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alastor-x-reader-stories · 3 months ago

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Radio Dream - Alastor x Reader (platonic or romantic)

"Do you think I can go into that Radio Tower?" you said

"Not unless you want to die again." Husk responded with a grunt.

"Why would you wanna go into dat thing anyway?" Angel said, leaning his cheek on one hand while the other held his drink.

You were sitting at the bar with Angel and Husk, just chatting about random insignificant drunk topics. Then your curiosity of the radio tower mounted on the hotel caught up to you. Leading to the conversation read not too long ago.

Alastor stood around the corner, just out of sight of the bar patrons. His ear flicked and his grin strained when you asked your foolish question, but Angel Dust's question had him pause before he could flay you.

Why did you? Sabotage? Vandalism? Just to be annoying-?

"I was just remembering how much I wanted to be radio show host when I was a little kid." You said in a sigh.

...Ooh?

"Oh? Really? Aren't ya... y'know, not ancient?" Angel said. He took a sip so you could respond. Husk was paying attention to you now as well, giving you a side-eye as he cleaned whatever glassware needed to be cleaned.

You sighed again, long and drawn out. There was a bit of dreaminess to your tone, a bit of longing. "Yeah, that's why I never really pursued it. My folks were like 'that's nice and all but that's going out of style and you can't make a living off of it, be more realistic.'" You snorted a bit in agitation at that, taking another slow sip of your drink. After a moment you continued.

"I used to have such a good time playing radio host. I'd sit in the living room or dining room, wherever people were, and make like a box fort or something with my cd player with me. I'd talk into a stick or spoon or whisk or something and talk about random topics or play music. Sometimes I'd 'take phone calls', which were mostly just me pretending to give myself a phone call." You chuckled "I would start a lot of 'drama' like that. Sometimes my family members would give suggestions and I'd play it up and play whatever song they asked. Assuming it was on one of the three CDs I was allowed to use."

"That's cute." Angel hummed "Other than the CDs and stuff, your show doesn't sound that much different from Alastor's."

Husk snorted "Nah, they're show sounds MUCH less annoying."

You barked out a laugh- clearly intoxicated "How dare you! I'm sure I could be a LOT more annoying!" You devolved into a hysterical giggle fit, your face hitting the bar counter in front of you.

"All right, I think you've had enough." Husk grunted, taking what was left of your drink from you.

"fair." You said into the counter.

The conversation carried on from there, and Alastor slinked away to his tower. He stood there a moment, his arms crossed behind his back as his eyes did a brief scan over the room.

When he was young, he did something similar. Granted it was a record player, not a see-dee or whatever you were rambling about. His mother would play along and encourage him, pretending to send letters in or be a guest on his show.

Hearing your story gave him a bit of a warm feeling in his chest. It was good knowing someone out there still appreciated the medium, even if it was likely unrealistic.

Well... Alastor supposed there was really no harm in it, assuming he was there to supervise...

A couple days later and Alastor trotted up to you, offering a tour of the radio tower.

For a brief moment, your eyes practically lit up - shining in delight. The expression did something to his chest, as it suddenly felt far too tight. But not in an...unpleasant way.

However, the next moment you looked downright terrified.

Not as pleasant. Not even funny. He had no idea why.

"Are you going to kill me or whatever?" You said, slowly taking a step back.

Alastor laughed "Not at all, my dear! I simply overheard your drunken conversation the other night and decided to indulge your childhood fantasy."

You snorted "Yeah I'm not selling you my soul for that."

Alastor waved you off, scoffing "Oh heavens, I wasn't asking for your soul." He gave you a bright grin- one that seemed less like a grin and more like a soft smile. "I simply ask you don't, how do people say now a days... 'wreck my shit'."

You giggled a bit into your palm. Apparently Alastor had said something funny.

"...Really? You'll just...let me look?"

"Certainly!" He put an arm across your shoulders, guiding you down the halls in the direction of his station. "Why it's been- unfortunately- quite some time since I heard such a passionate speech for the radio!"

Your face flushed a bright red "Well, hold on, it wasn't a 'speech'-"

"Nope! More like a couple sentences. But you know how it is," He used his free hand to do a jazzy motion "In show-business!"

You snorted "Mmm.... I guess so. Though, really, i've never been a very 'show business' kind of person."

"Nonsense! Once you have it, my dear, you never truly lose it. It just needs a little spark and then you'll have the flames all over again!"

"Are we talking about showmanship or arson?"

"Why not both!"

You laughed. His chest did that pleasant squeeze again. Maybe he'll allow you to sit in on a broadcast one of these days....Well, that was a future question.

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Hi it's me the writer. I actually did the things that the reader talked about in this. It was a lot of fun for me and my attention-hungry existence. My parents didn't really dissuade me from it though. But. Uh. I think it was more like a 'entertain the child's whims' kind of thought. Which was fair, because I didn't exactly pursue that long. Though I still had fun playing it and figured i'd write something short about it. The three CDs I used were "Wicked", "Pokemon", and "The Shrek Soundtrack". Favorite songs to play from them, in order "No Good Deed", "The Pokemon Rap", and "Accidentally in Love" That info isn't important to anyone but me so i shared it anyway lol.

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader

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unlimitedbutchworks · 7 months ago

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the taboo around cheating is frustratingly common and conservative, the only reason it’s still seen as a unique evil violation on the level it is separate from other breakings of trust is a result of hegemonic (&largely misogynistic in their origins &manifestations) views of partners having a right to the others body/autonomy like property rights. it’s fine to be monogamous or whatever but we have to accept sex is not an inherently sacred holy act only healthy in the context of your christian husband partner. But for the record if i see more ppl using consent language to talk about cheating like it’s comparable to sexual abuse i will start flaying people alive

#sasha speaks

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lullabyes22-blog · 5 days ago

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Snippet - The Stretcher - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

An ugly reckoning...

tw: gore, violence, medical trauma, limb loss

cw: suggestions of inappropriate relationships between mentor and student

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Silco walks on.

Inside, the odor of stale chemicals seeps through the air. Jinx's containment pod is a plexiglas sphere resembling a transparent hive. Inside, she is laid out on a narrow cot. Her left hand—the two clever fingers so cruelly excised—is strapped to a splint. The stumps are a little red, but clean and dry. Each one is neatly sutured with black thread.

Black as the sucking hole in her chest.

Through the covers, Silco can see the delineations of the wound, a map of gauze adhering to her torso. The flesh is still flayed. But it is no longer a disaster-site of hideous spillage. The raw tendons are scored with tiny stitches. Each one, a testament to Singed’s ruthlessly meticulous handiwork.

The rest of Jinx is bone pale as if the scant pigment on her skin has been sucked dry. Her freckles stand out in stark pinpricks.

Two bags of fluid hang on a metal pole, drip-drip-dripping down a tube into a needle jammed into her arm. The steady flow of antibiotics, morphine, and synthesized Shimmer will bolster her vitals and keep her under. Her breathing—a tarred constriction of bubbles caught in her perforated lungs—has smoothed over the course of the night. But it remains an effortful jag: deep, dragging, discordant.

Silco's guts churn. The instinctive grind of rage is offset by guilt.

Then: shock.

Jinx is not alone.

A longer body's curved around Jinx's small one. One arm, the sleeve rolled to the elbow, is flung over her hip. Fingertips splay against her thigh: an anchor. The other arm, metallic, makes a protective arc over Jinx's skull. The cybernetic fingers, tipped with steel, are threaded in her blue hair. The head, half-obscured in lank brown curls, is tipped to Jinx's own.

