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hannigramficrecs · 3 years

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Hey, do you have any "long" (30k up only) hannigram fics, with hannibal's pov (preference, but not absolutely necessary) of AUs, like the best long fic AUs you can think of, like time-travel, different meetings, abo, etc.

No vampire, mermaids or werewolves au tho.

If you can, of course. Thank you alredy 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

I’m not sure if these are all Hannibal’s POV, but here are a list of all my favorite long AU’s (sorry if I included too many LOL). Also if anyone’s interested here are links to the mermaid and werewolf fics

Palace of Dreams by MaiTai1327 [words: 41,986]

A lonely boy at a Lithuanian orphanage creates a memory palace for him to hide away from his despicable circumstances and the nightmares haunting him. In his dreams, his palace becomes reality. And one day, he finds another boy hiding in one of its rooms.

Our Stars are the Same by beforethedawn, ConstructFairytales, Destinyawakened [words: 42,578]

Someone’s moved into the old creepy, supposedly haunted, mansion down the way from Will Graham and his family. Will never expects to befriend the new family’s son.

Vena Amoris by PaperPlaneChemTrails [words: 55,596]

Will Graham is a producer on a Bachelor knock off reality TV show. Against his protests and better judgement, Dr. Hannibal Lecter is cast as the primary love interest on the show. Despite his many initial misgivings, Hannibal is a hit, and Will finds himself as drawn into the story Hannibal is creating as everyone watching at home. Everything is going well until Will becomes suspicious that he is the real object of Hannibal’s affections, and all of a sudden contestants start to turn up murdered.

Little Arts of Vice by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite [words: 44,991]

Cruel Intentions AU. “Tedium draws me to observation,” he murmurs. “Contemplation.” “Manipulation,” Mischa adds calmly, tilts her head when Hannibal narrows his eyes at her. “You wouldn’t deny it, Hannibal, you’re proud of that one. And in truth you do it well.” “There is little to manipulate when watching a dog chase a bird.” It starts with a bet.

A Past of Plank and Nail by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdeadly, printersdevils (tuesdaysgone) [words: 87,821]

Hannibal needs a kitchen remodel, and his colleague and friend Alana knows just the guy to help him with his rundown new home. Enter Will Graham, carpenter and contractor extraordinaire, and devastating addition to Hannibal’s daily life. When he starts running out of new projects to keep Will around, Hannibal fast realizes his infatuation is more than simple attraction - and that getting Will to agree to dinner is only the first hurdle.

Redemption by houseofcannibals [words: 132,427]

After very publicly losing his mind and murdering three young women in an unconscious state, FBI consultant Will Graham is sentenced to serve three consecutive life sentences in the notorious Shawshank State Prison. Upon arrival, he is unsettled to find himself in a cell neighboring that of infamous serial killer Dr Hannibal Lecter.

Carnivore, Won’t You Come Digest Me? by HigherMagic [words: 64,019]

Role Reversal AU: Following the execution of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Hannibal is forced to see Doctor Will Graham for a psychiatric evaluation before he can return to the field. Once cleared, Jack insists that Will shadow Hannibal in the hopes of catching the Shrike’s copycat. Hannibal has become a master of making sure the FBI stays blind to his extracurricular activities, but Will is a man who sees far too much, and won’t be so easily overcome.

Page Six by ThisBeautifulDrowning [words: 66,839]

Crime reporter Will Graham’s column on page six of the Baltimore Sun garners him the attention of many: fans, hobby detectives, the FBI…and others. Hannibal cut off a piece of meat with surgical precision. “I find your company rather engaging.” “Maybe I don’t find you all that engaging.” Silence. Hannibal grinned. “I see that it will take more than one dinner to earn your forgiveness. Challenge accepted.”

Falls the Shadow by littlesystems [words: 72,455]

AU where Bedelia is Will’s psychiatrist instead of Hannibal, Will makes a series of increasingly questionable life choices, and no one should ever take Bedelia’s advice. Ever.

Rescues by drinkbloodlikewine and whiskeyandspite [words: 99,552]

Mischa is living with PTSD, and Hannibal seeks out a service animal to help her. He meets Will, trainer of therapy dogs - cue puppies, adorable interactions and lots of dogs. And smut. Of course.

Where the Albatross Crash-Lands by HigherMagic [words: 40,220]

Everyone has two marks on their arm: one is the name of their soulmate, the other is the name of their mortal enemy. There’s no way of knowing which is which. This same trick of fate makes it so that your Marks are the only two voices you will ever hear when you go deaf at sixteen. Hannibal has a nice voice. Will hopes he’s his mate. He hopes he never hears the voice of the Chesapeake Ripper.

Provenance by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite [words: 62,735]

A delightful AU about a rare book dealer, an owner of a high-end coffee shop, and murder. This does involve Hannibal Lecter, after all.

A Fortunate Wound by starkaryen [words: 83,312]

Will Graham, a police officer in Baltimore, is shot while he’s on duty. The surgeon on call in the ER is Hannibal Lecter.

Until I Met You by Dormchi [words: 33,990]

Detective Will Graham needs an expert and Fire Lieutenant Hannibal Lecter happens to be available. Basically this is just arson, murder, coffee, and fluff.

Canvases by thatviciousvixen [words: 36,660]

When Hannibal meets a handsome artist with a keen interest in death he knows he’s finally met a kindred spirit. All Will needs is a little push.

In Sickness and in Health by BonesAndScales [words: 67,450]

Everyone knows that Will and Hannibal are married. Not everyone knows that they are married to each other.

The Escapists by whiskeyandspite [words: 35,368]

Will’s cellmate said nothing, and Will didn’t venture. He had been prickly enough as a lecturer, where human interaction was mandatory, and prison was not the sort of place one made friends. One either made allies or enemies, or stayed quiet enough to avoid both. Will doubted he’d be that lucky; far too easy to rile up especially when stupidity was the catalyst. Prison, Will thought absently, was similar to college.

Sweeter Bitter by wormsin [words: 89,503]

Will is an awkward student and Hannibal an intrigued mentor.

Before You And After You by ache_for_him, Breakmybones (CarterReid), CarterReid [words: 33,734]

Hannibal and Will had a past: a dirty, bloody, violent past. Will was sure he’d never see his own personal monster again - then he walked into Jack Crawford’s office.

Ethics & Aesthetics by fragile-teacup [words: 106,330]

Pride and Prejudice omegaverse AU

Look, Mother! The Sheep Have Devoured the Wolves! by HigherMagic [words: 102,934]

Hannibal and Bedelia are married, but unable to have children. At Margot’s insistence, Hannibal agrees to meet the Omega that was a surrogate for her and Alana. Will is rough-edged, unrefined, and everything Hannibal shouldn’t desire. This arrangement promises to be clean, and simple. Of course, nothing concerning Will Graham is ever simple.

Wings of Wax and Feather by BelladonnaWyck and raiast [words: 55,947]

“Did you just smell me?” "Difficult to avoid. My apologies, I didn’t realize there were any Omegas in this section of the prison.” “Most get sent to the Omega Holding Facility two counties over. But then, most don’t get done in for rippin’ out an Alpha’s throat in the middle of the street.” or Hannibal Lecter had always known the winding road of fate may one day lead him straight to a prison cell. He’d never imagined he’d find his true mate there.

Truly, Madly, Deeply by slashyrogue [words: 52,811]

They meet by chance at a Christmas Party and share a kiss that seals their fate.

Purity by PixieDust291 [words: 130,528]

Will is cast aside by his alpha and sacrificed to the Wendigo that hunts in the forest. However, after confronting the creature Will then finds himself in the home of Hannibal. The alpha lives alone and seems to have taken it upon himself to nurture Will back to health. Over time Will grows comfortable with Hannibal and slowly reveals the reasons for his abandonment. Hannibal, being a pure bred alpha of the highest caliber, is well aware of just how rare and valuable Will is and decides to take the wounded omega for himself.

Quatervois by stratumgermanitivum, whiskeyandspite [words: 33,226]

Will is an Omega who desires independence and freedom. Hannibal is an Alpha who finds his mind curious. They make a deal: if Will can convince Hannibal that he is worth more than breeding stock, and can go through his heat without begging for his Alpha, Hannibal will not mate him, but make him a ward instead; Will could go to college, get a job, do anything he wanted. If not, then he will be Hannibal’s mate, bear pups, and accept his role. But is it really as simple as that?

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal fanfiction #hannigram fanfiction #hannibal fanfic #hannigram fanfic #hannibal au #hannigram au #murder husbands #hannibal fic recs #hannigram fic recs #hannibal lecter #will graham #will x hannibal #mads mikkelsen #hugh dancy #replies

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specialagentsergio · 3 years

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all we can do is keep breathing || chapter two

summary: Spencer’s doing better, but recovery isn’t linear, and some scars run deeper than either of you knew.

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

category: angst (eventual happy ending)

content warnings: swearing, drug abuse & addiction, substance use disorder, ptsd, descriptions of panic attacks/ptsd episodes, recollection of past bullying, unhealthy coping mechanisms, yelling/fighting, negative feelings towards other team members, body image issues

a/n: i was so taken aback by the response to chapter one--i didn’t think anyone would even read it tbh. thank you all and thanks for being patient with my lack of an upload schedule. i'm so sorry the word count is massive again. you get tummy appreciation, though, because 1) we all love spencer’s tummy, and 2) i personally gained weight when i was in residential treatment and it can be a bit of a mindfuck lol.

a/n 2: repeated disclaimer that i'm not a doctor, psychologist, psychiatrist, etc., just a direct care staff, past rtc patient and trauma recovery enthusiast. the horse therapy is pretty much entirely based on my own personal experience from nearly a decade ago, so don’t expect it to be an accurate portrayal of equine-assisted psychotherapy.

word count: 7.3k

song: you will be found from dear evan hansen

fic masterlist || masterlist

He’s been looking forward to the start of equine therapy since he got a spot in the program. But instead of being excited the morning of, Spencer ends up crying for an hour straight.

The day started off fine. It wasn’t hard to get up with the horses to look forward to, and he was able to get an extra plate at breakfast, so he could keep the pancake syrup from touching the eggs and sausage. Art therapy was a few hours later. He’d started to actually enjoy the pottery project—the recreational therapist had brought him a box of disposable gloves to use so the feeling of drying clay on his hands was no longer a problem.

Everyone’s projects were coming out of the kiln today and the next step was painting them. He’d been planning out the design and colors he wanted to use since the project started and was excited to finally start applying it.

Then he dropped his item, it broke into pieces, and he burst into tears.

He’d fled the room on instinct alone and curled up in a corner of the hallway, pressing his knees to his forehead. He was upset about the pottery, and upset that he was so affected by it breaking. He felt stupid and silly for crying over it, which only made him cry harder.

He heard distant laughter and he clapped his hands over his ears. He was being laughed at again for being a crybaby. He didn’t want to be a crybaby. He wanted to stop crying, he just couldn’t. The goalpost was cold against the bare skin of his back, and his wrists were starting to burn from the ties.

I want to go home. Just let me go home, please, I’ll do anything. Let me go, let me go--

“Spencer, it’s okay. You’re safe here. Can you repeat after me? I’m safe here.”

Safe here. Safe here.

Art therapy was over by the time he came out of it.

He has lunch at his therapist’s office instead of with the group. Lara asks what his flashback had been to.

He picks at his food. “It happened a long time ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright. Can you tell me how it felt instead?”

Spencer isn’t really hungry, but bites into his sandwich to stall for time. She doesn’t rush him. Eventually, he asks, “Do you know what alexithymia means?”

“No words for feelings,” she replies.

He nods. “That’s all.”

Lara opens one of her desk drawers and pulls out a composition notebook, which she then hands to him.

“What’s this for?”

“I want you to start trying to notice your feelings and sensations throughout the day. Make some kind of note, even if you don’t exactly have the words to describe it.”

He sighs. “Why?”

“Just noticing what you feel can help you develop emotional regulation,” she explains. She’s always been honest with him about the why of what she wants him to try and do. “It’s going to help you stop ignoring what’s going on inside you.”

I don’t want to do that.

“I know you don’t.”

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he blurts. “That either. I—god.” He quickly takes another bite of food before he can say more.

“It’s fine. I didn’t expect you to like it,” Lara says with a small smile. “I’m sure the thought of confronting what you’ve been suppressing and avoiding is scary. But getting better requires you to do a lot of scary things.”

Spencer wants to protest. Being strapped to a chair in a shed and dosed against your will is scary. Your mother being diagnosed with Alzheimer's is scary. Being sent to prison for a crime you didn’t commit is scary. Feeling things? That’s not scary.

Isn’t it?

He tries not to think on it too much.

Despite the unpleasant thoughts running through his mind, Spencer finds himself nodding off on the van ride to the horse ranch. His eyes unfocus, his blink rate slows… and then he jerks back awake at the sensation of his head falling forward.

A frustrated noise escapes the back of his throat. He’s sick of feeling tired all the time. He’s getting enough sleep in theory, but still finds himself drowsy at least once a day. It’s to the point that he’s regularly wearing his glasses instead of his contacts to keep his eyes from feeling quite so dry. He pushes them back up now as he tries to tune back in to his surroundings.

“… don’t get how seeing some horse is supposed to make me feel better.” That’s Aiden’s voice. He’s Spencer’s new roommate. He wasn’t happy when he found out he was getting a new one, having much preferred having the room to himself, but it’s been okay so far, mostly because they keep out of each other’s way. Aiden seems uninterested in making friends, and that suits Spencer just fine. Lara’s been encouraging him to talk to fellow patients instead of just the direct care staff, but he’s resisted it. The last time he befriended someone, they ended up--

Spencer’s fine with the two of them keeping to themselves.

Melanie, one of the staff accompanying them, is leaned over the back of the middle seat as she talks to Aiden. “Well, I couldn’t tell you why exactly, but I’ve seen this program help a lot of people in my time here,” she says. “Spencer?”

“What?”

“You’ve been reading a lot about horses, right?” At his nod, she continues, “What have you found out?”

“Equine-assisted psychotherapy lacks the rigorous scientific evidence to demonstrate if it provides benefits in mental health treatment. Horses have been used to aid in psychiatric treatment since the 1990’s, though,” he says. He intends to stop there, but can’t stop himself from continuing. “It doesn’t necessarily involve riding, but may include grooming, feeding, and ground exercises. The goal is to help the client in social, emotional, cognitive, and or behavioral ways.”

He can feel Aiden’s eyes on him and takes a breath before meeting them. He knows all too well that his infodumps aren’t always well received. He doesn’t want to be friends, but would prefer for his roommate to not view him with disdain or annoyance. But Aiden looks interested, and says as much--”that’s interesting.” He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t, and there’s silence between them for the remainder of the drive. It’s not uncomfortable, though.

When the van pulls into a parking spot and everyone starts to get out, Spencer begins to feel nervous. He’s read everything he could get his hands on, but as a relatively new therapy, there’s no standard program; it varies by facility, so he doesn’t know exactly what to expect. He’s been looking forward to this, but what if it turns out to be a bad fit for him? What if the people here don’t like him? What if the horses don’t like him?

He hangs at the back of their group of ten—six patients and two staff—as they’re led to a shaded area. They’re introduced to the program director and assistants, and are given an overview of what they’ll be doing over the next six weeks. They won’t be riding the horses, just doing groundwork (he’s not sure if he feels relieved or disappointed). Then he learns that intention of this specific program isn’t just for the horses to help the clients—the clients are to help the horses as well. The animals all have the gentle temperaments suited for therapy, but also have their own struggles. A lot of them were adopted out of poor situations.

They’re led to a circular corral next and spaced equidistantly around the edge. Spencer’s heart rate picks up as the horses are brought in—the animals will be picking their therapy partner, the director says. As they’re let off their leads a jolt of anxiety runs through his body, making him twitch slightly. This feels uncomfortably familiar to school P.E. when teams were picked. No one wanted him then. What’s gong to happen if none of the horses want him, either? He looks down at his shoes.

But just a few moments later, he hears his name, and looks up to see one of the horses approaching him. “Looks like you and Chance are our first pair,” the director is saying.

First?

Chance is almost entirely black, save for a spot of white between his eyes and above his nose. His size is a little intimidating, but his demeanor is gentle. One of the assistants comes up to Spencer and instructs him to hold out his hand so the horse can sniff it.

His hand trembles slightly as he lifts it. Warm breath hits his fingers as Chance sniffs at it. Then the horse presses his nose completely against his hand. The moistness would usually bother Spencer, but for some reason it doesn’t. Instead, a smile slowly spreads across his face. The assistant tells him he can pet Chance now. He runs his hand up and down the horse’s snout, and despite the slight coarseness of the hair, finds it soothing.

The horse shuffles closer when Spencer is given his lead to hold. A startled laugh escapes him when Chance presses his nose into his neck. He pats his head a few times, then takes a tiny step back. He’s thrilled that at least one of the horses likes him, but feels a little crowded by the large animal. To his surprise, Chance seems to understand, and takes a step back of his own.

He absently pats his horse as he watches the rest of the group pair up. He still can’t believe he was picked first.

The rest of their time with the horses is very simple. They’re taught how to lead them, and after practicing in the corral, they take the horses back to their paddocks. Spencer’s disappointed to say goodbye already, but understands the need to not overwhelm the horses or even themselves. “I’ll see you next week,” he finds himself whispering to Chance.

There’s ten minutes left in the session, and it’s spent with the director telling them more about each horses’ specific background. Chance was poorly treated by his previous owner, mostly kept locked up in a small barn and not properly cared for. He has many talents and abilities, the director says. He needs to learn that he didn’t deserve to be treated the way he was, and be told that he is brave.

Spencer rests his chin in his hand and stares out the window on the drive back to the treatment center. He knows from his reading that horses are emotionally intelligent creatures, but he’s still… well, amazed by how the horses all picked who was most similar to them out of the group instinctively.

He feels more understood by an animal he’s interacted with for twenty minutes than he has by a person for months.

Before bed that night, he chews on the stem of his pen cap, thinking over the events of his day. Slowly, in a manner that could almost be described as cautious, he picks up the empty composition book Lara gave him and opens it. His hand hovers over the blank page for a few moments, then he puts pen on paper and begins to write.

---

You made dinner reservations for his visit this Saturday. You’re getting ready for it when there’s a knock on the front door.

