Trans Women Make The World A Brighter Place

BERLIN

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The Price of a Kiss - Eddie Munson x reader

Summary - You start trading Eddie little nick knacks for kisses

A/N - Tiiiniest little drabble from my drafts because I feel bad not being able to post any new writing, 1k words

“What’s this?” Eddie’s eyes weren't even looking at the rock you were holding up in front of him, his dark, doe brown eyes were linked to yours, and he wasn’t planning on looking away.

“A rock,” you smiled proudly at him, the small stone glinting softly in the sunlight as you held it up, with tiny streaks of crystal scattering the light and reflecting onto his face.

“I can see it’s a rock sweetheart,” he said as he picked the small rock from your fingers before holding it up to the sunlight and admiring it. “But why?”

“I dunno- I saw it and it looked pretty, I wanted to give it to you,” you wrung your hands together as you spoke and in that moment Eddie knew you had to be the most adorable creature to ever walk this earth-

“So you saved it? Brought it all the way here to me?” Eddie asked you with big eyes, the rock long since pocketed in his black ripped jeans, and you nodded in response to his question, biting your lip ever so slightly.

“Why thank you sweetheart,” his voice was soft as he spoke, and he was close enough that you could hear every slight shift in his voice, every breath and tone change. Eddie’s arm was wrapped around your waist bringing you impossibly close to him. “How could I ever repay you?”

It was painstakingly clear what he wanted, his lips were hovering over yours, almost brushing but just barely not, yet you could still swear you would know what he would taste like when he finally kissed you.

“A kiss perhaps?” your eyebrows raised ever so slightly and you tipped your head to the side, pursing your lips together as you looked at him.

“A fair trade indeed,” Eddie cooed at you softly, his rough hands grabbing your face and cupping it in his hands before he connected your lips together. His lips slightly chapped, but yet they were always softer than you expected, and he kissed you with such gentle care almost as if he was worried about shattering you in his grip.

“There, I think that is reward enough don’t you?” Before you could protest Eddie’s lips had left yours and you could tell he was fighting back the smirk that was nipping at the corner of his mouth. You pouted at him and stood on your tiptoes to try and reach his lips, which easily cracked his facade and his grin broke out over his face.

“Nuh-uh my love, that wasn’t our deal, I’ll suppose you’ll just have to trade me more.”

That was the first time you and Eddie exchanged a trade, and it was only the first of many times. After that you did whatever you could to find things to trade with him. Little knick knacks, a scrunchie, more pretty rocks you would pick up on the walk to his trailer, and once you made him a friendship bracelet that had him peppering your face in kisses.

“You know, I think you might end up collecting all the pebbles in Hawkins if you keep this up,” he once told you just before he gave you your well earned kiss. “I don’t care- if it means you’ll kiss me like that again I’ll do anything.

“Well, do you have something else to trade with me?”

It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t gladly give you as many kisses as you wanted, all you had to do was ask him, and you did. But you still loved the little trades you shared, and you loved finding little things to trade with him.

It almost became a little game to you, find the prettiest rock, the most perfect shell, make him something that you knew he would appreciate for more than just your small deals.

However, what you didn’t know was that Eddie kept everything you traded him, while he would pocket whatever little trinket you had brought him, when he got home, or when you weren’t looking he would slip it into the little box he had started keeping under his bed.

Even the bracelet you made for him, after he had given you your kiss he excitedly asked you to help him tie it around his wrist and after that it became a regular accessory, sitting just below his usual leather cuff. It was almost a little funny seeing the hand braided colourful friendship bracelet tied around his wrist next to the hard and cut black leather, it was such a stark contrast that it shouldn’t make sense yet somehow it did so perfectly.

It was almost like a sense of pride for him, every now and then he would reach under his bed to fumble around for the box, pouring out all the small trinkets onto his bed just to scoop them all up into his hands. Like a goblin would with his gold coins.

And it would lead to the silliest little pieces of conversation between the two of you. Like the time you were sitting on the couch, his hand tangled with yours when you pulled a slightly cracked shell out of your pocket, you didn’t even have to say anything. He simply picked it from your hand and started examining it against the dimmed light in the trailer living room.

“I don’t think this is enough for a kiss my love, my rates have gone up,” his voice was silky smooth as he spoke, and his thumb was on your chin forcing you to part your lips ever so slightly and the softest whine escaped from your lips. “Would you settle for a kiss on the cheek?”

“Everything is so expensive in this economy these days,” you muttered and complained, pouting ever so slightly at him to try and gain some affection in your bargaining.

“Oh but you’re so cute, how am I supposed to resist?” Eddie let the question hang in the air for a moment before he kissed you.

hello!! for the mini fic asks I would like to request D) subtle kindnesses, Roy siblings (any dynamic of your choosing!) <3

Hello! LOOK, this is neither a mini fic, nor probably what you wanted, haha, but I hope you like it regardless. <3

-

“Can I take your bag, sir?”

It takes Connor a minute to place the voice, to find the source among the crowd of staff lurking inside the doorway and briefly, he wonders if he’s come in the servants’ entrance, which - - jeez, wouldn’t that be embarrassing? Worse than the time he used the dessert spoon instead of the soup spoon at the Carnegie Weill Gala, or maybe not, given at least the only witnesses here would be the help, but then he casts his gaze up to the oakwood staircase, the gold-dipped chandelier, the ornately framed portrait of Caroline’s grandfather, and - -

Yeah.

Okay.

Not the servants’ entrance.

He hasn’t spent that much time at this particular house – one of the older Collingwood estates, and well out of London, located low on the rolling Cornish Coast – and honestly, he’d spent his last stay here drunk enough on the wine Caroline’s brother had brought up from Veneto that he’s not sure he remembers much beyond the bathroom anyway.

The thought makes Connor pick his duffel up off the floor, take a breath, inhaling the pungent smell of camphorwood and a log fire, somewhere in a room nearby, and, weirdly enough, the slightly saccharine scent of vanilla. 

“All good, señor, I’m gonna keep this one on me,” Connor says, stepping out of the way as one of the staff scrubbing at the floor inches closer to his shoes. “Trust me, I know how good the little hands in this house are at getting into things they shouldn’t.”

The butler gives him a strained smile at that, and Connor can’t help but laugh, even as two of the maids flutter past, one carrying a fax machine, the other rolls of paper, which feels - - positive? Maybe? He watches them disappear down the passage, chest oddly tight, and clears his throat, glances up, around, at the high arched ceiling, across the staircase, searching for anyone who isn’t getting a paycheck. Finally, he figures he just may as well ask it.

“Uh, is my dad - - ”

“Connor! You’ve made it!”

It’s Caroline’s voice, bright and loud, that bounces around the foyer, and Connor barely gets a glimpse of dark hair and narrow shoulders, a black draped gown like a Dickensian widow’s, before his throat dries and he bows his head like he did as a boy in Caroline’s ever simmering presence. He adjusts his bag strap, huffs a little at himself, reminds himself he’s not fifteen anymore, before forcing himself to look up as Caroline materialises at his side in a puff of tobacco and cinnamon-infused perfume.

She offers her cheek, and without a thought, he leans in to kiss it.

“Long flight, I imagine,” she says. “Do you want a drink?”

Connor blinks in surprise, glancing sideways at the grandfather clock down the hall, barely having struck midday, and says:

“Isn’t it a little early?”

“Surely you’re still on American time,” she grins, waspish, tilting her head as she steps over one of the floor cleaners and starts down the hall, as clear an instruction as any to follow her. “And a good host couldn’t let you drink alone.”

Stay Soft, Get Eaten 5k words. Succession gen fic. Set in 1987.

Send me mini fic prompts

dealing with the worst case scenario

your condom breaks

you feel a lump on your breast

your friends are ignoring you

you’re stranded on an island 

you got rejected by a crush

you get into a car accident

you got stung by a bee/wasp

you got fired from your job

you’re in an earthquake

your tattoo gets infected

your house is on fire

you’re lost in the woods

you get arrested abroad

you get robbed

your partner cheated on you

you’re on a ship that’s sinking

you fall into ice

you’re stuck in an elevator

you hit a deer with your car

you have food poisoning

your pet passed away

you fall off of a horse

you or your friend has alcohol poisoning

you have toxic shock syndrome

your house has a gas leak

I have no words this is Amazing

Yandere Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, Ramsay Bolton (Platonic Scenario - "A Fool's Mistake 3: Taking the Black")

Warnings: Abuse of Power, Reality Warping, Violence, Blood, Death, Mentions of Torture, Emotional/Psychological Manipulation, Toxic Mindsets.

Word Count: 7825.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (You are here)

The silhouettes of free folk dashed between trees and rocks in the silverish light of the full moon. They were clothed in the skins of woodland animals, and they wielded with much dexterity a combination of bows, axes and spears crafted from the forest.

