to themselves, hoping that the heat could excuse their flushed face.

To break out of there thoughts, (Y/n) shouted to the group,

“Alright! Who’s ready to party!?”

———————————————————————

“What in god's name are they doing?” Hook muttered, watching through the window in morbid fascination as (Y/n) fanatically cheered on Facilier, who had begun to laugh maniacally as he shot off three Roman candles at once.

“Oh it’s that silly American holiday, today. The one where they dress up is garish clothing and raise their cholesterol.” Cruella hisses, already feeling a headache coming on. “I tell you those Americans eat like they have free healthcare..”

“Ugh, a wretched holiday for a wretched country, the traitors..” Governor Ratcliffe sneered.

“Oh, now look at that—” Hook pointed out,

From the backyard, Rourke hands (Y/n) what seems to be a small, multicolored bazooka, a wicked grin on his face as he helps them light the rocket's fuse.

Rourke ruffled their hair, stepping back a few paces to join Sykes and Slim’s side, watching proudly as (Y/n) braces and aimed the rocket towards the sky, shooting a fiery ball high up into the night air, which promptly exploded into a burning flower of sparkles. The firework joking one of many across the dark sky.

“USA! USA! USA! USA!”

…

“…I bet 30 dollars one of them is losing a finger tonight.” Clayton speaks up amongst the crowd of villains watching from inside.

“Aye, make that 50.”

————————————————————————

Just wanted to write a little blurb celebrating the 4th of July! I realized just how little American villains the Disney cannon has, and I wanted an excuse to thirst over Rourke and Sykes in old wife- beaters grilling me a burger🤤.

(ALSO DISCLAIMER!! This was merely written for fun. I love America and I love the beautiful nature it has, but I don’t love the American government.

This was not written with any political intention, only thirst for old men and Kool—aid.)

[blossomingmoonlight]

⭑ Separate Worlds, Chapter Three ⭑

Main masterlist

Pairing: Michael Gavey x Popular!rich!reader

Warnings: 18+ mdni, mentions of alcohol, michael being a horny virgin, michael being desparate, reader being thirsty, mastrubation.

Summary: Living two completely separate lives you and Michael had never really crossed paths and you’ve never really looked at him before. But when your worlds collide, affections arise.

Word count: 1.2k

Saturday, 15th October 2006

You awoke with an awful headache, you didn’t think you had enough to drink to even get hungover but it had been a while since you last had any alcohol. Your mind flashed back to last night, the argument, running in your heels after Michael, breaking into the library, the dusty attic with the starry night sky, and- him of course. His breathtaking eyes, big nose, sharp jaw and chiselled chin. Your mind started to wander, his veiny arms and most importantly his veiny hands, thick fingers, broad shoulders and just his hair that looked so graspable- Christ. Get a grip. 

You got out of bed as the stinging headache and a wave of nausea hit you. A good shower would fix you, maybe today would be a self care day, just to energise for the week. But even in the shower your mind started to wander, and they got even worse- all you could think about was what his cock looked like, how his big hands would look grabbing your hips as you rode him. And with that image you finished. When you had gotten ready for the day, well at least dressed. You decided to get some food and coffee. 

Once in the main courtyard you ran into Farleigh, Maisie and Eloise. “Hey, you okay? You stormed out on your own birthday last night.” Maisie asked, a bit concerned. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Just had too much to drink and it had gotten to my head. But I’m fine now. You guys want to grab some coffee with me?” They stopped questioning you at that and you all hit the nearest Starbucks. 

Sunday, October 16th 2006

You made your way to the library, heart pounding in your chest. All day yesterday you thought about him, after the shower you had to relieve yourself once more when you climbed into bed that night. You didn’t even need to study, but you hoped so badly he would be there. You entered the library with a beaming smile on your face, expecting to see him. He wasn’t there? What?

A sigh left your lips and you turned on your heel. No reason for coming here then. You decided to head to your friend's dorm instead. 

Monday, October 17th 2006

Finally! You felt like Monday couldn’t come fast enough, at last you were able to see him again. Even though it had only been two days since your last encounter, it felt like a week. You knew the second you saw him in class you would bring him the box of crunchies with your phone number and email taped onto it as well as a funny maths pun t-shirt you bought while getting coffee on Saturday. You used your calculator Saturday night and the bastard was right. So of course you had to reward him.

You didn’t even meet up with Eloise like usual before maths, instead you put on your cutest outfit, showered before and wore your strongest and nicest perfume. Surely this would grab his attention. But when you got there a message dinged on your phone. 

Eloise Sinclair: please don't kill me im fucking sick and i cant get out of bed :(((  8:56

(You): No worries, just rest ok? Want me to bring you something after maths?  8:57

Eloise Sinclair: no maisie just got here with supplies. thanks though xxx  8:57

(You): Ok I’ll visit later xx  8:57

Maybe it was the universe sending you signs because when you stepped in the lecture hall you spotted Michael, with empty seats next to him. You almost jogged down the stairs with a huge grin and dropped the box with crunchies, the t-shirt and the note on his tiny desk. He looked at you in surprise as you sat at the desk right next to him. Was he dreaming? “Morning, you were right. You are a genius. So here are the crunchies as promised and also a funny t-shirt I saw when I was out, made me think of you.” You smiled as you nudged the box towards him. 

Michael however was still stunned. Did his dream girl who was way out of his league dump her friends to sit next to him? Did she buy him his favourite treat? Did she think of him while she was out? And most important of all…she called him a genius. Fuck. He was actually hard right now, how pathetic. How does a guy get hard from just some gifts and a compliment? How did- “Helloooo? Earth to Michael?” You snapped him out of his thoughts. 

“I’m sorry, it’s pretty early- uhm- thank you I really appreciate it.” He smiled, and for the first time he smiled properly, showing off his cute teeth. And holy shit did that make you fall harder.  Luckily for him, you hadn’t noticed his boner, he swiftly moved the sweater that was hanging from his shoulders to his lap. You wanted to talk to him more and tell him you left your info in the box too but the professor was starting and somehow, sitting next to Michael Gavey made it so much less boring.

The lecture seemed to fly by and the end was near. After the professor made you do some practice assignments she spoke up. “Before next monday I have a little project that I want you to complete, this project will require you to partner up with someone. The project information itself will be handed out before you leave, you can now choose your partner.” The class immediately started to mingle and you turned to Michael. 

“So since you’re next to me anyway, want to partner up?” He looked unsure and turned more towards you. “Uhm, usually I prefer to work alone.” Oh. But when your face dropped he continued. “But I don’t think we really have a choice and I would rather work with you than anyone else here.” He rambled. That made you smile again, the professor handed out the information you needed and you agreed to meet up the following morning since you both had a free period at the same time. 

The second Michael got back to his dorm room he threw the sweater he held discreetly in front of him on his desk chair and quickly moved on his bed. His cock was straining in his pants and he never had needed relief this badly. Your perfume was still lingering in his nose, the way your tits were almost out with that top you wore, the skirt that showed off your silky smooth thighs. It was all too much. He quickly grabbed his laptop that was still on his bed and went to his saved porn, all girls that looked like you with guys that looked like him.

The video started to play and he opened his pants so he could finally relieve his aching cock. He almost came in record time as he released all over his veiny hand, cumming with a loud groan he had to muffle.

Tag list (also want to be tagged in chapters? message me): @sepherinaspoppies

[dark-frosted-heart]

Roger Barel Main Route - Chapter 8

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this. I’m doing this for archiving purposes and you can probably find a better translation out there.

Entrusted with an undercover mission for Crown, Roger and I headed to a village in the countryside.

We were about to unveil the true identity of the Spirit God who claimed to hold great power when— 

Roger: Did you never learn to let people finish talking while you were in your mama’s womb? Sure, treatment for tetanus isn’t widely available. But if you don’t have it, then you make it.

Spirit God: You can’t possibly…

Roger: As a former doctor, I can.

Spirit God: A…doctor? Lies. You’re just saying that to take my place…

Roger: …Shut it.

Roger cut the man’s ranting with a sharp yell.

Spirit God: …

Roger: While you’re so busy ranting, this little girl’s gonna…die.

The anger in his eyes gave me chills.

(That murderous intent is…incredible)

(...Ah, I see now. Roger’s furious)

(I’ve never seen Roger’s emotions be…laid so bare)

Child’s mom: ……her. Please just save her…!

A powerful cry shook the air.

Holding her dying daughter in her arms, the woman looked at Roger with pleading eyes.

—The man called the Spirit God had his hands bound with rope, and the villagers kept watch over him.

We were given a room where we started working on refining a treatment for tetanus.

Liam: Roger, I brought the drugs you asked for from the storehouse!

Roger: Perfect, thanks. We gotta get the lil’ girl comfortable. Hurry.

Kate: On it!

Roger removed his vest and started looking over the medicine collected.

(There’s not much I can do, but I want to help in any way I can)

Kate: I’ll sterilize the test tubes. You can use carbolic acid, right?

Roger: …O_O

(Huh? Was I wrong about carbolic acid…?)

Kate: Um…Roger?

Roger: I thought you were getting up to something at night. Turns out you were studying medicine.

A large hand ruffled my hair.

Kate: …

I felt like Ale receiving pets.

Despite that…I felt my heart beat a little faster.

Roger: You’ve saved me the trouble. Thanks, Kate.

Kate: No…it’s just some knowledge I crammed in my head. You’re still going to have to guide me.

Roger: Then I’m gonna make you do a lot of work.

(Why am I so happy…to receive praise from Roger?)

Somehow, my heart was beating differently than usual.

(No, no. Knowledge is a part of strength. I was just happy that I got a little stronger)

(...but)

—After selecting some drugs and running tests, a tetanus treatment was refined.

Roger: Alright…now we just need to run clinical trials and then we can give it to people.

(Doing clinical trials means…)

Kate: You’re going to test it on healthy bodies to study the effects.

Roger: That’s right. This time it’s to see if it’s safe to take.

Liam: I’ll do it, Roger. I’m healthy, but if anything happens, it’ll just be to me.

Liam raised his hand first and Roger gave a wry smile.

Roger: Liam. You think I’d just let you give in to your “bad habits”?

Liam: Ah…

Curiosity—that was Liam’s curse.

Roger: Too bad for you. I’m feeling thirsty.

With that said, Roger took the bottle of medicine in one gulp.

Kate and Liam: Eh!

After being stunned by Roger’s bold move, I came back to my senses.

Kate: Roger, what are we going to do if something happens to you!

Roger: It’s fine. My body’s stronger.

(Is it really okay…?)

I was feeling both confidence and doubt toward Roger.

But the man himself…

Roger: We’re gonna have to wait a bit for it to take effect. I’m gonna take a nap. Kate, wake me up in an hour.

With that said, he crashed on a bed— 

Kate: Huh, Roger?

Within a few seconds, he started snoring.

Kate: He…fell asleep…?

I blinked at how fast he fell asleep and Liam laughed.

Liam: Hehe, you couldn’t kill him if you tried. I’m going to check on the villagers. Kate, I’m leaving Roger in your care.

The door closed, leaving Roger and me in the room.

When I sat on the edge of the bed, Roger’s hand fell from his chest onto my lap.

(He’s really asleep…)

His gloved hand was large and bony.

I gently touched his fingers which laid vulnerable on my lap.

(This hand’s killed before)

(And it’s kept many people alive) 

The way Roger’s living, it's like he holds life and death in his hands—a terrible contradiction.

There’s no way a man as smart as him didn’t see that.

He’s an egoist with a rifle as if carrying the sin of killing, claimed to be a former doctor, and lived in darkness.

(...Roger, what are you trying to do with Crown?)

~~ Flashback ~~

Kate: What are you researching, Roger?

Roger: Cursed Ones—and how to rid the word of them.

~~ End flashback ~~

(Did he perhaps mean—)

I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts.

(...No, let’s not jump to conclusions)

No matter how much I thought about it, I’d never reach the truth about Roger.

(At least, not with the way I am now…)

--

Roger woke up without any issues.

The tetanus drug was given to the infected girl and the villagers watched— 

The girl woke up just as the sun rose.

Roger: …Pulse is normal, no numbness in her limbs. Looks like the medicine did its job.

(Thank goodness…!)

Mother’s child: Thank you so much. You’re a god.

Roger: …Me, a god? Don’t make me laugh. I’m just an ordinary human as you can see. If I were a god, I would’ve rid the world of all its absurdities.

(...Roger?)

Cold eyes betrayed the warmth in his words.

But then  it disappeared in an instant.

In its place was a cynical smile.

Roger: Humans can’t become gods, no matter how hard they try. That’ what makes them so interesting.

Spirit God: …Argh, shut up!

A yell interrupted the peace in the room and we all turned toward the source.

Kate: Huh, Spirit God?! I thought he was captured and kept under watch…

The sudden appearance of the Spirit God confused the villagers.

Man of the village: When did you get free?! Everyone, run.

The Spirit God, who seemed to have escaped on his own, had an ominous smile on his face as the room fell into chaos…

(He’s coming this way…)

I tried to run, but he jumped at me from behind.

Kate: Eek…!

Roger: Kate.

Roger, who was standing by the girl, tried to reach for me, but it was too late. I was captured by the Spirit God.

Liam: Kate…

Roger: …

Spirit God: If you don’t want this woman to be killed, forget everything you saw in this village! That way, I can live as a god again.

(What a mess…Still, he’s surprisingly strong.)

(...What do I do)

His arms wrapped around my neck, cutting off air.

In my desperation, I looked up and met Roger’s gaze.

Roger: …

While everyone else turned pale, Roger was the only one smiling.

(...Huh? Why are you smiling…at a time like this?)

“You’ll get stronger, right”—the amber color happily threw at me.

(T-this guy…!)

(But…)

It’s better to be amusement than to be looked down on for being useless.

(Calm down…and remember what you learned about self-defense from Roger)

~~ Flashback ~~

Roger: Step two, what to do when someone holds you.

Kate: Hey, wait. What should I do?

Roger: Hey, I told you that trying to force your way out’s gonna make it worse.

First, go limp, like a puppet that just got its strings cut.

~~ End flashback ~~

I calmed my mind and released all tension from my body as I exhaled.

Spirit God: …What the, you got heavy all of a sudden.

(Now.)

While the Spirit God was confused, I pushed his arms up from below.

Roger: Well done, Kate. Now keep leaning forward.

The moment I escaped the Spirit God’s hold, Roger took over.

Kate: …!

A powerful jab in the jaw knocked the Spirit God unconscious.

(His eyes rolled back. He’s completely out…)

Kate: A one-hit K.O…What’s with that brute strength?

Roger: I didn’t tell you? I’m a heavyweight boxing champ.

Wow…

Really?

You’re one heck of a guy +4 +4

Kate: Hmm… Wait! You’re just casually mentioning that you’re a heavyweight boxing champ?!

Roger: Haha, amazing, aren’t I?

(He’s not joking. He really is one heck of a guy…)

I would’ve loved to spend an hour or so asking him about boxing, but I had something else on my mind.

Kate: He’s not dead is he…?

I checked the Spirit God for a pulse.

Kate: Ah, he’s breathing…

Liam: He’s breathing, but won’t wake up for a while. Well, it’s for the best.

(He’s not dead, which is good for now…)

No matter how evil a person was, seeing them die before your eyes left a bad taste in your mouth.

Blonde child: …Mr. Glasses.

The girl seemed well enough to get out of bed and approached Roger.

Roger: Hm, what is it? Does it hurt anywhere?)

Blonde child: No. Um…Thank you…For making the pain go away. And…thank you miss and Mr. Pink…

Kate: I’m glad you’re feeling better.

Liam: Mr. Pink. How cute.

Roger: You’re welcome. This is the best reward I’ve gotten.

--

After waking up, the Spirit God admitted to all his crimes and was sent to the police.

Victor arrived later and told us that the village, which had closed itself to the public, would now open up with financial support from Her Majesty.

As for me—

After parting ways with Victor, who stayed to clean up the mess, and Liam, who volunteered to accompany him, Roger and I boarded the train back to London.

From outside the window, twilight dyed the sky.

Roger: Pfft, haha.

Roger, who sat across from me, suddenly burst into laughter.

Roger: The look on that guy’s face when you slipped out of his arms was a masterpiece.

(Thinking about it…)

A smile formed on my lips as I recalled the Spirit God’s dumbfounded expression.

Kate: Heh, hehe… Wait, why am I laughing. I thought I was about to die.

I glared at Roger, but he just smiled and propped himself up against the windowsill. 

Roger: Sorry, sorry. But the way you handled self-defense techniques honestly had me impressed. Not to mention you secretly studying medicine. So Kate, close your eyes.

Kate: …Don’t do anything weird, okay?

I closed my eyes after that warning.

…Then, I felt fingers touching my neck.

(Lace? It feels like a thin tie…but it’s nice to the touch)

Roger: You can open your eyes now.

Kate: …

I slowly opened my eyes.

Roger: …

Through the reflection of his amber eyes, I saw myself wearing a lovely choker.

Kate: This is…

Roger: A collar of course. You’ve now been promoted from dogsbody to pet. Congrats.

[antivan-dragon]

Maybe some rope play with the Ghoul? Some popular scenes from the Fallout series usually involve some rope 😵

A/N: Thank you for your message, and this is what my sick mind elaborated from your suggestion. My native language is not English so I apologize if you find some mistakes, I’m still improving :) Warnings: Afab!Reader, Female genitals, No reader physical description, fingering, oral (you receive), rope involvement but not as you expect... maybe (evil laugh), violence, explicit language, mention drug abuse, mention of violence, explicit pun game, explicit sexual content, no beta reader, wrote it in a very late hour with a tired but inspired mind. This is my first Tumblr request in a long time, feel free to let me know what do you think. I accept respectful constructive critiques. Please, don't be mean for the pure desire of it. +18 Summary: Super mutants caught you and they hung you from the ceiling. You might look like a damsel in distress but with a price on your head. Honestly, there is very little of a damsel and very little of distress ;)

You were hanging from the ceiling of a Super Duper Mart, slowly swinging back and forth and cursing, but with a low voice because it wasn’t a comfortable situation for you. Super mutants caught you the day before but didn’t kill you yet because somehow they learned what a price on a head was, and they were happy to use you as bait for the little humans.

The rope around your torso was a tight fit to support you without causing major injuries but as the hours passed, your body started to feel weak and sore, not to mention you were thirsty but not in a million years you would ask a Super mutant for water, nor food.

It was the middle of the night when your thoughts about how to escape that situation were interrupted by some gunshots from the outside. Super mutants gave the alarm and gathered in forces to fight the intruders. According to them, only one little human was trying to fight them. What kind of idiot would fight a bunch of Super mutants alone?

But the fight continued for a long, and they had to use a suicider and a couple of hounds to oppose the threat. Who the hell was that little human was managing to win?

A mix of feelings filled your mind, you saw a way out but were also scared by who was about to break in. If that person was able enough to defeat Super mutants, you had no hopes of escaping. The price on your head was pretty much heavy.

Suddenly, everything went quiet. The atmosphere was heavy as you waited helplessly. The sound of your own heartbeat filled your ears and your throat felt even drier. The store’s main door opened with a creak, as the Super mutants’ campfires cast shadowy illusions, hindering your ability to see who came in.

Step by step, the mysterious figure finally came closer enough to reveal themselves.

“I'll be damned if this ain't the easiest prey I have ever hunted...”

And you stared with a shocked expression, lips opened ajar and eyes wide open. The last creature you’d expect to see at that moment was a lone ghoul. Although he managed to defeat all the Super mutants on his own, it would still be a fantastic opportunity for you to flee. If it was a group of raiders, it would be harder... impossible, and your fate would have been even worse....

It was the idea you were pleased to accept, at least, and so, you started your act.

“Hey! Uh, my savior! Can you please release me before those brutes come back? I- I'm so scared and... and hungry...”

“Cut the shit, princess. Ya know why I'm here and I would release you only if you can turn me human again so, let's talk about business. How 'bout that?”

He used your real name, the one printed on your bounty while he took a chair and dragging it right in front of you. He heavily sat with spread legs, thinking about what to do with you. He would have cut the rope but keeping you bound because it would have been easier dragging your around. However, the power he felt in having you at his mercy titled his senses and so, he decided would have had some fun.

You sighed, it was always the same fucking story, every time someone tried to catch you, there was a specific shithead who wanted to take advantage of you. Getting rid of them wasn't a problem for you, usually, but you were up to your neck in shit at that specific moment.

“What do you want in exchange for my freedom?” You asked in a bothersome manner, with the obvious intention of being direct.

The ghoul raised his eyebrows, pretty surprised by your not-worried reaction. “Uhm.” He murmured, considering your offer. “Do you have any chems with ya?”

“Not at the moment, but I'm sure there's something around this damn place.”

“You're right, too easy.” He moved to bend over and resting his elbows on his thighs. “What about eating you? I’d lose my bounty but you'd be free for sure.”

Of course, he was meaning it literally, but you snapped back with irony, damn your fucking mouth.

“There's only one way to eat me, honey.”

When you saw him silently considering it, you instantly tried to change the cards in the game.

“Oh come on now, I was joking.”

He ignored you and left the chair to reach where the rope was tied, loosening the knot to lower you a bit. The short jump caused you a stomach cramp but your feet weren't touching the floor yet.

“Fuck...” You said with a low voice, mentally preparing yourself to face whatever that damn ghoul had in his sick mind.

When he came back to you, you felt his firm grip on your hips to stop you from dangling around and he turned you enough to position your pussy at his face height. He looked up, watching you from under the brim of his hat with a teasing expression. He could read on your pretty face that you were imagining him eating you out, and probably you were already getting wet at that thought.

“Ask me anything else, I'll see what I can do.” You said with an embarrassed voice, trying to control yourself.

“Nope. I think I’ll take your first offer.”

With those words, he took off your boots and he pulled your pants and underwear down with a sharp move, disrobing the lower part of your body. You bit your tongue to don't emit any sound, but your face was on fire, as your gut and your pussy.

“Now...” He started to speak on purpose to tease you a little more. “I'm the kind of ghoul who kills people to live, the one who eats the worst shit you can imagine and who is kept alive by chems...” He took off his gloves, and his hat and positioned one of your legs on his shoulder. “But I never abused a woman. And since your feet aren't tied up, you're free to kick my face whenever ya want, baby doll. The question is, would ya like me to eat you out?”

You were speechless, realizing only at that moment you were more than happy with what was happening, and you literally asked for it. But your ego was bruised, and you felt like a filthy whore, and you weren't... usually.

“Fuck me...” You said with disappointment as a filler word, but again, he took you seriously.

“Maybe later, sweetheart.”

He broke eye contact with you to smell your aroused scent and he placed his mouth and half of his face against your core without hesitation. He was interested in making you cum but he wanted to make it quick because his already hard cock was asking for its piece of cake as well.