Their temples mirror. Their eyelashes kiss. The cadence of their chests rises and falls in concert.

The Hexcore, with hypnotic rotations, bathes Jinx and Viktor in a violet glow.

From his own extremities, Silco feels pure rage blast open as the Monster unlocks.

"What the hell—?"

Singed looms from the corner of the medbay: tall and fleshlessy thin as a mantis. He's clad in a white smock resembling a butcher's apron. The barest smear of blood is caught in the weave. He glances up at Silco's snarl.

Apart from an expression of insectile alertness, he shows no other signs of concern.

"Ah," he says. "You've returned."

"Open the pod."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Viktor. What in the frozen hell is he—?"

"He's aiding her retrieval."

"What?"

"Her retrieval," Singed says, in the same imperturbable tone. "From what I understand, a plunge into the Void is not unlike falling into arctic waters. It takes a strong grip to pull oneself out. J17 is a skilled swimmer. But she remains partially submerged. She'll need a guide to drag her to the shore."

"He has no right to—"

"To what? Hold his companion's hand?"

"Companion?"

Singed nods.

Silco's jaw locks as the Doctor's meaning sinks in.

Guardians and Mages. He'd known, in his bones, that the bond between Viktor and Jinx held a strange, unearthly resonance. A tie that binds, like gravity does a comet: two celestial forces, inexorably pulled together by the galvanic charge of their shared potential.

He'd assumed the nature of the bond was intellectual. That their kinship was a matter of mathematics: two minds, one wavelength. Then Jinx's spells of strangeness and self-enforced secrecy began. He thinks of the audio recordings in the Aerie: the susurrations and whispers. The ungodly silence.

It wasn't sex—no matter the wildness of his paranoia, he knew Jinx was still too innocent, and that her tastes lay elsewhere. But the overtones—of communion, and a deeper, almost otherworldly intimacy—were terrifying.

Now, seeing them together—a tangle of arms, a knotting of fingers—his worst fears have been made manifest.

It's plain, from the ease between their bodies, that Jinx has slept in Viktor's arms before. Plain, too, that it's happened enough times for this closeness to take on overtones of trust. A trust Silco had invited: to his doorstep, past his threshold, and straight to his daughter’s bed.

A trust that’s been repaid with disaster.

Reflexively, Silco's fists ball.

"Open the pod," he says.

"What?"

"Open it."

"With all due respect, that is not the wisest course of action." Singed remains maddeningly equable. He could be discussing a minor surgical procedure: the pros and cons of local versus general anesthetic. "The Hexcore—from what I gather—is acting as a buffer. It is protecting both J17 and Viktor as they work to draw her out. To separate them at this juncture would risk a backlash."

"Backlash?"

"I'm speaking in metaphysical rather than medical terms. From what I have gleaned, the Hexcore is a living organism. It has its own will and wants. I am not privy to the nature of the bargain it has struck with Viktor. But I hazard that it is his key to the Void. And that, in exchange for entry, it protects his and Jinx’s corporeal forms. To rip them apart would be... traumatic. For all parties present."

In Viktor's embrace, Jinx expels a sigh. There's a subtle alteration in her breathing. The Void creeping across her brainwaves, perhaps. Viktor's arm flexes around her. His own breathing—that half-mechanical, half-organic rasp—deepens. His lips touch her temple.

The Hexcore sings. The pitch is nearly ethereal.

Two spirits: locked in orbit.

Silco's jaw grinds. A vein ticks in his temple. Whatever's happening, it is not something he comprehends. Not something, he suspects, meant to be comprehended. But that doesn't stymie the rage. Nor the dread.

The former, he can dissect with a cool eye, peel it down to the viscera of what it is: a primal need to keep his child safe.

The latter, though...

That's a formless shadow stretching over his psyche. The sense of something very, very huge: a force the size of a godhead eclipsing the horizon. And the stormfront, lightning-laced, is rolling across the sea straight towards his ship of destiny.

It's not often Silco feels his smallness. But he does now, and the fallout is brutal.

"You knew," he says, deathly soft.

"Hm?"

"You knew. About Viktor. Compromising my child."

Singed is not a shrugger. Hedging is not his strong suit. But his silence speaks for itself.

"I would not call such a bond a compromise," he says at length. "In some ways, it was inevitable. Viktor is extraordinarily gifted. J17, a creature of pure potential. They are both seekers in the dark. It makes sense that they'd find each other." A slight cant to his head: a gesture of self-reproach. "I will admit: I should have informed you. But there was no reason to believe the entanglement was of a carnal nature."

"No reason to believe they weren't fucking?"

The vulgarism stirs Singed out of scholarly calm. He doesn't smile. But his lipless mouth shows a glint of teeth. It's the same expression he'd wear when Silco would return to the Cannery after prowling the dank cloaca of the Lanes.

Always: with a plaything on his arm and ill-gotten gains in his pocket.

He'd often likened Silco's gravitation toward vice as a form of self-medicating. The sex, the drugs, the power-plays: all symptoms of a man whose eye could not close, and needed other means to unwind. Other ways to blot out the light.

It was a diagnosis Silco only partially agreed with. It was not autonomic impediment that kept his bad eye from closing. Simply the refusal to look away from the world as it was.

Now, his bad eye smolders in its socket. It's a marvel the Doctor doesn't wilt in its heat. Then again, Singed's always been a hard man to burn.

It's what he and Silco have in common.

"No," he says. "That, I do not believe."

"Is that so?"

"Given Viktor's... condition... it's unlikely."

"I'm not sure if you're aware, Doctor—" Silco's tone, beneath the frigid civility, is honed to cut jugulars, "—but there are ways around that."

The glint of teeth deepens. A grin, however cold. "Oh, I am aware. But I'm also aware of Viktor's nature. I've known him since he was a boy. Frailty's always been his cross to bear. But that has not diminished his drives. Only... redirected them, as it were."

"Sublimation."

"You sound dubious."

Silco's good eye slits. Singed's grin fades.

"I understand. We're men of pragmatic bent. There will always be a selfish component to our pursuits. A willingness to see the big picture, even if it means putting our better selves on the backburner." He turns to the pod. "Viktor is different. His nature has a singular trajectory: up. He wants to ascend. To break free of limitations: both inborn and self-imposed. Sex, in comparison, is a dead-end. Love, though? That's something else. Something that can take him to the stars."

Silco follows his stare. The pair, entwined, are haloed in violet. Their breathing is slow and steady.

A duet.

"The boy's always longed for a taste of the transcendent," Singed muses. "I imagine, in J17, he's found it. A force of pure creation. Pure entropy. It is only in chaos that order can thrive. The sense of a divine plan is what gives meaning to the world. And a multivalent, fractal reality is what allows a scientific theory to evolve into law."

Silco's knuckles pop. He says nothing.

"If it helps," the Doctor adds, "I doubt the boy's done worse than hold her hand. The way he speaks of her, one would think her a... psychopomp. Someone to guide him to a higher plane of knowledge. Someone whose existence is to be worshiped. Not possessed."

"Worship and possession," Silco replies, in the voice of cold prescience, "often end the same way."

"Oh?"

"With someone on their knees."

Singed doesn't laugh, exactly. The sound's too measured. But his mangled lips stretch to show the full set of teeth. They hold the implacable sheen of scalpels. Each one slitting its careful way through the tissue of Silco's self-control.