“I’ll get it,” Spencer calls from the living room.

You return to fixing your hair up. You’re not expecting anyone, so it’s probably just a package or a neighbor. But just a few moments later, you hear Spencer raise his voice.

“No! No, I don’t—don’t touch me, please.”

You’re only half dressed, but hurry out to the living room anyways. When you round the corner, you immediately see what the problem is: JJ has dropped by unexpectedly.

It’s not that Spencer doesn’t want to see his team. They just bring memories with them, and he had decided shortly after his birthday that he wasn’t ready to confront that yet.

He’s standing a little ways back from the door, staring at JJ while she looks back with hurt on her face. “Spence--” she starts before she sees you.

At Spencer’s side, you place a hand on his arm and he takes a step behind you. “JJ, what are you doing here?”

She struggles to keep her eyes off of him as she answers. “(Y/N), I’m sorry, I just—Will and I made cookies with the boys today and we had a lot of extra, so I just wanted to drop some off for you. I—I didn’t know Spence was here. I didn’t mean to--”

You hold up a hand to stop her. “It’s okay, JJ. You couldn’t have known. You were just trying to do something nice.”

She nods, relieved at your understanding. “Yeah. Yeah, I….” She blows out a breath, then holds out a plastic wrapped plate of cookies to you. You take it from her with a quiet thank you. Then she looks back to the man that’s essentially hiding behind you as best as he can, despite how tall he is. “Spence, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wouldn’t want me to touch you.”

There’s a tug on your clothing as he curls his fingers into the fabric on the small of your back. You tilt your head to look at him, but his gaze is on the floor. “You…” he glances up once, then looks back down. “You should ask next time,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” she replies, just as softly. “I will.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheeks to hold back a smile. Spencer often struggles to advocate for his needs, especially with his friends and colleagues, in fear of being a burden or more of a nuisance than he thinks others already perceive him as. He did it a lot with you when you first started dating. It took a lot of time and reassurance that yes, you really did want to know his wants and needs, for him to open up. Telling JJ to ask before touching him may seem small from the outside, but it’s a big deal for him.

After a rather awkward silence, JJ speaks again. “Well, um, I should get going. Just… let us know if you need anything, okay, Spence? We—the team, we’re all here for you.”

“That’s rich,” Spencer mutters behind you and you freeze. You recognize that edge to his voice. It’s usually accompanied by sharp words and remarks that he’ll regret later.

Please please please tell me JJ didn’t hear that.

“I’m sorry?”

Fuck.

“I hate to rush you out, JJ, but we have dinner reservations, so--” you try to interject but Spencer speaks over you.

“I’m just saying, why should I believe you’re here for me when you weren’t last time?”

JJ’s eyebrows come together. “I… don’t understand, I’ve always--”

“No, you haven’t!” It’s like Spencer can’t get the words out fast enough, the way he keeps interrupting before either of you can finish a sentence. This is clearly something that’s been weighing on him. You just wish he was unloading it onto his therapist rather than poor JJ, his best friend outside of you, who’s just trying to be nice. “Ten years ago I was shooting up in police station bathrooms and Emily is the only one who said a damn thing.”

His grip on your clothes tightens, forcing you to take a step back. You move the plate of cookies to one hand and reach back with the other, circling it around his wrist. “Spencer.”

Realization dawns on JJ’s face and she crosses her arms. “Spence, I couldn’t--”

“You couldn’t.” The little laugh he lets out derisive. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

You don’t know where all this is coming from or what he’s referring to, but JJ does, her expression hardening.

“You know what would have happened if the higher ups found out,” she says. “I was protecting your job. We all were.”

“You shouldn’t have!” he cries, emotions other than anger seeping into the words. “This damn job is one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me! I got anthrax poisoning, I still have issues with my knee from being shot. I nearly died from a shot in the neck, and let’s not forget, I was framed for murder by a psychopath I arrested, who then kidnapped my mother while I was in prison! Oh, and what else? Oh right, this job is the reason I’m a fucking addict in the first place!”

JJ’s clearly trying to hold back tears now, but one slips out and your heart aches for her. You close your eyes briefly and take a deep breath, then speak quietly but firmly. “Spencer, you need to leave the room.”

You can hear him breathing shakily behind you. “(Y/N)--”

“Now.” You squeeze his wrist and he finally lets go of your clothing. He takes a few steps away, stops, turns back and opens his mouth to say something, but at the look you give him, shuts it and continues on his way out.

A sniffle draws your attention back to JJ, who’s looking up at the ceiling and swiping at the tears sliding down. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t have come by without giving you a heads-up. I’ve just made things worse.”

“No, JJ, don’t be sorry. It--” There’s thumping noises from further back in the apartment so you step forward and shut the front door behind you. She has her arms wrapped around herself when you turn back.

“It’s not your fault,” you continue. “You were just trying to be nice. You’re a good friend to him. He’s just… everything is really raw for him right now, if that makes sense?”

She nods, wiping at her eyes again.

“It’s, uh, not an excuse, though,” you clarify. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. You didn’t do anything wrong. That was all him, so please don’t blame yourself.”

JJ is quiet for a bit, staring at the floor. Then she says, “I should get going.”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” you agree quietly. Realizing you’re still holding the plate of cookies in one hand, you lift it slightly and add, “Thanks for these. And, um… I’m so sorry about that.”

She shakes her head and glances at the door. “Don’t be. Like you said, it was all him,” she murmurs.

You know she’s right, but you’re still barely able to stop yourself from apologizing again as she descends the stairs. You can’t help but feel like you should have done more, stopped him somehow, even though you don’t know how you could have. The way his behavior changed… it was like he wanted to get it all out, and when Spencer Reid wants to say something, it’s nearly impossible to get him to stop.

The apartment isn’t quiet when you walk back in. There’s the scraping and clatter of a desk drawer, followed by frantic footsteps and the thud of books falling off the shelves. You know what he’s doing, and you know he won’t find anything, so you just lock the front door and continue on to the kitchen to put the cookies away.

You lean on the counter and cover your face with your hands. It doesn’t matter if you mess up your hair or face, or anything, really, because you’re not making it to dinner anymore.

You stay like that for a while, eyes closed, trying to think of a place to even start with Spencer after all of that. When the sounds of him tearing through the apartment stop, you lift you head back up and promptly jump—he’s staring at you from the nearest doorway.

“Jesus, Spencer--”

“Where’s my stuff?” he asks, and the seriousness in his tone of voice makes your anxiety spike. You know exactly what he means by stuff.

“It’s gone. What did you think was gonna happen?”

“Yeah, but it’s…” he trails off and his expression puzzles you. It almost looks like he’s confused. “It’s all gone.”

Ah. “Yeah, well, I know you think you’re sneaky, but you’re very much the opposite when you’re not sober,” you reply. “Finding your hiding spots wasn’t hard.”

He drops his gaze to the floor, frowning. “I don’t like it when you move my things,” he says quietly.

“I don’t like it when you use,” you counter.

He visibly flinches, then his hand tightens on the door frame. “I’m not going to—to take it, I just want to hold it. Where’s my stuff?” he repeats.

“Holding it, right,” you sigh.

“It’s comforting,” he argues.

“Even if I believed that, it wouldn’t matter, Spencer. I threw it all out. There’s none here.”

The humming noise he makes is angry, and he rocks back and forth on his feet in an agitated manner. “You shouldn’t… I don’t….”

I don’t have the energy for this. It’s a thought you feel terrible about as soon as you have it, but it’s the truth. Lara had cautioned you before his first visit that he was going to be hypersensitive to disappointment and frustration until he learned how to cope with the feelings he’d been using the Dilaudid to block out. Unfortunately, the information, while useful, didn’t always make his emotional extremes easier to deal with.

You run a hand down your face. “Spencer…” you start. You’re not sure what to continue with, but you don’t have to—for whatever reason, that sets him off.

He tears his eyes away from the floor to glare at you. “Don’t—don’t touch my things ever again!” Then he turns and all but runs to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

You suck in a breath and drop your head to the counter. The marble is cool and you thump your forehead against it gently a few times, focusing on breathing in and out slowly to calm down. When you’re ready, you walk as quietly as you can to the bedroom door and press your ear against it to hear the unmistakable sound of Spencer sobbing into his pillow.

Part of you wants to go in and comfort him, but you suspect that you’d just make it worse right now since some of his frustration is directed at you. And truth be told, you’re frustrated with him, too. So you retreat to the living room, flopping down on the couch and pulling out your phone to call the restaurant to cancel your reservations. Doing so is more upsetting than you expected; a few tears of your own slide down your face after you hang up. Before you know it, you’re calling Tara.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asks you.

“I…” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Spencer’s… we’re having a bad day. If you’re not busy, can I talk to you about it?”

“Of course,” is her gentle reply, and you pull yourself to your feet, moving to the farthest point away from the bedroom in the apartment so Spencer won’t overhear.

“He got angry when you told him you got rid of everything?” she guesses when you reach that part.

“Yeah. He told me that he doesn’t like it when I move his things. I already knew that; that’s why everything else is where he left it. I think he was mostly just caught off guard that I knew all his hiding places.”

“If he’s having a trauma response to seeing JJ, he’s not going to be thinking clearly, either,” Tara points out. “I wasn’t there, so I could be wrong, but from what you’ve said, it sounds like she was some sort of trigger for him.”

“That’s more than a fair assessment. It’s just… confusing,” you say. “He wasn’t like this with her when he first got home from prison. He actually spent a lot of time at JJ’s house before his relapse. He’d go over and hold Michael when he couldn’t sleep. Why is seeing his best friend suddenly such a bad thing?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t have to make sense to us. It only has to make sense to the traumatized part of the brain,” she explains. “He may not even know why himself.”

“Hmm.” You ponder it for a moment. “I think I’d find that interesting if I wasn’t living it.”

Tara laughs out loud at that. “Yeah, I’ve found that to be rather commonplace sentiment in the field of psychology.”

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling calmer. “Thanks for listening,” you say. “I feel better now.”

“Anytime, (Y/N).”

You exchange goodbyes, making plans to catch up properly over lunch next week. You hang up, then tiptoe back to the bedroom door. It’s quiet now; Spencer seems to have stopped crying. You knock softly. “Honey? Can I come in?”

When he doesn’t respond, you try the door handle. It’s unlocked, which is a good sign—he’s upset, but not upset enough to completely shut you out. You open the door just enough to look in.

Spencer’s on the bed as expected, huddled under his weighted blanket. His back is to the door and you see his shoulders shuddering in the little breaths that follow him crying. In your experience, he usually seeks out comfort before this stage, often having the breakdown itself in your arms or stumbling into them halfway through. This is a bit of uncharted territory. You know that after outbursts of negative emotions, he tends to need reassurance and touch from someone to help him decompress and feel better. You just don’t know if that’s going to hold true for this kind of reaction. A trauma response, Tara called it. You hope it will, because you don’t know what else to do.

“I’m going to come in now,” you tell him before taking a step inside. You leave the door open behind you so he won’t feel trapped, then slowly approach him, looking out for signs that he doesn’t want you near—tensing muscles, slight rocking, shaking his head—but he stays still.

Once you sit down on the edge of the bed you can see his face. His eyes are puffy and his cheeks are red and raw from wiping away tears. A few are still slipping out, sliding sideways down his face and dropping onto the wet patch on his pillowcase as he stares blankly at the wall across the room.

Hesitantly, you reach out and touch his arm as lightly as you can. He takes in a deep breath, but does nothing to suggest that he wants you to remove it. After a few moments to ensure that he’s okay with touch, you start running your hand up and down his back. He whimpers a little in response, closing his eyes and titling back into your touch.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

You don’t get a straightforward answer. He chews on his bottom lip for a bit before speaking in a scratchy voice. “Can you…?” he mumbles, lifting his head up slightly from the pillow, then dropping it back down. You don’t know what he’s asking for until you see some of his fingers poking out from under the blanket and the stroking motion they’re making.

You maneuver across the mattress to sit against the headboard, jostling him as little as you can, and he shifts to place his head in your lap. When you start carding your fingers through his hair, his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a little sigh.

“What’s going on?” you ask once the tension has faded and his body has settled fully into the mattress. He just shrugs and you press your lips together to hold back a sigh. You’re familiar with him going nonverbal and you know that he can’t help it, but it’s discouraging. One of the main things he’s been working on is being more open about his emotions. It’s been a welcome change to not have to pry things out of him. But he seems to have gone right back to old habits tonight and it’s… well, it’s disappointing.

The silence carries on for a long time as you continue to run your hands through his hair. He’s so still and relaxed that you think he may have fallen asleep until he takes in a deep, shuddering breath and clears his throat. “I… I want to go back,” he whispers.

“Back whe--” you start, then your heart drops as you realize what he means. “Oh.”

Your hands fall to your lap as he sits up and clambers out of bed, muttering, “gonna get changed.” He shuts the bathroom door behind him—for whatever reason, he’s not always comfortable with you seeing him changing or in the shower anymore—and you sit still for a few moments, processing what he just said. After over a month of listening to him express his desire to come home—begging you, even, in the beginning—you were unprepared to hear the opposite.

You shake your head slightly to try and clear it, then follow his lead, leaving the bed and changing out of your fancy clothes, trying not to think about how much you had been looking forward to wearing them to the restaurant.

Spencer remains quiet for the drive back to his treatment center, staring out the passenger side window, legs pulled into his chest. He mumbles a quick “bye” to you when you check him back in—no hug or kiss on the cheek like you’ve grown accustomed to. Instead he turns right back to the nurse and staff member running the process and asks, “Is Matt working tonight? I need to talk to him.”

At least he wants to talk to someone, you tell yourself as you leave, trying to soothe the sting caused by the fact that the someone isn’t you.

---

The next time you see him is six days later, on Friday evening. You’ve only talked once since Saturday, over the phone on Wednesday night, and it wasn’t a long call. He was upset about the horse therapy appointment being canceled that afternoon because of the weather—it had rained hard all day—and didn’t say much else. He ended the call before the ten minute mark, saying that he was tired and wanted to go lie down.

He also didn’t request a visit for the weekend—he either didn’t think his treatment team would approve it or he just didn’t want one. So you’re visiting him at the center today. You’ve brought dinner with you—you cooked one of his favorites yourself—but before you eat, you’re having an appointment with him and his therapist.

Spencer glances up only briefly when you enter the office, quickly looking back down. One of his knees is bouncing.

You sit down on the other side of the couch, looking between him and Lara in the chair across from you. “So, um, what’s going on?” you ask.

Spencer looks to Lara and she gives him an encouraging nod. He takes in a deep breath before speaking. “I… I wanted to talk to you about what ha—happened last week,” he says quietly, keeping his gaze on his lap.

You don’t know why exactly he wants to do it here, with his therapist, but wanting to talk about it at all is a good sign.. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“Right, um. Seeing… seeing JJ, it--” he stops abruptly, and his hands tremble slightly as he runs them down his thighs. “Sorry, doing… doing this is making me really anxious.”

“Take your time,” Lara says and you nod in agreement.

“Okay.” He runs his hands through his hair a few times before continuing. “Se—seeing her brought up emotions and, and memories I wasn’t ready to, um, confront. It… it really tri—triggered me.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” you say quietly.

Spencer grimaces at the words. He lifts his hand, puts it back down, then lifts it again and rubs at one of his eyes. “I…” he starts, then fixes his gaze on the floor and goes silent.

“(Y/N).” You tear your eyes from him and look at Lara. “Is there anything you’d like to say to Spencer about Saturday? Maybe what it was like for you?”

“Oh. Um.” You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. You’ve worried about how what you say could effect him since his relapse—one of your biggest fears is saying something that would drive him to use. But it’s stressful to keep up with, and with his therapist is probably the best place to start ridding yourself of your new habit of… well, of walking on eggshells around him.

“I think it would be good for him to know,” Lara says.

“Alright.” You lace your fingers together in your lap. “I guess it was just… startling to me. JJ’s your best friend and you’ve never acted that way to her. Or anyone, really, other than your father.”

Spencer stays silent, but flinches at the mention of his dad.

“Do you have anything to say to that?” Lara prompts. He shakes his head, so she looks back to you. “How did seeing Spencer like that make you feel?”

You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly; you’re a little scared to say, not wanting to make him feel worse. “It was… distressing. Especially when he got mad at me for getting rid of his Dilaudid. I know he doesn’t like having his things touched without permission but I don’t think it was reasonable to expect that I wouldn’t have done that.”

Lara nods. “That makes sense. But our feelings aren’t always logical.”

“Yeah, I understand. I guess I just wish he would have told me what was wrong instead of being silent--”

Spencer finally speaks up then, in protest. “I couldn’t help it!”

“I—I know that,” you argue back. “I just—I’m just telling you how I felt.”

He looks away, folding his arms and sinking further into the couch.

“Spencer,” Lara says gently. “You wanted to know how (Y/N) felt, remember? And we talked about how you were probably going to hear things you wouldn’t like.”

You blink, taken aback that this was his idea. And with that comes the realization of just how long it’s been since he’s asked how you’re feeling. Thinking back, you realize that the last time you had a conversation that wasn’t only focused on his feelings and well-being was the day you found him asleep and tied to his mother. This… it’s Spencer before prison.

You’re drawn out of your thoughts by him sighing and muttering, “Yeah, I remember.”

“Alright. Anything else?” Lara asks you.

There’s a lot else, you’re discovering, but you’re not sure you can unpack it all right now. “Maybe…” you say. “Maybe he could just tell me what I can do to help when he’s… triggered?”

“I don’t know,” he says dully, and when he catches the small frown on your face, insists, “I don’t.”

“Yet,” Lara adds.

He sighs again. “Yet,” he repeats.

“I know it’s frustrating,” she says. “Your solution to these kinds of feelings before was denial or using. A solution, not just a problem,” she emphasizes. “I want you both to try and think of it like that, and get comfortable with the fact that it’s going to take awhile to overcome those habits.”

A solution, not a problem. It’s… weird to think of his addiction that way, but you can try, so you give her a nod.

“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer mumbles. But behind the defensive body language, he just seems tired.

He seems to relax a little when the meeting wraps up and it’s only the two of you in one of the rooms used for visits. He remains quiet, but when you place the plate of food you dish him across the table from yours, he slides it back and sits in the chair beside you. “Sorry,” he whispers as soon as you take a bite of food.