You opened wide your eyes and your mouth, releasing a silent cry of pleasure while his wrinkled lips and warm tongue made their way between your labia, teasing your clit and savoring your taste.

He didn't remember the last time he laid with a woman, but fuck, the whole thing was from another planet. Who knew he would have fucked a tied-up pretty human pussy in the middle of an abandoned Super Duper Mart once Super mutants' den?

You tried to keep control of yourself to don't release any sound in one last illusory chance to keep some dignity. But that damn ghoul knew how to use the tongue, and he was merciless. In an automatic gesture, you moved your other leg on his other shoulder, trying to keep his head against your core, looking for more friction.

He sank his fingers in the flesh of your thighs, making a satisfied chuckling. “Turned out I was right.” He muffled while sinking two fingers up to your pussy. They slipped inside you easily since you were already a mess down there, and when he added a third finger he started to pump vehemently, making you forget how sore your upper body was.

The whole inappropriate situation mixed up with the physical pleasure drove you crazy, and your body reacted much easier than usual, reaching the orgasm faster and harder. He kept you steady while you trembled and released loud moans, unable to control yourself anymore.

“Music for my ears.” He teased while he let you ride your orgasm as much as you could, flooding his fingers with your juice and gradually slowing down.

Your mind was blurred as you caught some air. When the ghoul moved away and your body came back to dangling by your weight, you felt the pain.

“Take me down...” You said with an exhausted voice.

“On my way, but don't relax too much, sweet cheeks. We aren't done yet.”

Hearing his deep, rough voice, caused a rush of adrenaline in your body and your pussy clenched around nothing, as if it was ready for a second round. He loosed the knot to lower you enough for you to touch the floor with your feet, but your legs weren't able to support you. No fear for you to fall, because he already fixed the rope to keep you tied up.

When he came back to you, he had a chair and he positioned it right in front of you.

“What about fulfilling your second request? It could be your ticket out.”

Your tired eyes dropped on the bulge in his pants, and it took a second for you to reply.

“I want some water before.”

“As you wish.”

[ilguna]

☼ the water heals our wounds (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; Finnick was beginning to believe that the damage done on you was permanent, but he had to try one more idea.

warnings; swearing, death mention, torture mention

wc; 5.3k

–

It’s too loud.

You can hear everything, between the people shouting nearby, and the consistent beeping from machines. There’s voices talking over one another, orders being barked around the room, fighting for more attention.

It’s bringing on a pounding headache, as if there’s tiny people inside of your head, slamming their fists on the inside of your skull with both hands, trying to get out. At first, it’s bearable, considering what you’ve been through lately.

And then it burns.

You fly up in the bed, eyes opening, hands reaching for the source of pain, attached to your forearm. Several people reach to grab and restrain you to keep from moving any further. You can see that there’s a needle, blood moving into a small vial.

“Miss (L/n), we’re just drawing your blood.” A nurse tells you, “You’re in District Thirteen, you’re safe now.”

“Dis—” You begin, and find that your voice is hoarse. You clear your throat, “District Thirteen isn’t real.”

“I assure you, it is.” He says, “We just had a team of volunteers rescue you and a few other victors from the Capitol.”

“The Tribute Center.” You murmur, watching as they pull the needle out, and replace it with a cotton pad, wrapping your elbow. “We were in the Tribute Center.”

“Yes, very good.” He says, “Can you tell me where you’re from?”

“District Four.” Your face twists, the headache is coming back, “Can we—?”

“When did you win the Hunger Games?”

“Sixty-Seventh. Can we talk about something else?” You look away, observing the space you’re in, “Anything else…”

You must be in District Thirteen’s hospital, judging by what you’re surrounded by. You can see a lot of people moving around, dressed similarly. The nurses and doctors look like they’re wearing different outfits than—what you can only guess is—regular civilians. There’s a few people sitting on gurneys dressed in hard armor and bulletproof vests, pockets absent of weapons.

You’d like to say that it’s not usually this busy or disorganized often, and that’s because of how the medical crew are reacting to the sheer amount of people in here. It’s crawling with bodies. They push people on gurneys away into hallways, some straight into private rooms where they pull the blinds, others are subjected to being treated in the main open room, like you.

You must not be high risk, then. 

You watch as a team of professionals wheel a gurney by, someone laying unresponsive in the bed. You look away quickly, to the next rapidly moving object, and realize that you recognize the person. You manage to look back in time to see who it really is, stomach squeezing in horror.

It’s Johanna on that bed, head shaven to the skin, scabs covering every inch of available skin. She looks disgusting, but it answers the question that’s been on your mind these past couple of weeks. You finally know what’s been happening to Johanna in the Capitol.

“Are you hungry? Or thirsty?” He asks, “We normally have to wait for clearance, but you’re alert and responsive. They wouldn’t want us to wait for permission.”

“I’d like water, if you can.” You nod, “I’m not hungry, though.”

He gives you a smile, turning to place his hand on the girls’ shoulder next to him, beginning to talk to her. You look away again, towards the doors that have just been pushed open, doors slamming against the wall from the force.

A young woman with dark hair in a braid is looking around the room quickly, searching for something. You get a glimpse of her face, and you know instantly that it’s Katniss Everdeen. 

You grit your teeth, a shudder running through your body. You grip onto the railings handles, letting out a shaky breath. You’ve seen her a lot recently, although you’ve never met her, not yet anyway. You had mentored the Quarter Quell—no, no you shouldn’t think about that.

“Gale!” Katniss shouts, starting for him.

A nurse blocks her, saying something, and you’re trying to read her lips, when a voice cuts through the noise.

“(Y/n)!”

You flinch, jerking to the other side of the bed, squeezing your eyes shut. The thoughts—the memories—of all the times he’s screamed your name, screamed at you. The morning he left, the purple bruises…

He punished you, said that it’s your fault this happened. 

“Miss (L/n)?” The nurse asks, placing his hand on yours.

You jump, swatting his hand off of yours. In the process, your eyes fly open, catching sight of him—of Finnick—coming towards you. You can’t let him have you, the last time he did—the nightmares still haven’t stopped. You can’t do it again. You need to get out of here.

You almost trip getting out of the bed, legs tangled in the scratchy white hospital sheets. Your bare feet slap against the tile floor, which is cool against your soles. You stumble a few steps to catch your balance before wheeling around, both hands grabbing the gurney.

“Get away from me!” You scream, pulling the back back a bit before launching it in his direction.

You watch his smile drop, eyebrows drawing in. He’s doing it again, the next thing you know he’ll have everyone on his side. He’s not going to trick you, you’re not going back to him this time. You’ll die before you end up in his hands. It was better in the Capitol. He wasn’t there, and you were safe.

A couple people jump to catch the gurney before it slams into him. It almost makes you want to scream at them, too, for trying to protect him. You don’t have time to, you turn around and start for the exit doors on the other side of the room. The male nurse that had been helping you tries to make a grab, but completely misses.

“Stop her!” He shouts.

You slip past several people, slamming into the metal doors, which start emitting a terrible, high-pitched scream that starts once they’re opened. You make a run for it down the long, cement hallways, feet slapping painfully on the floor. You can hear shouting behind you, pleading for you to stop.

You’re faster than they are. The further you run, the less you’re able to hear them, until their voices are gone entirely. You end up tripping into one of the side doors, leading you into a dark room. Good, they shouldn’t be able to find you here for a long time.

You drag your feet to the corner of the room, panting, struggling to catch your breath. The burning in your chest slowly grows stronger, you dig your nails into your collarbone, trying to distract from the pain.

You slide down the wall, letting out a sob, hands moving to clamp over your ears to block out the humming sound coming from somewhere inside of the room.

—

You hate the hospital wing of District Thirteen.

Surprisingly, it has nothing to do with the fact of how the medical team is treating you. For once in your life, they couldn’t be more considerate and caring about your feelings. It’s refreshing, considering you’ve been in and out of the hospital since you won the Hunger Games.

The Capitol didn’t catch that your immune system was weaker than it had been before. You were home for a week before you caught the nasty disease that was going around the district. You spend two and a half months in the hospital trying to recover and leave. 

You honestly thought you were miserable in the arena, but it was nothing compared to how they treated you in the Four hospital. You know it was nothing personal, that’s how they treated all their patients. It was just so odd to see so much aggression in a place of healing.

There were a few times you almost left the hospital without being discharged because you couldn’t handle it anymore. It’s difficult to deal with that behavior in such a fragile state of mind. You couldn’t sleep because of the nightmares that plagued you, you were hardly eating because every bite made you nauseous.

The only reason why you were convinced to stay each time was because of Finnick. You think you remember him telling you that you could risk putting yourself in more danger if you didn’t stay. The last thing you wanted to do after you won the Games was die when you got home.

When you told that story to the Head Doctor here—mostly the part that you hate hospitals, in hopes that he would change his mind and let you stay in your own dorm—he hung onto that story, and a certain factor about it. Like how you didn’t mention Finnick in a negative light.

Those times in the hospital could’ve very well have been Finnick drawing you in. You smelt honey each time you were around him, making you feel safe enough to land. And the second you did, he trapped you.

The doctor won’t let you leave, no matter how many times you beg him to.

Like you said, you completely understand that they’re just doing their jobs when they come to check on you, and accompany you to the bathroom, and take you for walks around the hallways. The issue is that there’s nothing more you want right now than to be left alone.

When they hover like this, it’s like they’re trying to set you back. They did this in the Capitol, hovered over your smallest movements, made you second-guess your sentences. Now, you’re always waiting for the nurses here to say something like they did, always waiting for the drop that’ll never come.

“Do you want to go around one more time?” The nurse asks.

“No, I’m done.” 

There’s no point in walking around these halls. There’s nothing to look at, no rooms to look inside of. All it does is leave you to your thoughts, because half of the time, the nurses can’t bring themselves to carry a conversation. You might as well stay inside of your room.

“You remember that you’re supposed to be pushing yourself, right?” She asks.

“He wants me to push myself to walk in a rectangle?” You snap back, looking at her, “I can obviously walk just fuckin’ fine. They didn’t break my fucking legs.”

“It’s to keep up your stamina.”

“If you wanted to test my stamina, then you’d let me walk around the entire bunker and keep your fucking mouth shut to see how long I’ll go for.” You shake your head, rounding the corner to go inside of your assigned room.

You make it two steps before you stop, eyes locked on the foreign object. Your foot moves back to get you out of there, but you know that there’s nowhere to run to, anymore. You need clearance to get through the doors, and you can’t do it without one of the nurse’s approval.

You would’ve snuck out by now if you could.

Your arms wrap around your upper body to hug yourself, fingers digging into your upper arm’s flesh to ground yourself.

It’s just a vase of flowers, it can’t hurt you. What can, is the thought of him being in here, delivering these himself. What else can be in here? What of your belongings did he touch? Is this why the nurses insisted that you get out of bed at that exact moment.

“(Y/n)?”

“Was he in here?” The words are harsh.

“No, we don’t let visitors back here, they are to wait in the lobby.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your voice is surprisingly measured, despite the uncontrollable urge to freak out. You grip your arms tighter, “Was he in here?”

She’s silent for a few seconds, “Yes.”

“Why on earth would you let him?” You tear your eyes from the flowers, “Who approved of that?”

“Doctor Hurley did.” She says, “There’s been so much progress between you two, so he allowed Finnick to come in here on special request to deliver a gift. He picked the flowers himself this morning. He wanted them at their freshest.

You begin to take deep breaths, trying to calm yourself, “I don’t understand.”

“What’s the matter?”

“You let him in my space?” You ask, tears building in your eyes. You can’t be safe, not even back here, in an area where you can’t escape if he were here. Is he here? “The one place that he wasn’t supposed to have access to? You let him in here? What did he touch? Did he leave?”

There’s a smile that hints at the corners of her lips. He must’ve talked to her, that’s the only reason why she thinks it’s okay. He told her the same sob story that he told you to get you to stay. She’s supposed to be on your side.

You start inside of your room, one long stride after the other, hand reaching for the clear vase of colorful flowers, paired together to show the end of summer, the beginning of fall. There’s a few long leaves sticking out, giving you more of the outdoors.

You twist around, letting out a scream as you throw the vase at the nurse. She jumps out of the way, making it shatter against the concrete wall instead, glass bursting into pieces, flying in every direction. The bundle of flowers lands in the puddle of glass and water.

—

“I want to go to the cafeteria to eat!” You shout, hand flying out in the direction of the door, “I don’t understand why Peeta’s allowed to go and I’m not!”

Doctor Hurley is shaking his head at you, face twisted like it always is when he’s delivering bad news. Behind him stands Boggs, the head of security, arms crossed and waiting in the doorway. You demanded to see both of them today, because it would be the only way to appeal to both at the same time.

“It’s not an act of unfairness, (Y/n).” Doctor Hurley says, “Let’s say you have an episode, there’s a chance you could trigger both Johanna and Peeta at the same time too. And it’s vice versa with Peeta.”

“You really think that Peeta’s aggression could set me off?” You ask, “Peeta and I might have had the same treatment, but it was obviously done in different ways. He’s aggressive towards Katniss, and they made me afraid of Finnick.”

“Yes, precisely.” 

You turn your attention to Boggs, “Please, you know that my first reaction wouldn’t be to fight. The first thing that I’d do is run. All you’d have to do is worry about getting Peeta under control.”

“We would still have to spend time finding you after you run. That first day you came here, you only had access to the hospital wing, and it took hours for us to find you. It’ll take longer, possibly days, if you went hiding here.” Boggs says.

“Yet you were able to find Katniss each time she hid, right?” You shoot back, watching his face twist. “Yeah, I know about that because of Haymitch. And worst-case scenario, if you can’t find me, I come down from the hysteria and come out myself.” Now you look back at Hurley, “You’ve been teaching me self-soothing techniques for a reason to bring myself back down when I’m feeling that way.”

Hurley shakes his head, “This is not a time to put that to the test.”

You cross your arms, shaking your head, “Then why don’t you send Johanna or Peeta to their rooms? It’d be a fair trade-off.”

“We can’t, we’re under special orders from Coin to continue to push his progress. We need him outside of his comfort zone.” Boggs says, “And Johanna’s stable enough to mix her with the other victors. We can’t risk a third.”

“So he’s the golden one, again?” You ask, “You say that it’s not a matter of being unfair, but that’s exactly what it is.”

“(Y/n), why don’t you go down on a different day?” Hurley asks, “It’ll still let you feel some sense of normalcy.”

You slam your fists into the desk, the tray full of food rattles against the wood, “You only let them go down once a week! I don’t want to sit with people I don’t know! I want the victors, for fuck’s sake!” You scoot away from the table, back further onto the bed to give you more leg mobility. This is when you draw your leg back and kick the table so it topples over, the tray hits the floor, food splattering up the wall. “I want to see Finnick!”

The room’s silent for a good minute, while you struggle to get your emotions under control, realizing that this is exactly what they meant about you triggering Peeta and Johanna. These outbursts don’t help you, but what else are you supposed to do? They don’t listen to you. They back you into a corner and give you solutions you don’t care about. 

“You said—” You begin, wiping the tears that are forming in the corners of your eyes away, “You said that denying me things like this is a step back.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Hurley says.

“It feels like you’re trying to keep me from moving forward, by keeping me away from them. How am I supposed to know how to act around them, if you don’t give me a chance?” You ask, “I want an opportunity.”

Boggs watches you for a few more seconds, and then he lets out a sigh, “Tell the nurses to give her a jumpsuit.”

Hurley turns to look at him, “After this?” He motions to the mess on the floor, “How do you think Peeta will react?”

“I think Peeta’s shown a lot of empathy for the people that were with him in the Capitol, recently.” Boggs says, “He’s made it a long way as well, and I’m not going to prioritize him. If there’s a step back, fine. We have another couple of weeks to work on it.”

“If you think so.” Hurley looks at you, “We’ll have a nurse bring a jumpsuit. Boggs will bring you down.”

“Thank you.”

Both of them leave, heading in the direction of the nurse station at the end of the hall. You try not to bother them too much if you don’t have to. They’ve begun to lift a lot of the restrictions they’ve put on you, which is a relief. It’s driving you crazy to be treated like a child.

While you wait, you go over to clean up the mess you made. You place the table upright, and get to work on using napkins to scoop the specific portions of food back onto the metal tray. By the time Boggs comes back, the food is relatively gone, and you can’t even tell you knocked the table over.

He hands over your new outfit, one that you’ve worn a few times before. You take it, and shuffle inside of the bathroom. You use the one hair tie they allow you to have to tie your hair out of your face, and then you change into the grey outfit. You leave the bathroom, pulling on your flats, because that’s all they allow you to have. 

Boggs escorts you out of your room, down a hall and through a pair of swinging doors. They moved you out of the first area because you stopped showing a threat of escaping. You nearly cried when they told you the news, because the nurses there are significantly meaner than the ones over here. And they’ve told you several times that they would never have let Finnick go into your room like that, regardless of what Doctor Hurley approved.

The moment you step foot out of the hospital, you wrap your arms around your body to hold in the anxiety that’s beginning to bubble inside of you. In a few days, it would’ve been two weeks since you last saw Finnick. You’re not used to him being away for so long, especially with how persistent he is. You’ve been told by the nurses that it’s because he’s working on something with Coin, Plutarch and Haymitch.

When you asked more about it, you were told that they didn’t know anything. And even if they did, they wouldn’t be allowed to tell you, because you haven’t hit that stage yet. Yes, you’re a victor, and you’ve just managed to survive the Capitol, but that doesn’t give you a rite of passage here.

Boggs brings you to an elevator, where he has you step inside, and then pulls the door down. He presses a button on a box next to him, and the two of you begin your descent to the cafeteria’s floor. The elevator’s not even close to as nice as the ones from the Capitol, those ones move smoothly and noiselessly.

It stops, he pulls the door open, and leads you to the cafeteria doors. He stops in front of them, “If you feel the need to leave, you have to let me know.”

“I will.” You nod.

“We’ll grab you a tray, and then sit down with them. Lunch just started, it should be over in thirty minutes.”

You nod again, letting him know you’re listening. He goes through the doors, and you follow behind him, hugging yourself tighter to give you something to focus on. A few people glance to look at you, but their eyes don’t linger for very long, returning to the person they’re talking to.

Boggs brings you to the short line that leads to the window where you get your food. When it’s your turn, the lady on the other side gives you a wide smile, and tells you to enjoy. You wonder how many of the people in here know who you are.

Boggs starts walking away, and you follow behind him, taking deep breaths to calm yourself, because you can no longer hug yourself. You’ve got the tray in your hands, something to focus on.

“Mind if we join you?” Boggs says, stepping aside.

You suck in your bottom lip, giving a smile to the table of victor’s in front of you.

“I was wondering when they’d finally let you out of your cell.” Johanna says first, motioning to the one open spot, “We have so much to catch up on.”

“Trust me, it was a fight to even come eat lunch down here.” You set the tray on the table, and then move to sit on the bench. Peeta scoots over to give you more room, “If it weren’t for Boggs, I’d be eating my lunch off of the floor.”

He laughs behind you.

“Lucky you.” Peeta murmurs, “You do that often?”

You breathe out a laugh, “I try not to anymore.”

You pick up the fork, twisting it in your hand, looking up to see exactly who you’re sitting with. Johanna’s sitting across from you, with one leg up on the bench, leaning into it while she eats. Peeta’s sitting to your right, his own personal bodyguards tower behind him, they must not bother him.

Katniss is sitting across from Peeta, but she’s more toward the end of the table, eating with the man you saw on your first day, the one she couldn’t see, Gale. On the other side of Johanna sits a blonde girl, twirling her hair around her finger. She offers you a wide smile.

And the last person, who was on the other side of Peeta—now next to you—is…

You swallow thickly at the sight of Finnick, feeling your heart begin to beat faster in your chest. Usually when you see him, it’s across a table, at the far side so that you’re not close. Always your request, never his. He goes along with it because he doesn’t want you feeling uncomfortable.

You have to quickly remind yourself that he won’t hurt you. Doctor Hurley and his team of doctors have been working hard to try and reverse the damage that was done in the Capitol. However, if there’s one thing that people tend to hold onto the most, it’s fear. 

Finnick raises his eyebrows, the small smile he was holding is slowly fading, “Do you want me to move?”

You shake your head, “No, I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, “It wouldn’t be a big deal, you didn’t know—”

“I’m sure.” You smile, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I heard you’re working on some projects with Beetee?”

Finnick’s expression transforms entirely, lighting up, “Yes, he’s showing me new trident designs. You’d love them, he made one the other day that made me think of you. It had these vines that snaked around the handle, and bright colorful flowers. It’s not practical to use, but I know how you like the prettier looks.”

“Maybe you can show me the next time we have our meeting. It was on paper, right?”

“Yeah, I think he made a small prototype, it’s plastic, so hopefully it’ll pass through the doors.” Finnick shrugs.

“That sounds nice.”

Johanna lets out a scoff, “Nerds.”

—

“I still can’t believe you convinced them to let both of us up here.” You say, jogging slightly to catch up with Finnick. “And alone?”

“I have a way with words.” Finnick turns to wink at you, “You’re going to love it.”

He readjusts the bag he has on his shoulder, it’s gotta be heavy. You offered to carry some of the food inside, but he told you that he wants you to enjoy being outside again for the first time in months. 

“This is the last door.” He tells you, going through it first, and then holding it open.

The sunlight streams through the door, and blinds you on your way through. You take in a deep breath as soon as you’re fully outside. It smells so fresh, lighter than the recycled air from inside. The sun on your skin feels nice, and it’s warm. 

“Johanna would love it up here.” You murmur, crossing your arms over your chest, “Do you think they’d let her out?”

“If she shows signs of getting better, they will, but she’s having issues at the moment.” Finnick shakes his head, “I wish it could be the three of us again.”

You nod, “So where are we picnicking? Right here?”

Finnick scoffs, “Are you kidding? No, I’ve got a special spot that you’re also going to love?”

“How deep?” You ask, “We shouldn’t go too far.”

“It’s not too far, I promise. It’s closeby, Katniss showed me where it is.”

“Okay,” You motion for him to go first, “Lead the way.”

Finnick begins walking along a path that has been stomped into the ground. The two of you travel through the trees, and you can’t help yourself when you touch every green object you pass. The bark, the leaves, the grass, the rocks. You pluck a white flower out of a bush and carefully tuck it behind your ear.

“Can I ask what you and Katniss passed? I heard it was some sort of test.” You pull a leaf off of a plant to fold and pull apart while you walk. “I was going to ask Johanna but I was told I couldn’t see her.”

“I can tell you, but you can’t go and tell Boggs that I did. You can’t tell anyone, actually.” He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes lingering on the flower.

“Promise.” You smile.

“Well, they’re planning an attack on the Capitol, which you already know.” He starts, “The test Katniss and I took was to see if we were eligible to join.”

