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insomniacsleepwalker · 5 years ago

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Normal (Part 1)- An Ed Sheeran Fanfiction

Before

The day starts off differently than usual. For starters, there is a sense of un-reality to it, as though it has been a dream for too long for it to be real, so waking up and proceeding with a morning routine like any other day feels like I am lying about something. I never did plan out the details of what I would do on the morning of. I suppose I never saw the point of over planning given that at that point, it was simply wishful thinking. But alas, here I am, making coffee for myself on the morning of setting out on tour. My movements are also quite hurried as I go through my morning like I would with any other, even though I am not running late, nor am I doing anything out of the ordinary so far, there is a jump in my step and a fidget to my excitement that I can only chalk away as the staple mixture of excitement and nervousnes.

There is a text from him waiting on my phone when I go to pick it up to go through it as I sip my morning coffee.

Ed Fucking Sheeran: Hope you’re all set for tour! Drinks on me after tonight’s show!

I can’t help but smile as I text back: Yep all set! Looking forward to it!

There are other messages and emails, mostly pertaining to admin things such as setting up skype meetings with other clients and some agents reaching out with debut pieces. I have to put my phone down for a moment as I lean back, close my eyes, take deep breaths and remind myself that I still have a job to do and that part of the deal with Clara was to manage my other projects along with this one and under no circumstances am I to forget that. The thought does clench at my appetite rendering to nothing more than a bowl of fruit. Knowing my response to the thought of added responsibility, and so to keep myself sane I pretend that it is any other day.

The pretending does get a tad bit more difficult when I have to wheel my suitcase out of my flat, double check the locks and walk into the office all set for travel with my colleagues eyeing me with looks of either envy or curiousity or in a few cases like I am a zoo animal of sorts. I get it. It is a big deal and nobody was expecting me to get the project, including myself, and given the circumstances (some might say the cost, while others would call it perks), of getting a big client is not met with the usual response of celebration. There is one pair of dark eyes which exude nothing but pride, and ones that approach me as I wheel the giant suitcase into my office.

“Today’s the day, then?” Jemimah, or as she likes to be called, Jed, squeaks excitedly as she follows me in.

“Yep, from the looks of it you would think that I was going on a year long holiday to Cancun.” I say.

I take a seat behind my desk and Jed follows, opting to lean her weight on the desk instead of sitting down.

“Don’t mind them,” She says, “They’re just jealous.”

“Should I tell them that I still have to manage all the our other authors at the same time?”

“It might help.” She concedes.

“Christ, I’m bricking myself.” I say, putting my elbows on the desk, “It’s the biggest risk I’ve ever taken.”

“Didn’t you quit being a doctor?” She asks.

I consider this for a moment.

“Nope, this is definitely scarier.”

She laughs and comes up behind me to give me a tight hug. I reciprocate by holding on to her forearm.

“You will be fine.” She says, “Storytelling is in your bones and I have seen you take the most abysmal plots and the sloppiest writing and turn them into best sellers! This guy actually writes for a living!”

“Songs.” I mumble.

“He tells his stories,” she continues, “and he does it well and I am sure that you both will be able to create a masterpiece with his words and your eye for structure. Plus, it’s Ed Sheeran. He could spit on a napkin and that would sell. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about the selling,” I say, breaking away from the hug, “I’m a fiction editor. This is super non-fiction. I am way out of my depth.”

“You have me and a team of other editors a phone call away!”

I throw her a look.

“You have me!” She says after a moment, eliciting a laugh out of me.

“Everything will work out great,” she continues, “you’re going to become a celebrity editor, Clara will promote you, maybe give you your own imprint! You’ll introduce me to your famous friends, we’ll get married and have kids and everything is going to be great!”

I laugh again and we continue to talk about our respective clients and different storylines that we have to balance to make sure that one does not accidently leak into another. Jed is one of the most talented Non-fiction editors out there, and the fact that I have her in my corner gives me some relief. It has occurred to me that perhaps she would be better suited to the project and given that she has no prior connection to Ed, she wouldn’t be getting served as dirty the looks as I am.

“Don’t you have Tom coming in today?” She asks out of nowhere, possibly trying to distract me from my own mind.

“Oh yes!” I say, accepting the distraction as a welcome one, “We have to discuss his recent pages.”

“You don’t like them?”

“He doesn’t.”

“Ah.” She has a knowing look, which I can recognise from a mile away.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she shrugs, “Just a really hot author is looking for an excuse to hang out with you, but other than that...”

I roll my eyes.

“I don’t-“ I begin to groan.

“Sleep with clients!” She cuts me off, “I’m painfully aware, but he isn’t going to be a client when you’re done editing!”

I look at her with a raised eyebrow and she groans in frustration, beginning to make her way out of my office. She reaches the door and pauses suddenly.

“You do find him hot, though, right?”

“Oh definitely.” I answer, quite honestly.

She smiles and raises her eyebrows at me before skipping away. I giggle at her childishness, but can’t help but wonder whether what she is insinuating is true or not. As attractive and flirtatious as Tom is, he doesn’t strike me as the kind who sleeps with a colleague. Not that it matters, since I have no time. It might be a good distraction though.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Ed:

Ed Fucking Sheeran: Cold Feet?

I furrow my brows.

Me: Who told you?

Ed Fucking Sheeran: You’ve been quiet for a while. Would’ve had about thirty different texts from you by now if you weren’t nervous.

I sigh.

Ed Fucking Sheeran: Wot’s there to be nervous about?!

Me: I’ve been getting dirty looks all morning. And what did we say about spelling?

Ed Fucking Sheeran: Fuck ‘em.

Ed Fucking Sheeran: Sorry, fornicate them.

I giggle again and let myself feel a little more relaxed. This will be good, I tell myself. A new beginning out of my comfort zone and even if it isn’t good, at least I’ll still have Ed.

