#horse health supplements

[caringhorsesupplies]

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[wadkin]

Get rid of joint pain and swelling with bioforce

Introduction:

Joint pain and swelling can be a debilitating condition that can cause discomfort and limit mobility. Many people suffer from joint pain due to arthritis, injury, or other medical conditions. Fortunately, there are several treatments available, including natural remedies such as Bioforce. Bioforce is a natural supplement that can help reduce joint pain and swelling without the side effects of prescription medication.

What is Bioforce?

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Pharmaceutical drugs don`t always show high efficacy and have many side effects. On the contrary, Bioforce ointment shows quite good efficacy without harming the body. That is why it has been in high demand among patients lately

How does Bioforce work?

The treatment impressively affects tissues, giving a regenerative impact, wipes out torment side effects, reestablishes engine works and mellow erosion inside the joints.*

Bioforce quickly influences your joints by alleviating agony, aggravation, and advancing recuperation: *

assuages even serious joint agony. Once more, the development settles in. Ordinary blood flow is reestablished, expanding disappears.*

assuages irritation, forestalling the annihilation of joints and irreversible results. The recuperation interaction of joints is activated.*

the portability and different elements of joints are reestablished. The joint areas of strength for is, doesn't happen in any event, when set off (cool, weather conditions changes, strain).

Benefits of Bioforce:

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Promotes overall joint health: The ingredients in Bioforce work together to promote overall joint health, reducing the risk of future joint problems.

Natural and safe: Bioforce is a natural supplement that is safe to use and does not have the side effects of prescription medication.

Easy to use: Bioforce is available in capsule form, making it easy to take and incorporate into your daily routine.

How to use Bioforce:

Apply to dry skin and rub until completely absorbed.

Apply 2-3 times a day

Do not rinse with water for the first hour after application.

Conclusion:

Joint pain and swelling can be a painful and debilitating condition, but there are natural remedies available that can help reduce inflammation and promote joint health. Bioforce is a natural supplement that contains a blend of herbs and nutrients that are known to reduce inflammation and promote joint health. By reducing inflammation in the joints, Bioforce can help reduce joint pain and swelling, improve joint mobility, and promote overall joint health. If you are suffering from joint pain, consider trying Bioforce as a natural and safe treatment.

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[animalhealthsolutions]

Equine Health Care Products

Animal Health Solutions Inc. manufactures wide range of Equine/horse health care products, which include digestive enzymes, microencapsulated probiotics, etc., for horses to ensure growth and health. https://animalhealthsolutionsinc.com/collections/featured

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[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

Wild Horses

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Doctor!Reader, Soap x Reader Part 2

Part 1 , Part 3 , Part 4

A/N: Y’all have asked and y’all have received. Enjoy! Let me know what you guys think, I always love to hear your thoughts! Reblogs are much appreciated! 😊💜

Summary: Imagine being the new physician assigned to the team and a certain masked individual takes a new keen concealed interest in you. The two of you are too awkward to function.

Warnings: language, fluff, angst. This one might be a little sad and Ghost is a bit of an ass-jerk so be prepared.

As mentioned before, Ghost completely stays clear of your vicinity after stepping out of your office. It’s not that he hates you. He’s just slightly irritated. With himself? Or is it you and that pretty face of yours and your comforting voice and your goddamn politeness and your accent. To be honest, the whole team adores your accent. He can’t tell. Remind you, this is a man who has probably never been shown any affection or tenderness so don't expect him to fall for you on the spot. This man needs therapy, like a lot of therapy. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to go through whatever it is he is feeling, finding the whole thing to be an inconvenience really. And because he doesn't know how to understand or face whatever these emotions are, he just buries it. It's easier for him that way.

Poor dude couldn’t even sleep last night, staring at the ceiling of his room and haunted by the idea that he accidentally offended you. This man may have a cold exterior but your scalpels are colder and sharper than the devil's jawline. He almost couldn’t blame you if you decided to inject some foreign substance into his bloodstream and make the whole thing look like it was a stroke. Wait, could you do that? Bloody fucking hell. This man spends too much time with his thoughts I swear.

The man spends the whole night trying to assess his feelings, or rather his attraction towards you, convinces himself you're just another pretty face. The man may be touch-starved but he knows there are other methods to handle his needs, even though it's been a long time since he's slept with a woman, like a really long time. But even then, that situation was different. There was never any intimacy involved, like a quick business transaction that finished just as quickly as it started. It only left him feeling as empty as he was before. Not to mention, he doesn't do well with human interaction and that one and only moment he had with a woman daunted him more than it needed to, and so he has remained abstinent ever since. And if he were being honest with himself, you're just a distraction. And how do you handle distractions? You steer clear of them.

So what does this man do? He does what he intended to do. He avoids you at all costs. Oh, is that you walking towards their small, makeshift kitchen to fix yourself a bagel in the morning? Guess what, he’s doing a full 180 and lurking behind a wall like Michael Myers and his stupid hedge, waiting until you’re finished so he can make himself his morning tea.

Not only that but he makes sure to take extra good care of himself, Vitamin C supplements or multivitamins, whatever it takes to keep himself in best health. He even looks up on Google for extra tips to prevent himself from having to send himself in. He had heard of the saying “an apple a day keeps the doctor away” and goes out of his way to buy an apple during his morning runs. But the poor chap has it all mixed up because when you walk into your office the next morning, you're surprised to see an apple just sitting there on your desk.

Ghost doesn't know that it's supposed to be the other way around and that the apple is actually supposed to be for himself. He doesn't bother to search up the meaning, nor does anyone bother to tell him because they don't even know that he's doing it in the first place. So every morning he goes on his run, he goes out and buys an apple, and so every morning you find one placed on your desk.

The first time you saw the fruit sitting there on the table where you worked, surrounded by your scattered paperwork, you were confused no doubt. You picked it up curiously in your hand, inspecting the bright red fruit before giving a shrug and biting into it, after you wash it of course. You think it's just a small little token of thanks from one of the men. Possibly Soap considering how flirty he was yesterday. Alejandro doesn't seem like the type to give fruits. He's more of a red rose and a bottle of wine kind of man.

But as days go by, each day you find an apple sitting on your desk. And as thoughtful as this gesture is, at this point, considering the amount of apples you've eaten, you're either going to have serious digestive issues or die of cyanide poisoning, as if you don't already have IBS. So what do you do? You start to collect the apples each morning, deciding to throw in your own twist to this gesture until one evening, the men come back from one of their missions to find a freshly baked apple pie and a stack of paper plates and some utensils sitting out on a table for them, including a small little card with the handwritten words "bone apple tea". What in the hell.

"What in the fucks is bone apple tea." Gaz scrunches his nose at the writing on the little card.

They're all standing around at the table staring at the pie with confusion written across their faces. All except Ghost of course, the way his eyes slightly widen once he sees it. His gut is telling him you're behind it. Hm I wonder what gave it away.