Droves of the free folk had begun to scale the Wall at yesterday's sunset and, from midnight to daybreak, had reached the point where falling meant certain death. Despite enough time passing for the sun to peek over the mountaintop, the space that surrounded the free folk remained dark as night.

The sky was black but held no stars as if drapes had been thrown over the earth. The top of the Wall, a summit that appeared taller than the clouds, was covered in impenetrable darkness. Glimmers of sunlight skirted the darkness, and the scarce light traced the shape of a bubble around the free folk who dared to rise.

The ground was no longer visible to those who looked down in the hope of descending the Wall and testing the climb another day. The ice wall in front of them and the makeshift tools used to hook it was all that met their eyes beyond the shadows.

Whispers seeped into the ears of the free folk, whispers that resembled the faint voices of the people climbing with them. The voices asked for the location of the other free folk, asked after their health and encouraged them to resume the climb.

Once the first ragged antler and stake impaled the ice at the top of the Wall, the free folk realised that their vision had been dulling. In the final moments of heaving oneself onto the Wall, each member of the expedition noted themselves to be the only living thing there.

The sight that greeted them flashed back and forth between the bodies of their fellow free folk and an empty stretch of ice. The shadows warped their eye and seemed to drill into their heads before the darkness took them to the ground far below.

When no birds sang and the air became colder than the depths of a northern pond, you watched for creatures with blue eyes and ghostly skin.

Except for the occasional lash of shadows at the base of snowy trees, the woods lay motionless and free of dark magic on this hour. The current flowing from the distant Bay of Seals was tumultuous and churned as if locked in a storm, but it carried nothing more than the rare howl and rush of icy breath.

* * *

With his wrists bound to the back of a chair and his ankles tied to the wood legs, the sole mercenary to survive the recent battle at the Dreadfort sat in his own sweat. A mob of Bolton soldiers encircled him with their swords raised and their eyes locked on whichever part of him they were most inclined to cut.

The large door to the dining hall creaked open in an outward swing of metal and bending joints. Ramsay Bolton stormed into the room, his fingers playing with a gore-drenched knife.

After a moment of examining the mercenary, the immediate wrath flaring on his face waned and evolved into morbid curiosity. “I remember you.” Ramsay tilted his head and scanned the man's visible wounds and foul odour to confirm his suspicion.

It was then that the mercenary's stomach dropped to bottomless depths, and he began to whisper prayers for the mercy of the Mother.

Unlike the frantic turns and agitated stomps of earlier, Ramsay's next movements were slower and dominated by quiet steps that struck a greater panic in the heart of the mercenary each time. “You took a long look at them.”

From his pocket came the glint of a knife, prompting the mercenary to squirm against the ropes and expel a whimper.

Ramsay twirled the weapon in his right hand and conveyed a taste of future pain with unrepentant eye contact. “Just before you tried to kill them.”

Before the tip of the steel could blind the mercenary, the harsh voice of Roose Bolton echoed in the dining hall and overpowered any wails spilling out of the mercenary. “Ramsay!”

The sound was little more than a growl, and Ramsay paused with his knife hovering just in front of the mercenary's eyeball.

The violent shake gripping his arm did not cease, spreading to his lips and upper body as he stared into the mercenary's terror with bubbling insanity that flailed against the bridle he was compelled to put on it. Ramsay vented slivers of his untapped rage through the tremulous breaths whipping past his bared teeth.

While the soldiers beside him kept a tight hold on their swords, Roose did not allow his voice to waver. “We need this one alive.”

The blade was so close that the mercenary's eyelashes brushed it every time he blinked.

It quivered with the threat of twitching too far and impaling his skull before he could release a full scream, but Ramsay seemed to find enough delight in his father's command that he turned his head away. “Oh, he'll live.”

Just as the knife reeled back and then plunged forward, a booming announcement sounded from Roose. “We're going on a diplomatic mission to White Harbor.”

Ramsay listened to his father with a distracted mind plagued by runaway thoughts and bits of emotion he could not manage, his eyes flitting between Roose and the nearest objects while his fingers twitched with ideas of what pain to inflict on the captured mercenary. “When will you return?”

Roose looked upon his struggle with amusement and indifference. “You should know. You're coming with me.”

As if Roose had revoked his legitimacy as the heir, Ramsay raised his head and widened his eyes. The tension clenching his shoulders and jaw shifted to confused glances, and his lips moved to search for the appropriate response that changed with each surge of dissatisfaction and the sense of a goal stepping out of his reach.

“My place is here. I have rallied the men.”

Roose began to approach the main entrance to the fortress and did not slow his stride. “Your place is where I say it is.”

Ramsay stopped walking, but Roose ignored the vicious stare drilling into the back of his head. “Father,” murmured Ramsay, and his next words were spoken through gritted teeth. “I need to find them.”

Roose took a final, definitive step forward and turned, the bottom of his cloak gliding across the floor. “There will be a time for that. Right now, what you need to do is mount a horse and ride with me to White Harbor.”

* * *

The chambers of Tyrion Lannister stank of wine on most nights, but the scent was especially potent on this night. An empty flagon sat at the foot of a luxurious chair, which Tyrion used to rest his legs while he put his mouth to the work of downing every glass he could fill.

With his knuckles pressed underneath his chin, Tyrion observed the half-full goblet with a curious glint in his eye. He laid his hand over the top of it and waited in silence for many a second.

When he retracted his hand and peeked into the cup, a foolish part of him hoped that it would be full again. A layer of wine at the bottom was all that greeted him. Tyrion hurled the goblet at the wall, and a thick wave of blackberry wine exploded onto the stone.

The glass clattered to the floor and rolled into the leg of a chair, streaks of reddish-purple cascading down the rock and draining into the crevices. Droplets continued to seep from the rim of the cup as trails of the dark liquor mixed with the red of a Lannister banner and fell behind a dresser.

As the door slammed behind him, Tyrion stamped past the duo of guards protecting his chambers and snapped his fingers. “With me.”

The guards lifted their shields from the floor and hurried to follow.

Tyrion marched down the corridor with a palace guard on his left and his right. Flanked by the men, he rounded a corner and leaned forward to place his hands upon an ornate set of double doors.

He pushed open the door to Cersei's chambers and found her sitting at the table beside the balcony, a glass in her hand and red wine on her lips. The rattles of the guards' swords and armour must have been loud in the silent halls, for she was facing the entrance without a lick of surprise.

She lowered the glass and eyed him as if he were an insect that had crawled into her bedroom from a hole in the wall. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Tyrion widened his eyes and removed his hands from the door, allowing it to shut at his back. “I was concerned,” he lied, feigning fear in an exaggerated, deliberately obvious manner. “Just the other day, a man had his throat slit for sleeping.”

Cersei kept her voice low as though others were in danger of listening. “I believe that to be the work of our mutual friend.” She placed distinct acrimony on the word “friend,” her lip curling.

As her gaze drifted off to the cityscape outside her balcony, Tyrion wondered if the bitterness came from her belief that the word was untrue or the implication that the two of them could ever share a companion. “Don't tell that to the king. He was quite upset at having his prized day interrupted.”

The hand that held onto the wine glass began to shake, and Cersei refrained from looking at her brother. “Joffrey won't see me.” A heaviness existed in her words, a quiet misery that she was attempting to drown in wine.

Tyrion kept his frown level. “Oh, yes. Not since you promised the sorcerer would find their own way back to him, a promise that has yet to be fulfilled.” He tilted his head upon saying the second bit.

Cersei shut her eyes and clenched her teeth slightly, refusing to let the posh smile on her lips fall. She opened her eyes and glanced in his direction when the soft thuds of footsteps came near the table.

A chair squealed as it was pulled from under the table, and Tyrion plopped on it with his hands resting close to Cersei's. “If I say it, I would be branded an enemy of the crown and lose my head within the hour. Perhaps Jaime?”

She turned farther away and fixed her eye on the open doors to the balcony. “Joffrey's working him like a dog.”

A slight sigh rolled out of him, and Tyrion closed his eyes for a pensive instant before opening them with a degree of sympathy. “If Jaime could be here with you, he would be.” He unfurled his arms, turned his palms to the ceiling, and gestured to the bedroom.

Lifting the glass, Cersei took another sip. “I'm not so sure.”

* * *

The courtyard of the Red Keep smelled of pollen as a medley of berry bushes and wildflowers bloomed in the light of day. The leafy grass was green as the coat of arms from House Tyrell of Highgarden, and it swayed in a cool breeze that was welcomed by the lords and ladies dilly-dallying in the sun.

From the generous lengths of the surrounding corridors, Varys and Petyr Baelish strolled into the small garden. Each one moved in tandem with the other just enough to keep up the illusion of leisure and signify that the interaction would not end until one of them deviated from the path.

“The Boltons are a minute settlement thousands of miles away in the North with one fiefdom no larger than my biggest brothel,” said Petyr.

