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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 2 months ago

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A Sister’s Son

I have a lot of feelings about the relationship between Théodred and Elfhelm stemming from 1) the canonical fact that Elfhelm was with Théodred when he died and 2) my head-canonical fact that he was there when Théodred was born and Elfhild, Elfhelm’s sister, died.* So Théodred’s entire 41-year life was bookended by these two tragic experiences for his uncle. *Given what we know of Rohirric naming conventions, the idea that Elfhelm is the brother of Elfhild is thoroughly reasonable!

Some of you may recall that I posted an Elfhelm story last week that included the notion that he struggles with memories of his past tragedies. I had written much more extensive memory sequences for that story and ended up cutting it way back, but I guess why let them go to waste? So I paired them together — the birth and death of Théodred through the eyes of Elfhelm, the one person who was there both at the beginning and the end. It’s not graphic, but content warnings for canonical maternal death and some moments of generalized concern for baby Théodred’s welfare in the first half plus some violence and blood (and, obviously, Théodred’s actual death) in the second half. On AO3 here or below:

Edoras, T.A. 2978

The only voice that mattered had gone silent.

There were others still to be heard — barked commands, stunned oaths, murmured appeals to Béma — but the cries and groans of Elfhild were no longer among them. In the chord of dissonant turmoil on the far side of the bedchamber door, her high, ringing note disappeared without warning and did not return.

The sudden absence of his sister’s voice was deafening in Elfhelm’s ears. Kept just outside the midwife’s domain, he had only the muffled sounds that leaked through gaps in the door frame to tell him how things stood, and he had strained for hours to track his sister’s welfare above the noisy fury of an early spring storm that sent waves of rain beating against the thatch overhead and great rumbles of thunder rolling like an éored in full gallop across the plains outside.

To hear the sounds of her suffering distressed him, but their disappearance was more terrifying still. At least where there was pain, there was life, and in those first moments of absence, he cast about miserably for some other, better explanation. Sister, tell me. What has become of you? But he already knew. Deep within his heart that pumped the blood they shared, he could feel that her life had come to an end, and a little part of his went with it.

The door to the bedchamber heaved open abruptly, and the sharp, eye-watering scent of smelling salts and medicinal herbs rushed out on the heels of a grim-faced midwife in search of more supplies. Candles and torches flickered in the draft, but there was light enough to see a glimpse of Théoden through the doorway, hollow eyed and open mouthed, clinging to the edge of a bed where a still figure lay shrouded in linen, bright red stains smeared into the fine green fabric. Théodwyn pulled at her brother’s arm, and Hyhtgife pulled at Théodwyn’s, a chain of people trying to turn one another away from an unthinkable loss, a queen-to-be caught in the struggle between birth and death and claimed as a prize by the side of grief.

Elfhelm, alight with the sting of razor sharp heartache, surged forward toward the shrouded figure, but restraining hands appeared on his arms and shoulders. All he managed was a single urgent question — the baby, too? — before the door swung closed again, and he was left outside to wait and wonder and mourn and hope.

Minutes ticked by, or hours, or perhaps it was only seconds. People scurried past him in the antechamber, going about necessary tasks as though the world had not just changed forever and for the worse. Attendants arrived with tea and food for those who needed it, and advisors discussed in hushed tones how and when to make the official notifications. Servants stoked the glowing embers in the hearth, trying to coax heat back into a room that had been slowly leached of it over the course of a long, moonless night. He wanted to seize each person by the shoulders, shake them, rebuke them. My sister has just died, he wanted to scream. Her son may be next. What do your petty tasks matter at a time such as this? But his indignant anguish couldn’t stop the business of life from proceeding as it must, and only the recalcitrant fire seemed to share his outrage, refusing to return the bright cheer of a steady flame to a room where it no longer belonged.

Candles flickered again as the door to the chamber opened a second time, and a new voice came forth, a frail whimper from a bundle in the hands of a healer. It was a voice that couldn’t speak words, but it called to Elfhelm all the same, stopping him in his tracks as he paced and igniting his heart with the instinct to love without question, without hesitation, without purpose or reason. He was back at the door in three long strides, ready to lay down his life for that bundle, the last work of his sister. If there was any part of her that could yet be saved, he would do anything, try anything, or give anything to save it.

Let me help, he begged. Please. What does he need?

He had never really held an infant before, something so small and so fragile and yet possessing the power to bring him to his knees just by its precious existence. The healer kept a hand underneath the baby and another on his own arm until she was certain that he would withstand the moment, able to master himself despite the tears that poured freely down his cheeks and the swallowed sobs that wracked his shoulders.

Keep him warm. It was said with authority and insistence, more commanding than any battlefield order of a captain or marshal of the Mark. Then the healer was gone, disappeared back into the bedchamber where the sound of building hysteria attested to the grief of others, and Elfhelm was left with his own and the one delicate fragment of joy to be rescued from the shattered wreckage of a day where all else had gone horribly wrong.

Unprepared to be in the world so soon, baby Théodred was nearly weightless and almost spectrally pale, as though his body was still finding its solid form. His eyes were closed, his features still, but his tiny chest fluttered up and down and his little hand was outstretched, the fingers splayed in search of the touch of someone who loved him. Someone who could give him warmth and comfort.

Elfhelm swaddled the little bundle in the bulk of his arms, pressing the baby to his chest and his flushed cheek to Théodred’s little head, where his tears traced dark, wet paths through the fine sprinkle of wispy, light hair.

Your uncle is here now, he whispered. I’ll be with you as long as you need.

Fords of Isen, T.A. 3019

The mighty voice at the top of the knoll had been silenced.

Three times Théodred’s call had rung out, clear and strong like the sounding of a horn above the clatterous fury of the battle, but the third had been abruptly cut short and there would be no fourth. Though Elfhelm was still clawing his way toward the knoll’s crest, struggling to hear above the roar of the coursing river and the growls of thunder that echoed the beating of axes against broad wooden shields, he knew in his heart what had happened on the rise above him. Somehow, amidst all the chanting and screaming and clashing of weapons, he heard the distant gasp of impact, the small sigh of a lungful of breath released slowly through bloodied lips, and the sound nearly brought him to his knees.

It took precious, panicked minutes to fight his way to that sound, past men face down in the viscous mud or still crawling forward through it, crying out for friends or captains who had disappeared behind the curtains of heavy rain or into the rushing depths of the Isen. When he finally gained the peak, Grimbold was there, wild eyed and missing his helmet, furiously scrabbling to hold onto Théodred, who lay crumpled at his feet.

