#Will Graham/Original Female Character

[entropicquilibriumofchaos]

nfwmb

Imprinting: any kind of phase-sensitive learning (learning occurring at a particular age or a particular life stage) that is rapid and apparently independent of the consequences of behavior.

Leda Darling was abducted at age 18. The only person she saw for what felt like ages was her abductor until a new face peered through the darkness and reached out. Nine years after being kidnapped, she is rescued by a curious FBI profiler, Will Graham. With Hannibal Lecter overseeing her return to society and Will Graham there to protect her from any threats, Leda's life seems to have turned for the better.

But some people are not who they seem, even to those who know them best.

Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter/Original Female Character

READ IT ON AO3

Chapter 1 - Someone to Watch Over Me

“Please,” he said evenly, “come in.” He stepped out of the door frame and ushered the woman into a large open study. His voice was smooth and inviting, but it didn’t stop the girl from flinching away and casting her eyes downward as she crept into the dark library-esque office. 

She followed the doctor’s directions and slowly lowered herself into a gray leather chair as he followed suit in an identical chair across from her. Her eyes stayed trained on her shoes, a new pair of boots that didn’t quite fit her and felt awkward on her feet. It had been so long since she had needed shoes; she couldn’t decide if they made her feel free again or reminded her of confinement. 

“Ms. Darling,” his voice made her flinch slightly once more, “you’re looking better than when we first met.”

She inhaled sharply remembering his cold scrutiny from their first meeting at the BAU.

The doctor sat with his hands folded in his lap, looking at her with curiosity. 

“I understand that you haven’t spoken since being found,” he said, grabbing a pen and notepad from the table beside him. He put them in his lap and leaned forward slightly. “Trauma like you went through can cause a condition called psychogenic mutism. It’s not something that can’t be treated.” 

She raised her head slightly, meeting his eyes for the first time. He didn’t smile, but his face softened and his eyebrows raised minutely. Warmth bloomed in her chest momentarily: she had done something right.

“Do you know any sign language, Ms. Darling?” he asked.

She shook her head no. 

He nodded and jotted something down. “Are you able to write?”

She nodded, her body becoming less stiff as they talked. He saw this as a good sign and wrote more in his notebook before setting it aside. He pulled his chair closer to her and pulled out a smaller notebook from the inside of his jacket. He handed it to her along with his pen and sat down.

“We’ll start with something simple. I’d like you to write your name and when you were born.” Dr. Lecter instructed.

She grasped the pen gently, the object feeling foreign in her hand. It had been years since she had last written something; truthfully, she didn’t know if she could still write, but she was praying that she hadn’t lied to the doctor.

Shakily, she put the pen to paper. Her writing was slow and deliberate. After what felt like forever for her, she handed the notepad back to Dr. Lecter. 

“Leda Darling January 8th 1998”

The doctor nodded and handed it back to her. “That’s right. Do you know what year it is now?”

She wrote more confidently this time. “ 2023. Agent Crawford said .”

“Very good,” Dr. Lecter praised. A warm feeling welled up in her chest and a ghost of a smile past her lips. He noted how she responded to the praise and made a mental note of it.

“I’m going to ask you some harder questions now. If you ever want to stop, just put the pen down,” he explained. “Don’t hesitate to stop if something becomes too much for you to handle. Our sessions will only work if you feel safe here; do you understand?”

She thought for a second before nodding.

“I’d like to put you on some medication to help with your anxiety,” Dr. Lecter explained, “Is that okay?”

Leda nodded, and Dr. Lecter nodded before looking at his watch. 

“I’ll send a prescription to your doctor and ask Agent Crawford to pick it up for you,” he said, getting up and walking over to his desk and rifling through a couple of papers before seemingly finding what he was looking for. He made his way back to Leda, who had stood up as well. She looked up at him with big eyes, and something akin to regret passed his face for a moment. A memory of something, or someone.

“This is my office phone number, and my personal cell is on the back. If anything happens do not be afraid to call me.”

She took the small paper card from him and tucked it into her jacket pocket. She stood up and held the notepad out for him to take back, but he just put his hand over hers. 

“It’s yours to keep. I have more than enough paper here,” he explained, gesturing to his desk. He wasn’t lying.

Leda nodded in appreciation. 

Dr. Lecter led her gently to the door and as soon as it opened, the slightly cooler air flooded over her and her demeanor changed instantly. Her shoulders tensed and her gaze dropped back down to her boots as she caught a glimpse of Agent Crawford waiting for her outside. 

“Good afternoon, Agent Crawford,” Dr. Lecter greeted the man outside, who had stood up from his spot in one of the chairs in the waiting room when the door opened up. 

“Dr. Lecter,” the FBI agent nodded, “Ms. Darling, are you ready to head back to the house?” 

Not making eye contact, Leda nodded slightly.

Dr. Lecter cleared his throat. “Leda is suffering from psychogenic mutism. It may be a while before her brain believes it's safe enough to speak again. For now, we’re going to communicate by writing.”

Agent Crawford nodded in understanding. 

Dr. Lecter turned to his patient once more. She had retreated back into herself and was viewing the outside world through a veil of fear. He put his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her and she brought her head up slowly, her eyes meeting his gaze. His brown eyes seemed to pierce through her veil. 

“I’ll see you soon, Ms. Darling,” he said before turning his attention to another figure in the waiting room. He had snuck in quietly, not wanting to interrupt the debrief happening before him. 

“Good evening, Will.” Dr. Lecter greeted, drawing all eyes to him. Leda’s eyes snapped up and she froze.

Why was he here? 

Will Graham was the first face that Leda saw when the door to the cellar was opened. It was he who had wrapped his arms around her and helped her step into the light for the first time since she was abducted. His hand had touched her face so gently, brushing away the tears from her eyes.

“You’re safe now, Leda,” he had consoled, holding the broken woman in his arms as she sunk down into the wet leaves beneath their feet. “You’re safe.”

“Hello, Leda,” Will said softly. His eyes were weary, but he smiled at her softly nonetheless. 

Her nod was almost unperceivable, but Will noticed it along with the slight relaxation of her shoulders. She didn’t smile, but her face softened and he could see the relief in her eyes at the sight of him. 

Agent Crawford watched this interaction with interest. Leda seemed to relax around Will, perhaps in time he would be a key element to get her to open up and help them catch her kidnapper. 

He broke the silence, making Leda flinch slightly, “We best be on our way. Thank you, Hannibal. It’s good to see you, Will.”

The two men nodded to the older FBI agent before he led Leda out of the building and to his car. 

“She looks better,” Will commented, following Hannibal into his office, “Still not great, but better.”

Hannibal took a seat behind his desk and looked through some papers as Will sat down. “She’s incredibly malnourished. I’m surprised she’s walking on her own without any mobility aids.” 

“Jack offered them, but she refused,” Will explained, sitting forward in his chair and perching his chin on his fists. “For someone so beaten, she’s very resilient.”

Not looking at him, Hannibal replied, “Her resilience is what saved her from dying in that cellar.” He found what he was looking for and stood up before making his way to the chair across from Will. He sat back and put the notebook in his lap, setting his hands on it and crossing his legs. “She seems to relax when you’re around.”

Will sat back. “I noticed that.”

“A newly hatched bird will imprint on the first thing it sees. It’s instinctual and vital to their survival that they learn to hunt, walk, and even fly. Many times, if it imprints on the wrong thing, it will never be able to survive in the wild,” Hannibal explained. “Euthanasia is oftentimes the only answer.”

Will bristled slightly. Ever since he pulled Leda out of the cellar, he felt somewhat protective of her. At Hannibal’s mention of euthanasia, he felt a surge of uneasiness and anger wash over him. Hannibal noticed this and jotted something down in his notebook. 

“Our little bird will be fine,” Hannibal reassured, “As you said, she’s resilient. She made good progress today and she’s looking much better physically as well. Where are you with finding her abductor?”

Will relaxed his shoulders, which he hadn’t been aware of tensing. Back to business, he thought. 

[ashrillvenheim]

Happy Halloween!!! :3

[liennka]

Mizumono

Hannibal Lecter x Will's daughter X Will Graham

Summary: Will was supposed to help Jack with killing Hannibal, but he arrived too late and with him, his daughter, Y/n.... (s2e13)

-> This one is filled with angst, but i realised that's just what i am good at :) I am open to any criticism (be nice pls).

I just wanted to say that I am not the owner of this show, but I did make this story, so don't copy it without my knowledge, thank you.

When Alana called about the warrant, Will didn't panic. He told Y/n to go downstairs, urging her to turn off the lights and grab a jacket. And as the police headlights came through the windows, they ducked and crawled on all fours to the back door, Will grabbing his gun. Outside, hidden in the darkness, they ran across their property, stopping on a road. The rain soaked their clothes, though at least the ground wasn't muddy, otherwise they'd be easy to track. A taxi pulled up and Will gave him an address. 

"Hannibal Lecter's house? Why are we going from one danger to another?" Y/n asked, much rather preferring a McDonald's or a cinema. 

"Because Jack will be there, and right now nowhere is safe," her father whispered, looking out the window, "and maybe it's the only address I know."

"That's probably it. What are we going to do then? Have a cup of tea with him and chat with Hannibal?" she sarcastically teased. 

"I gave him time to leave, nothing should happen".

Y/N wasn't so sure.

----●----●----●----

When they got off, her father couldn't have been more wrong. Alana laid there, glass broken, rain rinsing blood from her hair. She seemed dead, just the twitching from shock making her shoulders move up and down. 

"Alana!" Will rushed to her and wrapped her in his coat.

Y/n made note of her surroundings. The front door opened, all sorts of wet footsteps on the carpet, the second floor window busted. And a bloody burgundy dahlia looking at her from a pot near the entrance. 

"Betrayal," she hummed, crouching down beside Alana.

Will looked at her as if she was crazy. He had just called the ambulance and left Alana his phone. 

"The flowers," Y/n pointed out, "I guess he's inside.” 

"Jack's there too," Alana choked out.

Y/N was surprised, she thought Alana's rib cage was too damaged to speak, but Alana proved her wrong. Will nodded and stood up, his gun in both hands. Y/n stayed a little longer, not caring that her hair was now sticking to her ears and causing her to feel cold.

----●----●----●----

As she opened the door to the kitchen, the smell of blood hit her. There were knives, plates and glass everywhere, two pairs of shoes standing in the midst of it all. As she looked up, Hannibal's silhouette greeted her.  

"You were supposed to leave!" Will was standing in front of him.

"I couldn't leave without you two," Hannibal said affectionately. 

Y/n did not know who 'you two' meant, but had a hunch that it included her. Strangely, Hannibal didn't even spare her a look, placing his palm on Will's cheek as if to caress it. They both had such an intense gaze, the sexual tension almost making Y/n turn around to give them some privacy. The scenery looked like a theater piece, a tragedy at that. They dove into their world, where she didn't exist and where they spoke in a different language, or maybe she just lost her hearing from how loud her heart was beating.  Either way, Y/n wanted to separate them, to drag her dad back to their house, back to their dogs. 

She did not see the knife coming from her point of view. Her father simply yelped and took a step forward, crashing into Hannibal's arms. This wasn't real, no. Hannibal would never hurt Will, he was like the other half of his soul, she lied to herself. But there was a red stain on his shirt and when Hannibal embraced him, the weapon remained in his hand, as if to mock them. Y/n stood motionless, no sound could break through her frozen vocal chords. She never thought this would happen, her chest tightening and her eyes filling with tears of pure terror.

The impact of Will's body aligned with her first fallen tear. His body fell directly into a pool of Jack's blood, his pants soaking it up. A few droplets of their mixed blood landed on her shoe, ruining her white trainers. Y/n swallowed nauseously, not daring to look into her fathers eyes. 

Hannibal leaned forward, his crescent-shaped blade back on the counter. 

"I have let you know me, see me," Hannibal paused as Will struggled to breathe, "I gave you a rare gift, but you didn't want it.”

"Didn't I?" Will insisted heartbroken, his eyebrows knitted tightly together. He seemed distressed, but more than anything, he was furious. 

Y/n shut herself off, not wanting to remember her father so frail, choosing to merely listen. And when she heard Hannibal mention the shattered teacup again, something in her snapped. She opened her pocket knife behind her back, using it for the first time since she bought it after the encounter with Tobias. Her fight-or-flight instinct flipped a coin and settled on fight. In a blink of an eye, she was standing behind Hannibal, her knife placed just under his jaw.

Y/n had no idea what she was doing. Her mind told her to end it, to be free at last. But her heart knew that was not possible, not in this life. She couldn't stop shaking, so she applied more force, making him bleed a little.  Will sucked in his breath, not quite understanding what was going on as this was out of character for her. 

"We are not a shattered teacup. You can't glue us back together and pretend like nothing happened," Y/n croaked in his ear, her voice high-pitched.

The blade suddenly twitched as a chuckle erupted from Hannibal’s chest.

"No, you certainly are not just a piece of pottery, but you are indeed fragile."

“You should have left when Will told you to. Instead you slaughtered them all, rightfully or not, whether you believe in God or not. There is no excuse for that,” Y/n hissed, her disappointment in him turning her words bitter. 

"I should have seen it coming…you made us so blind," her disappointment in herself turning her words sour.

Alana's happy face when she gave her a handmade sweater, or Jack and Bella's Christmas party, it was all over. Her bright future turned dim.

"I just wanted us to be a family. Why," she sobbed, a big droplet falling on the floor, "why can't I have a genuine family for once?"

----●----●----●----

Taking advantage of her state of mind, Hannibal grabbed her hand, pulling the knife away from his throat and spinning her around. He took her face in his palms, making her look at him. Y/n had teardrops on her chin, red spots on her irritated skin, her lips chapped and her eyelashes littered with fresh tears. He wiped them away so she had a clear view of him. However, he was no better, his normally perfectly sleek bangs were now messy, blood on his collar and some drying under his nose. He was bruised and in pain, yet he still looked like the most charismatic man she had ever seen. A charismatic man that attempted to erase her father's existence. 

"You don't get to start over after what you've just done, that's not fair!” she tried to wriggle out of his grip, “You hurt Will and you broke my trust. What do you expect us to do?" 

"Nothing, such is life. Don't fight it, let it all go."

Y/n raised her eyebrows in disbelief, a single tear running down her cheek. By now she could care less about having a weapon on her side, she felt she had already lost. 

"'And what if I don't want to let it go, to forget or forgive?" 

"Then you lose yourself," Hannibal directed his gaze back to Will, "I forgive Will. Will he forgive me?"

"'Don't. No, no, no!" Will uttered for the first time after his collapse.

It broke his heart, but there was nothing to be done, his design was meant to be finished and everything had to go according to plan. He pried her knife from her slack hold, unbeknown to her. 

"What are you tal-" Y/n's question couldn't be finished as she was silenced.

Her own knife, now in Hannibal's possession, was plunged blade deep into her side, almost identically to her father's. She yelped as she felt her muscles being torn apart, the stinging as Hannibal yanked it out causing her to choke. Her eyes opened wide as if trying to comprehend what was happening. The searing pain in her torso sent her to the ground, but it was the pain in her heart that made her burst out crying again, only this time it would not stop. Hannibal slowly lowered her down beside Will, splattering the tiles with her blood and tears like the rain would.

 She shook, struggling to catch her breath. With one hand she pressed against her wound, with the other she found her father's hand and weakly squeezed it. She felt his cold fingers, the energy draining from his body. 

"Dad," Y/n muffled her cries. 

Will wanted to help her, to hold her and console her, but he'd been bleeding for so long he couldn't even open his mouth. He had no choice but to watch with half-closed eyes as the entire room bathed in red.  

"You can make it all go away. Put your head back, close your eyes," Hannibal reached for Will's shoulder and met his eyes. "Wade into the quiet of the stream".

Y/n blinked at Hannibal for a second, but instead of a man, she saw a red horned monster with black dahlias sprouting from its eye sockets. So this was his true self, she realised.

“We were never meant to work, were we?” she clutched at Hannibal's trousers with her bloodied fingers. 

There was a silence for a while, Will's labored breathing slowing and her own sniffles fading to silent tears. Hannibal knelt down and ruffled her wet hair. 

And as her father closed his eyes, Hannibal asked her: "Will you forgive me?"

Y/n wanted to say no. She wanted to send him into the pond of burgundy ink as well, but her own mind said otherwise. 

"'Maybe, if you promise to make us work."

He smiled and stood up, not looking at her again. As his footsteps faded away, Y/n's warm blood grew chilly and her eyes heavy. With her last strength she kissed her father's knuckles, her last tears streaming down her face.  

----●----●----●----

She shed tears for how pitiful her ending was. And as her vision got blurrier, she bid farewell to her life.

[n1angi]

Shrouded in Darkness

CHAPTER 4 : PARMIGIANA

previous chapter | next chapter

Will Graham x AFAB character x Hannibal Lecter (Polyamory)

Summary:

In the heart of Baltimore, forensic analyst Sidonie Renard navigates the shadows of crime scenes, concealing her loneliness behind a composed facade. Drawn into a web of intrigue, she captures the attention of profiler Will Graham and the enigmatic Hannibal Lecter.

Word count: 3,2k

Chapter Warning: Murder, Blood, Gore.

Sidonie observed the man in front of her. He was tall and slender, with a lean, angular face. His blue shirt, brown tie, and colorful ornaments on his tie complemented his suit. His hair was styled neatly, giving him a sophisticated look. He was charismatic, well-mannered, and attractive.

“I’m honored to offer any insight I can,” he said to Jack, then turned his attention to the brunette. His eyes took on her appearance.

She was neatly dressed in classic trousers, leather-heeled boots, and a black turtleneck. Her outfit made her large olive-green eyes stand out.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Jack speaks highly of you. I’m glad to work with someone of your caliber.” He maintained eye contact.

“The feeling is mutual. You’re also well-known around here. Agent Crawford seems to trust you a lot.” She nodded and smiled slightly, holding her hands in front of her as she glanced at Jack, who gestured for them to sit.

Jack cleared his throat, mentioning that Alana would join them soon.

“Abigail Hobbs woke up this morning. I thought we could consult two professionals before taking action since Miss Renard seemed hesitant about the idea.” Hannibal tilted his head slightly.

“What is the idea you speak of?”

“I have seven families waiting for an answer. I want Miss Renard to consult Abigail and find evidence of what is left of these girls. Speaking to Abigail will be necessary for trust.”

“I’m sure we need to give Abigail some time to process what happened,” Sidonie said.

“Sudden intrusion will only make her more cautious. It’s best if she speaks with her therapist for the first couple of days.”

Jack looked at Hannibal.

“As you can see, she is hesitant.”

“Hesitance isn’t the issue here, Agent Crawford. What you’re asking of me isn’t in my expertise. It’s a huge responsibility to consult a victim while trying to find evidence on them.”

“She might not be a victim at all,” Jack pressed.

“Her father slit her throat, and she nearly died,” Sidonie said, frowning. “She deserves some time to recover.”

Hannibal’s lips curl into a faint smile as if he’s trying not to show his amusement.

“I agree with Miss Renard,” Hannibal said calmly, looking at Jack. “It’s best to stay patient. We don’t want to rush.” He turns to Sidonie. “Combining her expertise while carefully observing Abigail could benefit the case. It might help move things along.” He notices Jack’s pleased expression. “However, given Miss Renard’s limited experience in this area, it’s better if those who have interacted with Abigail stay by her side.”

“Are you suggesting to accompany Miss Renard?” Jack asks.

“I believe it will be the best approach.”

“And what about Will Graham?”

“It’s best if he is there too.”

Sidonie holds her breath, dreading the possible reaction from the men.

“There’s a chance he might not be happy with this idea,” Jack reminds him.

“I expected such a response,” Hannibal replies.

The room falls silent. Jack sighed, realizing he could rely on Hannibal to manage the situation.

“Now, let’s move on to the painter’s case,” Jack stands up and looking at the wall covered with crime scene photos.

Hannibal and Sidonie also rise, with Hannibal holding back to let Sidonie go first. They approach the wall as Jack begins to speak.

“Seven deadly sins. That’s the theme behind the crimes. The number seven indicates the next possible cases, including this one. We have very little evidence of who the killer is, but…” Jack looks at Sidonie. “Miss Renard found a bristle and suggesting he might be a painter.”

“Quentin Metsys, the moneylender, and his wife,” Hannibal says with a slight smile. “A representation of greed.”

“At first, we thought it might be a copycat,” Jack continues, “but that theory was dismissed.”

“Understandable,” Sidonie adds. “A copycat sees himself as superior to his victims. This killer, however, seems to feel undervalued. A copycat is meticulous and proud of his work.”

“Are you familiar with profiling, Miss Renard?” Hannibal asks, intrigued. Sidonie shakes her head.

“No, not really. I just took into account what Mr. Graham said about the case. But over time, you start noticing patterns between evidence and the traits of the criminals.”

“Are you suggesting that evidence itself has character?”

“Not exactly,” Sidonie replies. “But there might be a connection between the evidence and the killer’s traits.”

Hannibal considers her words thoughtfully.

“Do you have any ideas about the killer, Dr. Lecter?” Jack asks. Hannibal turns back to him.

“There’s a chance he may not be a painter after all.”

“Why’s that?” Jack inquires.

“Being a painter is a well-known profession. If he was working as a painter, it would be easier for him to be identified, especially if he was dealing with recent frustrations.”

“And what makes you think that?” Jack asks.

“The statement he’s making.” Sidonie looks frustrated, trying to think of other possibilities. Hannibal’s point about the painter’s potential exposure makes sense. “The choice of the seven deadly sins isn’t random. It shows his inner conflict, his struggle with his own failures, and the wrongs he feels he has faced. He might be revealing something about his own life. There’s more to his story that he wants to share.”

“Well, we need to catch him before he can tell us more,” Jack insists.

The door opened automatically as she stepped outside, her boots clicking as she walked to a bench and sat down. She sighed, rubbing her slightly sweaty hands together. The contrast between the hot office and the cool air outside was noticeable.

She looked at her thumb, watching the sweat mix with her palm.

“Miss Renard, are you okay?”

She looked up, startled by Hannibal’s sudden presence. “Yes, I just needed some fresh air. It’s much cooler out here than in the office.” She wiped her hands on her trousers and moved slightly to make room for him.

Hannibal sat beside her, crossing his legs.

“Do you tend to run hot?” he asked.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” she replied. Hannibal nodded, recalling how cold the room had been earlier. He looked around.

“You mentioned earlier that evidence might link a killer to their traits. What about a painter? What traits might fit him?”

“Will Graham has already covered that. I have nothing new to add,”

“And what about Abigail Hobbs? Is there any evidence that could suggest she’s guilty?”

Her gaze lingered on his face, curious about the sudden change in topic.

“There’s a chance she could be, considering the nature of the crimes. But right now, the only clues would be in her current behavior, which I’m not sure I can help with.”

Hannibal nodded, clearly unsatisfied with her response. It didn’t provide him any new insight, personal or professional.

As his eyes drifted to her hands, he observed how her fingers were intertwined. He saw a scar running from her middle finger down her hand. Recalling the article Freddie Lounds had written about her, it seemed obvious to him why she seemed so anxious earlier.

“Your approach to her seems sympathetic. Some might even call it kind.”

“I’d describe it as flexible, rather than kind.” She looked away, her gaze falling on two familiar figures approaching from a car. “Approaching her right now might be overwhelming, especially after what she’s been through. Whether she’s guilty or not, it’s tough for anyone.”

Hannibal followed her gaze, seeing Alana and Will approaching.

“Balancing empathy with objectivity is no easy task, and you handle it with a rare skill,” Hannibal said. Sidonie blinked at his compliment. He smiled subtly at her reaction.

Will and Alana reached them, and Sidonie and Hannibal stood up.

“I’m glad we’re not too late, Has Jack arrived?”

“We’ve already spoken with Jack,” Hannibal replied.

“So we’re late,” she mumbled.

Noticing Will’s gaze, Hannibal turned to him.

“I assume you know Abigail has woken up?”

“Heard of it,” Will said sarcastically.

“And I assume he wanted to interview her right away,” Alana predicted, raising her eyebrows.

“I won’t argue with that,” Hannibal smirked. Alana shook her head at his response. “Miss Renard suggested we wait before talking to her, which seemed like a wise course of action.”