“For what?” you ask once you’ve swallowed.

“For yelling at you on Saturday,” he says quietly. “I was upset but I shouldn’t have yelled.”

His leg is bouncing under the table; you put your hand on his knee to still it. “Apology accepted,” you say softly.

He shakes his head slightly. “You don’t have to. I was awful to you on Saturday.”

You frown at his skewed interpretation of events. “Spencer, you really weren’t. You yelled at me, yes, but other than that, you were fine.” And you’ve said much worse when you’ve been high.

“I ruined dinner. And don’t say it’s not a big deal,” he adds before you can speak. “You mentioned it every time we spoke in the week leading up to it. You were really excited about it, and I ruined it.”

Spencer’s read you like a book—that was exactly what you were going to say. “Yeah, I was really looking forward to it,” you admit. “And it sucked to have to cancel the reservations. But there will be other dinners, and it’s not like you did it on purpose.”

“But what if I did?” His voice is so quiet that you wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t right next to you.

“What do you mean?”

“I just mean…” he rocks slightly in his seat, which you immediately recognize as one of his self-soothing behaviors. You move your hand from his knee to his hair, lightly running your fingers through the curls covering the nape of his neck to try and help. His head tilts forward a little at your touch and after a brief silence, he continues. “I just mean that self-sabotage wouldn’t exactly be something new for me.”

“Oh.” You take your time considering it; he won’t believe you if you give in to your knee-jerk reaction to protest the negative feelings he harbors towards himself. But he grows agitated at your silence, rocking a bit harder and rubbing at his eye. You tug his hair lightly without really thinking about it in response.

“I’m just thinking,” you assure. “You deserve an honest, thought-out answer.”

After taking a deep breath, he nods. “Okay. I understand. Maybe you could just, uh… to help c--comfort…” He swallows and his voice drops back to a whisper. “Could you do that again?”

“Do what?”

“Um, pull… pull my hair. You did that a few moments ago. Please?”

You almost want to tease him—a year ago, you would have. But he’s been so timid and unsure when asking for any intimate touch other than cuddling since he got back from prison. You don’t want to discourage him from asking any more than he seems to be discouraging himself.

“Of course, baby,” you answer softly, and do just that. He closes his eyes and drops his head onto your shoulder. “As far as the self-sabotaging goes, you’re… not good at lying to me,” you muse. “And after six years with you, I feel like I’m pretty familiar with all the ways Spencer Reid self-sabotages. This never even crossed my mind until you brought it up, so I don’t see that as being what happened.”

You can’t tell if he believes you. A neutral “okay” is all you get from him, but at least he’s not outright disagreeing.

You gently pull his hair a few more times. “You should eat before it gets cold and we have to heat it up again.”

He takes the suggestion, picking his fork up, but you’ve never seen him less enthused about eating one of his favorite foods. He’s only cleared half of his plate when you’re done with all of yours.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

You can’t help but sigh at the habitual response, and consider your next words carefully. “Spencer, I don’t mean to be pushy, but you told me you were working on not dismissing people’s concern for you when they express it.”

“I am,” he mutters, but doesn’t say anything else, just continues to push his food around his plate aimlessly.

“Well, is something wrong with the food?” you ask. “Did I get the texture wrong, or--”

“No, no,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “It’s not the food. The food’s great. It’s… it’s me that’s the problem.”

Your eyebrows come together. “I don’t understand.”

“I…” He starts to blush. “I’m not eating it all because I think I need to lose some weight.”

“Don’t you dare,” you say immediately without thinking. He makes a startled noise at the same time you clap your hand over your mouth. You definitely don’t want him to lose weight, you just hadn’t meant for it to come out like that.

On the day he came home and agreed to treatment, you’d seen just how underweight he’d become as you helped him unbutton his shirt. The stark outline of his ribs against his skin had been scary, and you had no desire to see that again. It was a relief when he started to gain back what he’d lost in prison and afterwards. And you were happy to see him continue to put on even more than that.

You clear your throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that. You were just so skinny when you got here. You look good like this.”

“I’ve never weighed this much before,” he says, and the distress in his tone makes you think that this is a fact that has been bothering him for a while. “Some of my clothes are getting too tight.”

“We can buy you new clothes.”

“But we don’t know how much longer the insurance will cover my stay here. Residential treatment is expensive. We don’t need to be spending extra money on clothes when I could just lose the weight instead and not need them.”

“Hey.” You put your hand on his cheek. “I don’t want you to worry about money. The insurance is covering it for now. If they stop, that’s a problem to deal with when we get there. Just focus on getting better.”

He looks away from you, down to his lap. “I should still lose some weight,” he says eventually.

“Have you medical staff told you that?” you inquire, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he admits with a sigh.

“Then you’re not allowed to worry about it,” you say firmly. “Finish your dinner.”

Spencer hesitates, but picks his fork back up. The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly when he starts eating again, telling you that despite his fretting, he’s happy not to stop himself from eating as much as he wants.

He seems to be in a much better mood at the end of the evening than he was when you arrived, though a bit more subdued and quieter than normal. He also appears to be very tired. It’s only 7:30 but he keeps yawning. He denies dozing off with his head on your shoulder while you were talking after dinner, but you’re sure he did.

During your parting hug, he nestles his face into your neck just like he always does when you’re sleeping in bed together. “Try and get some good sleep tonight,” you encourage, smoothing your hands down his back. “And Spencer?”

He pulls back to look at you and you settle your hands lightly on his waist. “I meant it, you know.” You squeeze slightly. “When I said you look good like this.”

It takes him a few moments to catch onto what you’re implying; when he does, his eyebrows shoot up and his breath catches. “Oh. O—okay. I’ll, um…” he glances down shyly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You better.” You look over your shoulder as you leave, and the small smile he’s wearing prompts one of your own.

---------------

tell me what you thought here!

i'd like to put it out there that i don’t hate jj and i really hope it didn’t come across like that. i hadn’t even planned that scene; it just wrote itself. i promise it’ll be resolved before the end of this fic.

another shoutout to the book The Body Keeps the Score for helping immensely with the planning and writing of this. i literally have pages of notes from it.

you can also find irl pictures of spencer’s therapy horse here.

all we can do taglist: @thatsonezesty13 , @jhillio , @elitereid

general taglist: @calm-and-doctor

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid #angst #my fic #tw substances #one day i'll write something that's short

78 notes · View notes

onechicagorpf · 5 years

Text

Not A Stranger - Part 3

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Reader (Chicago Med intern)

Waking up in bed next to a random naked guy after a drunken night out usually sucks, but eh, whatever. you’ll never see him again, right? Well except this time, random naked guy turns out to be your ED attending’s little brother, so maybe you’re a little bit screwed…

Read Part 1 here Read Part 2 here Read Part 4 here

Warnings: SMUT. A little bit of R-rated smut! Swearing, the usual cuss words. Some angst/PTSD, although it’s not overtly discussed. Dubious medical content (discussion of amputation & blood), some of which has been shamelessly lifted from a season 3 episode of Code Black!

A/N: So there’s definitely going to be a Part 4, lol! I’ll try and have it out by this time next week. Send me asks/messages/leave a note if you liked this and want to see more - it really makes me feel so much less insecure about my writing ahaha! Also do send me short prompts or requests that I can fill as blurbs (i.e. nothing that’s going to be a several chapter story - I will request those later on!) - preferably for Jay but I can do Will as well! Female!Halstead sibling is also okay :) Anyway enough talking, enjoy!

PS: I make mention of bearded Jay in this chapter; this gif is totally the version of him I had in my head for this chapter!

"Walter Holden. 16 years old, victim of an auto accident, came in with a dislocated right leg."

There's droplets of rain on the other side of the windows. It blurs the view - all of a sudden, the buildings you can usually see from the 13th floor of the hospital are just fuzzy, beige blocks.

"Preliminary exam showed no other major trauma, and his vital signs were strong. His leg just had to be reset."

A shudder goes down your spine - was the hospital's conference room always this cold? Well, you don't know - you've never been in here before.

"Dr Halstead advised 10 mil of morphine, but the patient refused pain medication, and the leg was reset. It was at this point that Dr Halstead handed the patient off to Dr Y/L/N, requesting her to evaluate his leg for blood flow."

There's been a strange tapping noise for the last 5 minutes, but only now do you realise it's your fingers against the oval, wooden table.

"Dr Y/L/N? Dr Y/L/N!" You snap out of your reverie and look up. Dr Lanik's glaring at you. You apologise. He takes his seat, next to Mrs Goodwin and Will, both of whom send you a soft smile that doesn't quite reach their eyes. They're trying to be reassuring, but it doesn't matter - you're ready to drown yourself.

Clearing your throat, you speak. "I was instructed to evaluate his right leg for blood flow. I did so by checking his pulses, uh, dorsalis pedis and posterior tibialis." You pause, as some of the other occupants in the conference room - all members of the board or lawyers, all wearing pristine suits and a cold, calculating expression - turned to look at each other.

You clear your throat again. "It was a uh, a textbook exam."

"I'm sorry, in which textbook does it say to check for an arterial injury by just palpating a pulse?" Dr Lanik cuts in sharp. Will closes his eyes, as you struggle to breath normally.

"90% of all patients - "

"I can't hear you, Dr Y/L/N." Dr Lanik's voice booms across the room, and Will's had it.

"This is ridiculous, there's no need to be intimidating her like this - she's a first year resident and - "

"And she was satisfied with a pulse check to evaluate blood flow? Do I need to remind everyone here that the acceptable course of action in this scenario is to order a doppler or an ABI? That boy's leg was sitting for ages without proper blood flow, and eventually the best we could do for him was amputate it."

Will shakes his head vehemently. "Pathology's looked over the leg - they determined that the severity of the accident combined with the amount of time it took CFD to extricate Holden from the car meant that his leg wasn't viable before he even stepped into the ED." Will turns to you, his eyes piercing as he spoke directly to you.

"There was nothing you could've done that would've changed the outcome. Nothing."

You take a deep breath. You don't nod.

"Alright, we've heard everything we need to hear." The head of the legal department says, after a few moments of discussion with the board members. "Given the findings from Pathology, we will not be terminating Dr Y/L/N's employment here at Chicago Med. However, we recommend that her OR privileges be revoked, and that she is attached to an attending for a duration of 2 months, by which point hopefully she will learn that not every case is a textbook case." She stares directly at you. "Dismissed." Chairs scrape against the floor as everyone makes their leave.

Will places his hand on your shoulder, and you realise you haven't moved even after everyone's left.

His voice is soft. "We all make mistakes. And - "

"I could've been the reason he lost his leg. If he'd come in with ample time to save the leg, and I just - and I just didn't realise it, I could've been the reason a kid had to lose a leg." There's tears in your eyes as you turn to look at Will, who just sighs.

"Yeah. But that's not what happened."

"I got lucky." You shrug, tears freely streaming down your face now. "I just got lucky."

Will doesn't say anything. He just hugs you.

***

It's not the kind of thing you just get over, you realise, because it's been 5 days since it happened but you can't get it out of your head. You've been barely getting any sleep; often you jerk awake in the middle of the night or the early hours of the morning, after which it's next to impossible to fall asleep again. It's also affecting your work more than just making you tired - you keep second-guessing your medical judgements, deferring to Will or Natalie or Ethan for anything and everything. None of them bite at you for it, because they know what's going on and they know what you're going through, but some part of you wishes they would. Wishes that they'd just grab you by the shoulders and shake you, and say "Be a damn doctor."

Dr Charles met with you for lunch earlier today, and you lamented your troubles. The kind and thoughtful psychiatrist patiently listened, before giving you some wisdom you needed to hear. Amongst which was "find a distraction".

"You mean focus on something else?" You asked, chasing a watermelon cube at the bottom of your fruit cup.

"Yeah, but it's a little bit of a dangerous tactic. See, you don't want to distract yourself from dealing with the pain and the guilt you feel, because emotions don't tend to go away when you suppress them like that. But if you're having trouble processing it, it can be helpful to take your mind off of it for a while, wait til some time has passed and it's not so...intense. And maybe then it'll be easier to tackle and get over, y'know?" Dr Charles advised and you nodded, taking it in.

You think about what exactly you could do to distract yourself as you finish your shift and make your way towards your car in the parking lot.

Maybe I should take up painting?

The thought of yourself - little miss notoriously bad at anything artsy - trying to paint has you chuckling softly. You're about to give up on this whole distract yourself thing when, as if on cue, your phone buzzes with a text message. You get into your car, turn on the heating, and pull out your phone.

J.H. 11:32PM

So...guess who's back :)

You can't help the smile on your face. Jay's been undercover for the past week - it actually got started the next morning after the night you went over for "hockey". He'd gotten a text early in the morning asking him to come in, and so the two of you had actually barely spoken since...the festivities of that night.

You 11:33PM

Congrats, detective :)

J.H. 11:33PM

Wanna come over and help me celebrate?

Huh. Well maybe Dr Charles wasn't off-target with the whole "distract yourself" thing - although you're positive having meaningless sex is probably not one of the healthy methods of distraction that he was envisioning.

But quickly, you realise it doesn't matter - ever since what happened, you haven't been sleeping well at night. It's been close to 6 days and you're wrecked, so maybe some good, tires-you-out-completely sex is exactly what you need?

You 11:34PM

Be there in 15

J.H. 11:34PM

Can't wait :)

Your lips curve into a smile as you pull out of the parking lot and down into the main road.

***

"I've been waiting to do this...for so long..." Jay murmurs in your ear before pressing kisses down the side of your neck, his hands roaming all over your body. You tilt your head to the side, exposing the expanse of your neck to him.

“It’s only been…a couple ‘a days…” You reply softly, and you feel Jay’s huffs of soft laughter into your neck. You turn to look at him, pulling away. “What?”

There’s a teasing smile on his face. “Most women take it as a compliment if a guy says he hasn’t stopped thinking about her.”

You shake you head, putting on a teasing look, “Uh-uh, that’s not what you said, you said you’ve been wanting to do this – ”

“It was implied – ”

“It wasn’t implied and even if it was – ”

“It was implied and even if it wasn’t, that’s still a compliment.” Jay says pointedly, a huge grin on his face. You narrow your eyes at him, trying to hide the growing smile on your face. He chuckles, seeing right through you.

You smack his arm. “You keep laughing at me in bed and I’m gonna get mad.” This gets Jay full-on laughing, and your jaw drops in pretend-outrage. “You fucking – ”

“No, no, no c’mere – ” Jay pacifies you, leaning over you, arms on either side of you as he starts to kiss your face, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. But there’s still the slightest smile pulling up the corners of his lips, and when he presses them to your lips, you can’t help but laugh into the kiss. Jay reaches up and holds your face, the kiss becoming soft, loving, drawn-out, and some feeling deep in your core tells you you’re just…somewhere else right now. You don’t know how to describe it, other than that everything in this moment feels perfect, feels right.

A shiver goes down your spine, and maybe it’s because Jay’s shifted, and is now sucking a spot on the base of your neck, hard and strong and deep, and his hands are skimming downwards, unbuttoning your soft cotton top before unzipping your jeans. And maybe it’s because you don’t know what the fuck you are doing here, with him, with all of this. You think about how wrong this is, how bad this is, how his brother’s your boss and this was just supposed to be one drunken hookup and then it became two (except you weren’t even drunk that time) and now it’s about to become three –

“Y/N?” Jay calls softly, and you look at him – his hands resting gently over the hem of your panties, his face hovering over the space between your legs, and the look of…almost reverence in his shining green eyes.

You stop thinking.

Your hands reach downward, sliding your panties off and Jay eagerly helps, getting them off completely. Just like last time, Jay draws out the foreplay – kissing, licking, and nipping at the skin of your inner thighs, making the heat in your core build. Running your fingers through his dark hair, you yank it a little to get him to get going, and he pinches your hip – a quick slap of the wrist. Laughing, you repeat the action, pulling on his hair, and he groans.

“You’re real impatient, you know?”

“Jayyyyyyyy,” You whine, pouting down at him. He’s got this look of a predator – a confident, cocky smile on his face. Jay dips his head down, his mouth making contact with your cunt.

“There we go,” You murmur, gasping as you feel his hot breath on your most sensitive regions. Jay’s hands grip tight into your supple skin, holding your thighs open for him as his tongue circles your opening. Your back arcs as you moan, the sensation of his tongue on you setting off what feels like fireworks in your head. Jay’s mouth presses into you, hard and deep, his tongue licking and lapping at your now sopping wet cunt.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck – ” You whisper, eyelids fluttering shut as Jay softly flicks his tongue over your clit. He repeats the motion, going up and down, teasing your clit and your hip jerks upwards sharply in response. Settling your ass back down against his soft sheets, you catch your breath and mutter a soft apology – “Shit, sorry,” – and Jay taps your thigh, a silent “don’t worry about it”, as he’s nosed his way back between your legs immediately.

Jay laps at your folds and you try to keep your head about you, try to not lose your mind, but it just feels so good. He sucks your clit into his mouth gently and your eyes roll into the back of your head. “Oh my god, ohhh my god – fuck!” You whimper, as he keeps sucking your clit, pausing to flick his tongue over it. Your fingers clutch the sheets around you hard enough to rip holes in them. The loud moans out of your mouth are bordering on screams. The feeling in your core, the heat, starts rising like a wave reaching a shore –

“I’m gonna – I’m gonna – I’m gonna – ah, ah, ahhhh – fuck! Fuck, fuck – Jay! Jay!” You scream, your vision whiting out completely as you arch off the bed, riding out the waves of pleasure wrecking your body. You hands fly downwards to grab Jay’s head as you jerk away from his still-working mouth, your oversensitive clit causing tears to pool in your eyes. Pulling him up, you whisper his name over and over again, like he’s the only gospel you know. Jay shifts up, laying down next to you and pulling you close, your bodies fitting into each other like a perfect pair of puzzle pieces. You look at him through your teary eyes and all you see are his green irises staring right back at you with a measure of something dark and lustful in them. You hold his face in your hands, running a thumb over the rough stubble of his cheeks, his jaw, where a soft beard has started to grow. His lips are glossy and wet, from you, and you see now there’s a soft pink line going across his nose that you trace with your hands, frowning.

“I’m okay,” Jay says in a soothing voice.

“What happened?” You ask, concerned, the frown between your eyebrows deepening as you look up at him.

