#whereas her rationalisation is that if she can stay in the heart and if she can get love and approval from her family

[eliotquillon]

absolutely kicking myself for not realising this earlier but imo a really big contributing factor towards cassia being so hellbent on trying to stay in the heart at the start of wayward is the fact that, no matter how many friends she had in camden, she definitely knew she originally wasn't wanted there. because it's always mentioned that part of the reason why she was even sent to camden in the first place was because her parents were friends with thorne and lyander, which leads me to believe that there had been an agreement to send cassia to camden shortly after she was born/before their death and obviously by the time she actually gets there...thorne and lyander are dead. and now camden is being run by hester, who would've only been about 19 when cassia was sent over, and who herself is still deeply traumatised from, y'know, most of her family being murdered in front of her when she was a teenager, but even though the last thing she needs is another small child to depend on her she can't tell alana she doesn't want to take cassia in because 1) this is one of the last requests of her very beloved and tragically murdered cousin, and 2) camden desperately needs the political clout from a stronger alliance with the heart at this point. like it is no fucking wonder that cassia and hester barely had any kind of relationship until cassia had been there for 2 years because hester is in this absolutely impossible position and is doing the jobs of like 10 different people by herself as a traumatised barely-adult. and like while that is of course not hester's fault, i think that early rejection explains so much about cassia's constant anxiety and rejection sensitivity in wayward + why she's so certain that going back to camden is still worse than sticking it out in the heart because i think a part of her believes that if she goes back to camden she's going to face that rejection again but this time it'd be coming from people who she knows and loves vs strangers and she believes that at least in the heart her bio family can't possibly reject her like that. even though they Have Done and indeed Will Do again.

[boisoup-blog]

something more than a favour, chapter 1  /  READ ON AO3 fandom: Assassin’s Creed Odyssey pairing: Brasidas/Kassandra additional tags: everyone lives au, fake marriage au, unrequited feelings

The nature of the favour was peculiar but, when he asked, she agreed with no questions asked. He assured her that he would only call the favour in when absolutely necessary, “you have my word,” he had promised. However, Kassandra knows what Sparta is like, a little bit too set in it’s ways but it works, normally. So when Brasidas had finally called in the favour, (“the Kings are threatening my position as General,” his letter had said) Kassandra knew that he had worked to hard to have his position taken due to an age old tradition.

So she married him.

Kassandra was, to put it simply, nervous. Her palms were sweaty, her breath uneven and heart thumping a little faster than it probably should. This was the least nerve wracking experience, riding Phobos through the gates of Sparta; what’s making her nervous is who’s waiting for her. Brasidas. He had finally called in a favour that had been in the back of her mind, collecting dust, about 6 months ago.

The nature of the favour was peculiar but, when he asked, she agreed with no questions asked. He assured her that he would only call the favour in when absolutely necessary, “you have my word,” he had promised. However, Kassandra knows what Sparta is like, a little bit too set in it’s ways but it works, normally. So when Brasidas had finally called in the favour, ( “the Kings are threatening my position as General,” his letter had said) Kassandra knew that he had worked to hard to have his position taken due to an age old tradition.

So she married him. She wasn’t going to get married anyway. Her Mater wasn’t exactly pleased with the reasoning behind the union, whereas Nikolaus was ecstatic, providing Brasidas would keep his oaths as a Husband and Kassandra would give them grandchildren. ( “One day,” Nikolaus had added when Kassandra glared at him and Brasidas looked away from his Future Father-in-Law, probably unhappy with the idea of children.)

Phobos finally stopped outside of Brasidas’ house--- well, their house. Kassandra got out of the saddle, took a deep breath and entered their home, where Brasidas was sat at the head of the table, writing on parchment. He only looked up when his wife closed the door behind her.

“Ah, welcome back Kassandra, I trust Messara was fruitful?” Brasidas stood up and braced her shoulder with his hand with a small squeeze and a friendly smile upon his lips. Kassandra’s heart sped up again, as she tried to push down all too real feelings for her law bound, but ultimately fake marriage.

“It was nothing my sword could not handle,” she answered smuggly, patting the hand on her shoulder as she moved away from his grasp, removing the weapon belts from around her waist, hanging them on a hook near the door. One thing she did truly appreciate about Brasidas as a husband, he did not stop her from gallivanting around the Aegean Sea and she could virtually come and go as she pleased. There were only a reasons Kassandra had to be present for, unfortunately, King Archidamus wanted to honour the union between Brasidas and the misthios and was getting impatient due to her extended absences. “Have you heard anything from Archidamus?”