A slight nod of the head came from Varys. “Yes, but some of my little birds have flown north for the summer.”

“And what songs do they sing?” asked Petyr, his lips casting the shadow of a smile as he walked past a servant girl consorting with a visiting lord.

Varys spotted similar goings-on in a corner of the garden ahead, and he cast his gaze in the direction of the man beside him. “They sing that the Bolton's youngest is unbalanced yet terribly ambitious. Certainly one to watch.”

Petyr slowed to a stop and turned on the heels of his boots. He blinked slowly and released a modest sigh, his eyes flickering to his surroundings while his voice quieted. “He's one man with neither the stomach nor the mind for the South.”

Varys looked askance, tilted his head, and raised his shoulders a bit as if considering Petyr's words. “One man nearly toppled the realm not so long ago,” he replied.

The subtlest chuckle—no more than an audible exhale—slipped out of Petyr. His neck bent towards the ground slightly, and his attention remained on the cobblestone patterns flowing beneath him for a contemplative instant. “Indeed,” he conceded. “I have to go.”

Varys bowed his head. “Ah, very well.” He lifted his eyes to catch sight of Petyr slinking to the edge of the garden. “Perhaps we can speak again soon, Lord Baelish.”

As the shadow cast by the arch of the Red Keep fell over him, Petyr turned and offered a glib smile. “Perhaps we can, Lord Varys.”

* * *

Every man atop the Wall was struck by an unearthly coldness that night.

No matter how thick the coats around their shoulders were, the wind sliced their face and nipped any exposed skin with its frosty claws. The cold dove into their bones and seemed to chill them from the inside out.

Despite being rekindled every other minute, the light of the torches was dimmer here. The fog of the night was murkier than the bottom of a bog. The fires were short-lived, swept away into simmering embers by sudden and isolated gusts.

The same light that would have illuminated your body was extinguished by the wind. The brother in charge of relighting it swore under his breath. When he peered at you in wonderment of your apparent resistance to the frigid weather, a shiver ran through him as if he had been stuck with a frost-tipped spear.

It killed the words on his tongue.

The dark around you seemed deeper and more foreboding than any cave, unaffected by light even as the moon beamed down upon it. The brother saw the outline of you hidden in the darkness, and it was all he needed to see to decide that the remainder of his watch was someone else's responsibility for the night.

In the ensuing calm, your head surveyed one end of the forest below to the other. No figures had crept out of the woods yet.

The clanks and grinds of the lift rising to the top of the Wall sounded from behind, and Samwell Tarly stepped off it into the snow. The soft, pearly white material was crushed under his heavy boots. After a brief pause, his footsteps approached you and stopped at your side.

Your head slowly turned, which allowed you to catch Sam peeking in your direction. He glanced downward and released a bashful chuckle upon being caught, but a look of childish excitement soon washed over his full face. “Jon says you're a wizard!”

The snow crunched as Sam shuffled his feet, his gaze darting from his shoes to you. “I've never seen a real wizard before!” He shifted again and failed to restrain the huge grin breaking out across his lips. “Only read about them in books,” he added, somewhat lowering his voice.

Sam leaned forward and looked up and down at your iron mask and dark robes. “Do you all dress like that?” He outstretched his arms to push his cloak back and looked at his own black coat and armour. “Maybe we're more alike than I thought!” What escaped him next was a quick, “Ha!”

He turned his head back to you and kept his mouth open slightly as if expecting you to agree, but your continued silence prompted his smile to falter.

As his eyes searched the snowy darkness that lay in front of him, Sam shook his head. “My father detests wizards. Thinks magic's for nellies who don't want to fight.” There was a layer of distaste and pain to his words as though repeating his father's opinion had poisoned his tongue and caused a bad memory to churn within his mind.

“Not me,” he blurted, his head bouncing towards you before moving back again. Sam leaned over and patted his chest with both hands once. “Big fan.”

As Sam marvelled at his proximity to a real magic user, the lift descended into the bowels of Castle Black and then rose to the top of the Wall after a few minutes of rasping. The dark-haired Jon Snow emerged from the fiery light of the lift with a torch raised in his hand.

“Sam,” was all he said, and Sam fell silent.

Jon nodded at him with a tiny smile when Sam turned and offered a happy, “Hello, Jon!” Sam stepped back to allow Jon room to walk forward and stand diagonal to him.

Although he was addressing more than one person, Jon kept his eyes focused on your mask. “If it's all right with you, I'd like to speak with Brother Black alone.”

Sam lost his smile for a moment, but it returned with a shrug of his shoulders and another shift of his feet. “Of course! Of course!” He distanced himself from where he had been standing and motioned for you to go with Jon. “I'll just be here.”

Jon bid him farewell before marching farther down the Wall, the light of the torch undulating in the icy wind.

As the orange glow started to vanish from sight, Sam looked away and faced the edge of the Wall. “I ought to be checking on Gilly.” Fond memories of the woman softened his voice and provided some warmth against the cold. “Sweet Gilly.”

No one answered but the howl of the wind. Sam inhaled through his nose and allowed the silence to live for a couple of seconds before he sighed. “Boy, it's cold up here.”

The journey ended after roughly ten minutes of walking, and Jon turned to give you a cursory scan. In his eyes was suspicion, curiosity and more than a token of discomfort. His breath was visible in the cold, flowing upward as he turned to overlook the cliff.

“The other brothers don't feel safe around you. They need to know they can trust the man standing next to them.” A flash of uncertainty overtook him in a sweep of cold wind, and Jon turned his head to look at you as if for the first time. “You are a man, right?”

There was a carefulness to his words as though you might shed your veil of humanity and lunge at him before he took another breath, his legs shifting with a rattle of his heavy armour and his hand confirming its place on the pommel of his sword.

A gust of air wafted from the lower slit in your mask and floated into the night sky.

Holding the silence as the grey cloud dispersed into the darkness looming above the castle, Jon chose not to pursue such thoughts and gave a single nod. “Right.”

* * *

The flaps of wings preceded the caws of a raven, and the bird landed its coat of snow-dappled feathers on the stone frame of the window. It raised its left leg as if it were limp and turned its black eyes to Jon, revealing a scroll tied to its lean body.

Jon approached the raven as it continued to caw and move its head in sudden, jerky motions.

“I haven't sent for any wandering crows,” mumbled Alliser Thorne, who waved at Jon to receive the letter when he paused at his comment.

The bird twitched and hopped while the scroll was taken from its leg, and once the gloved hand released it, the raven flew into the white skies with a string of caws.

As Jon brushed his thumb across the reddish-pink seal, the emblem of an upside-down flayed man sent a wave of apprehension over his body. The impulsive part of him said to toss the letter in the fire and never wonder about its contents, but the impatient gaze of Alliser demanded that he push his misgivings aside.

“Well?” came the older man's disgruntled voice.

“It's the sigil of House Bolton, ser.” Jon glanced between the Lord Commander and the scroll, struggling to void all of his concerns but stepping forward with dutiful haste.

Alliser nodded his head and quirked his eyebrows as if coaching a child. “I can see that. Would you care to read it?”

Inspecting the seal one last time, Jon broke it with a snap and unfolded the parchment. “Dear the men of the Night's Watch, it has come to my attention that you recently brought a sorcerer into your ranks.”

His volume tapered after every few words as if seeking to lessen the blow of an expected threat, but as the inky texture of the crooked and misplaced lines stretched and fell before his eyes, he realized it was a continuous promise of danger.

“Their allegiance belongs to House Bolton. If you do not return them to me, I shall flay you living and make you watch as I tear your brother's still-beating heart from his chest and feed it to my hounds.”

Jon lost much of his interest in reading the message and looked askance at Alliser for the sake of averting his eyes from the letter.

When the Lord Commander returned his gaze with stunned silence and a minor shift in his position, Jon proceeded to the end. “Two fortnights it will take for me to march on your pathetic excuse for a castle, so two fortnights you shall have to act.”

Despite the reluctance plaguing his hold on the scroll as if touching it would transmit a disease, Jon took only a second to recuperate and finished with a weary drop in his tone. “Signed Ramsay Bolton, Acting Lord of the Dreadfort.”

He tucked the parchment and lowered his arms to his side, casting a pensive look over the glow of the fire before turning his eyes to the Lord Commander.

“Inane ramblings from a madman,” spat Alliser with a sharp turn of his head. The man tugged a quill out of the inkpot on his desk and slammed a piece of blank paper onto its surface.

Jon watched the quivers of his hand and the words they wrote becoming clearer as the ink dried, but the scratches of the quill marking the parchment were overshadowed by a quick step forward. “Ser, the Boltons are a ruthless people. We shouldn't take anything they say to be idle threats.”

The Lord Commander refused to look away from his writing or slow the motions of his hand. “Roose Bolton is a few steps short of a wildling in lord's clothing. As for his son, I've never met him.” He finished the letter with a flourish. “And I'd like to keep it that way.”