#ed sheeran fanfiction.#Ed sheeran imagine #Ed sheeran fluff #fluff #Ed Sheeran #Smut #Imagine #fic #Normal #Part 1 #Ed #Sheeran

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fireflysummers · 8 years ago

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Mob Psycho 100 Fanfiction Broken Promise

Serizawa tries to find his way home.

Part of The World Keeps Turning Series

A Little Tragedy || An Honest Assessment

@bananacreamphi brought this upon your heads

Serizawa gets the news in the middle of a case.

The client is tearfully explaining a ‘haunting,’ and Serizawa’s phone goes off.

That’s rare, in and of itself. Despite the strides he’s taken in the past half-decade, it still takes him time to work up to calling people over the phone, with text messages as the preferred form of communication. Nobody is too critical of this. After all, social anxiety is an ugly thing with no real cure.

Serizawa’s phone rang so rarely that he never bothered turning off the sound, and even then was quick to silence it. The few calls he got were either telemarketers or appointment reminders, neither of which were of extreme immediate importance.

But instead of taking his normal course, Serizawa starts at the number, recognizing it without having it registered in his phone. He scuttles off into a back room, leaving Reigen to handle the client on his own.

Reigen does well. He’s already gotten the hint from Serizawa that there is no actual spirit this time around, and that should be business as usual.

It isn’t.

Not even a minute passes from Serizawa’s sudden departure, before Reigen hears a crash in the back room.

“What’s going on?” demands the client, more startled than alarmed.

“My business partner has simply taken on the job of exorcising your spirit independently,” Reigen replies, without missing a beat. “It may get ugly from here, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave. No, no don’t worry about the payment this time. If you don’t see immediate signs of improvement, come back later and I’ll give a go at it.”

The woman is ushered out of the office just as the first items begin to float.

It’s been a long time since this has happened—Mob did it a couple times when he first started as a child, and Serizawa a few when he first joined up. Despite that, Reigen has long since become accustomed to keeping breakable objects stored where they are not so easy to pick up.

Reigen sighs, a sinking feeling in his stomach, then goes in after his employee.

Serizawa is in the corner of the room, curled into himself. He hasn’t noticed the various things floating around, and Reigen can see the shards of one of his teacups spinning gently in the air. He avoids the sharp fragments before sliding down besides Serizawa, resting his back and head against the cool wall.

And they wait.

Reigen is not afraid. Has never been afraid, not since the strange, scruffy man with the umbrella had saved him from certain death.

Eventually, his arm wanders over Serizawa’s shoulders, grounding him in a half-embrace. Ignoring the shuddering gasps and telling sniffs from the much taller man.

Eventually, the objects come back down. Nothing crashes in any part of the office, so Reigen assumes his psychic-proofing has worked once again, but Serizawa isn’t done yet.

“Reigen-san,” he whispers at length, voice barely audible despite the silence of the back room. Reigen hums in recognition. “I think I have to quit.”

And just like that, Reigen’s brain shorts out.

“I’m sorry,” Serizawa says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Serizawa, what’s this all about,” Reigen interrupts. Some awful shock must have come, for Serizawa to revert back to this pattern. His concern for his employee overrides the general feeling in Reigen’s stomach, like somebody has snatched a rug from under his feet. “What happened?”

“My…my mother’s in the hospital,” Serizawa replies, “She had a massive stroke, and she survived, but…they just don’t know how much…”

Serizawa continues to babble, trying to relay the bad news that he had received not long before in a coherent manner. Reigen lets him, barely listening. His mind is already racing away, steps ahead in the entire process.

“Okay,” Reigen says, a little surprised at the resolution in his own voice.

“What?” Serizawa asks, clearly surprised at how well Reigen was taking the news. “I mean…are you going to be okay? With Kageyama-kun at University, who will you have to help you run the consultation?”

“Serizawa,” Reigen tells him, gently now, “That doesn’t matter right now. I’ll find a way to manage, trust me, but right now we have to take care of you and your old mother.”

And suddenly Reigen is buried in a hug, the other man drawing him as tight and close as physically possible. It’s been a long time since Reigen’s found himself in this situation—almost a year actually, at a bus station as he said his (temporary) farewells to his first pupil before seeing him off to university. ‘s a little surprised at how…not awkward it is.

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Serizawa says into his shoulder. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

“I know,” Reigen lies.

(They almost never do.)

Serizawa goes home.

It’s a little weird, because despite spending so many years in the same house, in the same room, seeing the same people day in and day out…he couldn’t exactly say that he had been homesick.

Terrified, maybe, in case the President’s promises turned out moot (and they had, but that was beside the point).

But homesick?

He isn’t sure he knows what homesickness feels like.

At first, the weeks pass by in a blur of activity, so busy that he barely has time to unpack. His mother is still in the hospital when he arrives, and his time is consumed learning everything he needs to know about her current condition.

“She survived,” a doctor tells him, “But we don’t know if she’ll ever recover full movement on her right side. Her ability to walk, talk, and eat…everything will have to change now.”

“I understand,” Serizawa replies, and he does, truly, for the first time understand.

He understands that it will be a long time before he returns to Spice City.

But he thinks of his room, now dusty with misuse, and the many patient years his mother waited outside his door for his powers to calm down. He thinks of the comfort she gave him as a boy, and as he failed to grow into a man.

She had enabled him, perhaps, but that had been beyond her. Neither of them had been lucky enough to find somebody like Reigen at that phase in his life, and she had done her best.

And now he must do the same for her.

Serizawa goes home, but after a few months there he realizes why it feels weird.

When he thinks of home, he sees a small but tidy office that smells of incense and occasionally of stale cigarette smoke. He thinks of getting ramen at the same restaurant. He thinks of a confident voice, showing him that the future is indeed bright.

For the first time in his life, Serizawa realizes that he’s homesick.

At the beginning of the third year, Serizawa gets a new job.

