#weeps it's still incomplete | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

after-witch · 8 months

Text

Horrorfest: It Knows Not How it Sounds [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Title: It Knows Not How it Sounds [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: He's going to kill you--and this is how you react? Curious, curious, curious.

For Horrorfest request:

Vampire! Chrollo could be interesting? He fits the image of a vampire well, with his inclusion of religious imagery, goth aesthetic and his personal search for his self (his “soul“). Perhaps he becomes interested in one of his would-be meals, being attracted to their humanity and their perspective on his vampirism (maybe them seeing it as a curse, not a boon)

Word count: 1565

notes: yandere, vampire, some descriptions of blood, mild wounds, dying; Chrollo is a pretentious asshole even as a vampire

Humans are so very interesting. And so very predictable.

Chrollo Lucilfer knew the first truth at an early age. He has learned the second truth over the years, the decades, and then the centuries.

For instance, humans always seek comfort. That is certain, whether they are rich or poor, old or young, beautiful or ugly. They want to be held and warm and fed; they want someone to comfort them when they cry; they want to be told that, in the end, things will be alright.

This is true even for the humans that he kills, for so often in their last moments, they cling to him, desperate, wanting him to be their savior even as he is the one draining their blood.

Therefore, it does not surprise him too terribly when your shaking arm reaches up for his face; when your increasingly exhausted expression takes in the sight of him, eyes wide, looking for kinship or absolution or someone to tell you it will be just fine.

It takes his victims some time to really comprehend what is happening, after all.

It is usually at this point that (if they haven’t already--not everyone is so slow on the uptake) they realize what he is--vampire--and he goes back to lapping at his victim’s blood, enjoying the way their muddled dying thoughts are spiked with a renewed bright acidic terror.

The taste is not his only reward. There is the entertainment, as well. The thoughts of the dying.

The thoughts come to him like moving pictures, flashes; not only visuals but sometimes words. Monster. Him, covered in blood. I don’t want to die. Lovers, children, things left unsaid. Mother. This word, so common, most often paired with the foggy memory of a chubby hand held in a larger one.

Your eyes widen after a moment and ah, there it is. Like a clock. “Vampire,” you mouth, lips that were perhaps once rose-red now growing paler, the more he blood he takes from you.

“Yes,” he breathes, and you make the softest of sounds when he nudges your head back with his hands, giving him access to the open, bruised weeping puncture wounds he’d created earlier. Your blood still flows freely enough, and he laps at the edges before he begins to suck from the wounds.

He wonders how he must look from your eyes, though he may see it soon enough. His pale skin and dark hair. The fangs jutting from his mouth. The blood on his lips. Even his clothing, silken black with delicate lace. A storybook vampire, he supposes; all that’s missing is the smell of dirt and decay, though that is perhaps a stench better left to his more unhinged colleagues than his own delicate scent of roses and musk; purloined perfume bottles were easy to come by when you could simply kill the ones who set them on varnished bureaus.

But what pulses through his mind is not pure abject horror at the sight of him or fleeting, terrified thoughts of a life that will be incomplete.

Instead, it’s something that startles him so fiercely that he yanks himself away from your neck:

Pity.

Pity, pity, pity. For him--for him!

A warm almost sour sensation lingers behind on his teeth, and he licks it away. He has never, in his centuries of killing, been… pitied.

Your head rolls a little to the side, eyelids drooping, but you gain enough awareness to realize that he’s no longer feeding on you. Your voice is a soft croak when you do speak, words spoken as if you don’t understand why you’re even permitted to say them at all. You should, after all, be dead.

“Why did you stop?”

He considers you for a moment. He keeps a grip on your shoulders--you might just fall, if he lets go--and makes you face him. Finally, he mirrors your question. But only to satisfy his curiosity, or so he tells himself.

“Why do you pity me?”

Your eyes widen again, but this time not in the realization of the monster before you. You likely don’t know how he felt your pity. He doesn’t care to explain it to you, either, and after a few moments you furrow your eyebrows.

If he weren’t feeding on you, it might be a cute expression. Perhaps it still is; even lambs to the slaughter can have their charms.

“You’re…” You swallow. “You’re a vampire,” you say. But that usual horror is replaced with something else, something Chrollo wants to stick his finger into and pull out so he can see it more fully. Pity, yes yes, but something more. What is it? And why do you feel it so strongly that he couldn’t stand the shock of it?

When he doesn’t respond, you continue.

“You have to kill people to survive.”

He snorts.

“That’s never given me pause before.”

And oh, the way you look at him is absolutely beautiful. Your eyes glisten with tears--not from the pain, surely, but for him?--and your lips, nearly colorless though they are, curl into a pretty pout.

“But it should, and I’m so sorry it doesn’t.”

You wince, the shock perhaps ebbing away, letting you feel the pain of your ripped flesh more fully than most of his victims have time to do. But you don’t even press your hands to the wound, and he likes you better for it.

But still. You pity him because he’s a killer? What a waste of the emotion.

“I have lived for centuries,” he tells you, speaking as if to a child, learning lessons at a father’s knee. “I have seen things your mortal mind could not comprehend. I have seen kingdoms rise and fall, seen civilizations turn to dust.”

He can practically see the cogs in the clock of your mind turning. Perhaps you will be one of those who foolishly asks him for the gift. He has rarely given it, and he wouldn’t give it to you; but he wouldn’t tear you apart for the audacity as he has some others. Your death would be merciful, calm--you’ve earned that.

But when you speak again, you don’t ask him to make you into a vampire.

