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coefore · 2 months

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I did it! This is an IDW AU born while watching The Green Knight (2021), specifically from one movie shot that I'd like to redraw. I was torn on whether or not to draw them all as robots or humans, so I started making designs for their human counterparts first - mostly because it is more fun to come up with clothes and accessories. I will eventually tackle a robot version. This is a long post, btw!

Indeed, this is a completely separate version from the Lion King AU I had come up with a couple of years ago, I just borrowed the crowns because I really liked those designs lol.

But let's set the stage under the cut. You can listen to the playlist on spotify dedicated to it: I've placed the songs in sequence so that they can create a certain vibe for the scenes I had in mind. You can read the plot part while listening.

Some character traits

This royalty au supposes a parliamentary monarchy (like the UK, Spain or Japan). This work is an in-between of later Roman/early Medieval aesthetics and some Futuristic Stuff. The Autobot brand is the royal family crest, while the Decepticon brand can be used to signal the Protector and their entourage, but only in formal settings outside the nation. Usually, the Protector can show elements of the Decepticon colours (red) in their attires.

Optimus Prime

Optimus is prideful and domineering: he knows he has the power to do real damage to people. After all, he was born into royalty and has known no other life. He has anger outbursts, but that's a side effect of his paranoia. At the start of the story, he is not the prime yet. He's around 23-24, already suffering from a mental affliction much like schizophrenia, but, just as in ye old days, the court and his father (Zeta) are not really concerned about his odd behaviours. "He is just volatile", you know. He is also dramatic, making big scenes when his emotions are too cooped up. Optimus, though, is not intentionally cruel - this isn't a Shattered Glass au where he wants some kind of bloodlust sated. He has a deep inner mind, feeling much more like a philosopher and a writer than a brute. This makes him a little naive, too, having people in court (like Prowl) taking advantage of him - and sometimes even Megatron uses his influence on Optimus to stir him where he wants to. He reads a lot, is curious, and is deeply in love with Megatron - sometimes becoming a little cringy about it. He can be a bit of a goofball, telling jokes and being rather affectionate with his family. Sadly, he's a Pisces.

Megatron

Megatron is a diligent engineer who just so happens to pick the Prime's son's interest at some point while assisting his father (Terminus, a strict, distant man) in a job at court. Optimus and Megatron are the same age. He is aloof, quiet and a very good listener. That means he often allows people to speak over him or for him - that doesn't mean, however, that he isn't going to correct them or speak his mind. He is just a careful man. Coming from a rather cold family environment, he has a hard time expressing his emotions, both verbally and physically: he kisses and hugs, sure, but that doesn't come naturally to him. After becoming protector, he has a hard time getting used to the court lifestyle since he is quite bothered by the intricacies of royal "rituals", may they be clothing, hairstyles or make-up choices. Or Starscream fussing over him about that all day. He also often stands up against abuse of power, especially from Optimus. They fight quite a lot. He enjoys drawing (buildings, like architecture) and reading novels, but he's not particularly cultured. He is also, sadly, an Aquarius. (And transgender, but this has no political or social bearing in the story besides being Rodimus' biological carrier).

Prowl

Prowl is about fifteen years older than Optimus, becoming his advisor once Zeta Prime passes in "a tragic accident". He is ambitious, cunning and... Deceptive. His ultimate goal is to push Optimus to insanity, convince the parliament he is unfit to rule and become reagent in his stead. This would allow him to create an oligarchy with other senators. His words always support Optimus' delusions, abusing the Prime's naivety for his scheming. Prowl thinks of Optimus as an idiot lucky enough to be born in a high position in the social pyramid. He has attempted various times to "warn" Megatron, one of the few people who is extremely suspicious of Prowl. And by warn, I mean having him pushed down the stairs, giving him a nice broken leg. He also acts suspiciously around Rodimus.

Zeta Prime

Zeta Prime was a balanced, careful ruler. He held concerns about his son's future, as he thought Optimus wasn't fit for a leading role. He was a stern man and often frustrated by Optimus' antics. However, their relationship was on good terms. He was "found" dead by Prowl during a political meeting abroad, as he was standing in for Alpha Trion (Zeta's advisor), prompting Optimus' coronation. Zeta wasn't sick, but all primes in this AU suffer from haemophilia (a hereditary illness that makes it harder for the body to stop bleeding).

Rodimus

Rodimus was born three years into Optimus' primacy. He was brought up in a restrictive environment, as Megatron grew more suspicious of Prowl, fearing for Rodimus' safety. That translated into Rodimus feeling anxious when Megatron's not around (for too long, at least) and becoming a little jealous of him, even if it's Optimus taking Megatron's attention. Rodimus uses "dad" for Megatron and "Father" for Optimus. He doesn't like Optimus too much, usually bearing his presence and ignoring him whenever he can, but deep down he worries about his father, too. He is a very knowledgeable child with a vast vocabulary, as he enjoys books of every kind and, just like his dad, he is a good listener, learning a lot from the "adult conversations" around him. Rodimus is often seen together with Starscream (his nanny, in a way lol), who he is fond of but has difficulties showing it. He becomes Prime-to-be at the age of 16, like all Primes.

Starscream

Starscream was the royal alchemist, an inspired researcher and a man of science. He is loyal and has strong opinions on many subjects, especially on morals and ethics. That is also why, during Zeta's late reign, he was demoted to servant with the accusation of insubordination. He is still a high-grade servant, usually dealing with bureaucracy... Until a new Protector shows up, that is. As soon as Megatron becomes a Protector-to-be, he is assigned the role of first maid in assisting him, a task he takes very seriously. Although Megatron's distance and lack of interactions with him drive him quite mad at first, he slowly realises they're quite compatible. Their relationship evolves into confidants and then friends, as Megatron often takes Starscream's side. Also, Starscream has been suspicious of Prowl since day one. He enjoys Rodimus until he starts being a little opinionated pest-- but he's fond of the child, even as he grows older and more anxious. His hobby is sneaking into the court laboratories and fixing whatever annotations made by other alchemists he deems wrong.

Skywarp & Thundercracker

They are part of the Protector's entourage (and Starscream's brothers). Skywarp is a little airheaded, a bit clumsy, and usually focuses on entertainment, mostly writing poems and songs. He is the only one who knows all the intricate inner passages of the court's buildings by heart, meaning he never gets lost. Thundercracker, on the other hand, is a bit more cocky. He is built like a brick, so he helps with manual tasks and is a decent leader, usually picking up the ranks when Starscream is busy. Both of them were not demoted like their brother, they just started working at the court as high-grade servants. They are very loyal to Megatron, although they treat him more like a royal than a friend.

The Plot (generally speaking)

Optimus is interested in this one engineer working at the court he has seen a couple of times in the last few months. He is gorgeous, and it sounds like a fun time to fill in his afternoons, maybe even getting some sex out of it. That's a thing he hasn't lacked in his life, like most royals he was used to having sex workers available at whim. However, Megatron doesn't seem too affected by the Prime-to-be's attention. He is very deadpan and interested in him as a person; he finds Optimus interesting and funny, so, in a matter of weeks, they kind of hit it off, Optimus falling madly in love with this man, spending most of the time daydreaming and absolutely useless at his duties, much to Zeta's dismay.

As this love story progresses over the next couple of years, Prowl's machination starts rolling out: being a young overachiever, he patiently waits for the chance to get rid of Zeta in a way that doesn't point directly to him. After all, Prowl is trusted and seen as loyal and caring for the Primes he serves; he is an incredibly talented actor, having the support of a few Autobot senators, too. On an out-of-country political trip, he lets Zeta bleed to death, coming back home in a hurry to announce the Prime's death and rushing Optimus' coronation. At this point, Optimus is not mentally ready to hold that position; he is quickly pushed to marry Megatron, making him his Protector. In a matter of a year and a half, Optimus' mental state quickly deteriorates, allowing Prowl to take hold of the neo-Prime's decisions.

Optimus' mental illness worsens, which stresses Megatron into stirring his husband away from Prowl. Rodimus is born in that worried, paranoid environment. Although mostly wanted by Optimus as one of his fixations (and also discouraged by Prowl himself), Rodimus brings more stability to the court. Megatron finally takes hold of Optimus' volatile behaviour as Rodimus grows older, making the Prime doubt his advisor's suggestions more than once. Prowl, thus, "warns" Megatron to lay low, having him pushed down the stairs. The goal wasn't to kill Megatron but to show him Prowl could. As Rodimus turns seven, Megatron becomes more anxious and paranoid, rubbing that over to his son. Optimus doesn't allow them to go around the court or outside without being accompanied.

Prowl's hold on Optimus slowly slips away. At the time of Rodimus' coronation as a Prime-to-be, during a medical examination for his haemophilia, the court physician (Ratchet) tells him he needs to be careful, as that illness was Zeta's cause of death. That was a known thing, of course, but it made Optimus think over the mechanics of his father's death in a way only an obsession-driven man can. He confides with Megatron over his suspicion of Prowl killing his father, and finally, they seem to be on the same page on this...

This is somehow the story up to now. I don't know if I'll update it further. I just enjoy the idea of whatever can happen in this setting. I hope you enjoyed reading this wall of text.

#transformers #shattered glass #maccadam #starscream #megop #megatron #optimus prime #rodimus #megaop #prowl #alternate universe #skywarp #thundercracker #humanformers #fanart #erinni #Spotify #a morte

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cheeseceli · 9 months

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Skz reaction to their s/o listening to angry music

Pairing: ot8 skz × gn!Reader (individually)

Genre: I'm pretty sure this is fluff

Request: "i was wondering if u could write like a reaction of skz when they find out that yn is listening to angry music (metal, rage rap,..)"

A/N: I AM SO LATE with this request, I'm so so sorry😭 it took me a while to figure out how i wanted to write this but I hope you like it nevertheless! Also first time I use dividers and I think it's so cute (credits in the end of the post)

Bang Chan

I think he would be so surprised?? Mainly if your music taste doesn't match your appearance

Like imagine you wear such soft clothes and then you're listening to rage in your headphones

He would be tempted to make more songs like this to stray kids though

And would ask for your opinion ofc, might even put your name in the credits

Will also send tiktoks he finds about angry music all the time

And if he ever gets to know one of your favourite artists (this man knows the whole entertainment industry atp) he will let you know and might even bring you an autograph

Lee Know

He would find out your music taste when you guys made one of those matchings in spotify

He swore you guys would be more than 90% compatible

you were only 34%

he is in shock

But he listens to every single song that shows up on the matching

Might even add some to his favourites

Will let you know his opinions too

And if another member likes angry music as well, he will mention you in the conversation

He might even use this as a way to bring you closer to the members

His s/o and his best friends, he would love that

Changbin

If you like angry rap he is now taking notes lmao

Will try to incorporate it in his own rap

Takes you to concerts!!

Buy you merch!!

Tries to meet with your favourite artists!!

Makes angry music for skz!!

