#but otherwise he's used to being the brain cell so he's waiting to either patch injuries himself

[rotinthedark]

Seb in the bg every time your muse is doing something stupid.

[twstdreams]

Lion’s Hunt

Sorry for taking so long anon! Here is part 2 to Lion’s Chase if you chose option B!

Recap: @yandere-wishes​ “Scenario with Leona in which the reader (female) looks up to him as a big brother and is very close to him, but he has a crush on her and really wants to date her.”

After the sibling incident, you’d found it hard to approach Leona. Worry festered inside you and it grew in size each day as you felt something was off. At first glance, Leona looked the same as ever, confident grin glued to his face with an air of arrogance. However, you noticed when his eyes landed on you, they were briefly clouded with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was hate that flickered in his eyes, disappointment that glazed is gaze, or embers of anger that resided in those green eyes, you weren’t sure. At this point, you weren’t even sure if it was really there or if your stress had caused you to hallucinate.

“You should work on your roar,” taunted you as the sentence played on repeat inside your mind. Should you have confronted him after all? Anything seemed better than this guessing game you were surely losing. It felt like a hopeless puzzle and you kept trying to push the wrong pieces together.

Why was Leona so upset? Did he hate his siblings? Did he think it was presumptuous of you to say that you were like siblings? No, you were sure you were close to Leona. He let you get away with the most things, and he rarely put in the effort with anything else the way he did with you. You knew he played it off as casual boredom but there’s no way the two of you would spend as much time as you did together if he didn’t try. Yet now, the target of his ire, you felt uncertain. Maybe you didn’t know Leona that well. Maybe to him, you were a source of entertainment rather than someone he treasured.

Choose to:

a) Ask Ruggie for advice

b) Go outside to get some fresh air

A) Ask Ruggie for advice

You weren’t sure you were ready to face Leona again. You didn’t even know if you wanted to. If you just never brought up siblings again, would that be okay? You wouldn’t even be really surprised if Leona acted like nothing had happened, too lazy to bother to acknowledge the entire event. Yet, you knew even If he could brush it off that you had to know.

Leona’s unexpected outburst of displeasure seeded worry and curiosity. What had upset Leona? Did you break some unwritten rule or did this hint at some hidden past? The only issue was how to find out. That kind of information wasn’t on the internet and you doubted Leona would easily open up. You could already imagine it, Leona telling you that a little herbivore like you shouldn’t go sniffing around like that or you’d get your nose bitten off.

Your brain was going to implode. No matter how many times you went over the events, you couldn’t figure it out. What set off Leona? You could almost feel your brain cells melting. This was pointless. So, you went to the only other person you knew that would have an inkling of what Leona’s thoughts could be.

Given how close you and Leona were, you and Ruggie had met several times before, both of you used to Leona pushing off various responsibilities and chores onto you two. You explained your predicament but Ruggie’s amused expression did little to ease your anxiety.

“I’m not a snitch, you know that.” You groaned. This was what you were afraid.

“You’re not snitching!” you insisted, “You’re just letting me know how I messed up!”

“Please!” you pleaded, “Ugh Leona’s either gonna make fun of me or call me stupid, and you know that.” An expression you can’t quite decipher crossed Ruggie’s face briefly. Soon after, a smile wriggled its way onto his face.

“We’re both Leona’s friends but we’re different,” he explained as if that statement clarified anything.

“Different?” you echoed. Obviously, you were two distinct people, but you had a feeling that wasn’t what Ruggie was referring to.

“You’re a special friend,” he added emphasizing the word friend. An unfamiliar glimmer twinkled in his eye. You wondered If you glared long enough, he’d finally spell it out for you.

“Wait, you don’t mean, like…,” you could barely get the words out, but you persevered, “Romantically?” Ruggie’s grin remained but before you can ask for clarification, the distinct sound of something shattering rings through the air. You both let out a dramatic sigh before Ruggie ran off to break up whatever fight had broken out.

Still, while you were grateful Ruggie told you instead of finding out in some explosive or embarrassing manner, you were still unsure. You were special to Leona but was he special to you in the same way?

Ruggie on the hand was thoroughly amused when he glanced back at you, panic and worry expressed through a furrowed brow and lips pressed into a thin line. Leona’s newest weakness and you didn’t even know it yet. He’d definitely tuck away that piece of information away for safekeeping.

B) Go outside for some fresh air

Taking a walk outside was nice, but you found yourself simply pacing outside rather than inside. You lay down a patch of grass while staring at the swirling clouds.

“Okay, let’s think about this logically,” you told the fluffy cloud, “Leona got upset when I brought up siblings. Maybe he hates his siblings? That could be why got mad. Or! He’s super close to his siblings, and he doesn’t like people saying he’s like an older brother when he’s not close to them.”

You groaned and placed an arm over your eyes to shield them from the sun. The cloud made no judgements but offered no advice. “Maybe he thought it was an insult or something? Like he’s not independent? Or that he’s obliged to help me out?”

“Is he really that petty?” you asked the sky, “Leona never gets upset over stuff like this! I didn’t interrupt his nap, I didn’t go to some forbidden area, and I definitely didn’t’ break a rule! There’s no way there’s a rule about compliments. I even went to get him that stupid snack!”

“Not the smartest one, huh?” a dreadfully familiar voice asked as bright green eyes peered down at you and obscured your view of the sky. You let out a shriek when you realized Leona was right above you. He cocked an eyebrow up as an amused grin grew on his face. You immediately stood up and put space between the two of you.

“What? I! You! I just, I mean,” you could barely form a sentence as your mind raced to comprehend the situation. How long had Leona been there? There was no way he heard everything, right?  What was Leona even doing here? Leona never napped around here, his favourite place to nap was his room or under a tall tree at the outskirts of the Savanaclaw dorm.

“Cat got your tongue?” he teased. It was so unfair that you were a sputtering mess caught by surprise and Leona was so collected with confidence radiating off him.

“No!” you insisted, “It’s just, well, you.” You clenched your fist as you tried to gather the courage to ask Leona what was really on your mind.

“Me?” he repeated. His smirk remained on his face, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yes, you!” Leona had definitely heard everything you had said, you might as well let it all out. You took in a deep breath, but you could feel your frustration bubbling. Why was he acting so relaxed like nothing had happened?

“I don’t know why you were upset before. And you were upset! You always say yes to naps, but that day you said no, so I, I mean I’m pretty sure,” you wanted to smack your forehead, god why as it so hard to articulate your feelings? You pressed on, “I just don’t want you to be mad. I like being close. I like being friends.”

Your face was basically on fire at this point, redder than the sun ever made it. The palpable silence made your beating heart sound even louder in your ears. Your eyes were glued to the ground. Was Leona on the verge of laughing? Maybe he’d make fun of you for worrying so much over nothing. Call you a skittish prey and move on.

“Friends,” he repeated, voice laced with disdain.

“Wh, why? Aren’t we at least friends?” you rebutted but your voice wavered. Here it was, he was going to tell you that you weren’t even friends, that you were some delusional loser, and he was just being nice because that’s what dorm leaders do.

“Tch, I suppose it’s too much for an herbivore like you to understand,” he remarked. Your eyes shot up until they met his, confusion swirling in yours while annoyance painted his.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked. The damage had already been done; you might as well get an answer from it.

“I don’t need more siblings or friends.”

Oh.

Oh.

“What?” you yelped, “You like me?” The thought hadn’t even entered your brain, not once, but suddenly it was the reality before you.

He huffed and then asked, “Why, do you need to go talk to a tree to sort through your feelings?”

“No!” you immediately snapped, “I mean, well, not a tree, but I really didn’t see this coming. Can, can you give me a bit of time?”

“You want me to wait?” he asked incredulously.

“I know you’ve probably waited already for, wow, probably for a while, but please I need this,” you pleaded. You heard a scoff, so you added, “Otherwise, it’s not fair! You got to know for so long, but I just found out!”

“Life’s not fair.” His lazy smile didn’t quite reach his piercing green eyes. You gulped. This was not how you were hoping for this debacle to progress.

“Now?” you asked tentatively.

“I’ve waited long enough for you little herbivore,” he insisted. Your heart raced. Did you know? Maybe. Maybe not. Leona took a step forward and invaded your personal space. You felt strangely like a prey about to be caught by its predator. Seconds passed and you didn’t have many left.

This time, instead of clouds or pillows or trees, you asked yourself. Did you like Leona?

[mintdrop]

@windup-dragoon​ this ended up becoming spearmint school au sdkfjbdsfs

“C’mon, Estinien! I can’t get caught skipping again, the principal’s gonna talk my ear off.” Mint whined as she looked through the closed gates that led to the entrance of the school, hiding behind the brick pillar that served as their starting point.

“Have you thought about maybe.... not skipping? Just eat lunch in school like the rest of us.” Estinien sighed as he rubbed his eyes with one hand. He, unfortunately, had to squat behind the brick wall just to avoid giving away the fact that they had skipped, at the behest of his tiny girlfriend. “Get down, you’ll give us away!!” she had said. Now his legs hurt for how long he’d had them bent. To his right, Mint let out a dramatically fake gasp as she turned to look at him.

