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swe3tte4rs · 1 year ago

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" An unexpected meeting of a mother and son " - Batmom!Oc and Jason Todd/Red Hood

Summary : Dahlia (Oc) tries to forget about her second little baby and his death after the arrival of her third sweet son. But she didn't know that she would have a very nostalgic visit.

Author note: Hello!! Before you read this and find any spelling mistakes, tell me in a comment 🙏, my main language is not English 😓. Also, this is my first "Oneshot" (I think it's a Oneshot, but I don't know), so I didn't know whether to put Batmom as Y/N or as some OC, so I decided on the OC 💪. (This Batfamily is a mix of comics, Webtoon, series, movies and headcanons… so… you know, not everything will follow the canon 😇)

TW: angst????

"Oh... God... my sweet boy... my little angel... Please don't him..." The woman murmured between sobs as she leaned against her husband's strong body.

"I'm sorry, Dahlia..." Bruce apologized in a murmur as he wrapped his arms around his wife. He felt the same as his wife, although much more frustration and disappointment in himself for not being able to arrive in time to save his son.

On the other hand, her eldest son, Dick, also had tears in his eyes and felt desperate because he couldn't do anything to make his mother stop crying. He approached her mother and hugged her. strongly.

Dahlia had just received the devastating news that her sweet second baby had been brutally murdered. She felt a void in her heart, one where she was filled with the love of Jason, her sweet angel. Dahlia couldn't even feel anger or the feeling of wanting to kill whoever was guilty of the murder, she was too busy drowning in her own misery and pain, deep ones that won't heal for a long time.

Some time has passed since the devastating death in the Wayne family. But, another little one had joined the family as the new and third Robin.

Tim was a child genius, with amazing detective skills. He was also a very loving and cute son to his new mother.

Dahlia with the new arrival of Tim Drake as her third child, she did what she could to forget about Jason and fill that void in her heart with Tim's love.

Dahlia loved Tim as she loved her two other children. She made sure Tim felt loved and protected by a mother, doing everything any mother would do with her little baby, like spending a whole day with him going shopping.

She was happy with the new member of the family, she loved him. But even with Tim by her side, Dahlia couldn't forget her sweet little angel, Jason.

The woman went to the cemetery every day to leave flowers and clean her son's grave. "I'm sorry my sweet angel…" Dahlia said softly as she placed the flowers on the dirt covering Jason's coffin.

Tears began to run down her cheeks as she remembered those beautiful moments she had with Jason. Remembering when Jason used to tell her every detail of the missions she had as Robin and fought crime. Although it hurt her more not to be able to hug him and remind him that she loved him with all her soul. "My baby… I'm sorry…"

Dahlia sighed and wiped away her tears, stood up and walked away from the grave, thinking that a rest would be good for her and that she shouldn't come to the cemetery every day…

Another short time passed, Dahlia was in the kitchen preparing something to eat for herself, since she had already made sure that her husband and children had something to eat before going out on patrol. She was calm in the kitchen, with nothing on her mind, just taking care of what she had in her hands.

Until she heard heavy and slow footsteps approaching the kitchen, where she was. Dahlia thought it was Bruce, maybe he had arrived earlier than normal. When the footsteps finally finished echoing and they were already in the kitchen, Dahlia turned to look with a smile thinking it was Bruce.

"You came back early hon-…" Dahlia spoke but she interrupted herself upon seeing a stranger with a red helmet.

She tightened her grip on the knife she was holding. "Who are you…?" Dahlia asked with a hint of fear and distrust. "If you come closer I swear that-" Dahlia was interrupted when she saw how the stranger took off his helmet and revealed his face.

Dahlia couldn't believe it…she was seeing her dead son in person. Her expression changed to one of surprise mixed with sadness. She began to feel that her eyes were going to start crying at any moment, but for some reason she couldn't let go of the tears, first she wanted to know if she really was her son or just a hallucination in her head. "Jason…?" Dahlia said quietly as she dropped the knife and covered her mouth with her hand.

Jason placed his helmet on the ground and clenched his fists in anger… or perhaps, frustration. He looked at Dahlia and stared at her. "I thought you loved me, like you loved Grayson. Like your son." He spoke, trying not to let his anger and desperation show. "But I only see that you got a replacement." Jason added as he clenched his fists tighter.

Dahlia opened her mouth but not a single word came out, she was shocked, was it really her son who was in front of her? Or was it just one of her other hallucinations? Dahlia didn't know whether to really believe what she was seeing, what if this was all a dream? Her Jason should be dead. However, she was seeing him in front of her, with some scars on his arms and face.

Regardless of whether it was a dream or not, she was going to hug her son.

Dahlia rushed towards Jason and quickly wrapped her arms around him, giving him a hug with a tight grip as tears began to well up from her eyes and slide down her cheeks. "Oh Jason… Please forgive me my sweet angel… I'm sorry for not having been a good mother to you and not being able to go and protect you… I'm so sorry honey…" Dahlia said between tears and sobs, holding his son tightly with no intention of letting go.

Jason wanted to push her, but she just wouldn't let him; Dahlia was his mother, his support, and the most beloved woman in his life. He was just resentful, frustrated to see his mother with a new son. Frustrated to see how his mother was loving another child. Jason felt as if his mother had completely forgotten about him after his death.

But after hearing Dahlia call him by his old nickname, he saw those moments pass by when he was happy playing and talking with his mother. He couldn't deny it, he loved how her mother's laughter could be heard along with her smiles.

Jason pursed his lips and simply hugged his mother back, tighter. And his vision began to cloud with tears that he wanted to hide but he let them out, unburdening himself in Dahlia's arms. "Ma…"

[HOPE YOU LIKE THIS!!!!]

#♡₊˚ Sweet Post・🦇₊✧#batmom #red hood #jason todd x reader #batmom imagine #batfamily #batfam #batmom x jason #jason todd #batboys #batmom x batboys #Red hood i love you sweet boy

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hiba91 · 3 months ago

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365 days of war on Gaza

365 days of genocide

365 days of ethnic cleansing

365 days of hunger, fear, displacement and exodus

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sleepy-grav3 · 3 months ago

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Shared Adoption Habits

A/n: This is a past oneshot that was probably meant to be made into a full plot fanfic that I found while organizing my google drive. Don't expect anything from it, I'm not sure what my thought process was for this.

Summary: Bruce is married. He's married to a City Spirit. Specifically, Lady Gotham.

Tw: Fenton Parents are out of the picture, take it as you wish; technical kidnapping/surprise adoption

Danny is the Ghost King; Bruce Wayne is called The White Knight; Batman is called The Dark Knight; Bruce/Gotham; All Gothamites are Lady Gotham's children through technical kidnapping

People loved to tease and bully Bruce about his adoption habit. Especially when they noticed the trend and shielded away adoption baits until they were grown enough to refuse adoption.

