#god forbid rippers do ANYTHING

[pansear-doodles]

Siivagunner fusions make me happy because they reimagine music from other franchises in the style of another and no matter how crazy the mashup sounds on paper it ALWAYS WORKS WELL

But they also make me sad because 98% of those segments wont be its own full length music

[midnightcowboy1969]

Jack D. Ripper (Strangelove) would’ve made an amazing mother but alas he killed himself. Smh :/ don’t understand why. Yeah, maybe he’s the reason for everything went to hell but jeez god forbid women do anything.

[negative-speedforce]

Random OC Questions for... hm, we'll go with Pippa and Max, just to switch things up

⁉️💭📖🚩😛💯

⁉️ - Most scared & confused they've ever felt

Pippa's brother, who was a helicopter pilot, suffered a critical engine failure while transporting her father (who was a doctor) and their crew on a humanitarian mission halfway across the globe, and they both were killed instantly in the crash. This happened while Pippa was under anesthesia for her bottom surgery, so she had to wake up to the news that the last of her immediate family had died. This almost broke Pippa, who had lost her mother to sarcoma as a little kid, and was now completely alone in the world.

The most terrifying day of Max's life was in Junior year, when he followed his boyfriend and their friends to investigate a robbery at Mercury Labs in the middle of the night. It was there that they encountered the Reverse-Flash for the first time, who was mostly just confused as to what his daughter was doing there, but had to scare the kids into backing off in order to both stay in character and also get the tachyon device he was trying to steal. Eobard scared Max out of his pants, and he swears to this day that he is never going to mess with a speedster again.

💭 - If they went to the world of one of your other WIPs, how would they react to the environment? Would they like the other cast?

(I'm going to go with my angel-verse because I rarely ever talk about it)

Pippa would honestly thrive in that universe. She'd get along very well with Ellis and Gabriella, the two main characters from that WIP, with her kindhearted personality. She'd probably end up somehow getting into heaven so she could yell at god for smiting Ellis, since they were only trying to do the right thing.

Max would probably end up completely destroying both Heaven and Hell because of how corrupt they are. Somehow, this 20-something gay anarcho-socialist kid would be able to kill god all by himself, while somehow also managing to hold down a 9-5 that he hates. The cast of that WIP probably wouldn't like him much, and him as well.

📖 - What's your OCs favorite book [either in our world or theirs, whichever]? Would they like the book they're in?

Pippa loves shitty grocery store bodice ripper romance novels. Since I don't read that crap, I'm not sure what her favorite book would be called, but it'd probably be something like "Forbidden Touch of the Werewolf Pirate Laird" or something like that, and it would have a picture of abs on the cover. I don't think Pippa would like the narrative she's in though, it'd be much to angsty for her likings.

Max isn't really a big reader, so I guess it would be some kind of engineering or robotics manual? He's not a huge fan of fiction, so it's hard to choose a specific favorite book for him. As to whether he'd like the book he's in, I think he'd be fine with it, but slightly annoyed that he isn't the main character.

🚩 - Their biggest red flag?

Pippa cannot set a boundary to save her own life, and she has a tendency to give so much of herself that she gets burnout and can't do anything for like, a week.

Max doesn't think about other people's feelings, only the big details. He's doing the right thing because it's going to lead to a better world, despite how many innocent people die as collateral damage, because god forbid Max Seng be wrong about something.

😛 - If given the option, would they rather know WHEN they die, or HOW they die? Why would they pick that option & not the other? How would they react in each scenario?

Pippa would rather know neither, since she'd probably feel like knowing either would completely take over her life. However, she'd rather know when she dies, that way she can prepare accordingly and be ready for it.

Max would rather know how he dies, that way he can figure out how to evade it and cheat death yet again.

💯 - They're in the last book you read. How would they fair in that world? Would they like the main cast?

(The last book I read was This Wicked Fate by Kaylnn Bayron)

I think Pippa would not be having a good time in that universe, with the dark subject matter, angsty tone, and such. She probably wouldn't get along with the main cast well, considering that her hopelessly optimistic personality would clash with the story's tone.

Max wouldn't fare that well, considering that he HATES magic and relies 100% on technology, and the universe of that story revolves heavily on magic. However, he'd fit in fairly well with the main cast, considering that he has a similar personality to many of the main characters (determined, realist, passionate, badass, etc)

[pigspeetsandhooflikefeets]

Millie’s backstory is actually so lame. She wasn’t even bullied for it. No one called her “run-of-the-Millie” because she wasn’t good at anything? I expected something deep, that would explain why she’s so obsessed with Priya’s parents, like her parents were so kind to her that she can’t stomach being forced to do all that. Instead she’s kinda disappointed.

Like geez, she’s mad at her generation for not curing polio- POLIO’S VACCINE WAS MADE WHEN JONAS SALK WAS 41. AND he was born in 1914. How is that your parent’s generation!? That’s the Lost Generation! And God forbid teenagers be a little immature when they are young. Their brains are literally wired differently. Anyone who obsesses over development (as I do actually, I study adolescent development for fun) would know that!

Also, assuming she did publish that book she was writing- who is it for? The show is being AIRED on television. People could SEE Ripper and Chase and whoever be morons. Ripper adamantly mentioned his record desire on camera. She’s not selling underground information. The only people who would care about these findings are people who ALREADY subscribe to the idea teenagers aren’t productive human beings. And those people don’t need some “insider information”, because the show already exists. They have DIRECT quotes to source from the other contestants. Why would second hand from Millie do anyone any good? Because she’s willing to punch down and throw her generation under the bus? They’re not going to protect her. The older people who hate them too hate her just as much. She didn’t even try to cure polio.

[henrysmilla]

cressworth death trope au

Thomas was not an aggressive person; in fact, he was calmer and more composed than anyone in the room. But since the light of his life died that night, he became someone rather difficult to recognize. Audrey Rose was not only his fiancé but his companion, his best friend, the only constant in his life. Having an upbringing like him that made him believe himself as an unlovable person Audrey Rose, his Wadsworth loved him and cherished him. She restored his faith and loved him endlessly until she disappeared. He does not like to believe she died; he thinks she is still out there researching for a case by herself because she got tired of his sarcastic remarks. But death comes unsolicited and it all becomes clear when you are sitting in the front row of the funeral thrown for the one true love of your life. It all comes to you when you see them being buried in front of your eyes and as much as you want to believe they are not gone, a hollowness in your chest that aches constantly keeps reminding you that the person you wanted to share eternal vows with is indeed not with you anymore.

Thomas could not sleep, he laid in bed recalling all the moments he spent with her, from her brother being jack the ripper to surviving in a ship with a serial killer on the loose. It was all easy with her. She would be focused on her work and Thomas tried to make her smile by flirting and passing scandalous remarks. They would kiss in between, hiding from everyone and laughing till their ribs started hurting. He would hold her and whisper sweet nothings in her ear which to the contrary of what she used to say, she enjoyed. But now with a blink of an eye, everything is gone. No more “I will perform autopsy on you Cresswell if you don’t stop grinning right this instance.” or “This is scandalous Cresswell, we will be caught.”, she used to say while kissing me harder.

He screams harder until he can’t scream anymore. He cries and cries begging for Audrey Rose. He keeps repeating “Come back Wadsworth, just this time. Come back to me, I will do anything for you just come back.” Until the words stops making sense, he screams, screams filled with pain and anguish like he did seeing her body that night when the real Jack the ripper killed her. He pushed everyone and saw her life being brutally taken away from her but there she laid all serene and peaceful.

Everyone around him, including his sister tried to make sure he was okay and god forbid he didn’t do anything to himself. He assured them that everything is okay. He held his sister and cried in her shoulder and kept asking her if she will come back. But soon after all that he refused to face anyone. He grew apart from the reality and started living in his memories, his sweet memories of Audrey Rose, it all became hard. Seeing every little thing reminded him of Audrey Rose, he even gave sir Issac mewton to his sister because he couldn’t bear to look at him. He wanted to spend his lifetime with her, they had so many cases to solve, so many kisses and cuddles to have but it was taken away from them. Who knew that two people who loved each over anything and have overcome lethal scenerios by always staying together were bound to be taken apart so tragically.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Don’t Look! [Part 4]

<- Part 3 | Part 5 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader

@we-are-all-just-a-bit-crazy’s lovecraftian horror AU, with a bit of my own twist on the origin story. Emotional hurt/comfort. Body horror. Hugging your body-horror monster boyfriend. 

3,386 words

Once upon a time, there lived a man who had everything: great wealth (built on the backs of exploited workers), a grand estate, a beautiful wife, and many mistresses waiting in the wings. Yet after years of trying, he failed to produce an heir. Determined that his money could buy anything, the man scoured the world, searching for a solution. One day, his extensive resources brought him to an ancient castle in Lithuania, where the last descendants of a noble bloodline offered him a devil’s bargain—a book, a summoning ritual. He did not ask questions. His wife was finally with child.

The Chilton legacy was secure.

The moment Frederick was born, the life was sucked from his mother—a human sacrifice for his soul crossing into this world. That was what his father told him, at least. Frederick had no memory of clawing his way through the veil between worlds, of being anything other than an ordinary child with a distant father, a young, blonde stepmother, and nannies instead of friends. Until the changes began. Allison (or was it Kayla at the time?) fainted in the living room when he staggered in, screaming as smoke boiled from his skin, begging for help. His father only wrinkled his nose with disgust and calmly explained what he was.

“You must learn to hide this, Frederick. Never let anyone see you this way, or it will destroy the family name.”

And so, he learned the transformation’s schedule. Prepared for it. Knew how to hide it away and never let anyone get close enough to see the real him. But it wasn’t good enough. Try as he might, nothing Frederick ever did met his father’s expectations for the perfect son he had gone through so much trouble to produce.

Frederick grew into a bitter and lonely man with no one to care about, or who cared about him. He kept the world at a distance, hiding his shame behind expensive suits and lavish decoration.

Never once did he consider that he was not alone in this world at all.

 ***

I see him as one of those pitiful things sometimes born in hospitals. They feed it, keep it warm, but they don’t put it on the machines. They let it die. But he doesn’t die. He looks normal. Nobody can tell what he is.

This is how Will Graham describes the Chesapeake Ripper.

Every therapy session with Graham, every conversation overhead, the puzzle became clearer. At first, Chilton merely believed that Dr. Lecter was guilty of unethical practices—manipulating Mr. Graham in the same way he had manipulated Gideon. He felt such kinship with Hannibal. Learning a bit of dirt on him brought the ever-so-superior doctor down to his level, gave him something to lord over him—a little implied blackmail to strengthen their friendship.

They both had secrets to hide.

Dr. Chilton never would have guessed the final puzzle piece to convince him fully that Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper would be the one everyone else laughed at.

“I brought you here to bear witness,” Graham said to Gideon through their adjoining cells.

“To tell Jack Crawford that I sat in Hannibal Lecter’s cobalt blue dining room? An ostentatious herb garden, Leda and the Swan over the fireplace. And you, having a fit in the corner.”

Chilton perked up and quickly shared the audio feed to one of the junior therapists assisting him. You were reliable at editing his audio files, clipping and exporting segments he wanted to keep, but he was avoiding you at the moment. This was proof—irrefutable proof that Gideon had met Hannibal Lecter the night he went searching for the Ripper.

After his conversation with Graham concluded, an assistant was sent down to coax more information from him while Chilton’s research team listened in, keenly taking notes.

Gideon was not finished dropping bombshells.

With a casual lilt to his voice as if talking to a friend over dinner, he began to describe the Chesapeake Ripper. Skin like volcanic ash, reflecting no light. A red glow to his eyes. Black claws as long as steak knives. Antlers breaking through the inside of his skull, punching through the skin. All black as night—a form that shifted in the shadows, ever tricking the eye, unwilling to be known.

He’s the Devil, Mr. Graham. He’s smoke.

“Great. Gideon is delusional,” one therapist snorted. “On the bright side, this completely undercuts his malpractice case against you.” She patted Chilton’s shoulder. Chilton flinched.

“We should start him on antipsychotics. What do you think? Doctor?”

Chilton’s face turned ashen white. “Y-yes, certainly,” he muttered, staggering to his feet.

He moved for the door, but crumbled halfway there, pain ripping through his leg as sharp thorns grew beneath the skin. It was daylight. No. No! The transformation should not be starting for hours—he had plenty of time! He gasped out as another shock tore through him, barely containing a cry. His body convulsed.

“Doctor!” A therapist and a guard rushed in to help him to his feet. “Where does it hurt? If this is a complication from your surgery, we need to get you into intensive care right away.”

“No,” he brushed them off. “Only… psychosomatic. I need to— ah!” He gritted his teeth, mind racing to the one person he did not want to turn to, but the only one he could, and barked, “Get my secretary!”

 ***

Smoke was rising off of his burning skin by the time you rushed into Chilton’s vacated office. His eyes were wide with panic, but greeted you when you entered with—not relief, perhaps, because he was every bit as terrified as before, but with the anticipation of being rescued. His eyes pleaded.

“H-help. I cannot make it stop.”

You managed to get him into your car. The sun’s orange rays seemed to chase the beast away, clearing his skin and stopping his wracking convulsions long enough to cross the employee parking lot without drawing stares. He insisted on taking the back seat so he could hide—and to put more distance between you in case he lost control.

His chest rose and fell like a rabbit in a cat’s mouth.

“The way he described Dr. Lecter—anyone would think it was a metaphor! That he was crazy!” Chilton’s breath was raspy as you drove, glancing back at him through the rearview mirror. He kept trembling, small patches of scaly skin appearing at random then swirling back inside. One pupil was a pinprick. His tongue occasionally became serpentine and got in the way as he frantically spoke. “But it was too specific, the details. Familiar. I always knew there was a connection between Dr. Lecter and me—a reason we were friends. It all makes sense now!”

“Hey, it’s OK,” you said, trying to sound soothing, though you had no idea what he was talking about.

“Don’t you understand? Lecter is like me!”

“That’s good, isn’t it? That means you’re not alone.”

“Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper!” he shouted, and a spine tore through a seat cushion. “A cannibal, if Will Graham is to be believed, and loathe as I am to admit it, Graham is an excellent profiler. If the Ripper and I are the same… then that means I—”

“You are nothing like that!” Forgetting the damage his demonic tantrum was doing to your faux-leather interior, you had faith in him. He was a little withdrawn and more than a little vain, and it had garnered him an icy reputation around the hospital, but now you understood why. He wasn’t evil or malicious. He was frightened.

“God help me,” he murmured.

 ***

As soon as the garage door closed behind you, he scrambled from the car (scratching the handle), and retreated inside. He didn’t invite you to follow him home. But he didn’t forbid it, either, and you wanted to be there. All you had were panic-scrambled memories from the first time that made his transformation worse in hindsight than it was. Or maybe better. You didn’t know, and you wouldn’t know until you saw it again with clear eyes.

The electric kettle rumbled on its stand, hissing steam as you searched through Frederick Chilton’s surprisingly extensive tea collection for something herbal and soothing. Chamomile, you thought. With honey. Surely that must be good for demon-monster-werewolf things?

The sun was about to set and he was still reeling over Hannibal, and just as much from the premature transformation the revelation had triggered. And every time he cried, “This is not possible. How can this be possible?” the next convulsion was more intense.

He would probably just burn himself on tea.

A painful whimper came from somewhere in the house, and you followed it to a tiny panic room that opened behind a bookshelf. It was only about seven by nine feet with concrete walls and floors, bare except for deep scratches of varying age, like an animal trying to escape. The few chairs inside were metal. Difficult to break. Frederick faced away from you, staring at a hand that was too large for the rest of his body, capped with long black claws.

“Oh no, this will not do at all,” you tutted, shaking your head at the barren space. “How about I bring in some blankets? Let’s get you comfortable.”

His whole body shook. “You should go.”

“No. No way, not after seeing this prison cell. I am not leaving you like this.”

“I do not want to hurt you.” His shoulder jerked. A spike tore through his shirt.

“You won’t.”

“Seeing it again… will not be therapeutic for you,” he hissed, another spike breaking through. “Go before it is too late.”

“No!”

“Damn it! I am a monster—there is proof of that now! The FBI has no idea what it is dealing with!” Chilton began to pace the small cell, thoughts racing, features morphing into something grotesque and alien. “Does Hannibal know about me? Can he sense it? Is that why he confided in me? I always thought it was professional respect—hah! God, what if he…” A painful convulsion halted his pacing and brought him to one knee, gripping his side. His attention snapped back to you. “This is… dangerous,” he warned, then hacked violently. Fleshy, snake-like projections spewed from his mouth, and he quickly turned away again, hiding his face. “You should… you should be nowhere near all of this! You should not be here! Why did I let you inside?!”