“Us? You’re here with me too! You’re my partner in this crime! Besides, are you saying you didn’t enjoy our date?” The look on her face could only be described as a puppy who’d just been yelled at for the first time. Damn her cute face and ability to pluck at his heartstrings like a bloody harp. 

“I didn’t say that.” He sighed again, letting his head lean back onto the wall with dull thud. He couldn’t admit he enjoyed it far more than he showed - that would make her far too happy for their current situation. “Alright then. What’s your plan?”

Mint grinned, a grin that only ever showed when she had an awful idea. “Here’s the plan. We go around back and you boost me over the wall, and then hop it yourself since you’re so tall. And then,” she puffed out her chest and put her hands on her hips, casually ignoring the look of disappointment growing on Estinien’s face. “you boost me into the window, and then I’ll pull you up! It’ll be easy. We’ll act like those sneaky spies in that book series you like.”

Ignoring the dig at his literature of choice, he stared at the 106 centimeter tall menace he was unfortunately head-over-heels for. “You. The girl with arms as flimsy as melted pudding - you’ll pull me up into the windows?” He watched as she gave several full nods, clearly confident in her ability to not instantly drop him.

“I have the arm strength of all the Twelve combined.” Mint flexed, giving her bicep a good slap. If it weren’t for her cardigan, you’d be able to watch her arm jiggle as it started to instantly turn red. “We’ll be fine! Unless you have a better idea?”

“Walk in through the fron--”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT. Let’s go!” She grabbed at Estinien’s hand as she jumped over him, pulling him in the direction of the side of the school. He attempted to stand up straight, which earned him a hushed “no! they’ll see you walking around!,” forcing him into a weird hunch as he walked. He wasn’t sure why she had to whisper that when they’d been talking at a normal volume not even seconds ago, but then again he wasn’t sure about a lot of things - like why he was going along with this. 

At the back of the school, Mint looked up at the top of the wall; it wasn’t exactly high, but she wasn’t exactly tall. “Alright.” She spun on her heel to face Estinien, who was now allowed to be standing up straight. “Lift me, tall man!” She stood with her arms glued to her hips, watching him with a gleam in her eye. In return, he looked at her with half-lidded eyes of disbelief. If you could read his mind through his eyes, you’d hear nothing but “I really wish I weren’t here right now!”

With a sigh, he lifted her from the ground, pausing only when she said “wait!” in a tone that made it seem like she’d realized this probably wasn’t the best idea. Instead, she gave him a quick kiss on the nose, causing him to flush a pale pink as he finished boosting her above the wall. 

“You’re a hazard to everyone around you.”

“Thanks! I love you, too.” She gave him a toothy grin as he lifted himself up and over the wall, deliberately turning his head so she couldn’t see his face, as if she hadn’t already. Jumping down to meet him, she ran towards the school, gesturing for him to come over. The windows were taller than Estinien, the edge of one just barely out of his grasp even after his best jumps. “Okay, lift me up! If I stand on your hands I’ll be able to reach the windowsill and check to see if anyone’s in the halls before we pull you up.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” He replied, cupping his hands and leaning down so that she could get her balance before being hoisted.

“When have I ever not? Don’t answer that.” She held onto his arm as he began to lift her, letting go only when it was below her. She just barely made it to the windowsill, grabbing on and scrambling up the wall as best as she could. Making sure she was far enough in, she slid the window open and peeked her head in, confirming that the hall was empty. She could hear the bustling of voices inside the nearby classroom, which meant that lunch hadn’t ended yet. She turned around, laying flat on her stomach as she reached down with both arms. “Now you!”

The majority of his brain said no. This can only end poorly. Estinien ignored the warnings as the few empty brain cells that made poor decisions decided to take the reigns of his motor functions. He jumped up, grabbing on to her tiny hands as his feet planted themselves against the wall. The two looked at each other, hanging there as Mint’s face lit up.

“See! I told you we could do it. Now we just lift-” She began to pull her arms up using only her upper body strength, his weight clearly more than she could handle. After only a few seconds, she heard a dull “pop” from each of her arms. The smallest “ah” fell from her lips as her arms went numb, and within moments she was sliding down at a rapid pace, crashing into Estinien as they both fell to the ground below.

For the most part, Estinien was fine - his shoulder was probably bruised from how he’d hit the floor, with the added weight of Mint landing there, but otherwise he was just a little sore. He sat up as soon as her weight had disappeared, quickly looking over her. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt? I told you this was a bad idea-” He quickly scanned over her, looking for anything that might’ve been bent the wrong way.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt, but...” She looked up at him with a sheepish grin, her head no longer hiding that her arms were slumped in front of her. “My arms won’t listen to me. I can still feel them! But they’re just kinda.. here.” She attempted to lift one, but the only part that moved was her hand. “Hm.”

Estinien sighed, scooping her up in one arm as he stood up himself. “I’m adding another tally mark to the “Bad Ideas” column.” Hearing nothing but a dejected “noooooo!”, he began walking towards the front of the school. 

“Wait! They’ll know we skipped!” she cried, but his ears had turned off. At the front entrance to the school, he bumped into the teacher in charge of making sure people didn’t leave.

“You! What are you doing out here? Class is about to start again!” His eyes zeroed in on Mint, who seemed to shrink into herself.

“We were taking care of the plants out back. She filled the water bucket too much and it was too heavy for her to carry. I think she dislocated her arms.” Estinien explained without skipping a beat or stumbling over his words, leaving Mint to stare at him in awe for a second before realizing that she probably needed to corroborate this.

“Y-yeah! I thought it’d be fine but, uh.. the distance was longer than I thought from the faucet to the flower patches..” She looked at the teacher, who stared at her with nothing but doubt on his face. He only let them through after watching that she could only move her hands, escorting them to the nurses’ office.

Roughly half an hour later, the two sat side by side on one of the beds within the room, both of Mint’s arms in slings - she had dislocated her shoulders and bruised her forearms in the fall, requiring her to keep her arms bound for three weeks and a regiment of daily shoulder massages; the latter had been aimed directly at Estinien. She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

Estinien sighed yet again - he was going for a new record, it seemed. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad that we didn’t just go through the front.”

“But they would’ve yelled! We didn’t have any excuse!” She looked up at him, her mouth pulled into a deep frown. “I just didn’t want you- well, I didn’t want either of us to get into trouble!”

“I had an excuse planned. It was the same one we used before, except the back door was locked instead of you dropping a water bucket.” His explanation made Mint gasp.

“Well, why didn’t you tell me? It would’ve been fine!”

“I tried to, but you cut me off. Would you have budged off your plan if I’d said it?”

“Ah-” she looked down again, dejected. “P-probably not. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Estinien moved his hand to rustle her hair. “You can make it up to me with a dinner date when your arms can move.” Before she could reply, the nurse walked back into the room.

“Alright, I’ve informed your parents about your injury, Totomi.” The nurse attempted to hand Mint a paper, realizing that she couldn’t exactly reach up and grab it. Instead, she folded the paper in half, sliding it between the sling straps and her body. “That’s just the treatment on paper, along with some recommended pain killers if anything starts to hurt. I need to deal with Estinien’s back now, so you can go to class.”

Mint nodded, hopping off the bed. “I--” she cut herself off for a moment, thinking, before turning around to face Estinien again. “I’m sorry! I’ll make it up to you. And I’ll tell Illya and Kiri all about how cool you were!” She dashed to exit of the room, a loud bonk echoing as her head collided with the sliding door. Right. She had to open it. Dropping her head to hide her face, she spun around and used her back to slide the door open an inch before using her foot to open it fully and close it.

The nurse looked down at Estinien, arms crossed. “She dropped a water bucket, huh?” 

“Yep.”

“You’re a fool.”

“I know.”

[joonsrack]

+Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Jeon Jungkook, Min Yoongi x Park Jimin x Jung Hoseok (side pairing)

+Genre: rags to riches au, kind of college au, SFW, slow burn, WIP.

+Word count: ~2.8k (for this chapter)

+Chapter: Prologue | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | ?

+Summary:

“Funny how even in this ridiculously absurd situation, life had made Taehyung a third-wheel. Or a sixth.

If Bangtan Dry Cleaning was his fairy godmother, Jimin his little mouse, the jacket his magic dress and the club scene his ball, where the fuck was his prince charming?

A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts.”

+Warnings/Rating: G, swearing, polyamory, very cliché, very unrealistic.

+A/N: betaed by the amazingfantasticbeautiful @httpangelicjimin​! These chapters are already published on ao3, but I felt the need to edit them before cross-posting to Tumblr, which is why it took...months... Anyways, I’m going to be posting the already finished chapters once a day (so as to not flood ppl’s dash), but I have no idea when chapter 5 and friends are going to be ready.... enjoy.

It took them a few months to get used to it all.

Befriending Kim Seokjin meant automatic acceptance as Kim Namjoon and Jung Hoseok’s friends. Min Yoongi was a little more selective, but he came around after a while. Or Jimin’s smile made him come around.

Befriending Kim Seokjin also came with free VIP access to all the clubs and bars his family owned, which meant half of Seoul’s nightlife, really.