"What’s this?" Alejandro asks, tilting his head at the thing.

"Looks like apple pie." Gaz answers.

"Yes I know that." Alejandro remarks. “But what is it doing here?"

"Doubt it's from any one of you muppets." Price speaks up. He knows damn well none of these men know how to bake. There’s only one person here whose hands are skilled or nimble enough to make the braided trim on that crust. Not to mention the detailing in the center, like the way you carefully placed little leaf designs made from the crust on top of the braided design. Yup this was definitely you, unless someone else here had a secret talent they had been hiding.

Literally why are these men acting like the pie has poison it. As if Graves sent it or something. Just shut up and eat the pie before it gets cold you himbos.

"So who made it?" Soap asks, looking towards the others for answers.

"This," Alejandro chuckles after finally realizing, "this was made by the hands of a woman."

"Who, y/n?" Gaz quirks a brow, you're the only woman here.

How in the hell did you get the means to bake a complete fucking apple pie in a place like this? They always heard doctors have skilled and steady hands but what the actual fuck.

"Well don't mind me." Soap literally cuts a big ass slice for himself before going off to devour the thing.

The boys watch Soap basically almost moan once he takes a bite of your pie as he goes off yelling out something along the lines of "well tidy scran", before helping themselves to a slice.

Ghost is the last one to cut himself a slice. He was hesitant at first before finally giving in, plus he also got back from a mission and he's hungry. So when he digs in his fork and has his first taste, it's kinda like that scene from Ratatouille where the food critic Anton Ego finally takes a bite of Remy's food and is reminded of his childhood, except Ghost doesn't have a childhood.

Let me tell you these men are obsessed with your pie and are practically fighting over the last slice like a pair of siblings so don't be surprised when you wake up the next morning to the see that the plate that your pie was in is completely empty without a single crumb in sight. Jesus. Did they lick the table down too?

Also I think you may have just given Ghost a newfound sweet tooth. When he went back to his room that night, he's debating on whether he should keep his daily routine of giving you apples, so far it’s kept you away. What he doesn’t get is that you made a whole damn pie out of the apples he gave you when they were actually supposed to be for you, or him, if you look at it from his distorted perception. But wait. What if you know it's him, and that's why you made the pie in the first place? A way to a man’s heart is not only between the forth and fifth ribs, but it’s also through his stomach. And as much as he wants to deny it, he also kind of secretly wants you to bake another one. It's almost as if he's completely forgotten why he placed those apples on your desk in the first place.

So what do you see when you wake up the next morning? An empty plate and yet another apple sitting on your desk. Okay what the fuck. You've let it slide all those times but now you have got to know who's pulling this shit. It’s not that you hate apples, but the conception that you have no clue who’s behind this is making you start to view the poor defenseless fruit as an object of taunting and torment. And to be honest at this point, you're beginning to think this is some kind of joke. So with the apple in your hand, you head towards the common area where the others are currently settled.

“Okay who did it?” You call out once you enter the area.

Crickets chirping.

All heads snap towards you to see you standing there with an apple held in your hand. They're almost stunned to see you wandering about. They rarely ever see you since you're usually locked up in your office or your room.

The men have done a lot of shit so just what is it that are you asking. They stare at you with not a single thought behind their eyes, that is until their blood runs cold at what happened last night. Was the pie not meant for them? Shit.

“Did what?” Gaz gulps, trying to play it off as nothing happened.

"Who keeps leaving apples on my desk like I'm about to host a county fair?"

"Come again?" Price asks, not that he didn't hear you, but it's probably the most anyone has heard you speak that isn't related to your work. Not only that, but they’re so used to hearing your “doctor” voice that your normal voice is a whole pitch lower and almost sounds foreign and alien to their ears. Not that they’re complaining because they honestly love hearing it.

"Someone has been leaving apples on my desk every single day." You repeat yourself more slowly. "And I'd like to know who."

So you're not mad about the pie.

Ghost immediately snaps his head away from your direction and nearly chokes on his tea. It's almost a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash from how fast he turns away.

The others are still staring at you, a tad bit scared of the expression that sat on your face. They couldn't make out if you were upset or not.

"Well?" You ask, leaning against the doorframe with your hand stuffed in your coat pocket while your other hand tossed the apple about in the air.

"Couldn't be me." Soap answers.

The others shake their heads as you squint your eyes at each and every one of them, trying to decipher the culprit. "Whoever it is, I will find out." You take a bite out of the apple before tossing it to the nearest person, who happened to be Alejandro, before starting to leave the area.

Alejandro catches the apple between his hands, staring down at the fruit with a chuckle to see where you had bit into it before taking a bite of his own.

Soap can't help but clench his jaw at Alejandro's cockiness. Ghost just turns away unbothered, it’s none of his concern. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.

"Wait you're not mad about the pie?" Gaz calls out after you.

"What pie?" You turn back.

Wot

"The pie....from last night."

"I have no clue what you're talking about." You put on your best innocent expression before walking away.

The men snap their heads towards each other. Have they been poisoned? The longer they stare at each other, the more panicked they get.

Alejandro glances down at the apple you had thrown in his hands and is so close to spitting out the bite he had taken.

"I'm kidding." Your voice nearly makes them jump out of their skin as they turn to see your head popped through the doorway. "The pie was from me." You walk away again before turning back around. "Oh, I almost forgot. I have your blood results so if you're free, come see me when you get the chance."

Shit. Ghost thinks to himself after hearing you mention the blood results. He is hoping his blood sample got demolished in some shape or form, but the way you didn't even try to pull him aside to break the "unfortunate" news tells him otherwise. He's just not going to show.

The men watch you walk away in silence after your little moment of humor. They almost don't know how to react. The way the warmth of your voice blended with the obscurity of your words threw them in for a loop.

All except Ghost have no clue who has been sending you apples, but whoever it is that is sending you the fruit, they think that person is trying to win you over. So what started out as some misunderstanding on Ghost's end has now turned into this whole peacocking ordeal. Now it's a competition of who gets you better gifts in order to gain your affection, mainly Soap and Alejandro and even Gaz, but mostly Soap. Price still shows you appreciation for your work and what you do in his own way.

Poor Ghost was just trying to manifest "an apple a day keeps the doctor away". So who’s gonna tell him?

Anyways, when you return to your office to work on your paperwork, the boys go out to get you a little something before meeting up with you to go over their bloodwork results. Despite Soap and Gaz's efforts, Alejandro is the first to leave and the first to return. And just as Soap returns with his little gift for you, Alejandro beats him to it, a smirk playing on his lips as he enters your office with a red rose in hand. Poor Gaz wasn't able to find you anything special so he gets you a cool looking rock he saw instead.

Soap is practically fuming. If you squint hard enough, you might see smoke coming out his ears.