Hannibal looked at Sidonie, drawing her into the conversation. Alana smiled.

“I’m glad someone agrees with me,” Sidonie nods, smiling slightly.

“Shall we go in?” Hannibal asked Alana, who nodded in response. They headed inside while Will stayed behind.

Sidonie noticed that Will didn’t move, adding to her unease from their earlier shared eye contact.

As the door closed, Will looked around, finding the area empty.

“Jack has involved you in this case, after all,” he mumbled, catching himself. He realized his words might sound unpleasant despite his intention to start a conversation.

“I understand you’re not thrilled about this. But whatever Jack has assigned to me doesn’t reflect on your professionalism,” Sidonie replied.

Will chuckled, almost painfully.

“He doubts my judgment, that’s what it is.”

Sidonie remained silent as she shared the same concern.

“He doubts anyone who disagrees with him,” she pointed. “He strongly believes Abigail was involved.”

“What do you believe in?”

Sidonie blinked in surprise at his question. After a second, she turned to him.

“I trust the evidence, which suggests she wasn’t involved. I won’t rush to judge Abigail Hobbs just because of her father.”

Will looked at her face and saw no signs of deceit or falsehood. She appeared confident and sincere.

Noticing his steady gaze, Sidonie stepped away.

“I need to get back to work.”

Will stared at the road ahead as he and Hannibal drove to the psychiatric hospital to visit Abigail Hobbs, who had woken up a few days ago.

Surprisingly, Jack had taken Sidonie’s advice, and Alana had been persistent about giving the young girl her space.

Will felt a mix of nerves and guilt. He wasn’t just troubled about talking to Abigail; he felt bad for leaving her orphaned, even though he didn’t regret what he did to her father.

He remembered how Garet Jacob Hobbs had looked as life left his eyes, and he was relieved that Abigail hadn’t met the same fate.

Hannibal, who was driving, broke the silence.

“Something on your mind, Will?” Will rubbed his face. “You’re not sure what to say to her.”

“Are you?”

“No,” Hannibal replied, “but our best approach is to stay by her side and help her open up over time.”

“I’m not sure she’ll feel safe around me.”

“You saved her life,” Hannibal reminded him.

“You did,” Will countered.

Hannibal thought for a moment and then said calmly.

“We both played a part. What matters is that she knows she’s not alone. Building trust takes time, and your presence will help her feel safer.”

“What if my presence does the opposite?”

“Your empathy, though it might be a burden to you, can help bridge the gap to her healing. She needs to see that someone understands her pain, even if she doesn’t recognize it yet.”

Will sighed, feeling the weight of Hannibal’s words.

As the car stopped, Will and Hannibal entered the hospital and asked to see Abigail. To their surprise, the nurse told them she already had a visitor. They exchanged a puzzled glance, as the only people who knew Abigail’s location were the FBI and Alana, who they were sure weren’t there.

“Can you describe the person visiting her?” Will asked.

“A short woman with long curly red hair and blue eyes. She’s neatly dressed.” The nurse replied.“

Will frowned in confusion and asked the nurse to lead them to Abigail’s room. When they opened the door, they saw the red-haired woman sitting on Abigail’s bed, talking to her.

“...Works for the FBI but isn’t really an FBI agent. He catches insane men because he can think like them. Because he is insane,” Freddie Lounse said, looking at them.

Will immediately recognized her by her manner of speech.

“Would you excuse us, please?” Will irritate. Freddie stood up as he approached Abigail’s bed. Abigail looked around the room with confusion in her blue eyes. “I’m Special Agent Will Graham,” he introduced himself.

“By Special Agent, he means not really an agent. He didn’t pass the screening. Too unstable,” Freddie looked at Will.

“I insist that you leave the room,” Hannibal interjected. Freddie pulled out her card.

“If you want to talk—”

Will snatched the card from her without saying a word. Freddie didn’t resist and left the room. Abigail looked between the two men as Will removed his glasses and wiped them.

“Abigail, this is Dr. Lecter,” he introduced. After a pause, he asked if she remembered them.

Abigail turned her gaze to Will.

“I remember you. You killed my dad.”

Will nodded, his jaw tightening slightly.

“You’ve been in bed for days, Abigail. How about we take a walk?” Hannibal suggested.

Abigail walked weakly into the garden, supported by Hannibal and Will.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save your mother. We did everything we could, but she was already gone.” Will said softly.

“I know. I saw him kill her.” Abigail replied, tears stinging her eyes but not falling. They helped her sit down. “He was loving right up until the second he wasn’t. He kept telling me he was sorry and to just hold still.” She stops “He was going to make it all go away.”

“There was plenty wrong with your father, Abigail, but there’s nothing wrong with you.” Will looks at her. “You said he was loving. I believe it. That’s what you brought out in him.”

Abigail fell silent.

“It’s not all I brought out in him,” she whispered, looking at Will. “I’m going to be messed up, aren’t I? I’m worried about nightmares.”

Will didn’t respond. He couldn’t promise her she would be okay or that she wouldn’t be affected.

“We’ll help you with the nightmares,” Hannibal reassured her.

“There’s no such thing as getting used to what you experienced. It bothers me a lot. I worry about nightmares, too.” Will admitted as he sits down next to her.

“So killing somebody, even if you have to do it, it feels that bad?” she inquires.

Hannibal looks at Will, curious how honest his answer will be.

“It’s… The ugliest thing in the world.” Will says carefully as Abigail takes his words in.

“I want to go home,” she whispers.

Freddie Lounds leaned on the hood of Hannibal’s dark blue Bentley, waiting. When she saw Hannibal and Will approaching, she quickly stood up, almost respectfully.

“Special Agent Graham, I never formally introduced myself. I’m Freddie Lounds.” She offered her hand. Will put on his glasses, ignoring her hand.

“Are you trying to salvage this joke from the mouth of madness?”

“Please. Let me apologize for my behavior there. It was sloppy and misguided. And hurtful.”

“Miss Lounds now isn’t the time,” Hannibal spoke. Freddie looked at Hannibal but continued speaking to Will.

“Look, you and I may have our own reasons for being here, but I also think we both genuinely care what happens to Abigail Hobbs.”

“You told her I was insane,” he hissed.

“You weren’t the only topic in the article,” Freddie defended herself, noticing Will’s clenched jaw. “I can undo what I said.” Will tried not to laugh at how absurd she sounded.

“You help Abigail see me as more than her father’s killer and I help you with online ad sales?”

“I can un-do what I said. I can also make it a lot worse.” Freddie warned. Will’s face twitched as he stepped closer to her.

“Miss Lounds, it’s not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.”

Sidonie sat at her desk, working on a sample from the corpse. Jimmy clicked his tongue in frustration, and Beverly raised an eyebrow.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Another article about Will Graham by We All Know Who,” He chanted. Almost everyone gathered around to look at the article on the computer.

Sidonie stayed at her desk, shaking her head slightly. She knew that no one, not even Jack, could stop her from writing nasty articles.

“It’s not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.” Jack sits behind his desk reading off of his computer screen “You know what else isn’t very smart?” he looks at Hannibal, who sits next to Will. “You were there with him and you let those words come out of his mouth.”

Alana glanced at the two men next to her, and Sidonie did the same.

“I trust Will to speak for himself,” Hannibal clarified.

“Evidently, you shouldn’t.” Jack replied.

“I’m just happy the story wasn’t about Abigail Hobbs,” Alana said with a slight shrug..

“Then it’s a victory.” Jack pressed his lips together and nodded. “So Abigail Hobbs wants to go home. Let’s take her home.”

“What Abigail wants and what she needs are two different things. Taking her out of a controlled environment would be reckless.” Alana defends.

“You said she was practical.”

“That could just mean she has a dissociative disorder,” Will adds in.

“You take her home, she may experience intense emotions, and respond aggressively. Or reenact some aspect of the traumatic event without even realizing it.” Alana worried as Jack glanced at Hannibal, knowingly.

“Where do you weigh in on this, Doctor?”

“Doctor Bloom is right, but there is a scenario where revisiting the trauma event could help Abigail heal and prevent denial.” Alana shook her head and looked at Sidonie, who was quietly observing the discussion.

“Then we have a difference of opinion. Therefore I’m choosing the opinion that best serves my agenda.” Jack looked at Will. “I want to know if you are right about our Copy Cat Will.”

Will, looked tired, almost asleep.

“We have no way of knowing what’s waiting for her when she goes home,” Alana points out.

“And the publicity might make things worse. The whole city knows about her and her father because of Freddie Lounds.”

“Miss Renard has dealt with Freddie Lounds before. I’m sure she can talk to Abigail about it.” Jack asserts.

“I should add ‘Public Relations Expert’ to my resume,” Sidonie snarked with a slight smile. “I feel like I deserve a raise.”

“Perhaps a comic would be a better choice.” Jack retorts at the comment.

“A shared experience can help Abigail deal with her situation, but Miss Renard isn’t qualified to question her,” Alana argues.

“Hannibal and Will will accompany her as she works on the case.”

“It seems I don’t have a say in this,” Alana’s tone was sharp with frustration.

“No, not on this one,” Jack confirmed.

The room fell silent.

“I think Jack’s right,” Will spoke up, recalling what Hannibal had said on the way to the hospital. “Having someone who’s been through a similar ordeal could help Abigail. It might bring her some… normalcy and comfort.” Hannibal looks at Will, somehow amused at his agreement. He looks at Sidonie, who also seems to be taken aback by his words. “Maybe she can make things easier for everyone…”

Sidonie and Will lock eyes for a moment, their gaze sharing a sense of understanding, or knowing, like back in the pharmacy.

Hannibal observed the moment between Sidonie and Will with curiosity.

“Well, I have to admit, Will, I didn’t see this coming,” Jack says with a tone of genuine surprise as they break eye contact. “But I’m glad you’re on board.”

“So what’s the plan?” Alana asked.

Jack turned to Sidonie.

“Get ready for the trip. We are taking Abigail Hobbs to her nest.”

[steviebunny]

Pretty Astute Observations

Coquilles

___

06:00

Will Graham walks through the foyer of Hannibal Lectors home, bags still dark and heavy beneath his eyes. 

“Is it safe to assume you are not sleep walking now?”

“I’m sorry its so early”

“Office hours are for patients. My kitchen is always open to friends… and their partners.”

“Lena?”

“Came to see me just an hour ago, an interesting conversation was had on the topic of evil. Perhaps reaching out to her would be your best course of action. That's why Jack recruited her, is it not?” He says while fiddling with the espresso machine.

“I uh- I don’t know her very well.”

“One could always use more friends.”

“What about you doctor?”

“I’ll have you both…If you’ll have me” The innuendo could almost be unsettling if it wasn’t for Hannibal's air of confidence blanketing the statement. “Onset of adult sleepwalking is less common than in children.”

“Could it be a seizure?” Will asks gratefully accepting a glass from Hannibal.

“I’d argue, good old-fashioned post-traumatic stress. Jack Crawford has gotten your hands very dirty ”

“I wasn’t forced back into the field” 

“I wouldn't say ‘forced’, manipulated is the word I’d choose.”

“I can handle it.”

“Somewhere between denying horrible events, and calling them out lies the truth of psychological trauma.”

“So I can’t handle it.”

“Your experience may have overwhelmed ordinary functions that give you a sense of control.”

“If my body is walking around without my permission, you’d say thats a loss of control?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Hannibal asks, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Sleepwalkers demonstrate a difficulty handling aggression. Are you experiencing difficulty with aggressive feelings?”

“You said Jack sees me as fine china used for special guests. I'm beginning to feel more like an old mug.”

“You entered into a devil's bargain with Jack Crawford. It takes a toll.”

“Jack isn't the devil.”

“When it comes to how far he's willing to push you to get what he wants, he's certainly no Saint.”

—-

08:50

“You know, Hannibal seems to think we should be friends.” The statement shocked Lena, of all the things she expected Will Graham to say at a motel crime scene that was not one of them.

“Does he really, and what makes you think I’d like to be your friend?” 

“....I have dogs?”

“Are you asking me, or telling me?”

“Telling.” 

“Good. I love dogs, and now that we have that settled. Room was registered to a John Smith, big surprise there “

“An appalling failure of imagination.”

“They paid cash. There are no security cameras on the premises... another big surprise.”

“John Smith one of the victims?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, according to the register. They were mutilated and displayed. Jack and Zeller think it’s the Ripper but there were no surgical trophies taken, and the Ripper doesn’t exactly profile like the type of man who would vomit at his own crime scene”

“How can you be sure it wasn’t one of the victims?”

“They were strung up antemortem, and the sick was on the bedside table, once you see their positioning you’ll get why thats improbable.”

“Should I brace myself?”

“Definitely. It's not good in there.”

—

“Hooks were bored into the ceiling. A fishing line was used to hold up the bodies and... the wings. At least we know he's a fisherman.”

“Or a Viking.” Zeller chimed in.

“Vikings do this?

“Vikings used to execute Christians by breaking their ribs, bending them back, and draping the lungs over them to resemble wings. They used to call it a "blood eagle." Pagans mocking the Godfearing.” Lena laughed at Zeller’s ‘fun fact’. He raised a brow in her direction at the gesture prompting her to reply.

“Well you can’t say the Christians didn’t deserve it, they bullied their way into a foreign land, tried to murder those who wouldn’t give up their beliefs in the name of the church then moved their ‘savior’s’ birthday from spring to winter so that they could take over the pagan holiday of Yule for themselves. And pagans were also ‘god-fearing’ just not in a monotheistic sense”

“How do you know all that?”

“When I was with the BAU, the resident boy genius was going on a theology kick for a good few months. Each ride on the jet was at least a couple hours…I picked up some things.”

Zeller admonishes the idea and goes back to impatiently swab collecting with Beverly, She and Price laugh under their breath at the man’s childish behavior.

“No, he isn't mocking them. The unsub thinks he’s…transforming them. Elevating them in some way. 

I need a plastic sheet for the bed.”

—-

This is not who you are. 

This is my gift to you. 

I allow you to become angels. 

And now, I lay me down to sleep.

—

"Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws."

“Robert Frost.”

“Jim Morrison.”

“Even a drunk with a flair for the dramatic can convince himself he's God. Or the lizard king.”

“God makes angels. Jesus was fond of fishermen.”

“Are we talking hardcore Judeo-Christian upsetting, or just upsetting in general?”

“This is a very specific upsetting.”

“Increased serotonin in the wounds is much higher than the free histamines, so, uh, she lived for about 15 minutes after she was skinned.” Zeller announced.

“Powder residue on the neck of the soda bottle shows Vecuronium... scotch and soda and a paralytic agent.”

“Kneeling in supplication at the feet of g-dash-d.”

“Supplication is the most common form of prayer.Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

“They weren't praying to him. They were praying for him. He's afraid.”

“What is somebody who could do something like this afraid of?”

“What's in his vomit?”

“Uh, Dexamethasone...That's used for patients with tumors.”

“Kepra... He's epileptic. Radiation?”

“Gamma four, Steroids for the inflammation, anticonvulsants for the seizures, radiation for the chemotherapy.”

“Our guy has a brain tumor.”

“He's afraid of dying in his sleep.  He's making angels to watch over him.”

—-

An eclectically dressed woman, speed walks in her high-heeled shoes down the halls of the FBI looking for her target. Penelope Garcia won tickets to the most exclusive karaoke bar in Virginia (okay maybe she rigged the competition a little, who has to know?) and she’ll be damned if any member of her precious found family denies her invitation. The moment she spots Lena she grabs the woman’s arm pulling her into the commissary.

“You owe me.”

“What-” 

“Technically I’m not supposed to be helping out your team, and- and well you owe me, so you can’t say no to me!”

“Penny, what are you talking about?”

“This weekend, karaoke, you, me, BAU.”

“I’m on a case right now, sweetie. If Crawford doesn’t have us in the field I’ll be there.”

“Oh, you’ll be there alright. I’ll make sure of it!” The grin on Penelope’s face is contagious even as she rushes back off to her fortress of solitude.

—-

12:00

“There is no one and only spiritual center of the brain”

“Any idea of God comes from many different areas of the mind working together in unison.”

“Maybe I was wrong.”  Being wrong in this case seems like an unnatural event no matter how true or untrue it may be.

“How do you profile someone who has an anomaly in their head changing the way they think?”

“A tumor can definitely affect brain function, even cause vivid hallucinations. However, what appears to be driving your angel maker to create heaven on earth is a simple issue of mortality. Can't beat God, become him?”

“You said he was afraid.”

“He feels abandoned.”

“Ever feel abandoned, Will?”

“Less and less each day, if you and Jack keep encouraging me to make friends, either way, abandonment requires expectation.”

“What were your expectations of Jack Crawford and the FBI?”

“Jack hasn't abandoned me…I didn't expect to be working so closely with others…Lena wants to meet my dogs or rather insinuates she wants to meet my dogs. Definitely didn't expect that.” 

“Perhaps Jack hasn't abandoned you in a discernable way.”

“Perhaps in the way gods abandon their creations.”

“Is Jack God to you?”

“No more than you are.” If Will had looked at Hannibal's face he might have just seen a smile.

“You say he hasn't abandoned you, but at the same time you find yourself wandering around Wolf Trap in the middle of the night.”

“Well... This should be interesting…Please, doctor, proceed.”

“Jack gave you his word he would protect your headspace, yet he leaves you to your mental devices”

“Are you trying to alienate me from Jack Crawford?”

“I'm trying to help you set proper boundaries between employee and employer…I am also trying to help you understand this angel maker you seek. Well, help me understand how to catch him. If he were a classic paranoid schizophrenic, you might be able to influence him to become visible. What, scare him out into the daylight?”

“Might even get him to hurt himself, if he hasn't already. If he were self destructive, he-he..he wouldn't be so careful.”

“Unless he's careful about being self-destructive, making angels to pray over him when he sleeps.”

“Sleep is sacred, and who prays over us when we sleep?”

---

19:00

“Why angels?”

“Well, it isn't biblical. His angels have wings.”

“Um, angels in sculptures and paintings can fly, but not in scripture.”

“Technically not…if we're accounting for the angels that amass as giant winged amalgamations of eyeballs one would assume they could fly too?” Lena now always being a foot behind him is a fact he'll need to get used to at scenes.

“He's drawing from secular sources?”

“His mind has turned against him and there's no one there to help.”

“Uh, Jack... look at this.”

Are those… What are those?”

“Somebody got an orchiectomy real cheap.”

“Doesn't look like the victim.”

“So they're the angel maker's?”

Lena might just need to stop threatening to castrate men who frustrate her now, something about actually seeing the after-effects is more than unsettling.

“He castrated himself?”

“So he isn't just making angels; He's getting ready to become one. Angels don't have genitalia.”

“So he was afraid of dying. Now he's, what, getting used to the idea?”

“He's accepting it or he's bargaining. Heh, bargaining chips!”

“So, does this mean that he's done making angels, or is he just getting started?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, he's not just killing them when he's sleepy. I mean, how is he choosing them?”

“I don't know. Ask him.” Will begins to sweat almost profusely, removing his glasses and wiping his brow.

“I'm asking you.”

“You're the head of the behavioral science unit, Jack. Why don't you come up with your own answers if you don't like mine!?” Will’s voice raises in frustration. Crawford's face begins to morph into a threatening scowl.

“I did not hear that! Did I?!” he screams back at Will. Lena steps forward separating the two men.

“Jack I think its time for you to take a step back.”

“Do NOT get involved Gibbs”

“You brought me in to get involved! He’s obviously overwhelmed and looks like he’s on the verge of passing out, pushing your team won’t get you shit.”

“I know how far I can push my own team”

“Graham isn't officially on the team, you made that clear, and I’m telling you he’s done with the psycho-predicting today”

“I don’t need to be protected, I can see the rest of the scene,” Will says with a dejected rasp.

“I didn’t say we’re leaving, just to stop getting into the Angel Maker's head. I’m sure Dr. Lecter would agree with me if he’d seen that interaction.”

Jack's face screws back up and he storms away from Will and Lena. Beverly then approaches with a friendly smile and a gentle hand on Will’s shoulder. “My ears rang like the first time I heard my mom use the f-word. Are you ok?’ (he chuckles) ‘I know it's a stupid question considering that none of us could possibly be ok doing what we do, but… are you ok?”

“Do I seem different?”

“You're a little different, but you've always been a little different.”

“Brilliant strategy… that way no one ever knows if something's up with you.”

“Maybe not anymore, you’ve got a guard dog now.” Bev smiles and nods at Lena, then leads the two behind her further into the scene.

—-

19:20

“Meet Roger and Marilyn Brunner. You might recognize them from such lists as most wanted.”

“He likes to rape and murder, she likes to watch.”

“We got a DNA match. They falsified the motel registry and were driving a stolen car, so it took a second to identify them.”

“I wonder how long it took Angel Maker to identify them.”

“He didn't choose them randomly. He knows something about them.”

“He sees something we don’t.” It gets harder to not think of Sherlock, why the hell is Virgina so full of artistic and metaphorically motivated criminals?

“The murdered security guard wasn't actually a security guard. He was a convicted felon.”

“Could Angel Maker be a vigilante?”

“Well, vigilantes are pragmatic, they're purposeful; They don't lay down and sleep under their crimes.”

“In his mind, he was doing God's work. That spells vigilante.” Feels eerily similar to a certain terrorist too.

“Well, playing at God has other advantages. One of them…Is always being alone. So he makes angels out of demons.”

“How does he know they're demons?”

“He doesn't have to know. All he has to do is believe.

—

22:00

Will escorts Lena to a joint session with Hannibal practically the second after the both of them had been dismissed from duty for the evening.

“It's difficult to lie still and fear going to sleep.”

“What is there to think about?”

“You listen to your breathing in the dark and the tiny clicks of your blinking eyes.”

“I dream more now than I used to.”

“Well, your dreams were the one place you could be physically safe, relinquishing control. Not anymore.”

“Yeah, I thought about zipping myself up into a sleeping bag before I go to sleep, but it, heh, sounds like a poor man's straight jacket.”

“I’ve always found another body to be helpful…Sherlock would drape himself over me like a blanket when we slept. Bit hard to thrash during a nightmare if you’re simultaneously being squished.”

“Are you offering yourself to Will as a duvet, Lena?”

She laughs dismissively “We don’t know each other that well yet, Lecter. I’m sure at least one of your dogs is large enough to keep Graham still.” 

Will grimaces and huffs, “The dogs don’t sleep in my bed, I sweat sort of profusely…so even if they start there they’ll move off during the night at some point.”

“Well, then I guess I’m getting you an expensive sleeping bag for Christmas.” Will can’t actually tell whether she means that sarcastically or not, he looks to Dr. Lecter prompting the psychiatrist's next question.

“Have you two determined how this angel maker is choosing his victims?”

“Our killer, Well, he doesn't see people how everyone else sees them. He can tell if you're naughty or nice, or he thinks he can.”

“So God has given this person insight into the souls of men.”

“God didn't give him insight; God gave him a tumor.”

“God… rapidly dividing cells that keep trucking along. Seems so human, what deity would work so hard?”

“He's just a man whose brain is playing tricks on him.”

“You are not unlike this killer.”

“My brain is playing tricks on me?”

“You want to feel such sweet and easy peace. The angel maker wants that same peace .He hopes to feel his way cautiously inside and then find it's endless, all around him.”

“He's gonna be disappointed.”

“You accept the impossibility of such a feeling, whereas the angel maker is still chasing it.”

“I don’t think peace is impossible, I think the point of life is just striving for it, having it for a short amount of time. Then chaos ensues again. Balance, good and bad, Evil and righteousness. Peace and terror.”

“ And what or your life Lena has it been balanced between this sense of peace and terror?”

“More terror than peace, lately. But I think the scales are starting to level again.”

“If the Angel Maker got close to peace, that's why he will look for it again. I've tried to reconstruct his thinking and find his patterns.”

“Instead you find yourself in a behavior pattern you can't break. You realize you have a choice.”

“What is it?”

“Angel Maker will be destroyed by what's happening inside his head; You don't have to be.”

“That would require him telling Jack to screw off and stop pushing him,” Lena says as Hannibal stands from his place at his desk.

“Do you feel that Jack Crawford has bad intentions when it comes to dear Will?” 