And finally, befriending Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok and Kim Namjoon apparently meant becoming moderately famous by exposure.

Blurry pictures on Instagram, accounts dedicated to finding out what they wore, people arguing if they really were heirs of mod empires. Only a few people, really, but enough for it to feel risky. Enough for them to wipe their social media of anything that could clue to who they really were.

Most people wouldn’t expect a poor makeup artist and a struggling student on scholarship to be able to afford the clothes they were wearing, and so no one was looking for their real identity where they would find it.

It only took one person who would recognize them though, to put an abrupt stop to their whole masquerade.

And then, the beginning of the beginning soon gave away to the end of the beginning.

J.J.K.

“How can I not know of this designer? When he does pieces like that?” Taehyung's eyes had gotten wide, getting dangerously close to tearing up.

“Do you honestly believe you know every designer on this planet?” Jimin asked, smirk stretching the corner of his lips.

“Every relevant one, yes.”

The delicate golden thread shaped the three letters in an elegant typography, ‘J.J.K.’ the only thing written on the satin black tag.

The jacket was most probably handmade, the lining expertly sewn; the corduroy material looked luxurious, the rich black color making the embroidery stand out stark. The myriad of buttons embroidered created some random and some not so random patterns and color arrangements, making the jacket hypnotizing to look at.

Taehyung grazed at it with the tip of his fingers, trying to make sense of the masterpiece in his temporary possession.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve stopped breathing for two full minutes now.” Jimin said, a hint of worry in his otherwise amused voice. He’d been the one to find it earlier in their shift, putting it aside for when they would be alone, knowing his fashion-obsessed best friend would probably get emotional over it. And emotional did he get.

“I’m having a moment.” Taehyung answered, not looking away.

“When you finish wiping that drool off your chin, I’m waiting for your instructions on what to wear tonight.”

His friend wordlessly waved his hand at a pile of garment bags put aside on a counter.

It was now tradition; Jimin might have had enough fashion sense to dress appropriately, but when it came down to it, Taehyung was the real connoisseur. He was usually the one who picked both of their outfits when they were about to hit Gangnam’s club scene.

Moments later, when both of them had changed into their outfits and Taehyung could finally put the jacket on, Jimin appeared behind him in the mirror.

He looked sharp in his light blue bowling shirt and deep-blue pants, neck bow safely secured around his neck. The leather loafers completed the look perfectly. They might have been a size too big for Jimin, but the shoe selection was usually smaller, so they had to make do with what they had, or risk going in their well used no-name sneakers.

“Why do you always make me wear neck things?” His friend whined.

Which was enough to snap Taehyung out of his trance.

“First of all, that’s not a ‘neck thing’, you vulgar heathen, and you know it. Second of all, that neck bow is worth more than half of your rent, so be thankful you get to wear it. And finally, you and I both know that when I tie stuff around your neck, it drives them both crazy.”

Jimin’s whole face went red with a fierce blush as he primly walked away.

His friend had come a long way since their first time, and wasn’t fazed by the price of these clothes anymore. What got to him now, was the mention of the three-men dance he had going on with Yoongi and Hoseok.

For Jimin, the realization that both rappers were not straight had come with its load of excitement; then, seeing them act as a couple had come with maybe a little bit of disappointment, but mostly a lot of longing. Both of the rappers being interested in him though, that had brought a lot of confusion.

Jimin being oblivious to people’s interest in his person wasn’t something new for Taehyung, and so, it had taken a lot of persuading on his end to finally convince his friend that the objects of his infatuation seemed to be pursuing him as an addition to their tandem.

He still seemed skittish with the situation, though.

“What if they lose interest once they find out I’m just a regular middle-class dude, borrowing clothes to pass as something I’m not?” He had wondered aloud a few weeks ago.

Taehyung dared hope the two men weren’t that shallow, but that was something they needed to figure out someday.

Not that day, though. Taehyung wanted to enjoy his jacket for the night, maybe even sleep with it in his bed. Was that weird?

The clothes he had picked gave him a more subdued style than usual, but he knew that over-accessorizing with the jacket would be a total fashion faux-pas. He’d gone for a simple off-white loose dress shirt tucked into some ripped jeans that looked like any other but could probably pay the deposit on a small house.

It was finally time to put the jacket on, and it’s with reverent movements that he carefully slid the chef-d'oeuvre off the hanger and onto his slim frame.

He suspected it to be tailored to the owner, since the fit felt unnatural on him, but nothing would stop him from wearing it. Plus, it would take sharp fashion-trained eyes to notice anything.

He finished the look with a pair of black and white trainers and a Gucci hairband, because rich people sent their hairbands at the dry cleaner, apparently.

Jimin was already adding the finishing touch to his make up when Taehyung, satisfied with his last inspection in the mirror, sat down for his turn. His friend made quick work of smoking his lid, adding a little bit of gold eye shadow just because. He smacked a bit of tinted lip balm on both their lips, and then, they were ready to go out as Gangnam’s best-dressed socialites and celebrity friends.

That night was Answer night.

Answer was a little bit farther away, meaning a bigger taxi bill, but the music was good and there were more than one VIP lounge; when Seokjin was in the club, one of them was strictly reserved for him and his close friends.

The added privacy meant Jimin and Taehyung had been the witness to these kinds of scenes more than once since Seokjin and Namjoon had deemed them trustworthy.

These kinds of scenes being their two hyungs making out like global warming had canceled tomorrow.

“Will they ever come up for air”, Jimin asked, but he was sandwiched between Yoongi and Hoseok and both of his thighs had one hand on it; he didn’t get to have an opinion.

“Every time we come here, I swear to god.” Yoongi signed, but he was the owner of hand #1, and so, didn’t get an opinion either.

The owner of hand #2 just smirked, as he was Love’s biggest fanboy.

Funny how even in this ridiculously absurd situation, life had made Taehyung a third-wheel. Or a sixth.

If Bangtan Dry Cleaning was his fairy godmother, Jimin his little mouse, the jacket his magic dress and the club scene his ball, where the fuck was his prince charming?

A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts, and Seokjin’s mouth off Namjoon’s.

“Are you expecting anyone else?” Taehyung asked, just as pure glee appeared on Seokjin’s face.

“Jeon Jungkoooooook” He screeched, as the door opened.

His hyung pounced on the newcomer, catching the man off guard, and by some miracle didn’t end up on the floor. Instead, Seokjin was being spun in a bear hug, eliciting groans of pain from him and laughter from the room.

“Yah! Stop training like a meathead, muscles will replace all of your brain cells.” Seokjin said once he was both feet safely planted on the floor, hands on his back like an old man.

“I would ask you to share yours but I know you don’t have any.” ‘Jeon Jungkook’ answered with a shit-eating grin.

He was probably around Taehyung’s age, if maybe a little bit younger. He was definitely handsome, but his face wasn’t what caught Taehyung’s attention;

His Bottega Veneta jacket was from a collection that had been released only a few days ago, it’s intricate work of suede and leather tone-on-tone patch making it worth over 6 million won. Maybe Taehyung would’ve matched it with something else than a white button-up and some dark pants, but the young man made it work. His shoulder-to-waist ratio brought saliva to Taehyung’s mouth; those kinds of proportions were just not fair. If he had this kind of person modeling for him, he’d never go out of inspiration.

“I missed you, you little shit.” Seokjin said instead of reciprocating, clearly fond of his friend.

“Europe was boring without you hyung.”

“As if,” Seokjin said, putting one arm around Jungkook’s neck and pinching his cheek with his free hand. “I saw your Instagram stories, you liar, you probably wouldn’t recognize boredom even if it sat on your face.”

Taehyung had been introduced to some of Seokjin’s ‘friends’ before. They were all mostly spoiled chaebols with attitude issues that his hyung had met through banquets his family attended or organized.

He seemed to hate every single one of them, really, but had to maintain a good relationship with them for the interest of his family.

This time though, it felt different. He could feel his friend’s sincere affection for the younger man. He seemed comfortable with his presence as well, seeing as he plopped himself back into Namjoon’s lap when it was time for them to sit back down.

Jungkook gave a quick look to their small group, double-taking once he got to Taehyung. He looked away quickly though, fast enough for Taehyung to wonder if he had imagined it.

“I see some new faces.” He stated, smiling curiously at Jimin. It wasn’t hard figuring out what was happening on the small couch where three grown men had squeezed themselves just to have an excuse to stay close.

“We found two stray kittens a while back. Haven’t been able to get rid of them since then.” Yoongi said, giving a little pat to Jimin’s thigh.

Jimin pouted at Yoongi’s teasing, squeezing a little more into Hoseok’s side.

“That’s Jimin, he pouts a lot.” Hoseok said fondly.

“We can’t all be the sun incarnate.” Jimin said, making Hoseok laugh out loud.

“And that’s Taehyung. Don’t insult fashion in his presence.” Namjoon said, with the tone of someone who had been on the receiving end of multiple fashion-related scoldings.

Taehyung smiled at Jungkook as the man turned to him.

This time, It wasn’t Taehyung’s imagination; Jungkook’s eyes lingered on him, a subtle frown furrowing his brow.