A roar of anguish ripped through the air with enough force to push you back through the panic room door, just in time to avoid being impaled on half a dozen spines as they shot from Chilton’s body like lances. Chips of concrete clattered to the ground as they penetrated the walls. He screamed again, writhing to get free, but found himself trapped by his own violent transformation. Like an animal, he struggled and clawed at himself as if his rational mind had been overtaken by raw, volatile emotion.

“Take it easy. You’re going to hurt yourself,” you tried to calm him, but you couldn’t stop your voice from shaking.

This was worse than last time. You were sure his spines weren’t half as long when you saw him in his office—even Chilton seemed surprised to be pinned.

You lifted your hands, palms toward him in a steadying gesture, and took a step back into the concrete room.

“Stay back!” he howled, thrashing. “Get away!”

It was tempting. Every muscle in your body wanted to follow his advice and run far away from the indescribable horror before you. But his eyes were still green. Were still terrified. And you had an inkling of why it was worse this time. Maybe he would hate you later for imposing, but it seemed more important right now not to leave him feeling… like a monster.

“It’s OK.” You took another step closer.

“No!”

“You’re not going to hurt me. I trust you. Shh, shh… I’m not afraid, see?”

Rigid spines sprayed from his back and shoulders in a 180-degree arc, leaving only his front accessible. You ducked under one and followed its trajectory to where it met the wall. It wasn’t just pinned by pressure—it had struck the wall with enough force to dig into it like an iron rod. Sawing through might be the only option for getting him unstuck. You wondered if that would hurt. Were there nerves in his spines? You stepped over the next one as you drew nearer.

“You should be afraid! I am just like him!” Chilton tried to turn his head away as you traversed his network of thorns and stood in front of him.

His face was almost entirely inhuman. Tentacles cascaded down from where a nose should have been, and when he opened his mouth in a snarl, they parted like wriggling eels—each with a life of its own—to reveal a jaw that split his face open vertically, crowded with rows of sharp white teeth. The more agitated Chilton became, the more dramatic the effect. Each time he spoke, you caught a flash of teeth that sent shivers racing down your spine. But you continued to move closer anyway, within snapping range.

“Hannibal and I… we are the same. Please—I do not want to become him. Do not let me hurt you!”

“You are not the same. You’re not a killer.”

Chilton let out a choking cry that was all too human. “I killed that nurse,” he said. Concrete groaned as his spines grew longer. A crooked horn sprouted from his head. “I killed Elizabeth Shell.”

“You… you didn’t kill her.”

His breath quickened again. Tentacles sprouted and died and resprouted from his face in a constant fevered motion. “I knew Gideon would kill! I lowered security! I knew what would happen—what I needed to happen to prove that he was the Ripper! I may as well have plucked her eyes out with my own hands and… and feasted on her organs. God… I am the Ripper,” he wailed.

“No…” It never occurred to you that Dr. Chilton would have done such a thing knowingly. Maybe there was something dark inside him that this creature was reflecting. It hurt to acknowledge, and yet maybe you both needed to. “You made a mistake. You did a bad thing, but… Gideon was already a killer. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I drove him to it, manipulated him… I am just as responsible as he is. I am a monster.”

“A monster wouldn’t feel this guilty! You made a mistake, but you won’t make it again, will you?”

Tentacles and spines stopped sprouting. His form stabilized as his wet eyes looked off thoughtfully. He seemed so pathetic… so innocent, almost. Despite the intimating spines and claws that added danger and height to his appearance, his body had the same mass—leaving his frame gaunt and frail, with ribs sticking out prominently. Hollow.

You wanted to protect him.

You knew that was your job at BSHCI. You knew that was why Dr. Chilton suddenly needed a personal secretary when he never had before. Someone to sit outside his door, take his calls, and warn him when visitors wanted to see him. You’d never met the doctor before he was attacked by one of his patients, but you recognized the signs of trauma—the way he flinched easily, avoided contact at first, then the way he clung to you when you earned his trust. The awkward little smiles. The way his cheeks turned bright red when his fingers brushed yours as you delivered his coffee. You couldn’t help feeling protective. Falling in love, even.

Though it was closed for the moment, his mouth was a dangerous black hole with alien arms ready to pull prey inside. It seemed impossible to get close without being dragged into its teeth by instinct. You couldn’t imagine putting your face anywhere near it.

Another step, and your forehead touched his.

“I... I do not want to hurt you,” he pleaded.

“You won’t.”

You leaned into his arms, a hand reaching up to stroke the side of his face. It was covered in fine scales that glistened as if they should be slimy, but were smooth to the touch, like a snake. Sharper thorns sprouting from his skin seemed to retreat before your caress.

He trembled with inner turmoil, hot breath puffing against your chin. Your eyes darted toward the motion of one of his claws rising behind you, and all you could focus on were the way each sharp talon caught the light. You couldn’t be sure what he was thinking—if he was going to return your embrace, or prove to you that he was a monster. Would he slash you just to drive you away?

“I smell your fear,” his voice hissed accusingly.

For some reason, of all the reactions you could have had, you started to laugh. It was nervous and tight at first, but then building in confidence at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“You’ve got giant claws! Of course I’m afraid! But I’m not running, am I?”

You slid your hand from his cheek and trailed it over his bony neck and the ridges and spines of his shoulders, finding a path for your arms to twine around him. Cuddling closer, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, hardly bothered by the writhing tentacles that draped down over you.

“I know you would never hurt me. You’re just going to have to keep showing me there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Shuddering, he breathed in your scent. All his senses were heightened by this form, and he was surrounded by you—your pheromones, your electric field, the radiant heat of your skin. It was like sinking into a warm bath with a glass of fine wine in his hand. He opened his palm and let his predator’s hand sweep harmlessly down your back, holding you close. He could sense the fluttering of your heart in his embrace. It was slower than a creature in terror—slowing the longer he held you. You were not afraid. And he could not imagine hurting you. Whatever he had been worried might happen, whatever awful things he might be capable of, he could never imagine hurting you. You were right. You didn’t have anything to fear.

He exhaled a long, steady breath of surrender. The long spines retracted, pulling out of the walls as they returned to their usual size. He could move again, but didn’t. Not for a long time.

“It’s OK. It’s OK,” you sighed. The scent of your hair was intoxicating.

Eventually, you had to part. Chilton’s eyes darted away as you did—the inky scales on his face emitted a soft bluish starlight, which you were certain was blushing. You could not coax him to leave his concrete prison cell, but he told you where to find some blankets he could live with damaging—linen closet, second floor, third door on the right—and let you make a cozy nest on the bare floors. You made tea, and only cringed a little at his attempts to drink it. It was late, then. You were sleepy, and he was exhausted. Emotionally drained. His mind still raced over everything, still not certain of your presence and inexplicable kindness. You sat in the pile of blankets and had him rest his head in your lap.

“Give me your hand,” you asked, extending yours.

A clawed, scaly hand slid tentatively along the floor. You took it. Held it gently, first observing the long talons protruding like daggers from each finger before slotting yours between them—nothing sharp there. You let out a long sigh and leaned back against the concrete wall. His breath hitched.

He’d never had his hand held in this form, you assumed.

He’d never had his hand held at all, in fact. Not in many years.

It had to be a trap, he thought. No one had ever loved him before. No one could—not like this. Yet, as he fell asleep to your fingers massaging his temple and the soft murmuring of your voice, he let himself believe it. You were always there, protecting him. Smiling at him in the morning.

When you woke up, Frederick was human again, still fast asleep in your arms.

[greekowl87]

Fic: False Flags - Ghost Ship 7/?

This fic still lives, albeit, just at a slower pace. For those that need to catch up…The First Fic: (False Flags Redux) | Ghost Ship: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) or if AO3 is your thing, you’ve got your choices. Sorry for any grammar or issues of that nature. No beta, I suck at editing my own work on computers (especially when it’s longer) and Grammarly only does so much. I still hope you enjoy it. Thanks for taking the time to stop by.

Tagging: @today-in-fic, @improlificinsarcasm,  @baronessblixen, and @suitablyaggrieved 

A/N: I haven’t given up on this fic but life keeps me busy and inspiration has been little. Thanks for any support with this fic. Sorry; no beta and trying to self edit longer works it not the easiest for me.

Buckley sat by the window of the hotel room carelessly spinning an unloaded Colt 1911 on the small table the motel staff had placed in the double room. Across the room, Alex Krychek groaned in annoyance and turned up the volume on the television with his one good arm. Buckley snorted and continued to spin the pistol. “Will you stop that!” Krychek shouted angrily. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”

“Am I?” He laughed. “Good, Alexi.”

“Alex. Stop calling me that! I don’t know what the old man sees in you. Enlisting your help a second time? You screwed up and got caught last time. What makes you think you can do better?”

“And I got shot by Mulder too but the tip came from an anonymous informant. Not my screw-ups, you dick. Besides, shouldn’t you be doing something useful? Like getting us dinner or something?”

Krycek shuddered. “And I lost a goddamn arm thanks to Mulder and I’m not complaining. God, don’t you ever shut up? I’m not your servant so stop bothering me. I’m not supposed to let you out of myself or else god forbid you to go rogue.”

“Why worry?”

“I’ve seen your work,” Krycek huffed. He thought about the file folder and the gruesome pictures he had seen. It reminded him of Jack the Ripper, especially when Mulder and Scully had caught him during his last crime spree. “You’re fucking insane.”

“I used to be a gangster from the 1920s.” He replied. His voice took on a Chicago accent briefly. ‘That’s where I learned all that.”

“You really are insane. Bipolar. Order a pizza or something if you’re so damn hungry. The phone book is right there.”

Buckley chuckled and continued to stare on the window, spinning the pistol.

****************

Mulder and Scully slept through the night but that didn’t do anything to calm each other’s nerves. The ocean pounding the sandbars only matched Scully’s racing heart. Mulder sipped his coffee and leaned against the counter. “Scully, you’re pacing,” he quipped from the couch.

“I feel like a prisoner here,” she answered. She looked around at the ocean-inspired theme and shook her head. “It feels irreverent like Arcadia did.”  She crossed her arms and looked at Mulder. “Don’t you feel the same? We can’t leave.”

“I don’t remember anyone saying that. Skinner didn’t say that. We’re free to come and go as we please. It isn’t like Skinner has placed us in protective custody and he’s standing in the corner watching our every move. We have our weapons. We’re trained federal agents. We’re okay.”

She shook her head in frustration. “I have the worst feeling growing in the back of my mind. He’s closer than they think he is.” She scratched the back of her neck and Mulder got from the couch to catch her hand. “What?”

“It’s not the chip,” he answered quickly. “This isn’t like Ruskin Dam. This isn’t the Syndicate coming after us. This is just old fashioned…” He sighed, unable to find the word. His fingers caressed the back of her neck gently. “It’s just our past coming back to haunt us. Quite literally. In the physical form of a sociopath.”

“You should have killed the bastard when you had the chance,” she replied. Scully relaxed into his touch and closed her eyes. “Might have saved us this headache.”

“You are the better shot between the two of us. Sorry. Couldn’t kill Model, couldn’t kill Buckley even at close range. But you, my kick-ass G-woman can shot a Sig Sauer P-226 with the precision of a surgeon and still take out and heal with the same ability. Maybe I should just give you my own weapon.”

Scully smiled ruefully and leaned into the shoulder she had shot years before. Mulder laughed and held her close. She took a deep breath and looked up to him and said, “I imagined our time down here filled with doing the tourist traps, relaxing with you on the beach, and just having fun.”

“We still can. The Bodie Lighthouse isn’t that far. Neither is Roanoke Island. Let’s go there. Check out the history. Maybe we can solve the case of the missing colony.”

“They’re national parks.”

“And we’re federal agents. We’ll be fine.” He gave her a weak smile. “Let’s do the lighthouse today. We can spend tomorrow on Manteo and have some dinner or something.”

“Mulder…”

“It’s better than seeing you pace back and forth. It’ll be fun.”

“Fine,” she conceded. “Anything is better than just being stressed.”

“I know you hate flying but are you afraid of heights?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“Have you ever been up in a lighthouse?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

“Really? Coming from the woman who loves the seas.” Mulder grinned. “You’re going to love it.”

*********************

The FBI partners gathered their weapons and badges to hide them discreetly among their clothes. They grabbed Scully’s purse, locked their beach house, and went down to Mulder’s car. He hated seeing Scully like this and knew that this trip would be just the thing. They made the drive down NC-12 to Cape Hatteras National Park chatting silently with one another. When they arrived at the fork for Cape Hatteras National Park, he took the right back down the highway. After a short distance, he turned left down a small paved road where Bodie Island Lighthouse was. Mulder pulled their car in the small gravel parking lot and smiled at Scully. “Well?”

She leaned forward to look out of the windshield. The black and white striped lighthouse stood off in the distance with the white lightkeeper’s house nearby. “It’s quaint,” she smiled. “Very tucked away. I’d imagine you might be used to up in New England.”

“I’ve seen a few.

“It has a history as well.”

“I bet it does.”

They climbed out of the car and Mulder was surprised when Scully openly took his hand and led him towards the Lightkeeper’s House, which served as the gift shop and the National Park Service’s Office. As if she had been there before, she knew right where everything was. Mulder became interested in some of the lighthouse knick-knacks as she purchased two tickets to climb the lighthouse. “Got those tickets to the stairway to heaven, Scully?”

“Hahaha,” she smiled. Much to this delight, she took his arm as they ventured back outside to a bench near the lighthouse to wait for the next tour. She guided him to sit with her on the bench overlooking the lighthouse. “I should really purchase a camera for this trip.”

“We can always buy a postcard.”

“I’m talking about us.” She rolled her eyes in amusement. “Why do you have to be difficult?”

“Because I love it when you say, ‘You’re crazy, Mulder.’  Besides, who needs a camera when you have a photographic memory?” He tapped his temple. “All our recent memory making…”

She laughed and it lifted Mulder’s spirit. Despite having a reincarnated ex-husband murderer who happened to be a serial killer in this life hunting down them while they were on their first vacation as a couple, he was so happy to hear her laughter. She smiled and rested her head against the bicep. She closed her eyes sleepily. “What do you say to us taking a nap in the hammock we have on the deck when we get home?”

“Despite the threat of…”

“Ssshhh. But yes.”

“As long as we pick up dinner along the way. Are you in the mood for seafood?”

“What about some Carolina BBQ?”

“I like you in a vacation mood. Why can’t you be more open to greasy foods when we’re in the field?”

“Vacation. There’s a difference,” she laughed.

Mulder watched a park ranger walk past them, calling, “All those for tickets for the 12:00 lighthouse tour line up behind me.”

“That’s us,” Scully whispered.

“Do you have to be first at everything?”

“I have to remind you who is the boss in this relationship. Tell me, Walking History Textbook, what is special about this lighthouse?”

“I remember,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head, “trying to blow it up with the retreating troops but I got orders to report to Norfolk instead.”

She chuckled. “Fucking past lives but then again, I have those to thank for my better sex life.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Shut up.” Her eyes opened and she tugged on his arm. “Let’s go.”

“This salt air is doing wonders for your spirit,” he remarked.

“Maybe it’s the company more.”

Mulder smiled and kissed her forehead lovingly. She walked together to the front of the lighthouse where others were lining up in front of a park ranger. The woman park ranger smiled and waved people closer. “Gather around everyone! First, a few rules before we go up. The stairs in this lighthouse aren’t like the ones at Cape Hatteras. Only one person at a time can be on them, going up or going down in either direction. You can have multiple people on the landings,” the park ranger explained. “Now that we have that out of the way, can anyone tell me about the lighthouse?”

The tour group was met with silence as the park ranger started to talk about a mini-history lesson about Congress approving the lighthouse and it’s history from the Civil War to the present. As the park ranger concluded her mini-speech, she stepped back and motioned for everyone to begin their journey upwards. Mulder and Scully were in the middle of the group and took a moment to take in the moment around them: other tourists, the lovely March weather, and Scully in sunglasses smiling and laughing with her arm wrapped through his. It was so nice to see you here relaxed and happy.

“Are you happy?” Mulder whispered to her.

“Yes,” she answered.

That was all he needed at that moment. He really should have bought a disposable camera to capture this moment. As they climbed the lighthouse in a single file line, he was entranced by the magic of the moment. They paused periodically on each landing, overlooking various aspects of the horizon. The salt marshes and sounds of the Ocean on the other end. The Atlantic on the other side. Scully laughing. Eventually, they reached the top, the wind whipped Scully’s hair.