“ King Archidamus, my love.” Brasidas corrected, sitting back in front of his parchment, face almost buried in his work, “and yes, he will dine with us in three nights, the new King, Agesipolis, is giving him some trouble.”

Kassandra was still recovering from the pet name, my love, pretending to dust off her blades as they hung from hook . He did this sometimes, she thought it was so that he could get into the mindset that they were in fact married, not just friends, after all, they were going to try and deceive Archidamus into believing that their marriage was, in fact, real. However, the stutter in her heart was silenced, and she continued the conversation. “I almost feel sorry for Agesipolis,” she admitted, sitting in the chair opposite Brasidas, her elbows on the table, “at least we don’t have to think about the cult anymore.”

(Kassandra never told anyone but Barnabas the Ghost’s real identity, it was the last kindness for someone who helped Kassandra find her family, despite what they did to the Greek world. Although Barnabas liked to tell stories, he also knew when to keep things to himself.)

Brasidas looked up again from his letter and said, “no, we won’t.”

The first night they stayed in the same house, they drank wine until their sentences were slurred and they couldn’t walk in a straight line. That night, as they drank, Kassandra told him everything she had done, from surviving the fall from Mt. Taygetos, to holding a lifeless Phoibe in her arms. Brasidas had sat in silence as she went on and on, going through the motions of anger and sadness. He embraced her that night, and told her that the Cult would never hurt her again, not as long as they were married. Although, she was very drunk at the time and can’t recall whether he actually embraced her or if she imagined it.

Later that night, Kassandra went to bed first, wrapped herself up in the blanket, relishing in the luxury of bedding and hoping she’d fall asleep before the other Spartan came to bed. It wasn’t their first time sharing a bed and it wouldn’t be the last time either. Unfortunately sleep did not embrace her quick enough and it did nothing good to her heart and her libido.

Lying on her back, staring at the ceiling trying to count sheep, movement by through the door urged her look down, seeing a full dressed Brasidas enter the room. Fortunately, it seemed like he hadn’t noticed that she was still awake as he unbuckled his cuirass, and lifted it over his head. Kassandra saw the red tunic, that Brasidas wore under his armour, lift a little too high as it got snagged on the cuirass, grazing over his thigh so she could see the hem of his linen underwear---- she swiftly turned on her side, away from Brasidas and temptation.

Just as she got comfortable on her side, she felt the sheet peel back just a little and heard Brasidas shift his weight as he slipped under the sheet. It seemed as if his back was towards her, judging by the way the sheet spread between the two of them.

It was too easy to share a bed with the Spartan General, she always felt too safe, too comfortable and Hypnos always pulled her in just a little too deep. But right now, the image of the red tunic was burned into her memory, his toned thighs, his skin darkened by the sun but most likely flecked with scars and freckles, either way, she just wanted to see what would happen if the tunic went up even further.

Then she remembers the marriage is fake, any feelings are probably a fake, and all she has to do is survive another three nights so she can return to the Andrestia and sail away.

Brasidas was nervous, sleeping next to a woman he frequently likens to Athena and Artemis. He always knew that she was only here as a favour to him but, a small part of him hoped that she was here for something more than the favour. Either way, he knew his love was unrequited (her reaction to him accidentally calling her my love is proof enough of how she sees him, as just a friend,) and, there’s no Spartan military tactic he can apply to be victorious in this situation.

He lay on his side, awake for an unknown amount of time. The General guessed that Kassandra was asleep behind him, she seemed to get go of her strangle grip on the sheet and he could hear her breathing gently and evenly. They’d been in the same bed enough times for him to know when she’s asleep. He carefully peeled back his half of the bedding, trying to slip out of the bed as quietly as possible.

Brasidas didn’t bother with his armour as he left the house, toeing on his sandals as he left their home to walk around Sparta. This was becoming a tradition, to steal away from their shared bed on the first night she returned. To clear my thoughts, he tells himself every time, which is true but, the content of the thoughts differ every time. Sometimes he thinks about professing his love, waking her up with kisses, and other times, he thinks about asking her to end their marriage, the pain of it not being real almost too much to handle.