His third one.

His mother’s savings only go so far, and there are medical bills and care professionals to pay. That aside, being in his house for long periods brought unpleasant memories and a fear of relapsing into what he once was. So he dons his suit and tie (the one Reigen had bought for him), and goes out looking.

Even though she doesn’t say it, he can tell his mother is proud.

It’s a lot easier than he expected it to be. He’s channels his ‘inner Reigen,’ although he is sure that the other man would laugh if he ever said it to him. But the question of what Reigen would suggest or do keeps him going, when the anxiety threatens to swallow him whole. And in the end, it works.

It’s mostly manual labor, but with the subtle use of his powers he finds it to be enough. However, his earnest commitment doesn’t go unnoticed by the management, nor his unusual but effective leadership style.

By the end of the third year, Serizawa has been promoted twice.

By the end of the fifth year, Serizawa is finally secure enough in his job and his mother’s stability that he takes an entire month off, to go home to Spice City.

It would have been nice to say that nothing has changed, but that would be a lie. Despite acting as young and spry as ever, Serizawa can see that time marches forward even for Reigen Arataka. He wonders if, as two years older, it’s begun to etch lines into his own face too. He’s been watching the gray hairs for a while now, and he expects to wake up any day with a head as white as snow.

So yes, things have changed by now. And yet they haven’t.

Kageyama-kun graduated with his undergraduate, and then to the surprise of everybody went on to pursue a Master’s Degree abroad.

Perhaps to an even greater surprise, though, was after all that—when the young man had apparently showed up on the doorstep of Spirits and Such Consultation, soliciting for a job.

(Reigen had refused, insisting that Mob go out and get a real job, one that paid him more than 300 yen an hour. Mob had agreed, finding a suitable desk job in his home city.)

As they recount the stories of the past couple years, Serizawa wonders if he’s ever seen Reigen so…happy. There’s a gleam of absolute pride every time Kageyama-kun—still shy and reserved, but holding himself with an incredible poise and confidence—so much as speaks or looks his way.

He’s happy for Reigen. Deeply.

And yet, he can’t shake the faintest thread of…envy? For Kageyama-kun’s great fortune of keeping his promise to return to Reigen. And perhaps a bit of resentment, for how the fates have not allowed him to do the same.

Envy and resentment. As he downs his drink, he wonders if it’s possible to rip those feelings out of him altogether. But that self-examination could wait for a while. For now he plans to toast to the success of his friends, and the future set before him.

He wonders instead if it would be cruel to Reigen, if Serizawa confessed his feelings for him now, not knowing when he would be able to return.

He decides to risk it anyways—promises himself he will—before his vacation comes to a close.

Serizawa never gets the opportunity. That night he gets another phone call, informing him that his mother is again in intensive care, this time due to a mini-stroke.

He leaves Spice City the next morning.

His mother dies at the end of the eighth year.

It’s a small ceremony, and Serizawa wonders if he’s a bad person to feel…relief, at her passing. The eight years acting as caretaker had drained them both, likely her more than him.

He couldn’t begin to imagine the torture of being trapped in a body that no longer worked—barely able to speak, struggling to eat without choking, resigned to a wheelchair and mindless hours of television.

And then, after so many years, Serizawa is once again free to do what he wishes.

And yet, for a reason he can’t explain, he doesn’t.

He wonders if he’s haunted.

He knows he isn’t, because he can see spirits, plain as day, and his mother had passed on in peace. But that doesn’t stop the heavy weight pressing down on his shoulders. Can’t stop the feeling that he’s trapped, more than ever before.

This goes on for two years before Kageyama shows up at his door.

Serizawa is almost immediately ashamed, before he even fully registers the man’s presence. After all, he is wearing his comfy clothes, lying around the house. Admittedly this is a Saturday, and he dresses smartly come the week days, but he fears that Kageyama will think he’s regressed back to the state he had been when they’d first met.

There was nothing to worry about, of course.

It was Kageyama after all.

“You should have called to tell me you were coming,” Serizawa tells him as he makes tea. He’s managed to keep the house clean, a habit carried over from years of acting as a responsible caretaker. There is nothing in this home for him to be ashamed of, he realizes.

“Sorry,” Kageyama replies, “That was rude of me. But I was…worried.”

“Whatever for?” Serizawa replies. And he’s honestly shocked, because he can’t think of any reason why he wouldn’t want to see the young man—his first true friend.

“Master Reigen is afraid that he’s done something to upset you,” Kageyama replies, “You stopped replying to us, after your mother’s death. Master Reigen supposes that you’re too afraid of hurting his feelings, and don’t want to tell him that you won’t be returning.”

Serizawa splutters into his tea, torn between shock and shame. This wasn’t Reigen’s fault in the slightest, but he should have expected his former employer to assume it was. He was too kind.

(It was one of the things Serizawa loved about him.)

“No,” Serizawa says, with greater determination than he has managed to muster in a while. “I promised I’d return, and I intend to keep that promise. It’s been hard, these past few years. I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“It’s silly, but I was afraid that there would be no place for me to return to.” Serizawa can’t look into Kageyama’s eyes, despite knowing that there would be no judgement. “I was afraid, after so long…”

He can’t quite put to words the irrational thoughts that had chained him to this house once more. There was no excuse for his actions.

“I understand,” Kageyama replies at length, his stoic confidence wavering for a moment. Suddenly, Serizawa swears he can see the uncertain 14-year-old sitting before him once more. “I was the same way, when I came home from abroad.”

“That’s foolish,” Serizawa counters, “Reigen loves you. He would always have a place for you!”

“I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier, does it? For people like us, that is.” Mob falls silent for a moment, then continues. “He loves you too, you know. In a different way from the way he loves me. But he loves you enough that he wants you to live your life, free of him, if that’s what you want.”