You can feel the smile disappear from your face, “Why would you want to do that?”

“To help, of course.” He says, “I was placed on the same squad as Katniss, Boggs is going to be leading it. Johanna failed the test, she freaked out. That’s why she wasn’t available for visitors. I had to fight them to be let in.”

“When are you going?” You ask, fingers gravitating toward your mouth, teeth biting onto nails.

“Soon, hopefully. We won’t know more information until we ship out.”

You’re not sure why they, Katniss and Finnick, would want to go there after seeing what happened to you, Johanna and Peeta. Haven’t they learned anything from it? What happens when they get captured? They’re automatically killed.

“That’s a bad idea.” You murmur, “For either of you to go.”

“Our luck, we won’t even be able to do any of the action.” Finnick shrugs, “I could tell by Boggs’ face that we’re going to be decoration.”

You hum, “How much farther?”

“Only a couple more minutes.” Finnick tells you.

He changes the topic, talking about Peeta’s cake decorating skills from a couple of weeks ago. They threw a party and filmed it to use for propaganda. You were in a few of the shots, but not many. The cake that Peeta made had to be carried out by four people, and they were careful not to ruin the beautiful icing that must’ve taken Peeta hours, despite his skilled hand. 

You wish you had even half the talent that he does.

“We’re going this way.” Finnick begins to go down a slope, you follow, not really paying attention.

And then you hear it, the sound of running water. You pick up speed, going right past Finnick to see if what you’re hearing is correct. You’re led to a tree, a patch of shade, and beyond that, a small cliff that leads to a shallow river.

“Oh my god!” You gasp, “You knew this was here?”

“That’s what I was bringing you to.” He laughs, placing the bag down by the tree. He reaches in to pull out the blanket, spreading it over the patch of shade.

You reach to pull off your shoes, not bothering to entertain the idea of sitting down, not with something so refreshing and familiar nearby. You throw your shoes by the end of the blanket, and move on to rolling up the legs of the jumpsuit, not wanting them to get soaking wet.

“What are you doing?” He asks, looking up at you.

“I’m getting in, of course!” You turn away from him, heading to the river.

“Wait!” He shouts behind you, getting up, “What if it’s faster than you think?”

“So be it! Let me get carried away by the waves!” You laugh, sitting down on the edge before scooting in.

You’re afraid that you’re going to land harshly on rocks, but your feet sink into mud. The water is cold, but not as bad as it can be back home in Four. It feels nice on your skin, and combined with the sun… it really is a perfect day for a picnic. 

You wade deeper into the water, feeling it go up to your knees. When you turn around, you’re met with Finnick, standing at the top, staring down at you. You splash a handful of water in his direction, letting out a laugh.

“This is so much better than taking a shower and pretending it’s raining!” You throw your head back, arms out while you spin slightly, “I love it!”

“You don’t want to eat first?” Finnick asks, laughing.

You wave the idea away, “This reminds me of the summer after I won. How we went to the beach all day, forgot sunscreen and went back home burnt to hell. It hasn’t been that hot in a long time.”

Finnick’s face twists, a pout appearing for a second, before it disappears, “I remember.”

“Get in here!” You splash at him again.

[a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual]

I can't think of a title for these clone wars headcanons

Ahsoka does this thing that never fails to get a laugh out of the people around her and it’s the fact that she calls herself an angel whenever someone calls her out for doing something bad or reminds her of something she’s done she’ll look around before going “Who me? I’m an angel”

Which has the whole group bent over laughing hysterically sometimes they’re able to choke out a sentence that sounds like “Jedi aren’t supposed to lie” or something along those lines 

So I’ve had this idea for a while but I feel like something along the lines of sign language would be necessary for the troops to know if they’re on a stealth mission 

And even tho the Jedi don’t need to sign with each other it’s kind of common practice for them to learn some to communicate with the troops

Some signs can differ from troop to troop but they’re close enough that they’re easy to understand and it’s very rare that the other troop will get confused 

Sometimes those signs will leak off the field and into their day-to-day lives most of the time the troops will use signs to be kind to their Jedi who have migraines after a difficult battle but the signs are used the most around Anakin

I feel like it would be pretty easy for Jedi to get overstimulated especially if they’re as powerful as Anakin so it’s not uncommon for him to go nonverbal after a battle or if he’s in a force rich place

If he’s only kind of overwhelmed he’ll use Ahsoka and Obi-Wan as his interpreters and talk through their bonds but sometimes even that is too much so signs like “please” “thank you” “sorry” “hungry” “thirsty” “more” or “I’m okay” become pretty commonplace

It’s not enough to hold an in-depth conversation but that usually works in Anakin’s favor because drawn-out conversations tend to make him nonverbal for longer periods

When Anakin Ahsoka and Obi-Wan are stressed it shows up when they’re asleep 

Anakin sleep talks whenever he’s even slightly worried about something he’s woken poor Ahsoka and Obi-Wan up more times than the duo can count by saying stuff like “Hey hey are you awake?” while he’s out like a light

It freaks the duo out because he’s weirdly eloquent in his sleep bro is holding entire conversations do those conversations make sense to anyone but him? No but they’re conversations nonetheless

Ahsoka sleepwalks it doesn’t matter what happens during the day if it even slightly stresses her out she’s up and out of bed the second she’s slightly asleep it scared the force out of Anakin the first time she sleepwalked in their quarters because she was just standing over him menacingly 

The first time Obi-Wan was introduced to Ahsoka’s sleepwalking was during a sleepover that the trio was having and he had just drifted off to sleep when he heard the buzz of two lightsabers in the other room

Both he and Anakin walked into the kitchen to find Ahsoka standing with her sabers activated she wasn’t in a fighting stance by any means so they could easily disarm her but all Anakin did was ask “You want water snips?” and she nodded while holding out her sabers which he easily grabbed

Only after Ahsoka had a nice glass of water and laid back down did Obi-Wan ask questions the main one being “Is that normal?” and Anakins replies “Well the sabers are new” like someone talking about the weather 

It wasn’t until morning that the trio discovered Anakin and Ahsoka’s kitchen table was cut in half the togruta was incredibly apologetic but Anakin was just impressed that she managed to do it without waking them

Normally Obi-Wan snores like a lawn mower but when he’s stressed he grinds his teeth the real kicker is he grinds them so hard that it’s just as loud as the snoring and the only difference is the poor man wakes up with a sore locked jaw

One time Anakin heard a shiny say that they could never tell what Ahsoka was thinking and the other commented that she’s “like a vault” which had him doubled over in almost painful laughter 

When one of them finally gained the courage to ask him what was so funny he just said “If you wanna know what she’s thinking look at her face” and he’s not wrong girly has the most expressive face it’s like looking at glass

But the people who love her hope that trait never changes cause there’s nothing quite like seeing her face twist as she has to talk to some dirtbag or light up when she gets a compliment 

Recently I got some ideas when it comes to Clone Wars characters and baking

Anakin is one of the best damn cooks in the galaxy he’s also really good at making a meal out of virtually nothing it’s scary impressive but on the other hand the man can’t bake for shit

Cause with cooking measurements aren’t really needed in fact on Tatooine people would scoff if you asked for them but it’s kind of the opposite for baking unless you’ve been doing it for a very long time

So Anakin “Just pour it until it looks good” Skywalker hates baking with a burning passion which is funny because he’s got a sweet tooth the size of a gundark

Ahsoka’s only really used to cooking by Anakin’s side which results in her only really remembering half the recipe like girl can mince like no one else but she can’t make a full dish without calling Anakin to ask for help 

But baking is where this girl thrives she loves to bake and try new recipes which works out because Anakin’s the human equivalent of a garbage disposal with the aforementioned sweet tooth

Cody is pretty proficient at cooking and baking he doesn’t do anything fancy and he doesn’t really like doing either he mostly learned out of necessity cause

Obi-Wan and Rex can’t cook or bake for shit and they’re perfectly fine with that fact like they’re a-ok with living off government rations if it means they never have to step foot in a kitchen 

Padme sweet angel lovely girl thinks she can cook and bake can she….. No

But the thing is she tries so hard and puts her whole heart and soul into her cooking and baking so everyone tries to act like she can it’s the galaxies best kept secret and it’s one that everyone’s happy to keep

There was one time when that secret was almost spilled on Ahsoka’s birthday when Padme offered to make her cake and no one could warn the poor girl cause that would spoil the surprise party

All Anakin could do to rectify the situation was buy a cake from his and Ahsoka’s favorite bakery and hide it in their quarters after the party

During the actual party Anakin pulled her off to the side to warn her just before the cake could be brought out and from an outsider's perspective it looked like a sweet moment between the siblings 

But in actuality all was going on this “Soka you know how you said I was the best master you could ask for” “Yes I said it when I first walked in are you finally going senile” “Well remember all that love when I ask you for the biggest favor” “which is?” “Padme made your cake” “No” “And I need you to act like you love it” “Anakin please if you love me at all” “If you love me you’ll eat the cake and tell her you love it and once the parties over you’ll get to eat your favorite cake in the whole wide world”

And they kind of just sit there and Anakin swears a few tears fall before Ahsoka says “Fine” and he hugs the everloving force out of her before they walk over to eat a slice of the galaxy's prettiest abomination 

[snakegorl212006]

The “Little Things” they do Octavinelle

------Jade----------------------------- “Chamomile tea.i made it myself” jade said not bothered by my loud scream when he came out of nowhere holding a tray with a tea set. “Jade…it’s 3am” I mumbled as he placed the tray on the nightstand. jade pours the tea in the cup and hands it to me “it helps with restless nights according to online forms” jade smiled. He bore his heterochromic eyes at me. Feeling pressured I moved the cup closer to my lips and sip the drink. It was sweet and earthy tasting. It’s not bad. I gulped down the rest of the cup not realizing how thirsty I was. “Thank you” I said, “it’s nothing to thank me for. I'm just doing my duties” he replied as he sat down on the bed next to me glancing and smiling….weird “If you have the time I’ll like for you to join me in the terrarium” jade asked “sure” i replied. I followed jade out to the terrarium where the mushrooms grew nicely and beautifully. “There’s something i wanted to show you” he said as he leads me to a patch of herbs “you grow you’re own tea” i asked “of course. When the lounge was up in business, we only accepted the top quality of ingredients in our foods” he explained “beside how else would our killing be so effective” he adds glancing at me with a smile. I figured he would say something creepy. “Chamomile tea was your favorite so we grew some for you” jade adds as he picks the herbs “i never told you any info like that” i replied “yes you have” he replied “perhaps you don’t remember our time together.or maybe you forgot when you killed me” he said as he gathers the herbs in a bag “no matter. When you join us, maybe we can forgive each other to resume our lifes as normal” he smiles “oh can you water the shrooms, they require much moisture” he adds as he leaves me. I just nod, recovering from the strange revelation. I shook it off soon after. He might be thinking of someone else. I haven’t killed anyone.

------Azul------------------------------------- Azul hasn't been his usual self lately. I would even say he’s gotten soft. More vulnerable. At Least when we’re alone. When I clean he offers to help like most of the others but then there’s the gift giving and late night visits where he clings on to me like his life depends on it. “Which place do you like more.” azul asked randomly “the main house it’s the only place where I could be at peace now days” i replied “how about clothing” he asked “how is this relevant” i asked “just humor me I’m going to be busy. Now how about flowers-” he asked. I sighed and humor him by answering the questions and with a satisfying smile he left. Weird guy. Later on that night i was awakened by a shift in weight a opened my eyes to see a knife stabbing down at me. Quickly i moved to one side briefly dodging the crashing knife. I push the assalent off and turns out to be azul “i knew it..” he mumbled as he gets up and sighs “it’s all the same. Just when I hoped to have a different outcome…I suppose I can be more patient” he mumbles while brushing his hair back. “Have a good night.” azul said as he disappeared, dropping the knife. What was that even for!?

------Floyd--------------------------------------- “Shrimpy~ come out come out i wanna play some more~” Floyd teased as i hid in a room. Him and his bipolar never fails to scare me “please come~ out i’ll make it less painful if you do” Floyd adds as the dragging of a axe was heard -earler- “SHrimpy~” Floyd cheered as he pulls me into a suffocating hug “i messed you~ azul hogged you all day” he exclaimed “sorry i guess..well i’m free if there is something you want me to do” i asked and he thought then smiled “how about my favorite” he asked “i’m not playing extreme water polo with you” i deadpanned “aw. How about a shot off” he asked. Assuming he means water guns i just nod “i’ll go get some” i said then i left. After a quick trip to sam’s shop for some water guns, i entered into the household only for a bullet to miss me by a hair. There infront of me was a revolver held in the hands of floyd. When he pulled the trigger again it jameed “aw.. That ruins the fun” He pouts “what is that noise” Azul asked then he saw the scene displayed “so you finally wished to become one of us” azul asked seemly quite happy "NO" i shouted "well we can't play shoot out you always win anyway… Welp i guess we're playing tag instead.  Then i hear the lock of the door behind me "have fun" jade said before disappearing. "10-"

Now i'm hiding from floyd who somehow gained a axe trying to find a window or something. I sneaked around to another room were a window was present. I unlocked the window and jumped out of the building and booked it back to ramshackle and slammed the door behind me.i breath a sigh of relief as i slid down to the floor in a huff. Note to self no more games with floyd- crack. The head of the axe crash into the door above me “aww i can’t go in there” floyd pouts “until next time I’ll make sure I win”

[carniferous]

hi dil beloved <3 i'm here to get a tiny bite out of ur brain <3 and be insane over ur writing once again <333

idk how vague u want the concepts to be so . jegulus sick fic??? or drunk shenanigans?? i'll take literally anything

laurieee laurie my love!! okay this ask made me remember something: when i was first drafting ibhfts, i had this vague idea that james would get sick at one point during the fic? it was going to be towards the end but i ended up scrapping this idea because it wouldn't really fit with how the plot has developed so far. but really the MAIN reason i wanted to include it so badly is bc i loveeee sickfics (like. i love them so much) so i decided to use this opportunity to write out a little scene that could've been in that version of ibhfts

just fyi this scene will NOT be in ibhfts but it does contain mild spoilers for ch 13 and potentially events that will happen in future chapters. this one is also completely unedited btw !!

It really does serve James right for laughing at him. He hadn’t even cast an Impervious before trekking about in the rain without a care, and then he’d had the gall to laugh in Regulus’s face, to clutch at Regulus’s hands as they toweled off his hair, say What are you so worried about? I don’t get sick! Regulus tries not to feel smug about it as James sniffles and shivers under the covers—and then, perhaps deservedly, James’s bleary, pitiful expression every time he opens his eyes makes it difficult to feel smug about anything.

“You’re such a baby,” he murmurs, practically croons as he strokes the back of his finger against James’s feverish face. “Seriously, who gets sick from being out in the rain? You’re supposed to be a Quidditch player.”

James groans hoarsely, “You’re being mean. Here I am suffering, and you’re being mean to me. What if I died? What then?” 

“You just have a cold, for Merlin’s sake,” he replies, grinning, a strange glee rising up in him at James’s prone and vulnerable state. At how pitiful he is.

“How do you know? You’re not a Healer.”

“Your mother’s a Healer, you idiot, and she says you have a cold.”

“I’m dying,” James whines.

“Baby,” says Regulus, and he means it as a taunt, but it comes out strange and tinged with too much affection. James’s eyes open, his gaze heavy-lidded, curious. Regulus feels heat pool in his spine. 

He shoots to his feet, cheeks warming. “Are you thirsty? I’ll get you some water.”

Somehow, James’s silence as he leaves makes him feel even more unsteady. He has to force his hands to stop shaking long enough for him to pour the water.

When he returns upstairs, James has fallen asleep. His eyelashes flutter as the door opens, his hand curls gently in the sheets. As quietly as possible, Regulus sets the glass down on his bedside table and leaves. 

The day passes like that, strangely quiet without James’s usual energy filling the house. Sirius doesn’t come downstairs, which is simultaneously a blessing and something that sends anxiety skittering across his skin. Regulus keeps searching for him in his periphery. He can’t help it. Back at home, Sirius had the unsettling habit of materializing in doorways, hallways, anywhere to startle Regulus. Sirius’s loud boisterousness was mostly show; he could move as silently as a mouse when he wanted to. As silently as their mother.

It doesn’t matter, though. In the end, it’s Regulus who ends up finding Sirius. 

He’s carrying a bowl of soup on a tray when he opens the door to James’s room. Sirius sits at his bedside. He glances over his shoulder at Regulus, surveys him impassively.

“He’s asleep,” Sirius says.  

Regulus feels his grip tighten reflexively on the tray. He swallows, forces himself to set it down on the nightstand. 

“I’ll leave it here for him.” A pause, then, “He slept the whole day?”

Sirius hums an affirmative, leaning over to rest his chin in the palm of his hand. He stares up at Regulus with a quizzical, probing look in his eyes.

Suddenly, Regulus is tired of it. The way that Sirius has been since he returned, neutral and observant—watchful gaze keeping track of Regulus’s every movement, every expression, as though looking to catch him in something. Silently judging Regulus for the space he takes up in Godric’s Hollow.

If you didn’t want me to live here, Regulus thinks, you shouldn’t have let me.

“You’re worried about him,” Sirius says slowly, with great finality. 

“It’s a cold,” says Regulus. “I’d be stupid to be worried.”

Sirius arches a brow. Regulus feels himself flush. 

“He was saying your name in his sleep. James,” as though he could’ve been talking about anyone else. 

Regulus bites the inside of his cheek. His mind races for a response. 

That’s what’s been irritating him. Sirius is too fucking perceptive. He knows Regulus too well. He knows James even better. And there’s nothing he hates more than being kept in the dark.

“He kept asking where you were going. He seemed upset.”

“What’s your point?”

“He dreamt of you, Regulus,” Sirius says, still with that slow and impassive finality, circling around some realization that he wants Regulus to confirm.

Well, bully for him. Regulus makes a show of rolling his eyes: “A fever dream. Again, your point?”

“I was gone for a while,” Sirius muses, almost to himself. But when his eyes flick upwards, they’re needle-sharp. “Not that long, though.”

“Are you enjoying being needlessly cryptic, or are you eventually going to say what you mean?”

“Something happened between you two,” he says. “Didn’t it?”

Another eye-roll. This is a practiced thing, indifference towards Sirius and his endless suspicions. Regulus was twelve years old when he realized that the more he cared what Sirius thought of him, the more Sirius could hurt him. He was twelve years old when he learned that Sirius would hurt him, given the opportunity.

“Lots of things happened. Like you said,” Regulus meets his gaze, “You were gone a long time.”

Sirius grins. It’s not a nice grin. If James were awake to see it, Regulus thinks he’d be shocked at such an expression on his best friend’s face.

Regulus says, eyes narrowed, “Besides, you asked him to take care of me. Didn’t you?”

The grin falls away. “Well, fuck. I didn’t think he’d tell you that.”

“Thank you for that, by the way,” says Regulus. “Next time you ask one of your friends to babysit me, try to show a bit more discretion.”

“Piss off,” says Sirius, looking genuinely a bit abashed. “As if I was wrong to be worried.”

“Why? Because I’d ruin your darling reputation by being so horrible to the Potters?”

Sirius blinks at him, long and slow. “Because you’d just run away from home after our mother crucio’d you, you git.”

“Oh.” Regulus falls silent. His gaze falls on James’s sleeping face, still flush with fever, a sheen of sweat on his brow. 

He doesn’t know what shows in his expression, but when he looks back up, Sirius is staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Merlin,” he says.

“What?”

“You—”

“Reg?” A slurred voice, heavy with sleep, and Regulus turns immediately. James cracks his eyes open, and a grin spreads over his face. “Hi, Reg. Where’d you go?”

“I—” Regulus darts a half-panicked glance towards Sirius. “I was just letting you sleep.”

“I couldn’t find you.”

Sirius clears his throat loudly. James blinks, and some awareness seems to come back to him.

“Padfoot,” he says, pushing himself up onto his elbows. 

“Hey, Prongs,” Sirius says, full of warmth. “When’re you getting out of this bed, huh?”

“Not soon enough. How long were you sitting there?”

His smile turns blithe, “A while. I’m starving, though, gonna grab something to eat. Rest up, okay?”

James nods as Sirius gets up and leaves, sending Regulus a long, searching look on his way out. Regulus can’t help the breath he releases when the door clicks shut.

“He suspects,” says Regulus.

“Who, Sirius?” James tilts his head to the side, unconcerned, and pushes himself into a sitting position. “Probably.”

“I wish you’d sound more worried about that.”

James hums noncommittally. “Is that soup?”

“James,” Regulus sighs, but he still takes the tray and places it carefully in James’s lap. 

James spoons the soup into his mouth thoughtfully, “He’ll have to find out eventually, you know.”

“You and I share different opinions on that.”

“Yeah, and your opinion makes no sense. How would we keep it from him? Logistically, how would that work?”

“I’ve kept bigger things from Sirius.”

“I haven’t.”

A pause. Regulus looks down at his lap, at his hands laid over one another, murmurs, “I know, James.”

James sets down the spoon. Wordlessly, he reaches over and brushes his thumb down the side of Regulus’s face, a soothing gesture. Regulus leans into the touch, drops his cheek into James’s waiting palm. Lets the solid warmth of it seep into his skin. 

“I just don’t see the point,” James says softly. “The longer we keep it from him, the harder it will be to eventually tell him.”

“It’ll always be hard to tell him, no matter what.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he’ll think I’m trying to take you from him.”

James looks at him incredulously, guilelessly, “But you’re not.”

Regulus’s mouth twitches, and he turns his face into James’s palm to hide his tiny smile. He presses a kiss there—once, then twice. He thinks of being  eleven and watching Sirius walk away from him with an arm slung around James’s shoulders. Of being thirteen and knowing desire, real desire, for the first time: at the sight of James laughing at a joke Sirius was telling him.

“No,” he whispers, and he presses his face deeper into the skin of James’s open hand. “Of course I’m not.”

[ltbarnes]

Anachronism - Part III

Or the placing of persons, events, objects, or customs in times to which they do not belong

Summary: Sprained ankles, snowstorms, blood-thirsty wolves and feral super soldiers. What was supposed to be a peaceful walk in the woods surrounding the cabin you're staying in with your best friend Steve quickly turns devastating, forcing your path to cross with the mysterious and burly man who can't seem to grasp social cues and the concept of privacy. His past is a puzzle that can't seem to be solved and your feelings for the sweet and giant man quickly develop from friendly gratitude to something neither of you can't quite grasp.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader, Steve Rogers x fem!reader

Word count: 9.5k (this got out of hand)

Warnings: Bigfoot!Bucky, 6'6" Bucky (he's massive. so beefy), manhandling, SMUT (18+), p in v sex, oral (f receiving), angst

A/N: this is almost a week late, I’m so sorry!! school has been crazy now before the break, but I finally got this part done. things happen in this one! a lot of progress in the relationship and some drama too

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Read my new story Resurrection here!