A soft smile. “Kinda got into a fight. Guy tried to punch me, I dodged it, but his fingernail scratched me. It’s fine.” Jay replies quickly, and his face is so close to yours that you’re breathing the same air. You don’t say anything, but you must still be frowning because Jay speaks again. “It’s literally just a scratch.” You hum softly in response, running your hands down his front, unbuttoning his shirt, scanning the expanse of his chest and abdomen with your fingertips and your eyes.

Jay lifts your chin and you turn back to him. “What?”

“Are you checking me for other injuries?” He asks, chuckling. You look back down, pausing for a moment. “Maybe…it’s not like you’d tell me if you got hurt, right?” Jay just laughs, and there’s your answer. You ignore the burgeoning feelings in your heart of some kind of dejection.

Your fingers run over a sliver of raised skin, on his lower right flank. It’s a thin, pale pink scar that runs about 3 inches. You work in an ED – you know exactly what this is.

“You were stabbed?” You ask, stunned. “When?”

Jay sighs, grabbing your fingers in his hand and holding them closed. “Army stuff. Not a big deal.” He pushes your fingers away to your own body, and then reaches for the blanket and pulls it up over the two of you, like as if the conversation’s over.

“You don’t want to talk about the Army,” you point out, as Jay lays on his back, some distance between the two of you. He sighs again, looking upwards at the ceiling. “Is that a question or a statement?”

You know you shouldn’t push, but you do anyway.

“You should talk to someone about it – ”

“I talk to people about it. I have.” Jay’s voice is tight. He’s still not looking at you.

“You can talk to me about it...” You say, and you’re terrified. Because what you’re really asking is “Do you think I’m close enough, do you care about me enough to let me in?”.

Jay turns to you, a soft smile on his face. “It’s fine. I’ve got other people for that.”

Hiding the immense desolation that’s weighing like an anchor on your chest from showing, you just send a shallow smile his way.

He’s got other people for that. He’s got other people for sharing his feelings, his pain, his suffering, his life. He doesn’t want you for that, I mean, why would he share all of that with you? You’re just a warm body – some random girl he’s having sex with. Nothing more.

You pull the blankets tighter around you, turning away from Jay. Trying your best to quell the wave of sadness flooding what feels like every single part of you, you drift asleep.

***

“Dr Y/N?”

You turn, and there’s Walter Holden on a bed in the ED.

“Walter?” You walk to his side, stunned. He’s crying – tears spilling out of his soft baby blue eyes, his youthful face scrunched up in pain and anguish.

“Why did you do this to me? Why?!” He yells, his voice cracking. You shake your head. “Walter, Walter I’m so sorry – I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t mean to – ” You choke on your words, and as you look down the bed you realise that Walter’s amputated leg is bleeding at the stump.

“Oh god, oh my god – ” You get up, shocked as the blood starts gushing. Walter screams.

“Help me! Dr Y/N – help me! Help me!”

You hear your heart hammering in your ears, your head is spinning, you stand up and you feel faint.

Will rushes into the room. He starts holding as much gauze as he can to Walter’s leg. Nurses and doctors flood the room, and they begin moving Walter out. You’re standing, back pressed to the treatment room wall, aghast.

Will turns to you, his face red with rage. “What are you even doing?! Fucking hell, Y/N – you can’t do anything right?!”

There’s a painful lump in your throat, and you can’t breathe. Something grabs your hand and you snap your head. It’s Walter, and as they wheel his bed out, he looks at you with so much fury and torment in his eyes.

“YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE A DOCTOR!”

“No, no, no, I’m so sorry Walter, I’m so sorry – I’m so sorry – this can’t be happening, no, no no no – ” Tears stream down your face and you start shaking. Your knees buckle, and you fall to the ground, sobs wracking your body. Somewhere in the distance, you hear your name being called, but you can’t answer, you can’t do this anymore, you can’t – you just can’t…

“Y/N! Y/N!”

You jolt, your eyes flying open. Jay’s over you, his eyebrows drawn together, his eyes wide, concerned, his hands holding your shoulders where you realise he’s been shaking you – shaking you because – because –

Fuck.

It was a fucking nightmare. Again.

You let out a cry of pain, bringing your hands up to cover your face. “Breathe, just breathe.” Jay says softly, rubbing your arms up and down.

After about a minute, when you don’t feel so shaken anymore, you wipe your eyes and slowly sit up. Jay shifts with you, sitting right next to you. You can’t look him in the eyes.

“I’m – I’m sorry I woke you,” you whisper to your palms, resting atop your folded legs.

“Don’t – don’t worry about that. Y/N, what happened? It sounded pretty bad…” Jay says and you shake your head.

“I’m fine, it’s fine – ” Your hands run through your hair roughly. You need to go. You need to go – you need to leave – you can’t be here –you can’t be here with him –

“Hey. Hey,” Jay repeats, when you don’t answer. He reaches across and his warm hard gently grabs your face, trying to get you to look at him but you just push his hand away. You get up, grabbing your underwear and jeans from the ground and start getting dressed.

“Y/N!” Jay gets off the bed, and comes to you. You sidestep him, or at least you try to, but he’s much taller than you and his shoulders are broad; he stands in your way and grabs your arms softly.

“Y/N, look at me – ”

“Why?”

You give him what he wants. You look up at him, you stare him directly in his eyes, shaking in anger and fear and what feels like the weight of the world on your shoulders.

“Hmm? Why? This isn’t – you don’t care – what does it matter –” You yell at him, your mind frazzled as you fall apart in his arms.

The frown on Jay’s face gets deeper, and he shakes his head, leaning close. “Hey, talk to me. C’mon, you can talk to me – ”

“Why the fuck would I talk to you? You’re just some guy I’m sleeping with!” You spit harshly, shaking his hands off and stepping back. Jay’s mouth falls open, and his shoulders sag. His face contorts into something awful - dismay, defeat, hurt.

For a moment, you want to run back into his arms – apologise, say you didn’t mean it, say you’re just scared – but you don’t. You move around him, grabbing your shirt. You put it on and make your way out of his bedroom, and out of his apartment.

You don’t know why you said what you did. Actually, scratch that, you know exactly why you said that. In fact, you know exactly why you’re what you’re doing.

Every relationship you’ve ever had up to this point’s fucked you over. Every single one. You’ve been cheated on, you’ve been lied to, you’ve been told you were just some piece of ass, not an actual girlfriend. And now?

Now you’re scared shitless of what this thing between the two of you is. You’re scared shitless that you’re making a mistake by screwing around with your boss’s brother and you’re –

Well.

You’re scared shitless you’re falling for him.

So, you do what you do best. Dump out of this, push the self-destruct button. Get him to push you away so you don’t have to go through the pain of falling for the guy you can’t have. The one that you know’s going to screw you over, because he’s going to realise he only really sees you as a hookup – that he doesn’t love you.

You try to hold back the tears, because you’re driving home and the last thing you need right now is a car accident. There’s a buzzing sound from your phone and you perk up. As much as you want to tell yourself to not get your hopes high, you can’t help yourself, and you speed down the road to the red light so you can push the brakes and wait. Your fingers wrap around your phone and you immediately check the screen.

The smile on your face falls – it’s just a stupid notification from Instagram. You toss your phone back onto the passenger seat, hard enough that it bounces off and hits the ground. Tears once again threaten to fill your eyes, and there’s a painful lump in your throat. You swipe at your cheeks, where a single tear has made its escape, and turn to look at the screen next to your steering wheel – it shows the time as 3:45AM. Leaning back against your car seat, a deep sigh exits your lungs.

You realise there’s no way you’re going to sleep again today, what with the whole Jay thing on top of the Walter Holden nightmare that’s been haunting you for the last 6 days now.

The lights turn green.

Swearing under your breath, you throw your car into a U-turn and drive to Med instead.

#jay halstead #jay halstead imagine #jay halstead smut #jay halstead x reader #will halstead #will halstead imagine #chicago pd imagine #chicago med imagine #onechicago imagine #onechicago #cpd smut #cpd imagine

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ssaseaprince · 4 years

Note

Hannigram with Will saying prompt 15👀

Tysm for the request ! Sorry it took so long to get out, this fic kinda got away from me. I’m not very good at dialogue, but I tried. I hope you like it <3

Will got lost some times. You could see the exact moment it happened, his body would freeze, tendons and bones and joints all locked up, eyes unfocused. Sometimes it was just seconds, usually it was a few minutes, but the worst time had been a couple hours. Hannibal was used to it now, being so attuned to Will. He learned to wait a minute or two, see if Will would come back on his own, and if he didn’t Hannibal would sit them both down and lay Will’s head on his lap. Stroking his curls he’d recite poetry, Lithuanian stories from his childhood, mantras of stability. When Will did come back, it was either slowly or all at once. It was either a sudden jerk of awareness or a slowly, drowsy awakening, like he’d just woken from a dream. He never talked about where he went in these times.

It could’ve been from the fall. Will had hit his head, ending up with quite a severe concussion that they hadn’t realized he had until far later than they should’ve. They’d been occupied with their more visible injuries, gunshots, stab wounds, and broken bones threatened them with blood loss and sepsis. His dizziness and slurred words were written off as a result of his more obvious wounds and his concussion was left unnoticed until the blurred vision and balance problems couldn’t be written off as blood loss anymore. Hannibal doesn’t feel guilty for much, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for missing it. It had doubled Will’s recovery time and still left him with some more permanent effects. Forgetting what he was saying and having his words drop off in the middle of sentences, struggling to memorize new things, forgetting where they were and the date, and slurring his words at random became common occurrences. Will would always be the smartest person Hannibal had ever known, there was never a doubt about it, but it was heartbreaking to watch Will’s frustration, his self doubt. They did what they could to help minimize the effects, and Hannibal learned how to reassure Will in a way that didn’t make him uncomfortable. But reassurance could only go so far, and Will still had bad days.

It could be a result of the trauma he’s endured, because no matter how otherworldly Will seems, he’s still human. Having been a psychiatrist had its benefits when Will’s PTSD presented and Hannibal needed to know how to react. Hannibal had mastered the art of moving around without making near any noise, but now the house was filled with his loud footsteps. Will still flinched at times, but Hannibal making his arrival known when he approached him prevented spiraling flashbacks for the most part. For a long time just the sight of Hannibal holding a needle was enough to pull Will into his memories of the past, he’d passed out from hyperventilating the first time Hannibal had tried to give him some painkillers through one after the fall. Their fourth week on the run, Hannibal had learned to avoid flashing light after a lighting storm had sent Will reeling, huddled against the wall and yelling at Hannibal to get the fuck away from him. He memorized Will’s triggers and together they learned how to best avoid them. Of course there are times where the nightmares and flashbacks still come, but they work through them together. They’d gotten a dog, and during times when Hannibal can’t be the one to comfort him, Will can cuddle her into his arms and press his face into her fur to ground himself.

And maybe it’s neither of those things, maybe it’s just Will. One of the things Hannibal loves most about Will is his unpredictability, and that nobody can ever fully understand his mind. It’s such a beautifully intricate, complex thing that Hannibal could gorge himself on it’s knowledge and thoughts and never get tired.

But Hannibal doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know where Will goes when he gets lost. For the most part, their relationship has grown into one devoid of secrets, but whenever Hannibal asks Will where he goes when he leaves at those times, Will won’t answer. He tells Hannibal about all of the flashbacks and nightmares, sometimes even without prompting, but he won’t tell him this.

It’s immensely frustrating. Hannibal has always wanted to know everything about Will that he could, and with them as conjoined as they are now, the fact that Will won’t explain it to him is extremely upsetting. He understands why Will could have hesitations fully trusting him, but the ocean had washed away their walls and exposed them completely to each other.

Hannibal is an extremely jealous person, and he has no problem admitting that. With Will refusing to talk to him about it, he’s left to assume that he goes to someone else when he leaves. After the fall he had promised Will he would not go after Molly and Walter, and he would keep his promise, but the idea that they could be taking up any space in Will’s mind is maddening. Will had taken off his wedding ring a week after the fall, thrown it into the ocean and said goodbye. He’d been transparent with Hannibal, explaining that he did love Molly when he was with her, and he would always hold fondness in his heart for her, but that he couldn’t love anybody but Hannibal now. He’d explained it by comparing him to Oxygen, he takes up all the space in the air and in his lungs that there isn’t room for anything else. They made love for the first time after that, the memory perfectly filed away in Hannibal’s memory palace. But Will’s gaze still lingered when they passed happy families in restaurants or in the store, his eyes full of bittersweet longing. Hannibal knew he thought of Molly and Walter, and Abigail too. Will was insistent that they didn’t need to add anyone to their family, he didn’t want to or feel the need to be a father and their lifestyle wouldn’t be sustainable with a family. And Hannibal agreed, so he left it as it was. He knew Will missed Abigail too, they both did and they both had cared for her, her death had been one of the harder things to reconcile over. Will had admitted to hallucinating her after her death, when he went to Italy, and as much as Hannibal had cared for her and as much as he still mourned her death, he couldn’t help the deep rooted jealousy he felt over the fact that she had occupied a part of Will’s thoughts for so long. He wondered if Will saw Abigail when he went wherever he did in his mind.

And so his resentment grew, as did his jealousy. But Abigail was dead and Molly and Walter were across the world and promised safety, and he couldn’t be mad at Will. So the feelings built with nowhere to go.

He and Will hunted together, just not often as they didn’t want to draw suspicion. So he tried to use their hunting as an outlet, but it never seemed like enough.

Life went on, and their domesticity continued. Every time Will would freeze and his eyes would glaze over and you just knew his mind had called him, Hannibal continued the ritual of laying Will’s head on his lap and softly speaking calming words to him, but each time added to his anger, and his jealousy flared. Will’s mind was going somewhere he wasn’t permitted to follow and it ate at him. He knew Will saw his frustration, but he had a lot of practice at hiding his emotions behind walls and he used it. Eventually though, it all spilled over.

Before they had even fully recovered from their fall in the ocean they had come to a compromise. If Will was to stay with him and kill with him, they would only hunt together, and the sins they killed people for would be far more grievous then just rudeness. Because of their criminal status, they wouldn’t be able to display their victims as they’d like to unless they were prepared to move right after. Hannibal had quickly agreed to it, and the decision had been worth it. They got their domesticity, and when they hunted, he got to watch Will stalk and then help him slaughter their prey. Beautiful avenging angel. Of course, when they encountered individuals whose rudeness was staggering he took great pleasure in imagining stringing up their corpses, making beautifully refined dishes out of them. But they both liked where they had finally settled down, and he knew Will didn’t want to move again, so he never gave any thought to going against their agreement.

Until now. The day had started innocently enough, in fact it was a pretty good day. Will had gotten lost for a few minutes in the morning, but he came back fairly easily and quickly and there weren’t any other issues the rest of the day. It was evening, and Hannibal was off to the market to get some last minute ingredients he would need for meals tomorrow, when a woman looking at her phone and ignoring her surroundings pushed into him, spilling her coffee all over his shirt. They both stopped walking, and flustered, she looked up at him. It hit him like a train.

When Will and Molly had gotten married, their wedding announcement had been alongside a collection of others in the local newspaper. Will hadn’t wanted it, but Molly liked the tradition and had a lot of friends and acquaintances, so they had gone with it. Chilton had gotten a hold of a copy, and had used it to taunt Hannibal during his incarceration. Next to the small printed words announcing their marriage, was a picture, black and white and grainy but obvious as to who it was. Will was wearing a tuxedo, not the best quality or the most tailored, but it was decent enough and looked well on him. He was flashing a shy smile to the camera, and while he looked a little uncomfortable, he seemed happy, except that the camera quality was just barely good enough to catch the glimpse of longing in his eyes. Molly, next to him, was radiant. She wore a beautiful white wedding dress and had a beaming smile that lit up her whole face, she was clutching Will’s arm and her happiness was palpable. They made a very visually pleasing couple, Hannibal had mused. Chilton had given him the clipping, and he had folded it in half so Molly wasn’t visible, then spent hours drawing Will with the picture as a reference.

It was one of the few times he had seen Molly, the only other time had been after the fall, when they were reading interviews done to make sure everybody believed them to be dead. Freddie Lounds had gotten an interview with her, and next to the column had been a picture of Molly, stiffly sitting and blankly looking at the camera. Will had to take a break after reading it, sitting on the deck of their boat and watching the sea. That had been the day he threw away the wedding ring.

Hannibal was acquainted enough with Molly’s appearance to remember it, and the woman who had just run into him was quite the spitting image of her. It wasn’t actually her of course, there were enough differences to tell, but they looked a lot alike. And something in Hannibal snapped, a quite impulsive plan blooming in his mind.

The flustered young women profusely apologized, offering to pay for the shirt. Hannibal smiled, assuring her it was no problem, charming her and asking if she would like to go get another coffee with him at his home. Of course she agreed, how could she not when this handsome, charming and kind man had offered? Naïve thing, Hannibal thought. And with that, he lured her away.

It was extremely easy to kill her, quite a shame she didn’t put up much of a fight. Quick suffocation, the killing wasn’t the important part of his vision. The important part was the presentation.

He transformed her into Semele, the beautiful princess of Thebes that Zeus fell in love with. Hera found out about the affair and disguised herself to befriend Semele and made her doubt Zeus’ affection. So, Semele decided to ask Zeus to grant her a wish, and he took an oath on the river Styx that he would give her anything. Semele wished to see Zeus in all of his glory, and Zeus was forced to comply, even though Mortals could not survive looking upon him without bursting into flames. Semele died that way, witnessing Zeus’ true form.

It was fitting. Molly had never seen Will in all of his glory, Hannibal is the only one who could ever truly know Will because he was his. They are each other’s, and no one else had the privilege of witnessing Will’s becoming, nobody else could fully understand and appreciate the beauty of it.

He risked leaving the body to buy charcoal and a few white dress shirts. He kept his surgical instruments in the car for when they hunt, keeping them under the guise of a medical kit, so there would be no issue removing her organs. He cut up the white shirt in even, clean pieces and draped them over her like robes. She was laid in the charcoal, ruining the white of the shirts, one arm draped across her eyes and the other arm reaching out. Hannibal only took her heart, and while it was a shame to take nothing else, it was important for the symbolism.