“But you must be so lonely.” Your words are sudden, fast. Perhaps you don’t realize you’ve said them until it’s too late to wonder if you’re being too presumptuous, because you stumble over your next words. Or perhaps you’re just that emotional over the thought of him, and wouldn’t that be a delightful novelty?

“Everyone around you dies… your-your family. Friends.” You shake your head, blinking as a few tears finally do drop from your eyes. “You can’t live a normal life… you can’t go out in the sun.” You look up, as if you’re imagining the warm feel of it on your skin.

It’s a sensation he has long since forgotten, but to you it must be as normal as breathing. “I-I can’t imagine how sad that must be. To never be truly warm. To not see the flowers reaching up to the sky or see the grass in the morning, all green and dewy.”

Your arms, no longer trembling, wrap around your chest.

“I just…” You don’t look at him when you say these last words, but you don’t really need to, do you? Not with the way your voice is choked with emotion, the way tears fall so prettily from your eyes. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you.”

You are a wonder, truly. Bleeding from the neck, no doubt light headed from blood loss, in the face of a nocturnal creature who moments ago was draining the life from your body… and you apologize to him?

When you live for centuries, you often lose the ability to be surprised. But here is that sensation, now queer, once again. And all because you happened to take an unfortunate shortcut through the park on this night, making yourself easy prey for him to pull into a darkened alley and feast.

Now, though, he finds his hunger satiated. Or at least satiated until he finds another victim. Someone less worthy to stay alive than yourself, of course.

After some consideration, he leans backward, and releases his grip on you. His hands ache for the warmth of your skin underneath him, and not for the usual voracious reasons.

Yet another curiosity to add to his growing list.

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?”

Perhaps, if he weren’t who he was, he might feel it too--this feeling of pity. Because you have no idea what he intends to do, and what it will mean for him to keep you alive now.

You have no sense of the impulsive need that has rooted itself in his brain, a need he hasn’t felt since he was a young fledgling of a vampire. He wants to know you; know what you think and why you think it.

What life has created you so earnestly that you can feel genuine sympathy for a creature like him? Have you known hardship, and it was an impulse to sympathize? Or has your life been so unmarred by difficulty that the pty came easily to you, pure, sweet thing?

The most important question of all, he thinks, as he pulls you closer to him and shushes the soft sounds you make--

Will you continue to pity him once he has taken you for his own?

#yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere vampire #yandere #afterwitch writes #aw horrrorfest

623 notes · View notes

slutforalastor · 2 months

Text

Confessional

Human Priest Alastor has a particularly committed parishioner with an unholy request. NOT APPROPRIATE FOR THOSE UNDER THE AGE OF 18. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Tags: SO MANY CHURCH REFERENCES, light voyeurism, temptation, bloodletting, church AU I guess if you wanna get technical, way too many big words for plotless smut

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

You kneel before a shadow, crossing yourself. You know the shadow's face, having spent countless Sundays smiling from your lips and weeping from between your legs during his service. You know that he can see you, perhaps even recognizes you. You're aware of the purpose of confessional, the supposed tenants guiding the practice, but you are not here to absolve yourself. You seek indulgence, not purification.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eleven months since my last confession. These are my sins. I harbor impure thoughts, thoughts that I know have been given to me by the Lord. He is guiding us towards a union, perhaps to conceive, but for some holy purpose, regardless. There can be no other reason why you'd occupy my every waking thought, why my maiden's bed feels so cold and empty, as though incomplete without your body next to mine. Each and every night, I sin in that bed, allowing my own hand to guide me to an incomplete release. It never gives me any feeling of blessing, only of deeper desire to blaspheme. My soul is forever lost without your faithful shepherding, Father."

The shadow moves, clears its throat, no trace of emotion to be gleaned from his intonation.

"My dear child, you seem lost, confused. As a man I am flattered, perhaps even humbled, by this confession. But you must hold steady against these impure delusions, for God has placed me on a different path."

His rebuke only serves to hasten your desire. You feel yourself laden with honeyed need, leaking against the inside of your thighs through your underwear. You know he can see you kneeling, prostrating yourself before the judgment of your holy superior. Still on your knees, you lean back, hiking up the fabric of your skirt, pushing your hips up to present your ruined panties. "Holy Father, you are a servant of the Lord, are you not? Would you deny that one of your flock is in need? Would you leave them to temptation in solitude, with only their hands, the devil's playthings, for companionship?"

His voice betrays the first sign of will being tested. "This could just as easily be a test, a bit of trickery from the Devil himself."

"Who better to rid me of devilish desire than one who speaks on God's behalf? Who baptizes the young, unifies lovers, grants last rites to the condemned? Serve your Lord and banish this Devil from my loins, if you be pious, if you be merciful."

His voice is trembling now, thick with an intent you had hoped to provoke. You are intriguing him, winning him over. Summoning your courage, you draw your underwear down to your ankles, clumsily preening your sex the same way you have been whenever the heat between your legs burns like Hellfire. "See for yourself how the Lord makes me a conduit. Would you call this the will of the Devil? The need of a woman for a man?"

"I have taken an oath..." he stutters, choking on his own words.

"An oath to serve your parishioners... Would you bear witness to sin, knowing you can make it holy?" you bleat, the lamb on the altar, bound by ropes fastened to your soul. The Priest stands, and you can see his shadow making the mark of the cross, muttering a prayer to himself. Your self-defilement doesn't even slow, the low, wet sounds of hungry flesh accepting your phallic substitute the only sound in the confessional. In another moment, you hear the door opening, and your savior stands framed in the light of the jamb.