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • •

Three days.

The sun has once more set and you're still left in the cabin, three days after you first left the safe and nice house belonging to your boss. Three days since you met what could possibly be the sweetest and most caring person you have ever gotten the chance to know. Three days of Steve not knowing where you are.

You've been stuck in your own thoughts the entire evening, staring out of the window into the snow-covered evergreens. Winter is sulking because of your distance by interrupting the silence with a grunt or huff every now and then, trying to get your attention without saying anything. It reminds you a little bit of the dog your family had when you were a child.

And it's cute, a few hours ago you would have to stop yourself from throwing yourself at him, but you're just too worried. The thought of Steve being out there in the snow all alone searching for you is terrifying. The thought that he's not, that no one is looking, is even more terrifying. In reality, spending resources on a mere assistant who got herself lost in the woods during a snowstorm might not be very tempting for anyone. But you mean more than that to him, don't you? Steve might not be head over heels for you, but you're still best friends.

Five minutes ago, you think, Winter put food in front of you and nudged the plate your way. You haven't touched it yet, despite him looking at you expectantly for the entirety of the duration.

"Do you know what Christmas is?" you ask him suddenly, as if your mind hasn't been occupied by the most depressing thoughts known to man for several hours.

Winter does something likened to a flinch when he hears your voice. It makes you feel bad. You've been neglecting him the entire evening to feel sorry for yourself.

He only shakes his head in answer, nibbling on his food silently. He's not looking at you.

"It's Christmas in a few days. I was supposed to spend it with my friends back in upstate New York where I live," you tell him, lowering your gaze to the plate in front of you.

Your stomach is two seconds away from grumbling, yet you have no appetite. But Winter has been looking so upset over you not eating that you take a bite anyways.

With food in your mouth, and his gaze on you once more, you continue to tell him about something he probably does not care about.

"Usually this time of year everyone puts colorful lights up on their houses, and eat a lot of good food. And give each other presents if they can afford it."

"Presents?" Winter asks, a low mumble that sounds uninterested, but the twinkle in his eyes says differently about his curiosity.

You smile, the first one for the day. "Yes, presents. Things that you give each other to show how much you appreciate and like them. Maybe to family or friends or if you have someone you're in love with."

Winter looks like he contemplates something—thinking it over so thoroughly that his brows furrow—before he gives you a gentle nod.

"And some people have a Christmas tree. Just like the ones right outside here." You point out through the window. "You put lights in them and colorful things so they're all pretty."

"Sounds so weird," he murmurs in answer, drawing a faint chuckle from your lips.

"Yeah, it is kind of weird."

A sigh leaves you that leads into several seconds of silence. There's still a cloud hanging over the two of you that hasn't really been dissolved. You haven't been fair to him and the both of you know that.

"I'm sorry for not talking to you tonight," you say. "I've just been a little sad."

Winter looks up at you hastily, drilling those icy blue eyes into your flesh until it heats under his attention. His lips have never looked as pink and full as they do right now. At least for the duration of your unconventional friendship.

"Why?" he asks, moving a barely noticeable inch closer along with your words.

"I'm worried that the ones looking for me might get hurt out in the snowstorm. Or that no one is looking for me at all."

You exhale loudly with a sniffle, more so because of the incoming cold rather than tears. 

"Can stay here. With me." He barely looks at you, cheeks and ears flushing a shade of red you have yet to witness on him.

"I know, Winter. I know."

After the food is cleared from your plate and a few hours of talking, of Winter asking you endless questions about the peculiar things you tell him about, you're laying next to him in the tiny bed. He's wrapped and tangled around you so tightly you wouldn't be able to escape even if you wanted to.

It's starting to become a comfortable habit, sleeping next to him. You're afraid you won't be able to fall asleep without him when you get back.

"Why awake?" he whispers after what must have been an hour of you staring up into the dark ceiling. Winter's head rests on your chest, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Giant.

"Just thinking," you answer quietly.

"No sad?" he asks without ever opening his eyes. "Don't like when you are sad."

Your lips find their way to his head, resting softly before pressing against his hair. "No sad this time. Go back to sleep, okay?"

He nods reluctantly. Winter doesn't fall asleep until he hears your breathing even out, until your eyes have fluttered closed and tiredness has finally dragged you down.

Sweet man.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

When you wake up, Winter is not there. By the light you can tell it's already long past morning, and you've probably been sleeping for a long time.

Stretching out in the bed with a yawn, a few minutes pass by before manage to sit up. The daily check up on your foot reveals that the swelling is almost entirely gone. It didn't hurt as much last night, but there's still pain each time you put too much pressure on it.

Instead of panicking over Winter's absence, you pin it down to him being out on a food run and instead haul yourself over to the fireplace to grab the empty pot standing beside it.

It's freezing cold outside when you scoop up snow into the copper, and shiver still when you're watching the water move up to a boil over the fire.

What must be a good while later, after heavy reflection and discussion with yourself, you know you have to change shirts. The one you're wearing right now is sweaty and stained and outright gross. The one you came in has been hand washed in warm water you boiled yesterday, and has dried completely by now.

The old shirt is thrown over a chair while the new is searched for inside of the cabin. And you find it, laid prettily on the couch underneath a knife. Limping to the other side of the room, you squint until you can really see what it is. It's the one Winter was carving the first night.

Smooth wooden carvings are turned around in your palm as the door is opened, bringing in a snow-covered Winter to the cabin with dozens of newly chopped logs in his arms. You're not really paying attention and neither is he, because while he thinks you're still sleeping, you get up to your feet with your gaze still stuck on the handmade knife.

"Did you make th—"

A shirtless Winter stands with his back turned, revealing the intricate map of muscles underneath his skin. Sweat coats his body from what must have been a grueling session of chopping firewood and you're suddenly speechless.

The power you've possessed these past few days, the one that made you hold back and control yourself, is slipping out of your grasp. When Winter turns around, he's met with your gaze boring into his very soul, pupils blown wide and chest heaving.

He must notice the change in you—it feels so painstakingly obvious, the way your thighs are pressing together and lips part in lust.

There's a low rumble coming from the very depths of his chest, skin flushed and glistening with sweat. His long hair covers his face but you can still see his eyes—the ones that are pinpointing you in place where you stand breathing shallowly. You don't know if you should run away or towards him. He's big and threatening and so beautiful as he stands there wanting you.

An involuntary whine from your throat breaks the trance-like staring contest that has occupied you for half a minute, and you know in your gut that you can't even stop yourself now. It's him, thoroughly and completely, the only remedy to the incurable condition of being so taken by someone you can barely breathe without them.

Winter crosses the room and has his hands on you in a mere second. And there's not a passionate and heart stopping meeting of your lips that follows—instead his face snuggles into the crook of your neck while he presses your body into his.

He's rubbing his face against yours, inhaling your scent and licking your skin. It's shameless and so very him. Winter is humming and growling while you're whining for more. All you manage to do is squeeze his arms, holding him closer despite it being impossible.

"Winter," you pant, sliding your hands up to his face. The skin of your palms meets the rough stubble on his cheeks, creating friction that is slightly painful but entirely ignored.

His pupils are blown wide as you guide your lips to his, pressing softly to begin with before Winter has had enough of your gentleness. It's messy and not entirely comfortable when your teeth clash and he uses too much tongue, but you love it—the unrestrained need overtaking his urges to the point where he doesn't care as long as he can have his mouth on you.

Winter ruts against your legs, pressing his hardened cock against you like an animal in heat. You think maybe that is exactly what he is. And the kiss doesn't last longer than a minute—he has so many parts of you that needs to be discovered. Frustrated and impatient hands grab at the fabric of your shirt, tugging instead of tearing it away as it seems like he wants to do.

"Off. Off, please," he breathes out, eyes zoned in on the outline of your pebbled nipples against the burgundy fabric.

Your shirt is thrown away carelessly and without aim a few seconds later. And there they are—your breasts right in front of Winter once more. Those wonderful and soft things that has made him go crazy these past four days. Ever since you let him touch them the second day he's been staring at them every now and then without subtlety, shamelessly ogling even with a shirt covering you.

When you push the straps off your shoulders, reaching behind your back to unclasp, Winter seems like he forgot to breathe for a few seconds. The bra falls to the ground, baring your breasts completely for him.

A growl fades into a near whine as he instantly reaches out, with both hands, gently running his fingers over your skin despite the aggressive urgency he showed only a few moments prior. He touches you as if you are fragile, delicate and valuable, despite having been treated as anything but for such a long time.

Winter gives out pleased hums while lowering himself down to his knees without his hands ever leaving your breasts, lips trailing down your skin until they meet the hindrance of your leggings.

"Smell so good. Taste too," he mumbles against your skin, desperately trying to rub himself against every naked spot.

Your fingers are tangled up in his hair, pulling at the strands while trying to get actual thoughts into your head instead of only thinking about the way your thighs clench together with each swipe of his tongue on your skin.

"Honey," you breathe out with a gentle tug of his hair to tilt his face upwards. "Winter."

Pale frozen lakes swallowed by dark pupils snap their attention up to your panting face. Your lips part in slight shock as you see how obvious it is that he wants you—that he wants nothing more in this moment than to have you. And god, you want to feel him inside of you just as much.

"Do you want this? Do you know what you are doing?" you ask him, your lustful eyes turning soft for a few seconds of concern.

Winter squeezes your thighs while letting out a quick puff of air through his nose.

"Am not stupid. Know that, uh—know what to do. What this is."

His hands almost subconsciously move over to your ass, palming the soft flesh with his fingers digging into your skin. You nod with a smile suppressed by your teeth biting into your lower lip.

It's enough confirmation for him, you think, when his arms snake around your waist and haul you down onto the floor. A piercing shriek followed by manic giggles sounds from your now heaving figure, splayed out underneath Winter's hovering body.

He only frowns in response—he's probably about to combust and tear the rest of your clothes off your body, take you right here on the floor while you're laughing at him.

"Why laugh? Not funny." He frowns, earning a soft carress of your hand against his cheek.

"No, no, honey," you force out through chuckles. "You've done nothing wrong. I'm happy, okay? This doesn't have to be so serious all the time. Sex is fun too, you know?"

His lips find the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, trailing over gently before inhaling heavily, biting down just enough for a shallow mark to form. A soft gasp sounds from you, drawing his hips to press down between your legs. That shut you up quickly.

"Want Bunny to be mine. Like wolves," he murmurs while shamelessly rutting himself against you. You can feel the outline of his cock through the barrier of his pants and the thin layer of your leggings. It scares you as much as it makes pools of heat soak through the fabric of your underwear. "Together the whole life. Want to be with you."

His words throw out all logic and memories of the man out looking for you in the snow. In this moment, the only man existing is the one panting above you, creating marks on your skin and telling you he wants to be with you for the rest of his life, despite having only met you four days ago.

"I'm yours," you breathe out in a choked attempt of regaining your composure. A deep rumble emits from his chest, a pleased and wild one, that tells you exactly how he feels about your answer.

Your head is pressed against the fur laying underneath your figure as your back arches, trying to increase the friction between you while feeling yourself start to rut back against him.

"Mine," he growls every other second while rubbing his cheek against yours.

Winter is starting to lose his own composure, growing frantic in his movements and you think he's going to come in his pants soon if you don't slow down.

A gentle hand to his chest and a slight push stop him, earning a confused stare from your big bear.

"Slow down. I don't want it to be over so soon," you whisper, eyes stuck on his pink and full lips, parted with each agitated breath.

He doesn't answer, because how could he, when your hand starts to trail down his stomach. It's his turn to gasp with the feeling of your cold palm running over his skin without you ever breaking eye contact.

You're not usually a shallow person but, god—the built muscle covered by soft flesh underneath his skin has turned him into a bulging Hercules. You've barely even noticed the mass of scars running along his left shoulder until your fingers touch the uneven skin. He's beautiful.

"You're so handsome, my love," you whisper with your lips hovering over his soft skin, pressing barely-there kisses to his chest.

Winter has stilled above you, letting you have your moment of worship without disturbance. You pull his face down to your lips for one last kiss before your hands wander further down.

"Will you take these off for me?" you ask him, tugging at the waist of his pants.

An adorable, enthusiastic nod is all the answer you get before he frantically rids himself off his last layer of clothing. No underwear. Interesting and slightly concerning. No complaint from your side—but the shock is absolutely present.

Large, throbbing and veiny. His cock stands proud, on the verge of bursting in front of you. Winter is entirely naked and you forgot how to breathe. Exhale on three? Inhale first?

Leaning on your elbows, you push yourself up just slightly to see him even better. You can't help it. Winter wears a smirk so devastating you don't even care how proud he looks—he knows the effect he has on your poor body and there's no use in hiding it.

"Don't look so smug, Bigfoot. You already knew," you tell him, heat plaguing your face to the point where you have to press your cold hands against your cheeks to calm yourself down.

The eye contact soon becomes too much and you reside to start peeling your leggings away from your skin. An impatient huff follows almost immediately from Winter.

"I want to," he says, pulling you closer to him with the same amount of effort as moving a glass of water.

There's not much grace in the way he pulls them off—they're tight and tricky and he almost tears them when he grows impatient. But you give him a raised eyebrow when you spot the thoughts turning inside that pretty head of his.

"Ugh, so hard. Why even have these?"

Winter's tongue sticks out from his mouth as he struggles through your fit of laughter, huffing in frustration. The pants are thrown across the room, landing over by the door. And the patience he previously showed is thrown away too, when his metal fingers clasp around the band of your underwear and tear them right off your body.

"Wha—"

Winter leans back on his knees with a sigh, as if he has just ran a marathon, while your wide-eyed shock tries to recover from what the hell he just did. Oh god, he's so hot.

You think he wants to be annoyed about his battle but doesn't really succeed—his hard-on still stands tall as ever and the red tip seems to be aching at this point. Your laughter quickly dies down into a simple smile, staring up at the soft giant crawling over you.

Fingers tangle up in dark strands, nails scraping over scalp, and Winter cradles your body so gently you might just fall in love with him completely. He's strong and big and so rough around the edges the phrase doesn't even cut it, but this man is so soft with you. All the throwing around and carrying is still done with such care, with the exception of that first day. Then it was a little frightening but now you don't even want to walk on your own anymore. He can throw you over his shoulder anytime.

"Cute. Pretty bunny," Winter whispers, pressing his lips against your forehead just as softly as you did to him before. He's mimicking, reciprocating what you've shown him. "So pretty."

Your hands sneak around until they are resting on his back, splayed out across his scarred skin. With a tug, you push him towards you until the head of his cock nudges against your wet folds. A guttural groan escapes his lips, eyelids closing as he takes in the new, yet not, feeling.

You know he's done it before somehow, but it has to have been such a long time ago. He doesn't even remember seeing a pair of breasts—the feeling of being inside someone has probably escaped his mind entirely.

"So wet." His head hangs down, muscles in his arms bulging with restraint.

"Winter," you breathe out so quietly he probably can't hear you. "Please."

It's the soft permission that allows him to finally push inside. Your mouth falls open, limbs tensing tightly, as his cock stretches you out completely with a single stroke. It's a little too fast for your liking, but he doesn't know any better. And you haven't really told him what to do.

But the feeling of him. He fills you completely, stays so dangerously still while he grunts and huffs with the feeling of you wrapped around him.

"Oh," he says. "Mhm."

He still hasn't moved but his little sounds drive you crazy. You're still getting adjusted to him inside of you and you like this moment where the two of you are the closest you can be. But after what must be at least a minute of relative stillness, you want him to push inside again.

"Move...please?" he asks, sounding a little too choked for his own well-being.

"You can move now, honey," you tell him, lips just hovering over the corner of his mouth and finding it hard yourself to form coherent sounds through your small whimpers.

And the gentleness suddenly disappears with a good thrust into you that steals every last ounce of air out of your lungs.

"Soft," he murmurs into your ear. "So small. Mhm."

All you can do is moan and whine and whimper because holy fuck you never knew sex could feel this good. It's not so much about his technique or attentiveness as it is about the pure want. Each thrust signals a lack of constraint so wild he barely has any control of his sloppy movements.

The entirety of him is pressing you down into the floor, chests rubbing against each other. Winter soon seems to have some form epiphany about your breasts—his right hand cups one of them while pure adoration shines in his eyes, squeezing and massaging out of tune with his thrusts. Poor guy barely knows what he's doing but it doesn't matter to you. You're so deliriously euphoric underneath him, filled by his large cock and fondled by his mouth and hands.

"Love these," Winter whispers, eyes still locked on your breasts. An out of breath laugh escapes you in between the whimpers, palm traveling up to his cheek. "So pretty. Cute."

He's so beautiful like this, with beads of sweat running down his face and lips parted for heavy breaths. Not a lot of time passes before he starts to whine, and you're done as soon as that sound comes from his lips.

Your legs nearly shake as they cling onto Winter's waist, pulling him in closer subconsciously while your head is thrown back in ecstasy.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," you ramble on mindlessly while Winter's thrusts get sloppier and quicker with each second. He's grunting like a madman, rid of all sense of carefulness he possessed when you started.

"Bunny...feel—oh—so good."

His words are choked and breathless, as if he's forcing himself to tell you just how good you're making him feel. Sweet, sweet man. And according to him, entirely yours.

Winter stills above you, letting out the loudest and most wanton moan you have ever heard from a man as he comes inside of you. Your breath stutters, lips falling open while feeling his pulsing cock throb with each load.

The two of you stay there for several minutes, calming yourselves down from your heavy breathing with him still inside of you. His arms are cradling you tightly to him, somehow mindful of not crushing you under his weight despite everything. Despite him not knowing and still being so gentle.

When you finally open your eyes, it's with a ridiculously large, but tired smile. He's nuzzling into your sweaty neck, rubbing his nose against you.

"Liked very much. Mine now?" he asks suddenly.

A startled chuckle is forced out of you, fingers tangling themselves up in his hair, stroking and scratching gently over his scalp. God, can someone stop this man before you quit your job and stay here?

"Yours now," you whisper, pressing your lips against his head.

Winter hums in delight, squeezing you just a little tighter. He grows half-hard inside of you again, but you know you can't take another round of this tonight. You're sore like never before after taking his, to be frank, giant cock. Honestly, you're surprised you didn't make a big fuzz over it in the first place.

But he doesn't seem to have any more intentions of a second go. Instead, Winter stands up with you still in his arms to walk towards the bed while his free hand strokes the back of your head softly.

"Sleep. Little bunny so tired."

And you are. But as much as you would have liked to just fall asleep right now with his softening length inside of you, UTIs do not go well together with that kind of behavior.

"Any chance you might be able to carry me outside?" you ask him, finger trailing over his nose until it touches his upper lip. "It's been a whole day without you throwing me over your shoulder. That's too long."

Winter gives you a look that tells you he finds it funny and you find it even more fun that he gets humor. The progress he's made in just a few days is amazing.

When you go inside again, you're clinging on to his front instead with your legs wrapped around his waist, face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. How does a man who has probably not showered for ages smell good? Are you becoming delusional?

Winter halts his pace towards the bed for just a second, bending down slightly before laying himself down with you on top of him. Face to face, just like that first night. Maybe a little more tired this time and definitely happier. Also stark naked.

When you're preoccupied with tracing the scars on his chest, Winter brings forward the thing he picked up just a minute earlier to lay right in front of your line of sight.

"Made myself," he whispers proudly.

The knife lies there, the one you saw a few hours earlier. A bunny is ingrained on the handle.

"A present. For you."

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

You woke up to Winter running his tongue down your naked body, pressing kisses to your stomach while waiting for you to wake up. Or, he kind of woke you up by repeatedly poking your cheek while saying your name. You didn't mind all that much.

"More," he told you, looking up through his lashes with that innocent gaze of his. You had no plans of saying no from the beginning, but it would be impossible doing so with those eyes of his pleading.

Five times. That's how many times you came this morning. After the first round Winter realized he liked the feeling of your slick so much he wanted to taste it. Then he proceeded to ask if that's something people do—you told him that, yes, that is very much appreciated.

For an hour Winter was buried between your thighs, ferociously lapping up your wetness without as much as a pause for breath. It seemed to make him genuinely upset when you told him that you couldn't take anymore. A promise of more later was what it took for him to get rid of his pouting.

Now you're sitting on the couch, alone, feeling remorse for making him stop. Winter has been gone for about an hour now and you miss him unreasonably much.

The better part of the hour has been spent running your fingers over the knife he gave you yesterday. You hope you won't have to use it, but it feels like a crime to not carry it with you constantly now.

A present. Did Winter remember what you told him about why you give them? He cares about you, you know that already, but to give up something he started working on before you even met is so...loving. It's the sweetest thing someone has given you.

You're also begin to suspect that a cold has struck you down. Yesterday your nose started to become runny and now your temperature seems to have a hard time deciding where it should be. In this moment you're unreasonably warm, and the fire feels much more burning than it has done before. Goddamn sickness.

The fresh air is equally relieving and excruciating. Even though you're sweating profusely, goosebumps appear on your poor skin as you stand on the porch. Fevers suck.

At least it's not snowing as much anymore. It's more of a calm snowfall than a storm now. You wonder if that bear ever found their mom again. If it shows up again you will probably adopt it because you can't stand the thought of a bear cub wandering around all alone looking for their family.

It's not until you turn around, hand on the door handle and halfway through closing it behind you that you hear the rustle. And you almost think that it might be the bear again, or maybe Winter has come back, but when you hear your name being shouted desperately chills run through your spine.

"Y/n! Good god."

Steve is wading through the snow to his best ability, because even super soldiers have a hard time getting forward in this weather. And he's exhausted and devastated and so goddamn relieved, you see that clearly as you stand shocked in the doorway. He throws his shield to the ground, palm running over his face as he nears the stairs leading up to the porch.

You stumble inside as he throws his arms around you, bringing you tightly into his chest that is heaving out of exertion. It takes a few seconds to adjust to fact that he is here, and he found you.

Relaxing into his hold is an euphoric feeling. His suit-clad chest is cold against your cheek but you don't care. It's Steve, for god's sake. Steve who was spent the last five days searching for you in a snowstorm.

"I thought you were dead. God, sweetheart," he murmurs into your hair, lips pressing against your head. "Don't leave like that again, Y/n. Please don't."

Steve's familiar hold draws unusual tears from your eyes as you press your face further into his chest. He holds you so tightly, uncaring about his strength when he has you back. You're alive and he's damn sure of not leaving you out of his sight again.

With a step back, Steve forces himself to release the tight hug so he can get a good look on you. His eyes, that are almost as blue as Winter's, you realize now, rake over your figure with brows furrowed in concern and a hard stare.

"Your foot. It's hurt," he remarks, hands lingering on your shoulders while eyeing your perfectly normal looking feet. ”And you have a fever.”