Serizawa finds his head shaking of its own volition, tears brimming in his eyes as he listens to Kageyama’s words. “No. I don’t want that at all.”

“Then come home, Serizawa. Everybody is waiting for you.”

Kageyama doesn’t stay for more than the afternoon, catching a late train back towards Spice City. Serizawa has barely said his goodbyes before running back into the house, mind suddenly abuzz with the things that must be prepared.

It wouldn’t be as simple as it had been before—he has a job to quit, an old house to care for, and new housing to search out. But for the first time in a while, he feels that the future is again bright before him.

Serizawa never makes it home.

At the beginning of the eleventh year, the Spirits and Such gets a phone call without warning. There are no customers around, so Reigen takes the call.

When Mob visits that afternoon, he finds Reigen missing from his usual place. Instead, he finds his master tucked into the corner in the back room, every teacup he owns smashed to pieces against the floor.

Stroke runs in the family, after all.

#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #serizawa katsuya #kageyama shigeo #reigen arataka #my fanfiction #banancreamphi

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msilwrites · 8 years ago

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The Cannibal’s Pawn (Short/Multi)

A/N: Hi guys, I was suddenly inspired to write a short story and a Hannibal fanfiction, as what the majority had been convincing me to do.

Please also take note of the following;

-'Dr. Roman Fell' was the identity Hannibal stole when he was in Italy. I am just re-using it, just to make a bit more sense.

-Both Will and Hannibal fell down the cliff, the ending was left ambiguous. Therefore, I am using the ambiguity here as an advantage.

SYNOPSYS:

The story is set in England. A mix between the book and Hannibal's NBC. Also, take note Dr. Roman Fell was the identity Hannibal stole when he was in Italy. He is just reusing it in this story.

Annabeth D' Matteo is a woman who suffers from the obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), sleep disorders, and depression. Due to her psychiatrist getting promoted, and transferred to another post. Annabeth is referred to another psychiatrist, by the name of Dr. Roman Fell.

At first, she was reluctant. She wasn't comfortable changing doctors, but after a few convincing from her friends and family, she yields. Finally attending her first session with Dr. Fell.

Unbeknownst to everyone, Dr. Roman Fell is actually FBI's most wanted, Dr. Hannibal Lectre. The moment Hannibal got to know Annabeth, he is immediately impressed with her observation skills and intuitive mind, and how much she reminds him of Will Graham.

He sees potential in her and uses her mental illness, issues and weakness to try and manipulate her. Will Hannibal succeed in turning her into a monster? Or will Annabeth notice what is wrong, and realise she is being used as Hannibal's pawn?

ONE

Bella Figura

'Bella Figura' is an Italian way of life. Values that Annabeth grew up with. Bella figura goes well beyond image, visual beauty and presentation...it also is defined by behaviour: knowing how to properly and graciously interact with others in any social or public situation. Exhibiting good manners, tact and gentility is an essential component of "cutting a beautiful figure". And Dr. Roman Fell is the epitome of these two words; 'Bella Figura'.

If she knew that her new psychiatrist would be this handsome, it would've been a little easier for her to agree to the transfer her previous doctor made.

"Good Afternoon Ms. D' Matteo..." Dr. Fell greeted cordially.

"G-Good Afternoon..." she smiled, and nodded. While she waited for the invitation to take a seat, she looked around, admiring the office's beautiful interior.

The Doctor looked at her questioningly, as she still hasn't sat down. "Please... take a seat" he offered.

"Thank you..." she said politely, as she sat down. Growing up in an Italian family, one must never sit down, unless the host has offered.

"So what can I do for you today, Ms. D'Matteo?" he began, as he started to open his leather clipboard, jotting down notes.

"Just a refill of my medication will do, Dr. Fell..." she said politely, as her thumbs fidgeted. There goes her OCD again. What made her hesitant to the transfer, was that this new doctor might not be as patient as her previous one. She was so used to her old doctor, who was very patient and understanding, that she didn't know how to move to the next one. Adding to that, her previous psychiatrist was a woman, who understood 'Woman Problems'. It didn't matter if Dr. Fell was a well-trained psychiatrist or much better than her previous doctor. In Annabeth's opinion, only a woman can understand another woman well. However, she didn't want to be rude or insulting. She wasn't raised that way.

Dr. Fell looked at her, and raised a brow. He clearly recognised her fidgety behaviour as OCD. He was trained to read people after all. "If there is clearly something you want to do, please do so, I would not judge you..." he said.

Annabeth hesitated for a while, before standing up half-way, smoothing out the fabric of her wide-legged pants, and touching her stud earrings. "T-Thanks..." she stuttered.

"What brings you here Ms D' Matteo?" he said, asking a slightly different question from earlier.

"Uhhm... just to refill of my medication Dr. Fell..." she repeated politely and smiled at him.

"That's it?" Dr. Fell shifted from his seat, and leant a little closer. "You are aware that I am not able to refill your medications until you tell me what is wrong? So that I can make a diagnosis.

"I'm sure Dr. Abernathy has sent you my records... you may refer to that..." she replied in a soft voice, referring to her previous psychiatrist, who was now working as a professor in one of the most prestigious college in London.

"Yes, her clinic did..." he said, as he flipped through the number of pages, clipped inside the leather bound clipboard. It was definitely her medical record he was reading through.

"You do not trust me Ms. D' Matteo, why is that?" he asked directly, which kind of surprised Annabeth. They've just met, and he was already being too straight-forward. However, there was no hint of impatience in his voice, when he said his concern.

"Dr. Fell... it isn't because I do not trust you... I am very sorry if I had offended you in anyway... It is not my intention. I just probably do not know where to begin..." she reasoned. It was their first session, and she definitely did not want to offend her doctor. Making the best first impression mattered to her, this was one of the principles of 'Bella Figura'.