A soldier of Isengard had Théodred by the ankle, dragging him across the trampled grass with a dark red smear left in his wake, and more ran up to help, a chain of hands to accomplish the unthinkable and claim the prince of Rohan as a prize of war. The sight stirred an immediate, instinctive rage in Elfhelm, a deep and visceral possessiveness without thought or plan or strategy. He is not yours to take. He surged forward, unrestrained, and hacked or stabbed at any strange limb that dared to touch his sister’s son until there were none left, the last remaining enemies either dead or retreating back to their comrades, who promptly vanished into the dark on the far side of the river.

The clamorous sounds of battle faded quickly with the disappearance of the Isengarders, replaced instead by the urgent hum of the Rohirrim taking stock of themselves, their horses, their éoreds. Already some captains were at work restoring order to the ranks, arraying men and arms where they would be needed should the retreat of the enemy be only temporary, but Elfhelm had no mind for those tasks, knelt down in the freezing rain at Théodred’s side. Have pity on us, Béma, he pleaded, equal parts desperate and outraged. You cannot take him either.

Théodred stirred just enough to murmur a few hoarse words, his wish to hold the Fords even in death, and though there was fatalism in the thought, its selflessness kindled a momentary hope in Elfhelm. He is still himself, thinking first of others. If his spirit is intact, he can yet be saved. But the hope proved foolish, too small and too frail to be pitted against the blunt work of a rusted battle axe on skin, muscles and ribs. No bandage or pressure could stanch Théodred’s wounds, which flowed as freely as the river below them, and the chilled rain puddle that lapped at Elfhelm’s knees grew steadily warmer as it became more blood than water. Théodred went quiet again, only flinching as they worked frantically on his battered chest, and a hazy distance clouded his eyes, as though he was looking at something far off that no one else could perceive.

What does he need? Grimbold’s raspy voice was unnaturally high, his usual asthmatic wheeze intensified by fear, but Elfhelm had no answer to give. A paralyzing helplessness crept in from the edges of his mind, the dawning recognition that their efforts were futile and that continuing to push and prod at hurts that couldn’t possibly be healed would only add more pain to the inevitable. He stifled a sob, forcing it back down his throat to burn his lungs instead, and tried to steel himself for what would follow. On a day when all else had already gone horribly awry, he would have to watch as his nephew’s life came to an end, and a little part of his own would go with it.

Théodred’s eyes were closed now, his face ghostly pale in the moonless dark, but his chest still labored up and down and he held out a hand for comfort, weakly returning Elfhelm’s grasp when he found it. Minutes ticked by, or hours, or perhaps it was only seconds, and Elfhelm’s mind cast about in misery, searching for any action, anything he might give or try, that could bring some relief or ease the passing. Sister, tell me. What would you have me do for your boy? And in the midst of this anguished confusion, an old command suddenly surfaced, firm and insistent, from his carefully buried memories.

Keep him warm.

Forty one years vanished in an instant, and he pulled Théodred up to lay against his chest, wrapping his cloak around them both like cupped hands protecting a guttering flame in the wind. Resting a cheek to the top of Théodred’s head, where his tears disappeared into waves of blonde hair already darkened by the river and the rain, he clung tightly to the beloved son of his sister and whispered the only thing he could think to say.

Your uncle is here now. I’ll be with you as long as you need.

It’s definitely not my practice to have two different stories ready so close to each other, but since these started out initially as part of the same project it just kind of worked out that way. But now I’ll be going back into my writing hole for some undetermined but lengthy period of time!

@sotwk

Thanks as always to @quillofspirit for the beautiful dividers!

#théodred #elfhelm #elfhild #mind the content warnings #for canonical deaths #including canonical maternal death #and some concern for infant welfare #(spoiler alert the baby is fine)#(until saruman has him murdered four decades later😭)#rohirrim #lotr

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lockandkeyblade · 17 days ago

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How would Vanitas and Ven be if they grew up together?

If they both grew up under Eraqus? Under Xehanort?

As I mentioned before nonny, I’m gonna be making two posts about this ask, because I have a lot of Thoughts about how either scenario could go. Even though I feel like they would result in very similar outcomes. (I’ll add a link to the second part here when I post it don’t worry)

Hooo so here’s all the cws before we even begin; Child Abuse, Starvation, Neglect, Torture, and what can honestly be very easily interpreted as Domestic Violence. The Birth By Sleep novels make no secret of how badly Xehanort treats Vanitas and it sure ain’t gonna be better just because Ventus is there! It’s worse, actually!

If Vanitas and Ventus had both stayed with Xehanort

Referring to the BBS novels as a start, it’s really important to note that Xehanort takes Ventus away for two reasons. He’s broken, possibly dying, and Vanitas outright states that if Xehanort leaves him there, Vanitas will probably kill him.

So we have to remove one of these from the equation. Ventus is not so broken that he is unable to be awake and aware of what just happened. But Vanitas still hates him. Vanitas still hates him, and they are both about to experience that level of torture noted in the BBS novels together. Fun!

For Vanitas, this means he’s still going to be dealing with everything Xehanort throws at him. He is still going to be abandoned to his own devices for several days at a time, struggling to lean how to control his Unversed. He will still be essentially beaten black and blue whenever his Master does make an appearance, though with Ventus in the picture, Xehanort likely shows up with a little more frequency. Just to ensure the Light is still, y’know, breathing.

Ventus is in an equal, if not greater, level of hell. The part that’s been ripped out of him would actively be going out of its way to hurt him. He is still contesting with the threat of the Heartless; more so now, as he is Pure Light and thus has absolutely nothing stopping them from being attracted to him. As Vanitas learns control, he’ll also have the Unversed on his heels. And then there’s Xehanort who, as questionable as I feel their master/apprentice relationship was before the split, is probably actively worse now that Ventus is equally Not A Person to him as Vanitas is.

Both of them would be very aware that, as far as Xehanort is concerned, the only way they’ll be able to end this suffering is by fusing and creating the X-blade. A process they both need to be strong enough for. A process neither of them is remotely close to being strong enough to achieve.

The two of them are trialling by fire and Ventus would be losing that trial. Badly. And this would be driving Vanitas insane, because on top of having to deal with his own abuse and overwhelming emotions, Ventus is right there, terrified, miserable, probably constantly injured.

He would start to protect Ventus for the sake of his own sanity.

Probably the very first way he’d do this is, when Ventus inevitably falls asleep, he uses himself and the Unversed to guard him. Very easy for him to explain this away. Ventus can’t be aware of how he’s being punished if he’s asleep, and he needs to sleep to be awake enough to be punished. The Heartless want to take his Light, but it’s his, to tear apart and reclaim. He needs it to forge the X-blade.

Gradually, this is going to expand to other things. Sure Vanitas is hungry, but Ventus is so. Fucking. Miserable. When he’s hungry. So he starts getting most of the food. Most of the water. One day Xehanort is there to pay them a lovely visit and Ven fucks up, he fucks up badly, and he deserves the punishment he’s about to receive and Vanitas–

Steps in and takes it. He takes it. Because Ven is so. Miserable. And Vanitas needs. A break from that. He needs Ventus to be something way closer to neutral. Dealing with himself is already too much, Ventus needs to stop being part of the problem.