“I’ve known Jack a long time. We’ve always had an antagonistic relationship, we first met through his wife when I was young. She helped my father on a case…he was not thrilled, I’ve never known why. He then tried to poach me back when I was with the BAU, but he chose to wait until our unit chief was going through difficulty…I suspect he might have even had a hand in convincing Director Strauss of her ‘motivations’. I didn’t want to be manipulated so I left. Went to Scotland Yard, and well… you know the rest, terror struck, Crawford sunk his claws in and here I am. The least I could do in my task to help Will is make Jack's life a little more annoying don't you think?”

Both men seemed to take in Lena’s perspective though whether her opinions on Crawford landed with Will is unknown. Hannibal seemed a bit more accepting. Nodding as he leaned into Will, sniffing the detective.

“Did you just smell me?”

“Difficult to avoid. I really must introduce you to a finer aftershave. That smells like something with a ship on the bottle.”

“Well, I keep getting it for Christmas.”

“Have your headaches been any worse lately? More frequent?”

“Yes, actually.” 

“ I'd change the aftershave.”

—-

07:00

“Elliot Budish: 35-year-old truck driver.”

“He's got a fishing license too. Uh, match came from the national cancer database.”

“Married, two kids… they haven't seen him in four months.”

“He was diagnosed five months ago.”

“Meet the angel maker.”

—-

“This'll be the last one.”

“It's Budish?”

“He made himself into an angel.”

“It wasn't God, it wasn't man. It was his choice to die.”

“His choice?”

“As much as he can make it.”

“I don't know how much longer I can be all that useful to you, Jack.”

“Really? You caught three. The last three we had, you caught. You caught three of them.”

“No, I didn't catch this one. Elliot Budish… surrendered.”

“You know, I'm used to my wife not talking to me. I don't have to get used to you not talking to me too.”

“No one wants to know your relationship issues Jack.” That earns Lena a glare, and if it was anyone else probably the uptick of a certain favorite finger.

“It's getting harder and harder to make myself look.”

“Well, nobody's asking you to look alone.” He says, angling a hand to the red-head.

“All due respect I am looking alone.”

“None taken, I’ve kinda made a career of playing sidekick.”

“You wanna go back to your lecture hall? Read about this stuff on tattlecrime.com?”

“Would you let him?” Lena says at the same moment Will announces “No, I don't…But that may be what I have to do. This is bad for me.”

“You go back to your classroom. When there's k*lling going on that you could've prevented, it will sour your classroom forever.”

“Maybe. And then maybe I'll find a job as a diesel mechanic in a boatyard.”

“You wanna quit? Quit.”

—

Entree (part 1)

“In the night. In the dark. Journey’s end and yet lover’s meeting.”

[cyramountain]

Life is Strange Fancast:

Max Caufield played by Maya Hawke

Chloe Price played by Emma Mackey

Victoria Chase played by Peyton List

Kate Marsh played by Eliza Scanlen

Warren Graham played by Nick Robinson

Frank Bowers played by Max Theirot

Nathan Prescott played by Froy Gutierrez

[corleonewrites]

Wandering winds

AU: The Terror (2018)

James Fitzjames x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: Alexandra Walton’s life was always surrounded with sea: either it was her walks near the seashore with its cold waters, or deep sea of her senses. Her father taught her to throw herself headlong into it, without fear of being drowned and she used to it since her childhood. She dived into love with the same courageous way. And even when everything and everyone was talking about the hopeless state of things she continued to believe in the opposite: that her loved one will return to her safely.

Chapter 1. He comes with western wind, with evening’s wandering airs

______________________________________________________________

I would never forget the night when our eyes met and everything suddenly went quiet. Your hazel-green eyes captivated me and I never wanted to remove my gaze from them.

It was one of those greeting evenings in the Admiralty, which usually transformed into balls, welcoming our heroes back either from expeditions or battlefields. In 1844 there was a welcoming evening for you and my brother Alexander: both of you came home from the First Opium War.

Your charisma attracted me, your recklessness and the stories you told about your actions, your battles – everything fascinated me, making my heart skip a bit.

We danced the night away, never changing partners in our dances, and it was basically a declaration of marriage.

I remembered the anticipation of waiting for new meetings with you. Those long walks near the seashore, those parties, those theatre plays we attended, those poems by Brontё sisters I used to tell you which I knew by heart.

______________________________________________________________

The proposal came shortly afterwards. It was the end of September, my favourite time of the year, when the nature was surrounded by golden-like leaves, which were falling from the trees. The wedding bells were loud and cheerful, they celebrated our joy with us and with our closest friends and family members. I would never forget our first night together as husband and wife, when you whispered “I love you, Missis Alexandra Fitzjames” and I never knew that I could love someone I’ve never knew before in such strong way.

You became my guidance, my closest friend, my support, the one to whom I could finally open my heart, not afraid of being misunderstood. It felt like our souls could understand each other, they weren't wandering around anymore.

Of course, I knew who I was marrying, as men of my family were in Admiralty. I knew what long separation was, what unbearable worries and losses were, what it felt like to wait impatiently for loved ones to return home safely, it surrounded me from my childhood. That was all I've ever known. You entered my life like cold wandering air of endless sea, but for me it was like warm sea breeze.

______________________________________________________________

When on February 1845 your invitation to participate in the Arctic expedition came, I was happy for you and I was ready to let you go for an indefinite period of time, just how I was letting go my father and brother when they were going to their expeditions or battles, waiting for them. Wherever they were going I knew that they would come home safely.

This time, when the expedition was only a few days away I felt the same way, despite the fact that at the same time I felt uneasy as if something could go wrong. I told you that, but you reassured me that everything would be alright and I believed you. My senses were feeling the same way.

We said our goodbyes on the morning 19 May 1845, when huge beautiful ship Erebus sailed from Greenhithe in Kent, followed by its sister ship Terror. I didn’t want you to see me crying, and I did not shed a tear, I smiled for you and gave you the handkerchief with my initials on it. You never knew that I cried quietly, when I reached home.

______________________________________________________________

Your last letter came from Disco Bay the same year. Your voice sounded in my head as I ran my fingers over each letter and the curls of the letters, rereading it over and over again. Time passed by slowly and as stretched as never before.

When the silence and uncertainty were growing more and more with every new month the feeling that something terrible happened with the expedition was crushing me inside.

Questions about the rescuing expedition sounded louder with every year. With every new month of each year chances for your return were lower. Finally, not only my father and brother, who supported me since the silence fell after your last letter, but the rest of members of The Arctic Council agreed to arrange the search of now lost expedition to return home. It was the beginning of 1848.

______________________________________________________________

Every day I came to seashore of the northernmost post after which the endless ocean began. Cold waves and air surrounded me and my wandering thoughts. My gaze was chained to the icy ocean: it seemed that at any moment a rescue ship would appear out of the thick fog and rain.

My inner sense was as calm as ever again: I knew that you would come back home. I refused to believe in any other outcome and continued to stare at the ocean, feeling like I was dissolving with it in its icy waves.

______________________________________________________________

Wandering winds masterlist

[winksasleeplesseye]

reunio (six)

SUMMARY: While Leon and Ashley are off on their own adventure amongst the vast castle, Amara, Luis, and the reluctant Ada are off on their own journey within the castle walls. A hunt and a reunion ensues. But, the chaos isn't over yet.

WORD COUNT: 7k (no edits, we die like men)

WARNINGS: some item hunting, angst, flashbacks and conversations and violence

[PREVIOUS] [SERIES MASTERLIST] [NEXT]

1999

The wallpaper was a bit dated, gaudy for sure. All of it in its 70s glory. The floral green upholstered couches and almost painful salmon pink of the accents and decor made Amara’s eyes hurt. 

Paired with the two suits currently occupying the couches. They looked just about excited as postmen at Christmas. Only here out of obligation to the young girl temporarily staying here. It’d been a tough first year, reestablishing normalcy to a girl who’d had less than a normal life proved to be far more difficult than expected. Another reason they’d called her here, beyond their allotted visits. 

The older woman, Mrs. Hoffman, was sweet but one could tell she ran her home with a tad bit of an iron fist. If it wasn’t already clear, this woman was strict to Sherry. 

Treating her as though what laid inside her could be fixed.

Stupid. Fucked up, really.

They’d become two of a kind. Amara knew what it was like to be uprooted quite often, never quite having stability to really put much stock into making friends, sure, she’d try but never quite knowing when they’d be off to the next place made it hard to keep in touch. 

Sherry had been in limbo, both Amara and Claire argued that this much moving around didn’t do much for her. 

Amara leaned against the doorframe, Sherry not yet made aware of her being there as she rummaged through a storage container of cassette tapes. Even from her sitting position on the floor, Amara could tell she’d hit a bit of a growth spurt in her absence. 

The soft melody of an older song played in the cassette player as Sherry clicked it on. The Jackson Five. 

Hmm, she was impressed that Sherry even knew them. 

The song was Got to Be There. Huh, how fitting. 

“Aren’t you a little young to be listening to such old songs?” Amara makes her presence known, the smile Sherry wore is enough to make her have one in return. 

Pushing herself off the ground, she practically jumped into her arms. “Amara!”

“Sherbear! Careful now, my ribs are still bruised from the last hug you gave me,” she jested, ruffling her hair. “How’s Hoffman treating you?” 

“Like a fucking dictator.” There’s a particular heavy emphasis on the curse word. It was definitely new to her. 

“Hey, watch that language.”

“Sorry. It’s just—“

“Yeah, I know.” 

They wanted her here to quell Sherry’s frustrations with going from place to place. One could say she was essentially in the system. Considering how this country operated, no one wanted to be there but Sherry had a strange predicament to start. The cards didn’t really line up in any of their favors. 

Unfortunately, soon enough, she’d be under the care of Derek C. Simmons. 

It was the last option the government had. Amara had fought tooth and nail with the decision but there wasn’t much leverage on her part. Couldn’t exactly go against her own deal, really. 

That man in question had something about him that made her stomach turn. He was like Irons 2.0, a general creepy vibe radiated from him that she didn’t like. He seemed the last person qualified to truly care for Sherry. 

“When am I gonna get to stay with you?” She has a puppy dog look in her eyes. “I’ve never been more bored in my life.”

“Sorry kiddo, but I still have no idea,” Amara answered honestly, shoving a hand into her pocket. She didn’t want to crush the girl’s hopes. Wait. She almost forgot. “Sheesh, Sherry, your keychain!” 

“Where from this time?”

Sherry had developed a strange knack for collecting keychains much like a mother collecting mugs from her kids in their many travel adventures. Amara thought it sweet and just about the funnest thing to pick up on her missions, the others assigned with her would make fun that she’d take the time to stop into the most touristy places just for a “silly” keychain but to see Sherry’s eyes light up as she looked over the fun designs made it worth it. 

“Italy, can’t you tell by the moped?” Amara pointed out the cartoon, an over-exaggerated man speeding away on his blue Vespa and the damn near kismet colors of brown cobblestone streets against a teal-blue skyline on it made it one of the more artistic keychains she’d picked out for the girl. 

Sherry, a little too perceptive for her own good, seems to notice Amara’s overall demeanor underneath the smile she wore. 

“I’m not staying here much longer, am I?”

“You know, in another life, I’d like to think you’d be a detective the way you pick up on so much,” Amara sighed with a sad smile, going down to eye level with the girl. 

“When?”

Her head hangs low, she can’t say it…not directly anyway, not while seeing the sadness that would spring to the girl’s eyes. 

“Next week. With Simmons.” 

Amara inevitably looked on the bright side. Having someone as “important” as Simmons as her guardian guaranteed that no perceived threats could get close to the girl. The only threat that she could think of was Wesker (only second to the very government themselves). After the mansion incident and RC, Wesker’s body had never been recovered so that formed the only logical conclusion to come to that he still walked among the living. 

“He gives me the creeps,” Sherry fiddled with a loose hem on her t-shirt, “a lot of creeps.” 

“I won’t fight you on that, kiddo. But, he’s just about the safest option for you now and you know Claire and me fought hard on that choice.” Amara explained. “There’s a quote I heard once that went a bit like this…in any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.” 

“This feels like the wrong thing.” Her voice is small. 

“It’s better than nothing, right?” Amara noted. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to just up and leave and never see you again. You’ll always have me, we are two of a kind after all.” 

Present 

Amara wandered through the grandiose halls of the castle, in search of an item—a blue Butterfly to be specific—to aid Luis in creating a new suppressant and at the same time pondered on the notion of getting Sherry a castle keychain.

This mission had her thinking a lot about the past few years considering she had not one, but two familiar faces from Raccoon. And if Leon was any indication, they’d been…difficult to say the least. 

He was always pretty, but damn, he looked exhausted.

She never thought about her own struggles with sleep nor the other problems that arose too hard, barely breaching the surface. Just put them down as nights filled with distant voices on TV and ramen. The beauty of compartmentalization, she’d punch it down any chance she got. She rubbed her back gingerly, feeling a knot beneath her fingertips. A constant almost hunger sat in her stomach and it gnawed and bubbled like bile in her throat. 

“Definitely need a hot bath after this.” Amara scaled the wall. Silently wishing she had Ada’s grappling gun. 

Amara surveyed the room once she entered, gun at the ready, listening for any special guest that was too keen on choking her out.

Clear. 

She lowered her gun, putting it back in her holster. “Thank fucking God.” 

“Now, let’s see about a blue butterfly.” 

The collection room sat below one of the castle battlement towers so it was pretty clear how little whoever ran this place cared less about preservation, should it have ever come under attack. 

Her hands slid across the displays. The floor creaked under her weight with every cautious step. For a moment, it was as if she were at a museum, slowly gazing over different exhibits. Something about these items fascinated the curiosity deep down.

A letter stood out on the table next to an animal skull, almost too convenient if Amara had to guess. 

Her eyes skim the letter—a diary entry now that she looks closer—and it reads: 

Preparator’s Notes

The collection master is a tacky and lousy boss! He leaves all the dissections for me to do! Even if he does bother to come here, all he does is gawk at his three favorite specimens in a particular order before leaving. 

There’s nothing special about them anyway! Why only look at those three specimens when we have that prized butterfly to admire?

A good researcher would know such things. 

She now noticed the lock, images were the code to unlock it. Seriously? What was it with the damn puzzles? 

She walked around the room about three times. By the third time, her vision blacked out momentarily and a pain struck inside her ribcage. It sent her to her knees.  “Fuck sake, knock it off.” Amara almost wanted to punch herself in the chest but thought better of it. Was this what Leon and Ashley were going through too? 

The more negative part of her thoughts drifted to the smallest possibility of them failing. Small, but ever present. 

A puppet to a parasite. No control over her own body, her own thoughts. Controlled by some unknown figure. 

A particular twist in her gut made her feel like any contents in her stomach could come up. She didn’t want to stomach that for either one of them. Or herself for that matter. They didn’t survive everything thrown their way so far to give up now. 

Stand on your feet, girl. One of her trainers would say after a breathtaking blow would damn near make her keel over. Amara would wave a hand dismissively (tears threatening to spill from her eyes), thinking maybe just maybe she wasn’t cut out for it after all. But that was too easy. 

“Amara? Hanging in there?” Luis’ voice from her radio shaked her out of her thoughts.

“Define that, and I’ll let you know,” She pathetically pushed herself to her feet. “How’s it coming with the ingredients?” 

“Just need yours and we’re good. I’m all about taking it slow, but maybe hurry it up?” 

“So I've saved the best for last?” Amara wiggled her eyebrows. “I’m honored.” She turned the lock a few times, the crudely drawn images on it denoted the animal skulls she had examined. 

A satisfying click comes from it as it opens the display. A perfectly preserved blue butterfly. She weighs it between her fingertips, careful not to let it break. “This better work for all the trouble you gave me.” 

There’s a silence from the comms but she can still hear the sounds in the background on Luis’ end. “Luis, I’ve got it. On my way.” She hangs up shortly after.

Amara is more than ready to get the hell out of here but another letter catches her eye. 

Preparator’s Notes 

The collection master has yet to examine this painting. Lousy boss that he is. After my thorough examination, I’ve decided to have the painting moved to the gallery in the hall with the three-headed statue for display. 

I’m sure the castellan, or someone, will appreciate its rather unusual nature. 

“Two birds, one stone.” 

That had to be pure happenstance that the very last painting would be among the collection of the other rather stereotypical pieces that Amara expected on the walls. She racked her brain, retracing the steps it would take to get to the gallery quickly while also delivering the butterfly to Luis. 

Her watch read 7:35 pm. Amara lifted her eyes to the sky and for the first time, she noticed how dark it truly was. Almost a whole day had passed? 

Los Illuminados really had them on their toes for hours. And yet, here she was, fighting against the clock against a mind-controlling parasite to burn a painting. Shit, she needed to get her priorities straight. 

After having traversed a few of the castle walls (narrowly avoiding encounters with the black robes), she noticed Luis as he carried a wooden box. Amara could only assume those were his tools. 

Ada came up along the path not too long after her.

Amara handed Luis the butterfly, perfectly intact. Ada followed suit and handed him the ink and other items. “That should be everything.” 

Luis dug in his pocket, a small tube of sorts held between his fingertips. The Amber. An almost heady, painful reaction came over both women in its presence. Amara could see black veins as they crawled up the exposed skin of her hands. Her vision turned damn near kaleidoscopic. Her reaction is instinctive. Clawing at the fabric of her sleeve as if she felt the parasite squirming in her veins. 

The habit wasn’t wholly unfamiliar to her. As the G infection took hold of her six years ago, she remembered the spine-tingling pain and the way her nerves almost numbed to nothing. At random intervals she’d press a hand against her right arm to feel that her touch still registered against her skin. That she hadn't been overtaken by the virus. 

“Shit…the parasite must be reacting to the Amber."

"So, that's the Amber? Not exactly what I expected," Amara spoke. It was small, a mere tiny piece of what seemed to be something broken off a larger block. The parasite was minuscule within the resin of yellowish-red tree bark. Like it had been naturally occurring for quite some time. 

She had only learned a few things in her trek to get the Butterfly. The castle's history was in papers that laid haphazardly all over the various rooms of this place. They clearly had no problem with letting an outsider such as Amara learn their history. The Plagas had been here, naturally occurring within the village before the cult had come to deliver what they thought was...salvation to the villagers. Of course, then, it had no name, and the villagers searched for anything that would rid them of this "plague." 

Amara couldn't exactly blame them. How easy it was to go along with this lulled state of prosperity. 

But, it was false. A pyrrhic victory as they had given up their free will and their bodies to something truly grotesque. 

"It's coming," Ada spoke softly, a hand against her temple. 

An inhuman screech came from nearby. Amara's reaction isn't physical, so much as it is visual at the sight of...she can't even begin to describe it. Its face denoted that of a bug of sorts, gnarly claws extended out from underneath the robe it wore as it towered over all three of them. 

She never looked away, careful not to blink for fear of this disgusting thing lunging at them. Doesn't even flinch as this thing gets closer. Her first thought isn't even fighting this thing, it's going after that painting while she still had the chance. Clearly, it's after Ada and she guessed the suppressant could wait. Her second thought was catching up with Leon, now that Luis had recreated it, maybe she could tell him something good. 

With that in mind, experiencing a brief sense of deja vu, she ran toward the Grand Hall. "We'll meet up again soon!" 

"Head towards the mines!" Luis shouted back as he helped Ada away from the creature. 

The Grand Hall is just as Amara expected. Though, entirely too damn quiet for her liking. An elegant chandelier hung above her head, illuminating the hall with more than enough light. Marble statues lined the path and a plush velvet blue carpet leading to the staircase laid beneath her boots. Mud now stained the carpet and for a brief second, she felt bad that such quality was ruined by it. She would have loved to spend some more time wandering this place but she had to remind herself that she was here on a mission. 

Still, her eyes follow along the opulent archways, ones also cast in stainless marble. 

"If I were a gallery, where would I be?" Amara posed the question to herself. She pulled from her knowledge as a high school student, the history nerd inside her surely squealing at the chance to use what others deemed "useless" information. 

Castle galleries were usually nestled toward the back, better to keep their intimacy and the state of exclusivity to the ones who lived there rather than outwardly make them known. 

Plus, they offered their telling of the family's lineage and history beyond just the books. Not that Amara was particularly, fervently interested in learning about whoever ran this place now (she only learned by chance), considering the zealots followed the orders of their castellan and well, their castellan didn't like guests. 

That was another thing she'd learned. Ramon Salazar ran the show around here and didn't seem pleasant, based on what she read. 

A Spanish nobleman, descended from centuries of warriors, born to Diego and Catalina Salazar. 

She hoped she wouldn’t have to meet him, but she also wondered if Leon and Ashley had encountered him. Salazar sounded like…what was it that the servant called him? A Pulgarcito.

Fuck being impolite and imposing on his castle. Like, seriously? He threw acid on the face of one of his servants. He clearly fits right in with Los Illuminados. Catalina had allowed their influence to take hold and take hold of her son and while Amara could certainly understand the need to protect their flesh and blood, a parasite would be the last thing she'd give a child to "protect" them. Honestly, getting the chance to rid him of one painting was doing him a favor. 

The gallery is not as she expected. It's actually rather nice, at least the little shit had taste in art. Like she were one to talk, just about the only thing she ever owned art-wise was a knockoff Basquiat (before it was burned to a crisp in '98) but examining the paintings, she could still see the brushstrokes and dried paint laid upon the canvasses. The smell still hit her nose...huh, oil paint.

Most people couldn't stand the scent of paint but Amara found it quite fragrant, it made her miss her set-up at her new apartment. In the corner of her bedroom meeting the slanted windows to the floor, giving her a view of the city as she would let her paintbrush across canvases. 

She certainly would be committing the room to memory. Its vibrant apple-red carpets, marble flooring, and gold-framed displays were worthy on their own to be painted. Of course, they needed to get out of here alive first before that would happen. 

There it is. 

The painting. 

All its glory laid out before her. More of a macabre display than anything else and it all was mere inches from her fingertips.

Yet, a weird feeling wriggled up her neck. 

This is way too easy. 

Amara quickly scanned her surroundings at every angle, God forbid a spike or something dropped down on her head.

Her first steps when encountering one of the paintings on her missions were to document them. Preferably with a camera or something. Each one of the paintings needed to be documented, not only for top brass but for record purposes.

Amara’s eyes scanned the length of the frame. Shit. 

She was beginning to wish she had actually kept the mini camera from her last mission. 

How in the hell could she document this? 

As if a lightbulb shone above her head, she frantically ripped open the pouch (just short of tearing it apart) on her leg. If she couldn’t take a photo, she could damn well draw the picture, right?

Well, a more rudimentary version, at least. 

Kneeling to the ground, she places her notepad onto her thigh. A quick once over of the painting has her examining the more basic ideas of it as she began her outline.  

There wasn’t exactly the luxury of time. After a few minutes, she raises the notepad to the light. Amara turns her lips down in a judgmental manner.

Crude but good enough.

Could be better. 

Now, it was time to destroy the real thing. 

She managed to get the painting off the wall but she hadn’t accounted for the fact that maybe, just maybe, there had been a weight mechanism to deter thieves. The hall becomes shrouded in darkness, a particularly loud thud comes from the entrance she came from. 

“Shit!” She laughed humorlessly. “This is just delightful.” 

And it only seemed to get more delightful as Amara heard the heavy footsteps and shifting, grating sound of what had to be steel or iron plates. 

Just as she turned around, she only had a half second before she moved out of the way of the business end of a heavy sword. Sparks from where the sword hit the floor momentarily lit up the space. Part of her wanted to take a closer look at the knight that had just reanimated to attack her but the other part of her—and frankly, the more logical—pushed herself out of its way. 

Her stomach turned, a tightness constricting around her ribs as the knight wobbled and stumbled towards her, sword dragging against the carpet. 

Amara conferred with herself for a moment. Clearly the darkness was a trigger for it to come to life and attack so maybe light would be just the thing to stop it? It’s at this moment that she remembered she does have weapons at her disposal, namely a flash grenade she found lying around earlier.

She quickly enacts her idea–her only idea–to toss a flash grenade near it just as it raises the sword once more to swipe at her. The room is covered in the brightness white light, briefly fucking with Amara’s vision. A disconcerting little scream (screech?) sounded off from the knight and when her eyes readjust, she finds the armor in pieces on the floor and viscera around it. 