Regardless, he considers every thought selfish. If he professes his love, it’s selfish, if he asks her to leave, it’s selfish; both ways preserve his feelings and takes none of hers into account.

He returns to their room after a walk around the Temple of Artemis Orthia, his mind cleared and his eyes heavy. He toed off his sandals and slipped back into the sheets, unaware that Kassandra had stirred until she spoke, “you went for a walk again?”

Any tiredness Brasidas had acquired had vanished, replaced by the shock of one, she’s awake and two, she knows about the midnight walks. He was speechless, just for a moment, before answering, “yes, I had to clear my thoughts.” He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his breath a little uneven, made noticeable by the sheet moving on top of him.

He heard Kassandra shift, then her breath on his shoulder, as she asked, “which thoughts?” She was obviously half asleep, her voice quieter and softer than usual. Brasidas tilted his head towards her, seeing her eyes opening and closing slowly, as if she was fighting to stay awake to hear his thoughts. “If they’re guilty thoughts, I’m great at those,” she murmured with a small but sad smile on her face, “it’s either you or them, you do what you have to do to survive.”

Brasidas huffed, a little bewildered at how casually she rationalises killing, then again, he knows she has always lived in a kill or be killed world, even without the help of Sparta. “They are not guilty thoughts,” Brasidas explained, briefly looking back at the ceiling, “go back to sleep, we will talk in the morning.” He turned back to Kassandra and moved a piece of hair from her eyes. She hummed appreciated but ultimately, didn’t roll back to her side as she usually did.

Brasidas rolled on his side, first away from Kassandra and then towards her, but by that time, she was back asleep, lips open slightly as she breathed evenly. He gazed at her for a few minutes before he too closed his eyes and fell asleep.

[ajokeformur-ray]

@nostalgic-uncertainty -  A fluffy Hannibal :3 as fluffy as he can be without it being weird that is XD maybe one in which reader is going out with Hannibal and it’s great until she walks in on him killing someone in his murder suit, she flips out, he drugs her and then what happens is up to you XD

Ugh, I love Hannibal waaaaaay more than I should considering, y’know, he’s a cannibalistic serial killer… I’m always nervous writing about Hannibal because I’m scared of characterising him incorrectly; feels like an insult to do that. But after months of procrastination, I just have to sit and write the thing that scares me. Hannibal wouldn’t mind, I hope. But anyways, uhm, @thranduilsperkybutt helped me out so much with this. If you don’t follow them, you really should. Everything they write is flawless and almost taken from canon. Thank you, lovely! ❤

Your shift was almost over, thankfully. You just had to print out some files and leave them in your outbox for Monday. 

As you were walking down the corridor to the printing room, you heard shuffling and a series of grunts coming from the Director’s office. Thinking it may have just been the Director working out in his office, as he kept a punching bag in the corner, you thought nothing of it, walking past without glancing inside and continuing on your errand.

As you reached the printer, scanning your aged ID card and carrying out your errand, you were initially unaware of the sudden lack of background noise. Indeed, as you began to notice the quiet ringing in your ears, the silence became deafening.

Something was wrong. There was ice in your gut and though you couldn’t say why, you felt compelled in equal measures to investigate and run away. There was no telling which of the two compulsions was stronger.

Slipping your heels off because really, they were death traps, you padded quietly down the corridor, back the way you came. You reached the office and there was very little sound, just quiet squelches and the odd squeak, as though two things very much attached to one another were now being ripped apart forcibly.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you curled your hand around the door frame and peered around, looking into the expanse of the office. All you saw at first glance was the sight of a familiar broad back, clad in a plastic suit, leaning over the desk chair, occasionally grunting with the physical exertion. 

There was a metallic tang in the air, and you gagged. You knew what was before you, what your five senses were registering, but you didn’t want to believe it. How could you believe it?

The imposing figure turned then, and your heart dropped into your stomach, bile rising up into your throat as you recognised the perpetrator. 

“H-Hannibal?”

His eyes… Never before had you seen your partner look at you, look at anyone, like that. He was, for lack of a better word, unfeeling. There was no emotion in his eyes. Hannibal Lecter had the eyes of a shark, now. He was facing you directly, his predatory eyes meeting yours unflinchingly. 

You didn’t recognise the man stood in front of you.

