#follows canon-typical child murder

[idlingmoons]

cw: blood

hallo! i worked on this for a week because i’m silly like that. i normally don’t post this sort of stuff—my longer projects—here but i’m trying to use tumblr more, so i offer this to you :)

song is 退廃的人生讃歌 (Hymn to the Decadent Life) by ro2noki

[diejager]

Crow

Pairing: Monster TF 141 + Horangi & König x Eldritch horror!reader

Cw: blood, gore, canon-typical violence, injury, mutilation, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.9k

They hadn’t expected to have another specialist join them, none of them even knew what Price had in mind when he brought you in. You were normal in every way - as normal as a soldier could be - and unassuming under your dark clothes and gear. You smiled and waved when greeted, you took orders well and you spoke when spoken. You were like a ghost, there but also not there, invincible unless you made a sound or movement. Excluding all they saw in you, you were simply uncanny, with weird mannerisms and habits that made you seem inhuman - as inhuman as you could be to hybrids. 

The only words Price had given them before you landed were: “They’re good at what they do, just don’t cause any trouble, understood?”

They were vague and as unassuming as you first seemed, like any warning for any person that could easily become annoyed or mad. Ghost certainly hadn’t put much thought into it as he should. Gaz had elbowed Soap in an attempt at reminding the werewolf to heed their captain’s words. Rudy and Alejandro wouldn’t have to worry, they knew and learned the limits of any man’s patience, smart and intuitive. Horangi was as weary as he would with any new addition, eyes narrowed in annoyance and curiosity. Unlike any of them, König hid any emotions from his stoic face, shoulders broad and back ramrod that emphasised his height and broadness, he couldn’t be sure if you would be easy to ignore or irritable.

Granted, they all had expectations for you since Price seemed so proud and confident when you first joined them, acting like a child given his dream, famished to have you by his side as professionals as possible. Yet here you were, normal looking, of average height and average weight, and simply there. Although there wasn’t anything inherently abnormal to you, the simple presence of your being made their hair stand on end. There wasn’t any reason to be so frightened or chilled about you, you hadn’t done anything deserving of such fear and suspicion, and Price trusted you with his life. If he trusted you, then the rest could, no? After all, dragons are the most protective of monsters. 

As Price promised, you were good at what you did, never a flinch, never any hesitation, never a moment of weakness. You were too normal and good to be a human, especially not with the way corvids flocked to you. Ravens, crows, magpies and jackdaws followed you everywhere you went, simply standing or cawing around you as if you were a memener of their murder. Going to London would be dreadful with how many corvids called the British Isles their home, which - coincidentally - was where you lived. 

All but Price had a hard time forming a bond with you, your eerie presence made it difficult to relax, and apparently, you knew it as well, since they had an equally difficult time finding you on the base. If you weren’t beating a sand-filled punching bag, you would be at the shooting range, and if you weren’t there, then you’d be somewhere on the roof of a structure, taking in the cool, stormy air of the UK with your bird friends. 

You only smiled when they all blew up in cackles and jokes, never laughing with them or cracking your own jokes. Your voice never raised over a certain point, a murmur or a raspy growl. It was either human or inhuman to you. If Soap, Gaz and Rudy were having a hard time making you open up to them, then the rest would have an even harder time doing so. They were failing miserably. 

That was until Soap caught an airy chuckle from you when he passed Price’s office, the older man having probably said something amusing to you which had you laughing. And as loud and rowdy the werewolf was, he couldn’t stop himself from telling the others, his excitement and enthusiasm bleeding into the rest. It had somehow made them more determined to bond with you, you were, after months of work, a permanent member of Task Force 141. 

Unfortunately, the most they got were snorts and huffs, snorts from Ghost’s dark humour and huffs from Soap and Gaz’s poorly made-up jokes, theatrical performances of failures and defeat in the face of an unflinching and unusual being. Questions started piling up on Price’s desk, wanting to know if you were human, if you were a hybrid, if you were a monster, if you were even a living being seeing as you hadn’t taken a single breath or eaten (not that they’d seen you eat.). 

“That’s classified, ” Price stopped their musing with two simple words. “Unless they tell you themselves, I don’t think it’s any of my business divulging that to anyone.”

Price’s secrecy and respect for you only sowed the seeds of curiosity and intrigue deeper. What had you hidden from them that was so classified that Price couldn’t tell them? Even Alejandro didn’t have the clearance to dive into your files - not that there were any. The question lingered in their minds, unanswered and famished for one: What were you?

Somehow they’d gotten separated from you, being caught under heavy fire from Russian ultranationalists and backed into a building with most exits blocked or surrounded by the enemy. They worried about you, being left to yourself in a situation like this one was dangerous for even the most skilled and wary soldier. Whereas they all had their backs, one watching for the other, you were alone. And whereas you had the possibility of using your powers of shifting - if you were a hybrid or monster, they still hadn’t found the answer to that question - they were in the confines of a restricted building, letting loose would either damage the already-damaged-building or become a danger to their own teammates. 

Ghost’s fog was deadly. Soap could come under fire from them shooting. Gaz couldn’t fly freely in a tight place. Price’s fire could be devastating. Rudy couldn’t risk getting tired. Alejandro could be unknowingly shot by them. König was uncontrollable and unpredictable. Horangi was a danger to himself in the secret of darkness.  

They were fucked, caught in a dire situation that could mean the end of them, but regret and panic wouldn’t be of any use to them, they had to concentrate and wait for backup. 

“Backup from what, Price?!” 

What could possibly reach them in time to support them? They were too far in for any help to arrive quickly enough. The closest naval ship was thousands of miles away, the closest ocean was hundreds of miles away and any military support even farther. What would they even be waiting for?

“Cap! We can’t-”

A scream shattered the skies, howls of pain and panic filling the once booming sound of foreign guns. The sound of bodies being broken and bones cracking brought their attention elsewhere. The Russians weren’t aiming at them anymore, shooting at something bigger and more dangerous than any of them. They were looking at a creature that picked them off one by one, the shadow of a monster covering the white snow. The fear in their eyes tainted the sky as their blood sullied the fresh snow, turning white into red and pink.

Whatever that was was dangerous. The ability to rip men apart and incite terror into well-trained and hardened soldiers was anything but amiable, safe and good. Their bodies were tense, muscles contracted to move at the flicker of movement from the monster outside the building. Their weapons aimed towards the entrance, fingers laying restlessly on the trigger and shoulder screwed with suspense as the screams and cries slowly died down to howling winds in the night. 

Price raised a hand, holding them back from firing at the entity, they lowered their guns, following the captain as he walked towards the door. He hadn’t flinched or froze when clawed fingers gripped the wide opening, a giant, black hand cloaked with feathers. Another landed on the ground farther away, letting them see the blood staining the show, seeping from its fingers and dirty feathers. With a low rumble from the beast, it lowered its head to the doorway, where Price had stopped. 

He smiled at the gigantic head of a crown, its black beak sharpened with pointed teeth, as black as its skin and feathers. An oval eye blinked at them, white as the snow and piercing as the cold. It sent chills down their spines, ready to jump away if it attacked, but Price patted the skin under its eye.

“Thank you,” Price spoke your name so reverently, thanking it - you - with a grateful smile and proud eyes.

That monster - it - was you, the unassuming, perfect and eerie human. You, who was always around corvids, were one yourself, albeit a gigantic, crooked version of a crow. You crooned at Price’s touch, soft and loving like he was. You moved away from the entrance and they left. It was as if they walked into another world, blood, bones and guts littered the ground, as if a cat had had its fun with something breakable. Ghost and König thrived in this scene, the blood and gore feeding them. Unlike the rest that either recoiled or stared off, preferring to look at your bird-like form than the ground. 

In all your glory, you stood high and mightily, toppling over the trees by hundreds of metres. Covered head to toe in black skin and black, glistening feathers, you held your head high to look at the Russian field. Four horns curled over your head, sprouting from your crown and curling at the tip, they mimicked a crown of bone. Bones also grew from your back, the protrusion of your vertebrae growing along your back like a ridge, sharp and deadly, like the sharp-looking feathers that protected your back. If any of that were shocking then your second pair of wings would be frightening, an equally big pair of wings help support your weight on the ground, besides two legs, clawed perfectly to inflict lethal damage. And at the end of your back, a flared, serpentine tail with feathers curled upwards.

While Price acted with such ease and comfort around you, the rest simply couldn’t. If they were bothered by your presence before, now, after having shifted and showed your true skin, it grew tenfold, becoming unbearable and suffocating. You saw their discomfort, cooing at them before you shrunk, bone and feathers sinking back under your skin, your beak turning into the face they knew, but your white eyes remained. It was all knowing and powerful.

You were an Eldritch being, an all-knowing and powerful creature, perhaps one of the last horrors that lived. It made sense why Price was so trusting of you, believing you to be unable to betray them. Why he warned all of them to never stray into your hate and annoyance. Eldritch horrors, after all, were the strongest beings alive (if they could be called alive), old as aeons and unmoving by time. Dragons were second to them, the proud and respectable monsters knowing the worth of Eldritch creatures and respecting them. 

Everything fell into place. It clicked, why everything was simply so. Perhaps, after knowing your secret, you’d open up to them, let them in your colossal and dark and unbeating heart.

Taglist: @saelkie @yeoldedumbslut

[furiosophie]

“Ghost?” Soap asks as he pulls open the door, knife still in hand, baby still wailing. “What are ye doin’ here?”

“What am I doing here?” Ghost throws back at him, brows creased and eyes downright murderous, the kind of look that back at base would mean Soap is about to run laps until he pukes. “You just disappeared for a bloody week, Johnny! Didn’t even tell Price where you were going, aren’t answering your fuckin’ phone, what the hell do you think I’m doing here?”

“Right,” Soap says because yes right, he has a vague memory of Ghost texting him, but he also doesn't really have a clue where his phone is right now and he definitely wasn’t aware it’s been a week until he just mentioned it. For a moment Ghost looks like he’s going to take him by the shoulders and shake, and then his eyes land on Joey, and he frowns harder as if he only just noticed that Soap is holding a screaming child.

“You knock someone up, Johnny?” he asks and it sounds oddly offended but mostly like he’s taking the piss, so Soap is about to tell him to fuck off when there’s a loud crash from the bathroom, followed immediately by a high shriek. He whips around, trips over one of Cass’ tiny toddler-sized shoes, and nearly impales himself on the damn knife if it wasn’t for Ghost grabbing him by the arm to hold him steady.

“Give me the baby,” Ghost says like he says give me that gun when they’re hunched over in the dirt, bullets flying past their heads, so Soap does.

to you i can admit (that i'm too soft for all of it)

[read on ao3]

ship: john "soap" mactavish/simon "ghost" riley

words: 19 220, completed

tags: mw iii fix-it, set between danger close and trojan horse, kid fic, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, getting together, ghost fell first, soap fell harder, ghost is just some guy (tm), jk this still has 09 ghost backstory, fellas is it gay if the superior officer you've been lowkey flirting with for four years drops everything to help u raise ur sisters kids, this is both a hallmark movie and me processing grief so godspeed, canon- typical violence, mentions of past childhood abuse, not beta read we die like- qunshot

[t-lostinworlds]

Warm Winter & Fiery Frost | B.Barnes [Completed]

》 PAIRING: bucky barnes x ex-HYDRA assassin!female!reader

》 TROPE/GENRE: grumpy x grumpy, enemies to lovers-ish, slow burn-ish, angst, fluff-ish

》 SUMMARY: They say opposites attract. You and Bucky were so alike—He was called The Winter Soldier and you were called Frost, for fucks sake—that it's probably the reason why you hated each other. Or was it the denying of powerful feelings in fear of getting hurt? You know, like how the cliché goes. Because you know what they also say: There's a fine line between love and hate.

》 WARNINGS: canon typical violence (blood, guns, combat, etc.), canon divergence, meanness against each other (at the start & that one scene™), emotional constipation! (on both sides. they both need therapy lbr), poorly translated russian prolly, soulmate vibes (not really?), r has bucky at knifepoint quite often (& threatens to kill him), bucky's kink unlocked? (not explored lol), down bad!bucky, r has a backstory, mentions of: past traumas, grooming (no specific ages but it's implied that r was very young), manipulation, experimentation, child trafficking, torture, murder (u know hydra tings), a sweet, happy and open ending (+ if i missed anything pls let me know!)

》 TOTAL WORD COUNT: 29k+ (my longest fic yet)

A/N: i actually started this a year ago??? (according to my doc) which is crazy to me?? bc it feels like i only had this idea for months? where has the time gone. ANYWAYS. first behemoth bucky fic & first fic in a few months so pls be kind ksksks

++ also would like to say that r in this isn't the usual happy-go-lucky, sweet, emotionally capable, sunshine-y person compared to what i typically write but she has her reasons. cold & hardened but mushy on the inside. u know. like our fave supersoldier. they're honestly the same person just different fonts lmao. ANYWAYS,

++ additional note: tumblr has a limit of only 1000 paragraphs (or text block so to speak). the fic itself is 1300 paragraphs so it's waay over the limit. so i decided to cut it into two parts BUT i also posted it on AO3 if you want to read it as a whole already. hope you guys still read and enjoy it! <3

📍 BLOG NAVIGATION ✩ B. BARNES MASTERLIST ✩ MAIN MASTERLIST ✩

⊱ ─────.⋅♚ *｡･ﾟ.★. *｡･ﾟ✫*.

PART ONE | PART TWO

or READ ON AO3

✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ♛ *.

↬ thank you for reading lovely! reblog & leave a comment if you enjoyed! feedback is always appreciated! ++ consider supporting me on ko-fi if you can!

✉ NO TAGLIST: go follow @t-lostinlibrary​​​​ and turn on notifications to get updated on my works!

© t-lostinworlds, 2024 ✘ I do NOT give any permission to repost, translate, & use any of my works (writings, gifs, dividers, etc.) on any platform, with credit or otherwise. Please respect that. Thank you.

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila VII

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila VII: You, Amongst the Lupines

Time passes, and Arthur jumps at the chance to take you out of camp.

CW: References to child loss, violence, and Arthur being a big mean outlaw.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Mud squelches under his boot. It is everything he is not to scowl at the sound. 

Ain’t no way that Genevieve was going to stay with him now. Not with him sent on this fool’s errand. He was supposed to stay on assignment in Saint Denis, not get his boots covered in mud and horseshit in this backwater town. Genevieve was far too cosmopolitan to be following him around anywhere but Saint Denis. 

Strawberry was just a blip on a map, no matter how the mayor of this town was trying to push it.

Angus Carmody kicks the muck from his boot against the wooden step up to the mail depot. He scowls as the stink of meat from the butcher’s tent wafts his way.  This was a goddamn fool’s errand. He knows that Milton has it out for him. How angry he is about that damned woman being in the wind. He knows also that his trekking around West Elizabeth is a punishment instead of leading the search back in Lemoyne. 

The Pinkerton steps up to the depot’s clerk, standing behind the counter full of mail and other parcels.

“Mornin’.” The man greets, shuffling between boxes and baskets of letters. His full mustache and beard certainly made him blend in with the rough and tumble nature of the town that the mayor was so desperately trying to rid of.

“Mornin’, sir. Agent Carmody with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

The clerk stops, setting down a pile of papers on the counter. He looks Carmody up and down, eyes lingering on his polished badge, pinned to his breast pocket.

“Hector Barlow. How can I help you, Agent?” He responds, measured and wary. Carmody is used to this. It is often, out in the West, that folk respond to him with caution and wariness rather than respect. Some sort of Western mistrust of government and authority, he always thought.

“You heard talk of a widow from that town that burned down on the Dakota?”

Hector Barlow strokes his mustache, nodding his head, “Heard about the fire, but not about anyone who survived it.”

“I’m tryin’ to find a Missus Shaw. She survived the fire and my employer is tryin’ to locate her to finalize some business items he had ongoin’ with her husband.” Angus responds, annoyed that this also seemed like a dead end. 

Barlow remains quiet for a moment, “I’ll keep an ear out. She supposed to be around here?”

Carmody pulls a stack of papers that he had tucked within his jacket, “Yes - petite woman, blonde hair if she finds herself up this way.”

“These also - a bunch of bounty posters we don’t got time to chase down.  A few thousand for these. Out of Blackwater. Some hillbilly could find ‘imself real rich if he tries hard enough.”  He shoves several crinkled pieces of paper forward on the worn finish of the counter. Hector nods, mumbling something about bringing them up to the sheriff’s office. Angus lifts his chin in response, before leaving the mail depot. The bright sunshine is an assault on his eyes as he steps outside.

Two other Pinkerton agents stand across the street, near the small town’s general store. Smoking cigarettes, the two men clad in bowler hats seem to stand out amongst the rough and tumble mountain men that peruse the muddy street. 

“Anythin’ here?” One pipes up as Carmody approaches, holding out a cigarette that Angus quickly takes. 

“Nothin’,” Carmody grunts, rooting around his pocket for his matchbook, “We’ll head north, to Wallace Station, to see if there is any word around there.”

He knows there won’t be, but alas, Carmody breathes out heavily before striking a match against his boot, he has his orders.

-

The cold mountain waters of the stream that feeds Owanjila are a shock to the system at first, but you figure that the clean, clear stream could do you no harm as you hoist your skirts to bare your calves, stepping ankle deep into the current.

A sob claws its way up from your throat, and you cover your mouth with one hand, one side of your skirts dipping under the stream.

“Ruth, what are you doing up here?” 

You sniff, wiping your eyes quickly, giving up on keeping your skirts dry as both of your hands cover your face. 

“Oh, sweet girl,” Hosea’s pace picks up as he walks closer to you, and he ignores the ache in his knees as steps down into the stream next to you where you stand, uncaring of the water starting to run over his boots.

“I- I just-”  You hiccup, dropping your hands and looking back into the rushing waters at your feet. 

“C’mon, let's get you out of the stream. Are y’still feelin’ ill?” Hosea pulls you, delicately, back to the shore, where the two of you step onto higher, drier ground.

“No- no, it’s just-” You let go of a shuddering breath as you feel his hand rub gently, slowly between your shoulder blades, “It’s…”

“Missin’ your husband?” Hosea offers.

“Y-yes…” You hiccup, closing your eyes again, unable to stop the tears from pouring forth, “And… and-”

Silence falls between you, interrupted only by the sniffles you cannot stifle and the bubbling of the creek waters as they rush down to collect in the lake. Another harrowing exhale, and you turn to look at Hosea, the older man’s silhouette blurred in your vision over your shoulder. 

“I look at Jack and… my…my little-” You sob, voice cracking,  “He came too early. I-in the winter - he… he just- he was so tiny…my boy-” 

Hosea’s hand immediately moves from your back to cup the back of your head, and he pulls you into his chest, you slightly stumble as you have to readjust your bare feet on the ground. The fur trim on his coat smells of the tobacco he smokes in his pipe. It’s something familiar - comforting - and the fight in you - what little you have left, leaves you as you sink into his embrace. You sob, the ache in your chest clawing its way out like a rabid animal. 

He holds you, rubbing your back, murmuring random words of comfort into your hair. 

-

The coffee is strong and bitter this morning. Maybe the off-handed threats he had been making to Pearson about the quality of his coffee finally sunk in. Or someone else had made it.

Arthur blows on the cup before taking another sip, trying to spare his mouth from getting burned.

His gaze floats, unknowingly searching for those soft golden curls amongst the women. He finds himself seeking out the soft-spoken widow. Missus Adler seethed in her grief. Missus Shaw, well, other than the time he certainly deserved her ire, didn’t seem to have a mean bone in her body. 

She’d been sick as of recent, catching whatever poor Jack had. Abigail was apoplectic, the lantern in the sick tent blazing at all hours of the night. It was only in the past few days he had seen her out of the sick tent for longer periods.

This morning, he was hell-bent on finally getting a new horse - the old Walker he had been riding got run down by an angry farmer and his mount when he and Javier had robbed a homestead the other day. Finally, after a few jobs, he had enough money to get a horse that he wouldn’t have to rustle - it was just taking the time to go over to Valentine to get one. 

Herr Strauss cornered him the other day, needing collection from a debtor on a ranch near Valentine. He figured he’d get it all done in one day, maybe swing by Strawberry before crossing the state line. For too long he’d been jumping from job to job - homestead robberies and coaches, even sheep rustling with John. That went swimmingly.

Maybe he’d grab Missus Shaw and take her out on the errands he has to do. He finally finds her, sitting across the way near the women’s lean-to, working on a pile of sewing. Arthur dumps out the last bit of his coffee before stowing his cup back in his satchel. He takes the first step toward the women’s tent before being stopped.

“Arthur.”

Arthur looks back toward the campfire as the occupant stokes it. Hosea looks up at him with that weathered look about him that only comes about when he is serious about something.

“She’s fragile right now.” His brow furrows, jaw set, “Don’t you go upsettin’ her.”

“I ain’t an idiot, Hosea.” Arthur bristles, scowling back at his surrogate father. He also scowled at the thought of being so damn transparent that Hosea was that quickly able to figure out where he was going.

“You sure as hell are sometimes.” Hosea points up at him, “You can be a real ass-”

A cough interrupts his retort, and Hosea turns his head to hack into his bicep. After he clears his throat, he looks back at Arthur with hard eyes, “I’m tellin’ you, Arthur. The poor girl doesn’t deserve any shit from you. She’s gotten enough recently.” 

Arthur shifts, his hand gripping the buckle of his gunbelt in agitation. He scowls again, the lines betraying his age and lifestyle set in on his face. He dismissively waves at Hosea, stepping past the man and continuing on his original journey toward the women’s area.

“Missus Shaw.”

You look up from the sewing that you are doing - one of John’s shirts that he tore the armpit open. You grabbed it from Abigail’s pile the other night as she was scolding him for his carelessness.

“Was wonderin’ if you wanted to get outta camp for a bit - y’haven’t had much of a chance lately,” Arthur asks, his large hands draped over the buckle of his gun belt.

“Oh, I mean… maybe after I finish this shirt.” You nod down toward the fabric you are holding in your hands.

“Marston’s shirt can wait. Especially because it's his.” Arthur reaches down and yanks the shirt from your hands, surprising you with his speed. He tosses the shirt back in the pile and you scowl up at him, aggravated at his impetuousness.

“I was in the middle of that!” You complain, but nonetheless take the thread and needle you were working with and store it in the tin next to your seat.

“Serves the dumbass right. Not like he ripped his shirt doin’ any work around here.” Arthur chortles, holding his hand out for you to take, “C’mon, I’m sure you’re sick of staring at the same thing every day. I have some errands to do in Strawberry and Valentine.”

-

From the banks of Owanjila, Arthur leads his horse up through the hills to Strawberry, claiming to need to stop by the General Store for something. He was scant on details but shooed you off to check the mail in the freight depot after he had hitched the horse outside the Trackers Hotel.

You check to see if there is any mail under the pseudonyms that Arthur gave you, and upon finding none, set to leave before the clerk calls out to you.

“D’ya mind bringing these down to the Sheriff’s Office, ma’am?”

You nod and feel a slight unease as the clerk’s gaze lingers on you. In the months since Frederick’s death, you have once again become wary of men - the leering and possessive glares that you receive when it is obvious you are untied to a man. Like those leering and possessive gazes you received before you got married. Those gazes your daddy warned you about, all those years ago. 

Taking the stack of papers, you nod a hushed farewell as you move out of the mail depot and back to the street, sidestepping mud puddles as you lift your skirt above your ankles with one hand to avoid completely ruining the hems.

Your curiosity gets the best of you and as you pass the staircase, you pull the papers back from your chest and look at the contents of the first page.

$5000 Reward!

For the Capture Dead or Alive of 

ARTHUR MORGAN

You bite your lip to keep from gasping. Glancing around, you crush the first poster to your chest for a moment before crumbling it into a little ball that you shove into your skirt. 

You look at the other posters as you quickly duck into an alley next to the hotel, where a large, flowering cherry blossom stands before the cliff face. Shuffling past the gardens, you take a seat on a small bench and warily leaf through the papers.

John Marston. Hosea Matthews. Micah Bell. Javier Escuella. Bill Williamson. Dutch Van der Linde. Each piece of paper that you look at shows fearsome renderings of the men of the gang that you have been living alongside for the last months.

Larceny. Horse Theft. Burglary. Train Robbery. Bank Robbery. Assault. Murder.

The pit in your stomach opens; fear clawing up through your chest into your throat. Hosea, who just this morning dried your tears and held you as you cried? John, who struggled with the pressures of being a young father? Javier, who swears he will get you to dance with him one night around the fire to Dutch’s phonograph, even after your declination, always with a smile. 

Even Dutch, who welcomed you into this motley group when you had nothing but the clothes on your back. 

And Arthur. Arthur, whose cold, angry face stared back at you from the poster, the man who has been teaching you to shoot, who took you out on his errands today - who braved the raging fire at the Adler ranch to save you-

The jingle of spurs makes you look up.

“Arthur-” You hiss as he lopes across the road, moseying as he lights a cigarette.  He gives a grin as he tosses the match to the muddy ground, breathing out a plume of smoke as he comes closer, eyeing the cherry blossoms that wave in the cool mountain breeze. “Get over here!”

You nervously look around you before reaching up handing him the crumpled-up wad of paper you had shoved in your pocket. 

He frowns, then snorts, half a grin as he takes the cigarette from his mouth, dropping it to the ground and mashing it underfoot.

“Five thousand, for little ol’ me?” He looks back to you with a hint of mischief in his eye, “God, that’s one ugly lookin’ drawin’.”

“Arthur-” You scold, completely taken aback at his nonconcern at the situation. 

He shoves the poster into his satchel and holds his hand out for the other ones, curling his fingers in request before you hand the pile to him. He takes them and thrusts them all into that seemingly bottomless satchel of his before turning his gaze back to you.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get. If these are comin’ from Blackwater we should get the whole gang outta West Elizabeth.” He reaches for your hand, almost gallantly, and pulls you up from your seat when you give it to him, “We’re gonna head toward Valentine. I gotta stop by a ranch out there for one of Strauss’s debtors. I’m gonna get a new horse and we’re gonna look for a new place to set up. Get on that side of the state line.”

He walks you out of the alley, back toward where his horse is hitched near the mail depot. He slows to allow you to try and duck the large mud puddles underfoot.

Through the main street of town, Arthur does not let go of your hand.

-

The ride to Valentine is long - long enough to be troublesome. You were able to convince Arthur to give you back the wanted poster of him, and you straighten it out as he guides the old Walker on the path out of the mountains and toward the Dakota.

You read the printed text, fearsome in its lettering, all capitalized, “Wanted for activities such as Larceny. Robbery. Burglary...”

Arthur snorts, interrupting, bemused.

“Gotta get money somehow.”

“Assault.” You reply, upping the ante.

“They usually deserve it.” He drawls in response.

“Murder.” You continue, stressing the severity of the crime.

“You’ve seen that. More than once.” Arthur nonchalantly replies, as if killing were the same as stealing a horse. 

It was true - from the O’Driscolls that he waylaid on the road the first day that you met him, the man threatening you at the campfire after the failed Blackwater job - he kills without hesitation. There is a pregnant pause as the poster crinkles under the tension of your fingers.

 “Have you ever raped a woman?”

Arthur stiffens in the saddle, then turns his entire torso to get the closest to facing you that he can. The easy conversation that you had been having immediately ended.

“No. Why the hell you askin’ that?”

“Seems like you’ve done everything else-” You defend your line of questioning, but immediately with that you hadn’t gone that far.

“Have I ever acted untoward to you?” Arthur interrupts, turning back to face the road. He bristles with agitation, rolling his shoulders as he tightly grasps the reins. The old Walker beneath you notices, and throws his head to the side, whinnying. 

“No….”  You try to push the intruding thoughts of Micah from your mind.

“Ain’t that type of degenerate.” He grumbles, “Sides, it wouldn’t speak highly of your smarts if you was out alone with a man who forces himself on women.”

You can tell he’s offended.

Unfortunately, the rest of the ride to Valentine is long, awkward, and silent.

-

By the time Arthur acquired himself a new horse, a strong and tall Kentucky Saddler mare, buttermilk-hide and blackmaned, his gruff silence makes you wish that you hadn’t come out with him at all. Wordlessly, he lifted you back onto the horse’s rump and mumbled something about a job he had to do on the way back to camp. Not far out of Valentine, Arthur guides the horse toward an old, ramshackle ranch house.

“Just stay here. Herr Strauss said this guy is tryin’ to weasel out of payin’.” 

Arthur approaches a thin, middle-aged man in the garden, “Mr. Thomas Downes…”

The man looks up, a hoe in his hand, and squints at the outlaw as he storms closer, “Yep, that’s me.”

“You owe me money.”

It is as if the floor was pulled out from underneath the man. He turns ghastly white in fear, stumbling backward from Arthur’s encroachment. The anger that radiates off the gunslinger is terrifying, even to yourself as an observer.

Downes holds the hoe in front of him as if to fight off the man twice his size, “Please, sir… I’m… I’ll…”

Arthur laughs cruelly, grabbing the hoe and throwing it across the garden. “Really? Threaten me, would you? How’s that debt looking now? You borrowed money from my business partner Herr Strauss. You owe him. You took the money. He wants it back. What’s not to understand?”

“I don’t have it all!”

You slide down from the horse as Arthur drags the man to the fence, throwing him against the post with frightening force.  You hurry toward the unfurling scene.

“Ruth-” Arthur growls as you push him away. Obviously, you could never move the man without his consent, but for some reason, he allows it.  You stand in front of this miserable man, who gazes up with fear-stricken eyes and a pale, clammy complexion.

“See, look, Mister Downes…. You could do this the easy way and give me the money now that we’re askin’ for it, or my friend over here can get the money from you the way he was gonna before.” You say over-sweetly, holding your hand out to help him up, “I think my way is better for you.”

“I… I don't have a-all of it.” Downes coughs, blood sputtering from his mouth as you recoil in surprise. God, this man was pitiful. 