"Bless you, Father," you moan. He shuts the door, and in the dimness, you capture the full depth of his radiance. His brown hair drapes in front of his eyes, standing as a buffer between those nearly-black irises and the small circular frames that grace the bridge of his nose. A nervous sweat shimmers on his dark skin. His cassock is disheveled, his silver cross hung up on one of the higher buttons, collar greyed at the edges from sweat.

"We must make haste to rid you of this curse," he breathes, tugging at his collar. Thinking on its symbolism, he detaches it entirely, leaving it hanging on the doorknob. With rough strength, he brings you to the chair one could use to confess face-to-face, bringing your arousal level with him when he drops to his knees. He inhales, something within that bouquet seeming to pique his interest. "You reek of unholy desire."

"It has tormented me, Father."

"I can see now what you mean. It would be irresponsible to leave you in such a state. I shall grant you this mercy, my child. God will heal you through me."

With a slight tilt of his head, he partakes in your communion, his lips brushing over the outermost of your folds, murmuring a prayer against the electrified nerves. You can feel every syllable evoked against your body, sending ripples of heaven cascading through your system. You are certain that God's holy presence is being imparted from the teasing edges of his lips into your body. His tongue parts from between his pursed, muttering lips, lapping at the inside of your sex, searching for something buried deeper still. Your hands dare to caress his head, guiding him towards the spot he seeks. Charting into fresh territory, he stakes claim to it, his eager tongue seeking out places you've yet to even map yourself. Each press of it is a blessing, the burning ache in your flesh the doubtless throes of a demon being flayed from your soul.

"My dear, I'm beginning to wonder if I misjudged. Your taste is divine."

Your fingers dig into his thick locks, pressing him to persist even further, to reach past the purgatory of your desire. You feel his nose grinding against your most sensitive spot, something you have never had a name for, feeling every time he inhales and exhales, his mouth far too preoccupied with more concerning matters. You are fighting to keep your carnal affectations from becoming any louder than a whining wail you smother in the small of your throat, lest it be loosed completely unrestrained.

"You're doing well to keep your voice lowered," he praises you. "You are a true servant of your Lord."

"I-I am in his service," you affirm, your words snaring every time his tongue darts against your walls.

"Your dedication deserves to be rewarded," and he pushes himself as far as the limitations of flesh permit, lodging his lapping extremity so firmly within that you startle nearly upright, sharp nails that bite against the fabric of your clothes urging you back down. "He says 'be still and know that I am God.'"

You groan against the scripture being branded on your innards, a new sensation creeping across the tensed muscles of your legs. With a muffled moan, he is baptized in your release, and he offers a satisfied sound of approval. Your legs quake against the ceaseless undulating of his attentions, finally extricating himself when he's had his fill of you. He runs the long, thin thing that just concluded making a mess of your insides over his glistening grin, still slick from your consecration. Your focus drifts downward, to the crook that will shepherd you to salvation tenting the fabric of his soutane.

"Traces of habitation still remain, my child. We must take measures to save your spirit." He undoes the lower buttons of his robe, exposing himself to you, as he would have been in Eden. You can feel it against you, afire with purifying heat, sliding against your sopping entrance with anticipation. "Accept these rites."

"Bless me, Father," you whine, grinding yourself against him.

"Please, dear, call me Alastor." It's not permission; it's a demand. He waits, poised against you.

"Please give me your blessing, Alastor."

His lips curl into a grin, his canines so jagged and long that they're the first teeth you see. "God answers all prayers in good time." With a shove, he enters you, your teeth clenching, your breath shorting at the feeling of this union. He can't help but let a pleasured grunt leave his lips, and he catches your eyes as the last inch of him slips inside, brushing an errant strand of hair from your eyes. You feel cold, flushed at the overwhelming relief of finally being face-to-face with what you'd thought could only be in a fantasy. He gives a thrust, testing the waters, shaking your faith. You whimper against the force of it, still growing accustomed to the sensation of being taken. "Do you feel the sin drying up? The demonic need being purged?" Alastor wonders, driving himself into you with ever-increasing force, his restraint abandoned. "In its place will be holy admiration, a want to submit, as all of God's good creatures must possess."

"I will be a good creature," you promise.

"The best their ever was," Alastor croons, his jagged incisors hunting for the soft of your neck, carving runes against the submissive skin, seas of red pooling in the canyons. "Will your blood run black, as a demon's, or red, like the dust of the Earth? You have the allure of a succubus, but the taste of a virgin." His nails ribbon your collarbone, leaving oozing trails like spilled wine. He partakes of this communion with the same vigor as before, drinking it like an elixir. Your nervous hands grasp against his back, enfeebled fingers digging into the fabric of his clothing. Through all of this, his rutting has never slowed, increasing in desperation when he samples your blood. When he pulls away, you can see it trickling against his teeth, his tongue dragging over the surface to crudely clean them.

"I have dreamed of this, Alastor."

"Our lord works in mysterious ways," he assures you, clawed fingers still tracing thin rivulets across your skin. "I am nearly at my limit," he pants, burying himself against you. His thrusts finally slow, each push against you deliberate, purposeful. With his body laid against yours, his mouth is laid by your ear, and you can hear every facet of his breathing, every pant, moan, and inhale he makes broadcasting into your brain, the only sound you can hear. You are as close as he is, and you wrap yourself around him as he pumps into you one final time, his holy fire coating your insides, his assured breaths becoming high-pitched whines as he spasms against you, driving you to your own climax. It is nothing like what you've made yourself feel; it sends shockwaves through the taut fibers of your lower half, makes you cry out in uncontrollable lust, leaving your limbs clenched around Alastor as the last of his climax is left spilt within. You feel his chest heave with a deeply drawn breath, his sigh in your ear scattering chills across you. "Do you feel purified, dear?"