Will do everything and anything when it comes to your likings, including musical taste

And he would add angry music in your karaoke nights

He is screaming from the top of his lungs into the mic but he is so happy lol

Please scream with him, thank you

Hyunjin

I feel like he always knew that

It was probably one of the first things he knew about you

And even though he might not like this musical genre personally, he will probably listen to it sometimes and will have some of your songs in his playlist

But he likes it the most when he is driving and you play one of your playlists on the radio

When you sing along>>

And!!

If you know the story behind one of the artists/songs PLEASE tell him

He would love to listen to you explain it to him

Han

You can't convince me that this man doesn't have some songs like that in his playlist as well

He goes to the gym listening to the most agressive songs ever

So he actually is pretty happy you guys have something else in common

And if you guys like the same artist or the same song, he is in heaven

Specially if it's metal

Nothing will change my mind, he listens to metal a lot

And agressive rap

Will also incorporate to his rap sometimes and maybe will even put some references to your favourite artists on the lyrics

Will add a lot of your recommendations to his playlist

Felix

Tried to do a matching on spotify as well and was in shock with how many metal and rap was there

Asks you to make a playlist for him recommending some songs

Will show your recs to the members as well

Suddenly all the dorm is listening to metal

And if you ever think that his voice could match one of your favourites songs, he would be so honoured fr

Like, you're making an association between a thing that you love and him, he is so genuinely happy

Will try to sing it ofc

Seungmin

He is other one who I think will probably not like the genre that much

But will listen to it whenever you listen to it

He really likes to share an earphone with you

If you're up to it, so is he

And also likes to pick which song you're listening to

Will make a whole queue for you to listen

And if he ever comes across to another angry music, he is sending it to you immediately

I.N

Now that they have personal instagram accounts (I'm so happy lmao) he will post a picture on his stories and will let you choose the song

So he is wearing the cutest outfit but rage is playing on the background

He finds it pretty cool ngl

And since we're talking about fashion

He would love to see how your musical taste reflects on your clothes, if it does

It's so interesting he swears

He would also spoil you with merch and concerts

I believe he would try to listen to some angry music to try to impress you lmao

Like you'd be listening to some music and somehow he knows the artist, the album and even the release date

Pretend you didn't see him search everything on google

Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Dividers by @cafekitsune (thank you btw!)

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tboygareth · 6 months

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Batter up!

Chapters 1 & 2 coming to AO3 on November 12, 2023, featuring art by @thatnerdemryn and a playlist by @steves-strapcollection, written for @steddiebang

Summary: All Steve wants for the 2023 baseball season is for the media to leave him alone for once. His reputation is still suffering after he was caught last season in a very compromising position with one of his teammates, and he just wants to lay low and play a good season. A trip to the World Series wouldn't hurt either. A voice from his past has other plans, though.

Eddie hasn't been able to forget what the two of them had together when they were in high school, or his promise to Steve when they parted ways the summer after senior year: Someday I'll write a whole album for you. It's been a decade, and all the pieces are in place for Eddie to finally make good on that promise.

Steve is in for a roller coaster of a season.

Sneak peek under the cut

It’s around sunrise when he wakes with his alarm, properly this time, and he finds seven missed calls from Robin, and another text message from her.

Call me. This is a PR call, not a bestie call. Get up.

So Steve calls his publicist, Robin Buckley, rather than his best friend Rob.

“Jesus, it’s about damn time,” she says by way of greeting.

“I just woke up, Rob. What do you want?”

“Eddie’s album came out today.”

Steve waits, but Robin doesn’t say anything else. “Okay? Why am I supposed to care? I haven’t spoken to Eddie Munson in almost ten years.”

“I need you to open Spotify and just. Look at the album art.”

“I don’t even remember what his fucking band is even called,” Steve lies, putting Robin on speaker, and then he thumbs his way through his apps to open Spotify. Pulling up the search feature, Steve taps in the name of Eddie’s band and right there, under recently released, is the new Corroded Coffin album.

Batter up!, it’s called.

On the cover is Eddie Munson, looking just as wild as he did in high school and not a day older than he looked the last time Steve saw him. Eddie’s big, dark eyes are trained on the camera, and he’s got his body turned sideways. He is wearing a generic baseball uniform in blue and gray. He’s got a baseball bat positioned between strong thighs, sticking out from between his legs in an obscene suggestion of an erection. There are nails sticking out of the end of the bat and the album title is embossed on the barrel. Eddie’s hand, big and veiny, is gripped around the taper, a light gray sweatband on his wrist. He is either wearing an athletic cup underneath those fucking pants or he’s sporting some very real half chub action. What the hell.

“Jesus H. Christ. Is that… Robin, is that a number seven on his fucking wristband?” Steve asks flatly.

“That’s what you’re focusing on?”

Steve ignores her. He can’t focus on anything else. Not if he wants to keep his hard-won sanity. “We could always sue him.” “That would mean owning up to a lot,” Robin says carefully. “I listened to it, Steve. The lyrics aren’t subtle.”

#batter up!#bee's blurbs #steddiebang23 #drops this and runs

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gimmeyourlovepls · 4 months

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Miles and Y/N showing each other music taste to each other would be sooo cute and funny. (example : they listen to like tv girl/ alex g while he listens to Kendrick and J cole type thing.)

OMG I WAS THINKING OF THIS A WHILE BACK WHEN I THOUGHT OF YOU TWO TRYING TO MAKE A SHARED PLAYLIST

you and miles are just chilling on the couch in his living room, you sitting between his thighs as you watched a movie, when he looks down at you

and you immediatley notice he's looking down at you so u look up at him with a smile

as soon as he asks what music you listen to, you start to make excuse after excuse

"um, my spotify doesnt work rn"

"my phone is glitchy and low on battery, i dont wanna use it rn"

and he isnt taking none of that so he uses his web shooters (why does he have those on right now) to steal your phone and open it

and if ur wondering how he can open it you guys share passwords (cause trust <3)

and he opens your spotify and best interest from tyler the creator and blue hair by tv girl

and ur scrambling to get your phone back as he continues scrolling and scrolling

and he finally hands it back to you after a good minute and you see you have a new playlist titled "miles"

"made a playlist for us to share, ill put music in there for you"

PLEASE DO NOT @ ME ABOUT MY SPOTIFY ACCOUNT, I DO NOT HAVE GOOD TASTE IN MUSIC AND YOU CANT SEE MY PLAYLISTS

#earth 1610 miles morales #miles morales x reader #miles x reader #across the spiderverse #earth 1610 miles morales x reader #miles morales #earth42!miles #earth42!miles x reader #earth 42 #bo rambles

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sphireath-wisp · 1 year

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#just for me.

Sypnosis: Things that remind them of you that they keep for themselves (Blue lock version)

Warnings: Messy interchanging tenses, not proofread

Featuring: Nagi Seishiro, Meguru Bachira, Yoichi Isagi, Itoshi Rin x GN! reader

Nagi Seishiro

He had this picture of you in his wallet wearing a matching onesie with him. The both of you were wearing stitch onesies and Reo had just happened to come by. Taking hold of this opportunity, Reo snapped a picture of the both of you asleep on the couch - popcorn and snacks next to the both of you as the TV was still playing the movie you both were watching. Once Nagi sees the picture, he'll snatch it away from Reo and keep in it his phone case. His phone is always with him, so it's convenient to just take it out and get his daily reminder of who's been supporting him in his career for so long.

The matching necklaces you got for his birthday. He always keeps it on him and does not care if he's breaking any rules wearing it (he'll just hide it under his shirt, what's the big deal?) Nagi likes it because it's convenient to wear when playing football. It doesn't disturb him much like rings do when he eats or earrings when he jumps around during practice. Plus, he'll unconsciously fidget with it. The cold sensation it has whenever he touches it is weirdly comforting.

Meguru Bachira

He has a picture of you and him in an art class the both of you signed up for. Honestly, he wasn't focusing and neither were you - there were doodles everywhere on his canvas and you couldn't focus with him around. You remember him doodling you kissing him on the cheek, a cat, your initials in a heart, etc. In the picture, he was cupping your cheek and painting small hearts all over your face. Every time he stares at the photo, he can recall the sound of your uncontrollable laughter, how one of the hearts smudged on his cheeks when you kissed him, and the trouble you went through wiping off the red stains on your face and clothes.

His grades... aren't the best. Thus, being the dedicated and loving significant other you are, you copied your personal super helpful notes for him to refer though. However, you had encountered an obstacle - he could not focus. Complaints and whines would be the only thing rolling off of his tongue instead of anything intellectual. Thus, you've come up with a solution! Doodles and affirmations in the notebook keep him around long enough. Occasionally, you'll doodle a smaller version of you saying "good job!", hugging him, kissing him, etc. Similar to checkpoints, you'll remind him of how great he's doing or how he's going to ace his exams like this! Once he returns the notebook, you'll notice new doodles, and a thank you message on a card hidden between the pages.

Yoichi Isagi

The scarf you gave him during autumn. It still has that lingering smell of your perfume/cologne, and he just likes having it on during his walks. It calms him down to just having it around his neck. I just have this hunch that he feels so guilty the moment there's a hole or any sort of stain. (Don't worry, he's careful with such a precious item)

I just know you and Isagi would share a Spotify playlist! I JUST KNOW IT. You have this playlist with him with a mix of your taste in music and his (he requested you to add in calmer pieces specifically). Whenever he's listening to music on the bus or train and hears a song he doesn't recognize, he'll smile unconsciously because he just feels like this is the type of song you would like. Seriously, those cheesy, calming love songs always remind him of you. It makes him really appreciate being yours, being able to hold your hand, hug you, treat you to things, etc.

Itoshi Rin

The good luck notes you leave in his bag. Of course, you respect his privacy and won't unnecessarily rummage through his things. Though, that doesn't mean you can't just slide your little token of encouragement right into his bag! Technically, you aren't looking! At first, when he felt the touch of paper against his palm, he assumed it was trash. When he was able to fish it out and inspect it, he realized the heartfelt contents of the "trash" in his hands. You don't know this, but he actually collects your messages. It's no good to waste such endearment! In a small corner of his bag, he neatly tucks them in and keeps them for whenever he feels like he misses you has nothing to do.

Knowing Rin, he's in no way a romantic. I mean, this is Itoshi Rin, we're talking about here. Thus, you decided to be bold and be the first person to make a move! You gave him a bouquet of white jasmine to bring home and to be honest, he seemed uninterested... Keyword: seemed. This guy brought home the flowers and literally researched how to take care of them to ensure that they never wither. During that, he found out the symbolic meaning of white jasmine - love, beauty, and sensuality. (He'll make sure to bring a bouquet for you in the future)

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queerpumpkinnn · 7 months

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Kinktober 11th: Goosebumps

aka blindfolds with Spencer Reid

3k words

Summary: You find out about a new curiosity of Spencer's- to say he's enthusiastic when you bring it up may be an understatement.

Warnings: watching porn, reader is blindfolded, power dynamics, slight themes of mutual obsession, cunnilingus, heaps of praise, hair pulling, an ungodly amount of "baby", let me know if I've missed anything!

While listening, I recommend you listen to the altar is my hips - a Spotify playlist by me!

You don't know how you got here, you really don't.