"Wha—how did you know my foot was hurt?" you ask him, entirely baffled by his observation. Damn super soldier genes.

"Are you alright? Does it hurt?" Steve ignores your question. "Have you iced it?"

"Well, I don't exactly have an overflow of ice packs out here."

"There's 2 feet of snow right outside the door." He nods towards the window and the soft snowfall that has drastically calmed down from the storm that has plagued the last few days.

"Don't be a smartass," you mumble through an unconvincing attempt at repressing your amused smile.

"Brat," Steve whispers to himself while pulling you in for another hug, resting his chin on top of your head.

You don't even comment on that—having your safe place back with his arms around you makes you so deliriously relieved that you don't have it in you to talk back. It's actually infuriating how good you fit against him, almost like it shouldn't be this natural.

The warmth spreading from your chest sends spirals of anxiety and doubt into your already overfilled mind. You slept with Winter last night, and it was possibly the most wonderful you had ever felt. This same warmth that erupts each time you lay eyes on Steve now finds a way to come forward in Winter's presence too. But the love you have for the blonde super soldier hasn't resided because of your newfound feelings for the gruff Bigfoot. What does that even mean? That you're turning into some lesser version of Katherine "it's okay to love them both" Pierce?

“Are you okay, Steve?” you ask suddenly, moving your hands up to his cheeks. “How long have you—have you been looking for me this entire time? Five days? Oh, god, Steve. You can’t be out in a snowstorm for that long, you idiot!”

“Woah. I never said I was out that long. You’re drawing hasty conclusions.”

“You weren’t out all this time?”

“Well, yes, I was—“

“God, you absolute jerk. You could’ve died!”

“I wasn’t unprepared, Y/n. I had supplies with me an—“

Steve’s head suddenly snaps towards the door. Within a second the hold goes from relieved and exhausted to stiff, tense to the point where you immediately notice Steve's change in demeanor. His arms slowly slip away from encasing you entirely to his hands holding onto your upper arms tightly.

Going unknowing of Steve's abilities is not difficult, even while spending each and every day in his presence. He doesn't flaunt his advantages, instead reveals them in the subtlest ways—like now. You know that he hears better than a goddamn cat and can smell someone's cooking from a mile away, but sometimes when you're reminded it comes as a surprise.

Without even tearing his rigid gaze away from the door, his voice that was tender a few seconds ago turns stern.

"Y/n, get behind me."

Steve doesn't give you time to react before he shuffles you behind him, gently, covering your figure with the entirety of his. God, those shoulders really are broad. You never really understood what Tony was making fun of until now.

Your initial confusion quickly turns into slight dread as you realize exactly who will soon come in through the door. Opening your mouth to calm Steve's fighting mode down is futile—you're not quick enough.

The door is thrown open, smashing against the wall. Winter stands heaving, zeroed in on the threatening man standing a mere inch away from you. What feels like a minute is no longer than a few seconds of him assessing the situation, but you see so clearly that what he judges it to be is danger.

"Wint—"

Your words die in your throat as Steve is ripped away from you in a mere blink, thrown against the wall with a too strong metal arm before he can react. Before you can react. A punch is launched towards his face, just barely missing before the second hits his cheek.

The scream echoing through the cabin is yours, running up to the scene without even thinking. "Stop! Winter, stop!"

Hands pull at his shoulders, frantically trying to get his hand away from Steve's throat. You're already crying and Steve is bleeding.

All of a sudden, blinding pain shoots up your nose, launching you back with a stumble that sends you to the floor. That goddamn foot. Winter's elbow must've connected with your face while throwing another punch towards Steve.

With your hand covering your now bleeding nose and tears blurring your sight, sitting on the floor, you open your mouth once more.

Winter's name is called out in a pained whimper. Steve's too, because he's fighting back just as strongly. None of them know how little threat they are to each other in reality.

"Please stop! I know you both!" you sob.

Winter falters for just a second, allowing Steve to get the upper hand until he manages to grab Winter's arms, gathering them behind his back while turning around to face you.

It's as if the rivalry dissipates in a second as they catch sight of your bloody and tear-streaked face. Steve releases your newfound friend's arms, allowing the latter to slip away. He rushes up to you, hands lifting you up from the floor until you're standing in front of him.

"That's Steve. My friend, okay? He's my friend," you tell him through a sniffle, trying to rid yourself of the tears.

But Winter is barely listening. His eyes take over your face, frown so deeply etched in between his eyebrows it might just become permanent. The heavy breathing is unsual for your Bigfoot, but so is it for Steve.

"I did this? I hurt?" Winter breathes out, both hands traveling up to cup your cheeks.

"You didn't mean to—it's okay, Winter, really—"

"No," he growls. "Am sorry. Not okay, I hurt you."

"Y/n."

Steve speaks up, stealing your attention to look at him over Winter's shoulder. The poor super soldier is so lost and concerned, standing dumbfounded and still rigid a few feet away.

You wipe underneath your nose with the sleeve of your shirt, soaking the fabric with your blood and snot and tears.

"Who is this?" he asks you, stern and tense.

"I'm sorry, I should have told you when you came," you sniffle. "This is Winter. He took me in when I got lost and hurt myself. Or Winter is not his real name, we don't know what it is. He doesn't remember much."

Winter has turned around, covering you like Steve did only a few minutes prior. None of them has yet backed down entirely from their suspicion, still puffed up and glaring. But that glare quickly disappears from Steve's face as soon as he looks Winter in the eyes.

Fear, contempt and hesitancy turns into shock. A sadness so deeply etched into his very being that instant tears spring to his eyes. All you can do is be confused in the turnaround of expression in your best friend.

"Bucky?"

An immediate flinch runs through your limbs when you hear Steve's small voice—as if he's back into the weak body he possessed all those decades ago.

Bucky. Bucky is dead, has been so for a long, long time. You know how much Steve misses him, but the mention of his name in this moment makes no sense.

And Winter seems to agree. His left arm reaches behind him, grabbing your upper arm until you're pressed tightly against him. If it's for your comfort or his, you're not sure.

But when you look up at Steve, and see the grief emitting from his entire body, you know somehow that the person you've been calling Winter for five days is in fact the person who has been lost for a near century.

Bucky Barnes—alive and well, clinging onto you for dear life. Shit.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Steve and Bucky have been talking for thirty minutes. Or, Steve has done most of the talking despite feeling like he should just cry for five years first. His best friend, the one who was more family at one point than his real one ever was, is alive after being presumed dead since the 40's.

And Steve didn't do a goddamn thing. He did not search for him when he fell off that damn train, did not search for as much as a blood fleck. He's just been grieving for a near century instead, feeling sorry for himself when his brother was tortured and brainwashed for decades.

Bucky is nowhere near the man he was before. He doesn't exactly remember Steve, despite feeling like there is some familiarity there. Steve would like to think there is, at least. And the man has spent so much time deprived of his own language that he can barely speak it anymore. The lame jokes Steve tries to tell him go right over Bucky's head.

Mostly he has been suspicious regarding Steve's relationship to you. That's practically all he's been doing—asking about you. It prides Steve that you've been talking about him, but it hurts even more that Bucky is completely infatuated with the woman he loves.

"So...uh, what have you been doing these past days?" Steve finally asks, twisting his fingers back and forth.

"Have been telling things. Like about Y/n and Christmas and, uh, movies. Also eat and sleep much because Y/n is so small."

Steve can't help but laugh. Of course Bucky thinks you're bordering on unhealthy when he's a giant now. He's always viewed Bucky as this big and strong man he could never live up to, but even now when Steve is big himself, Bucky seems massive.

"Meet bear other day. Small but was so scared when saw Y/n outside with bear over her. Thought she was dead."

"A bear?" Steve asks, tensing up instantly.

"Yes. Small child bear. Just wanted to play. Y/n say it was kind."

All Steve can do is shake his head. Sounds like you but also not. You'd be reckless enough to play with a bear, but should have been scared mindless by it too.

"Do you remember me at all?" he asks after the comfortable silence allows him to think too much.

"Remember small man. Also light hair like you and blue eyes but very small."

A loud crash sounds from inside, hindering Steve from asking anything further because now the concern takes over entirely and both of them rise from where they sit on the stairs.

Another time, then.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Thirty minutes of incessant tapping with your foot against the floor. You're starting to  become annoyed with yourself. An old rag filled with snow is pressed against your nose that hurts like a son of a bitch. At least it's not broken.

Steve and Bucky are talking outside, you think. You can't hear sounds from two miles, or through a thick door, unlike the two men. It's driving you crazy.

1945. That's when they last saw each other, and your imagination has been digging itself deeper and darker with each minute. What if Winter was tortured and held captive for all this time? What if he'll never remember again and Steve is left heartbroken? What if they're both just sitting in awkward silence or have beaten each other half to death?

James. Bucky. That his name is not Winter is hard to process and you will have a tough time calling himself something else than the nickname you've given him. This person that you've become so infatuated with is also the same person Steve grew up with. Winter is just as much his as he's yours.

When the waiting turns torturous and you haven't heard so much as a sound from them in a long time, you can't bear to sit in silence any longer. You stand up from the chair too quickly—it shoots back and falls over against the floor, earning a few chosen curse words from your mouth. Those bastards out there probably heard it.

You almost get the door thrown in your face when you've walk up to it. They absolutely heard you.

"Are you okay? What happened?" Steve asks.

"I just pushed off the chair too hard. It fell over," you answer while letting them inside.

Steve instantly takes your arm over his, taking on your weight as you walk. Why does he have to be such a gentleman all the time? Hate him. Perfect bastard. Winter, or Bucky, is more chivalrous than the average man but in more...brutal ways. You would never find Steve throwing you over his shoulder. You kind of like the contrast.

You glance over your shoulder to see Winter's reaction to Steve having his hands on you. It's not horrible—he's staring at the point of contact but it doesn't look like he will attack him any soon. Progress, maybe?

By the fireplace is where you let go of him, bending down to throw more logs to fuel the fire. Even Steve can feel how cold it is, and that makes him worry for how it feels for you.

He and Bucky stand with a good distance between them, waiting for you to sit down. But you don’t.

“Are you hungry? Have you eaten anything?” you ask instead, pointing toward the pot hanging over the fireplace.

“I’m fine. I was well prepared,” Steve answers.

“Oh. Uh—water?”

“Sure,” he says, because you look like you’re desperate for something to do other than stand in this tense silence.

The pot is hung on a hook too far up for you to reach, and it’s obvious as you stand on your tiptoes while stretching your arm as far as it goes. That’s Steve’s sweet girl as he knows you.

Soon enough you have a 6’6” man crowding up behind you, taking down the pot for you without even trying. Damn Winter. He is a gentleman.

“Here,” he tells you, patting you on the head like he did a few times when you first met.

Fighting the smile desperate to break through is futile. It’s just too sweet to not react. Steve probably thinks it’s condescending or something, but you know that’s not his intention.

“Thank you, honey,” you whisper, fighting the urge to kiss him. God, his lips are right there. “Steve, could you just go outside and get some snow real quick?” You reach the pot over towards him.

With a nod and attempt of a smile, he turns around and goes outside for barely a minute. When he gets back, Winter has his nose pressed against your neck and arms wrapped around your waist. A sweet giggle sounds from your lips, filling the house with more warmth than fire ever could.

The sound of his footsteps snaps you out of the short lived trance, pushing away gently from Bucky’s hold while accepting the pot back with a soft ‘thank you’.

Steve sees the strain in Bucky's pants, how his cock grows with each second as he stares at the outline of your nipples through your shirt. Steve's shirt. There’s no subtlety in his attraction in the least, and no thought to other people being present in the room either.

Bucky's hand reaches out for you hesitantly, but is quickly swatted away by yours.

"Not now, Winter," you whisper as quietly as possible, wishing desperately that Steve has temporary hearing issues.

"Later? Sex again?"

The words come crashing down over the room, halting your breathing just as heavily as if someone had their hand around your throat. And you know he doesn't understand why what he just said is devastating and excruciating and deadly. But god, you could cry right now.

Your head instantly snaps up until you catch sight of the wide-eyed Steve Rogers who's clenching his jaw ridiculously tightly. His lips part in quiet shock, eyes flickering everywhere in the room but at you and Winter.

"You—you slept with him? You've had...sex?" Steve asks, ears suddenly burning red and his cheeks too and god, why is the picture of you and Bucky together not heartbreaking? Why is all of his blood suddenly moving away from his head to his cock when he should be burning with jealousy?

But you don't notice. No, all you see is disappointment and disgust. Steve probably hates you and the feeling is so debilitating that you'd do anything to fix it. The sudden desperation bubbles up so quickly that you can't control what comes out of your mouth next.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." You bury your face in your hands for just a moment. "I'm just...I don't know what to do anymore."

A pause. A gulp. Are you doing this? Are you finally confessing after ten years? You don’t know what to say because you love him but you also just slept with his best friend but the both of you thought he was dead and you didn’t know that it was Bucky out of all people. How could you ever have known when you haven’t even seen so much as a photograph of the man? Or, you probably have in some history book but it was such a long time ago.

The tears spring to your eyes before you even give them permission to, desperately trying to blink them away. You’re not going to cry. You’re going to stand here and tell Steve the truth like an adult.

"I've spent the last decade being so goddamn in love with you, Steve, and I've never even had a chance. Now I think I might love someone I met five days ago. I don’t even know anymore, it’s all just...”

"Love?" Winter breathes out, but you're not even listening.

"And it's not even enough, is it? Of course it had to be your best friend who you thought were dead and has been gone for 80 fucking years. It’s not enough that I’ve spent a decade of my life in vain, only to finally find someone that likes me that—that’s Bucky Barnes. Your Bucky.”

Silence. Excruciating silence as you realize what you just confessed, as you wait for any kind of reaction. But you wouldn't even know what to say if someone else told you this.

"You're in love with me?" Steve asks, sounding like he had the breath knocked out of him. "All this time, you've..."

With his hands on his hips and gaze on anything but you, a minute passes by of his silence and your tears. Winter just stands there, entirely dumbfounded and that worries you too because that man hasn't spent a minute longer than an inch away since you came here.

It just becomes too much. Wiping away your tears with the palms of your hands, you walk away without a word towards the door.

"Leaving?" Winter asks, sounding much more upset than what he's displayed these past minutes.

You nod, back turned away from the two of them. You still feel their stares.

"Just for a while. I need to breathe."

The door closes gently behind you, and the cabin is left feeling empty despite the two people still standing. Winter starts heading towards the door as well, but is stopped by a hand to his arm.

"Don't. Let her be alone for a few minutes, okay?" Steve says, even though he doesn't want to leave you be anymore than his friend.

The feeling of hard metal where soft flesh should be underneath his hand is heartbreaking. Steve tries not to show it. Bucky has been through enough and someone sulking out of guilt is not what he needs. It's not about Steve and he needs to stop feeling sorry for himself.

In reality, he should push away the sorrow and allow himself to feel happy. Because you just said you loved him. You love him. And yes, you just confessed your feelings for the punk beside him as well. But it doesn't matter that much, he finds. It should, because Steve has always been traditional but it when it comes to his best friend he usually finds himself breaking the rules.

Whatever happened between waking up in New York 2012 and now standing a completely changed man in a cabin, discussing with himself wether or not he could ever share a person with someone else? He knows the answer is you—this goddamn woman who has taken up every single waken thought for a decade.

But he doesn’t really know if you want to be with him. That’s not always the case, he’s learnt. He loves Peggy, but he would not want to go back even if he could. That is not the person he is anymore, and that’s damn sure when he’s considering a—what do you call it again?

“Y/n okay?” Bucky asks him after a while. He’s standing in line with the window, watching you were you sit on the porch.

You don’t have a jacket or shoes on, which is very typical of you. Stubborn. Steve always have to tell you to put more clothes on.

“I think she just needs to think. I didn’t—my reaction wasn’t very great. I should have told her how I felt instead of keeping silent,” Steve answers.

“Love her too? Back?”

“Yes. Of course I love her back. More than anything. You know her—it’s hard not to.”

“Winter loves her too. So much,” Bucky says, eyes never straying from your figure. “But still mine?”

“That’s for her to decide. And you can’t own a person, Bucky.”

“No?”

“No. All you can hope for is that she chooses to love you, chooses to show up everyday. But you can't say that she has to be with you. It's not fair and not right. You can just hope that it'll turn out that way."

Bucky is quiet. Steve doesn't really know if he understood.

"Then want that," he says after a minute of silence. "Want Y/n happy all the time.”

Steve gulps. And it’s not because he’s upset—he feels calm. Like if Bucky feels it too, maybe he’s not so far from the right thing.

“Winter, huh? That’s what she calls you?”

“Yes. Nickname. Like bunny.”

Bunny. Steve have always stuck to the classics—sweetheart, honey, darling. But it fits you. Might not be the thing he would come up with initially, but it feels natural.

“So cute and pretty. Like bunny we saw.”

A particularly loud sob sounds through the door, drawing the attention away from their conversation to your figure. You’ve sat down on the porch stairs, head buried in your arms.

“C’mon,” Steve mumbles, nodding towards the door.

You hear the door being opened, two sets of footsteps walking on the creaky, old wooden floor. You don’t want them to see you like this—all weepy and broken and sad. Rejected.

But god, when a warm jacket is placed over your shoulders you cry even more. Strong arms lift you from your seat, sitting down again before placing you in their lap. Your head falls back against their chest—Winter.

Steve crouches down in front of you with that stoic but solemn expression he so often wears. You never know what he’s thinking in these moments and it bothers you. But it feels okay to some point when he takes your cold fingers in his hands, rubbing them warm again.

Despite the affectionate gesture you can’t bear to look at him. Instead you bury your face into Winter’s shoulder, inhaling his scent. It actually, somehow, calms you down. The sobs soon turn down into sniffles and your breathing goes back to relatively normal.

“Y/n,” Steve says gently, as if he’s afraid the mere sound of his voice would upset you. It never could. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to act like such a jerk. I was just shocked.”

His fingers run over the back of your hand, tracing invisible patterns over your skin that leave shivers in their wake. Winter has his face buried in your hair, nuzzling shamelessly. He’s in his own world right now, and you suspect he’s not listening to a word being said.

“Sweetheart, you just told me you loved me. That you love this old punk after knowing me for a near decade is…it’s the most wonderful news I could have ever gotten.” Steve has brought your hands up to rest against his chin, lips aching to touch your skin. “I didn’t know I was allowed to feel this way any longer and you just made me the happiest man in the goddamn world.”

The reveal of your face once more is torturously slow. He wants to see the entirety of you, regardless of the tears and snot and what not.

“Of course I love you, Y/n. I’ve loved you for the better part of 8 years. And I wish we had gotten over ourselves a bit earlier so I could’ve had you all this time instead of pining after you like a damn punk.”

A loud sniffle sounds through the space between you. Your hand is gripping Winter’s tightly enough to bruise a normal person while blinking furiously. Have you gone mad? Do you miss Steve so much that you’ve conjured up this fantasy of him in some weird fever dream?

“You do?” you ask weakly.

“I do, sweet girl. More than anything.”

“Me too,” Winter chimes in from where his face is pressed against your skin. His voice is muffled and sounds on the verge of humorous considering everything. “Love bunny so much. Want to be with you all time.”

A laughing sob escapes you, shaking you where sit perched in his lap. All you can do is bury your face in your hands again, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes.

“No cry. Happy, okay?” Winter says.

“I’m not sad, honey. I’m happy. Happier than ever.”

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • •

TAGLIST: @enchantedbarnes @imyourbratzdoll @cjand10

Part IV

[sihaya74]

NEW The Lessons of Bryan Fuller's Hannibal S1: E6 -- HOPE IS THE THING WITH SURGICAL TROPHIES

Lessons of Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal

S1:E6 – HOPE IS THE THING WITH SURGICAL TROPHIES

Hello readers and #FannibalFamily! Yes, it’s been a hot minute since I have updated this blog. What can I say? Life has a tendency to intervene. A few real-life events knocked me out of my daily writing pattern and I am just now beginning to regain my balance. This blog is, however, something I am committed to finishing no matter how long it takes, and so, I am digging back into the scripts of Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal and prepared to create my next installment – an analysis of the theme, the message, the universal lesson in the happenings of Season 1, Episode 6: “Entrée.”

I must make an important note that at this point, I have rewatched the show some five or six times. But this is my first time delving into the scripts for all the episodes. I have to occasionally remind myself about scenes in these episodes or lines of dialogue that wound up being cut or moved to a different episode. But since I am approaching this project as an English major and analyzing both the show and the scripts as a TEXT – (my literary theory professor, Dr. Hogue, always said that everything in life is a TEXT and he was damn sure right about that) – then I see no issue with the fact that sometimes the words I am analyzing didn’t always make it to the screen in the exact form they started out in. Hannibal is a series that is a feast for all the senses – its visual beauty, its soundtrack and score and sound effects, the effort put in to rendering the most beautiful depictions of food on the screen and so perhaps the viewer can imagine their taste – (I have dreamed feverishly about those High Life Eggs more than once, I can tell you) – but all of it begins where good stories start – on the page. And so, it is to the page and the words that I remain loyal.

This episode of Hannibal, “Entrée,” had two authors. Kai Yu Wu conceived the story and Wu and Bryan wrote it together. The episode was directed by Michael Rymer.

In the order of our French dishes, by which each episode of the first season is named, at this point in the series, we have partaken of the following: a pre-dinner drink, a little bitty appetizer, a bowl of hearty soup, some eggs, and a chicken or fish dish baked in a sauce and served in a scallop shell or scallop-shaped dish. And so now, a viewer must ask, “What’s next?” That or: “I need to take a break because I’m full.” At which, Bryan Fuller points at the viewer’s plate and says, “You’ll clean your plate and you’ll like it. You’ll love it. You’ll beg me for another season when we’re done.” Just trust him. He’s the chef. You always trust the chef. They know what they’re doing.

In a classic French meal, the entrée is not necessarily the main dish and it is not always served – sometimes they skip courses. When it does appear, it is usually a meat dish, in a sauce (GOTTA HAVE A SAUCE), and with sides. In American cuisine, entrée has come to mean a MAIN COURSE always. And what an entrée is in American cuisine varies wildly by what is on the menu, who is eating it, and how many fried cheese sticks and jalapeno poppers the person had prior to the entrée arriving at their table. Still, the idea holds. When you say the word “entrée,” people expect a main course – something substantial, something that sticks to your ribs. And in this episode, there is definitely a lot of meat – meat that has been rubbed and aged over the last five episodes and is now sliced and steaming from the oven. This episode is mostly about advancing the MAIN storyline – that of the Chesapeake Ripper and the FBI’s and namely, Jack Crawford’s, attempts to catch the seasoned killer. (Seasoned… see what I did there? YOU GOT PUNNED!)