"You are misinterpreting my concern Ms. D' Matteo... you have not offended me in any way, do not worry. My concern is that as your doctor, and with the oath I have taken, I am supposed to do my best to help you. But how am I supposed to help you, if you do not trust me? "

She nodded in agreement to his statement. But still, couldn't bring herself to tell him anything. It was awkward, no doubt about it.

Dr. Fell looked at her, and waited for her patiently to begin. Not being able to take the awkwardness and hold his gaze, Annabeth finally broke her silence.

"I... as I've said, I do not know where to start..." she said, as she looked down at her shoes. As if her pumps held the answer.

"Tell me something about you Ms. D' Matteo..."

"Like?"

"We start with the general information? What is your passion? What do you do? what were the problems you were facing that made you come here? those general things."

"Ahem..." she cleared her throat. " I'm Annabeth, and I work as a designer."

"Ah... what type of designer?"

"Fashion, both men and women... textile too, but my strength lies in men's fashion..." she elaborated.

"I see, why men's fashion?" he asked curiously.

"It's a bit of a long story actually. Have you heard of the term "Bella Figura"?"

"Yes... First impressions matter..." he replied.

"Well... Since I grew up in an Italian family, "Bella Figura" was one of the values taught to me as I grew up. When my two younger brothers were growing up, we couldn't afford to have a bespoke suit made for them from Saville Row." She recalled as the family weren't very rich that time. They had just arrived in London then, from Italy.

"Therefore, they had to wear borrowed ones. Sometimes, they were too tight, and sometimes they were to loose. It looked unflattering and people began to say things and started talking behind our backs. Well, because I couldn't take it... I started saving up allowance money, to be able to afford textile for my brothers' suit. I then borrowed my mother's old sewing machine and began creating clothing. Those were the first clothing I created. The rest is history." she said, proud of herself on how far she had come.

"Interesting... I am guessing that you are very close to your family"

"Yes... yes of course... but It wasn't always like that during my early teenage years." she sighed, as she leant back.

"How so?" he asked, curiously.

She heaved a sigh before speaking. It was a sensitive issue that she needed to re-tell once again.

"My parents were conservative people... When I was a teenager, my parents called me a whore and a hoe. I have never even kissed someone before. I never had a boyfriend. Heck, I was too young to even have one. But I was called this because I liked a boy, and was caught smiling at him. I also dressed up and started putting makeup, to look more presentable. But I was only doing this part for myself. I wasn't inappropriate in any way shape or form. I dressed and groomed myself like a lady should, conservative. I followed the principles of 'Bella Figura'. But I was still being slut-shamed. They think I'm up to something or that I only cared about boys and men at school. Which I don't, because I was mostly busy with my projects. " she recalled painfully. What was worse, was that she was also being bullied in school during that time.

"How long did this went on?"

"Until the end of university..."

"I see... and how did you deal with it? how did you hold it together?"

"I didn't... I became what my parents called me, a hoe..." she laughed, and stared at the ceiling.

"Well... if you are comfortable answering... what do you think turned you into it?"

"I was just tired of the emotional abuse, I needed validation outside that my family couldn't give me. So I turned to men. I went from dating to dating, relationship to another relationship." she admitted painfully. Admitting what is wrong within a person, is one of the most painful things there is. No one likes to admit their own shortcomings? do they?

"So did you get what you want out of them?"

"Sadly... no... they'd leave as soon as they get what they want out of me. It was painful to actually be categorised as 'Non-Girlfriend' or wife material."

"So how did you carry on with this cycle?" he said, as he started jotting down notes.

"I didn't, I had a breakdown... and well I ended up being sent to Dr. Abernathy by my parents."

"What caused your breakdown?"

"Oh... that is a painful one. My last 'boyfriend' broke up with me, because he said I wasn't worthy."

"What did he exactly tell you?"

"He was pretty much undermining me and my background. He was from an old rich family. A few months later after we broke up, he got married to someone else. Can you believe it? It was less than a year, and he finds someone else and marries her!"

"That sounds painful..." He tries to sound a little more 'empathising'.

"It was... it broke me... I confronted him one more time so that I could get my closure..."

"And what did he say? What happened?" He asks, curious to what happened next. He didn't exactly pity her. Rather, he was just curious and wanted to hear the whole story. No one likes cliffhangers.

"I asked him tearfully, what did I not do? what was lacking? and he said that it was not the things I did and did not do, it was because of who I am."

"What do you mean?"

"As I've said, he thought I wasn't worthy of him. I was a far cry from his wife, he says. I wasn't from a rich family, nor did I graduated a top university that matched the standards of Oxbridge. I didn't have a profound degree nor a managerial position like she did. He looked down on me, to him, I was a 'Cobbler', a 'Tailor' and nothing beyond that." she said, recalling how her ex-beau used to refer to her choice of profession. It was ironic how he enjoyed sharp bespoke suits, well-crafted shoes, and expensive watches. Yet he looked down on the designers who made them, specifically small time designers like she was, in the past. Back then, she didn't have a have a brand of her own, and was just working for a newly opened clothing company.

Dr. Fell closed his clipboard and sat straight, looking her in the eyes. "You did not deserve such a man, clearly you were dating a jerk... please continue...." he encouraged.

Annabeth smiled with his empathising words and found herself a little more comfortable in his presence, compared to earlier. "Because I could not take it no longer, I had a breakdown. I refused to eat and do my work. I had a hard time sleeping and I became angry at everyone. My parents finally felt the right concern and dragged me to the psychiatrist, Dr. Abernathy. She helped me fixed my issues, specifically the ones I had with my family. We had family counselling, and I could say that my relationship with my family is much better compared to before."

"Well then... why are you here?" he wondered why she was still here, if she claimed to be already fine.

"It takes time to repair broken relationships Dr. Fell, you yourself is aware of that. Though I and my family get along well now. Damage has been done, and I have lots of issues to work on so that I can continue improving myself." she stated, and was met by a nod of approval from her doctor.