She gripped the railings of Bodie Lighthouse and leaned over to look at the people below. Mulder’s hand rested lightly on her back and he whispered, “What a view huh?”

“Hey, mister!”

A young kid’s voice caught both of them off guard and as they turned they saw a young boy with a brand new Polaroid camera. He smiled, speaking loudly over the wind. “I’ll take two pictures of you for five bucks.”

“Try three,” Mulder haggled, getting into the spirit.

“Two dollars includes on the spot printing. Memories last forever.”

“You sound like a Hallmark commercial.”

“Mom lets me watch a lot of tv.” The young kid considered his possible client. “What do you say? Five dollars for three pictures?”

“I have to consult with my boss. What do you say, Scully? Three for five?”

She nodded and smiled. The kid smiled and raised his camera. He took a series of three shots. One of them both overlooking the railing out to the Atlantic sea, the second of them together smiling for the camera, and an unscripted kiss that briefly turned passionate, all of which was captured on the kid’s camera. Scully broke away, her cheeks flushed as she smiled. Mulder dug through his jean’s pockets until he produced a crumpled five-dollar bill. He exchanged it as Scully still took the still-developing photos.

Scully waved the photos in the sea air in a vain attempt to get them to develop quicker. She briefly flashed back to when she found that picture of them in the library archives in Newport News months ago from 1863. But there was something else that bloomed up inside of her; pride, love, tenderness, and devotion. Finally, something to memorialize and immortalize this moment now. She eyed the top image of them kissing with affection. Mulder was saying something before he returned to her.

“How did they turn out?”

“The kid has an eye for photography?” She answered.

They both gripped the photos to keep them from flying away in the sea breeze. “The Gunmen can make copies of these,” he whispered into her ear. “We can put one down into the basement and make Skinner jealous.”

“Or we can keep the copies for ourselves,” she answered. She rested her head against his chest; the breeze was in one ear with echoes of eternity from the Atlantic and his heartbeat was steady with promises of the future. “We need to buy a camera.”

“I can agree with that.” They watched the pictures develop on top of the lighthouse as they stood close to each other and as another momentarily in the winds of their entwined existence became immortalized once again on film. Scully felt relaxed and, for once, at peace. “Let me put those pictures in my purse,” she whispered softly.

Mulder gladly obliged and she carefully tucked away their pictures. They stood together, admiring the 360 panorama view that Bodie Lighthouse gave. After a while, they descended the staircase back down to the ground. Scully took his hand in public, unafraid who was watching and dragged Mulder to the gift shop. As he enjoyed the moment of this rare display of public affection, Mulder had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that disappeared when Scully’s lips met his.

********************

Buckley sat in the farthest car from the lighthouse, looking through his binoculars. Krycek sat next to him and asked, “Is it them?”

“Yep,” the other man replied. “Just like I told you.”

********************

Mulder looked at the Polaroids that had been taken at the lighthouse that day. He could only imagine the film on the disposable camera and how wonderful the shots were going to be. He and Scully were laughing, posing together as a couple framed by the lighthouse and the Atlantic Ocean. The little kids who had charged them five dollars for the pictures were ruthless but he finally had some proof of their happiness in this life. He contemplated calling upon the Gunmen to use their technological magic to digitize the photos but that would be for another day. He had been relatively low profile with his relationship with Scully over the past three months and he did not want to push it unless she was okay with it.

“Hey, Scully,” he called, “when do you think we should tell your mom?”

“About what, Mulder?”

“Us,” he replied.

From the kitchen island, Scully was curled up on the couch with a blanket watching ‘Dharma and Greg’ and not really paying attention to him. She rested her arm on the back of the couch and twisted to look at him. “What aspect of us?”

“Well,” Mulder began, setting the photos down, “the change in our relationship for starters.”

“Or the IVF?”

“I wasn’t going to go there.”

“But you were thinking about it.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he admitted. He set the pictures aside and joined her on the couch. “I’ve just been thinking lately.”

“Well, I feel like there’s been a lot of that going around,” she said. Mulder unfurled her legs and rested her feet in his lap. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I’m not really thinking.”

“Or maybe you’re just too busy thinking. Are you thinking about the IVF?”

“I would want to try again if you are willing too.”

“I still want to think about it,” she replied.

He lightly massaged her feet and she hummed in approval. “I can’t believe how sore my feet are from climbing all those stairs.”

“It’s not like you aren’t used to all work. You’re the FBI equivalent of Wonder Women running in high heels.”

“I appreciate the compliant, Mulder, but if you remember, I decided to wear flip-flops that have no support.”

“Well, where else could you get weather nice enough to wear flip flops in March?”

She giggled as he got a particular ticklish area. “Only in Nags Head.”  She nodded to the show that was on. “So, I caught this the first time when I was in San Diego. Have you ever heard of it?”

“What is it?”

“The show’s called ‘Dharma and Greg.’”

“I believe I have,” he said. “Some flower child marries a lawyer and chaos ensues when they decide to marry on the first date. So which one am I? Dharma or Greg?”

“Dharma,” she answered. “But opposites attract and make us better for it. Wouldn’t you agree, Mulder?”

He chuckled. “I might be inclined to. Do you want to keep it on this or find some nature documentary?”

“I like that and this version of Domestic Scully.”

“Did you lock the doors downstairs?”

“Yes,” he answered, “and I triple checked all the locks and windows. The only window that will be open is the one to our bedroom on the third floor.”

“And our weapons?”

“In the bedroom on the nightstands.”

She relaxed and nodded in approval. She withdrew her feet and switched her sitting position. She lounged against Mulder, wrapping his arms securely around her, and they enjoyed the rest of the comedy sitcom. He smiled into her arm and pressed a kiss, solidifying this moment in his memory. Even though there was a psycho that might be trying to kill them, he was the happiest he had been in a long time.

***********************

Mulder and. Scully had retired after television for a few more hours of watching prime time sitcoms. Scully disappeared into their bedroom and he did a quick lap around the beach house to check all their locks. By the time he got back up to their third-floor bedroom, he could hear the water running in the master bathroom.

“Mulder,” Scully called through the partially closed door. “Did you get everything you needed done?”

He could hear the partially slurred speech. “Is that wine I smell?” He dare not open the door. While this vacation had stress from fear of a psycho, it was bringing out sides of Scully he had only dreamed of and seen in one other lifetime. “Scully?”

“Hmm.” She giggled. “Maybe. Come join me, Mulder.”

“Where did you get the wine?”

He was already taking off his shirt and Scully’s laughter was causing his blood to boil in anticipation. “I snuck it in our last shopping trip,” she replied. She was giggling again. “Mulder, come on. There are still bubbles.”

Bubbles. “Aw, Scully.”

He pushed the door open slightly and saw her hair clipped back and a coffee mug in her hand. Most of her were covered by the bubbles from the jacuzzi so all that he saw was the one bare leg perched near the faucet. “Scully…” he crooned.

“What? Go grab yourself a coffee mug and bring the bottle with you!” She was smiling. Even though they decided to take their relationship to a new level, this still seemed so uncharacteristic of her. “Come on, Mulder. We’re on vacation.”

“I know we are,” he answered. He chose his next words carefully. “Weren’t you the one earlier who was concerned about our safety?”

“I’m not letting them get to me. Us. I was thinking about what you said earlier.”

“About telling your mom?”

“No. I want to try again when we get back to D.C.”

Mulder smiled and his concerns momentarily forgotten. “I’ll be right back.”

He went to the fridge, grabbed the open bottle, and a coffee mug from the fridge. She was smiling coyly at him. He topped off her coffee mug and shucked his jeans. In one fluid movement, he slid behind her and coiled his arms around her. “It’s a good thing you’re so small,” he teased. He kissed his favorite spot behind her ear. “Or else this w Scully lounged back into him. “I’ve been dreaming,” she whispered to him softly. She sipped the wine-filled coffee mug. “Don’t worry, it’s not any new past lives or anything.”

“I’m glad?”

She heard the question in his voice. “I am just thinking about this life and the last. Us. What could have been.”

Scully was always amazed how well they just worked together, either spiritually, or as she had discovered lately, physically as well. She sipped her wine. “Now or then,” he asked.

“Then. I still have a hard time believing it was real, Mulder.”

Together, they entwined their hands and caressed her flattened abdomen. He nuzzled her neck and closed his eyes. They both could remember those memories for the early 1860s, the joy of their unborn child, laying together, and dreaming about the future. “It was,” he replied. “And I don’t know how this whole past life thing works but we’ve been given a second chance.”

“By remembering?”

She turned her head in question and Mulder found her lips. “We’ll have that again.”

“Your faith is grounding.”

“Did you enjoy the lighthouse today?” He asked, changing the subject. “I was thinking why not tour all of them? We can drive back down to Cape Hatteras and climb the lighthouse there. Or drive an hour or so up to Corolla and climb the Currituck Lighthouse. And there are the ferries...Ocracoke, Knotts Island…”

“One day at a time, Mulder,” she laughed. “Today was Bodie Lighthouse. Tomorrow is Manteo. Tonight is this.”

“So,” he paused, setting aside both of the wine mugs. “Do you want to try to experiment and push the bounds of this fancy bathtub?”

“I bet you’re more effective than those water jets,” she challenged.

Mulder smiled and kissed her deeply. “I’ll get you to relax on this vacation.”

Scully just deepened the kiss and pulled him closer.

************************

Further up the barrier islands in Duck, North Carolina, Franklin Buckley, and Alex Krycek were at a small pizzeria nestled in a small outcrop of shops. Over shared slices and bad beer, they talked. “I still don’t get it,” Krycek started. “Why is this so fucking important to you? Mulder is no one.”

“Your boss is interested in them,” Buckley shrugged. “As a result, I am too.”

“I read your file you know.”

“Hell, I was in the papers.”

“And this somehow makes you the best choice?” Krycek sneered. “I still don’t understand that smoking bastard’s logic. I know you were in the papers. There is a fucking manhunt on for you.”

“And yet they can’t touch me.” Buckley waved the soggy pizza in the air. “We’re having pizza.”

“Why did the old man pick you?”

“Alexi…”

“Alex.”

“Alex.” Buckley grinned. “Have you ever wanted revenge so badly that you would do anything? Take back what is rightfully yours?”

Krychek grew quiet. “I have.”

“Then this is no different. It’s all a matter of waiting. I made the smoker an offer he couldn’t refuse. Are you going to finish that pizza?”

“No.” Krycek was distracted. He pushed the plate towards Buckley with his right arm. “Go ahead.”

“Must suck having one arm but I’ll tell you, this pizza is better than anything they served in the joint.”

“What’s your plan?”

“You’ll see. In the meantime, it is all the matter of waiting and seeing.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Wait and see.”

****************

Back in Nags Head, Scully stood on the deck with her arms around her. She watched the waves hit the shore as high tide came ashore. Mulder had run out earlier to pick up some dinner for them but, while he was gone, Skinner had called her cell phone with an update on the situation. While Buckley still had yet to be confirmed spotted, there had been an anonymous tip that Krycek was in league with Buckley. While the SACs of the branch offices were not as quick, Skinner was the one to make the connection. He hung up without giving Scully any orders to immediately return or what to do next. He promised to call her the next day if there had been any developments.

But this newest update from Skinner had left her uneasy. Their boss had danced around the possibility of recalling his two agents back from their vacation but had not stated anything directly. She watched the waves, memorized, and let her thoughts drift. This vacation of theirs was already turning south with each new update about Buckley. She was beginning to feel paranoid, like a haunting ghost on the edge of her vision. She sighed and looked up at the sky. The sun was setting behind her. Although she couldn’t see the sun at this point, it was already painting the sky in a brilliant canvas of colors and hues of reds, pinks, purples, and oranges. She tried to let herself get lost in the beauty of the moment but her anxiety grew worse.

She watched the last of the sun fade into darkness and went back into the beach house. Scully glanced at the green digital clock on the microwave and frowned when she read 7:13. Mulder should have been back by now. She tapped her knuckles lightly against each other to ward against the growing anxiety. She heard the main door unlock and his musical voice call, “Scully, I’m back! You’ll never guess what I picked up!”

She tried to refrain from clutching her pounding heart but failed. “Took you long enough!”

“I’m sorry, but you know how I get sometimes. Something catches my eyes and poof.”

She could hear him climbing the stairs, trying to juggle plastics takeout bags. He appeared, dropped the armload of food and a nondescript black plastic bag on the counter. He sneaked up behind her, kissed her, and whispered, “Miss me that much?”

She nodded, twisting her head to meet his kiss. “Always.”

He hummed and flexed around her. “You’re tense.”

“I spoke to Skinner earlier.” She tried to relax as she spoke. He hummed. “And I...let’s just discuss it tomorrow okay? We’ll lock the doors, keep our weapons nearby, and play it safe. Is that okay?”

“Whatever you say,” he whispered. “So, for dinner, I got us a surprise.”

“Dare I ask?”

He broke away but not before stealing another kiss. “We’re on the coast. You know the seafood is fresh. I literally just got it so you know it is good.”

“Get to point. Why were you late?”

“Well,” he shrugged, “I went up the strip a couple of miles and found this really cute place.”

“You just used the word cute.” She frowned teasingly, his lighter mood getting the best of her. “Did you find us china patterns?”

“That is a future date at the Alexandria farm market. I got us the best seafood.” He began to unpack the bags. “For starters, Agent Scully baked oysters.”

“An aphrodisiac, Mulder?”

He held up a finger to silence her. “Next, a course of shared soup, that is she-crab soup.” She laughed and hid her face. “Next, honestly I couldn’t decide between landlubbers and the sea, so a buffalo chicken wrap I think will heat up well tomorrow and a lovely scallop dinner…”

“I love scallops.”

“I know,” he laughed. “I got us a combo. Scallops and local shrimp with a salad and a baked potato. But, to answer your burning question, the reason why I took so long…” From his back pocket. She could hear the crinkling of a paper gift bag and he held out the mysterious wrapped package in the palm of his hand. “I saw this and immediately thought of you.”

“Mulder.”

With the food momentarily forgotten, she pulled off the paper and revealed a small velvet box. “You see, I can’t see you in another necklace than a cross or bracelets or rings but earrings...for sure.” She popped open the box and drew in a sharp breath. “Do you like them?”

“Mulder, these are beautiful.” She examined two fine little stud earrings with a sand dollars designed in the silver overlay. “Silver?”

“No, white gold.” He shrugged. “It was in this little kitschy shop run by a local artist who makes jewelry. I just thought.”

“I love them.” She awarded him with a kiss. “Thank you. In fact, I’ll put them on now just to show you.”

“You don’t have to. Besides, I know you well enough you will murder me first if I don’t feed you.”

“I am not that bad.” She closed the box and replied, “Thank you.”

“For what? Dinner or the earrings?”

“Everything.”

He pulled the plates and bowls down from the cabinet. Scully busied herself with fetching silverware and napkins, inwardly defeating the idea to tell Mulder about Skinner’s call until after dinner. He glanced out the window to the deck. “What about eating outside tonight?”

“Let’s eat at the breakfast island and then go outside. It was getting chilly while I was out there a while ago.”

He nodded and went to the radio in the living room. Mulder fiddled with the dial and settled on a classic rock station playing the Eagles. She set out dinner and he joined her. They silently sat next together over dinner. “So,” he asked, unsure of the silence, “what do you want to do tomorrow?”

She paused on the shrimp she was working on. “Skinner called while you were out,” she began. “Giving us an update. We got two SACs and field offices chasing this, along with Skinner, but no one has yet to confirm seeing Buckley aside from the fact they’ve flooded the airwaves with his picture. But there was an anonymous source that Krycek is involved.”

Mulder was quiet, cutting half of the baked potato. “Well, we both know the Smoker is involved. Morely’s were found on the site of his breakout.”

“I know,” she whispered. “He said he’ll update us again tomorrow and Skinner hasn’t ordered us back to Washington. Yet.”

“I sense a but coming, Scully.”

“But since we came down here, I can’t help but feel off or like we’re being watched or followed during all this.” She picked up her fork and dipped a scallop into the melted butter. “When we were at the lighthouse the other day…”

“You felt like we were being watched?”

She nodded, averting her gaze. “I know it doesn’t sound like me.”

“I trust your instincts, Scully.” He looked down at his own food. “And I got the same feeling too.”

“Our money would be gone.”

“But we would be safer.”

“As is our vacation.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I am not spending the rest of the two weeks we took off months in advance in an FBI safe house.”

“What would happen if we were closer for them to keep an eye on us? Skinner is in Norfolk right with the two SACs. Virginia Beach isn’t that far. I remember when we were there a few months ago hearing about Sandbridge. It was advertised to be like the Outer Banks without leaving Virginia. We could take the hit on the money and have the FBI pay for it.”