And on a thirsty side note: After viewing the scene in which Will Graham reenacts the murder of nurse Elizabeth Shell, the fact that the episode is named “Entrée,” makes complete sense. Hugh Dancy in that scene is an entire meal with ample meat for leftovers. (Seriously – JFC – if you haven’t seen it, or seen it lately, do yourself a favor and have some GOOD FOOD.)

We start the episode with our introduction to one of the series’ completely original characters, Dr. Abel Gideon, a former transplant surgeon, who after being convicted of the murders of his wife and her family, has been incarcerated in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, for the last two years. The character is portrayed with amazing skill, subtlety, and awesomeness, by Suzy Eddie Izzard. I have been a longtime fan of Izzard’s work and was insanely pleased to see the actor amongst the cast members.

I must point out the literary significance of the character’s name – Abel Gideon, a smorgasbord of Biblical allusion. The import of the Doctor’s first name is obvious – Abel, in the Biblical version of things, was the first murder VICTIM, slain by the hands of his jealous brother, Cain, who was angry that God liked Abel better and had a right fit about it. The character of Gideon is slightly more complex, but basically it goes as follows: Gideon was a prophet in the Old Testament. He destroyed the idols of Baal and others in his town’s temple because the townspeople were worshipping false gods. An angel told him to. Then, Gideon led the Israelites against other “heathen” tribes and won. They wanted to make him king, but he told them their only king was God. Still, he had them melt down the golden earrings of all their enemies who had fallen in battle and they wove the golden thread into an ephod, a priestly garment that is worn under the breastplate. Gideon put it in the temple and the people started worshipping it as an idol, because I guess, it was gold. Old Testament people always seem really impressed by gold. The Scripture is unclear, but it does say that the ephod was “a snare unto Gideon, and to his house” (Judges 8: 27).

You could say Gideon was a hypocrite, or more accurately, a terrible fool because he tried to stop the people from worshipping false idols and then he just led them into doing it again by creating something they would see as a sacred object. At best, Gideon was naïve. At worst, he was a fraud.

Dr. Abel Gideon’s name therefore could translate into something like: Dr. VICTIM FRAUD – or Dr. VICTIM FOOL. Despite his intelligence, he is lured directly into Dr. Chilton’s trap to believe and admit he is the Chesapeake Ripper solely because of Frederick’s needy ego – Frederick wants more feathers in his cap – he doesn’t have near enough and Hannibal Lecter’s are brighter and bespoke and where the fuck did he even find a custom featherer in Baltimore?

Then, later in the series, Gideon is led directly into the trap of the true Chesapeake Ripper and probably desperately wishes he had stayed in the BSHCI and eaten his stewed apricots and minded his own business.

Poor Abel is nothing but a puppet for two different egotistical psychiatrists. Unfortunately for him, one of them happens to be Hannibal Lecter.

And so, we begin the episode with the scene of Gideon passed out on the floor of his cell in the BSHCI and a team of prison guards approaching his limp form very cautiously and eventually shackling him, hand and foot, to a gurney, and wheeling him into the hospital infirmary, where he is treated by the aptly named Nurse Shell.

As evidenced by my previous discussion of Gideon’s name, I have come to realize the significance of character names in Bryan Fuller’s work. They are often allusions or tributes – homages to the work of other writers, directors, artists, scientists, and so on, that Bryan admires. For example, one has to assume that the surname of Bryan’s beloved Bedelia (another original character), Du Maurier, is a tribute to author Daphne du Maurier, author of many books and film adaptations of suspense – such as Rebecca, which Bryan and many of his horror colleagues discuss in the fabulous AMC/Shudder series Queer For Fear, on which Bryan was an executive producer and director. Basically, Mrs. Danvers was either literally or only metaphorically all up in Rebecca de Winter’s undergarments and when the woman died, Mrs. Danvers decided to make it everyone’s problem. The movie is awesome. Go watch it if you haven’t already. And then watch Queer For Fear. I believe they discuss Rebecca in both episodes two and four.

Anyway, Nurse Shell is correctly and tragically named because a shell of her former self is what she winds up as when the deluded Gideon is done with her.

As Nurse Shell turns her back, Gideon extricates the broken-off tine of a fork he has hidden in an incision in his palm. I believe this scene is an homage to the scene in The Silence of the Lambs when Dr. Lecter unearths a metal fragment from the back of his jaw, the inner workings of a ballpoint pen that has fallen into his hands. He uses this makeshift lockpick on his own handcuffs, much to the chagrin of Lieutenant Boyle and Sargeant Pembry. Classic scene.

Anyway, Gideon uses this tine to pick the lock on his handcuffs and when Nurse Shell turns around upon hearing the heart monitor hit a flatline, it’s lights out for the poor woman. We do not see Gideon kill her, but we see the results of his work soon.

Next, we see Jack Crawford and Will Graham vaulting up the front steps of the hospital, Jack explaining that based on the method of Nurse Shell’s murder, Freddie Lounds has run an unconfirmed story suggesting that Abel Gideon is the Chesapeake Ripper, which would explain the lull in murders for the last two years. Will is indignant that he is “fact-checking for Freddie Lounds,” but Jack coddles him with the statement, “You’re fact-checking for me” (Wu and Fuller 2).

There is heavy foreshadowing in the following exchange between Jack and Will before they enter the hospital:

WILL GRAHAM: I’m always a little nervous going into one of these places. Afraid they’ll never let me out again.

JACK CRAWFORD: Don’t worry. I’m not going to leave you here.

WILL GRAHAM: Not today                         (Wu and Fuller 3).

I really do recommend you watch the series more than once so this dramatic irony is not lost.

            Once Jack and Will enter the hospital, we see the first appearance of another of our main characters and one of the most important in the Hannibal canon: Dr. Frederick Chilton.

            In Fuller’s series, Chilton is rendered flawlessly by actor Raul Esparza, a deep daddy of mine (see ADA Rafael Barba of Law and Order: SVU fame). Esparza is another Fuller Favorite, having appeared in one of Bryan’s previous masterpiece shows, Pushing Daisies.

            There have been three actors who have portrayed the petty and obsequious Dr. Chilton, starting with Benjamin Hendrickson in 1986’s Manhunter. The second actor, and perhaps the most well-known portrayal, is that of Anthony Heald who took on the role in both 1991’s The Silence of the Lambs and reprised the role in 2002’s Red Dragon.

            Heald’s portrayal of Chilton is masterful – the Doctor is intelligent, but smarmy – officious and gladhanding – his pass at Clarice in the early moments of the film immediately puts the viewer off on him. Hannibal only seals the audience’s hatred of the Doctor by regaling Clarice with Chilton’s petty tortures of him, which are effectively contrasted by the treatment Hannibal receives from the ever-present orderly, Barney Matthews, played by awesome Frankie Faison, who treats Hannibal with a cautious respect, as a zookeeper might treat a venomous reptile. Barney never forgets what Hannibal is capable of. Chilton supposedly knows as evidenced by his relation of Hannibal’s biting attack on a nurse – he left only one of her eyes, ate her tongue without his pulse getting above 85 – but still, Chilton prods and humiliates Hannibal in unnecessary ways that LITERALLY come back to bite him in the end.

            Esparza’s Chilton is as intelligent as Heald’s, but slightly more savvy, ounces more petty, a bit more of a drama queen, and as opposed to Heald’s Chilton, who is ostensibly tortured and eaten by Hannibal at the end of The Silence of the Lambs, Esparza’s Chilton, in Fuller’s hands, is the favorite whipping post of killers and law enforcement alike – being practically disemboweled by one murderer, shot in the face by a traumatized Ripper victim, and later suffers the fate that Harris’ original Freddy Lounds suffers, a lip-ectomy and burning at the hands of Francis Dolarhyde. Freddy Lounds dies in both Manhunter/Red Dragon from this attack, but in Fuller’s Hannibal, no matter what, Frederick Chilton continues to survive, almost Fuller’s own version of the endlessly respawning Kenny of South Park fame.

            By my calculation, at the end of Season 3, Chilton is down 3 lives, so logic dictates that he has 6 left. If Fuller ever gets to make the full 7 seasons of Hannibal he imagines, if Chilton averages a death per season, he should survive the completed series with 2 lives left over, proving him to be the true winner of The Hannibal Games.

            But, once again, I digress…

            As Jack and Will sit in Chilton’s office, Chilton can barely seem to contain his curiosity about Will. Chilton’s open is clunky and obtuse; he says, “Doctor Bloom just called me about you, Mister Graham. Or should I call you Doctor Graham?” (Wu and Fuller 3). From his first line, Chilton seems to embody his later Season 2 remark, a gem from Harris’ canon, that attempting to analyze Will “makes [him] feel…like a freshman pulling at a panty girdle” (Fuller and Lightfoot 20). Chilton’s questions are telegraphed from a mile away – his overtures for more information are blunt and tasteless. Chilton’s questioning of Will, throughout the series, is contrasted with that of Hannibal – the difference is like watching a skilled surgeon with a scalpel as compared to a poorly trained medical student with a plastic spoon. Chilton can’t cut it, in any fashion. Will seems to understand this from the beginning – he sizes Chilton up correctly from their very first meeting.

            In their conversation, Chilton betrays himself a little, saying of Nurse Shell, “I can’t help feeling responsible for what happened. I had sessions with Gideon for years…I had no idea what he was hiding. And now one of our staff is dead” (Wu and Fuller 4). Of course, this is foreshadowing of Hannibal ascertaining later in the episode that Chilton is indeed COMPLETELY at fault. However, the most interesting thing about this exchange is Jack Crawford’s reaction. The script indicates that after Chilton’s remark here, it “strikes a chord with Jack…who can relate” (Wu and Fuller 4). Undoubtedly this “relation” is about Miriam Lass, Crawford’s lost trainee, who is first introduced in this episode.

            This is all important because of our lesson in this episode and because it highlights one of the driving motives of Jack’s character. In Episode 1, Jack and Alana agree that one of Will’s deepest motives is fear. If that is the case, then we can say that one of, perhaps the most, significant of Jack’s driving motivations is GUILT. Jack’s guilt is so present, so prevalent, so real, it is almost tangible. He feels guilt about Bella, about Miriam, later about Beverly, about Will, about Pazzi. His guilt is so weighty, so integral to his being, that often it overwhelms him, wobbles his sense of reason and the health of his psyche. Our lesson is not about guilt, but it is about an emotion Jack Crawford will not allow himself. In his position as Special Agent Jack Crawford, head of the FBI’s storied Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, Jack does not allow himself much in the way of the easier emotions in life – laughter, joy, wonder – these are not things he can traffic in. Jack Crawford lives in a chapel of death. He is a chronicler of pain.

            As Chilton continues to prod Will for information, Jack finally states, “Graham isn’t here to be analyzed” (Wu and Fuller 5). It’s funny to me how people in the show, including Will, keep insisting that he’s NOT THE ONE to be analyzed, but since the very first moments of Episode 1, even the murders seem secondary to everyone else’s analysis of Will. It’s ironic, but I imagine purposefully so. Chilton retorts that “perhaps” Will “should be” analyzed; Chilton wants Will to speak to his colleagues in the hospital, but then he stops himself, saying, “no, no, not this trip. Dr. Bloom was very severe with me on that point” (Wu and Fuller 5). I also find it quite ironic how no one listens to Alana’s advice about handling Will. It speaks to the usual patriarchal pooh-poohing of women, even when they are extremely accomplished members of professional fields. Thankfully, Bryan saw to it that everyone who discounts Alana’s advice winds up paying for it.

            Just before escorting Jack and Will to the infirmary where Will can view the crime scene, Chilton says, “Next to a battle lost, the saddest thing is a battle won” (Wu and Fuller 6). This sentiment is attributed to the Duke of Wellington, and later to writer Robert Jordan, but to me the importance of it here is how it so perfectly illustrates the difference between Harris’ Chilton and Fuller’s Chilton. Every once in a while, especially in Season 3, Chilton seems to disinter these gems of wisdom from the muddy bottom of his intelligence. Often, lines like these, coming from Frederick are like an icepick of truth stabbed into the temple of the scene. A viewer who is familiar with all of the Hannibal canon can see – Fuller’s Chilton is smarter and more poetic than Harris’ Chilton, who is a slick, sad functionary who is both out of his depth with Hannibal Lecter and out of his league with Clarice Starling. Fuller’s Chilton is never in Hannibal’s league, but at times, real insight flashes up from the shallows of his brain, and it makes his character more sympathetic to the viewer. We feel sorry for Fuller’s Chilton. Harris’ Chilton never arouses such pity.

            When Will and Jack finally view the nurse’s body, it is described as follows:

She’s IMPALED on the BROKEN FRAMES of several PRIVACY CURTAINS that have been fashioned into SPEARS. They PROTRUDE from wounds over the entire canvas of her body. Additional shards of wood and metal prop her organs above her corpse, giving them the appearance of floating outside her body.                              

(Wu and Fuller 6)

The visual of this tableaux is important, as it will contrast with the Chesapeake Ripper’s actual rendering of the famous medieval Wound Man shown later in the episode in a flashback. Later, Will calls this murder “plagiarism.” The viewer, especially one who has watched the entire series at least once, can understand Will’s assessment easily. The Chesapeake Ripper is an artist – even when his tableaux are deconstructionist in nature, like Beverly Katz’s murder scene in Season 2, there is still a lingering sense of the whole that once was. The essence of the thing that has been taken apart is still suggested by the Ripper’s composition. Gideon’s attempt at mimicry is just that – a sad parody. He merely skewered organs like Nurse Kabob. He merely jabbed implements in her like Nurse Pincushion. There is no whole left to be had.             In Act One, we see the replaying of the gurney scene at the beginning of the episode, except this time with Will in Gideon’s place. This time, we see the attack on Nurse Shell; this time at the hands of Will, who is doing his mental recreation (pendulum swingy – this is my design-y) of the scene.

            Will’s recreation here is filed very lovingly by the #FannibalFamily under the title, “THINGS THAT HAVE NO BUSINESS BEING INSANELY HOT,” but Goddamn it… it is.

It’s not just Will’s torn open shirt – it’s not just the visible sweat on his muscled chest and furrowed brow (although those things REALLY HELP) – it’s the power and the confidence Will exudes when he is in the mental guise of the killer. In truth, every time Will does a mental recreation of a crime, he becomes inordinately hotter because he is not the unsure, confused, flinchy Will Graham of outside-his-mind – he is the take-charge, aggressive, Will Graham with some goddamned agency, that he only seems to be able to muster when he slips into the minds of other people – that is until the end of Season 1, anyway. Will’s agency gets a glow up in “Savoureux,” just wait.

            I will say that when Will gouges Nurse Shell’s eyes out with his thumbs, that’s a major ick for me. Eye stuff always deeply bothers me. I had two very invasive eye surgeries as a child and I think it makes me sensitive. The needle in the eye scene in Fire In the Sky is a trauma from which I will never recover.

            After Will’s recreation is finished, the viewer is then treated to a flashback three years earlier when the character of Miriam Lass enters the series. It is well known that Miriam Lass, played astonishingly by Anna Chlumsky, is Bryan’s substitute for/homage to the character of Clarice Starling, who, because of copyright issues, Bryan could not use in Hannibal. This, of course, is a damn shame, because Clarice is a god-level character and I would love, love, love to see what Bryan could do with her. (I would also like – if we ever get future seasons – to see Ardelia Mapp, Barney Matthews, and Multiple Miggs show up, but I digress…)

            Miriam and Clarice share similar backgrounds – they were both FBI Forensic Fellows – Clarice had the great distinction of studying under fingerprint examiner par excellence, Jimmy Price – but they both came through the same program there and at the FBI Academy. Their university degrees differ a little – Clarice is the daughter of a lawman, which Miriam does not seem to be – but both women are the same with regards to their stunning intellects, dogged determination, and their fascinations with and devotions to “the Guru,” Jack Crawford. It reminds me of a passage from The Silence of the Lambs. At the end of the chapter, (I tell you, Thomas Harris knows how to end a fucking chapter) – after Starling and Crawford return from the Potter Funeral Home in West Virginia, Harris writes, “She watched him walk away, a middle-aged man laden with cases and rumpled from flying, his cuffs muddy from the riverbank, going home to what he did at home. She would have killed for him then. That was one of Crawford’s great talents” (96).

            Jack tells Miriam that he has culled her from the herd of FBI hopefuls to work for him in the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program (VICAP) because she is at the top of her class, has impressive credentials, and wrote him a fan letter when she was accepted into the Academy. When Jack brings up the Ripper, he says, “The Ripper is very hot right now” (Wu and Fuller 10). Jack is, of course, indicating that the Ripper is on a spree, having taken “his last two victims in six days” (Wu and Fuller 10). But I can’t help but think of Zoolander every time I hear Jack make this remark. “Ooooh, that Ripper – he’s so hot right now…” And let’s be honest, if there’s anyone who could pull off a perfect “Blue Steel,” it’s Mads Mikkelsen.

Miriam impresses Jack with her assessment of the Ripper – not a “true sociopath,” but a killer with “some of the characteristics of what they call a sociopath,” but that in truth, “they don’t know what else to label him” (Wu and Fuller 10). Jack then begins briefing Miriam on the case and we are flashed back to the present and find ourselves sitting with Alana and Will in Frederick Chilton’s office.

Alana and Will are both there to interview Gideon – they will be conducting their interviews separately and then comparing notes. Chilton is “convinced” Gideon is the Ripper (when he knows damned well he’s not), Will is convinced Gideon is NOT the Ripper – Alana is unsure. Chilton informs Alana that even though she only had two sessions with Gideon when he was first admitted to the BSHCI, Gideon has “given [her] a lot of thought” since then (Wu and Fuller 12). It ups the creep factor and of course mirrors the novel Red Dragon, like much of this scene does, except that the inmate is Hannibal Lecter and the person he’s “given a lot of thought to” is Will Graham. Hannibal thinking a lot about Will is deep canon. Always has been. Always will be.

Alana goes into interview Gideon first – when she does, the script indicates, “The STEEL DOOR of the maximum security section closed behind Alana Bloom. She hears the bolt slide home” (Wu and Fuller 13).

I’m always deeply thrilled at how often the writers of Hannibal return to the “Forward to a Fatal Interview” from Harris’ Red Dragon and snatch little phrases from it they leave like glistening Easter eggs for fans to find. This is one such bejeweled egg – a Faberge of one, in fact. This forward is about how Thomas Harris came to create the characters of Will Graham, Clarice Starling, and most importantly, Hannibal Lecter. In the final paragraph, he says, “When in the winter of 1979 I entered the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane and the great metal door crashed closed behind me, little did I know what waited at the end of the corridor; how seldom we recognize the sound when the bolt of our fate slides home” (XIII).

An adaptation is a beautiful thing when you have such beautiful source material to work with. I am forever fascinated by what different filmmakers and actors have done with the Hannibal canon, but we cannot, should not, ever forget the mind that created it and created such compelling characters that withstand the test of time and are enriched every time a new generation of writers and viewers return to them.

The interviews between Alana and Gideon and Will and Gideon are now intercut with each other, a wonderful technique that allows the viewers to compare and contrast for themselves, the differences and similarities between Alana and Will in their questioning, the differences between Gideon’s reactions to Alana and to Will. The most important fact that seems to arise from the interview is when Will says to Gideon about the death of Nurse Shell, “Brutalization of the body was done posthumously. The Chesapeake Ripper usually does that sort of thing during, not after” (Wu and Fuller 15). Will never buys Gideon as the Ripper. His other murders were spontaneous, not planned. Gideon is not an artist; he’s a plagiarist. What Will can’t figure out is why Gideon is copping to murders he didn’t commit.

We begin Act Two with Jack Crawford arriving unannounced at Hannibal’s office, just as the Doctor is about to leave for the day. Hannibal asks if Jack was just “in the neighborhood?” – Jack answers, “Something like that” (Wu and Fuller 16). This line is one of those TV/film chestnuts that you hear over and over and it never actually happens in real life. I have never in my life had someone show up at my door saying they were “just in the neighborhood.” Just like I have never had a cat suddenly jump on me from some unseen elevated position when I am in a darkened alleyway or corridor and things feel all spooky. It’s film logic. It’s kooky, but it works.

Bella is out of town and Jack has come to Hannibal to pry some sort of information out of him about Bella’s cancer – how she’s feeling, what she’s saying, what she thinks – all of which she is not telling Jack and all of which Hannibal cannot tell Jack due to doctor-patient confidentiality. Jack becomes angry. Their conversation is enlightening with regards to Hannibal’s character:

JACK CRAWFORD: You talk to me about Will Graham.

HANNIBAL: Will Graham isn’t officially my patient. We have conversations.

JACK CRAWFORD: What do you consider this?

HANNIBAL: Desperate coping.

                                                                                    (Wu and Fuller 17)

The line here – “desperate coping” – is such a wonderful illustration of how accurately Hannibal is portrayed as having some sociopathic tendencies or at least the tendencies of a narcissist. Throughout the series, Hannibal shows how he can go cold at a moment’s notice – how he can so easily shift from a seemingly caring, compassionate individual to a nightmare of stone-faced, murder-eyed calm. It’s terrifying. I was once very much in love with a man who could do this – he was not a murderer, but he could go dead-eyed and cold on you like this in seconds – and you never knew when it was coming. It scared the shit out of me.

            Some might say that Hannibal’s line here is compassionate, that he feels for Jack and his attempts to handle the imminent death of his wife – but I think the line is meant to cut Jack to the quick – he slices right into the meat of Jack’s pain here – as if to say, “Yeah, your wife’s dying. Pull it together, wimp.”

            It is canon that Hannibal prods people to cause pain – it is entirely for his own pleasure. A good example is from The Silence of the Lambs. When Hannibal meets with Senator Martin, supposedly to tell her the “real name” of Buffalo Bill (ha ha), he makes a cutting remark about the Senator breastfeeding her daughter when she was a baby. Then this happens: “When her pupils darkened, Dr. Lecter took a single sip of her pain and found it exquisite. That was enough for today” (201).

            The man drinks pain. What else is there to say?

            Then Hannibal immediately “salves” the wound he has created (“Salve” is the word used in the script directions) – saying “I’ll offer this one insight: she thinks she married the right guy” (Wu and Fuller 17). See Hannibal playing with Jack? Always playing.

            Jack then says, “I look at her side of the bed and wonder if she’s going to die there or where she’ll die and I feel myself going uncomfortably numb” (Wu and Fuller 18). I believe this to be a reference to Jack’s actual, canon death that Thomas Harris wrote for him in the novel, Hannibal. It is a death that I completely understand but hate like fire because I think a character like Jack deserved a lot better. I feel that Bryan was writing a better end for Jack.