Did he have something on his face?

“Hey.” He simply said with a pointed eyebrow, feeling awkward under the extra attention, but then Jungkook barely nodded in his direction before engaging Namjoon in a discussion. Taehyung found himself nonplussed at the unwarranted cold treatment.

“Your Jacket is very interesting.” Was the first thing Jungkook said after ignoring him for most of an hour.

Taehyung smiled off the comment, squinting a little, wondering why that statement sounded so heavy with suspicion.

“It’s weird, because I swear I have the exact same one in my wardrobe.”

Taehyung was having a hard time grasping what was weird about that.

“It happens sometimes, which is why we have who-wore-it-better sections in magazines these days.” He answered with an air of boredom, containing his irritation.

“Nah, the thing is,” Jungkook said, plopping himself next to Taehyung, making him slightly back up into the opposite corner, “mine was personally designed for me by Alessandro Michele, as a goodbye gift. A one-of-a-kind Jacket, if you will. Where did yours come from, though?”

The first thing that came to Taehyung’s mind was, who the hell this Jeon Jungkook was that he personally knew Gucci’s head designer.

Then, the rest of the sentence started resonating around his mind, gone very blank.

Personally designed for me.

A one-of-a-kind Jacket.

Alessandro Michele.

It clicked; The quality of it,  the lack of label, the absence of it in any fashion magazine…

The Tag.

J.J.K., embroidered in golden lettering.

Jeon Jung Kook.

It was probably bare survival instinct that made Taehyung keep a neutral face, as his worst nightmare was slowly coming to life. That was it. The end of the adventure. Their lie coming to an embarrassing stop.

Jungkook’s proximity made him feel caged in.

He seemed to be waiting for an answer, but Taehyung didn’t have any. His brain couldn’t come up with a lie that wouldn’t be easily exposed with a quick google search. He had to say something though.

“How is that any of your business”. Taehyung found himself saying dryly, his attitude coming on top as his anxiety got the better of him.

It didn’t do the trick, as Jungkook simply chuckled.“I’m just curious is all. It’s a heck of a coincidence.” He leaned forward, shrinking the space between them; he surprisingly smelled of fresh flowery detergent. “What did you say your name was again?”

“You’d know it if you weren’t so distracted trying to figure out where I shop.”

Jungkook chuckled again and tried to reach for the sleeve of the jacket, where a heart was made out of purplish silver button, but Taehyung slapped his fingers away before he could.

“Hands off. It’s precious.”

“It's precious so you take it out to the club?”

Taehyung shrugged, aiming for disinterested and relaxed, the complete opposite of his state of mind. He had to figure out a way to get out of there. He had to think of something quickly.

He couldn’t just stand up and make up an excuse; the back of the jacket was even more memorable than the front, Jungkook would know right away if he saw the vague fish shape and sword pierced heart. He had to leave while the other man was either gone or very distracted.

Then, as if lady luck was smiling down at him herself, a waitress came in with a new round of drinks. An idea struck him.

After the waitress set the glasses in front of them, Jungkook reached for both, passing him his tumbler, and waiting in position to clink their drinks with a small smirk.

Taehyung was so annoyed, he didn’t even feel bad for what he did next.

Watching Jeon Jungkook’s smug smile wipe off his face was almost as satisfying as ‘accidentally’ spilling the cold content of his tumbler all over the man’s lap.

Jungkook jumped to his feet, shaking the ice cubes off, cursing.

��Oh no, my bad. I’m so sorry.” Taehyung said from his unchanged position on the couch, not sounding one bit like he was.

Jungkook gave him an assessing look, while the rest of the room was simply laughing their asses off. The waitress was nervously offering him a towel, but he simply shook his head to decline.

“I’ll go clean up in the bathroom.” He said, throwing one last look at Taehyung’s counterfeit sorry expression.

The moment the door to the connected bathroom fell shut, Taehyung jumped to his feet.

“I forgot I’m meeting someone early tomorrow. I’ll be leaving first. Thank you for everything again Hyung.” He said, not giving anyone the time to answer before he escaped through the door of the lounge.

The bouncer there greeted him as he went, and he barely nodded in goodbye before throwing himself down the hallway leading to a back door. Once outside, he hailed the first taxi he saw.

“Taehyung! Wait up!”

He got in the taxi nevertheless, but left the door open so his friend could slide in after him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Jimin asked once he was sitting next to him, the taxi setting into motion.

“This fucking jacket happened.” Taehyung said, engulfing his face in his hands, hoping to wake up from this nightmare.

“What? Did something happen to the jacket?” Jimin started frantically checking the embroidery for imperfections or stains.

“No. Worst. It’s his.” Taehyung answered in a small voice.

“What?”

“The Jacket. It’s a unique piece, and it’s his.”

“Whose?”

“Jeon Fucking Jungkook. It’s a jacket Gucci’s head designer made exclusively for him.”

Jimin was stunned into silence, slowly grasping the amount of shit they were both into.

“Fuck.” He said, voice low, slightly shaky.

Fuck indeed, thought Taehyung.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[maydei]

Making Headlines: Part Two  (Part One)

cw: mention of nonsexual assault, minor wound aftercare

genderfluid!will & doctor!hannibal

[now on ao3]

Hannibal discards his gloves and the bloodstained remnants of Will’s care in a biohazard bin. Then he heads to the front desk to locate another of the floor nurses.

“Will Graham in lobby three will need an x-ray for his left hand,” he says. “Unless there are any emergencies, please bump him up the queue. He has at least one fractured knuckle, and I’d like to get him casted before I’m off-shift. Please page me if I’m needed for an emergency, otherwise I will need to finish tending to his wounds.”

Hannibal does not wait for their surprise or for anything more than a confirmation before he slips through the office and into the staff room just down the hall. He dials into his assigned locker to extract his wallet, and slips a business card into the plastic pocket that holds his hospital ID. He retreats to Will’s sectioned-off area of the ER, decided.

If the police insist on giving Will a hard time for the altogether unextraordinary crime of possessing a fake identification, then Hannibal will give him a leg-up in the form of a legal reference. Though he specializes in medical malpractice suits, James Deioss is an accomplished lawyer who, to Hannibal’s knowledge, has more than one victorious discrimination lawsuit under his belt.

Granting favors is not something Hannibal is in the habit of doing, but Hannibal is curious—and under the pressure of Hannibal’s curiosity, strange things are bound to happen.

Will Graham is a curiosity.

“Will?” He asks when he returns to the boundary of the curtain.

“Come in,” Will replies, and Hannibal does.

He pauses as the curtain falls shut behind him.

Will’s clothes are in a smartly-folded pile on the foot of the bed—stockings, pants, satin camisole, flannel shirt, cracked glasses set atop it all. His heeled boots are neatly tucked underneath the hospital cot.

His back is to the door, legs crossed beneath him, and the hospital gown slouches off one shoulder. The disheveled bun in his hair has been removed, and a cascade of mussed brunette curls has been swept down around the side of his throat.

The pale canvas of Will’s back has been painted with bruises; shallow, parallel scrapes have drawn pinpricks of blood that the removal of Will’s shirt has torn free. They are, Hannibal notes, exactly the right distance to denote a hard impact with a brick wall.

And lower, clinging to Will’s narrow hips, is a swath of black lace in the form of sheer briefs.

He is the perfect marriage of lust and violence. Hannibal inhales silently and commits the scent of blood, sweat and cloyingly-sweet cherry lip gloss to his memory. All of it paints a portrait in his mind that he will commit to graphite later—the shape of a patient who occupies one night of his life in late October, the signature scrawled H. Lecter, and the model’s name, Will Graham.

“Your back is quite a sight,” Hannibal says, and swallows down his appreciation for the image of red and purple and blue watercolor, the body’s natural palette of pain. “Does your head hurt?”

“Only a little,” Will murmurs. He looks back over his shoulder, and there is a clever, exacting light in his gaze. Normally, that sort of thing would be incensing. Incredibly rude and presumptuous, even from one so young, so naive. But Will’s face holds and uncertainty, a deep melancholy that shifts beneath his skin in the form of an injured wolf, abandoned and alone. It howls with no hope for an audience, but even over the din of the Johns Hopkins PA system and the commotion of the emergency room, Hannibal can hear it echo.

Hannibal slips on a new pair of gloves. “Will you permit me to check your skull for damage?”

Will snorts. “If you can find damage to my brain, Doctor Lecter, I’m sure my classmates would be thrilled. By all means.”

Hannibal huffs a breath. With careful fingers, he touches the back of Will’s vulnerable neck and privately revels at his shiver. He wonders what it would be like to touch without the barrier of nitrile gloves between them; he feels the shape of Will’s scalp, skims lightly with his fingertips for any rough or tender patches.

Only one place draws a closed-mouthed moan of pain—toward the crown of his head, there is a lump and the faintest crackling sensation of scabs where Will’s head must have impacted. Hannibal withdraws, and his jaws click shut, teeth snap together behind his lips; to think the police were willing to paint Will as the assailant and the one in the wrong, when all indications point to the assault he had suffered.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Hannibal asks. “Between your back and your head, you seem to have faced some amount of violence. I’m sure that’s not what you expected of your evening.”