The thud of a seal echoed in the room before it was replaced by the creak of a chair sliding across the floor, and Jon clutched the letter that was pushed into his hand.

“Give this to Maester Aemon. Tell him to send it immediately. When it's done, have a brother ride to Mole's Town.” As Alliser marched out the door to his chambers, Jon followed and overheard his yells to the congregation of Night's Watchmen standing below. “Increase the patrols! I want a fresh man at those gates for every hour!”

The group lifted their swords and scattered throughout the courtyard, while Jon hastened his walk to the library. Orders were shouted into the wind, and the collective rattle of armour and thump of boots faded into the background.

Jon entered the library a bit louder than he intended. The door slammed behind him when a strong wind pulled it forward, causing both he and Maester Aemon to jump.

A mumble slipped out of Maester Aemon as he ran his fingers across the Braille in the book of dragons he had been delighting in reading. The table at which he was seated was strewn with a variety of books. It stood in the centre of the room, and it was bordered by tall bookcases full of centuries of knowledge.

Stepping forward, Jon extended the scroll and approached the table. “Maester Aemon, I have an urgent scroll from the Lord Commander.”

Maester Aemon took the sealed scroll from him, running his fingertips along the seal and parchment. “Oh,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. He turned back to the books in front of him and heaved himself from the rickety chair.

As soon as he had started to drag himself forward, a chill washed down his spine as if dunked in ice water. He slowly turned his head and fixed his blind eyes on the furthest corner of the library.

There existed a deep shadow, swirling and spreading like tar. It seemed to emanate from the wall itself, and Maester Aemon took notice of whispers filling the back of his mind. They spoke in ancient tongues with otherworldly inflections that echoed in every part of the library.

His chapped lips struggled to find his brittle voice. “Who are you?”

Jon stilled and followed his gaze, but he saw nothing more than ordinary darkness. “Maester Aemon?”

A few mumbles crept out of Maester Aemon, each one disjointed and confused. He turned his head back and forth between the stone floor, the nearest bookshelf and Jon. His eyes were lost and searching for something unknown to Jon. “Oh, never mind,” he said softly, for the whispers had ceased.

Tucked away behind a wood column, on the corner of a table set against the wall, was a rectangular coop. Tufts of hay and wheat laid on the bottom and provided the footing for the assortment of ravens scuttling inside.

Maester Aemon shambled to the coop and peeled open its small door. With both hands, he lifted a raven from the enclosure. The bird went limp in his hold, its head facing downward and its legs sticking out.

He equipped the raven with a leather cylinder on its left leg into which he inserted the scroll. Once the latch on the cylinder was pinched shut, Maester Aemon retreated to allow for the raven to take flight with a flutter of its wings.

Jon watched as it glided through the short window at the base of the ceiling, and he wondered why a raven was necessary if a brother was riding to the town. His first thought was the scroll contained additional information that the brother was not privy to learn.

The answer came when he caught sight of the raven flying southeast instead of towards Mole's Town.

Before he could question the destination, Samwell Tarly burst into the library. Sam doubled over and placed a hand over his palpitating heart, breathing as a runner would after a race. “Jon!” he panted. “We're needed at the King's Tower!”

Two pairs of footsteps rushed to the walkway outside the library. Jon collided with the guardrail and grasped the top of it, leaning forward to get a closer look at the discord unfolding in the courtyard.

Night's Watchmen streamed into the corridors overlooking the main entrance, a group of five rangers was riding astride on horses, and the brassy call of a horn was sounding over the din of brothers hauling weapons and scaling sentry towers.

As the rangers poured into the stables, Jon looked further and noticed a circle of brothers marching in tandem with you to the opening doors.

* * *

The chairs of Merman's Court were cushioned with the finest silk. They complemented the long table stretching from the foyer to the throne, which was decorated with a nautical tablecloth and various plates of pork pies, roasted eels and fried lampreys.

The food, still warmed by the steam of the fires, smelled of spice and gravy. The dead and cooked fish swam in the sauce and drank mouthfuls of it in a vile parody of life, a life that the oceanic paintings lining the walls and ceiling illustrated in vivid colour.

The guards who watched over the feast resembled the type of warriors one expected to see in a submarine kingdom, for the weapons clutched in their hands were tridents.

Lord Manderly sat in a velvet chair similar to his throne, which he had joked about bringing to the table more than once. The Boltons were seated opposite him, and sitting beside them were Lord Cerwyn and his son Cley.

While Roose met the eyes of each lord, Ramsay turned his gaze downwards and divvied his attention between the various items of food covering his plate.

Roose glanced in his direction when Ramsay's hand found its way to the knife. “Forgive my son's lethargy. He is weary from our travels.”

Lord Manderly drew his eyebrows to his receding hairline and stretched his lips in a royal imitation of surprise. “Is he an old man?” Lord Cerwyn joined his chuckles with bountiful enthusiasm, neither lord acknowledging how Ramsay slowly lifted his head.

Malice radiated from the young Bolton like foul breath from a dog's jaws, but, sensing the gaze of his father, he mustered a polite smile.

Roose waited for the laughter to fade into a pregnant silence before he seized control of the discussion. “Our merchants are reporting that they've been turned away from the gates of White Harbor, some at swordpoint.”

Lord Manderly tore a chunk of bread from the strudel and ate it at a comfortable speed, peering across the feast rather than at Roose. “Aye, you'll have to find somewhere else to dump your subpar goods.”

A screech resounded in the dining hall as Ramsay yanked the blade of his knife a short distance across the wood, and he looked at Lord Manderly without raising his head. “Watch your tongue.”

Lord Manderly stopped chewing and faced the young Bolton's desire to maim him with a combination of surprise and umbrage.

At the stern look of Roose, Ramsay lowered his gaze and resumed carving a furrow into the table.

Lord Cerwyn shared an unsettled glance with his son, turning his eye to Roose when Roose looked away from Ramsay and spoke with far more elegance. “The Boltons have traded with the other Northern houses for years, and I haven't had complaints from House Cerwyn or House Umber.”

The weathered face of Lord Manderly acquired a sombre quality. “Ah, Umber. I heard what happened to Gareth's fifth-born. A right tragedy, that.”

A stillness came over Ramsay, his hand pausing and his eyes refusing to look anywhere but at the plate.

There was no visible change in Roose's demeanour, but he offered no words of sympathy.

Lord Cerwyn picked his tankard off the table and turned to Lord Manderly. “One less Umber. That's a start.” The two men descended into a hearty roar of joy and bumped their cups together, while the Boltons watched in quiet amusement.

When the lords joked and drank without a care for the original discussion, Roose spoke with enough strength to regain their attention but not appear demanding. “As Warden of the North, our trade is essential to Northern commerce.”

Lord Cerwyn, who had been gulping the alcohol like a direwolf gorging itself on meat, lowered his cup to the table. With an eye roll, he muttered, “Oh, great. More Bolton furs and flayed skin. Just what this city needs.”

The hiss of a blade rang in the ears of every lord when Ramsay jumped from his seat and slammed the knife through Lord Cerwyn's finger. The bone was just barely visible peeking out of the skin's edge as blood gushed from the exposed tendon in spurts.

A howl of agony bellowed from Lord Cerwyn, and he clutched his injured hand while reeling in his chair. His legs began to kick the stone floor, the distress growing louder and more wild with each surge of pain that lashed his mind and dragged shrieks from him as if his finger were aflame.

As Cley started to shiver and seemed on the verge of tears, he stood with a sharp creak of wood on the rock and rushed to help his father.

The corners of Ramsay's mouth twitched in a small release of tension, his pupils dilating at the screams and his hand squeezing the utensil. He did not blink once to sever his view of the desperate eyes and paling skin of Lord Cerwyn.

It was not until he turned to his father with a jerk of his head that he allowed his enthusiasm to wither, for Roose was looking at him with the unforgiving coldness of someone who regretted his son's birth.

Smile dropping, Ramsay attempted to win back his favour. “Father-”

Roose interrupted him with a frigid scowl. “Leave.”

Ramsay faced his father's tranquil rage in momentary shock as if the man had ordered him to leave the realm instead of the room, his fingers tapping the knife before curling around it. He glanced at various spots on the walls and the table without focusing on any of them.

Hatred of the glare Roose was sending him and his own failure to meet the man's wishes quickened his breaths, and the young Bolton tore the blade out of the wooden surface.

A thin crater became visible on the table next to the disembodied finger, with jagged chips of wood rising to decorate it.

Ramsay took fervent and aggressive strides to the door and shoved it open. Gales of Northern wind swept into the hall like ice water, lifting his cloak as he stormed outside.

The slam of the door behind him cut the chilling breeze like a sword to the head of a great beast, and the return of the torches' warmth redirected the spotlight to the weakening cries of Lord Cerwyn.