"A cynic's view," he says. "And one I disagree with."

"Do you, now?"

"I'll grant there is a physical element to their closeness. But, I suspect, the physical is merely a conduit to that higher plane. A literal touchstone to guide them through the dark. The true roadmap, as it were, is the end each of them seeks."

"That end being?"

"Balance," Singed says. "If my theory is correct, they each serve as a counterpoise to the other. J17, in her unbound potential: a spirit of half flesh, half catalyst. A force in constant flux. Viktor, in his rigid catechism: a being forged in metal and magic. The very dictum of death. Each is, in their own way, an anomaly. Together, they are a paradox. One that introduces a new paradigm."

"Paradigm."

"Cause and effect." The grin's gone. Only Singed's eyes shine: a cold, methodical zeal. "Or, in your language: cost and reward."

A chill steals through Silco.

It's not the first time Singed's dissections of the metaphysical have taken a macabre turn. For the Doctor, the two are indistinguishable: the duality of life and death reduced to quantifiable variables of mess and mass. In his laboratory, Silco's witnessed the results firsthand.

The Doctor's a man who understands that knowledge only goes as deep as the knife cuts. And Silco, a man who has cut to the marrow of humanity's ugliness, knows there's no limit to the incision when the rest's been pared clean.

"If your intention was to disarm me," he says flatly, "you've failed."

"Disarm." Singed's chuckle is dry as bone dust. "Old friend, you are not the weapon. Only the steel that whets its edge."

"Flattery?"

"Fact." The corners of Singed's eyes crinkle. "We are, both of us, mere tools for a greater design."

Jinx cries out.

In the pod, the Hexcore spins rapidly. The rotations, faster and faster, become a multicolored blur. The fluctuating glow—sometimes blue, sometimes red—is phantasmagoric. Silco has the sense of something primordial unspooling into existence. The birth of a star, on a spiritual scale: chemical fusion gone mystic.

A subsonic hum fills the air. Jinx's cry spikes.

Her whole body begins shaking: a subtle network of pain radiating, it seems, from the epicenter of her wound. Viktor's embrace holds. But beads of sweat pop on his temples. His breathing goes choppy. The pod's plexiglas walls turn milky as if with steam.

No—frost.

Silco can see the lattice of ice spreading. The cracks, fanning in jagged starbursts, resemble spiderweb.

Meanwhile, Viktor and Jinx may as well be under a full rig of stage lights: both of them are simmering in their skins.

Jinx's pallor is engulfed by a bright pink flush. Her breath comes in rapid drags. Her good right hand, fluttering, finds Viktor's good left. Their palms align, fingers twining. The twin rows of knuckles, flesh and bone, are deathly white.

The Hexcore's singing deepens. Jinx's own cry climbs to a keen.

Silco races forward. "Jinx!"

Before he can touch the pod, Singed seizes his arm. The grip is cold, cadaverous, yet somehow comforting.

"Not yet," he urges, as Jinx's wails echo and re-echo. "It's not done yet."

"Let go! She needs me—"

"No." Singed's grip is as unyielding as his gaze. "She needs to finish this. As does Viktor. Let them see it through."

Silco stares. Blood beats in his temples. He understands, remotely, that he is terrified. Paralysis, its predictable residue, clings like a second skin. It's a heaviness he despises. It's why he is so quick to reassert self-dominion with a dose of violence. To defend himself, monster and man, from threats that would otherwise devour him.

But what if the threat's taken root in the tenderest parts?

What if it can never be excised?

(Is that fatherhood?)

Tossing her head, Jinx screams. Viktor, gasping, shudders.

The Hexcore's pulsations go critical.

Then—with a flash of brilliant blue—the humming ebbs. The pod's opalescent frost, in icy bloom, evaporates. Within, Jinx and Viktor subside into stillness. Their hands are still twined, their foreheads together. Both breathe in unison.

But there's a dissonance in the rhythm. A harmony, that, while still in tandem, is their own.

Viktor is the first to wake.

His arm loosens its cradle around Jinx. His head stirs, the dark crown dislodging against its blue perch of her skull. The gold eyes—with their black-rimmed core—flicker. They are glazed in shock. Then he blinks, and they regain focus. The lineaments of his expression—grim-lipped and hollow-cheeked—are ones Silco knows well.

The sense of a spirit coming to the limits of its endurance, and shattering the barrier.

Now he's unsure what awaits on the other side.

Slowly, the golden eyes swivel. They find Singed. They find Silco. Then they fall on his and Jinx's still-linked hands. Something flickers across his wan face. Not a smile, exactly. But a certain softness around the hard brackets of his mouth.

As if he'd held on to a fear for dear life. And now, finding it unfounded, can let it go.

With a gentle tug, he unthreads their fingers.

Jinx doesn't stir. But she lets off a long slow exhalation that could be sadness, or a deep release of tension. Viktor disentangles their bodies. He does so with a delicate, deliberate care, keeping a light contact of fingertips all the way down her torso. Silco follows their path to Jinx's ribcage.

Under the gauze, the wound is closed. The meat is seared like a brand. But there's no trace of torn skin. Even the stitches—each raw suture point—have shrunk into a smooth pink furrow.

Jinx breathes. Each rise and fall—seamless—is a small miracle.

Silco is not a devout man. Contemptuous of all matters devotional, he treats prayer like a poor business transaction: an unstable currency of sacrifice, with no guarantee of success.

Now, the gratitude that floods his lungs is nearly a baptism. He hates every iota: the helplessness, the loss of agency.

But loves, gut-wrenchingly, what it's restored.

With effort, Viktor straightens. His bare feet, touching the tiles, let off a metallic clink. One hand grips the bedframe. The other reaches for his cane. Every muscle delineates the difficulty of keeping his balance.

The sheer exertion of willpower in holding his mind and body together.

As with all impossible endeavors, he does not falter.

"It is done," he says, hoarse but steady. "She is back."

"Back?"

"Within herself. The Void... has touched her heart. She has seen its own. But she is intact."

"Intact?"

"She will recover." He swallows with a liquid click. "In time."

Silco nods.

On the rumpled sheets, Jinx sleeps. Her breaths hold a deep-sea serenity. Her delicate features are preciously girlish and lost-looking. The sight suffuses Silco with a tenderness that yet calls up the horror of it all.

He takes himself to a place of stillness, and allows himself to feel it. Not just last night's ordeal. Everything leading up to it. Strategy after strategy, error after error, so the outcome is the same as when Zaun first emerged from its ravaged shell.

His child in a sickbed. His paternal devotion in a deathmatch with politics. His and Vi's blood game no more than a war against specters.

A war they've both lost.

Badly.

Silco's eyes pass from his sleeping beauty to the man who'd saved her life.

"Doctor," Silco says. "Open the pod."

Singed does not argue. With a deft touch, he flips the controls.

The plexiglas shell retracts. The air, trapped, is instantly sucked out. It is unseasonably warm from Jinx's and Viktor's body-heat. The smell holds a sterile bite of disinfectant. Underneath, a faint trace of musk lingers.

The unforgettable odor has been imprinted on Silco's olfactory landscape since Jinx began working with the Hex-gem. The permeating ozone-stink of night sweats and lightning strikes.

The afterglow of the Void.

Now Silco detects the component he'd not dared to put a name to: that singular, almost sexual tang. Two spirits, intertwined, coupling in a realm without flesh.