Moving closer to it, she stands over it and for some reason all that comes to mind for her to say is: “You are no knight in shining armor.” 

Amara realized how stupid it sounded only afterwards in the silence, but decided not to chastise herself. 

Some of Leon’s tendencies to quip had left an imprint on her brain.

With an eye roll, she stepped away from the armor and focused on the bars locking her in. In proper Indiana Jones fashion, she swiftly replaced the weight of the painting with a seemingly heavy chalice that had escaped its display during the knight’s melee. The bars lift from the entrance.

“Now,” she moved towards the sword, taking it in her hands, “time to actually destroy this painting.” 

Needing no preamble, Amara plunges the sword into the canvas. Dragging the sharp sword through the image with no rhyme or reason. The artist inside her cried a little at ruining of such a nice canvas but it was for the greater good. After the painting is practically shredded, Amara can faintly hear the sound of gunshots resonating within the halls. The only answer that made sense shouted in her head. Leon and Ashley. 

Dropping the sword, she propelled herself in that direction.

Amara followed the noise to find more of the castle goons were on Leon and Ashley like bees to honey. One had Leon in their clutches, choking him out while another attempted to grab at Ashley. Within moments, Amara dispatched both with efficiency. 

Both drop with unceremonius thuds but that sends Leon and Ashley’s attention towards her. She can’t help but smile.

“You know, if you needed the assist…I would’ve come sooner.” 

“Amara!” Ashley couldn’t fight a smile as she stepped over the bodies to meet them halfway. Leon sat on the ground, still recovering his breath. “Need a hand?” 

“Thanks.” Leon took hold of her outstretched hand, pulling him up to stand once again. “Where have you been? Where’s Luis?” 

She looked back towards the way she came briefly. Luis could handle Ada’s infection. Hers seemed more urgent. 

“It’s a long story, really long. He said he’d meet us in the ballroom.” 

Amara really didn’t want to divulge everything from start to finish in the time they’d been apart. Better to be given grief later by Leon. 

“What about you two? Anything interesting?”

The pair share a look. She can only imagine what that meant. She raised her eyebrows briefly before throwing her hands up in defeat, “I’m better off not knowing. Anyways, what the hell are you two doing now?” 

“Well, we’ve been trying to get a-head of the game,” Leon picks up what seems to be a golden lion statue head, his voice is deadpan, but it’s clear he’s attempting to lighten the mood.

Amara looks at Ashley, “Has he subjected you to this this whole time?” 

She chuckled a tad, “Get this. He paid me a compliment not too long ago.”

“Consider me shocked, I thought Leon the Grouch  over here had a heart of stone.” 

It doesn’t escape Amara’s notice that a corner of Leon’s mouth slightly quirked up. But just as quick as it had come, it was gone. “If you two are done, I’d like to get a move on.”

She waved a hand at him. “Oh, don’t get your holster in a twist.” 

They trailed behind Leon as he made his way back towards what seemed to be a three headed statue. Sans the one he currently held in his hands. The mechanism quietly slots into place at the final piece being attached but something about it seemed particularly off. Things couldn’t be that easy this evening. 

She doesn’t hesitate to voice that. “Well…that seemed way too easy. A bit…disconcerting actually.” 

As if right on cue, Ashley pointed and yelled out, “Leon! Amara! The stairs!” 

Both of them follow where she pointed, finding more of those stupid zealots coming after them. Everything after that happened so quick, it almost gave her whiplash.

Her heart pounded against her chest and reverberated in her ears, though she wasn’t sure if it was sheer terror or adrenaline kicking in. A healthy mix of both, probably. 

But, if there was one thing she learned in all her training, she had to do the hard things scared out of her mind.

Leon swiftly aimed his gun at them, ready to take them all on as Ashley stood closer to the pillars to give herself proper distance. 

Amara followed suit with the former. Better two guns than one. 

But just as quick, she heard a click from a switch and a familiar thud. A gilded cage surrounded both her and Leon. Leaving Ashley vulnerable. They were trapped.

“Run! Now!” Leon swiftly commanded through the bars to Ashley in a tone that Amara hadn’t heard from him before. (Though, to be fair, she’d never seen him in a mission setting until now).

They briefly shared a glance before turning their attention to the threat.

Two of their zealot friends had somehow joined them within the golden enclosure. 

She leapt out of the way of a scythe, just barely scraping at her ankles. 

Through the bars, a flaming arrow scraped against her arm. Trying not to wince, she unloaded a few rounds into the zealot with her good arm. She slid between their legs. A quick slash of a boot knife, then a disgusting spurt of red at the zealot’s ankles.

She had to be sure. 

It was a shame the higher ups couldn’t see what a pair these two were. Both worked with an efficiency and a finesse even within the barrier of the enclosure.

The zealot laid at her feet, guaranteed they would not get back up. Blood seeped onto the marble floor beneath.

There was almost a deafening silence except the lock of flames emanating from torches nearby. Amara could only breathe a sigh of relief. 

But, that didn’t stop her from being brought back to reality. Her arm. 

Damn arrows. Amara checked the sleeve of her sweater, that fiery arrow cut through it straight to her skin. Blood sat at the surface of a fresh cut and stung more than the countless other scrapes she’d acquired over the years. 

She examined the surroundings more clearly. An array of the black-robed zealots lay haphazardly around the space of the cage. 

Only she and Leon remained standing. 

Now Ashley had to fend for herself, something that Amara hated to think about. She briefly put herself in the girl’s shoes. Thinking about how scary this whole ordeal was without the necessary tools and training that the two of them had. 

She gingerly rubbed a thumb over the wound, smearing the blood onto the inside of her sweater. It’d heal. 

Just like every other wound. Part of her “experimentation” before they loosened her leash noted the G virus had granted an almost protective ability over certain types of wounds. This was one of them. 

But, with the added intruder swimming in her organs, it was almost as if this ability were halted. The pain stayed and the cut still bled. 

“You alright?” Leon asked, immediately taking gentle hold of her elbow to examine her. Amara found herself doing the same—something she’d been doing a lot since reuniting with the pair. Besides the mussed hair, dirt, and other grime, Leon looked just about as unscathed as when he’d first arrived. Except for the wound on his hand, she didn’t see it but one could ascertain from the blood on the grip of his gun.

“I’ll live. Just a scratch. Now, let me see your hand,” Amara held out her own. Leon scrunched his eyes in confusion. “What?”

“I’m no gun aficionado, but guns don’t make your hand bleed through a glove, Leon.” She gestured once more, “Now, hand please.” 

He hesitantly placed his hand in her palm. She took her time to remove his glove, the cut through it more obvious when looked at directly. Sheesh, how’d he do that? 

“Do I want to know what you did?” She asked, half joking and half serious as she met his eyes. 

He scoffed, “Will it make you feel better if I tell you?”

“Hmm, maybe.”

“Ashley tried to stab me.” He stated, as if he were describing the most mundane thing like the weather or something.

“She what?” 

“It’s not what you think…something…or someone took over her,” Leon looked as though he was still trying to piece it together. “I, at least, had—ah—the sense to stop her—shit—before she took an eye out.” Leon hissed as Amara rubbed alcohol along the cuts. 

“All it cost you was some flesh.” Amara looked away briefly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there… to help.” 

“I’m a big boy, I can fight my own battles.” 

“You don’t have to fight them alone, you know? I don’t want you to,” She admitted. “Being alone, it’s not a nice feeling-” 

“Amara—“

“And you won’t ever be alone. Not when you have me. Okay?” 

Leon pulls away the second she finishes cleaning the wound, and a heavy sigh leaves him. 

“It’s not that simple,” he spoke faintly. 

“Why not?” She asked just as quietly, ready to lay it all out considering they weren’t leaving the cage anytime soon. “Why can’t it be?”

“Is this really the time for this?” Leon is cold, cutting in his tone. It’s obvious to Amara that he’s trying to deflect. The more direct, the more indirect people became, she realized. 

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen you in—what? Six years? Now is as good a time as any,” She barked, she could feel herself running hot with anger. “I guess the message has been pretty clear and I was too stupid to see it.” 

Leon pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes more than likely annoyed to even have the conversation especially right now. 

“I stayed away for a reason, Amara, and not for whatever reason you think I have.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Because you deserve normal. A normal life. Normal everything.” The frustration is clear in his voice, but his voice remains at the same level. 

“And you don’t?” 

“Has anything since Raccoon shown that I do?” Leon gestures briefly.

“Leon, I don’t know if you’re aware but…shit’s been fucked up for me too since then. Doesn’t make the both of us any less deserving of something good.” 

“I can’t take that risk. I need you to be safe.”

“From what? The world? The government? I’ve never needed protecting, Leon. I’ve needed yo—“

You. That’s what she was going to say: that after everything, she had no one to turn to. To tell about everything and that would understand and he was the one person, her person… and he wasn’t there. It devastated her in a way she couldn’t fathom. But none of that came out, because his mouth was suddenly covering hers.

Was it a way to get her to shut up or to distract her from the topic, or both? 

Amara panicked at first, muscles stiffened, standing frozen, but his hand was on her cheek, the other wrapped gently around her neck, and she was suddenly kissing him back. 

Her arms fervently wrapped around his shoulders, crushing her front against his. Her hands thread through his hair, messing up its carefully styled appearance, making it a bit more disheveled, but it wasn’t enough. 

She wanted to dishevel all of him. 

Realizing they both needed to breathe at some point, Leon pulled away first, looking down at her. The thumb on her cheek traveled to her lower lip, tracing it.

“Don’t you realize?” Leon whispered, and she watched his lips, “The reason I need to protect you so badly is because I’m in love with you?” 

Her breath hitched at those words. Amara hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear them. 

“I’ll be damned if I let myself be another part of your suffering. You don’t deserve that,” He repeated himself as if he were trying to convince himself more than her. 

“And what do I deserve?”

“Better than me.”

“I think I can decide that for myself,” she spoke. “Leon, you’re worried about the risk, but what about the guarantees?” 

“Amara-“

“Leon! Amara!” Ashley’s voice echoed from higher up. It quickly separates the two as they both search for where it came from. 

Amara cracked a smile, her first in what felt like hours, though it was brief. 

From her vantage point, the voice seems to come from a gated door at the nearest balcony. “Ashley? Are you okay?” 

“…Yeah, hang tight, I’ll get you guys out of there!” 

The sound of her boots gets farther and farther away but Amara can’t help but feel a weight lifted. 

They both nod their head in understanding despite her not being able to see it. She had to give her some credit, she’s a smart cookie. She moves towards the statue, deciding to sit down for once.

“Sit with me?” Amara asked him innocently. He couldn’t do anything but oblige. 

Were it any other place, not surrounded by corpses, he’d think it romantic to sit under a statue. Huh, maybe this is their romantic?

Her words made the gears turn in his head. When he sat next to her, she laid her head on his shoulder. Leon cherished any sort of contact she’d give him, god knows the last time he’d known a gentle touch. 

He’d spent a lot of time alone, by choice. Having anything even remotely close to a “close” relationship with anyone was a risk. It’s probably why he’d gotten such a reputation around the office according to Hunnigan. Leon never really cared for the gossip or the attention he got. 

He never really divulged anyone in his love life prior to Raccoon and after. At least, he tried to. Hunnigan certainly pestered him enough. He’d only let himself slip up once in mentioning Amara (not by name, of course). 

She certainly teased him enough about it before this mission, but it was easy to tell that she worried about him. Leon would constantly wave her off, wave her off, wave her off until she gave up. 

But now, Amara offered a new perspective. One he never thought to consider. 

He always thought about the risks of it all and became quite familiar. What if he died on his next mission or even this one? Never got to see Amara again, something he couldn’t exactly face head-on. What about the guarantees? What if he could prove himself wrong? Do this kind of work and have someone to come home to?

Leon knew it was too soon to retire now as a government agent (not that they’d let him), but he’d imagined it—well, he didn’t imagine beyond a certain point these days. Just getting to the next day with a pulse was good enough. But a part of him—deep down—had yearned for that silly white-picket-fence life when he was more idealistic, more bushy-tailed, more the bright-eyed rookie he’d left behind in Raccoon City. Buried under the remains of a forgotten city. 

He could see that now as if Amara had unlocked it from the deepest recesses of his mind. The guarantee of someone to confide in, someone happy to be with him, happy to come home with him. 

“Get out of your head,” Amara nudged him with her elbow. “Is this a bad time to ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you…seeing anyone? You know, it’s been…six years.” 

“I just kissed you and said I’m in love with you, is that not answer enough?” 

“Maybe? People kiss people all the time—“

Leon sighed. “No, I’m not. You?”

“Don’t laugh. But no.” A strange giddiness came over him at this information. But still, he found it insane that that was even the case. Her? Of all people? 

“No? I find that hard to believe.” 

“Why?” 

“Why? Look at you, any man would be insane to not kiss the ground that your feet walk on.” 

“Huh, then would that make you insane?” 

Damn. She had him there.

“That’s debatable.” Her laugh is brief, it’s nice. Leon wished he could bottle it up. 

“Fucked up circumstances aside, this is good.” 

“Yeah.” His reply is terse. 

“How have you been?” Leon stares straight ahead, genuinely thinking about the question. But something inside wants to retract, dial it back in fear of revealing too much. Vulnerability isn’t exactly his strong suit. Too much of his life had become classified information. 

Awful. Terrible. Like nothing seems right. 

“I’m alive, usually counts for something,” he quipped.

“It does, so working directly under Graham, huh? How’d you manage that?” 

“Well, they asked me and I couldn’t exactly say no.” 

Amara nodded in understanding. She knew too well but he couldn’t fault her for asking. More curiosity nagged at him for what she had been doing for six years. He knew that she’d become a top agent but not exactly how that came to be. Training, a few covert ops, and Operation Javier all came to mind for himself. 

He shuddered to think what they’d had her doing. What about the past six years was fucked up for her? 

“So, uh…what about you?” 

She looked away. “I’m sure you’ve read the file.” 

He noticed her blinking rapidly as if she were trying to clear something from her vision. 

“A file only says so much.” Leon ran a hand across her forehead, still checking that she was okay. “Jesus, you’re burning up.” 

“Damn parasite.” She cursed, leaning into his touch. “Your hands are still cold.” 

That alone made Leon become more alert, and back into focus mode. She felt unnaturally, uncomfortably warm. He abruptly stood up, carefully pulling Amara up with him so that could better assess her. Holding her face between his palms, he scanned every inch of it even as her brow furrowed in obvious confusion. 

“Everything okay?” 

“I hope so.” 

That's when he noticed a brief twitch and almost jerk, he had to catch her before she all but collapsed to the floor. He recognized it, the parasite had to be working hard to take Amara down. He hated to call it a shield, but considering the G virus, she still looked just as sorry as the rest of them but it had to be fighting just as hard to keep her at "optimal" performance. Like a machine. 

She dug a hand into his bicep, eyes scrunched close while her other hand pressed against her temple. She’d been having the visions too, seeing and hearing that hooded figure in her head. Trying to lure her in with his almost sinister, charming words. 

Leon could only wonder what he’d been filling her head with. Whatever it was, it was bullshit. 

Amara seemed as though she had come up for air, the vision had passed. “Give me a fucking break.” 

“Couldn’t agree more,” Leon sighed, turning his head in the direction of where Ashley had called out to them. He really hoped that she was alright. For now, he basked in the closeness with Amara, curling his fingers around hers briefly.

Something about it was strange…foreign almost. 

Physical touch didn’t exactly fit into his busy schedule. Which in hindsight is incredibly…sad (something that Hunnigan doesn’t fail to remind him of). 

“Leon?” Amara softly spoke.

“Hm?”

She snickers a bit to herself, “I may have fibbed a bit earlier.”

He furrows his brows, turning his attention from watching the outer perimeters of the cage to her. “About?”

“Dating someone.” 

Leon’s response is swift. “Don’t tell me anything.” 

Amara jokingly scoffed. “Seriously? Why? Think you’ll get jealous?” 

“I won’t bullshit you and say I wouldn’t…because I would, insanely.” And it’s the truth. Leon always thought honesty is the best policy but that doesn’t stop the slight heat creeping up his neck in embarrassment. 

“Well, rest assured, it’s much like the antiques in this castle. Ancient history.” 

“How thoughtful of you to tell me,” Leon deadpanned. Much like with their resident Spanish heartthrob, Leon couldn’t exactly stomach the thought of anyone else wrapped up in Amara’s arms. Besides, right now, they needed to get out of this cage.

“Now, can you focus?”

“Hey, you’re the boss here,” Amara put her hands up in surrender with a knowing smirk. 

Just then, Leon could faintly hear footsteps from above. Of course, neither he nor Amara were aware their momentary reprieve was coming to an end. 

[vixnovacoda]

Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 4

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: 2.6k

CW/TW: NSFW 18+, graphic, disturbing content, dissociation, canon-typical violence.

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3]

[ao3 version here]

“The Ghost Writer.” was the latest topic at a lecture hall within the walls of the FBI Academy. “Sometimes, there will be people who leave no trace. There will be no apparent motive. The answer lies in the details; the victim’s appearance, the body arrangement, and how the mutilation proceeded. All are things this killer kept clean and specific. This is his story,” detailed the brown-haired lecturer. Sleep had not been kind to Will, a fact he tried to obscure. The button-up shirt attire was suitable enough by teaching standards, and his tortoiseshell frames distracted notice from the eye bags that started forming.

It had been these details that Emma had gleamed upon arrival. The case drove hard at all involved.

Avoiding meeting her eyes and Dr. Lecter, who joined Emma, Will carried on with his talk. “A story about obsession. An obsession that he is not alone. The author behind the fictional version of this death helped him realise that. Emma Darcy, finder of the first victim.” Glowering pixels made up for his lack of contact. Pictures depicting the dead doppelgänger, split, dissected, and pieced together next to Emma, whole and alive, looked down upon all those sitting and standing. “The Ghost Writer gave her a gift, inspiration which might cost her life. She is the true intended.” Rigour built Will’s reminder. He didn’t speak to the agents-in-training; he spoke to the living victim, who watched and haunted him. They were each other’s ghosts, stuck by dire circumstances.

Bzzt. Bzzt. And Emma had multiple ghosts.

Through the discerning glance of Dr. Lecter, she reached for her phone, sparing no second. Thoughts raced. It had to be Alex. It had to be her. That alone caused Emma to beam like a wish had come true; hope. 

Until it didn’t.

MARCUS: just making sure you’re alright. Let’s meet up later.

A wish was still a wish, some blatant desire for change, an impossible product. Alex would never give her the light of day again after the last time.

———

In another time and place, the phone is dialled and answered. 

“Emma?” Alex came through raspy, irregular – a fault of living in a different time zone (USA, East Coast), figured Emma.

“Alex,” said the much more alert Emma. “How’s Johnny and Amy?” Small talk.

“They’re… They’re fine.” Floorboards moaned off from afar.

“That’s good. Hey, I just finished going over the edits you sent over.” Straight to business; that was Emma’s modus operandi. Strewn about sheets covered with red marker splayed about in front of her, she had been in the middle of work when Alex called.

“Oh.”

“There were a few things I thought we should discuss…” Emma thumbed through the mess, searching for a specific set.

“Emma.”

“I really think we should keep in that scene betwe—”

“Emma!”

Empty air whistled. Emma haltered under the moon’s watch. “Alex, what’s wrong?”

“I…” Alex moved the speaker from her face, muttering incoherent blobs, such as ‘why that case?’ and ‘how could you?’ between gasps. Each utterance bleeding from a fresh wound. “I-I can’t do this anymore. Emma, I can’t. I’m sorry.” The phone echoed a long beep.

“Alex?” she called out, but no answer came; the call was over.

Fumbling, she dialled back. Sorry, the number you have called is temporarily unavailable. Please try again later.

… is currently unavailable. Please try again—

… unavailable. Please—

———

Guilt eroded the expression Emma held as reality dowsed her delusions. Latent and dormant became her features. She placed the phone into her handbag, fingers tracing the cap of a plastic medicine bottle, unaware the lecture had reached its conclusion. “Observe everything. What are they trying to tell? What is the story?” told Will Graham as he leant against the desk, everything in his view. From the eager to the meagre, all that left, and all that remained. The lecture hall felt empty without the agents-in-training, and what should have felt like relief instead turned into dread by Emma and Dr. Lecter’s lingering presence as Emma led the charge. “The three of us, all in one room. Feels like the start of a self-help group or an experimental therapy session,” commented Will, adjusting his glasses.

“I catch you at a bad time?” responded Emma carefully, stopping at an appropriate distance.

“Well, it wasn’t a good one,” said he. “It depends on where this conversation goes.”

“The Ghost Writer,” she started.

“A bad time it is, then.” He stretched his back, situating into his position and noted her demeanour. She was ‘calm’ – whatever fear she carried sat far off. The sudden change in character earned a pointed look towards Dr. Lecter as if to say, is this your doing?

“Emma seeks an ending to this killer’s story. Don’t you, Will?” challenged Hannibal. In other unsaid words, yes. He wouldn’t be here otherwise.

The glasses came off. “Why?” Will asked Emma.

“Because.” She shifted, adjusting an invisible weight. “When the killer is found, what I feel will go away,” Emma stated with a hint of that real emotion, dread.

“Neither of you will have to work together again, either. You can return to normal,” said Dr. Lecter, closing the distance between him and his patient, standing one pace ahead of her.

“By diving head first.” Will folded his arms. The idea both intrigued and worried him.

“Sometimes a dive is better than a dip,” began Dr. Lecter. “When done right, it produces desirable results. It is fast. It is forceful. This case is not the sort of thing you approach gently.”

“But done wrong, and it has harsh consequences, Dr. Lecter.”

“Correct.”

“Though, in reality, worse will occur from a dip,” said Emma, her ‘calmness’ swaying back and forth, and the Special Agent swivelled his attention. Neither met eye-to-eye and still, he could feel that fear as if it was his own; it weighed between tolerable and unbearable. She saw his shoulders and the realisation sink, defeated. The longer they took, someone would die. That was a fact, not speculation; they had already taken enough time. “So, what have you found?” she asked, garnering his silence as acceptance to discuss the topic. Emma had known he’d agree because she did. Because it was their character; because it’s his character, Dr. Lecter had informed her. Will Graham’s fault laid in a want to save others. That, Emma learnt, is what the Doctor meant.

“Compared to what we already know? Nothing,” he answered, and reflexively, his hand muscles tensed as she crossed the divide, resting against the desk as he did. The two stood in equal positions. They could talk like this, Hannibal before them, their mediator for eye contact. “The interviews bore no fruit. Has labs?” Will exchanged earnestly.

“Barren. Jane Doe is still Jane Doe. No prints; burnt fingertips. No dental records. No hits.” She sighed; a futile frustration boiled inside the both of them. “You said ‘observe everything’. Those were your words. Have we done that?”

“Multiple times, except…”

The words spilt forth. Thoughts ran freely from Will’s tongue until his convictions got the best of him. Will silenced himself. Torn, he shared a look with Hannibal, a silent conversation. A discussion made up of twisted eyes and a slow nod. Only they knew what remained, and Emma did not. Hannibal could not convey it to her; he had to remain impartial, which gave Will no choice. If they wanted to catch this Ghost Writer, he’d have to do as Jack Crawford did to him; let her go into the deep and trust Hannibal Lecter.

“Except what?” echoed Emma.

  Warm air guided itself into Will’s lungs as he shut his eyes before speaking. “Your statement. We never properly went over it.”

“Honestly, I don’t remember much besides what I told you. It’s mostly a blur.” Truly, the most prominent image of all remained the building of the body, every detail: smell, touch and sight. But she couldn’t admit that.

“That’s the issue. A gap, no matter big or small, leads to the possibility of missing something,” explained Will, torso angled to face her.

Emma pushed herself off the desk. “Then what are you proposing?”

“We retrace your steps. Go back to the house,” he said. “We see what memory resurfaces or what detail becomes uncovered.”

The thought of missing something hadn’t crossed her mind. Nor willingly going back to that house. “Will it work?”

“It’s all we have.”

In a simple glance, Emma conferred with Dr. Lecter, he that held more awareness than them; he at the centre of it all. “Your memory is the only variable the killer can’t control,” said he, who remained stoic, though she saw how he favoured the idea, which allowed it to cement further into her mind and take root. Out of options, it made simple sense. The real reason she had driven here, confronting her thoughts up close; this was how the mirror stopped hurting, how she could return to normalcy. 