"That's a smart decision..." he said, as he nodded. This woman knew what was wrong with her, and was willing to work on her problem. This was the type of patients most psychiatrists liked. He then began writing her prescription but was distracted when she spoke once again.

"Is that the 'Talented Mr.Ripley?!' " she says, as she saw the book on the shelf. It was the first hardcover.

"Why yes? have you read it?" he asked, just out of courtesy.

"Of course! I've read the whole series... I found Tom Ripley likeable enough..." she declared.

Dr. Fell looked at her curiously. Why would a nice lady such as herself, finds a 'sociopath' like Tom Ripley likeable? "He's a sociopath Ms. D'Matteo... why do you find him likeable?"

"Hmmm... perhaps I see a part of myself in him. I can sympathise, and relate to him..." she said, as she headed straight to the shelf, but not before turning to Dr. Fell and asked for permission to touch the book. "Uhhh... may I?"

"Of course..." he replied, and watched her as she pulled the booked out, and smelled it. Finally getting a good look at her, he realised that the woman is beautiful, demure and polite. The soft smell of perfume on her skin, that smelled like the breeze, her chic fashion sense, and her modest behaviour. It would be deemed rude to harm her and 'eat' her. He didn't mind that she continues being his patient. In fact, he didn't mind her presence at all. Adding to that, he found himself curious about her, wanting to find out more. In fact, her declaration of her love for the Tom Ripley series intrigued him. She had just declared that she can empathise with sociopaths. Suddenly, Will came to mind.

"You love the smell of old books don't you?"

"Yes... I'm a bit of a book nerd..."

"Going back to Tom Ripley... which part of you, did you see in him?"

"Hmmm... most of it I gues? I mean I had a hard upbringing like he did. I started off as someone down with my own 'luck' and was disregarded every time. But with hard work and sheer determination, Tom Ripley manages to make something out himself. Despite the hardships, he came out the other end polite, self-effacing and hard working. He became successful. I hope you won't judge, I used him as some sort of inspiration."

"Don't worry, I am not judging. But I am curious, I suppose you are aware that Tom Ripley is a cold-blooded killer as well?" he asked, as he walked, and stood beside her.

"Yes of course... But I somehow approve of his actions, I understood it. I found myself hoping that Tom would get away with it all- that he would be able to kill with impunity."

Hannibal looked at her and smiled, what she had just said made him more intrigued. A woman who empathised with a psychopath, just like Will Graham was.

"If I were Tom Ripley, I would've done the same, eliminate them one by one. But not in a quick way... you may think I'm a sadist, but it is better to torture your enemy first, as killing them immediately would be considered 'mercy'." she added. "Oh, I'm sorry... I must've been talking too much..." she said, as she tiptoed to return the book to the shelf.

"It is fine..." he smiled, "Let me help you..." he then took the book, and returned it to its respective place. "Tea?" he asked, inviting her to stay longer.

"Oh... that would be nice Dr. Fell... Thank you!" she replied with a smile, and returned back to her chair.

Hannibal watched as she walked back to her seat. She was wearing a high neck, ruffle lace blouse, which matched her wide legged pastel blue pants. Her short bobbed hair was comb neatly and tucked behind her ears. Her accessories and makeup looked minimal, but it sure did enhance her features. It was no secret that Hannibal liked beautiful women, especially women who carried themselves well. But to fully catch his attention, his admiration must go beyond physical, a woman should have more than beauty.

Simple yet Chic #4 by fashionholicwriter featuring sterling silver fine jewelry

Annabeth D'Matteo obviously had something more than beauty. He was no longer just intrigued by her, he was now fascinated. She has a potential for something more, potential like Will Graham has.

Hannibal smiled to himself as he looked at her, Annabeth D' Matteo was definitely his new pawn.

A/N: I might do some soft editing, as I might have made some grammatical errors. Comments, Questions and clarifications are welcome below.

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banana-with-a-bow-tie · 8 years ago

Text

A Who’s Who of Unfortunate Events: A Crossover Fanfiction

Characters: The Eleventh Doctor; Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire.

Setting: Shortly after Vincent and the Doctor; the Baudelaire’s first night in Count Olaf’s mansion.

There are many, many things that are better than nothing. A home-cooked meal is better than nothing. A roof over one’s head is better than nothing. And a place to sleep, even if the bed is very small and the blanket damp with tears, is better than nothing. But being raised in a violent and sinister environment by a man more interested in one’s fortune than comfort and well-being is not better than nothing. And as the Baudelaires would discover, there are some things that even a long night of introspection cannot change.

Although the room was creaky and damp, cold and drafty and their small bed left no room for comfort, the physical and emotional exhaustion from that day’s events finally began to take over the Baudelaire children. However, as the children descended into fitful dreams, they were suddenly startled awake by an unearthly noise, resembling the sound of an asthmatic frog choking on a whistle. In the center of the room, directly in front of the Baudelaire’s rickety bed, where there was once empty space a bright blue, wooden box materialized before their very eyes.

Now, it is conceivable that some people in the world that would not be shocked by this occurrence. It is possible that, for them, foreign objects magically appear out of thin air on a regular basis. As for the Baudelaire children, this was a singularly eccentric experience; so Violet and Klaus got up from their bed with Sunny in tow to examine this strange oddity, a word which here means the quality of being odd; a singularity, strangeness, or eccentricity.

The box was approximately eight feet tall. It had a small glass dome on its top that housed a light that emitted a pulsing blue glow. Two groups of six rectangular and translucent windows were could be seen on two doors. Above the doors were four curious words, “Police Public Call Box.”

“Maybe it belongs to the police?” Klaus pondered.

“I don’t believe the police are in the habit of leaving their phone boxes in the homes of untalented actors,” Violent responded, “or installing them with teleportation.”