Right under his roof.

His eyes lock on Viktor's. The younger man's ambivalent features, caught between exhaustion and relief, shift. Wariness creeps in. It's not the fear of reckoning. More the full awareness of a gamble gone sour.

Now the ruin, no matter how cataclysmic, must be accounted for.

The gold eyes—infinitely patient, infinitely reckless—do not waver.

"I believe," Viktor says, "you have questions."

"I do," Silco says. Then: "Doctor. Fetch the stretcher."

Singed's head takes on an insectile slant. As if he's caught the taste of blood in his mandibles, and is trying to parse its source.

"Stretcher?" he repeats. "Whatever for?"

"Viktor."

"The boy seems perfectly—"

Crossing the distance, Silco lays a hand on Viktor's shoulder. A steadying, almost paternal clasp.

The Monster, unsheathing its claws, rakes down.

His fist slams into Viktor's gut. The young man staggers with a strangled cry. His cane clatters. The rest of him slumps, jelly-legged, as Silco follows with a snapping right hook, smoking it straight through the boy's frail defense and connecting with his jaw.

There is a satisfying snap of bone on bone. The sound, visceral and rich, kickstarts a tidal wave of blackness that seethes from the balls of Silco's feet and climbs all the way to his hairline.

The Monster is awake, and it is hungry.

"Doctor," Silco says, as Viktor crumples to the floor. "The stretcher."

Wisely, Singed obeys.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane viktor #viktor #arcane singed #singed #jinxtor #vinx science bros #viktor and jinx

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riverssongs13 · 2 months ago

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While we're all agonising over waiting for the last 2 episodes, I'd like to take this time to talk about how Lilia Calderu, seer extraordinaire, Queen of Cups, singlehandedly waged war against the harmful stereotypes witches have endured in literature, in history, and in any and all media in general. This endeavour requires a rewatch of all the episodes but I'm just going to eyeball it by what I can remember for now.

In episode 3 Through Many Miles of Tricks and Trials, Mrs. Hart, maiden bless her soul, said "A witch is really just another name for a bad girl, is that right?" Lilia immediately says, "That is extremely reductive. We are not a monolith."

Lilia is the oldest member of the coven (after Death, I guess), and it goes without saying she has lived through and experienced all the horrible things witches were subjected to throughout history. In which, I would like to posit a slight correction: she has lived through all the horrible things POWERFUL WOMEN experienced under the hands of misogyny and patriarchy.

In episode 5, Darkest Hour Wake Thy Power, the coven was being actively chased by the Salem Seven, and needed a quick escape from The Road. Teen, with his precious innocent soul, suggested they fly to escape their pursuers. After getting very negative feedback from the coven, Lilia explains how "brooms have been co-opted by the holiday industrial complex as an absurd emblem of our culture, and an obvious symbol of female domesticity."

Death's Hand In Mine, episode 7, also had Lilia commenting on how "demeaning" it was to be portrayed as wearing the typical witchy trope costumes when they got inside the Tower. Quite tongue-in-cheek as well how Lilia was Glinda the "good witch" while Jen was the Evil Queen in witch disguise.

Going back to episode 3, it was also Lilia who vehemently refused to "climb inside an oven" after completing their first Trial. She added that the same thing happened to a friend, one with a lovely house, and ended up, well, we can recall what happened to the supposed "captor" of Hansel and Gretel.

In episode 4, If I Can't Reach You…, it wasn't so much as Lilia mouthing off another witchy trope, but her inside the recording studio. The powerful image of her looking at the portraits of all the women who were persecuted during the countless witch-hunts throughout history. The abject horror of being thrown into these witch trials by mere suggestions, and these women were oft sentenced to the most horrific deaths even without evidence. Lilia looking at these women being burnt at the stake, boiled alive in a vat of tar, maimed, flayed, and I wonder how many of these scenarios are being played from memory.

Within the same episode Lilia said, "You know the worst part of being a witch? All the misconceptions and rumour mongering." And this basically sums up the experience of witches around the world -- of POWERFUL WOMEN -- present yourself with even a modicum of power, motivation, and ambition, and if that threatens the fragile ego of man, you best believe you'd be persecuted for it. (I find it even a more compelling message after having re-watched Patti's character in Penny Dreadful, burned at the stake for standing up against a man. Great show. Check that one out.)

I'm certain there are more instances I'm unable to recall and include, but right now I'm swimming in anticipation and anxiety over the last 2 episodes, I honestly do not wish to pore over the previous ones with a fine tooth comb. I may do that in the future, but today is not that day.

Which is to say, I love how Lilia has played the part of the wise sage correcting all the wrongs her kind has resolutely endured for countless centuries. I love how women are slowly being given back the power in their own narratives, without the need to insert the story of man for it to be relevant. I love how this show is very unapologetically queer, and about women, and about reclaiming that power taken away from them.

To add cherry on top, I love how Patti LuPone herself said in a recent interview, that the whole show is making it about "what we are initially: we're all witches because we are powerful women; women are powerful. The power has been robbed from them for centuries. BY MEN. Its kind of great to see a show that represents witches as women with power."

We may be lightyears away from an ideal society where women are no longer oppressed and boxed within their own existence at the insistence of men who wish to reduce them into something they could fit within their egos and minds, but it's quite nice to think that this show about a ragtag team of women and a teenage boy is taking a step into the right direction.

Thank you, Lilia Calderu and Patti LuPone, we all say in unison.

#Thank you Lilia Calderu #Thank you Patti LuPone #patti lupone #lilia calderu #this is a patti lupone appreciation post #this is a lilia calderu appreciation post #agatha all along

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a-traves-del-horizonte · 1 year ago

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angelicguy · 1 year ago

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all the toons of toonville USA quickly gathered for my funeral. this was the first death that toonville had ever had within its borders, so the processions were brief and crass. many of them did not know what had happened to me, and arrived jovial with gifts and favors to share with one another.

a whole line of red and blue convertibles filled the one lane street that led to my body. since everyone in town knew each other, they engaged in bright lively conversation about all the sweet memories they had of me. my birthday, my bris, my several rushed visits to the toon hospital were all discussed among the townsfolk who shared their popping candies and hot sodas that they had prepared for the celebration.

Cowboy Frito and Juliet Juniper (one of toonvilles hottest couples) brought a boquet of my favorite treats in apparent memory of me. Dr Lollipop and his beau Beauty Bee were especially excited to witness my body, flayed and broken, as they had never seen one before. Fashionista Frida Frizzlemeister was dressed from head to toe in the most dazzling outfit she had, with a black and white photograph of my own head featured as the centerpiece to her famously glitzy bouquet.

gathered in thousands of seats surrounding my thick, red, plastic coffin, the show was finally on the road. despite being delayed a half hour (the felt arms of the pallbearer made it difficult to actually get the dang thing near my ready grave!), the mood was light, as everyone in attendance were best friends. scattered lines of conversation quickly concluded as Pastor Paisley cleared his throat to begin his eulogy- at least he tried! pranks were all the rage in toonville, and who else but Scoots McBuzz would spit a hot wad of greasegum right at him. Paisley, experienced from his many sunday school classes over the years, grabbed his toupee and ducked down-causing the gum to stick right onto my fisher price brand tomb.

a long pause filled the air, followed by bright laughter at such a farce. in fact, all of toonville decided to cover my final resting place in bits of chewed paper, bottlecaps, smile stickers (the lowest form of their complex currency) and all kinds of knick knacks while hollering with laughter. and what could cap off such a good time like a hearty meal? Chef Al LaRonge had prepared a veritable feast for the hungry attendees, who stuffed their mouths with gooey, cheesy pizza, hot pepper patties and classic peanut butter chocolate superbars.

as the sun set, Mayor Megamouth of toonville declared their first funeral a complete success and thanked everyone for being a part of such a touching event. "he knew every one of you, and would have loved to know he caused such a record turnout among the toontopians!" after cheery "hip, hip, hooray!" and a final goodbye towards my flesh, the now urine-soaked coffin was marched straight into the freshly built mausoleum, the only gravesite to be found in the brand new toonville boneyard.

given the limited use of the land, it was eventually folded into the soda treatment plant. over time, my final resting place became stained with the colors and smell of sarsaparilla, caramel, and beetroot. the foundation eventually buckled beneath the sagging heft of the pop-drenched wood that surrounded my now bleached bones on the fourth of july, the sounds of creaking and splintering masked underneath the no-expenses-spared fireworks show. shapes of cakes and pies filled the air as my remains were carried out to the stinking sea.