“Then sell your place.” Arthur barks from behind you, having stepped closer as Downes goes into a coughing fit. 

“W-we already - hrgh - owe more than it’s worth.” The man coughs between words.

You frown, drawing your hand back from where the man wipes his mouth with his sleeve. You can feel Arthur tensing behind you, and one of his hands finds your waist, and you can tell he is about to yank you behind him. You brush away his arm before he has the chance to do so.

“Whatever you have is fine. We’ll give you more time for the rest. I’ll be sure to come - but Mister Downes-” You cross your arms, trying to look as composed as possible, “You do owe us.”

“Thomas-!” A woman rushes out of the house, followed by a teenage boy, and she falls to her knees next to the man, immediately taking a handkerchief and wiping the blood from his mouth.

“Can’t- can’t you see, my husband isn’t well, if we could just have more-”

Arthur does manage to grab you by the waist and maneuver you behind him, and you’re unable to move against his strength. He glares down at the woman and her pleading. “We ain’t nobody’s idea of charity.”

The woman frowns, desperate - “But-...”

“Give it to him.” The stricken man garbles, his breath heaving. With a set jaw, she reaches into her skirt and takes out a small wad of bills, standing up from her husband's side and shoving it into Arthur’s waiting hand. 

Arthur gives you a bemused look after he pockets the money. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

The gunslinger places his hand behind your back and pushes you back toward the horse, holding you upright as you stumble on the first step. 

“You’ll do alright, Missus Shaw.” His hands wrap around your waist like they have so many times before as he easily picks you up to place you on the horse’s rump, but you swear you feel his fingers pulse through the layers of fabric. You swear you feel his thumb press against the curve of the bottom of your ribcage.

Arthur swings himself up on the horse and urges it down the path leaving the ranch. With the horse’s jolting first steps, you wrap your arm around his waist to steady yourself before looking back toward the ranch.

You watch as the woman helps her struggling husband to her feet, and the teenage son stares after you with a vicious, hateful glare. You frown, before turning back around and pressing your forehead against Arthur’s back. They could have just as easily been you. These poor folks, already struggling, are now set back even farther.

The wave of guilt through your throat makes you swallow audibly.

Arthur’s large, gloved hand finds your own slung ‘round his waist, covering it with a gentle squeeze. His fingers press between your own, and for a selfish moment, all you can think about is how warm you feel. As Arthur leads the horse down the road to the east, the thoughts of the family whose miserable lives you just made worse flee from your mind.

How is it that all thought of the folk you just left more destitute than they had been left your mind as soon as Arthur touches your hand? How is it that you feel at ease pressed against a man who was just beating another one for money? How is it, that in this moment, with this murderer, you feel safer than you have felt in weeks?

Arthur hums, in a better mood than he had been all day. He holds your hand against the hard slab of muscle of his abdomen, and you lean further against his back to assuage the concern alight in your soul.

-

The ride northward along the Dakota is quiet. You surmise that Arthur doesn’t want to have further conversations about debt-collecting.  It is not until the two of you have ridden across Cumberland Falls and the pine forests of Big Valley have opened out to a large valley that he speaks again.

“C’mon, been riding for a while, let’s stop and stretch our legs.” He gruffly calls back as he leads the Saddler off of the trail and into the meadow, bright and sunny as the creek meanders through it.  The mountain air, cold and clean, burns your lungs slightly as you inhale, closing your eyes against the sun for a moment.

In that gentle, cold breeze, tall purple lupines sway among the grasses, reaching the horse’s knees as it slowly walks into the open plain. This place is so open and bright, its beauty takes you aback as Arthur slows the horse to a stop. Sliding out of the saddle, he immediately reaches up and takes you by the waist, as was customary, and helps you down.

“Nice out ‘here, ain’t it?”

“Beautiful,” you murmur, shielding your eyes from the sun as you survey the large valley.

Arthur pulls out a worn woolen blanket from his horse’s saddlebag. He lays it out upon the ground, nodding up at you to take a seat. You do so, and a comfortable silence falls between the two of you as Arthur sits opposite you and fiddles with his satchel, looping the strap over his head and hat, placing the bag next to him before flipping the lid open and searching around in it. 

You turn away and look on as a herd of pronghorn does graze in the distance.

“Saw this out the other day.”

You glance back at the gunslinger, to find him opening his leather-bound journal to a page and taking out a small, dried head of blossoms pressed between its pages. He holds it out to you, and your eyes widen as you gaze upon it - gaze upon the outrageousness of it all, the man with a five-thousand-dollar bounty, beating a debtor not two hours earlier, delicately holding the smallest, most fragile dried blossom between his thumb and trigger finger.

“That’s…” You trail off, incredulously.

“Never did tell me why you was named after a plant.”

You ignore the quip as you reach toward his gloved hand and the dried flower. The soft purple blossom, fragile and delicate, exchanges hands as he gently places it in your palm. His fingers linger for a moment, suspended in time.

The proper name, Latin, printed next to sketches in scientific books.

You smile, snorting lightly through your nose, “My mother… There was a heather bush outside her window on the farm she grew up on. Back in Ireland. She used to tell me seein’ those blossoms made her some kind of happy. Would tell me that when I was born, seeing me made her feel the same way. So, Calluna it was.”

There’s an ache in your chest. An ache of fondness. Not dissimilar to the ache that you felt when Abigail held your hand as you cradled her son to your chest in a feverish haze. Not dissimilar to the ache in your chest when Hosea held you to him when you sobbed on the banks of Owanjila. 

Someone thinking of you. These moments, they hack away at the depth of despair and loneliness that you have been drowning in. Maybe... Just maybe, you weren’t just Calluna Shaw, widow, alone in the world.

You look back up at Arthur, that ache fluttering up like a butterfly in flight.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan. You can be awful sweet.”

You smile, and with the way his battered heart aches in his chest, he knows he’s in trouble. He can feel the blush bloom across his cheeks and he looks away, desperate to save face. Movement in the distance of the meadow draws his attention.

“Look, how’s about we bring back somethin’ for Pearson’s stew, huh?” Arthur looks out past the waving lupines to where the creek meanders back and forth through the valley. In the soft light of sunset, he points about a hundred yards up the valley.

A pronghorn buck drinks from the stream, finally visible to you as you squint and pull a stray curl of hair back, tucking it behind your ear.

“Go on and shoot it.” He nods forward.

“Me?!”

“Yes you, Missus Shaw. Come on, here you go.” Arthur gets up from his seat and steps toward his horse, pulling out a rifle for you to take from his saddlebag. You carefully place the blossom on the blanket before standing up, dusting off your skirts as you step toward Arthur and the buttermilk-hided horse.

The firearm nearly drops from your hand when you grasp it, completely unprepared for the weight of the gun. Arthur snorts under his breath as you grasp the Springfield with both hands, holding it up in front of you, and pointing toward the pronghorn in the distance. You frown, the barrel of the rifle swaying as you try to point it. The gun is much heavier than the repeater that Arthur showed you to shoot with earlier.

“C’mere, little lady.”

Oh.

Before you can move, his arms quickly brace yours as he steadies the rifle, heavy in your grasp. Your back presses against his broad chest. A whole head taller than you, you just reach the curve of his shoulder.

You are positive you are blushing fiercely and extremely thankful that he cannot see your face as he leans over your shoulder to line up the sights of the gun. As he does so, you close your eyes, breathing softly out your nose. The leather of his worn jacket - the tobacco he so often smokes, the musk of horse, the tang of whiskey - they all invade your senses as your head spins.

You want to melt into his embrace - he’s tall and broad and handsome in a rugged way. He’s solid and warm and oh, how swept up you feel to be wrapped up in his arms - even if this is in no way intimate. 

You want. You want to keep your eyes shut, tilt your neck, and give him access to suckle at your skin. You want his arm to leave yours and his large hand to engulf your breast. You want to be covered by him, held and possessed, and smothered and cherished. Everything melts away. The debt earlier, Arthur’s anger and threats, the fearful man and his family. It all just…fades.

You want.

“Both eyes open, darlin’.”

At the term of endearment, you steady your arms, holding the firearm jointly with him. Arthur is warm and solid and oh, with his arms around you, you feel so safe.

The buck raises his head from the stream.

Arthur’s breath tickles your ear as his whiskered jaw brushes your temple.

“Now.”

You pull the trigger.

[itsohh]

QWERTY Part 3

A/N: Female reader. Anything in square brackets is in Russian.

Summary: Makarov's plan comes to fruition as you carry out your role leading a terrorist attack.

Word count: 2333

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, heavy violence, child death, terrorism, murder.

AO3 Masterlist Part 2 Part 4

The news continued to show the effects of your lover. Screams played on the TV as news reporters stayed a safe distance from the stadium. It was on the small screen of your phone. You had been following it since the broadcast had started as you waited instead of the van for the correct moment. There were a couple of pairs of eyes turned your way but they weren't in you, rather they peered over your shoulder to look at the phone. The stadium was a mess, panic continued to spread like a plague as people fled for their lives. From the high angle that the news broadcast had it was almost like they were ants running from a crushed ant hill. Something a bitter child would do. 

The thought had you briefly close your eyes before you opened them again. There had been heavy defensive forces from both Britain and Russia at the airport but after the initial attack, they had all fled the place in attempts that their presence would be more usual somewhere else.

It had played out just like he said it would. 

You looked down at your watch and his voice rang in your ear. 

Timing is everything.

The entire building shook as the explosion went off. The ground rumbled and the van tossed you around a little like an earthquake. The screams that echoed on the TV now surrounded you as people started to rush away from the airport. 

 You swallowed as the pit formed in your chest and got out of the van with the rest of your group. The phone was clicked off and you pocketed it inside your pants. While everyone rushed out of the building you went the opposite way into it. There were security features that people had to cross to gain entrance to the airport that were completely ignored, panic had overtaken everyone. 

The massive crowd moved as one and even though you were still outside of the airport, you could see through the windows as people pushed and shoved while others fell to the ground only to be trampled. Your mind went to Vladimir and you couldn't help but wonder if it was the same scene at the stadium. That place was far larger and had a far higher density compared to the airport. 

Did people trample others there? Did they get stuck at the gates only to be mowed down by your people? Deep down inside of you your breath got caught and hitched. Guilt crawled her way up your spine and latched herself to your ear. She whispered, begging for you to stop. Promised there was another way but you promptly stopped her down and banished her to the back of your mind right next to the woman you used to be. 

You glanced towards the others who exited the van behind you and nodded. It was time. 

There was no rush as you all approached the building, another group had exited their van and joined the group of you. Despite you not being Russian, there was an immediate respect that was present when the men looked your way. They didn't hesitate in your instruction, they didn't question your orders. It wasn't just because Vladimir sometimes worked in less than obvious ways and you were part of his plan- no this was something that you had cultivated by yourself. 

Not everyone would lead directly with their people and even though Vladimir did it, you knew that no one blink an eye if you didn't. After all, it wouldn't surprise anyone if you were just a piece of fuckable meat, someone that only warmed Vladimir’s bed. Yet, you weren't just that. Your head held high and you knew how to take care of yourself. You didn't shy away from getting mixed up with Vladimir's dirty work. Your eyes stayed focused in front of you as you approached the main doors. What was dirtier than a terrorist attack?

A woman ran up to you with a child in her hands, he couldn't be more than six years old. Blood and dust covered his body and she screamed for your help. Tears ran down her face and her hands shook holding what you presumed to be the corpse of the child. It was a little hard to tell, he could have been simply unconscious. 

“[Please please my son!]” She was ripped away by the man next to you and shoved into the ground. Her eyes went wide as he raised his pistol and shot her directly in the head. Both her and the child's bodies went still on the ground as her blood started to pool around her head. No one would spare her a second thought though, not yet. She was simply an obstacle for people to get past to gain their freedom. Just like everyone else that had died, either from being trampled, the initial bomb or from the ‘security’ that you knew that would be ‘helping.’ 

There wasn't a single word that left your lips. On the outside, you were stoic, unfeeling as you stepped over her body and moved further into the building. 

Inside your body screamed, it mourned for the woman and her child. Despite your attempt to push down both your conscience and guilt, they had popped right back up and slammed into the inside of your head. Every bone in your body begged for you to turn around and help him. To help any of the Russian citizens. But you didn't. 

If you did give the orders to stop, would they? Vladimir wasn't there to dispute such an order. Would they become confused? Would they obey without question and presume the reasoning behind the decision? Or would they push back and continue? Would that respect hold any weight? But you didn't order them to stop, you didn't try and help. You continued on. 

The team followed your direction and passed a group of police officers. They nodded to you and then pulled out their guns. At your gesture, they started to fire on the people who had rushed towards them. It was a pitiful sight, people desperate for help and salvation only for that hope to be smothered out in a moment. The panic on their face had a glimpse of hope only to be promptly snuffed out in a second of betrayal and grief. 

If the police didn't help them, who would? Certainly not the British who had left only moments earlier to help with the stadium situation. You had to admit that Vladimir certainly knew how to take control of a situation.

The screams for help and cries increased as your police mowed down the civilians. Their bodies flopped to the ground instantly, the building had little cover to help protect them. Some of the luckier ones were killed with a single shot, their bodies collapsed on the floor only and slid a little from their original momentum. Others weren't so lucky, their deaths were not quick. 

Your eyes went to a woman in a long white dress that was far too thin for the chill Russian air. A bullet caught her in the back of her calf and forced her onto the floor. Despite her open mouth, you couldn't distinguish her cries from the others. The white sundress was immediately muddied by the blood both on the floor and that poured from her calf. Her head managed to turn around to look at her killer only for a second before another bullet hit her, this time square in the chest. 

You didn't stop though, you continued down the hallway without hesitation, after all, you had a job to do. 

“[Split!]” You directed when you came to a stairway that people rushed down. Half of your group took the right side and your half took the left. 

You pulled out a handgun and started to shoot the people who tried to rush down the stairs. Panic continued as people realised what was happening and instead of rushing to the stairs, they ran away. It was too late of course, they were too slow and you didn't have mercy. A pain throbbed inside your head and if you had been any less desensitised it would have reflected in your body. Your hand would have trembled, your eyes would have watered. Yet they didn't. 

On the outside, your face was expressionless, determined with zero sympathy for those around you. It was a small price to pay for Vladimir's dream to become a reality. 

Blood started to stain the stairs as it ran down into an ocean that thickened on the floor. It stuck to every step that your shoe made and you used the rail to keep yourself steady. The last thing you needed was to fall down the stairs and hurt yourself. There was no hurry to your movements and you rechecked your watch. Perfectly on time, just as he had planned. 

Gunfire continued to echo alongside the screams. You paused when your hand touched something wet on the rail and looked down. A man had fallen against it dead and left a trail behind. Without a word, you wiped it on the uniform just below where your bulletproof vest poked out from under the jacket- a moment of disdain flashed on your face only mixed with a small amount of annoyance. 

People ran away from you and you glanced to see a group of your police behind you, assault guns out and ready to fire. You reunited with the split side of the rest of your squad and nodded towards the staff area. 

It was easy to slip into it, no one paid much attention. Small squelches were made by the blood on your shoes that left a trail. A path of your distraction imprinted on the floor. Evidence that you had been there, accompanied by the security cameras that were on and sure to record your crusade. It was strangely quiet the further you got down the halls. The thick walls cut off most of the sound outside until someone suddenly swung out. 

“[Hands where I can see them!]” It was a small group of security guards. Five to exact. 

“[Calm down, we’re paramedics, here to help.]” You raised your hands and your eyes went to one of the men's shoulders. It was coated in a thick red. “[Your hurt, allow me to help.]” You nodded to them and slowly the guards lowered their arms. A mistake on their behalf.

Gently you took his arm and in a split second you grabbed your pistol and shot the man in the head. Before they could react you were quick to shoot dead the other two that were close to you. Your squad was quick to follow your lead and dropped the others before they could lift their weapons. The bodies fell to the floor emotionless, barely able to comprehend the quick betrayal. 

“[Hiding away like cowards.]” You spat and crouched. You grabbed one of their IDs and continued to walk. Finally, inside the tower, you climbed the stairs up to the top. From there you could hear all the calls from the planes. You looked down at your watch. “[Give them all permission to land.]” You pointed to two of the men and they followed instructions without hesitation. Meanwhile, you helped them unpack the final bomb. The big one. 

The others had been smaller ones to create panic, only contained by the cell phone jammers. The bomb took four people to carry each split into its section. By no means were you a bomb expert but that was okay because Makarov had planned for one to be with you. It wasn't the creator of the bombs, he wasn't the type to get up close in personal but it was his prodigy. A young woman with a distaste for the world and a love for explosions. You followed their instructions to set it up and finally, she nodded. 

“[It's ready.]” 

You checked your watch again and waited ten seconds. “[Arm it.]”

She nodded and pressed a button and the numbers on the timer started to count down.

“[Evacuate now.]” You called over your radio and heard several confirmations. The bomb would go off in exactly seven minutes, you had four minutes to leave the building and then three minutes to get some distance. The group of you started to walk at a fast pace the way you had come, there was no need to run. The final bag that had been brought was finally opened and assault rifles were passed around. 

They were insurance that no one got in your way. By now a decent amount of the people there had either run away or were dead. Primarily the latter. Bodies littered the ground and despite your emotionless expression on your face, you knew that the scene would haunt you for the rest of your life. You knew nothing you did afterwards would ever make up for the amount of lives lost by your hand. 

But it didn't matter. 

You didn't end up using the assault rifle, there was no need for it. The group of you found your way outside again to see trails of blood on the ground and people out on the pavement with holes in their backs. Leaning against the car your driver had a gun in his hand and moved when your group got near. 

A second ambulance opened its doors for the rest of your people to split into. You got in the back and settled down. Without having been told to, the driver stepped on the gas.

The airport reduced in size the further you got away from it. Eventually, it looked like there was nothing wrong with it. Until the explosion went off. Far bigger and louder than the rest it shook the ground you were on and a massive cloud of smoke flooded the air

You look down at your watch. Right on time. 

[justagalwhowrites]

Lavender - Ch. 8

On the run from infected at the dawn of the end of the world, you fight to keep those you hold dear safe. A continuation of Lavender Ch. 1-7 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller X Female Reader

Length: 5.3K

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, character death (not reader), miscarriage, Sexual Assault/SA (coercion or blackmail). No use of Y/N. 18+ Minors DNI

A/N: See note at the end of the chapter please. Trying to avoid spoilers (beyond what's in the warnings) and want to contextualize the story choices. Feel free to read first before reading the chapter if you want as long as you don't mind some spoilers!

Tuesday, September 30, 2003

“The Princess Pat” 

“The Princess Pat” 

“Lived in a tree” 

“Lived in a tree” 

“She sailed across”

“She sailed across”

“The seven seas”

“The seven seas” 

“She sailed across”

“She sailed across”

“The channel too”

“The channel too”

“And she took with her!” 

“And she took….” 

“Hello!” 

You threw your arm out, forcing Jessica behind you, and raised the shotgun. Your heart was pounding. 

It had been 2 days since you’d last seen another person, possessed or otherwise. You’d stuck to the woods alongside the main road, hopefully far enough away to not be easily seen while staying close enough to follow the route. You were heading steadily east. You figured eventually, you’d reach the Atlantic, orient yourself and go from there. 

On Saturday, you’d shot six people. Almost people. Former people? You weren’t sure how to count it, but you’d killed six people who were trying to rip you and Jessica apart. It made you sick. “Don’t let anyone take you from me.” 

You tried to justify it. Jessica and the baby made it easier but it was hard. Could you possibly be worth that many lives? What if whatever was wrong with them was temporary and you’d murdered them? The only way you could live with it was by thinking of Jessica and the baby. You could kill for your child and the girl you’d come to think of as your niece. You could live with that. Or you thought you could, at least. 

Saturday, you’d come across a sporting goods store. There was one possessed person inside, someone had locked them in a storage room and you’d been stupid enough to open the damn door looking for more ammunition. You’d been so surprised it took you a moment to get a shot off and the first one missed. You kept shoving Jessica back, the thing lunging for you and snarling until you hit it with the butt of your gun, forcing it far enough away that you could shoot it. You stood guard while Jessica found some clothes and you were able to take your sweatshirt back. It probably would have been smart to change the shirt, when you thought about it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. It was one of your UT sweatshirts, one that said “alumni” on it. Joel had gotten it for you as a graduation gift. It didn’t matter that it was bloodstained now. You needed something from then. You packed a bag for her, too. The store had been pretty well looted but the possessed person in the storage room had left the stock in there intact and you were able to find some useful stuff. 

You ran into three more possessed people on your way back out of town. You were pretty certain you were traveling about a day behind the military - or some military like force, anyway. Did the military actually exist anymore? Did America? But you kept coming across near mountains of bodies. You weren’t sure if they were people who had been possessed or if whoever was in charge now was just wiping out anyone they deemed as a potential risk. There were two more possessed as you made your way into the woods again. 

On Sunday, Jessica woke up crying. It took some time to calm her down. She didn’t want to tell you what she’d dreamed about that made her so upset but you could guess. When the day started quiet enough, you started trying to get her to engage a bit. Pointing out different trees as you walked, signs of different animals when you saw them. You tried to think of something else to talk about with her - something that would take her mind off of the fact that you were pretty sure the world was ending without reminding her of what you thought was entirely lost. You resorted to singing NSYNC. 

“That’s not how it goes,” she muttered at one point. 

“What isn’t?” You asked, knowing perfectly well what you’d gotten wrong. 

“It’s ‘I wanna see you out that door’ not ‘Go walk on out that door,’” she said. 

“Well, I’ve never been a good singer,” you shrugged, still keeping an eye out for possessed people. 

“Yeah, you’re really not,” she snorted. “Heard you and my mom singing in the kitchen once. I think you were drunk. It was real bad.” 

“We thought you were asleep!” You looked over your shoulder to her. She smiled a little. 

“Yeah, I had my GameBoy,” she said. 

“You little shit,” you smiled. “We were that bad, huh?” 

“You are always bad,” she said. “It was way worse then. I was embarrassed and there wasn’t even anyone else to hear you it was that bad.” 

“Well then you demonstrate, rock star,” you said. “Seem to recall you doing pretty good hairbrush karaoke.” 

She was quiet for a minute. You were trying to think of something else to get her mind off things when she started signing a Spice Girls song. You smiled. She was quiet at first, almost under her breath. You didn’t press her. She got louder as the day went on. 

Monday you hummed the Beetles to see if she’d sing along. She did. 

Tuesday, you suggested some of the songs she’d brought home from Girl Scout camp over the summer. She’d sung them for three weeks after spending two weeks a few hours away, horseback riding and swimming and boating. You were half sure she was singing because she knew it was annoying the shit out of her mother. The other half of her just really loved summer camp. She sang the songs so much, you’d learned them, too. You could even lead them. 

Which is how you ended up singing Princess Pat somewhere in the woods along the highway in New York State. 

“Who’s there?” You yelled, gun up. 

“I’ll come to you!” It was a man’s voice. You tightened your grip on the weapon. 

“How many of you are there?” You called, looking around for some sign of whoever was talking but you couldn’t see them. 

“Just me!” He said. “Please… please don’t shoot me?” 

“I won’t if you don’t give me a reason,” you called back. “But I’m keeping the gun up.” 

He came from further into the woods and you moved in front of Jessica, gun up. When he got about 20 feet away, you stopped him. 

“That’s close enough.” 

You looked him over. He was young, probably not even 20, tall and gangly. All limbs. He hadn’t grown into his body yet. His hands were up and his eyes were wide. One of his arms didn’t look right.

“Lift your shirt,” you said, gun still up. 

“What?” He frowned.” 

“I need to see your waistband,” you said. “Make sure you don’t have a weapon. Lift up your shirt and turn around in a circle, slowly.” 

He did as he was told. No gun or knife that you could see. You lowered the gun. He lowered his hands.

“Hi,” he smiled, looking like he was about to cry. 

“Hi,” you smiled a little back. You nodded to the misshapen arm. “What happened there?” 

“I fell,” he said, cautiously stepping closer to you. “I was running, my parents…” 

“How’d you escape?” Jessica peered out from behind you. 

“By falling,” he said. “Down a cliff. It was short but they stayed up top. What the hell is going on?” 

“I don’t know,” you took your pack off and started rifling around for the first aid kit. “But I can set your arm for you.”

His name, you learned while aligning his bones in the way you’d read about in medical texts, was Andrew. You were right on his age, he was 18 and from a small town not far from there. He’d been wandering alone since Sunday. 

“I haven’t seen any people,” he said. “I mean, I’ve been hiding but I thought I’d see someone. Anyone. I was hiding from… I wasn’t trying to hide from people. Where is everyone?”

You weren’t sure what to say. You knew what little you’d seen but you weren’t sure if that was true anywhere else but where you’d been. And you weren’t sure if telling that to a teenager would make it any better. 

“We haven’t run into anyone in a few days either,” you said, tying off the makeshift cast you’d put on his arm. “Feel better?” 

“Yeah,” he said, bending his elbow a bit. “Thank you.” 

“You can travel with us,” you said, repacking your bag. “But you have to do what I say when I say it. I can try to keep you safe but I can’t do that if you’re a wildcard.” 

“I can listen,” he said quickly. “I won’t be any trouble, I promise.” 

You got moving again. 

You made it to another small town that night, the bodies all piled in the center of the little downtown area, a heap of flesh in front of a pizza parlor. You tried to protect Andrew and Jessica from seeing it. You weren’t sure it worked. You set up for the night in a pharmacy, tucking yourselves away behind the counter and pulling down the gates. You stocked up on water, pain killers, bandages and broad spectrum antibiotics before you left. 

You were walking until Wednesday afternoon when you saw the first sign of people. 

There was a man in a military uniform dead on the ground. So it was military. 

“Stay back, guys,” you said, waving Jessica and Andrew off. You looked around for a moment. “Andrew, have you ever used a gun? Hunting with your dad or anything?” 

“Yeah,” he said, voice shaky. “But I’ve never shot a person…” 

“Well I hope you don’t need to today,” you said, handing him the gun. “But keep an eye out for me? If you see someone coming, I’ll take it back, OK?” 

He nodded once, taking a deep breath. You went to the body. 

Someone had shot him in the head, blood splattered over his camo. His body was still warmer than the air around you, but not by much. Whoever had gunned him down was in a hurry, his weapons were still on him. You took his guns - a sidearm and a rifle, both with some extra ammunition - and his knife. You looked over the rest of him. There was a vicious looking bite at his wrist. You were busy looking at that when something moved out of the corner of your eye. 

It was like the tentacle that had reached out of your grandmother’s mouth coming out from between the man��s lips. 

“Holy shit,” you leapt back as the fibrous thing stretched for you. Eventually, it stopped, just sitting there. You looked at it, frowning. 

“What is it?” Andrew yelled at you. 

“I think…” You leaned in a little closer. “It’s a fungus.” 

The thing reached for you. You backed up again before getting up and getting away from the body entirely. 

“A fungus?” Andrew asked. 

“Yeah,” you frowned, standing beside him again. “Which both makes a lot of sense and none at all.” You held the guns out that you’d just picked up. “Pick your poison.” 

He chose the rifle. You took back the shotgun and tucked the sidearm in your waistband. 

“What do you mean about the fungus?” Jessica frowned. “Also, I don’t have a gun.” 

“Yeah, you don’t need a gun,” you said. “You don’t need to be shooting at anyone, you’re 13.” 

“It’s the end of the world,” she said flatly. 

“Not yet it’s not,” you said. “No gun. Let’s keep moving.” 

“Fine,” Jessica said. “But you need to explain the fungus thing because I don’t think mushrooms are doing this.” 

“There are lots of different kinds of fungus,” you said, starting down the road. “There are some we eat, some that does stuff like make your toenails yellow… And there are some that take over host bodies and control them in hopes of spreading.” 

“What the fuck,” Andrew said, taking up the rear. “Like people?” 

“Well, no, that’s the weird thing,” you said. “We’re too warm for those fungi. They live in insects, take over the bodies of ants or wasps, not mammals. But that’s what that looked like. It doesn’t make any sense…” 

“None of this makes any sense,” Jessica said. 

You kept walking. 

That afternoon, you found people. Two of them, in uniform guarding the road, a military truck parked broadside over the lanes so no one could just drive through. 

You were back in the tree line and you signaled for Jessica and Andrew to be quiet, but you stepped on a stick, snapping it. The men spun, training their guns on the trees. 

“Who’s out there!” The one closer to the tree line yelled. “Respond or I start shooting!” 

“We’re not possessed!” You yelled, signaling for Jessica and Andrew to get behind you. 

“Come out here!” He yelled. “Now!” 

“There are three of us,” you called back. “We’re armed but we will lower our weapons if you lower yours.” 

He hesitated. “I’ve got two kids with me,” you said after a moment. “Teenagers. We’re healthy.” 

“I’m keeping my gun out,” he called. “But I’ll point it down.” 

You aimed your gun toward the ground and cautiously walked toward the road. 

“What are you doing here?” The man demanded. 

“Trying to find somewhere safe,” you replied. “What’s going on? How widespread is this?” 

“It’s the whole world,” he said, looking you up and down. “It’s everywhere.” 

“What do you mean it’s everywhere,” you frowned. “How can it be everywhere?” 

“You’re trying to get somewhere safe?” The second man came and stood beside the first, looking you up and down, too. You nodded. You could sense Jessica and Andrew behind you. You wanted to tell them to run. Something about these men didn’t feel right. 

“There’s a base of operations in Boston,” the first man said. “We’ve been told to send survivors there, people who aren’t at risk of infection.” 

“We’re not infected,” you said. “We haven’t had any contact with any infected person in days, we’re not a risk.” 

“We can help you get to Boston,” the second man stepped closer to you. “But I’d want something in return.” 

“She’s a doctor,” Jessica said quickly. You shot a glare over your shoulder. 