It was beautiful, and would hopefully serve as a reminder to Will that he is his, nobody else could ever fully appreciate him as Hannibal can. Wherever Will goes when he gets lost, it will not be to others.

He ended up calling and leaving an untraceable anonymous tip to the police, telling them where to look for the body. It was risky, but his jealousy was making him rash and he wanted Will to hear about it by tomorrow.

Will was asleep by the time he got home, and he packaged away the heart before he changed and showered quietly and quickly, slipping on some pajamas after and getting into bed. Will didn’t wake, just sighed softly in his sleep as Hannibal wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in his curls.

The next morning Hannibal had woken to an empty and cold bed. Will only got up before Hannibal is he was having a bad night with nightmares, so there was always some concern for him when he wasn’t there when Hannibal woke.

He could hear small bits of noise coming from the living room, so after stretching and getting up, he went to go find the source of the noise.

Will was sitting in the middle of the living room floor surrounded by suitcases, their little puppy Penelope sitting next to him as he pulled her favourite toys and belongings into a bag. Hannibal stopped in at the doorway, and having heard his steps, Will looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot and hair in a disarray, deep bags underneath his eyes. Will glared at him for a moment before going back to his task, his hands shaking as he picked up things to stuff into the bags and suitcases.

“Will,” Hannibal ventured softly, “What are you doing.”

Will flinched at the sound of his voice, and looked back up, squinting his eyes. His voice was rough and raspy, and he sounded like he’d been crying. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing.”

“Why are you packing? There’s no need for us to leave as of now.”

Will let out a hollow laugh, humourless. “Well, Dr. Lecter,” the title came out scathing, “Since you decided to put murder before my trust, all in the name of jealousy, officials are already poking around.”

Hannibal froze. The news must’ve broken a lot sooner than he had intended, he had planned to have some time to prepare Will for it but it seems that wouldn’t be the case now. He had faith in his ability to talk his way out of things, but Will had always been entirely unpredictable. Now, in the light of a new day, his impulse killing the night before began to seem like a mistake. A grievous mistake at that, he hadn’t considered all of the outcomes, something he usually did well.

He took a step forward, slowly, like one would approach a wild animal. Will wasn’t acting physically defensive, didn’t seem like he’d be on the attack, but he could never be too careful. The tremors in Will’s hands gradually became more violent and his breathing became more laboured with each step Hannibal took closer.

Will hadn’t had a seizure in awhile, they happened more in the beginning of his recovery and were most likely due to his head injury. Extreme bouts of stress and anxiety still caused them sometimes, but they were rare.

Hannibal saw the exact moment his eyes glazed over, and he lunged, catching Will’s head before he hit the floor. Cradling Will’s head, Hannibal looked at his watch, counting the seconds. It lasted about a minute and a half before Will’s body relaxed, his breathing coming out in harsh, raspy puffs. They sat for quite a few minutes before Will felt well enough to sit. He pushed Hannibal away and rubbed a hand over his face, refusing eye contact.

“Why’d you do it? I know how jealous you get, Hell, I get I feel that way too. But you swore before we moved here that we’d only hunt together, and that we wouldn’t draw attention to ourselves.” He let out a ragged sigh before looking up, bloodshot blue eyes connecting with Hannibal’s. “And Semele? Really Hannibal?” His voice wavered slightly as he continued. “We’re conjoined, I know you’re the only one who could ever see me fully, because I’m the only one who could ever truly see you. This is a reiteration of what we’ve both known for a while.”

There was a beat of silence. Hannibal opened his mouth to respond but Will cut him off. Continuing, “And using someone who looks just like Molly? I know how possessive and jealous you are Hannibal, but I thought we were past this kind of pettiness. I left Molly behind, left everyone behind, when I fell into the ocean with you.”

Of course, Hannibal knew everything Will was saying was true, but he was rendered speechless for a moment. He swallowed, taking a second to catch his voice before responding. “Will, it wasn’t meant to hurt you.”

That dry, hollow laugh made another appearance between Will’s lips. “It wasn’t meant to hurt me? What the Hell, Hannibal. How could you think this wouldn’t hurt me?”

A brief flash of anger, burning hot, rushed through Hannibal as he remembered his reasoning. “You leave, Will, and refuse to let me follow. The moments of absence where you fall into your mind and won’t let me know where you go. I am only left to assume that you find others there, I thought we were beyond secrets.”

Will scoffed, “That’s what this is about? The only person permanently residing in my mind is you! You want to know where I go? I’m thrown back into past realizations and thoughts. I am stuck with the realization that this is real and that you, us, is real. I’m brought back to memories of when I used to yearn for this. Because I’ve been so fucking happy here, Hannibal, with you. That when it hits me full force I sometimes just don’t know how to cope with it, and I get stuck in the memories of when I was alone, and I thought I’d be alone forever. And it takes my brain awhile to realize that I’m not dreaming. I don’t want to talk about it because I don’t want it to make anything feel less real.”

Hannibal was quiet after Will’s tirade, processing everything that he said. Will didn’t leave because he wanted to be somewhere else or with someone else, he just was overwhelmed with how much he wanted to be here. Reaching out, he clasped Will’s hands between his own and brought them to his lips, painting them with tears in apology.

“My beautiful, beautiful Will. I could never entirely predict you, you never fail to surprise me. How much I love you. You prove your loyalty and love everyday, I have no right to doubt it, and I am sorry. I acted impulsively and rashly without fully considering the effects, it was a mistake, and I hope you’ll extend me your forgiveness again.”

Will sighed, leaning in to lay his forehead against Hannibal’s. “We’ve been doing so well at communicating better, we need to keep doing that, and I’m sorry for not telling you when you’ve asked. We need to not put walls back up, all it does is cause unnecessary pain.”

Hannibal nodded, softly pressing his lips against Will’s.

“We still have to leave,” Will said when they pulled apart. “This is already bringing too much attention and it hasn’t even been a day. When we leave, you have to keep to the things we agreed to, we both know how fragile trust can be and I need to be able to trust that you’ll keep to what we compromise on.”

“It is regretful, and I apologize for forcing us to leave, I know you love it here.” Hannibal replied mournfully. “This won’t be a repeat occurrence Will, I promise you, I value your trust greatly and understand the importance of the rules we have both set.”

That brought a brief, small smile from Will. “Alright. And I get to choose where we move next.”

“Of course, Will. Anything you want. I love you.”

“I love you too, Hannibal. And I forgive you, but don’t do it again.” And with that, Will leaned into kissing Hannibal again. Hannibal felt a sharp sting on his bottom lip, and when Will pulled away his mouth was stained red with blood. Beautiful, dangerous thing, Hannibal thought as he licked his lips.

#nbc hannibal #hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #dark Will Graham #hannibal fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfiction requests #Anon #anon ask #hannigram #hannigram fanfiction

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zappho · 4 years

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Some Meta on Murdock and mental illness

Generally speakig, The A-Team is a dumbass, light-hearted comedy with action on the same level as youtube poop videos. Obviously there isn’t alot of depth to be found here. The show had tons of different writers, all with their own take on Murdock and none of them offer any clear info or a proper backstory for the character. It’s basically up to the audience to fill in the blanks and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do by overanalyzing the mess that is the show’s canon.

The question of whether Murdock is ‘‘‘really crazy or just faking’‘’ has been around for over 30 years, but I’m gonna argue that he’s both.

When Kelly visits Murdock in the psychiatric hospital and confronts him about why he’s living there in the first place he gets instantly uncomfortable.

He really didn’t want her to ask, it’s why he’s been avoiding her. Joking about how you’re hashtag crazy™ is easy; having to admit that you’ve been institutionalized for over 10 years because you have legitimate problems is much harder. (Sure, the VA also gives him a convenient cover from the military police, but if that was the only reason for him to stay he wouldn’t react to Kelly’s question in this way). “It’s a long story”, is all he says. There are clearly some painful memories here that he’d rather not delve into.

He’d have to explain how he got committed in the first place. We know that after the gang was arrested for war crimes in ‘71, Murdock was still serving as a pilot in ‘72. They never clarified when and how Murdock was sent home, but i’m guessing without his only friends around and it being, you know...war, his mental health eventually deteriorated until he received a medical discharge straight into the VA hospital.

After Murdock gets wrongly released in season 1, instead of his friends being worried about his supposed cover getting blown they just shrug it off and go ‘Oh well!’ (This could all be due to the show’s inconsistent writing, but you know)

No longer being an inpatient would finally allow Murdock to be employed as a pilot again (his #1 passion), and yet he seems really disheartened about the situation. Even though the hospital gives him no privacy, the staff barely respects him and he spends most of his time there by himself, he still prefers to stay.

For a character who’s allegedly cheery comic relief, he sure gets his feelings hurt alot, mainly when dealing with other people’s ableism towards him. B.A. and Face are obviously just palling around, just guys bein’ dudes, they don’t want to hurt Murdock for real, they probably don’t realize how sensitive Murdock is about the subject. Usually he plays along or shrugs it off, but sometimes he gets genuinely upset. In the first half of In Plane Sight he’s so fed up with it he tries to ‘‘act normal’‘ until #Woke #Queen Hannibal reassures him that they love him the way he is.

PTSD was barely starting to become a diagnosis when the show first aired, but I think it’s fair to say he suffers from it. The pilot episode states that he has anxiety, paranoia and memory loss, so that checks out.

With PTSD you don’t just have to deal with flashbacks and nightmares, but also intrusive thoughts, images and memories about your trauma. Murdock copes with it by getting hyperfixated on a new activity or pretending he’s someone else. This is were alot of people will go ‘‘haha wow look how wacky and insane he is! He’s talking to his sock 😂’‘. But Murdock knows it’s all made up nonsense, he just needs his mind to focus on something else. What’s important here is that he never lets his coping mechanisms distract him when he’s flying, first of all he’s already focused and also he doesn’t wanna crash (lol). There’s a believability to his actions that’s missing in the 2010 reboot.

In the episode where the gang helps out the vietnamese cook from the POW camp where they’ve been tortured, Murdock tries to distract himself with some golfballs. He soon starts projecting his trauma on them however.

I think this is the only time in the show where Hannibal tears up, so this scene is kinda significant. As the leader, he probably blames himself for getting his team captured and tortured, and seeing that Murdock is still so strongly affected by it gotta hurt.

Compared to the rest of the gang, Murdock’s alot more fucked up over the war. There are subtle changes in his voice whenever he talks about it. In the ep about their old war buddy Ray, Face was reminiscing about how cool of a guy Ray was for borrowing him his helmet, Murdock’s memories meanwhile are much less upbeat. ‘My bird was the only one left in the sky’ he remembers while we see an image of a field filled with shot down helicopters. His experiences are bound to be different from the other three as a huey medevac pilot. Murdock did have one off-screen breakdown in the present timeline, after collecting every newspaper article about the upcoming execution of the team in Firing Line. Apparently it was bad enough that he had to be restrained. It’s been 10 years, so he’s recovering and getting better, but he’s still not all there yet.

Everyone knows Murdock’s just messing around when he’s being interrogated by the military about his connections to the team, but like what about when the military isn’t there; or NO ONE is. He often talks to himself or just puts weird shit in his mouth for no reason while nobody’s paying attention to him (eating leaves, paint, an entire raw egg, a frozen sandwich). Sometimes he’s just unhinged like that.

Another thing that’s brought up a few times in the show is his anxiety. Murdock’s often seen being generally tense, sweaty, uncomfortable or reflective in the background of a scene. (I have no idea if this was a deliberate acting choice but Dwight does have anxiety irl so who knows if that had anything to do with it, I mean who knowsssssss, i’m just observing)

He’s got a habit of fidgeting with his hands or touching his neck when he’s stressed out. Murdock also does it when he’s telling his psychiatrist Dr. Richter about his dreams “If you were me, wouldn’t you be terrified to put your head down?” he asks him.

Richter isn’t really paying attention though, because he’s so used to Murdock’s non-stop clownery, he can’t exactly tell when his patient decides to be honest about his feelings for once. He just replies ‘Well only if it was a bad dream’. Which really irritates Murdock because what other dreams besides bad would he have? So he derails the session by rambling some made up bullshit on purpose.

Richter knows that Murdock uses humor and fantasy to cope, but he’s obviously tired of Murdock’s cringe antics, he just wants to help him. But Murdock doesn’t like to open up and be confronted with his traumas again, he just wants to avoid talking about it all together. There are still parts of reality that Murdock’s not ready to deal with, or he wouldn’t always retreat into his fantasies.

Before he can continue messing around a helicopter passes by and Murdock freezes for a second. Richter assures him that the helicopter is real; Murdock nods and starts fidgeting with his hands again, seemingly in deep thought. We know from the season 4 finale that he hears the sound of rotor blades when he dissociates. He was definitely being sincere here.

After getting drugged by some military goons he has a few brief flashbacks (feat. cheesy 80′s neon filters): seeing the chopper fly away, getting stuck in a potted plant as if he was walking through the jungle, being surrounded by heavy smoke and sparks from the burning carpet).

Despite being the 2nd highest ranked team member, Murdock dislikes being in charge and gets severly distressed when anything goes wrong that he might even be slightly responsible for. Most notably is the episode where the owners of the diner get kidnapped after Murdock got knocked out by evil cowboys or hill billies or whatever they were. Instead of telling anyone what happened, he’s just lying on the floor, repeatedly calling himself a failure until the others show up.

Seems like Murdock gets startled more easily than the rest of the crew as well. We often see him flinch when guns go off; one time he literally wore fluffy ear muffs to a backalley shootout.

This short moment from Family Reunion always stood out to me. Face opens the van door a little too quickly and it takes Murdock so off-guard he has to take deep breaths to calm down.

Murdock sounds exhausted when he has to remind Face not to sneak up on him. Face also realizes he messed up, he just wanted to check up on Murdock and not trigger him on accident.

When it comes to portrayals of mental illness in fiction there’s obviously better representation out there than Murdock. But sometimes you just wanna see a mentally ill character have a good time instead of being miserable 24/7. And Murdock’s already got the worst behind him, he’s had therapy for years and friends who love him. I just think that’s refreshing to see, especially with a character who’s so kind and openly affectionate.

#the a team #hm murdock #howling mad murdock #mental illness #dwight schultz #meta #out here being corny at 2am #ptsd

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siren-queen-imagines · 4 years

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You’re Not Alone

Hey guys! So I was inspired for this while I was watching Resident Evil: Vendetta. This takes place between Resident Evil 6 and Resident Evil: Vendetta. I hope you guys enjoy!

Also, I’m working currently on a Zach Dempsey one shot for y’all (I am deep in my feels now that it’s over)! Be on the look out for that soon!

Masterlist

(not my gif)

“Hey, hey I got you.” You assured Piers as Chris went to get the escape pod ready to go.

You held his free hand as Piers grimaced and grunted, the C-Virus wreaking havoc on his body...but he was still him. He may have had a trident-like appendage where his right arm used to be but Piers Nivans was still in control.

“When we get back, I’m gonna find a way to fix you. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Y/N.” Piers grumbled through gritted teeth.

“I would never do that to you.” You offered him a smile, tears building up in your eyes.

Chris looked up from the table in front of him to see your eyebrows furrowed as you let out a small groan in your sleep. He put the gun he was cleaning down, waiting to see if he should go over to you and wake you up.

“This is all your fault, Y/N.” Piers told you, his eyes filled with anger. “If you had tried harder, I wouldn’t have had to die.”

“No, I-I-I---”

“Because of you, I became this! I’m a monster!”

“You’re not---”

“If you weren’t so damn helpless, I wouldn’t have had to inject myself with this POISON!”

Suddenly Piers began to get up on his own, you moved back, standing up. Wait, where was Chris?

“This is YOUR FAULT!” He continued, the fires of rage shining in his eyes.

You held your hands up in surrender as he raised his virus infected arm, the prongs of the new appendage sparking with electricity.

“Piers, wait. We can fix this!”

Piers let out an angered cry as electricity shot out.

“Piers!” You called out, jolting out of your nightmare and sitting upright.

“Hey, hey.” Chris gently spoke to get your attention as he sat on the side of the bed.

You breathed heavily as you gathered your bearings, your eyes finally falling on your boyfriend.

“You haven’t had that one in a while.” He continued, pushing your hair behind your ear.

It was true. It had been 2 and a half years since Piers had died in that underground facility. In the final moments of his life, he had saved you and Chris after the B.O.W. you all thought dead came after you. Before the explosion of the facility, the giant B.O.W. was hit with electricity, which you both knew came from Piers’ C-Virus mutation.

You held so much guilt in Piers’ death. You always felt you should have tried harder to save him or maybe if you hadn’t gotten caught in that B.O.W.’s grip, Piers would have never had to inject himself with the virus to save you. Why Piers? Shouldn’t it have been you? God, why couldn’t you breathe?

“Hey.” Chris took your hand. “Take a deep breath.” He took one with you, breathing in and out, in and out until your breathing slowed. “You’re safe. It was just a nightmare.”

The psychiatrists the BSAA provided to you and Chris all said you both would struggle with survivor’s guilt, which was a symptom of PTSD, of which you both were already suffering from after everything you’ve seen and survived previously.

“He was so angry.” You whispered before sighing, squeezing Chris’ hand. “He said it was my fault.”

“It wasn’t. You and I both know Piers would never blame you.”

“I know but--”

“No, buts. He loved the hell out of you. He’d kick your ass for thinking otherwise.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

You and Chris shared a smile and small laugh at the thought of Piers. You were usually the team medic on Chris’ team but because you were trained by your Captain, you were able to hold your own in a fight. Whenever the two of you sparred, you swore he brought out the best in you. He won some, you won some.

“Did I wake you?” You asked your boyfriend.

“No. I couldn’t sleep so I figured---” Chris cut himself off, motioning to the disassembled guns he was cleaning on the table nearby.

“When was the last time you had a full night’s sleep, Chris?”

“I’m fine.”

“You say that. I just worry about you. I love you and I wanna make sure you’re good, you know?”

“I know because I’m the same. And I love you too.”

Despite everything; the ups and downs, the rough aftermath of the new traumas you endure on your missions, the injuries, you wouldn’t change it. You had someone like Chris Redfield on your side, helping you through it and you him. You two hold each other up and together when it gets really tough. You help each other fight the nightmares, finding it easier to open up to the Captain because you know he’s been through or is going through the same thing.

Chris Redfield makes you feel like you’re not alone. Because you’re not.