“Or get them to refund it and then pay for it. We’ve earned it at least.”

“I can’t agree more.” He sighed. “How do you want to play this, Scully.?”

“I want our vacation.”

“But?”

“I just can’t shake the feeling something is going to happen.”

Mulder rubbed his chin, forgetting he had melted butter all over his hands. She frowned and took a napkin, gently wiping it away. “Thanks. But back to your feelings,” he said. “I agree and have the same feeling.” He watched her reaction as she kept her face neutral like a poker player. “But I think we should consider our safety first.”

She nodded.

“What are you thinking,” he asked softly.

“That we can never catch a break. Let’s go outside after dinner and sit for a bit in the hammock. We can pack tomorrow after we call Skinner.” She sighed. “You know, I really was looking forward to having a real vacation with you.”

He nodded. “We can still have it,” he said.

“Can we? As I said, it feels like we can never catch a break.”

With the mood suddenly sourer, they both finished their meals and discarded the dishes. Scully hand-washed all the dishes they had been using, including the few sitting in the dishwasher. Mulder gathered a sweatshirt for her, two glasses, and the small bottle of aged rum he had purchased from them. She eyed the small liquor bottle. “I’m sorry, Mulder to be the downer of the party.”

He shook his head and walked over to her. He trapped her between the counter and his arms. She sighed, wrapped her arms around his neck, and rested her head against his chest. He smiled at her open display of affection. “You’re never the downer at a party.”

“I never told you about my first and last high school party.”

“Well, how about we part-tay outside to that hammock for one night and you can tell me. I’ll bring the booze.”

Scully chuckled. “What would my father say?”

“Hang and quarter him on the yardarm?”

“Aye,” she teased. She kissed him. “Help, I’ve been charmed by a pirate from New England who thought I was a mermaid.”

“That is terrible,” he whispered. They both smiled. “But more of an angel than a mermaid.”

“Let’s go outside. High tide was just coming in when I was out there earlier.”

Scully pulled on the sweatshirt he had brought her and the two glasses and the liquor bottle. Mulder followed behind her, turning out most of the lights as he did. She sat on the hammock like a big lounge chair and made room for him. She rocked it gently as Mulder eased himself next to her. “Let me do the swinging,” he told her. “My legs are longer.”

“Shut up, Mulder.”

Scully poured them both a drink and held up his. She chinked the glasses together. “To our vacation being ruined.”

“Well, if it weren’t for the x-files, we wouldn’t be here and I don’t regret a second of it with you.”

“Fox Mulder the sentimental,” she whispered lovingly. Mulder wrapped his arm tightly around her and she chuckled. “I love you.”

He smiled and whispered, “Not a single second.” His long legs began to rock them. “We’re going to be okay.”

She nodded absently. She rested against his arm and listened to the ocean. “We’ll go back to Virginia tomorrow.”

“I’ll tell Skinner to make plans to keep us in Virginia Beach.”

“And get us a beach house. I’m not staying in a motel.”

“Won’t argue with that.”

She sighed. “Fucking Buckley.”

“Fucking Buckley,” he agreed.

“So, it’s settled?”

“Yes. I’ll make the call. Right now, let’s just enjoy the beach.”

He nodded and rocked the hammock with his long legs as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment with Mulder.

[anotherisodope]

Master List of Fallout Canon and Canon AU Muses

Fallout 3

Charon

A gigantic, forbidding-looking, brainwashed badass of a ghoul whose protection, and combat services, are tied to the holder of his very high-ticket contract. Nobody knows who the organization was that Ahzrukhal purchased his contract from, how long he was in their service, or what horrors he was subjected to in the process of making him what he is. He isn’t talking, if he remembers at all. But despite the mental cage he is in, Charon constantly seeks ways to assert himself, follow his personal code, and prevent his own exploitation--or avenge it. A highly trained commando with a preference for mid-range weapons such as his combat shotgun, he lives for a good fight, and becomes bored and restless if his guns go cold too long. He’s got great instincts and is very protective--but is mentally and socially stunted, is observant enough to recognize that on some level, and is frustrated by it and his captivity, making him grumpy and sarcastic. He uses very formal language, sometimes with painstaking effort, in part as an attempt to be better understood. Will cause unmitigated chaos to save your life in a fight, then yell at you because you attacked an innocent shopkeeper. Probably not good to give him too many explosives.

Fallout New Vegas (or wherever)

Robert Edwin House (postgame AU)

One of the most brilliant men ever to be born into the prewar world, Robert House is the owner and primary programmer and inventor of RobCo Industries, which is responsible for everything from Fallout’s programming language, to most of its robots, to the PipBoy. Calculating the coming thermonuclear war down to a one-day window, House leveraged his tremendous wealth, influence and genius to save his beloved Las Vegas. This included preserving his body on life support while wiring his brain straight into the city’s network and defensive grid. Though not entirely successful, he survived and was able to eventually recreate and defend a walled-city version of the Las Vegas strip: New Vegas. 

The AU

In a twisted version of a Good Karma Courier House playthrough, House won but was convinced by the Courier to make more merciful and thoughtful decisions. However, the Courier then betrayed them at the eleventh hour and murdered House’s physical body, leaving everyone convinced that House had died. Details can be found here. However, House had used another contingency program stored aboard the Platinum Chip to enable him to upload his mind to his own network. The Courier ended up fleeing New Vegas. (I am currently working on a description of the fates of various factions in this AU).

After the events of Fallout New Vegas and his takeover of the Hoover Dam, this version of House used code hidden in the chip to make the following changes from current canon:

Recreate a nationwide wireless Internet using freshly activated networking capability in every single Robco product

Make this Internet publicly available through the persona of the benevolent hacker Snow

Escape onto this newly created Internet, gaining access to and potential control of all RobCo products

Use this to access various new bodies, eventually including a pair of comatose synth bodies from failed Railroad memory wipes

Since then, he has been hatching plans all over the former US to steal Institute and Brotherhood of Steel technology--and reclaim as much of his own as he can. While doing this, he is acting through multiple personas. These include two Gen 3 Synth bodies he stole from the Railroad’s comatose “failures”. 

House’s aliases (besides Snow) include 

Edwin “Ed” Case (Gen 3 synth body, former infiltrator), a brilliant repairman and roboticist operating in the Commonwealth who recently did a lot of repair and upgrade work at the Memory Den. Closest to House in voice and diction, but significantly less of an asshole. Always has at least two combat-capable robots with him. 

Daniel Mason (Gen 3 synth body, former courser), recently arrived in New Vegas. Not well known, as this body is largely used for physical infiltration and social engineering, or when House wishes to oversee robotic combat units more directly. Sounds nothing like House but still talks like he ate a thesaurus, though in a much more cool and reserved way. House being House, he has no idea why this body gets so much attention. Armed and dangerous. He is currently acting as House’s lieutenant and enforcer in New Vegas, along with his force of upgraded Securitrons.

He is still working on his Robert House synth body, which needs to be perfect of course...

Because of his activity in the Commonwealth and his ability to reach anywhere his network reaches, House can be interacted with by literally anyone in the Fallout universe circa 2287. Unless your character is in a memory pod or other full-interaction environment, however, you will be interacting via text, via robot, or via one of his two synth personas.

Vulpes Inculta (postgame AU)

One of the most wicked and bloodthirsty of Caesar’s commanders, this former head of the Legion’s Frumentarii was one of the most infamous men in the entire Mojave. Thoroughly and hopelessly indoctrinated in Caesar’s depraved and brutal values, he carried them out with terrifying zeal, sometimes resulting in the destruction of entire communities. Always cool, calculating, wily and in control, he never let anything get in the way of his duties--including his own needs, desires, and safety. His loyalty to Caesar was almost worshipful, and rooted in the belief that he served the actual Son of Mars.

To this end, he even plotted with the Omertas to release poison gas in the opening volley of an attack on the New Vegas strip. Forcibly stripped of any independent moral thought on the matter and thoroughly indoctrinated, he never thought twice about such actions. He served the son of a god, how could his actions not be righteous?

And then Caesar died. And Vulpes lost everything except for his life. And that was only the beginning of his comeuppance.

The AU

After brutally murdering Caesar upon learning that he had lied about his divine heritage and was afflicted with a mortal disease, Lanius took over, and promptly ordered Vulpes’s execution. Vulpes, who had anticipated this, fled, getting as far as he could from the Mojave. He knew that under Lanius’s hand, the Legion would first become a monstrous shadow of itself, and then would fall.

Illusions shattered and shamed by having to run, Vulpes spent years traveling with caravans in disguise as he sought a place to settle. Landing in the Commonwealth, he started carving out a place for himself, but his sense of purpose beyond survival and security was gone.

Worse...with it had gone his certainty that his depraved actions had been necessary and for a good cause, Doubt had crept in, and it kept growing and growing as he reconciled the differences between Caesar’s words and the reality he had lived through. Left to his own thoughts for far too long, and realizing that any remnant of the Legion that still exists will be hunting him, he is starting to crack.

He is very good at hiding this, however, being forced to learn to keep his cool in all kinds of bad situations. And so he has set himself up as a high-end, “independent problem-solver” in Diamond City, handling the kind of bloody and unethical work that would horrify Nick Valentine. But even as a showdown with his horrific karma is brewing internally, so too are external problems and temptations as he gets more and more deeply entangled with the Commonwealth’s Underworld.

Vulpes is a cold-blooded, scheming, psychopathic asshole with a volcano of repressed emotion that really only comes out when he fights. As he does not drink, date, use chems or confide in anyone, violence is and has been his only outlet, which leads to him often charging into dangerous situations with ripper in hand. When he is better under control, he deals with targets through stealth kills of various types. Unlike the vast majority of the Legion he is comfortable with most technology (science as a tagged skill), and has taken even more of an interest since fleeing East. For some reason, neither animals nor wasteland beasts will attack him when he travels alone.

His primary motivation while he wrestles with his many inner demons (which he will never let on about to anyone) is survival. He believes he will soon be the only one left who remembers what the Legion once was, and the higher aims it once strove for (through horrible means, but he doesn’t see that). While he is now hunted by the Legion’s remnants, he believes that he has a duty to survive, and maintain his discipline and his traditions before finding others to spread them among. The problem is, instead of going straight for taking over a settlement or raider gang, he’s dealing with growing doubts about Caesar, who was revealed to be mortal, and what Caesar taught him. This has made him hesitate. However, he is still using the time to gather as much information as possible about the Commonwealth, its people, its factions, and of course, their weaknesses.

Vulpes’ alias: Victor Renard

Victor Renard is a new Upper Stands resident who moved into the Latimer residence after both father and son were presumed killed by Triggermen outside the city. He has a part stake in the Colonial Taphouse, which has recently had a change of management, and is often found there, brooding over a glass of watered wine. He has a developing reputation for being very private, likely very dangerous, and being some kind of high-end mercenary. He generally wears a black suit and carries concealed weapons--at least, inside the city walls. He and the mayor/security team have a strained but polite relationship...so far.

Fallout 4

Nick Valentine

A highly talented Chicago detective, on loan to Boston PD, whose original life came to a crashing end after crime kingpin Eddie Winter murdered his fiancee and disappeared. Traumatized by the loss, he was ordered to seek treatment at a facility that was run by what would become the Institute. They scanned and copied his mind and memories, and he then died in the nuclear bombardment that soon followed. When he woke up on a trash heap in a damaged robotic body around a century later, he was left with no context or explanation for his bizarre “reincarnation”. That mystery would haunt him, like the mystery of Eddie Winter’s escape from justice, for another century. After wandering the wastes for a time, and slowly acclimating himself to his new environment and interactions with modern humans, he settled in Diamond City as a handyman after returning the late mayor’s missing daughter. Eventually, he became a trusted member of the Diamond City community...and took back up the mantle of a detective. Nick stoically carries a lot of trauma, and a lot of outrage. He works to provide peaceful, rational alternatives to the constant violence around him, and tends to be smarter and more competent than most, especially when it comes to computers or investigation. He is a bit of a curmudgeon, with a dagger-sharp wit he’ll sometimes overuse when sufficiently angered. He smokes, though he gains no benefit from it, as a tie to his human past. He tends to feel divorced from his own body to some degree, and that plus his distrust of most roboticists has caused him to forgo repair thus far.

John Hancock

Mayor of Goodneighbor and a self-styled revolutionary hooligan who is usually high on something, Hancock has more layers than you might expect, and a tragic history. Born John McDonough, he grew up in a shack with his parents and brother on the Boston waterfront. His brother was something of a bully, but not particularly wicked. They started growing apart as they grew up, with John sneaking off to Goodneighbor regularly to party and do chems. Empathetic, and significantly smarter than most people, he was able to see the suffering and inequities all around him, even after his family moved up in the world and ended up in Diamond City. John realized that his brother had...changed...when he decided to run for mayor. Running on an anti-ghoul platform, he capped off his inaugural speech by announcing the banishment of all ghouls from the city. John watched in horror as the ghouls fled with their few belongings, being brutalized by citizens and police the whole time. After confronting his brother to no effect, he forced himself to act, successfully leading several families to temporary safety in Goodneighbor. Most did not survive, however, leaving him despondent and forever loathing his pogrom-promoting brother, who is still Diamond City’s mayor. That night changed something in him, and it wouldn’t go back to sleep no matter how many chems he took. Finally, on learning that Vic, the gangster running Goodneighbor, was letting his men gun down drifters, he had a bizarre, chem-fueled epiphany. He discovered John Hancock’s coat and hat in the depths of the State House, and suddenly realized what he needed to do. He took on the clothes and cause of John Hancock, and after brutally liberating the town from Vic’s people, gave an inaugural speech declaring Goodneighbor to be “of the people, for the people”, regardless of who those people were. He took on the persona of a daring, reckless, ferociously protective folk-hero Mayor and started the long process of turning Goodneighbor into a safe haven for all. But even that wasn’t enough for him. Less than a decade ago, he discovered an experimental serum intended to turn the user into a ghoul. Sick of the face in the mirror, and motivated by half a dozen different reasons, he completed his “remaking himself” by becoming the same sort of being that his evil brother so loathed. Now, having consolidated power, he has found himself in a rut, spending most of his time putting out fires and dealing with challengers to his position and to Goodneighbor’s safety. Constantly wrapping himself up in his role and work when not carousing, however, has left a lot of painful unfinished business in his life to fester.

[vinyldoves]

BEING THE SALVATORE SISTER WOULD INCLUDE:

Being a year younger than stefan makes you the 'baby' according to damon.

Christmas dinners are entertaining to say the least.

Making a tradition of sending each other postcards whenever you travel, damon proclaiming it lame but you revived a post card from new york with his name on it a while back.

Stefan caring more about your new partner than damon, surprisingly.

You never invite them round so damon sends an invitation.

Glaring daggers at stefan as he asks them the 78th question in the short span of 10 minutes.

Damon is actaully a pretty good cook.

His pancakes are lush.

Hating katherine pierce with a passion.

Them begging her not to turn you. She did it anyways. Obviously.

Helping stefan with his ripper tendencies.

Helping damon turn his humanity back on.

Family movie nights consist of damon yelling at the tv, you and him having arguments over minute details and stefan just shoving his face in a pillow.

iconic times.

Saving both their asses too many times to count.

God forbid if anyone breaks your heart.

Damon hugs are the best things in the world.

really fed up of being in your 79th highschool.

you still don't understand science.

Shipping caroline and stefan from the start.

Both your brothers giving you away at your wedding, mikealson style.

Speaking of mikealsons.

You and rebekka were friends back in the early 1900s

Klaus and you actually get along.

Being hayleys ride or die.

Them literally taking you in as part of the family at this point.

Being Hopes godmother.

helping both Damon and Stefan get other heartbreaks with icecream and bad jokes.

you tried to cook once. It resulted in stefan banning you from the kitchen and having to replace the oven.

Let's just stick to damon's pancakes.

Sometimes you act like you don't care about each other and there have been some epic arguments but in the end you would do anything for each other no question. They are your big brothers and you love them to the ends of the earth.

hey loves! Hope you enjoyed this! If you have any requests feel free to message me.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Seven-X

Baavira Week Day 1: Online

Summary: Baatar is a police officer tasked with tracking down a trafficking ring on the dark web. He ends up clicking the wrong link.

Warning for minor gore and mentions of sex crime--no descriptions. 

Only a few clicks in and he is already unsettled. He feels that he is justified in being so. He has combed through pages of the most unsavory things. He supposes that the place has earned its name and reputation.