And the man behind him, he - your eyes widened, your breath caught in your throat and all sense of logic left you immediately. The room was spinning and you couldn’t think or see straight. You felt the need to run, to run, far away and never once look back. 

His throat had been cut deeply, exposing white bone, which had an ugly contrast with the sheer amount of blood and the ravaged flesh around it. You knew what those grotesque noises had been - Hannibal, cutting and tearing into tissue, his hands grabbing and pulling apart sinew and bone, the crunches and pops, like a chicken leg when you twist the cartilage and break it apart. It had been raw, animalistic, and yet perfectly carried out… What Hannibal had done, he had done well, and you knew all at once that Hannibal had killed before.

When you’d walked in, interrupting him, Hannibal had been settling the head against the plush backrest of the desk chair, adding the finishing touches to his murder.

Your eyes didn’t want to leave the sight of the remains of the Director and yet you couldn’t look away fast enough. You struggled to breathe, to think straight, to realise that you should call for help, for back-up, to take Hannibal down.

As your eyes settled back on the man you no longer knew, your chest heaving, your starved lungs craving oxygen, a part of you instantly knew where you had seen that look before, in the eyes of those featured in your criminology textbooks. Hannibal’s eyes were cold, calculating, and you realised somewhere in your mind that you were the next puzzle that had to be solved. You hoped that your romantic ties to the man, the beast, before you, would be your grounds for mercy, but if he could do this to the Director, then there was no telling what he’d do to you.

He took a step towards you, his face unreadable, his eyes cold and foreboding, and then other step, careful and measured. Whereas before you had wanted nothing more than to run, now you found yourself quite rooted to the spot. Something flashed across his face so quickly that you couldn’t identify it. He sped up, never faltering, never falling, just quick and steady, and he reached you so quickly that you didn’t even have the time to scream.

There was a very sudden movement, something in his hand, and then a sharp sting in your neck, and you succumbed to the darkness which now clouded your vision.

 You came back into yourself slowly, your head fogged by whatever Hannibal had drugged you with, your movements slow. You didn’t know how you’d gotten here or even why you were here. 

You looked around the room, taking in your surroundings. Recognition pulsed through you - you’d spent several nights here before in the past, when Hannibal had been too much of a gentleman to let you drive home in the middle of the night. You relaxed then, only to jolt up as you realised belatedly that the door was effectively blocked by Hannibal leaning up against it, not a hair out of place.

He was watching you closely, the way that a lion watches a gazelle that is perilously close to the pride. You knew then that, one wrong move, and he’d likely kill you or sedate you again.  You were also at a crossroads - you could either… accept this side of Hannibal and stay alive, or you could make a run for it. You knew that the former option would likely result in your death, because Hannibal would just drag you right back to this place, and then you may never make it out alive.

During this, Hannibal had been watching you, closely. He could almost see the cogs turning in your mind as to which option you were likely to take, and he knew you well enough to know that a part of you had already chosen. The rest of you just had to come to terms with and accept it.

“Well, what are you going to do?” The way he said it made it seem like you had a choice here, but you’d had enough training to know that you really didn’t. 

You had no choice.

It was stay and live, or leave and die. Simple as that, with no possibility of compromise.

“Why did you drug me?” Your voice was quiet, scratchy, and Hannibal looked towards your bedside cabinet, which had a glass of water sat atop it. You took it and drank gratefully, swallowing as you waited for his answer. You hoped that he’d tell you the truth now that you had discovered his biggest and deadliest secret.

“You were being irrational. Now look at how calm you are.” 

You nodded carefully, your mind working overtime to try to rationalise and justify all of this. 

Hannibal lingered in the doorway for another moment or two before he made his way towards you, his body language open and relaxing, now. The man before you was your Hannibal, not the man in the Director’s office. You couldn’t help the fond smile that found its way onto your face as those familiar dark brown eyes met yours, filled with something you wanted to be warm affection. 

He smoothed your hair down with a single hand, which moved down to cup your chin. You leaned into his touch like a cat, and he smiled, leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. Then, Hannibal turned and left the room, shutting the door with a firm snap behind him.

This ended abruptly because I’ve spent two hours on this and I’ve had enough of it, plus I don’t think you’d really address the issue, it’d be one of those things that just never gets acknowledged. I could be wrong, though. Anyways, I had my mum read through this because I’m nervous about posting it. Hope you like it.

Part 2