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artsy-hobbitses · 3 months ago

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I've seen the headcanons with Megatron (ıt's delightful but i get a little sad at the headcanons involving Op and his blackling disease). I wonder if you have headcanons for Optimus or Strongarm Sideswipe ? 👉👈

By popular demand, please enjoy this compendium of Daddimus headcanons!

Optimue Prime/Omar Parvez used to smoke while he worked in the Dead End (mainly due to the stress), but gave up the habit when he was demoted to a dockworker.

He's the long-suffering mediator between the souls of the twelve Primes currently locked in the Matrix which he now bears. It's not unusual to hear him seemingly talking to or negotiating with himself, and Prima and Megatronus' catfights comprise the majority of his headaches.

Omar doesn't like being called Prime, but accepts it reluctantly as a rank. Those close to him only refer to him as Omar, or Optimus on a more formal basis. 'Prime' is who he is to the wider world, and was a rank unwittingly accorded to him by Alpha Trion/Aillard Toussaint. This happened when Aillard, upon facing an increasingly megalomaniacal Sentinel/Sedgewick who was trying to fashion himself as the next Prime and had arrested him under sedition charges for associating with Omar and owning banned literature, told Sedgewick that Omar was "more of a Prime than you'll ever be." That was captured on recording, and went viral very quickly, and Omar was being associated with the rank 'Prime' at a time when he was still using 'Orion Pax' as a codename. Optimus ('the best' ie. 'the best of us'), was co-opted by his supporters to counter Sedgewick's attempt to fashion himself as 'Sentinel Prime', defender of order. It's not until Omar comes back from the dead with a strange bauble embedded in his chest that he starts going by Optimus -sigh fine- Prime, to distance himself from his a nickname given to him by a now-enemy.

He has a love for rearing pigeons passed down from his father, who built a makeshift dovecote on the roof of their apartment. The pigeons on Aillard's estate know his face and answer to his call when he goes out to feed them daily. He has each one named and tagged, and even without food, they still flock to him.

He is the imam of the Muslim Autobot prayer congregation which comprises Hotspot/Hassan, Trailbreaker/Tariq, Steeljaw/Salim, First Aid/Fatima, Ramhorn/Raminah, and later on Streetwise/Shamar.

As such with the info above, is usually the first person awake on the base on any given day.

Excellent in the kitchen. Loves making Tapsi (a Kurdish aubergine casserole) for himself as a post-battle treat, but also makes a beef stroganoff bonkers enough that old college buddy Elita-One/Alisa Ivanova, upon finally being able to land on earth after dealing with Liege Maximo's bullshit, immediately hauls Omar into the nearest kitchen so he can make that specific dish for her.

You'll notice that Ratchet/Ronan has a patch of dark skin on one side of his face (Inspired from Osamu Tezuka's Dr Blackjack). As part of his torture when he was captured and held by Bludgeon, half his face was flayed. After Omar rescued Ronan, he donated skin to him for a temporary allograft. However, even at a point where Ratchet was well enough to receive an autograft from his own body, he refused since his body had not rejected Omar's allograft, and he wanted to keep it as it was as a symbol of the deep friendship the two of them share and the sacrifice Omar made for him.

Omar keeps a sketch that Bumblebee/Benjamin drew of him on his desk.

He makes time for Ben whenever Ben is laid up in medical bay, whether it's reading to him, watching his favorite shows he missed during field missions together, or just humming to him until he sleeps.

He's a pianist who plays by ear mostly, and time spent with Ben includes playing during Ben's ballet practice. You can tell what his stress levels are by the tempo of the pieces he's playing---if he sounds like he's setting the keys on fire, he has grievances he clearly needs to work out.

Omar has in his possession the once-beloved water-damaged notebook in which Megatron/Morgan first wrote notes for Towards Peace in---he had wanted to return it to Morgan when he found it outside his precinct station, but was too late as Morgan had already been shipped to Messatine when he came to the mines. For a decade, he kept it with him, and when Morgan came back, he tried to return it. However, Morgan, while grateful for the gesture, refused to take it back and told him to toss it or burn it, as it was "penned by a witless, childish fool", which he wasn't anymore. Omar refused to do so, and it remains in the drawer of his study desk---when he's feeling quietly hopeless, he'll open it up and see the pages where he and Morgan in their youths had drafted ideas together for a better system, and he's back to the drawing board. He refuses to give up on the hope for a better world, or that the Morgan he knew is completely gone.

His mother was a journalist who had experience running an underground publication network in Iran, and it was from her experience that Omar collated and distributed the notes from Messatine written by Morgan, which made up the full copy of Towards Peace. In essence, for better or worse, Omar is the reason Morgan's words spread as swiftly as they did on earth.

He also has a Youtube channel specifically dedicated to a little book club Blaster/Brandon had encouraged him to open up, after Brandon one day invited him to speak on an Autobot radio show and the number of listened spiked significantly. On this channel, he usually reads from a book of the month and discusses its themes/characters, as well as fields questions about his favorite written works in general. He has also at times, chosen books that Morgan enjoyed in their younger days. Whether he knows that Morgan sometimes listens in on him is something he'll brush off, but on the off chance that Morgan does tune in… he still thinks about you, old friend.

Turkish tea fiend.

Green thumb from setting up an urban garden in the Dead End, regularly tends to the communal garden at the Autobot base alongside Sludge/Slavomir and Hound/Hale.

In his early days as Optimus Prime, suffered from internal burns, severe chest pains (he said it felt like the sun burning up in his chest) and shortness of breath after major use of the Matrix's powers in battle. Note that back then, using the Matrix's powers wasn't aways a choice he consciously made, as it treated him like a host and would react to/be triggered by serious threats. The only reason the Matrix stayed in him then, was because neither Ratchet nor Wheeljack could figure out how to safely remove it, and there was fear that despite the way it was affecting him, it was what was keeping him alive and was too ingrained with his neural network to be parted from him.

Per the above, he was actually in chronic pain which he was medicated for and hid very well, up to the point where he finally made contact with the volatile, conglomerated mess of Prime souls in the Matrix during a coma and managed to calm them down/'untangle' them.

There is a little cairn at the roots of largest tree in Alpha Trion's estate where Omar's pigeons most often roost, which he set up for his father, Mirzan, who was killed by his former mentor Sedgewick on charges of disseminating seditious literature. He's never been able to retrieve his father's body and consequently, give the man a proper burial, and he feels guilty about it to this day.