You hear a knock on your door and look up from where you sat at your desk to see Alejandro stepping into your office, a sly smirk on his lips as he holds out a rose.

"Alejandro." You quirk a brow. "What's this?"

"For you, hermosa."

"Oh?" You cock your head back in surprise as you take the rose from his hands. "What for?"

"Oh just a little way of showing appreciation." Alejandro leans against your desk.

"Why thank you Alejandro" You blink, trying your best to push down the blush that tries to creep itself onto your cheeks.

"My pleasure."

You decide to place the flower inside the empty vase you had already set out from before when you moved your things in. "I had been meaning to get some flowers to brighten up the area."

"There's no need" Alejandro smirks. "I'm afraid the rose doesn't compare to you. You do that all on your own."

Little do you know Soap is listening in on the whole thing with a frown. If he pressed his ear any closer he'd fall right through the door. Sure the Scots have their special charm but Alejandro is different and has the most rizz out of all of them, and Soap is fully aware and has always heard they make better lovers and that only adds to his panic.

Now you're definitely not able to hide the heat that spread through your face. You can't tell if it's the state of being flustered or just social anxiety. Well they weren't wrong about Alejandro having a way with words. "Geez, thank you Alejandro. But there really is no need for flattery."

"For you, anything hermosa."

Omfg this dude.

You look away from his strong gaze, managing to shove your flustered state away and stopping yourself from releasing the sharp wit you inherited from your father. Clearing your throat, you open up his file. "Well that really is kind of you Alejandro. And since you are already here, I have the results from your blood work."

"Oh? Everything should be good yes?"

"Well yes, for the most part but-"

"But what?" Alejandro looks confused. What's wrong with his blood?

"Your cholesterol levels are pretty high." You open up his file and read over his results.

"They are?"

"I'm afraid so, but not at a dangerous level. You should probably cut out some of that fried food and red meat and watch your butter intake. Nothing too serious though. Add some greens into your diet, as well as some nuts and whole grains and definitely more fruits and veggies and you're good to go." You hand him a copy of his results before giving a look of grimace. "But watch out on the fiber though. Too much of it can lead to increased bowel movements."

"Increased what?"

"You know, a case of the shits."

The way Soap pulls his ear away from the door and slaps his palm on mouth to keep himself from letting out the most offensive laugh known to mankind. If only you could have seen it. Is he going to bring this up in Alejandro's presence? Maybe.

Alejandro looks over the papers you gave him. "Wait really?"

"Yeeaaah." You give the poor fellow a sympathetic smile. "But hey, everything you need to know is right on those papers, so as long as you cut out the foods mentioned and get a higher intake of the others listed, you'll be back to normal in no time."

"Oh uh. Thank you y/n. I appreciate it."

"Anytime Alejandro." You smile. "You know where to find me."

The way Soap nearly trips over himself as he backs away from the door after hearing footsteps, as if he wasn't eavesdropping on every thing.

Alejandro opens the door and walks out of your office, eyes glued to the papers while Soap is just standing there trying not to be noticed.

The moment Alejandro is out of sight, Soap goes over and knocks on your door.

"Come in." You look up and smile to see Soap. Over the course of the few days since you first arrived here, you were to quick to warm up to the young Scotsman, finding comfort and humor in his personality. You enjoyed hearing him talk about just about anything, and his accent always helped to make whatever he had to say all the more interesting. It really is a good thing he does most of the talking since you make a better listener and love to hear what others have to say.

Soap knows you don't talk much and how you prefer to listen and hear stories, so he always makes sure to keep you entertained. This man is 100% golden retriever energy. Also he calls you lass and lassie and you just eat that shit up, he loves how you blush and that small restrained smile appears on your face whenever he says it. Don't worry, so would I. "Soap! You can have a seat if you want, this will be brief."

"Oh uh, I've actually got you something." Soap hands you a small box.

"Oh?" You quirk a brow as you take the box from his hands? What is it with everyone giving you gifts? Are they in on something you're not? "What is it?" You ask as you open the small box to see a bunch of what looks to be biscuits.

"Scottish shortbread." Soap smiles, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. "I brought them along with me from back home but I thought you'd like them with your morning coffee."

"Wait, are you sure you don't want them for yourself? I feel bad."

"Nah. I can always get more.......if-when I go back home. You keep em. It's for ya. Think of it as a welcoming gift.....for all ya done, and the pie ya made for us."

"Soap, I don't know what to say." You give the man a heartfelt smile. "Thank you.....really, it's very thoughtful of you. It'll give me a variety from my bagels."

"Don' mention it." Soap places his hands behind his back before noticing a small framed picture you had set up on your desk that definitely wasn't there before. "Is that you?"

"Hm?" You raise you brow to see what he is referring to and seeing him gesture to the photo.

"Oh. Yeah, that's me as a little girl." You glance at the photo as a soft smile appears on your face. It was a picture of you when you were a little girl around the age of 5, when your dad took you on a camping trip to Zion. The two of you were sitting near the tent he had set up overlooking the mountain range with you sitting in his arms while he played his guitar, wearing that same old baseball cap of his that you had grown accustomed to seeing as you grew up. The longer you looked at the picture and relived that core memory, glancing at the crooked grin that sat on your little face and the way your father beamed, the more your face began to match the fond look that radiated off your father's eyes as he looked down at your giggling state.

"That's quite the smile you got there." Soap teases, chuckling at the expression you held in the photo.

"Oh please." You roll your eyes, knowing exactly what he was joking about. "I know I looked goofy. My baby teeth were falling out."

"And that's yer dad?"

"Yup. That's my old man."

"Ya have yer father's eyes." Soap smiles at you, knowing now where you inherited that certain warmth held in your eyes that was able to put the coldest man at ease by just one look.

You let out a soft chuckle, glancing down at the ground to blink away the tears that have yet to form before looking back up at the soldier. "I've been told."

"Where was this taken? The scenery is absolutely braw."

"That was taken at Zion National Park in Utah. My dad had taken me there on a camping trip."

"It's absolutely gorgeous."

"Maybe I'll take you one day."

"Ya mean it?" Soap turns towards you, a grin forming on his face.

"Why not? It's been a while since I went, not since the photo."

"I think you've just made my day lass." Soap smirks before turning to the other photo. "And I'm guessing that's you as well." Soap gestures to the other photo of you around your middle school years that your dad had taken of you, wearing a wet suit as you sat on your surfboard, a grin on your face and your hair matted with salt water while one of your hands formed the shaka sign. "I dinnae ken you surfed."

"Oh yeah, surfing was my life. This was back when I had caught my first wave in Hawaii. My dad was so proud. Took me out for shaved ice right after and couldn't stop bragging to everyone there about how effortlessly I had tube ridden that thing."

"Your dad sounds like a great man."

"The best."