Explaining it like this does not really give a good interpretation of passage of time, but this is likely a gradual process, something several months in the making. Eventually Vanitas is going to be all out for protecting his Light and it is going to be solely due to the pavlov’d mindset that things are simply Better if Ventus is neutral. If he’s not too hurt. Not too scared.

Ventus isn’t getting to escape everything, just the worst of it. Because Vanitas is aware that he needs to get stronger. But when exposed to the same level of what Vanitas endures, Ven breaks. And they can’t fuse if Ventus breaks.

All this reasoning would immediately crumble when Vanitas feels something entirely new.

Ventus being grateful to him. Ventus feeling that he’s reliable. Ventus�� dependency on him. Hell, it probably strikes him in the most mundane of moments; he’s just locating Ventus because he has Corridors now which means much easier access to food and water, and he’s giving Ventus his (greater) share of his spoils.

And Ven isn’t just grateful, isn’t just dependant on him, he’s happy.

Vanitas feels happiness from Ventus, which is likely the first positive emotion either of them have felt in a year, and very quickly? He’d die for it. He made it. He’d die for it. He’s going to get that emotion out of Ventus again and again because oh, finally. Finally. Some relief from the utter misery that is both of their existences.

One of the things I think is important to note here is that, this is not going to swerve Vanitas away from the idea that they need to fuse, eventually. In fact, Ventus is going to share that line of thought. For their pain to be over permanently, they both will have that fixation on being stronger, becoming that weapon.

Just not for Xehanort.

Running away from the old man is going to be a really complicated affair, and it can be even more so, but I’m gonna do the two of them a kindness and say that he hasn’t even bothered making a mark on Vanitas because– why would he need to? Ventus is trapped in the Badlands until Xehanort says otherwise. He probably makes no attempts to hide his beliefs that a trip through the Dark Corridors would kill Ventus. Which is precisely why Ventus and Vanitas would look at that option, and say– “Bet”.

It would go horrifically. Ventus probably only just survives the trip, and it’ll be due to the fact that for months, the two of them frantically work together to ensure Ventus is as strong and capable as possible. But they’d run, and they’d keep running. They’d work on finding other methods to move, but so long as Ventus survives that first Corridor, they’ll keep using it. As many times as they have to, in order to get away.

What happens after that? God, hard to say. Either they eventually just need each other more to the extent where they abandon the idea of the X-blade in favor of sharing a mutual existence, or they make the X-blade eventually, and probably go full scorched earth on the universe.

It’d be a lovely, terrible tale. I’m not gonna write it so if you’re reading this, feel free to do with it as you will.

#MIND THE CONTENT WARNINGS #birb writes #kh mechanics to lore

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sapphicscholar · 1 year ago

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A/N: This fic deals heavily with food and eating (or not) and their relationship to pleasure, especially in chapter 1, so a content note that I'll be depicting Blanche’s canon-compliant disordered eating. The whole chapter is a tight Judith POV, though, so we won’t be in Blanche's head if that helps. And I suppose a further, less serious heads up that Evan very much exists in the world of this fic! When canon gives you husbands, make the ship dynamic even messier 🫡

Fic Preview:

Frustration is still etched in every line of Blanche’s face from the time she steps into Knopf in the morning until the moment she leaves in the evening, but she’s softened some with Judith since the start of her kindness campaign. Blanche is as acerbic and driven as ever, but she’s more often angry near Judith than she is at Judith—a far more tolerable situation.

Truth be told, it didn’t take much. A hand-delivered lunch Julia would deem little more than ingredients for a meal nowhere near completion. A last-minute invitation to a dinner Blanche wouldn’t eat. Simple kindnesses Blanche hardly allows herself. Yet somehow, they add up to a palpable shift.

It would be easy enough to leave it there. Judith no longer dreads the office the way she had for several long weeks, after all. But something inside her clenches at the idea of letting whatever warmth has sparked between them die down without tending. So the following Tuesday, Judith invites Blanche over for dinner later that week and asks her to think about it before answering. On Wednesday, Blanche looks anywhere but at Judith when she thanks her for the invitation but tells her she can’t come; Alfred is expecting her.

The following week, Blanche rounds on Judith before she’s even finished inviting Blanche to dinner again. “Why do you keep asking?” It feels like a confrontation, but there’s no anger in the words. All Judith hears in them is incredulity.

Judith gives a small shrug of her shoulders. “It’d be nice to have you. We can light the fire.” It’s only just now beginning to feel like fall in earnest, but Blanche always seems a little colder than most. “I even bought a mahjong set.”

Blanche’s head jerks upward. “For me?”

“The food wasn’t much of a lure, was it?”

Blanche’s lips twitch, and she blinks rapidly, though not so rapidly that Judith misses the glimmer of moisture that’s gathered in them. “Maybe…maybe next time.”

#julia hbo #judith jones #blanche knopf #blanche x judith #fanfic #canon compliant through 2x04 #mind the content warnings #ao3feed

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themummersfolly · 3 months ago

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Today's been kind of a sucky day, what with the horse and the hospital and everything. Here's another chapter of No Promises, if it helps.

#writing #furiosa a mad max saga #mad max #octoboss #furiosa #mary jabassa #dementus #mind the content warnings

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undertale-museum · 1 year ago

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Streettale Comic (+18)

@/amortemkun

Content Warning: fellcest (in-universe not brothers), non con, kidnapping, forced drugs, bondage, rough s3x, fetishizes gay people (Killing Stalking style)

Officer Edge takes an obsessive interest in a local thief, Red.

Part 1 / Part 20 / Part 30 / Part 40 / Part 50

Part 60 / Part 70 / last page

During the porn bans, Amortekun's channel got a mature flag which made it impossible to use the archive, took out the link chain and makes any of my previous links over the years break.

The content warnings should hopefully discourage ignorant folk from jumping in but I, Guide, advise you to take it slow regardless of your threshold for content. Emotionally it gets very intense during the process of Cop!Edge breaking Street!Red, and while I'm not responsible for your reading experience, I'd be remiss not to mention it.