"I worry that I will have further need of your services, Alastor."

He pulls away from you, his smile sadistic yet sincere. "The clergy lives to serve, after all."

#alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #alastor x you #radio demon x reader #the radio demon #Priest!Alastor #Human!Alastor

196 notes · View notes

sluttywoozi · 1 year

Text

Not A Baby | lsm x reader

Rating: M (18+ MDNI) | WC: ~1.2k

Warnings: i wrote this in an hour long fever dream, restraining (seok holds readers wrists down to the bed, forgot to tag before my bad!), edging (not shown), dumbification, dacryphilia, kinda mean dom seokmin, possessive seokmin, unprotected sex, creampie, 3 words of breeding/impreg, no aftercare sowwy

Reader Notes: older than seokmin (not specified), has a vagina

“Want me to make you cum, baby? Think you’ve earned it yet?” Seokmin asks you, a sly smile stretching his lips as he takes in the way you writhe, the way you keen, the way you cry beneath him.

He’s been edging you for an hour now, pushing you close to breaking seven times, the first three on his tongue and the next four on his fingers (not that he’s counting). He wants to let you cum, he does, but you teased him just a bit too much, pushed him just a bit too far. He’s never had a problem with you being older than him, but when you called him your ‘sweet baby Seokmin’, he decided enough was enough.

So, here you are. Here being a whimpering, sopping wet mess on his bed, your hands stretched out above your head and held tightly in one of his and your thighs spread wide open. He’s got your cunt spread open too, four fingers filling you up and his thumb circling your clit just to torture you, just to make you whine.

He wants to fuck you, desperately, but he’s not sure you get it yet and he won’t give you his cock until he’s certain you do. There’s still an hour or two before you need to go to bed so you can get a good night’s sleep for work, and he’s willing to spend those hours making sure it’s not something you’ll forget.

“What am I, honey?” Seokmin asks, his expectant tone indicating you should know the answer, and he can see you trying to find two brain cells to rub together amidst the haze of incomplete ecstasy, almost feels bad for you, almost feels bad that it just makes him want to fuck you even more. Makes him want to make you cum until you don’t even have two brain cells, until you can’t speak, can't breathe, can't move, until you know nothing but his name. You seem to figure it out just as he starts curling his fingers in you again, ready to bring you up to the edge and then yank you back, replying, “Not a baby, you’re not a baby, Seokmin.”

“That’s right, honey, good job,” he responds, knowing full well the condescension is evident in his words and also knowing you’re too far gone to hear it, before rewarding you with his thumb pressed hard against your swollen, throbbing clit. “And what are you?”

You try to answer him but the pressure leaves you breathless, your lips parting only to suck in a gasp as he rubs one, two, three times.

“What are you, honey?” He insists, letting up on your clit long enough for you to gather what wits remain and answer him.

“I’m a baby, Seokmin, I’m your baby,” you weep, actual tears streaming down your face, and he coos, releasing your hands to swipe them away and suck his damp, salty fingers into his mouth before gathering up your wrists again. “Please let me cum, fuck me, use me, do whatever you want, just please please please, let me cum.”

You’ve never sounded like this before, so mindless, so needy, so perfect, and Seokmin can feel his cock get harder, feel it twitching in his boxers and leaking precum into the fabric.

He’s pretty sure you get it now, and you asked so nicely…

“Alright, baby, I’ll fuck you. I’ll give you what you need. Because only I can do that, right?” He asks as he shoves his boxers down and climbs fully on top of you, hauling your legs onto his shoulders one at a time, waiting for your nod and near-delirious “Yes!” to pull his fingers out and slide home.

You’re so fucking wet, wetter than you’ve ever been, your pussy locking down on his cock as soon as he bottoms out like you never want him to leave, like you want him to make a home inside of you and stay there.

He would, fuck, he would. He would do anything for you, be anything for you (except a baby), and he needs to know that you know that.

“Not goin’ anywhere, baby. Keep squeezing me, though, you know I fucking lo-love it,” he gasps, his own voice sounding suspiciously whine-like. Thankfully, you’re too fucked out to notice.

He pulls his hips back until just the tip remains inside you, despite the resistance of your walls and the anguished sob you let out, and slams back into you, leaning down so close you’re practically folded in half, so close he’s nose to nose with you. He stares into your dazed, teary eyes, watching as he fucks the brain out of you, fucks all the big words and sarcastic remarks and ability to do math right out of your pretty little head. It’s beautiful to see, you’re beautiful, and he loves you, he loves you so fucking much he almost doesn’t know what to do with it sometimes, doesn’t know how to go about his daily life when his heart feels fit to burst, when he’d crack his rib cage open and hand it over to you if you asked, all you’d have to do is ask and he’d-

“Fuck, Seok-Seokmin, I need, please, I need-,” you beg rapturously, your sensitive walls fluttering around his cock as you climb the hill one last time.

“I know what you need, baby, always know what you need, and I’ll always give it to you. You know that, right?” He presses his open mouth to yours, breathing his words onto your tongue and working a hand between your bodies to glide his fingers over your clit. You nod mindlessly as he fucks your cunt full and your head empty.

You clench around him, your walls massaging his dick and your whimpers echoing in his ears. He’s just as close as you, knows your release will bring his, knows all he needs to do is tell you-

“Cum, honey, cum on my cock. Show me you’re my baby,” he commands, his voice rough and coming from deep in his throat.