Perhaps you shouldn't have logged into Spencer's porn account. It really truly had only come from a place of curiosity, wondering what your boyfriend used to keep himself entertained when he was away on those long trips. But when you noticed a pattern developing in his more recent saves, it had caught your attention.

And now, here you were, two hours in, staring at your laptop. The video was the same general formula as all the others: a pair that generally looked like the two of you, run time on the longer side, and with the lead that was supposed to be you donning a blindfold.

That was what had peaked your curiosity.

You weren't getting off to it, per se, but you'd be lying if you said your stomach didn't get butterflies whenever the blindfolded lead gasped or jumped from an unexpected touch.

And you'd also be lying if you said you didn't immediately start looking for blindfolds that could be delivered before he got home.

. . .

You were practically shaking with excitement on the night he was supposed to come home. You'd lit your favorite candle in the living room and pulled out all the stops to ensure you looked as delectable as he insisted you were.

You'd managed to keep yourself occupied with something on television by the time his keys rattled from the other side of the door, jolting your head in the direction of the foyer.

When the door swung open, you weren't surprised to see Spencer trudge through the door, bag slung over his shoulder and coat draped over his elbow. His footsteps were heavy and so were his eyes. When he saw your sympathetic smile, heard your "hey bub", his demeanor relaxed.

"C'mere," you stood, holding your arms out towards him. He pulled his bag over his shoulders and let it fall on the floor with a muffled thump. Spencer waddled with heavy feet into your arms, melting into your embrace so deeply you had to step back to balance his weight.

"Missed you," he mumbled into your shirt collar, arms tugging you close into his chest. You could hear his heartbeat.

You always prepared for the worst on nights like this- nights when Spencer came home. Knowing how possible it was for Spencer to come home rattled and on the verge of tears, you decided against pouncing the moment he walked in the door.

Tonight didn't seem like one of those days though- you'd learned to tell the difference between a long day and a bad day. But nonetheless you combed a hand through his hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple.

"Why don't you go take a shower, hm?"

"I smell that bad?" He chuckled.

"No, but I know it'll make you feel much better."

Spencer hummed, kissing your hair before leaving for the bathroom.

To anyone who hasn't lived with Spencer, the time he takes might have been a little suspicious. But you paid no mind- you'd found out when you started showering with him that he was very thorough, especially when he came back from a trip, back from sleeping in unfamiliar hotels and whatever else.

The view that greets you when he comes out, however, is more than worth the wait. You're draped out over the pillows when Spencer comes padding in, donning only a pair of sweatpants that hung criminally low, as if they were taunting you. His hair was always curlier when he got out of the shower, half-wet as he shook it with a towel.

"Feel better?"

"Definitey," Spencer sighed, leaving the towel at the foot of the bed as he crawled up the mattress, draping himself over your body and engulfing you in a hug.

"Spencer, baby, I can't breathe," you gasp, trying to shove him off through your giggles.

"Sounds like a you problem," he snarked, but he rolled off of you anyways.

You readjusted yourself so that you lay flat on your back, setting your phone aside. "I didn't mean leave, jeez."

"Make up your mind!"

"Are you going to come lay with me or not, Spencer?"

Spencer gave an exaggerated groan, but the smile on his face told you you'd won. You patted your stomach, and he gladly laid his head there, hands rubbing comfortingly on your sides.

"We've really got to get out of here one of these days." Spencer said suddenly.

You cocked your head down at him. "What do you mean? You want to move?"

"No, that's not what I meant. I mean, if you really want to we can put that on the table. But I've been meaning to take a vacation- take us on a vacation- for a while now. I could get a whole month off, just for us."

"Yeah, you could. I don't think I have quite that much vacation time stored up yet."

"You could call in sick." Spencer rested his chin on your stomach, gazing up at with you with a playful tease in his eyes. "Say you got mono or something."

"For a whole month?"

"Yeah. And you just so happen to be in France recovering. They'd believe it."

"Sounds like a plan then." You hummed, leaning your head back on the pillows, fingers still threading mindlessly through damp curls.

The silence was comfortable, sleepy, but something else began to slowly creep in. Spencer's hands, gentle as always, had wandered, caressing not only your stomach but your waist and your thighs, making for a tantalizing journey. You wonder if he even knew he was doing it. He was keen on what spots on your body could get you worked up if only brushed.

The answer came to you not long after you pondered the question. He started pressing soft kisses against your stomach, nose tracing over your hipbone.

A quiet sigh escapes your lips before you're aware of it. This seems to encourage your boyfriend, whose hand is now tracing shapes into the inside of your thigh with his opposite hand, fingertips reaching just short of your shorts hem.

"Spence, baby, what are you doing?" You try to make it sound nonchalant, playful, but the suspense has you so on edge it sounds shakier than you anticipated.

"Nothing," he murmurs against the skin of your ribs, where sweet kisses left blooming warmth wherever he left them. The hem of your shirt was pushed up to the neckline- you'd barely noticed he'd moved it- and his mouth was warm and languid over your chest.

The silence was thick with tension, with unspoken electric desire. You felt it in your veins, in every nerve that was awakened by Spencer's touch. When he tugged your shirt over your head, you shuddered. It wasn't the cold in the room, it was the intensity with which Spencer gazed at you. His eyes were lidded with hunger, a burning admiration that sent goosebumps up your spine.

"So beautiful..." Spencer mumbled, more to himself. Awe might have been the closest word to describe the way he stared.

Perhaps it was the nervousness of being watched so closely, perhaps it was how long you'd been hung on a string, you didn't care. You reached out to his face with both hands and pulled him forward into a heated kiss. Spencer gave a groan, hands tugging your waist so that you were pulled onto his lap. You sank heavily onto his lap, causing Spencer to moan deeper. His tongue had slipped past your lips, making the kiss messy and wet and so dirty.

"Baby," you breathed when Spencer finally let you go, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your jawline. "I got you something."

"Oh?"

"Mhm, wanna see?"

"Of course, angel." Excitement coursed through you, and you couldn't help the grin that came with it. You practically leapt out of his lap towards your dresser, pulling from it a silky black cloth.

"Oh, now what is that?" Spencer cocked his head to one side.

"What do you think?" You teased, holding it out in front of him. He's silent for a moment, in thought, until he takes it.

You can't help the 'oh?' that leaves your mouth when he starts pulling the blindfold to his own face. He stops at that, looking at you curiously.

"No, go ahead. I just wasn't expecting that, it's usually the other way around."

"Usually?"

Shit. "I, uh, may or may not have gone through your porn account."

"I know," he said simply. When you blink stupidly at him, his eyes lift in a smile. "I opened it last night and found that something was already being played from the account. So I actually had a hunch this was coming."

You rolled your eyes. "I can never surprise you anymore."

"Oh, sure you can." Spencer stood, miming the way you held the blindfold out to him earlier. "May I?"

You nodded, closing your eyes. The fabric was soft against your face, cool.

"Gonna need you to stay standing, baby, can you do that?" The voice next to you makes you jump a little, and you can feel the breath from his chuckle fanning your cheek. But you nod, and his hands come to either of your arms, adjusting your position. You knew from where you'd started that he was pushing you away from the bed.

Your breath hitched in your throat when his fingers traced along the waistband of your shorts, the area when your skin disappeared and he met fabric instead. It felt like minutes before his fingers had actually hooked into it, pulled them down to your feet. A tap to your ankle told you to lift your feet to help him take them off.

It was strange, being blindfolded. Not just the loss of your sight, but the loss of the expectation of doing something. Anything Spencer might possibly ask of you you wouldn't think twice, but it was nice to have your focus narrowed to one thing, to be free of having to think or do, just feel.

"Relax, you're so jumpy." You swallowed at the lilt in his voice. Normally you'd fire back with a snarky comment, but you were vulnerable, physically and mentally. All you could do was melt, tremble.

Spencer alternated between keeping a hand on you to let you know where he was and leaving you completely in the dark, so to speak. A single touch on your collarbone set the skin aflame, even more so when his palm joined his fingers. For a moment he seemed to trace over you aimlessly, hand holding your jaw and moving your head around, as if under inspection.

The hand slithered around to the back of your head. It served as an anchor when Spencer kissed you, slow and sensual. He wasn't hurried, he was taking his time with you. Appreciating every gasp and huff and twitch, every inch of your body he could use against you. He knew each and every way to string you out, and he was intent on pressing every single one of your buttons one by one.

Your skin prickled in anticipation. You felt barer than you normally did; your underwear was still on, but you were rendered powerless, exposed.

And you could not rely on him for mercy.

"Please..." you breathed, although you had no idea what you were praying for.

"I know, I know." Spencer mused, lips trailing down your jawline, pressing soft kisses to your pulse point. His lips stayed firmly there for a moment, and you could feel it throbbing faster, more intensely under the increased pressure. You're sure that he could feel it too; that that was his intent.

"All in good time, baby." Spencer whispered against the column of your throat. "Trust me."

Spencer's hands ghost over your arms, tracing down with a touch that ever held a double-meaning. It was infused with love, worship, as was anything he ever did for, to, and with you. But there was a mean little vein somewhere in there that said he loved seeing you this way. On edge. At his mercy. A little scared, even. When his palms smooth over your waist, up, down, up, down, you know that he loves you. But he also loves the effect he has on you.

Footsteps signal to you that he's walking, and his hands follow him, letting you know that he was behind you. Kisses on your shoulder give way to strokes of his tongue, up and down your neck.

"Such a pretty body, baby," Spencer murmurs against the shell of your ears, cheek tickling your hair.

Spencer's lips do nothing if not in devotion to you, and this is true now. They press little sparks in between your shoulder blades, down your spine. His mouth reaches lower, lower, until he's kissing along the band of your underwear. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, trail the junction between your thighs and your ass, tug at the leg holes of your underwear, his nail rubbing against your wide-awake skin.

"May I?" Spencer asked from somewhere behind you. You could feel the smile against your bum, as if he already knew the answer.

"Yes." It was more of a plea than an answer. Nevertheless, Spencer needed no further incentive. The pads of his fingers are rough, a contrast with his worshipping touch, as he drags your underwear down your legs. You were ready this time, lifting your feet before he needed to tap your ankle.

"So pretty," Spencer says under his breath; he seems to have picked up a new mantra. He smoothed his hand over your calf, a tiny reminder of safety and care.

Your entire body is at his command, awaiting any kind of interaction from him. Your thighs flex under his hold. Every vein, muscle, and bone were roaring with blood. You could feel it, and so could he.

"I can smell you, baby," Spencer groans, and from the way it sounded, his face was somewhere level with your ass. Waves of tingling anticipation rolled in your gut.

Fingers tiptoe up the backs of your thighs, tracing little circles around the junction between your thighs and your ass. They trail dangerously closer and closer to your cunt, and every nerve ending in your body is screaming at you how close he is.

You almost sob with disappointment when his hands leave you. You're stood there with no idea where he is, but you're sure he's standing right there, staring at you. You're tempted to reach out for him but he'd probably laugh at you.

Your confusion is eased when soft breath on the shell of your ear and damp curls tickling your cheek greet you.

"I love you," Spencer's voice was muted, but it spooked you a little anyways. You knew that was on purpose, to get you nervous.

But the shock of that was nothing compared to what he did next.