Evidently, in joining the Republic City police force he hadn’t known that they would keep his duties behind a monitor.

He finds himself on a new page; a simple surveillance camera overlooking what seems like an industrial park parking lot. He rubs his chin in frustration. Just how many camera feeds will he happen upon tonight? From personal webcams to phone cameras to security cameras, his gaze has found many things that they weren’t supposed to. The worst of it is that they aren’t even entertaining. He certainly hadn’t been into it when he clicked onto a page that had given him a view of a man and a woman stripping. Deep down he knows that some sick sap is getting excitement from it.    

Somehow, less amusing had been the drug sales. The dark web is teeming with them. Everything in him tells him to trace and track the vendors but his higher ups have already told him not to bother. “There are just so damn many of them fuckin’ things, just let ‘em be.” Baatar takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead. He doesn’t know how much more human filth he can stomach for tonight. God forbid he stumble across one of the infamous cannibal cafes.

Not that he isn’t seeking out something just is vile.

He supposes that it is worth it.

It will all be worth it if he can track down the ring and bring young men and women out of the ring.

He doesn’t fancy the idea of pretending to be a predator. But he will play the role if he can put a stop to the trafficking.  He closes out of the surveillance site and finds himself in a new room, this one features tips on all sorts of manners of disturbing inclinations from how to kill one’s boss to how to do away with oneself. This also isn’t the sort of evil he is looking to eradicate.

Baatar rakes his hand through his hair, growing frustrated at how vast the darkweb truly is. He has combed through more than his fill of wickedness and is getting nowhere. For all of his years of tech-savviness and coding, this place is disorienting and tricky to navigate. Frowning deeply, he clicks upon another random link.

The screen goes momentarily staticy and he cusses. Just what he needs is a computer crash, God forbid he has to go through all of those links again. The screen glitches and distorts further and indistinguishable images flicker in the fuzz.

Baatar squints at the screen.

It flickers again twice.

Still fuzzy.

He leans in closer.

He jolts back when a masked face appears. A humored and heavily warped laugh sounds through his speakers. He doesn’t share in their humor. His stomach lurches. Without a hesitation to make he reaches for the power off switch. His hand doesn’t reach it when the voice speaks.

“Don’t leave so soon officer BeiFong.” The voice that comes through is slick, both masculine and feminine but more robotic than anything else, especially on the words accented by shrill beeps. It sounds like a virus to his ears.  

Everything in his body and soul goes cold. He has masked his VPN, he is using tor. It strikes him unpleasantly, these people...these monsters are probably jarringly more tech savvy than he.

A chat window pops up. “If you’re too shy to speak.” The person pauses. “Or if you didn’t have the sense to disguise your voice.”

A few screen names pop up on the chat window,most are random strings of numbers. A few a simple words--‘TheSlash’, ‘ripper’, ‘wiNd0w’, and ‘T’. Baatar’s own username scrawls itself in the chat, 7xYl9090Gg.

“I do believe it is seven-x’s first time here. Let’s give him a warm welcome.” Responses ranged from sarcastic and mocking to amused to genuinely inviting. “Hmm...mixed reactions. I’m sure that they will take a shine to you eventually.”

He hopes that the masked person will let his name go unspoken. To his relief, they do.

Instead the voice drawls, “welcome, seven-x, to red room three-six-one.” The figure steps back and sweeps its arm out. It wears a hooded cloak of deep green with absurdly long sleeves. He can’t discern the gender beneath the shapeless attire. “Have you been to a red room before?”

He thinks of lying, but some primitive part of him senses that the person behind the monitor will know. His hesitancy to answer, answers for him. ‘He’s a red room virgin!’ Types wiNd0w. ‘cute’ types 1671JNp8R.

“So what brings you here, seven-x?”

This time he doesn’t allow them another opening. ‘Curiosity.’ He types quickly.

A second chat window pops up. A private one on one window.  ‘Clever.’ Is the only word there. He looks for a screen name and finds none. He doesn’t know how to reply. He doesn’t know if he should.

“Alright, seven-x, since this is your first time, I’ll let you do the honors.” There is a loud pop and suddenly the white noise has been cleared.

Responses vary again from outrage and envy to typed out cheers and a ‘choose wisely seven-x’. He cringes, whoever is running this show, they are trying to out him. He doesn’t know what he is supposed to be choosing as he racks his brain to recall what he’d researched about red rooms. The figure takes a few steps back and he sees the man now. His eyes are wet and he is sniffling. He trembles.

“I don’t deserve this.” It is a constant mantra.

The figure motions to a table stocked with grisley looking instruments. It doesn’t have to speak up for Baatar to know what it will say, ‘have your pick.’

His mouth dries.

‘Come on seven-x.’ Types TheSlash.

He shakes all over. With shaky fingers he types, ‘use the knife.’

“Ah, a classic.” The figure speaks with a dramatic flair. It is somehow even more haunting without the white noise. “It would seem that we have a man of simple pleasures here with us tonight.” The person pauses. “And what will I be doing with the knife tonight?”

He swallows, every bit of him wants to tell the figure to slash a smile into its own throat. For his own safety, he curbs his tongue.

“Don’t be shy. You’ll find that I can do exotic things.”

Baatar doesn’t want to know what that means. It prickles his spine without context.

‘I think that this is too hard for him.’ 5TxY00L types.

‘Outsider.’ ripper adds.

Baatar’s stomach turns again. He can’t reply too quickly or that would arouse suspicion. He lets a minute slip before replying, ‘creativity takes time.’

This garners a slew of praise, save for ripper who types, ‘better make it good, leaving us waiting so long.’

He hovers his fingers over the keyboard, trying to decide what to do. ‘Draw me a picture.’ He is sicked by his own request.

He can sense the smile behind the mask. “Creative indeed.” The host allows pause for reaction. After the chat box fills further they speak again, “what should I draw.”

He can’t stop the sarcasm this time, ‘a cat in a sunny meadow.’

“A comedian too.” The host comments, undeterred by his passive-aggressiveness. “I do hope that you come back next week.” A link appears in his private chat window. He has no intention of following it. He writes it down regardless.

“Well then, let’s begin. This over here,” the host motions to its captive, “is Koh Quinn. Big businessman, family lives in Fire Fountain City. 1129, Lava Lake Road, if anyone wants to stop in and say hello to the wife.”

Baatar swallows again. A film of sweat begins to form as the figure nears Koh. He itches to turn his monitor off, but then they’d know that he is out of place. Then they may come for him. He has the sneaking suspicion that his host won’t allow for the screen to turn off even if he did hit the button.

He watches the masked person stalks up to its prey. He sees the knife glint as the first cut is made. He had expected it to be a violent and senseless slash. But it is elegant and meticulous. He wants to say that his host is female, but in his time on the police force, he has seen men leave clean-cut victims and women that may as well have been feral animals with their methods.

Baatar is desperate to pick out anything about this villain. An assailant so bold that they commit murder right before an officer. As the carving continues Koh’s screams grow shriller. More haunting.

He can hear the man’s sniffles grow in volume. Baatar isn’t sure if the wet noises come from his nose or from his opening flesh. He feels sick.

Hollow.

He stares blankly at the screen, trying to conjure up the indifference that has helped him through the most grotesque of his investigations. Koh’s screams swell and just when Baatar believes that his life is going to end, the host steps back to reveal their artwork.

A bloody cat in a bloody field, just as he’d requested.

“Charming, yes?”

‘Cut his hand off and use it to hold the knife and stab him.’ T types.

“We really do have a creative lot tonight.” The host remarks.

It will torment him for nights to come, what he views next. He tries to distract himself by eyeing his keyboard to type faux pleasure at the spectacle before him. But it is not enough. Minutes after the show has come to an end, he can still see Koh’s severed hand stabbing at his own chest. He can still hear the gurgles, they fog his host’s parting speech.

The screen had gone black and then to the tor homepage five minutes ago and he sits rigidly with his hands clasped in front of his mouth. It doesn’t even pester him that he will have to go through all of the links again. He is numb. He doesn’t know where to go from here. His eyes fall upon the link he had written down. He can report that to the squad. But will they be able to trace it on time to save the next victim. God, what if it is Koh’s wife. He gives a drawn exhale.

He hears a soft ping and the hairs on his back rise. Oh fuck, they’ve traced me. The nervous perspiration is beading on his forehead. He doesn’t want to turn around, he doesn’t want to know.

“Hello, officer BeiFong.” The voice is female.

He towards his computer, confirming what he already knows, his webcam is on and by its own accord. Rather the woman’s. He expects to see that chilling metallic bull mask. Instead he faces a woman with vivid green eyes rimmed by square-framed glasses. Beneath her shirt he can tell that she has a fit build.

Any hope that it is a mere coincidence or perhaps a friend of a friend fades when she remarks, “you struck me as the squeamish type, seven-x.”

“Are you ripper or T?” He asks.

She laughs.

“Don’t tell me that you’re window.” He grumbles.

Her lips curve up, “a comedian too.”

Another chill darts along his spine. He shoves that aside realizing that he has the power. “You’d show me your face?”

“Sure.” The woman replies. “You can’t touch me seven-x.”

“I have a name.” He snaps.

And he regrets as she responds, “Baatar Jr. BeiFong. Son of Baatar Sr. and Suyin BeiFong.”

“You can find that on google.” He grumbles.

She looks down for a moment, pushing at her glasses. “You like to sit under an old beech tree to the left of your bedroom window, third floor up, fifth window from the right.”

He swallows and tries to redirect the conversation. “I can have the police force…”

“You can’t touch me.” She repeats. He isn’t sure if she is referring to her unidentified location or a team of killers waiting to pounce at her command. “And you don’t want to, seven-x.”

“You’re a killer he snarls.”

“Yes.” She agrees. “But with good reason.”

“Good reason?” Baatar isn’t sure why he is engaging her.

“Do you know what Koh and his wife do?” She inquires. But she doesn’t leave him time to guess. “They run an orphanage. The kids don’t come out quite the same. Do you follow?”

He believes that he does. “Let me guess, you used to stay at that orphanage?”

“Oh no. No, not that one. The owners of the one I was in, they were the stars of my debut.” She replied nonchalantly. She turns around and lifts her shirt. Her back is an assortment of scars and poorly-healed welts. She turns back to him. “You don’t want to take me off of the streets because I clean the filth on them. The sludge that slips through the cracks.”

He opens his mouth.

“I want to make a deal, seven-x.”

“Go on.”

“Keep me off of the police radar and I’ll help you navigate the darkest corners of the dark web.”

He thinks of his task. Of the women who need liberation. “What is your stance on sex traffickers?”

“They have very special seats in my show.”

He should know better, he should know much better. But those pretty green eyes blink at him and she flashes a charmingly wicked grin. “Why don’t you just join the police force?” He inquires instead.

She cocks her head, “I have a...compulsion to indulge. I find that it’s better to quench it this way than to slaughter an innocent thing like your little sister.” He goes tense. She is bizarrely quick to apologize, “I’m not going to touch your sister. She hasn’t done anything wrong.” She pauses. “Do you accept my offer, seven-x?”

“Depends, are you going to tell me who I’m working with.”

“They call me the uniter.” She doesn’t elaborate. He knows that she won’t. “Do you accept my offer, seven-x.”

He thinks of Opal, of how vacant he would feel if she fell prey to the ring he was tracking. “Yes. I accept your offer, uniter.”

Her smirk goes wider before his webcam clicks off.

He hears a ping.

A new chat box appears on his screen.

[edward-richtofen-queen]

Figlia Dello Squartatore ❦Chapter One❦

[Figlia dello Squartatore/Daughter of the Ripper Masterlist]

Fandom(s): Dead by Daylight, Hannibal (TV)

Characters: The Entity, Reader, All Survivors & Killers, Hannibal Lecter (Brief)

Relationship(s): Herman Carter/Reader

Summary: Plucked from your world of luxury and the study of the mind with your father, The Entity decides it's best to pull you into its own world. What will become of Hannibal Lecter's daughter?

Warning(s): Mentions of Cannibalism

Notes: So I decided to do something different this time! Since I love Hannibal Lecter, I decided to see what it would be like to make a Killer/Survivor out of his kin (if he ever had kin)! Please enjoy and leave your feedback!

✼⋅•⋅•⋅⊱•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•∙∘❆༓❆∘∙•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⊰⋅•⋅•⋅✼

"If anything were to happen to me—or god forbid, you my dear—you keep this ring on your pinky finger. It's a family heirloom that binds us together with the blood it has seen, and it's a reminder that you will always be a Lecter—my daughter."

"Father," You mutter under your breath, your body floating aimlessly in a black void—A trip abroad had taken you to this place, the silence deafening to the point you could hear and feel your heartbeat in your ears. You were not scared, you found very little scary—and this was not one of them. You stared at the white stained red diamond on your finger, a display of being a Lecter to the world without them knowing. Much like your father, you could crawl into people's minds and read them like open books. It made people scared, self conscious of themselves and it was what made people fear you. You were the spitting image of your father. Hair waving in the blackness, you let yourself be consumed—fear was a weakness, something you were told never to have; it was something you were to instill in others.

The Daughter of the Chesapeake Ripper

A voice came from the darkness, a sound similar to a spider extending its legs catching your attention. The Chesapeake Ripper was the nickname they gave your father, along with the many other various names because of his likeness to copy another killer's ways. "That is I," You speak in a solid tone of voice, no wavering in any sort.

You come from a man of murder and cannibalism along with a woman of mystery and uncertainty—what is it you seek?

"Knowledge," You speak up. "The ability to understand and dissect the minds of others and understand them to the point I know everything they could ever think." You and no idea why you were telling whatever was talking to you this, but it seemed powerful. A low hum resonated in the dark plain, your feet finally meeting ground.

Reading humans is your natural born gift, along with learning it alongside your father—I could give you what you desire for a price

This peaked your interests—this being, whatever it was, was offering what you and your father had been so close to achieving. "What is this price exactly?" Your mind wandered to things a being of supernatural descant would want—your soul? You mentally chuckled to yourself.

For this knowledge you seek and the power I shall grant for the rest of your life—I require your undying loyalty. You will kill and spill blood in my name by whatever means it takes—mostly by hanging them on hooks provided or killing them by your own hands

A mischievous and evil smile stretched on your lips—you were no newbie to killing people, you ate them! "A price I am willing to pay—but, will I ever be able to communicate with my father?" The voice hummed in response, trying to find an answer to your question.

Trials are held every day—a cycle of death and fear. Once a week, I will allow you outside communication with your father. Until then, let me prepare you for you're arrival to meet your fellow killers

∾❦∾

Dressed in a silk black and red dress, your feet were adorned in beautiful boots as you finished prepping your hair. You learned to look the best at all times, due to your father. The Entity, you had learned to call it, set you down at the edge of the campfire so it could introduce you to the group of killers. All of them were uniquely unnerving in their own way, yourself being the most human of them all. You began to study them with your eyes and new gift.

The Manipulator, (Y/N) Lecter

"A pleasure," You curtsey as you speak, naturally being lady-like as you flip a fan in your hands—another gift. The crackle of spider legs and the dark presence disappears, leaving you in the camp of killers. None of them dare to move and some don't even blink as you shift to hold the bottom of your dress to sit down. They all stare, sharp and curious eyes linger on your body. "You have no need to stare," You speak, not even having to look up to see them shift their eyes elsewhere and continue with their business. The first to approach you was a man in a grinning mask, a beat trap on his arm and a machete in his hand. Looking up, he was about to speak when you brought a finger up and stared at his eyes—this was your way to reading people.

"Evan Macmillan, am I correct?" You ask, fingers shifting over your fan as he nods. "The Entity says you are a manipulator—of what sort?" You chuckle, bringing the fan to your lips. "I can read anyone I look into, enough to make them question themselves—like how I know your father killed his own miners," You hum as you watch him stiffen. "I haven't even used my so called power yet—that's just a base analysis. You're the first killer The Entity snatched into this world, you have three realms in total and you've been eyeing Michael Myers for the past," You count with your fingers. "....two months."

A smile formed on your lips as he took everything in—how could you have known all that by just looking at him? Another man stepped forward—he had a scarred face and his arms were covered in thick tubing, his eyes and mouth forcefully being held by guards. You blinked—this man was more harder to read, maybe finding out his name first? Your fingertips started to tingle and your eyes started to hurt—was this your passive power? Going blind, a reel played in front of you like a movie. A handsome young man grew up in front of you, his entrance to Yale and then being admitted into a secret FBI program and then ending up here.