Soap notices the way your smile ever so slightly dropped at one of the corners, as if some sadness had managed to overcome whatever memories that lied in your head so he clears his throat, deciding not to press on the subject any better. "So how does my blood look?"

"Good actually." You blink, his statement reminding you of what you were going to do since he stepped into your office in the first place. "Your levels are all pretty balanced." You hand him a copy of his results. "As for the muscle cramps you mentioned, try to get a higher intake of electrolytes like potassium, magnesium, and calcium. And most importantly, don't forget to stay hydrated and drink lots of water."

"Aye ma'am. I'll make sure of it."

"Thank you Soap."

"No, thank you." Soap gives you one last smile before heading out. "I'll see you around."

"Bye."

It was not long after Soap left that Gaz entered next followed by Price, hearing you go over their results with intent ears. You actually really loved the little rock Gaz had given you, he had even drawn a smiley face on for you. You thought it was really cute despite his embarrassment in not finding you something better. And after the two left, there was only one person left that had yet to show up at your door. Simon 'Ghost' Riley.

Not wanting to pressure the man who looks like he'd stab you for looking at him the wrong way, you decided to stay at your desk, working over some paperwork of your own until the time comes when he decides to show up whenever he sees comfortable.

Picking up your mug, you decide to get some more coffee, leaving your office and heading to the kitchen area to brew yourself a new cup. Looking up from your feet, you see Ghost walking walking in your direction in front of you.

"Ghost!" You call out to him, or as much as you can call out. You never were one for raising your voice, despite the many times your previous teachers had urged you to speak up, displeased with the way you preferred to keep to yourself as opposed to your more extroverted peers. But even when carrying out their commands to speak louder, you always hated doing so, thinking it drew too much attention towards you. It's a wonder you got through med school and became a doctor in the first place.

Ghost had heard you calling out his name and immediately his muscles tense. The last thing he wanted was for you to see him because that only meant one thing, being dragged into your office to go over his blood results until something else insulting slips from his lips. I promise he doesn't hate your guts! So in order to evade you, this man does the first thing that comes to mind, he walks straight into the nearest room, which just so happens to be the shared showers. Simon you dumb fuck. Let’s hope Price isn’t butt ass naked in there for Simon’s sake.

You blink, standing there with your mug that your friend from college thought would be funny to gift you when you started med school, the one that had the words "I have a PHD" in bold colorful letters with the finer print "pretty huge dick" right below it (of course you never used that mug back at the hospital or else you'd hear about it).

So with your mug in hand, you watch the masked man walk straight into the room where the shared showers were. Huh. Well that's weird. You try to give the man the benefit of the doubt, thinking he just did not hear you. Maybe he'll stop by later. So shrugging off what just happened, you head into the kitchen to make yourself a fresh cup of coffee. God an iced coffee sounds good right now.

Once you had headed back to your office, finishing up your work and taking little breaks in between to read your book or snack on something, an hour turned into two, and so forth. Until you looked at your clock and it was already past the time of sunset. Jesus. Where did this dude go? Getting up from your chair, you step out of your office, holding the door open and seeing not a single soul headed in your direction. What in the-

With furrowed brows, you step back into your office, staring down at Ghost's results that just sat there waiting to be picked up.

"Goddamn it." You hiss between your teeth. You have no idea what his issue is or why he avoids you as if you spit in his fruit loops or tea or whatever. But if he keeps this up, it could interfere with your own job. Looking around at your desk, an idea pops into your head as you grab two things that lied there, a sticky note and a two dum-dum lollipops, a sugar cookie flavor and a butterscotch one.

Heading out of your office, you head towards where the men's rooms are located before stopping at a certain particular one, surveying the area around you to make sure no one sees you before staring straight at the door in front of you. Taking out your pen, you write on the note "please stop by my office when you get a chance", making sure to add your initials in the corner before taping it to his door along with the two lollipops, hoping the candy will be some sort of bribe.

"God I hope this works and he doesn't shoot me in the head." You mutter out before heading back to your own quarters that was separate from the men's due to standard protocol. Throwing off your coat and your clothes, you threw on an oversized t-shirt and some sweats, eating a microwaveable dinner in your own room before getting ready to go to bed. There was nothing you craved more than to collapse onto the mattress and bury yourself under the covers. And as you finished brushing your teeth, turning off the lights and getting into a comfortable position under your blanket, all you could do was stare at the ceiling above you.

Little did you know, that same night, in that same moment, there was another who could not sleep, staring at the ceiling as you did now. He had saw the note that you had left him on his door, as well as the two lollipops. It almost annoyed him, whatever it was you were showing towards him. And it did not help that the note had smelled of you, of that perfume that oh so enriched his senses. The man literally has your note laying on top of his bedside table along with the lollipops. He'll throw it out first thing tomorrow he tells himself.

"Oh come the fuck on." You moaned as you turned over onto your side but to no avail. No matter how hard you tried to shut your eyes and shut out any thoughts that attempted at keeping you awake, you just could not fall asleep until you finally give up. "Jesus fuck shit fuck." You hiss to yourself as you throw the blanket off you, sitting up on your bed and throwing on your sweatpants before getting up. Usually on nights like this where you couldn't sleep, you'd find a way to calm your nerves, whether it be reading or drawing or listening to a comforting audiobook.

So, grabbing your pillow and blanket, you open up your closet and grab your father's acoustic guitar, going back over to your bed and staring at the framed photo of your dad that sat on the bedside table before taking that with you as well. Leaving your room, you make sure to be as quiet as possible, looking both ways before heading up towards the roof of the building.

When you were little and had trouble sleeping, your dad used to take you outside to where the two of you had built a little fort, where the two of you would lay under the stars, brushed over by the cool night breeze as he played his guitar, singing old folk and slow classic rock songs until you finally fell asleep. And as you stepped onto the roof, craning your neck to stare up at the stars above you, you were reminded of those moments and the peace it gave you. Setting your bedding down, you prop the picture of your dad up next to you before sitting down with the guitar in hand.

"Hey dad." Your voice is a whisper as you look down at the photo of your father beside you. The photo was taken not even a month after you were born. He had taken you to the fire station he was stationed at, excited to introduce his team to his new precious baby girl, his first child. You could almost say it was your favorite photo of him, sitting on the front bumper of the firetruck in his uniform with you bundled up in a pink blanket in his arms.

"I know it's been a bit of a while since we've last talked." You sigh, forming your fingers into a chord on the fretboard of the guitar. "So to make up for it, I'm going to sing you one of the songs I always used to sing. You know the one, it's one of my favorites, and yours too."

Despite his efforts to fall asleep, Simon had ended up stepping out of his room, walking about the grounds to somewhat ease his mind. This was obviously nothing new to him, he always had trouble sleeping. And during those nights he had trouble sleeping, he'd take a walk to help clear his head. He found comfort in the silence of the night, when everything and everyone was asleep. He would usually go to his favorite spot on the rooftop, where he would seek refuge under the obsidian skies and the silver stars.