You have him and he has you.

You gently cupped the side of Chris’ face and leaned in, kissing him gently.

“Any word on Arias yet?”

#chris redfield x reader #chris redfield imagine #resident evil imagine #Chris Redfield

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pappydaddy · 4 years

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Ghost of You (f.w.)

A/N: So, I was just listening to music while writing my Steve series “I Wanna Be Yours” and Ghost of You by 5 Seconds of Summer came on and I instantly started crying so I got a sudden urge to write a sad imagine so, sorry in advance..

Ironically enough, it’s usually me going to write something with the intent for Steve, but end up writing for Billy, but this time it’s a whole different fandom. It actually went from Billy to Steve, then it went to Fred.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Based off the song Ghost of You by 5 Seconds of Summer

Part One - You’re here! | Part Two

Trigger Warning: Mention of death, really sad, angst, heartbreak, depression, PTSD, mention of witnessing death, mention of drinking, slight mention of suicide.

PSA: I DO NOT agree with JK Rowling’s recent comments about the trans community, but I WILL NOT let her and her bigoted and transphobic ways ruin Harry Potter for me. Harry Potter has given me so much, I have connected to characters unlike ever before. REMEMBER, TRANS RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS. Also, my DMs are always open

Another PSA: I do know the recent drama around 5 Seconds of Summer with the claims that had been made about them, but I also know that they have been proven to be false, one of them having been committed by someone else other than a member of their band or team. I would never EVER support someone who has been accused and found guilty of claims such as the ones that 5sos had been accused off because they are horrible acts committed by sick people. And, I would never outright say someone was falsely accusing, but again, the claims made against 5sos were found to be false or to be committed by other people. If you are not aware of that, I recommend checking reputable stan twitter accounts because (a) they know more than me, (b) they explain it better, and (c) they have proof. If you are a victim, I am so so sorry that that happened to you and I want you to know that you’re insanely strong and just keep your head up! Don’t hesitate to get help if you’re suffering, there are so many resources to help cope, report and all kinds of thing! Also, my DMs are always open

Another PSA: I struggle from depression, anxiety and have lasting effects of a traumatic event so if you are struggling with anything, please seek help. These are horrible things to battle with alone and therapy, psychologist, or a psychiatrist can help you gain the tools to cope healthily and any other tools you may need. Also, my DMs are always open.

This is my first Harry Potter imagine, idk what possessed me to write for a different fandom since my focus has been Stranger Things, but I guess I was going to have to write for the other fandoms eventually, right?

Sorry this is so long, there’s a lot of disclaimers I had to put on this to make myself feel like I am making my blog a safe space for everyone. I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.

masterlist | taglist | wips | navigation - my gif -

The war had taken so much from everyone. Taken innocence, taken parents, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives; it seemed that nobody was safe from the path of destruction. Even a year after the war, many were still plagued with mourning people ripped away from them by the clutches of war. Fred Weasley was one of them. They had just started their lives together, finally going through with everything they had talked and planned about during those nights wrapped in each other’s arms as they hid from the Professors and Prefects. Those hopes and dreams for the future were now just empty memories and proof of their love. The book that held every little detail of their planned future laid on your desk in your bedroom - untouched since the last time you had touched it before the war. Everything of yours remained in the place you had set them the last time you had touched them. They were frozen in a happier time filled with love and light, not filled with loneliness and darkness.

Fred stirred awake, the familiar feeling of his body being weighted down rushing over him as he blinked his eyes open. His void gaze instantly met the empty side of the bed. It was neatly made, the pillow just faintly smelling of you now. Even a year later, he couldn’t bring himself to lay on that side of the bed - your side of the bed. He had a hard enough time sleeping in the bed at all, not being able to forget the feeling of you wrapped in his arms. Tears burned his eyes as he gazed upon the spot, your laughter echoing in his mind as he remembered all of those mornings he woke up to you just waking up yourself. He’d lean in, nabbing his first kiss of the day and you’d pull away with red cheeks claiming that you hadn’t brushed your teeth yet and he’d claim not to care (which he didn’t) and lean in to pepper kisses all over your face - your laughter bouncing off the walls. He threw the covers off him, trying to fight against the weight trying to keep him down in the bed. Pushing against the invisible force he shuffled into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

With ever step he took, every room he entered, came the memory of you. The tune you hummed as you danced from the bedroom to the bathroom, the smell of your shampoo, the smell of your sweet perfume. They lingered through the house like a ghost - a hazy mist trailing behind him everywhere he went. The ball in his throat stung as he tried to swallow it down, blinking away from the tears that welled in his eyes. No matter how many times he experienced them a day since you died, he would never get used to the sting. He’d never get used to the shaking of his hands, the tightness growing in his chest, the racing of his heart, the constricting of his lungs or the vivid image of holding you in his arms, watching the life slip from your body as you took your last breath whenever he heard something that brought him back to that day.

He could smell the fresh coffee that his brother had brewed as he drifted into the hall, a shell of the old Fred. George was used to seeing his brother dancing down the hallway with you, large smiled on both your faces and laughter surrounding the entire apartment. Now, since you were gone, Fred didn’t dance, his feet were heavy against the floors, weighing him down. He didn’t joke around with his brother anymore, his brother missed the sound of his laughter and the humorous tone to his voice instead of the broken and heavy one he had now. The second Fred entered the small kitchen, his eyes instantly landed on the yellow mug with the faint lipstick stain still on the rim, the faded red still a slight contrast from the yellow of the mug. You had never been able to get the stain gone, it had driven you crazy that your lip stick had tainted the beautiful mug Fred had gotten you after you guys ran away from Hogwarts as a homage to your house, Hufflepuff. The plants that you had been growing thanks to your love for Herbology were barely alive, George having been trying his best to take care of them since he knew you’d want them to thrive.

“Morning, Freddie,” George’s voice was soft as he brought his own mug to his lips, sipping the warm coffee. “Made you some eggs,” He told his brother as he pushed a plate of scrambled eggs towards his moping brother before setting a full cup of coffee in front of him. “How’d you sleep?” He asked him. Fred, not lifting his head from his plate of eggs as he pushed them around with the fork George had laid on the plate.

“Fine.” It was a simple word, but it was most of what Fred spoke these days. George hummed, taking another large gulp of his coffee as he let Fred soak in his silence, knowing that if he pushed too hard, he’d revert back and lose all the progress they had made.

“Are you feeling ready for your appointment today? Do you want me to come with you? Or mum, maybe Ginny? I can get Lee to cover the shop if you want me to come.” George asked him, setting his coffee cup on the counter, his hands wrapped around the warm mug.

“I’m fine going on my own.” He muttered, thinking back to his night. He knew that his therapist would ask him about it. It was just like any other night. Sleepless since whenever he closed his eyes, you were all he saw. He knew that if he’d sleep long enough, he could dream of you and it’d be like you never left, but he’d also know that you’d tell him that he’ll be fine without you and he definitely knew he’d never be. You were his.

“Please don’t skip out on this one to sit at the bar and drink, Fred,” George pleaded with his brother. Last two appointments, Fred and went on his own and ended up not even showing up. When his therapist George (them having to have gotten a muggle landline for communication) to inform him that Fred had not shown up, he had search everywhere for him. George remembered the blinding fear he had coursing through his blood that day, not knowing where his brother was or if he was okay. His mind had jumped to every possible conclusion, the nagging thought of the worst hanging in the back of his mind. “You need these appointments, they are good for you,” George pleaded. Fred only nodded, not saying anything while he ate. George watched him take a few more bites before his fork clanged against the plate about still half full of eggs. Fred pushed it away, taking one final sip of his coffee. “Right, so your appointment’s at twelve, so why don’t you get an outfit picked out while I head down to the shop - Mum will be here in a few minutes, I reckon.” George suggested.

Fred hummed, walking back into his room. Molly had been coming over to monitor when Fred left for his appointments and got back, also to watch the phone incase he skipped over his appointment. She also came daily when George was manning the shop to watch over Fred and take care of him. Sometimes, Fred went down to the shop and sorted products, but that was rare. George popped his head into Fred’s room to see him sitting on the bed. In his hands, he held your favourite shirt of his. He stared down at it while a mismatched outfit laid on the bed beside him. “I’m heading down to the shop, love you.” George announced.

“Love you, George.” The sound broke George’s heart. The fear in his brother’s voice every time George left the apartment destroyed him. Fred was terrified of losing someone else and not getting to be there for them, that he can never let them leave his presence without him saying that he loves them. His biggest fear was that you had died not knowing that he still loved you. Everyone says that you knew because you could feel his love for you and he doesn’t want anyone to question if he loved them if he wasn’t there.

The second he heard the door close behind George, he let himself crash down on the bed, laying on his side in a fetal position as he held the shirt to his nose. His jaw was sore as he let the tears fall from his eyes, the lump in his throat twisting itself into a bigger lump. His body shook with silent sobs. He couldn’t help but envision you moving through the apartment with this shirt tucked into your pants or tied up. He hadn’t felt himself slip into sleep as he let himself imagine your arms wrapping around him, encasing him in a loving warmth. He was unaware of his mother walking into the apartment as he finally slept with his imagination configuring you there with him. Molly instantly went to his room to check on him when he wasn’t on the couch, she stopped in her tracks as she laid eyes on her sleeping son, curled up. She only saw Fred sleeping in a fetal position clutching a t-shirt, but Fred felt the ghost of you wrapped around him.

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moving-blogs-dm-for-new-one · 4 years

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T*cc* Toby character and story redesign :D

Toby and his family moved across the states after the accident. They were moving to West Virginia, a more rural town surrounded by forest. He didn't want to be there, but he didn't have much of a choice. Really didn't help his mood when his father basically screamed at his mother for the entire three day trip. He was slumped in the back of the car, ticcing uncontrollably, one hour to go on the drive. He winced when his father yelled at him to shut up, sighing and trying to hold his vocal tics, again. Maybe he could make it until they reached the new house.

They reached the house, and he quietly helped unload the car, gently helping his mom climb out. Sighing, he patched her up quietly later in the bathroom, and let her cry on his shoulder, ticcing quietly.

For the next two and a half weeks of summer, Toby pretty much just laid in bed. He didn't have much energy or will to do anything. He would pull out his computer and play some games, but his father broke hit before their trip even began. He pulled out his old ipod from his 14th birthday, and laid back in bed, staring at the ceiling and looping the same playlist on shuffle endlessly to block out his father. Same old, same old.

When school started, he absolutely did not want to be there. His Tourette's was neigh uncontrollable, and he couldn't help but tic through every day. Of course, the other kids in class were horrible to him about it. He was bullied relentlessly, and was beat up on the first day of school, and many days after that. He went home, his mother patched him up, his father mocked him, and he went to lie in bed again. It went on like this for a few weeks. It was August second when his dad broke his mothers nose. They got into a fight and he slammed her head on the counter. Toby was furious, but he quietly patched her up, ignoring his father egging him on.

That night, he had sleep paralysis again for the first time in a month or two, but it was different this time. His eyes opened, and there was a being standing at the end of his bed. He couldn't tell who or what it is. Could have been his father if it wasn't so tall. They stared at each other for around three hours before Toby fell back asleep. He was afraid, yes. But not much bothered him since Lyra died.

He mourned her every day. He never stopped. His mother mourned in silence, afraid, and his father cursed him to move on, but he didn't. He was never one to pray, but he lit candles for her the way she used to, prayed to a god they'd both loved, Dionysus. He cried for her at night. She never left his mind. He missed his sister more than anything in the world. He had a small alter in the back of his closet so his Father wouldn't find it, candles, pictures of her, foods she loved and special items.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Toby began having hallucinations of the creature he saw. It was everywhere. It was in the reflections of mirrors and windows, across the school yard while he was being kicked, at the end of the street when he pulled down his blinds, and behind his eyelids every night when he tried to sleep. He couldn't understand why it was haunting him.

His mother noticed his extreme paranoia, depression, and unrelenting tics/tic attacks, and scheduled him for a meeting with a local psychiatrist. She talked him up for the whole drive, and he smiled and nodded, not wanting to be there but not wanting to further sadden or worry his mother. Her arm was in a sling today. It was bad enough she was driving him.

He met with the psych, sitting down in the office. She asked him how he'd been. He didn't know how to respond, but suddenly felt bitter.

"Fantastic. Obviously that's why mom brought me here."

"I'm sorry, Tobias. I thought I'd let you give your own input." He felt bad for a moment, before wincing at the usage of his full name, getting more frustrated. He hated this already.

"Don't call me that. It's Toby. I'm Toby." He was fighting his vocal tics as he spoke, but his physical tics were getting worse in response, and he saw her flinch and lean a bit further away in his chair. He felt a pang through his heart, immediately angry. But he wouldn't blow up. He wasn't him.

Then he saw the figure behind her.

He didn't even hear what she was saying. He just stared at it. For some reason for as much as he'd been seeing it, he'd never seen it in such clarity, and it was still fuzzing around the edges, almost as if it wasn't fully there. It towered over the back of her chair, slowly leaning down to him.

"Toby," It spoke, and he could barely comprehend its voice. It was garbled, layered, echoed over itself endlessly and buzzed and burned inside his ears. "I want to help you. Let me help you."

He screamed, grabbing a lamp off the side table next to him and whipping it at the creature. He heard the psych scream and froze, whipping his gaze to where she was holding her arms over her face, ceramic and glass sprawled on the floor behind her at the base of the wall. They made eye contact, and he felt sick. He didn't understand. He wanted to say sorry. He suddenly wanted to explain everything. He wanted to say he wasn't him. He wanted his mother. He wanted Lyra.

He passed out.

Toby awoke later in his room, still feeling sick. The lights were out, his room only illuminated by the moonlight casting in through the blinds and the yellow light seeping in from under his doorway. (tw heavy abuse and murder after this) He could hear his parents screaming downstairs. There was a smash, his mother was crying. He jolted upright, tics coming back harshly as he tried to quietly make his way to the top of the stairs, peering down. His father was screaming about him.

"We have to get rid of him, Evelyn," He screamed, furious. "He's a disaster. He's dangerous and annoying and he's a fucking nuisance anyways!! And now I owe that stupid fucking psychiatrist so much goddamn money!! What is wrong with you!!" His mother cowered away from him, shaking, but angry as well.

"We are NOT getting rid of our SON, Greg! He's just scared and sick!" Toby winced at the phrasing of "sick", but continued watching, listening. He felt static pulling at the edges of his vision, but ignored it, honing his eyes in on his father.

"He goes. Tonight, or tomorrow, your choice, Evelyn, but he's fucking going. He's young enough to get thrown at the orphanage." He took a large swig of beer, stumbling slightly, and Toby twitched, hands tightening so much on the railing bars he thought he might splinter them.

"No. He is not." His mother shook, standing up to him, fists clenched. He stopped, and both Toby and his mother held their breath.

"Excuse me?"

"He's not going. No."

The next few minutes were a blur. His mother was hurt, and hurt bad. She was crying, and his father was screaming at her. The living room was trashed. Toby ran down the stairs and his father heard, spinning around and screaming after him as he darted into the garage, heart thumping almost as loud as Greg's thundering footsteps. He found his fathers old hatchets in the back of the garage, his blood pumping in his ears. Everything was hazy and the static crept further into his vision.

"Let me help you."

He spun around, hatchets gripped tight in his hands as he shook and ticced. His father tore into the room, drunk and furious. He saw Toby bearing the hatchets and laughed deliriously.

"Now what are you gonna do with those, boy?" Toby almost blacked out at the name, screaming and sprinting forwards. A mass fight ensued, the two of them struggling against each other to gain headway, Toby's mother screaming in the background. Toby pinned him down. He spat curses and slurs and all kinds of horrible things about him, his mother, his sister, Lyra. He raised the hatchet, and brought it down on his skull. Blood sprayed and his mother distantly screamed in horror, but he didn't stop. Another swing, another, another, another, another. Tears poured down his face, but he didn't feel it, notice, or care. His arms stopped swinging. He looked up. His mother was holding his arms gently, but securely, the creature standing behind her, looming over the both of them. He was towering.

"Toby," She whispered. "That's enough. He's dead, love." He looked down, sniffling and ticcing, and he was.

She helped him up quietly, and he whimpered.

"Are you gonna turn me in?" She stared at him, then shook her head.

"You're my son. I'm not getting rid of you."

She cleaned him up quietly in the bathroom, and held him close as he cried, openly, for the first time in months. He clung to her, whimpering and ticcing and sobbing, and told her everything. She listened quietly, gently soothing him and brushing his hair. Eventually, she shushed him gently, making him look at her.

"We have to go, love. Quickly. You can tell me more once we're gone, okay?" He nodded, sniffling and taking her hand. They gathered their things, climbed into their car. She paused. Got back out. They lit the house together, and watched it burn for a moment. He felt the presence behind him, and saw his mother take his hand.

"Come on honey," She whispered. "Lets go."

They never looked back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Toby: (notes)

- 6'3", 17 years old, tall and broad. Always been heavier set and naturally slightly chubby, and decently strong.

- Has a nerve issue from birth where he can't feel a good 70% of his body, mostly the upper half and patches of the lower.

- Nonbinary (He/they/it), and pansexual. Gender dysphoric. Occasionally tucks and wears bras and other things sometimes.

- Has Tourette's, OCD, BPD, PTSD, Manic, ADHD, depression, s/icidal tendencies, struggles with compulsive sh, and has mild paranoid schizophrenia.

- Sees the Slenderman more than his mother, but she can see it on occasion. It doesn't hurt them. Guides them more or less. Helps Toby target similar individuals to his father.

- Stims a lot by cracking his knuckles, flapping his hands, tapping his foot and cracking his neck. (I also have a list of his tics!!)