Without any warning, any clue, a firm kiss was pressed to the skin just above your clit.

You crumbled under his touch. Your hesitance to touch him was lost, hands tangled in his hair. Soft whimpers and gasps were replaced with a cry of pleasure and shock.

A call of your name.

"Yeah?" It comes out whinier than you expected.

"Take the blindfold off."

You've never tore something from your body faster in your life. Your eyes stung a little from the sudden light, even if it was dim. But Spencer, even through the seeming brightness, was still as beautiful as ever. Gazing up at you with a yearning lust. Hands hovering over your thighs, shaking as though rattled by some magnetic field of yours.

"Please, Spencer..." your fingers flexed and unflexed over his scalp, and you were surprised the words came out coherent despite your breath being caught in your throat.

No sooner than his name left your lips did he dive into you, tongue ravishing your cunt that welcomed him greedily. There'd been an almost embarrassing amount of slick leaking out of you- a representative of how much anticipation and want Spencer had pulled from you.

It was reckless abandon that drove Spencer now- not calculated or experimental movements. Pure hot pleasure spread through your body like wildfire.

“So wet, baby, fuck. I’ve barely even touched you, and you’re this worked up?” Spencer’s voice is muffled, barely coming up for air as his mouth works ceaselessly, groaning into your dripping folds.

“God, Spencer, ‘m so close, Spencer-“

“Come on baby, cum for me. Cum all over my face, please baby.” He said it with such desperation. Like he was the one begging, the one being pleased so intensely.

You'd been on the verge of an orgasm for so long now, and with his sloppy work against your pussy, it didn’t take much. His words rang in your ears and sent you barreling closer to your high.

When it hit, it washed over like a wave. Intense, clouding your vision. Your hands clutched Spencer’s head for dear life, mirroring the way his hands gripped your thigh, anchoring himself to you.

"Just a little more, baby, please," Spencer mumbled despite you trying to tug him away. His voice was dreamy, dreamier than yours despite not being the one who came.

"Too much Spencer," you whimpered, jolts of overstimulation making your legs twitch and tremble under your weight.

When he pulled away, he looked positively fucked out. His chin was messed with slick, and his hair was mussed over his hooded eyes.

"I think you made a mess." He says, eyes flicking downwards. Sure enough, your thighs were drenched.

"No, you made a mess." You lightly pushed his head as you walked (unsteadily) towards the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Fine," Spencer sighs. "I guess I'll just go to sleep. In this big lonely bed. All by myself."

"You're welcome to join me, you know." You rolled your eyes, leaning against the doorframe.

"But I just showered."

"So you don't want to fuck me in the shower?" You questioned.

"I never said that."

A/N: No this isn't late idk what you're talking about

Spencer Reid Masterlist

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Criminal Minds Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fandom #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader #kinktober #kinktober 2023

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rainbowmothed · 2 months

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︵︵ MISC. HAZBIN HOTEL HEADCANONS

╰ ⋯ ➢ just some random hcs i thought of off the top of my head!! ♡ as always, reblogs and likes appreciated! includes both main cast and heaven hcs. :3

𝜚 ₎ MAIN CAST HCS

Vaggie says stuff like “rad,” “dude,” etcetera unironically and definitely gets made fun of for it. Mostly by Cherri and Angel– Pentious says it is ‘hashtag trending awesome sauce.’

Vaggie sets 6 alarms in the morning, all with custom minute intervals between the snooze alarms to make SURE she doesn't sleep through it. Charlie doesn't mind, though, mainly because she wakes up at four in the morning to work on projects anyway.

Charlie has made playlists for everyone in the hotel on hell's equivalent of spotify; Vaggie's is the most well thought out, but they all describe them very well. Alastor never listens to it due to his dislike for modern technology/apps, but he appreciates it– or at least acts like he does– nonetheless.

Charlie definitely rides on Alastor's shoulders like a little kid bro IDC WHAT U SAY

Vaggie has cried ONCE in front of the rest of the hotel after being genuinely dogged on repeatedly on one of the worst days of her life, and they all just stared at her in shock. They hate on her so much because it never impacts her– or so they think so, because Vaggie always shrugs it off. They refuse to talk about it.

Vaggie's spice tolerance is unmatched.

Each night, Charlie visits Pentious’ memorial and wraps a weighted blanket around it, saying that maybe it'd remind him of the Egg Bois and the way they snuggled around him in the afterlife.

Vaggie is a huge Hunger Games fan. 90% of her personality derives from Katniss Everdeen.

Adding onto the last one, if Charlie and Vaggie were to have a child, I feel like it'd have the personality of Lucy Gray Baird.

Niffty definitely writes strange fanfiction. Also has BL as her header on the Hell's equivalent of Twitter. She's a little twisted, but we love her.

Cherri is an absolute menace. That is the best word to describe her.

Angel and Cherri did the “screaming in public restrooms” prank once.

Everyone assumed Charlie was mid-20s until she dropped the bomb that she's over 200 years old. They were all flabbergasted (minus Vaggie, who already knew. Angel also called her a “gilf lover.”)

Angel asked Vaggie about her body count once to tick her off, and she answered “around 1,000 or so, roughly estimated,” thinking he meant kill count. Charlie was shook.

Vaggie is a Paramore, Flyleaf, Evanescence, etcetera fan. Proud listener to 2000s emo girl music.

Charlie's guilty pleasure is punk/metal/rock music. She says she only listens to “Taylor Swift and musicals,” but she has a hidden playlist with KORN, PTV, and all of those bands on it.

Angel wakes Husk up by blasting Ayesha Erotica songs into his ear occasionally since Husk is a heavy sleeper and refuses to get up sometimes.

Pentious calls himself a “semi-proud father of the Egg Bois.”

Charlie ran a hate page about Katie Killjoy. She has since moved on from it... probably.

𝜚 ₎ HEAVEN HCS

Vaggie definitely played about 100 sports back in Heaven. Fencing, soccer, and, bare with me here, she definitely did ballet. She refuses to admit so, however.

The exorcists actually aren't brought into the world as adults. Instead, they're raised by volunteer parents of Heaven their entire lives, starting fighting training at age 6 or so. They claim that “children's brains are easier to mold.” Basically, they're taught to be murder weapons from a very, very young age. It's also instinctive, but it's the training that truly brings it out.

Each exterminator is based on a different bird breed, but the most common are eagles, falcons, hawks, and generally predatory avians.

The Exterminators are also very fast flyers, and they establish the quickest flyers through racing. Vaggie was formerly the fastest until she was cast down to Hell. Now, the fastest is Lute.

Adam also referees these races, and instead of a gun or whistle to start them off, he uses his guitar.

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givemearmstopraywith · 11 months

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Joan of Arc study

Last year, I led a small digitial “retreat/study” on Joan of Arc via my Kofi- while my Kofi is no longer running (difficult to keep on top of because of other work obligations), I thought that in honour of her feast day I would make it publicly available. All of the text and resources used are under the cut- you can do this at your own pace, with one topic per week, or any other way you like. It’s to generate personal reflection on gender and one’s relationship to God, and is designed to be completely non-denomination, meaning that while it does use Bible readings, even if you are not a Catholic or a Christian, it should be able to stimulate some thought and reflection without having a definite religious slant.

The topics covered are:

Joan the Warrior

Joan the Androgyne

Joan the Prophet and Mystic

Joan the Disciple

Below the cut you’ll find all of the readings and bonus content for each topic, and at the end are “notes,” a short informal essay consolidating what I’m hoping to share through this study. But I highly encourage you to do your own reflection, be it through journalling, prayer, mediation, or whatever form of self-reflection suits you best, and try to decide what the readings- and Joan herself- says to you.

Ultimately, I hope what you’ll discover through this "retreat" is that our gender identity makes us warriors, prophets, mystics, and disciples- that existing between the binaries imposed on us by patriarchy allows us to draw closer to the strange and wonderful place where God exists.

WEEK 1: Exploring God and Gender with Joan of Arc- Joan the Warrior (readings)

This study pre-supposes that you already have some background on Jehanne and her life- nothing too in-depth, and we'll get into some of the finer points of her life that aren't as popularly known throughout this study. If you'd like more information, I highly recommend Helen Castor's biography and Regine Pernoud's Joan of Arc By Herself and Her Witnesses.

I've mentioned that this is a non-denominational study. What does this mean? Mainly it means that while scripture provides the backbone of a lot of our reading, I don't want us to treat scripture in a Christian context. Rather, I want to treat it primarily as a literary text, and rather than engaging with it as a "Bible study" or theological undertaking, I want to challenge us to read this without any preconceived notions of what it means in a religious context. Rather, read it the way you'd read a novel or short story. How does it make you feel? What themes, motifs, metaphors, allegories, or other literary techniques are employed? What is the text trying to say?

Read:

Judges 4-8: Deborah, Jael, and Gideon

Christine di Pizan's Joan of Arc

excerpts from Jehanne's trial: Joan's Tools

(If you want to read all of Jehanne's trial transcripts, you can do so here- I'll be providing more excerpts over the upcoming weeks, but we won't be reading it in full, so I highly encourage you to read the full transcript on your own if you'd like.)

Consider:

What tools does God give to Deborah and Gideon? Are those tools always weapons? Do they always require public acknowledgement, like Deborah’s tent peg? What tools has God given you? What similarities do you see between the Bible study and Joan? How does Christine di Pizan portray Jehanne in her poem? Is there a similarity between di Pizan's portrayal and the portrayal of the Biblical judges?

Extras:

have a listen of Veni Creator Spiritus- this Latin chant was said to have been sung before every battle by the French army when Jehanne arrived at Orléans on 29 April 1429, legend has it that a choir of priests went before her signing this hymn.

shameless self-plug of my own but much beloved Joan of Arc Spotify playlist

WEEK 2: Exploring God and Gender with Joan of Arc- Joan the Androgyne (readings)

Read:

Judith 8-9

Marina Warner's Joan of Arc: The Image of Female Heroism, Chapter 7: Ideal Androgyne

excerpt's from Jehanne's trial: Jehanne and her gender presentation

Consider:

Last week we considered the tools God gave figures like Jehanne, Gideon, and Deborah. How does Jehanne's gender function as a tool? How does Jehanne view her relationship to gender based on her testimony? How does the idea of her as an androgyne, as opposed to a warrior woman or girl, change your idea of her as a historic figure? How does Jehanne's gender presentation compare to that of Judith?

Extras:

If you haven't seen it already, Carl Dreyer's 1928 masterpiece The Passion of Joan of Arc is available to watch for free on Internet Archive. It is a fascinating, moving, and exceptional portrayal of Jehanne's trial, arguably the best, and it's lead actress Renee Falconetti beautifully captures the idea of Jehanne as the androgyne.

WEEK 2: Exploring God and Gender with Joan of Arc- Joan the Prophet and Mystic

Read:

the Book of Jonah

“Joan of Arc and Female Mysticism” by Anne Llewellyn Barstow

Joan of Arc and her voices

Consider:

Does Jehanne know she is a mystic, a saint, a prophet? What relationship is there between Jehanne's gender and her prophecy? Is Jehanne a true mystic? Why or why not?