#streettale #fellcest #underfell papyrus #underfell sans #dddne #dead dove fic #mind the content warnings #comic sparse with content warnings #underfell papyrus x underfell sans #red x edge #dead dove do not eat #orange

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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 2 months ago

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Just your average male living space.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

#poorly drawn mdzs #mdzs #wen qing #lan wangji #A-Yuan #wei wuxian #(***Content warning for me talking about unhygienic living conditions in the tags today***).#The worst part of drawing this comic is that I've seen so much worse. This is a livable space.#I've helped out friends and family who were struggling and let me just say...I have seen some pretty dysfunctional living spaces.#Hell I've *lived* in some very dysfunctional living spaces.#Hording dishes under the bed was always something that grossed me out but it's unfortunately something I've seen people do way too often.#The horror everyone has upon walking into WWX's 'living' set up is so consistently 'Mate how are you living like this?'#It's honestly so integral to me that WWX's 'just left home for the first time' house/room be a depression/dysfunction pit.#You can learn a lot about someon's state of mind from how they keep their living space...and this guy is oozing 'deep depression'.#I don't think he's eaten anything but foods that classify as a struggle meal in a year.#Everyone is trying to stage an intervention but he just isn't in a good enough place to help himself.#By the way: I want to steer away from shaming people who have messy homes/rooms because life *does* hit hard sometimes.#My love language is coming into your home to do your dishes and do some housework. Don't apologize for the mess king.#Nothing could top some of the places I've had to help my older siblings out of.#I'd be okay with my flatmate having a severed limb and a blood pool at this point.#As long as he lets me take out the dishes from under the bed - We're good! My standards are so low at this point.

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enderlovez · 4 months ago

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Stay Happy

Spencer Reid x Female BAU Reader WORD COUNT: 5700+

Summary: In the midst of a case, thinking it's safe after they've caught the criminal, you go into the crime scene alone to inspect the place, only to be taken hostage by a second unsub nobody knew about.

Content Warning: kidnapping, blood, stabbing, gunshot wounds, reader being tied up, broadcasting torture, mentions of death, blood again because there's a lot of it, broken bones, sprains, dislocation, speeding, drug usage (reader is drugged by the kidnapper)

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You're not even sure how it happened.

One moment, you were simply walking around the crime-scene, scribbling notes down as you stepped around shattered glass and pools of blood, and it was peaceful for the most part — except, of course, for the police sirens blaring in the distance.

Perhaps that's why you felt so safe navigating the abandoned house alone, taking one for the team so they could discuss outside. The criminal had already been caught, so surely there was no reason to worry about something bad happening, right?

Wrong.

You were so extremely wrong. The moment somebody reached out from the shadows of a seemingly empty room, wrapping a hand tightly around your arm and slapping a hand over your mouth, you wished more than anything that you could take your decision back.

Spencer had insisted on going in with you. Practically begged you to take him inside with you, but his words about the possible dangers lying inside fell on deaf ears. They'd caught the bad guy. There was no danger, and he was the brains of the team, so surely they would need him more than you would, right?

Wrong.

Nobody hears your scream for help as it's abruptly cut off by the stranger's hand, nor does anybody realize you've been gone longer than would be necessary as you're being tied up and gagged and thrown into the trunk of a car with no more care than you'd give a piece of scrap metal.

You can do no more than screw up your face and beg for mercy as they jab a needle into your arm, then another into your neck, injecting a kind of colorless liquid directly into your bloodstream.

Your mind runs into overdrive, quickly running through all the possibilities as you would usually do when working on cases — except this time, you're the victim, and you're trying to come up with something — anything — before you lose consciousness.

You don't get very far.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

"Reid," Hotch says in a tired voice, not looking away from the paper in front of him, leaning it against the top of the car as he scrawls something down, "will you go in and see what's taking L/N so long? She's been gone almost fifteen minutes, we need her back here now."

Spencer doesn't have to be asked twice for him to make his way towards the crumbling house. Admittedly, he's been counting the seconds since you left, fighting the urge to run in there regardless of everyone's warnings of 'she's a big girl, she can handle herself' and 'she's good at her job, Reid, you need to relax a little'.

He knows you're beyond good at your job, which is why he trusted that you would be okay going in alone... But you typically only take, on average, ten minutes to do a quick search of the house and scratch down anything of importance.

While it might not seem like such a big deal to everyone else, Spencer knows you inside and out, better than anyone else in the world, and he knows that you taking even five minutes longer — especially in such a small house — is definitely a cause for concern.

Glass and debris crunches under his foot as he steps inside the house, flashlight pointed in front of him down the decaying hallway. It's quiet inside, unnervingly so, to the point where a chill runs down his spine. In a house of this size, with everything littering the floor, he should be able to hear your steps as you walk around, but there's nothing, just an ear-splitting silence that he can't seem to shake.

"Y/N?" he calls out hesitantly, pointing the light around in search of you. There isn't a response, not even a hum of acknowledgment from nearby, or a step indicating you've heard something close to you.

Just more of this silence.

He knows something has to be wrong now. Even looking past the fact that you would never ignore anybody, especially not Spencer, he has a horrible wriggling feeling in his gut, a sickening sensation that makes him want to curl into himself and hurl all over the floor.

"Y/N, are you in here?" he tries again, voice slightly louder and tinged with panic as he speeds up his search of the house, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees something sitting on the ground, too clean and white to have been there before, and covered in your delicate handwriting. Spencer's hands shake as he picks it up, eyes scanning over all the things you've written down.

And if he's not already in panic mode now, that changes entirely when he spots the smaller, fresher pool of blood, spreading out on the floor nearby, seeping into the cracks of the withering floorboards.

Without a second thought, he's running outside, notepad gripped in his hand so tightly that the paper crinkles. You're not in there. There's fresh blood on the floor in the same place he found your notepad, discarded.

Everyone turns to look at Spencer as he runs back to the car, lips turning down slightly when they see you're not following behind him.

"Where's Cupcake?" Morgan asks first, eyebrows furrowed as he peers behind the other man in search of you. "Thought you were going in to get her, is she not—"

"We need to get back," Spencer abruptly cuts Morgan off, already making to get in the car. "Y/N's gone. She's not in there, but I found her notes on the floor, next to her blood."

"That place was filled with blood," he tries to push, though the more time you spend in that house, considering you're usually so fast with this part, and without your notes, he's becoming less and less sure. "Maybe she just dropped it and hasn't realized yet?"

"All the blood in there is days old. This, most definitely was not." Something has happened to you — he knows something has happened to you, and every extra second that ticks by, he knows that you're likely slipping further and further away.

It seems that everyone else comes to the same conclusion, as they all immediately jump into action, splitting up and piling into the two cars. They're almost thirty minutes away from the Bureau, and by the time they even get there, who knows what state you could be in?

You could be dead.

Spencer, of course, knows the dangers that come with this job. He himself has been shot and almost killed on multiple occasions, but it never really occurred to him, in all of his 187 IQ glory, that something similar could happen to you.

Emily is on the phone, speaking to someone — telling them to search the area, so it's likely the local police, who were already there before.

"I thought we caught the bad guy," Morgan comments tightly. "How's we even miss a second unsub?"