As he goes up the stairs that lead up to the roof, he stops at the sound that comes from beyond the door, what sounds to be someone singing and strumming the guitar. Curious to know who the hell had taken his spot and had the radio playing, he goes up further to investigate. So imagine his surprise when he finds you there instead, wrapped up in your blanket and strumming against your guitar, singing The Sundays cover of Wild Horses.

"Childhood living is easy to do The things that you wanted, I bought them for you Graceless lady, you know who I am You know I can't let you slide through my hands" Your voice is ethereal as you sing out the lyrics, your face molded into these deep emotions you can't quite explain.

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away Wild horses couldn't drag me away

I watched you suffer a dull, aching pain And now you've decided to show me the same No sweeping exits or offstage lines Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind

Wild horses couldn't drag me away Wild, wild horses couldn't drag me away

Faith has been broken and tears must be cried Let's do some living after we die

Wild horses couldn't drag me away Wild, wild horses couldn't drag me away

Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them someday Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them someday."

During the entirety of the song, Simon stands there in the distance behind you, hidden in the shadows, entranced, and can't seem to explain the tingles he feels washing over his body. He thinks he has intruded upon you and wants to leave you to your solitude in what seems to be an intimate moment for you, and yet he can't seem to be able to get his feet to move. Instead he's watching you with this newfound interest. He had never expected you to play the guitar as you did, nor have the voice that you did. So as you finish your song, he almost trips over his own feet trying to back away, scared that you might somehow notice that he had been there this whole time.

"God I miss you dad." You wipe away at the tears that start to spill down your cheeks despite your attempts to wipe them away with the back of your sleeve, scanning your eyes over the stars that scattered across the sky, imagining he was up there amongst them. "I miss you so much."

Regaining his footing, Ghost is careful to open the door leading back into the building, that is until he hears you let out what sounds to be a choked sob. He turns his head back towards you, seeing you bring your knees up to your chest as you cry out, mumbling something he can't quite understand. With his hand still holding the door open, he looks down at the set of stairs, turning his head back towards you for one more time before going down the steps, being careful to shut the door without any noise possible.

Part 3

Tags: @souls-rain @euovennia @i-wish-we-could-stay @depressedacidtest @gh0stm3g @thequeenofbigmacs @k1llerch4n @abbiesxox @feraltiddies @wand-erer5 @1redheaded3dragon @anisa269 @joceymoo @mango-corner @classickook @trueee33 @sockertop @lupskelly @chxbits @kuwizo @sluxm3ozt @tobybestupid @anarchygoose @lez-zuha @thatoneautor0123 @marvelmysterywoman @ella-error505 @awkward-0 @ariessux @kermitdefroghere @urloverx @alldaysdreamers @rat-elbows @nananarc @watersquirtpewpewboomm @izzyisstuff

#ghost x female reader #ghost x oc #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #ghost x f!reader #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost cod #ghost #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x oc #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #simon riley #Simon ghost #soap cod #soap x reader #soap x you #soap x oc #john mactavish #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish x you #johnny mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x you #johnny soap mactavish

[defectivevillain]

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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[may-be-rae]

I've been recovering from a bad flu and was wondering if I could be self indulgent and request Hc's for M6 when Mc is almost recovered from a bad flu?

First example; they cough every so often, they have a dry throat and sound bit horse still. Their favorite foods taste like shit and their appetite isn't fully back yet, but they have most of their energy back and can do everyday things and even feel lazy when doing nothing all day.

Thanks for your request! I’m so sorry for how long this took me. 🥴

I’m sure you’re well over your flu by now 🤧✌️ but since it’s disease central out here, I hope this brings us some comfort. ❤️‍🩹

Stay healthy y’all. Our immune system be fighting wars out here. 🫡 🍊

The Arcana Headcanons

Recovering from the Flu

Asra

Asra takes the days in stride. He’s a fairly relaxed person by nature. He doesn’t understand your rush to return to the everyday world. He prefers you to rest in bed so your mind, body, and spirit can fully recover.

From the beginning of your illness, Asra wanted to care for you, but he’s hesitant to be overbearing. He understands your complex sentiments towards the “caregiver” role he’s taken.

He takes a background role to your healing, acting as a shadow in his support. He makes homemade tea bags, cuts up fruits, prepares soups, washes the bedsheets, draws baths… small things that make a big difference in lightening the load.

He doesn’t nag you about what you chose to do. Want to go for a walk? He’ll join you with a spare coat and water. Insist on going to the market? Let him carry the basket. He’s desperate to see you well and happy once more, and he’ll do anything to show it even if it means taking a step back

In the end, Asra will promise that once you regain your taste, he’ll buy you the biggest, warmest pumpkin loaf at Selasi’s.

Nadia

Nadia has the palace on lockdown. She knows better than to believe that you won’t push your recovery time to a minimum. In Prakra, rest is valued and the body is treated sacredly. A broken vessel can hold nothing good. She urges you to rest as much as possible.

Everything is at your disposal - the finest cloths for your sniffles, the richest honey for your cough, the softest pillows for a midday nap. Nothing is too good for you.

After a few days, she will feel guilty for keeping you under lock and key. She knows how lonely the palace can be, and she wishes she had more time to keep you company.

In the evenings, she’ll try to make it up to you with a true rarity of her highness. She’ll sing to you sweet lullabies her father used to sing to her as a child. Her voice is smooth and deep, and Prakran songs have a rhythm much like a running river. It’s rare to hear her sing, and most are unaware of the Countess’s secret skill.

Julian

Julian, of course, is worried. He’s always worried! However, to best help you Julian switches into “doctor mode” to suppress his emotions. It does pain him to treat you like a patient, but he knows his medical skills are much more helpful than his worries. It’s a much different side to him, something you’re not used to seeing. It’s not bad, though. In fact, it’s rather charming.

He takes an upfront role, stern but soft. He’ll bring you tinctures and supplements from the clinic, as well as ask Mazelinka for any wives’ tale that could prove useful. He’ll cook for you and draw baths, and lights are out no later than 9:00pm.

Julian encourages you to keep moving and stay in a routine. He’ll offer to take you to the beach where you can relax in the sand. He knows the sun, fresh air, and water do wonders for health.

Once you’re fully recovered, Julian is relieved to have you again. He’ll apologize for being so cold, but that he simply wanted to help you. He’ll shower you in kisses and hugs to make up for the empty days.

Portia

While Portia is often one to work herself to the bone while under the weather, she refuses to let you do the same. She’s aware that it’s rather hypocritical of her, but she frankly doesn’t care. She can be somewhat of a nag, and that she does feel guilty for.