"Herman Carter, I presume?" The man in question tilted his head, releasing the eye and mouth guards to let his muscles rest. "Yes?" You clear your throat, fanning yourself with the bladed fan and began, "You have a very interesting story behind you—may I speak with you?" A chuckle that sounded manipulated but still genuine made you shiver, a pair of glasses slipping on his nose.

"Of course, Liebling."

[thisdaynews]

The 'Terrorists' Of IPOB By Femi Fani-Kayode

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/the-terrorists-of-ipob-by-femi-fani-kayode/

The 'Terrorists' Of IPOB By Femi Fani-Kayode

THE “TERRORISTS” OF IPOB

I watched my brother Mazi Nnamdi Kanu’s interview with my brother Chief Dele Momodu on Thursday evening and I was inspired and encouraged.

Nnamdi spoke with such eloquence, passion, courage and strength. He is brilliant and irrepressible. He cannot be underestimated or ignored.

Every African should listen to that interview. He cleared a lot of misconceptions about himself and made his position clear on so many issues.

Most important of all is the fact that he had the decency and humility to tender his regrets and apologies where he may have got things wrong. That is the mark of a great leader.

I have loved and trusted him dearly ever since the first day we met and spoke for 3 hours when we were both incarcerated at Kuje prison in 2016.

From the first minute we got on like a house on fire and we have been close ever since. There is nothing that binds men together more than being locked up together in prison or being on the battlefield together and fighting side by side and shoulder to shoulder against a common enemy.

The truth is that Nnamdi is not just a friend but a brother. We do not agree on everything but we agree on many things and the fact that we can tell each other the blunt and bitter truth whenever we feel either of us has gone wrong is the source and strength of our relationship.

Most importantly we stand as a moderating influence on one another both in our public and private affairs and trust me when I tell you that this man is a stabilising force, a good family man and a peacemaker.

Yet whatever anyone chooses to say or feel about him the truth is that he won millions of new friends and supporters after that interview from all over the country.

I thank Dele for giving this great man the opportunity to express himself to the Nigerian people on a mainstream platform such as his which has a massive reach.

After listening to the discussion I was prompted to meditate and ponder on how IPOB is wrongly perceived by many Nigerians and to write the following. Fasten your seat belts and enjoy the ride.

[/b]You call members of Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) terrorists yet you refuse to bring to justice those that have slaughtered or illegally detained and incarcerated 30,000 of their members in the last 5 years. This number was given to me by Barrister Ifeanyi Ejiofor, IPOB’s lawyer, whose home and community in Orifite, Anambra state was also attacked, burnt down and plundered whilst many of his people were slaughtered in a joint operation by the Nigerian military and police in a matter of hours.

[b]

I was there to spend the day with him and mourn the loss of his brother on a Sunday and the tanks rolled in on Monday morning just a few hours after I left!

When Ifeanyi called me early in the morning to say that they were under attack, that his house and his late brothers house had been burnt to the ground, that his elderly mother had been beaten to a pulp, that the Church building that I had given a speech in the day before had been pulled down and destroyed and that many of his people had been killed for no just cause, tears rolled down my cheeks.

Had he not fled for his life and gone into hiding Ifeanyi himself would have been killed on that day.

Any group of people that have been subjected to that kind of barbarism from the Nigerian state would have resorted to an open armed struggle by now but Nnamdi Kanu’s IPOB have refused to do so.

Their struggle and quest for Biafran independence has remained relatively peaceful despite the provocation from the Nigerian state and the massive persecution they have been subjected to for 5 years.

Now tell me between IPOB and the Nigerian state who are the real terrorists? Who has done the killing? Who has terrorised? Who has spilled the blood of the innocent? Who has operated unlawfully and committed genocide and crimes against humanity?

Who has sponsored and protected the Fulani herdsmen and refused to curb and condemn their barbaric activities or declare them as a terrorist organisation?

Who has been soft on ISWA and Boko Haram and released and reintegrated thousands of their members into our Armed Forces even after they slaughtered hundreds of thousands of defenceless Nigerians, including women and children?

[/b]

Who has unleashed their troops and security forces on their own people and killed thousands of their own citizens? Who has crushed and destroyed the lives and families of the innocent?

Who has burnt down Churches, slaughtered priests at the alter and who has sacked, pillaged, levelled, captured and renamed towns and whole communities?

Who has seized the land of farmers and raped their wives and children, butchered Christians and Shia Muslims and slaughtered thousands in Zamfara, Sokoto, Katsina and the core North.

Who has hacked to pieces thousands in Southern Kaduna, Taraba, Plateau, Adamawa, Benue and murdered protesting children in Mushin and at the Lekki Toll Gate?

Was it IPOB or members, associates and friends of the Buhari regime and those they encourage and protect?

[b]

I am not a man of violence and I do not support the use of arms. Where anyone or group of persons, including IPOB, involves themselves in violence I am the first to condemn it.

I despise those that shed innocent blood and those that unleash mayhem, havoc and tyranny on innocent people.

Yet the bitter truth is that those that have done more of this than anyone else in this country over the last 5 years are the Federal Government and their friends, associates and allies and not IPOB, OPC, YOLICOM, MASSOB, YWC, Yourba Summit Group, MEND, NDVF, IYC, the Lower Niger Congress or any of the other regional or self-determination groups.

I am not a coward and neither am I chicken-hearted. Truth is my sword and the Lord is my shield and armour. I fear nothing and nobody other than God.

It is for this reason that I refuse to be cowed or browbeaten into joining the gullible and ignorant herd of lily-livered cheerleaders who take pleasure in attacking and demonising the victims of the state like IPOB instead of condemning the unbelievable cruelty and crushing wickedness that has been unleashed upon them by agents of the state.

And the only reason they do this is because IPOB has not been given adequate fair hearing in the nations media or the public space to explain and defend themselves or tell their own side of the story to the Nigerian people.

The bitter truth is that more than any other group in this country over the last five years IPOB have been misepresented, villified, attacked, demonised and subjected to the greatest and most horrendous form of misrepresentation and negative propaganda. If anyone is attacked in the south or any police station burnt, according to our media, it must be IPOB.

Thousands of their members are in cells all over the country as we speak and yet no-one speaks for them, no one cares for them and no one empathises with them. This is unacceptable. This is inhuman. This is unfair. This is unjust. This is evil.

Worse still to compare IPOB to Boko Haram, ISWA or the Fulani herdsmen is like comparing Little Red Riding Hood to the hungry and ravenous wolf or like comparing Mother Theresa to Jack the Ripper: it simply does not make sense.

Some have alleged that IPOB youths committed acts of violence throughout the East and parts of Rivers state during the #EndSARS protests. Unconfirmed reports suggest that some of them even killed policemen and other innocent Nigerians. I find these reports troubling but I do however question them.

The Nnamdi Kanu that I know can be impulsive and say some very harsh things at times but he is not a killer or a violent man. He is a formidable intellectual and a visionary leader and not a merciless, bellicose, violent, murderous and bloodthirsty barbarian.

God forbid such a thing but if he was a man that took pleasure in the spilling of blood he would have put one million Ak 47’s in the hands of his followers by now and all hell would have broken loose. Violence is not in his blood and neither is it in his interest.

On several occasions he has told me privately and has said publicly that IPOB’s struggle is and must always be a peaceful one and he is wise enough to know that anything outside of that will be counterproductive and would lose him a lot of support and sympathy.

If indeed IPOB youths, as opposed to thuggish hoodlums that are claiming to be IPOB or rogue elements within the organisation, have killed anyone anywhere then I wholeheartedly condemn it and such barbaric behaviour must stop forthwith.

Two wrongs can never make a right. The fact that the Nigerian state indulges in mass murder does not mean that their victims must also soil their hands with innocent blood.

And if anyone doubts that the Nigerian state is indeed a brutal and bloodlusting killing machine which seeks to crush dissent and silence those that do not key into its inherent barbarism then I challenge them to find out how many young innocent Igbos are being targeted and killed by security forces in Obigbo, Rivers state today in the name of fighting IPOB.

[/b]

According to Amnesty International in Obigbo innocent people have been kept in inhuman conditions in a 24 hour curfew for the last 10 days without access to medicare, food, water and power and there are reports of extrajudicial killings with dead bodies all over the streets.

The group torture, psychological trauma and mass murder of Igbo people for whatever reason and under whatever guise in Obigbo is unacceptable. I condemn it in the strongest terms.

[b]

Where is our humanity? Must the Igbo always be slaughtered like flies in Nigeria? Do they not have red blood too? Does any race or human being deserve this type of targetting and treatment?

I condemn the killing of security agents by anyone in that community but does that mean that every Igbo there must be treated like a prisoner of war or massacred?

[/b]

What moral right do we have as southerners to complain when northerners kill our people when we in the south are so ready to kill one another in such a barbaric and cruel way? Today I weep for the South and I weep for Nigeria.

Children and youths were massacred by soldiers at Lekki Toll Gate in Lagos just two weeks ago and today children and youths, of Igbo extraction, are being targeted, hunted down like animals and massacred by soldiers in Obigbo in Rivers state. This inexplicable MADNESS and unconciable BLOODLUST must stop![b]

If the truth be told the real terrorists in this country are in Aso Rock and not on the streets of Igboland or in the ranks of IPOB.

Calling for a referendum and seeking to peacefully exercise your right of self-determination after being subjected to and confronted with 60 years of subjugation, murder, ethnic cleansing, tyranny and genocide does not make you a terrorist, it makes you a courageous man of conscience and a freedom fighter.

I am not from the old Eastern Region of Nigeria and therefore I am not a member of IPOB. I hail from the old Western Region where we have our own struggles and where we also seek to chart our own course and determine our own future.

That struggle is for either restructuring of the country or, failing that, the peaceful establishment of our own nation which we shall call Oduduwa Republic.

This is a noble quest because Nigeria has failed us just as it has failed everyone else. And if things do not change quickly it is a quest that will be achieved sooner than later.

Yet the struggle for freedom is not for the Biafrans and the sons of Oduduwa alone: it is also for the ordinary people of the core North who have been through hell and who have been subjected to unprecedented levels of carnage and savagery.

Again it is also for the people of the Middle Belt and the so-called minorities of the north who have suffered for so long and who have been denied, deprived and suppressed more than any other people in Nigeria. They too shall be free from the yoke, bondage and cruelty of imperial Nigeria.

Permit me to conclude this contribution with the following. No matter how many IPOB members you torture, jail and kill and no matter how many of them you misrepresent and demonise, they cannot be stopped because an idea whose time has come cannot be successfully resisted.

Like the great Libyan warrior Omar Al Mouqthar who was known as the ‘Lion of the Desert’, their battle cry is “we win or we die”.

Like the gallant and courageous Patrick Henry, who led the American people in their struggle for independence from Great Britain, their song is “give me freedom or give me death!”

That is their story, that is their song and it is ours too. Freedom calls and liberty beckons: one million tanks cannot stop them and all the misrepresention, disinformation, misinformation and lies in the world cannot deter them. https://www.femifanikayode.org/the-terrorists-of-ipob-2/#more-4995

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[hgfstreamchats]

Much ado about monkeys

I'm not late! Not in the slightest! hello! Hello there! Thousands? Really? So this isn't some kind of. Zoo fostering program. Nope. It's just a logical extension of the term 'furbaby' This is facial trauma waiting to happen. But... monkeys. I mean, they're not domesticated nah, nah, these little monkeys aren't the face rippers. They ARE The monkeys that can learn to steal and wield weapons tho ......This was supposed to be filler as we all filed in, but the full movie's available. It sounds like EXACTLY the kind of freakshow that's suitable for movie night! Perfect! Tomatoes will wait. They'll wait and they'll like it. You just can't compete with monkeys. I hope it tells us where they're even getting the monkeys.... well, THAT'S not a disturbing sentiment! From someone who cares whether monkeys live or die, no doubt. they're terribly cute but this entire thing is making Twilight Zone music play in my head. Right?

check DailyMotion One second. There's things to skip forward/back ten seconds Either side of the pause button in the middle whyyyy does every other line sound like it's out of the trailer of a horror movie Oh, yeah, it's very important to make sure your PET MONKEY's gender presentation is, uh, socially acceptable For their blankets and stuff Unicron forbid! Because they definitely understand and care about that But he does want an exotic animal to treat as a baby. !!! I mean. I like they're able to satisfy these feelings and are aware of their own limitations. I just. These are the types of monkeys that form monkey gangs in cities? JESUS This is healthy and fine. I mean, literally, there's an epidemic of monkey thieves banding together in some cities She laughs the laughter of the damned. ikr "to make her look more like my daughter" Oh, yeah, I can definitely see the resemblance I can't tell if self-deprecating or worrying ewwwwwwww she IS a monkey, though These monkeys uniformly look upset. they do not comprehend ANY LEVEL of this This certainly looks legitimate. What a depressing environment This is horrifying. HER SMILE IS HORRIFYING If this doesn't feature an attack at some point, I'm rioting. Why do they put them in clothes It's, definitely about making them look more like little people, right? They have fur! HEY! GUESS WHAT! MOST SMALLER MONKEYS ON:Y LIVE UP TO 25 YEARS At which point this charade comes to a merciful end! Well, one of them said her oldest kid was forty-something, so she must be sixty or so herself So it really could be for the rest of her life! could indeed--provided she lives out the maximum lifespan and nothing terrible happens "wow, I can't BELIEVE this restaurant won't let me bring my pet monkey" How dare those diners not want Ebola Reston? An animal psychic. He's eating plastic. I would say go to a vet but honestly I would not expect most vets to deal with exotics. not to mention, how the fuck do you EXPLAIN that you're raising a monkey like a human baby to a strange vet Oh, dear Unicron. ...I think the goy was actually an orang; they don't have tails Actually I have to wonder if they'd try taking them to a doctor-for-humans instead do you... do think doctors have procedure for that? I bet some do I don't like the way the narrator is encouraging this.' The narrator sounds disapproving to me so, the way this tone is set, it equally feels like it could be a horror movie or a feel good movie, so I feel there's going to be some horrible twist in the second half. Oh, yes, please. OH BOY I would give them the ticket just for that. I wonder if the camera crew had anything to do with it. Or if that was a recreation thing Right. Give it frosting. Did they take its teeth out? "six real children" yeah, the narrator knows it's a freakshow I feel like there were other ways to deal with that When Impact grows up and moves out, I know I plan to adopt a small, sentient wild animal and ruin its life. I can't help but think you're thinking about someone specific Be sure to take it to restaurants with you and tell everyone it's your kid, too! If they complain about the smell of organic waste, I'll sue. Ewwwww. I'm trying to settle on which is the most disturbing. whyyyy does she sound so unhinged Was this the last letter she sent before she changed her name and started blocking her calls? Oh, well, then! Amazing. "The plan is to load her up on sedatives and nail her feet to the cage." THIS SEEMS DANGEROUSLY UNREGULATED "it also brings her into contact with children" oh, good! know sometimes they'll take their teeth out and I'm 90% sure that's what's happened here. Jeez, that's depressing ewwwwww That's a joke, right? ...Oh god, it's not a joke But they... aren't training her for that? She's *diaper clad.* I demand a monkey attack! They were very vague about the will. Betcha it says "EVERYTHING TO THE MONKEY" They foreshadowed monkey attacks but did not deliver. Ha! This is fine. To the pit with it, I'm playing the other documentary. I've tasted blood and I *need* more. This is a beautiful train wreck and I can't look away. Oh, here we go! WELP Much better! "companion for life" Okay, phrasing Oh my god Ohhh my god. can't afford a monkey baby Haha, no red flags here! "THIS IS FINE" Somebody call CPS By the Allspark, this is amazing. I love Earth so much. Jesus. It's not just humans who pull this shit either, other animals from other species are on record who prefer to raise other species to their own. A LION of all things kept adopting gazelles. Sounds normal and fine for all parties! OH, no :< "they're basically like infants! infants that can climb and that like to bite and claw and that will freak out about your relationships, and that you will never ever be able to fully communicate with" At least these are outside. yeah, THAT'S what's bothering the monkey about this, being teased. I hope these two end up maimed. See that KINDA makes it sound like.... I mean...... His real family's back in that cage. ..... His...has to... Abandoning "Gilded Earth" was a mistake. Callus. HOrror movie violins There's a case of Hepatitis lurking somewhere in this scene. "yet" "oh, yeah, I figure he's gonna maul me someday" Gotta feel sorry for these kids That's a tiny cage, too Jesus This keeps getting worse. ... "In other words, not goddamn cheetos" The vet's face. Everything about this is awful. Really. I mean, is it really. And I don't even like monkeys. The outpost roof doesn't like monkeys. "no matter what I do to them" jesus goddamnit This is a nightmare. Jesus this almost sounds like an ABYSMAL waste of time and money! You think?! Breakdown's asking what I'm laughing at. Show him! Now he's laughing. Oh, sure, don't listen to the vet, who told you explicitly to stop feeding her people food all the time! Just PRAY. Of course you won't, Spaghetti. This is going to end with at least one dead monkey, isn't it? The vet: "okay, just don't feed her pasta" 2 hrs later: SPAGHETTI TIME And ranch! the MONKEY COMMUNITY is UNDER THREAT. what a TRAGEDY I KNOW right? "it's OUR choice to endanger our children by keeping wild animals" "We need to protect our deity given right to kill as many monkeys as we want!" Sealand. Oh, please, please do this. I beg you. Alright, I know what we're closing out on. Oh my god oh, wait, Ihave one more, lemme see if it's on youtube Hahhahahaha Ewwwwww okay,youtube search, malcolm in the middle monkey jesus first clip at the top god Her face it gets better ....... HAH! God WELL God I do believe you demanded monkey attacks, earlier This is everything I dreamed of and more. Well, this was glorious. That was a wild ride And thank you both for joining me on it! Thank YOU for hosting! how could miss that dumpster fire *how could we It was a dumpster fire to be treasured. Good night! Goodnight! good night!