You could also turn to Batman with those dang Robins and Batgirls that spread further to even outside cities (and outer space). Nobody really knows the true number of members in the Batclan because of that adoption habit. But nobody knew that there was more to that. Nobody but those who knew of the other realm. Or should they say: the space that housed an infinite amount of them?

Denizens of the Infinite Realms were special and dangerous. Their hierarchy was based on power level. Their bonding activities related to fighting. Just mentioning their deaths would result in mindless rage, which was an instinctual defense mechanism.

Not to mention their obsessions! They would go all out, attacking those who got in the way of it. And they’re possessive of those they call their own. Never mess with their babies, their children. It was unknown what could be considered a threat with how fighting was a bonding activity, making the line practically invisible and terrifying to approach. So nobody messed with them.

How did this relate to Bruce? Well it’s pretty simple. Denizens from the realms adopted any child they find. Commonly, the child has the same or a similar core element as them. This is just like how Bruce has black hair and blue eyes, taking in those that are the same/similar.

This is just a comparison. This doesn’t explain shit. Well, what if someone told you that Bruce was spiritually married and heavily influenced by a denizen from said realms?

What denizen? Who would he ever be committed to long enough for him to share/mimic habits from them? Well, it’s none other than Lady Gotham! Whaaaat??? Haven’t you heard of Bruce Wayne being the White Knight compared to Batman, The Dark Knight? How everyone assumed them to be boyfriends or something but really they aren’t?

Well, that title is actually real. He’s the Knight to his Lady. That Lady being the city spirit of Gotham. Lady Gotham. Poetic really. But now it makes sense. Due to Spiritual Marriage, there are benefits. Such benefits include: An official title, a Name, certain abilities, a guaranteed citizenship to the realms, resistance against associates of the dead, and many other things. And with this marriage, they share things. Lady Gotham shares his ability to effortlessly stay on the mortal Realm, Bruce gets her adoption habit.

Since when does Lady Gotham have an adoption habit? The Gothamites hate outsiders! The city is proof enough. All Gothamites are hers. In fact, she goes further to open her arms to those of the dead/undead, inviting them to her haunt for shelter.

Her haunt houses a multitude of other haunts. Many are small. Rooms, apartments, houses. There are a few bigger haunts. Manors, which only 3 are occupied, The Swamp (Grundy), The Sewer Empire (Killer Croc), Crime Alley (Red Hood), and Clocktower. The Clocktower, however, was simply part of Clockwork’s haunt. He always held beacons everywhere.

She never liked it, even if she gained power if she rested there after the curses planned a sudden ambush. However, her Knights and his children did like it, the height of the structure soothing somehow. She understood, so she was neutral about it now. It was hers anyway. Part of her city, so suck it Clockwork!

Lady Gotham, clearly, has the classic adoption problem, even if it’s just part of her biology as a realms denizen. Bruce got that by becoming her knight. And-

Oh?

The Ghost King is a child?

And orphaned by human terms child?

Well Clockwork, you’re gonna have to share now.

Don't be shy now.

GIVE HER THE CHILD.

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theredofoctober · 1 month ago

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MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: GUM

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, implied CSA, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, death (including of a young people), pregnancy mention (no actual pregnancy happens)

Read after the cut

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You pass those early November days in a state half haze and half suggestion, the doctor's medicine the antidote for the inevitable tilt of your sane mind under the density of his evil.

It is relieving to be but his daughter, slurring and monosyllabic against your bed as he teases sheathes of meat past your lips or leaves you to work, or to exercise, or to meet unnamed friends at elegant bars that leave his clothes smelling of expensive alcohol.

This might have made you envious, had you not been so far under an influence of his making.

How beautiful the drug that cauterises the fetid wound of thought, taking from you ruminations of the boundless killing, the rapes, the guilt of eating and surely gaining from it; you could kiss the hand of whatever elf of morphine so surrounds you in its magic.

Never in adult life have you been so quiet of cognition, nor so truly at rest. When Will is announced to return and you're allowed to taper back into sobriety you think of asking for it to end, to have again that Xanadu where the dread of your days is but the black of a turning cloud.

But then you think of how many breakfasts, lunches, and dinners in their inimical triads you've taken there as though at some Roman feast, and you are revolted with yourself and that numb lapse into defeat.

You insist on dressing and making yourself up that morning in a burgundy dress patterned with foliage Hannibal had lovingly allowed you to select, with his iPad before you, from a Lolita Lempicka 1997 runway, sold for an unspeakable price from a stylist's collection.

Being that the dress is sheer you wear a shift beneath, unable to stand the sight of your body through it, wanting only the gown's flocked effect of coiling leaves like one last fragment of autumn upon you. That, and the power of having bid your keeper to purchase something so expensive; his tastes have somewhat rubbed off on you, you realise, elevating them to a standard he approves of.

He looks at you admiringly even after Will arrives, self-congratulating in having made such a mannequin of you.

Will, for his part, barely notices the dress at all. The Lover’s case is his mistress, and like such a wicked woman it has taken him from you.

“We’ve been given the details of three Mask Murder victims in Kentucky,” says Will. “They died thirty years before the Lover killings began. His youngest target in the present day was eighteen years old, whereas the Kentucky victims were all the same age as Anäis Foreau.”

He lays out images of the women as they’d been in life upon the coffee table: a family snapshot, a birthday celebration, a yearbook photo, all taken on cameras likely defunct relics of old technology by now.

“Lillian Greyflower, Bryce Mulligan, and Anita Bradbury were each dressed as dolls and laid to rest by bodies of water under the cover of night. All of them were of an unusually small build, with blonde hair and light-coloured eyes; that gives us a vague description of the Lover’s first muse, being that he obviously tried to replicate her in his murders.”

You stare at the three women, automatically comparing your frame with their thinness, and are ashamed when you realise their ages.

“They’re all little girls,” you say, aloud. “Which means she must have been, too. All of them... just kids.”

“Indeed,” says Hannibal, and he lays a serious hand upon your shoulder as though he, too, had not killed similarly young women in copying other crimes.

“I just hope I don’t have any children,” you mutter. “The world is a bad place.”

Hannibal looks at your leg, which has entered, of its own accord, its habit of tireless motion, the unshod foot tipping one of the striped sofa cushions onto the floor.

“You’ve thought about pregnancy, then,” he comments levelly.

You shrug.

“I mean... yeah.”

“What kind of thoughts?”

Feeling both men’s eyes burn your face with their focus you say, “I get scared it’ll happen to me. Sometimes it keeps me awake at night. I can’t have a baby. That’s what I am. I can’t take care of anybody and I don’t want to.”