“No, I’m a science teacher who’s been training to become a doctor,” you said quickly. “But if you’re injured, I might be able to help. We also have some food and water, pain killers…” 

“Not what I’m interested in.” 

It took you a second to realize what he meant. His eyes were on you, ranging hungrily over your body. 

“Not sure the next time I’ll see a woman who isn’t infected,” he said. “Want to make sure I enjoy it.” 

He adjusted the grip on his gun. 

You considered your options for a split second. There was no way you’d be able to kill both of them before they killed one of you. And even then, could you live with killing two people - two people who weren’t infected or possessed or whatever it was - if it was anything but a last resort? 

“You can get us to Boston?” You said. 

“There’s a code,” the man said. “I’ll give it to you. If you give me something.” 

You glanced behind you. Jessica just looked confused. Andrew seemed to get it. Your stomach turned. 

“Fine,” you said, taking off your pack and passing it back to Andrew. “Give me a minute.” 

You handed him the gun, too. 

“If he goes for either of you,” you said quietly. “Kill him.” 

He gave you a nod. You turned back to the man. 

“Let’s go.” 

You followed him into the woods. He was still armed. 

“What do you want?” You asked, standing there, trying to not think about what you were about to do. 

“Take off your shirt,” he said, still holding the gun. You obeyed, pulling off your sweatshirt and t-shirt at the same time, hands shaking. 

“Good,” he smiled. “Bra, too.” 

You took that off, too. 

“Fuck you’ve got nice tits,” his hand went to his crotch, feeling himself through his pants. “Waist down now. All off.” 

You shakily stepped out of your boots and peeled off your pants and underwear, glancing back toward the road, thankful you couldn’t see Jessica and Andrew. 

“Lie down.” 

You got down on your back. The leaves and pinecones scratched your bare skin. Your stomach turned. Until now, Joel had been the only man to have seen you naked. He’d been the only man you ever wanted to see you naked. 

The man stepped forward, his penis in his hand, still fully clothed, working himself. You looked at it for a second before staring up at the tree canopy. He was smaller than Joel. You were thankful for that much, at least. 

He got on top of you without preamble and you tried to push your mind elsewhere, anywhere but here. He started trying to work his way into you, forcing his way inside. 

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he grunted. You stared past him. 

You thought about Joel. Not about sex with Joel - you didn’t want to connect any part of that with this - but just being around him. How he made you feel safe. His smile. The way he tried to pretend he didn’t like the movies you picked but you caught him sitting forward a bit more in his seat when the story reached its climax. The man over you was making your back drag along the ground and your vagina hurt. You tried to ignore it. Joel playing guitar in the backyard. Sarah making fun of him for his choice of song. There was a cluster of three pinecones over your head. The man’s pace increased. Joel making burgers in the summer. He was so picky about the meat, looking over every package at the store until he found just the right one. 

“Fuck,” the man grunted and stilled before going limp on top of you. He breathed heavy for a second before rolling off you. 

“Done?” Your voice sounded strange. Weirdly flat. He reached over and patted your stomach. You tensed. You took it as a yes, getting up off the ground. You brushed yourself off quickly and got dressed as fast as you could, the man watching you as he panted for breath. He put his penis away and got up. You looked up at him. “You said there was a code.” 

“C’mon,” he jerked his head back toward the road. You followed. He went to the back of the truck and ripped off a scrap of paper. He wrote down a name and a number and handed it to you. “Give that information at the checkpoints between here and Boston. They’ll let you through.” 

You nodded once, reading the paper and trying to memorize it. McCarthy. You looked at the name on the uniform. It matched. You pocketed the paper. 

“Stick to the road,” he said, looking you over again, almost affectionately. Almost like he thought what had just happened meant something. Like he was invested in you now. “Now that you have that, it’s safer that way. Lots of crazies and infected in the woods between here and there, road is better. It’ll take about a week to walk to Boston from here.” 

You nodded once and went and got your bag from Andrew. He was staring at you. You put the pack on and took your gun. 

“Let’s go.” 

You led the way again. No one talked. No one sang. You stared straight ahead. Your hand went to your lower stomach. You tried to focus on what was important. You threw up a mile later.

Sunday, October 5, 2003

“It’s my birthday, you know,” you whispered to your stomach. It was late, about three in the morning. You were on watch, Andrew and Jessica were asleep. You ran your thumb over yourself. There was a bump there now. It was small, if you didn’t know to look for it you wouldn’t notice it was there, but you could feel it. “Last one before you’re born, little one. Sorry to be bringing you into such a shit show.” 

You leaned your head back against a tree, cradling the little bump, and sighed. 

“Maybe it will be better by April,” you said. “Maybe this is just a crazy blip. I can tell you the insane story one day. About everything your mom did to get to your dad.” 

The amount of infected had grown as you’d gone down the road, getting closer to Boston and more civilization. You’d killed a dozen more people. Andrew had killed three others. You’d tried to make it so he wouldn’t have to shoot anyone but you’d been nearly overrun at one point and he’d been forced to. He was sobbing after, his whole body shaking. You tried to hold it together enough to comfort him. 

It was hard to believe that it had been just over a week since this started. It felt like an eternity. Two weeks ago at this time, you’d been asleep in your bed at home. You’d gone to bed that night after giving up on finalizing your lesson plans for the week, leaving Thursday and Friday to deal with during your planning period on Monday and mad at yourself for procrastinating. You were still debating about whether or not you wanted to tell Joel about his child. It all seemed so silly now. You’d die to go back to those kinds of problems. 

At four, you roused Andrew. He groggily got up and took over the watch, you laying down beside Jessica. She sighed and pressed herself back against you. You put an arm around her, tugging her close to you. It was easier to sleep, having someone close. 

You got up and got moving right away in the morning. You were expecting to hit another checkpoint that afternoon or evening, you wanted to put some miles between it and you before stopping for the night. The code from McCarthy had done what he’d promised so far. They took your word that you weren’t infected after a quick once over and didn’t demand any more ‘payment’ for passage, instead just sending you down the road. You were thankful for that much. But you didn’t trust the men at the checkpoints. You wouldn’t be able to relax, knowing they were close by. 

You’d been walking six hours when it happened. 

Your gun was out but held low. You heard the odd, guttural sound only a split second before they came from the tree line. 

There were more than a dozen of them, all of them running for you, strange husks of human beings now driven by one thing. 

“Run!” You screamed, raising your shotgun and firing, catching one in the chest and sending it flying back. You’d gotten better with the gun since the world collapsed, knowing that you had to plant your feet to keep from falling, knowing how to stand to aim and not stumble back. You stood in one spot, firing off the four rounds in the shotgun and taking down three infected before you ran, too, Jessica frantically looking back over her shoulder at you. “Go!” 

You did your best to lodge the depleted shotgun between your pack and your back while pulling the sidearm from your waistband, turning and firing almost blindly behind you. Three shots, another infected fell. You looked forward and saw it before Jessica or Andrew did. 

“Jessica!” You shrieked, an infected launching at her from the other side of the road and tackling her to the ground. It pinned her for a moment and Andrew ran up on it, slamming the butt of his rifle into it, sending it sprawling before shooting it. He gave Jessica his hand and yanked her to her feet. She clutched her hand to her upper arm and ran with him. 

You weren’t sure how the hell you were going to get out of this, firing behind you, barely outpacing the infected as it was, your lungs starting to ache, when you saw the checkpoint up ahead. 

“Help!” You yelled. “McCarthy sent us on! There are infected!” 

The two men at the checkpoint ran forward, rifles drawn. It only took a moment for them to start firing. You instinctively ducked your head but kept moving, hoping it would keep you from getting shot. 

The men and their rifles made pretty quick work of the hoard of infected, the bodies littering the road. You panted for breath, stopping at the truck that blocked the lanes. 

“McCarthy sent you through?” One of the men asked. You just nodded and pulled the code from your pocket. The man took it and nodded, handing it back to you. “Those the first infected you’ve seen lately?” 

“No,” you shook your head. “But first since the last checkpoint.” 

He nodded once and started looking you over. 

“Clear,” he said, nodding Andrew forward. He did the same with him before calling Jessica up. He sighed, stopping at her arm. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. He sounded sad. Genuinely sad. Jessica frowned. “You’ve been bitten.” 

You all but jumped up from where you’d been leaning against the truck, going to Jessica’s arm. He was right, there were distinctly human teethmarks on her arm. 

“Shit,” you muttered, sliding your pack off to get out the first aid kit. Jessica’s eyes were wide. “We’ve got the stuff for this but you’re probably going to get a pretty cool scar…” 

“What the fuck!” Andrew yelled. You looked up. The man was aiming a gun at Jessica. You stepped in front of her, your arms spread wide. 

“Woah!” You said. “Gun down, we’re not a threat!” 

“She’s been bitten,” he said. “Stand aside.” 

“No!” 

“I don’t want to die,” Jessica was sobbing. “Please…” 

“I will kill you too,” the man aimed the gun at you. “Don’t make me.” You made the decision before really thinking, lunging for the man. He fired the gun, the bullet glancing off your shoulder, and turned the weapon so he could slam the butt of it into your stomach. He put all his weight behind it, sending you sprawling to the ground before he starting aiming again. You scrambled to your feet and tried to grab the gun as he tried to throw you off. The other soldier grabbed you by the collar from behind and threw you against the gate of the truck, the metal slamming into your stomach. You felt a sickening jolt just as the gun fired. 

“NO!” You shrieked, the man holding you down, your face against the metal. You fought to look to Jessica, to get to Jessica. “Let me go!” 

The man listened, letting you up and you ran for her. Andrew was over her already and you shoved him back. There was a gaping wound on her stomach. 

“It hurts,” she whimpered. She was crying. You tried to stem the bleeding but there was so much blood. 

“Andrew,” you were panting, gasping for breath. “The first aid kit, in the pack…” 

Jessica sobbed. Andrew was frozen. 

“Andrew!” 

“I’m sorry,” he was crying. “I’m sorry…” 

You looked down at her. Her eyes were wide. 

“I’m scared,” she said. “I don’t…” 

“It’s OK,” your face was wet. You delicately, gently, pulled her onto her lap. “You’re going to be OK sweetie. It’ll be OK, you’ll be OK, it’s OK…” 

You brushed her hair back. She grabbed your arm. 

“My mom,” her eyes searched yours. “My mom…” 

“You’ll get to see her again,” you tried to smile. “I’m sure she’s missed you, probably thinks I’ve been corrupting you all this time. It’s OK. It’ll be OK.” 

You felt her die, a strangled cry ripping through you as you collapsed against Andrew. He cautiously put his arms around you, Jessica’s body still between you. 

“Why!” You turned to the man who killed her. The gun was still in his hands. He didn’t say anything. You set her body down, gently, like you would a toddler who had fallen asleep against you, and got to your feet. Your head spun. You stalked toward him. “Why would you kill her? She was a child!” You shoved him. You didn’t care that he had a gun. He stumbled back. The other man raised his weapon for you. You didn’t care about him, either. “A CHILD!” 

You threw your whole body at him and he fell down. 

“She was infected!” He yelled at you, breathless. You fell to your knees. “She was infected. That’s how it spreads, through bites. Once someone’s bitten, it’s just a matter of time - sometimes just an hour or two - and they’re like them. There’s nothing anyone can do. It was better this way. I’m so sorry.” 

You sobbed. You felt Andrew’s hands on you, pulling you to your feet. He started moving you down the road. 

“Her body,” you turned, reaching for her. 

“That other guy wants to fucking shoot you,” he said quickly. “We have to keep moving, she’s gone, it doesn’t matter now, we have to go.” 

You weren’t sure how long you walked before he took his hands off you. It could have been five minutes or five hours. He’d grabbed the backpack, your shotgun. You stared straight ahead. You’d promised to keep her safe. You’d told her you were going to get her through this. And now she was dead. 

You kept running the attack over in your head again and again. What could you have done differently? What would have saved her? You catalogued every way you failed her, every way you let her die. 

Andrew said your name. You barely registered it. He said it again. 

“What?” You asked, looking back at him. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

You looked at your arms, your torso, but didn’t see anything. 

“No, like…” he paused. “I think you started your period but… it looks like a lot of blood for that. I have…had sisters, it looks like a lot of blood….” 

Your hand went to your lower stomach and you stopped in the street, right in the middle, a yellow dashed line in front of you, one behind. 

“It’s not a period,” you said, putting a hand between your legs for a moment and examining it. It was slick with blood. You wondered how you hadn’t felt it. You registered the cramping then, the sharp, stabbing pain of it breaking through the numbness. “I’m having a miscarriage.” 

You kept walking, the blood running down your legs. You put both hands over the small bump. You wanted to feel it as long as you could. Your child. The piece of Joel you carried with you. You’d failed your child, too. 

Andrew pulled you off the road as it got dark. You were in a daze. You couldn’t bring yourself to get cleaned up or pull a sleeping bag out of your pack. You lay down in the dirt and stared into nothing. 

“I’ll keep watch,” he said. “I can pull an all nighter. You sleep.” 

“It’s my birthday today,” you said softly. You cradled the bump. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

You considered the gun tucked in the waistband of your bloody pants. You knew that, if you tried that way, you’d succeed. It would be easy. Just one twitch of a finger and you could be done here. 

“Don’t do it alone.” That’s what Joel had said, when you’d told him about the way you felt sometimes. About the time you’d tried to die before. “Tell me. Always tell me.” 

“Don’t let anyone take you from me.” 

You took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, too.” 

You cried, closing your eyes, letting the numbness swallow you. 

A/N: Hi y'all. I'm so sorry for this. I know there's a ton of misery in this chapter, but here's why. I'm not just brutalizing my characters for no reason. Kid is meant to be Joel's mirror. She carries much the same trauma as him. She loses someone in her care and she loses her child. She was willing to do anything for Jessica and her baby and she still lost. What she does with that grief and pain and what Joel does with his are very different. They are two sides of the same coin, bound by trauma and love and loss. I hope you stick with their story in spite of the sad stuff and thank you for reading <3

[call-sign-shark]

Heaven in Your Eyes || Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC

Summary:  What is supposed to be a chill afternoon at the grand opening of the Grace Shelby Institute for Orphaned Children, turns out to be a nightmare: Charles is kidnapped and chaos spreads in the Shelby family. This is when Thomas remembers something you had told him: "You should keep an eye on Charles. You really should.”  He suddenly understands: You did it.

Words: 5K

TW: Angst, Child kidnapping, typical canon violence, graphic description of violence, death of secondary characters, murder, a very quick allusion to child abuse, gruesome kills, a lot of blood I guess

Notes:

✞ This chapter is based on the event of S3 Episode 6. Italicized parts are taken from the show. However, it contains many changes from the show's script, especially to accommodate this fanfiction's purposes and the characters' development.

✞ Theme song to listen to on repeat while reading if you want

✞ Heaven is OP's original character but written with the use of « you » (Moodboard here).

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“Say it Tom, say it to ‘em! ” Arthur’s loud voice exclaimed in a joyful tone, calloused hands clapping with strength to encourage his little brother and his speech. The whole crowd, as well as you, followed his example and stood up to applaud the founder of the Grace Shelby Institute for Orphaned Children. Admittedly, you recognized that the idea of opening such an establishment was surprising yet excellent, especially coming from the family’s boss. Quickly glancing at Arthur and his smile, you could not help but melt. The blinded love and trust he had for Tommy had something admirable despite your rocky relationship with little King Shelby.

You sit back and, as you did, Arthur gently put his hand on your thigh and took a look at you, his magnificent blue eyes shining with affection. He did not need to say a single word for you to understand what was going through his mind: he was just proud. Proud of Tommy, obviously, but particularly proud to attend such a significant ceremony with his stunning woman by his side. Even though most of the town knew about Arthur’s mysterious angel, attending the event with you had something official. The butterflies in his stomach flapped their wings when he introduced you to some guests as his sweetheart — you had even overheard him calling you his “future wife”. The way some of the visitors looked at both of you, their traits stretching in surprise as they realized that the sweetest creature they have ever seen was deeply enraptured with him, was enough to fill his heart with pride. A faint smile flattered your juicy lips at such an endearing vision, the joy it brought upon you making the whole crowd disappear for a few seconds as you lost yourself in Arthur’s beauty. Another thunder of applause popped your daydreams and forced you to shift your focus back on what was going on.

In fact, the first lyrics of Immortal Invisible brought you back to reality as it echoed in the room. You were about to join the chorus, Arthur’s fingers discreetly reaching for yours as a silent request to hear you sing with that lovely voice of yours, when you caught sight of Tommy leaving the room with hastened footsteps. The aura of sorrow that emanated from him stirred both your empathy and your worries — even though you did not get along, you could not help but commiserate with him on this difficult day that reminded him of Grace far too much to handle the event properly. Thomas’ beloved wife was everywhere around you, you could sense it. Her presence was so overwhelming that one could have expected to see her walk into the room at one moment or another. The cruel truth was that she was gone for good, and what was left of her slowly pushed Thomas Shelby to the edge of depression. Instinctively, your cold little hand tightened its grip around Arthur. His company kept your mind from drifting too far in the dark waters of your own loss. And by loss, you meant your Dad, hung high on a tree, as well as your Mom and little sister who had burned on the pyre.

The room was filled with chatters and guests, whose discussions blended together in an unintelligible cacophony. Alone in a corner, a glass of champagne in your hand, you swept the room with interest without really taking part in any conversations. Somehow, huge gatherings had never been your cup of tea — you came from a small town lost in the mountains after all, not from the city. Moreover, you were well aware of the curious, sometimes snobbish looks other ladies gave you and you were not sure they would be particularly delighted by your presence. They thought you did not fit the picture with your long and braided white hair, your ivory sun dress, and Arthur’s long and black coat resting on your shoulders. To be true, you could not blame them, you did not fit in but you were also surprisingly fine with it. When your lips grazed the sparkly alcohol, you winced a little bit. As ironic as it sounded for a French girl, you despised the taste of champagne, even though you still took the glass you had been offered out of sheer politeness. Giving up on the idea of drinking it, you just sighed. It did not take long for you to grow bored with analyzing people’s faces — they were more or less the same, and most of them took the shape of women giggling when Thomas walked past them. You soon caught sight of Arthur and John, both talking to their brother.

“Fuck me, Tom. I don’t know how you do it.” Arthur stated, his gruff voice and harsh words contrasting drastically with Thomas’ elegant elocution. He had barely finished his sentence when the latter was once again forced into another formal conversation with aristocratic ladies. He took a quick look at John, who was sipping on a tea, and rolled his eyes, annoyed. Understanding that having a real conversation with Tommy was going to be difficult, he waved off the idea and finally headed back to you. As soon as his eyes fell on your frame, his face relaxed and enlightened with a loving smile.

“Oi. Why are you all alone, Angel?” He inquired, his arms wrapping around your waist and bringing you close to his body for he could not keep his hands off you for too long, “want to go back home?” Arthur laid a tender kiss on your cheek, gently rubbing the tip of his nose against your skin in signs of deep affection. Your smile widened at the sensation of his mustache, to the point you could not hold the light chuckle that escaped from your mouth. He was so worried about your well-being that he went straight to the point: if you wanted to leave you had every right to do so.

“No need to go back home dear, I do enjoy the party. I’m just not really good at social gatherings nor making new friends I guess!”

“Ada told me you can join in her conversations if ye want.” His thumbs caressed your hips in a circular motion.

“I don’t want to bother Ada. She seems rather busy.” You put down your glass on a nearby table, and snuggled in his arms, more than thrilled to have his whole attention for yourself. The slight anxiety you had been feeling vanished into dust at his soothing warmth and his manly perfume. A perfume that had started to blend with yours, hence creating that unique fragrance of your love.

“Hey Arthur, move. You know she likes me hugs the best.” John teased — he had also decided to keep you company rather than waiting on Tommy.

“I’m really going to kick yer ass John, don’t care if I do it in front of all the people of this bloody room.” He growled, pulling you even closer for he refused to let you go. Even if it was with his own brother. Your grin widened, their never-ending sibling arguments never failing to amuse you.

“I would take your brother’s threats with the utmost seriousness if I were you. But at the same time, I really appreciate your dauntless nature. C’m’here.” One of your arms left Arthur’s neck to welcome John in the hug despite the hoarse complaints that followed. John, not hesitating for a slight second, joined in and held you in his arms for a few but indescribably comforting seconds. Each time he would pull you in a bear hug, he would make you feel at home.

“Okay, enough —“ Arthur nudged his little brother in the ribs, the corner of his lips curling up in a sadistic smirk only older siblings knew how to do.

“Why don’t you hug me longer? Afraid to show your sensitive side, Mon amour?” John said, making his best impression of your French accent and the pet name you were always giving to his brother. This time you could not help but genuinely laugh, a part of you astounded by John’s ability to be that annoying. The face Arthur made, contorted with both shock and anger, only cracked you up harder. Still, you softly stroke his neck to keep his spirit quiet and avoid him throwing a tantrum in the middle of the room.

Finally resigning himself not to bounce on John and beat the shit out of him, Arthur looked at you with the most irresistible puppy eyes he could do. Sometimes you had trouble realizing he, who could look like a beaten dog, was the same man that could kill someone with his bare fists out of jealousy and fuck you roughly in the shower still covered with fresh blood right after.

“Lemme smack him, please Angel. Just one little tiny punch in his fookin’ face.” He begged, “Just to shut his bloody mouth, eh.”

You raised a brow, your hand trailing up his neck to fix his hairstyle — Arthur shivered at your touch, his whole body responding with tremors of lust that shook him to the core, “Not here. But you’ll find a good moment to avenge yourself, Mr. Shelby” You said, punctuating your sentence with a knowing wink.

“Woah, calm down Devil. I thought you’d defend me!” John retorted, pretending to be outraged by your betrayal.

“Not my fault if you’re stupid enough to believe that.” Your grin turned into a sharky smile.

“That’s my girl,” Arthur purred when looking at you, “always on her good ol’ Arthur’s side,” He pressed his lips on the side of your head, laying an enamored kiss upon it. How much you liked his way of showering you with love no matter where you were. Nevertheless, the lighthearted conversation did not last long, for an unpleasant gut feeling alerted all your senses. You slightly pulled away from Arthur and frowned, instinctively looking in Thomas’ direction. He was talking with Ada, his face veiled with a deep worry you had never seen him wearing. Something happened, that was the first thought that crossed your mind — and how right you were. At this moment, Thomas walked to you, his piercing blue eyes expressing concern. You saw him coming before his own brothers.

“Heaven, love? Are ya alri—“

“Boys, have you seen Charlie?” Thomas cut him off.

“Eh…” Arthur softly released you from his sweet embrace to focus on Tommy, “I don’t know. He is playing, ain’t he?” His smile faded away as if he had just sensed that something was wrong.

The wind changed for Thomas Shelby, whose legendary self-control broke down at the moment he realized Charles had disappeared. As your mind proceeded with what was happening, he had already started to go from guest to guest asking if they had seen his son. The more he asked, the more his placid tone turned into the painful roars of a wounded lion. All it took was one tiny second for the whole ceremony to dive into chaos.

Deafened by the sound of your own beating heart racing in your chest, you started to look around you in a vain attempt to find Charles maybe playing under a table or behind furniture. That was all you could do, for your feet seemed stuck in invisible roots that were keeping you from moving. You stood there, useless, for you did not know what to do. Maybe Charles was still here, hidden somewhere to prank his nanny? But all Tommy’s hopes and yours crumbled when Ada, so stunning in her elegant outfit, caught everyone’s attention with precious information.

“Tommy. Someone said they saw a nurse take him through the back door.”

Fuck, you thought.

“Fuck.” Arthur swore out loud, grabbing his sister by the wrists before storming out of the room with the other Shelbys.

Boom. Boom.

You brought your hand to your chest, now convinced your heart was about to burst. Something had definitely happened to Charles — as you had sensed weeks ago at the Garrison. Ripping through the lethargy you were embroiled in, you ran up the stairs and rummaged through each room to look for Charlie. Voices, all mixed, came through the opened window. You froze, listening to them.

“Arthur! Somebody saw a woman and a kid getting into a car.”

“Ah, fuck!”

“CHARLIE!”

“Where is he? Tell me.

_Someone took him. Listen to me! They put in in a car. They put him in a car and drove south. We’ve got roadblocks, we’ve got spotters. I’ll set up shop and put every man we’ve got… between here and Maypole.

_ Right. You do that.

_ You gotta go to the office. You gotta sit by the phone. Whoever took him is going to call. Polly! Let’s go, Pol! Stay by that phone. Me and John will cover the roads.”

And that was how the world collapsed on Thomas’ head. Again.

You looked at his car disappearing in the dull horizon, knowing that dark hours were awaiting all of you. Lost in your thoughts, you did not notice the mighty silhouette of the crow that was staring at you from the nearest tree with his dark beady eyes. A dull caw sound tore the silence that had fallen upon the mansion and snatched you from your anxious mind.

Caw. He mocked.

And to think it had warned you!

When Tommy stormed into the office, all of the family already gathering there, the sound of his soles hammering the wooden floor made the whole skies shiver with fear.

“Where’s Heaven?” He asked, blue eyes looking dagger at Arthur because if someone knew about you it was obviously him.

“Coming. She was with Esme.” His gruff voice retorted, trying to remain calm for Tommy’s sake.

“Esme’s waters broke,” John answered right away, “I was just with her. Running around fucking broke the waters.”

“Where’s Finn?” Thomas insisted.

“With the young’uns looking for the Riley. We couldn’t reach him.” Arthur informed before bringing a glass of whisky to his mouth and taking one big gulp. The fire that trailed down his throat almost made him sigh with momentary relief.

“I need to know who spoke. Our enemies know everything. Everything. I need to know who spoke about business outside of the family. I need to know who spoke, who they’ve spoken to.” Tommy was trying hard to remain calm but his erratic breath and the quick pace of his words betrayed the rage that was boiling within him.

“Tommy…

_ Your future wife, Arthur?”

Arthur’s pinched his lips, swallowing the furious urge to yell at his little brother for uttering such an obnoxious accusation. He looked away as he tried to keep his composure.

“I’m gonna tell myself you’re not thinking straight. Your mind’s not clear.”

“I want to see her now, you hear me?”

It was at this moment you entered the room as if you had been summoned by Thomas’ words. You had appeared in the doorframe without a single noise, Arthur’s dark coat contrasting with the unsettling porcelain of your skin and the fair aquamarine of your iris. There you stood, all the family’s eyes staring at you for they had told you it would have been probably better if you did not come. All of them were more or less aware of Tommy's hostility toward you, and they knew he would certainly find a way to blame you in one way or another.

“Speaking of the Devil.” He said with his most collected tone, while his gaze darkened at the sight of your doll face. If Arthur saw an Angel when looking at you, Thomas could only recognize the threatening shadow of death floating around your silhouette, the long coat you were wearing reminding him of the Grim Reaper’s cloak. All that was missing from the picture was a scythe in your hand, “Did you speak?” He asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You simply replied, walking to Arthur. The wooden floor creaked under your heels. You were already exhausted by his accusations you knew that were awaiting you. But still, you came, because all you wanted was to be where you belonged: by Arthur's side, supporting him.

“I know Arthur can’t keep his fucking mouth shut and tells you everything.” He quickly glanced at his brother, who was staring at an invisible dot on the wall to keep calm, and shifted all his focus back to you again. You clenched your jaw at the petty comment, “So I’m gonna reiterate the question and you’re going to answer me, eh. Did you speak?"

“I did not speak, Tommy. I said nothing.”

“Don't lie to me.” He retorted right after you finished your sentence. His hands, pressed against the table, were now trembling with a rage he desperately tried to tame, “I know you’ve got something to do with all this shit. I know that’s you.”

You opened your mouth to protest but Arthur was quicker. Grabbing your wrist in case he needed to protect you from his brother, he stepped between the two of you, “Come on Tommy, I know yer angry and anxious, but that ain’t a reason to accuse her. She didn’t do anything.”

“Ah. Arthur Shelby protecting his damn fallen Angel, I was expecting it" His eyes went from him to you several times, "Do you think she didn’t? So, can you explain why did she tell me to keep an eye on Charles weeks ago?” Tommy's words were coated with poison. The quietness of his voice, highlighted by the rumble of his growling soul, only rendered him more impressive. Silence fell over the office at such a revelation no one knew.

Astounded, Arthur turned to you and, with his brows furrowed in confusion, stared at you, “Did ya — Did ya really say that?”

You blinked, stunned by Thomas’ vivid memory and by the gleam of shock in Arthur’s steel blue eyes.

“Hey, listen. I did not plot behind this family’s back nor did I hurt Charlie or anything.”

“Why would you say that to me then?” Tommy took a few steps toward you. He would usually avoid coming to close to you when other people were around, but you were not sure he would do so this time. You wanted to back off but Arthur’s grip tightened around your wrist, for he did not know what to think anymore. “Whose side are you on, uh?” Tommy asked, "Did anyone ever wonder whose side she's on?"

“I saw a crow on my way to the Garrison and I felt it was a bad omen. And then I had a gut feeling after our conversation. That’s all, Thomas! It was just a damn clairvoyant gut feeling!” You defended yourself, before looking at Arthur, “I swear it’s the truth.”

"Yeah, the truth," Arthur repeated, trying to overcome his insecurities.

“Oh my God, keep your witchcraft-coated excuses for someone else, Heaven. You talked at best, you work with Hughes at worst. After all, you knew him before you came into our lives” Tommy tried to come closer again but Polly grabbed him by the arm, keeping him at a safe distance, “No matter the makeup and the jewels you wear they won’t hide the Devil under there.”

“Don’t imply I have something to do with that fucking bastard!” You hissed through your teeth, hatred blooming within at the sole mention of the name. This time, Arthur’s calloused hands grabbed you by your shoulders to keep you still, for you were starting to get agitated. At this point, he was not sure if he did it to protect you from Tommy, or to protect Tommy from you.