“My wedding finger,” groaned Lord Cerwyn, his neck drooping and his eyes fluttering. “He took my wedding finger!”

The limb sitting on the table was adorned with a gold ring that glittered under the candlelight of the chandelier. Only droplets of blood still leaked from his knuckle, dripping onto the plate and tablecloth.

Cley guided him to his feet and positioned himself under his father's left arm, while Lord Cerwyn scrambled to retrieve his finger and cradled it in his other hand.

Lord Manderly tossed his napkin onto the fresh bloodstain infecting his tablecloth and peered at the man with an irritated side-eye. “Pipe down, Medger. It's not like you were using it for much.”

Lord Cerwyn squirmed in his son's grasp, continuing to whimper and holler as he was hurried to the door. Another gust of wind followed their exit, and Roose shifted to a more comfortable position on his chair and clasped his hands together. “So, the trade routes are to be reopened?”

Lord Manderly cocked his head and seemed to repress a scoff. “The chopped-off finger of a twat won't buy our obedience. Do you expect House Manderly to cower in fear?”

Roose presented a look of callous certainty. “I know you're going to lose more than fingers if another Bolton caravan returns empty-handed.”

This sparked a burst of resentment to twist the mouth of Lord Manderly. “You'd threaten a man in his own home? Need I remind you whose wine you're drinking?”

Crumbs from a pork pie tumbled down his fat chin as he took a greedy bite of one, and Roose eyed the meat pie sitting on Lord Manderly's plate. “Need I remind you who hunted the pigs you're eating, Wyman?”

Lord Manderly stopped his chewing. There was a threatening sort of emphasis placed on his first name, like someone dangling a steak over a hungry dog. The remaining chunk of pork pie hovered in front of his mouth, untouched.

A battle of eye contact came and went between the two lords before Lord Manderly dropped the chunk on his plate.

With a subdued sigh, he looked down and pushed his fork away from his dish. “Aye, you're a tough, old codger, Roose.” Roose offered a slight smile at this, and Lord Manderly reclined on his chair. “I'm only doing it 'cause of pressure from the Lannisters.”

The mask of composure slipped from Roose's face for just a moment. “I see.” His eyes widened a bit before narrowing in discontent, looking over the feast once more. “It's a shame that the crown feels such a powerful need to meddle in our friendship.”

A laugh bellowed from Lord Manderly as if he had just been informed that the Dothraki had laid down their arms and become a peace-seeking civilisation.

Roose swung his cloak over his shoulder and left his chair with his mind far away in the depths of planning, but he remembered enough pleasantries to nod at the lord. “Be seeing you.”

When the senior Bolton pushed the door open, the sight of an agitated Ramsay fiddling with the bloody silverware eliminated any satisfaction he had gained from learning a piece of the truth.

The soldiers were all standing at a considerable distance from Ramsay, their eyes darting between him and the snowy land to avoid being noticed.

At the sound of boots crunching snow, Ramsay whirled around with a shudder. “Father, I-”

He was struggling to meet Roose's gaze, but his father walked past him. “Be quiet, Ramsay. Mount your horse.”

Hoofprints littered the snow from where Lord Cerwyn and his son had fled to obtain the services of a maester, their tracks disappearing into the blizzard in the northwestern direction of Castle Cerwyn.

Roose lifted himself onto his steed with minimal difficulty and turned his attention to the frosty water of the White Knife babbling nearby rather than grant his son a second of acknowledgement. “We're going home.”

Ramsay was slow to heed this command, his eyes drifting across the snow and clenching the knife so that it would have snapped if made of anything weaker than metal.

When he curled his lips in a question of whether to speak or not and squinted to deflect the rays of sunshine peeking over the rolling hills, the clop of hooves leaving the entrance to New Castle broke his concentration.

Roose had spurred his horse to trot in the opposite direction, and Ramsay clambered onto a horse of his own to follow.

The journey back to the Dreadfort was far longer and more tedious than the last time. The path meandered over hills and winded around rivers like a serpent slithering in the grass, with the overcast sky looking bleakly at the snow-covered ground below.

When Roose dismounted and allowed his horse to be spirited away to the stables, he said nothing. He did not grant Ramsay the briefest glance or quietest mutter, nor did he wait to see him return safely and dismount his own horse.

Listening to the footsteps tailing him grow louder and more erratic, Roose relented and turned with a dreary, if not vaguely sarcastic, frown. “The fault is mine. I thought you could better control yourself.”

Ramsay stopped to look at his father in an inability to process the discomfort preventing his mind from resting, his breaths slowing to allow for clearer thinking.

“You've embarrassed our house and disgraced our family name.” Roose watched as the last shard of restraint broke within his son, and he gave no chance for an apology or protest to grace his ears. Instead, he walked down the hall until his footsteps had quieted into nothing.

Abandoned to brood, Ramsay was no longer comfortable in his skin and found himself overtaken by a restless and inflamed energy.

The guard who stood at the door to the kitchens nearly yelped when a gloved hand clutched his throat and yanked him downwards. The noise was silenced by the pressure constricting his windpipe, and it took all of his training and discipline not to attack or look away from the wild eyes glaring into his own.

“Gather the men.” The order slipped through Ramsay's clenched teeth as a whisper. “Tell them we march tonight.”

He released the guard, only to shove him a moment after the man failed to sprint out of arm's length. “Go!” Ramsay turned in the direction his father had gone as the rapid thuds of steel boots echoed against the stone floors.

* * *

A rush of cold wind burst into the Lord Commander's chambers as the door swung open. The thuds of leather boots on wood marked the entry of a panting Night's Watchman, his forehead slick with a layer of snow and a hand resting on his abdomen. “News from Mole's Town, ser.”

The focus of Alliser's squinting eyes crumpled into dismay, and the Night's Watchman stepped further into the chamber. “Three armed strangers arrived last night.” He took a breath. “Together.”

Alliser let his gaze fall upon the scrolls littering his desk, searching for a reason not to assume the worst. “Were they bearing any sigils?”

Despite his limited understanding of the situation, the brother saw his commander's desperate hope and shook his head as if fearing the implications of his answer. “No, ser.”

Alliser was unsure of whether to be relieved or troubled by that fact. The possibility that the strangers were merely bandits or deserters with impeccable timing was one he clung to like a monkey to the last branch, but the paranoia creeping up his spine drove him to rise from his seat. “Two fortnights, he said. Not forty-eight hours!”

The Night's Watchman looked between Alliser and the door, his feet shifting to the exit and his hand twitching closer to his sword.

A tense silence of unspoken orders and obscenities reigned as Alliser swerved his head back and forth across his desk. “The Boltons have shat on their promise,” he finally declared. “Not that I expected anything less.”

After a moment of deliberation, Alliser waved the brother away. “Ride to the Shadow Tower. Request an audience with Denys Mallister, and tell him we need as many men as he can spare.”

A brisk “yes, ser” flew out of the Night's Watchman's mouth. A gust as cold as ice blew his cloak into the air when he opened the door once again, his boots thumping away from the chambers and then descending the stairs.

Another pair of footsteps replaced his and thundered to the door with haste. Alliser jerked his head up in preparation for scolding what he assumed to be the same brother returning in confusion.

The man who greeted him was Jon Snow, and Jon hurried to the front of the desk while looking upon him in a frenzy of bewilderment. “You're having Brother Black escorted out of the castle?”

Alliser narrowed his eyes at the name, his lips pressing together and then parting into a straight line. “I am.” He gave a swift nod. “They're a fugitive from justice.” The chair squeaked as he rose from it and collected a scroll lying on the desk, which was unfolded with a broken red seal.

“Ser,” said Jon, his tone disbelieving. He looked behind himself for a brief moment and then put forward his hand. “Brother Black-”

Alliser spun towards him and yelled, “They're not a brother, Jon! They never trained! They never took the oath.” A moment of silence passed before he began again at a slightly more controlled volume, “They're a runaway scratching at our door.”

Jon took a few seconds to collect his thoughts, and when he pointed a gloved finger at the Wall, Alliser knew his words before Jon uttered them. “They've killed more wildlings in a week than most of these men have in years.”

With a heavy sigh, Alliser shook his head. “The crown issued a royal decree for their return. Would you have me branded a traitor?” He turned back to the desk with an upward swing of his hand, and his voice lowered to a frustrated mutter. “Now we have Bolton spies skittering about in the dark like rats.”

At this, Jon opened his mouth and glanced around the room. “The Bolton army can't march on Castle Black.” He stretched an arm towards the open window as if the army was marching forth at that very moment. “The lords have no jurisdiction here. It's neutral territory!”

Alliser looked over his shoulder to bob his head at Jon. “Tell that to them when they're peeling the skin off your bones.”