Portia is well versed in homeopathic medicine. It’s a skill that she picked up from her hometown, and it reminds her fondly of Mazelinka - the late nights they’d stay up together over the fire, picking dried herbs off their stems, talking about life, and sharing stories of the high seas…. It’s a fond memory for her.

If you insist on working, she’ll pack you a hearty soup and homemade ginger tea, both with plenty of healing herbs infused. When you get home, it’s candles, blankets, and bedtime. She’s also not afraid to snuggle up next to you despite the sniffles. At least if she gets sick too, she has an excuse to stay home with you. 🧡

Muriel

Muriel agrees that it’s no good to linger in bed for too long. If you’re up to it, he’ll support your decision in getting on your feet. This doesn’t erase his worry; he’ll still keep a strong eye on you.

When you go off to the shop, he’ll pack a bundle berries and dried orange peels for you to snack on. He’ll also spent the day preparing bone broth for dinner. If you don’t eat animal products, he’ll swap it for a ginger, garlic, and onion based broth.

The Kokhuri are strong believers of homeopathic remedies, like aromatherapy. Muriel would purchase and prepare incense and dried herbs to burn while you relax at home. He even knows of a great natural hot springs to relax in. If you’re too tired to walk, he’ll carry you.

But most of all, he’s a strong believer that company is truly the best medicine. Like Nadia, he has many lullabies and folk lore to share with you. He’s shy at first, but it’s rather cathartic for him to sing. It’s nice to relive his native tongue once more.

As the night settles in, he and Innana will gladly cuddle up to you once you’re asleep and keep you warm through the night.

Lucio

Lucio actually roughs out his cold most of the time, crediting his “it’s not a problem if I don’t think about it too hard” mindset. He reserves his crybaby tendencies for when he’s feeling truly horrid and sorry for himself.

He’s surprisingly gentle toward you, as he admires your tenacious spirit. Many other partners in his life used his status to pamper themselves in these situations. It’s strange to have someone so independent and capable that choses to stay with him. Lucio knows he’s a pill, and your faithfulness isn’t lost on him. He never wants to diminish your will and strength, so he’ll do his best to support you from the shadows.

Expect servants on the hour to check in on you, periodically bringing over drinks, snacks, and cough drops. Sometimes, Lucio will offer walk through the gardens for some fresh air. If you’re struggling, he’ll bring over a blanket and pillow for a brief nap. Although he’ll promise to wake you up in a few minutes, he’ll allow you to rest longer if that’s what your body demands.

At the ends of his work day, he won’t leave your side. He’ll run a hot bath for you and offer to read to you. Afterwards, the night is yours. Whatever you please, he’ll have it ready for you.

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[supplements-superachieverclub]

Are there Protein Pills? And do they make Whey Protein Capsules? Fitness Industry Secrets Revealed!

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So, are protein pills the future, or should we stick to our trusty shakes? Remember, supplements can't outperform a balanced diet and regular exercise. What's your take on protein pills? 💬 Share your thoughts below, and stay tuned for more fitness revelations in our upcoming videos! See you next time, achievers! 🌟

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[caringhorsesupplies]

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[lepurcinus]

I saw your post on the German rabbit care guide with interesting views.

As someone who has experience with over 13 adult rabbits and been autisticly researching them to death I can give you some care advice.

With food-

Hay is extremely important and not a supplement.

If you want to go with the natural root, it still stands. Wild European rabbits are mostly grazers, only supplementing their diet with greenery and roots when they can/when grass is not available. Hay is the human alternative to constant access to grass. This is why farm rabbits/horses/sheep with rotating grass access don't need hay but stable/pet based and over-wintering farm animals do.

Pellets - you technically only need a small amount. I only feed a bowl full as mine can only have so much access to hay due to their hutch space.

Greenery- you do not need to feed daily. I only feed kale once weekly as it is high in calcium (too much causes bladder sludge). I feed no other greenery unless I have some. If anything too much greenery is problematic as it scours.

Socialization - yes they are social

A very tricky topic. They benefit from pairs but only if spayed/neutered. They will fight otherwise. Only spay/neuter if you can find a good vet as I understand not everyone has access to a rabbit savvy vet.

To complicate things more is the view on mammals. Pet parrots are just as social (if not more) and it is not frowned upon to keep singularly if you provide enough enrichment and human companionship. The same with dogs. However step into the Territory of guinea pigs/rats/ferret/chinchillas/gerbils and of course rabbits and people will throw a fit over it.

It is perfectly fine to keep a single rabbit if you socialize with them and provide enrichment.

Wire floors- not good

It used to be an old practice to have wire floors in hutches. It was done so the droppings and urine would fall into a collection tray umderneath or floor instead of where the rabbits stand. Not now though.

Turns out rabbit feet are delicate and it can cause sore hocks. Some rabbits can "tolerate" it but it is very uncomfortable and gets hot in the summer.

It is better to either spot clean (clean just toilet corner) daily or litter box train instead.

Health to look out for-

Wheezing/snotty paws and face- check with vet for the dreaded snuffles. Technically a name for many things. One is extremely dangerous and if treated early is survivable.

Red urine- red urine is not a problem. Certain food/normal hormones can make your rabbits wee weird coloured. Only be concerned if it is very sludgie (bladder sludge) or it looks like someone has dripped a drop of red dye in it (this IS blood in urine).

Soft stools- cecotrophs being left could mean being overfed or illness. Try reducing food first. True soft stool could be indicative of too many greens but also stomach upset. Check with vet If not overfed greens.

Not eating or pooping- take up the vet immediately. Treated with Oxbow critical care TM. This is a food powder to be mixed with water and syringe fed. It needs feeding every two hours in the morning and every four hours evening. This will stop GI stasis which is fatal for herbivores of any type (especially rabbits).

If you ever need any help with information, feel free to ask :)

Thanks for the information! I certainly appreciate the hassle for wanting to respond based on that random post.

I can say that I'm sticking to those guidelines pretty well, so I don't feel bad about knowing there's something off there hahaha.

The thing about my post was more because of the weird confusion that was generated for me, I didn't trust that site too much to tell you the truth and like I said there were things that sounded very strange. (I mean if it's THAT bad as they make it out to be then I think there should already be more warnings about it and less recommendations).