“Heaven, calm down…” He said softly, trying to ease the wildfire of your anger.

“He’s accusing me of Charles’ kidnapping, Arthur! I can’t fucking believe it!” You protested, your doll face wearing injustice like the most beautiful jewel ever crafted. Arthur kept you firmly against his chest, his arms locking around you and his hoarse voice whispering “I know love…” in your ear.

“And I can’t believe you think I'm naive enough to believe you talked to a bloody crow and got a bad feeling. Tell me where’s my son, you Devil.” Thomas growled in the background.

Polly pulled his nephew’s arm, for he was starting to be too harsh with you “Why not? She has brought a bird back to life Tommy. I would not be surprised if she saw it coming one way or another.”

“'Scuse me?” He turned around in one vivid movement, his eyes diving into his Aunt’s. He could not believe what she had just said.

Another silence flew over the room as the rest of the Shelby family confirmed Pol’s information with a nod of the head. All the people in this office had witnessed the extent of your power at the last gathering you had organized in your garden — hence the fact they were not particularly surprised by your sharp instincts. John swallowed, recalling the way the bird first twitched in your small hands before flying away, wings flapping with newly breathed energy.

“Pol’s right, Tom,” Ada started, “I usually don’t believe in these kind of things but it’s true. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

It was too much for Tommy, who already was on the very edge of his patience. There went his mind, aching at the thought of his sweet son trapped between the monstrous and disgusting claws of that twisted priest. His boy, the last thing that kept Grace’s memory alive, had been snatched from him and here his family was, defending the one that probably did it. Of course, he believed in supernatural forces — he was convinced a curse took Grace away from him — but Tommy needed a more rational explanation. He needed anything that could help to get Charles back. He brought one of his trembling hands to his mouth, gathering all his remaining strength to restrain himself in such a catastrophic situation, “She resurrected a damn bird, and no one told me…” He said to himself, " She resurrected a bird," He repeated, a faint and nervous chuckle escaping from his lips before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

“Heaven‘s really sensed it, nothing else. You know she would never harm Charles. She felt it coming Tommy. She is… She is gifted. Do you understand how useful she could be?” Polly’s words, coated with both softness and authority, managed to soothe the hurricane of violence that was raging within him. Thomas had stopped talking yet he kept looking at you with anger burning in his ice-cold eyes.

You frowned —still trapped in Arthur’s arms for your own sake—, and looked at Polly.

“Forget it, Pol. He’s not going to change his mind.” You finally said after letting out a long sigh. A part of you was well aware that bargaining with Thomas Shelby was useless. Moving your shoulders, you managed to free yourself from Arthur’s embrace and, to his greatest surprise, made your way to the exit. He almost jumped, catching your hand in his.

“Heaven.”

“No Arthur, this is fucking useless. I am not going to stay here and let him blame me for everything that happens to this family while I did nothing but share my clairvoyant feeling with him. He wants me to prove whose side I’m on? Fine! I’ll do it then! ”

Arthur opened his mouth, thinking about something that could convince you to stay but he knew you were right. He finally lowered his head, jaw clenched and eyes avoiding yours.

“Gonna come with you then,” His gruff voice mumbled.

“No, you stay there.” You said, which made Arthur frown even more and look at you with utter confusion, “Thomas needs you. He’s aching and vulnerable. Stay with him and do what you have to do, Arthur. I'll wait for you.”

“Alright.” He resigned himself, worries making his magnificent eyes shine, “ one last thing.” He said after a few seconds of hesitation.

“Hm?”

“Tell me you have nothing to do with Charles’ kidnapping.” He dared to say, feeling utterly ashamed by the fact he needed reassurance about it. But he had always trusted Tommy more than anyone else and now, he was conflicted between his loyalty to his brother and the maddening love he had for you.

“Arthur… Are you serious?” You asked, your heart hurting at such a demand. A sigh fell from your lips, whose red lipstick made even more hypnotizing. “ I promise I'm not involved in Charles' kidnapping. You have my word.” You finally said as you looked at him right in the eyes, trying to hide the pain.

“I— I trust you,” He paused, “I trust you.” He repeated, then he pulled you in a quick hug to soothe his inner turmoil. To be true, he would have probably died if it turned out you had been toying with his heart all along. But Arthur refused to believe Tommy was right, this awful thought almost leading him to the path of madness again, “Take care, love. See you later.”

You replied with a faint, exhausted smile and left the building, disappearing in the fog of Birmingham’s streets.

The fact remained that Tommy did not feel better after you left.

Or Esme getting cash for cocaine, eh, John?

All of a sudden, back in the family, Ada, eh. That’s a surprise. Out of the blue. On whose orders?

And you and your painter…

Down he went, spiraling into a paranoid craze and, to everyone's greatest surprise, you were not the only one that had triggered it.

The sound of Death Knell resonated in the night, its threatening shadow floating over Birmingham houses and souls. Following Tommy’s plan, John and Arthur roamed through the train station with the firm will of spreading calculated chaos at 10 o’clock in a grandiose murderous explosion. You can go with them but it’s better if you let them do the job, that was more or less what Arthur had told him before he left. Despite the orders given, Michael managed to leave the two henchmen behind and reached Hughes’ church without getting caught by another Peaky Blinder. It was not that Tommy’s plan was poor, but he indubitably needed to take care of this business alone. No one around him seemed to understand how deep his pain was entangled with Father Hughes. He had to wipe the priest out by himself — he had promised it to his little self after many sleepless nights recalling his dirty hands wandering on him.

And he did.

Michael was panting, a mix of thick repugnant blood and sweat dripping from his face. Still straddling Father Hugues’ corpse, the young Blinders’ hands were frozen on the knife he had thrust into the priest’s throat. The hot and sticky sensation almost made him throw up when it first poured over his skin. A crimson puddle had already formed under the body, growing bigger and bigger as minutes passed. And when that same puddle reached the floor’s grooves, it filled them with dark red blood and drew patterns on the wood.

Another grunt escaped from Michael’s quivering lips as he slowly realized what he had done. He killed. Again.

All wobbly on his legs, Michael Gray still managed to stand up and took a few steps back, his hand leaning on a bench. His fair eyes did not shift from Father Hughes’ motionless body for he forced himself to look at him— there lied the monster who had terrified him for years. There lied the child eater, his neck opened and his obscene glassy eyes staring blankly at the church’s ceiling.

Coming back to his senses the best he could, Michael stumbled to the heavy door of the room from which Father Hughes came out and opened it. All he wanted was to carry Charles in his arms, telling him everything would be fine, and flee from this cursed place. Yet, his heart missed a beat when he entered the small room and realized Charles was not there.

“Fuck!” Michael blurted out. Panic kicked in again as he tried to come up with a solution, or at least an idea of what to do. He knew he had to think, and he had to think pretty fast because Charles' life was threatened. He needed to find the kid before it was too late. The main reason behind his dedication was not only to show his worth, but also to keep a child from suffering at an Hughes’ hands ever again. However, Michael's thinking process shattered in pieces when he heard the heartbreaking cries of a kid yelling at the top of his lungs. Blood froze in his veins as he recognized Charles’ voice.

Following the screams, there was a thundering noise of something heavy dropped to the floor, and nothing. Nothing except a chilling silence that brought goosebumps to his pale flesh.

Oh no.

Michael stood still in the loud silence, as petrified as an animal in front of the blinding headlights of a car.

No, no, no!

They’ve killed him, he thought. Of course, they did. Father Hughes was probably not alone in that bloody church, even though Tommy said he did not expect them to come. Someone was here and took advantage of the chaos of his fight with Hughes to grab Charles and hurt him. Whoever his accomplice was, they had just ended Charles's life and it was all his fault. If only he had listened to Arthur. If only he had let the two henchmen do their job and handle the situation. Guilt started to beat him.

Michael shook his head, hoping it was not too late, and ran toward the direction the noise and cries came from. His heart raced in his chest as his legs almost automatically moved, winding up his anxiety like a mechanical toy, and led him to a second room he did not see at first.

“HANDS UP YOU BASTARD!” Michael yelled, storming into the room that was directly linked to a backdoor exit: the perfect spot for Hughes’ accomplice to flee with the kid in case of emergency. Or to kill him in case something happened to the priest. Pointing his gun in front of him, Michael was ready to shoot, hatred blazing in his eyes. He winced at the foul and slightly metallic smell of blood that jumped at his face as he entered the place. Michael was a brave boy. He was ready to use violence. He was ready to actively take part in the family business. Hell, he was even ready to die if that was what he had to do, but there was one thing no one prepared him to face and it was what he saw in this place.

“Oh my God!”

He cried out, his breath hitching with panic as his blue eyes, filled with tears, first caught sight of a second corpse lying in a lake of blood. If Hughes' dead body was already gruesome, it was nothing compared to his accomplice's.

The man, who was strong in stature and impressive in height, was staring at him with blank eyes, silently begging for help. His petrified face, splattered with dark blood, was distorted in a terrified expression as if he had seen the Devil itself before dying. Yet the cause of the poor lad’s death was not fright, but rather the dozen stabbing wounds that scattered his body, and the pair of huge scissors that was deeply stuck into his neck. Michael could not help but step back, so disoriented by the macabre spectacle that was in front of his bewildered eyes that he dropped the gun Tommy had given him. The sound it made when it crashed on the floor caused Charles to cry again.

“Shhhh, everything’s fine Charlie. Everything’s fine. Keep your eyes closed.” A soft and enchanting voice raised in the room, like it did the night Arthur wandered aimlessly to church. For a few seconds, Michael was convinced the voice did not come from a human being. It sounded so foreign, so alluring, it could only belong to an angel of justice, whose avenging blade fell on Hughes' associate. Then he saw her, the creature, and his eyes widened even more.

“Bloody fucking hell.“ He really tried to say something else but his brain could not proceed with the sight of Arthur’s woman holding Charles in her arms, her sweet angel face and frail body entirely covered with crimson stains.

“I know.” You simply replied, one of your hands tenderly resting behind Charles’ head to keep him from looking at the butchered dead man that had fallen on the floor when your scissors tore his jugular vein.

Michael stood still, staring at you with utter shock.

"How?" He managed to ask, one sole tear running down his cheek.

"Please Michael, don't ask questions. I just — I just want to go home." You whispered, the far too familiar smell of blood and after-taste of murder making your head spin. You closed your eyes for one second to keep the traumatizing images of your past from flooding your brain and let out a shaky exhale. When you came back to your senses, you walked to Michael and put Charles in his arms, still careful to keep the corpse out of his sight. Then you left the room.

As you passed by Father Hughes, you stopped and looked at him from above, indescribable hatred blazing in your iris.

"See you in Hell, sale fils de pute — You son of a bitch — "

Michael followed, still unable to keep his eyes away from your mesmerizing frame scattered with blood drop like millions of precious rubies. The way you looked at Hughes' corpse resonated with him so much he could not help but talk.

" Did he..." He left his sentence hanging, but you understood what he meant.

"No, he did not. But he still found another way to be the cause of my sorrow," You glanced at Michael from above your shoulder, "I'm glad you killed this bastard. There are people whose souls can't be saved, and he is one of them."

"Yes, he definitely is." Charles had calmed down in his arms, lulled by the soft movements as Michael walked outside the church by your side, "what about the second man?"

"He was about to kill Charlie and then come for you." You replied, trying your best to forget the unpleasant sensation of half coagulated blood on your delicate skin. Michael took a while to process the information and realized you had probably saved his and Charles' life.

"Are you okay?" He asked. His question brought a faint yet terribly melancholic smile to your lips for it reminded you that you had broken the only promise you did to yourself. The promise of not taking another life ever again.

"Are you?" You replied to his interrogation by another one.

"No, I'm not. I feel... Empty."

"So, you already know the answer."

When the door opened and Michael entered the house with Charles sobbing in his arms, Polly and Ada ran towards him and cried in relief as they hugged the child. Polly soon focused on his own son, whose blank expression left no doubt on what he had to do to save Tommy’s kid… He killed, and it changed him forever. She laid a gentle hand on his cheek, checking on him with tears in her eyes, knowing she could not do anything to ease Michael's pain anymore -- and what was more awful for a mother than watching his child suffer without being able to do something about it? What snatched her from the sorrowful conclusion she had come to was Ada’s gasp, who had just realized Michael was not alone. You had followed him, a cold expression etched on your face and a myriad of red ink stains soiling your whiteness.

“She helped,” Michael stated with a tired voice before anyone had the time to say something, “She helped me save him.”

Ada looked at you with surprise, trying to discover the mysteries your traits hid so well, but her focus was far too disrupted by the frightening amount of blood that was covering you. Blood everywhere on the stunning, little, murderous creature she never thought you were. Many questions raged in her skull, like a tornado of thoughts and speculations. After what seemed to be a whole eternity, she managed to speak,

“For God’ sake… It could have been dangerous!” She said, blinded to the simple possibility you had just killed someone without batting an eye, "You are wounded! Look at the blood!"

You sighed and remained silent, stealing the silver cigarette case that was on the nearby furniture. The tip of your tongue moistened your juicy lips, whose corner was stained with red lipstick you smeared all over your skin when you had tried to wipe the blood that had splattered on your face.

"It's not mine."

Your hands were still shaking from what you had to do, unpleasantly recalling their past crimes. Then, you slipped one cigarette between your teeth and lit it with the zippo you found in the pocket of Arthur’s coat that was still on your shoulders. Shivering with cold despite the fire burning in the hearth, you nestled a bit more in his coat in a desperate attempt to find a substitute for your man's comforting warmth.

"I beg your pardon? Whose blood is it?" She almost choked with surprise. Then it struck her. "Heaven..."

You did not say a single word and kept smoking in almost religious silence.

"Who the hell are you?" Ada inquired, her shaky voice coated with an odd mix of fear and fascination stirred by the eerie aura that was all around you.

You took a long puff from your cigarette before staring deep at Ada’s beautiful eyes. You looked at her for a while, then shift your focus on the fire burning in the fireplace. You watched the flames dance, the sound of wood cracking sending shivers down your spine. Ada swallowed, waiting for your answer. She, who had defended you in front of Tommy a bit earlier, could not tell anymore if you were the hero they needed or the villain they had to fear.

Saint or sinner? Spell or prayer? Blessing or curse?

Who are you, she asked.

“I am the one they really should have burned.”

A cloud of smoke came from your mouth as if hellfire was burning within you.

And somehow, it was certainly the case.

✞ gif by the talented @alicent-targaryen

✞ Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

✞ Normally, each chapter of this series can be read as stand-alone but not this one. It's far more enjoyable if you have read at least the previous chapter.

Tag: @meowtastick @babayaga67 @sired-to-hybridrid @shelbyssins @kxnnxyasdfg @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd

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I Know Places 3: Omnivore

18+ Aaron Hotchner x Fem Reader | Masterlist | AO3 link

Summary: Reader thought that Aaron was depressed post-divorce and following the death of Kate Joyner... nothing compares to how he is dealing with the mass amounts of guilt surrounding The Boston Reaper.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence (child sexual assault, arson, murder, burn victims, death), background moreid hurt/comfort, mutual pining, depression, suicidal thoughts/feelings, deep emotional chats, love confession, first kisses, lots of kissing

Word count: 8.1k

The last couple of months have been nice. Neither she or Aaron has gotten hurt, which is the best part, but it’s also been nice just getting closer to one another. They’ve continued their phone calls at night, they get dinner together sometimes after work, she’s met Jack and accompanied him and Aaron to the museum on one of Aaron’s weekends alone with him. Aarons has been over to her place, and even spent the night a few times now.

It’s been lovely, actually.

Something changed after the cult case. After she was held hostage and beaten pretty badly. He took care of her, he got closer to her than ever before… she can’t really remember much from that night right after the case, all she knows is she woke up in his arms again and she never wanted to leave.

They’ve shared a bed in every case since then.

As for the rest of the team; JJ had her baby, a little boy named Henry. He’s adorable. So, needless to say, JJ was out of the field for a while, other than that, not much has changed at work.

Something is defiantly going on with Reid and Morgan… Reid had his own special case just before JJ had her baby, he remembered a case from when he was a kid and thought maybe his dad was a killer or worse. Derek stayed back with him in Vegas to figure it all out, they bonded over it too. Having similar childhood trauma, Derek was the only one who could really talk to him about everything he went through as a kid. She was glad they had each other.

Penelope’s even been trying to get them all to go on “double— triple? … quadruple? Quintuple dates!!” Seeing as everyone in the BAU has a significant other now. JJ and Will never come because they have a baby, she and Hotch don’t go because the assumption that they’re a couple is still awkward for them as they haven’t admitted to the other that they even like each other yet. And Reid and Morgan are too busy having alone time together to go out in public yet.

And then there’s the ever-secretive David Rossi… Dave’s been talking to one of his ex-wives again. He’s been happier. He’s whistling in the mornings and not staying as late anymore. He’s definitely getting laid.

All this gossip is stuff that she and Aaron have talked about lately. They would stay up late, either on the phone or at her apartment, chatting about anything and everything… And at the end of the night, when he’s at her place, they’d get ready for bed together, he’d slip into her bed on the side she never slept on and they’d fall asleep, cuddled into one another. On nights he didn’t come over, however, they’d still get ready for bed together, their phones on speakerphone, and they’d talk until one of them started to drift off.

She loved this new tradition. So seeing it come to an end so soon, it broke her heart a little.

Aaron's lowest point wasn’t getting divorced. It wasn’t losing Kate Joyner. It was letting the Boston Reaper getaway. Again.

It all started with a phone call. Tom Shaunessy’s care nurse called Aaron one morning while they were on their way into the office, inviting him out to Boston as Tom was dying and this was his final wish. Aaron couldn't just say no, so that night after work, she drove him to the airport.

When he got back the next morning, she picked him up and he knew something was up. Something happened… at first, she thought he was there as Tom died, then they got to the office and Penelope handed him a copy of The Michigan Post from March 1998. As it would turn out, Shaunessy made a deal with a serial killer, he vowed to the Boston Reaper that he wouldn’t kill anymore as long as Shaunessy stopped hunting him. He agreed, the killings stopped and he sent Aaron and the rest of his team home.

As soon as Tom died, The Reaper killed again. A young couple first, an older couple second and then a bus full of people simply because Aaron wouldn’t take another deal from him. She was there when it happened. She was sitting beside him in their hotel room when he got the call.

At first, she thought there was another attack, they had only been at the hotel a few minutes. It was only 9 pm, normally he didn’t hit until later at night. She got out of bed to start getting dressed again as Aaron answered the phone. She watched his expression change almost instantly. The heavy breathing on the other end was loud enough for her to hear… it was The Reaper.

“Who is this?” “If you stop hunting me I’ll stop hunting them,” the deep, sinister voice started. “you think I’d take that?” Aaron spits back, pissed that he’d even suggest it to him. “It’s a good deal.” “I’ve misjudged you. I thought that you were smarter than this.” “You should take it.” “Then you’ve misjudged me.” “This is your last chance,” The Reaper says, audibly angry that it’s not going to be this easy this time. “I don’t make deals. I’m the guy who hunts guys like you,” Aaron says, stern and confident. Angry as all hell. “There are no guys like me.” “You all think that,” Aaron spits. “You’ll regret this.” “I’ll see you soon,” Aaron says and then slams the phone down on the receiver.

She doesn't say anything, she watches him run his hands through his hair and turn towards the window in their room. He’s watching them. He knows where they are. He finally turns to her, “This is going to get messy.”

“We’re used to that,” she reminds him. “They all make contact with the police, they insert themselves into the investigation every time. We know this.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be that east this time.”

-

They couldn’t go back to sleep. They waited and waited for another call- for the police to report another killing. Another couple in their car or a single woman stabbed a bunch of times the way he liked to do… what he actually did wasn’t at all what they were used to.

The Reaper was more than mad. He was furious that Aaron wouldn’t take the deal. It’s like he wanted the deal. He wanted a reason to stop but Aaron's words just made him need to kill even more. There were 7 people on the bus, including the driver. They were all shot multiple times and then the women were stabbed.

And when Aaron stepped onto the scene… when he saw what The Reaper did because of him, he almost threw up.

Rossi follows him around the side of a building, down an alleyway and away from the scene. Leaving Y/N and Morgan at the bus alone to check what was taken and what was left. There were numbers left on the window in blood 1488, 201, 1439. And The Reaper's calling card. An eye drawn in blood on the front window of the bus.

She heads around to find Aaron, wanting to ask what he thinks of the numbers when she finds Rossi handing him his gun. “You convinced me…” Dave explains.

Aaron pushes the gun away and wipes his eyes.

“No, no, you hung up on him. You practically killed them yourself,” Dave pushes even further. “Go ahead, get it over with. Don’t worry about us, we’ll get this guy without you.”

“Dave I had 10 years to do something about it!” Aaron fights back, trying to reason with him that his reaction is warranted.

“Shaunessy made the deal, the killing stopped, he closed the case and sent the BAU away. For 10 years you worked on active cases—

“But I kept coming back to this one,” he admits. “I kept coming back to this profile.”

“Hey, I was retired. Should I blame myself?” Dave pushes. “Is it my fault for every victim died while I was out on my book tours? Look. If you want to end up like Shaunessy, like Gideon, blaming yourself for everything, you go ahead. But that voice in your head is not your conscience, it's your ego. This isn’t about us, Aaron. it’s about the bad guys. That’s why We Profile Them. It’s their fault. We’re just guys doing a job. And when we stop doing it, someone else will. Trust me. I know.”

“You can put that away,” Aaron looks down at the gun and then back at Rossi. Neither one of them notice her and Morgan standing there, watching.

“You sure?”

“It’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” Aaron manages to give him a little smile.

Before they turn towards them, he and Morgan rush back to the front of the building and pretend they never saw a thing. But she saw it. She saw the tears in his eyes and the hurt in his soul. This is going to affect him for a while.

“What did you find?” Aaron asks them once he rounds the corner.

“The bus driver has the wedding band taken from the male vic at the last attack,” Morgan explains. “But I can’t figure out the importance of the numbers on the windows?”

“Send them to Reid, he might know,” Aaron suggests.

“Wait…” Dave says as he looks through the windows. “I know those numbers?” He pulls out his little evidence book from his pocket and flips to the most recent page. “Those are the addresses to George Foyet’s apartments.”

Foyet, being a man they interviewed only yesterday. He was the only survivor of the original killings in 1998. He was stabbed over 67 times in the chest while in his car with his girlfriend… after the case, Foyet healed, he recovered and he disappeared. He essentially killed off every part of who he used to be, making himself somewhat of a ghost that even Penelope couldn’t track down. The only way they could find him was through another guy, Roy Colson who wrote a book on The Reaper and interviewed Foyet. He gave them three possible addresses for him.

1488 Edenhurst, 201 South Brookline, and 1439 Yarborough.

“Okay we’ll split up,” Aaron announces. “Me and Dave will take South Brookline, you and Morgan take Edenhurst, we’ll get the police to do Yarborough, let’s go.”

—

When they arrive on the scene, she heads around back and Derek kicks in the front door to clear the house. It’s scarily quiet and dark, she holds her flashlight up as she checks out the yard and heads towards the shed in the back. That’s when she hears it. With a loud crash, she holds down the talk button on her in-ears and speaks, “Morgan?”

No answer. She rushes around the front and see’s Derek laying on the ground surrounded by glass. He was thrown out the window and he’s unconscious. “I need medical assistance at 1488 Edenhurst, I have a federal agent down, I repeat, a federal agent is down at 1488 Edenhurst!”

She doesn’t approach him, she simply keeps her eyes out for The Reaper, her gun drawn, she keeps her back to the street and watches the house. “Come out here and face me like a man, you sick fuck!”

From behind her, she hears a laugh. Deep and dark like the phone call. She turns around in search of the voice but no one is there, she shines her flashlight on the street, across the neighbour's bushes and then she turns back to the house. He’s gone. Disappearing into the darkness of the night as the sirens are heard approaching the street.

She heads back over to Derek then, he’s coming to and trying to sit up. She holsters her gun again, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Don’t move too fast, you have glass all in your shoulder.”

“Did you get him?” He asks.

“No. I heard him laughing at me, but he got away. I couldn’t figure out where he went, it was like he was right behind me but when I turned there was nothing… he-he just disappeared. Like a ghost.”

The paramedics are the first on the scene, they get Derek off the ground and inside Foyet’s house. They sit him down on the back of the couch for height and cut him out of his shirt so they can start pulling the glass from his shoulder. That’s when they find it.

He left Derek with a bullet. Unused, gold and shiny, in the pocket of his jeans. “What did he take?” Y/N asks.

“I don’t—” Derek looks around at all his things and then he realizes. “He took my credentials.”

“At least that’s all he took,” Aaron’s voice is heard from the doorway. “Are you okay?”

Derek nods, “I’ll be fine…”

Aaron heads off deeper into the house, she hasn’t left Derek's side so she hasn’t seen what state the house is in… “Y/N,” Aaron calls out to her. “Come see this.”

She follows his voice into the kitchen and that’s when she sees it. The whole floor is covered in blood, signs of a struggle and a drag mark leading out the back door. “I didn’t even notice the back door was open when I was checking out back? Holy shit…”

“He has Foyet,” Aaron says, confident that this is his blood and no one else. “He finally got him.”

Reid comes running onto the scene then, JJ not far behind him. He rushes to Morgan's side, “are you okay?”

“Reid,” Aaron calls out to him. “I need you back here.”

“Go, it’s okay,” Derek assures him.

Spencer walks right into the kitchen and stops dead in his tracks, “oh, wow…”

“How much do you think is here?”

“The average human has 5 quarts of blood in their system… I’d say this is close to half that. No one could lose this much blood at once and survive,” Reid explains.

“We need to regroup. Somethings off with the profile,” Aaron announces. “Why would he leave Foyet alive all this time just to get him now?”

“Foyet disappeared,” she reminds him. “Penelope said he was like a g— oh my god?”

“What?” Aaron asks.

“The Reaper, he was outside with me, he was laughing, I couldn’t figure out where he was in the dark and I said to Derek it was like I was looking for a ghost.”

Hotch rushes out of the kitchen towards the living room where the rest of the team is around Morgan. “Why would he go after Foyet?” Aaron poses to the team.

“I don't know?” Derek shrugs.

“He’s not a threat at all,” JJ says with a roll of her eyes.

“He kills men quickly and easily, but women and girls… the younger they are the more time he spends with them. He likes to stab. Stabbing represents a sex act. He likes them younger. Specifically teenagers… Amanda Bertrand, she was only 19. She was a freshman and he was her teacher's assistant,” Hotch explains. “Y/N said The Reaper was like a ghost, Penelope said the same thing about Foyet. What are the chances that both men would be sexually interested in teenagers and disappear easily?”

“The guys a hebephile,” Rossi states. “But how would he be able to stab himself 67 times and call 911?”

“He called 911 before he stabbed himself after he killed Amanda. That’s why he was the last victim, that’s why he disappeared, he had Shaunessy agree to the deal right after that. He both inserted himself into the investigation and made it so we wouldn’t think twice about him,” Aaron keeps going. “Get Penelope on the phone.”

JJ whips out her cell and starts the call, “Hey is Derek—

“He’s fine,” Hotch answers for him. “Penelope I need to know everything about Amanda Bertrand.”

“Oh, okay, uh,” she stumbles around, typing furiously. “She was 19, a freshman. She came to Boston from Michigan to go to school.”

“Michigan. That’s where The Reaper had Shaunessy put out the personal ad in the paper,” Hotch remembers. “what were Foyet’s aliases?”

“Kevin Baskin, Mark Holden and William Parker,” Rossi reads from his notepad.

“Garcia—

“got it, sir.”

“I need you to look them up in the Boston City Records— try the Department of Education,” Hotch asks.

“Well played sir, they all work for the Department of Education as substitute teachers… they all teach computer science—

“High school?” Hotch asks, knowingly.

“Yeah… oh wait,” Garcia pauses.

“What?”

“William Parker was fired for alleged inappropriate behaviour with his female students,” Penelope reads off her screen.

They all watch as Aaron stares off, remembering something that he isn’t sharing with the rest of them.

“Hotch?” JJ tries to bring him back to the conversation.

“Aaron,” Y/N reaches out for his hand. “What is it?”

“Colson. Foyet called him, he wanted to meet with him.”

“Garcia,” Dave is about to ask her to track his phone.

“I’m already on it,” She explains furiously typing away. “Give me one second to triangulate… okay, he’s at 2633 South Babylon.”

“Come on,” Hotch orders, stand-in up and reaching for his bulletproof vest again. “George Foyet is The Reaper.”

Getting out to their SUVs happens in the blink of an eye, and the police follow them in their squad cars. It’s only been 6 hours since the phone call. To hear the police rushing down the streets at 3 am, everyone in Boston knew something was going down. Everyone gets off the street, allowing them to race down the roads as fast as they could, rushing to the 1 house Foyet didn’t tell them about.

“How did this guy afford to rent 4 different homes in Boston?” Y/N asks. “Seriously, what kind of freelance computer guy makes that kind of money?”

“I don’t know,” Aaron shrugs, going 120 down the road, he’s not even really listening. He only cares about getting there before Colson’s death is on his hands too.

When they pull up to the house, Roy’s car is parked on the street and all the lights are on inside. There’s movement in the front window, behind the curtain, causing them to all head around back. Dave jiggles the back door handle and it opens, Hotch is the first one inside, gun drawn, clearing the room as they head around to the front room. There’s a clear view from the back door to the front door, Aaron and Rossi start slowly walking towards, it, blocking the exits so that they have him surrounded. He’s yelling at Roy, preoccupied with why it was never published that The Reaper made a deal with Shaunessy. He doesn’t even notice they’ve entered the house.

With Hotch and Rossi in front of him in the dining room, Y/N, Morgan and Reid make their way around to the little room behind the dining area, boxing him in so he can’t even think about running.

“It’s over,” Hotch makes their presence known.