"Many reasons," Spencer replies instantly, force of habit. "Our primary unsub sits the profile so well that we've overlooked the possibility of a second offender. If they're working together, the second might deliberately mimic the first's MO or play a background role, making them harder to detect. "

"And what are the stats—"

"Twenty to twenty-five percent of homicides involve multiple offenders, and thirty percent of criminal partnerships have this dynamic. Cognitive bias affects nearly sixty percent of investigators."

"We don't know for sure if this is—"

Morgan is cut off by his phone ringing, so he picks it up without looking at the caller ID and puts it on speaker for everyone to hear. Before he can even greet the person on the other end, Garcia's voice, panicked and out of breath, comes through the speaker.

"Something pretty disturbing has come up here," she rushes out, the clicking of a keyboard vaguely there in the background. "You all need to get back here — now."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You realize three things when you finally come to.

The first, is that you are tied to a chair, ropes so tight that every slight movement has your skin raw and chafing. Your ankles feel cemented to the floor, held down by something heavy. Or maybe that's because the sedative hasn't fully worn off yet.

The second thing you realize, when you force your eyes to open against the drowsiness, is that you have absolutely no idea where you are right now. The plain yellow walls have no defining characteristics, and there are no windows to look outside — chances are, you're in a basement, or a room in a storage facility.

And the third and final thing that comes to your realization, is that there is a camera set up in front of you. One of those home-video cameras, propped up on a tripod, and pointing directly at you, little red light indicating that it's already recording.

Sick bastard.

You tentatively pull against the ropes binding you, face screwing up when they only dig into your already raw skin. Tears prick at your eyes as panic surges through you, realizing you're really stuck here, that you're too weak to even try to do anything about your situation.

I am going to die here.

I am going to—

A door opens somewhere around you, footsteps descending a set of stairs. Definitely in a basement, then, but knowing that doesn't really do much good — there are countless basements, after all.

"You're finally awake," a voice drawls from behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder. "I was worried I'd already killed you back there, pretty girl."

Already.

He is planning to kill you regardless.

"Please, just... let me go," you beg weakly. Though you can't see him, you just know he's shaking his head, rubbing a hand on your shoulder. You try to turn your head so you can get a good look at him, but a shooting pain sparks down your spine at the movement.

"You know I can't do that," he says simply, the smile evident in his voice as he steps around you to adjust something on the camera, clicking a few buttons and zooming in on you some — trying to get the perfect angle, you quickly realize, to do...

"Why are you recording me?" you ask quietly, squeezing your eyes shut against the pain of talking with such a dry throat. You work with the FBI, you know very well about cases where the suspect has recorded their killings for their own sick pleasure.

You just... never thought you'd be on the other end of it.

"I'm not recording," he says after a beat of silence, looking away from the camera to stand at his full height, his smile somehow widening to show all of his yellowed teeth. You take a moment to memorize his face, but with the drugs still clouding your mind, it's hard.

"Well what are you doing, then, if this recording camera isn't recording me?"

"It's a broadcast," he says simply, stepping back around you and squeezing your shoulder so tight you worry it might break, "to all your little agent friends."

Your blood runs cold, eyes snapping to the camera lens. They're probably watching you right this second, tied up and in immeasurable amounts of pain, yet still interrogating the suspect like you're on the job.

"What are you going to do to me?" The question you least want the answer to, but the most important one.

He doesn't say anything more, remaining behind me for a few more minutes before crouching at my side. "You and your friends got my brother in trouble," he begins, reaching up and caressing your face, so gently you begin to wonder if this is even the same person who threw you in the car. "So let's just stick with this: I'm going to put you in trouble."

That doesn't sound good.

And before you can say anything more, he's standing up again, reeling his hand back behind his head, and punching you in the face with enough force to make all thoughts flurry from your head.

Warm liquid fills your mouth instantly, spilling out through your parted lips. Your head is ringing with a sound that's not really there, vision blurring even though you're not crying — or maybe you are. Your world turns on its axis as your head flops to the side, neck unable to support you due to the shock.

Not broken, though.

Thank God, your neck isn't broken.

"Please," you whimper, but the single word sends a peircing pain straight to your temple, and even the single word is slurred. He has concussed you, it doesn't take a genius to figure that out.

"Sorry, Sweetheart," he murmurs, cupping your cheek with his palm, much like how a lover would — much like how Spencer does. Then, with an unnerving slowness that has you trembling, he pulls a tiny pocket knife out of his pocket, one of those little flower ones you'd get online for fifty cents, and brings it close to your face.

He presses the sharp point of it to the base of your cheekbone, and drags it alone your skin, opening a thin, shallow cut on your cheek, and stopping just before it reaches the corner of your mouth.

You cry out, struggling against your restraints. Shallow as the cut may be, and though you've been through so much worse throughout your career, it hurts like hell, and while you're already in so much pain, so vulnerable and exposed like an open nerve...

To say you're scared is an understatement.

Scared for your life that you're most definitely going to lose if your team can't find you. Scared for your future, and the things you so desperately want to do with it. And scared that you will never see the love of your life again — the very one who is likely watching you right now, through the camera.

"Please don't," you choke out through the tears that are now freely streaming down your face, stinging as they run along the length of the open wound on your face.

He smiles and walks over to a little table you didn't notice before, decorated with a variety of scary looking tools, and with the drowsiness still lingering from the drugs and the concussion you've been given, you can't stop your eyes from rolling back as your consciousness leaves you once again.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Everything hurts when you wake up again, your skin littered in a multitude of cuts and bruises and more injuries you think you've ever had at once. A gun sits on the other side of the room on a little table, loaded. It's your gun, the very one you had holstered to you when he grabbed you in that house. You don't want to know when he's planning to use that, but you're sure it's soon.

The man you've since dubbed 'Belial' is gone for now, leaving you alone in the room with half of a kitchen knife jammed into your right thigh and the camera still pointing right at your face. It's hard to tell exactly how long it's been, but if you have to take a guess, maybe a few days.

During that time he's been continually drugging you, this time not with sedatives, rather with things that'll leave you with lasting conditions. You're not sure what it is, but it doesn't necessarily cause you pain at the time. Only after, when the effects are wearing off, and you're left begging for more.

Right now it's all out of your system, and it hurts. Almost more than the deeper cut he left on your stomach, and the discus sized bruise on the back of your shoulder. Almost more than the knife stuck in your leg, and the busted lip and broken nose and—

You have too many injuries to count. You might just die of infection before he gets the chance to leave a bullet in your brain.

Though your hope isn't yet entirely gone — over the last while, you've been slowly but surely wiggling your wrists, stretching the rope and allowing yourself a little bit of leeway.

The indomitable human spirit, Spencer would have commented to calm you down, if he was with you right now, before spouting off some facts about why the human body stays fighting for so long. The thought of him brings a tiny smile to your face, but it's short-lived as something happens.