It was decided. Emma couldn’t disagree. 

Better to have a quick dive than a long dip.

———

Mid-century architecture slumped within the Maryland woods. Trees gathered around, shaming the home with bristled leaves and tall forms for the committed crime. The house had tarnished the forest’s well-earned peace by way of death. Yellow tape marked the front, flippant and tarnished.

Emma stood at the mouth of it all as the evening christened the horizon. Silence loomed in the air, a chill reminder. Nothing living resided here, not a soul, only death and nature. A brisk breeze nipped at her skin, causing pin-pricks to form as if to warn her of the impending doom ahead.

“You surprise me, Will,” said Hannibal, the gravel driveway crunching under his shoes as he moved beside the profiler. Both a distance away from the distant-minded author.

“Then you surprise me, Dr. Lecter,” retorted Will. Defensive.

“How so?” his sharp face edged slightly into Will’s periphery like a knife cutting through the world.

“Because,” said Will, turning his head towards him, “you knew I’d agree. That’s why you brought her to see me.” Not an inclination of surprise crossed the psychiatrist. Had there really been such, then it must have remained internal. Instead, he smiled. Small and wide. Proud and impressed.

“I can’t take claim for that. That would be an awful thing.” Mistaken, then, was Will as his eyes fleeted onto Emma with a questioning brow. “I am here to help her as I’ve helped you, Will. You needn’t think otherwise,” explained Hannibal. Gravel picked up beneath him once more as he carried on, leaving Will with no time to ponder and no choice but to follow. And like a knife, Doctor Hannibal Lecter proved beneficial when required to get to the thick of something in a single slice. He was clean and precise. But, like a knife, danger remained a possibility. 

An always overlooked possibility.

“It’s quiet. Not, however, peaceful,” muttered Emma as her psychiatrist/co-worker/acquaintance came into view. Naturally, Hannibal inclined himself forward. “The scenes back home had a similar stillness. Eerie and off. As if some form of the deceased stained the atmosphere. An echo, we called it. So loud and invisible… I don’t know why I thought it would be different here.”

“Control and deniability,” responded Hannibal, giving her the answer she did not ask for. “We all seek to alter undesirable situations, wishing that what we lived through never occurred, so we may hide behind the truth. 

“You’ve done this before. You know what will happen, what to expect. However, this time is different. You are no longer an outsider looking in.” A warning hid amongst gentle words. All eyes were on her; that is what he conveyed. Deniability had no place here.

“So this is how it feels,” Emma mused behind a tightened jaw. Previous victims stood where she did now, alive and dead. Scrutinised under knives and bloodhounds. Pressure built in them, and so too did it in her. “Take us through that afternoon,” spoke Hannibal. ‘Us’, referring to Will, who had caught up.

In turn, Emma flexed her hand. An attempt to cast away the feeling as she recollected. “I pulled up to the driveway, made my way to the door with key in hand and went indoors. Nothing out of the ordinary—”

“What about the present?” interrogated Will, eyes narrowed.

“The present. I…” She shut her eyes to play the memory through a clearer lens. “It rested against the door. I took it inside,” she rectified. A fog rolled in as her vision came back, ready to live out the past reality. A haze only she could see.

She should have been startled when hints of mist covered the ground. She should have shut out the thoughts which followed suit. But: “focus on me, Emma,” said Hannibal calmly, catching her attention instead. His darkened eyes, so full yet so empty, held her aloft. Like this, she could keep going.

Or could she?

Maybe.

Yes, she had to. Right. She had to.

“The details. Focusing on them will help your mind process the event accordingly,” elucidated the psychiatrist, Dr. Lecter. He stood closer now. Closer than she’d normally allow. Yet, she didn’t mind as his words reached her first and foremost, guiding, almost commanding. Just loud enough to break through sense.

Wading and melding with mist, dappled light came through, highlighting the small things as her breathing became focused. With a gloved hand on the door handle, Emma entered the memory. The box felt light when she carried it through, not a hint that it contained half a human body. There wasn’t a decaying smell either. She couldn’t have known at the time when her shoes remained by the door, steps muffled against wooden floorboards, and the package placed perfectly on the kitchen counter what sight hid inside. Nimble fingers pulled apart ribbon and string, blue and brown left stranded atop marble as both hands held the rest. The lid lifted and fell first, landing by the table before the first pieces of flesh flopped in closer succession, marbled muscle against marbled stone.

Flesh, muscle, organ, and bone. Not a part wasted.

A gift. Human sacrifice.

Emma recalled the itch which coursed through her nerves when the pattern pieces stuck to the tiles. Incomplete, requiring to be put together. It was overwhelming. Soft tissue moved in a sequence under her delicate hand. Each piece grasped between tissue paper and spread out along carpet. The kitchen held little space (enough for a person but not enough for this grand gesture). Hence, the living room.

The carpet: a passionate red akin to wine and not blood. Blood never touched it either, only water droplets. Water that failed to dissuade the defrosting puzzle from attaching soft, thin, coiled carpet fibres to the undersides. The fibres: cotton. Old, worn. Emma knelt where she had been that evening, the fibres scratching her trouser-covered legs. An irritating sensation, and it wasn’t until then that a rush overcame her.

The carpet. Scratchy on the surface and on closer inspection, the fibres stood short, wispy and elastic. It wasn’t cotton at all. It was wool. It had been replaced.

Someone had replaced the carpet.

Emma stepped back, her breathing erratic as she eyed the floor for missed details, fingers rubbed together. A vague rectangular outline, the two carpets almost indistinguishable but not for her. The details were off; this was her thing, what she was good at.

Slender fingers peeled at the edges of the rug-sized carpet, tearing and pulling up without a care. Beneath is what mattered. Beneath laid a missing underlay, fresh wood planks and blood. A hard lump formed in her throat. ‘Found me.’ spelt the blood, dried up, having waited for numerous days. Rotten meat and fruit crept through the cracks of the subfloor.

Decay.

Heart pounding, Emma lifted the boards. They came off with ease. No resistance. She had been meant to find this, to reveal what was built between the floor joists. 

Her breath hitched. Body stiff, unblinking.

The putrid smell spread, and Hannibal hovered over Emma. He inspected with nonchalance as Will lurched by the threshold, hand searching for the nearest support, gripping the doorframe with rigidity. New images recreated themselves in the FBI’s unstable minds. He saw as she did. He felt what she did, and it felt overwhelming.

A phone dialled. The line answered. “Jack,” started Will, “there’s another body.”

[legends-of-time]

Thorn Bush (Doctor Who Story) - Materlist

Warnings:

Major Character Death, Minor Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Period Typical Attitudes, Cannon-Typical Violence

Physical description:

Kathy has light brown hair and blue eyes

Summary:

Blimey, where does she begin?

Well her name is Katherine but most call her Kathy and her age, well that's the real question, a complicated one.

——

Kathy is someone who is reborn into the world of Doctor Who from ours. Kathy meets the Doctor and their companions in multiple different places in their time streams throughout the Whoniverse. Not the usual companion or love interest.

Doctors 9-14

Chapters:

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter 2: Tooth and Claw

Chapter 3: The Girl Who Died

Chapter 4: Robot of Sherwood

Chapter 5: The Bells of Saint John

Chapter 6: The Pandorica Opens

Chapter 7: The Big Bang

Chapter 8: The Death of the Doctor

Chapter 9: The Day of the Doctor Part One

Chapter 10: The Day of the Doctor Part Two

Chapter 11: The Wedding of Sarah Jane Smith

Chapter 12: The End of Time Part One

Chapter 13: The End of Time Part Two

Chapter 14: The Eleventh Hour Part One

Chapter 15: The Eleventh Hour Part Two

Chapter 16: The Shakespeare Code

Chapter 17: The Witchfinders Part One

Chapter 18: The Witchfinders Part Two

Chapter 19: The Woman Who Lived

Chapter 20: Legend of the Sea Devils

Chapter 21: Thin Ice

Chapter 22: The Haunting of Villa Diodati

Chapter 23: The Next Doctor

Chapter 24: War of the Sontarans

Chapter 25: The Unquiet Dead

Chapter 26: The Paternoster Gang

Chapter 27: The Snowmen Part One

Chapter 28: The Snowmen Part Two

Chapter 29: The Crimson Horror

Chapter 30: The Name of the Doctor

Chapter 31: Deep Breath Part One

Chapter 32: Deep Breath Part Two

Chapter 33: Survivors of the Flux

Chapter 34: The Vanquishers

Chapter 35: Family Time and Tying Up Loose Ends

Chapter 36: The Unicorn and the Wasp Part One

Chapter 37: The Unicorn and the Wasp Part Two

Chapter 38: Daleks in Manhattan

Chapter 39: Evolution of the Daleks

Chapter 40: Across the Pond

Chapter 41: Captain Jack Harkness

Chapter 42: Demons of the Punjab Part One

Chapter 43: Demons of the Punjab Part Two

Chapter 44: Idiot's Lantern

Chapter 45: Village of Angels

Chapter 46: Blink

Wattpad access

fanfiction.net access

Ao3 access

[entropicquilibriumofchaos]

Masterlist

New and Improved!

Fics that are in italic may contain content that is not suitable for minors. 18+ only please.

NBC Hannibal 

nfwmb (Will Graham/Hannibal/Original Female Character): Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 (Hiatus)

Dog Days of Fall

Star Wars

Choosing Sides (Sith!Obi-Wan Kenobi/Jedi!OC): Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 (Hiatus)

Safe & Sound (Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano)

Reassurance (Obi-Wan & Padawan!Reader)

Karaoke Night (Obi-Wan/f!Reader) 

Always and Only You (Obi-Wan/Reader)

Thank the Maker (Obi-Wan/gn!Reader)

Stranger Things

Master of Puppets (Kas!Eddie Munson x Original Female Character): Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 (Finished)

Non-Specific

A Good Morning (Reader/Unnamed Male Love Interest)

[ashrillvenheim]

A little more of this AU. Sometimes I get stuck on a piece that doesn't move forward, so I prefere to end it and start a new one instead of trying to fix it over and over again, never being totalu content. But I liked what I learned here :3

[liennka]

Fromage - part 1

Hannibal Lecter x Will's daughter/teen patient reader

Summary : When Y/N for once arrives early for her therapy, she ends up in a life-or-death situation... (s1 e08)

-> Feel free to insert yourself instead :) This is my first story and I am open to any criticism (be nice pls).

I just wanted to say that I am not the owner of this show, but I did make this story, so don't copy it without my knowledge, thank you.

Y/N was once again sat in the waiting room, awaiting her next session with Doctor Lecter. After some time, she gradually grew fond of her psychiatrist, who wore a “mask”, as she passed time trying to read his mind. It was not an easy task, but her efforts were bearing fruit as she was now able to recognise when he was bored, angry and most importantly, pleased. At that moment she knew he wouldn't be too happy with her early arrival, Hannibal didn't like his patients meeting each other, which was why they all had at least a 30 minute interval between each appointment. But her usual ride couldn't make it, and if she wanted to be on time, she had to take the bus, thus showing up an hour before she should have. 

----☆----☆----☆----

It was roughly halfway through the previous session when she heard footsteps in the hallway.  Y/N wondered who it could be, as she was Hannibal's last patient for the day. A tall black man in a suit made his way to the Doctor's door, walking slowly and steadily.

Something in Y/N felt wrong, her body hair rising and her mind automatically searching for the nearest exits. And she wasn't naive, it was her gut telling her to run. As much as she wanted to, she was cornered, the man approaching from one door and the other closed, if she tried to interrupt Lecter's session, he would kill her himself.

And when Y/N's chair was only a few meters away from him, she could finally see more details of his face. His dark expression, his dull eyes and the blood on his face. She sniffed and smelt some kind of acid and more blood, probably dried under his fingernails. Thanks to Will, she was more than just an average person, seeing few investigations and knowing the basics of corrupted minds. This man had the aura of a psychopath, the expression of a stoic killer and the smell of a mad scientist, if that wasn't enough she had no idea what was.

----☆----☆----☆----

She didn't knock, just quickly pulling on the doorknob, twisting it, opening the door and closing it right behind her.  A man was talking and then suddenly stopped as he saw her. Y/N's body was driven by her adrenaline, not minding the psychiatrist's look of shock and displeasure.

"There is a strange man. Blood on his face and hands," she whispered, her nerves causing her voice to rise an octave. 

Before Hannibal could say anything, Y/N retreated from the door and fled towards him. A few seconds after she had moved, the door opened again and that creepy man walked in. Y/N seemed to be the only one who did not know him, as the others quickly rose to their feet. Hannibal hid most of her body with himself, clearly hoping to shield her.  

"Tobias?" the smaller chubby man asked, eyes wide.

"I came to say goodbye, Franklin. I just killed two men," Tobias said coolly, some blood dripping from a missing chunk of his ear. 

"The police came to question me… " he added, intentionally leaving the sentence unfinished.

She tensed. Will never said where he was going, only telling her about his work when it was over. He himself never knew when Jack would snatch him and force him to solve another case. But this time she knew he was at work, leaving her no choice but to take the bus. And as always, her father would be the one to take care of all the murders in town. There was almost no chance that Will hadn't encountered this man. When Y/N looked at Hannibal, his composed facade was momentarily replaced by an expression of worry. She clutched at his jacket, her palm ruffling the cotton.

"You have to give yourself up, you might still be able to rehabilitate," Franklin pleaded with his friend. 

What a bloody idiot, she thought, there was no way Tobias would surrender, Franklin was more than naive, he was suicidal at this point. 

"Y/N, I want you to leave with Franklin, n-" Hannibal wasn't able to finish his sentence, but Y/N was swift and had already grabbed Franklin's suit. 

"Stay where you are, Franklin!" Tobias said furiously, interrupting Hannibal.

"No, no, no. We.Have.To.Go!" Y/N added weight to each word as she stepped into his field of vision. 

Franklin was momentarily flabbergasted, so Y/N took that opportunity and tightly grabbed his arm. But no matter how hard she pulled, Franklin's body wouldn't move, leaving her to try to drag him unsuccessfully towards Hannibal's desk. And then, when she thought he finally changed his mind, he turned around, not quite done with his motivational speech. He stepped back as he mumbled his words, letting her stay behind their doctor’s table.  Y/N was done with him. And so was everyone else.

----☆----☆----☆----

“I am not alone,” Tobias replied to one of Franklin's stupid quotes 

“That's right, you are not alone, nothing has happened in our real- ” Franklin's neck snapped, Hannibal behind him. 

The cracking sound was disgusting, making Y/N glance away. Franklin's body fell to the ground with a 'thud', sprawling his limbs like a puppet. 

"I was looking forward to that," Tobias groaned.

"I saved you the trouble," Hannibal smiled.

She was glued to the spot, watching them closely. As expected, Tobias got mad and threw his jacket on the floor. He pulled an iron cord from his pocket, a kind of weapon she had never seen before. He swung it a few times like a jojo, forcing Hannibal to retreat. Y/N made eye contact with her therapist and decided it was time to leave. She backed away to the patient's exit, not taking her eyes off the dangerous man for a second. Tobias tossed the wire at Hannibal and kicked him against the bookshelf. It looked bad for Hannibal, maybe if she was fast enough, she could call police. But only if she gets out first.

----☆----☆----☆----

Y/N had her hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly to prevent any sound from escaping. Much to her bad luck, it clicked and Tobias noticed.

----☆----☆----☆----

[steviebunny]

Pretty Astute Observations

Entrée (part 1)

09:00

“Well, thanks to Freddie Lounds, there's an unconfirmed story floating out there that The Chesapeake Ripper's already in custody.” 

“Unconfirmed. Am I confirming? We’re Fact-checking for Freddie Lounds...”

“You're fact-checking for me.’

“I always feel a little nervous going into these places.”

“Why's that?”

“Afraid they won't let me out.” As Will says that he stumbles and begins to fall when he is caught by Lena. She smiles and simply responds “No need to worry, I feel the same way when I walk into the BSU.” She even winks at Jack…Will is really beginning to wonder how she gets away with expressing her true feelings to Crawford readily. Thats a matter for another time he supposes, awkwardly separating from Lena. Clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses. 

Jack says “Don't worry. I won't leave you here."

" Yeah, not today.”

—

09:10

Fredrick Chilton in what is either complete confidence or unassuming arrogance “Dr. Bloom just called me about you, Mr. Graham... or should I call you Dr. Graham?”

“I'm not a doctor.”

“You're not FBI either… what of your friend?” Chilton’s gaze goes to Lena scanning her from top to bottom. 

“He teaches at the academy, he’s got the temp.ID. I’ve got the real thing. Along with a few others…Has anyone ever told you you’ve got this uncanny resemblance to a manhattan ADA? Barba I think… met him back when I was with the BAU”

Chiltons jaw fixes into a frown. “Theres a distant relation, far cousins of somesort on the fathers side I believe. We’re not close.” 

“Funny I suppose, well Dr. Chilton we’re going to need to see the crime scene while it's still relatively undisturbed.”

“I assure you three, for something so disturbing, it is quite undisturbed.”

“Why was a nurse left alone with a prisoner in a high-security psychiatric hospital?” Will begins asking his questions of the situation.

“For the two years since he was brought here, Gideon behaved perfectly and gave every appearance of cooperating with attempts at therapy. As dictated by our present administrator, security around him was slightly... Relaxed. I cannot help feeling responsible myself for what happened. He sat directly across from me and I had no idea what he was hiding.”

“And now one of your staff is dead. I understand, doctor.”

“Mr. Graham's going to need to see the crime scene with as much privacy as you can provide”

“Oh, yes, that thing you do. You're quite the topic of conversation in, uh, psychiatric circles, Mr. Graham”

“Am I?” 

“Uh, yes. A unique cocktail of personality disorders and neuroses that make you a highly skilled profiler.”

“He empathizes with everyone Dr.Chilton…he doesn’t become the killer or agree and sympathize with their motivations just feels what they can. You’d think someone in your highly educated poition would understand the difference.”

“Well we are woefully short of material on your sort of thing, Mrs.Holmes.”

“Gibbs, Ms.Gibbs. Dr. Chilton.”

“Oh yes, horrible tragedy… forgive my forgetfullness.”

“We’d like to see the crimescene now.:

—

09:15

“So, Gideon was restrained?”

“Handcuffed.”

“He concealed a fork tine in the palm of his hand and used it to pick the lock. Where is he now?”

“In his cell. You'll note the removal of organs and the abdominal mutilations are all consistent with The Chesapeake Ripper.”

“So is the brutalization of the corpses, but that doesn't change the fact that The Ripper is still out there.”

“Jack, what I'm about to show you suggests otherwise.” The door buzzes open.

“Dr. Chilton consulted on the case when we failed to catch The Ripper after his last series of murders.”

“The reason you failed and kept failing to capture The Chesapeake Ripper...Was I already had him.”

Will’s eyes seem to glaze over as he examines the scene, almost swaying as he scans the room.

“As far as we know, it's been over two years since the Chesapeake Ripper killed?”

“That's correct.”

“When was Gideon admitted?”

“Almost two years ago.”

---

05:00

“Yet another early morning for us Ms. Gibbs.”

“You requested to see me this time, Dr. Letcer”

“I did.” His sad smile widened towards the redhead “It has come to my attention that I know a fair few things about you, only from the papers. I’m hoping we can rectify that.”

“What’s there to rectify?” She shrugs, “I have an affinity for loving intelligent and stoic people, maybe to my detriment. My father has killed for me, my career is my life. Arguably the first and last of those things are also because of my father.”

“That's a fascinating way to phrase Agent Gibbs being a federally acknowledged hero. The largest number of commendations in Naval investigations, yes?”

“Killing is killing is it not?”

“To some…What of your mother, Lena?”

She scoffs and stands from her seat, then moves to rest her back along the ladder in the office.

“Dead. She and my younger sister. Murdered. Papa’s spent his life keeping me safe and dedicated to taking down the scum who are responsible for such things.”

“Is that not admirable?” He asks leaning his chin into his hand. His face is still plain but something behind his eyes changes. A new understanding.

“Sure it’s admirable…but it messes someone up does it not? Will would like him, he builds boats by hand in his basement.”

“Is he the ‘messed up’ one or are you Lena?”

“Both…I mean look at my track record. Papa joined the Marines, then took down druglords and terrorists for a living, I joined the Marines like him and went to work for the FBI, taking down serial criminals and maniacs for a living. When Jack made that go to shit, I fled, fell in love with a man who solved puzzles, and took down terrorists for a living…Even if it meant sacrificing himself in the process.”

“It's quite the pattern isn’t it?”

“What about you Dr. Lecter, how’d your parents screw you up?”

“They passed away.”

“Would you like a hug, Hannibal?”

“A hug?”

“I have a friend that once said a good hug tells you all you need to know about a person…so” Lena stands with her arms out-stretched for him.

And Hannibal readily accepts.

----

09:20

“She has the same wound pattern as the last-known victim of The Chesapeake Ripper. I mean exact”

“We never found a body for his last known victim.”

“Then the victim before that.” Will flails his wrists a bit looking peaky, his brown glistening with sweat.“I see The Ripper, but I don't...Feel The Ripper. This is plagiarism”

“We never made the wound patterns for any of The Ripper's victims public.”

“Well, maybe he is The Ripper. I don't know.”

“But if he's a plagiarist, the real Chesapeake Ripper is gonna make sure everybody knows it.” Jack sighs. 

“Well, there’s nothing more that Will can do now, so that means I don't need to be here.” As Lena begins to ascend the steps back from the scene Dr. Chilton moves to block her path. 

“Agent Gibbs, while you're here how would you like to accompany me to an event this afternoon.”

“An event?”

“A show, I have spare tickets.”

“I do love theater but I’ve already got plans, sorry.”

“You do..?”

Lena looks behind her maybe begging for one of the other men to give her a way out of this, but of course. They are useless.

“Yes! Actually, Will is introducing me to his dogs today, aren’t you Will?” The man in question looks perturbed but plays along. “I am. Dr. Lecter was supposed to feed them for me today but I suppose Lena talked him out of it this morning.”

“That I did! Now if you’d excuse us Dr. Chilton it's a long drive to Wolftrap.” She says as she pushes past Frederick and quickly jogs up the rest of the steps.

---

"It's hard to understand everything's so... twisted and hard to explain."

[kingofbodyrolls]

My Heart's Home (m) | pjm | thirteen

🐴Chapter summary: Jimin thinks back on all this bad decisions, and how much he has truly hurt you. He loves you, and he wants you back, but unable to articulate his feelings properly, he finds himself writing a letter to you. 🐴Chapter title: Love Letter

🐴Pairings: jimin x reader (main), jungkook x reader (only happens once in the first chapter), jungkook x OC (jessi), namjoon x OC (jessi), yoongi x hoseok, namjoon x oc, seokjin x oc, taehyung x oc

🐴Characters: female reader (isn’t mentioned by name and no “y/n”), Jimin, Jungkook, Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Seokjin, Taehyung and four female original characters.

🐴Genre/AU: ranch!au, slice of life!au, soulmate!au, cowboy!au + smut, humor, fluff, romance, slow burn and angst

🐴Rating: mature/explicit/R18 – this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact!

🐴Disclaimer: I do not own BTS or know them personally and this work of fiction is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only. The actions and personalities described in the story do not reflect those of BTS— it’s just fiction. Also, if you would kindly read the tags/warnings before reading, that would be lovely: and if you don’t like whatever is described in the tags, just hit return and find something else to read. Thank you 🌸

🐴Chapter warnings: low self-esteem, low confidence, hurt, sadness, overthinking, destructive thoughts, Jimin’s POV, angst, mention of sex.

🐴Status: completed 🥳

🐴Word count: 13.4k

🐴Taglist: @kookswifesblog, @kiki-zb, @babejinnie, @ownthesunshine, @allie-is-a-panda, @glllhjh, @bergandysam, @13-manggaetteok, @jeonsbabygirlsworld, @antisocial-mochi267,

*tumblr isn’t letting me tag you! There could be a lot of reasons for that, check out this lovely post about it.

🐴Now playing 💿 “Love Someone” by Lukas Graham. [Wanna listen to the serie’s playlist?]