“I wasn’t at the bar for a good time, if that’s what you’re implying,” Will murmurs.

“That’s not at all what I’m implying.” Hannibal’s fingers slip from his hair and he retreats to the supply cabinet to fish out another antiseptic wipe. “Only that speaking of what happened to you may be of some help. The attack must have come as a shock.”

Will’s voice tightens. “I don’t need therapy, either.”

“I am simply trying to assist you, Will.” Hannibal isn’t quite sure why he bothers, and a flash of annoyance means he is well on his way to stop trying, intriguing boy or not. “If you tell me what happened, it may not only be of help to you emotionally, but I will be able to corroborate your story based on the pattern of your wounds. If you have a cell phone, I would be happy to take photographs for you to submit as evidence to the police. This is not my first incident, Will. Those marginalized by society based upon preference must stick together if we are to survive. We are vastly outnumbered by those who would gladly see us fade away.”

Will looks back. His eyes are huge and wide, oceanic blue, framed by black ink and painted-black lashes, pink powder blush and bright red scrapes. He is as lovely and vulnerable as a spring fawn. Will says nothing at first, but searches Hannibal’s face with something he might categorize as desperation. No victim ever wishes to be alone in the aftermath. Hannibal wonders if Will Graham has anyone he will call once he’s released.

But the implication sinks in. Hannibal can see the moment it clicks that he is safe, that he is a friend, and Will melts back into the nitrile-coated safety of Hannibal’s palms. Will reaches back blindly with his less-injured hand to extract a badly-scratched smartphone from between the tower of his clothes. He unlocks it and hands it to Hannibal.

“Document it,” Will says softly. “Please. You’re my only real evidence.”

Hannibal obligingly steps back and does as he is bid. He takes photographs of the bruise pattern, the scrapes. He gently parts Will’s untamed curls and snaps a picture of the rust-red scabs on his scalp. Then he steps around, sits on the edge of the bed facing Will; takes Will’s hand in his own and captures and image of his knuckles, and a close-up of his split lip.

To the violent aesthete that lives in Hannibal’s heart, he is photographing the finest sensuality, and Will Graham is a new and unexpected muse. He steels himself back to impassivity as he hands the phone to Will and sees the photos locked and archived, out of his grasp.

Will swallows hard. “Thank you.”

Hannibal extracts the wipe from the sterile pack and sets to work. After scant seconds of indecision, Will begins to speak.

“I was at the bar to meet a source,” Will says. “Some guy kept trying to hit on me. He wouldn’t take a hint. I thought I got away from him when I started my interview, but he was waiting for me to leave. When he got outside, he must’ve realized—the street lamps were bright, I don’t know. But he shoved me into the wall and he punched me, and I just… reacted. I put him down. I don’t know if or when it stopped being self-defense, but then the cops were there and I was being dragged away.”

“Do you often find yourself lost to violence?” Hannibal asks. The thought is fascinating.

Will shakes his head. “Not like this. I just… I did what I did in self-defense. I should stand by that, right?” His chin drops to his chest, and the fall of his hair shifts with it. The tender nape of his neck is exposed to Hannibal’s ravenous eyes. His teeth ache. “I’m going to get expelled.”

“You are the victim of an assault,” Hannibal replies firmly, for Will’s benefit rather than his own. He does indulge in letting one hand settle over the back of Will’s neck, to steady him as he deftly cleans Will’s wounds. “If you were to be expelled, it would be an injustice.”

Hannibal sighs as though a thought is occuring to him only for the first time. He extracts his lawyer’s card from his identification pocket, and rounds the bed to sit across from Will. He presses it into Will’s palm. “I fetched this for you earlier. This lawyer is a friend of mine. If the police give you a difficult time in their questioning, I advise you to call him. Tell him I told you to. He will take care of you, pro bono of course.”

Will’s lips part, exposing the pink slip of his tongue. He wets his lips; blood and sweet color are swept away. “I can’t. I couldn’t.”

“I insist,” Hannibal replies. “Though I cannot force you to do anything you don’t wish, Will. It’s common sense. Your future should not be impacted by the bias of a few.”

Will’s eyes lift to his, bright with life and swarmed with guilt. “I’m the one at fault.”

“You are a victim of an assault,” Hannibal repeats. “Will. I can’t tell you what to do, but I can tell you that you do not deserve to be found at fault for this.” Hannibal pats his hand and draws back. He has crossed lines already, and does not wish to cross any more—not so soon, anyway.

But as he retreats, Will’s clever gaze follows him. “Why would you do this for me? I’m a stranger.”

Hannibal sets to work covering Will’s scrapes with gauze. He pretends not to notice Will’s head tipping back to brush against his hands, a wild and lonely thing looking for a kind touch. “Kindness and courtesy costs me nothing, but my apathy may cost you your future.” Hannibal secures the tape on one cut and moves to the next. “You said you were meeting a source. May I assume you’re a journalist?”

“Trying to be.” Will takes a breath and leans forward, ducks his head to his chest and rounds his back like a cat, the vibrant plane of it a feast to Hannibal’s roving eyes. He wonders if Will is manipulating him even now, or if he is simply as exhausted and vulnerable as he seems. “I’m a student at the Merrill College of Journalism. I’m trying to assemble my senior project, but I’ve… well, I’ve chosen an ambitious subject.”

Will’s voice is wry. Hannibal senses a story. “Ambitious projects and journalism go hand-in-hand, do they not?”

“Maybe if it was political,” Will concedes. His voice is muffled. “But this is mostly petty.”

Color him intrigued—Will has not struck him as the type to be unduly spiteful. Hannibal works his way from wound to wound. “Oh?”

“It’s about that serial killer,” Will says. “The one who the cops are stumped by—I’m sure you’ve seen the news. The one that no one can decide if it’s one killer or a few killers. Six victims in short bursts over the last eighteen months.”

Hannibal’s hands go still. “And such a topic is petty?”

Will makes a soft sound of embarrassment; Hannibal can admit that he is muchtoo distracted to pay it mind. “Only because I picked it to prove my classmate wrong.”

Hannibal is almost offended. He keeps himself in check. “You don’t find it interesting?”

“Oh!” Now Will sounds offended. “Of course I find him interesting. He’s a genius. It’s only petty because Freddie is wrong.” There’s a sneer in his voice.

Hannibal is… he’s not sure what he feels.

But Will is still going. “Freddie’s idea of journalistic ethics is to use anyone she can to spin any sensationalist story. She doesn’t think about impact. She doesn’t care about truth. It’s like if, if—” Will makes a frustrated sound. “If a doctor used their position to victimize those at risk. It’s like violating do no harm. It’s abhorrent, and she’s going to get people killed because she doesn’t think about what she writes. She doesn’t understand the fuel to a fire that journalism can be to a murder case. That naming something gives it power, but if you name it wrong?”

Will’s bitter laugh is the finest wine on his tongue, a symphony to soothe the restless corners of his mind. Hannibal’s heart makes one strong, fascinated thump before he gets himself under control once more.

“If she names him wrong, he won’t stand for it, you know,” Will murmurs. “Not this one.”

Hannibal inhales. Exhales. His hands flatten on Will’s back as he smoothes one last piece of tape into place. “You speak as though you know him. It’s a bold assumption.”

Will hmphs, casts a hard look back over his shoulder. All Hannibal can see of him is one sharply-lined eye, one highlighted cheek washed nearly white in the cold hospital light. “If you spent your time and risked your freedom making art, then got categorized as something so amateur as The Baltimore Butcher,wouldn’t you be pissed? I would.”

Even the suggestion of such a name is sour. Distasteful.

But it is unimaginable that Will Graham might infer that from—from what?

“Art,” Hannibal says. He removes his hands, puts distance between them. Discards the cloth in one of the smaller biohazard containers mounted upon the wall. “You find the killings artful? Most would consider them gruesome.”

The mattress creaks; Will sits up. He stretches, and when he lifts his head, the sheet of his curls tumbles down his back in an untamed wave, brushing the edges of his scapulas. He hums a short tune in a voice smooth and clear. A bar from a song, perhaps. His lips turn up at the edges in a wistful, complicated smile that he directs up at the ceiling.

“Glory and Gore, though, right? Making headlines. He considers them art—or better than they were before, anyway. They’re better to him dead. That doesn’t sound like just a Butcher to me.” Will’s smile falters; irritation creeps in around the edges, and soon enough, he’s scowling. “And he doesn’t only operate within Baltimore, which Freddie seems very ready to discount for the sake of clever alliteration.”

Hannibal tips his head in consideration. He holds out one last sealed sterile wipe; Will looks at it, then at him. “For your lip,” Hannibal says. “You’re still bleeding.”

“Oh.” Will tears it open without hesitation, and doesn’t seem to think anything of it as he wipes away his lip gloss. Not fussy, then. “Yeah, thanks.”

“You have quite a number of thoughts about this killer,” Hannibal says and quirks a brow, distracting himself from the sight of blood and lip color mingled together, brutal and effeminate. He’s not sure what effect he intends his words to have, but Will flushing red to the tips of his ears is not what he expects.