#inbox #Optimus prime #Humanformers #ttb #ties that bind #headcanons

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neysaadept · 1 month ago

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Prometheus Chapter 7

Emily Prentiss x Female CIA Reader

Chapter 7 - Excision Part One (Criminal Minds Case Time)

Tags: Limited use of y/n but established last name. Swearing, mentions of the pandemic and human and sex trafficking. Canon typical violence. Sexual innuendos. Drinking. Smoking. Slow Burn. Murder. Depictions of Flaying. Implied Rape. Mentions of Date Rape Drugs. Strangulation. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 4.4k

AO3

Chapter 6

Saturday night was supposed to be drinks with Tara and Rebecca as planned until Penelope heard about it. Then it evolved into you and Rebecca having your first BAU ladies’ night at the Fireside Lounge, the local bar the unit enjoyed socializing at. You were finding ways to politely say no at the end of the workday because the group was now too big for your comfort level. Getting to know one new person at a time was you’re your sweet spot, but now it was four. And were doomed to accept because Penelope’s pouting pulled too hard at your heart strings to further deny her.

Thankfully, two cases came in that Garcia’s law enforcement surveillance had flagged as interests. Though, it really wasn’t with gratitude that you felt having victims which cancelled the event. It was just a postponement. There was no way that Garcia was going to let you off the hook for drinking, dancing, and gossiping – as she had put it. At least this gives you time to formulate some excuses that can stick so Garcia isn’t too disappointed.

It was a problem for another time. The team arrived at Quantico Saturday afternoon and were briefed on the cases. One was in Germantown, MD where there was a break in. Two men with distorted faces had triggered the alarms to kidnap the security guard. They beat up and executed him on live feed while the homeowners watched. It’s quite possible the equipment and makeup they are using are from a Sicarius kill kit as the town is about ten miles away from Rockville, MD.

The other case comes in from Thermal, CA where a body was found at a plant nursery under shrubbery. The victim was male and strangulated to death. But that wasn’t what caught the BAU’s attention. It was a fact that the victim’s face had been precisely cut off and lain atop his chest. There was no blood at the crime scene either. The unsub appeared to be ritualistic in how they displayed the body per first impression with local law enforcement. The tools for this type of kill could also be one of Sicarius’ followers as Thermal, CA was about nine miles away from Indio, CA.

Prentiss split the team. JJ, Alvaz, and Lewis would remain in town and drive up to Germantown to investigate. She kept JJ close to home on purpose to be near her family. That meant Prentiss would take you and Rossi to California by jet. The trio remaining behind were so jealous that they all balled up paper sheets and threw them at you, making you laugh as you tried to dodge and bat them away.

Rossi was kind enough to remind the team that if not for you, there might not be a jet to use.

And that was where you were right now, being briefed in the air enroute to Jacqueline Cochran Regional Airport, right in Thermal. The local sheriff department secured a landing area for the private jet and would meet the unit there.

The three of you sat together on the four seaters – you were next to Rossi and had the window seat. Prentiss was across from you as Garcia spoke over face time. You hope you hide your excitement well since you were being trusted enough to be in the field. You brought a different kind of experience to the unit and understood there was a lot you could learn from Rossi and Prentiss.

“Since this place is in Bufu, California, they’re taking their sweet time sending me over the files. But I’ve gotten preliminary pictures from forensics.” Garcia shares her screen displaying the wounds of the neck and face. “For the record, I am NOT looking at this. La, la, la, la, la! This is all for your desensitized eyes! And I’m assuming your eyes are made that way too my CIA Cutie?”

“Unfortunately,” you answer, zooming in on the strangulation marks around the victim’s neck by garrote. The line was too thick to be wire or some sort of line. The pattern was uneven and did not cut into the flesh, just left a lot of yellow and purple bruising.

“Meet Cole McGarth, 24, who until recently, was a paralegal for a probate attorney near … oh, ho! Indio, CA!”

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” muses Rossi. “But it could be coincidence.”

You play around with the touchscreen some more and point out the marks on Cole’s wrists and above the ankles. “Looks like he was bound.”

“Indeed, he was per initial report,” Garcia says in confirmation. “Coroner is doing the work up as we speak. Or fly, in your guys’ case.”

“Any idea how the unsub removed the victim’s face?” asks Prentiss.

“Yes! Definitely meticulously excised but not sure what tool was used yet. It wasn’t sloppy work.”

“Probably not a disgruntled client then. This wasn’t done in anger, or in a fit of rage,” says Rossi.

You flip through files on the table and hum in agreement. “Too precise. Need a steady hand with how the unsub removed the skin.”

With a grimace, you look at McGarth’s eyeless face resting on his body and wonder, what did this guy do to deserve this?

“What we’re seeing here is a killer that knows what they’re doing,” adds Prentiss. “This isn’t new to the unsub.”

“You think there’s more bodies out there we don’t know about?” you ask, trying to understand Prentiss’ logic.

“Maybe. Just, this is too good. No one gets this good on the first try. Hey Garcia?” Prentiss looks to the screen to address her. “Check to see if there’s any cases that are similar to this one.”

“Will do! Anything else?”

“Any other prelim findings, send our way, but I’ve a feeling we won’t know more until we land with how slow local law enforcement’s processing this.”

“They have a major crimes unit, but this is far above their means,” explains Rossi. “They’d be calling us in eventually to assist.”

“Turtles run faster, yes,” Garcia confirms. “Oh! JJ is requesting my divine presence. I’ll keep you all up to speed on the home team, too. Tootles!”

Her face blinks out and you keep looking between the file in front of you and on the screen, not realizing Prentiss and Rossi were looking at you. Then they share a look that you were unaware of, eyes focusing with brows raising and motioning toward you with a slight shake of Prentiss’ head. They were wordlessly debating if they should chit chat with you.

Rossi shrugs. “So, Whitlock, what do you do for fun?” he asks suddenly as you look up with confusion.

“Uh …” Your brows pinch and you gesture to the files. “You don’t wanna talk about this?”

He chuckles. “We always talk about the case, but we talk about other things too. Besides, you owe me a conversation.”

You look lost, like a puppy with its head tilted trying to understand what was going to happen next. Prentiss thought it cute and made sure to down some water to hide it.

“About my work with the Gideons?” he supplies.

You lean back in the seat and smack your forehead. “Right. Yeah. Sorry! Been a hectic week and totally forgot about that.” You lower your hand and look at Prentiss. “Evil woman there’s working me hard.”

“Hey!” Prentiss sets the water bottle down with offense. “I am not evil.”

“The paperwork that you gave me is. Since you supplied the paper, it is your fault. Ergo evil paper, evil you.”

“That is the lamest logical argument I’ve heard in some time, Whitlock.”

You both then share a laugh as Rossi watches the banter curiously. He was very glad to see the two of you were finally getting along. “Well, to be fair, she did provide a valid argument. Won’t hold up in a court of her peers, but it is valid.” He smiles as Emily gives him a withering look. “But anyway, back to my question. What do you do for fun?

You close the file and set it aside as you consider this very difficult question. Rossi sees the hesitation and prods further. “Is it really that hard to answer?”

Grimacing, you nod and gesture around the jet. “Considering this my first vacation from work in, fuck, I don’t know how long?” You set your hand down and sigh. “Yeah.”