* * *

Far outside the Lord Commander's Tower walked a group of four Night's Watchmen, each of whom was exchanging a cautious glance with the man beside him. All of them carried a sheathed blade on their hip as well as a torch to chase the shadows of tall trees away.

The shadow that was dragged across the ground at your feet, however, did not fade no matter how many sources of light were waved over it.

The forest ahead was devoid of singing birds and howling wolves, and the giant trees partially blocked the golden and pinkish rays of midday. Every man slowed his pace and watched the tree line, some expecting to see a Bolton sigil flying and others fearing that a bear was likely to hurl itself at the nearest man.

From behind a thicket hopped a rabbit. The appearance of the small animal elicited a hushed chuckle from the brother on your right. “That'd make a nice feed,” he whispered, nodding his head and waving his torch at it.

The brother on your left turned to him and talked without a care for his volume. “Don't bet your supper on it.”

After its long ears twitched and flattened at the noise, the rabbit scurried away into the bushes.

The man who had spoken first cocked his eye at him, and the brother on your left continued. “I caught me one of them hares down in Dorne. Ate the whole thing before the guards came and said it was some lord's pet.” The brother put his hands together and then spread them apart to visualise his meal.

He shrugged as if he could still taste the hare and knew it to be worth the punishment, a slight smile forming on his lips. “Now here I am.” The sliver of a smile fell to a frown, and he shook his head. “It's too bad. I hear Dorne's nice this time of year.”

You peered beyond your shoulder to spy the wood doors of the entrance to Castle Black, which were comprised of hefty logs that reached thrice above your line of sight. Somewhere warm, you thought, was an apt place to hide from those who lived in the cold.

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For those of y'all who do have access to follow a TikTok link. Here's the video!!

this broken design, ch11

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: kidnapping, canon typical blood/violence/gore, mentions of animal dissection (just the words "animal dissection")

You fall in and out of consciousness. One moment, you’re roughly dragged along the ground past Alana’s house; the next moment, there’s a blindfold secured over your eyes and you’re situated in what you guess to be the trunk of a car. You feel every minute bump in the road and you swear the driver is intentionally hitting potholes, if only to jostle you around more. At some point, you feel your vision fading—even amidst your best efforts to remain awake. You know you need to stay conscious to escape, but your body refuses to obey your commands.

The next time you wake, you’re met with an incessant, throbbing headache. You wearily blink your dry eyes open, wincing as light sears into your vision. Left with nothing but a buzzing silence and your thoughts, you berate yourself for letting your guard down. You had forgotten the nature of the people you were investigating. You’re in danger. You take a deep breath around the gag in your mouth and try to remain calm. Thankfully, your blindfold must have been removed at some point. 

Surveying your surroundings, you find a dilapidated dining room with dusty trinkets lining the walls. There’s a fanciful chandelier hanging over the luxurious dining table, which has seven empty seats. You’re located at the back head of the table—your wrists bound to the arms of the chair you were placed in. There are mere ropes holding you to the chair, but somehow, you can hardly even move, let alone try to get out of them. You must have been drugged—with something potent enough to remove all traces of physical resistance from your system. You can’t do anything more than make your fingers twitch from where they’re resting on the edges of the chair arms. Moreover, when you do manage to move them, your hand twitches sporadically. That’s definitely not a good sign.

It’s hard to stay awake, even though you know you need to be conscious and aware of your surroundings to keep yourself safe. There’s nothing to occupy you except for the monotonous ticking of a clock in the hall behind you, your blurred vision, and your aching limbs. 

At one point, when you drag yourself out of the void of unconsciousness, you find that you have a companion. Frederick Chilton is sitting in the chair on your right. You blink at him blearily and try to get his attention, only to remember that you’re both gagged and nearly unable to move. Upon closer investigation, it looks like he’s unconscious. You don’t stay conscious long enough to learn anything about Chilton’s situation or see your captor. Weirdly enough, your captor has been strangely absent—leaving you to decay amidst molding walls in solitude. Each time you fight off unconsciousness, you notice that Chilton is more roughed up. Your captor has a grudge against him, and it doesn’t take you long to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Ironically, by trying to protect Alana, you only ended up putting yourself in more danger. If you had the strength, you’d shake your head in disbelief. 

The opportunity to speak with your captor finally comes the next time you wake. The man, evidently finished with torturing Chilton for the day—judging by the blood soaking through the man’s shirt—tightens the ropes around Chilton’s wrists. This is your chance. “Gideon?” You feel yourself asking. It comes out muffled because of the gag. Your voice is dry and raspy; your entire mouth is dry and the words almost seem to bounce around restlessly. 

You blink at the figure. It looks like Hobbs. But, no, it can’t be Hobbs—Hobbs is dead. You blink and try to peel away the Minnesota Shrike’s cloying visage. The sickly emerald tones in his eyes fall away to reveal a sharp blue-eyed gaze. Dr. Abel Gideon is looking at you with interest; Chilton is no longer the subject of his attention. You cast a hateful gaze at Chilton’s prone form, feeling a momentary stab of satisfaction at seeing him hurt. You have to rip yourself from those thoughts to focus on Gideon, who is now standing next to you. 

“I must say, you were out for quite a while,” Gideon hums. You can’t tell if he’s speaking to himself or to you. He turns your chair ninety degrees to make you face him. “Perhaps I overdid it with the drugs. I haven’t been at the operating table in quite a while…” His focused musings are eerie. The man is treating you as if you’re an experiment—an animal on his dissection table. Eventually, Gideon sighs and removes the gag from your mouth. 

“Why did you take me?” You ask immediately. That’s the first thing you want to know. You can justify Chilton’s presence here—he worked with Gideon in the past and nearly convinced him he was the Chesapeake Ripper. You’ve never done anything of the sort, however. You’re not a mental health professional, nor have you even spoken to Gideon aside from the single conversation you had through the bars of his cell. 

Unsurprisingly, Gideon doesn’t answer your question. You’re not even sure if he can hear what you’re saying. “Say hello, Frederick.” Your assailant says instead, momentarily stepping aside to make sure you can see the man in question. Frederick Chilton cannot say hello, since several of his organs have been evidently removed and he is unconscious. You grimace. You don’t like the man, but you don’t think he deserves to be mutilated so cruelly. You swallow hard. “Might as well have some fun before I dispose of you properly.”

It takes you a moment to comprehend that statement. You look up, only to find that Gideon isn’t looking at Chilton anymore—he’s looking at you. You take a rattling breath in. Gideon walks away for a treacherous moment. Your heart is racing in your chest, so loudly that its rhythm reverberates in your ears. He’s back a moment later with a knife in hand. His fascination with Chilton is gone. The psychiatrist lies neglected in his chair, unconscious but ignored. For the first time in your life, you envy Frederick Chilton.

“Dr. Lecter is rather fond of you. Perhaps if I…” Gideon breaks off. Quick as lightning, he drags his knife along the skin near your left eye. You scream and writhe in your bonds, but he only smirks. You know that’s going to leave a nasty scar. That must be the point, you think to yourself faintly. He wants to leave a mark on you. “I forgot how enjoyable this was.” You want to kick at him, but Gideon must sense your thought process because he quickly steps out of range. 

You’re left to slowly dissipate in your chair, the uncomfortable sensation of warm blood trickling down your face. At one point, you feel droplets fall from your eye in a manner rather similar to tears. The next time you blink, your vision is crimson-tainted. Your vision doesn’t seem to be affected, other than the blood falling into your eyes. The entire left side of your face is stinging. This time, when you feel your eyes slip shut, you don’t fight it. 

You have no idea how much time passes after that. It’s clear that the drug is still in your system, because you can’t keep yourself awake for more than what you assume to be an hour or two. Chilton remains a steady, silent presence at your side. Each time you wake, you realize that he looks no better than before. You can hardly focus on him, though—not when it’s been several days (you can assume) since you’ve had anything to eat or drink. Your limbs are cooperating with your commands a bit more than before, but you know you’re still nowhere near your usual level of fitness. 

The ugly sound of a chair scraping against the ground jerks you out of your thoughts. Gideon is dragging a chair towards the table—a chair that is inhabited by a redheaded woman that looks far too familiar. It doesn’t take you long to recognize where you know her from—she’s Freddie Lounds, the same reporter who has been dragging your reputation through the mud all these years. Gideon pushes her to a place at the table at your left, opposite Frederick Chilton. Dread stews in your chest. This feels more significant than you can currently comprehend. Gideon stands at the other end of the table, his gaze contemplative as he looks from Chilton to Lounds, before finally settling on you. You immediately dislike the strange resolve in his eyes. 

“Choose.”

“What?” You say. 

“Choose,” Gideon repeats. There is nothing short of complete, utter sincerity in his voice. “Choose who lives and who dies.” You stare at him in disbelief, wondering if you misheard him. Evidently, you didn’t—Gideon is holding a gun in his right hand and seems to be waiting for your command. There’s an entertained smile on his face. He must be enjoying this spectacle—seeing you come to terms with the fact that you will be the cause of an onlooker’s death. 