“Stop!” Foyet yells, holding his gun to Roy’s head. “I’ll kill him.”

“You need him to write your story,” Hotch reminds him.

“I’m taking him with me, I’ll let him go as soon as I’m safe,” he tries to broker another deal.

“No, you’re not,” Hotch is so done with his shit that everyone can hear it in his voice.

“I said I’ll kill him!”

“You kill him, I kill you,” Hotch bites right back. Calmer than ever. He has the guy, he knows this is so close to being over.

“you think I’m afraid to die?” Foyet laughs in his face.

“You’re not afraid. You’re greedy and narcissistic. You want the recognition that’s going to come the book that he’s going to write. You want the fame that’s going to come from the media. It’s gonna be like Bundy,” Hotch profiles him right to his face.

“I’m going to be bigger than Bundy,” Foyet says with a smile.

“Well, you can’t enjoy it if you’re dead.”

“If you know me so well how come so many people had to die to bring you here?” He rubs it in, profiling Aaron right back and digging in where it hurts.

“It’s your choice, not mine. You’re the serial killer,” he reminds both himself and Foyet.

“That’s right,” he says, starting to lower his weapon. He turns back to Morgan and smiles. “Hello Derek,” he teases, putting his gun down on the table and in a rare turn of events, it’s Reid who grabs him by the back of the neck and pins him to the wall and begins to cuff him.

“Where’s my badge?” Derek asks as Spencer flings him around, holding him by the cuffs. Foyet starts to smirk and so Derek grabs his hair and tugs his head to the side, staring right at him now. “Where is it you son of a bitch?”

“I’m going to be more famous than you even realize,” he teases one last time before Spencer hands him over to the cops so he can be processed and booked into the nearest prison.

Once he’s out of the room, Aaron checks on Roy and Y/N and JJ let in the detectives. “Reach this place high and low, I want no stone gone unturned. Find me trophies, evidence, anything you can that can really get this fucker pinned and locked up for the rest of his life,” Y/N explains to them. “And if you find Agent Morgan's credentials, you know where to mail it.”

“Let's go home,” Aaron announces to the rest of them, taking his in-ears out and pulling on the Velcro strap of his vest. He’s so over this case.

—

The flight home isn’t too long. They touch down around 6 am and all head back inside the building together. Headed up to their floor, everyone is quiet. They’re exhausted, they can’t wait to file their paperwork and head home to sleep the rest of the day… they get about 20 minutes into their paperwork when JJ gets a call and goes running from her office, down to Aarons.

“Foyet escaped?”

Just then, their phones start to ring, the detectives called Y/N and she grabs Reid right away taking him to the fax machine, the one in her ear says that they found schematics to all electrical, water and heating ducts to every single correctional facility, prison and courthouse in Massachusetts. He was planning this for far longer than anyone thought. He knew this day would come and he was ready for it.

He was going to be bigger than Bundy… and Aaron had to find a way to live with that.

—

She notices a shift in him, this one is worse than after Haley served him the papers at work.

He wasn’t just depressed this time… he hated himself a bit now. He hated that he never gave the profile in ’98, he hates that he didn’t realize that The Reaper leaving a witness was weird. He hated himself for not watching George Foyet carefully as he was brought to prison.

He feels like everything is his fault.

She watches him stay later than ever, he misses nights with his son and they don’t talk on the phone anymore. His nose is constantly in his files, trying to find a way to figure out where George Foyet would be before he takes another life.

She walks up to his office one night, having left already just to grab some dinner, she returns only to make sure he eats. She knocks on his door, “Hey… hungry?”

He looks up at her from his files and he softens, “Starving… thank you.”

She places the bag on his desk, “You need to take care of yourself, too, you know? You can’t catch this guy if you’re withering away to nothing.”

“You say that as if you don’t love taking care of me?” He teases, knowing her way too well.

“Okay, whatever,” she jokingly rolls her eyes, taking both their meals out of the bag, she places his in front of him and then takes her own to the other side of the desk.

She went to a nice restaurant and ordered a meal she knew he would appreciate. A steak with a baked potato and steamed vegetables. He opens the container and he can’t believe it, “you didn’t have to get all this?”

“When was the last time you had a good meal?”

He thinks about it but genuinely doesn’t remember. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she shoots him a sweet smile. “What are you working on?”

“A way to track Foyet,” he explains with a sigh. “I’m not getting too far.”

“That’s okay… you know you don’t have to look for him alone, right? It doesn’t just fall on your shoulders because you’re the only one still on the team from ’98.”

“I know,” he says between bites, hand over his mouth because it’s “impolite” to talk with his mouth full. “I just feel… terrible? He wanted to make a deal and instead of leading him on and continuing to look for him behind the scenes, I just made him angrier. He has to start over now, make new aliases, find a new place to stay, and figure out how to get all the millions of meds he takes without someone recognizing him from the news… I’ve made his life a living hell and he’s going to repay the favour. I know it.”

“You know serial killers don’t have rational thoughts, I mean, look at Ed Kemper, he really thought that he had to kill his mom's best friend because she’d be sad to learn her friend died and so her being dead too, stopped her from being sad… they don’t make any sense, you really can’t blame yourself for that,” she explains.

He just nods along, trying not to bring it back to himself. The self-pity is so strong, he really believes part of the weight needs to land on his shoulders.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” She suggests, “Just leave the files, leave the work here, let’s go eat our dinner somewhere else… we can eat in my car, we could drive somewhere or go to my apartment? Let’s just get you out of here for a while.”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” he agrees, he stands up and puts the lid back on his container and she follows his lead. “But I’m driving and we’re taking my car…”

“Okay,” she doesn’t mind. “You’ll just have to bring me back to work tomorrow.”

“I can do that,” he agrees. “It’s not like we haven’t been carpooling after I spend the night for the last few months, anyway.”

He slips back into his suit jacket and grabs his bag and keys. He holds everything in one hand and she offers to take his food for him, he places his hand on her back and leads her out of his office. “How would you feel about staying at mine tonight instead?”

“I don’t mind at all, I just need to grab my go bag from my car,” she agrees.

They take his SUV, he drives them to his own apartment and for the first time ever, she goes inside with him. They put their food on real plates, warm them up in his microwave and sit at his tiny dining table.

“How long have you had this place?” She asks.

“I got it just after my suspension. Right after Haley threatened to leave me… I think she was already seeing someone else,” he admits.

“What?” She can’t believe that. “Why?”

“Someone called the house phone and when I picked up and answered… they hung up and called her cell instead. It wasn’t her mom or her dad, it wasn’t her sister either. I know all their numbers. Someone called expecting her to be home alone during the day and when I answered, it threw them off. I knew that whoever they were was a secret she was keeping from me and she knew I knew it too.”

That just makes her angry, “I can’t believe she could even entertain the idea of cheating on you.”

“I’m not that—

“Stop talking down about yourself. You’re handsome, you’re a wonderful dad, you’re funny and kind and you care. I mean, you watch the boring TV shows I like just so we can talk about it together. I’d kill to have a husband like you and she just threw it all away? And for what? Have you ever met the guy? Has Jack?” She rants, visibly angry.

“I’ve asked, she won’t tell me,” he answers the last two questions but smiles because of the rest of it. “Thank you… you know, you’re pretty nice to know too.”

“Just pretty nice? I buy you steak and nurse you back to health and I’m just pretty nice?” She teases.

“Fine, I think you’re—“ they’re cut off by his cell phone ringing in his pocket. He takes out his phone and see’s JJ’s number. “Where are we headed?”

—

They get pulled out to Royal, Indiana for an arsonist case that’s claimed over 31 bodies so far. Aaron's stress level was already at an all-time high, watching people die again is just making it worse. He’s angry, he’s being a bit of an asshole… he even snapped at Penelope of all people.

And he’s not the only one in this mood, the whole town is pissed. That’s to be expected, they’re losing family and friends and memories to fire. First the rec centre, then the movie theatre and just today, the local bar. The bar fire is the most important to the investigation, seeing as he didn’t go after a larger crowd of victims, which means he’s going after individuals. They just have to figure out which victim it was.

Nancy, the bartender, she lived… she’s just barely hanging on, but still available for questioning. Aaron goes to see her. This is the second time he’s held a woman’s and hand stayed with her while she’s died of extreme burns and smoke inhalation.

At the station, Y/N and Reid are sitting together, going over the victims' lives with Penelope.

“I’m worried about Aaron,” Y/N whispers to their small group.

“He’s going to be okay,” Spencer shrugs it off. “We all have cases that hurt more than others, it sucks for a while but then you either catch the guy or enough time passes that you build some scar tissue and forget about it.”

“What if he never forgets about it? We’ve seen cops go through this. Something happens and they feel so guilty, like if they were there 10 minutes earlier or if they did something different, it eats at them and then they die too,” she whispers, her heart aching for him. “We need to intervene at some point. We can’t let it get worse… what Rossi did- handing him his gun- that only worked because he got embarrassed around a coworker. What happens when he goes home and he’s alone and it all catches up to him? What if he doesn’t show up to work one day and it’s because he’s killed himself? What do we do then?”

Reid gets up and pulls her into a hug, “Hey, hey, don’t think like that.”

She rests her chin on his shoulder and lets out a sigh. “I love him, Spence, I can’t lose him.”

“You loving him is exactly what he needs to stay here,” he reminds her, rubbing her back, soothingly. “Let him know, spend more time with him, get him to talk. You’re good at that. You’re warm and inviting and he’s going to want to tell you things. Listen, keep his secrets and let him know you love him… even if you just tell him it’s friendly, either way, I think he’s going to appreciate it.”

She pulls back and she nods, wiping her tears from her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right.”

“When am I ever wrong?” Spencer teases, trying to make her laugh a little. He succeeds, she giggles and swats his arm lightly. “You know, it’s really nice being friends and going through stuff at the same time… I didn’t think I’d have anyone to talk to when I eventually fell in love.”

Her heart soars for him, “oh, Spence, really? You and Derek?”

He nods, “Yeah…”

“I’m always free to talk whenever you want to,” she reminds him.

“I know,” he smiles. “Now come on, we should call Penelope and at least start a theory before they all return. I don’t want them to think all we did was gossip this whole time.”

—

At the end of the case, they’ve caught a killer but they don’t feel good about it. So many lives were ruined, it could’ve all been avoided years ago if people knew how to treat children kindly… that’s the case for so many of these killers. They’re raised through terrible events in their childhood, events that shaped them into monsters and nothing could stop them from wreaking havoc on a small town just like this.

They take the plane home late that night, she drove in with Aaron so he has to drive her home, too.

It’s a quiet drive. She can tell he’s stuck in his own mind and she wants to ask what’s going on in there but she can’t get the words to come out. Instead, when he pulls up at her apartment, she reaches out for his hand, “Come in with me?”

“Okay,” he agrees quickly.

They barely slept the last few days, scared that their hotel would go up in flames if the arsonist knew they were in town and trying to stop him… so Aaron looks tired. Exhausted, even.

They get out together, she walks around the front of the SUV and he meets her there. She takes his hand and she leads him inside. They kick their shoes off at the door, she helps him out of his suit jacket and hangs it up on the coat hook. He undoes his tie and the first couple of buttons and she smiles, “You want a drink?”

He shakes his head. “I just want to get in bed.”

“Okay,” she doesn’t mind either way. She leads the way down to her bedroom and he’s right there behind her.

He’s been over so much lately that some of his things are still there. She’s done a load of laundry and washed a few of his nightshirts and boxers that he’s left in the bathroom after his morning showers. He always comes out smelling like her shampoo, so she went out and got his usual body wash to keep in there, so she can have his smell back on her sheets. She’s worn his shirt to bed a few times too… she just loves him and when he’s not around she wants to pretend that he is.

She sets out some of his things on the bed while he’s in the bathroom, he has a toothbrush in there too… he could move in if he wanted and she’d be fine with it. More than fine with it. She never wants him to leave.

She changes in her closet, it’s pretty big— a walk-in closet, actually. She hangs up her suit on the “has to go to the dry cleaners” side and changes into her pyjamas before she heads back out into her room.

He’s already changed, standing there in his underwear, looking through her bookshelf, trying to pick out something to read in bed while she watches her show… it’s just what they do.

“What one are you going for tonight?” She asks.

“Hello Sadness,” he says, holding it up for her. “Where’d you get this?”

“Spencer,” she says with a smile. “He said that one is the best translation from the original version. bonjour tristesse.”

“Did you like it?” He asks.

She nods, “It’s good, it’s about a girl and her father who live in France, her dad has been a widower for a long time and his late wife's old friend comes to stay with them. They fall in love and his daughter is scared that everything about her life is about to change… the plot twist at the end is a lot though, you might not like it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he smiles at her and makes his way over to her bed. To his side. His phone is already plugged in and resting on that night table and his watch is right beside it. It’s like he’s really made himself a home here.

She climbs in bed beside him, forgetting the TV remote for her little tv over on the dresser… so she snuggles into Aaron's arm and reads along with him. Page after page, they read in tandem, sometimes he even reads parts out loud. Things that caught his eye and stood out to him.

“I have loved to the point of madness. That which is called madness. That which to me is the only sensible way to love,” Aaron whispers.

She hum, barely awake, “I liked that line the first time too…”

“It’s so true,” he says with a sigh.

She just snuggles in more, “You been in love a lot?”

“3 times,” he says, closing the book for the night and placing it on the night table.

“I’d say the same,” she says, including him in the equation.

Aaron turns off the lamp light on his side and the two of them settle down against the pillows in the darkness. “Love is strange.”

“You’re telling me,” she teases.

She rolls to her side and he snuggles into her back, the way they always slept together. “When was the last time you were in love?” He asks, and he sounds hesitant.

Maybe this is the time to tell him. Maybe Spencer was right. Maybe telling him could soothe his soul and make him feel more at ease. Anxiety pools in her stomach and she’s been quiet for too long now… but she says it. “I’ve been in love for a while now. Almost a whole year now, I think?”

“Oh,” he acts like he’s surprised. “I’m sure he’s a lucky man.”

“He is. He’s strong and confident but he’s also soft and sweet. He’s so good to me, he’s so good at his job and he’s a great father too…”

“wait—

She rolls around to face him in the dark. Taking a leap of faith. “I love you, Aaron.”

“Really?” He doesn’t believe her at first.

She nods, reaching out she places her hand on his cheek, barely able to see him in the dark but she can see enough. “Even if you don’t want me to… even if you rather we be friends. I love you.”

“I-I-

“It’s okay,” she cuts him off. “You don’t have to say anything. We can pretend this didn’t happen if you want. I just… I don’t want things to change again. I was so scared in New York, I thought I was losing my best friend and then you got hurt and this thing between us got stronger… and then we went on that little trip. And then I got hurt and—

“You told me you loved me that night,” Aaron whispers. “You were high on the medicine I gave you and you were falling asleep but you said it. I wanted it to be true so bad, but I never said anything.”

“Oh,” she had no idea. Truly never remembered a thing. “Is that why we kept getting closer?”

He nods. “I don’t know how long I’ve loved you.”

Her eyes widen her heart speeds up, “really?”

“Trying to be in charge of hostage rescue knowing you were in there almost killed me,” he whispers. Still affected by it. “Hearing him hurt you… not knowing where you were in the compound… Derek and Dave had to keep reminding me I couldn’t storm the place myself just to get you back.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t know what else to say. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he assures her. He rolls back onto his back and pulls her in closer, she rests her cheek on his chest and he holds her hand where it rests on his stomach. He kisses the top of her head. “You’re my best friend too, you know?”

“I figured,” she teases, holding him close, she smiles to herself. It’s hard to believe this is real and she isn’t dreaming. “So what does this mean for us?”

“I don’t want anyone to know,” Aaron whispers. “Not because I’m ashamed or anything… but with The Reaper out there, with him saying he’s going to make my life a living hell, I can’t risk it.”

“We’re going to find him,” she says, confident in the team. “I need you to know that. I need you to believe that this isn’t your fault and I need you to remember that what he does doesn’t fall on your shoulders. No matter what he does.”

“It’s easier said than believed,” he whispers.

She gets off him and reaches over to the lamp on her bedside table, she flicks it on and sits up, staring at him. “I am so scared to lose you over this. After what happened after the bus— with Rossi, and-and after the way you’ve been so withdrawn and honestly… you’ve been kind of a dick to everyone but me, Penelope especially. I can’t have you being mad all the time, I can’t deal with the thought that a case is going to send you over the edge and I’m going to find you dead in your apartment one morning. I can’t do it,” she cries. “I can’t lose you over this.”

“Hey,” he sits up and tentatively puts his hand on her knee. “I’m not going to do anything like that. I promise.” He wipes the tears from her cheeks, “am I disappointed in myself? Yes. Am I going to kill myself over it? No. Never. I’m not going to do that to you or the team or my son. Believe me, I know I’m going to get over this. I know we can catch this guy, but the anticipatory dread I’m feeling, this anxiety, it’s not just going to go away until we catch him. I’m not going to feel okay again until he’s either behind bars or dead.”

“You can talk to me about it,” she reminds him. “Always. I’m never going to push away your feelings or make you feel small. I won’t think less of you or tell your secrets to the others. What we have is special, I’d never break that. I want to be there for you.”

“And that’s why I fell in love with you,” he admits.

Her bottom lip sticks out a bit more as she pouts at him, “Really?”

He nods, “Yes, really… can I kiss you?”

She places her hand on his shoulder and lifts her leg over his lap so she can sit in it, her hands resting on both his cheeks now. “You can kiss me whenever you want to.”

His hands come around to cup her lower back and cradle the back of her head, he pulls her in closer and presses their lips together softly. She never thought she’d get to kiss him… but she has imagined it many times. This is even better than anything she could’ve ever conjured in her mind, alone in the middle of the night.

His lips are soft, his hands are so big and his chest against her own is so inviting. Her hands drop from his cheeks, down his neck, she drags them over his shoulders and then down his strong arms. She feels him up as he kisses her over and over again. Soft pecks at first, he finally licks along her bottom lip, inviting her in for more.

His hand cupping the back of her head comes around to caress her jaw, he traces his fingers down her neck and stops right at the hem of the neckline of her shirt. She pulls back then, breathless and anticipating more, “you can touch me,” she whispers against his lips, stealing more kisses. “You can have me.”

“Have you?” He smirks, trying not to laugh.

“I’m yours now,” she says, feeling drunk on his kiss. “Keep me, touch me, love me, whatever. I’m yours.”

He smiles into another kiss, “All mine you say?” He whispers before kissing her jaw and down her neck. His hand continues down, cupping her breast gently before resting at her side.

She tilts her head back, letting him have more space to kiss… his lips feel so good on her like they were always meant to be there. He starts to go lower, kissing over her shirt, right where her heart would be in her chest. “I want to kiss you everywhere, every last inch of you.”

She reaches for the hem of her shirt, pulling it up and over her head, “keep going.”

He lays her back against the bed then, her head resting on her pillow, he kneels between her legs and hovers over her. He stares into her eyes for a moment and then starts to look at her naked chest, “you’re so beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she can’t help but smile.

He leans in and kisses her shoulder and all the way down her arm until he grips her wrist and holds her hand to his mouth. He kisses every finger on her right hand and then reaches for her left, doing the same before kissing his way back up to her shoulder. Across her collarbones, down the centre of her chest. He spends equal amounts of time with each boob, making her smile to herself, suppressing a laugh at just how much attention he gives them. But he is a man after all… then he hugs her hips and runs his cheek over her tummy, caressing her gently before he kisses her right beside her belly button and over to her hip.

Loving every inch of her just like he said he wanted to.

She basks in it, the soft touch of his kiss, his calloused hands, his coarse, barely there, beard against her… it's more intimate than anything she’s ever experienced in her life.

This is what love is supposed to be like. She was always meant to be loved by Aaron Hotchner.

He keeps her shorts on, pushing each loose pant leg up to her underwear line to get as much surface area as possible. He kisses all down her thigh, grips under her knee and lifts her leg up to kiss all the way down to her ankles. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for feet…”

He smirks, shaking his head, “I don’t,” he whispers, kissing the side of her foot before laying her leg back down. He grips her at her other ankle, kissing the side of her foot and once again repeating the same pattern as the last leg, just backwards. He gets all the way back up to the hem f her shorts, pushes them up and kisses her underwear line. She sucks in a sharp breath, wishing he’d take a risk and peel her out of her shorts… and then he kisses her right over her shorts, smack-dab in the centre of the mound of her vagina and looks up at her. “Roll over.”

She listens, carefully getting not her stomach, he places a knee on either side of her thighs, boxing her in, and moves her hair over, off her back and to the crook of her neck. He leans in, kissing her one shoulder blade over to the other and then starts down her spine. Once he has her all covered, he wraps a hand under her, holding her close as he presses his body weight onto her. He kisses her shoulder again and then rests his cheek there. “I love you.”

“I love you, more,” she whispers back to him.

He gets off her and lays on his side, facing her. “Are you tired now?” She asks.

He nods. “Can I have just one more kiss?”

She sits up a bit, switches off the lamp and moves in closer to him, rests her hand on his cheek and kisses him softly. Again and again and again until the last thing either one of them remembers before falling asleep is the taste of the other's kiss.

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Lost Part Five | Vegeta x Reader |

part one | part two | part three | part four | part six

author's note: i keep ending up in a bit of a slump after i release a chapter of this where i hardly get anything done for a month or so and then inspiration strikes and i write almost the entire thing within a couple of days 🫠 i am very tired. the story should be wrapping up soon, i'm estimating maybe two more chapters total!

pairing: vegeta x fem!reader

warnings: canon typical violence, does not follow the canon timeline of events

Chi-Chi watches you carefully as you help her prepare dinner. You and Goku came home just a few hours ago, yet you've hardly said a word at all. A year spent with Vegeta, your husband that's spent the last year of his life with another woman and their child, and you've got nothing to say? Nothing happened?? Not even a single thing worth mentioning???

Bull. Shit.

"So." She hums to herself, sliding over more vegetables for you to chop. "You're awfully quiet tonight."

"Just ask the question instead of beating around the bush." You mutter, quickly dicing the veggies in the way Gohan likes best.

Chi-Chi huffs to herself, considering her words more carefully than her initial approach to the conversation. You are not in a good mood and no doubt being hangry on top of it isn't going to help anything. But she's gotta know!

Chi-Chi takes a careful breath, losing her false sense of aloofness. "You seem upset. Did something happen during your training?"

"My husband is a bastard." You mutter bitterly. "Gives me the training of a lifetime and then caps it off with a plan to kill our son."

"Wow." She murmurs softly, and her heart cries to go hug her son tightly and never let go. "I can't say it surprises me that he'd think to do it. He came to this planet and killed his own partner he arrived with."

"Nappa? God how I would've loved to see that." Despite the gravity of your situation, learning that Nappa's death was at the hand of Vegeta fills you with such a sick, satisfactory feeling. "He was always a pain to deal with."

"He killed several of our friends." Chi-Chi mutters, and you do have at least a little grace to feel shame. It's disgusting how in the short time you've been here, these humans have made you think twice about your kind's culture… You always knew it to be despicable yet you've never been this close to feeling ashamed of it.

You sigh to yourself. "It was nice to be so connected to Vegeta again. I've missed him more than you could ever know. I love my husband, but the man I mated wouldn't dream of killing his own son."

"Twenty years apart is unimaginable." Chi-Chi says gently. "And maybe… After growing up with him and then being married young to him, you two never got much of a chance to grow separately. And just maybe that gap allowed you both to be who you truly are… Which might not be compatible, despite your history and what you want to feel."

The tears that well up in your eyes surprise you; you've never been a crier. But she's not wrong— you're not the spoiled, battle-hungry princess you once were, and raising a child alone changed you in ways you never imagined.

Ways that Bulma will change in too, should Vegeta leave her and Trunks to come back to your side.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore." You murmur, and bless Chi-Chi as she turns away and allows you to wipe at your teary eyes. You stare at your hands, feeling the new power you trained for in the chamber run through right alongside your racing blood.

The young Saiyan woman from your past would certainly be in awe of your power, and wouldn't have a care in the world for your family's plight. She only sought to be the strongest warrior possible— and you shake your head at the idea that a younger you would agree with Vegeta's solution to the problem.

It's offensive, the idea of murdering your only son. But Chi-Chi is certainly right— it's no shock Vegeta thought of it. He's clearly not grown all that much, spending much of his life still under Frieza's thumb, doing his pillaging and continuing to live similarly to how he had even on Planet Vegeta. He trained, he fought and killed, and mourned his wife and son with every expedition.

He's a stubborn Saiyan male, one full of pride and an ego forever unmatched. And goodness do you love every bit of him. But letting go of your pride to raise your son in the precarious environment you were left to scramble for, an environment you were in because Vegeta didn't listen, has you still so angry at him. Could you really forgive him? Do you even want to?

I love you so much, Vegeta, but I hate you too. Why didn't you listen to your wife?!

"Alright…" Chi-Chi's voice is practically straining as she attempts to hold herself back, and you can't help the ugly snort that leaves you when that thin barrier breaks. "Just… Did you… Y'know…" She grins conspiratorially, reminding you of your favorite attending from back in the day.

Rolling your eyes, you slide the chopped veggies to her and head for the kitchen's exit to hide your celebratory smirk. "Yes, we did. And it was amazing."

Gohan's not sure what his mother's laughing so loudly about, but he smiles to himself as he resumes his studies. He's glad she's made a friend.

Bulma tosses her wrench aside, burying her pretty face into her hands as the frustration takes its toll on her. She's readying the ship you and Vegeta will take to go find your son, but the nagging worry that Vegeta won't come back lays a thick pressure down on her bones. Sleep is already hard to come by with a baby, especially one that's getting increasingly mobile with each passing day, but she's gotten less and less ever since you came into the picture to ruin her life.

Maybe she's being a little dramatic. This all happened by chance— it was pure coincidence you ended up on Earth, and as an amnesiac you were friendly to her. But what was yours is now hers, and there's no doubt in Bulma's mind that you want to retake it. It's what she would do, after all, if the roles were reversed. You're not wrong for how you feel, she supposes.

But there is entirely too much on the line for her to be relaxed.

She looks up at the sound of boots approaching, and the relief in her body is so harsh and sudden that she feels light. Vegeta's back from wherever he went, and he's got Trunks in his arms. "I didn't know he woke up."

"He's been up only a few minutes." Vegeta hands off the boy to Bulma, Trunks grinning happily at the sight of his mother.

"When did you get back?"

"Not long ago."

Bulma bites her tongue. "So…"

"So?" Vegeta crosses his arms, taking in the frazzled sight of his child's mother. She hasn't been sleeping well, probably hasn't eaten much either— how can she take care of Trunks like this?

Bulma glares at Vegeta, forcing down the bulk of her rage to keep Trunks in a happy mood. It's difficult, though, to deal with the stubbornness and aloofness of her whatever he is to her. Boyfriend? Baby daddy? Disappearing isn't entirely new for Vegeta, though it's been some time since he's done it. But with you in the picture, anything is possible and he's slowly seeming to retreat back into the shell he started out in.

"Where have you been?" Her tone isn't accusatory, and Vegeta's stance relaxes slightly.

"Training in the chamber." He's honest, but his short reply concerns Bulma anyway.

"With—"

"Yes."

Bulma sighs, ignoring the way Trunks tugs at her shirt. "So when are you leaving?"

"I'm not sure." Vegeta murmurs, looking off to the side at nothing in particular. He can't find V without you, and he's currently your number one enemy again. Giving you space is a minimum requirement before he can attempt to talk plans for leaving, discovering V and then—

Well, you'll have to come to an agreement on that front as well.

"Will you come back?"

His brows come together then, but he can't fairly be mad at the question. He's left before, made no indication or vow to Bulma to be present from now on, and while it hasn't crossed his mind, it would be quite the opportunity to reunite with his first family in space and fuck off to who knows where. But for many reasons outside of just Bulma and Trunks, he would never leave Earth.

It's his home, plain and simple, and he must defend it as such.

"Of course I will."

Doubt fills her tummy as Vegeta walks out of her lab, leaving her alone with the baby.

Chi-Chi's dragged her boys out of the house for clothes and grocery shopping around noon the following day, and you're left alone to your own devices for a few brief hours. Daring to check the contents of the slow cooker Chi-Chi set up this morning, you hear the front door opening up just as you start to open the lid.

Dammit!

"Whatever you think I'm doing, Chi-Chi, I'm—" The hairs at the back of your neck prickle, and defense mode rises as you don't recognize the energy to belong to any one of the Son family.

But luckily for Bulma, she's got a fairly recognizable hair color.

You narrow your eyes as she finishes inviting herself in, watching as she closes the door behind her and looks you right in the eye, adjusting the baby on her hip. "Bulma. What do you want?"

"Vegeta."

Oh, for Kami's sake!

"You have him, don't you?" Your jealousy confusingly runs parallel with your anger at your mate— he's a bastard, but yours.

"I hoped he was." Bulma murmurs, and you don't miss the sadness in her eyes. Truly, she does love your husband. "He's been… A challenge."

"That's the biggest understatement I've ever heard." You cross your arms and look away from her.

"But I love him. He's not romantic or particularly soft or anything, but I love him anyway. And he's my son's father, and I just… I want Trunks to grow up knowing his father."

"My son didn't."

"So you should know exactly the pain Trunks would go through. The pain I would go through when he asks me about a man he doesn't remember meeting. I…" Bulma sighs and rubs her tired face, and boy you don't envy her position as a new mother in this sticky situation. At least when V was out of the incubator, you had a solid marriage to back you when dealing with the baby got to be too much at once.

But she steels herself quickly, the fiery look in her eye you remember from that night in the forest coming back to the present. "I met a version of my son where he grew up without Vegeta."

"I'm sorry— Huh?!" She met a version of Trunks??

"He came here from the future, and he's the one that actually killed Frieza."

"A halfling killed Frieza…" You say slowly, gazing at the child in her arms. This child will one day have that sort of power?!

