666sachertorte666 - Sacha

I think that destroying all van Gogh paintings and other things that rich people value would be a great act.

by the way your voice always matters in the fight against injustice. every single time you speak out against an injustice it matters. it sheds light on it. it empowers others to speak up. it matters

CIGARETTES & DIOR 𝙸

with some editing here and beta reading by @raelwrites the loml, my biggest motivator, there, we have a first part to the series!;

enemies steve harrington and reader, follows along with 'weirdo on maple street'

[if anyone wants to be tagged let me know]

 objectively, you suppose you could call steve a nice-looking guy. attractive, perhaps. maybe even dateable. subjectively, you know, deep in the very marrow of your bones, steve harrington is probably the worst person you have ever had the displeasure of knowing.

 sure, tommy hagan was a douche and carol perkins was a stuck-up bitch but steve- oh, but king steve ‘the hair’ harrington was so so much worse. and there wasn’t really anything that made you feel this way—not anything you could sensibly give as reasoning anyway. yet the way he strutted about, flocked by his little gang of bullies, like some overgrown peacock just made your blood boil and skin flush with anger.

 which is why, when nancy wheeler strode up to you with barbara in tow, you were not only worried but mentally figuring out where steve would be that during lunch to give him a good bollocking because nancy looked frazzled.

 “nance-” you slammed your locker shut. “lovely to see you.” it wasn’t. you were still half convinced this whole dating steve thing was a ploy to get you two acting civil with each other. never going to happen, sorry nance.

 she started with your name, “-listen,” this should be good. “we were invited to a party...” oh god. “would you be willing to come with us?”

 fuck.

 “how much choice do I have, exactly?” your hunch said not much.

 “please?” called it. “we would really like it if you could come.” damn nancy and your fondness for your friends all to hell.

 you shift, throwing an arm around the ginger beside you, “yeah, alright.” you sigh, “but I’m only going for barb and free booze.” which was only partly a lie, so you didn’t even feel that bad saying it.

 barbara giggles, exclaiming your name with a light shove to your shoulder. “It’s tonight by the way, we’ll pick you up.”

 tonight? “but It’s a tuesday.” who hosts a party on a fucking tuesday? “guys?” you go ignored as the bell rings immediately after, getting drowned out by the noise of scurrying bodies of passing students. nancy and barbara quickly bid their goodbyes and you solemnly schlump your way to next period, walking slower to prepare for an hour of sitting in the same room as steve.

 fucking tuesdays, man.

 the more you thought about it, the more you paced around your room. who’s hosting the party? neither nancy nor barbara would answer you when you asked repeatedly during class, which... definitely suspicious.

no matter, whoever it was and whoever was there, you would be the best dressed in attendance. what’s the point of going out if you can’t look hot whilst doing so?

you quickly spritzed some perfume when someone honked their horn outside your house, the girls had at least told you enough to know that it would be late evening when they came to grab you. you had slipped on your shoes and were prepared to leave before calling out to anyone still in the house.

 it was a cold night, though what november night isn’t. glad for the jacket you grabbed before leaving—even the short jog to the car had managed to leave a slight chill in your bones.

“well don’t you look like a million bucks-” and a call of your name greeted you as you situated yourself in the middle seat, flashing a grin at barbara as you tugged the seatbelt across.

 “why thank you, m’lady. and you both look dazzling, as always.” flattery will get you everywhere. currently, you were hoping that the flattery would get you at least the address for the party, or how many people might be there.

 “you smell like a million bucks too, jesus, just how rich are your parents?” nancy remarked, having turned to face you from the passenger seat.

 “enough that dior is my regular perfume, now-” you clap your hands together and lean forwards over the centre console. “don’t try to distract me, nance, where are we going?” if you were going to get any answers before arrival, you knew the only way was to just pester them enough that you got a reply out of annoyance. “c’moooon! just an itty-bitty name?” resting your elbows on your knees, you clasp your hands together in mock prayer.