WEEK 4: Joan the Disciple

Read:

Luke 8

2 Clement- all if you wish, or just Chapter 12

skim the complete transcript of Jehanne's trial, paying attention to the final day (starting at page 358)

Consider:

Pay special attention to Luke 8: 16-19. How does this apply to Jehanne? More specifically, how does this apply to how she presents her gender. Much criticism in her trial is centered on how she does or does not properly conform to gender. How do these verses, and those in 2 Clement, apply to Jehanne and her treatment by the church?

Bonus:

Jehanne's letters, which are a fascinating look at her voice

Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc is free to read

Notes:

On April 30, 1429, Joan of Arc- who styled herself Jehanne la Pucelle, or Jehanne the maid- arrived at the French city of Orléans to free it from English control. Orléans had been under siege since October of the previous year: it's commander and French army were exhausted and contemplating surrender.

Enter Jehanne. The story is famous: aged sixteen, she heard the voices of saints and angels commanding her to free France from the English, lift the siege of Orléans, and crown the Dauphin. Remarkably, she succeeded, before being condemned to the stake for heresy by the Church. Her feast day in 30 May.

In our study about Jehanne, we've read portions of Judges. Judges cover a period in Israelite history prior to the establishment of the monarchy of which the famous Davidic monarchy was part. This is a period which roughly corresponds to the historic period 1400–1000 B.C., just after the settlement of Canaan after the Egyptian diaspora, when the Hebrew settlers were living among foreign, polytheistic tribes like the Philistines, who are a major antagonist throughout the narrative. Judges is considered one of the oldest books in the Hebrew bible, with the Song of Deborah- Judges 5- being one of the oldest portions. It documents a tumultuous and frequently violently history marked by agronomic destruction of a society attempting to rebuild after four centuries of indentured servitude to a foreign power, and a struggle to maintain the monotheistic practices which developed in the wake of their diaspora- the Levitical priesthood which we now know as Judaism.

There's a similarity between this era of Israelite history and that which would have been experienced by Jehanne at the time of her call. Jehanne was born in 1412 a working-class peasant girl from Domrémy in the Lorraine region of France. This location was almost directly on the border between French-held lands and those which had been invaded by the English during the course of the Hundred Years' War, which had already been going on since 1337. She was around thirteen years old when she first heard what she described as "voices," in 1425; it was the year that war is first documented to have begun directly affecting her home region, with raids by English or English-back French mercenaries taking place near Domrémy in 1425 and 1428. In once incident the village's cattle were stolen, and in another the town was set on fire and crops destroyed. It isn't difficult to see a similarity between what Jehanne may have felt about her circumstances and that of Gideon:

Gideon answered him, “But sir, if the Lord is with us, why then has all this happened to us? (Judges 6:13)

In the midst of this, Jehanne experienced her first vision- in her father's garden, a voice she identified as Saint Michael the Archangel (a high-ranking angel figure known as the protector of the Jewish nation and later of Christians).

By 1428, Jehanne had apparently begun to formulate what she was being asked to do by her voices, whom she had by then identified as Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret- two early Christian martyrs- in addition to Saint Michael. After being accused of breaking an engagement (a case dismissed by the ecclesiastical court at Tours, but which rather darkly foreshadows the way in which her later trial and execution would inherently punish a wayward "woman"), she became convinced that her voices were telling her to leave Domrémy to aid the Dauphin. It was a remarkable undertaking for a sixteen-year-old peasant girl, illiterate, who had never left her home village. By February of 1428, she had convinced a local nobleman to support her and conduct her to the Dauphin's seat at Chinon. It was at this time that she began to wear men's clothing- an outfit which was provided to her by the local townspeople, and rather famously consisted of a pair of breeches which tied to her jerkin, a costume which made her almost- but not entirely- invulnerable to rape. Like Deborah and Jael, she was endangering herself by entering a world that was dominated by men, and her choice of clothing is evidence of this.

And like the judges we have read about, Jehanne was called from her home village in a period of turmoil to perform what she saw as a sacred duty, something which God had commanded her to do. Like Deborah, she was something of a prophet: she knew that she would see the Dauphin crowned king of France:

And she said, “I will surely go with you; nevertheless, the road on which you are going will not lead to your glory, for the Lord will sell Sisera into the hand of a woman.” (Judges 4:9)

And, like Gideon, she was a working-class farmer called on to lead an army.

He responded, “But sir, how can I deliver Israel? My clan is the weakest in Manasseh, and I am the least in my family.” The Lord said to him, “But I will be with you, and you shall strike down the Midianites, every one of them.” (Judges 6:15-16)

I think these similarities are all the more important this week, as we face the destruction of reproductive rights under Roe vs. Wade and the ongoing victimization of victims of domestic violence. Too frequently Biblical womanhood is cited as an excuse to strip people who are not cishet men of their destiny- to relinquish them to a common denominator, a life of submission and servitude. But what Judges shows us is that God’s call does not discriminate between bodies or genders. A person’s place in the world is wherever God calls them to go. We are allowed to ask for God’s reassurance of his call, but we must remember that if God calls us, he trusts us. We must trust him, and trust ourselves as he justifies us. God’s purpose supersedes the binaries and restraints imposed on us by the world.

Too often we equate "warriorhood" with masculinity, dominance, and activeness. Among Christians the epitome of being a warrior is archetypically defined as avenging angels and violent crusaders, many of whom committed gross atrocities and whose actions characterize a far-right movement of alleged "God-fearing" men who believe in their divine right to power on account of their maleness. Gross and extreme conservatism characterizes much of the front-facing presence of Christianity, it is this fundamentalism which we now see strongly affects political process. But God does not pick warriors from the strongest of his believers. David was the youngest son of Jesse. Gideon too. Deborah and Jael were women. God's warriors are those who listen to him: their strength lies in their difference. Consider how you are a warrior- not how you can be one, but how you already are one. Your God-given difference is your destiny: what makes you strong and extraordinary. How does your difference make you a warrior?

Last summer, I took a course on understanding scripture through how it is depicted in art. One week was completely devoted to paintings of Judith and Deborah, and we were assigned to read portions of both Judges and Judith. Funnily enough, we all struggled to tell the difference between depictions of the two women. Unlike Judges, the book of Judith is considered deuterocanonical, and it is not included in the Protestant canon: this could be part of why paintings of Judith and Deborah are frequently confused. But you can always tell the difference between the two in a very simple way. If it’s a woman beheading a man, it’s Judith. If it’s a woman with a hammer, it’s Deborah.

Both depictions of these warrior-prophet-women are marked by the violence of the acts they carry out at God’s call. They are associated heavily with the weapons with which they carry those acts out. It’s a very different image of women than we often associate with Biblical womanhood. Biblical womanhood is frequently associated with attributes like mildness, compliance, domesticity, motherhood, and submission. Biblical and traditional womanhood have become synonymous and conservative. It is heavily binarized, and placed firmly below dominant patriarchal structures.

Yet this view of “Biblical womanhood” doesn’t really hold up to the women we have encountered in the Bible- and it doesn’t hold up with our understanding of Jehanne. A question I want us to ponder this week is what actually constitutes Biblical womanhood? It’s a question that’s going to follow us as we continue this month-long study. Jehanne was condemned to death on account of not being a “real” woman. She was fully equipped to carry out what God asked of her, but she was still condemned for not being the "right" kind of person for her gender presentation.

I would argue that part of her equipment was the fact that she was someone who existed between genders, neither male nor female. But Jehanne was also both male and female. We have words for this now- nonbinary, gender non-conforming, transgender, and many others- but I don't think they help us much when we try and understand the complexity of gender in a time when gender was binary. Yet Jehanne shows evidence that she understood her gender as being other. Her trial transcripts reveal that she attributed no real gender alignment to herself or her presentation: her clothes were chosen for practicality, and that was necessary to fulfill the destiny which she felt had been given her.

How does our gender and our gender presentation function as a tool for our god-given purpose? For many people gender presentation is a tool that helps them to feel more comfortable in their own bodies, to convey to the world who they are. It is a tool that can heal one's relationship to their gender. Our purpose, our fate for which we are given "tools" does not have to be as grand as saving France or the world: it can simply be something intended to save ourselves. Sometimes saving oneself is the greatest mission God gave us- something we are given through his deep love for us.

#joan of arc #st joan of arc #jeanne d'arc #saints #idk how to tag this! lol #p

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defectivevillain · 4 months

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this winding labyrinth

chapter 2: rebirth

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 2, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapter 1, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood, gore, violence, death, animal death; nightmares, hallucinations, suicidal ideation, dry-heaving, hyperventilation, mental health issues.

You’re tired. Your hands are burning and your calluses sting. You don’t want to speak with your social worker, Clark Ingram. He was assigned to you after you sustained that traumatic brain injury from the horse. You know she didn’t mean it, know that Sylvie was just startled. That didn’t matter—no one listened to you. So here you are, sitting on a scratchy couch in a nondescript office, writhing with the indeterminable urge to do something.

“Peter,” Clark practically coos. You hate him, more than you’ve ever hated anyone before. He is a bundle of contradictions: a fine-dressed man with a fine-dressed smile and fine-dressed lies. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

You grit your teeth and keep silent. Time drags on, immune to your internal conflict.

“Is this about the horse?” Clark asks persistently.

“Her name was Sylvie,” you feel the need to supplement.

“Sylvie, then,” Clark corrects himself. You know he doesn’t really care, and that is perhaps the biggest offense of all. Why bother saying something if it isn’t genuine? You’ve always had a problem with faux politeness and socially-mandated compassion. You want to skip the pleasantries. Besides, this isn’t about Sylvie. But it is. But it isn’t. But it is. But it isn’t- but it is- but it isn’t-

“It’s alright,” Clark continues, momentarily breaking through the static in your mind. “I understand,”

“You do?” You ask suspiciously. You don’t believe him.

“I understand completely,” Clark nods wisely. What he says next tears the rug from under your feet. “You placed a bird in Sarah Craber’s chest, and then put her body in Sylvie’s womb.” You’re taken with an indescribable urge to tear him apart. “You killed Sarah Craber.”

“No, I didn’t,” you immediately respond. You feel a hysterical laugh bubbling up your throat, clawing at your lips and threatening to escape.

“You killed her,” Clark asserts. You know something about this conversation is horribly wrong, know that a therapist shouldn’t be convincing you that you did something. Still, what is there to do? You’re required to attend these sessions, required to meet this monster’s gaze and play pretend until you’re exhausted.

“I didn’t kill her!” You hiss venomously. The air around you almost seems to steam. “She was already dead when I found her!” The atmosphere feels terribly stifling. The walls are tunneling in on you, curving to consume you whole.

“It’s okay, Peter,” Clark says, his voice soft as if he’s trying not to spook you. This realization only angers you further. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I didn’t kill her- ” You break off, clarity striking you. There’s a reason Clark is so desperate to paint you as the killer when you’re not. Clark Ingram is the killer those FBI agents are looking for. Clark Ingram killed Sarah Craber and so many more. Is he even a social worker? You suppose he really could be—Hannibal Lecter was a practicing psychiatrist and doctor despite being the Chesapeake Ripper. You saw his name all over the news, coupled with that FBI agent you spoke to the other day who offered you a phone number and a compassionate, patient smile. You think back to the times Clark Ingram has sent alarm bells blaring in your mind—the cruelty disguised by that sharp glint in his eyes, the dangerous gaze that you had always mistaken for an attentive one.