"He's a child of Vegeta, of course he did!" Bulma scoffs, and damn she'd be quite the catch on Planet Vegeta. And bitterly, she reminds you of yourself. Vegeta certainly has a type.

"This place gets stranger the longer I stay here." Your tail tightens around your waist, frustration and confusion swamping your brain. "What in the hell did he get himself into?" You ask yourself the question more than Bulma, and once again you're met with a reminder of Chi-Chi's words.

Twenty years apart is unimaginable…

Bulma sighs. "Trunks traveled from the future because of a threat that completely ruined the world, and everyone except me and Trunks died. He came back to warn us, and then left again. We haven't seen him since."

"And I don't suppose he mentioned me in any capacity."

"No, he didn't."

"So either I never showed up, or I left Earth."

Or V killed me.

"I don't really know." Bulma adjusts the squirming baby in her arms. "But I'm not willing to take Trunks' sacrifice and doom this Trunks to the same fate. The Androids are set to arrive in a few years, and we need Vegeta to even have a chance."

"So what exactly are you asking me to do? Fuck off and give you your happy ending, and leave me and my son in the dust?"

"I'm asking you, mother to mother, to give my son the gift your son couldn't have. A family, and a chance at a happy life."

"And why should I care about the quality of your son's life?" Your fists clench at your sides; you're not a monster to an innocent baby's plight, not at all. If anything, the last twenty years have softened you and as a mother, you more than understand Bulma's situation and what she's asking. But to assume a savage of you without knowing you—

You did threaten her life, you suppose. Perhaps her anger is a tad deserved.

"If you won't do it for Trunks, then do it for Gohan." Bulma spits out, heading for the door. "Because if you don't, he'll grow up without his dad and spend his life protecting Trunks until the day they finally kill him too."

She slams the door shut behind her, and the cold realization trickles through your veins. Should you be selfish and take what you want, those you've come to cherish will die, and that innocent boy that didn't choose his parents will suffer directly. You're more than aware what it's like to lose everything, and at the very least you could attribute some of it to karma for your Saiyan heritage and the things you've done out of pride for it.

Could you really damn a baby like that?

"Why didn't you tell me about the Androids?"

Goku freezes, not even entirely in the house when you question him. His arms are loaded with shopping bags that he subsequently drops when Gohan runs into him with the rest of the bags, the two of them tumbling into quite the mess. Chi-Chi's luckily getting a manicure, though Goku doesn't know which is the lesser of two evils— angry Chi-Chi, or angry you.

"Uh, wh-whaddya mean?" Goku pointedly averts your gaze in favor of picking up the dropped bags of clothes and groceries.

"Don't play dumb, Goku." You growl. "Androids. Why didn't you tell me?"

Goku sighs and stands. "We didn't know if you should know, since…"

"You're not staying." Gohan mumbles.

"That, and those guys are four years away. Your situation is more urgent." Goku hands off the groceries to Gohan to put away, leaving you alone in the living room. "We've been training for it pretty hard though."

"You should've told me."

"Would you be willing to help us with them?"

"Of course I would!" You snap. "Like I'd ever miss a fight, especially one of this gravity."

"Really?!" Goku scoops you into a crushing hug, and your tail steps in for your trapped arms to bat the back of his head.

"I will be here for these Androids, whatever the hell they are. You can count on that."

"Does that mean you'll stay?" Goku carefully puts you down, his hands on your shoulders.

"Certainly not." You look away from those honest eyes. "But I will return to help you fight."

"Why won't you stay?"

"I have a life elsewhere, with my son. Earth is not as bad as it first seems, but I don't see a long-term future here."

"But… What about us, your family?"

"I…" You falter for just a moment, remembering the way you lived with the Son family during your amnesia and how right it felt at the time.

As an amnesiac, it was of course easy to feel such a way— you craved a sense of belonging and a home, and naturally gravitated towards what you had found, and wanted to keep it even in the event your memories were restored. Building something new was a possibility lost at the exact moment Vegeta entered your life again, but only as a result of your unyielding rage.

Could it really be possible to stay on such a planet? There's more here for you than where you spent the past two decades, surely… But it's the presence of your husband's bastard family that sends a shot of resistance straight to your heart. That woman and her child serve as the cherry on top to all that's happened to you; why in the hell would you ever subject yourself to such torture?

"I can't stay, Goku. My son needs me."

He's all I have left, and I'm all he has ever known.

Goku doesn't argue, but the sadness that rolls off of him slinks onto you as you walk out of the house.

"Mother?" V asks softly as you head for your training grounds. He was oddly quiet on the ride over to this planet from your home, and evidently something's been plaguing his young mind.

"Yes?"

"What was Father like?"

You knew this day would come, but no amount of pondering the answers or possible questions could prepare you for how broken your son's voice is— how long has he asked himself these questions? He's six years old now, surely it's been on his mind for at least a little while. And though you've never made it a point not to bring up your husband or your home planet to your son, the memory of what you had and the grief over what could have been breaks your heart daily, even with your pent-up rage at your late husband's refusal to listen to your concerns.

"Your father was… Amazing." Damn the tears in your eyes and just how wistful you sound. You need to be strong for the boy! "A master tactician, stubborn as all hell, witty, prideful man. He was everything. Strong and handsome and fierce."

"What happened to him?"

"He died when our home planet was destroyed."

"He was that strong and still died?!" V's dark eyes widen in fright, and you cup his face gently.

"Your father's downfall was also his greatest strength— his pride. Had he listened to me, he'd be alive today. So always listen to your mother, my son. I only want what's best for my family."

"My family means everything to me." You mutter to yourself, gazing up at the sky and finding the sole twinkle of the brightest star as dusk settles in and finding it to be a lot like the sparkle in Gohan's eyes when he finds an interesting bug.

A bead of sweat trickles down into Vegeta's eye, stinging as he pushes through the pain of the gravity room. Train for his son, train for his other son, train for himself and his goals… Never has he ever felt so tired, where he yearns more for sleep than a battle.

Well, he may not be willing to go quite that far. But there was a time where he was beyond dead tired and all he longed for was one single thing.

Vegeta slams shut the door to his dorm on the Frieza station, huffing at his near loss of balance from expelling the last bit of his energy on the child's tantrum tactic. The food on this ship isn't good enough for how tightly he's under Frieza's thumb now— it's surely intentional and to keep Vegeta from rising above and killing the dictator that stole everything from him. Frieza is cruel, and sees Vegeta as a mere tool or even a toy.

Vegeta can only hope his life remains fun for Frieza to play with until he gets his chance to strike and take revenge for his glorious race's extinction.

Taking revenge for the murder of his dear wife and son is the only thing to keep him going these days. And those idiots Raditz and Nappa don't understand a thing about it— they're living it up on this ship, doing Frieza's bidding just as loyal dogs and not having a care in the world for what was lost. Perhaps that's why they get fed properly; Frieza knows they'd never give up this lifestyle.

And bitterly, Vegeta knows he'd be just like them if he never got married. His pride is insurmountable, but his love for his family outweighs even that. He'd never bow down to the one that cost him everything, even if he was given an 'ideal' life of battling and feasting.

Someday, he will rise above in his Super Saiyan form and avenge you. But for now he must bide his time until he can master and make true use of it.

Falling to his knees at the foot of the bed, so exhausted his tail lays limp rather than around his waist, Vegeta pulls his lady's favor from his armor. Your scent faded so, so long ago, yet he can swear he remembers it anyway. Your preferred body scrub was infused with mint, and it mixed well with your natural scent and Vegeta could never get enough of it. Fruitlessly, he buries his nose into the silk cloth.

Tears fill his eyes as he wills the favor to smell like you again. It's getting harder and harder to pretend he's with you, laying in bed and nosing along the curve of your neck while you rest in bed. He'd rub your swollen belly as you near the end of your pregnancy, the strong little Saiyan inside of you nearly ready to be born and incubated and you were in quite the discomfort during that time.

All you wanted was your husband's presence, and he should've appreciated it more. Hindsight is 20/20, but he remembers feeling aggravated at times, being trapped in bed and feeling restless and anxious for the incoming parenthood. To go back and live in the moment, to see you, hold you, kiss you… He'd do anything.

"Please." He begs softly to a God that may not even exist, let alone be listening to his plea. Tears wet his face and he collapses to the floor. "Please give them back."

Vegeta closes his eyes as his vision clouds, and with a huff he forces himself up and out of the gravity room. He got his wish, and damn if he'll just let you go like this. You are alive, and the year in the chamber wasn't nearly enough. Saiyan mates are connected until the end of time, and he will not waste another damn minute without you.

You're at Vegeta's little hidden cabin when the hairs at the back of your neck raise. Vegeta's here, but why? You meet him at the door, and the determined look in his eye sends a shiver down your spine.

"Vegeta."

"You are a difficult woman to find." He seethes. "For anyone else, anyway."

"For what purpose are you looking for me?" Your eyes narrow suspiciously— the aura around him is different. He's hellbent on something.

"Because you're my goddamn wife!"

You stumble backwards as Vegeta wraps you up in his arms, his hold crushing you against that solid, strong body. Trembling as he holds you, he brushes the tip of his nose along the curve of your neck. "I can't lose you again." He murmurs before kissing you deeply, and it's just like in the chamber— temporarily, you feel whole again.

I don't want to be lost again.

"For everything, I'm sorry. I should've been better, I should've listened, I—"

"I love you." You whisper against him, eyes shut tightly as you bask in his embrace. "Forgive me-"

"There's nothing to forgive you for." Vegeta mutters, smoothing a hand down the curve of your back. "You've done nothing-"

"For what I'm about to do."

Vegeta frowns, and you mash your lips to his for a quick distraction against the power generating in your palms and his cry of pain and confusion breaks your heart as you slam one palm against his lower back, in the exact spot his tail once was. Even with the appendage lost, it's still a deeply-rooted sensitive area and he's weakened immediately by your thrust of power to it.

Your husband falls to his knees, angry but unable to move. "W… What the hell was that?!" He coughs, wheezing as if you punched all the air from his lungs.

"I have to do what's best for my family. And my family needs you safe here, love."

"I need you." Vegeta pleads, reaching out to you with a shaky hand. "Don't… Don't!"

"I'll see you again for the Androids."

If I survive that long.

Before Vegeta can ponder how you even know about them, your powered up fist meets the side of his skull and he's out cold, sprawled out on the floor of his secret cabin. Without wasting too much time, you fish his beloved lady's favor from your breasts and leave a wistful kiss on it before tucking it into your mate's open palm.

Leaving him behind, you quickly fly to Capsule Corps as you recall the direction Vegeta came from. Bulma's up with the baby, and your eyes lock onto hers as she opens up the door to her home.

"You have maybe ten minutes to get me into orbit before Vegeta wakes up."

Baby Trunks is swiftly thrust into your arms as she leads the way to the ship, and you and the child lock eyes for just a moment.

For all these things I've done, I had better see heaven one day.

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Lay Your Weary Head To Rest

Author: angelofthequeers

Artist: eggchef

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Dean/Cas, background Sam/Eileen, Dean/OMC (one-sided under a spell), very brief mentions of past Dean/OMC

Length: 22000

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Transphobia (both internalised and external) Homophobia (in the past, from John including the f-slur) Dubious consent

Tags: Episode AU: s15e18 Despair, Angst with a Happy Ending, Post-Canon, Human Castiel, Mind Control, Trans Dean Winchester, Smut

Posting Date: October 23, 2023

Summary: They've beaten this plot point to death, dancing around each other and wallowing in miscommunication and things unsaid. So why should this time be any different? Oh, yeah. Because Chuck's gone. And Cas is human now, all thanks to Dean. Surely this whole miscommunication won't backfire on them when they take on what seems to be a shifter case involving people killing their lover and then themselves. Surely not.

Excerpt: “Why does this sound like a goodbye?” is all Dean’s voice can say. He already knows the answer before Cas ever opens his mouth. “Because it is.” No. Don’t. Dean opens his mouth but before he can stop Cas – “I love you.” Dean shakes his head madly. Take it back! Take it back! he’s tempted to shriek like a child. But take-backsies doesn’t exist for this. For…that. THUD. “Don’t do this, Cas.” Dean’s voice hitches. But then there’s a wet sound, a chittering, and Dean already knows before he turns what he’s going to see: a mass of black goo squeezing itself between the bricks, sighing into existence, ready to take the one person who’s seen Dean at his lowest, at his ugliest, and chosen time and time again to stay, to believe in him, to… I love you. I love you. Don’t do this. SLAM. The door finally bursts open and Billie stalks into the room, murder glinting in her eyes. “Cas…” Cas rests his bloody hand on Dean’s shoulder. His left shoulder. The handprint shoulder. Dean gasps in a breath. “Goodbye, Dean.” Dean shakes his head wordlessly. Cas tenses, like he’s about to throw Dean away, discard him like everyone else who’s ever loved him, but Dean grabs the lapels of Cas’ trench coat. He squeezes. He shakes his head again. “No,” he forces out. “Don’t leave me. Please.” Cas doesn’t say anything. He just stands there with that tearful smile that makes Dean want to punch him in his stupid, handsome face and Dean scrambles for some way – any way – to keep Cas here, to save him from the Empty…to make him stay. “Let me come with you,” Dean begs in a twisted mockery of Cas’ plea before he’d gone to face Amara. “I’ll come with you, Cas.” “No.” Cas shakes his head. “You can’t. Humans don’t belong in the Empty. And even if you could come, I wouldn’t let you. I’m saving you, Dean.” Humans don’t belong in the Empty. The rejection stings, burns like alcohol on a fresh cut, ensuring that Dean knows damn well that he’s never been able to follow Cas like Cas has followed him. All he’s ever been able to do is keep Cas with him, except for all the times Cas had flown off on him. Typical flighty angel, always spreading his wings, taking flight, leaving Dean in the dust – Dean freezes. His breath crystallises in his chest. Could he…would it…does he dare to hope… “Humans don’t belong in the Empty.” “Dean?” Cas tilts his head, still smiling. Something slithers behind Dean, chitters in his ear, rasps in the air, and he draws a deep, rattling breath into his porcelain lungs. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he chokes.

DCBB 2023 Posting Schedule

[shachaai]

[Hetalia Version] The Lindworm’s Lullaby Chapter 1

Chapters: 1/14 Rating: Explicit (For Gore) Main Relationships: Arthur Kirkland (England)/Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal) Characters: Arthur Kirkland (England), Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal), Original Child Character(s), Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany), Julia Blumenschien (Fem Prussia), Kiku Honda (Japan), Lovino Vargas (South Italy), Assorted Others Other Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Human AU, FBI Murder Mystery/Thriller, Case Fic, Adapted from a Hannibal Fic, Baby Fic, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Gabriel Fernandes, Omega Arthur Kirkland, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Single Parent Arthur Kirkland, Violence and Gore Canon-Typical to Hannibal Levels, Cute Moments and Murder, Murder Scenes, Dead Bodies, Poisoning, Discussions about torture/infidelity/rape

The FBI is called in to investigate when a series of bodies shows up around Ohio: all of them alphas, and all of them skinned alive. With the killer’s motives a mystery, Ludwig Beilschmidt pulls Arthur Kirkland from the classroom and his vigil at the comatose Madeline Williams’ bedside once more to lend his insight to the case - with very little mind paid to the fact that the busy Arthur, omega and single mother to a six month-old daughter, might have some scheduling issues. Necessity - and pressure from Ludwig - drives Arthur into reluctantly asking Gabriel Fernandes for a favour at short notice. Gabriel is delighted to help Arthur with babysitting - once he has, of course, recovered from both the surprise of learning that Arthur Kirkland even has a baby to care for and, presented with the adorable armful that is a sleepy Lenore Kirkland, feeling a little skinned raw himself.

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Chapter 1: some late visitor entreating 1. A few important things to acknowledge before you read on: This is absolutely one of my Hannibal fanfics that I (lightly) filed the serial numbers off of just to reapply Hetalia details instead. It was a dare, okay. If you’re not into artistic horror and murder scenes of the kind Hannibal provides in abundance (or are simply not old or mature enough to watch that show in the first place), this is not the fic for you. Read at your own risk. 2. You don’t have to have watched Hannibal to understand this story, but it may deepen your understanding of the general universe if you have. (This story takes place between S01E2 Amuse-Bouche and S01E03 Potage.) 3. I won’t be posting this on AO3 (I changed a lot, but not enough for it to feel like its own thing to me), so feel free to copy and paste this fic elsewhere for ease of private reading; I don’t care. 4. No insult is meant to any country/nationality by the character assignments/roles; I just picked personalities that I thought might be the closest to my original portrayals.

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You are made of flesh and nerve and thought, of heart and love and wonder and grief, as I am. - Jeanann Verlee, For the Woman Who Loved the Predator More Than His Prey

But it is better to dissect than abstract nature… - Francis Bacon, Novum Organum

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Arthur Kirkland’s lecture hall is dark, its only true light the bare bald glare of the projector screen on his back. It reflects back on the eyes of his attentive students in the audience: on the white sclera, on the thin glowing rings of alpha red and omega gold. On the occasional flash of fangs when lips part and teeth chew down on lips, shadowy heads bending over the desks in front of them to type or scribble notes.

Arthur, front of room and frowning against a headache that is determined to rise even in a room hush with learning, leans back against his desk and resists the temptation to reach up and knuckle at his eyes. Monday afternoons drag on for everyone, and, if Arthur yields too visibly to his own tiredness, many of his students will take his cue and switch off to follow suit.

“Opisthokonta,” he declaims instead, pausing momentarily for the clicks of pens and keys to find themselves a new line. (Or the spelling.) A percussive response, mentally filed away as rote by the time Arthur has gotten to this, his third identical lecture of the day. “The large supergroup of eukaryotes - that would be organisms whose cells contain a nucleus - which includes both the animal and fungal kingdoms.”

Arthur taps a button on the projector remote in his hand, patient against the reactive flinch that goes through his audience as the screen behind him switches from plain white to the - primarily - black, intricate branches of a phylogenetic tree. “If we, humans - not-so-proud members of the biological kingdom Animalia, if anyone was in doubt -, trace back far enough on the genetic family tree, we discover our distant cousins in the Holomycota clade down the street: fungi, and those eukaryotes liker to fungi than animals.”

No pointing out of the relevant branches on the diagram is required; Arthur had highlighted Opisthokonta, Animalia and Holomycota in red on the tree before uploading his presentation.

Another tap of the remote, and the phylogenetic tree is replaced with a blare of technicolour: a photograph of a killer, and one familiar to Arthur’s class of FBI trainees at that. Another reactive flinch goes through Arthur’s students  - less pronounced than before as their eyes adapt -, the mingled scents drifting in the currents of the room sharpening with recognition.

One Berwald Oxenstierna, recently apprehended, stares out stoically from the projector screen, the look in his frozen eyes as strained as the smile failing to stretch his lips. The media had given the beta man many names when the details of his crimes had finally come to light - the Gardener, the Mushroom Man - and used just as many different candid shots as they could get of him, but Arthur, unwilling to slap garish and distracting headlines into his presentation, had snagged the photograph on Oxenstierna’s last work ID - now stored in Evidence - to use instead.

(It’s a terrible photo with the light reflecting blankly off of Oxenstierna’s glasses, and something small and cruel and petty in Arthur had picked it almost precisely for that reason.)

Arthur raises one hand, gesturing to the screen behind him and feeling each button on the sleeve beneath his blazer press firmly to his wrist. (The cuffs on omega sleeves are unforgiving bastards.) “Berwald Oxenstierna was interested in a family reunion. He used his position as a pharmacist to tamper with his victims’ medications, inducing diabetic comas in seven men and women of mixed dynamics before planting them in the ground. Still - however temporarily - alive, but highly unlikely to ever regain consciousness. Fertiliser.”

Tap. Pause. Tap. Pause. Tap. Arthur cycles through the crime scene photographs taken of Oxenstierna’s ‘garden’, waiting briefly between one image and the next to give his students time to absorb both the layout of the scene and what it might infer. The seven graves all in a row, and the gradual - and thoroughly documented - excavation of each. The decaying, fungi-ridden bodies of six of the victims in the arms of the on-scene emergency medical technicians: organisms raised from the earth more humanoid than recognisably human. The quickly-snapped shot of the - at that point - still-living victim being wheeled towards an ambulance.

In the blanketing darkness of the lecture hall, someone audibly gags.

Arthur ignores them. The trainees will need strong stomachs if they hope to work in the field one day, and a few crime scene photographs is the very least they should be able to handle. (Crime scene photographs do not, yet, communicate smell.) “Decomposition was enthusiastically encouraged. The victims were all buried in high-nutrient compost and fed intravenously with a regular supply of dextrose, advancing both the growth of the local fungi and the gradual decline of the victims’ endocrine systems.

“Despite what you may immediately assume from these photographs, for Berwald Oxenstierna’s seven victims, death, eventually, came by way of kidney failure. Something almost entirely incidental to their killer’s greater vision.”

A new gust of air disturbs the room: the door to the lecture hall opposite Arthur’s desk has opened, and a familiar bulky silhouette slipped inside. Content for now, it seems, to loiter in the doorway with shoulders broad and grim. Blocking the exit.

Arthur’s headache picks up another irritable notch as glowing alpha eyes meet his own across the room, a slow and steady thud in his skull sounding in pace with his heart.

Arthur raises his chin and turns his gaze deliberately to sweep across his students instead, a challenge to the class. Someone needs to make sure the next generation of FBI agents can actually rub two brain cells together. “To Oxenstierna, the point was not that his victims died. His goal was evolution: for the fungi to grow, for his victims to join the vast, intelligent mycelial networks that can stretch for miles under the surface of the earth. Crossing the boundaries that occur naturally between organisms in life. And death.

“If you walk into a field of mycelium, they know you are there. They respond to your presence. They communicate.” Arthur switches back to the presentation slide using Oxenstierna’s work ID, the sombre visage of the killer behind Arthur matching his own flat glare out at the room around them. “Berwald Oxenstierna viewed his own actions as helping others to communicate - with nature, with each other, and with themselves. Connecting individuals into a greater whole. He was caught only because others finally stumbled onto his garden and because, after the FBI rescued his eighth victim before she could be planted in a new location, he was desperate to communicate with others himself.”

Such a pity certain people (an invasive species whose greatest attribute, if gossip is to be believed, is either their ability to wriggle their way out of libel cases or their outlandish choice in plumage) had decided to help Oxenstierna with that mission.

“To that end, the attempted abduction of a comatose patient from John Hopkins Hospital was Oxenstierna’s last bid for understanding from others before being caught. Rather than attempting to escape, he chose to make what amounts to a personal plea for empathy.” To Arthur. “To feel as he feels. To see as he sees.”

In another world, at another time, by a different method, Arthur might have listened to Oxenstierna’s entreaty. In this world, however, Oxenstierna had chosen the still comatose and incredibly vulnerable form of Madeline Williams to try and deliver his message: not a step but a whole leap beyond the pale for those already pricked in tender places by the abuse of innocents.

Arthur is ever-vigilant now of sleeping defenceless daughters: holding one by blood and one by guilt-ridden proxy as equal weights now against his heart. He had saved Madeline once already when her obsessed, serial-killing father, unable to deal with the thought of his little girl growing up and leaving him, had slaughtered her mother in front of her before putting a kitchen knife to her throat. Arthur would be damned if he let the likes of a fungi-focused wallflower take her before she even woke up into her new life free of her father’s chains. 

Arthur’s fingers still itch now, twitch, at the memory of that day in the hospital basement. Of Madeline’s hair spread like a long golden fan on the starchy hospital pillows of the hospital gurney Oxenstierna had tried to whisk her away on, and Oxenstierna clutching at his own shoulder, bleeding on the floor. The beta man’s pallor curdling like spoilt milk.

(What would have happened in a world where Arthur was a better shot?)

Arthur’s tongue flicks out briefly over his dry lips, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat between his brows. “The desire for understanding is a dangerous thing. Luckily for us, however,” another slow pass of Arthur’s gaze across his class, the darkness that renders one student almost indistinguishable from the next, “it is often the way we catch the supposedly uncatchable.”

The lecture concludes not long after that, Berwald Oxenstierna’s crimes only the tail-end of a much longer lesson, and the yellowed lights of the lecture hall buzz back to life overhead. The students blink back into animation with them, and cobwebbed dreams of blood and shadows flee away.

Arthur talks briefly through his students’ next assignment before everyone starts gathering up their belongings - and pointedly reminds the two hopefully querying hands raised in the audience of his office hours. Class is dismissed a few minutes shy of the Academy bell, and the tide of students streaming out of the lecture hall is a cacophony after the almost reverent hush before.

The silhouette by the door is a silhouette no more. Ludwig Beilschmidt, head of the BAU, had stepped to the side to allow Arthur’s students to pass him by but now, as the last of the stragglers make their way out of the room, approaches Arthur’s desk, his hands lax in his pockets with a studied casualness: affability that doesn’t quite ring sincere when Ludwig’s shoulders are so stiff.

Arthur is rapidly becoming versant with what that stance means when it is adopted by Ludwig Beilschmidt, of the warmer and bread-and-chocolatey notes of Ludwig’s alpha scent when the man hopes to be cajoling. Cedar and yeast: similar but distant to the woods that surround the Wolf Trap refuge Arthur calls home, life and death and the cycle of decomposition as the leaves are falling. Let’s not vex the moody omega before he performs his party trick.

“Do you think they followed?” Ludwig asks in lieu of a greeting, making no pretence that they both don’t know that Arthur had long since observed him by the door. Ludwig’s honesty is of the perfectly reliable kind meant for blunt force trauma: a crowbar, plain but useful.

Arthur keeps his head low but neck covered as he continues packing away his belongings: prey behaviour, hoping to be left alone. “I’ll let you know once I’ve graded their essays.”

Ludwig waits patiently, solid and immovable with his weight on his heels. Ever hoping for word of a new FBI Wunderkind.

Alas, to only have disappointment to provide.

Arthur sighs through his nose, shoving the last folder into his satchel with a little more force than may be strictly necessary. “A few of them still mistake understanding for condonement.”

“That sounds like an issue with objectivity in the field.”

“That what you’ve come looking for?” Arthur asks dryly, lifting his eyes to Ludwig’s chin. They both know this isn’t a social visit, for all Ludwig had the courtesy to wait until the end of Arthur’s class. Ludwig’s suit is still too sharp, not a strand of his blond hair out of place. “Objectivity?”

Ludwig nods, shameless about it. “And your particular type of understanding. We have a new case in Ohio, Arthur. Three are dead on-scene. The flight leaves shortly and I would like you to ride along, tell us what you see.”

“What, now?” Arthur baulks, seeing the immediate confirmation in Ludwig’s expression. Though his lectures might be over for the day, Arthur has other obligations. “No can do.” He finishes buckling the straps of his satchel closed, already shaking his head to Ludwig’s next protest as he knots a brown scarf around his nigh-bare neck. “My babysitter doesn’t work Mondays.”

Ludwig huffs sharply through his nose, his scent turning to something exasperated, peppery and hot on the tip of Arthur’s tongue like chillies and burnt coffee. Arthur prefers tea but is growing unfortunately familiar with the taste of caffeine served this way - though Ludwig at least, still, has the decency to keep the heat of his disapproval on Arthur’s face rather than on the obviously unmarked slope of Arthur’s neck that Arthur’s scarf fails to conceal. If you won’t talk to your family, you should at least have a mate to take care of this.

It’s easy enough for a mated alpha with no children of his own to pass comment. Alphas with absolutely none of the manners their mothers ever taught them always pass judgement with their eyes long before the stereotypical bullshit comes tumbling out of their mouths, and there are plenty out there that have something to say about an omega being unmated at Arthur’s age, no claiming bite or collar on his throat, especially when that selfsame omega is newly a mother.

Ludwig would have an easier time of getting his way with things if Arthur had a mate or family he actually tolerated to drop his baby off with - but, oh, woe, tragedy indeed, Arthur’s private life and personal decisions fail to revolve around the self-proclaimed needs of one Ludwig Beilschmidt.

“Is there a problem with the services the Academy’s crèche provides for your daughter?”

“The crèche closes at 9, Ludwig,” Arthur points out as he slings his bag over his shoulder and rounds the desk, keeping his tone extraordinarily reasonable, he believes, for a man with a bad head half dreaming of getting home with his daughter sometime soon, half calculating when he can take his next dose of aspirin. “When all the sensible students and professors have head home. Can’t get to Ohio and back before then.” Even assuming all their flights will be on time.

The 9 o’ clock close of the crèche at Quantico is later than most places of business with crèches on-site choose to close, the increased hours only a result of the FBI Academy’s presence on a military base. Gender, dynamic and family rights have progressed in - comparative - leaps and bounds since the Stone Ages in which the Academy was first founded, and the safety and security of the nation cannot be endangered by single parents unable to find adequate childcare.

“If you’d like to bring her along -”

“No,” Arthur hisses, sudden and vehement enough that Ludwig startles back away from him as Arthur’s eyes begin to prickle - undoubtedly bleeding gold. “I am not bringing my baby to a crime scene, Ludwig.” The thought is unconscionable, a boundary blurred into something monstrous.

Ludwig’s instinctive retreat had only been half a step, and half a step alone, but that half a step had been much further than Ludwig had been expecting to go. He pushes back now, failing to see that the line Arthur has drawn lays in concrete rather than sand. “It would be no trouble to get an agent to look after her while you’re occupied-”

Sure, the nameless agent would love that.

Arthur bares his fangs, letting his irritation spill out into his own scent, the lightning-struck forest more dangerous than any burning tower. Ozone and pine: a flammable mix. “You think I’d trust her in the care of a stranger? She’s six months old!” He turns to stalk away.

“What about Dr. Bonnefoy?”

Arthur pauses, caught before he has managed to leave the hall. “What about Dr. Bonnefoy?”

“She’s the child’s godmother, isn’t she?” Oh, Ludwig is finagling now. “Unofficially.”