You listen, as always, clamping down on his cock like a vise and wailing through your orgasm. It’s heaven, you’re heaven, or as close as Seokmin will get before he actually dies, the wild pulse of your cunt around him sending him careening over the edge. His cum shoots into you, starts to gather in a ring around the base of his dick when it has nowhere to go but out, but he keeps bucking his hips, fucks his cum deeper and deeper inside until it stays. Until it sticks, an insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind.

He shakes his head, knowing that’s not even close to a possibility yet, and wills his cock to stop twitching at the thought. You’re more than enough anyway, the life he shares with you more than he ever thought to hope for, more than he ever thought he deserved. His eyes trace over your face, imprinting the image of you - blissed out, tears wetting your lashes, your perfect lips parted - onto his mind.

His sweet, little baby.

AN: idk where this came from (yes i do) but im glad it did byeeeeee

tagging the dk biased cuties: @sluttywonwoo @onlyseokmins @heartkyeom @horanghoe @playmetheclassics @dkakapizzaboy @lipglossjun @freakyfriedrice @drunk-on-dk @brownsugarbaybee

Find my masterlist here

Join my taglist here

2K notes · View notes

muzzleroars · 10 months

Text

Michael, the Ruined Prince

Michael, having used all of his power to seek out God, had failed as the Prince of Heaven. He had abandoned his people, absent for centuries on a fruitless search filled with unheard, increasingly desperate prayers and an unrelenting, bone-deep exhaustion that is now permanent. His grief grew day by day, and an angel in isolation begins to wither, to warp – they must be with one another lest they twist into their extremes, retreating into their divine purpose until it becomes self-destructive parody. And Michael had already been scarred long ago by his role in banishing Lucifer, by God’s own ever-mounting wrath that ate away at the mercy he was meant to feel alongside it. Michael had already been insular, something had already pulled at the seams of his soul, and now centuries of failure consume him. He would return to Heaven with nothing for his people. Nothing for the siblings he swore to protect.

So his final thought in a deeply troubled mind urged him to try one last time. That if he could not find God, then he must bring God to himself. He must sin, he must beg for punishment, and then God will come to deliver it onto him. Just as He once did to Lucifer. It disgusted him, to think he had to debase himself to be as the sinners he held nothing but vile contempt for ever since he couldn’t cope with the guilt of the first fallen angels. But his prayers have failed, his days of weeping have failed, he moved Heaven, Earth, and all of Hell to come up with empty hands. Less than that. Not even a feeling. So Michael, even as a Cherub who could not, did everything he could to replicate his memories of when he had witnessed God Himself tear the light from His angels. Michael had seen it every time, it was he that had to bind any fallen angel that survived it to their place in Hell. He knew, implicitly, what the ritual was even if God seemed to enact it in one beautiful, elegant motion. And he did just that. Imperfect pantomiming, flawed execution, but the same ritual as best as Michael could copy it. All to himself.

But only God and the high Seraphim can sever an angel from their light.

His soul was rent from his body. His light was torn to shreds by his inexperienced hands. The agony that it screeched resounded all the way back to Heaven in unintelligible, muted whispers of nauseous grief no one could understand. Michael felt himself die, but it was incomplete. He was left in a corpse, a body destroyed and succumbing to all it meant but with him still inside of it. God did not come, and Michael was trapped a ruined body, bereft of a soul, of his light, giving way to rot and deterioration yet fully functional. He could do nothing but take this as a sign from God, one that he will not be punished no matter his crime for being such a loyal servant. Even as his body falls apart, as plants begin to burst from his remains, he believes himself to be blessed – see how he grows God’s garden. See how his crown remains pristine. He adorns his exposed bones with gems and finery, ostensibly as thanks to God for keeping him alive, keeping him sinless when he had so despised his impending fall from grace. But. Michael is, in the back of his mind, highly aware of what he’s become. He knows he is rotting, he knows he is in a dead body, he knows, somewhere, God had nothing to do with it. It was just a mistake, it was just his own foolishness with catastrophic consequence. He is more noxious than a fallen angel now, a botch job shambling numbly back to Heaven when he feels the death of Gabriel.

Upon his return, he largely attempts to hide the rot of his body, at least from the citizenry – he cannot hide it from Raphael or Uriel, nor does he try. To Michael, it proves his devotion, it shows God’s still present love for him, and it is a testimony to how he cannot fall, that he can never lose his place in Heaven. Raphael begs for him to be healed, Uriel pleads reason to him, but neither had ever been as strong as Michael and ultimately, he is their leader. No matter the state he returns in, he is the Prince of the Archangels and truthfully...they both fear him now. He is not the Michael they loved, not the one that had been quiet and stoic yet still loving in return. The Michael that would have done anything for them, that never wanted to lose another like he lost Lucifer. He commands them now to join him in binding Gabriel, his tangible grief the only thing that seems to be left of who he had once been.

Internally, Michael sees their fear, he feels the crushing guilt of Gabriel’s fall, he is violently ill with one true look at himself. He had gone wrong a long, long time ago, when he lost Lucifer, and now all of that was being made manifest, but he can’t face it. As flesh falls away, he covers it more and more with jewels as if that could hide the decay he can feel spreading night and day, the only thing he feels now. He must retreat into his purpose, he must not allow such devastating failure to be his legacy. So he turns on Gabriel. Gabriel, whose light had been severed. Who walks freely in an abandoned Hell. Who still has a living, breathing body. Michael’s vitriol toward the damned hones in on Gabriel, consumed with being sure he is left nailed to the lowest pit in Hell for his treachery. All the love he once had turns to hatred and in it, the other three can see that Michael has been left shattered, that nothing in him truly believes God made him this way. God’s most loyal, left to rot.