You glance between Freddie Lounds and Frederick Chilton. Who should live? Who should die? You have both of their lives in your hands right now. Freddie shoots you a wide-eyed look. Frederick looks equally terrified and his eyes are begging you for help. You experimentally tug at the ropes binding your wrists to the chair. Unsurprisingly, they don’t budge. You try to think of a way out of this. It takes you a few moments to remember that you do have a weapon—a dagger concealed in your boot. However, it’s nearly impossible to reach without informing Gideon of its presence. It seems you’re well and truly cornered. You have no choice but to kill. 

You contemplate who to save. It’s a macabre thought, but a necessary one nonetheless. You’re sure that your hesitation would only encourage Gideon to kill both Lounds and Chilton. You take a deep breath. Chilton worked with Gideon on numerous occasions, and manipulated him into thinking he was someone else. Lounds wrote some unsavory things about you, but she’s ultimately innocent in all this. She’s nothing but a bystander—a civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time. You take a shuddering breath in.  

Gideon is waiting expectantly. You return his gaze and incline your head towards Chilton. In a true show of cowardice, you can’t say his name. You don’t want to utter his name—don’t want to succumb to the reality that he will die because of you. The smirk on Gideon’s face widens impossibly, showing crooked pointed teeth and a truly maleficent elation. You watch as he pulls a gun from his belt—evidently stolen from his prison transports—and cocks it. Gideon steps around the table and moves to stand a mere few feet away from Chilton—far too close for him to miss. The gun is steadily aimed at Chilton’s temple. 

Gideon’s finger squeezes the trigger. Your heart is thundering in your ears, but you know what you need to do. Your arms are trapped but, thankfully, your ankles aren’t bound to the chair. You lean forward and kick Chilton’s chair as hard as you can. 

The gun fires. 

Chilton falls to the ground. The bullet resides in the wall behind him, leaving the drywall to crumble around the entrance point. You wait for a puddle of crimson blood to grow on the floor, turning the carpet red. Nothing of the sort is present. Frederick is unscathed. 

“Well, well,” Gideon remarks, putting the gun on his belt for a minute to deliver a slow, mocking clap. The applause echoes in the hollow space around you, creating a horrible rhythm. Freddie’s eyes are wide and the expression on her face is indecipherable; it almost looks as if she’s truly seeing you for the first time. “You think you’re clever, do you?” You don’t elect to respond. 

“Fine,” Gideon remarks. “You’ve made your choice.” 

Gideon cocks his gun and pushes it against your own temple this time. He raises an eyebrow, as if daring you to utter your last words. You stare back at him defiantly, heart in your throat. Just as his finger squeezes the trigger once more, you rock your chair to the side with enough momentum to send you crashing down to the ground. You sense the cold metal of your dagger resting against your ankle, and it only takes a second of manipulation for the dagger to fall down to the floor. From there, you twist and lean back until you can grasp at it with your bound hands. You maneuver to the side and duck under the table to guard yourself from the onslaught of gunfire. With the momentary coverage, you’re able to cut through the ropes binding your wrists to the chair. The effort is rather awkward and certainly hurts, but you’re miraculously able to get your hands free. You idly wonder if Gideon is giving you this time to break free of your bonds, if he wants the thrill of the hunt. The thought makes your stomach turn.  You crawl under the table and jump out at the side. You’re quickly met with the business end of Gideon’s gun and a malicious smirk. You dive to the side and roll, swiftly getting to your feet and wielding your dagger. 

In a gunfight, the person with a dagger is far outmatched. Right now, Gideon has the upper hand, since he has a gun. You need to fight offensively—fighting defensively will get you killed here. You also need to be unpredictable—fight dirty, use common household objects as weapons. Perhaps most importantly, you need to move the fight elsewhere. Otherwise, Chilton and Lounds could be injured in the conflict. Knowing this, you decide to turn and duck down the hallway behind you, confident that Gideon will follow after you. Sure enough, you hear his footsteps follow you through the hall. You sprint down the hall, ducking around corners until you come across a small supply closet. It’s just barely big enough to stand in and you do so, before pressing your lips together and holding your breath. 

“Ready or not, here I come,” Gideon announces, his footsteps echoing in the eerily silent hall. The floorboards in front of the closet creak and you have to put a hand over your mouth to stifle your breathing. The killer pauses in his tracks just outside where you’re hiding. 

You duck down instinctually and a bullet rifles through the closet door where your head had been just seconds ago. Gideon shoots another bullet a short distance from the first and it nearly skims the top of your head as you’re bending down. Eventually, he must decide that you’re not in the closet, because he continues walking forward. 

You take the gifted opportunity and shove the closet door open, before lunging forward and stabbing Gideon in the back of the neck. He lets out a pained hiss and claps a hand over his neck, before turning around and firing at you. That shot seems far too close for you to dodge, but soon Gideon is lunging at you and the thought slips to the back of your mind. You bend low and manage to tackle him to the ground, before making a grab for the gun. Your effort fails as Gideon throws you off of him with ease. Quick as lightning, he pushes you into the ground and chokes you. His gun meets the side of your head and his grip on your neck tightens, effectively robbing you of breath. 

Your vision is beginning to blur. You know you’re near the end; you don’t have much air left. You try to kick out at him, but Gideon doesn’t budge. Your hand scrabbles for purchase on his relentless grip, trying to free your airway. In the scuffle, you somehow lost your dagger. You blindly reach behind you with your free hand, praying that it fell to the floor behind you. To your surprise, your hand closes around something sharp—your dagger. You don’t hesitate to stab upward into his left eye. Gideon screams and instinctively loosens his grip on your neck. His hold on his gun is loose; you twist to the side, ignoring the inexplicable stab of pain in your side when you do so, and rip it from his grasp. Gideon’s left hand covers his eye and his right hand reaches out towards his gun, which you’re now holding. You don’t give him the chance to get it back, instead putting the pistol to his temple and firing. 

Gideon falls backward, hitting the ground with a loud thump. You push yourself up to a sitting position before twisting to kneel, desperately hacking and coughing as you regain your breath. You’re certain you’d never been closer to death than in that awful moment, with Gideon looming over you with a devilish smirk on his face. You must’ve bitten your cheek somehow, because there’s the coppery taste of blood in your mouth. It hurts to swallow. Once you regain your breath, you stumble up and brace yourself against the wall. Gideon’s corpse burns into your vision. 

Laughter reverberates in your ears. Garret Jacob Hobbs stands further down the hall, a brilliant maniacal smirk on his face. There is nothing but malicious glee in his eyes. Your first victim regards your latest. You blink and Hobbs becomes Franklyn Froideveaux. Franklyn stares at you with hollow, unseeing pits for eyes. His skin rifles outward, exposing the mess of bloodied organs residing in his chest and stomach.

For a fraction of a moment, the pendulum swings before your eyes. Gideon’s body is still in front of you but, when you blink, it’s gone. You hiss and grit your teeth hard, trying to rip yourself out of this reverie. This is your design. This is your design. Your bullet carved a neat hole in his forehead, allowing crimson droplets to flow down his face and onto the ground. The wound on his neck must be adding to the accumulating puddle of blood. 

There’s a stifled yell from behind you and you’re broken from your thoughts. You turn your back on Gideon’s corpse and run back to the dining room, only to meet the eyes of Freddie Lounds. “Miss Lounds,” you remark, wincing at how raspy your voice is. The effort to speak feels slightly uncomfortable. You continue anyway. “I’m sorry, let me help you there.” You move toward her and use your dagger to cut the ropes binding her wrists. Then, you cut the gag off from where it’s knotted at the back of her head. Freddie doesn’t say anything, but she does rub her wrists with a pained grimace. You immediately feel guilty. Somehow, it feels as if it’s your fault that she’s here. 

There’s a strange expression on Freddie’s face as she regards you. She almost looks… worried. “What’s the matter?” You feel the need to ask. Freddie wordlessly points at your torso. You look down and grit your teeth, feeling a brutal pain ripping the breath right from your chest. 

There’s a bullet lodged in your side—the oblique, you remember from your lectures. You immediately remember the shot from earlier—the one that came far too close to dodge. In the heat of the battle, you hadn’t noticed. Now, you wince and bring a hand down to exert pressure on the wound. Freddie’s staring at you in disbelief. For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence as the two of you remain quiet. Then, Freddie inexplicably moves towards the table and grabs a napkin. She hands it to you and you thank her, pressing it up against your side. Unsurprisingly, the fabric is quickly growing bloodstained. You take a deep breath and try to look over your shoulder, despite the pain it triggers in your side. It seems the bullet didn’t exit your body. 