As you're twisting your wrists around, using your own blood as lubricant, a strange little sound from behind you, so quiet you wouldn't have heard it if you weren't so on-guard lately, followed by the sudden and immense release of pressure from your wrists as blood flow is restored.

Your hands are free from their restraints, you only fully realize when you bring them up in front of your face, eyes flicking between your own two hands and the camera. An exhausted laugh bubbled up in your chest, and luckily, you're able to keep it down as you lean around the knife sticking out of your leg and undo the knots around them.

Standing up on shaky legs, you take an even shakier breath, one hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife to keep it in place and the other pressing against your stomach.

Your gun is across the room.

You could probably grab it, if you can manage to get over there.

Smiling into the camera and making a vague gun symbol with your fingers, you shift out of frame, slowly limping across the room towards the little table where your glock 22 is sitting, along with the holster.

Almost there...

Your hand is reaching out towards the gun when a deafening sound echoes off the walls, and an excruciating pain shoots through the left side of your hip. You know that sound, and you know the feeling just as well — you've been shot once, but it was in your leg, and all of the doctors were able to repair the damage perfectly fine.

This time you're not so lucky.

In an instant you drop to the floor, the blade of the knife shoving itself the rest of the way into your leg as you hit the concrete. The tripod holding the camera topples over as the man rushes across the room towards you. It doesn't break, and just to your luck, the way it falls has it angled in a way where all of you is on show to anyone watching.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You're entirely correct in thinking Spencer is watching everything, chest tightening and nausea rolling in his gut with every little pain inflicted upon you. He's seen things during his time in this job — mutilated bodies and such, things many others would deem so much worse than what you're going through — but in his mind, this is most definitely the worst thing he's ever been forced to witness.

Still, he can't seem to make himself take his eyes off you for more than thirty seconds at a time.

Nobody has tried to make him leave Penelope's office, despite the fact that everybody has access to the video footage, nor has anybody reprimanded him for being so distracted.

"How long is it going to take you to track him down?" Spencer demands, his knee bobbing up and down and his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Garcia glances at him before looking back to her work, typing furiously on her keyboard.

"I'm trying my best, Spencer," she says back, calmly despite the frustration and worry burning inside her. "He's using a masked signal, I think. There's no way for me to easily get their location."

The man nods. He understands that Penelope's trying her very best, especially with him sitting right there, but as he looks back at your bruised and bleeding body, he can't help being more irritable than usual. Not as the man — Avery Kane, they were able to identify him as — stuck another needle into your arm and injected you with God knows what.

"We have to go out and find her," Spencer decides after a beat of silence, his lip now bleeding from how hard he was biting it. "They can't be that far, realistically, if he was trying to avoid being pulled over. At most thirteen minutes away from the crime scene."

"Spencer, you of all people know that probably won't work," Garcia answers back, eyes never straying from the screen. "There's nothing to go off of in the video, and she definitely won't know where she is."

Spencer makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat as Kane drives the sharp end of a kitchen knife into your thigh, pushing it in an inch before pulling it back out. "You heard him, Garcia — he's going to kill her. She'll be dead by the time we find her at this point."

The thought has her grimacing. She knows that he isn't just saying things — these are surely real statistics. You will be dead by the time they find you.

Spencer stands up and starts pacing the room, arms crossed tightly over his chest, mind reeling like a fishing line. They have to be missing something, otherwise they would have found you by now.

Garcia's gasp draws his attention, and he finds her staring at the screen with you on it. He rushes back and practically falls back into the chair, watching as you manage to free your bloodied hands from their restraints, smiling and making a pistol symbol with your hands as you shuffle out of frame.

Your gun is in the room.

A sense of half-relief washes over Spencer, and Garcia's shoulders relax ever-so-slightly — at least, that's until they hear the painfully familiar bang of a gun going off. Not your gun, but the one belonging to the man now standing in frame.

Everything happens in a rush. Kane rushing forward and knocking over the camera. Said camera being focused on you on the floor, knife sticking fully into your leg, pool of blood spreading out around you. Avery huffs and drops the gun on the ground, too far for you to reach, and walks out of the room muttering to himself.

Within seconds Garcia is frantically speaking to who Spencer can only assume is Hotch, and he is pulling the video feed up on his phone before rushing out of the room. His heart is nearly beating out of his chest, stomach in his throat and tears pricking at his eyes.

You can't die — not yet. Not for a very long time, after you've lived a very happy life together, not until he's gone. You're the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to him, he can't possibly live without you by his side.

And then, as if his guardian angel was leaning over his shoulder, listening to his silent prayers, Penelope starts yelling out about how she's got the coordinates, and she's forwarding them to everyone.

Spencer looks down at the video feed again, watches as you roll onto your back and cry, pressing your trembling hand to the wound on your hip, murmuring pleas about how you don't want to die —you're not ready. Your body is already weak from being beaten and cut for three days straight, nobody is sure how you'll handle being shot.

The odds aren't looking good.

There's a less than ten percent chance you'll survive this, and that's if they can get there in the next two minutes, with the wounds you've acquired. Spencer tells the team as much, as they speed down the road at three times the speed limit, lights blaring on top of the car to signal an emergency.

You make a little sound, barely audible through the video, so Spencer turns up the volume as far as it'll go. "Sleep, my love, the stars are dim, the night is soft, and the world is thin," he hears you choke out.

"What's she doing," Morgan asks from beside Spencer, peering over his shoulder and cringing at your bloody form. "Is she... singing?"

"It's the song her mom wrote for her when she was a child," Spencer replies in a broken voice. "She was so scared of the dark, and her mother wanted to make the night seem a little less scary. She sang it to her when she was in the hospital."

"Rest your head, and close your eyes, where dreams are sweet, and time is kind," you continue in a hushed voice, voice shaking from the effort of staying alive. You have to keep living. "The winds may call, the shadows dance, but here you're safe, inside my hands. Though I must go, I'll stay with you, in every breath, in all you do."

"She's not dying, Reid," Morgan says softly. "We won't let her. She can't get away from us that easily."

It was his attempt to lighten the mood, but it only earned him a quiet scolding from Hotch.

"Sleep, my love, the night will weep, but I'll be with you, in your sleep," you continue quietly, voice getting softer and softer with each word as you slowly bleed out on the floor. "And when you wake, the world will shine, a piece of me will always be mine."

They come to a forceful stop outside the house, ambulance already there in preparation for whatever happens and three police cars stationed outside the house.

"This man is armed," Hotch comments matter-of-factly, glancing around at everyone. "Morgan, you go in with the police to detain the guy — Reid and Prentiss, you run in immediately after with the paramedics..."

You've stopped singing, the only indicator that you're still breathing, and your unmoving. Eerily still with your eyes closed and a the tiniest smile on your face. You must hear all the commotion outside. Spencer slips his phone into his pocket, though he doesn't want to take his eyes off you, and nods.