🐴Author’s note: this is entirely from Jimin’s POV. Both OC and Jimin have been through a lot, and they have both hurt each other in different ways (but mostly it’s been Jimin hurting her 😭). In this chapter, we will get better insight into Jimin’s thoughts and his feelings all the way from the beginning! I really hope you like it— please let me know. I know Jimin has been behaving horribly, and I’m not excusing his behavior with the chapter, I’m simply saying that he is a flawed human like the rest of us, and no, we might not all agree or even understand his behavior, but.. 🥹 And if you don’t like these kind of chapters/stories were the story is essentially being retold from another character’s point of view, it’s fine, you are welcome to skip it, but if you want to know why Jimin has been acting like a douche, this one’s for you. Also, there are a bit of new stuff in here too, but it’s mostly just Jimin thinking about his bad behavior, lol, so it’s quite sad too 😭

🐴Author’s note— extra: I’m almost finished with writing the series and I got this cute idea to do a Q&A with the characters (questions for me is also okay). So, you can already send in your asks (could also be a comment/reblog, though I think asks are easier for me to keep track of). I’ll turn on anon asks, so if you prefer that, there’s that option. But please, be nice, okay? (not that I don’t expect that of you, I’ve just gotten nasty asks before). You can ask anything, to the characters, like why the behaved/thought/said something or what they didn’t say or do 🤭 You can also ask me about the story, the process or anything like that. As I said, the asks for the characters will be included in the Epilogue (I’ll also reply to the asks, I won’t reply right away, but keep them until the Epilogue will be released!)

You can send in your questions for the characters or me here → Ask away 💜*

*for people on AO3 you can also participate if you want to, just leave a comment (guest/anon or not), and I’ll reply to that and I’ll add your question in the Epilogue 💜

It’s been cross posted to AO3 if you prefer to read there.Wanna see the book cover?

← previous | s.masterlist | m.masterlist |  next →

“We have enough to guide usWe have enough to lastWe’re not aloneWe never wereYou and I aren’t lostOh hold me very tightlyHold me fast and strongI am your loveWon’t stray from youYou and I belong” ‘My Heart is Like a River’ by Rebecca Lavelle

Fuck.

This was the last thing he expected. 

He never envisioned this moment, the one where you’d walk away, leaving him shattered and angry. He didn’t want this. Not in the slightest. Yet here he is, consumed by a turbulent mix of sorrow and self-directed fury, haunted by a year’s worth of regrettable decisions. He’s unable to find sleep, which is why he sinks into the couch at night, his knuckles white with tension as he grips a pen, its tip poised over the stark emptiness of the paper laid out before him.

He grasps the reasons behind your decision to end things, but the ache it leaves behind is unbearable. It’s a raw, searing pain that gnaws at him relentlessly. Understanding that he’s the architect of his own misery only compounds the agony. How does he begin to convey the depth of his remorse, the magnitude of his love for you? Every mistake he’s made weighs heavily on his conscience, a burden he’s not sure he can ever fully unburden. The prospect of reaching out to you now feels daunting, uncertain. He can still vividly recall the anguish etched across your face as you uttered those words, and the thought of adding to your pain is unbearable. For too long, he’s been a source of hurt, and the realization cuts him to the core. 

He despises himself for causing you so much pain.

Lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts, he grapples with the enormity of his love for you and the depth of his remorse. Words, he knows, can only scratch the surface of what he truly feels. How does one encapsulate a torrent of emotions in mere letters? Yet, he resolves to try, to lay bare his heart in this letter, hoping that somewhere amidst the ink-stained pages, you’ll find a glimmer of understanding, a shard of forgiveness.

As he traverses the hallway, the resonating clinks of heels guide his steps, drawing him towards the kitchen like a siren’s call. Entering, he beholds a vision: a woman, clad in a summer dress that dances with every step, her attire an incongruous yet captivating sight against the rustic backdrop. A wry smile tugs at his lips as he observes her, her presence a curious enigma, tinged with a hint of déjà vu. Could it be? Has he crossed paths with her before, or is she merely a figment of his imagination, conjured from distant memories?

“Can I help you?” He ventures, his tone a blend of curiosity and a subtle undercurrent of intrigue. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the contours of your form, an unspoken question hanging in the air between you. Yet, met with silence, he repeats his inquiry, his voice carrying a note of gentle persistence.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammer, the nervous energy palpable in your voice as you fidget with the folds of your dress, “I’m looking for Jessi?”

He chuckles warmly, a playful glint in his eyes as he flashes you a disarming smile. “Who are you?” His curiosity piqued, he leans in slightly, intrigued by your unexpected presence.

“I’m Jessi’s sister,” you declare confidently, your arms folding beneath your chest. As the realization dawns on him, he’s flooded with a mix of surprise and nostalgia. Of course, you’re Jessi’s sister! How could he have missed it? Memories come flooding back, of days spent playing together as children, and he can’t help but feel a rush of warmth at the sight of you, his childhood friend. A hint of that old crush resurfaces, sending his heart racing in his chest.

His cheeks warm with a blush, though he fights to keep it concealed. Admitting that his crush on you never waned might be too much, too soon. “You don’t remember me?” He ventures, a flicker of hope in his eyes, yet tinged with apprehension. The thought that you might not recall him is unsettling; after all, he had his own struggles recognizing you, despite the unmistakable familiarity.

As you simply stare at him, he adds, “It’s me, Jimin,” a hint of self-realization accompanying his words. It dawns on him that he never properly introduced himself, contributing to the confusion.

“Park?” You echo, incredulity weaving through your voice as you study him, and a soft chuckle escapes him, granting you a moment to recollect the countless hours spent playing together.

“Yeah! Don’t you remember? We played together when we were kids,” he chuckles warmly, gently nudging your memory in the hope of rekindling the moments of your childhood, now flooding vividly back to him.

You were such a vibrant and spirited girl back then, and you’re just as captivating now. You used to play games with him and your sister, embarking on countless adventures around your ranch and his parents’ property.

As recognition dawns upon you, he observes the tension in your features melting away, replaced by a sense of familiarity. Gesturing for you to take a seat, he retrieves a glass of water, all the while marveling at your presence. You look breathtaking, and the realization that you’re back hits him like a tidal wave. It’s been two decades since he last saw you, yet the memories flood back with a vengeance, reigniting the flames of that childhood crush in his heart.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” he offers his condolences, aware of the complexity of losing a parent, especially considering the strained relationship you’ve had with her for years, details he gleaned from your sister. Your expression shifts into one of pain, but you quickly dismiss it with a “It’s whatever,” though he senses it's anything but. Respectful of your boundaries, he refrains from probing further, though he silently wishes you’d open up. If ever you needed someone to talk to, he’d be there in a heartbeat, ready to lend a listening ear and a comforting shoulder to cry on, no matter the hour.

He offers you a warm, reassuring smile, a gesture he knows he can manage in times like these. Just then, he hears the familiar footsteps of your sister approaching, “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Her usual nagging about work trailing behind her like a persistent echo. But sometimes, he thinks, a brief respite is necessary before diving back into the grind. With a chuckle, he bids you farewell, promising to return to his tasks shortly. As he returns to his work, a contented smile graces his lips, though beneath the surface, his heart races with an unexpected flurry of emotions, stirred up by your unexpected presence.

As the barn party kicks off, Jimin finds himself consumed by thoughts of you, his mind drifting back to the encounter in the kitchen. It’s a strange sensation, akin to the giddiness of a schoolboy harboring a secret crush—except in this case, it's not just a youthful infatuation; it’s a reunion with someone from his past. When you and your father left the ranch, he never imagined seeing you again, the sudden departure leaving him with unspoken feelings he couldn't articulate at the time. He regrets not expressing his affection for you back then, but in hindsight, he knows you were both just kids, and such declarations might not have been taken seriously anyway.

Now that you’ve returned and his dormant feelings have resurfaced with a vengeance, Jimin feels an urgent need to express himself. He’s torn between the desire to reconnect with you as friends or dare to hope for something more. As he attempts to rein in his racing thoughts, he realizes just how awkward he can be around women, especially you, whom he holds in such high regard. But despite his nervousness, his affection for you outweighs his fear of awkwardness, propelling him to seek a meaningful connection with you once more.

The barn pulses with the rhythm of the music, matching the frantic beat of Jimin’s thoughts. He caught a glimpse of you earlier, but amidst the sea of people, he’s lost sight of you. The desire to reconnect with you burns fiercely within him, igniting the hope of perhaps mustering the courage to ask you out on a date. As he navigates through the crowd, he can’t shake the anticipation building in his chest, eager to find you and seize the opportunity to reignite your friendship.

As Jimin steps outside into the darkness, his heart races with anticipation, but what he encounters crushes him like a ton of bricks. His eyes land on you, pinned against the wall by his own brother, Jungkook, their heavy breaths echoing in the night. The sight drains the color from his world, leaving him feeling hollow and breathless. It’s a visceral punch to the gut, witnessing you entangled with his brother in such an intimate embrace. He can’t bear to look, the sickness rising in his throat threatens to overwhelm him. With a quick turn, he retreats back inside, his heart heavy with sorrow, his body trembling with a coldness that belies the heat of the barn.

Your eyes, reflecting surprise and sorrow, haunt his thoughts relentlessly. Jimin’s anger simmers beneath the surface, fueled by the sight of you with his brother. Jungkook’s magnetic charm is a curse Jimin knows all too well. It’s a pattern he’s witnessed countless times— his dates inevitably gravitate towards Jungkook’s allure, leaving Jimin feeling like a mere shadow in comparison. The pain of this familiar betrayal cuts deep, gnawing at his insides. He curses himself for his own hesitance, wishing he had seized the chance to connect with you before Jungkook’s spell took hold. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t be entangled with his brother now.

His chest tightens with a mix of fury and resignation. Rationality tells him you owe him nothing, yet the sting of rejection cuts deep. It’s a bitter pill he’s swallowed before, a recurring cycle of dashed hopes. Jungkook’s effortless allure always casts a shadow over Jimin’s prospects, leaving him feeling like fate’s perpetual underdog. The injustice of it all boils within him, a potent blend of anger and despair.

The weight of disappointment crushes his spirit, suffocating any semblance of enjoyment. What’s the point of staying at the party when the sight of you with his brother taints every corner of the barn? It’s a bitter pill to swallow, realizing he’s become a mere spectator in the game of love, always on the sidelines while Jungkook effortlessly steals the show. With a heavy heart, he contemplates leaving, unwilling to dampen the festivities with his darkening mood.

Jimin’s heart clenches at the mere thought of encountering you again, knowing all too well the anguish that awaits him in your eyes. Since witnessing you with his brother, he’s been ensnared by a whirlwind of hurt and resentment, emotions he’s been struggling to untangle. Your return, alongside your sister, feels like a cruel twist of fate, forcing him to confront the turmoil bubbling within him. Avoiding your gaze has become his coping mechanism, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the raw vulnerability lurking beneath the surface. Deep down, he still harbors affection for you, but the shadow of your entanglement with Jungkook looms large, casting doubt on any potential future between you. He doesn’t think you’ll ever be satisfied with him, now that you’ve been with his brother. The bitter realization gnaws at his soul, threatening to consume him whole. Yet, he knows dwelling on such thoughts serves no purpose, only deepening the wounds already etched into his heart.

“Where’s Kook?” Your sister’s inquiry cuts through the heavy silence, offering Jimin a fleeting respite from the tumult of his emotions. Grateful for the distraction, he exhales a silent sigh of relief, seizing the opportunity to avert his gaze from you, if only for a moment longer.

“In the barn fixing his bike, I’ll get him,” he responds with a forced smile, determined to maintain a facade of composure despite the turmoil within. As he strides past both of you, he catches the subtle shift in your gaze, but he refuses to acknowledge it, steeling himself against the flood of emotions threatening to engulf him. Ignoring you feels like self-preservation, a necessary shield against the ache in his heart.

Jimin locates his brother, and together they make their way back to where you and your sister stand. Jungkook, ever the cocky one, can’t resist a jab, his smirk evident as he quips, “Back for round two?”

Jimin scowls at his brother’s remark, finding him insufferable as usual. Anger bubbles within him, exacerbated by the widened shock in your eyes, as if they might pop out of their sockets at any moment. With an exasperated eye roll, Jimin brushes off Jungkook’s comment.

“No, thank you,” you sputter, and Jimin can’t help but feel a glimmer of relief, sensing that you’re not interested in his brother’s crude advances.

“You’re welcome anytime, babe,” his brother teases, winking at you, and Jimin suppresses a sigh. Jungkook’s flirtatious nature is no secret, but at this moment, Jimin can’t help but feel a twinge of irritation at his brother’s antics.

“Enough of that,” your sister declares, her interruption a welcome relief from the tension swirling in the air. Jimin exhales slowly, grateful for the distraction, as the mere thought of you and Jungkook ignites a fiery surge of jealousy within him. He knows delving into the depths of his unresolved emotions would only unravel him further, and he’s not ready to confront that turmoil just yet.

He catches the subtle glances you steal in his direction, but your eyes dart away the moment they meet his. It’s a confusing dance of fleeting interest, leaving Jimin bewildered and uncertain. After all, you’ve been intimate with his brother, so why would you show any interest in him? The ambiguity of your gaze sends his thoughts spiraling, unsure of what to make of the situation. Deciding it’s best to avoid further speculation, Jimin opts to keep his gaze lowered, wrestling with the tumult of emotions churning within him.

The bar door swings open, and there you are, clad in nothing but pants and a bra. His gaze darts to your anxious eyes, taking in the tremble of your body as you and your entourage make your way over to their table.

“Did you lose a bet or something?” Jungkook’s voice rings out, accompanied by a sharp whistle and a burst of laughter. Jimin rolls his eyes, frustration bubbling up at his brother’s relentless teasing of you.

He watches as you effortlessly roll your eyes at his brother’s teasing remark, your composure unshaken as you confidently take a seat.

“Well. Someone doesn’t share clothes. Apparently.” You quip with a hint of playful spite, directing your gaze at your sister, and he can’t help but chuckle, hastily concealing it behind a hand pressed to his lips.

You’re introduced to Yoongi and Hoseok, and Soo-ah hands you a beer, initiating conversation. Jimin finds his gaze lingering on your exposed skin, noticing the goosebumps forming and wondering if you’re feeling the chill.

“Aren’t you cold?” He notices how you bite your lip, but you merely shrug in response. Jimin considers offering you his shirt, though he’s unsure of how you’d react. Despite being comfortable sitting shirtless himself, he contemplates making the gesture anyway—

“Here. You can have my shirt,” his brother beats him to it, and Jimin grumbles, clenching his hands under the table in frustration. Damn it. He had wanted to offer you his shirt, but now he’s too late because he hesitated and over-thought the situation. Again. 

God, sometimes Jimin really despises his brother.

“Well, look who’s playing the gentleman,” Yoongi teases with a playful smack to Jungkook’s chest, and Jimin can’t help but roll his eyes once more. He’s well aware that his brother always has an agenda, always.

“Easier to pick up the ladies like this, anyway,” Jungkook remarks with a smirk, confirming Jimin’s suspicions. Jungkook may not be aiming to win you back, but he’s always on the lookout for the next pretty face. It’s moments like these that remind Jimin just how shallow his brother can be, always thinking with his dick instead of his brain.

As the table empties out, leaving just you and Jimin, a palpable tension lingers in the air, thickening with each passing moment. He can sense your uncertainty, and it mirrors his own nervousness. The weight of the unspoken words between you feels heavy, almost suffocating. Jimin shifts uncomfortably, unsure if he should break the silence or let it linger, unsure if his words will only add to the tension.

“I’m sorry if I did something wrong,” your hesitant voice cuts through the tension like a knife, breaking the suffocating silence that had settled between you. With a nervous expression, you fidget with your beer, your eyes betraying a mixture of apprehension and genuine concern.

His breath catches in his throat, surprised by your unexpected apology. Nodding gently, he gestures for you to elaborate, his mind racing with a blend of curiosity and cautious apprehension. Though uncertain of the reason behind your apology, he’s prepared to listen, his thoughts swirling with tentative guesses.

“I’m sorry I slept with your brother…” Your words cut through the air like a chilling breeze, each syllable heavy with the weight of regret. In a hushed confession, you lay bare the source of your apology, and he feels his chest tighten in response. His facade wavers momentarily, a flinch betraying the torrent of emotions raging within him. Beneath the veneer of composure, a tempest of anger swirls, threatening to engulf him in its fiery grasp.

“Why apologize for that?” His voice carries a hint of curiosity, a mask for the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. With a casual sip of his beer, he studies you intently, his eyes flickering with a mixture of emotions. You’re allowed to fuck whoever you want, he acknowledges inwardly, but the bitterness lingers, souring the taste of his thoughts. It’s not so much the act itself that stings, but the circumstances surrounding it—his brother, the witness to your intimacy. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, and he can’t help but lament the unfortunate twist of fate.

“It just seems like you’re angry with me… or something,” you add tentatively, your words laced with apprehension. He notices the nervous edge in your voice, the subtle tremor betraying your uncertainty, and how you avert your gaze, as if unable to meet his eyes.

“Look,” he starts, leaning in slightly over the table, his voice measured yet tinged with underlying emotion, “I’m not really angry. Maybe I’m more disappointed?” Despite his attempt at rationalizing his feelings, he knows deep down that anger brews within him, though its target remains elusive—whether directed at you or his brother, he’s unsure. After all, they’re all adults here, and dwelling on this resentment won’t change anything. Deep down, he knows he’s harboring a sense of anger, not necessarily at you, but at the recurring pattern where his brother always seems to come out on top. It’s a feeling of disappointment that runs deeper than just this one incident—it’s a narrative that’s unfolded over years, leaving him questioning his own worth. And he recognizes, it isn’t your fault; you’re just caught in the crossfire of a longstanding dynamic.

“You are, of course, allowed to sleep with whoever you want to. It’s just… it’s always him.” His words carry a raw edge, laced with a palpable mix of frustration and resentment. Jungkook’s recurring presence in such situations gnaws at him, a constant reminder of his brother’s tendency to overshadow him. Yet, even amidst his own turmoil, he realizes the futility of roping you into their tangled sibling rivalry. It’s an unhealthy dynamic, one he knows all too well, and he doesn’t want to drag you into its murky depths.

He watches as a wave of realization washes over your features, but he feels compelled to add more. “All women are drawn to him. He’s always fucking around. Not that I’m saying I want to be like that, but sometimes, it would be nice to feel noticed, you know?” Damn it. He said too much. Did he have too many beers? No, he’s barely finished his first bottle, and yet here he is, pouring out truths from the depths of his heart.

Damn it, why did he say that? He curses inwardly, realizing he’s delving into territory he’d rather avoid. He desperately needs to steer the conversation elsewhere, pronto.

“You know… When I saw you that day in the kitchen after all those years,” he starts tentatively, hoping to shift the focus away from his raw emotions.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, a gesture betraying the turmoil within. “I never thought I would see you again when you and your father left,” he confesses, a mixture of longing and regret bubbling beneath the surface, camouflaged by a forced chuckle.

His nerves prickle like a live wire, urging him to speak, even as his mind screams caution. “Did you know,” he blurts, the words tumbling out despite his better judgment, “I had a crush on you when we were kids?” His throat tightens with apprehension, berating himself internally for the sudden confession. Was it just one beer he had? Because why on earth would he reveal this now?

“I had no idea,” you reply, your voice laced with surprise and regret, your features softening with an apologetic expression. “I’m truly sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he chuckles, though the tension in his voice betrays his true feelings. His heart races with nervousness, cursing himself for his lack of restraint in revealing his past crush. But there's a deeper secret he keeps buried: his current feelings for you, perhaps even love. It's a precarious balance between wanting to confess and fearing rejection. He prays his mouth won’t betray him again, divulging more than he’s ready to admit.

Sensing the danger of delving further into emotions, he swiftly changes the topic, opting for safer conversational waters. Offering to fetch another round of beers, he steers the discussion towards lighter subjects. Yet, beneath his composed facade, he finds himself unnerved by you. There’s an undeniable allure to your demeanor— a blend of nervousness and confidence that both intrigues and intimidates him. He’s drawn to your self-assuredness, yet fears the intensity of his own feelings, wary of pushing you away with his overwhelming emotions.

“I’ve been considering heading back home. It just feels like I mess everything up…” You confess, your words tinged with uncertainty, and he feels a surge of emotion. Panic grips him at the mere thought of you leaving. No. No. He can’t bear the idea of you walking away, of missing out on the potential moments you could share together. Despite his internal conflict, a selfish desire whispers in his heart, urging you to stay, if only for a little while longer.

“No, no, you shouldn’t give up. Please, give it some more time,” he urges, his voice laced with genuine concern. Each word carries the weight of his longing, a silent plea for you to stay. Memories of his childhood flood his mind, reminding him of the warmth you brought to his heart. He can’t bear the thought of losing you again, not when he feels a flicker of hope reignite in his heart at your return.

Jimin has been surreptitiously observing you as you sort wool with Yoongi, stealing glances whenever he can muster the courage. Each time your eyes meet his, it sends a flutter through his chest, a silent reminder of the unresolved emotions swirling within him. He grapples with the realization that perhaps he’s been too quick to let his insecurities dictate his reactions, especially when he witnessed you with his brother. Yet, amidst the tangled mess of doubts and hopes, one thing remains clear—he still harbors feelings for you. With each passing moment, he wrestles with the notion of reaching out, of bridging the gap that has formed between you. Could there be a chance to mend what’s broken, to transcend the shadow of past misunderstandings? As he contemplates these questions, he can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there’s a glimmer of mutual interest between you two. But how does one navigate the delicate dance of reigniting a connection fraught with uncertainties? Jimin finds himself at a loss, grappling with the complexities of his own heart as he yearns for a sign, a signal that could pave the way for a new beginning.

Caught off guard by the sudden outburst, Jimin’s thoughts scatter like startled birds as your sister’s sharp reprimand slices through the air. He can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for you, knowing firsthand the intensity of Jessi’s temper. Watching your gaze falter, retreating from the accusatory finger jabbing in your direction, he senses your discomfort like a palpable wave washing over the scene. A surge of concern floods Jimin’s chest as he worries about the impact Jessi’s harsh words might have on you. Could this tirade be the final straw, driving you away for good? The fear gnaws at him, a silent plea echoing in his mind for some semblance of peace to return to the tense atmosphere.

As you take a hesitant step backward, Jimin’s heart clenches with concern, his grip on the clippers loosening as he watches you dart towards the door. Without a second thought, he abandons the tools and bolts after you, propelled by a surge of urgency to catch up and ensure you’re okay.

“Please come back,” Jimin’s plea is tinged with desperation as he watches you retreat towards the house. His heart races with a sense of urgency, knowing he can’t let you leave without offering some comfort. He longs to reassure you that your sister’s harshness doesn't define your worth, that everything will eventually fall into place.

As you pivot, a look of anguish etched across your features, you confess, “I fuck everything up Jimin.” His heart aches at your admission, wondering what else burdens your mind. “I feel utterly useless on this ranch,” you add, your voice heavy with self-doubt. Jimin's resolve strengthens, determined to offer you the solace and encouragement you desperately need.

“It’s to be expected. You’ll get better,” he reassures you, his voice laced with sincerity. Despite his efforts to comfort you, he notices how you’ve withdrawn into yourself, lost in your own thoughts.

“Do you think I belong here?” Your question catches him off guard and he gapes at you, but he already knows the answer to your question, so it’s easy.

“I do,” he says, his voice carrying a depth of emotion that belies the simplicity of the words. It’s a plea, a fervent wish whispered into the air, a silent urging for you to see what he sees – that this place, this ranch, is where you truly belong. Deep down, he knows it’s selfish, but damn it, he can’t bear the thought of you leaving.

“I believe you just need time,” he offers with a gentle smile, though beneath it, he can feel the weight of your uncertainty. It’s a small offering of solace, but he knows words alone can’t ease the turmoil brewing within you.

“I don’t think I fit in, and I feel like an imposter,” you confess, your voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. Each word strikes a chord within him, a pang of sadness laced with determination. He can’t bear the thought of you feeling out of place, not when he envisions you finding your footing here, becoming a part of this place he calls home. He believes in you, in your ability to belong, and he’s willing to give you all the time you need to see it too.