            The end in question is as follows. Clarice Starling has already been drugged and hypnotized, pulled into a strange “relationship” with Hannibal – they live in Buenos Aires together under assumed names. Clarice finds out that Jack has died from the FBI website. Apparently, “after Crawford was home for a month from the hospital, the chest pains came again in the night. Instead of calling an ambulance and going through it all again, he chose simply to roll over to the solace of his late wife’s side of the bed” (483).

            I understand it, but dammit Jack deserves better. I believe Bryan was going to give him better. At least he gets to go to Italy and kick Hannibal’s ass. At least he gets another chance.

            Jack and Hannibal have a conversation about loss, which leads Hannibal to ask, “Who else couldn’t you save, Jack?” (Wu and Fuller 18). Once again, Hannibal pokes at the wound, tugs at the scab. We know full well that Hannibal has Miriam Lass hidden in a damp, darkened oubliette of a well in a secret farmhouse – all wet and cold with a missing arm in a dirty nightgown and in desperate need of some wet wipes and dry shampoo. We know this – which means all of this questioning about “the lost trainee” is just Hannibal enjoying himself, just Hannibal savoring Jack’s pain. I really do think he lets Miriam live because he likes her – (the same reason book/film Hannibal lets Clarice live – she’s a “deep roller”) – but I also think he lets Miriam live solely to give her back to Jack – just like he gives Bella back to Jack when he thwarts her suicide attempt. Just as he takes Abigail away from Will, then gives her back, then takes her away again – Lucy and the football. Hannibal is “curious” what will happen, but also because he loves the pain. Pain is so much more than hum-drum everyday life – and Hannibal doesn’t like mundane pain – like the worries and neurotic spoutings of Franklyn Froidveaux or Neal Frank, no. Hannibal wants Greek tragedy level pain – a boy who wants to be a killing monster, a girl who wants to kill the brother who has been raping her all her life, a man watching his wife die, a man torturing himself with guilt because he lost another girl, and Will Graham, whose pain is beautiful in its kaleidoscopic, ever-changing qualities – it is always the pain of the killer he is profiling, the victim he is investigating, and sometimes, Will’s own deeply buried pain, abandoned by mom, distant from dad, outcast at school, outcast among colleagues, always alone and beautiful, always alone and confused – in terms of pain, Will is 31 Flavors.

            At this point, Jack refuses to tell Hannibal about Miriam Lass – but later on he breaks. The breaking is always Hannibal’s favorite part.

            We are now flashed back again to three years earlier; we see Miriam and Jack surveying the Wound Man tableaux rendered by the authentic Chesapeake Ripper. The victim is lashed to his worktable, and all of his tools from the peg board on which they once hung are dug into the man’s body in varying places all over the corpse.

            This is not an unfamiliar moment. Jack with a whip-smart profiler assessing the carnage of a crime scene; he has also cleared the way for that profiler by sending all “the others” – the crime scene techs and photographers and forensic creatures -- away. Jack seems to understand that the brilliant ones need to be unfettered by noise and stimuli, even before Will Graham joins his pack. Miriam concludes several important things about both the murder and the murderer, namely that the victim was awake during the attack, and that the Ripper was selective about the organs he harvested. Miriam calls these organs “surgical trophies” – in this way, she is half right (Wu and Fuller 19). It is Will who will determine that the Ripper’s trophies are edible and et. The Ripper is a medical doctor, male, and – and I love this line – “exotic somehow” (Wu and Fuller 19). I believe the “exotic somehow” is meant to refer to the fact that Hannibal Lecter is European. I assume Europeans do not consider themselves “exotic,” but most Americans are flabbergasted by anyone with an accent different than theirs, so… If “exotic” is referring to the fact that the Ripper is being played by masterful and devastatingly beautiful actor Mads Mikkelsen, then yes, he's EXOTIC AS FUCK. Point is, he’s not your run-of-the-mill American. He owns a cravat – more than one probably. He probably has a bidet – he calls sedans “saloons” – and he buys all his table linens and china at Christofle. Miriam compliments Jack’s “peculiar cleverness” and we move out of the scene back into the morgue at the BAU, where Team Sassy Science is examining Nurse Shell’s body and Will is observing (Wu and Fuller 20).

            The team is discussing the similarities between Nurse Shell’s murder and the Wound Man murder. They are attempting to rule Abel Gideon IN or OUT. They are unsure how Gideon could have known about the wound patterns the Ripper inflicted on his victims because those details were kept away from the press. Will says, “I see the Ripper but I don’t… feel the Ripper. He’s an artist. This is… plagiarism” (Wu and Fuller 21). Will has his finger on Hannibal’s pulse from the very beginning of the show – whether it be Hannibal as the Copy Cat or Hannibal as the Ripper – when Will finally realizes the two are one and the same, it seems like something that has been on the tip of his tongue since the very beginning. And Will is also very correct in assessing that the real Chesapeake Ripper is not going to let Gideon take credit for his work.

            We end Act Two with Jack Crawford at home, asleep in his bed alone, his wife still out of town at a NATO summit. The phone rings. Jack shakes awake and picks up the phone. The clock reads 2:47 A.M. Clocks are an important motif in Hannibal, especially in Season 1. I will address what I think the motif means when I get deeper into Season 1, when Will’s encephalitis begins to worsen, but needless to say – clocks are humankind’s desperate attempt to not only measure but control time – and quite frankly, time rarely cooperates.

            When Jack answers the phone, he doesn’t recognize the voice at first – or perhaps he doesn’t believe what he is hearing. The words said by the caller are important because it is these words used to torment Jack for the rest of the episode:

MIRIAM LASS’S VOICE: Jack… Jack… Jack… It’s Miriam. I don’t know where I am. I can’t see anything. I was so wrong. I was so wrong. Please… Jack… I don’t want to die like this.                                                            (Wu and Fuller 20).

And then the line goes dead.

            We start Act Three back at the BAU. Beverly Katz has checked all the online databases for telecom systems and says she cannot find a trace of any call to Jack’s home at 2:47 AM. As Brian Zeller continues to question Jack’s skills of perception and memory (that maybe Jack dreamed it, that he doesn’t remember what Miriam sounds like), Jimmy Price points out, “whoever called could have tapped in from that little box outside your house. Or the junction in your neighborhood. There would be no trace signal to track” (Wu and Fuller 23). We, the viewer, know this is exactly what the Ripper – Hannibal Lecter – has done, solely because he is Hannibal Lecter, the James Bond/MacGyver of serial killers. He is a psychiatrist, a medical doctor and a surgeon; he speaks/reads/writes at least four languages that we know of. He is a world-class chef, butcher, snail cultivator, beer brewer – he can tie knots, sew, handle a variety of weapons. He can fist-fight – he can ballroom dance. He can give lectures on Dante in the medieval Italian. Obviously, he knows how to tap a phone line. I also feel very certain that Hannibal can fly a plane, hack into any computer (although he finds it distasteful), make his own soap (Fight Club style), and he knows at least one martial art, if not more.

            Incidentally, tapping into phone lines is also something Francis Dolarhyde can do – both later in Season 3 when he taps into the phone line at Hannibal’s office and calls Hannibal in the BSHCI with the call masked as Hannibal’s lawyer. But, according to Bryan, the Marlow murder in “Apéritif” is one of Francis’ early murders, and he had to tap into the Marlow phone line to record Mrs. Marlow’s call to the security company. It occurs to me that being a serial killer must create endless hobbies, solely based on things you have to learn, like phone tapping, lock picking, glass cutting, tree-climbing, and “this-is-my-designing.”

            Will points out that the 2:47 call obviously didn’t come from the BSHCI, and therefore, could not have been Abel Gideon. When Brian Zeller again suggests that perhaps Jack dreamed the call, Jack shouts at him, “I know when I’m awake” (Wu and Fuller 24). The script then indicates, “Will reacts to that, not always sure he knows the same” (Wu and Fuller 24). Poor Will’s encephalitis is worsening. It only serves to isolate him from others who might possibly help him. And the only person he thinks can help him is actively worsening his condition. I forgive him later, but from this point through the end of Season 1, I am mad as hell at Hannibal. My loyalty is to Will. Hannibal not only doesn’t help my poor baby, he purposely alienates Will from the people who could help him. Grrrrrrr…

            Next, we see Will in his classroom at Quantico. Soon, he hears the clacking of hooves on the floor of the corridor. When he looks up, he sees the Black Stag sidling toward him – then this vision morphs into the reality of the circumstance, Alana Bloom and Jack Crawford walking into the room. Jack floats the idea of baiting the Ripper with a well-placed story in the media, a story that will anger the Ripper because the reporter will heavily suggest that Abel Gideon is the REAL Chesapeake Ripper. Will thinks the scheme is dangerous. He says, “You might push the Ripper to kill again just to prove he isn’t in a hospital for the criminally insane;” to which Jack replies, “I have to push, Will” (Wu and Fuller 26). Jack’s statement is very telling – not just about his relentless pursuit of the Ripper, but of himself as a person. Jack does indeed “push.” He pushes everyone. He pushes Will so hard he practically has a nervous breakdown. He pushes him into the hands of the Ripper himself. He pushes Miriam so hard, he pushes her into that same man’s hands. He pushes his wife so hard, she flees to that same man for advice.

            Considering that Hannibal and Jack don’t officially meet until Episode 1, Hannibal is already WAAAY involved in Jack’s life and already deeply embedded in Jack’s head. It’s funny upon their first meeting in “Apéritif,” that Jack is meeting his nemesis and doesn’t know it. The man who took Miriam from him, who will take Will from him, who will take Beverly from him, who will almost take Jack’s own life. Talk about “a bolt of fate sliding home.”

            Will is disgusted with the idea that Jack is going to cahoot with Freddie Lounds, but you know how Jack has to push, so the next scene reveals Freddie Lounds entering a conference room at Quantico to meet with Jack, Will, and Alana. Jack and Alana are amiable and friendly to Freddie; Will is cold and bitchy (and insanely hot…) Jack tells Freddie he wants her to confirm her story about Gideon being the Ripper. Alana promises to talk to Chilton to get Freddie an interview with Gideon. In one of my favorite of Freddie’s lines, she says, “Not to snap bubblegum and crack wise, but what’s my angle? Is he the Chesapeake Ripper or you just want me to tell everybody he is” (Wu and Fuller 28). Jack suggests he could be because Gideon is a surgeon. The three then discuss the fabled list of professions which psychopaths most favor – journalists and law enforcement being two more. I often wonder if there is also a list of professions that psychos LEAST inhabit. Like, in the bowels of the BAU, a criminal profiler is saying, “Well, we know he’s not a pet psychic, a cupcake baker, or a crossword puzzle author, so we can rule those out! Thank God!”

            We are then transported to the high security sector of the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane and see stylishly dressed and coiffed Freddie Lounds entering the prison and introducing herself to Abel Gideon.

            When Freddie’s story is finished and published to Tattlecrime.com, we then see Hannibal at his desk with his little tablet reading it – his face as close to “bothered” as you ever see Hannibal come. This is the same face he makes when Franklyn leaves a soiled tissue on his end table, when Mason Verger stabs his chair. I like to call it Hannibal’s “I’m About To Cut a Bitch” face. This is one thing I will say for Mads Mikkelsen over and over again – he acts with every part of his body, including his beautiful face. Fannibals love to discuss Mads’ microexpressions – the little twitches at the corners of his eyes, the dead-eyed, yet sarcastic stares, the tears that appear from nowhere, the minute turnings of his lips into wry smiles – and the most prized being the MIKKELSNARL, the King of All Expressions. The look on his face when reading Freddie Lounds’ story makes you fear for her. Amazingly, she survives. It’s actually insane.

            We then see Dr. Chilton and Alana dining with Hannibal at his home. Hannibal says that the dish is a lamb tongue served with Duxelle sauce and mushrooms, created by famous French chef Auguste Escoffier. After some tongue wagging amongst the diners, Hannibal says to Chilton, “Don’t give me ideas. Your tongue is very feisty and as this evening has already proven, it’s nice to have an old friend for dinner” (Wu and Fuller 30). This line is, of course, a tribute to the ending scene of The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal’s phone call to Clarice in which he implies he will be soon killing and eating the bumbling Dr. Chilton. As previously stated, Fuller’s Chilton stubbornly survives every season.

            Alana, Frederick, and Hannibal begin discussing Abel Gideon. Frederick proudly claims Gideon to be the Ripper. Alana begins questioning Frederick and asks, “Is it possible that you inadvertently planted the suggestion in Gideon’s mind that he was the Ripper?” (Wu and Fuller 31). Frederick replies, “Psychic driving is unethical” (Wu and Fuller 32).

            I have to admit that I NEVER heard the term “psychic driving” before Hannibal. Truly, it sounds like a Cronenberg video game for the Atari 2600. Hannibal says that psychic driving is allowable “in certain circumstances” and actually seems to arouse some gentle suspicion from both Alana and Frederick (Wu and Fuller 32). They don’t seem suspicious that Hannibal is the Ripper – we are a looooong way from that – but they both seem a little shocked that Hannibal might condone the practice, even in narrow cases. Hannibal so desperately wants to play, I think he actually overplays his hand here. He so rarely gives anything away and usually only does so on purpose – perhaps Hannibal’s admission is just to facilitate the conversation Hannibal has in the kitchen with Frederick, in which he states that he believes Frederick already has “psychically driven” Gideon, but it seems a little haphazard to me. Perhaps he’s still amped up because Freddie Lounds has landed a hit on him.

            Speaking of Gideon, we now see him in his cell at the BSHCI, this time being questioned by Jack, who states point blank to the prisoner, “You’re not the Chesapeake Ripper” (Wu and Fuller 33). Gideon tries to convince Jack, tries weakly to explain why he, supposedly as the Ripper, takes surgical trophies, why he didn’t display the bodies of his wife and her family, and so on. Gideon ascertains that Jack is not concerned with those prior crimes.

            DR. GIDEON: But you’re not here to talk about my wife or even the night nurse.

            JACK CRAWFORD: What am I here to talk about?

            DR. GIDEON: Your trainee. Miriam something.

                                                                                                (Wu and Fuller 34)

This minor detail, the fact that Gideon does not know Miriam’s last name, proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that Gideon is not, cannot be the Chesapeake Ripper. The real Ripper, Hannibal Lecter, has a meticulous memory palace built in his mind. Thomas Harris explains the grandiose proportions of the Doctor’s psychic estate in both Hannibal and Hannibal Rising. In Hannibal, Harris even treats us to a description of the palace’s interior. It has a “Great Hall of the Seasons… [a] hall of looms and textiles…[and a] Hall of Addresses,” just to name a few wings (252-254). Hannibal actually retrieves Clarice Starling’s address from this cognitive library, buried in a mental construction that Harris says, “is vast, even by medieval standards” (252).

            I know for a fact that Hannibal Lecter remembers the name of every victim he ever killed, how he killed them, what organs/limbs he took, what dish he made with them, and how they tasted. There is no way he forgets a victim’s name. With the exception of the incidental goons from the Questura in Season 3 or Mason Verger’s goons, Hannibal knows the name of every victim he chooses. No way he would forget Miriam’s last name. Gideon is an amateur.

            As their conversation continues, Jack’s phone rings. He walks out of Gideon’s cell block to answer the call as the caller ID announces the number as “HOME.” Jack misses the call and redials. He believes the caller to be his wife, having returned early from her trip. Whoever answers the phone (you know who), then plays the same haunting recorded message – Miriam Lass scared, alone, and begging Jack to help her.

            Immediately, we are in Jack Crawford’s bedroom, where Team Sassy Science is pulling and processing evidence from Jack’s bedroom carpet, bedside phone, and even his wife’s pillow. Will is once again observing. Jimmy Price pulls three sets of prints from the phone – the first two sets are identified as Jack’s and his wife’s. The third set is later identified as belonging to Miriam Lass. Beverly even finds a long blonde hair on Bella’s pillow. Will, of course, asks questions: “Did Miriam Lass know where you live?... Did you know you were sending her after [the Chesapeake Ripper?]…” and then states, “Whoever made that phone call thinks you were close to Miriam Lass and feel responsible for her death;” to which Jack replies, “She was my trainee. I am responsible for her death” (Wu and Fuller 36). Jimmy Price floats the idea that Miriam may be alive since her prints are on the phone. Jack cannot accept the idea.

            This new evidence spins Jack into another flashback – the circumstance of Jack’s last meeting with Miriam – the last time he saw her alive. They are back at Quantico – Miriam has skipped a class called “Exclusionary Rules of Search and Seizure” to ask Jack’s opinion about a report she left on his desk (Wu and Fuller 37). Jack seems needlessly cruel to Miriam in this scene. He tells her “go back to class” and “Frustrated, Lass? Better start forming a callus or frustration is going to wear you through” (Wu and Fuller 37).

            This is perhaps one of the reasons Jack feels so guilty about Miriam’s death, or what he believes to be, death. In their last conversation, he wasn’t very nice. This is one of the unfortunate things about life. The last time I saw my father, the night before he died, the last thing I said to him was, “Dad, don’t eat all that ice cream.” My father was a diabetic and my mother and we children fought him tooth and nail to eat better. Towards the end of his life, he merely circumvented us – he hid Snickers bars in the clothes hamper, peanut butter crackers in the visor in his truck – he finally just broke down and started buying all the sweets he wanted himself since my mother refused to buy them. He was unstoppable. The last time I saw him, he was digging into a half-gallon of Blue Bell chocolate ice cream, and so I told him not to eat it all. All he said to me was, “Bye.”

            If I had known that was the last time I would ever see him alive, I would have told him that I loved him. I would have told him that even though he was a shitty dad, abusive and obstreperous, that I still loved him, and I always would. I have to content myself with the idea that either my dad knew that I loved him or he just didn’t care.

            Miriam’s report makes a smart but dangerous suggestion in the hunt for the Chesapeake Ripper. She explains, “If the Chesapeake Ripper is a surgeon, we should look at medical records of all the known victims” (Wu and Fuller 38). Jack points out that this search would obviously be illegal – medical records fall under very tight privacy laws. Then, the following conversation proves yet another thing to the viewer about Jack’s character:

JACK CRAWFORD: It’s one thing for a trainee to go poking around private medical records without a warrant, very much another if “The Guru” did it…

MIRIAM LASS: Better for a trainee to ask for forgiveness than an FBI agent to ask for permission?

            JACK CRAWFORD: In my experience.

                                                                                                (Wu and Fuller 38).

There is something to be said of the fact that this is exactly the way that Jack “loses” people. This strategy is how he loses Will, how he loses Beverly – sending subordinates to do things he can’t do. I suppose it is a comment on larger patriarchal culture – how men in power get little people to do their dirty work for them – everything from cleaning their toilets to fighting their wars. It is not lost on me that two of the people that Jack “loses” this way are women. Strong, stubborn, beautiful women who went off doing things Jack couldn’t do because of “rules.” I love Jack Crawford with all my heart – but he should feel guilty. The loss of Miriam Lass IS very much his fault.

            After this conversation, Miriam wanders off to begin her search of the medical records and we are flashed back into the present where we see Alana Bloom again at the BSHCI, again interviewing Dr. Gideon. Two scenes here at the end of Act Four and the beginning of Act Five, one where Will has a conversation with Chilton, and one where there is a lockdown in the prison were cut from the final episode, so I shall skip them.

            The scene we alight upon is Jack, back in the present, walking down a hallway at the Academy, and once again his phone rings. Jack accepts the grim possibility that the call might once again be the Ripper taunting him and answers it. It brings us to one of the most interesting and important locales in the series, the abandoned observatory. The real location is the David Dunlap Observatory in Richmond Hill, Ontario, Canada. We see the observatory several times in the series – it is always a place of gruesome revelations.

            We see Will, Beverly, and Jack approaching the building – Beverly explaining that the last call Jack received from the Ripper “traced here. Or within a 100 feet of here” (Wu and Fuller 42). Jack then redials the last number the Ripper called from – one that wasn’t masked or anonymous. They hear a distant ringing coming from inside the observatory.

            They enter the building, and underneath a bunch of discarded equipment, at the base of the main telescope, they find a severed arm, the hand holding the ringing cell phone. A note on a card beneath the arm says, “What do you see?” (Wu and Fuller 43). The viewer understands that this is Miriam Lass’ arm – it explains the fingerprints on the phone in Jack’s bedroom.

            I must say, I do find the image kind of funny… Hannibal in his squeaky murder suit – which I affectionately call his “garment bag” because DAMMIT that’s what it looks like – a garment bag with sleeves turned sideways – in Jack’s bedroom, opening a plastic bag and tweezing out one of Miriam’s head hairs, laying it on Bella’s pillow – making the call from Jack’s bedside phone and then laying Miriam’s decapitated hand over the receiver – pressing the finger pads down with his own to make sure the prints stick. I always imagine Hannibal waving Miriam’s arm around with a dramatic flourish when he’s done – like some morbid maestro conducting an insane symphony all of his own composition.

            The episode ends with a flashback – Miriam Lass showing up at Hannibal’s office door to question him. The Wound Man victim was a “Jeremy Olmstead” Hannibal had treated for an arrow wound in his thigh the man received while bow hunting – when Hannibal worked in the emergency room, most likely at Maryland Misericordia Hospital in Baltimore. Hannibal says he doesn’t remember the man (he totally remembers) – but under the guise of going to retrieve his notes from the years he worked in the ER, he leaves the room, removes his shoes, and then in his stocking feet creeps up behind Miriam, just as she discovers Hannibal’s own Wound Man drawing and begins to realize the trouble she is in. Hannibal begins choking Miriam – this is the episode’s second installment of “THINGS THAT HAVE NO BUSINESS BEING INSANELY HOT.”

            The script describes the scene as follows:

Hannibal is like a column of marble, motionless as Miriam twists and throws, trying in vain to knock him off balance. She reaches behind her head, clawing at Hannibal but he presses his face almost sensually against the back of her neck to protect face and eyes from her slashing fingernails. Miriam’s eyes roll, defeated, tear-filled, knowing she’s going to die. She begins to go limp in Hannibal’s arms.

                                                                                    (Wu and Fuller 48).

This scene is an homage to the same scene in Red Dragon when Hannibal attacks Will from behind, just as Will spies a medical book on Hannibal’s bookshelves that contains the Wound Man drawing. Will’s gut is slashed by Hannibal in this attack – in Fuller’s Hannibal, Will’s gut is spared until the end of Season 2.

            This is why I adore Bryan’s Hannibal so much – it is not just an adaptation; it is a remix. Scenes are moved and laid in the hands of different characters. Conversations are shifted – things Hannibal said to Clarice, he says to Will – characters are gender-swapped or their fates are interchanged. Much of Bryan’s remix remains the same – like the tiger scene between Reba and Francis in Season 3 – but so much of it is recut, reimagined, broken down and put back together. Hannibal is an artist of deconstruction and reconstruction and so is Bryan. I still say and always will that Hannibal is the best show ever on television. Good God, it is that fucking good.

            But, you ask, “JESUS CHRIST! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GET TO THE LESSON?” I shall now deliver.