So does Avery Kane, it seems, as he runs out through the front door and attempts to make a run for it. Someone tackles him, and just as Hotch said, Emily and Spencer are immediately running into the house with the paramedics hot on their tails, searching desperately for the basement.

"Y/N!" Spencer yells out, opening every door until they finally find one that leads down a set of stairs — where they immediately find you attempting to crawl across the floor towards them, hand clutched to your gunshot wound, movements sloppy as you continue to bleed.

He doesn't get a chance to touch you, or talk to you, as you're placed onto a stretcher and rushed back outside, or as he sits with you in the ambulance while everyone works to suppress the bleeding and keep you alive. You're all that's on his mind as he and the team sit in the waiting room of the hospital while you're in surgery.

Survival rates for gunshot wounds to the hip vary based on a lot of factors, but generally speaking, if the bullet didn't hit anything vital, there's about an eighty to ninety percent chance you'll survive... but that isn't taking into account that it very much might've hit something important, and it's not taking into account your already sustained injuries.

Everyone else seems to realize this, too, but they don't comment on it. Nor do they say anything when a nurse comes out and tells them the surgery was a success, and Spencer actually cries from relief. They don't push it when he asks if they can stay behind while he goes in and sits with you, just until you wake up.

That's not to say they leave the waiting room, though, except for Hotch, who says he has a lot of work to do. Everyone knows he's always had a bit of a soft spot for you, so this upset him more than any regular kidnapping case.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

The feeling of someone holding your hand is the first thing that comes to your attention, their thumb rubbing gentle circles onto the back of it. You already know who it is without opening your eyes, but you open them anyway, wincing at the bright white fluorescent lights shining down into my eyes.

Spencer's forehead leans against the edge of the bed, his breathing even as he sleeps.

He hates hospitals, is the first thing that comes to mind when you look at him, the way his mop of brown hair falls down either side of head, like a curtain hiding his lovely face.

You can barely remember what happened to you, why you're in the hospital — only that you were in more pain than the human body should be able to comprehend, and that you're still in pain now — but the sight of him sleeping so peacefully in a place he hates so much has every thought eddying from your head.

You carefully reach your other hand across your body and run your injured fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp as he begins to stir from his slumber. You almost feel a little bad waking him up, but you just couldn't resist the opportunity.

He's just far too cute for you to not want to touch him.

When his hazel eyes meet yours, you're suddenly filled with a sense of worry. They're red-rimmed, like he's been crying — a lot, and there are heavy bags under his eyes, due to lack of sleep.

Jeez, am I really that terribly injured?

"You're awake," he murmurs quietly, bringing your hand to his mouth and pressing a gently kiss to the back of it.

"You know," you start off with a teasing tone in your voice, "your hands are dirtier than your mouth. You're more likely to get sick from touching my hand than you are if you were to kiss me on the lips."

He hums in agreement, a smile on his lips, though it doesn't quite meet his eyes, the way it normally does when you start talking nerdy to him. "How could I forget?" he whispers, leaning forward and leaving a delicate kiss on your lips. He doesn't let go of your hand, continuing his ministrations of rubbing circles.

"So, what's the damage?" you ask when he's fully seated again, both of his hands holding your one to his mouth. "What happened to end me up in the hospital?"

His eyebrows furrow. He looks puzzled, and silver lines his eyes, tears building up and begging to be dropped.

"You don't... remember?" he asks softly. You shake your head and look down at yourself — you've never been in worse shape, casts and bandages littering almost every inch of skin.

A sob builds up in his chest, and he can't stop it from escaping against your hand. You frown and use your free hand to wipe the tears from his cheek, caressing it as you run your thumb along the skin under his eye.

"Are you okay, Spence?" you ask quietly, worriedly, like him crying is the worst thing in the world. In your mind, it actually is.

He laughs bitterly, but nonetheless leans into your touch. "You almost died, Y/N, and you're still looking after me?" he asks, sniffing. "You're too soft for this world, my sweet girl. I'm alright, you don't need to worry about me. Just glad you're alive is all."

You smile and gently pinch his cheek. "So, are you going to tell me what happened? Or at least, the injuries I sustained?"

He nods dejectedly and leans further forward. "You had three fractured ribs, a cracked sternum and a cracked scapula. Three broken phalanges, a broken nose. Dislocated mandible, left shoulder and both your wrists. Sprained ankle," he stops for a moment, simply watching you absorb the information he's feeding you.

You don't seem too worried, but he can see the confusion and panic in your eyes.

"Is... that all?" you ask hesitantly, as if you don't really want to know, and Spencer has half the mind to not tell you. But it's your body, and you're the one in the hospital, so you deserve to know regardless.

"Those are only the breaks, you're all bruised and cut up, like a piece of meat," he says, at least bringing a slight smile to your face with his 'joke'. "You sustained a full-length stab wound from a kitchen knife, a grade two concussion, and a gunshot wound on your hip. It's a miracle you're even alive."

Your mouth hangs open with a goldfish. "No kidding," you breathe, squeezing his hand, your eyebrows furrowed. He can't help but remove one hand from yours to smooth out the little crease, lingering as you leaned your cheek against his hand.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, in a voice so quiet, you can barely even hear it.

You're silent for a second, nuzzling your face against him despite the ache in your neck. "I'm wondering how I possibly could have gotten all these injuries, and I'm thinking that I'm glad you're here with me. And that I love you so much, and I'm glad you love me enough to stay with me in a hospital, even though you're a germaphobe."

He leans forward and leaves a kiss on your taped-up nose. "I love you, too. Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

You think for a second, the crease between your brows making a reappearance, but you ultimately shake your head — slightly, because you have a raging headache and more movement will only make it worse. "This seems bad, so... I'm not so sure I wanna know."

Spencer nods and leans back, getting to his feet. "There are some people who wanna see you, if you're up for it?" he suggests gently, watching as a smile makes its way onto your lips.

"I think I'd like that very much."

Spencer knows you'll need to know at some point, but right now, while you seem relatively happy, he won't tell you about how you were kidnapped and drugged with ketamine and heroin, or how your torture was broadcasted to everyone at the BAU.

For now, he'll let you stay happy.

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid one shot #criminal minds fic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader girlfriend #spencer reid x reader angst #spencer reid #criminal minds #content warning #spencer reid x girlfriend reader #spencer reid x bau girlfriend #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x female reader #enderlovez

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taiso · 11 months ago

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jarvis cocker (pulp) trading card from melody maker magazine (1995)

scanned from my personal collection ^^

#i’m about to graduate and i am so insanely stressed out. so many projects. so many presentations. woooh baby. i am going to explode #anyways my mom bought me this card as a surprise treat a little bit ago and i wanted to scan it :] hope none of you mind lol #melody maker #pulp #pulp band #jarvis cocker #1990s #britpop stuff #my scans #suggestive content warning #suggestive cw #(it's only text but just to be safe..)