You want to tell someone, want to run from the room and never stop running, until you’re speaking to Jack Crawford and the same agent as before. You desperately want to stand up, fabricate an excuse to cut the appointment short. But one acknowledgement triumphs over all these desires: no one will believe you. There isn’t a damn soul who has taken you seriously since your brain injury, and your memories of life before then are all an incomprehensible blur. You can already imagine walking into the Bureau—if you can even get past security—speaking to Crawford, watching his eyes squint before he lets out a loud laugh right in your face.

You stare at your social worker. Clark Ingram stares back. For a while, there is nothing but silence.

Until something in you snaps. You don’t know what happens in the span of those few seconds. One moment, you’re glancing at the tableside lamp. You envision yourself grabbing at the lamp and striking Ingram over the head with it, knocking him to the floor in a heap. The next moment, you’re holding the shattered remains of the lamp in your left hand as you stand over Clark’s crumpled body.

You’re not usually this reckless. You’ve never harmed a soul before—human or animal. You’ve always considered yourself a withdrawn person, perhaps even meek. Yet here you are, looming over your unconscious social worker as blood slowly trickles from the gash on the side of his head. Thankfully, it looks like he’s still breathing. You don’t know what you would have done with a dead body. An unconscious one, on the other hand, is a different story.

After some contemplation, you reach down and grab Ingram’s ankles. You drag him out of the office, taking brief satisfaction from the various bumps and collisions his head makes with the furniture and the doorframe. You must have some good karma, because there isn’t a single soul in the deserted office building. You bring Ingram’s body out to your car and throw him in the trunk. He doesn’t deserve anything more than that, you think. In fact, you have an idea for something that would even the scales.

As you pull into the driveway, your plan begins to take shape. You carry Ingram into the stable, your muscle memory taking you to the stall that Sylvie inhabited just a few days ago. You want to be angry, but you have bigger, more important things to focus on. You take a deep breath and crouch down to place a hand on her chest.

Some time later, the deed is done. Blood is speckled across your hands. You briefly feel guilty—not for Ingram, but for Sylvie. The overarching sentiment running through your chest and crawling along your skin, however, is satisfaction. You take a moment to look at your vindictive masterpiece once more, before turning your back.

With shaking hands, you reach into your pocket and pull out the scrap of paper that the FBI agent wrote the phone number on. For a long moment, you stare down at it. Are the agents really to be trusted? Should you keep this information about Ingram to yourself? You shake your head and pull out your phone, typing in the numbers with care. For a moment, the phone rings and rings.

“Hello?” A familiar voice answers the phone. “Who is this?”

You take a deep breath to steel your nerves, before responding. “Peter,” you answer habitually, before realizing you likely need to clarify. You think you hear a hitch of breath on the other end of the call, but you put it down to your imagination. “Peter Bernardone.” You clarify.

There’s a few beats of silence. When the voice returns, it is laid with caution. “Hello, Peter.”

Soil traps you and locks your limbs, sticking to your skin and refusing to let its presence fade. Every fiber of your being seems to twitch in restlessness and your heart races in your ears. You swear you feel something wiggling on your arm—perhaps a worm. The thought revolts you and you writhe in your natural prison. Dirt kisses your lips, pressing a gentle hand to your forehead and enforcing the insurmountable distance between you and the sunlight. The darkness is not welcome—it is too cold, too damp, too hollow. You blink and there’s a horrible cascading sound. Suddenly, it feels as if you aren’t alone. Your hands continue to twitch and you recoil when you bump against something distinctly humanlike. Turning your head to the side, you come face-to-face with the corpse of Sarah Craber. She opens her mouth and a bird crawls up her throat, wrenching its way out of her mouth and bursting toward you in a yellow blur.

You inhale in a shuddering gasp and quickly sit up, sweat rolling down the back of your neck as you’re suddenly brought back to your bedroom. You had a nightmare. It was just a nightmare, you repeat to yourself as you wash your hands clean of the unseen dirt. You regard yourself in the bathroom mirror, displeased by what you see. Dark circles bracket your dull eyes. There’s a mark on your face from your pillow. Your scar gleams tauntingly from its position on the left side of your face—Abel Gideon’s farewell gift to you. It had been healing, until the Chesapeake Ripper lived up to his namesake and sliced it right open again.

You rub a hand over your face and briefly rub your eyes, before pacing out of the bathroom and getting back into bed. As you stare up at your ceiling and will yourself to fall asleep, the killer’s graveyard haunts your waking mind. You can’t help but think of the victims that were buried underneath uncompromising soil, never to breathe again. Jack had warned you to brace yourself, before you came upon the scene. You thought you had.

Your conversation with Peter the other day weighs heavily on your waking mind, from the moment you wake up in the morning to the moment you sit down in your office. There’s something off about it, but you can’t figure out what it is. He didn’t seem interested in providing you information. Yet, when Jack interrupted and said he had a lead, Peter almost morphed into a different person. He didn’t avoid your eye contact and his voice sounded noticeably brighter than before. You think back to that specific interaction.

“Sorry, Peter,” you had apologized, “I have to go.”

“What is it?” Peter asked, turning towards you for the first time in the conversation. “Did you find him?”

“It’s classified, I’m sorry,” you responded. Your hackles had risen there, for reasons you hadn’t been sure of. “But we’re tracking down this killer. I promise he’ll be put away.”

Why does that exchange seem more significant now?

“What is it?” Peter had asked. “Did you find him?”

“Did you find him?”

Peter knew the killer was male.

Normally, that wouldn’t be cause for suspicion. In your experience, men are more likely to commit crimes than others. However, Peter’s statement was spoken with a frightening amount of certainty—despite the lack of veritable proof. That begs the question: how did Peter know? Does he know who the killer is?

You want to speak to Peter again, but Jack doesn’t seem to think Peter needs any further investigation. You know better, but without Jack’s approval, you’re doomed to your office. You have to simper in frustration. Somehow, you’re sure that Peter knows more than he’s letting on. You hardly got anything out of him last time. Typically, when people are so resistant to questioning, it’s because they’re hiding something. You just need to figure out what Peter is hiding.

Your phone rings, cutting you out of your thoughts. Could it be Peter? You highly doubt it, but you decide to answer the phone regardless.

“Hello,” you respond, “Who is this?”

“Peter,” the caller responds. Their voice sounds familiar. You feel an ugly feeling slide up your skin. “Peter Bernardone.”

Your eyes widen. You look around your office, before getting to your feet and shutting your door. You return to your desk and try to rip the words from your throat. “Hello, Peter.”

“Hello,” he responds. He sounds different than before. Perhaps it’s because you’re hearing him speak. He didn’t speak very much last time. Despite the casual nature of the conversation so far, there seems to be anticipation and tension in his voice.

“...Did you need something?” You decide to ask. It really seems like Peter called for a reason. You know you told him that he could call to speak to you again, but you aren’t so foolish to assume he’s calling because of that.

“I…” He breaks off, sounding hesitant. The line goes silent for a few seconds, but the time passes with infinite lethargy. All you can hear are your steady breaths, the sound of your pen as you tap it against your desk, and the clock ticking on the wall. You can hear distant voices in the hall and you’re grateful that you had the foresight to close your door. “I think I’m ready to have another conversation.”

“Excellent,” you remark. You wonder if relief is evident in your voice. It probably is—Jack and you are desperate for any new leads on this killer. The last thing you want is for him to kill again and, as of right now, you don’t have much information to determine his whereabouts or his next move. “How does…” You trail off as you glance at your clock. “... an hour from now work for you?”

“That works,” Peter responds. He sounds like he’s had enough of the conversation. You don’t necessarily blame him for being apprehensive about speaking to a federal agent. If you were in his position, you’d certainly be distrustful.

“Great, see you then,” you answer, giving him an out. He takes it and murmurs a goodbye, before the line goes dead. For a moment, you sit at your desk, your mind reeling. While you had provided your phone number to Peter for that express purpose, you hadn’t expected him to actually take you up on the offer to divulge more information.

An equal rush of adrenaline and trepidation runs through you. The adrenaline wins out, as you get to your feet and pace over to Jack’s office. It isn’t a long distance, and you soon find yourself opening his office door.

“Jack,” you start. Your boss looks up from his computer. “Peter called.”

“What?” He asks.

“Peter called my extension,” you elaborate, before you can grasp the consequences of doing so. In hindsight, perhaps you shouldn’t be admitting to sharing your agency-assigned phone number with a member of the public. Perhaps that’s why Jack’s eyes go so wide.

“What?” Jack hisses. He looks like he’ll burst a vein in his neck. “Agent, that number is confidential and should only be shared with other government employees and officials.”

“Never mind that, Jack,” you interject before he can continue scolding you. That’s not important—at least, not right now. You’re sure you’ll have to sit through a lengthy lecture later on, when you have the luxury to sit down and think about trivialities. “He said he was ready to have another conversation.”

Jack stills. He knows how important another conversation could be, but he seems to be battling against the instinct to reprimand you. You stare at him and, after a few moments, he sighs. Jack looks up from his glasses, which are gradually slipping down his face. “You’re not going to get anything more from him,” he says resignedly. You rejoice internally. That remark is a sign that, although he isn’t happy about it, Jack will permit you to speak with Peter.

“I think I’ll get something from him,” you assert. You don’t think you’ll get more information—you know you will. Peter wouldn’t be calling unless he were willing, in some regard, to give you something. You’ll take almost anything at this point—anything that will free you from the muddied cages of damp soil and suffocation that haunt your nightmares.

“Fine,” Jack sighs, knowing there’s no point for further argument. He certainly doesn’t look amused, but he seems to have given up now. “Read over his file before you go.” Jack goes into his desk and retrieves the file, which you take with a murmured thanks.

In the coming minutes, you learn more about Peter Bernardone than you could have ever hoped to know. The most useful piece of information doesn’t concern Peter, though. You look down at his listed social worker, frowning at the picture. The man looks innocuous enough upon first glance. Ingram is just about the only other person mentioned in Peter’s file, aside from a sibling that hasn’t been in contact with Peter for several years. Has this social worker, Clark Ingram, been brought in?

“Did you speak to Clark Ingram?” You ask. Jack’s gaze is fixated on his computer. For a moment, you contemplate asking again, but then he responds.

“We spoke to him for a bit, but didn't come back with anything.” Jack responds. He doesn’t look persuaded, and you don’t think you’re convinced either. There’s something about the look in Ingram’s eyes in the photo… It looks as if there’s a hidden depth beneath that expression on his face, something he isn’t telling anyone. Indeed, he looks ever so slightly smug.