Your voice strains into a strangled peak, and as Hannibal bends to retrieve the cushion he touches your knee gently.

“You needn’t worry,” he says. “I’ve been administering birth control since it was safe to do so.”

You examine him with dull apprehension. It would not be unlike Hannibal to experiment with such an immobilising condition as an unwanted pregnancy, the symptoms of which would force you to gain the weight you dread like the devil.

But then you cannot imagine Hannibal having much interest in the rearing of a real child, with its messes and disruptive noise and inappropriate demands. Yours he merely tolerates because he apparently perceives something in you worth enduring those assaults upon his taste.

Still you do not—cannot—trust his word. A carousel of alternate realities exists to him, all of them equally true.

“You’re sure it can’t happen even by accident?” you ask. “Because you don’t— neither of you have ever, well—”

You cannot utter the word that comes forth for protection, finding it clumsy and humiliating.

Tortured, you whisper, “Never mind.”

Will smirks, enjoying your embarrassment.

“Haven’t we left it a little late to talk about contraception?”

The thought of him pausing before an assault to roll down rubber over his arousal rises, sickening and provocative. Hannibal would do so clinically, as though putting on a latex glove, but Will would apply it quickly, crudely, if at all. He doesn’t seem like a man that would bother with condoms; certainly he never has with you.

“It’s not funny,” you say. “It really freaks me out. If I got... bigger. If my body looked different because of that I’d hate it. I don’t know what I’d do, and it’d be all because of you guys. I don’t have a choice, remember?”

Merely speaking of the potential of this sends a grave pulse of adrenaline through your frame, and you begin to shiver even in the warm of the room.

Will takes off his jacket and puts it around your shoulders.

“Relax,” he says. “There’s not going to be a baby, alright?”

Hannibal stands to tend to the fire, though it scarcely needs the feast of logs he offers up to it.

“I can’t help but wonder, Will. How would you feel if there was?”

Will's face twists.

“There’s no place for an infant in this dynamic. It wouldn’t fit. She plays that role, some of the time. I’m fulfilled, if that’s what you want to know. Aren't you?”

"Of course," says Hannibal, to your relief. "I’m simply curious how you’d respond if a pregnancy occurred in other, hypothetical circumstances.”

You draw Will's jacket closer around you as his gaze steals across your body. With resentment you realise how he envisions you: his pretty young lover, full with his child, pottering heavily about his faraway residence amidst a froth of dogs.

He cannot bring himself to think how it would truly be, a sobbing, bloated servant, chained at the ankle to prevent her from dashing her head of its brains on the nearest dresser.

“I wouldn’t plan it to happen," Will says, still thinking of his domestic ideal, "but I don’t entirely hate the concept.”

Then his visage hardens, and he shakes his head.

“To have a child at a time like this would be ill-advised. It'd be an invitation to any circling predator to play their hand.”

“You think the Lover will continue to provoke us as he did with Amy,” says Hannibal. “That his interest is caught between his muse and the three of us."

Surely he knows, you think, if he has contact with the killer. What is this new game that Hannibal's playing?

“We’re taking a role in the narrative the Lover is creating,” says Will. “The love story. The investigation to him is like relatives standing in the way of forbidden romance.”

“That,” says Hannibal, “or being aware of our relationship through the rumours circulated by Tattle Crime he believes that our family emulates that which he aches to possess. He envies us our love. Amy’s abduction was an attempt to derail our charge’s treatment and destroy our bond with her; Little One would not have forgiven the death of a friend. Though foiled, his efforts are unlikely to end there.”

You recall the thunderous panic that had descended over you upon learning Amy had been taken and rub your damp palms dry on your dress, forgetting, temporarily, its value.

“So you think he’ll kill someone else I know,” you say. “Someone who isn’t even his usual type just to get at me.”

“We can’t deny the possibility,” says Will. “The only time we’re likely to see him break his pattern is to agitate you.”

“But hasn’t he broken it already? If the Lover’s victims are the same age as his target then she must be an adult. And the first muse had to have been a little girl— knowing what we know about guys like him, why didn’t he choose another child?”

A glance passes between Will and Hannibal that you cannot entirely dissect.

“He did,” says Will, at last. “The Lover chose his new target long before he started placing women into rubber dolls. There was a lack of access preventing him from abducting her when she was younger. His first muse would have likely been a relative, someone he could isolate and travel with freely without being questioned; he hasn’t had that opportunity with his new bride, or he would have taken her already.”

Will’s voice is low, careful, as though breaking the news of an incurable illness to some fragile patient.

“The Lover held off killing again for as long as he could to avoid creating a recognisable pattern. That’s why there were decades between the Mask Murders and the Lover killings; once he started again it was less likely the police would link the two cases together. The ages of the victims are just another change to throw off the scent.”

Another child grown up in the world observed and objectified by an adult engorged with power over them.

“Does the Lover know what happened to me?”

This directed at Hannibal, who has conversed enough with the killer to know.

“He’s aware that you’re unwell,” he replies, cautiously. “That being public knowledge, it’s not so farfetched to imagine that he has guessed the cause.”

In some subtle mode Hannibal is informing you that it was not he that told of this crime against your youth. But that your captor knowingly collaborated with a similar predator to your own folds your gut down into the smallest square.

You should never have expected more from him, yet you had thought him possessed of greater self-respect. His claim that the Lover’s continued life and freedom is to allow Will to capture him alone is tenuous to the extreme.

This line of brooding thought is disturbed by Will tugging his cell phone from his pocket to look at the screen.

“Is it Jack?” you ask at once.

Another killing, you think, of a person so close to you that you will feel the Lover’s darkness like wolf breath upon you.

“It’s Beverly Katz, actually,” says Will. “She’s been going over some of the evidence from the crime scenes. Maybe she’s found something useful.”

He rises, already grunting into the receiver with his usual absence of professional manners.

“There’s wine in the kitchen,” says Hannibal, as Will passes him by. “You may open it, if you like.”

“Generous as ever, Dr Lecter.”

A silence imbues the room in Will’s wake, the conversation having stained the air with its dun pallor.

Then in an abrupt motion Hannibal bends slightly to reach under his chair, his hand emerging around the handle of a ribboned gift bag.

“Now we have a moment of privacy,” he says, “there is something I’d like you to have.”

You accept the bag with apathy, too worn down by the discussion of the Lover case to muster even the remotest glee.

“What is it?” you ask. “Another present?”

You reach into a blossom of tissue and retrieve something of worn velveteen from within. Almost at once you attempt to return it to the bag, prevented only by Hannibal’s quick grip upon your wrist.

“How did you get that?” you demand. “Did you let yourself back into my house and steal it?”