- Loves his mother and Lyra so goddamn much

Evelyn: (notes)

- 43 years old, 5'2", small but definitely not frail. Will fuck you up if needed. Doesn't take shit anymore after leaving her husband. Also bisexual queen

- Huge soft spot for kids, and Toby. Loves Toby so much and lets him basically get away with everything (not that he uses this for any harm to her or those who don't deserve it)

- Knows Toby is a serial killer, assists him with some cleanup/travel/medical care/etc. Reminds him to take care of himself/cooks for him/helps drive him around/etc

- Takes up cooking and martial arts as hobbies

- Loves her son so so so much he's so stupid and crazy but she adores him and would do anything for him

- Do NOT fuck with power duo Evelyn and Tobias Rodgers they WILL destroy you

#creepypasta #cp ticci toby #ticci toby #toby rogers #tobias rogers #evelyn rodgers #cp toby #my writing #my universe #cloud talks #tw blood #tw abuse #tw abuse ment #tw murder

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meanscarletdeceiver · 4 years

Note

If a person were the designated therapist for an engine (I'm thinking Gordon or Henry specifically, but also in general), what kinds of things get discussed? What fears do they hold that they refuse (or very reluctantly try) to speak about? Idk, I just feel very curious.

Not sure I’m the best person to ask. I’m trying very hard here to stay on-topic, and to not go to town analyzing the premise of the question…

… but, damn, this ask made me realize that I have a lot of thoughts about engine psychology.

In short, I doubt the engines have much access to this kind of psychiatric help. And if they did I’m not sure it would make things better. Like, “engines don’t need therapists!” is a position that seems ripe for abuse, but I am also concerned that therapists would often be used to get engines resigned to mistreatment.

But I’m gonna heroically just Stick To The Question.

Gordon would have a good deal of survivor’s guilt to unpack. Nor do I think he’d be unique! MOST of our Sodor friends would. Sodor is a refuge, but most of them have friends and family that have long since been outright killed. Especially during modernization/dieselization.

The RWS books suggest that he adapted with remarkable grace to being replaced on the Express by Pip and Emma. Like… uncharacteristic grace. Hmmm.

If you’re cool with me diving into my humanization for a moment… I absolutely believe every converted ex-vehicle is enrolled in therapy as a matter of course (that’s a tremendous and stressful life change!)

In Gordon’s sessions—well, some of Gordon’s rather self-centered behavior is even less cute as a human than as an engine.

And I think Gordon early on, with an unusual degree of insight, decides that he wants to talk about his fears that now he’s going to lose his friends (both current and ex-engines).

Of course, the way he puts it is that he’s afraid he’ll lose them because he used to be a magnificent Gresley Pacific, but now he’s nothing in particular.

After his therapist’s mind is done exploding, she gently tries to steer him into examining his actual behavior as well as why he thinks they were ever friends with him to begin with.

Gordon: because they admired me greatly, of course!

therapist: …

Gordon: i mean. anyone with a shred of sense would want to be friends with one of my kind!

therapist: you know… i think perhaps you actually don’t give yourself enough credit

Gordon: whatever do you mean?

Meanwhile, Henry would have plenty of identity issues to unpack. Plus some PTSD.

Though, again, in canon itself I think we see him doing a remarkably good job working through it all over the decades.

Speaking of canon, the one time when I really, really, really do think a psychiatrist’s help was urgently needed for an engine was, of course, during the tunnel incident. I call that a mental health crisis, full stop, and it still breaks my heart that the best STH could do for him was “brick up in a dark lonely tunnel for several months and turn it all into a morality tale.” (Perhaps the scariest part is that I do think STH did his best. I mean, he had worse and harsher options, and it cost him, not to go for those… but it is also VERY 1920s, to look at some ordinary worker falling apart at the seems and to NOT get him/her competent mental help.)

And Henry wouldn’t be the only one with PTSD. Three-fourths of the Little Western could use treatment for it, stat.

Other special mentions:

Thomas grapples with the mixed blessing of being The Favorite (the actual favorite, James, if you please);

Percy and James both would be pleased to vent about how no one takes them seriously, although honestly I think in the latter’s case the problem is entirely self-inflicted;

and I respectfully submit that Sir Handel is just a goddamn mess and could keep a team of therapists employed for decades

“I always stand well back… trucks don’t like me.” Yes, it’s just a funny natural phenomenon. Like gravity. No explaining it! Ah well, at least you won’t mock the hell out of the poor brother you just got wrecked when he’s still struggling with the after-effects of your idiocy months down the road.

#chatter #sorry for the long wait :)#trust me this got a lot more coherent the more times i revised it!#ttte #ttte analysis #ttte gordon #ttte henry #the fat controller #ttte sir handel #plus a tiny bit of #ttte humanization #(i cut out a lot of lengthy content from this ask...#... but i couldn't bear to leave out the stuff with ex-engine!gordon and his therapist)

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stratus-skye07 · 4 years

Text

Suga Craze [One] | Suga

[Prologue] [Masterlist]

My whole life has been nothing but an adrenaline rush. There’s never a moment where I feel at peace. When I was younger I’d be jealous of the people that would always say they were bored. Everyday is a hassle for me. Being the daughter of one of the most notorious mafia leaders was one thing, but now being married to the next generation’s mafia leader is a whole new chapter of danger.

“Nurse Min!” One of the other doctors shouts for my assistance. He was bringing in a patient from the ambulance drop off. “He’s going into cardiac arrest, I need you to administer CPR until we get him into the operating room.”

I nod, “Yes, sir.” I hop onto the stretcher, over the patient, to start chest compressions as the other nurse gives him oxygen through intubation.

Being a nurse doesn’t give you any downtime either but I guess that’s more my fault than anything. I wanted to do the opposite of what my dad and my husband do so there’s at least a counteracting cycle to the mayhem in my life.

I maintain the chest compression until the operating room is ready for the patient to go under surgery. My arms are sore and tired but the patient made it through surgery. After resting for a bit to get some of my energy back, I head back onto the floor to continue my duties.

The Hawaiian vacation sadly ended. The paranoia I experienced while on vacation quickly went away and I was able to spend time enjoying myself again. I was a little disappointed that we had to come back but Yoongi and I both have our jobs to do.

I finish up my rounds with Taeyeon as we head back to the nurse’s station.

“I’m still jealous that you got to go to Hawaii. That’s my dream vacation spot. You even have a gorgeous tan.” She says with a pouty face.

“To be honest, it’s something I really needed. It was a good way to spend time with Yoongi.” Obviously, the beginning of our marriage wasn’t the best but after everything we went through we’ve become closer than ever. The trip was another way to fall in love even more.

Taeyeon gasps in excitement,“Speaking of you two lovebirds, have you guys had any thought about bringing kids into the picture?”

The thought of having babies gives me a weird mix of joy and anxiety, “Um, not really.” I respond.

“Don’t you want to have kids?” She asks.

“Of course, but Yoongi and I have jobs that are really time consuming. I wouldn’t feel right leaving our child with a nanny for a majority of their life.”

“Have you hinted about it to him? Maybe he’d be happy about the idea.” She elbows my arm.

I shake my head, “I’d rather not put the idea in his head. It’s more for my sake than his.”

Technically, it was half the truth. I’m mostly worried about the fact that our child would be born in a mafia family, always in constant danger. I remember growing up in that environment and being so scared that my dad would never come home. All the things I’ve seen would be all our child would see. That fear is really what’s stopping me from talking about kids with Yoongi.

Approaching the nurse station, I smile at the sight of a friendly face.

“Hello, Dr. Kim.” I sneak up beside Jin to greet him.

He waves, “Oh hi, Y/N. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to welcome you back from your honeymoon. Things got pretty busy while you were gone.”

I nod leaning my elbows on the counter, “Yeah, I could tell. I’ve been working nonstop since being back.”

“How was it?” He asks,

I want to tell him that it was absolutely fantastic but that little bit of wonder starts ringing in my head. Before I knew that Jin was a part of Bangtan he was my friend and I trusted him so I figure I can start trusting him again.

“Everything was great until I thought I saw something.” I hesitantly say.

“Like what?” He asks with a tone of concern.

I look around to make sure that there aren’t any unwanted ears listening, “For a panicked second, I thought that Yoongi and I were being followed but when I looked again there was no one.”

Jin leans in so only I can hear him speak, “Have you talked about it with Yoongi?”

“Yeah, but he thinks that I was just reliving some sort of trauma from being shot and the stuff with Hyung-Sik.”

Jin nods listening intently, “Do you think what you saw was real?”

I shrug my shoulders, “I don’t know. I know that I saw something but what I don’t know is if it was real or if my mind was just playing tricks on me.”

He looks at me worryingly, “You could be suffering from PTSD.”

“It doesn’t make sense though, Jin.” I explain, “I grew up seeing the worst a kid could see. PTSD doesn’t happen to me.”

“Seeing them is one thing but you were technically dead when you got shot. Near death experiences are more than enough to cause it.”

“I feel fine though. People say I’m glowing since I’ve been back.” I say showing him my newly tan arm.

He shakes his head, “Most people do after a traumatic incident but it can hit you at any time. Just hearing a balloon pop can trigger the sound of the gunshot that pierced your body.”

I sigh at the thought of adding another problem to my list of worries, “So what do I do now?”

“Have you thought about talking to someone like therapy?” He asks.

I nudge his shoulder, “Well what are you here for?”

He waves his hands, “I’m only a doctor not a psychiatrist.”

“Yes, you’re a doctor but you’re also my friend. Who better to talk to?” I say.

“Fine, but in the meantime,” Jin takes out a pen and begins to write on a notepad, “It might be best to start you on some medication just to keep you afloat until we figure this all out.”

“Thanks, Jin.” I take the prescription from him, “Can you do me a favor and not mention this to Yoongi? We’re going to a party tomorrow night and I’d rather not have him worry about me the whole time.”

Jin nods, “You got it.”

At some point tomorrow I’ll have to get the prescription filled. I'm not one to take medication for my problems but if I’m really suffering from PTSD then it wouldn’t hurt to calm my nerves and keep Yoongi from worrying about me.

The following night, I finish getting ready as I shimmy into my black dress. It’s a long off the shoulder mermaid style dress. Yoongi bought it for me among other dresses for these parties. At first, I never liked going to these things especially since I got shot the first time I went to it but it was soon discovered that a lot of the male guests were making compliments about me which made him more prideful in accompanying him.

Just as I'm fixing the front of my dress, I get chills as a familiar hand strokes my spine.

"Do you need help zipping up?" His low voice brushes against my ear.

I chuckle, "You have that question backwards and your hands are cold."

"Your right, I need a place to warm them up." Without warning, Yoongi slides both of his hands into my dress to wrap around my bare waist.

I press my legs together to ease the tingling that has started to yearn for his hands to lower, "Yoongi, if you keep this up we'll be late." I pull his arms away.

Eventually, Yoongi zipped me up with much dismay. We made our entrance to the party. I stayed by Yoongi's side the whole night as he talked business with other mafia leaders and clients. I don't pay much attention to the conversation since I don’t handle any of it. I've learned to accept the fact that I’m here to make Yoongi look good which brings much pride to my ego.

It isn't until Yoongi's grip on my waist gets me alerted. I follow his gaze to see him staring at a man, a gaze that could kill any woman.

"Hello Suga," he bows, greeting Yoongi.

Yoongi reluctantly bows back but something about his demeanor changes as he speaks, "Suho, I didn’t think I’d see you here tonight."

He shrugs, "I've been busy in Japan the past few months. I notice a lot has changed since I’ve been gone."

"Nothing that concerns you has changed." Yoongi remarks instantly.

Suddenly Suho's eyes drifted towards me. "You've finally found a Mrs. Min to settle down with." He extends his hand, "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Suho, leader of EXO."

"I'm Y/N and I'm not sure if I can say the same yet." I take his hand without hesitation just to show my brave side.

“Excuse me for being brave but I was wondering if I could have the honor of this dance with Y/N?”

Yoongi scoffs, “I don’t think so.”

He raises his eyebrows, “Is it not lady’s choice in the matter?”

As much as it annoyed Yoongi, he looked over at me to see my answer. “One dance shouldn’t hurt anyone. I’ll be back, honey.” Yoongi isn’t happy with my decision but he lets me go.

I don’t like to be left in the dark about things. If Suho is some sort of threat to us, I wanna know more about him.

I take Suho’s hand to walk with him towards the floor. I don’t know whether my encounter with Hyung-Sik has made me more brave or stupid but I am curious as to what Suho has hiding up his sleeve.

“So what kind of work have you been doing in Japan, Suho?” I ask.

“I’ve been dealing a lot in exports. It’s a lot of boring stuff compared to what’s been going on here with Bangtan.” Suho smirks at me, “To tell you the truth, ever since I’ve heard about you I’ve been eager to meet you.”

I raise my eyebrows, “Me? I’m nothing special.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement since you managed to save your husband from being killed and in the process cheating death and killing the leader of Park Mafia. I’d say that’s pretty extraordinary to me.”

“Well that’s what happens when you get overconfident in taking something that isn’t yours. It backfires on you.”

Suho’s eyes look passed me to have a little stare down with Yoongi who was watching closely from a distance, “Suga seems to think I want something from Bangtan as if I’m jealous of what he’s accomplished.”

“In all honesty, I grew up in this lifestyle and I know full well that all mafia groups aren’t afraid to take what they want. What makes your ambitions any different?” I ask.

“The truth is I could care less about what he’s doing with his group. My only concern is being a leader to my group and leading them up the ladder.”

Finally, the music slowly ends and I break away from Suho’s hold. Instantly, Yoongi comes up to pull me away by the hip.

Suho smirks, "I hope in the future we can have more time to talk."

Yoongi scoffs, "Any business you have to talk about with her you discuss with me. Now if you'll excuse us."

“You’ve got a keeper, Suga.”

I can tell that Yoongi doesn’t like Suho but for what reason? In comparison from my first meeting with Hyung-Sik, this was more of a calm introduction. Suho never once gave off the vibe that he was after something from me or Bangtan.

"So what's the real reason you don't like Suho." I ask as we make our way towards the bar.

"It's not that I don't like him. He's always been the quiet type and hasn't caused trouble for Bangtan, yet, so I don't trust him." He says side eyeing him.

“I’d have my doubts about it.” There’s surely something mysterious about Suho but I don’t sense it being a threatening thing.

Before Yoongi can respond, I’m caught off guard when I hear a female voice shout his name practically in my ear.

“Yoongi dear!”

A woman with ash blonde hair, wearing some sort of leather jacket dress hybrid, about the same height as me, minus her heels, comes up to embrace Yoongi in a hug which he reciprocates, to my surprise.

She quickly covers her mouth, “I forgot this is a business party so I have to call you Suga.”

He smiles, “It’s fine. CL this is my wife, Y/N. Babe, this is CL.”

CL turns her attention to me, “So this is Mrs. Min Yoongi.” She shakes my hand fiercely. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

I roll my eyes, “Yeah, I seem to be the talk of the town these days.”

She waves me off, “I’m not talking about your encounter with Hyung-Sik. Suga has had his eye on you for awhile.”

“CL is the leader of the 21 Mafia. We met when I was starting to get Bangtan together. Our groups are very strong allies.”

“So I hope that you can consider me like a sister.” She says placing her hand on my shoulder.

I smile from the nice gesture, “Thank you but if Yoongi trusts you then I have no reason to doubt your word for it.”

“Well whenever you have time to spare, let’s have lunch together, Y/N. We can get to know each other. For now, I’ll say excuse me there’s someone I must speak to before he disappears again.”

CL walks off into the crowd, leaving Yoongi and I alone. CL makes her way across the room, in the same direction Suho left as I lose them in the crowd. I smile sarcastically at Yoongi.

“You talked about me a lot? How come I’ve never heard about CL?” I ask suspiciously.

He shrugs his shoulders, “It never came up and it’s not what you think. Yes, we hooked up a couple of times but nothing more serious than that.”

I take a sip of my drink, “Mhm, I’m sure there wasn’t more.”

Yoongi tilts his head, smirking at me. “Why does it sound like you’re jealous?”

I act like a child and look away, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh you don’t? Maybe I should take you home and show you how important you are.” His fingers glide up my thigh, tickling me through the fabric of my dress.

“Anything to leave this place.”

Yoongi takes my hand and leads the way to the parking lot where the driver that brought us here was waiting near the car. Yoongi opens the door for me to get in when I hear him talking to the driver.

“Take the long way home and we’re gonna need some privacy.” Yoongi says while I’m shimmying in.

The driver nods, “Yes, sir.”

Once Yoongi gets in the car beside me, the driver closes up the blacked out window that separates us from him.

“Come here,” Yoongi pulls me to straddle his lap where I’m greeted by a thick bulge coming from his pants.

“Impatient much?” I tease.

“Ever since you put that dress on, I’ve been thinking about what I’d do to you when we get home all night. I could barely concentrate.”

I pout, “I’m sorry. I guess I should take responsibility.”

Yoongi pulls out the hair stick from my bun causing my hair to fall down. Our lips instantly connect as Yoongi’s hands roam down my sides until they reach my thighs. The dress goes up but not high enough as Yoongi aggressively tears the slit further. I gasp at the sudden action, “I really liked this dress.”

“I’ll buy you another one.” He says through heavy breaths.

Yoongi reaches up my thighs, searching my waist for the bikini line of my underwear, but doesn’t find one.

He looks up at me with lustful eyes, “Were you expecting this?”

Licking his bottom lip, I smirk, “No, but I was hoping for it.”

I reach down to undo his pants when I overly force the buckle of his belt causing it to break. Yoongi groans, “I liked that belt buckle.”

I chuckle, “You can buy yourself a new one.”

Opening up his pants, I’m greeted by his fully erected member. His lips continue their seductive attack on my neck, dipping his tongue into my collarbone. I sit further down onto his thighs to glide the lips of my pussy up the length of his cock causing Yoongi to moan into my skin.

I skim my hand from his shoulder, down his torso until I reach the head of his dick. It was already wet at the tip from his precum and along the length from my arousal. I adjust his cock under my entrance as I slowly take in his thickness.

“Oh fuck,” The movement of the car made it difficult to slowly sink down so I can adjust to his size.

Yoongi tightens his arms around my waist as the road begins to get bumpier, “I got you, baby.”

I smile giving him a kiss, “I know you do.”

The movement of the car made the feeling all more pleasurable, each drop went deeper than the last. Each intimate moment with Yoongi feels more than just him fucking me. It’s more like him expressing his love and adoration for me. He doesn’t need to say anything to justify that it’s true. Just feeling it is enough.

“I love you, Yoongi.”

He looks me in the eyes keeping his rhythm, “I love you, Y/N.”

I squeeze my knees as far as they would go against Yoongi’s thighs. My walls start to tighten and I can feel Yoongi beginning to throb against me. I clung onto him until the intense blissful feeling reached its peak. My thighs begin to shake from the aftershock of pleasure going through my body, leaving me breathless. I lean my head down onto Yoongi’s shoulder when he let out a chuckle. “Are you still jealous?”