One thing is a childhood crush, but delving into the depths of who you are now, the adult version of you, that’s what he craves. He yearns to unravel the layers, to discover if there’s a deeper connection waiting to be unearthed between you two, something more profound and meaningful than just fleeting feelings from the past.

As the rain cascades down upon both of you, Jimin’s attention isn’t on the weather, but on you, on your emotions. “We should get back” he suggests, aware that the rain shows no signs of relenting. Yet, amidst the downpour, he seizes a moment of boldness, reaching out to intertwine his fingers with yours. “You belong here,” he affirms, his touch conveying a silent plea for you to stay, to weather the storm together, not just the rain outside, but the uncertainties within.

He prays silently that his words and gestures are enough to anchor you here, but deep down, he understands he can’t dictate your choices. The decision to stay must be yours alone, driven by your own desires and dreams. Yet, a fervent longing swells within him, an unspoken wish that you’ll choose to remain, not for his sake, but for your own. Oh, how he yearns for you to stay.

You left. It’s a twist he didn’t see coming, yet somehow, it makes sense. Your sister’s relentless demands and the weight of your own insecurities pushed you away. He empathizes; Jessi’s temper can be overwhelming, and she hasn’t exactly rolled out the welcome mat for you. And your self-doubt about your skills on the ranch? He gets it. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and he certainly wasn’t a master of everything from the get-go either. Improvement comes with time, and he believes in your potential to thrive.

Why does he find himself standing in front of your city home, heart pounding against his ribcage like a caged bird? He knocks, and when the door swings open, you greet him with a mix of surprise and puzzlement, yet your smile, soft and tender, ignites a wildfire of hope in his chest.

“Jimin?” Your voice carries a blend of curiosity and caution, eyes darting around to confirm his identity, a flicker of uncertainty dancing in their depths.

“Hey,” he greets you with a hint of shyness, his voice slightly uneven as if your mere presence has the power to stir up a whirlwind of emotions within him. You have this uncanny ability to make his heart flutter and his nerves dance, rendering him almost breathless in your presence.

“Come in,” you invite, and as he steps across the threshold, his senses are immediately greeted by the cozy compact hallway, each corner whispering tales of your daily life within the confines of your two-bedroom apartment.

“What brings you here, Jimin?” You inquire, your eyes sparkling with curiosity and a hint of anticipation, inviting him to share the purpose of his unexpected visit. His heart races with the weight of unspoken words, debating whether to reveal the depth of his feelings, to confess how much he misses you and yearns for your return. Yet, he hesitates, fearing that such raw honesty might overwhelm you, opting instead to tread lightly into the depths of the conversation.

“I came here because there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he starts, his gaze wandering around your apartment. An easel catches his eye, displaying a painting in the corner. He hadn’t realized you painted. Memories of your childhood passion for art resurface, but he hadn’t expected you to continue. Your dedication surprises and impresses him. As he admires the artwork, he can’t help but think how much it reflects your beauty and depth, a reflection of the intricate layers of your soul.

“You mentioned wanting to talk?” You inquire, drawing his attention away from your paintings. There’s a hint of curiosity in your voice, and he notices the way your eyes search his face, as if trying to decipher his thoughts. He feels a sudden rush of nerves, realizing the weight of the conversation he’s about to embark upon.

“Sure, let’s go to a cafe and have that talk,” he proposes, a spark of anticipation igniting in his eyes, his heart quickening with the prospect of finally opening up to you.

You suggest heading to a nearby café, and he readily agrees, the anticipation building as you walk the short distance together. Your demeanor betrays a hint of anxiety, and he can’t blame you—after all, he did show up unannounced, eager to talk. Arriving at the café, you both place your orders, and Jimin can feel the nervous energy coursing through him at the thought of opening up to you. But as he steals glances at your radiant smile, he knows he needs to gather his thoughts and make this moment count.

As you dig into your chocolate cake, you turn to him with a curious glint in your eyes. “So, what’s on your mind?” you inquire, your voice carrying a mix of anticipation and intrigue.

He can’t help but chuckle nervously, a subtle tremor in his voice betraying his unease as his hand moves to shield his smile. “It’s about you actually,” he confesses, his gaze lingering on you, as if searching for the right words to convey the weight of his thoughts.

He watches intently as your eyes widen, your lips parting in shock. “Me?” You echo softly, the word hanging in the air, laced with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

He feels his heart quicken its pace, his palms moistening with nervousness. “We miss you,” he admits, his voice a blend of longing and reluctance. Jimin knows he shouldn’t reveal too much, shouldn’t tell you how much he misses you. Yeah, the other’s miss you too and your sister actually regrets how she had been treating you. The words are close to spill out anyway. He can’t help it. Your puzzled expression prompts him to elaborate, “Everybody back home.”

The words sting him like a slap in the face. “That place isn’t my home anymore,” you declare, and each syllable feels like a dagger to his heart. He knows deep down that your old home could be your sanctuary once more, if only you’d give it another chance.

“It could be,” he responds softly, his words laden with unspoken longing. He wrestles with the urge to confess how much he aches for your presence, but he reins it in, wary of overwhelming you. Yet, glimpsing your paintings in your apartment, he discerns a silent yearning for the ranch.

“Everybody misses you, even your sister,” he adds, hoping to bridge the chasm between your worlds.

You scoff at that notion, momentarily entertaining the idea that your sister orchestrated his visit. He almost finds it amusing. Sure, Jessi might regret her actions, but her pride likely won’t allow her to apologize. He came here of his own volition, driven solely by his feelings for you. And as he gauges your response, he wonders if your sentiments mirror his own. He longs for certainty before taking the next step, eager to discern if your heart echoes his.

You spend the remaining time engaged in conversation about his heartfelt conviction that you belong on the ranch. He earnestly endeavors to sway your decision, silently yearning for your return—not just to the land, but to him. Yet, he hesitates to voice these sentiments, aware of the weight they carry. It pains him to witness your despondency, your yearning for the solace of a home—a comfort he believes he could offer, if only you desired it. Eventually, you concede to mull over the prospect of returning, a small glimmer of hope that lifts his spirits.

He’s reluctant for the day to draw to a close, even after both of you have polished off your cakes. So, he proposes a shopping excursion, and as you amble down the bustling street, he revels in the simple joy of your company. Witnessing you try on various dresses fills him with delight, but it’s the moment you find one that makes you radiate with confidence that truly captivates him. As you stand before the mirror, the dress hugging your curves in all the right places, he’s struck by the desire to gift it to you. Your surprised reaction to his offer, accompanied by a blush that tinges your cheeks, only serves to further enchant him.

As you return to your apartment and settle in to order food, Jimin realizes he’s extending his stay beyond his initial intentions. He’s wary of overstaying his welcome, yet he finds himself relishing every moment spent in your presence. Together, you indulge in a satisfying meal, the aroma of comfort food filling the air. With appetites sated, you delve into a conversation that spans the years since you departed from the ranch. Each shared anecdote and exchanged experience bridges the gap of time, weaving a tapestry of shared memories and newfound connection.

As he opens up to you, Jimin shares the tumultuous story of his family, particularly focusing on his father’s betrayal and subsequent remarriage shortly after his mother's passing. Recounting these painful memories is a struggle for him, as he harbors deep-seated resentment, especially towards his father for his infidelity. To Jimin, loyalty is paramount, and the thought of betraying a loved one is unfathomable. He reflects on the challenging dynamic with Jungkook, his stepbrother thrust into his life against his wishes. Initially resistant to the idea of a new sibling, Jimin grappled with conflicting emotions, navigating the complexities of familial relationships with grit and resilience.

He notices your curious gaze, fixated on the subtle limp in his stride, a constant reminder of a past he’d rather forget. Jimin understands the unspoken question lingering in your eyes, the same one that everyone seems eager to ask about. It’s a topic he loathes discussing—the limp, the accident, and the haunting scar etched into his flesh. Yet, he opens up to you, albeit selectively, glossing over certain details. He shields you from the raw emotions that still cling to the memories, like the overwhelming fear that consumed him in the aftermath, or the excruciating pain that once threatened to steal his mobility forever. Despite the physical healing, the pain persists, a relentless echo of the trauma that reshaped his life.

As if drawn by an invisible force, your hand ventures to his thigh, your touch igniting a cascade of sensations that electrify his senses. Each stroke sends a jolt of pleasure through him, coaxing his heart into a frantic rhythm matched only by the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. His body responds eagerly to your touch, craving more, yearning for the warmth of your hand in places where desire simmers just beneath the surface. Jimin knows he shouldn’t entertain these forbidden thoughts, but the allure of your touch is intoxicating, tempting him into a realm of pleasure he’s desperate to explore. With each passing moment, your hand inches closer to his dick, and he's powerless to resist the magnetic pull drawing him toward the world of lust.

“Is this okay?” Your gentle inquiry sends a surge of electricity through the air, and Jimin feels a wave of apprehension wash over him. He’s caught between the desire to surrender to the intoxicating allure of your touch and the fear of crossing a line he might not be able to uncross. Yet, despite the tumult of emotions raging within him, he manages to croak out a strained “yes,” his voice betraying the depth of his longing and the intensity of his arousal.

God damn it, he curses inwardly as a surge of desire courses through him, causing his body to react involuntarily. He shifts uncomfortably, prompting your hand to retreat apologetically as you murmur, “I’m sorry.”

He reassures you with a strained “it’s okay,” but inside, he’s reeling from the lingering sensation of your touch. Your hands had worked wonders, but it’s not just the massage that’s setting him alight; it’s the mere contact with you, igniting a dangerous blaze of desire within him.

He’s acutely aware of the charged atmosphere between you, a palpable tension that threatens to unravel with every passing moment. Seeking respite, you suggest watching a movie, and he agrees, grateful for the distraction. As the film unfolds, he finds himself more captivated by the way your eyelids flutter and eventually succumb to sleep, your head gently resting against his chest. With tender care, he brushes away the stray strands of hair that caress your face, his heart swelling with affection at the sight of you in such peaceful repose. He realizes, in that moment, the depth of his feelings for you—love, pure and unadulterated. Yet, the weight of uncertainty presses upon him like a heavy burden. Should he confess his love, risking the fragile bond of friendship that now exists between you both? Or should he continue to cherish these stolen moments, content in the knowledge that you’re by his side, even if only as friends?

“I love you,” he murmurs softly, the words slipping from his lips like a secret confession, a whispered promise to the sleeping form nestled against him. In the hushed stillness of the room, he finds solace in the act of vocalizing his feelings, the weight of his emotions easing with each syllable uttered. Though he knows you’re unaware of his declaration in your slumber, he takes comfort in the notion that the words hang in the air, a silent testament to the depth of his affection for you. Yet, as the echoes of his confession fade into the night, he realizes that his journey towards vocalizing his love has only just begun—a journey he’s determined to embark upon, armed with nothing but his unwavering devotion and the courage to speak his heart when you’re awake, ready to hear his words.

He hadn’t intended on staying the night, but your gentle slumber on his lap had rooted him in place. He couldn’t bear to disrupt your peaceful rest, and truth be told, he relished the sensation of your weight against him. He couldn’t recall when your head had found its way to his thighs, but the warmth of your presence was a comfort he couldn’t deny. However, the unwelcome arousal pressing against his jeans was a stark reminder of his body’s betraying response to your innocent proximity. Your soft murmurs and endearing sighs had stirred something primal within him, leaving him unable to conceal the undeniable evidence of his desire.

“Oh, goodness! I’m so sorry!” You exclaim, scrambling to sit upright, cheeks tinged with a delicate blush. He can't help but chuckle at your flustered reaction, finding your genuine concern endearing.

“It’s okay. I just woke up,” he assures, though it’s not entirely true. He’s been awake for a few moments, captivated by the peaceful sight of you sleeping. Is it a bit creepy? Perhaps. But at that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

You end up apologizing profusely for inadvertently resting on his injured leg, but he reassures you, insisting it didn’t hurt much. Suddenly, you offer to whip up some pancakes, and the idea sounds heavenly to him. He realizes how hungry he is, so the prospect of food is more than welcome.

He realizes he should head back home soon. Yesterday, he left without a word to his brother, and he certainly didn’t mention staying the night elsewhere. Jungkook might be in a panic by now, given the flurry of missed calls on his phone. Oops.

The pancakes you’ve whipped up are simply divine, and for a fleeting moment, he entertains the idea of staying here with you indefinitely. But reality pulls him back to the ranch, his responsibilities tugging at his heartstrings. Deep down, he yearns for you to join him there, to make the place feel complete once more. Yet, he knows he can’t impose such a request on you. Your decision to return must stem from your own desires. As the time draws near for his departure, he lingers a bit longer, subtly conveying how much he’ll miss you if you choose not to come back.

“I hope to see you again, maybe back home?” His gaze lingers on you, a silent plea echoing in his eyes. In that suspended moment, he senses a subtle transformation within you, a shift in the air that ignites a blush on your cheeks. And in that shared vulnerability, he feels his own heart quicken its pace, a silent testament to the magnetic pull you exert on him with each passing moment.

As you remain silent, he gathers his courage, emboldened by the delicate flush on your cheeks. Closing the gap between you, he leans in, his breath mingling with yours as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. A playful grin tugs at his lips, betraying the nervous flutter in his chest; he can feel the warmth rising to his cheeks, but he couldn’t resist the urge to express his longing in that fleeting touch.

“See you at home,” he whispers, the words carrying a weight of anticipation as he descends the stairs. His heart thunders in his chest, a symphony of excitement and nerves that threaten to overwhelm him. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, a wide grin splits his face, a telltale sign of the emotions bubbling within him. In that moment, he feels like a fool — a foolish, lovesick fool.

You’ve returned, and it’s like a missing piece of his world has finally clicked back into place. Since his visit to the city, everything between you seems to hum with a new energy, a subtle shift that he can’t ignore. The air crackles with anticipation, and he can’t help but notice the lingering glances, the charged moments that pass between you. He senses the attraction growing, weaving its way between you like a delicate thread. Perhaps it’s time to take the next step, to ask you out on a proper date. But first, there’s the matter of moving your belongings from the city back to the ranch, a task he embraces eagerly, knowing it’s a chance to be by your side once more.

He chuckles at the sight of neatly packed boxes, already lined up and ready to go. He had braced himself for a lengthy packing session, but you’ve surprised him with your efficiency. With everything neatly organized, the task ahead seems much simpler. Now, all that’s left is to lift and load the boxes onto the truck and trailer, and you’ll be ready to roll.

Despite the weight of the boxes and the growing ache in his leg, he soldiers on without complaint. He refuses to let you see the strain he’s under, determined to make this transition as smooth as possible for you. Together, you lift and carry furniture, ensuring that nothing is left behind. Finally, you slide the key into the landlord’s mailbox, marking the end of an era and the beginning of a new chapter.

As you navigate the road back home, he catches your gaze drifting to his leg, a subtle twitch betraying the discomfort he’s trying to conceal. Despite his efforts to mask the pain, he can tell you’ve seen through his facade.

“Does your leg hurt?” Your concern is palpable in the gentle tone of your voice. He hesitates, debating whether to offer a reassuring lie or admit to the discomfort gnawing at him. Ultimately, honesty wins out. “Yeah, a bit,” he confesses, unable to shield you from the truth.

Your hand ventures across the center console, landing on his thigh with a gentle, reassuring pressure that sends a jolt through him. As your fingers begin to work their magic, tracing soothing circles over his tense muscles, he feels his defenses weakening. Like an inferno ignited, desire surges within him, rendering him powerless to resist. A soft moan slips past his lips, betraying the overwhelming effect of your touch, and he knows he’s in trouble, especially while navigating the road ahead.

His mind is a whirlwind of forbidden desires, each touch of your hand stoking the flames of his longing. With every inch your hand inches closer, his body responds eagerly, aching for your touch. Yet, amidst the overwhelming urge, a voice of reason echoes in his mind, reminding him of the danger of indulging in such desires while driving. Despite the throbbing need coursing through him, he fights to suppress his carnal urges, knowing that some pleasures are too risky to pursue in the heat of the moment.

“Please stop,” his voice, a blend of desire and restraint, breaks the tension-filled silence, pleading for respite from the intoxicating allure of your touch. As your hand halts its tantalizing caress on his thigh, a palpable tension hangs in the air, his body yearning for the forbidden pleasure yet tempered by the awareness of the dangers lurking on the road ahead.

“I might lose focus on the road if you keep that up,” he confesses, his tone laced with a blend of restraint and longing, revealing the precarious balance between desire and responsibility. With each passing moment, the tantalizing temptation grows stronger, stirring a primal urge within him. For a fleeting instant, he entertains the reckless notion of pulling over, and just fucking you, like he really wants to do.

Jimin is rendered speechless as you glide through the doors, clad in the dress he picked out for you. The sight of you steals his breath away, igniting a fire within him that he struggles to contain. Your radiant smile lights up the room, and as your eyes meet his, it’s as if the world fades away, leaving only the two of you enveloped in an electric moment.

You take in the surroundings of the house, every detail seemingly more enchanting with Jimin by your side. As he gracefully pulls you into a slow dance, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you in a timeless embrace. The warmth of his hand in yours and the genuine smile on your face envelop him in a sense of serenity, and for a moment, he’s lost in the beauty of the moment, captivated by the sight of you.

You sway together in the gentle rhythm of the music, but beneath the surface, a tempest of emotions rages within Jimin. With every step, he feels the magnetic pull towards you intensify, igniting a wildfire of desire that threatens to consume him whole. The urge to whisk you away upstairs, to pour out his heart, to share every secret and desire, is almost overpowering. Yet, in the midst of this intoxicating whirlwind, fear gnaws at him. This unbridled attraction, so fierce and undeniable, terrifies him in its intensity, for it’s unlike anything he's ever experienced before, and it’s already reshaping the very fabric of his emotions.

As his brother, Jungkook, sweeps in to ask you for a dance, Jimin’s eyes roll with a mix of amusement and mild annoyance. Reluctantly, he steps aside, letting you be whisked away into the arms of his sibling, though a flicker of jealousy ignites in his chest. As you twirl away with Jungkook, Jimin can’t help but feel a pang of insecurity, wondering if he’s made a mistake by relinquishing your presence, even if only for a dance.

Meanwhile, Jimin gracefully makes his way to the piano, a glint of determination in his eyes. He settles onto the bench, his fingers poised over the keys with a mixture of nerves and excitement. With a soft, thoughtful expression, he adjusts the volume of the music, letting the melody fill the room with a gentle ambiance. As he begins to play, his heart pours into the music, each note resonating with a depth of emotion that only he can truly understand. With a voice rich with sincerity, he sings a love song, his eyes flickering over to where you stand, hoping that you’ll appreciate the gesture.

In the midst of the music, Jimin wrestles with his own conflicting emotions. He knows he should muster the courage to express his feelings directly to you, to tell you that he’s head over heels in love. Yet, fear grips him, the fear of rejection, of vulnerability. Despite the undeniable connection he feels between you, he hesitates, unsure of how you’ll respond.

Instead, he lets the melody speak for him, allowing the heartfelt lyrics to convey the depth of his affection. With each tender note, he silently hopes that you’ll understand the message hidden within the music, the silent plea for your reciprocation.

Your expression betrays a mixture of surprise and curiosity as Jimin finishes his serenade. Without a word, he rises from the piano bench, his hand outstretched towards you, a silent invitation in his gaze. “Please, come with me,” he implores softly, his voice laced with an urgency that belies the calm exterior he tries to maintain. With a gentle yet firm grasp, he leads you towards the door, a sense of purpose driving his movements.

As he leads you outside, Jimin can feel the weight of anticipation hanging heavy in the air. This could be the moment, he thinks, the moment he finally lays his heart bare before you. Or perhaps he should start with something simpler, like asking you out on a date. But with every step that brings you closer to the secluded spot he has in mind, his mind races with a whirlwind of emotions, leaving him uncertain of where to begin.

Now, with the night sky stretching out above you and the soft glow of moonlight casting shadows across your face, he finds himself unable to resist the pull of desire. With a sudden surge of courage, he pins you against the wall, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt.

His mind races like a speeding train, thoughts colliding and scattering in all directions, leaving him grasping for a coherent sentence. “Brothers talk,” he blurts out, cursing himself inwardly the instant the words leave his lips. Jungkook’s words about you after that night echo in his mind, a bitter reminder of a conversation he never wanted to have— he didn’t like hearing his brother talk about you like that. He wishes desperately to erase those words from his memory, to banish them to the darkest corners of his mind, but they linger like a stubborn stain, impossible to scrub away.

“I know you slept with Jungkook,” he murmurs into your ear, feeling the slight tremor that runs through your body. The tension crackles between you, a silent dialogue of unspoken words and hidden desires. He prays silently that you don’t harbor any strange fascination with brothers, because if you do, you’re in for disappointment. That’s not his thing.

“And I don’t mind. I like you,” he confesses, his words tinged with a mixture of vulnerability and sincerity. Despite the discomfort of knowing about your past with his brother, he’s willing to look beyond it because his feelings for you outweigh any resentment. The image of you being reduced to a mere conquest by Jungkook leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but he’s determined to move past it for the sake of what he feels for you.

“I like you too, Jimin,” you confess, and the weight of those words sends a surge of excitement through him. Finally, the confirmation he’s been yearning for, the green light to express what’s been building inside him for weeks. As he leans in to kiss you, anticipation electrifying the air, the door beside you swings open, and out steps his brother, wearing that infuriating grin. Damn it, Jungkook always manages to ruin the moment, the ultimate cock blocker.

You’ve been putting in long hours at the ranch alongside Yoongi, and he’s observed how effortlessly you’ve adapted to the work. He doesn’t mind the time you spend with Yoongi; after all, cultivating friendships here is important, and he’s glad to see you forming bonds in your new environment.

As he makes his way over to where you’re taming the wild horses, Jimin feels a surge of confidence coursing through him. Today feels like the right moment to finally muster the courage and ask you out on that long-awaited date.

He approaches, anticipation bubbling within him, but Jimin’s heart sinks like a stone at the sight before him. His steps falter as he witnesses your lips meeting Yoongi’s in an unexpected embrace. Shock and hurt intertwine within him, shattering the fragile hope he held of something blossoming between you both. It’s a painful echo of the moment he caught you with his brother, a wound reopened. With a heavy heart, he silently retreats, the weight of disappointment pulling him away.

Caught in the whirlwind of emotions, Jimin did notice the shock etched on your features. But confusion battles with hurt within him, a tumultuous storm raging in his heart. Was it betrayal he saw in your eyes? Or was it simply his own shattered illusions playing tricks on him? The thought gnaws at him—had you been toying with his feelings all along? 

The memory of you with his brother burns like a brand, leaving him grappling with a cocktail of emotions, unable to discern truth from illusion. 

You fucked his brother, maybe you want to fuck Yoongi too?

Though he hears your hurried footsteps behind him, he refuses to turn back, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. Anger simmers within him, intertwined with a thread of sorrow, a tumult of emotions threatening to consume him. Frustration gnaws at him — frustration at you, frustration at himself for allowing himself to fall under your spell. For he realizes now, with painful clarity, that you hold the power to shatter his heart. And he can’t bear the thought of enduring such agony. It’s a bitter realization, but he knows he must protect himself. It’s better to walk away now, before the pain deepens any further.

“Jimin!” Your voice echoes urgently behind him, but he’s already near the door, his resolve hardening with each step. Maybe he can simply shut you out, ignore whatever explanation you might offer. He doesn’t want to entertain the possibility of hearing you out, even as you grasp his arm, pleading, “Jimin, it’s not what it seems—I need to explain!”

He doesn’t want to hear it. There’s a strange ringing in his ears, drowning out your words. It’s as if his mind is adrift in a sea of chaos, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. Anger simmers beneath the surface, a volatile brew threatening to boil over. With a clenched jaw, he turns to face you. “You kissed Yoongi.” The words cut through the deafening silence like a knife, sharp and accusatory.

“No, I didn’t! He kissed me, and I didn’t want that. It meant nothing, okay?” Your words pierce through the heavy silence, but he’s not sure if he wants to believe them. He’s built a fortress around his heart, shielding it from any more pain. Watching you with his brother was hard enough, and now this? It’s not just the kiss itself that bothers him; it’s the unsettling feeling that you might be interested in anyone but him.