A battered toy frog dangles from your throttling grip, its body worn almost through to the stuffing from past adoration. Once you’d cherished the early, half-formed memory of Leland Frost dancing the animal before you, giving it a voice that was merely an exaggerated version of its own.

Now you only cringe at the echo of his chatter. The frog’s glass eyes remind you of the porcelain mask on the dead face of Anaïs Foreau.

Hannibal says, “I asked your mother to find it and send it to me. She was glad to oblige.”

You glare at him in hurt and disgust.

“Why would you do that?”

“I believe Philippe represents the comfort that was ultimately tainted by the actions of another. In hiding him away you’ve allowed that arrow wound to fester and infect your blood with the taint of that historical abuse. I’d rather we heal the injury and cut out the flint entirely. It would hurt you far less to do so quickly now and discard at least some of your grief.”

That a man that hangs corpses in his cellar can speak also as a poet, calm and empathetic in his syllables takes you aback; you are as moved by his suggestion as you’d been by him tending you on your sickbed.

“You mean I should get rid of him for good,” you say. “Flip, I mean.”

“Yes. It would allow you a partial sense of closure in regards to the love you once had for Leland Frost. You may choose to give Philippe away, or to destroy him in whatever way you wish. I’d like it to be your choice.”

You hold Flip with both hands, knowing you cannot bear another child to cradle this thing with as you once did, and consider tearing it apart down the middle. Then you glance up at the fire, and see in its savagery a suitable end.

“I want to burn him,” you say. “Burn it.”

Hannibal nods, satisfied by your willingness to engage in the exercise.

“Very well. Go on, then.”

Without speaking another word you get up and throw the animal into the flames with such vehemence that you near unbolt your shoulder from its joint. The frog’s skin blackens into haggard twists, its eyes turning like the orb of some fell sorcerer into grim opacity.

As sparks spit like star falls from the pyre your misery and disgust sear away into a tired hollow, yet you feel somewhat cleaner for it, as though some poison has been turned out of the bottle of your heart.

Hannibal’s pale hand extends, palm up, towards you, and you take it, having no other to hold for comfort but that of a murderer.

“The burning of things has always held spiritual and emotional significance since its discovery by ancient man,” he says. “The charring of offerings as a gift to deities. The burning of the dead to transport them to planes beyond.”

“Witches burn things to cleanse energies,” you say. “Or to manifest something.”

“And of the two which is your purpose?”

He asks this quite seriously, without irony or teasing.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Both, I guess.”

Looking up into Hannibal’s expression you see for the first time something of what he feels for Will. It frightens you, and yet you wish to drink of it as though from an oasis.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “I’m glad we did this.”

Hannibal leans down to kiss the parting of your hair rather chastely, and you sit in an almost comfortable quiet together, your head nestled into his impeccably ironed shirt.

Abruptly you say, “Do you want to know why I thought about killing my Mom that time rather than Uncle Lee?”

You feel your captor straighten slightly against you.

“If you’re ready to tell me, then of course.”

Closing your eyes, you draw the strength to speak from your personal darkness.

“I loved my mom. I knew her so well. I had all these expectations of her and ideas of who and what she was supposed to be. So whenever she did something to hurt me or yelled at me it was easy to be mad at her. To wish that she was dead.

“But Leland... even when I loved him and he was my best friend I never really knew anything about him behind the act.”

Hannibal strokes the back of your neck, the rhythm of his touch like the rocking of a child to sleep.

“He had a mother that died, I heard,” you say. “A cousin, too, I think he mentioned once. He still has a lot of living family he never goes back to visit. Maybe all of that’s part of what made him what he is, but I don’t think so.

“They say you’re born with those attractions. I guess some people are ashamed of it and try to be better, but Leland obviously never did. He... relished what he was. Even before I knew what the dark shape behind the eyes of his mask was I always saw he had no shame in anything. And I couldn’t comprehend it, so how could I be angry?

“It’d be like trying to be mad at an animal. Or some kind of spirit or entity. I wouldn’t know how to kill something like that.”

Hannibal says, “It’s not an impossible feat to exorcise such a being.”

Even within the pain of remembered past you are amused that he is beginning to entertain your flair towards supernatural thinking rather than attempt to translate it into rational or psychological language.

“And how would I do that?” you ask. “Prayers and salt circles?”

“That won’t be necessary. All we must do is demystify your uncle’s past and the creation myth of his evil. Once we have before us the fabric of his becoming then he’ll no longer seem unknowable to you, only a mere mortal. A thing that can be killed.”

Opening your eyes you immediately glance aside, too conflicted by your gratitude towards the creature you most fear to meet his gaze.

“I’ve tried looking him up before,” you say, “going through all his social media and stuff. There wasn’t a lot. Fishing photos and dad jokes, mainly.”

“Leave it with me,” says Hannibal. “For now, I have one final question on the matter of Leland Frost. If you were to ever reach the point you were able to kill him would you do so in the same way you’d envisioned for your mother? It is a form of intimacy, the use of a knife. It allows you to feel every physical aspect of death as it occurs and to witness in close quarters the recognition of its approach in the eyes of your victim.

This again, you think with a weary resignation.

"I don't know how I'd do it," you say. "Just like I wouldn't know how to kill you. It's unthinkable."

"Is it?" asks Hannibal, and with a liquid motion he withdraws a knife from the inside of his jacket— not the little fruit peeler with which he'd threatened you on that night of revelation but a steel kitchen blade, half the length of his arm and cruel in the maintained evil of its edge.

You start away from him across the couch, halting only when he turns the weapon upon himself, offering you the handle.

“Show me how you’d kill me if you had the opportunity to do so.”

Anxious, incredulous, you accept the knife from him.

“You’re trusting me with this, Dad?”

“Yes. I hope that you appreciate the gesture. Besides, I’m confident that I could disarm you before you’d done more than graze the skin.”

The image of him snapping your wrist in his fingers elicits a shudder.

“I don’t want to do this," you say, and attempt to hand the knife back, which Hannibal refuses.

“If you fear and respect me as your father then you must obey. Demonstrate your instincts for me, Little One. Would you pierce my heart as you would have done your mother? Perhaps you’d slit my throat, as you’d considered for Will."

You don't like to be reminded of the evening your cowardice had shattered your just revenge like a spell, the hour that Will had taken you so spitefully against a wall behind which Hannibal had listened. Perhaps it would have been a kinder fate to have died for your attempt on him before you’d learned that there was no use in hatred against him any longer.

“You’d never let me kill you, Daddy," you say, aloud. "You’d kill me first, just like you said.”

“You’re stalling, Little One," says Hannibal, with a certain fondness. "Is it the honesty of the act that perturbs you? So much else in you is performance or secrecy; this, even in theatre, would be true to your desire.”