 “you’ll find out when we get there.” you get a light shove to your face from nancy and huff a little in your seat. you couldn’t even fiddle with the music, a rule you three had declared at the start of your friendship.

“passenger seat passengers have control of music.” you had declared promptly and firmly when nancy had tried to reach from behind you to change the mix tape.

 “you’re just saying that because you don’t want to listen to madonna.” barbara chimed in from beside you, glancing at you before concentrating back on the road.

 “I’ll listen to madonna plenty if you’ll stop trying to change it to her while I’m enjoying kiss- hey!” you slapped away a giggling nancy’s hand from the radio in time to prevent the song from being changed.

 “you say that-” nancy began, still giggling through your name, “but I know you listen to abba, I’ve seen the tapes!”

 “you’ve seen shit, nance! ignore her, must’ve hit her head on the door.” you remarked, thwarting yet another attempt by the girl at reaching the radio.

 barbara merely laughed at you two, resolved to stay out of the radio debacle.

 though, on the way to the café after school you kept your promise, and the car was filled with four voices singing physical attraction.

 “barbara, pull over.” nancy suddenly exclaimed. to your knowledge, parties were usually held at a house, not in middle of a road. while the girls were busy talking you looked around the neighbourhood, surely something had to be familiar enough to pinpoint a location.

 “he just wants to get in your pants.” barbara scoffed from her seat. wait what?

 “woah-ho, hey… who wants to get in who’s pants?” you unbuckled your seatbelt quickly to shuffle forward, shoulder buckling with the back of nancy’s seat slightly.

 “steve-” barbara began, and suddenly the secrecy made sense.

 you recoil at his name, shouting out a protest, “what? nance, love, we’re going to steve’s?”

 “he invited nance to his house, his parents aren’t home…” barbara began listing, but you had gotten the message loud and clear at the first mention of his name.

 “come on, you are not this stupid.” barbara continued, and you knew now why this street was unfamiliar, if steve had to live somewhere here then you would have found every means possible to avoid even walking on the same pavement as him.

 “tommy h and carol are gonna be there.” nancy rebukes, though it’s kind of a shit reply. those two have been having sex since like seventh grade.

 “tommy and carol have been having sex since, like, seventh grade.” this is why you liked barbara. she even agrees with your thoughts.

 you decided to splay across the back seat while the pair continued talking, knowing whatever they talk about would involve steve, and that’s not a conversation you want to ever willingly partake in. plus, it’s not like you wanted to walk home at night in the cold when you were in a perfectly comfy and warm car.

 “woah woah woah, why is nance stripping?” you sat up, watching in confusion as the girl removed her jumper.

 “is that a new bra?” barbara questioned, face slack in disbelief. despite nancy’s negative reply, it probably was. you had raided both of their closets on multiple occasions for fun enough to recognise that you did not recognise the bra nancy was wearing.

 “jesus, girl. if you wanted to fuck, we could’ve found someone for you, didn’t have to go start dating steve fucking harrington for some mediocre dick.” when your comment went ignored save for a stifled giggle from barb, you left the car to follow the other two with a sigh.

 goddamn steve.

“all I’m saying is, you need to consult your friends when making these sorts of big decisions.” you were gesticulating wildly, needing to find some way to get rid of the slurry of emotions churning inside of you. “and you don’t get to blame this on my totally reasonable dislike of steve either. barb totally agrees with me, right?” you slung your arm over her shoulders, pulling her lightly into your side to stop the full body shaking.

 “barb, chill.” nancy chimed in from your other side, ignoring your comments.

 barbara leaned into you a little more, “I’m chill,” she replied.

 before you could make any further comment on the situation, the double doors in front of you three opened to reveal none other than the king himself.

 steve spares a fleeting confused glance at you before speaking, “hello ladies.” god he looked like an idiot. one hand on the door and the other on his hip, steve grimaced at you, “hello-” he grits your name out. there was a half-formed hope in you that it would shatter his teeth as he said it.

 you take a bow, “your highness,” you mock. if you’re stuck here, might as well have some fun, ey? “so, dweeb, what’s on the agenda for tonight? swapping books?” you push past steve, knocking shoulders as you go.