I'm going to leave this in the blog as a general guide just in case, and more if anyone wants to see. Again thanks 🐇👌

#ask

[blackthornwren]

Hey, I'm looking for info on something specific and was wondering if you had any thoughts on where I could start. I'm trying to figure out a ritual to help alleviate the fatigue and if possible pain associated with chronic illnesses from a tradcraft perspective. Is there anything in particular that comes to mind? (Already on meds for the pain btw, but they don't do enough. I'm willing to try herbal remedies too, but that still won't help much with the fatigue and brain fog)

So, I don't have a specific pre-made ritual that comes to mind and I'm unable to share my own workings. I can recommend a few books, specifically look to the Carmina Gadelica, Vol. II - which can be found here - or if you're able to acquire it, Lecouteux's 'Traditional Magic Spells for Protection and Healing', or 'Healing Threads' by Mary Beith. The bad news is that when looking for healing folk charms is that you're likely never going to find one that is exactly tailored to your needs. The good news is that through process of experimentation, you may be able to tweak them to suit your needs or use the format and methods found in folk magic to craft your own charms, blessings, or rites based on your specific requirements. Folk charms in general (speaking through a Celtic regional lens here) tend to be an informative template for crafting your own workings. Specifically in healing charms there are recurring elements of repetition, storytelling narratives, transference, and the use of simple items such as cords, wax, rocks, etc. Repetition: For example, a charm might include a countdown - there's a spell to relieve a skin condition that goes "Tetter, tetter, thou has nine sisters, god bless the flesh and preserve thy bone, perish thee tetter in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost. Tetter, tetter, thou hast eight sisters..." This repeats, each time the number diminishing, until at last "thou hast no sisters". Storytelling: The best example of this is often found in folk magic involving Catholic Saints. The Charm of the Sprain in the Carmina runs as such - "Bride went out in the morning early, with a pair of horses; one broke his leg, with much ado, that was apart, she put bone to bone, she put flesh to flesh, she put sinew to sinew, she put vein to vein; as she healed that, may I heal this." Transference: Many folk charms for healing involve transferring the injury or illness to an inanimate object. This is found often in manuscripts, journals, texts about superstitions, folk customs, and popular antiquities. If an individual were ill or injured, the disease or the pain might be eased by perhaps tying a cord around the part of the body that was suffering (headache - a length of black silk tied round the head, sore throat - cord around the throat, etc) and used in conjunction with spoken prayers or charms. Rocks could be rubbed on the afflicted appendage or generally on the body to take the illness from the patient and place it into the stones which would then be disposed of in a stream. Food was also used for this - bread that had been marked with a cross or a written charm and/or prayed over. This method could be used to cure anything from dog bites to fever. Because you have stated that you are already on pain medication , I am unwilling to suggest any herbal remedies - the reason for this is that herbs can often interact with medications you are taking, including counteracting them, and they can create problems far worse than what you're currently experiencing. If you are still interested in trying herbal remedies, it would be best to discuss it with your doctor as they will be better able to predict how any herbal supplements will interact with your current medications and your medical history - age, weight, potential genetic health issues, pre-existing conditions; these are all major factors in determining how someone will react to new chemicals being introduced into their system. Thank you for your ask, I do hope this has been of some use to you and please make sure to take care of yourself.

#folk magic #fairy faith #traditional witchcraft #healing magic #folk charms #wren rambles #asks answered

[orange-plum]

hows your health?? hows your wrist?

My wrist is fine. My health is p much what I'm used to lol The only thing really different was last week my eyesight randomly became blurry and it's been blurry ever since. I have an eye exam tomorrow to see why that happened lol

But I had labwork come back that they want me to retest on the 17th, but I think that'll be cleared up cuz I was taking a vitamin supplement that scored way too high. So I was told to stop taking it and retest later, so I'm sure it's fine. I was actually pretty surprised that all my labs came back normal, even my kidneys. But I won't look a gift horse in the mouth!

Ty for asking!

#asks #personal

[tinyzoologist]

To anyone who needs to hear this today:

If your pet is dying of old age, you did a good job keeping them alive this long. If your pet dies with as little pain and suffering as possible, you did a good job. If your pet dies feeling loved and safe, you did a good job.

My boy Jamie (14, dachshund-pinscher-cat-demon-??) got diagnosed with lymphoma today. I got him when I was 19, in a dysfunctional relationship, with undiagnosed mental health issues, after just moving out and starting uni (not my most rational decision). He came from a Hungarian shelter, skin and bones, blind in one eye, full of worms and parasites, scared of every living and inanimate thing. He was never an easy dog. I was never an easy human. The experience of living with an animal that made my own fears and insecurities so very obvious was humbling, to say the least.

But I kept him alive despite his best efforts - in classic wienerdog fashion, he thinks the only way out is through (including humans on skateboards, rottweilers, horses, walls, trees...). He developed epilepsy and food allergies, but we managed that too. Despite it all, he was in great shape until recently, speeding around the garden, barking at his countless mortal enemies (hikers, deer, leaves).

Two weeks ago he got digestion issues (not rare for him), which never quite resolved, stopped running as fast, had trouble jumping on the couch... and two days ago I noticed swollen lymph nodes on his neck. Bloodwork confirmed lymphoma. He is getting cortisone and various herbal supplements for now - will consult an oncologist vet within the week. But he seems ok, he’s eating, walking, not in pain - that’s what matters most right now.

I can’t say how much time we have left, we’ll just take it day by day. My goal is to make that time as nice for him as possible, full of belly rubs and peanut butter and napping in the sun. When he goes, nothing will be the same. But I’m so grateful I got to share almost half my life with this stinky, anxious, stubborn, hungry, little creature - maybe he did not make my life easier, but he sure made it so much more complete!

#animal illness #animal death #the dog life #canine lymphoma #poetry #i wrote this poem in a workshop weeks ago now it seems so fitting #he just had dinner and seems content so that's a win

[aidenwaites]

So is everyone getting ads for horse joint health supplements or am I just getting targeted horse ads again

[laresearchette]

Friday, January 20, 2022 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

WHERE CAN I FIND THOSE PREMIERES?: SHAPE ISLAND (Apple TV +) TRUTH BE TOLD (Apple TV +) THE ASSISTANT (TUBI) REAL TIME WITH BILL MAHER (HBO Canada) 10:00pm DARCY & STACY STRIKE BACK (TLC Canada) 11:00pm WHAT IS NOT PREMIERING IN CANADA TONIGHT? CRISS ANGEL'S MAGIC WITH THE STARS (CW Feed) PENN & TELLER: FOOL US (CW Feed) KINDRED SPIRITS (TBD - DTour) THE REAL FRIENDS OF WEHO (TBD - MTV Canada)

NEW TO AMAZON PRIME CANADA/CBC GEM/CRAVE TV/DISNEY + STAR/NETFLIX CANADA:

AMAZON PRIME CANADA DETECTIVE KNIGHT: INDEPENDENCE THE LEGEND OF VOX MACHINE (Season 2) MARQUERITE VOLANT (Season 1)

CBC GEM HAMMER

CRAVE TV THE AFTERMATH AMBULANCE THE BACK-UP PLAN BEGINNERS THE BREAK-UP DINE YOUR SIGN: SUMMER FLORENCE FOSTER JENKINS INDIAN HORSE THE IRON LADY IT’S COMPLICATED JUST FOR LAUGHS 2022: THE GALA SPECIALS PATTON OSWALT THE KING’S DAUGHTER LIE WITH ME MIDNIGHT RUN MIRROR MIRROR MONSIEUR LAHAR OLDBOY (2003) RIDICULOUSNESS (Season 27) SIESTA KEY: MIAMI MOVES (Season 5)