Exasperated, you set the blade down beside you, careful not to slit the cushions and induce Hannibal’s controlled wrath.

“I don’t want your blood on my hands. Or on my face. What if I swallowed it? There are calories in blood, and I don’t know how many.”

Hannibal’s brows rise.

“You’re serious.”

It’s certainly one reason for your hesitation, and you are more than happy for him to latch onto it if it gets you out of this sinister play of his.

“I worry about a lot of stuff like that,” you admit. “Gum. Toothpaste. I used to think maybe just smelling food would make me gain weight, but then sometimes I’d walk past restaurants or through the kitchen just to breathe the food in and pretend I’d eaten it. I’d watch cooking shows or make Pinterest boards of meals so I could look at them and eat them through my eyes.

“But I’m scared to have it touch my mouth. Even when I chew and spit food sometimes I get mad I even let myself go that far.”

“I wouldn’t allow you to spit any blood of mine,” says Hannibal. “You’ve already consumed parts of me; whatever change would come of it is already in motion.”

His semen, his saliva, particles of him altering you each time they pass the forbidden frontier of your throat— will they make you like him, you wonder, by the process of biological assimilation?

“You’re right,” you say. “And I’m scared of that, too.”

Hannibal takes your face in his hand, tracing the round of your cheek as he might some delicate ornament of glass.

“You’ve been driven by your experiences to view any sort of evolution in a negative light. I understand that, and so I don’t ask that you become identical to Will or I. That’s why we allow you to remain a child and manage all the responsibilities that would otherwise overwhelm and inhibit your progress. We would protect you with our lives if we had to.”

With shock you realise you believe him. The logic of their violence is beyond your comprehension in its uncertain borders, yet that they would guard you with it as surely as punish you cannot deny.

“Still, I don’t want you to be helpless,” Hannibal continues. “Try as we might, there are dangers even Will and I cannot anticipate or prepare for. It’s pertinent for you to possess the ability to defend yourself under those circumstances, should they ever occur. So, with the knife, please—"

“Not today, Daddy,” you interrupt, and again tuck the knife into one of his loose hands. “I’m too tired for this right now. But I’m wondering... if you were forced to kill me, even if you didn’t want to, where would you cut me?”

For a moment Hannibal’s face registers surprise, and you are almost proud that you are able to elicit this emotion in him. Then his free hand goes to your neck, holding your face at a distance from his before slowly enclosing your throat in its cravat.

“Here,” says Hannibal, in a husky undertone, and as he kisses you the blade falls away in place of a new hardness against you.

You feel Will’s returning presence as a dog does an intruder in the house, turning to see his glaring jealousy pierce the distance between you. Proud and resentful— and, perhaps, still uncertain of the sexual aspect of his obsession with Hannibal Lecter—he does not invite himself into the triad as he has done before.

He would rather abstain, sneer in absence of reconciliation, make an outsider of himself in the most unnecessary fashion.

“Is this a private moment?” Will asks as you reverse with a guilty velocity from Hannibal’s lap.

“Certainly not,” says Hannibal, pushing the knife out of sight. “How was your call with Beverly? Did she have anything of interest to say?”

Will, regarding you with an unreadable expression, only says, “We’ll talk about it later.”

Meaning after you’ve gone to bed, either disinclined to let you in on their private gossip or having judged what he has heard too foul even for your seasoned ears to perceive.

Whatever the case Will is choosing to hide something from you, and you do not like it.

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notyourtoday · 9 months ago

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A post shared by Ariana Jasmine Afshar (@arianajasmine___)

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TW: SA / Injury briefly mentioned

Simplified for censorship.

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caesthoffe · 11 months ago

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An Update on Brianna Ghey

tw // extreme transphobia, hate crime, violent death, death of a child

If you're unfamiliar with Brianna Ghey, you can read up on the story here or watch this overview. There's been multiple updates, and I wanted to let people know about the most important ones.

On February 4th 2024, the two originally unnamed teenagers— the 16-year-old boy now identified as Eddie Ratcliffe, and 16-year-old girl now identified as Scarlett Jenkinson —have been sentenced to life in prison for the fatal stabbing of Brianna (x).

On the day of her murder, February 11th 2023, Brianna took the No 28 bus at around 2pm to meet up with Jenkinson (who brought Ratcliffe along without Brianna's knowledge). The two led her to a path on Culcheth Linear Park, where she was stabbed to death with a hunting knife (x) that Ratcliffe provided. Although both parties would later blame the other in court, it's important to note that Ratcliffe was the only one with blood found on his clothes. Brianna was stabbed a total of 28 times in her head, neck, chest, and back (x). Not long after, Jenkinson posted this to her snapchat account.

Her murder was premeditated weeks in advance (x), with the pair plotting their attack against Brianna (x), who was anxious and rarely went out alone. They'd previously attempted to kill her before, although those plans ended up failing (x).

Prior to her murder, she'd sent a message to her mother saying "I'm on the bus by myself. I'm scared." To which her mother had replied that she was proud of her attempt at going out alone. Unfortunately, Brianna never got to read that text.

Thousands of text messages have leaked from the two killers, where Ratcliffe misgenders and demeans Brianna, and Jenkinson details her obsession with Brianna.

➡ When Jenkinson sent Ratcliffe some selfies of Brianna, he replied, "Is it a femboy or a tranny?"

➡ After Jenkinson expressed that she thought Brianna was prettier than her, Ratcliffe had said, "Prettier but it's a boy."

➡ Jenkinson had texted him on Whatsapp, "I'm obsessed over someone I know but don't have feelings for them... She's called Brianna... I don't know how to explain. She looks like a girl, she sounds like a girl, she's really pretty." To which Ratcliffe replied, "Tell me what you feel when you interact with it. I don't think you're necessarily in love but I think you're more curious and intrigued by its unnatural nature." (x)

➡ After their initial attempt to kill a different student failed, Jenkinson suggested that they stab Brianna instead. Ratcliffe agreed, saying "Yeah, it'll be easier and I want to see if it will scream like a man or girl."

➡ Jenkinson discussed wanting to take Brianna's "pretty" eyes as trophies, and Ratcliffe said "Really all I want to see is what size dick it had."

➡ During the trial, when asked by the prosecutor why he used the terms "it" instead of "she" for Brianna, he said that it was a "joke" and that he had picked it up from other people.