            The lesson takes place in the scene just before Miriam’s attack. After having discovered Miriam’s decapitated arm, Jack is badly rattled and goes to see Hannibal at his office. When questioned by Hannibal as to what he believes the Ripper’s motives are for trying to convince him that Miriam is alive, Jack responds “Hope. The Ripper wanted to cloud my vision in the fog of hope;” Hannibal then says, “It can sometimes be brave to allow yourself hope” (Wu and Fuller 44).

            Hannibal then asks Jack when he gave up hope that Miriam would be found alive and then makes the leap from one woman in Jack’s life to another saying, “Don’t give up hope for your wife. Not yet” (Wu and Fuller 44). At the end of the scene, Hannibal coaxes Jack into telling him about Miriam, even asking what her name was. I have to say it, but making Jack tell him, as if he is absolutely unknowing of the details, about Miriam Lass and her disappearance seems almost masturbatory to me – Jack is talking dirty to Hannibal and doesn’t even know it. Hannibal sits there, absorbing every minutiae, every crease of pain in Jack’s face, every flutter of guilt in his eyes, enjoying every moment knowing exactly where Miriam is, and how she disappeared. Perhaps it is in this discussion with Jack that Hannibal decides to spare Miriam’s life. Perhaps that was always his plan. Hannibal couldn’t have known he would be called in to consult with Jack on his beautiful, but twitchy profiler, so who knows how long he was willing to wait, keeping Miriam alive, bleeding her for info that would bring him directly into Jack’s domain. All of it is devious and cruel.

            It is perhaps the cruelest of things for Hannibal to talk to Jack about hope. The viewer knows that Hannibal is the one who has given Jack this “false kind” of hope (Wu and Fuller 44). It is important to remember that on a first time viewing, an audience member is not aware that Miriam is still alive. Just as on a first time viewing, the audience does not know that Abigail Hobbs is still alive after her ear turns up in Will’s gullet and then his sink. This “give the desperate loved ones a piece of their missing people and taunt them with hope” like a sadistic kidnapper, but one with no asking price, is a pattern Hannibal uses twice in the series – both times to manipulate people he cares for – to spin them in circles and watch the motion – no doubt in this spinning, Hannibal searches for weak spots, but he also delights in their pain and confusion.

            It is interesting to think that the people Hannibal seems to care most about are the ones he plays with in this way. Will, Jack, Bedelia – he offers hope; he yanks it away. He lies and lies until suddenly, at the precise moment it will make the greatest impact, he tells the truth. A colossal tease is Hannibal Lecter. But he plays with these people because they interest him enough to invest time and effort into them, into both their pain and their pleasure.

            Hannibal pokes at Jack’s hope not just about Miriam, but about Bella. As a surgeon, Hannibal knows the hope for Bella is even more of a longshot than for Miriam. But he wants Jack to hope because without hope, there is nothing to lose. It is best that Jack, Will, Bedelia, Alana – that all of them have something to hope for, something to lose. They will all become truly dangerous to Hannibal if they don’t. Which is basically what happens with most of Season 2 to Will, and for Jack and Alana in Season 3 – vengeance arcs – when Hannibal has stripped them of hope.

            Our lesson resides in Hannibal’s line: “It can sometimes be brave to allow yourself hope” (Wu and Fuller 44). Leaving aside Hannibal’s qualifying statement of “sometimes,” the most important diction in this line is of “brave” and “allow.”

            Mostly, we allow hope for others. For a sick friend, a family down on their luck, a whole group, a whole country – a sports team or a heroic dog – we can give our hope to them. That makes sense. And it feels good.

            But often, hope is not a thing we are willing to give ourselves. It seems like something only for other people, like compliments or compassion or birthday cakes. Hannibal says it’s “brave” to allow ourselves hope because when our lives are in abject turmoil, hope is the last thing we want to give ourselves because… hope hurts. When things don’t turn out as we want – when we don’t get the promotion – we lose the contest – we fail the test – we screw up the date – or worse yet, our loved one dies – when we crash and burn, utterly crash and burn – we remember the hope we had beforehand and say, “You fool. You stupid fucking fool. How did you even dare to hope?”

            And so the lesson, dear reader, is this – as he often is – Hannibal is right (the bastard…)

            It is brave. Let yourself have it.

            ALLOW YOURSELF HOPE. BE BRAVE.

            I know it seems easy for me to say. It’s not. It’s hard for me too. Some days, I just can’t do it. But you and me… we’ve got to keep trying. I deserve hope. And so do you.

            It seems impossible is this world full of pain and death and smiling villains.

            But if Jack Crawford can muster hope from a decapitated arm and a dying wife who won’t talk to him, you and I can too.

            Here endeth the lesson…

References:

Fuller, Bryan and Steve Lightfoot. Writers. “Kaiseki.” Hannibal, season 2, episode 1, Chiswick Productions, 2014.

Harris, Thomas. “Foreword to a Fatal Interview.” Red Dragon, by Harris, Berkley, 2000, pp. IX-XIII).

Harris, Thomas. Hannibal. New York, Delacorte Press, 1999.

Harris, Thomas. The Silence of the Lambs. New York, St. Martin’s Press, 1990.

“Judges 8:27.” King James Bible Online, www.kingjamesbibleonline.org/

Judges-8-27.

Wu, Kai Yu and Bryan Fuller. Writers. “Entrée.” Hannibal, season 1, episode 6, Chiswick Productions, 2012.

[papa-evershed]

I’m curious… what do you think are the sexiest gifs of Rob EVER? 😏 I’d love to see ‘em.

I apologize for my late answer but like a weirdo, I was just convinced that my choices would somehow be disappointing. 😅🙈 I just feel like most people are going to expect gifs of kissing scenes or skin but those aren't even the ones that make me the most feral. But I'll give it a shot. 😂

As always, under a read more for length but also for cringe worthy fangirling and NSFW thirst-talk.

Immediately, my first thought was this gif. When I say I adore this man's belly I fucking mean it. He's just so deliciously man-shaped. Tall and thick and soft in all the right places. I love a belly, lets me know that a person isn't too militant and allows themselves to indulge in life's pleasures. 😏😏 (I'm reading way too much into a belly but here we are.) Add in the fact that in this specific scene, Martin Evershed is being the ultimate soft, caring Dad™. He has every reason in the world to lose his shit on Sam but instead he actively chooses to be what she needs in that moment and it's just incredibly sexy because he is a whole ass Man™. I just wrote a fucking novel about this one gif but listen, there's a reason it's first that comes to mind.

The thumb in the mouth? 🙃

Speaking of Act On This, this one too. I'm not even sure if I can put my finger on exactly why this specific gif is one of my favorites. Perhaps because he's usually so smiley (which I adore) that a rare serious/stern look wrecks me. Another reason I want him cast as a villain. Just...yes, sir.

And on the flip side, these because he's just so soft again. I fucking love soft men, ones who don't seem to have that drive to constantly perform their own personal version of hyper-masculinity. (also, I'd suck a random dick off the street to get this in HQ)

I'm a simple creature and I like profiles, noses, and tits.

Like I said, I'm a simple creature and I am no better than any man.

When the right men manspread at the right time? Yes. Yes, that.

When Dad™ shows up to save the day? Get that man a beer and a blowjob.

And while I love it when a man is great with kids...I also think it's incredibly sexy when he's tired of their bullshit cause aren't we all sometimes? 😅

FUZZY GREY NECK? say no more. Also, I'd stand in a three hour long line to wait my turn to ride his thigh like he was the carousel at Disney World. I said what I said.

Hutch. Just Hutch. Everything about the character was sexy. And bless this t-shirt. The shoulders. The arms. The fuzzy neck. The nose. He could 100% talk me into sleeping in that creepy ass cabin and much like Phil, we'd also wake up naked and calling out to God.

Annnd because I feel like it's expected and it does deserve attention, this kiss with Papa E. Listen. Listen. So many fucking onscreen kisses go from 0 to 60 in .000005 seconds. Just immediate face-fucking right out the gate. And IDK about y'all but that shit just isn't enjoyable in real life. Don't assault my fucking face like a Dallas Cowboy's linebacker. 🙃 Ease into it. Warm up. Mr. Evershed will patiently take his time making you so anxiously desperate for more that when he finally does deepen that kiss your lips will be eagerly wet and ready...heh. 🙈

Anyway. 😳 I've been really good about not being thirsty on main anymore and this is still quite tame for me but I'm gonna stop now because this post could go on all night. 🫠

[gonegrove]

Thinking about heather x eddie bc I’m nothing if not a champion of rare pairs in this comm

But just the “god he’s so fucking LAME and CRINGE and EMBARRASSING I need him CARNALLY” energy is so intense. Heather who prides herself in being The Bitch™️ and boasting about how all the boys are thirsty for her but she’s Too Good for them realizing that she wasn’t into popular hot boys because her type was scrawny shaggy haired freaks with awful personalities and a huge gatekeeping streak.

Heather realizing that the only one who can go toe to toe with her in a vaguely toxic and absolutely mean argument about some asinine shit like A Movie or SoCiEtY is Eddie Fucking Munson and it’s also unbelievably erotic to her and being like “i need to kill myself IMMEDIATELY”

Heather and Eddie as Janet and frank n furter in a rocky horror production bc they’re both attention whores, both into music as a Serious Thing and Eddie just loves anything not mainstream and music related so like ofc he went in for it. And the whole thing quickly turns into a 2 man cats the musical orgy energy shitshow bc they both just get TOO INTO PERFORMING. She’s trying to act soooooooooo normal but sadly eddie on stage singing his heart out half naked is literally too erotic for her. The entire crews job turns into just keeping them from screwing back stage like the horny theater kids they are. Good thing too bc she’s always this close to giving him a bj and if she actually did she’d have to walk into the lake never to return.

She’s actively avoiding any place he’s preforming bc she cannot be held responsible for what she might do if she sees him on stage playing guitar and she doesn’t wanna be arrested.

Eddie realizing that the most popular girl in school (I stand by heather being the Main Bitch and Chrissy simply gaining her crown after her death) is HILARIOUSLY INTO HIM. LIKE ANGRY HORNY. And first being like wtf???? Before he sees the opportunity here for Evil and is immediately delighted. Decides it’s open season for revenge of several years of bullying but pointing out to her how she wants him sooooooo bad it makes her look stupid.

Eddie challenging her to read all of Tolkien’s works, and Heather who’s physically incapable of backing down doing it and coming back with notes like “fëanor is RIGHT actually, so is melkor. I cannot believe you like this pansy ass gay apologetics shit what are you catholic??” And he’s both LIVID ON SO MANY LEVELS but also WILDLY AROUSED. There’s just something about a hot popular chick confidently having the most vile takes on his cringe exclusionary nerd shit that gets him hard. He’s horrified by this fact but also knows she wants him bad anyway so like really it’s just a matter of self control and can his self-esteem/pride take it.

All of his friends hate her and he’s like “yeah 😍 me too 😍”

She gets roped into going to/preforming in Some Town Event oblivious to the fact he is too and that’s when she gets arc of the covenant’d with his guitar playing. Mind snaps. Will power gone. He’s the shittiest dude she’s ever met she doesn’t like him AT ALL but sadly he’s also the Perfect Man and she needs him IMMEDIATELY. Legit jumps him the SECOND she can.

The kinda ppl who’ll continue an argument during sex.

Eddie loving every second of little miss rich and popular being soooo down bad for him. Loving having this level of control over someone who’s usually so “out of his league”. Loving how he can turn her brain off and make her shut up like it’s a magic trick.

Eddie slowly realizing there’s parts of heather that she never shows to anyone but he’s gotten a peak of, intentionally or not, and getting kinda possessive of that.

Heather laying on his shitty gross ass bed listening to his music and taking it seriously and talking about it musical artist to musical artist.

Heather calling his dnd group shit like “his pathetic gay loser circle jerk” and he’s just like “baby I’m going to kill you with a brick 😍”

Heather bodily taking over his hair and skin care routine. Even brushing his hair sometimes and explaining it all for when she’s not there and he’s like “lol you know I’m not doing all that”

[naraven]

Uncovered

AN: as a cyno main, its my job to write him as soft and fluffy its just a rule i think everyone should know about. also the cover isnt that bad, please trust me, its not THAT bad

word count: 0.8k

heehee cyno,,,,

Maybe you were staring too hard. You spill some rice onto the table as you nearly miss putting the spoon in your mouth. The tahchin before you smelled amazing, out of this world even, but you just couldn’t focus on eating it when the person who made it was so much more appealing.

Cyno took his headpiece off before tooking, saying it could get in the way. You would have believed him if you didn’t see him fight a group of treasure hoarders about half an hour ago. 

Cyno cleans up the kitchen after he finished making enough food for the both of you, maybe still ignoring your staring. He knows, you’re sure, he’s probably just waiting for an excuse to tell another weird joke he needs to explain. 

When he’s done with cleaning he comes over to eat his own meal. The tahchin is still warm, the crispy rice and sweet chicken enhancing the padisarah fragrance. You eat as well, peeking up to stare at the object of your… obsession.

“Wait. Not yet.”

Just as Cyno is about to put his headpiece back on, you grab his wrist and pull it back onto the table. He blinks before looking up at you. 

“Why? What’s wrong?” It’s not like you could just tell him! It’s not often you see the fluffy texture of his hair, two ruby red eyes wide open instead of being half covered. His cheeks that were cutely rounded and the lighting in the room-

Ok, you could go on. But you were insistent on letting him keep his headpiece for one reason and one reason only. 

His ears. 

Not the ones on the headpiece, his ears on the side of his head that look very human. 

You sit back and eat the tahchin joyfully, just happy you could visibly see his ears. You aren’t being weird, you just. Like how his ears look. And how cute they are. And how biteable they are-

Oh, you NEED to bite his ears. 

You nibble slowly on your tahchin, eyes narrowing as you lean further back to contemplate how you’ll do this. Being too direct wouldn’t work (or maybe it would, it’s not like Cyno would complain) and being too subtle isn’t your style. 

You watch as he pushes his hair behind his ear to take another bit of tahchin. Despite eating earlier than him, Cyno had finished more of his plate than you had. You chew on your meal, thinking more about how you’ll coerce him into letting you bite his ears. 

“Is something wrong, (Y/N)?”

You smile, Cyno’s somewhat troubled eyes gazing at you. You shake your head and take another bite.

“Nothing’s wrong, don’t worry about it” Ah, the rice and chicken combo was so beautiful. As you bite into another chicken, you wonder how Cyno’s ear would feel like against your teeth-

Were you always like this? You’re pretty sure you weren’t usually this… thirsty for Cyno. It didn’t matter much though, did it? He’s so cuuute!

Your thoughts make you giggle, making Cyno grin a little. He wasn’t sure why you were in such a good mood today, but he’ll chalk it up to how he made you food.

“The food was great, Cyno, thanks again. Next time I’ll make something special for the both of us!”

You put the plate away and follow Cyno to your couch. He sits cross legged and you lay your head in his lap. 

“It’s no problem. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

He massages your scalp, letting you close your eyes. You hum, delighted, and shift to face his stomach. 

After a while, you sit up and scoot towards him. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and lean back, letting him lay down on you.

This is it. You’ve been waiting for this. You lean forward like a snake approaching its prey. Your target is right there, and you-

Nibble down on his cartilage.

Cyno doesn’t react at first. He’s more trying to get used to settling down in your arms. It takes maybe a moment or two before his eyes open and he feels you lick his ear.

A shiver runs down his spine.

“(Y/N)? What are you doing up there?”

You stop and notice how stiff he is. His arms and torso are both tense, like a bowstring that’s being pulled back. His neck is frozen sideways on your stomach.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it too much.” You whisper into his ear.

Cyno feels as though you’re speaking directly into his brain. His finger twitches against the couch and clenches around nothing. He’s sure the heat from his face is noticeable on your torso, and in all honesty he can feel the sweat from the shared body heat that you two have been sharing.

Satisfied, you press your face into Cyno’s hair, feeling the soft, fluffy texture of his hair on your nose and cheeks. He wraps his arms around you again, still feeling flustered from all the… stimulation… you administered…

“Y’know I love you, right Cyno? I love you so much.”

“Of course I know. I love you too.”

“Ehehe, I’m glad. I’ll make my own tahchin tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it.”

[claymoresofinfamy23]

Hi! I’m Clay!

My other intro post wasn’t unhinged enough, so I’m making a new one!

Important notes!

I WILL NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TALK ABOUT POLITICS OR RELIGION. I’m a fandom, music and fanfic ONLY blog. If you’re a minor, you can interact with me, just be aware that I do make NSFW jokes and frequently reblog smutty fanfics. So don’t read those. (It’s not like I can stop you, I’m not your parents. But if you do read them, that’s all on you.)

With that out of the way, go and follow my closest moots! (I love you all, these are just the ones I feel I’m closest to. This list is subject to addition (because I ain’t perfect and I accidentally forget people. Also if you want me to take you off this list, let me know.)

@there-goes-thefighter @mini-rollins @dykekota @alyyaanna @edgessunflower

Please check out my Meet my OCs and check out my Masterlists!

Meet my OCs! (This is still in progress, haven’t finished making all of them yet.) Masterlist One!

Masterlist Two!

Specialty tags!

2004 Randy Orton: Cutie Patootie🥰

2009 Randy Orton: Unhinged Viper Man🐍

Present-day Randy Orton: My Viper💚

Cody Rhodes: My Angel🤍

Seth Rollins: Crazy Vampire❤️

Drew Mcintyre: My favorite Scotsman💙

Damian Priest: Vampire King💜

Roman Reigns: My favorite loser (Affectionate)���

Edge/Adam Copeland: SpearMaster🔱

AJ Styles: My Werewolf🩵

Darby Allin: SkellyBoy🖤

Dean Winchester: My hunter💕

Jack Kline: Sweet Nephilim🩷

Aaron Warner: Dark Book Boyfriend🖤🖤

Nick Torres: fav agent🫶

Dwight Hendrickson: Chief💛

Duke Crocker: Grey Gull🩶🩶

Johnny “Soap” McTavish: 141 baby🧼

John Reese: chaotic boyfriend🫶🫶

Root and Shaw: chaotic besties👯‍♀️

Thirsty Clay

Clay needs help

Clay speaks

Clay rants

Angry Clay

Play a game with Clay

Clay answers asks!

Clay’s moots!

Clay’s music tastes

Clay likes things other than wrestling

Clay’s OCs.

Meet Clay’s OCs

Luna Nightingale

Cora Callahan

Celestia Sky

Here’s some fun facts about me!

My favorite songs are as follows:

Psycho In My Head- Skillet. (2023)

Dreaming Of Eden- Skillet (2019)

Collide- Skillet (2003)

Assorted songs from skillet’s “Rise” album (2013)

Boulevard Of Broken Dreams- Green Day (2004)

IF IT DOESN’T HURT- Nothing More (2024)

Hope it Haunts You- Citizen Soldier (2020)

Make Hate To Me- Citizen Soldier (2020)

When Legends Rise- Godsmack (2018)

End Of Me- Ashes Remain (2011)

Favorite shows: WWE

person of interest (2011-2016)

and Supernatural (2005-2020)

NCIS

Haven (2010-2015)

Other assorted random facts!

I went to the 2023 Royal Rumble that was held in San Antonio, TX.

I’m a southern gal!

I’m ADHD and tend to hyperfixate on things and people and at the moment, I’m hyperfixated on Aaron Warner (shatter me book series) and Randy Orton.

My fics are on wattpad ONLY and are generally 18+ due to dark themes (kidnapping, violence etc) on my main acc BabySquishy0218 and pure smut on my second account WWEgirl24

I’m your local insomniac, and I’m usually up till 2:00-2:30 AM as such, asks and DM’s are always open I’d love to hear from you and there are only two rules for both. As I mentioned, I don’t talk about politics so no asks or DM’s about politics and/or religion and if I receive an ask or DM about these topics I will delete it immediately and if a person continues to send such messages to me, unfortunately, I will have to block them. As for the second rule, please be kind! Allow me to add a side note, if you ask me why I don’t want to talk about politics/religion I will gladly answer that question. Please respect my boundaries. I do not want to block anyone, but this is my safe space and if anyone continues to violate my boundaries after I have politely communicated them, I will have to block them. I love you all, and I hope that we can have fun thirsting over men!

Sincerely,

Clay!

[akoiromanticstudent]

historical record // first 24hrs with Sigma

[ Repost from my main blog - December 26, 2022 ]

A record of how I have become consumed by Sigma (Overwatch) in the last 24 hrs because if I’m going to return to tumblr, I’m to return to tumblr in a glorious, thirsty blaze of desperation, apparently.

Okay actually I saw him for the first time a few months ago and thought briefly to myself… “I think if I look too closely at this man, I will fall desperately in love, as I did with the last man that gave me this vibe”, and looked away during the period of time in which I could at least still think, “no, this is not Hot Old Man, this is just old man”

That SPECIFIC vibe is the same vibe I got from The Historian but at the start of that class, for me, my only thoughts [at the tender age of 20] over the course of that first week of class was: “I hope this keeps me more awake than my last attempt at music history class.” “Oh, he’s funny, strict, demanding, intelligent, and loves what he does.” “That is… actually a really nice voice.” “Oh no.”

Fun fact it’s been 7 years [I chased him through classes for 4 of those years] and I still love him, I need to send him an email, I understand he’s just finished a book.

Then somehow. I don’t know where. [it was the tumblr blog @todays-daddy-is] I caught glimpse of Sigma’s Maestro skin, and I went, “WHOOOOO IS THAT”, with the big gray hair and glasses and honkin torso and suit, musical elements swaying me quite a bit for a person who only began to love music about 6 years ago [specifically because of aforementioned Historian, as well as a few other influences including The Conductor and The Dean]

What a honkin man, anyway, come to find out, that’s a Sigma skin. My Overwatch experience is pretty minimal, I played the original game maybe a total of 3-5 different days on which I’d play several hours at a time and otherwise never touch it because I’m generally… I don’t usually like PvP at all ever, so long long before Overwatch 2, but because I had some time in the original game, I was given access to all of the heroes anyway, so I’m not sure if I would have had to unlock Sigma, but yeah that’s convenient

and suitably hunky voice. yeah.

after staring at his maestro skin for a while I realized this man’s face was incredibly familiar, actually

and yup, he has the exact facial structure as the aforementioned Historian, the jawline especially, but the age lines and glasses match too. Sigma’s normal hair also is an 85% match, even though the Maestro hair is hotter. upon realizing this, it made more sense that I fell as hard and fast as I did because of nostalgia, I haven’t seen that beautiful face in years [since COVID, really, as I graduated in the midst of that]

incidentally, I also have a LOOOONG track history of having a predilection for mad scientists so.

this man’s kind of. made for me.

too bad he’s pixels.

but at least he’s single.