You weakly grasp at the wall, before slowly sliding down until you’re seated on the ground. There’s a bead of sweat trickling down your neck. Your adrenaline was pumping before, bringing your attention away from the inexplicable discomfort at your side. Now, however, all you can focus on is the throbbing pain. 

“Freddie,” you remark. The reporter raises an eyebrow. “Can you…?” You break off, looking at the phone mounted to the wall in the other room. It’s just barely visible from your current position on the ground. Freddie seems to understand what you’re saying, because she runs over to the phone and dials 911. You raspily tell her to mention Jack Crawford and she does, from what you can hear. 

“They’re on their way,” Freddie says. It’s the first time she’s spoken since Gideon first brought her into the dining room. Your vision is blurry at the edges, but you can still make out the shell shocked expression on Freddie’s face. She looks completely out of her element—startled and disturbed, as if the world has just flipped on its axis. Guilt finds a way into your heart again. 

“I’m sorry.” You manage to say, past the bloody taste in your mouth. 

“Why are you apologizing?” Freddie asks. She’s squinting at you in suspicion. 

“My fault,” you respond through gritted teeth. Somehow, the effort to talk is now met with a harsh twist of pain that bolts through you like lightning. You continue to apply a rather shaky pressure to the wound, grimacing when you see the napkin is now crimson. Freddie gets up and grabs a few more napkins, before squatting down next to you once more. 

“It’s not your fault,” Freddie murmurs, shaking her head and averting her eyes. She looks relatively unharmed—at least, physically speaking. She is justifiably shaken by the events that transpired. Freddie changes the napkin in your hand for a fresh one. You whisper a word of gratitude and she nods, her lips drawn tight in a flat line. 

Time drags on. Everything around you is fuzzy. Freddie hovers over you, a surprisingly worried expression on her face. You try to reach out to her, weakly reassure her that she’ll be okay, but you can’t move. Everything burns. The adrenaline you had earlier must be wearing off, because now you’re intimately aware of all your wounds. Blood trickles down your lips, likely creating a rather gruesome picture—if Freddie’s expression is anything to go by. 

It feels like it takes years for help to arrive. You know it can’t be more than fifteen minutes, yet it feels as if you wait for an eternity. When you finally hear the distant sound of a door getting kicked in, you can’t help but let out a small relieved breath. Admittedly, even breathing hurts. You feebly adjust the napkin against your side. You hear the familiar words of agents announcing their entrance to the building. In moments, there are several agents entering the room. A tactical medic approaches you within moments. There’s blood seeping down your skin and soaking through your clothes. You don’t have the strength to do anything except exert a weak pressure on your wound. Your breaths are harsh gasps and increasingly hard to come by. You blink.

It’s hard to be aware of your surroundings. You manage to fight the urge to remain in this dreary darkness and your eyes flutter open. You’re reclined on a stretcher in an ambulance, with several straps preventing you from movement. Your vision is swimming, but you can vaguely make out faces looking over you. You blink a few times in an attempt to clear your sight; when your vision finally returns to normal, you feel fear strike through your heart. Hannibal is sitting at your side, a sharp gleam in his eyes. His brows are pinched in what you assume to be manufactured concern. There’s a paramedic at your side asking you questions, but the words all sound garbled. When you look back to Hannibal, you swear you see him smirking. A trick of the light, you tell yourself. Your heart starts thundering in your chest and a machine begins to beep incessantly. You don’t want to be so vulnerable in front of the Chesapeake Ripper, but you don’t quite have a choice. Your vision falls to black within a few moments. 

You manage to catch glimpses of the starry night sky, then the white ceiling of what must be a hospital. When you realize you’re being wheeled through a hospital hallway, you can’t help but grow more nervous. You’re tightly secured to the stretcher and you feel trapped. There’s an oxygen mask secured over your mouth and nose. You grimace instinctually from the pain shooting through you, rippling up your torso and down your skin. You try to move your hand, but you can only slightly bend your fingers. Alarms are blaring. 

Several nurses hover over you. They’re trying to speak to you, you think. You can’t answer. There’s nothing but overwhelming pain. Your fingers are twitching again. A tear slides down your cheek. The light above is blinding. Your hand is restless. You can’t stop fidgeting. 

Suddenly, Hannibal’s hand is on your forearm. His grip is incredibly loose but the pressure is somehow—regrettably—reassuring. Before you can contemplate the meaning behind the gesture, you’re slipping into unconsciousness once more. This time, however, you don’t wake. Instead, you’re left to drown in your own dreams and nightmares, removed from reality. 

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Succession Preference: Youngest Sibling Fainting

Requested: I would love either a preference of how each succession character would react to there S/O fainting around them or a baby roy sibling fic were she faints around some of their siblings ❤️Thank you ❤️❤️ - anon

A/N: I combined some of the ideas, I hope you don't mind!! I love this so much it's not even funny like they would all freak out internally I love it. I wanted to show different reasons for the fainting from each sibling, so that's why I chose the preference btw! I hope you like it my love! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Connor is so worried. You're sitting outside his ranch when you go pale. It's been pretty hot out, but today takes the cake. You excuse yourself, getting up to go to the bathroom, when you faint. Immediately he's calling out for Willa, his heart going into his stomach. He loves you more than life itself. He's scared beyond belief. You wake up to the two of them above you, each of them using a tone they'd use to hush a crying baby. What happened? What the hell were they doing? Slowly, they get you up, walking you inside, getting you water and an ice pack for your head. You're burning up. Connor can't help but apologize over and over again. Of course it's not his fault, of course, but he won't hear it. It was the sun you tell him, but he's not listening. It's his job as big brother to take care of you, to make sure you're okay. When you're not, and he doesn't notice, that's on him. Connor banishes you to the inside for the rest of your stay, asking you every fifteen minutes if you feel okay, etc. He won't have you fainting again, not on his watch.

Kendall had no idea what happened. It was a side effect of a medication you were taking and telling no one about. Ever since your father passed you hadn't been able to sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, his body. You'd been on the plane, you'd been there through it all. You were dizzy, but only a little. You thought you could manage, that you were fine. You pull up in the car outside of Waystar, getting out, when you faint. Kendall runs around the car, calling your name, trying to shake you awake. You're only out for a minute, but it feels like an eternity. You're groggy, scared, unsure of what happened. He gets security to get you some water, holding on to you despite your fighting. You scare him so much he's gone pale. He doesn't stop asking if you're okay until you're seated in the office, someone checking you out, shining a light in your eyes. That's when you tell him about the pills, the not sleeping. He had no idea, though he knows he should have. He's your big brother, he should be protecting you from everything. He should have been there for you, before this. He makes a vow to himself that he'll be better, he has to be.

Shiv knew something was off. Ever since you'd been officially hired by your father at Waystar, you haven't been eating or sleeping or really leaving the office. You'd been tasked with a minefield and every wrong step would cost you your job. You were in the middle of presenting to your father, in front of everyone: Logan, Shiv, Gerri, Karl, Frank, Hugo, Kerry. You lose track of what you're saying in the middle of the sentence, so unlike yourself. That's when the dizziness hits, when you clutch the desk, when you drop. You bang your head pretty hard on the floor, though there isn't any outside damage. Shiv steps up right away, getting to the floor. Everyone is calling your name, questioning what to do, she's the only one who works. She fans you with her hand, calling your name. You're awake before you know it, terribly embarrassed, apologizing to your father. She doesn't let you get up though, not right away. She doesn't care how much work you have or what your father thinks, you hit your head pretty hard, she's surprised it's not cracked open. She needs to take care of you now, cursing herself she hadn't noticed earlier, hadn't stepped in and intervened earlier. You definitely feared losing your job now.

Roman had no idea how to help. You'd been there with him, before the funeral. Unlike his overly enthusiastic demeanor, you couldn't stop from freaking out. You were hyperventilating, feeling sick to your stomach, calling to him from the bathroom doorway that you didn't think you could go. That's when you faint, from getting all worked up. He drops his cards, running towards you. You look dead. Roman is shaking you, yelling your name, about to be sick himself when you open your eyes. He breathes the biggest sigh of relief, doing something so unlike himself: he hugs you. Hard. You have no memory of falling, of the last few minutes. He makes you stay there so he can call someone, anyone, unsure of what to do. Shiv gives him instructions. Through it all he cracks a few jokes, his heart still racing. You scared the shit out of him. He gets you water and gets you up slowly, bringing you to the couch. Shiv and Ken both on their way, coming to check on you, already in the same car. Awkwardly, he pats your leg, threatening to never scare him like that ever again.

come watch eurovision we got:

funky uncle squad ready to throw hands with the nearest dictator

human neon conga line

thor in a toyota

pagan wedding rituals

edgar allan poe

token boyband

tiny woman in a box

possessed barbie dolls

xena, warrior singer

matrix cosplayers

glam rock fire lord ozai

cyberpunk ninjas and modern art sculptures

and lastly, europe when the votes come in