“Might have to pay him a visit,” you remark. Maybe you can do that after you speak with Peter. Your best lead right now is definitely Peter, but Ingram may be a good backup plan in case Peter clams up or suddenly decides to remain silent. Jack seems to think the same, because he nods silently. Armed with information, you send Jack a mock-salute and leave his office. As you walk through the Bureau’s halls and return to your car, you think about everything that has made up the case against this killer so far. You review evidence, circumstances, and backgrounds on the victims as you drive to the stable Peter works at. He hadn’t specified a location for your conversation, you’re realizing as you continue driving. If he isn’t here, you’re going to be in for an earful from Jack. You’re willing to take that risk, though.

Some time later, you pull into the parking lot next to an unassuming SUV and park. You steal a few seconds to take some deep breaths as you wait in your car. Your hand is wrapped around your keys and you close your eyes, tilting your head down and trying to remember why you’ve come here. You’re not recalling your purpose for the visit, but instead, the purpose behind your decision to pursue a career as an FBI agent. You wanted to make a difference. You’re getting that chance right now, and you can’t blow it. Your shoulders almost feel tight from the intangible pressure that has been thrown onto you. Thankfully, you’ve grown to be comfortable working under pressure. The life of an FBI agent isn’t convenient or relaxed—the pacing of your work is extremely sporadic, and you’re expected to be “on” and ready at all times.

Shaking your head, you step out of your car and walk up the dirt path to the stable. When you open the doors, you’re unsurprised to find a rider with her horse. You nod at her as you walk in, pretending not to notice how her gaze burns into your back when you pass her. Somehow, you know where Peter will be. You pass several different stalls, before reaching the one he was in a mere few days ago. The plaque on the stall says “Sylvie,” which must’ve been the horse’s name. You knock on the closed stable door and, after a few moments, decide to open it.

Peter is in nearly the same exact position as before, with his back turned to the door and his eyes evidently fixated on the horse’s corpse.

“Hello, Peter,” you remark. Peter doesn’t respond. You give him a few moments, before taking a few steps forward to break the distance between you. With your newfound position, you’re able to see his expression. To your surprise, the look on his face is slightly… different than the last time you saw him. Before, he had looked devastated, heartbroken, destroyed. Now, he almost looks… at peace. How could he have pivoted so intensely in such a short period of time? Something about his disposition unsettles you. “You wanted to speak with me.” You remind him.

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence and anticipation. Then, Peter speaks. “I… wanted to heal her.”

“You… wanted to heal her,” you repeat. What or who did he want to heal? Your initial reaction is that he wanted to heal Sylvie, but that doesn't sound right. She was already dead by the time Peter arrived, so anything he could’ve done would’ve been pointless. Is he referring to… the victim? “Sarah Craber?” You ask.

“Yes,” he responds hollowly. His gaze is still locked on the horse’s corpse.

Somehow, it’s taken you this long to realize that you’ve underestimated Peter’s role in the events that transpired that day. “You were the one to put the bird in her chest,” you realize aloud. Yellow fluttering wings rush across your vision. Peter nods quietly. You’re not surprised. You should’ve made the connection sooner—should’ve thought of the bird as a gesture made out of kindness, not maleficence.

You’re sidetracked by the strange conviction that something in this stall has changed since the last time you were here. You try to rack your brain for the juxtaposition that is occupying your attention. Peter is here still, wearing similar attire and lingering in about the same position as before. There’s you, standing a bit closer than you were last time. There’s still hay strewn about the floor. The horse’s corpse remains against the wall, and the stench is beginning to grow more pervasive. The corpse looks the same, with the womb stitched up and the entrails hidden from sight.

Hidden from sight? You take another look at the corpse. Last time you were here, the horse’s womb was exposed and the entrails were everywhere. Now, there’s no sign of blood or innards. Indeed, the stall’s floor is missing any sign of the gruesome scene from before. It’s not unthinkable to think that someone could have cleaned it up, but the horse’s womb looks entirely different. In fact, it almost looks as if someone stitched it back together. There’s no sign of the dead foal, but you suspect it was placed back in the womb.

“Peter, did someone come through here and stitch her womb back together?” You ask.

“I don’t know.” Peter answers. It’s a lie. You can tell from the way his posture shifts, his shoulders falling ever so slightly as he almost seems to cower in on himself to avoid your gaze.

“Did you sew her back up, Peter?” You question. Peter stiffens and you realize you may have worded your statement indelicately. You scramble to find a better way to say it. “Did… did you heal her?”

This prompts Peter’s attention. The man turns around, staring at you with wide eyes. His eyes look ever so slightly glassy and he stares at you for several moments, before jerking his head in a slight and nearly imperceptible nod.

“Thank you for being honest with me,” you choke out. Your heart is still racing in your chest, despite Peter’s confession. Why are you still so unsettled and unnerved? The mystery surrounding the corpse has been cleared up. But it still feels as if something is missing. What could it be?

“You’re not… angry?” Peter then asks quietly. You blink at him.

“I’m not angry, Peter.” You reassure him. He seems to believe you once you utter the statement, and you watch as a little bit of the tension slips from his shoulders. There is still something that is bothering him, you think. “Now, why did you call me here?”

“I… wanted to ask about my social worker,” Peter trails off. His back is turned again. Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of having a social worker. Maybe he’s uncomfortable talking about it. Amidst your speculation, one thing is for certain: this is a sore spot for him.

“Clark Ingram?” You question. “What about him?”

“Has he been called in for questioning?” Peter remarks.

You probably shouldn’t be telling him anything, but you know that this needs to be an exchange in order for Peter to feel comfortable sharing information with you. Sometimes, you have to give a little to get a little. “Yes,” you say. You decide to leave it at that and wait for Peter to clarify.

“I think he… may have a role in all this,” Peter evidently settles for saying. He sounds hesitant.

“How come?”

“There’s something off…” Peter begins, “in his eyes. The way he speaks to me, looks at me. Sometimes, he stares at me like…” He breaks off. Like you’re a test subject? Like you’re an intriguing new science experiment? Like you hold the very world in your hands? “I’m probably not making much sense,” Peter suddenly acquiesces, rubbing a hand over his face. He seems self-conscious and anxious all of a sudden. If this continues, he won't be comfortable sharing any more information with you. You need to express that you understand him. And if a smaller part of you truly does empathize with him, empathize with being treated as an oddity… no one needs to know.

“No, I know what you’re talking about.” You say. Peter turns and looks at you.

“Really?”

“......Yes,” you remark. It takes you a little while to force the words out. You don’t speak on any of your thoughts, don’t want to monopolize the conversation or change the subject. Still, you are familiar with an attentive gaze that penetrates your mental defenses, leaving you uncomfortably vulnerable and raw in its wake. You are more than familiar with the shadows that beckon you closer, calling for you to do unspeakable things to the chessmaster sitting across from you in a dimly-lit office.

“I just came from a session with him,” Peter continues, breaking you out of your thoughts. He doesn’t offer any further explanation.

“Ingram? How’d it go?” You ask. Peter shakes his head wordlessly. This session lies at the center of Peter’s current stress. The interaction must’ve gone quite poorly indeed, because Peter goes silent.

“Peter, are you alright?” Peter shakes his head, although you can’t quite tell if he’s answering your question or trying to shake off a phantom grip.

“He was questioning me. About Craber. Saying I did it.” The confession stews in the muggy air of the stable. The rotting corpse reaches your nostrils, but even that undesirable stench isn’t enough to draw your attention away from what Peter just said.

“Ingram was accusing you of her murder?” You press.

“Manipulating me,” Peter says, picking at his lip. “Trying to get me to confess for something I didn’t do.”

“That’s-” You try to say, but it seems Peter isn’t finished speaking.

“I- I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I didn’t have a choice. And- I didn’t know how to handle the feeling.” Peter looks down at his clasped hands.

“What feeling?” You’ve never heard your voice sound so quiet before.

“Anger,” Peter responds, averting his eyes. His gaze is locked on the corner of the room. You take a step closer, then another. You take a deep breath and kneel down next to Peter, in front of the horse’s corpse. Suddenly, lightning flashes in your mind as you come to a realization.

You thought Peter’s grief explained his current positioning—the way he’s sitting in front of Sylvie’s body. That was your prevailing reasoning. You know that’s wrong now. Peter isn’t watching over Sylvie to grieve for her or comfort her. He’s guarding her.

Why would Peter be guarding the corpse? There shouldn’t be anything there, save for the horse foal that he must’ve sewed back into the womb. But no, that hasn’t been confirmed yet. You don’t know what’s in the horse’s womb. If it were the foal, you suspect Peter wouldn’t be guarding the body. No, there’s something else. Peter put something in the womb and sewed it up to hide it. But what could it be?

Peter placed the bird in the victim’s chest and placed the victim in the horse’s chest to heal her. This seems different. This time, whatever—whoever—he placed inside the horse’s womb was placed there as Peter tried to cope with his anger. This reconstruction was fueled by anger: anger at the injustice of the crime, anger at the thought of being accused of being the killer. Who was that anger aimed at? Where did Peter’s anger come from? “I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I had no choice… He was manipulating me.”

Clark Ingram provoked Peter. Ingram was poking and prodding at him, trying to get him to confess to his role as the killer. What would Ingram gain from that? Ingram was only mentioned in Peter’s file as a social worker; they didn’t know each other prior to Ingram’s assignment. Ingram didn’t have a vendetta against Peter. No. Clark Ingram was desperate to get Peter convicted as the killer. Because…. Because…

Clark Ingram is the killer. He tried to get Peter convicted in order to save himself. Shaking, you kneel down to the horse’s womb and press a hand to its belly. The dead foal isn’t in there—you remember it being smaller. You know what Sylvie’s womb is holding now.

“Peter…” You remark. Your voice sounds foreign to your ears—eerily calm despite your heart thundering away in your chest. You’re choking on the words. You don’t want to speak, don’t want to cement the reality that you’re so afraid of. “Is your social worker in that horse?”

Peter’s back is turned. He doesn’t respond for a horrible amount of time. You bite the inside of your cheek and try to maintain a sense of composure that you certainly don’t feel. A minute passes. Then another. Then another. When Peter responds, his voice is a murmur. “Yes.”

You inhale sharply. Peter placed Ingram in the horse’s womb. He must’ve incapacitated him during their session, before bringing him back here to this stall. From there, Peter maneuvered Ingram’s body into a fetal position, before placing him in the corpse. Then, he placed the entrails and innards back in the womb, before sealing it all up again. You take a shuddering breath in, the act feeling more laborious than normal. Now that you’re kneeling next to Peter, you realize that his hands have been clasped in his lap throughout your conversation. There are muddy brown stains on the insides of his palms—dried blood.

You don’t know how long you remain silent, staring at the corpse in front of you. Did Peter kill Ingram? You’re not sure you want to know. All you know is that, when you finally summon the courage to speak, Peter is spooked by the noise. “Will you remove him, please?” You ask.