Additional information:

Michael now always exudes the Odor of Sanctity, but there is a distinct undertone of mold to it

The opalescent webbing that runs through his body is the angelic brain - normally it is iridescent and transparent with a strange glow, but Michael's is opaque and dull

Michael now prefers walking, something noted as unusual when he returned to Heaven, but it's simply due to the fact that his body has been left entirely numb and so it's difficult to maneuver in the air properly

He is very protective of his crown and dragon-skin bag, as they seem to be the only things left uncorrupted on him

344 notes · View notes

humanpurposes · 1 month

Text

I Have Always Been A Storm, Part 2

Read the full chapter on AO3 // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Floris Baratheon

In the year 128AC, Floris Baratheon weds Aemond Taragryen, a daughter and a son both driven to duty, now bound to each other when the realm is on the brink of war. Floris is enamoured by the Prince, but love is something she can only hope will bloom once her vows have been said before the eyes of the Seven- AU where Aemond and Floris marry before the Dance of the Dragons.

Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, pregnancy, arranged marriage, canon divergence, angst, possibly quite a lot of angst, hurt/comfort

Two hundred guests stand before us in the royal sept.

Queen Alicent wished for us to be wed as soon as possible, in a less elaborate affair than the union of Aegon and Helana. This seemed like an agreeable decision in the eyes of the Small Council, one that would be more forgiving on the royal treasury. “All that money for the Princess to weep through the entire ceremony,” as Tyland Lannister had put it.

There can be no room for mistakes on my part. I am an outsider in King’s Landing. I often find myself dressed in gowns of green, a paler shade than the Queen’s own gowns, but I am still a Baratheon. I have to be perfect. I will be perfect.

I’ve hardly seen my betrothed since I said my farewells to my family. The Queen says Aemond keeps himself busy. In the mornings he takes to the training yard to spar with Ser Criston Cole, then he rides Vhagar over the Kingswood and Blackwater Bay. Some mornings I watch them from my balcony. Otherwise he spends the rest of the day in the library, devoting himself to his studies, looking over papers of state given to him by the Hand, his grandfather.

I know my chambers aren’t far from his, and yet I take my meals alone. I spend a lot of my time alone when I’m not joining the Queen in her morning prayers. She keeps telling me that things will be different once I am married.

My gown is gold and white with patterns of flowers in the skirt. The fabric flows in the breeze from the open windows. Summer will be nearing its end soon, but the sun has shone proudly over King’s Landing for the last few days. I try not to show the discomfort on my face, but I feel sweat beading under my dress, droplets running down my back.

Aemond wears a jerkin of green, the three-headed dragon embroidered in gold across his chest, the same eyepatch over his head. My eyes trail down from his jaw to the opening of his collar, where his skin shifts as he swallows against the unbearable heat.

He has already replaced my maiden’s cloak with one in the colours of his own house. We place our hands together and the septon binds us together with a tie of black silk.

His eye meets mine and we say the words.

“I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days.”

I am not sure I believe what I’m saying. I want to. I want him to mean it too.

Aemond steps into me, taking my chin in his fingertips to tilt my head upwards.

I’m aware of every sensation, the sweltering heat, the nervous feeling in my stomach, the fluttering in my chest, the shallowness of my breaths, all as if they’re happening to someone else and not me. It’s like I’m watching myself in a dream, existing in a memory.

I close my eyes.

He hesitates before he puts his lips to mine. He kisses me softly, slowly, and I want it to consume me. But then he parts from me and I feel empty. I feel incomplete.

Full chapter on AO3

Tags (commented to be added)

Series taglist: @tulips2715

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @theoneeyedprince @targaryenrealnessdarling @jamespotterismydaddy @tsujifreya @blackswxnn

#my fics #florismond #floris x aemond #floris baratheon x aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fic #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #floris baratheon #aemond targaryen smut #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fic #asoiaf fanfic

33 notes · View notes

birdmitosis · 11 days

Note

💔 for the chapter 3 princesses?

💔 An angsty headcanon

Like Tower before Her, Apotheosis cannot really emotionally connect to individual people, but while Tower would be unhappy and lonely if She never had people around Her at all, Apotheosis has trouble with that. Individuals are just so small, even if they wanted to get near Her. The Protagonist would be the only one who could ease that for Her; without him, Apotheosis really is a supremely lonely god.

Den can still hear the cabin and the basement -- Her cage, Her pit -- talks to Her. It's why She's starving, malnourished. It tells Her that She deserves it after what She did.

Eye of the Needle, if Adversary progresses to that point, is far less capable of being able to readjust to a more normal life. She has gotten to a point where She constantly feels unsatisfied by never having the fight She was denied. She might not be forever doomed to that, but She may fall into the trap of eternally searching for it.

Fury's rage is stoked by a severe self-loathing. She hates what She has become and hates the Protagonist for turning Her into it. Without the Protagonist around, that rage is still there, but Her self-loathing eats at Her more. She is less than what She was, She thinks, and She can never get it back. She was denied that. She takes this to mean She can never be better, so She embraces being worse even though She doesn't want to. (As a less angsty headcanon, this makes me think She might get along with Witch/Thorn/that version of Wild.)