Emily thinks back on her career and yes, there were times that the ability to take a vacation dried up due to assignments, but she had vacations time – willingly and mandated by her superiors. “That doesn’t sound right.” But she knew you were serious by the solemn expression on your face, especially those exhausted eyes that had seen very little of the pleasures life could hold.

You really never take time off, do you? Prentiss thinks as she slowly begins to understand you. What are you running from that you don’t want downtime?

You shrug, offering that as answer. On the surface, you could be seen as a workaholic with no ties to anyone. Rossi picks up on that. “So, no special someone?”

You shake your head no.

“Kids?”

You laugh a little too hard. “No.”

“Family?”

Your eyes narrow briefly, the only indication that this question heightens your irritation which Emily spots. “I think that’s enough for now, Dave.”

Rossi holds up a hand apologetically. “Sorry, kid. Been awhile since we had someone new and got carried away.”

You nod as he gently squeezes your shoulder. Your eyes soften at Prentiss with thanks, but you start to worry. The section chief’s brown eyes turn mischievous. You frown as she grins. “Besides, I’m sure Penelope will continue the interrogation later.”

Rossi pulls his hand away. “Why’s that?”

“Girls’ night was cancelled. I’m sure when we have a free night, she’ll rectify that.”

You groan. “Please start finding another case right now.”

Rossi laughs. “Good luck trying to dodge her curiosity. Penelope’s tenacious. But also, sweet and easy to talk with.”

And that’s what you’re afraid of. Brian, too.

At least Rossi decided to shift gears to discuss his work with Jason and Jill Gideon. He found it precious you were taking notes …

The three of you eventually part ways for the rest of the flight to decompress until you land. As you disembark the jet, you slip on your sunglasses to stave off the bright sun and look at the one hangar that had a FedEx plane docked to be unloaded. The rest were small propellor plans that were used for lessons or crop dusting.

Wow, you think, not seeing anything like this on U.S. soil since… ever? Yeah, overseas a ton, but here? Never.

Waiting for the team at the end of the tarmac was a squad car and an SUV, with two officers waiting for you. One is a skinny fellow with a buzz cut that stood close to the other, looking restless as he paces. The other officer looks back and says something, making him stop.

As the three of you approach, the one seemingly in charge greets you with a curt nod. He wore thick glasses, dark hair kept neat and trimmed and carried a stocky build. “Chief Prentiss?” Emily nods. “I’m Captain Michael Robles and this is Deputy Aiden Miller.”

“This is Senior Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi and Special Agent Y/N Whitlock.” Both you and Dave nod as Emily introduces you. “Any updates on the investigation?” Garcia hadn’t received anything from Thermal or found any similar crimes thus far.

“Unfortunately, yeah. Another body turned up. Found in some bushes off of 62nd when a trucker pulled to the side to relieve himself.” He shook his head. “Poor bastard saw the arm hanging out. Thought it was a ringtail. Wasn’t expecting a dead body.”

“We have an ID on the victim?” Rossi asks.

Yeah,” says Miller. “His name’s Lee Sullivan. Head shrink out of Palm Desert. Both vics are with the Sheriff now and said we’re to bring y’all to him.”

“Oh, so he’s with the coroner?” you ask.

Robles chuckles. “The sheriff’s the coroner, too.”

Your eyes widen much to Prentiss’ amusement. “Welcome to small town Americana.”

To save time, Rossi went with Deputy Miller to speak with McGarth’s family and glean more information about last known locations and any potential individuals that may want to hurt him. All three of you found the initial interview lacking with local law enforcement because they didn’t want to push the grieving family too hard. While there is a need for compassion, time is precious and wasting it with no leads could get someone else killed. Look at Sullivan.

You and Prentiss went to see Sheriff Alex Grosch at the station. Yes, you were surprised that the sheriff’s station and the medical exam office were in the same location. Usually, they were separated to avoid any tampering or misuse of evidence that could impede an investigation. But since you had one guy playing M.E.* and cop? Sure! Why not have everything located in one place to make their job easier?

Sheriff Grosch was already grown and gloved by the bodies as you entered. His hair was covered with a cap, glasses secured around his head with a strap. Next to him was a tray of tools, some used, some sterile. Right now, he was taking notes. You were thankful he took off his gloves before doing that. Ew…

The room was far more cramped than you’d expect it to be, only have room for three examination tables, which were position directly in front of freezer lockers. One wall had supplies and equipment for examination on shelves and cabinets that were stuffed so much that they were slightly ajar. There were boxes of various sizes stacked against the wall haphazardly and leaning against that were various shipping boxes and envelopes in various states to be mailed out. There was a half open door with a glass panel on top that led to what was presumably Grosch’s office.

The place was chaos and probably violated many OSHA’ laws.

He took a break from scribbling and looks at you both. “Agents.”

“She’s a chief,” you quickly correct, pointing to Prentiss. Then to yourself. “I’m the agent. Special Agent actually.”

His slate blue eyes narrow. “Sure.”

You didn’t like this self-righteous fuck at all. His tone drips with condemnation and you felt it was more than just the correction of Prentiss’ title.

Sensing that this could go bad quickly, Prentiss jumps into facts. It was the best equalizer. “Catch us up.”

He sets down the clipboard and offers gloves to both of you. “Nothing new. Second vic died the same. Strangulation.” You and Prentiss put on examination gloves as he does too. “Has the same mark around the neck.”

Both you and Prentiss move around the table to get a good look at the second victim. “Yeah. Matches the pictures,” you confirm as Prentiss looks at the wrists and feet.

“And the same signs of being bound. Same indentations, too. Whatever it is,” she says, squinting, “hard to make out.”

Now being up close with the body, it looked like a two-inch strap was used by how the indentation looks, but then it becomes not as deep as you look away from the point of contact. You gently stroke your finger along the victim’s wrist and find it not to be smooth but prickly. There were several smaller lines that dug into the skin as you roll the limb back and forth. “Yeah. This could be anything right now.”

But something in the back of your mind knew what this was, just out of reach. Right on the tip of your tongue. “Any other signs of trauma?”

“Nah. Just like the first,” confirms the sheriff.

Prentiss’ eyes slide up to the covered face of Sullivan. Without hesitation, she pulls back the sheet as the sheriff holds up his hand. “I really don’t think you need to see that. It’s pretty gruesome.”

She squints her face with the same parental that you recognize immediately. It was the same one she gave you when you were acting petulant in her office when you first met. She looks absolutely commanding with the etched scorn set on her face. “I’ll be the judge of that.” She looks at you and gestures over with her head to join you.

You take position on the opposite side and with a shared look, reveal Sullivan’s head. You both went immediately into silent investigation mode and compartmentalize what you feel. You both saw enough throughout your respective careers to get the job done, which caught the sheriff by surprise as there wasn’t even a gasp or flinch from either of you.

The unsub left a terrible work of art. They had removed the entire layer of skin leaving the muscles visible and unharmed, same with the eyes. You saw the entire glazed over orb staring right back at you. That should have been unsettling enough, but this isn’t the worse thing you’ve seen. As you look further down the face, the incisions were a clean angular pattern. A skilled hand as you thought.

With her free hand, Prentiss traces the cuts above the face. “Cauterized the wounds as they cut.”

You nod in agreement. “Yeah. Either skilled with both hands or ambidextrous.”

“Especially being able to remove the skin in one piece.”

“And there’s no trauma to muscle. They wanted the victims to be preserved like this.”