 “sacrificing virgins to the old gods, should be right up your alley, freak.” steve taunts back, moving out of the way to let nancy and barbara in.

 you twirl around to face steve, tugging your jacket off, “you flatter me, harrington. if anyone here needs to be scared of a virgin sacrifice it’s you.” you toss your jacket over the banister. the closer your stuff is to the door the faster you can high-tail out of steve’s house.

 you followed the others to the back porch of the house, throwing comments out about the décor to barbara. though it might’ve been a nice house, you would never admit that while steve was within earshot. the smug bastard would hold it over you for the next century.

 when the shrieking began from carol, you had immediately thrown out your disdain for the pool, “if anyone so much as attempts to throw me in I’ll cut your hair off while you sleep.” you wouldn’t actually do that… probably. but the others at the party didn’t need to know that.

grabbing a deck chair, you dragged it closer to barb. nancy was completely enamoured by the beast that is harrington and wouldn’t be good company so you sat as close to barbara as you could.

 “that’s not even remotely attractive.” you sneer, watching as steve shotguns one of the beers in the cooler. “how did that even happen? nancy and steve, god.” you weren’t really sure what barbara thought about the couple, having not been able to talk to her without nancy around but you were comforted by the displeased face she held. “if steve hurts a single hair on her head I’m gonna rip his out.” barbara giggled at that, so you smiled. barbara’s laugh could probably cure cancer.

 “yeah, she’s smart you douche!” tommy let out, which gained your attention because tommy being right was a once in a blue moon occurrence. he followed that statement up by crushing a can against his head and chucking it to the ground. like you said, once in a blue moon occurrence.

  “oh, come on nance you’re not seriously gonna shotgun that are you?” you exclaim, waving the hand that wasn’t across barb’s shoulders in the group’s general direction.

 you were ignored in favour of steve starting a chant as nancy pulled open the tab. tommy and carol joined in, speeding up and then hollering when nancy threw the can on the ground, empty. who knew all it took to get nancy wheeler to let loose was the grating voice of steve harrington?

 “barb, you wanna try?” nancy asked, already moving towards the cooler.

 “what? no.” and though you weren’t asked, you shook your head along with barbara. “no, I don’t want to. thanks”

 nancy picked up a can while steve chimed in with his own, unwanted, goading. “it’s fun! just give it a-” nancy was cut off, though, by yet another soft protest from barbara.

 “nance, she said no. cut it out.” you moved to sit up, preparing to stand if necessary.

 “just- just give it a shot.” and with that barb stood up, having taken the can nancy gave her. you watched, tense, from your seated position just behind her as she moved the small blade to puncture the can. even before the motion was made, you were beginning to stand up and when barb suddenly dropped the can and blade all together you huddled up to her, cradling her bleeding hand.

 “fuckin’ told you shitheads…” you grumble, inspecting the cut as best as you could in the low light.

 “where’s your bathroom?” barb asked, voice shaky. to which steve, useful for once, quickly pointed out the directions for both you and barb. past the kitchen and to the left. easy enough to remember.

 “he better have a fucking first aid kit in there-” you quickly opened the door for barb before stepping in after her. “how’s the hand? does it feel swollen? heating up?” you moved to rummage through the cupboards as you question, hoping to find at least a bandage.