[thecorteztwins]

Reasons Fabian Cortez is a joy to read (with citations)

- Gets hit in the face with a guitar by mutant rockstar Lila Cheney (X-Men '92)

- Sneaks right by the X-Men by wearing the brilliant disguise of a baseball cap (X-Men '92)

- Lies to birds. No, seriously, he just started lying to a random bird about how he was devoted to mutant/flatscan peace now (because using an anti-human slur you made up REALLY makes that convincing, Fabs) The bird wasn't a shapeshifter or sentient or anything. It was just a random wild bird. (Magneto miniseries)

- When he came back from the dead, he made his grand re-entrace floating and sparkling...with no explanation for how he could do that, as neither is in his powerset. He then immediately creeped on the nearest woman. (Magneto miniseries)

- Just when you think he can't get any sleazier, he gets sleazier (TOO MANY INSTANCES TO NAME)

- Openly admitted his supervillainy plans included FORMING A HAREM FOR HIMSELF (Magneto miniseries)

- Was then punched unconscious by the woman he was trying to force into said harem

- No one questioned why she did this, all three witnesses just assumed he deserved it because IT'S FABIAN

- Two issues earlier, he was telling this same woman how "pure" he was and comparing himself to snow. TO SNOW. BECAUSE HE'S SO PURE. THEN TRIES TO FORCE A WOMAN TO BE A PART OF HIS FANTASY WOULD-BE SEX SLAVE COLLECTION JFC FABS

- Was willing to risk pissing off APOCALYPSE if it meant getting laid (cartoon series, he's shown with a girl in his room while Apocalypse's Hounds are trying to get a new host body for Apocalypse...which they fail to do but might have accomplished IF FABIAN HAD BEEN THERE INSTEAD OF (literally) FUCKING AROUND)

- Used a hologram projector to make pictures of himself in different outfits and with hot babes hanging off him (link)(cartoon series)

- Says shit like SO SAYETH ME and MY WILL BE DONE in the cartoon series

- Costume is a penis arrow

- Despite possibly losing said penis to Wolverine's claws (The Uncanny X-Men #300)

- Causes a 15+ year mystery because he was staring at a woman's ass (Dark Seduction series)

- Once delivered pizza to Magneto and Mystique (The Chaos Engine Trilogy)

- Is in stuff titled "Fatal Attractions" and "Dark Seduction" that sound more like bodice rippers than comic book arcs

- Told Wanda and Pietro not to fight over him. (Blood Ties)

- Was chased through a concert parking lot by a grunge band that referred to him as a "weird roadie" (X-Men '92) - Shot a horse furry.  It was when the Acolytes were fighting the High Evolutionary’s New Men in the Quicksilver miniseries. The New Men are “uplifted” animals, meaning animals that the High Evolutionary artificially evolved into sentient, speaking, human/animal hybrid forms that basically look like the anthropomorphic version of their respective animal type. So, furries.

- There's a series of artistic errors re Fabian's cape over a few issues of X-Men '92. It's left at the scene when he's captured but then when he's shown in captivity he's got it on, how did he get a new one? Then during a fight it's red but a few moments after the fight is over, it's yellow. I conclude he keeps spares on him to change if one gets lost/dirty because FABIAN IS A DIVA must be what those 90s pouches are for

- Speaking of capes, I've actually noticed in 616 that he wraps his cape around himself when he's in trouble, like a kid with a security blanket. It's like the ONE thing endearing about him. He also did this on a stealth mission because GOD FORBID HE JUST LEAVE IT AT HOME LIKE A SENSIBLE PERSON I GUESS

- “DON’T YOU PEOPLE GET IT?! This is MY LIFE we’re talking about here!” He yells this at Pietro, Wanda, and Crystal while holding Luna hostage. Fabian. These people do not care about you. These people HATE you. Like, I just love that being crazed with terror doesn’t humble him, IT JUST MAKES HIS EGO THAT MUCH CRAZIER BY MAKING HIM THINK HIS ENEMIES GIVE A SHIT ABOUT HIS LIFE oh Fabian never change, you absolute delight. (Uncanny X-Men #307)

- Once, a scheme he was doing with another villain got really out of hand and he had to team up with Quicksilver, the would-be victim, to stop it. The moment the trouble was over, Quicksilver turned around saying "Cortez, you've got some explaining to--" but Fabian was GONE. The implication is he was teleported by another villain he was working for, but I like to think that FABIAN JUST RUNS SO FAST FROM RESPONSIBILITY EVEN *PIETRO* CAN'T CATCH HIM (Quicksilver miniseries)

- He once managed to disguise himself and get past the X-Men, even when they were looking right at him, just by wearing civilian clothes, a baseball cap, and a jacket/shirt that said STAFF. No, his normal costume does not involve a mask or anything. They know what he looks like. Except when he's wearing a baseball cap, I guess. (X-Men '92)

- In X-Men Forever, the good guys happen upon him as the emaciated tortured prisoner of an anti-mutant group. He assumed they came to mock him. YES, FABIAN, THEY BROKE IN, FOUGHT ALL THE GUARDS, JUST BECAUSE THEY KNEW YOU WERE HERE AND WANTED TO SAY NAH NAH NAH

- He threw a tantrum while naked. Twice in a row. (The Uncanny X-Men #300)

- The Acolytes were losing the fight and Fabian tried to make a getaway like the coward he is. But Bishop stopped him...and Fabian FUCKED HIM RIGHT UP. Don’t you get in his way when he’s trying to save his own ass! ( The Uncanny X-Men #300)

- Is honestly such a fuckboy that he set off a rogue Phoenix flare when he manhandled Jean Grey (X-Men Forever #1)

- Claims to be "the supreme mutant" (X-Men '92)

- He's definitely not gay, Fabian's a really thirsty hetero super straight guy, but there's a lot of hilarious Accidental Gay here and there if you look. For instance, he tells Quicksilver that Quicksilver screams his name really well (Blood Ties) and Quicksilver says that he “felt this incredible rush” when Fabian touched him (Quicksilver miniseries) Psylocke calls him Magneto’s “pet boy” at one point, and at another point  Magneto is shirtless in bed yelling "FABIAN CORTEZ! ATTEND ME!" and Fabian comes running...(X-Men (2nd series) #96). Again, he’s a very straight (and did I mention thirsty) guy in 616, but there is a canon alternate universe (What If…? #64)  where he wears purple short shorts, an ascot kerchief, and has an M on his thigh for Magneto. I'm not saying this is the gay Fabian universe but... 

- He is always manspreading every damn time he sits down. The only time he does NOT sit with his legs splayed wide open like LOOK AT MY BALLS EVERYONE is this one time in X-Men '92 when he is sitting next to BOOM BOOM

- He speaks with super pretentious big fancy words all the time but when the shit hits the fan (X-Men Forever #1), ACTUAL QUOTE---"I gotta get the hell outta here!" HE CAN TALK LIKE A NORMAL PERSON FINE. HE JUST CHOOSES NOT TO! FABIAN YOU POMPOUS FUCK!

- One time a prisoner grabbed his ponytail while he was talking and yanked so hard he screamed like a little bitch in front of his followers. The quote "Because I said soOWWWWW!!" is among his best lines in my book (The Uncanny X-Men #300)

- His motive seems to basically be affluenza. Seriously, every resource says he came from a rich family of high social standing but then just got bored. I can't make this up.

- He sits in Magneto's chair when Magneto isn't around. Quicksilver walks in on this (Dark Seduction)

- Fabian ignored a female teammate's advice and as a result, literally two seconds later an actual aquarium of water exploded on him. Like a fucking HUGE aquarium too, not like a fish tank, he BASICALLY GOT HIT BY A POND. And then got carried by the flood through a building until he rained down on some very confused people. (Quicksilver miniseries)

- Exodus later promoted this same female teammate to command the next Acolytes mission and Fabian wasn’t even allowed to go. Fabian was RIGHT THERE when Exodus did this and not happy about it. (Quicksilver miniseries)

- Female teammate: "Fabian! We need you!" Fabian: "Of course you do" SHE MEANT IN BATTLE YOU SMUG CREEPY FUCKER (Quicksilver miniseries)

- He teamed up with Maximus the Mad with the intent to use/double-cross him. When Fabian was gonna do a thing, Max said no, don't do the thing, and Fabian called him an ADDLED FOOL...so Max manipulated his mind to hallucinate Magneto come to kill him. Fabian flipped out in fear, and Maximus was easily able to persuade him to boost his powers so he could save him. Once he did, Maximus LOL'D about tricking him and immediately turned the tables :D (Quicksilver miniseries)

- Magneto walks in on Fabian in Magneto's private screening room that's supposed to be off-limits to everyone except him. Fabian is playing repeated clips of when he and the original Acolytes first attacked Genosha, fought the X-Men, etc. Awwww, revisiting your glory days before you were Erik's bitch, Fabs? Honestly it's almost sad but then I remember it's Fabian (X-Men Unlimited)

-  Magneto was asleep so Fabian and the Acolytes snuck out to party I mean kill Genoshan Magistrates and then Magneto had to come pick them up like naughty teenagers when they got in trouble with the X-Men SRSLY THIS HAPPENED (X-men second series #1-2)

- They had Charles Xavier captive and he was unconscious and Fabian was all dramatically pondering “What are you up to, old man?” and Magneto just goes “sleeping?” way to ruin Fabian’s dramatics dude sheesh (X-Men second series #3)

- At one point  MAGNETO WALKS IN ON HIM RIGHT AS HE'S ENCOURAGING THE ACOLYTES TO TURN ON HIM AND HURLS HIM INTO A PILLAR. HE DOESN'T EVEN KILL HIM HE'S JUST LIKE "STOP THAT". LIKE HE JUST EXPECTS THIS NOW (bonus points, before Mags did, one of the Acolytes says "Fabian Cortez, you're talking treason!" LIKE YEAH ARE YOU SURPRISED BY THIS? ANY OF YOU? YOU ALL KNOW AT THIS POINT WHAT HE DID TO MAGS ORIGINALLY FFS) (Uncanny X-Men #379)

- Apparently, he's "deathly allergic to rainforests". We find this out because a woman teleports him into the Amazon. The same woman who he tried to put into his would-be harem after telling her how OMFG PURE he is a few issues before. I don't know how you're allergic to an entire biome, he probably just has an allergy to a single genus of common tropical plants or something, but yeah, that happened. IT'S NEVER EXPLAINED HOW HE GOT BACK. Seriously, how did he get back from the Amazon to Genosha? Did he walk? Did the locals pay to have him shipped back? I feel like there's a hilarious story here not being told!

- In a single issue (X-Men: Magneto War) Fabian Cortez: *Wore his cape wrapped up around himself on a stealth mission rather than just TAKE IT OFF what a diva * Made gross comments about a physically mutated woman being “repulsive” and a “Morlock misfit” * Painfully hypercharged one of his Acolytes against their will * Used manipulative guilt-tripping tactics (“You have failed us! You have failed the cause! You have failed Lord Magneto!” LIKE UR NOT THE ONE WHO KILLED MAGNETO, U BAG OF SHIT) * Ran away and abandoned the Acolytes to the X-Men (with his cape still wrapped around him as he fled) ALL IN A SINGLE ISSUE WTF HOW EVEN FABIAN

[goodmorningawfulbye]

Prime numbers for Miel!!!

I had to look up a list of prime numbers because I only knew a couple XD

2. Do they have any titles? How did they get them?Like, official titles, nope! Her parents work for the government (well. worked.) but they’re commoners!. As for like, nickname-y titles, she gets called Golden Eagle sometimes because of her hair and sniper-y behavior on hunts (she likes to get up in trees). Even though eagles don’t really snipe. XD3. Did they have a good childhood? What are fond memories they have of it? What’s a bad memory? She had a pretty good childhood, certainly better than some people she knew, but it wasn’t idyllic or anything. Her parents were busy people who just knew how to maximize their time with her when they could.Good memory: the time she and her parents (and her cousin) went on an architecture tour. Looking at all the buildings just enthralled her. Bad memory: The time she realized not everyone had fun with their parents like she did. She noticed Prompto was alone all the time and didn’t talk about his parents much. It broke her heart, but what was she, slightly awkward and not even 10, going to do about it?

5. Do they have any siblings? What’s their names? What is their relationship with them? Has their relationship changed since they were kids to adults?She doesn’t have any siblings, but she was raised treating her cousin Acheta as almost-a-sister. They were very close from late childhood into adulthood, when said cousin got Miel her job (which got her the chance to hunt, too!)7. Did they have lots of friends as a child? Did they keep any of their childhood friends into adulthood?Already did!11. Do they have any special diet requirements? Are they a vegetarian? Vegan? Have any allergies?She’s flex-atarian XD. She likes poultry, but is fine with just vegetarian foods, as long as she gets enough protein and fats and stuff. She’s also kiiiiiiinda lactose-intolerant, but she drinks milk anyway. 13. What is their least favourite food?She’s never liked tofu. Or mustard. 17. Do they like to take photos? What do they like to take photos of? Selfies? What do they do with their photos?She likes taking pictures of pretty things she sees, likes selfies, and likes having her picture taken, even though she’s kinda “eh” on the way she looks, often feeling good at the start of a day and feeling gross at the end (but she does work long shifts, and then change clothes and hunt sometimes. Why would a waitress-hunter, greasy and dirty, feel gorgeous all the time?)She keeps her favorite photos (of any variety) in albums, or the BEST ones in frames. 19. What’s their least favourite genres?Books: trashy romance (she likes love stories, but bodice-rippers offend her slightly). Movies: horror. life is already a nightmare. Video games: most FPS’s bother her to no end.  Also, she doesn’t like reality TV (if that’s like... a thing? XD)23. Do they have a good memory? Short term or long term? Are they good with names? Or faces?Her memory is pretty good. She remembers names better than faces, but remembers birthdays and random details best of all. Most of this is long-term. Short-term requires a lot of focus, and she’s often lost in thought, though she can spit back what people just said most of the time, and keep numbers in her head for a while. 29. What do they do when they find out someone else’s fear? Do they tease them? Or get very over protective? She gets very protective. “over” protective is, in her eyes, rude. She’s being the perfect amount of protective. She wants to protect them, forever. (every once in a while, she’ll tease them.)31. Do they drink? What are they like drunk? What are they like hungover? How do they act when other people are drunk or hungover? Kind or teasing?She avoids it for the most part, but will occasionally, on special days, have one (1) drink. As a result, she’s never really been drunk, but she does get a little tipsy sometimes (and then she’s very giggly and flirty).So! This makes her the certified caretaker of the group when they go drinking, because she’s always sober enough to remember where people’s keys are and hold their hair back if needs be, and she can wrangle them all down the street to go home, because she can remember everyone’s address to tell the cabbie. She’s everyone’s mom the next morning, doling out water and painkillers. 37. Do they like to read? Are they a fast or slow reader? Do they like poetry? Fictional or non fiction?She loves reading, prefers fiction, reads pretty fast (slower than she used to, but still, devouring books when she gets the chance), and likes and writes poetry.41. What’s their sexuality? What do they find attractive? Physically and mentally? What do they like/need in a relationship?She’s bi, and very proud of it. She oftentimes prefers men, but not to the disadvantage of women, really. (She played with the idea of polyamory before she found what she was looking for.)As for what she finds attractive, she likes people who have passion and  talent more than someone “powerful.” She’s also a sucker for pretty eyes, glasses, and pretty eyes behind glasses. (and she likes blonds, even though she is one!)She also, honestly, likes her partners a little clingy. She’s ridiculously independent at times, but if you need her, she will be there. So be prepared to ask for her attention (you’ll get it right away).She expects the same of her partners. Just some attention and some support when she needs. 43. Are they religious? What do they think of religion? What do they think of religious people? What do they think of non religious people?She’s religious, but in a bit of an odd way. She thinks religion is fine as long as it isn’t weaponized. Non-religious people are fine, too. 47. How do they act in a formal occasion? What do they think of black tie wear? Do they enjoy fancy parties and love to chit chat or loathe the whole event?She likes parties a lot-- a chance to dress up, which she loves, and an excuse to be social for as long as she can stand it! Black tie wear is great, she loves getting super dressed up, and loves seeing others dressed to the nines as well. She likes to chit-chat, but not to the point that she’ll seek out strangers, nor does she tolerate people coming up to her with a conversational agenda. (Do not ask her about Hunting or the Past or, god forbid, “how everyone’s holding up” and you mean Prompto. She will be A Bitch; do not mess with him. She’s protective and knows he’s sensitive.) Don’t think you can ‘splain something to her, either; someone once tried to tell her how archery “should” be done and she nearly had a contest with him right there. 