Unofficially. As most arrangements Arthur has with Marianne Bonnefoy are. Especially when she’s been carefully avoiding him and his questions about the new arrangements for Madeline Williams’ care after the events at John Hopkins, still wary of Arthur’s attachment to the omega girl he had orphaned.

Arthur purses his lips. “I wasn’t aware Marianne had a lecture scheduled this evening.”

“She pushed back her morning lecture today.”

Huh. “Looking to see what consultants you had on-site to grab before you left?” Arthur asks, his voice bordering on scathing - but bites his tongue at Ludwig’s immediate forbidding look in reply. Ludwig is only willing to accept so much of Arthur’s bad temper.

Lines, boundaries and connections. The give and take of favours and affection, work and home, death and delicate daughters who, outside the adult concept of time, are either sleeping or young enough to immediately forgive their mother for all the time he spends away from them.

Arthur considers, gathering up ideas like wet pebbles from the bed of the stream that runs through his mind. Feeling the weight of each before choosing which ones he wishes to discard. “...I’ll go. But only if Marianne is able to babysit.”

Ludwig is triumphant. Ludwig’s triumph dies in its nascency, because, when he and Arthur make their way over to the lecture hall assigned to Dr. Bonnefoy for her lessons, Marianne is unable to babysit. Marianne is not there.

Instead, a small handful of adoring students remains clustered around the podium at the front of the room, and the one fielding their questions is -

“Dr. Fernandes.” Arthur stops short.

“Arthur.”

Breaking off mid-whatever he had been discussing with the trainees, the unexpected figure of Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes looks, first, surprised and then pleased to see Arthur darkening his - borrowed? - door. His smile seems to be a real one; even a few metres away Arthur can see how it creases the corners of Fernandes' eyes - though some of the pleasure fades as Fernandes' gaze slides past Arthur to Ludwig coming up on Arthur’s heels.

“A moment please,” Fernandes says to both of them before he turns back to the trainees, clearly - and efficiently - wrapping up the last of the group’s questions despite how they appear to be desperately trying to prolong the conversation. Hanging on his every accented word, drawn in (or at least not dissuaded) by the - very - tight charcoal and cream plumage the alpha has chosen to peacock around in today. Little birds clustering in the shade of a broad, tall tree, chirp, chirp, cheep.

Ludwig advances even as the trainees - reluctantly - depart, towing Arthur forward with him by the sheer force of his presence. “Dr. Fernandes, good evening.” Apparently Ludwig uses the same forced joviality with Fernandes as he does with Arthur. “Please forgive the intrusion, we were searching for Dr. Bonnefoy.”

“Ah, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” Fernandes informs them, gathering up his own paperwork on the podium. “Dr. Bonnefoy asked me to replace her in her classes today.” His expression is suitably sympathetic for the occasion, his scent of musk and petrichor by the sea as soft as the dusty shade of his charcoal suit. Beckoning others in with an offering of - not unattractive - alpha security, with a flirt of something rich and bitterly citrus when he moves and fabric brushes against the glands at his throat or wrists, the overworked buttons of his shirt straining over his chest. “She has flu, and is very cross about it.” Hence the rescheduled class.

“Generous of you,” says Arthur shortly, trying to figure out if he’s disappointed by this development or not. It would have been useful to talk to Marianne and coax the woman into a more agreeable mindset by depositing an adorable baby into her arms - Marianne favours both Arthur’s dogs and child -, but now, with no babysitter available, Arthur gets to go home.

“A small favour is nothing for a friend, yes?” is Fernandes' smooth, sincere-sounding reply - before his mouth curls upwards with a spark of intimate, invitational, mischief. One of his long brown curls dangles boyishly in front of his eyes. “In truth, I find it an interesting change to my usual affairs.”

As though Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes does not dictate the direction of the majority of his usual affairs.

Arthur snorts. “We’ll let you get back to those then. Ludwig -”

“Perhaps Dr. Fernandes could assist us instead,” says Ludwig.

The casual presumption sticks to the back of Arthur’s teeth and he is just. So tired. “Pretty sure Dr. Fernandes has had a busy enough day already,” says Arthur. His head is still throbbing.

Dr. Fernandes is still radiating a wearying amount of amusement for the end of the general Academy day, damn him and his tight suit and straining buttons. The teeth in his smile. “I still have some energy left to spare. What is it that I can help you with?”

“I don’t,” says Arthur.

“How are you with children?” asks Ludwig. Alpha to alpha.

Naturally, Fernandes only hears the most intriguing remark. “Children?”

“Child. Singular. Infant, actually.” Arthur finally yields to the temptation that has been plaguing him for some time now, reaching up with one hand to knuckle at his eye. Pushing back against the pressure pounding in his head.

“I dealt with many children - including young children - as a medical doctor,” says Fernandes, “though paediatrics was never my speciality.”

Though he keeps his own eyes fixed on a point between Fernandes' nostrils and the sharp wings of the doctor’s tanned clavicles, Arthur is not unaware of the weight of Fernandes' gaze as it travels back and forth between Ludwig and himself, the doctor deeply curious and waiting for elaboration. None is immediately forthcoming; after neatly backing Arthur into a corner of social politeness, Ludwig is waiting on Arthur to offer up his daughter as sacrifice for their travel plans, Iphigenia reborn, and Arthur is. Struggling. To imagine asking a favour of such magnitude. To work out if he even wants to.

Ludwig might be happy to deposit Arthur’s offspring into any set of arms that will hold her long enough for Ludwig to get Arthur out to Ohio to look at his crime scene, but Arthur has to put a little more thought into the matter. Conscious, especially recently, of the weight of trusting daughters (in mind, in heart, and tucked up against one’s shoulder), and the responsibilities of guardianship.

“Do you have a case involving an infant?” Fernandes inquires at last.

Arthur cannot help the way his mouth twists wryly at that. Inevitability - driven along by the determination of Ludwig Beilschmidt - bites in deep. Despite all their conversations about Madeline since they had saved the girl’s life together… Arthur had never told Dr. Fernandes he was a mother. “Ludwig has a case. I have an infant. This is apparently a scheduling conflict.”

“...I see.”

Oh, when the sound of recontextualisation is just two little words. Pebbles dropping, said so delicately. Arthur is accustomed to delicate little words that are said one way and meant another, and has had more than a few of them slung his way ever since his pregnancy first started showing. (Used goods. Whore.)

Arthur lifts his head again. Defiantly. If killing makes God feel powerful then the reverse must also be true: God giveth and God taketh away. Destruction is balanced by the act of creation, and Arthur had laboured nine long months and several longer bloody hours to bring forth his daughter into the universe. He looks at her still, sometimes, doing nothing more than breathing in her cot by his bed, and his heart burns fiercer than any heat he’s known.

There are pinwheels of golden green in Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes' hazel eyes, light and darkness both that shine with the doctor’s interest and curiosity. But not a trace of judgement. No hint of scandal or reproof.

The corner of Fernandes' mouth quirks back at Arthur in the most minute of smiles, and the breath Arthur hadn’t even realised he’d been holding shudders, startled, out of his chest.

Delicacy is not an oft-used tool in Ludwig Beilschmidt’s arsenal, not when a problem can be presented immediately to the solution. “I realise it is something of an imposition, doctor, but would you be able to watch her for the evening?” The bitter coffee-pepper taste of Ludwig’s impatience is a heavy reminder of his presence. The clock is always ticking, and it gets stuffed up Arthur’s nose. “There is a new case out in Ohio, and the team could really use Arthur’s eyes on the scene while it is still relatively fresh.”

“A girl?” Fernandes asks Arthur quietly, and Arthur looks back at him a little helplessly.

“Ludwig, you can’t just steamroll people into babysitting. Dr. Fernandes -”

“I would be happy to help,” says Fernandes, and Arthur really begins longing for some aspirin.

Ludwig nods, pleased. “Then it is settled. Thank you, doctor.” Arthur chirps, irritated again - perhaps Ludwig would like to double-check this arrangement with the infant’s mother? -, but Ludwig is already back to ignoring him, marching out of the room with one last commandment: “Arthur, I need you to be ready to go in 20.”

20? 20 minutes is barely enough time for Arthur to turn his head - never mind his arse - around, not when he has a thousand and one different important things he now has to impart to Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes.

So he frowns at Fernandes. He could have gone home. “You didn’t have to do that.” Amends - “You don’t have to do this.”

“And leave you - or should I say Ludwig - without a babysitter?” The click of Fernandes' briefcase as it closes sounds like more than one thing being shut. “Arthur, you never mentioned that you are a parent.”

“It wasn’t relevant to our conversations,” says Arthur. Adding a stubborn, “I find it best to maintain certain boundaries between work and home,” to Fernandes' raised eyebrows. “Where possible.”

“Boundaries can be healthy, they say,” Fernandes observes, making a great show of reaching for his overcoat and sliding it onto his arms. Look at him, so theatrically busy and paying Arthur no mind. “Or isolating.”

Arthur just snorts again, already expecting the sting in the tail.

It isn’t like Arthur believes Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes is the sort of alpha, from more barbarous days of yore, who would either kill or drive off the offspring of alphas other than himself if children were placed into his care. Dr. Fernandes, paediatric speciality or no, has a careful touch with the vulnerable.

Snapshots of the Williams’ kitchen are seared into Arthur’s mind now, each an ever-fixed mark, the mingled smells of wet iron, sour fear and sharp gunpowder all tangled up with the sense-memory of the tiled edges of the kitchen floor biting into Arthur’s knees, the sticky wet pulsing of heartblood over his hands. When the night’s gloaming stretches out dark and dreadful Arthur remembers his own fingers - cold, white under all that blood and trembling - useless on Madeline’s throat as the girl juddered and quaked beneath him, drowning on dry land in that ever-growing river of red - and then the confident touch from Fernandes, stepping in, taking over, his palms warm and fingers sure and steady as he held the last of his patient’s precious life inside of her.

Fernandes had kept Madeline alive long enough for the EMTs to arrive, and then escorted her to the hospital. In the days that had followed, he had been just as much of a fixture in Madeline’s ward as Arthur himself. Falling asleep at Madeline’s bedside, Madeline's hand clasped safely in his own.

Take away the knife, the blood, the floor, the injury - Fernandes has hands tender enough to curve around a trusting infant’s head, long-fingered and sure, and he is strong and intelligent enough to defend her. But - take away the death, the comatose girl, the psychiatric evaluation, the talks of God and power - Arthur has still only known the alpha in front of him for a metaphorical five minutes. A few weeks.

And Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes doesn’t seem like the sort of man who would deal well with having baby spit-up on him. He looks sweet and smooth and easy-going, suave as any rich alpha going courting - or, perhaps, as slyly smug as a particularly pampered cat.

“Tell me about your little one,” says Fernandes anyway, and Arthur sighs. If the good doctor is so determined…

“Lenore,” says Arthur. She whom the angels call - as she fusses back. “Lenore Kirkland. She’s six months old, and looks like the cross between a princess, a pixie, and a dumpling. I had her in March.”

Fernandes makes no attempt to hide the keen sweep of his gaze from Arthur’s top to bottom and back upwards again, shameless in his curiosity. Making an assessment. “You have recovered quickly from the pregnancy. I couldn’t tell.” Apparently confident enough in his abilities as a medical doctor to believe he should have been able to tell that Arthur had recently carried and borne a child, ugh. “Her other parent is unavailable to take care of her?”

“He was never in the picture,” Arthur says. Flatly. His tone very much implying that if Fernandes digs at this topic any more than necessary, Lenore’s other biological parent won’t be the only one pushed out of frame.

Fernandes dips his head - taking the hint - so Arthur continues.

“You’ll need to pick up Lenore from the Academy crèche. It closes at 9, so there’s no need to hurry if you’re busy, and I’ll phone ahead to let them know you’ll be handling pick-up. You should -” Arthur hesitates, the necessary logistics of handing his daughter over into another’s care floating to mind - and then sitting horribly ill at-ease with the vision of the elegant man in front of him, “uh, you should probably take my car. For her car seat. It’s a bastard to take out and put in again so it’s probably easiest for you just to take the whole vehicle.” 

Fernandes' face does a thing. It’s a minuscule thing, so infinitesimally tiny that if Arthur hadn’t been watching the microscopic shifts of the other man’s expressions he would have missed it, but definitely a thing.

Honestly, it’s quite a beautiful thing, as the only way in which Arthur can think to describe it is Arthur Kirkland, I have seen your Volvo. (Marianne has an expression that might be a close cousin to the look, but, somehow, Marianne has learnt the arcane art of coaxing Lenore’s baby seat into agreeing with her long enough for her to transfer it between Arthur’s vehicle and her own. Arthur has yet to develop the knack of it himself.)

“I can get a taxi home from the airport,” he assures Fernandes, solicitous now he has the schadenfreude of Fernandes' dismay to cheer him for the rest of the night. (Let his shitty dog hair-covered car stand testament to a universal truth: even the most smugly prepared soul should look before they leap.)

Fernandes purses his lips, his dismay now warring with his disapproval of Arthur being put-out because of Ludwig’s demands. “At the Bureau’s expense, I hope?”

“My travel expenses will be the delight of the accounting department,” Arthur says dryly - and is promptly warmed as well by Fernandes' soft huff of laughter. So Arthur can afford to be magnanimous as he fishes out his car key. “If you want to fleece them as well, I promise to see and say nothing. You- uh, you don’t have to stay the whole evening with Lenore, you know. My neighbour is always happy to take her if you explain I’m held up - Nancy, with the bright red mailbox covered in flower stickers, house right before mine and perm you can see for miles. You can drop Lenore off there.”

“It is really no trouble, Arthur.” Fernandes - even with the dual threats of a six month-old and Arthur’s Volvo hanging over his head - still appears to be sincere, those long fingers of his brushing against Arthur’s fingertips as he takes the key from Arthur’s hand. (Citrus again. Like the type used in that English tea: bergamot.) “Though I will need your home address.”

Right. Yes. That will be another not-so-little boundary Arthur is going to have to permit Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes to cross this evening in the name of emergency childcare. “Ah. Yeah, I’ll- I’ll text you that ASAP.”

“You definitely have my cell phone number?”

Arthur nods; he definitely has Fernandes' cell phone number. Not that he has used it for much so far except to confirm two appointments with the other man at Fernandes' office.

“...Um.” Arthur stalls, drawing his lower lip back between his teeth to chew on it as Fernandes looks at him inquiringly. What constitutes a reasonable first-time favour from someone who is not quite a colleague, not quite a co-parent, and not quite an assigned psychiatrist? “If you - uh - wouldn’t mind stopping at mine either way? My dogs will need letting out for a run in the grass, and, if you could give them a scoop each of the emergency kibble in the bag in my kitchen, I’ll owe you one.”

Fernandes' head tilts minutely, studying him.

“...Assuming you don’t have any issues with dogs.”

“I do not,” says Fernandes simply, and Arthur has never been more grateful to not be asked any further questions about his pack of canines. Least of all how many he has of them.

“House keys,” Arthur proclaims instead, depositing the named items into Fernandes' waiting palm after he has dug them up out of the depths of his blazer pocket. And brushed the lint off of them. “And- uh-”

Arthur tugs the (old, mud-coloured, dog-chewed) scarf from around his neck before he can think too hard about it, stepping forward to sling the item of clothing up and around Fernandes' neck.

They share breath for a moment: vanillic paper and apples, petrichor and musky bergamot, oak and - at the soft swallow of Fernandes' throat - resinous vetiver. The scarf’s wool is scratchy in comparison to the softer (expensive) weave of Fernandes' overcoat against Arthur’s skin, and the colour of the accessory turns Fernandes' outfit into something muddy.

Uh.

Though Fernandes is undeniably the taller of the two of them, there is not so much difference between Fernandes and Arthur in height - and yet Arthur feels every single inch of that difference as Fernandes, eyebrows raised once more, looks down at both the offending scarf and Arthur as Arthur stands in front of him holding both of the scarf’s tail ends, willing himself not to flush. Arthur’s wrap shirt that day - designed with nursing mothers in mind and cut in the omega style - has a deep asymmetrical neckline, and, without his scarf as protection, Arthur’s blush would visibly flood his entire face and throat a vulnerable pink. This close to Fernandes, leaning into Fernandes' gravitational field and with the alpha’s scent full in his lungs… it would be like dripping blood into shark-infested waters.

Arthur stalls embarrassment by keeping his eyes trained on Fernandes' tanned jawline instead of on whatever look the doctor has decided to allow into his eyes, instead of on whatever dangerous twist there might be now to Fernandes' mouth. The two of them are not close enough acquaintances to be exchanging items of clothing - especially not clothing that Arthur has worn so often, that has rubbed against his scent glands and has his natural omega scent embedded so deeply in the cloth. It’s. Very personal.

“Lenore won’t settle if you don’t smell like me, so if you just.” Arthur pats awkwardly at both the scarf and Fernandes' breastbone with the flat of one hand - most likely squashing the alpha’s nipple somewhere beneath. A warm drum beats steadily under his palm and Arthur’s chest feels tight. “Sort of tuck her up against that.”

Fernandes recovers quickly, gracefully pretending that Arthur has not just committed a horrific social faux pas by thrusting a scented item at him with extreme overfamiliarity and no advance warning. (Boundaries, ha.) “It’s a good suggestion.” He reaches out to take the trailing ends of the scarf from Arthur and- and Arthur stutters backwards from the other man. Before he can do more damage.

Though it seems Fernandes had only taken the scarf to tie it into a loose knot around his throat. Ah.

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I promise I am not wholly incompetent with babies, and I have your number to call you if there are any problems.”

That is not what Arthur had been concerned about.

Well, that is not entirely what Arthur had been concerned about.

What does Arthur’s private life look like through Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes' eyes? It’s an ungainly thing to set up against Fernandes' polished veneer, to hold up to that finish Fernandes has smoothed out over his charmed existence. All that polish in Fernandes' life, his obvious casual wealth - both socially and materially -, his apparent effortless competence with everything he does. So evidently, easily, alpha that others instinctively defer to him, that Fernandes brings a cooked breakfast with him on trips afield to provide for the less prepared waiflings thrust upon him. Trace back on Fernandes' phylogenetic tree, and his ancestors must have all been the prime of their genetic subdivision.

Arthur life’s, in contrast, is nothing but lumps and bumps, like porridge that needs a great deal more stirring before it can be served for breakfast. Hic sunt dracones, something not in Fernandes' cartography: the uncharted realms of dopey dogs, daughters that are produced like magic tricks, and clunky cars with fur shed on the seats and rattling, rainbow-coloured baby toys rolling around in the footwells.

The cathedral of Dr. Fernandes' Baltimore office is a far cry from Arthur’s farmhouse out in the fields of Virginia where the afflictions of middle class single motherhood for the canine-hoarding and socially incompetent have stamped their mark. There is nothing sacrosanct in a living room camp-bed left unmade that morning, in a small army of used baby bottles and coffee cups on every flat (and some distinctly dangerous) surfaces, and chewed-up tennis balls nudged under every seat. One in every three floorboards in Arthur’s home creaks and groans underfoot, bags of unused supermarket salad expire in the limited space in Arthur’s fridge that isn’t dedicated to either homemade dog food or sanitised bags of expressed breast milk, and muddy towels damp with the smell of dog sit in the towering laundry pile next to stacks of baby onesies and the plaid shirt Lenore had vomited on two nights before that Arthur still hasn’t had the time to wash.

The only way the much more sophisticated puzzle piece of Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes fits into a jigsaw like that is by way of Ludwig’s presumption wielded as a mallet, and Arthur feels like he should apologise for the mismatch - before he is immediately resentful of the feeling, his pride pricked. And he is then, too, resentful of his own resentfulness, that, even decades on from the damp, poverty-stricken corners of his childhood, a favour still tastes bitter on his tongue, too much like charity.

And yet - there is no judgement in Dr. Fernandes' face or posture as he takes stock of their very different lifestyles. No pity, sympathy or condescension. There never has been, no matter what secrets Arthur has revealed to the alpha. Revelations of parenthood and tenderness weighed equally on the scales against confessions of righteousness, the satisfaction gained from putting bad people down.

Fernandes simply… accepts. It all. All of it.

“Right,” says Arthur. Remembers Fernandes volunteered for this (babysitting, dealing with all of Arthur’s shit, whatever else may be) and begrudgingly adds, “Thank you again. I’ll-” a gesture at the open door of the classroom behind him. Ludwig will have Arthur's head if he makes the team late for the flight, and Arthur still has some aspirin and water he needs to down before he can consent to being trapped in a metal box with Beilschmidt and his team for several hours. “I need to go now, but I’ll phone the crèche and then send you my address.”

Fernandes nods, his plush mouth still a solemn thing above Arthur’s ugly scarf though his eyes crinkle, once more, with what Arthur might almost dare to call fondness. “Safe travels to Ohio.”

…He really doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for, does he?

That’s alright, Arthur thinks as he leaves the lecture hall, raising one hand at Dr. Fernandes behind him in a parting farewell. Arthur isn’t too sure what he’s let himself in for with any of this evening’s developments either.

*****

*****

*****

No doubt some of these are more self-evident than others, but here’s a list all the same of some of our dramatis personae that have names here less familiar to fandom: Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes - Portugal Dr. Marianne Bonnefoy - Female France Madeline Williams - Female Canada Lenore Kirkland - OC, Herself

‘Lenore’ is 100% a reference to Poe’s The Raven, as are all chapter titles. It’s also a reference to Gottfried August Bürger’s gothic ballad Lenore, which has some interesting parallels with themes in this story/the series the Hannibal version of this story is part of.

NEXT CHAPTER

[shelbydelrey]

Etheline Hill of Casterly Rock

"A dog raised among lions"

MASTERLIST

cw: canon typical violence (both GOT and Peaky), misogyny, incest, infidelity, animal abuse, death, murder, sexual content, HEAVY ANGST.

A/N: I adapted Tommy's name into Tommen Selby in order to fit the Westeros medieval aesthetic. And no, Selby isn't a typo: it is the root name, in Norse culture, of the modern Shelby name.

BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION

Born: 213 AC (one of the Free Cities)

Died: 239 AC (Casterly Rock)

POLITICAL INFORMATION

House(s): -

Affiliation(s): House Lannister; House Selby

TITLE(s)

Lady of Casterly Rock (posthumous)

PERSONAL INFORMATION

Also known as: Ethel

Culture: Westermen

Religion: Faith of The Seven

Father: Robert Lannister II

Mother: Unknown

Sibling(s): Heinrich Lannister; Daisy Lannister

Spouse: Heinrich Lannister

Lover(s): May Dondarrion (unconfirmed); Tommen Selby

Issue: -

HISTORY

Etheline’s place of birth is cited to be one of the Free Cities and her mother’s name remains unknown. Under the bastard surname “Hill” of the Westerlands, she was raised in Casterly Rock and received a formal education. Maester Dallar, who served the Lannisters from Lord Benam Lannister’s rule until the House’s extinction, noted that “while she is a child of no particular beauty and no particular intelligence, she compensates with dedication”. Heinrike, Robert Lannister’s wife, wrote to her sister about the girl’s tutoring: “I do not know why i’m being punished. I gave him two children - one of them a son above all - and yet Robert treats the creature to a higher prestige than Daisy”.

Witnesses recall that during childhood, Daisy and Etheline never displayed affection towards one another. Heinrich, however, often played pranks on his half-sister¹. There is no confirmation on whether or not their incestuous relationship started in these early days.

Robert Lannister II died at 220 AC thirty-seventh year, rendering Heinrich the sole male heir of House Lannister. In a letter to Lady May of House Dondarrion, Etheline briefly spoke about her father: “There is a daydream i allow myself to indulge: around the age of six, my father kneels before me and calls me Rhaenys. His eyes are kind while he speaks to me and full of a joy that can only be conjured through imagination. I dip inside this fantasy to pretend that i was once loved enough to be named after the First Queen of Westeros.”

The Hill girl’s stay at Casterly Rock was questioned after her father’s passing but once asked about it Lord Robert replied: “She was smeared into this world already. By trying to remove the stain, it will only further ruin the fabric.”

At her sixteenth year, she started to frequent tournaments and, although unnatural, she aided her grandfather in fiscal duties.

At 233 AC, Lady May Dondarrion requested the company of Daisy Lannister at Blackhaven. The invitation was accepted but Etheline was sent in her sister’s place². No offence was recorded on Lady Dondarrion’s part. Servants reported that the two women spent an awful lot of time behind closed doors; either in the Mistress chambers or the castle’s library and these rumours coupled with a specific passage in one of their correspondence (in which Hill pleads: “Please, give myself back to me. You’ve uncovered a truth about myself that i would rather remain concealed.”) paved the route of speculation of the possibility of an affair between the two.

At 235 AC, Lord Tommen Selby arrived in Casterly Rock. In correspondence to Lady Dondarrion, she laid out what is believed to be her first impressions of the Warden of The North: “He seeks gold after sacking the North” and “He is as tall as the shortest Lannister woman”³. She accompanied him to Lannisport on multiple occasions and even followed his delegation to the vassal House Payne. Story goes that at a Casterly Rock’s market, the Lord of Winterfell helped the illegitimate daughter of House Lannister rescue a dog from a number of kids that found pleasure in stoning the animal. Tommen would later report: “Despite being a sizable beast, the dog was skin and bones by the time we found him, with rashes all over his body and at least one broken paw. The sight of her red dress drove the little miscreants away, although two of them ran off with screams of ‘here comes the Lady of Casterly Rock’, but even so he wouldn’t let us close, showing his teeth and barking at every step we took. To him we were no different than his assailants. My suggestion of feeding him a piece of bread with a few drops of sedative didn’t please her at first but with the lack of alternatives she was forced to agree; i could tell she couldn’t bear to see the dog licking his own wounds. We had to wait until my squire came back from the Rock with a vial and i had my own reservations as to whether or not the animal would accept the offer of food but alas a dog is a dog and soon he succumbed to the medicine. I carried him to spare her the misery; at the mercy of a heavy sleep, the creature resembled a corpse. On our way back to the fortress, she shed silent tears and to this day the wails trapped in her chest haunt my sleep.”

It is uncertain if the liaison between Lord Tommen and Etheline started prior to his engagement to her half-sister⁴ but historians speculate, based on the following letter, that she seduced the man out of jealousy of her sister:

“It’s been two weeks since your departure and i’m already tracing the marks of your teeth whenever your absence makes itself physical. You can gloat; it is the sweetest defeat i’ve ever surrendered myself to. You can even have another of my sordid secrets: i’ve came on my fingers, repeatedly, thinking only of your warm mouth on my thigh.  

Are you sure no Stark blood runs in your veins? Because your canines do resemble a wolf’s and its punctures are the ones taking the longest to heal. I dread the moment the purple coloration will fade into yellow, i dread that the imprints of your mouth will fade with it and that any sign you’ve ever been here will disappear. I can only hope that the memory is as equally scarred on my soul as it is on my body. Which of us is madder? Me, for requesting your bite or you, for obliging to such a grotesque request?

Have you bedded my sister? By the time this letter reaches [the caravan], the two of you will still be a good few miles away from Winterfell and not yet married but i do wonder if curiosity or duty overtook the both of you. Despite her despise for your low birth, i can picture Daisy warming your bed in defiance - to you and Robert -, as if to say “i won’t treat myself as a victim”. Will you learn to love this fire that resides inside her? Or will it melt the ice of your newly conquered castle until all the Selbys drown?

Don’t fret, however. She will never hate you like i do. She will never make love to you like i do.”

They carried on their affair through correspondence⁵ until 238 AC, the year of Lord Robert’s death.

Heinrich, heir of House Lannister and half-brother of Etheline, was at the Stormlands under the ward of Lord Alfred Baratheon in the events of his passing, rendering his mother Heinrike the only official member of House Lannister presiding over Casterly Rock. This vulnerability was appropriated by House Greyjoy that set up an attack at Lannisport. Heinrike summoned House Arryn, her place of birth, and Etheline requested the aid of Lord Eustace Tyrell⁶, who attended her call. The uprising was quickly vanquished with remarks such as these by General Jorrel of the Westerland army: “Lady Heinrike displayed courage and provided the strength necessary to march on against the Greyjoys. But it was Etheline who carried the calm of unwavering certainty that there would be no defeat; a Lannister trait that was still fresh and was mourned at the mouths of the soldiers.” Heinrich returned with his great-aunt Lenora Baratheon, the twin sister of Lord Robert Lannister I. His first act as Lord of House Lannister was to behead Lord Kollion Greyjoy under orders of King Aegon Targaryen V. Etheline was by his side during the punishment.

From early childhood, Elizabeth Baratheon had been promised to Heinrich. Nevertheless, in late 238 AC, the man sought Septon Carn in Payne territory to secretly unite him in marriage with his half-sister, Etheline Hill. Blind, half-deaf and an octogenarian, the scholar conducted the ceremony unaware of the incestuous nature of the relationship. However, a month later the engagement with House Baratheon wasn’t broken and the union of Elizabeth and Heinrich took place in Casterly Rock as scheduled. In early 239 AC, the unlawful marriage's witness, who remains anonymous, denounced the deed. House Baratheon declared war on the Lannisters and demanded Heinrich's head as Elizabeth's immediate return.

In what is believed to be Etheline's final letter, the woman [discorre] about her condition in those hectic days:

“Dear Tommen,

I hope this letter found its way into your hands. Heinrike locked me inside my room and there’s little access to food and water, let alone a piece of parchment. I only got my hands on this one after appealing to the motherly side of Daisy’s old maid. The hag always pitied me and now she finally had the chance to crumble before this motherless child. I am being mean, i know. If your eyes are roaming this words, it’s all thanks to her. But i can’t control my anger. At this moment, it is aimless and innocent people get hurt as a result.

By now, you must be aware of my sins. I won’t apologise. A lifetime of sorries led me to where i am today. So why am i writing to you? I suppose it’s due to our own fairshare of misdeeds. Or perhaps it’s simply me being audacious in an attempt to tell my side of the story to the only pair of ears willing to listen.