 “heating up? is that meant to happen to cuts?” barb sat down on the closed toilet seat, smiling faintly at the sight of you rushing around as much as you could in the enclosed space. “I’m ok, really. it looks worse that it is, I promise.”

 you make a positive noise from inside the cupboard, having found both a disinfectant for cuts and some bandages. “I’ll only believe you if you let me help take care of it-” you start, moving to crouch next to the girl and taking her injured hand in yours. “it’ll sting, probably.” you warn before slowly dragging the cloth dipped in disinfectant across the cut, stopping every so often as barb flinches.

“et voila! one bandaged hand to go.” it took barely 10 minutes to complete, but any spare moment with barb you would take. “let’s go find nance before she gets eaten by harrington.”

 the both of you exit the bathroom laughing, though it dies the second you notice nancy on the stairs, following behind steve and wrapped in a towel.

 “nance,” you called out.

 “nancy,” barbara joins, “where are you going?” she asks once nancy turns to look at you.

 “nowhere… just, upstairs. to change.” because that doesn’t sound suspicious. and sure, she looks like a wet puppy, but you’re reminded instantly of the conversation had in the car. “I… fell in the pool. why don’t you go ahead and go home, I’ll just… I’ll get a ride or something.”

 “what the fuck?” you whisper, yeah super fun party nancy, thanks for the invite. you can’t help but scowl at her.

 “nance…” nancy repeats your names back at you. “this isn’t you.”

 “I’m fine.” that sure sounded like a goodbye. “just… go ahead and go home, okay?” well, how nice.

 nancy turned and walked up the remained stairs, and you scoff at the interaction that just occurred.

goddamn steve.

 “we can head back to mine, I can make us some food and we can marathon some tapes left from last week,” you suggest, moving to grab your jacket you knew you had hung on the banister. it wasn’t there. “fuckers moved my jacket, hold on.” you took the stairs two at a time to quickly get to the second floor when barb called out.

 “I’ll wait outside.”

 making a noise of agreement, you knocked on every door as loud as you could, knowing only the party guests were in the household. “hey shitheads! where’s my jacket?” you bang on a few more doors before stumbling across your jacket on the floor in front of you.

 at this point, you really wanted to leave. so, with a scoop of your jacket and a cursory pat down the pockets to check everything is where it should be, you hop down the stairs giddy at the thought of spending more time with barb.

 “got my jacket!” you called out. you glance around the living room before moving to the back porch only to still not see barbara anywhere. “barb?” you call out again, confused at the sudden vanishing of her presence. did she not want to hang out with you? isn’t that a kick in the heart, huh.

“could’ve fucking said something, at least.” you scoff. that’s another friend to abandon you in one night, not even an hour apart.

you shrug your jacket on while looking around despite there not being a trace of barbara anywhere. with a grimace you turn around to head out, ignoring the rustles of the bushes in front of you, no point in standing around when you had a nice warm bed calling out your name back at home to nap and wallow in.

It's his song

rb to explode a terf ^_^ nonrefundable ^_^

Dependence (Roy!Sibling x Kendall Roy)

((SUCCESSION SPOILERS))

Character/s: Kendall

Word Count: 1,583

Warning: addiction/addiction mention

A/N: Baby girl!!!! I love him so much!!! I love how this turned out too :) it's v angsty, v sad, and hopefully in character! I'm having a lot of fun writing for Succession! 💞 Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Dependence Pt. 2

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include: Pt. 1

Being The Youngest Roy Would Include: Pt. 2

He smelled rich, sharp, daunting. The kind of scent your father would have worn, the kind men like him always did. Bared their teeth to seem more intimidating. It wasn’t like him at all. You sniffled against his suit, knowing your tears sat damp within the fabric, ruining the press he’d probably had. Ruining everything, like always. His arms wrapped around you so fiercely, so violently, holding you in place. Keeping you from running. Escaping. You were trapped on the boat sure, but there were stairwells, closets, you’d swim back if it meant leaving the scene of the crime. Your mind ran with exits, those bright red signs a welcomed attraction. Anything to get away, to be alone, to self-destruct on your own accord. You rubbed your palms against your pants, itching out of his grip, your sleeves balled into your palms. Whatever this attempt at love was, it was beginning to suffocate. He refused to let go. Anger rose in your throat like bile. A fury you’ve tried to outrun began to settle in the middle of your chest. You wanted to throw the same tantrums your father forbid. Kick, and scream, and break everything in sight. Burn the whole world down if it meant feeling an ounce of relief. Break your own bones if it meant putting out this fire. Numb it all like you’ve been doing your entire life. Maybe your brother knew this. Maybe he didn’t want the scene, the mess, to have to pick up the pieces. Maybe not. Maybe he was just sad, needing someone to hug. You would never be sure.