...They played darts later, still in formal wear, and he was taught a lesson (she and Prompto both whooped the dude’s ass. wooooooo target practice!)

[elfnerdherder]

Dread and Hunger: Ch. 2

Chapter 2: Montrachet

           The FBI wasn��t the friendliest place to meet someone at, but when Will explained that he had physical, vital evidence in regards to the recent murder, he was admitted into the building with an escort to Agent Jack Crawford’s office. The man in question was much older, gristly in appearance and expression, and he clasped his hands together on the desk, observing Will with mild suspicion. Will tried to reassure himself that the agent probably looked at most people like that. Then again, probably not. Will studiously studied the edge of the desk rather than look at him.

           “What can I do for you today, Mr. Graham?” he asked. At the presentation of the letter, his brows lifted questioningly, but he made no move to touch it.

           “I go to school at the location the woman was murdered yesterday, and this morning I opened my door and found this,” Will explained. “I know you haven’t released whether or not it’s the Chesapeake Ripper, but at the initials, I went out on a limb.”

           At that, Jack Crawford reached forward and picked up the letter, eyes scanning the artful, elegant script before pausing at the initials, his glare deepening.

           “C.R.,” he murmured. “You think the Chesapeake Ripper sent you this?”

           “The body was right on the quad where I’d definitely see it, and judging from the floral arrangement, it seemed to be an offer of courtship,” said Will. Saying it out loud in front of an aged FBI agent wasn’t as convincing as it had sounded in his head. At the stunted silence, he hurried on. “I don’t really…see people, Agent Crawford. There’s no reason another person would send me something like that, and the people that I do know don’t have those initials.”

           “Are any of your friends good for a laugh?” Jack inquired.

           “They have a sense of humor, but not that kind,” Will replied, not bothering to reassure him that his ‘friends’ could be limited to less than as many fingers he had on one hand.

           “So you think that the Chesapeake Ripper is interested in you because –what, realities and your assumptions of them?” Alright, it definitely sounded stupid when Agent Crawford said it. Will inhaled, counted to three, then exhaled as slowly as possible.

           “I, uhm…I have an empathy disorder,” he said heavily, looking down to the bottom of the desk. The words were rocks, tumbling from his mouth with little regard to what they bruised on the way out. “Whoever wrote this knows that, and seems to know it…intimately. The only people in the world that know about that are now you, me, the therapist my father made me go to when I was twelve, and my father. None of us wrote that letter.”

           “That we know of,” Crawford stated, and Will glanced up to his face, jaw working furiously.

           “You think I wrote that and brought it here?” he asked incredulously.

           “It’s possible.” Crawford’s shoulder twitched into a shrug.

           “I can take a handwriting test if you like, but I didn’t write that,” Will snapped, fingers tapping along the outside of his leg. “That’d be me handing myself over on a silver platter, and I’m not the sacrificial type.”

           “No, but the Chesapeake Ripper is the flashy sort to do something much like that,” Agent Crawford mused, and he spun on his swivel chair, grabbing his phone. “Give me Price down here.”

           Will’s fingerprints were taken, as well as a swab of his saliva. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d been the one to turn the letter in, he was treated with a sort of consternation, each move he made suspect to the situation at hand. The letter was taken by a man in latex gloves, and it disappeared from view. He was shown the door by Crawford who assured him that he’d give him a call if anything ‘checked out’.

           Right.

           He found himself at Sangre the next night, going over the drink list and shadowing a girl a few years younger than him. It was a dim, swanky bar with just the right touches to give it a feel of pomposity as well as class. The drinks were served in old fashioned glasses, and there wasn’t a single chair in the place that hadn’t been reupholstered after being recovered from an antique shop.

           “They want to feel like they’ve stepped back in time, so keep it short, sweet, and articulate,” she coached him, and Will nodded, studying her hands whose nails were serrated from a bad biting habit.

           “I can do that.”

           “Good. If you want to go grab that man’s order, I’ll get the guys in this corner.” She disappeared around a heavy partition of velvet curtains, and Will made his way to the new patron, adjusting his satin red vest. It was itchy, like it’d been passed over by too many hands, but it would have to do, much like the Belle Bleu’s uniform just had to do.

           “Welcome, sir, to Sangre. Is this your first time?” The harpsichord music was just soft enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice, and he smoothed out his vest before looking up. When he saw the very familiar face, he balked a little under its amused stare.

           “It is,” Dr. Lecter said, crossing his leg at the knee. “Is this your first day out of training?”

           “Dr. Lecter, I…yes.” Will nodded, glancing about the bar area before looking back to him, studying the curve of his jaw.

           “When I supposed you’d find something less drawn to the public eye, I should have known this would be such a place for you. There is a distance that was held between people in the 1800’s that this pop culture genre seems to seek.” There was an ironic twist to his mouth as he looked about the brass lamps and muted light, a dismal attempt at gaslights for ambience.

           “How did you know I’d be here?” he asked, and he looked to the table when the doctor’s gaze flicked back to him.

           “Your acquaintance Bryan was kind enough to tell me. I suppose gossip gets about quickly within the bartending circuit.”

           “I didn’t realize I was so popular,” he said dryly, and Dr. Lecter laughed appropriately.

           “No one makes an old fashioned like you do.”

           “Is that what you’ll be having tonight?” Will asked, grabbing his notepad to take his order.

           “I’ll try it, if you recommend it. Have you sampled their selection yet, Will?” Will glanced up to his face, and he studied his eyes, hazel and gold in the lamplight. Behind him, he heard his trainer coming back from her table, and he cleared his throat, looking away.

           “Not yet, but I’ll make sure to use the top shelf bottles,” he promised, and he walked back to the bar, mixing the drink.

           Like all Saturdays, the place steadily filled up as the night wore on, and Will found himself trapped behind the bar making drinks rather than taking most orders. The outfits ranged from the normal, dressy attire to the costume variety that represented the bar in its entirety, and Will found that it was more often than not easier just to pinpoint people by their clothes rather than their face or name. In between rushes, he managed to make it to Dr. Lecter’s table in order to total his bill.

           “I’m sorry, Dr. Lecter, here you are,” he apologized, passing over the ticket. The man laughed lightly, reaching into his wallet for cash rather than fuss with a card.

           “It’s no trouble to me, but if I may, you do seem tired. You should rest after your shift.”

           “I’ll try,” he promised, although not with too much sincerity. He took the cash and returned with change, but when he went to hand it back, Dr. Lecter stood and stopped his hand, fingertips delicately gliding along the back of his hand to his wrist.

           “I insist you keep the change,” he said, and at a head taller Will had to look up to try and meet his gaze. “You’ve certainly earned it, with the way you’ve been running about.”

           “I…thank you,” he said, and he tucked it into his pocket.

           “With your neuroses, I’d imagine this amount of socializing would leave you drained after each shift.” Will didn’t know quite what to say to that. Was he psychoanalyzing him? He stepped away in order to let out a short huff of breath, shifting from one foot to the other.

           “I’m just talking at them; they only talk back for an order or two,” Will reassured him, and when a small group of ladies stepped in with hoopskirts and –god forbid –parasols, he balked at the image.

           “I’m sure,” Dr. Lecter said, obviously not at all sure as he took in the appearance of the people before him. He seemed to think along the same lines as Will did, judging by the faint lines just around his mouth. Will glanced to his chin, then his neck, then his shoulder, unwilling to admit he’d noticed so small of a shift in expression.

           “This doesn’t seem to be your style, doctor. I’d hate for you to waste your time in a place like this just because of how I mix drinks.”

           “Rest assured, Will. It’s not just because of the drinks.” There was a flirtatious allure to his voice, and he was heading towards the door before Will could even think to reply, the back of his neck heating up with the reality of what was just said. He didn’t have time to meditate on it, though; the girls made it to the bar, and he made his way back behind it to greet them, relieved to find that he was not the only one on the staff or in the crowd that had a penchant for avoiding eyes.

-

           This time, the letter was waiting for him when he got back from a study group a few days later, resting against the bottom of his door. He considered calling Jack Crawford, but after the first abysmal meeting, he didn’t want to go through that again. He scooped it up and wheeled the bike into his apartment, locking the door behind him.

“To Will Graham,

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its lovliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

                                                                                                           Yours,

                                                                                                           -C.R.

           “Yours,” Will muttered, setting the letter on the table. Inside, the flower petals were much aged, remnants of what he’d taken from the bouquet. If it was the Chesapeake Ripper, he was certainly in danger. Serial killers didn’t just send love letters for no reason –usually, their reasons escalated until they were wearing their love’s skin as a suit in some sort of sick, bizarre homage. It was possible that this was just to back him into a paranoid corner until he had no means of escape, but why warn him? Were the other victims warned through poetry and letters scrawled stylishly on thick-woven paper?

           A quick internet search informed him that no, the Chesapeake Ripper certainly didn’t send the other victims letters. If he had, Freddie Lounds would have found out –resident campus reporter with a penchant for being illegally nosy –and second, the variety of victims were too diverse and sporadic. If he’d found images of all curly-haired brunettes, maybe. As it was, none of the victims looked remotely like him, and he wasn’t sure if that was a comfort or a warning sign.

           Will tried to entertain the thought that it was a prank, but it was an easily discarded theory. Who would bother pranking him? If it was a prank, wouldn’t they have signed it fully the Chesapeake Ripper rather than leave it to hope that he leapt to that conclusion? In truth, he’d have welcomed it as a prank rather than admit to himself that he potentially had a serial killer sending him notes.

           He slept, and when he dreamed, he dreamt of white oleander and monkshood petals falling from the hands of the dead.

-

           “You seem troubled, Will,” Dr. Lecter said, accepting his drink. It was a Montrachet from a winery Will had only heard talk of, but Sangre offered the best in all things.

           “Are you charging per hour, doctor?” Will asked, the sarcasm half-hearted at best.

           “Please, you may call me Hannibal. I’ve known you long enough that the title is unnecessary.” Hannibal swirled the wine in the glass and inhaled the bouquet, eyes closing. “A good choice.”

           “I thought you might like it.”

           “And once again I am reminded why I moved my afternoon leisure time from Belle Bleu to Sangre.” Will ducked his head at the compliment, turning the drink tray flat against his stomach as he took a step back. After his initial arrival, Hannibal had resumed his Monday through Friday appearance, refusing to take advantage of the lady fingers discount if you ordered drinks from 3-7 that included a shot of Bailey’s.

           “To my original observation, though; are you troubled?” Will looked away from him to the empty bar because apparently no one lurking about for a steampunk aesthetic seemed to come out of hiding until at least 6:30.

           “Some trouble sleeping,” he admitted, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Hannibal nod.

           “School assignments keeping you awake in the dark hours of the night?”

           “Love letters, mostly,” said Will, and he froze when he realized what’d popped out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say it, mostly due to lack of desire to share that aspect of his business, but also because it was troubling business at best and deadly business at worst.

           “Love letters,” Hannibal repeated, and a smile ghosted his lips. “Are you dating someone, Will?”

           “No,” he hastily replied, turning back to Hannibal. “No, just…someone sending me love letters. At least, letters of admiration.”

           “Do you lie awake and think of them fondly, or are you losing sleep because the contents make you uncomfortable?” Dr. Lecter tilted his head, and his knowing gaze ripped right through Will to expose him.

           “It’s…more my worry of who it’s from,” he said, and he rocked back on his heels, gripping the serving tray tightly. When Hannibal motioned for him to sit, he did so, poised on the edge of the opposing chair, watching Hannibal’s crafty fingers turn the wine glass about on its napkin.

           “Unrequited love?” Hannibal asked lightly.

           “I don’t even know who it is,” Will confessed, leaning in and staring at the fake kerosene lamp between them. “I have…my suspicions, but if I’m right…”

           “Ah, a secret admirer. I could imagine, with your constitution, that such a thing would be invasive and horrifying to think of,” Hannibal noted, a mild tone of mocking. Will gritted his teeth and refused to acknowledge it.

           “I think this person may be someone that’s hurting other people, and I don’t know if they’re hurting them for me, or if it’s just…something to pass the time.” He thought of the woman on the quad and closed his eyes, lashes fluttering against his skin as he exhaled shakily.

           “Have you taken your concerns to the police?”

           “They weren’t helpful in the least,” Will replied, snorting. “In fact, they took my prints and all but accused me of bringing misleading or damning information to them.” He glanced to his knees, sighed, then looked out of the semi-parted curtains to watch pedestrians outside. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, or if I should even do anything.”

           “What do your school studies tell you to do in a situation like this?” Will had almost forgotten that Hannibal knew what he went to school for.

           “Report your concern so that it’s on file, and don’t try and message back.”

           “Have you done both of those things?”

           “Yes.” Will nodded firmly. “I keep my door locked, my windows locked, I try not to be alone-”

           “Another difficult task for one such as yourself, I’d imagine,” Hannibal cut in dryly. Will looked to his shoulder, frowning.

           “I have friends,” he said, like that absolved him of anything.

           “I’m not questioning your acquiring of friends, but I do question your ability to open up to them and build your relationships with the sharing of intimate details about your life. When this happened to you, did you go to them?” At Will’s guilty silence, he nodded knowingly. “And when it troubled you further, did you finally seek them out?” Another silence. Hannibal took a sip of his wine. “Friendships are made to be built by trust and shared experiences that bond you, but a person such as yourself struggles with that connection to people because you struggle to open up.”

           “How do you know so much about me?” Will asked suspiciously, unwilling to admit his embarrassment at being read so well.

           “You’ve met my eyes once since helping me today, and that is the average of each time you’ve ever served me. I believe on a good day, you will meet my gaze approximately four to five times, and on a particularly bad day, you can’t manage the trouble at all.” It echoed his old boss, and Will nodded, morose.

           “I’m sorry.”

           “Don’t be. Do you avoid the gaze of others because you are made physically uncomfortable, or do you see the very things one would rather keep secret?”

           “You really are psychoanalyzing me,” said Will, glancing up to his face. He forced himself to look at his eyes, drumming his fingers on his knee. He made it a good three seconds before looking over his shoulder instead.

           “Am I making you uncomfortable?” Hannibal asked.

           “A little.”

           “I’d apologize, but I’m not entirely sorry,” he revealed and Will nodded in agreement.

           “I had a feeling.”

           “This…person you suspect as harming people while sending you love letters; do you believe it will escalate over time?”

           “That’s my concern. We’ve studied obsession, stalking, and ‘offerings’, and it doesn’t end well for the target in any case except for cases where law enforcement took their claims seriously. Even then, it’s difficult to…pinpoint the person behind it. They stay low, they stick to the shadows and underbelly of society, and they use any suspicion directed towards them as a means to make the victim appear mentally unstable and inefficient as a witness to any crime.” When a customer walked in, Will stood, turning the serving tray about in his hands. Hannibal glanced to the patron, then nodded in understanding.

           “Do you feel like a victim, Will?” he wondered before Will walked away.

           “I feel…” His voice halted in his throat and refused to go further. When he couldn’t finish his sentence, he nodded his head to Hannibal and excused himself silently, the back of his neck hot with embarrassment. As he took orders, he saw Hannibal relax into his chair and look out of the window with a calm, sanguine expression, as though they’d never spoken. Thankfully, the good doctor didn’t press for an admission when he finalized his bill, and Will was able to get away without having to admit that he felt rather flattered that out of everyone in DC, he was the one the Ripper decided to notice.