I’ve loved Heinrich ever since my fourteenth nameday. I danced on my own that day, to the sound of drums that existed only in my head. It took me some time to notice him watching me but when i did, i paused as a deer caught in a trap. I waited to be berated, the punishment, however, never came. Instead, his lips claimed mine under the peach tree. 

In the following years he promised me the world: to make me Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock. The lie fed me when i was hungry, warmed me when i was cold and it lulled me to sleep for countless night but i always took it for what it was, a fantasy. And yet, i cried as if the heavens were torturing me after his departure to Storm’s End. It was particularly agonising for he denounced me a month prior, declaring that our love was an abomination. I didn’t have the spirit to tell him that as an anathema, there was no other way i could devote myself to him. 

Does the knowledge of having touched such rotten flesh makes you feel sick*? 

Time came and he returned. I was prepared to never speak of our private matters and offer him only my wits to continue my work of aiding the Lannisters but he surprised me by kneeling and declaring that he hadn’t spent a day without thinking about me. He looked feeble. Despite the broad shoulders and the stern face, he was still the sixteen year old that sneaked into my room, as i was still that foolish girl, because, Lord Tommen, i took him in.

The wedding wasn’t meant to have any validity. It was meant to serve as a token for our crimes and he purposely chose Septon Carn not only for his elderliness but also his forgetfulness. It was never meant to end up like this.

There you have it, Lord Tommen, my pathetic life and my pathetic excuses. Now, i’m at the mercy of god.

I have one last request: please find Rusty. I managed to take him out of the keep before Heinrike could come for him but he’s now wandering the streets of Casterly Rock alone, and you know they don’t treat him kindly. He’s the only son i’ll ever have and i’ve abandoned him just like my mother did to me.

Yours,

Etheline”

Although the Faith publicly accused Heinrich and Etheline of incest, they lacked the judicial power to trial the siblings. Nonetheless, Heinrike sanctioned a walk of atonement to be performed by the young bastard. As tradition, her mane, eyebrows and genitalia were stripped of hair. A crowd of approximately five thousand people awaited the woman at Casterly Rock’s castle. They followed her march with screams of “Whore!” and “Harlot”. Some say she cried through the trajectorie’s entirety while others assert that she endured everything with a directionless gaze. It is believed that the event was a diversion so Heinrich could embark on a ship to the free city of Braavos. The following morning, however, his body was found hanging by a rope tied to a hook in the roof. 

Etheline died of stoning at the gates of Lannisport.

Lord Tommen Selby arrived with his calvary at the end of the day. Upon seeing Etheline’s body displayed at the square, he slit the throat of the City’s Guard Chief, who at that moment was still trying to contain the havoc and the trampling. Records disclose that he removed his cape, enveloped the woman’s corpse and cried at the nook of her neck. He later trailed all the way back to Casterly Rock while carrying Etheline in his arms.

Etheline Hill was posthumously titled Lady of Casterly Rock by Lord Tommen⁷.

She features in “The Lineages and History of The Great Houses of The Seven Kingdoms”. Her passage reads: “ETHELINE HILL, born to the late Robert Lannister, second of his name, and [obscure], in the year 203d after Aegon’s Landing at the Last Hearth. Blonde of hair, brown of eyes, wed in her twenty-sitch year to her brother HEINRICH LANNISTER. Died in her twenty-sixth year from stoning at Casterly Rock.”

¹ The scar on Etheline’s left temple is believed to come from one of this incidents.

² Daisy Lannister spent the summer of 233 AC at King’s Landing, where it is believed she was being courted by prince Daeron Targaryen.

³ It is likely that Etheline was referring to herself, as the Lannister women contemporary to her were reportedly taller than Lord Selby.

⁴ It is uncertain why Lord Robert declined prince Daeron’s offer of engagement in favour of a landed knight such as Lord Tommen Selby.

⁵ A series of correspondence, spanning from the end of 235 AC until the end of 238 AC, exchanged between Lord Tommen Selby and Lady Etheline Hill, were found in a chest kept by the side of his bed after the Lord of Winterfell and Casterly Rock and Hand of The King was assassinated by prince Aerys II at Red Keep, King’s Landing.

⁶ Lord Eustace Tyrell was the second cousin of Heinrich Lannister, Daisy Lannister and Etheline Hill. He employed his forces to House Lannister during the Greyjoy Uprising.

⁷ After defeating Houses Tyrell and Baratheon in the Siege of Casterly Rock, event in which without a male Lannister heir, Lord Eustace Tyrell laid claim to the Westerlands due to him being a Lannister descendant on the female side, Lord Tommen Selby, now Lord of Casterly Rock had Etheline posthumously titled Lady as his first decree.

* the line "makes you feel sick" is directly inspired by the song Strangers by Ethel Cain.

tags: @justrainandcoffee @call-sign-shark @evita-shelby @mischievouslittlecreature @peakyswritings @cillmequick @darklydeliciousdesires

[masochist-marmot]

Killua Zoldyck deserves better

I have been watching Hunter x Hunter (2011) alongside the wonderful Media Club Plus podcast (that's 95 episodes and no more, so you can expect spoilers but beyond that point I'm in the dark), and I have thoughts I need to scream into the void.

TW: references to child abuse and canon-typical violence

Killua is the best little murder boi and he deserves so much better. I want to adopt him and show him that he deserves love that isn't dependent on how well he can shut everyone out emotionally (and rip people's hearts out, I guess). The show does such a good job demonstrating how an abusive home will leave its marks on you and undermine everything you do and every relationship you try to have after leaving. As someone who grew up in an emotionally abusive household, I recognise the overwhelming and disproportionate fear response you get when faced with conflict. The inability to defend yourself and even the ones you love is very real, even if I've never been put in mortal danger at the hands of a cat boy. Yet. A girl can dream.

Getting Illumi's pin out could have felt like a cheap cop-out if we hadn't seen Killua struggling with the effects for several arcs and then gruesomely reaching into his own head to remove the physical manifestation of (and allegory for) the trauma response. The fact that he didn't even notice the pin before that moment is also fitting, since you usually become blind to the origin of what your body and mind determines as an incredibly vital survival reflex. Recognising and dealing with it is hard, and it's gruelling, and it usually takes years of therapy and and environment that doesn't require you to uphold your maladaptive reactions. Since this is shounen, we can't have Killua undergo years of therapy to recover, so this emotional character moment was super effective at making me tear up and cheer. It was satisfying. In a true shounen fashion, the power of Killua's love for his best friend has prevailed over his family-induced trauma.

Speaking of best friends, and this may be controversial:

Killua deserves so much better than Gon. Killua is so single-mindedly loyal and devoted to this oblivious boy who takes him for granted at every turn. I choose to read this relationship through a queer lens (Killua is in love with his best friend who barely even thinks about him), but it's not necessary for my point to stand.

So, obviously the friendship is not completely one-sided. Gon quite literally walked into Killua's assassin mountain home to drag him away from his abusive family. (An interesting side point: Killua chose to subject himself to the family's punishment, even though he could have walked away at any point. He had been programmed to believe he deserved it, which is very common in abuse victims.) Killua feels like Gon is the first person who valued him outside of his family, since he hasn't been allowed to make friends. Of course he's going to devote himself mindlessly to him. This is also quite common in abuse victims: you latch yourself onto whoever shows you kindness, because you fear that no one else will ever love you if they leave.

Meanwhile, Gon is completely absorbed with his own goal of finding his dad (who would deserve a rant of his own) and generally doing whatever he finds fun or interesting. He expects Killua to follow him but also seems entirely fine with the idea of parting ways. The fact that he's so blind to Killua's unhealthy devotion to him means that he will keep putting Killua into danger and uncomfortable situations (you know, since he says he's fine with it) without any regard for _why_ Killua is fine with it. I'm pretty sure Killua would be willing to die for his "best friend", and if he does, I swear I'm done with the show. This friendship is not balanced. It's not even codependent, since only one party is dependent on the other.

Now, I'm well aware that these are literal children (and moreover, literal shounen characters) whose emotional and character development is not done. I also love both characters dearly and their relationship makes for some good television. But I stand by my thesis statement: Killua Zoldyck deserves better.

PS. Go listen to Media Club Plus, they're great at delving into themes and characters.

[retromotherfuckers]

When the Sun Sets - Part 4

Adriadne

Characters:

adriadne/morgan winchester (OC), dean winchester, sam winchester

Summary:

adriadne finds out who she was before she went to hell. and the winchesters will not rest until they fix what their sister did all those years ago.

Warnings (for entire story):

SPN typical violence, so so much suppressing of emotions, vague mention of SA, depiction of torture, a very pro-torture main character, murder, vague mention of not eating for a while, parental abuse, slight suicidal ideation, SPN typical alcohol abuse, spoiler warning up to the end of season 10, following canon stops after the end of season 2 but things are sure to be mentioned

Word Total:

4k ~ roughly

A/N:

hi, so sorry its been so long, but i finally got the inspiration to continue writing this little mini series. i'm not convinced anyone is still interested in this story, but here's part 4. there's a little hatred towards blondes in this chapter - guys i actually love blonde hair i think its gorgeous - your girl is just a demon. my search history after writing this chapter, god help me.

this takes place loosely around season 10 and i kind of combined when sam tries to cure crowley with when he cures dean.

let me tell you, writing about a person who has no idea what's real is not easy to make good - its a 0/10 for me and i'm not convinced i even succeeded at that

italics = inner thoughts/memories

dean: 36, morgan: 35 (her body is 27), sam: 32

Adriadne vaguely remembered hating the moon coming up when she was human. For some reason, she detested nighttime and all that came with it. She had wanted to believe she wasn't as bad as the humans when she was one. But as she roamed the street of whatever bumblefuck town she was in, she remembered staring blankly at a street lamp once.

It was the only light she had seen for several miles. It illuminated a small bus stop with a bench and a pay phone attached to it. She was in some loud car, with even louder music playing, with her intolerably quiet family. The faces, names, and details of any of them had been long washed away. Somebody in her family needed to make a call, so they stopped, and she was left alone for a few minutes. The yellow beams that kept that area lit were the only thing keeping her from panicking. She had assumed she was only a child in the memory because, I mean, seriously? An adult scared of the dark?

If she had been an adult, Satan help her if she was, it would have been further proof of how weak humans are. Actually, regardless, it was proof. There was no light in Hell. Everything was dark, and only with the sight of a demon could anyone see. She bristled at the thought. Since being on Earth, she had no desire to go back downstairs. 

The darkness of the night did give her a little sense of reminiscence, though. Of home, Alastair, Crowley, her tools. Where she could roam freely without having to cling to that damn sack of flesh. But the daytime was a close second, in her opinion. The sun, as bright and almost blinding as it was, was warm. And it felt…kind of nice.

Turned out, she was a natural blonde, a type of blonde that got even lighter when she lay in the sun. And that rubbed her the wrong way. Like, who was actually blonde nowadays? Every blonde Alastair assigned to her was quickly scalped. And when they were healed, she would do it again. Then, she'd make them drink anti-freeze because many of them had blue eyes. It really had been a fun game.

Watching them die slowly and painfully was always an excellent way to waste an hour. And when they were brought back to life, it was back to her regularly scheduled programming.

It sucked even more that she had blue eyes too. They were so light. Like the human fucking sky or some shit. She liked her black eyes. They were who she was, a dark and malevolent visitor on this planet of fluffy little bunnies. 

At the sound of a whistle, a very loud one, she turned to find the source. "Damn, baby." The man said. He was some random guy on the corner of the street, watching her as she walked. "What's your name?"

She planted a demure little smile like she was so flattered by the attention. With a blush, she said, "Mary."

He smirked. "Are you a virgin, too?"

Imbecile, she groaned inside her head. She had heard that joke back home. It was usually the first thing a demon said when assigned someone with that name. After hearing it for the first time, she chuckled. The second time, she grinned. The fifty-seventh? She ignored it. 

Come up with something new, people, will you?

She flashed some doe eyes at him and pretended to blush even more. "How did you know?"

"I tend to sense these things."

"Oh, do you?" She asked with a grin, flashing her natural eyes at him. But before he could scream, she was slitting his throat.

When the jugular veins are severed, there is a relatively low spray of dark red blood, accompanied by the sound of escaping air, and the human coughs it up. So, to get a forceful spray of bright red, Adriadne's favorite, she cuts the carotid. And usually aims to sever the trachea so they gasp and wither at her feet. And with this guy? She hit the nail on the head.

It only takes a few minutes, but it's such a satisfying death. Being in the land of the living, slitting throats quickly became one of her favorite forms of sending them exactly where they belonged.

When Sam and Dean Winchester caught wind of a case; six hundred sixty-four bodies across the country with a slit throat and the Latin symbol for "hellhound" carved over their right eyebrow, they got on it. They didn't want to let it get to that magic number.

And when they got to the most recent crime scene, Lena Franklin, a thirty-one-year-old female - mother of three - with the same injuries, they found who they were looking for, taking another victim. Only they weren't expecting to find their sister standing over the body.

After knocking her out and locking her up, they summoned Crowley as soon as possible. It was like their lives depended on it, or really, it was their sister's life that they were worried about.

And when he explained the situation to them, they knew what they had to do.

With a whine, Adriadne awoke in a strange room. Filled with walls of file cabinets and Enochian or Latin symbols. She tried to rub at her head, where that damn vase had been thrown at her, but she noticed she was chained down. Usually, she wouldn't have an issue with chains; she could break through steel, and they were so satisfying when some human tried to escape them. But not only were these not steel chains, they were iron. And they had warding signs carved in them.

Fucking hunters.

Surprisingly, if there was any human she didn't entirely detest, it was hunters. They were more robust than the rest and really knew what the real world was like. But they were after her, so now, they had to die. Slowly, bloody, painfully.

"Welcome back, jackass," A voice she recognized said. The same voice threw the vase at her however many hours ago. It was the shorter of the two, but he had the more resounding voice. They were tall for humans, but the other was way bigger. Gigantor also seemed like he was friendlier, the dumbass.

She had heard of the Winchester brothers in Hell. Sam and Dean, she believed their names were. Two brooding brothers with mommy and daddy issues that jumpstarted the apocalypse. Then they fixed it and sent Lucifer back into his cage with Michael. They'd been in and out of hell themselves a few times. The only humans to ever accomplish such feats.

Clearly, they weren't stupid, but goddamn, were they annoying.

Sam was younger but a bit more book-smart, and Dean was the older but sarcastic one. She vaguely knew they had a thing for dying for each other, but that only made her roll her eyes like she so often did at these creatures.

"Dean," Sam scolded.

"And what a warm one at that. You ever have people over?" She groaned. The boys didn't respond, both just shaking their heads. They started pulling stuff out of a cooler, and she read what it said on it with a scoff. "Human blood? You're seriously gonna try and cure me?"

"Yep," Dean deadpanned.

"Oh, please," Adriadne drawled as her head fell back on her shoulders. "Spare me."

"You're a demon, Mo," The youngest said, like it was the worst thing in the world she could be. "We're not just gonna leave you like this."

"Mo? Who the hell is Mo?"

"Morgan," Dean explained, his voice monotone but somehow angry at the same time. "Our sister. The human that you used to be. So we're doing what we should'a done years ago. And saving you. Even if it is from yourself."

"Your sister?"

"Yeah," Sam quipped, annoyed. "Crowley said you wouldn't remember."

"Crowley's the one that-"

"We know," Dean said. "Just shut up."

I didn't even know the Winchesters had a sister, Adriadne thought. But to hell if she wanted to become a damn human. Why would she even consider it? "Ever think maybe your sister wouldn't wanna be saved?"

"Doesn't matter." The oldest Winchester remarked, his voice flat. "You don't get a choice."

With a huff, Adriadne chuckled darkly. "Just let me go do what I wanna do. I don't bother you; you don't bother me. So what the hell do you care?"

"What do we care?" Sam asked, almost dejectedly. He shook his head, not dignifying her with a response, and started pouring holy water around the devil's trap. Reciting the Latin to start the ritual, he grabbed a needle, loaded it up with human blood, and handed it to Dean.

Adriadne looked at her supposed brothers, she didn't even know their birth order. She knew Dean was the oldest and Sam was the youngest. But where did she fit in the lineup? "You got anything stronger in there? Some heroin? Meth? Maybe it'd really make me feel somethin'."

"Don't worry, honey, you're gonna feel a lot."

And before she could fight it, he put the syringe in her arm and pumped the blood directly into her arm. She could feel it coursing through her veins, traveling through her bones, her arteries, her cells. Weaving its way throughout her body like an itch you can't scratch. Involuntarily, she let out a loud roar, a demonic roar, of pain. This damn human blood did not agree with her.

"Look," Sam said as both brothers backed away from her. "We've got a whole bunch more of these to go. You could make this a lot easier on yourself."

"And just in case some part of you gives a crap, we got your blood type."

"You wanna know something?" Adriadne asked, but a new wave of pain from the human blood cut her off. She groaned but wouldn't let it cut her off too long. She was a demon, after all, and pain had never been something she feared. It was something she admired, longed for, craved. "The part of your sister that cared died a long time ago."

Five times, the Winchester brothers had streamlined her with human blood. They didn't say anything when they came in this time, silently injecting her with round six. Like it was the only thing keeping them from breaking.

Adriadne was a demon; she knew that. But now things were becoming a little muddled. There had been small things, small tidbits of images popping in and out of her brain.

They weren't like dreams or nightmares. They were more like poorly done movies of being beaten by someone she was supposed to call her father. Dreams of fighting with her siblings, where even they'd beaten her - but also when she fought back, and they took the beatings themselves. She won and lost over and over, losing the fight when Sam left them for school, winning when Dean tried to get her to stop seeing her high school boyfriend, losing when Dean took away the knife he gave her, and winning when she eventually stole it back. She remembered watching their so-called father yell and scream, practically torturing who she was told were her brothers. She remembered not being able to do anything about it.

She saw herself hunting other creatures - not humans, but monsters. Vampires, werewolves, ghosts, djinns, banshees, rugarus. She saw herself taking beatings from them, nearly dying from her injuries several times. She saw herself lose her virginity to a sweet guy from her high school at the time. She saw herself take that night and turn it into a string of drunken one-night stands.

She saw her father coming home drunk almost every night, beaten up. She saw herself patching him up, giving him stitches when necessary. She'd been the one to set her brother's bones when they were broken or dislocated. She'd have to be the one to reset her own because none of them were as good as she was at it. She saw the woman who was supposed to be her mother burn to death on a ceiling as her older brother - a toddler himself - pulled her and her little brother to safety.

And she remembered her father dying, making a deal with a demon to keep his oldest son alive and breathing. Then she remembered doing the same thing for her younger brother.

"You're the Winchesters," Adriadne drawled. "You're hunters. So am I an idiot to assume what you're gonna do once you realize this won't work? You think you got the stomach for that? Killing the girl you think is your sister?"

"We're not worried," Sam denied. "Because we've done this before."

It had been nine hours, nine injections of human blood in her veins, and she could name nine parts of her body she could barely move. She hadn't felt so useless since she was on the rack, and even then, she had a purpose. To postpone, to make it as long as she could. Alastair had given her a choice. Stay on, deal with the consequences, or get off, and then do it to someone else who deserved it too.

She had been at the end of her rope; her soul was already ripped to shreds. And then they healed her and broke it again.

The humans deserved it - that's what she was taught.

But then, why was I the one on the rack? I'm not human.

Yes, I am. Or...I was.

No. My name is Ad-Adria-

She had been having so many memories over the last several hours. But they had to be dreams; she didn't remember them belonging to her. Of the Winchesters, of growing up on Earth, of being a part of an admittedly screwed-up family.

My name is-

"How you doin', Mo?" That was Sam, her…younger brother, she had remembered. The memories were like a plague, keeping her sedentary in a time she had long forgotten. A time, she didn't know if she wanted to go back to or not. It was a time when she cared about them, about humans in general. A time when she had the ability to care.

Mo. Morgan.

She was confused when they called her that. She didn't know how to describe it. But something was weird about that name. These were people that she knew before she went to Hell. People she loved. People she would've sacrificed everything for. People she did sacrifice everything for.

"It doesn't feel right," She rasped, shaking her head as much as possible. Which, apparently, was not a lot.

"No, shit," And there's Dean.

"When you call me that," She explained, despondent, trying to blink away the new memory attempting to take hold of her reality. "It doesn't feel like my name."

"Well, what is your name?" 

She didn't know. Adriadne was supposed to be her name. Morgan was supposed to be her name. How could someone not know their own fucking name? It was the most basic form of identification. Even demons had names. A new wave of pain hits her, and she grips the chair with all her strength. It wasn't a lot; she was so weak. But then another memory took over, and she wasn't even in that room anymore.

"What is your name?" He had asked, his voice cold and unemotional. The girl only shook her head in response, knowing what was coming with her answer. "You will answer me when I speak to you, girl.

"Morgan," She choked out, tears already rolling. "Morgan Winchester."

"You don't deserve my last name." Before she could blink, her cheek was stinging, and she was on the motel room floor. More tears fell involuntarily at the searing pain, at the blood dripping down her face from his ring. She flinched at the hand he rose again, but no hit came. Instead, he laughed - a heartless and calculating laugh. Like it was amusing watching his thirteen-year-old daughter cower at his feet. "You are no Winchester."

He was ready to strike a second time when someone got in the way. 

"Get out of the way, Sam."

"No," his little voice announced. She could hear the emotion in his words as he continued. The little ten-year-old was scrawny, even smaller than she was. "She knows what she did. You don't have to hit her again."

Ignoring the boy, her father turned back to Morgan, practically looking through her little brother. "So this is what you've come to? Making little Sammy fight your damn battles for you?"

She looked him straight in the eyes; the green they usually held was almost black in the room's dim lighting. She had seen this so many times when he was angry, when a hunt didn't go his way, when his children disobeyed him. When she did something wrong. 

"Boys," Her father called, ordering them to shut up and listen. Dean took his hands away from his face with a wince. Sam winced, too, backing away from his father. Nearly crashing into her. "Take this as a learning opportunity. We fight our own battles in this family. And we don't rely on other people to do it for us." 

And with that, Sam was pushed out of the way, and he was on top of her.

"Dad," She gasped, finally back in the present but staring into space. Both brothers' heads shot up at the recall. "He was- he was mean."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, making her eyes lock on his. The whites of his eyes were red like the mention of his father had him holding things back. A storm was brewing behind his eyes, one he wouldn't let come to fruition. "He had his moments."

"He was so mad all the time," The girl croaked, her voice breaking even more. She was lost, not looking at them. Keeping her eyes down, they darted back and forth as she practically stared through the flesh and bone before her. "Watch out for Sammy. Make sure Sam's safe. Don't let anybody touch Sammy. If anything happens to him, I'll know whose fault it is." Her older brother only nodded, but Sam's eyes fluttered back and forth between his siblings. Like he was realizing something he hadn't before. "We were always watching out for Sammy. Who- who watched out for us?"

"Well, for one, Sammy watched out for us. And I watched for both of you, and you took care of us."

"I took care of you?"

"Yeah, Mo, you did," Sam said plainly.

"But I-I went to-" She denied, not entirely believing them. "I went to Hell, and now I don't know anything. You're my brothers? My family? My family tortured me. They-they're the ones that put me on the rack."

"Is that what they told you?" Sam asked, bewildered.

"I saw it!" She roared. Everything came back to her in waves, and not like a movie this time; these were memories. She knew it; she couldn't question it. "You hurt me- you- you touched me." She finally looked up at them, unable to hide the tears. She shook her head, trying to shake away the red, the blood, the screaming, the agony. "You- you- family isn't supposed to do that!"

Sam and Dean stared, their faces pale and drained. They didn't hide their emotions - like she remembered they did so often. They wore it plainly on their faces. Sam was a mixture of deep regret and sorrow. Dean wasn't just angry; he was simmering with rage.

"Now, you listen to me," Dean ordered, and she could almost hear a trace of their father in his voice. He leaned against the arms of her chair - her current prison - and gave her a stare that kept her captive in his gaze. "I went to Hell, too. They did the same thing to me. It. Wasn't. Us. And I know you don't believe that. But you will. Eventually."

When he finished, she nodded. He was wrong. Some part of her did believe him. The conviction in his words, the way he didn't bother to hide the angry tears in his eyes. Some part of her - a minuscule part - hoped he wasn't lying. That her family was still there for her. That maybe, even after everything that had happened, they would hold her when this was all over. 

At her slight confirmation, he nodded, too, and stepped back, giving his younger brother room for the next shot. Sam came forward and quickly, without hesitation, put the syringe in her arm and pressed down.

"I don't even know my own name."

Sam didn't balk at her words. He just shook his head and gave her a small, barely there smile.

"You will."

"I don't wanna be human," She cried. Eleven injections in, she could feel the human blood becoming her own. Integrating into her bones, her DNA changed with every second that passed. Her power was draining, and she didn't like it. She was returning to who she was before Hell, the young girl with daddy issues, with two brothers who loved her - but could never get along with.

"Humans are weak, they- their emotions, it's too much," She continued, shuddering. "They feel too much, they don't see how useless they are. How- how small they are. There are eight billion of you, and all of you think you're the most important one. You all think you have some fucked up purpose, that there's something more you can do with your pointless little lives."

"No one here is gonna tell you that being human is a walk in the park," Sam said, his voice calm and steady as if he was expecting her to say this. "But it is better than being a demon. Than killing for no reason. Because even if you don't believe it, I believe we do have a purpose. Maybe it's a tiny one, maybe you're just supposed to be here to make someone else happy. Maybe you're here to teach someone a lesson. Maybe you're here to save the world." His words got light at that, like it was an inside joke, and Dean let out a small laugh. But just because you don't know what it is or can't see it doesn't mean you don't have one." 

Before she could respond or give any words to the contrary, he put the needle in her arm and gave her the twelfth shot.

Morgan Winchester opened her eyes. And they were black. She could feel it, feel the remnants of Hell in her eyes. But as quickly as it came, it went. And as they cleared, she groaned. It was a strange feeling, but she felt lighter. Like there wasn't as much weight on her shoulders as before. Her eyes were blue again, like the sky people loved to stare at. Then she remembered she was human again. She was just a young girl again, not a demon, not a monster. 

And then the weight returned. Only this time, it was even heavier, as if someone had tied an anvil around her neck and thrown her into the ocean. She remembered everything. Her life, her father, her mother, her brothers, Sam dying, her dad dying, her deal with a demon, Hell, being tortured, then turning around and doing the same, becoming a demon, becoming Adriadne, taking a joyride upstairs, murdering so many innocents. Then, being in here, the crowded but well-protected safe room in some place she had no knowledge of. 

She could see her brothers a few feet away. Sam stood in front of Dean, holding a flask - their postures were identical. Tight and reserved, with their brows furrowed and their feet cemented into the floor.

Her face contorted into a question, and she greeted them with their names. She didn't know what else to say. But before she could speak again, Dean threw whatever was in the flask at her face.

Water. Water. Water.

And without needing a second to think about it, Morgan realized it was blessed. Holy water. They were putting her through one final test. To see if their work had paid off. When it didn't burn, sizzle, or boil her skin, her brothers let out a deep exhale of relief. Then, so did she.

"Welcome back, Morgan."

[tina-mairin-goldstein]

Welcome to the Murder Husband and Murder Family language of flowers fanfiction collection, Words Are Not The Only Way.

This collection will be posted on AO3 and feature stories with the theme of the language flowers.

The collection will open by 3:00 PM Eastern Standard Time on March 19th, 2024. The spring equinox.

⬇️ List of rules and flowers below the cut. ⬇️

The rules are simple: Claim a flower from the list posted below, and write a story featuring the flower and its meaning. It can be a Will/Hannibal, Will & Hannibal, Will & Abigail, Hannibal & Abigail, or Will & Hannibal & Abigail.

What is NOT allowed is Abigail paired with Will or Hannibal, or smut. Sexual content is allowed, so long as it is non-graphic, cut to black, or implied. No Explicit fics are allowed, unless it's for canon-typical violence.

AUs are allowed, including omega verse and mpreg.

Original child characters may be mentioned, so long as they are not the main focus of the story.

Past pairings are allowed, or Will/Molly and Will/Margot and Hannibal/Bedelia and Hannibal/Alana to follow canon, but otherwise, Murder Husbands. No thruples or anything, please. No crossovers or anything within the HEU. Keep it Hannibal.

Stories may be any length you wish.

Flowers are claimed on a first come, first served basis. Please put your claim in the notes below. I will make a list of who has claimed which and attach it. If more people would like to participate, I will add more flowers. Many flowers have many different meanings, so you may pick one meaning among the others, or choose to incorporate them all. That is up to you.

FLOWERS

Rosemary- Remembrance (This one is claimed by me)

Zinnia- I mourn your absence, friendship, endurance, daily remembrance, goodness, lasting affection

Snowdrop- Hope

Lilac- First emotions of love, happiness, tranquility

Hyacinth- Forgiveness and sorrow (purple), desire (general)

Eglantine Rose- Pleasure and pain

Butterfly Weed- Let me go

Cyclamen- Resignation, diffidence, goodbye

Lavender- Distrust, serenity

Marigold- Grief, jealousy

Peony- Bashfulness, happy life, shame

Salvia- I think of you (blue), forever mine (red)

Bittersweet- Truth

Hellebore- Anxiety

White Rosebud- Girlhood

Petunia- Anger, resentment, your presence soothes me

Amaryllis- Pride

Forsythia- Anticipation

Lady's Mantle- Comfort, I am here for you

Willow- Sorrow

Honeysuckle- True happiness, good fortune, sweetness toward one another

The flowers themselves can appear in many different forms, too! In the garden, bouquets, out in the wild, spotted at the florist, made into a tea, in a drawing, as a scent; anything you like! If it's in tea or food, make sure it isn't poisonous, unless your goal is death or sickness. Have fun!