You stifled a sob, shaking despite yourself. You could see your brother and sister, talking, crying, saying what they needed to. Whatever you said, whatever you told him or begged from him, it was already gone. Forgotten. Your lips moved rhythmically, asking the same thing, but you couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t hear anything, but this high pitch whine.. He rubbed your back, awkwardly at first, hesitant, and then comfortably. Soothingly. His throat vibrating, speaking, again going unheard. You squeezed your eyes shut, not wanting to be here anymore. Not wanting this moment to exist. The last time you’d seen your sister cry, your brother retreat into himself like that, decades ago. Before you knew any of what you knew now. Before you’d been at one another's throats long enough to forget why. The inky black of your world could only do enough. Their voices, muffled, coming back to you. Closer. The hurt dripping from their words like honey. Sticky. Sweet. The fear. You tried to pull away, get some space, air. Again he refused. 

Did I tell him I loved him? Y, yes- of, of course you did. Did I tell him I loved him? 

Your father didn’t love you. He couldn’t stand to look at you in your later years. It was your brothers, sister, coming to your rescue. Scheduling cars, calls, making space for you on their couches, spare rooms, while you picked yourself up from rock bottom. Detoxing in their bathrooms, their beds. All you knew was excess. Excess wealth, yes, but also booze, drugs, pills. Everything except love. Using since you were a child, too young to understand, old enough to know no matter what you did, it would never be what he wanted. Taking drinks of silver platters, mixing whatever you found in the bathroom cabinet, what you found in your brothers pockets, sick as a dog in the morning. He had to know. There were always eyes watching, ears listening, someone to leave clean clothes on your bed when you threw up on yours in the middle of the night or when blood ran from your nose down the front of your shirt. And yet, he never said a thing. He never thought you should see someone, talk it out, get help. The baby of the family. The most expendable. Con was already out by the time you came around, the rest following. An accident, they’d all joked as soon as you were old enough. There was some truth to it, though. A hard truth. Logan ignored Connor, he hit Roman, disregarded Shiv, he thought Ken was incompetent, but you? He loathed you for reasons you’d never get answers to. Too much like your mother, your sister thought. Too much like him, your brother said. Whatever it was, whatever reminder you were, it was enough for him. You weren’t trying to outrun him, his disappointment, his wrath, but rather your own. 

You’d always been an angry kid. Overcome, blinded, by rage. You couldn’t put it into words. You didn’t have the vocabulary. You shattered glasses. Slammed doors. Banged your head against walls. Screamed into pillows until your voice was coarse. When bruises showed, when tabloids dragged your name before you were twelve, you’d receive the only fatherly advice you’d ever get in your life. Summoned to his study, barely taller than the door handle. He didn’t even look up from his papers. When he was done, only two words spoken, the housekeeper led you out. Quiet down. As if you weren’t barely keeping yourself together as it was. You’d kicked a hole through the wall after that, your shoes dusty with plaster. You threw everything in your room like a tornado until, eventually, he took those things away. A bed, a dresser, that was all you were allotted. They tried to help. To understand. To give you advice. What was there to say? How could you defend yourself? He was so much bigger than you, so much more powerful. When your fork ended up in the table, he sent you to your room for days at a time. The door wasn’t locked, but it didn’t need to be. Every so often you could see him, in the crack between the floor, standing there, not saying a word. It wasn’t long after that that you had your first drink. Romans, you think, left unattended. Brown, thick, smelling of gasoline and tasting of fire. It wasn’t a lot, but enough. Enough to settle the fury. Turn the heat down. Take the edge off. Everything clicked. This is what he must have meant. Quiet down. Do what you needed to do without the allegations scorning his name. Do it in secret. 