DISNEY + STAR THE HEIR: THE FREESTYLE DYNASTY/EL HEREDERO: LA DINASTIA DEL FREESTYLE (Season 1 premiere)

NETFLIX CANADA BAKE SQUAD (Season 2) BLING EMPIRE: NEW YORK FAUDA (Season 4) MISSION MAJNU REPRESENT SAHMARAN SHANTY TOWN

AUSTRALIAN OPEN TENNIS (TSN) 7:00pm: Early Round Coverage Day #6 (TSN4) 9:00pm: Early Round Coverage Day #6

NHL HOCKEY (TSN5) 7:00pm: Sens vs. Penguins (SNPacific) 10:00pm: Avalanche vs. Canucks

CHL HOCKEY (TSN3) 7:30pm: Peterborough Petes vs. Guelph Storm

NBA BASKETBALL   (SN/SN1) 7:30pm: Heat vs. Mavericks (TSN2) 7:30pm: Warriors vs. Cavaliers (SN1) 10:00pm: Grizzlies vs. Lakers

MARKETPLACE (CBC) 8:00pm: Busting Miracle Cures: Hidden Camera Investigation: Investigating the “Doc of Detox” who promises to cure serious ailments with his supplements & specialized devices. We reveal the false claims & speak to those who regret subscribing to his treatment.

STUFF THE BRITISH STOLE (CBC) 8:30pm: Sign a deal with Queen Victoria or face disease and devastation? That was a choice facing one of Canada’s proudest leaders. But did the British forces then literally steal the shirt from his back?

THE NATURE OF THINGS (CBC) 9:00pm: Science & Cannabis: Is cannabis a medical cure-all or snake oil? Scientists distinguish the medicine from the myths.

TRANSPLANT (CTV) 9:00pm: A software glitch takes down the emergency department; Bash explores new terrain; Mags searches for a new cardiologist; June is fed up with her bosses; Theo attempts a stable dating life.

THE PROOF IS OUT THERE (History Canada) 9:00pm (SEASON PREMIERE):  Reports of a dinosaur living in the African Congo, strange lights above the Hessdalen Valley in Norway, a 12-year-old girl in Russia with superhuman strength, and proof of an alien structure on an asteroid.

OLDBOY (2003) (Crave) 9:00pm:  A vengeful man (Choi Min-sik) must unlock the mystery behind his 15-year-imprisonment by unseen jailers.

CRIME BEAT (Global) 10:00pm: The Wrongful Confession

THE SUICIDE TEXTS: THE FRIENDS SPEAK (Super Channel Fuse)  10:00pm: The case of Michelle Carter and Conrad Roy, who met during a chance encounter while on vacation and immediately connected through their struggles with mental health; over time, Michelle helped Conrad prepare and execute his suicide.

TERROR TRAIN 2 (Crave) 11:05pm: Alana is coerced to join the Magician and other survivors on a New Year's Eve redemption ride aboard the now infamous Terror Train, where a new kind of evil awaits. Once again, the terrified passengers must fight to survive.

#cdntv #Cancon #canadian tv #canadian tv listings #marketplace #stuff the british stole #the nature of things #transplant #crime beat #tennis #nhl hockey #chl hockey #nba basketball

[barbeewitt62]

Various pathological lesions on the skin involving principal aldosteronism in addition to their medical significance.

As a result, the possible mechanism involving ATD most likely are not attributed entirely to be able to changes in the particular core 5-HT technique. Inside research studies, proof implies that nitric oxide supplements synthase (NOS) can be carefully associated with ATD-induced changes in modulation associated with cerebral the flow of blood as well as metabolism, psychological, as well as locomotor activity. As a result, NOS will be implicated to become an underlying aspect contributing to ATD-induced adjustments. In the present study, the consequence associated with ATD after key NOS amounts within the rat was examined. Guy Sprague-Dawley (SD) rats were by mouth implemented a tryptophan-free protein-carbohydrate mixture. And then, ATD effects on effective habits as well as spatial storage have been examined from the forced floating around examination (FST) along with Morris h2o network check, respectively. More, NOS exercise and neuronal NOS (nNOS) health proteins levels within the hippocampus ended up calculated soon after ATD. Our own trial and error benefits showed that ATD didn't have affect on affective conduct in the FST or spatial storage within SD rats. Interestingly, a substantial reduction of the two constitutive NOS action and nNOS health proteins levels after ATD was discovered in the hippocampus. These bits of information display ATD won't impact efficient habits and spatial memory despite an effect on hippocampal NOS. Our research may possibly provide a beneficial concept with regard to exploring previous described ATD-induced behavioral and neurochemical changes in animals.Near-infrared spectroscopy (NIRS) was used substantially with regard to useful neuroimaging within the last decade, in part since it is deemed a robust instrument pertaining to checking out thinking processes within human babies as well as young kids, for whom other neuroimaging methods aren't appropriate. In particular, numerous studies have measured hemodynamic replies in the occipital area within newborns upon exposure to graphic stimulating elements. In the present examine, we used the multi-channel NIRS to measure neuronal activity within a macaque monkey who had been educated to watch videos demonstrating various festival wildlife carrying out acrobatic routines with out correcting the top placement with the horse. Cortical exercise from the occipital location has been measured 1st by placing any probe composed of any Thrice A few array of emitters along with sensors (Only two selleck x Several cm) for the region (location 19), and the robustness and stability with the results were confirmed across periods. Cortical answers had been then measured in the dorsofrontal location. The particular oxigen rich hemoglobin indicators improved within place In search of as well as decreased within location 8b in response to looking at the actual video clips. The outcomes advise that these types of parts get excited about psychological processing associated with visually shown stimuli. Your ape confirmed positive responsiveness to the stimuli from the effective viewpoint, however its attentional response to these was a good inhibitory one.Immunization with the electrofusion item involving tumor cells and also dendritic cells (DCs) is often a guaranteeing procedure for most cancers immunotherapy. Creation of electrofusion vaccines currently demands the purchase of growth materials and should be designed to each and every individual.

#Screening Library #ERK inhibitor #ISO-1 #Nutlin-3 #Necrosulfonamide #Camptothecin #Salubrinal #SB225002 #Leuprolide #A-485 #Ivosidenib #BMS-1166 #4μ8C #Cyclopamine #Streptozotocin #Prexasertib #Atorvastatin #Picropodophyllin #Rosiglitazone #6-Thio-dG #compound 991 #ASP015K #PD-1/PD-L1 inhibitor 2 #SU5416 #ABT-869 #SB497115 #MDL-71782 #PRT062070 #LOXO-195 #LY335979