“Yeah, well…” Will hesitates, staring down at the wipe. Then, without a second thought, he folds it in half and begins to scrub at all his makeup. Black liner smudges and bleeds under the force of the alcohol; mascara smears in the hollows underneath Will’s eyes, lilac with sleep-deprived shadows and starving veins. Concealer, blush, powder, everything fades. The prettily-painted facade of Will Graham becomes the face of an exhausted young adult. Bruising at his jaw had been concealed by his foundation, and is now visible to Hannibal’s fascinated gaze. There is the faintest haze of ingrowing stubble, though not much to speak of.

Clad in a hospital gown and lace underwear, Will Graham is naked and defiant before him. He pulls his hair into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. With a mournful sigh, Will reaches for his glasses and wipes the cracked lenses with the edge of his hospital gown and puts them on.

Then he looks up at Hannibal, and there is a certain expression he wears—the exhausted expectation of rejection. And Will smiles, but it is not happy. “No one’s just one thing,” he says. “There’s no singular truth. But that doesn’t make the truth less fulfilling, does it? So I want to see his truth.” Will nods to himself. He looks down at his hands, his painted nails, his bruised and bloody broken knuckles. “And maybe I’ll keep Freddie from getting killed and prove her wrong all at once. But I’m not doing it for her.”

“An unconventional but noble pursuit.” Hannibal frowns. Suddenly he finds himself faced with a strange creature that he is not quite sure what to do with. A young predator with terrible potential, snared in chains of conventionality; a young knight on a noble quest for his Holy Grail. “So who would you do it for? Your quest to behold this killer and his truth.”

“Journalism gives a voice to the voiceless,” Will replies. There’s still mascara smudged beneath his lashes, blood painting his mouth where the color was wiped away; the cracks in his lenses are prison bars caging the duality of the creature within. “It seems to me this killer’s voice is the one that’s going unheard.”

Hannibal considers this. It’s an interesting thought, and he wonders what new dimensions might be reached if the tableaus left behind had an adequate eye to interpret them. “And with your insight, if you could and if you would, what name would you give to him?”

“Other than The Baltimore Butcher?”

Hannibal nods once. His curiosity is burning—to see what title someone like Will Graham might unknowingly bestow him.

Will stares in return. He has not been caught without an answer—it lurks somewhere inside his eyes, behind his teeth. He is gauging whether or not he wishes to share it; Anubis weighing the heart of the worthy.

“His comfort zone is large,” Will finally says. “Maryland, Virginia, Delaware, D.C. He crosses state lines with ease and avoids detection. He doesn’t seem to have any visible victim preferences, so either he’s random or he’s smart. He’s communicating through these murders, whether or not anyone is listening.” Something flickers across Will’s face, and is gone before it can be categorized. “But I’m listening.”

Yes, Hannibal realizes. Yes he is.

Will’s eyes waver and drop. With a sigh, he takes off his glasses again and casts them to the end of the bed, a lost cause. “It’s not my right to name him, Doctor Lecter. I’m just a student, I’m not a professional. I’m not law enforcement or a psychologist. Every guest lecturer says to never name a criminal. That it can embolden them, spur them to action and greater heights, seeking greater attention. But I’ve named him in my head, because in my head I know him. He speaks, and I hear his words. When he kills, I become an extension of his will.”

His Will. Hannibal rather likes the sound of that.

“To me,” Will says softly, “he’s The Chesapeake Ripper.”

The Baltimore Butcher. The Chesapeake Ripper. Of the two, Hannibal immediately knows which he prefers. There is a subtle cleverness, a reverence that is beholden with being named after Jack the Ripper. It is a history as rich as the Chesapeake Bay is vast.

And most importantly?

Jack the Ripper was never caught.

Hannibal bites hard on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. He narrowly avoids smiling. “Well,” he replies instead, “It’s been months since any such killings. Perhaps he’s finished his work.”

“He’s not done,” Will says with certainty. “He’s not.”

Hannibal hums. No, of course he’s not done. He’ll never be done. Even if Will’s Ripper fades or relocates, Hannibal will never be done. Blood and bone are his birthright. Conquering is his nature.

Perhaps Will’s professors were right.

To be named is a powerful thing.

“It’s certainly more tasteful,” Hannibal says with a nod. “Your name for this killer. It’s a fitting title.”

Will blinks slowly, doelike. The removal of his makeup has not diminished the length of his lashes; the smudge of black around his lids accentuates the crisp color of his eyes. He looks up at Hannibal, soft and open and vulnerable, a heart ready to be crushed. To be consumed.

How would Will Graham taste?

“I wish you every good fortune with your project,” Hannibal says with a small smile. “Aside from the misfortunes of this night, of course.”

Will, though clever, is so terribly young, so sweetly naive when he lowers his eyes and murmurs, “It hasn’t been so bad.”

There is a knock.

“Yes?” Hannibal replies.

Bernadette pokes her head around the curtain. “I’m ready to take Will for an x-ray if you’re done with him, Doctor Lecter.”

“Thank you, Bernadette, that will do nicely,” Hannibal replies. “And your guests?”

“Mr. McCallum cracked like an egg,” she replies with a smug smile. “The officers might have more questions, but I think everything is going to be fine.” She turns her gaze to Will and goes soft with sympathy at his ruined makeup. “Oh, honey. I hope you weren’t crying.”

Hannibal surveys Will, his demure persona. Now that the fight has worn away, he’s malleable. “No, nothing of the sort. Will is very strong.”

Will is indeed quite strong. And unbelievably soft.

“Thank you for your help, Doctor Lecter,” Will says. The flicker of a familiar business card between his fingers is quick as a minnow, and disappears to be folded into Will’s clothes again. “And your understanding.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Will.” Hannibal reaches out, and Will reaches back. Will’s handshake is warm and firm. Respectable. He looks into Hannibal’s eyes and does not look away until they part. “I’ll check in with you when you return, schedule allowing—”

The beeper on Hannibal’s hip goes wild at the same time he hears, “Paging Doctor Lecter, Ambulance Bay One. Doctor Lecter, Bay One.”

Hannibal sighs, looking skyward as though the PA speaker embedded in the ceiling held any answers, or perhaps mercy. “Well, perhaps not.”

“I can manage from here,” Will replies. His head tips to the side in consideration. “Good luck.”

Hannibal nods in thanks. He pats Bernadette on the shoulder as he passes. “Thank you for your help. Good evening to you both.”

It’s a strange thing, perspective—how the appearance of one person in a life can completely eclipse another. Will Graham lingers on Hannibal’s mind, stalks the shape of his shadow to the operating room, and home thereafter. When it comes time to write his notes on the surgeries he has performed this night, he finds himself struggling to remember names. More concerning yet is that his usual page-per-patient policy has been consumed. Will Graham, who should have been a footnote at the bottom of his daily log, grew a life of his own beneath the strokes of Hannibal’s pen and took up two pages from beginning to end. From his bared teeth and wild eyes to the secrets he revealed for want of a sympathetic audience.

The Chesapeake Ripper.

Yes, Hannibal decides, and sets down his pen. He closes his journal and picks up his sketchbook with a memory of watercolor bruises in his mind. Yes, he likes the sound of that.

[austinplaysrpgs-blog]

Call of Cthulhu, Part 2

Part 1 here

Part 3 here

October 11th, 1925

We awaken a couple of hours later. Jasper requests to stop by his apartment and feed his cat, Loki. The door to his apartment is ajar. We walk in to find his apartment has been destroyed. Furniture upended, books and papers strewn about. Jasper cries out when he walks to his kitchen, seeing Loki dissected on the kitchen table, bones broken. What sort of monster would do such a thing? Jasper vows to find whoever did this and make them pay. It does seem likely that Berger gave the order.

With no leads to speak of regarding the granite disk, we decide to sneak out to the asylum and poke around the new amphitheatre. Security is pretty lax, so we’re able to walk right up to it. Upon further inspection, there’s a large circular patch of dirt underneath the seating. We find chips of malachite in the dirt. It must have come from the disk. But there’s no drag marks or other indicators of where the disk was moved. Berger and a handful of orderlies approach us soon afterwards, ordering us to leave before the authorities are called. 

Instead of leaving outright, we decide to retreat to a nearby hill and observe the asylum. We need to get Larry out of there. If we strike tonight, we can catch them off guard, but we’ll have to break in to get him. If we wait until tomorrow, Larry should be out in the open, but so will lots of other people who could stop us. We figure, fuck it, let’s try tonight and see how it goes. So we formulate a ballsy plan. Since we left, the asylum has increased security. Guards make the rounds about the property. Later this evening, Maurice will create a distraction while Jasper and Lawrence break into J Block and extract Larry.