They didn’t always know when you were drunk, high, both. You weren’t messy, you weren’t about to cause a scene or ruin your fathers reputation. The volume was turned down, that was all. It took them longer than any of them would like to admit to realize that you weren’t okay. That the occasional drink or sip was an everyday occurrence, that those long trips to the bathroom and bloody noses weren’t a coincidence. They had their own lives now, their own affairs. What their baby sibling did was not that the top of their priority list. You didn’t mind. It wasn’t their job to take care of you, it wasn’t your father or mothers, who moved away soon after your anger disappeared, sure you were finally okay. It was your job. Always had been. Now you saw her on holidays if you were lucky, once or twice a year. She thought you’d be better off with him. Leaving a baby in a wolfs den. No wonder you ended up the way you did: a complete disaster. You tried to get sober on you own. Stop cold turkey. That never lasted long. Not that he cared. The first time you overdosed, the second, third, he swept it under the rug. It was easier dealing with you now that you were sedated. A shell. You wouldn’t have gone to rehab if they hadn’t forced you, tricked you with an intervention. Again and again, they did this. For years. When you stayed with your mother, things were more bearable, but she didn’t want a child. She didn’t want to be a mother, so, when she grew tired, she’d ship you off to him again. 

Today, you were clean just over a year. From everything. You didn’t do chips or meetings, that would mean admitting to the public that you had a problem, and that wasn’t something you were allowed to do. This was an internal clock. Every day you wanted to cave in and every day you found a reason not to. Today you didn’t have one. Not a single reason came to mind. Because the man you spent your entire life being afraid of was dead and your family was falling apart at the seams. Con didn’t even know. No one had told him yet. Tom stayed on the phone, but no one was speaking. No one had anything to say.  Kendall never loosened his grip. He never let go. He wouldn’t not for a long time, not until he knew you’d be okay on your own. Too many times he’d failed you as an older brother. Every time he let Logan near you was a failure on his part. He was dead. He couldn’t hurt you anymore, but you could hurt yourself and sometimes that was more dangerous. Of course you’d told him you loved him. Of course you did. Even when you didn’t, even when you couldn’t, you did. He did, for the both of you. He wasn’t a perfect big brother, he wasn’t even a good one, but he could try now. He had to try now. For all the times he hadn’t been there. All those years.

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

don't use "ftm" it's outdated and offensive. it implies that the trans person was their agab, which we never were. i was always a boy, never a girl who became a boy.

i'm 35 years old. i've been IDing as trans or something similar to trans for nearly 20 years. i was probably calling myself FTM while you were playing tag during recess, anon.

i WAS a girl. i IDed as a girl early in my life. i recognized myself as a girl, called myself a girl, lived as a girl, and was a girl. who then IDed as a man. hence, F t M.

spend more time worrying about yourself instead of strangers on the internet, anon.

sorry not sorry if this comes off as needlessly hostile, but i've been getting a lot of shit from a lot of teenage trans kids about the language i use to describe my own goddamn experience, and i'm growing real fuckin weary of it.

i have elder trans friends who call themselves transsexuals and transvestites and trannies. are you going to seriously go to a 60-year-old trans person who survived the reagan years and tell her she's not allowed to use certain language to describe herself because it might offend the delicate sensibilities of some teenager on the internet?

do yourself a favor and log off, find some real-life trans people who are over the age of 20 or 25, and spend time talking to them instead of getting all holier-than-thou at random strangers on tumblr.

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

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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