[Two]

#bts #bts au #bts mafia au #bts mafia #bts smut #bts suga #bts suga au #bts suga mafia au #bts suga mafia #bts suga smut #bts yoongi #bts yoongi au #bts yoongi mafia scenario #bts yoongi mafia au #bts yoongi smut

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sarahwyland · 4 years

Note

It’s sick that there’s a version that Nick walks out on his kid or where Sabrina refuses to let him see him or her. It’s an AU I know you like writing angst, but keep the characters in character from who they are based on. Deeply saddened and just offended. Nick wouldn’t walk out on his kid. Nor would Sabrina refuse to let him near said kid. If you’re going to write the single fic go with the other.

I’m sorry you feel this way and I’d like to talk a little more about this fic idea because of some of the comments I’ve received about it. This is lengthy, but I feel it’s important, as a writer and a person, to dig into this more.

I do like to write angst. I like to explore the darker parts of our characters. Because they all have very dark sides to them. That’s what drew me to Sabrina - the depth and dimension of some of these characters and the boldness of the stories they told, particularly in parts one and two.

We like to focus on the love Nick and Sabrina have for one another, the attraction, the connection. But Sabrina has faced loss, abandonment (who else’s heart broke when Edward said he didn’t want her?), and Nick has faced a world of trauma, shown a tendency to lean on alcohol and drugs to cope. Hell, he committed suicide. Some view that as a grand romantic Shakespearean gesture. I don’t. I view it as someone who a hurt and darkness they couldn’t conquer. Sadly, I think we all know people who have lost their lives because their internal struggles were just too much. My mom’s favorite cousin is one of those people. He suffered from deep depression and PTSD. My stepdad’s nephew is another. He was transgender in a family that “doesn’t believe in that.” I will go to the mat over mental health, over access to care, and the stigma around speaking up when you’re hurting. Advocating for mental health is a big part of my life you don’t necessarily see on Tumblr.

As a writer, those dark sides, those things we each have in us, no matter how sunshine and daisies we are, are what gives our characters dimension. It’s what gives them an emotional journey and makes the reader/viewer want to root for them - or hate them. It’s what makes you look at a Nick or a Sabrina or a Prudence or a Zelda and see yourself in them, the good and the bad. I won’t apologize for exploring these darker parts or for tossing around thoughts and ideas with my “internet friends” about stories I may or may not share.

If this version of this story ever sees the light of day, it will likely not be in this fandom. I only wrote a handful of pages, exploring as I tend to do. At this point, I’ll give the characters new identities and write a manuscript or a pilot that will either live on my laptop forever or land me a Netflix deal.

On a more personal note, I, like many of you who also write, tend to “write what I know.” I know a lot about addiction and mental illness, not as a professional, but as a person who has been deeply affected by it. I have anxiety that tends to manifest itself at the most inopportune times. I’ve had panic attacks that have put me in the ER. I’ve alluded to the suicides that stemmed from depression my family has experienced.

A lesser known but not secret fact about me is that my dad, who I love and adore and will swear hung the moon, is an alcoholic. He’s been in the hospital due to alcohol withdrawal twice in the last year. The first time he nearly died. Delirium tremens (DTs) is a terrifying thing to witness. I imagine it was even more terrifying for him to go through. Two weeks ago, while I was posting prompts and updating ‘The Hunted’ and lamenting how I’m going to shoot a short film in a pandemic with all the COVID rules, I was also fielding calls from the other side of the country from my dad’s doctors, giving me updates and discussing his treatment plan moving forward, AA meetings, psychiatrists... I also had to sign an advanced directive for him - just in case.

I see him struggle with his addiction. I also watched him stay sober for more than 20 years, only to relapse when he lost his sister to a nasty battle with cancer a few years ago and then struggle to regain that sobriety. He’s a good man who works hard, has done well for himself, loves his family, takes care of his 93 year old mother, calls me to ask if i’ve remembered to get my oil changed (the answer is always no), but he’s also an addict and he’s done things I would have never thought he’d do while under the influence. Even 20+ years sober, he was always an addict.

And so, this very long note to say this fic would have been bigger than “Nick left his pregnant girlfriend.” It would have been a story about a man who has struggled with addiction, who made mistakes, who still carries the love he had for a girl with him in hopes that he can redeem himself in her eyes and be the man he so wants to be, and about a girl who faced loss and heartache at a young age, who tried with all she had to help the man she loves, only to learn the very hard lesson that you can’t help someone who isn’t ready to be helped. It would have told a story about overcoming those obstacles and making a life from the ashes.

You probably didn’t bargain for this long of a response, probably didn’t bargain for an answer at all. But for reasons I can’t wrap my head around, this single mom fic idea that’s popped into my inbox a few times over the last year from various folks causes chaos (no pun intended) and I felt the need to explain the rational behind a story that I doubt I’ll ever publish in this format.

I always encourage sharing of opinions. But I also encourage the sharing to be done with grace and kindness and for criticism to be constructive, feedback helpful. My inbox is open.

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blu3mila · 4 years

Photo

a couple of thoughts on Itch now

the connection between Itch and Ichigo is much sturdier than that of Grim/mjows. i’m thinking of going with flickering philosophies (i can cut Itch out of bleach and make him fully separate, secure and mine if need be. need currently Not be)

so Itch’igo’s story goes along the lines of bleach canon, the 15-17 y/o bullshit more or less stays (although i must admit, i’m not well versed in anything past Aizen). i could see him finishing school after all the fighting (going on fumes actually), his mental situation not addressed.

many grimmichi fics suggest weekly spars with Grimmjow and i wholeheartedly agree. i see them meeting again around Ichigo’s last year of school, fighting, becoming good friends... keeping it up as Ichigo finishes school, goes to university

i see him going to study law because it’s boring and oppressive (and he hates himself like that but he doesn’t know it yet. he feels it should be like that), struggling through a year, having some breakdowns, appearing ‘normal’ for the summer break only for it to go to hell within the first months of his second year.

Grimmjow at that point would have had enough of being gentle so he’d go to Ichigo’s uni õppetöökorraldaja and (с волками жить, по-волчьи выть) instead of blowing shit up would file Ichigo’s documents for an academic leave

then comes going back ‘home’, Ichigo being conflicted, Issin being not a good parent, Grimmjow staying with them, surprise, because i’m the god of this realm, Urahara finding him some SpIrItUaLlY aWare psychiatrist (that I-t-ch fits well with from the first try with because how much more can you torture a man) and a long road of self-discovery starts.....

.......as for what goes on on that road... hah. a lot! and neither I nor Itch know, but preview theories: there is anxiety and paranoia (could be written off to the stress of canon, but i’m not stressing a... i’m not writing it into PTSD), there’s the abundance of feelings and these feelings turning mostly sour, then medication for that turning them less pressing, but severing the iron grip Itchhh igo otherwise forever has on himself... which leads to delusions (they were there before but he didn’t see), which leads to ‘hearing’ voices (they were there but he didn’t call them that), which leads to an overall situation i referred to as ‘something schizo’ on the first post i made with him.

(at first i really felt like going with that actually. the massive stress triggering the onset of schizophrenia. like, no pussyfooting, straight out own up to putting a child to hell and bombarding him with all that weird shit. just a possible consequence that almost always gets ignored in fiction like that, a tad too serious,-ly weird)

But Then i grew closer to Ichigo and ... read fics and... as i mentioned earlier, saw some interactions with his other selves and it was a MOMENT FULL OF WONDER because i .｡*ﾟ+.*.｡ related　ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+

that could possibly Maybe be elaborated on later, separately. but i’m actually kind of really into it, you know. like i’m not hiding the fact that i write a lot off myself, so i suppose you could deduce some ah but it is so lovely to have a character who canonically hears voices. it is even lovelier to take that character and make it serious, make it real, make it more than a ‘canon-magick-not-actually-crazy-ha-ha’... so lovely...

#ichigo kurosaki #ocs #itch oc #grim oc #id love to hear thoughts and comments but be gentle!#grimmjow jaegerjaquez #grimmichi

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jokertrap-ran · 4 years

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(未定事件簿) EVENT! 「消失的黄金」 [Tears of Themis] EVENT: The Lost Gold Translations (Mo Yi Chapter 2-02: Forest Camp)

“Who are you, to bring up ‘Professional Ethics’ with me? ”

*Tears of Themis Masterlist is under construction. *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *(y/n) is your name when in direct referral; otherwise referred to as MC. *Can someone shoot me to sleep bc its 6am rn

Location: Forest Camp

Just like Mo Yi had deduced, Wang Xian appeared shortly after we reached the Forest Camp.

Wang Xian: What a coincidence, Doctor Mo. We meet again.

Wang Xian: I had explicitly thought that the next time we saw each other again, ever since the exchange we had on the Ship, would be back in Stellis City.

Mo Yi: Looks like you really don't want to see me here, Doctor Wang.

Wang Xian: I came here for a holiday, so it feels a little off-putting to be bumping into my Psychiatrist, of all people.

Wang Xian: But I suppose this is fated, in a way. How about we share our Treasure Clues that we found on the way here?

He pretended to open his backpack, as if to take out the items he collected during the Event.

Mo Yi: You're actually playing the game seriously; that's beyond my expectation.

Mo Yi: But if that's the case, why aren't you working together with that assistant of yours?

Wang Xian: I'm his boss, so he should consider himself lucky that I even brought him here to Nosta Island for a Vacation; but to be together with him for the entire duration of the trip is a little…

Wang Xian: I'm afraid that would be alone to torture, for him.

Wang Xian: Besides, the Event Organizer did say that anything found will belong to the finder.

Mo Yi: Wang Xian, I am your Psychiatrist. Don't you think you're trying too hard to act generous and considerate in front of me?

Wang Xian: What are you trying to say, Dr. Mo?

Mo Yi: Have you forgotten about your nickname among the Prisoners, "Black-handed Wang"?

Wang Xian: Mo Yi, you—!

MC: "Black-handed Wang"? What does that mean?

Mo Yi: He's someone who often goes in and out of Prison. And he'll always help the Prisoners by bringing in some Contrabands, like Cigarettes, for example.

Mo Yi: The rate he asks from the Prisoners is oftentimes twice or thrice the time of the goods' original value. That's why he's known as "Black-handed Wang"

Mo Yi relentlessly exposed Wang Xian's own can of worms.

Judging from this, he had absolutely no intentions to play nice with Wang Xian right from the start.

Wang Xian: Dr. Mo, isn't this considered leaking your Patient's Privacy? What poor Professional Ethics you have.

Mo Yi: You're a Lawbreaker right now, not my Patient.

Mo Yi: Also, who are you, to bring up "Professional Ethics" with me?

Mo Yi: Why don't you first tell me what your assistant, pseudonym Cao Zhong, Real name Dong Hechuan, has gone off to do?

Wang Xian: Who's Dong Hechuan? ...I don't know him!

MC: You're only recently applied for Dong Hechuan's Commutation, and you say you don't know who he is?

Wang Xian's panic was blatantly obvious, now that Dong Hechuan's identity had been exposed.

Mo Yi: The reason why Dong Hechuan's commutation was approved was because he made important contributions to your Academic Papers, published in A-level journals.

Mo Yi: If you can even forget about someone like him, then I suggest you go to the Neurological Department and get that brain of yours checked.

Wang Xian: I really can't put anything past you, Dr. Mo.

Wang Xian: I'd heard before that you were regarded as a genius in the world of Psychology, but I didn't think that you'd be just as good at Criminal Investigations.

Wang Xian: Actually, I was coerced to both reduce his sentence and bring him to this Island.

MC: You were coerced?

MC: Then let's talk about how he coerced you.

≫Inquiry Start≪

⊳ Choice: Intimidation Grounds

MC: How did Wang Xian coerce you to reduce his sentence?

Wang Xian: With evidence that I was helping the Prisoners carry in Contrabands.

Wang Xian: Dong Hechuan has a record of Contraband Transactions.

Wang Xian: It contains a list of items I brought in for them along with the amount, date and time.

Wang Xian: He threatened me, saying that he'd hand these records over to the Prison's Administration if I refused to help him reduce his sentence.

Mo Yi: It's not like you've been helping the Prisoners for only a day or two. Dong Hechuan, capable of threatening you with just a single record? Whose leg are you trying to pull?

Wang Xian: The records include the testimony and signature of each relevant prisoner. Even I don't know how he got his hands on such a thing…

Wang Xian: But, if he really reports me, not only will my reputation be ruined, but I'll also have to go to Court for it.

⊳ Choice: Dong Hechuan's motive in coming here

MC: What is Dong Hechuan's purpose in coming here? Why is he participating in the Treasure Hunt?

Wang Xian: Since you know of Dong Hechuan, I suppose you're also aware of the Gold Robbery that happened ten years ago.

Wang Xian: He came here to look for the remaining gold from that year.

MC: He was given a lighter sentence at the time because he took the initiative to confess about the whereabouts of the gold.

MC: You could have always threatened him with the fact that he purposely concealed the true location of the gold, countering the upper hand he has against you.

MC: Why did you help him get onto this Island? Moreover, I'm guessing that you were the one who sabotaged the Terminals back in the Cruise Ship.

Wang Xian: I was the one who did it, but I…

Mo Yi: Not conventional for you to say? Then, allow me to speak for you.

Mo Yi: He promised to share the gold with you, am I right?

Mo Yi: You're already risking the hair on your eyebrows by carrying Cigarettes in for the Prisoners. So how, could you ever resist the temptation of gold?

Wang Xian: That's right. It was a moment's greed that had overtook me, but I didn't destroy the Terminals single-handedly.

MC: Did you do it with Dong Hechuan?

Wang Xian: He's not the only one involved. We did destroy the Terminals together, but when we went to the Monitoring Room go replace the Security Footage…

Wang Xian: We realized that the footage of our entry had already long since been replaced.

Wang Xian: Someone else had helped us cover up the destruction of the Terminals, but we don't know who.

MC: There's actually a third person involved?

Just who was able to silently sneak into the Surveillance Room and replace the footage?

Mo Yi: "We" don't know who the third person is? Ha ha, very funny.

⊳ Choice: Details of the deal

MC: You just said that you brought Dong Hechuan to this Island because of a moment's greed.

MC: But have you thought about how he's very likely to kill you once he finds the gold?

MC: Are you even sure that you'll still be alive to enjoy the wealth you gained?

Wang Xian: Of course I've also taken pre-measures against him.

Wang Xian: Dong Hechuan told me that the remaining gold left on Nosta Island weighs more than a hundred kilograms, and he, alone, can never take it out of here.

Wang Xian: His brothers-in-arms from back then are all dead, he has no other acquaintances and has absolutely no way to transport all that gold either.

Wang Xian: So, I arranged for an ocean-going fishing boat to pick us up on the other side of the Island. Everyone on that boat is loyal to me.

Wang Xian: I will be safe so long as I manage to get onto the boat. And I won't have to worry about him making off with the gold alone either.

Mo Yi: Oh? How interesting, indeed.

Mo Yi: All the people on that boat are your men; So, of course you're not afraid. But then, what about Dong Hechuan? Isn't he afraid?

Mo Yi: You have gold aplenty and people to spare. Isn't he afraid that you'll permanently silence him on the boat?

Wang Xian: Of course not.

Wang Xian: He said that the scheduled email he had set up beforehand would send the records he's holding against me to the Police Station, should he be unable to return back to Stellis City alive.

Wang Xian: Besides, I only want to get rich. I don't have the guts to be killing people.

Wang Xian: And Dong Hechuan doesn't have any other partners out there other than me, whom he trusts.

⊳ Choice: Acting separately

Mo Yi: If the both of you are here with the gold in mind, then why aren't you acting together?

Wang Xian: That had been the initial plan, but Dong Hechuan has an illness. Therefore, he had to leave first to get it treated.

MC: What illness?

Wang Xian: PTSD; Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Wang Xian: The gang of robbers had an internal fallout on this Island back then, and everyone except him had died.

Wang Xian: He has witnessed the deaths of too many of his brothers and now suffers from a serious Psychological Disorder.

Wang Xian: Dong Hechuan suffers from insomnia and has been plagued by nightmares for many years, always dreaming about the tragedy that befell on this very Island.

Wang Xian: Back on the Ship, he said that he'd be heading down to the part of the Island where his good brothers were killed first, once we landed on the Island.

Mo Yi: So he went to pay his respects to the dead. Then, where does this road you're walking lead to?

Wang Xian: He gave me the clues as to where to gold was buried and asked me to go on ahead and find it first.

MC: Clues? You mean, he doesn't know where the gold really is?

Otherwise, why wouldn't he tell Wang Xian the exact location of the gold?

Wang Xian: According to him, the biggest amount of gold had been hidden by the second boss of the gang back then.

Wang Xian: That person was very literary and artistically inclined. So, after burying the gold, he wove his clues about where it was buried, into a poetry.

Wang Xian: Therefore, no one except the second boss can find said gold, unless they solve the hidden riddle to his poetry.

⊳ Choice: Records of entering the Island

Mo Yi: Last question, Wang Xian. Is this your first time on Nosta Island?

Wang Xian: I…

He lowered his head, hesitating for a moment before letting out a long, drawn-out sigh.

Wang Xian: Mo Yi, you must have found my records of my entry and exit, if you're asking me such a question.

Wang Xian: You really do possess some remarkable abilities.

Wang Xian: I guess I can only come clean, now that you've already guessed it; there's no point in hiding it anymore.

Wang Xian: I've been here once, before. Only to make arrangements regarding the ocean-bound fishing boat.

Mo Yi: Is that so…

≫Inquiry End≪

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

Wang Xian: I've already told you everything there is to be said, Dr. Mo. There's no competition or any bones to pick between us two, so just spare me.

Mo Yi: Spare you? Sure, I can do that; on one condition.

Wang Xian: What is it?

Mo Yi: Fork over the clue that leads to the gold.

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

Previous Part: (Mo Yi 2-01: Forest Zone) | Next Part: (Mo Yi 2-03: Deep within the Forest)

#Tears of Themis #Translations #Otome #Mihoyo #未定事件簿 #莫弈 #Mo Yi #消失的黄金 #The Lost Gold #Tears of an Event

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