Despite all of this, Cheshire police are still adamant that Brianna's murder was not motivated by transphobia (x), because "...If it hadn't been Brianna, it would have been one of the other four children on that list." This is further corroborated by Detective Inspector Nigel Parr of Cheshire Constabulary, who led the investigation. Outside the court, he claimed that "this was a senseless murder committed by two teenagers who had an obsession with murder, whose only motivation in killing Brianna was to experience what this would be like." (x)

The headteacher of Birchwood Community High School has claimed that she spoke to Brianna's mom who "confirmed that Brianna was not bullied at Birchwood and always felt well supported by the school," and that Brianna's mother had given her permission to share that (x). This is despite multiple of Brianna's friends, and Brianna herself (x), saying the opposite (x).

The two killers are eligible for parole in 20 and 22 years. I can only hope they atone for the harm they've caused Brianna's family, the trans community, and everyone else affected.

I hope one day we can live in a world where being trans isn't a death sentence. Where major news outlets can report on trans victims with respect (x). Where anti-trans hatred spewed by TERFs and radfems, right wing politicians and conservative talk show hosts no longer hold such an influence in the world.

We will be able to live as ourselves one day. Without fear. I just wish Brianna could be here to see it.

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theconcealedweapon · 5 months ago

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TW: Domestic Violence

A woman is an open advocate against domestic violence. She wants to make sure that any man who hits his wife goes to jail for his crime.

But she also believes in spanking children. She believes it's her right as a parent. She regularly shares posts celebrating when parents beat their children mercilessly.

She desperately wants to find people who agree with her.

But every domestic violence advocacy group she can find is against spanking. They acknowledge that countless studies show how harmful spanking is. And they also acknowledge that it makes no sense to speak out against one form of domestic violence while allowing another.

She then meets a man who appears to agree with her. He's openly supportive of spanking and brags about it, but he only hits their children and never hits her. She thinks she's found her soulmate.

But then, in addition to hitting their children, he also starts occasionally hitting her. But she lets it slide. She knows how hard it is to find people who think it's wrong to abuse her but okay to abuse others. So she grits her teeth and tolerates it. Besides, he only hits her occasionally, and if she tries her hardest to please him, maybe he won't.

She wants the leopards to eat people's faces, but not her face.

And this pattern happens a lot for single-issue activists. It's why you see so many people complain about how unfair things are while voting for the ruling class. They're angry about being underpaid, but only because they want someone else to be underpaid instead of them. They want people to understand their own reason for getting an abortion while continuing to believe that everyone else who gets an abortion is a murderer. They want society to have more respect for women but not women of color, sex workers, or women who don't conform. They can't just side with progressives, because they want the leopards to continue eating faces just not theirs, while progressives want the leopards to stop eating faces entirely.

#conservative logic #leopards eating people's faces party #single issue activism

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calmcoldevening · 9 months ago

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Ashe Corven (The Crow) x reader

TW: hurt/comfort, maybe a little angst because of Eric, love triangle

for @violet-alessan-1999; I hope you'd like it, have a good day

Eric is used to your constant presence. There was something comfortingly pleasant and gentle about you that always made him come back to your gentle embrace. You've always been by his side for as long as he can remember. As a child, at school, in the moments when he told you about his girlfriend. And even then, when he was literally a living dead man, you did not disdain, but took him into your soothing gentle embrace, hugging him and stroking his tense back. Why didn't he notice before how delicate your hands are? Gentle touches? Warm skin? Soft smile? All this realization came over him like a wave in an instant. The young man pressed hard against you, burying his nose in your neck and inhaling the scent of such skin. You were always there for me, always taking care of me. Maybe it's fate? Eric only wanted you for himself.

Eric started giving you little little gifts and compliments. He talked about your beautiful eyes, like an inviting cosmos, and your delicate hair. The guy was often there so that you would never feel lonely and not be afraid of anything.

But you didn't care. You still saw him as your childhood best friend, your comrade, practically part of the family. He was like a caring older brother with whom you could spend a lot of time all day long.

It hurts.

The sun was hidden behind a gray mass of clouds, and a cold November wind was blowing through the streets. Although this city has always been very cold. The overcast, dreary sky was now perfectly combined with the greyness of the dirty streets and alleys. There was almost no one around, so you felt calmer than usual.

You buried your nose deeper into the collar of your hoodie, hiding your hands in your pockets. You walked straight at a slow pace, occasionally glancing at Eric walking next to you. He was smiling and telling you something very quickly and enthusiastically, gesturing actively. You liked that next to you he could openly show emotions. At least this way he remained in a certain mental balance after the death of his fiancee. You didn't blame him for the lack of visible grief for his beloved, after all, you knew that he had a big bleeding wound in his heart from loss.

Your feet moved almost reflexively along a long—learned road - you've lived in this city all your life. Suddenly, something slammed into you. You stumble back, but you grab it with your hands. It was a boy. Those big brown eyes looked up at you with curiosity and fear at the same time. He carefully clenched his hands into fists, squeezing out of himself in a quiet voice: "Sorry.."

You smiled, trying to assure the child that nothing bad had happened, but after a moment your eyebrows furrowed on your face.

This city has never been safe for people because of the large amount of crime. Especially for children. Especially such small ones. He couldn't have been more than six years old. His hair was tousled and his small lower lip was twitching nervously.

"Why are you alone here, mm?"

"..with daddy"

You gently squeeze the boy's shoulders and squat down to be about the same height as him.

"You're with daddy, eh? Where's him?"

The boy doesn't say anything, just looks at you with his big eyes and blinks slowly. Finally, when you wanted to ask the child another question, you heard a voice approaching. You lift your head up and raise your eyebrows questioningly.

"Danny! Why did you run away from me?"

The boy's head instantly turns towards the man. He was a tall and sturdy man with shoulder-length dark hair and soft features. The boy was clearly the son of this man, because the similarities in appearance were enormous, although the boy still looked more innocent. The child approaches his supposed father and asks for his arms, to which his father only smiles and takes his son in his arms.

"Thank you for finding him. I was afraid something could happen to him," the man says with a warm smile. The boy in his arms looks at you askance, continuing to hide his face on his father's chest. His voice is hoarse but pleasant, and his tired eyes look at you with an unusual kindness that is not typical of this city.

You nod in response, also smiling slightly and looking at the stranger. You were immediately pulled away by another hand. Turning back, you met Eric's displeased face. His lips were pressed tightly into a tense line, and his eyebrows were pulled down to the bridge of his nose.

"Let's go, Y/N. You seemed to need to go to the store, didn't you?"

"Yes, sorry to interrupt you," the man replies with slight awkwardness, hugging his son tighter, "Thank you again."

"Have a good day," you answer them after the man heads in the opposite direction from you.

***

Eric has been really obsessive lately. It was as if after your meeting with that man with his son, something turned him upside down, from which Eric became protective and almost controlling. It annoyed him when you were talking to someone other than him, when you were walking alone and all that. It's like he always wanted to keep you around. If at first you didn't blame him, then over time you began to worry about his behavior.