Before the Baudelaires could speculate any further, the police box door opened with a creak, and a peculiar man stumbled out into the open.

“Well, I suppose I’ve had worse landings,” the peculiar man declared, his accent noticeably British.

The Baudelaire children stared at him quizzically. He had a young face with a strong chin, weak eyebrows, and a floppy mess of dark hair. Though his face appeared young, his attire seemed more befitting one’s grandfather, complete with a tweed jacket, suspenders, and a decidedly unfashionable red bow tie. The peculiar man reached into his jacket, producing an unusual mechanical device. He pointed the device away from himself and pressed a button on it’s side, creating an eerie green light in the dimness of the room and an inharmonious sound similar to that of a chorus of cacophonous crickets.

“Excuse me,” Klaus said, hoping to get some answers.

The peculiar man acted as if he hadn’t heard as he wandered about the room, pointing his strange mechanism in all directions, when suddenly it popped open. The peculiar man examined his device interpreting information that evidently only he could understand.

“Sir, what are you-?” Violet began to inquire, but was interrupted by the peculiar man’s subsequent exclamation.

“Blimey!” He shouted. “What year is this? You can’t tell where the 16th century stops and the 21st begins! It’s almost as if three timelines have collided, into a big wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey mess!”

Sunny then made a sound like, “Germo” which most likely meant, “I thought I spoke in baby talk. That dumb bow tie probably cuts oxygen off to his brain.”

"It's not dumb; it's cool." The peculiar man insisted. Taking notice of the children for the first time, the peculiar man asked, "Who might you be?"

“My name is Violet Baudelaire,” Violet announced. “This is my brother, Klaus, and our sister, Sunny.” After a slight pause, Violet questioned in return, “Who might you be?”

“I’m the Doctor,” the peculiar man answered.

“Doctor” is a word intended by most people to mean, “a person licensed to practice medicine, as a physician, surgeon, dentist, or veterinarian.” It was clear to the Baudelaires that the gentleman before them was not licensed to practice medicine as a physician, surgeon, dentist, or veterinarian, nor would it appear that he had ever attended any schooling to become so. One might find it odd to meet a person calling themselves “Doctor” when they were neither a physician, surgeon, dentist, nor veterinarian. However, “odd” was one word that seemed to describe this man completely. Therefore, an odd name for an odd man would make perfect sense.

“Well... Doctor,” Klaus began, “how exactly did you get into our room?”

“Oh, is this your room?” the Doctor replied. “It’s very... erm... quaint.”

“No, it isn’t,” Klaus retorted bitterly.

“You’re right, it’s gloomy and dreadful, but I was trying to be polite,” the Doctor answered. “Well, I’m sorry to impose, I came here rather by accident. I was just passing by when-”

“You were passing by in a police box?” Violet interrupted.

“Well, it’s not really a police box. It’s called the TARDIS. It can travel anywhere in time or space.”

The Baudelaires were skeptical, a word which here means, “inclined to skepticism; having an attitude of doubt.” The Baudelaire children had good reason to be inclined to skepticism and have an attitude of doubt about a man that claimed he could travel through time. Then again, who were they to question a person that could conjure a telephone booth out of thin air?

“As I was saying,” the Doctor continued, “I was just passing by when for some reason the TARDIS dropped out of the vortex. It was as if it collapsed under the gravity of some horribly depressing situation that eliminated its desire to go on.”

The Doctor stared at his box in puzzlement as the Baudelaire children shared a knowing look. “If anyone knew anything about ‘horribly depressing situations,’ it would be us.” Klaus noted.

“Really?” the Doctor remarked. “How so?” The Baudelaires proceeded to relate to the Doctor all the terrible things that had happened to them. They told about how their parents were killed in a fire that destroyed their childhood home and everything they owned. They told him about how they were being handled by a incompetent and sickly man that had more concern for his promotion than insuring that the children were in a stable home. Finally, they explained to the Doctor that their caretaker was the grotesque soul known as Count Olaf, the man who only supplied them with one bed and a pile of rocks, the man who treated the children as slaves in an impoverished country, this vile and despicable human being who would stop at nothing to satisfy his greed with the Baudelaire fortune.

The Doctor observed the Baudelaire children’s tale with horror and dismay. “This is quite the series of unfortunate events, isn’t it? You kids are a lot stronger than you look. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Maybe you can,” Violet proclaimed with a glimmer of hope in her eye. “If you are really a time traveler, you could go back in time make it so none of this has to happen in the first place. We could and save our parents!”

The children were elated at the prospect of seeing their mother and father alive and well once again. You could stop scrolling here and go on with your life. Imagine that the Doctor immediately agreed to take the Baudelaires back in time in his TARDIS to stop the fire that brought about their parents’ untimely demise. You could live with that picture of a happy family reunited, whose lives never had to be stained by the countenance of the wicked Count Olaf. If that’s how you wish this story to end, I encourage you to cease reading now.

Regrettably, the Doctor’s true answer to Violet Baudelaire’s request was far less uplifting. “I’m sorry, Violet, but I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Klaus challenged, frustrated.

“This entire time period is incredibly unstable,” the Doctor answered.

“Mankoo.” Sunny expressed, which most nearly meant, “You are incredibly unstable.”

“Think of it like Jenga,” the Doctor explained. “You have a tower of blocks all unevenly placed yet perfectly balanced. If you remove just one block the entire tower collapses. This time period has been corrupted with so many anachronisms, if I change even one event, reality could collapse. It’s too dangerous. I’m sorry.”

Violet and Sunny were crestfallen, a word that here means, “dejected; dispirited; discouraged.” Klaus, on the other hand, was not merely dejected, dispirited, or discouraged. No, Klaus was also feeling strong displeasure at what he considered unjust, offensive, and insulting. Some would say that Klaus was indignant.