Maurice creeps up to the chapel on the opposite side of the property. Upon closer inspection, the chapel looks abandoned. Through the window, Maurice sees that it is in a state of disrepair: dust covers the pews that are stacked up and scattered about the chapel. He creates a makeshift molotov cocktail in his hat, breaks the window, and tosses it in. His toss is true, and the fire catches. However, a guard hears the glass break and comes to investigate. He comes around the corner and sees Maurice outside the chapel. Maurice runs for it, leading the man towards the next set of buildings, hoping to lose the man or get the jump on him. There’s a struggle, but Maurice gets the upper hand, knocking him unconscious and doubling back to the meetup point. The chapel is burning now, and the alarm goes up. The orderlies form a bucket brigade to fight the blaze.

Jasper and Lawrence see the smoke and hear the shouting and spring into action. Giving the reservoir and amphitheatre a wide berth, we approach the exterior door to J Block. It’s locked. Jasper fiddles with it for a minute and is able to pick the lock. We enter, guns drawn, catching the orderlies off guard. Some of the patients must be asleep, there’s not near as much noise as last time.

“Get down on the ground,” Lawrence says, keeping his voice low. The orderlies comply.

Jasper grabs the key ring from Phil’s waist and checks the cell Larry had been in the other day. He’s not there. Instead, another patient lunges out. He takes a swipe at Jasper and goes out the back door. Patients begin waking up, the droning wall of sound from before returning.

“Where is Larry Croswell?” Lawrence asks the orderlies.

“Don’t say anything, Billy,” Phil says.

The younger orderly, who we don’t recognize, is not as composed as his more experienced coworker.

“I’ll give you 5 seconds before I blow your brains out unless you tell me what I need to know. Understand?”

5

4

“I don’t know anything!” Billy is panicking.

3

Lawrence cocks his shotgun.

2

1

“Alright, alright!” Billy screeches. “The super moved him yesterday. Said they needed to get him ready for somethin’. I don’t know. Just please don’t kill me.”

The whole plan may be shot. We hadn’t planned to go further in. But we don’t want to leave empty handed. Lawrence forces the orderlies to their feet and herds them into the empty cell, and Jasper locks them in. Now it’s time to improvise. Jail break? We have the keys, maybe we can use the chaos of loose patients to go deeper without being trapped? We see if any of the patients are coherent and less threatening. We hear a man yell somewhere in the block, “WHAT DO YOU KNOW?” Definitely not that guy. 

We decide to try one particularly active patient and see what happens. He attacks Jasper and chases him around the block. We herd the patient towards the door and pull off a pretty sweet maneuver to propel him into I Block. The orderlies in I Block pounce on the man to restrain him, not noticing us following behind, guns drawn. They freeze when ordered to. We ask these men about Larry, they don’t seem to know where he is. We herd them and the patient they’re restraining into a cell and lock them in. Should we keep going with the jailbreak plan? None of these patients seem capable of such a thing. They barely seemed to register our presence at all.

The door to H Block opens and an orderly walks in. He sees the guns and backs out quickly, cursing and closing the door behind him. Word is going to spread quickly from here. After some debate, we push forward to H Block. It’s chaos. The orderlies are forcing patients to evacuate inward towards the main hall and the sea of bodies is too thick for us to push through. Jasper fires his pistol into the ceiling hoping to move the crowd forward. It does, but not in the way he’d intended. Patients go into a frenzy trying to get out and the way is even more jammed than before. We can see orderlies trying to make their way back towards our position. 

Afraid to be trapped and apprehended, we make our way back to J Block with the key ring. We make it back outside with little trouble. The burning chapel has been handled and the bucket brigade is returning to work. The fire department never showed, they must not have been contacted.

“Where’d that one guy go?” 

Over by the reservoir, we hear a man’s voice say “Daddy!”, followed by a splash. We have no desire to investigate that and take off for the meetup point. We hop in the car with Maurice and retreat to his home. 

October 12, 1925

Lawrence is locked in an asylum cell. He hears splashing in the toilet. He turns around. Before he sees the source of the noise, he wakes up.

We buy supplies for the evening rescue. Rifle, shotgun, ammunition, binoculars, and so on.

“How much dynamite can I buy?” Maurice’s player asks. And thus, a plan is born.

Jasper and Lawrence stake out the asylum from the neighboring hill while Maurice drives his car around, loaded with roughly 100 pounds of dynamite, intending to use it as a bomb and drive it into the reservoir or asylum and blow them sky high.

Through their binoculars, they spot people filing out of J Block in white robes. Berger leads the group, barking orders. Behind him, some of the men are pushing a gurney. Strapped to that gurney is Larry Croswell. Now is the time to move.

Maurice looks for an opening to drive the car up the hill but each of the roads are blocked by armed guards and vehicles. The hill is too steep to drive, especially loaded up with all the dynamite. So Maurice improvises. He pulls up to one of the roadblocks and gets out, a stick of dynamite in one hand, a lit cigar in the other. All six guards pull their pistols and train them on Maurice.

“Y'all would be wise to not shoot at me. You might hit all this dynamite and blow us all up, you know,” Maurice says from behind the car door, gesturing inside. “So why don’t y'all just step aside and let me through?”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, sir. Please turn around and leave the premises or we’ll be forced to shoot,” one of the guards replies, standing his ground.

“Well if you shoot me, you’d better kill me, otherwise I’ll be taking you all-”

They did, and they did. All six open fire, hitting him several times. Maurice is dead before he hits the ground.

Hearing the gunshots, Berger sends Rocko and a couple other orderlies to investigate. They’re not pleased to be sent away. Lawrence and Jasper move in from their vantage point. Whatever Maurice is doing to distract them is working.

Berger begins the ritual. Turning his back to the reservoir, he begins chanting in a language we don’t recognize. The effect on the gathered crowd is immediate. They begin tearing into each other. Clawing, biting, ripping chunks of flesh in an orgy of blood. Several bite into Larry, helplessly strapped to the gurney. He lets out a blood-curdling scream. The water of the reservoir is completely still. Then, the water level rises suddenly. A dark, scaly form surfaces, approaching the amphitheatre. We’ve never seen anything like it before. It looms over Berger, seeming to breathe in the bloodshed.

Jasper sprints up the hill to free Larry while Lawrence provides cover fire with his rifle. The worshippers don’t seem to notice either of them in their revels. Jasper unstraps Larry from the gurney, maneuvering around the mass of bodies. Larry is in really rough shape and is bleeding from several places. Jasper props Larry up on his shoulder and they limp away from the amphitheatre.

Lawrence shoots Berger in the head, hoping to disrupt the ritual. Instead, the spray of blood and brain matter only seems to empower the creature. Lawrence considers shooting the creature, but he still can’t wrap his mind around it. It just can’t be real. He sees that Jasper is fleeing with Larry in tow and wisely chooses to follow. They make it to Lawrence’s car unhindered and drive off into the night.

Epilogue

Victory, if you could call it that, is bittersweet. We saved the life of a friend at the cost of another. Larry, in his paranoia, had acquired a secret residence upstate. Unwilling to return to his apartment, Jasper moves in as his caretaker. Lawrence returns to his office and dives back into work, hoping to keep his mind from straying to that dark place. Life returns to normal, but not for long. Once you’ve seen into that world, it’s impossible to step away for good.

[cupnoodle-queen]

CHASING SUNS: Chapter 13 Blame

2,230 words THE PLOT THICKENS. dun dun dunnnn Tagging some peeps: @blindbae​ @nifwrites​ @thegoddesseos​ @themissimmortal​

Cam gripped the steering wheel with damp hands, trailing behind Gladio’s Jeep on the drive back to HQ. Her entire body was feeling the after effects of their connection, sparks on her skin and her brain going a mile a minute, yet inside her gut she felt ill. Dave wanted to speak with her, and the way Gladio just, looked away from her….What happened?

Her wipers were struggling to keep up with clearing the rain, the downpour coming in sheets and a low rumble of thunder reverberated through the frame of the vehicle. As they entered the first winding turn before the tunnel, Cam could just make out the rough patches of dirt and terrain uplifted from the behemoth, ominous flashbacks rapid firing through her mind. She still couldn’t believe she’d assisted in downing the beast, surprised at how quickly the plan to blind it lightbulbed in her mind. How she managed to pull it off on the other hand, she couldn’t explain.

Sure she’d trained with Gladio and Greyson plenty, but something gnawed at her sense of reason. She’d overheard the hushed whispers of other hunters and veterans, how she was most likely feigning the stroke of greatness persona, coming from nothing and rubbing shoulders with the higher ranks in no time flat. Someone who’d been mediocre at best in physical education throughout high school, someone who hadn’t touched a firearm before several short weeks ago…

As they exited the tunnel and approached HQ territory, Gladio slowed down his Jeep faster than Cam anticipated and she broke hard, though immediately understood the reason for his abrupt halt; a thick puddle of blood was accumulating outside the tunnel, dripping from above where the behemoth corpse was slung by the edge of the rock shelf. An iron tang hit the back of her throat; she could smell it. Great. They’d probably called a meeting to bump priority of getting rid of the body…

They pulled up beside the main office and headed inside, one after the other without another word. It was a full house; Greyson, Prompto and Cor were seated against the far wall, Dave was pacing the room with a look of contempt on his typically relaxed face. Two of the highest ranking hunters nodded to greet them as they entered, while off in the furthest corner Steph stood, fixated on her phone, thumbs tapping the screen at lightning speed.