And so, during your next little quarrel on this topic, you left, slamming the door.

You walked slowly through the park, the yellow and orange leaves crunching unpleasantly under your shoes. The wind caressed his face, and his thoughts were somewhere far away. What was your surprise when you saw the same man on the playground, on one of the benches. He sat hunched over a little and looked at his son playing with other children with a tired smile.

You sat down next to me with your arms crossed over your chest. After all, right now all you wanted was to take your mind off the recent conflict with Eric. The man turned his head in your direction and his face instantly took on a surprised expression, and then some embarrassment.

"Oh, hello. I didn't think I'd see you again," he muttered with a slight smile that made slight wrinkles run across his tired face at the corners of his eyes. A few strands of dark hair fell carelessly over his face, but it definitely made him even more handsome.

"Yes.. I don't come here often. There are usually too many unhappy moms here," you reply with a note of displeasure, which makes the man give a light laugh.

"It's true... That's why we don't come here during the weekend."

An awkward silence followed, although it wasn't that unpleasant, it was more like each of you didn't know how to approach each other's huge wall of trust. Finally, the man holds out his hand to you with the same kind smile.

"By the way, Ashe. Ashe Corven."

"Y/N," you replied to the handshake, and you noticed how his tense shoulders relaxed a little. He turns away, muttering to himself something like 'beautiful..' At that moment, Danny ran towards you, his face instantly brightened when he saw you. The boy came up to you, putting his hands on your lap.

"Daddy, I don't want to play anymore! They are evil," the boy said with a slight resentment in his head, pointing at the other guys on the playground. Ashe sighed, his body returning to its former fatigue, and he got up from the bench, grabbing his son's little hand with his own.

"Okay, let's go home. Y/N, I'm sorry, what-" before he can finish, Danny is happily babbling, "Can Y/N come with us? I'll show you my drawings!"

The boy looked up at you with hopeful eyes. His eyes were blinking rapidly, and his lower lip was trembling in anticipation.

"I'm sorry, kid. But I still have things to do."

The boy's face visibly clouded, and the grip of his father's hand on his own became even tighter.

"It's all right. Take care of yourself," Ashe said in the most dispassionate way he could manage and walked with his son to the exit of the park. Danny turned back from time to time, waving at you, and smiling his slightly toothless childish smile.

***

About six months have passed since that moment. Spring came, and it was no longer so dreary in this gloomy city. You and Ashe have become quite close all this time. You often met in the most ordinary places, whether it was a park or a store near your house. The man was always friendly and pleasant to talk to. A couple of times he even brought packages home for you so that nothing would happen to you at night. Also, sometimes you sat with Danny when his dad had to work hard. The boy was very happy to spend almost the whole day with you, you played and drew. Out of the corner of your eye, you even noticed a small drawing on Danny's wall. There were three little men holding hands. 'Me', 'daddy' and 'Y/N'. On top was a large neat inscription "my family". You found out that Danny didn't have a mom. And although you knew that Ashe did not miss that mysterious woman at all, but fatigue and sadness were clearly expressed on his face for the fact that his son does not have a second parent. From time to time, Ashe would even give you small trinkets or flowers. Corny, but he always found bouquets that could 'highlight your wonderful eye color.' In each of his actions, you could read the cares and that cherished warmth that made your heart beat faster.

Eric gently touched your cheek with his hand, stroking your skin with the rough skin of his fingertips.

"What am I doing wrong?" He asked in a whisper, and you heard his plaintive voice almost crack.

"Eric.. I'm not her. I can't replace her for you," you replied. It sounded much more confident and convincing in your head. But it was true. You didn't know why, but you were sure that Eric still loved Shelly and saw her in you. It wasn't something external, rather, your kindness and demeanor gave him reason to think so. You loved Eric, he was your best friend since childhood, but it hurt that he only noticed you after the death of his fiancee.

Eric stepped back. His hands clenched into tight fists, causing his knuckles to turn noticeably white.

"You're wrong.."

"You know I'm right. I started living with you after she died so that you wouldn't be so lonely. But do you think I don't hear you crying into your pillow at night? Do you think I don't see how longingly you look into the coffee I make you in the morning? She was doing the same thing, wasn't she? Or with what pain do you look at that coffee near our house? After all, she loved this coffee. Just like me. But I'm not her, Eric. Don't try to replace her with me, please. I'm a completely different person."

It hurts. It hurt to say such words, but maybe it would have sobered his mind. Eric was like an older brother to you, and you didn't want to change that.

"You have magical hands," Ashe muttered sleepily, closing his eyes and smiling.

You were sitting on the couch, Ashe's head resting on your lap while you gently massaged his hair. He's been very nervous lately, so you decided to give him a head massage. The man smiled in a relaxed way, exhaling slowly and folding his arms over his chest. Danny was sitting by the couch, drawing another picture. He liked that you spent a lot of time with his dad. You were always kind and brought Danny a lot of sweets. The boy really wanted you to be with his dad, to live with them and be his second parent. You were nice and funny and gentle with Danny and his dad.

"Daddy, can Y/N live with us?"

Ashe visibly shuddered, propping himself up on his elbows and looking down at his son.

"What are you talking about, Danny?"

You giggled, seeing how the man's ears turned red.

"But I want to live together! I will be able to play with Y/N every day and eat sweets together!"

Ashe looks away, covering his mouth with his hand, and clears his throat, "Only if Y/N wants it..."

#slashers x reader #eric draven x reader #eric draven #eric draven x you #ashe corven x reader #ashe corven #ashe corven x you #the crow #the crow x you #the crow x reader

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miss-dollette · 1 year ago

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Vladimir Makarov x Reader - 18+

TW: rape + murder + victim blaming + Makarov (need I say any more?)

I fully believe Makarov is not capable of true love. I believe he's a psychopath with no regard for human life, and he only sees lovers as possessions.

Note: Just because I write about Rape, doesn't mean I believe it's moral. This is dedicated to @bloodyrussianraven P.S: Sorry if it's a little short, I came up with this quickly.

Tomorrow is Saturday, and it's been three long months since Vladimir disappeared to God knows where. That's just how he was - he never cared to give her a heads-up about his departure, and sometimes she'd wake up to a frigid, desolate bed and an even icier void in her chest.

But today was entirely new, in the worst way possible. While her life still had its share of troubles, nothing could match the agony coursing through her body. The memory of her violation rolling over and over in her mind.

Her forehead remained streaked with dried, crusted blood, her neck bore the telltale bruises of his violent grip, and her face still burned from its rough contact with the carpet.

As she reminisced, her memory painted a vivid scene of being thrust into her apartment from behind, her face brutally colliding with the coat hanger, staining her white coat with warm crimson trickles.