Since that kiss with Yoongi, he’s been nursing a hurt that gnaws at him relentlessly. Though he’s avoided speaking to you, he’s watched from a distance. Your once vibrant spirit now wears a cloak of sadness, but in Yoongi’s presence, you light up. It’s a comfort to see you finding solace, yet a pang of envy grips him. Watching you two together twists something deep inside him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Amidst the ache in his heart, he’s found himself seeking solace in familiar connections, even replying to texts from his former physiotherapist, Deiji.

Despite the gnawing guilt, he finds himself unable to bridge the growing chasm between you. The pain of witnessing your closeness with Yoongi ignites a jealousy that eclipses all rational thought. It’s not just about liking or loving you anymore; it’s about the exhausting cycle of feeling perpetually overlooked. He’s tired of being picked last.

Perhaps that’s why he extended the invitation to Deiji, fully aware that you and Yoongi would be there. In his mind, it’s a feeble attempt to feign indifference, a facade of moving on. He’s well aware of the pettiness of his actions, yet he’s powerless against the torrent of bitterness coursing through his veins.

He catches the glimmer of sadness in your eyes as they meet his across the bar, and a pang of unease twists in his stomach, a blend of hurt and confusion. He’s at a loss to comprehend why your gaze holds such sorrow when you’re evidently entwined with Yoongi. The sight of him enveloping you, a shield against the world, ignites a storm of resentment in Jimin’s gut.

Despite being officially with Deiji, a decision he’s uncertain about and made more out of a sense of emptiness than genuine interest, Jimin finds himself questioning his own actions. He doesn’t understand why he acquiesced when she asked to make things official; perhaps it was the notion that having someone, anyone, was better than facing the void alone. But the truth is, he doesn’t harbor strong feelings for Deiji. Aware of the wrongness of the situation, Jimin feels a gnawing guilt deep within him, a sense of moral turmoil that he can’t shake off. 

And with every stolen glance in your direction, a reminder of his divided attention, he's torn between appeasing Deiji and grappling with the realization of what he truly desires.

Each day, you faithfully show up for work, your presence a constant in the familiar routine of taming the wild horses alongside Yoongi. Yet, with every shared moment you spend with him, Jimin can’t help but feel a surge of spite and jealousy coursing through him. Despite his best efforts to suppress it, the sight of you engrossed in your tasks, your laughter echoing in the stables, stirs up a tempest of conflicting emotions within him. It’s true, you appear happy, your smiles lighting up the barn, but beneath the surface, Jimin senses a lingering sadness, a hidden ache that eludes his understanding.

Even amidst the swirling chaos of his emotions, Jimin finds himself unable to muster the courage to speak to you. The turmoil within him is relentless, leaving him uncertain if he even wants to engage in conversation with you anymore. His feelings are a tangled web of confusion, rendering him utterly lost within himself. It’s as if he’s been thrown into a storm of his own making, unable to find solid ground amidst the tempest of his conflicted heart.

Even his own brother, in a rare moment of clarity, has acknowledged the messiness of the situation and urged him to confront it. Yet, Jimin finds himself grappling with the futility of such a conversation. What words could possibly bridge the chasm between you when you’re with Yoongi and he’s with Deiji? It’s a tangled web of relationships, each strand pulling them further apart with every passing moment.

Recently, Jimin has found himself consumed by jealousy, a venomous emotion that twists his thoughts and clouds his every interaction. He’s engulfed by an unrelenting anger — directed at you, at himself, at the cruel hand fate has dealt. Walking about with a perpetual scowl, he broods in silence, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of longing and resentment. Forced to collaborate with you by Jungkook, he remains mute, the weight of unspoken words suffocating him. Jimin, once eager to engage, now fears the irreparable chasm that has formed between you, the inevitable drift driving a wedge deeper with each passing day.

For reasons unbeknownst to him, your sister insists on throwing a party to mark the cast coming off. This entails a dinner, an event Jimin dreads. The thought of facing you, knowing Yoongi will also be present, fills him with apprehension. It’s been weeks, perhaps even months, since he’s exchanged a word with either of you, and the prospect of reconnecting amidst the festivity feels daunting.

He’s been avoiding you for what feels like forever, yet here he is, standing in your house with his girlfriend, desperately trying to hide the turmoil churning inside him. It’s not a physical demise, he knows he’s being overly dramatic, but the emotional anguish feels suffocating, overwhelming every inch of his being.

He stands there, silently seething as he watches Yoongi envelope you in his arms, whispering about how much he’s missed you. Anger courses through him like a torrent, mixing with a bitter taste of something unpalatable, leaving him with a nauseating sensation, as if he could vomit at any moment.

He averts his gaze, sensing the sudden fury emanating from you, though the reason eludes him. Desperately, he attempts to divert his attention to Deiji, but it’s futile; he can’t shake the feeling of longing for you, despite the turmoil raging within him. Every glance towards you is a reminder of the pain of seeing you with Yoongi, of his own inadequacy to confront or resolve the situation. He feels trapped in a cycle of longing and self-loathing, unable to break free from the grip of his own childishness.

You glide into the charity gala, a vision of elegance and grace that steals his breath away. He shouldn’t be captivated by you, shouldn’t be allowing his gaze to linger when he should be focusing on his date. Yet, Deiji’s waning interest in him is palpable, a silent testament to the growing chasm between them. He knows their relationship is crumbling, and he can’t blame her for growing weary of his constant pining for someone else. The truth is, he was never truly invested in Deiji; she was merely a placeholder, a feeble attempt to fill the void left by your unattainability. Now, as he watches you from across the room, radiant and out of reach, he realizes the magnitude of his mistake.

Despite dancing with his girlfriend, his eyes are drawn irresistibly to you, tracing every step you take as you glide across the dance floor with Hoseok, then Yoongi. Each moment is like a dagger to his heart, yet he can’t tear his gaze away. It’s masochistic, really, subjecting himself to the exquisite agony of watching you in Yoongi’s embrace, but he’s transfixed, unable to look away.

Without warning, your expression morphs into one of raw anger, fury emanating from every pore as you stride purposefully towards him. Your voice, sharp and cutting, pierces through the music as you demand, “Why the hell are you staring at me like that?”

Startled and taken aback, his heart skips a beat as your sudden outburst catches him off guard. Beneath the surprise, a tinge of sadness tugs at his heartstrings. He realizes he shouldn’t be so transfixed on you, yet despite his best efforts, he finds himself unable to tear his gaze away.

“Shouldn’t your eyes be on your girlfriend, huh? Why the fuck do you keep gazing at me? Look at your damn girlfriend!” Your words cut through him like a knife, and the accusation stings. He feels a knot of sadness twist in his stomach, grappling with confusion as to why you've suddenly turned hostile.

“And while you’re at it, why the fuck can’t you talk to me like a normal human being?” Your voice crescendos, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. Jimin feels a pang of shame, wanting to shrink away from your justified anger. You’re hitting too close to home—he knows he should have approached you like a mature adult.

“You’re a damn coward, aren’t you? You shouldn’t be casting your eyes my way when you have a girlfriend right there!” You jab a finger in Deiji’s direction, her displeasure evident, but Jimin can’t muster any concern for her feelings. His heart thuds erratically, a tumult of emotions swirling inside him, each one adding to the chaos. He knows you’re right, and it cuts him deeper than he’d like to admit—yeah, he’s a coward.

“You fucking jerk. If you had the decency to communicate, to use your damn voice instead of making baseless assumptions, we wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation!” You unleash your frustration at him, each word a sharp jab, and he flinches involuntarily. Deep down, he knows you’re right, but the weight of the misunderstanding presses heavily on his shoulders. He just doesn’t understand the situation. Yoongi steps in beside you, attempting to diffuse the tension, but Jimin feels his heart plummet to the floor nonetheless.

“I fucking hate you! You’re stupid. I hate you. I fucking hate you. I love you. I fucking hate you. I hate you so fucking much!” You unleash a torrent of emotions, your words cutting through the air like knives, and his eyes widen in shock. His heart races erratically, his confusion mirroring yours. Why would you confess your love for him while Yoongi stands right beside you? It’s madness, and he feels like he’s drowning in a sea of uncertainty and conflicting emotions.

“You fucking bastard. Stop looking at me like that,” you spit out, catching him off guard once more. Despite the tension, he can’t help but burst into laughter. It’s wrong, he knows, but there’s something absurdly amusing about the situation. As you glare at him, he can’t shake the thought that you look oddly cute when you’re angry.

“Stop laughing. This isn’t funny!” You stamp on the ground, your frustration palpable. Jimin feels a surge of conflicting emotions, his laughter fading as he clings to the weight of your confession. What does this mean? He longs to ask you why you’re unloading on him, but you refuse to let him get a word in edgewise.

“I don’t want to hear it! You know what? I’m done!” With a sharp spin, you pivot away, leaving Jimin in a whirlwind of confusion. Desperate to understand your sudden eruption, he reaches out, his hand grasping for an explanation amidst the chaos.

“You can stick your dick where the sun doesn’t shine!” With fire in your eyes, you unleash the words directly into his face before storming out, leaving Jimin to face the fallout of your wrath. As the tension thickens in the air, all eyes turn to him, conveying their disapproval like daggers. Even Jimin finds himself grappling with the weight of his actions, acutely aware of the discord he’s sown.

Yoongi strides up to him, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “You know you’re a real dick right?”

Jimin’s jaw drops, the shock of Yoongi’s words reverberating through him like a sudden bolt of lightning. Never before has he witnessed this side of Yoongi, and the revelation leaves him utterly stunned, his mind reeling with disbelief.

“Why don’t you scuttle off to your precious girlfriend?” Jimin’s words slice through the air like venom, his anger bubbling to the surface with an intensity that threatens to consume him entirely.

Yoongi scoffs incredulously, “Girlfriend?” His steps carry him closer to Jimin, his voice dripping with a mix of disbelief and frustration. “You really think she’s my girlfriend, huh? Is that what’s been fueling your jerkish behavior?”

Jimin’s lips part, ready to offer a retort, but before he can utter a word, Yoongi closes the distance between them until their breaths mingle in the charged air. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he declares, his voice low and tinged with frustration, “I’m gay, you fucking idiot.”

Jimin’s eyes widen in disbelief as Yoongi’s words hang heavy in the air. Then, as Yoongi exits, a whirlwind of emotions sweeps through Jimin’s being, leaving him teetering between confusion and a surge of unexpected elation.

But hold on, that means that all this while he thought you were together with Yoongi, you were in fact mad at him? 

Fuck.

Deiji ended things with him, and he can’t blame her. He realizes now that he wasn’t truly invested in her or the relationship. In hindsight, it’s clear that it was the right decision for both of them.

He’s made an absolute mess of things, and now he’s left with the daunting task of picking up the shattered pieces and piecing them back together again.

He realizes the first step towards redemption is owning up to his missteps and extending genuine apologies for the havoc his actions have caused.

Your expression betrays confusion when he offers to aid in the search for Mikrokosmos, yet deep down, he yearns for the chance to finally unravel the tangled threads of misunderstanding between you. He carries the weight of knowing he should have initiated this conversation long before, but he’s here now, determined to mend what’s broken and bridge the chasm that’s formed between you.

He’s overwhelmed with gratitude as you lend him your ear, and when you extend an apology for your own actions—a gesture he feels unworthy of—he’s humbled. He recognizes he was the one in the wrong, and while he does offer his apologies, he feels they fall short of expressing the depth of his remorse. He struggles to find the words to convey just how profoundly sorry he is. In your presence, he’s painfully aware of his own shortcomings, yet he’s also grateful for the stark contrast of your unwavering kindness, a stark reminder of the person he aspires to be.

As you tenderly trace the lines of his scars with reverence, he feels something inside him fracture, but it’s not pain—it’s the barriers he’s built around his heart, crumbling in the face of your genuine affection. Never before has anyone shown such care and admiration for him in this intimate way. In that moment, his heart swells with a love so profound it threatens to overflow. In your presence, he finds a sense of completeness he’s never known before. Truly, you are the embodiment of sweetness and kindness, and he’s endlessly grateful to have you in his life.

He’s acutely aware that you deserve far better than him. In your unwavering sweetness and kindness, you shine as a beacon of light in his tumultuous world. Despite the countless times he’s put you through turmoil, you continue to stand by his side, unwavering in your commitment. A part of him struggles to comprehend why someone as remarkable as you would choose to be with someone as flawed as him. He can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t deserve a woman of your caliber.

As the blissful days turn into months and the connection between you deepens, it feels as though you’ve been together for a lifetime. It’s this profound sense of certainty that drives him to purchase a ring for you, a symbol of his unwavering devotion. From the depths of his childhood dreams, he’s always known, without a shadow of doubt, that you were the one meant for him.

Fucking hell.

Just when everything seems to be falling into place, Deiji unexpectedly resurfaces, bearing news that shatters the delicate balance of his newfound happiness—she’s pregnant. The weight of her revelation hits him like a ton of bricks, threatening to unravel the life he’s worked so hard to build. While she insists the child is his, he’s consumed by doubt, unable to find any concrete evidence to support her claim. Yet, in the midst of his turmoil, his gaze is drawn to you, and the anguish etched on your face speaks volumes. Despite the chaos swirling around him, he can’t ignore the palpable pain this situation is causing you.

He longs for the prospect of fatherhood, but the thought of having children with Deiji is a nightmare he can’t bear to entertain. If he were to embark on the journey of parenthood, he envisions it with you by his side. Yet, he’s keenly aware of your own hesitations or perhaps lack of desire for children, and he deeply respects your stance on the matter.

Damn, this just became a whole lot more complicated. But amidst the chaos, his resolve remains unwavering—he’s determined to be present for his child, and for you, no matter what. With every update Deiji shares, whether it’s pictures or ultrasounds of the baby, he makes a conscious effort to include you, recognizing the importance of keeping you informed and involved every step of the way.

However, he can’t help but notice the growing distance between you, and it’s a pain that cuts him to the core. The dilemma gnaws at him relentlessly—he’s torn between wanting to cherish both you and his impending child, yet he’s at a loss as to how to navigate the chasm that’s formed between you.

“I really think it’s best to break up,” you repeat, and he’s gripped by a suffocating sense of disbelief, as if trapped in a nightmare he desperately wishes to escape. How can you say this? The love he feels for you surges through him like a relentless tide, and the mere thought of breaking up is unbearable. Doesn’t your heart ache at the idea of leaving? Doesn’t love still reside within you?

“But I can’t bear the thought of losing you,” he pleads with a raw desperation, his heart laid bare before you. Every fiber of his being is consumed by love for you. Can’t you see? Can’t you feel the weight of his devotion?

“I know, I don’t want to lose you either. But as much as it pains me, I can’t go on like this. I need to break up,” your voice cracks, and his heart shatters into a million fragments. Both of you are unwilling to part ways, yet he's come to recognize the toll his situation with his child has taken on you, perhaps far more than he initially comprehended. Ultimately, he realizes he can't compel you to remain by his side, even as the agony of separation tears him apart.

“If that’s truly what you want,” he says, his voice strained with emotion as he struggles to form the words, “then I... I understand.” Each syllable feels like a weight upon his chest, threatening to suffocate him as he resigns himself to the heartbreaking reality of your decision.

“It is,” you confirm with a heavy finality, and in that moment, his heart shatters into a million irreparable fragments, scattered across the floor like the remnants of a shattered dream as you walk away.

Ever since you broke up, a sickness gnaws at him, but he desperately clings to the impending arrival of his child as a beacon of hope. Yet, intertwined with the anticipation is a bitter realization—he’s lost you, and it leaves a repugnant taste lingering in his mouth. He never wanted to be forced into a choice, yet it seems he inadvertently prioritized his impending fatherhood over you, a decision that fills him with self-loathing. Deep down, all he truly yearns for is to be by your side once more.

Every time his gaze falls upon you, your face is etched with profound sadness, and he’s torn between offering you the solace of space or the comfort of his presence. Though you still exchange words sporadically, the connection you once shared feels like a distant memory, a mere echo of what once was.

The ache of missing you consumes him, a relentless longing that claws at his heart. He yearns for nothing more than to be reunited with you, to reclaim the bond you once shared. But the weight of the situation crushes him under its unbearable pressure. Should he forsake his child for the chance to have you back? The mere thought is agonizing, a cruel dilemma tearing him apart at the seams. He’s trapped in a labyrinth of pain, unable to discern a way out of the turmoil engulfing him.

Fuck.

Reflecting on the myriad mistakes he’s made sends a searing pain coursing through his heart, each misstep a haunting reminder of the turmoil he’s inflicted upon you. The weight of his transgressions feels crushing, almost unbearable, yet amidst the wreckage of his past, one truth remains steadfast—you loved him, despite it all. Perhaps you still do, but the uncertainty gnaws at him like a relentless beast. Yet, in the depths of his remorse, his love for you burns bright and unwavering. He’s determined to find a way to convey his unwavering desire to win back your love, to fight for the chance to make things right and rebuild what was once lost.

That’s precisely why tears cascade down onto the paper as he pours his heart out in the letter destined for you.

Author’s note(2): Thank you so much for reading! 🌸 I would very much appreciate it if you reblogged the chapter, if you liked it ✨ A small review or a comment would also mean a lot to me, and even a like. But please, don’t be afraid to let me know what you think; your kind words makes me extremely happy 💜 Remember the Q&A that is coming in the Epilogue— if you want to send in some questions for the characters, you can do it now (and later too) → Ask the characters (or me), anything ❣️

← previous | s.masterlist | m.masterlist |  next →

[corleonewrites]

Wandering winds

AU: The Terror (2018)

James Fitzjames x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: Alexandra Walton’s life was always surrounded with sea: either it was her walks near the seashore with its cold waters, or deep sea of her senses. Her father taught her to throw herself headlong into it, without fear of being drowned and she used to it since her childhood. She dived into love with the same courageous way. And even when everything and everyone was talking about the hopeless state of things she continued to believe in the opposite: that her loved one will return to her safely.

Chapter 4. The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless

______________________________________________________________

The morning after the ball comparing to the previous night felt like it was deaf. I woke up late afternoon and had my breakfast for lunch. Father and Alexander left for their Arctic council's meeting at the Admiralty and I was completely alone in a big house.

Memories from the ball were still fresh and full of colours, as if dances continued without a pause. How James asked me to dance with him, how he held me with the confidence of true commander, how we moved smoothly, how I lost the track of time, how we glanced at each other when he was talking with my father...It overwhelmed me, and my heart began to beat faster.

Of course, I would love to see Commander Fitzjames again, to know him better, to learn about his life and to be a part of it. My senses were, actually, yearning for it, the nervous anticipation filled my mind, the imagination of potential future encounters increased heavily.

I needed to have some fresh air and to calm myself down and decided to have a walk along the winter riverbank.

______________________________________________________________

The air was frosty but it wasn’t freezing: perfect for winter walks in the city. I always loved to have walks along the riverbank, or ride my horse when my family was staying in the country house, where we had the stable when I wanted to clear my mind.

Few passers-by were walking along the riverbank: some of them were talking to each other, some of them were walking with their dogs or walking alone. Three naval officers greeted me when they passed me by. I smiled a little to myself, wondering about what could all those people think, what bothered them. Sometimes I wished I could read mind of others.

For me, falling in love from the first sight was always something from fairy tale, I didn't believe it, and sudden burst of emotions towards Commander Fitzjames could be explained as my interest of meeting someone new among officers of the Admiralty. Yet I had to admit that this man who I've never seen before suddenly fill the space in my thoughts.

But I was afraid of those desires: few years ago, when I was twenty, a young naval officer became interested in me. He was best-known for his nickname "Mister Charming" as every young lady in our society was falling to his charms, manners and blue eyes. Ladies wanted him, but he chose me as his target. And, indeed, I've fallen for his charms. There were balls, there were walks in the parc, there were visits to theatre. There was even small discussion about our potential marriage. At that time, I thought that my dreams were becoming true. At that time, I believed that I've fallen in love for the first time.

My father and Alexander were suspicious about Mister Charming, and I tried to convince them to change their attitude towards him. I truly believed that he would propose to me, as he told me all those sweet things and stories about us getting married and living a happy life full of understanding and commitment. And how blind I was to believe him. All I could think about was Mister Charming.

Then, suddenly, the connection interrupted. He lied about being sick all the time when I wrote him to meet me, when I saw him once at the ball – he pretended that he didn't see me at first and then awkwardly smiled and said that suddenly he felt himself a better. Later, he wrote me a letter, explaining that our meetings were becoming more personal too soon and that he was not ready to marry me. That he won't marry me at all even if he was ready.

My heart was broken, it seemed that my values and I myself were morally dishonored, I felt ashamed and torn apart.

When he found out about the letter, Alexander was furious. I've never seen him that angry before: he even wanted to challenge Mister Charming to a duel, but I persuaded my brother not to do it. Subsequently, it turned out that punitive measures had overtaken Mister Charming after all: he was killed during the First Opium War.

After such betrayal my heart shut down for all other attempts to try and find love and I stopped to trust men, except for my family. I was never seen with any other officer, only with Alexander. No one could ever take advantage of me and my beliefs in commitment and love ever again.

______________________________________________________________

I stayed outside until I felt myself completely freezing: I couldn’t feel fingers of my toes. For a brief second, I imagined how cold were my father and Alexander when they were at their Arctic expeditions. The cold over there was unimaginable for me.

Those endless days of cold and snow. The courage that those men who went there to make discoveries was impossible to convey in words. It was unexplainable. Someone needed to experience it by themselves just to understand it. I wanted to feel this cold, I wanted it to fill me inside, my lungs, my head and my heart.

Since the end of 1843 there were talks in the Admiralty to organize new Arctic expedition, in 1845. As Alexander told me: this expedition was assigned to traverse the last unnavigated sections of the Northwest Passage in the Canadian Arctic. He couldn’t tell me much about it, due to regulations, but the Admiralty considered his candidacy as the Commander of the ship Terror. He never told me who was going to be the Captain of Terror and of its sister ship Erebus, because, again, of regulations, and he sticked to them as the most loyal commander of the Royal Navy.

But my brother was waiting for final decisions since such early talks about the expedition. His outside attitude was calm, but I knew that inside he was nervous and had the greatest anxiety. Alexander loved such expeditions and was lucky to be a part of some of them when he was younger.

Every time my brother went on such expeditions, I worried more and more. But despite the impossible cold and hard work, Alexander was proud to be a part of such trips, it was filled with joy of discoveries of new lands and passages and the pride of our fleet.

______________________________________________________________

When I returned home just for the tea time and entered the living room, my brother, who was laying on the sofa and reading his book, rose his right hand and showed me a letter, smiling slightly:

“We’ve been invited to the theatrical play, Alex”, he glanced at me, when I took the invitation, “Actually, almost every high officer in the Admiralty was invited there…”

He turned his gaze back to the pages of the book, and added:

“And Commander Fitzjames will probably be there”

I stopped reading the invitation and looked at Alexander:

“How can you be so sure about it? How can you be so sure about him, really?”

“Oh, he’s definitely the opposite from late Mister Charming, if you referring to him, you can be sure about it”, he continued to read his book, when I sat near him, looking angrily.

“Alexander, just tell me, how can you be so sure that he’s indeed deeply interested in me and not just teasing me?”

Suddenly, Alexander placed the book on the table near the sofa and turned to me, looking at me with his grey-green eyes confidently.

“Because I know him, Alex. He may seem so cheerful and adventurous, but only with the closest friends it becomes clear that this is his protective façade. And besides, when you were talking to Sophia, James couldn’t stop talking about you, he was asking me questions about you, he, actually, asked me to introduce him to you. He couldn’t take his eyes off you”, he sighed and finished, “I don't remember James getting so involved with anyone else before.”

Alexander knew how to find words for every situation, how to comfort, how to make someone laugh. He was always there when I needed his support, even when he was in the sea: his letters always were sweet. Alexander was the greatest brother that it was even impossible to dream of.

Still my heart was afraid to believe to Alexander’s words completely. As if it was trying to but something was still unsure.

“I believe you will find it out very soon, Alex. I see sleazy people, you know this, and James is not one of them”, it felt like my brother have read my thoughts once again.

I looked at him and whispered:

“I want to believe you. I just don’t want to be hurt again”

The clocks were ticking exact five o’clock in the afternoon. It was time for the tea.

______________________________________________________________

Wandering winds masterlist