Prentiss bunches up her lips in thought and motions to cover the victim, which you did. She turns to address Grosch. “Have you identified what tools were used with the excision?”

“Nothing specific but definitely the high-grade surgical kind. I did figure based on the timeline of the excision and the strangulation, the vics loss their face before they were killed,” he admits soberly.

“The victim was alive?” Prentiss was shocked. Nothing indicated that there was a struggle, or the victim fought back while being flayed. The team had presumed the face was removed postmortem.

You were thinking it too. “That doesn’t add up. The bodies have nothing to indicate they tried to fight off their attacker. Fingernails and hands have no trauma.” You pull the second victim’s hand up and show there was no blood or skin under the fingernails. No bruising of the hands or knuckles.

The sheriff nods. “It’s like that with the other one, too.”

“And the unsub had time to complete their objective, without interruption,” explains Prentiss. “Was there a tox screen done?”

“Yeah. Just waiting on lab to send over the results. Should be ready any time now.”

“Make sure we get that ASAP so we can discuss and add to our profile.”

He mutters a non-committal, ‘Uh huh.’, as you and Prentiss take off your gloves to throw out and leave the exam room.

As the door closes behind you, you huff out a harsh breath of air. “What an asshole.”

Prentiss smiles. “Even if he somehow forgets to send the information over, Garcia’s already on it.” She chuckles at your look of surprise. “This isn’t the first time some male ego may try and cock block the ladies of the BAU.”

Now you snort laugh. “Yeah, I’ve dealt with it, too.”

You both enter the bullpen and head straight for the coffee. This shithole town didn’t have French Vanilla, so you were stuck with boring old creamer. Prentiss at least got her Splenda.

“The unsub had to have known our vics. Or at least caught them off guard. It doesn’t make any sense at all that our victims wouldn’t have tried to fight back - when they were taken, flayed, or even during the strangulation. Nothing,” muses Prentiss before she takes a sip of her coffee. She makes a face at how bitter it was and stirs in another packet.

“Yeah, there’s nothing substantial on those bodies to indicate anything. And the unsub didn’t take anything off the victims as far as we’re able to determine. Except their dignity, I suppose.” You lean against the counter and look at the snail’s pace of a station working. No one appears to be in a hurry. Like everything was business as usual and the only signs that something was amiss was the FBI presence. There was quiet chatter in the bullpen and eyes directed towards the two of you. Whether it was curiosity or genuine need to solve the case, who knew?

That got you thinking.

“One’s face is the first thing you really see. Physically, I mean. So why did the unsub want to remove it?”

“Stress and depression are psychological concerns that can trigger dermatological issues – even somatically perceived ones. Feeling like your skin is crawling. Pins and needles across the skin. So much so, someone might want to tear your skin off. So, to speak.”

“And medically, you’re looking at pain and hives. Psoriasis and eczema. A shit ton, actually.” You consider it but shrug. “None of our victims have it. Open for debate on our unsub. But …” you look to Prentiss, “there is something to be said about feeling like you want to crawl out one’s skin. Maybe there is a deeply rooted emotional need to remove someone’s face so the unsub can have a cathartic release of emotions they can’t normally feel?’

Prentiss raises a brow in consideration. “Not a bad theory.”

“There’s also the fun thought of a face mask. I mean, I’m not talking exfoliation, but we hide our true selves behind layers of walls we build up. It all depends on how we grow up. Who we have contact with. Family, friends, lovers, co-workers. The interconnections we pull from that we use to define ourselves, or equally knowing when to open up. Everything we’ve experienced creates the persona we want people to see. It’s all based on threat and trust.” You pause as you work your jaw in thought and come to a different conclusion. “What if the unsub’s flaying is symbolic. Removing a layer of that mask from the victim?”

She raises the other brow, impressed with your knowledge and focus. Yeah, your humor edges through a little but it’s a blip in the conversation. You had a work ethic that hadn’t been able to be appreciated since she had sidelined you on day one. Out in the field, you are able to shine and show how intelligent you are. You ask all the right questions and didn’t discount anything too small or too big. You home in on small details and carry the conversation without any prompting form her. It was a natural flow of ideas between the two of you. Regardless of what it is you actually do for the CIA, it clearly meshes up well with profiling with the BAU. And if she was honest, your style was meshing with her, too.

But what really bothers her with what you said is that she knows you were speaking from experience. You spoke with too much familiarity about walls being built for protection. Couple that with being dismissive of any personal connections in your life that Dave tried to ask about, Prentiss couldn’t help wonder how long have you lived such a lonely life…

Right then, Prentiss’ phone rings and she accepts it, putting it in on speaker so you can hear. “Tell me you got something, Dave.”

“I do. Last known whereabouts of our victim was at a bar called Coachella.”

You make the face. “What? Like the music festival?’

“Exactly. The festival’s in Indio. Bar’s named after it.”

“Did the family give any indication as to why he was there?” asks Prentiss.

“No. Just went for drinks after the long work week to wind down. McGarth texted his sister before he went over. Sometimes he does try for a hook up, but I’m doubting his situation had to do with anything like that.”

“You’re not kidding. Anything else? Trouble with any family, friends? Anything at work?”

“Nothing yet. I’m heading to his work now to speak with his boss. Maybe we’ll get something there. After that, I’m following up on Sullivan’s family. How are things on your end?”

“Not much that we didn’t already know, but Whitlock has a couple of good theories about our unsub. Either flaying for the emotional release or removing an emotional wall the victim has built up.”

There was a pause as you hold your breath and wonder what Rossi would think. “Not bad, Whitlock.”

You exhale slowly and preen with pride. “Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Nah. Waiting on labs. Until then, we’re just throwing ideas around for the profile.”

“Then I leave you ladies to it. Talk later.”

The sheriff comes jogging into the bullpen a few minutes after you both hang up with Dave, flagging you down with paperwork in hand. “Report’s just came in off the first victim.”

You speak quietly behind your coffee cup so only Prentiss can hear. “Who knew snails could run?”

She fights a laugh, neck straining as her lips contort to squash away any visible humor. “What do the reports say?” Prentiss impresses you with her ability to go pro so fast.

“Couple things of note. Got flunitrazepam and midazolam in the system.” He turns the pages towards the two of you and you take it.

“Flunitrazepam?” Your confusion was palpable as you see it written plainly on the report. “That’s one of the date rape drugs.”

“And midazolam’s a sedative,” states Prentiss. She’s baffled, too. “You said there’s no indication of assault, but did you examine for one sexual in nature?”

Grosch frowns deeply and his eyes lack focus. You were quite happy to answer for him. “I’m gonna go with a no there, chief.”

He clears his throat. “With, ah, no signs of struggle, I didn’t see a reason to.”

“Well, you do now. Make sure you check both victims.” He nods and heads out as Prentiss sets aside her shitty coffee. “Honestly not his fault. He really had no reason to assess for it until now.”

“Yeah, but it was nice seeing him freak out for a sec there,” you say with a smile that fades thoughtfully. “Case keeps getting weirder, huh?”

“Oh, honey,” Prentiss smirks wistfully, “this is nothing but another day in the BAU ...”

… to be continued in Excision Part Two.

*Medical Examiner

*Occupational Safety and Health Administration

Chapter 8

@unkonw00 @ara-a-bird @rayisaknight @sevyscoven

#criminal minds #emily prentiss #criminal minds evolution #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds fanfiction #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x female reader #emily x reader #emily x you #prometheus

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