Fingernails scratched her waist as her pants and underwear were snatched down to her knees, and her insides burned when he pushed his penis into her unwilling womb.

Pinned down and vulnerable, she found herself at the mercy of his predatory intentions, trapped in a horrifying ordeal.

The fact that he didn't attempt to kiss her was a small relief. She knew she'd snap out of her shocked trance and resort to extreme measures if he dared, even if it meant biting off his lips.

It was as if all her will to resist had drained away, and she lay there in disarray, attempting to blink away the blood clouding her vision.

Her cognitive functions shut down, and she stared at the broken eggs on the carpet. She wasn't sure how to react at that moment.

After he finished, hastily zipping up his trousers before bolting from the apartment, even pushing past her startled neighbor, she remained sprawled at the heart of the crime scene, her hand tenderly tracing her battered face as she struggled to regain her composure.

Disgusting sperm ran down her leg.

The groceries were strewn across the front door, their contents scattered on the floor. She remained seated at the kitchen table, gazing out the window as cars passed by, children engaged in snowball fights, and the sun dipped below the horizon. Her appetite for dinner had vanished.

A shadowy figure crossed the street and entered her apartment building, his measured stride betraying his identity. She silently wished he'd returned sooner, knowing he could have protected her. He could've.

The front door clattered against the fallen groceries, and she heard his steps muffle as he examined the telltale signs of the struggle - her blood-stained carpet, the chaos of the groceries, and her beanie abandoned on the floor. She was certain he knew this wasn't her typical mess.

Turning her head towards him as he entered the dining room, she watched as he lowered his gun, the barrel aimed in her direction.

"What happened?" He inquired with a tone that lacked emotion, a dangerous sign she knew all too well.

"I was walking home… i didn't see him," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "He hurt me." As she spoke, tears finally streamed down her cheeks, the realization hitting her that she hadn't shed a tear until now.

Vladimir moved swiftly, covering the distance in long strides, until he occupied the chair opposite her. In a rough and unforgiving manner, he seized her chin, his different colored eyes dissecting her battered forehead and blood-soaked countenance.

"Tell me what he looked like," he demanded, his tone blunt and sharp.

"I don't know," she whispered, her voice trembling. "It happened too fast, and I couldn't—"

"I told you to stop being so mindless, wandering around like an idiot. Now look at you." He interrupted her sentence, causing her to shrink further into her seat, his calloused fingers digging into her chin.

"Vladimir..." she began, but her words faltered, a sense of futility enveloping her.

They spent that night together, with her recalling the day before the attack. He meticulously questioned her, forcing her to repeat various details numerous times, where she'd been, who she talked to that day until she squeezed out details that managed to escape her until that moment.

When he came to visit her, she would dutifully stand over the stove, preparing their meals (usually consisting of meat), and then share the food with him before he laid her down on the bed, and pushed himself inside her.

It appeared that he had lost his appetite for both food and that carnal desire that was attached to him when he visited her.

At nearly midnight, he dismissed her, and she left him alone in the dimly lit dining room. She found solace in the bathtub, immersing herself in the lukewarm water, which gradually turned a disconcerting shade of red. The stinging sensation from the cut on her forehead intensified.

Her entire body ached, and without the concealing cloak of clothing, she was confronted with her bruised flesh in its full spectrum of colors: purple, yellow, green, and angry red.

In an attempt to cleanse herself of the ordeal, she vigorously brushed her teeth until her gums bled, then meticulously dressed, yet the feeling of being tainted lingered. Despite scrubbing her skin raw, she couldn't shake the sensation that an oily darkness clung to her.

She reclined on her bed without much regard for comfort, her gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling. Her eyes, glazed over with a haunting emptiness, stared into the void above.

She eventually closed her eyes and surrendered to sleep's embrace.

When she awoke, Vladimir's absence was glaringly apparent. His side of the bed remained cold, a stark reminder of his cold nature. His clothes from the previous day lay in disarray on the floor, and a lone sleeve dangled from an open drawer where he stored his belongings.

Once more, she vigorously scrubbed her skin raw in the morning, as if attempting to rid herself of the memories etched into her flesh.

It had been three long weeks since she last saw Vladimir, and it had also been three weeks since she was raped by that stranger. In that span of twenty-one days, she moved through the town with a distant, glazed-over expression, avoiding any meaningful eye contact with men and speaking in hushed tones. It seemed as though her very soul had been snatched away, leaving behind only a hollow shell of the person she once was.

She fixated her gaze upon her worn boots, every step they took echoing loudly on the icy concrete beneath, determined to drown out the relentless cacophony of traffic and the incessant chatter of the people bustling around her.

In the early morning's embrace, the first light of dawn meticulously brushed the streets with a vibrant palette, painting them in exquisite hues of pink, purple, and a myriad of other melodramatic colors.

Her stomach emitted another mournful growl, a reminder of her empty mornings – just like the one before, and the one preceding it. She struggled to recollect the last time she had savored a meal.

Engulfed in her contemplations, she collided unceremoniously with a stranger's back. With a gentle "Pardon" escaping her lips, she reluctantly tore her focus away from her ruminations. A gathering of nearly a hundred people held collective fixation on something in the road.

She wondered if there had been a car accident that morning.

Compelled to forge a path through the throng, her heart raced wildly in her chest. As she finally emerged from the crowd, her heart plummeted into the depths of her being, her eyes locked on a man whose face suddenly seemed so familiar. He was suspended between two lampposts in the middle of the road, a grotesque marionette covered head to toe in a gruesome tapestry of blood and bruises.

His wrists, where wires had mercilessly bitten into his flesh, oozed crimson rivulets that painted his arms and body in a grotesque shade of red, an agonizing tableau of suffering before her very eyes.

She was forcibly reminded, once more, of the chilling reasons Vladimir struck terror into the hearts of the masses, understanding why his name blared across newspapers in stark letters, detailing the monstrous carnage he'd ruthlessly orchestrated, all in the relentless pursuit of collective fear, and a motivation that'd been explained to her, but never understood.

The lifeless form of her attacker hung eerily above the street, expertly suspended by wires, resembling a grotesque work of art that defied the boundaries of the macabre.

With her mouth parched and her chest feeling like an empty void, she turned away, her mind haunted by the scene before her. The sheer reality of the experience weighed heavily on her, leaving her unable to carry out even the simplest of daily tasks. Resolute, she made the decision to set aside the day's chores. Today, she knew she needed to retreat to her bed, seeking refuge from the relentless torment of her thoughts.

#vladimir makarov x reader #vladimir makarov #cod mw2 #mw2 x reader #cod makarov #dead dove do not eat #mw2 #makarov x reader

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