Burned Grey remembers trying so hard to accept the Protagonist destroying what few small desires She had: to leave the cabin with him, and to not die. She tried to accept his decision, even with tears in Her eyes, but now She accepts Her desires fully even if they hurt both Her and him. She would, I think, be the vessel most upset about never being allowed Her wish in the end if not for the full understanding that seems to come with reuniting with the Shifting Mound.

Drowned Grey cannot emote and cannot quite access Her own emotions in Her death. Unlike the Burned Grey, where the dry heat that consumes the entire Construct is an expression of Her desire to burn it all down and destroy it all -- which She fully feels and is aware of -- the constant rain in the Drowned Grey's route is Her sorrow fully externalized. She can't cry and She can't even quite feel like She wants to cry anymore, but the Construct itself weeps. She thinks that drowning the Protagonist is making him feel how She choked on Her own blood... It isn't, but She does want him to feel and understand Her: the emotions She can no longer access, She needs him to be fully faced with Her sorrow at being betrayed, at not being trusted, at not being understood.

Moment of Clarity is as broken down as the Protagonist and any of his voices. They are not the only ones who have done all of this over and over and over and over and over again, after all. And they have all exhausted every other option before finally freeing Her solely because they can no longer avoid it. They can no longer do anything else. The tender moment She shares with the Protagonist is almost despite Herself... He is finally, finally letting Her out and it almost looks like he made the choice to do so. She can almost pretend he made the choice to do so. But he tried so hard to put it off until choices just didn't exist for either of them anymore, didn't he?

Thorn still has so much Witch in Her. This isn't the headcanon; it's obvious if you choose literally any of the options other than finally freeing Her. My headcanon is that if She would, of course, sometimes continue to backslide into being more like Witch in negative situations. And She would hate it. There'd be a lot of uncertainty in Her still if She could actually be better, if She wasn't still the worst.

Networked Wild, if She could actually escape like that -- even with the Protagonist and the voices -- would still always feel incomplete and too afraid to ever risk looking at and facing what She'd done, what they had done, and what it might mean for all of them. They would probably always be doomed to fall apart at some point.

Wounded Wild feels incomplete, even if She will always feel grateful for the kindness, empathy, and companionship She receives "despite" being incomplete. Maybe She can work past that eventually, but it will take her a long time, and also a long time to really feel okay facing who and what She had been and done. (Again, a slightly less angsty headcanon, but I think this means Wounded Wild-from-Beast would get along well with Thorn.)

Wraith wants so, so badly to be able to heal Her relationship with the Protagonist and to forgive him and the voices. She wants it so badly She can't let herself realize it. The one moment She allows herself to is when, if they toss themselves and Her into the abyss, She asks "WHY DO YOU HATE ME?" Her laughter that follows is at Herself for Her folly.

SPECIAL CASES:

Arms Race/No Way Out doesn't know how to be anything other than a weapon, doesn't know how to do anything other than hurt the Protagonist. Doesn't know how to want anything else. She is joy in Her purpose, but She is nothing outside of it. She likes him, yes, but She doesn't know what to do with it. She is -- ironically, given the name of the alternate Chapter IV -- empty, maybe even more so than the Deconstructed Damsel.

Mutually Assured Destruction/Empty Cup panics because She does not know how to be anything other than what She is. If She steps out into the unknown -- if She changes -- what is She? Is She nothing if She is not the one who hurts the Protagonist? All She can do when Her armor and sharp edges crumple and strip away is to put Her heart in his hand and trust that he will be able to lead Her to what comes next.

Stranger doesn't have a Chapter III at all, but so They aren't left out entirely: what happened shook Them all up really badly at first. It wasn't just Harsh, Neutral, and Soft all pleading with the Protagonist at the end of their chapter, but Emo and even Monster as well.

38 notes · View notes

tragedy-of-commons · 2 months

Text

annabelle’s homework

sucrose x gn!reader | wc: ~650

“22 days and 21 nights, crossing every T, just making it right.”

tags/warnings: modern au, childhood friends, unrequited love, angst, one-sided pining/attraction, based on the alec benjamin song, songfic(??)

notes: repost. pls forgive me heeehee 🙏🏻

“You weren’t at the gate,” you say, breathless.

Sucrose is curled up in a ball, knees tucked under her chin, fringe likely obscuring a tearful expression by the way her shoulders shake. The awning shielding her from the elements is pitiful - just a thin leg of metal jutting out from the roof of the science building.

She heaves a sob. “You were right. I should’ve listened to y-you, but I didn’t,”

Your stomach plummets, urging you to quickly surrender your umbrella to your weeping friend. The rain begins its assault on your dry uniform, but you can’t bring yourself to care. She looks up with a sniffle that’s accompanied by a frenzied headshake. She doesn’t want it?

You.. you don’t know what to do. If there’s one thing you and Sucrose bond over, it’s social inexperience. Would it be too much to ask what happened? Is your presence making her uncomfortable?

The sky cracks harshly with thunder, causing her to flinch. Your arm is starting to hurt from the strain of your olive branch. “..Can I sit with you?”

She swallows audibly and nods. With her confirmation, you settle next to her on the damp pavement. Between the threshold of your bodies, you prop up the umbrella so it combats the wayward downpour. One problem at a time. The silence isn’t as awkward as it is unsure. You should say something.

By her wording earlier.. “Is this about Annabelle?”

“Yes. You were right, s-she was just using me for answers. I did her biology lab like I usually do, and then when I finally worked up the nerve to..”

(You did warn her about Annabelle, but only some of it was grounded in reality. Instead you acted out of ugly jealousy whenever she persistently slipped your best friend notes littered with pink hearts that were attached to incomplete assignments. Walking home with her one day, you huffed,

“Sucrose.. be careful around her. She’s probably taking advantage of you to better her own grades.”