“NO! You’re not sorry!” Klaus fumed. “If you can really do the things you say you can, then you would help us if you were sorry. But you won’t. You’re just like everyone else, too blinded by your own little world to see or care about the problems of someone else.”

“You don’t understand, Klaus, I-”

“No, Doctor, who ever you are. I understand everything. We are living under a roof that belongs to a monster, and you refuse to do anything about it. If you aren’t going to help us, then you might as well get back in your magic box and go back to wherever it is you came from. We’ll figure this out on our own.”

The room became silent as the children waited to see how the Doctor would react. At first, he seemed offended and even little bit cross about Klaus’s claims. But then the Doctor’s gaze came to rest on the bruise on Klaus’s cheek from Count Olaf’s brutal treatment that evening, and the Doctor’s expression softened.

“You’re wrong, Klaus,” the Doctor remarked, tenderly. “I do care, and I know what it’s like to lose people you care about. It hurts more than one can fathom, especially when there is nothing you can do to change it. I wish I could help you understand-” the Doctor stopped abruptly with a thoughtful look on his face. “I have an idea,” he announced. “Come with me.” The Doctor turned toward the TARDIS, pushed the door inward, blatantly ignoring the sign that said, “Pull to Open,” and stepped inside.

The Baudelaires glanced at each other in befuddlement, wondering if they should listen to the madman with a box. Tentatively, the children inched forward, unsure of what they would see inside this mysterious blue box. Violet placed her hand on the door and gently pushed it open to reveal the secret of the TARDIS.

It is common for people in our culture to use the phrase, “mind blowing,” or a popular variant, “this is blowing my mind.” Both phrases are used to describe something so shocking, surprising, unexpected, or wonderful that your brain could not comprehend it. For example, if you were to watch a boxing match between a leprechaun and a unicorn, due to the occasion’s shocking, surprising, unexpected, wonderful, and incomprehensible nature, you might say, “Woah, this is mind blowing.” Or, perhaps if you were to meet a man with a box that was bigger on the inside than on the outside, you might be inclined to think, “this is blowing my mind.” This was exactly the situation in which the Baudelaires found themselves.

“It’s... it’s... “ Klaus sputtered in astonishment.

“The box... it’s...” Violet stammered likewise.

“The TARDIS is dimensionally transcendental. The interior exists in a different, relative dimension to the exterior,” Sunny stated, slightly less struck with awe. Although to most people, her explanation sounded more like a cheerful, “Biga inseye!”

“This is what I wanted to show you,” the Doctor said, emerging with a magnificent painting of the night sky. “A good friend of mine painted this for me. His name was Vincent. He had to go through some unfortunate events himself, only his monsters were trapped in his mind, so he couldn’t escape them.”

The Baudelaire children gazed upon the marvelous painting in amazement The sky was not dark or black or without character. The black was in fact a deep blue and in another area a lighter blue. The Baudelaires witnessed in the painting wind blowing through the blueness and the blackness, swirling through the air and then, shining, burning, bursting through were the stars. The complex magic of nature blazed before the eyes of the Baudelaire children, incredibly captured in this stunning painting.

“Vincent had so much pain in his life,” the Doctor recounted, “and yet, in the midst of all his monsters he was able to transform that pain into something truly joyful and ecstatically beautiful in a way that no one else has ever done. I know you kids are suffering right now, and I suspect things will get worse before they get better. But I wanted you to see that even the darkest of circumstances can bring good things.”

"What happened to Vincent, Doctor?" Klaus inquired.

"We had a fantastic adventure together. I did everything I could to help him overcome his monsters and he helped me to overcome a few of mine. In the end, though, his pain was too much to bear."

"That's so sad," Violent mourned.

"Yes, it is," the Doctor solemnly agreed, "but the way I see it, every life is like a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don't always soften the bad things. But vice versa, the bad things don't necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant. So, my advice to you, Baudelaires, is find your pile of good things, because they are there. Once you find it, cling to it, fight for it, cherish every precious moment until the next one comes.”

Violet, Klaus, and Sunny paused to consider this. The children thought back to a time when their family was whole and happy; a time when the children sat by the fireplace with their mother as their father read them stories; a time when their family took trips to the beach and competed to see who could skip a stone the farthest. They tried to remember each and every heartwarming memory that they could and treasured them with all their hearts. Above all, the Baudelaires knew that even though their pile of good things may be very, very small, they still hadn’t lost what was most priceless: each other, and that was greater than the largest pile of bad things in the world.

“I can’t stop the monsters this time,” the Doctor said, “and you will have to face them eventually. But right here, right now, for this moment in time, you are safe with me.” So the Baudelaire children spent the night, not in the dilapidated and depressing home of Count Olaf, but in a vast and spectacular wonder under the watchful eye of a kind, if not a bit eccentric, stranger from another world. The next morning, the Baudelaire children bid a fond farewell to the peculiar man that had miraculously appeared in the middle of the night.

“Thank you for everything, Doctor,” Violet acknowledged. “It meant a lot.”

“You’re welcome, Violet,” He answered. “I wish I could have done more. You deserve better than this. I want you to know that if anyone can overcome this series of unfortunate events, it’s you brave Baudelaires.”

“Funny, I don’t feel very brave,” Violet admitted.

“Courage isn’t a matter of not being frightened,” the Doctor stated. “It’s being afraid and doing what you have to do anyway. And I assure you, that you three are the bravest, most capable children I have ever met.”

Violet, Klaus, and Sunny exited the TARDIS and waved goodbye to the Doctor one last time as that wondrful blue box faded from sight. Nothing had changed. Their mother and father were still dead, and the children were still under the care of the deplorable Count Olaf. The Baudelaires, however, were ready for Olaf’s wicked schemes, because now: they had hope.

The End.

#fan fiction #fanfic #a series of unfortunate events #asoue #Doctor Who #violet baudelaire #klaus baudelaire #sunny baudelaire #the eleventh doctor #my writing

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