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babacontainsmultitudes · 7 days ago

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AH. So that's why they put that content warning. I see!

#HM.#dndads #the peachyville horror #Okay tag ramble time I guess lol.#Amittedly I actually wish I *hadn't* checked the content warnings cause I think that moment would've affected me a bit more otherwise #(which for me is desired lol I want that out of my podcasts)#But HM geez gonna be thinking on this one...#Also something something Francis and Trudy talks this episode something something coldest human & warmest machine #Couldn't get that off my mind... Their conversation at the end there is what really had me anxious more than anything gah #ACTUAL EPISODE SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT FORWARD WEEWOO WEEWOO #SO one thing to remember is that we don't actually know for sure yet that Francis is dead #Which I know sounds silly but characters have been shot in the head before like this same season and not immediately died from it #Still gotta go through the mechanical process of dying and all that #But ALSO he pulled the trigger and that's where the episode stopped.#Again I know it's silly to say but we don't actually know *for sure* what happens next- *especially* cause Brunhilda is a sentient gun #Or he could die but come back from it somehow!#I swear I don't mean any of this as wishful thinking I'm just genuinely thinking of the possibilities here.#Cause like this podcast does things in this vein a lot y'know. Not always as dark but still.#That said I do hope Francis' storyline continues in some form or another cause if not like *maaan*#In brighter news the Pepper Pete bit took me OUT and you know what I do get happy whenever Sneaky Pete shows up too LOL #Good little bits this episode in general but shoutout also to ''It's time to play HAIR OR THREAD!!!'' perfect.

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hoe4hotchner · 7 months ago

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It's good to be king [A.H]

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐!𝙰𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝙷𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟷.𝟷𝚔 𝙲𝚆: 𝟷𝟾+, 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕, 𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚋𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝙷𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕.

𝙰/𝙽: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢. 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔!!!! 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗.

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The grand throne room was a shadowy expanse of cold stone and flickering torchlight, the heavy scent of burning wood mixing with the deep, earthy aroma of the kingdom outside. King Aaron sat on the massive throne, a figure as dark and imposing as the room itself. His broad frame was draped in luxurious black and crimson robes, edged with gold that glimmered faintly in the dim light, while a heavy crown rested upon his head like a symbol of his unyielding authority. His eyes, sharp and cold as ice, surveyed the room with a calculated hunger.

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.

Outside the palace walls, the kingdom cowered beneath his iron grip. King Aaron had taken the throne through cunning, strength, and fear, his reputation as a ruthless and merciless ruler growing with each passing day. Whispers of rebellion had long since died out, smothered by his swift and brutal justice. His subjects knew better than to defy him, for to do so was to invite destruction into their homes.

He relished it. Power flowed through his veins, thick and intoxicating, and he wielded it with precision. Every decision, every law, every order was an extension of his will, and no one - no one - dared to challenge him. He was the uncontested force that ruled this land, and the world bent to his desires.

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

You stood at the far end of the throne room, a figure both regal and fragile, draped in silks that did little to mask the tension in your posture. You had not come to him willingly. You had been forced into marriage with him, a pawn in a game of power, a prize that the king had claimed simply because he could. But that was of little consequence to him.

You were just another thing in his vast collection. His queen, sure, but in his eyes, more a possession than an equal. He could feel your resistance, the quiet, simmering resentment that lingered behind your eyes. You were trapped, and he savored that knowledge - there was no escape from him, no way out of the cage he had crafted for you.

He rose from the throne, the sound of his boots echoing in the vast hall as he approached you, his dark presence filling the space like a looming storm. His gaze, intense and unreadable, flickered over you, he tilted his head slightly, the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re tense,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, each word laced with a chilling undercurrent of amusement. “It doesn’t suit you.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes darting to the stone floor, it made him chuckle softly. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch that was almost tender, but the weight behind it was unmistakable - he owned you, body and soul. His thumb lingered at your jaw, tilting your chin up so that you were forced to meet his gaze.

“You should learn to accept this,” he murmured, his tone low and commanding. “It’ll be easier that way.”

There was no cruelty in his words, only a quiet certainty, as though the idea of resistance was laughable to him. And why wouldn’t it be? No one resisted Aaron Hotchner. He got what he wanted. Always.

He moved past you, his cape sweeping the ground as he walked toward the massive window overlooking the kingdom. Beyond the glass, the land stretched out, vast and unyielding under his rule, the distant villages mere shadows on the horizon. His kingdom. His world.

“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” he said, his back still to you. “All of this… mine.”

There was a satisfaction in his voice, an edge of arrogance that sent a shiver down your spine. He turned his head slightly, his eyes cutting back to you, watching for your reaction.

“You’ll come to see it as I do,” he continued, his tone soft but commanding. “In time.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need one. Aaron wasn’t a king who sought approval or validation. He was a man who seized control, who took what he wanted, whether it was a kingdom or a queen. The thought of your resentment didn’t trouble him—it amused him. Because he knew, deep down, that it didn’t matter. No matter how much you resisted, no matter how much you longed to escape, there was no freedom from him.

He could feel the weight of his power pressing down on you, and he reveled in it. The way you shrank under his gaze, the way your breathing quickened whenever he drew near. Fear was a powerful thing, and he wielded it expertly, a tool as sharp and deadly as any blade in his collection.

But there was something else, too. Something that flickered in the shadows of his mind, an unfamiliar sensation that gnawed at him from time to time when he watched you. It wasn’t tenderness, not exactly - he was incapable of that. But it was something close, something darker. Possessive. Obsessive even.

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕.

He turned away from the window and walked back toward you, his steps slow, deliberate. His fingers trailed over your arm as he passed, a touch meant to remind you of his presence, his control. He circled you like a predator stalking its prey, his eyes never leaving you.

“I’ve given you everything,” he said, his voice low, almost a purr. “Power, wealth, a crown. And yet… you still resist me.”

You swallowed, the tension in your throat noticeable, but you didn’t speak. He smirked, leaning in, his breath warm against your ear.

“You’ll learn, eventually,” he whispered, his voice like velvet and poison at the same time. “Everyone does.”

There was no warmth in his words, no promise of affection. Only the cold, determined certainty of a king who ruled with an iron fist. He straightened, pulling away from you, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze lifted, allowing you a brief, fragile moment of respite.

He returned to his throne, sitting once more in the seat of power, the dark crown upon his brow casting shadows across his face. His eyes, sharp and dangerous, gleamed in the torchlight as he watched you, a king studying his possession.

Aaron Hotchner was not a man to be crossed. He was not a man to be loved. He was a force, a king who reveled in power, who took what he wanted without question or hesitation. And you, like everything else in his kingdom, were his to command, his to control.

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.

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