“Alright, she’s here,” Dave announced and every head in the room rose to look at Cam. She felt microscopic in seconds flat, leaning against the wall opposite the door, Gladio behind her. What did he mean, ‘she’s here’…

“Got a couple things to go over before the main topic of this meeting,” Dave continued, grabbing a folder from the metal desk and flipping through the paperwork. “That behemoth was no coincidence; infrared readings have doubled since the scout’s last reports from Sunday, only five days ago. We think given that it was headed due northwest when Greyson and Co happened upon it, there’s a high chance it was attracted to the infrared energy being omitted nearby.”

“How are the sightings in the area, boss?” one of the veteran hunters asked, looking over Dave’s shoulder to read the report.

Dave rubbed his forehead. “Rising. Snipers use to only hold two clips of ammo per shift, but recently they’ve been requesting double, and what’s even more concerning is just how close they’re reaching the outskirts of HQ.” He sighed, leaning against a support beam. “Might need to invest in more spotlights-”

“It’s not in the budget,” Steph interjected, all heads whipping in her direction at the back of the room. Her expression was blank. “And you know we can’t work it in as well. I’ve scoured it top to bottom and pinched enough pennies to be certain of that.”

Dave’s eyes flicked to Cam and her gut cramped. “Which brings me to the reason for our meeting. Reynolds?”

Her head snapped up, undivided attention. “Yes?”

“Where were you at approximately 4:35 this afternoon?”

Cam frowned, knitting her dark eyebrows in confusion. “Beg pardon, sir?”

“Answer the question, Reynolds,” Cor’s voice was like a serrated blade across her face.

“I was…” She thought back to it, around that time she was - “in the showers.”

Dave eyed her suspiciously until she shrugged her shoulders. He backed up towards a flat cabinet, sliding the door open to reveal a flat screen TV, a grid of closed-circuit feeds on display in small boxes. He cycled through some views with the remote until he landed on a specific one, enlarging the view, and Cam recognized it as the side wall adjacent to the back entrance of the armory...

She tensed, realizing what everyone was about to witness. Without forethought Cam’s head snapped back to Steph, but she was focused intently on the television, expression indecipherable.

Cam turned back in time to see a pre-recorded version of herself, crouched and sneaking behind the back of the armory. Much to her displeasure however, the angle of the camera only captured the side of the building, not the back, so when Cam’s recorded form ducked behind the armory she was in the blind spot.

She knew what would happen next, how a few seconds later she’d come tiptoeing back the same way she came, pocketing her cell phone...Except, she didn’t. Nearly a minute went by of zero activity on the monitor. There was no way Cam had spent that long behind the armory; She’d followed Steph and the initiate, saw them through the gap in the door, snapped some pics, and left. The entire series of events may have taken twenty seconds at best…

Also, why hadn’t they shown…”Dave,” Cam interrupted their viewing and he paused playback, “Can you rewind to a few seconds before I show up on screen?”

Wordlessly, he fulfilled her request and hit play about a minute before Cam’s appearance. Nothing, and then...Cam sneaking into view.

What the hell? “Okay, something’s not right-”

“Why’d you break into the armory, Reynolds?” Dave’s voice was firm and low, avoiding eye contact; authoritative, but lacking confidence.

Cam stepped away from the wall, taking a few strides forward. “That footage is all wrong, I-I didn’t go back there of my own volition.”

“Then explain,” Cor rose from his seat, pacing around to Cam, “what sent you back there in the first place.”

“I-I saw-”

Steph’s arms flung around the initiate’s neck, the cream and roses of her bare breasts jostling with his thrusts as he pistioned in and out of her, his bare ass flexing with the push of his hips. Their labored breathing with the speed of their fucking-

“...something.”

Her mouth dropped a fraction, nerves getting the better of her composure. She dared a glance at Steph, who to Cam’s surprise remained the pinnacle of ease, twirling a lock of crimson hair between long, slender fingers.

It drove Cam insane. She either didn’t know, or didn’t care that she was about to be exposed. She was hyper-aware of Gladio standing barely two feet behind her. Alright then, she thought to herself, pulling out her phone. “Look, I have proof that I...wasn’t alone. Just let me find-”

The pictures of Steph weren’t showing up in her gallery. They were gone.

“Wait, what the hell?” She tried with trembling hands to close the application and reopen it, hoping with despair that it was...Nope, not a glitch. The photos had disappeared.

Cam’s heart hit the back of her throat and double-timed as she caught a glimpse of Steph standing in the back of the room, one corner of her mouth barely turned up into a snide smirk.

Something happened to Cam then, that she never experienced before in twenty five years of life. For two  seconds of unwarranted eternity, her vision tinted red. Undiluted fury in its purest form.

Anger, absolute.

Behind her Gladio took a step back, startled and uncertain as to how he just felt that.

Cam regained her sobriety, sighing. “I had pictures on my phone, however it seems they’ve been deleted.” She gritted her teeth. The bitch must have taken her phone while she was in the shower-

“Well unfortunately, Reynolds,” The Marshal was holding back his full potential for a raised voice, “the entirety of gil in the retain cash was just stolen, approximately two grand in total.” He stopped in front of Cam, his head cocked to the side. “Until otherwise proven innocent, I have no choice but to suspend you from active hunter status. Had we not been in dire need of personnel we’d be having a different conversation altogether. Turn in your weapons tonight, we’ll get you started on a job tomorrow-”

“That’s not fair, I didn’t-”

“Reynolds,” Dave’s voice was restrained. “No one else went back there tonight except you. Camera doesn’t lie.”

Altered recordings do, Cam thought to herself. She exhaled in defeat. No use fighting it for now, evidently Steph had gone to extensive lengths to cover up her little rendezvous with the rookie hunter; She’d just have to find another means of proving her guilt. “Whatever, then. Fine. Can I go?”

A long pause, silence that made the air feel thick. Someone coughed, and then, “Meeting adjourned.”

The attendees rose, but as they began to file out of the office Dave spoke up. “Actually, Greyson and Steph, stick back for a few minutes...”

Cam’s hands balled into fists and she made for the barracks to collect her weapons. It wasn’t right, but she had to roll with the punches on this. There had to be a way she could gain access to the recordings, or perhaps there was a witness around that could provide a statement...

A hand grabbed her arm and swung her around to face the opposite direction. It was Gladio. “Talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?” her sun was humming below her skin. Try as she did to deny it, she liked looking at him.

He frowned though his eyes were warm. “What happened?”

“I didn’t break into the armory, if that’s where you’re going with this.” Cam’s voice had a grit to it, though she tried to be sincere...She could tell him, right? What she saw? Would he react well to it or get upset? Given the unknown state of their relationship (could it even be called that? The questions were unyielding tonight) She couldn’t be certain, instead she tiptoed at the precipice and brushed over what occurred. “I saw...Steph, inside.”

Gladio’s eyebrows jumped a bit. “In the armory? That’s impossible. She’s not that kind of person.”

“Are you sure?” Cam took an involuntary step towards him, halting mid second. “Gladio, I-I know what I saw. Honest to Astrals, I saw her…”

He exhaled a deep breath, checked his six and took Cam’s hand leading her inside the barracks. It was too early for anyone to be asleep so he knew they’d have some privacy. Cam’s heart hammered when he pulled her into the dark foyer of the sleeping quarters. After ensuring they were alone he whispered, the tenor in his voice like an engine. “Look, I don’t know what happened but...just, don’t mess around with her. She’s got a mean streak a mile wide and gets what she wants, no matter what the cost.”

“Why go out with her in the first place, then?” Cam whispered back, though instantly regretted her abrasive tone. He was still holding her hand; She had no intention of letting go at that moment. “I mean, if she’s not that nice of a person...”

Gladio pulled Cam close, their torsos touching and her marking reacted with renewed heat. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his facial hair brushing her head in a comforting way before he wrapped his arms around her. “I did what I had to...to get by.”

Confusion clawed at her sense of reason and she wanted to question his response but he was surrounding her, radiating warmth and intoxicating allure. They stood still for countless seconds, their breathing synched and hearts linked, both overwhelmed at the effects of one another’s proximity. Two addicts tapped at the vein; Two ships that sailed in the night for far too long.

Gladio’s hand stroked her jaw line and pulled her face upwards, planting the softest kiss of a lifetime on Cam’s lips. With barely any pressure and only the feel of his mouth against hers, melding between them in perfect symmetry and balance, they gave each other what the other had desperately needed all their life without being aware of doing so.

Cam’s phone buzzed abruptly and Gladio pulled away, much sooner than both of them had anticipated so she could answer. She didn't recognize the number.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Gladio slipped past her and back outside, and just like that she was alone.

Cam answered the call. “Hello?”

“Hey, Cam?” A young female’s voice greeted her, one Cam couldn’t place to a face.

“Yes, this is she. Who’s this?”

“It’s Iris,” she replied, her voice unnaturally formal. “I got your number from Prompto, I hope that’s okay.”

Cam was surprised to hear from her. “No, that’s alright. Is there something you need?”

She hesitated, but continued after some last minute deliberation.

“Yes. I have a big favor to ask.”