Peter stares at the corpse, then turns to you. He nods silently, almost imperceptibly. You pull out your gun and hold it at your side, watching as Peter slowly slices his knife along the horse’s stomach and traces the incision that he created. After a few moments, he gets to his feet and steps away. For an awful beat, there is nothing but silent anticipation. The quiet is broken by a loud gasp as the horse’s stomach pulses and eventually falls away to reveal Clark Ingram, covered in blood and entrails and panting as he returns to the open air. Ingram turns his head up and finds Peter before you; his expression soon morphs into manic rage. You quickly point your gun at Ingram and cock it, drawing his attention away from Peter. Ingram’s eyes meet yours and, immediately, a pendulum swings before your eyes. Clark Ingram murdered all those women and buried them beneath the ground. That momentary glance was all you needed to confirm your suspicions. Even now, as you look at him, you have to fight off the pendulum’s grip. You blink and you see yourself carrying a dead body, digging a hole on the earth to dump it. You blink again and you feel your hands shaking, writhing as you look at your next victim from afar.

“Please,” Ingram begs. Old blood soaks through his clothing and colors his skin. “It’s not me.”

You shake your head. The lie is half-baked and falls apart the moment it reaches the air. Ingram knows it too, if the positively malicious glare he sends Peter is any indication. You keep your aim steady and fixed on Ingram. Your finger twitches to pull the trigger. You grit your teeth and try to pull yourself out of the horrible compulsion to make this man hurt, the way he made those women hurt.

Ingram stares at you with a truly pitiful expression, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “Please,” he says again. You consider him for a moment. He has robbed many people of their futures. This man does not deserve to continue living, even if that life is confined to a prison cell.

You’ve dealt with criminals like this before: maleficent individuals that deserve a punishment far worse than what they’re getting. This is far from the first killer that you’ve had to confine to a prison cell, despite knowing they deserve the gallows. It’s one of the most frustrating, yet necessary, components of your position. You had never fought with the notion before. Today, though, you’re grappling with the thought. Does Clark Ingram even deserve to keep living? What divine force determined that he was worthy of living, while all his victims weren’t? Hannibal’s voice whispers in your ears, reminding you of God and his violence and cruelty. If God kills, why can’t you? Your head aches. Your hand is growing sweaty and your fingers are twitching. Ingram must sense that you’re approaching the brink of your patience, because his pleas turn louder and more pronounced.

You’re drowning in a maelstrom of memories.

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons.

“This work… it changes you.” Jack remarks, just as he said to you all those years ago.

“The killer in the flesh,” Dr. Frederick Chilton greets you, his teeth sharpening and glinting in the light.

“You killed Franklyn Froideveaux,” Zeller accuses.

“In your dreams, what do you see?” Hannibal had once asked you.

“I see myself killing Hobbs, over and over and over again,” you had responded. “I see Abigail slowly fading on that kitchen floor. I see the blood spattered on my hands. And… I feel a smile on my face.”

“ And, when you wake up?” Hannibal asked. “Dreams are often a pathway into the parts of our minds that we hide away from others. Perhaps there is some truth in these dreams. Perhaps, what you’re most afraid of…”

“I don’t feel guilty,” you admitted. “Killing… felt good.”

You blink hard and tilt your head, trying to shake the thoughts away. They return in full force. A shadowed figure stands at your side, guiding your aim to Ingram’s temple. The Chesapeake Ripper smiles at you, a cruel grin that rips the veiled darkness surrounding his form.

Someone is yelling your name and their voice reverberates through your skull. You clap your free hand over your ear in an effort to silence the sudden onslaught of noise. Everything is growing to be too much. Voices are beckoning you, peering over your shoulder and regarding Ingram with malice. You open your eyes. Your hand twitches again.

You don’t resist the movement, instead letting your restless impulse— your killer impulse —take over. You fire your gun. The bullet carves through the air in slow-motion, before settling in Ingram’s temple and carving into his skull. Blood splatters everywhere: over the ground, down the killer’s skin, across your face. You wipe the blood from your eyes.

You stare ahead. Clark Ingram lies crumpled on the ground, the light fading from his eyes. He manages a weak groan, before his eyes promptly fall shut. You stand frozen in front of him. There’s a ringing noise in your ears. The pendulum from before has shifted into a metronome, swinging back and forth. A hollow echo resounds in rhythm as you stare at your first true victim. You’re shaking, trembling, shivering. Your gun slips from your hand, falls to the hay-filled floor with a thud.

What have you done?

Ingram isn’t just a victim, now. He’s your victim. This is truly your design. Everything fell into place the moment you raised your hand and aimed at Ingram’s temple. You can hear his voice echoing in your mind, begging and pleading with you to spare his life. Please. You bring a hand to your head, the pulsing sensation nearly enough to bring you off your feet. Please. Blood is trickling from his temple, falling down the man’s face in crimson tears. Please. You can hear an achingly familiar laugh, a whisper of the cunning wit you haven’t heard in years. Please-

You put your hands over your ears and fall down to a kneeling position on the ground, desperate for a reprieve from your thoughts and the guilt and the vindictive feeling powerful enough to send flames roaring up your skin-

It’s hard to breathe. You feel yourself dry heaving over the hay-covered floor and, when you blink, you’re kneeling in puddles of Ingram’s blood. You try to inhale slowly, but your breath is hard to acquire and your chest burns with the effort. Saliva slips from the side of your lips as you try to recover from the fear, regret, rage, revulsion, pride that settles over your form. You look at Ingram again, take a deep breath. Wipe off your mouth. Take another breath. Slowly get to your feet. Walk over to him. Check for a pulse.

He’s dead.

What should you do? You could turn yourself in and lose your job, potentially facing prison time. You could try to dress up the crime scene, make it seem like a suicide. That would be incredibly difficult to do without indicting Peter and making him a potential suspect. Furthermore, it’s somewhat implausible to think that Ingram would shoot himself after escaping the horse’s womb, rather than trying to wound his enemy. He had no qualms about sourcing his victims, and likely engaged in combat to do so. You feel your breathing quicken as you are forced to come to terms with the reality of the situation. It feels as if the world is caving in. Rationality is giving way to the emotions that suffocate you.

Distantly, amidst it all, you can recognize that there’s one more option. You never would have considered it before— before him, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of your mind. (It sounds like Franklyn.) However, you truly feel as if you have no better choice. And if a part of you wishes to make things even once more, to harm the criminal who ruthlessly killed Ingram in cold blood….

You take a deep breath. “Peter,” you say calmly. Your voice sounds unnaturally tranquil. “I need you to do something for me.” Peter looks at you quizzically. “Walk out of the stable. Go back inside and… don’t come back out until you hear me.” Peter stares at you for a long moment. He is startled. There are flecks of blood on his cheeks. Through the emotional whiplash of what you’ve done, remorse and guilt briefly prevail as you realize that you shouldn’t have gotten Peter involved in this. Thankfully, what you’re asking of him provides him an alibi for what will come next.

“How will I know when you…?” Peter breaks off, staring at you in confusion.

“Can I trust you to do that for me?” You interject. The sincerity in your voice seems to unnerve him.

“Yes,” Peter responds with a perplexed but resolute nod. “Yes, I- Okay.” He takes one last look at the corpse in front of you, before turning around and heading for the exit of the stable.

You wait a few moments, until you’re sure that you’ve given him enough time to return to the farmhouse. You’re compelled to look down at your gun on the stable floor. It’s not the preferred weapon right now. You instead reach and grab the knife at your belt, turning it over in your hands. The metal gleams at you tauntingly. For a moment, you can see blood spilling from it. It must be a trick of the light.

You take a step closer to Ingram’s corpse. And… another one. You’re nearly standing over the body now. Your fingers feel stuck to the knife, a frozen grip forcing you to wield the weapon. You shouldn’t be doing this. But you have to pay for what you’ve done.

You close your eyes and reach up, knife in hand.

For a moment, your hand hovers in the air and you contemplate going back.

It’s a foolish thought. You can never go back to the way things were.

Your aim rings true, and the blade sinks into your forearm. You scream.

Through the pain shooting up your arm, you manage to shakily push yourself a bit further, reaching out with your uninjured hand to grab at Ingram’s hand. From there, you manipulate his fingers so that he’s gripping the knife. You make sure to close his hand around the blade, before taking a deep breath through your teeth.

There’s a chance you won’t survive this.

You can’t find it in yourself to care.

You pull the knife out with the corpse’s hand and let out an uneasy groan as pain floods through your arm. Your vision spirals, blackening around the edges and spinning in a dizzying array of colors. You feel like a marionette with limp strings, left to crumple to the ground without a puppet master. The last thing you see before your world fades to black is the neat hole carving a path straight through Ingram’s temple.

next chapter

Just in case I didn’t make it clear enough, the reader stabs himself & wipes off the prints/places the knife in the grip of the corpse. This creates a situation where it appears as if Clark stabbed the reader before he killed Clark. (Of course, the reality of the situation is that the reader killed Clark first, which he wasn’t supposed to do). By stabbing himself, he covers his tracks because he can claim that the murder was in “self-defense” and “after provocation.” It’s a little flimsy, and I’m no forensic expert, but remember that this is fiction. I can do whatever I want here. *grins*

You may be thinking: Hey, Hero (that's me)… couldn’t a stab wound like that be lethal? And the answer is… probably? I did some research to try to figure out the practicality of stabbing yourself and surviving, but it ended up triggering me so I had to stop searching.

Rationalization for Peter and his actions: Peter fades to the background once Ingram comes out of the womb because the reader is armed and serves as a blockade between Ingram and him. Peter is lurking somewhere behind you throughout the interaction, to protect himself from Ingram. Keep in mind that he is an entirely unarmed civilian, so there’s little that he could do to affect the outcome. ||| Peter does what the reader asks of him because he trusts him. Few people have ever taken the time to understand Peter, so the fact that the reader went out of his way to make him feel comfortable (such as not forcing him to talk or make eye contact) influences Peter’s view of him. Plus, Peter didn’t like Ingram. That much is obvious. Ingram’s death is not really a tragic affair for Peter. Finally, Peter was confused and searching for guidance in the chaos of the situation. So, when the reader gave him something to do, Peter jumped at the chance—in the hopes of either distracting himself or gaining clarity. ||| If I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t quite remember Peter’s canonical personality, so I sort of just… went with my gut. My gut ended up writing him to be autistic, because I’m autistic and what little I remember of him seemed to fit.

The reader’s motivations for killing Ingram could be justice, Hannibal’s influence, the cruelty of Ingram’s crimes, hallucinations… or any combination. Your pick. And don’t worry, the reader isn’t going to suddenly transform into a killing machine—this was very much an isolated incident. (..or was it? jk.) This protagonist’s morality is dubious, so that this fic can be distinguished from the TV show. I also wanted him to be darker, so sue me.

Here’s a scrap from this chapter that never made it. I like it too much to let it die out in my doc:

Idly, you imagine what Hannibal would do if he were here. He’d place a hand on yours, slowly push your weapon down until it was pointed at the ground. Perhaps he’d even slip a hand under your jaw, prompt you to look at him as he smiles that infuriating smile—the one with an equal amount of unearned pride and cunning. It doesn’t matter, you have to remind yourself. Hannibal isn’t here. No one is here—not Jack, not Beverly, not Alana. There is no one here to stop you from crossing a line you won’t be able to come back from.

As always, thank you so so much for reading! I will see you all in the new year! Wishing each of you a refreshing and relaxing start to the new year! ily <3

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