She just sheepishly smiled, looking up towards the clouds. “I don’t think so. She’s just busy with extracurriculars most of the time, and I was the one w-who offered. She even hugged me. Things are looking up.. I’ve read enough studies to recognize romantic attraction!”

Sucrose prattled on, this time a little embarrassed by her outburst, but you couldn’t pay attention - not when your heart ached at the fact that she hadn’t researched enough to recognize the soft looks you reserve only for her.)

The wind billows while she continues, “I finally worked up the nerve to ask her out on a date. She laughed, and I made a fool of myself again.”

Your knuckles blanch around the umbrella handle.

“It’s not your fault.” You press your handkerchief into her hand after a moment of fumbling; her warmth makes you pull back, as if burned by her infinite possibilities. “She’s an asshole, and you.. you’re wonderful.”

The disbelief she regards you with is painful.

Stagnant minutes after she wipes her face, you hoist Sucrose up from the ground and start the journey off school property before you both get fenced in overnight. You wince whenever she stumbles over her untied shoelaces, hushing her subsequent broken apologies. The storm rampages on, so you offer her to stay the night at your house. (It’s the right thing to do.)

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” her head lolls onto your shoulder, “I never thought that I’d keep a friend this long, with how insufferable I am.”

You feel the same plus a lot more, but she’s still heartbroken. You know well enough that those wounds don’t heal overnight; they ache, fester, and get infected without the right balm. So you’ll relinquish yours to her, just to see her smile again - even if that same grin was the cause of your afflictions in the first place. Even if she’ll never direct its full radiance at you.

“You’re not insufferable. For you, I can bear anything.”

taglist: @hanyi-writes, @karagatan02, @bfajax, @aphrodict, @nomazee

#✧ my works #—stellaronhvnters.#sucrose x reader #sucrose x gn!reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin sucrose x reader #genshin impact sucrose x reader #sucrose x y/n

23 notes · View notes

corishadowfang · 1 year

Text

An (Incomplete) List of KHUX Fic Recs for People Who Miss the Dandelions

So it’s been two years since UX ended, and we’re still waiting (semi-patiently) for Missing-Link, and the Union Leaders are...nowhere in sight. And I figure, you know...if canon hasn’t offered anything yet, fanfic’s a pretty good place to go to fill the void.

So, uh...here’s an (incomplete, because I know I forgot people) list of really good fics focusing around the Union Leaders. Some are sad, some are fluffy, but they’re all a lot of fun. (Occasionally in an angsty way, but...still.)

eater of dreams (see the way your heart weeps) / silver drips from aching hands / grit your teeth and get up anyways - hallowed_nebulae (@hallowed-nebulae)

to find is to lose - Felikid ( @felikatze )

graveyard ghosts - izabellwit (@izabellwit)

promises written into stone - roxasthatsastick (@roxasthatisastick)

Together, We’re Not Alone - LightInTheVoid

in daybreak town we don’t say “i love you,” we make sacrifice plays, and i think that sucks - Lyre (Lyrecho) (@lyrebright)

these fragile things - Silybum (@sheepibum)

graveyard ghosts - alliariondak (@kicktwine)

When Skies Are Gray / like the ones I used to know / That Old Thing? - Starlight_Wayfinder (@starlightwayfinder)

Daybreak Town Prank Wars - Phoenix2137

Ping-Pong IS a Competitive Sport if you let it be / Night Terrors - rosie_kairi (@rosie-kairi)

I wish us all the best - bookwormally (@bookwormally)

A Dandelion a Day - thetwilightroadtonightfall (@thetwilightroadtonightfall)

when the skies are opened - serenedash (@serenedash)

The Plan / You’re not alone in this - Psianabel (@psianabel)

Are we gonna talk about this or...? - Blazernot (@blazernot)

#kingdom hearts #khux #kingdom hearts fic recs #i finally cut it off because it was getting long but like--there are more #if you have a favorite that i missed please drop it!#also if YOU wrote a fic about the ux crew--this is the perfect time for self-promotion #(i am not asking entirely for altruistic reasons. i also want recs)#(please. i am starving for content)

62 notes · View notes

belphies-cowgirl · 2 years

Text

reunited

Satan drabble: MC comes back as a demon

word count: 400+

Satan sat by your grave with his head hung low. his fists were clenched by his sides as he wept. since your death nothing had seemed to go right for him, it was one thing after the other. the anger inside him just kept boiling and he wanted to destroy everything in sight. he feels incomplete and hollow without you. nothing makes sense anymore, everything just makes him so angry and frustrated. guilt and grief were slowly eating away at him. he blamed himself for your death because he couldn't do anything to save you. he couldn't sleep or eat. he didn't feel like reading anymore because anytime he tried to get lost in a book he just ended up lost in memories of you.

as he sat there weeping all he could think about was the last time he saw you alive. you were holding onto him so tightly it left two red handprints and crescent-shaped indents on his skin. you kept telling him that you didn't want to leave, that you weren't ready to lose him. he could still feel the way you shakily held his face and kissed him one last time. he touched his lips as tears rolled down his cheeks. he would give anything to be able to see you again, to hear your laugh, to see you smile. just one more kiss, one more warm embrace.

a cool breeze washed across his body causing him to shiver. there weren't any breezes before, not even the creatures of the night made noises. he lifted his head and felt around for his jacket. a pair of obsidian-colored wings and horns caught his attention. his heart stopped, you were standing there in front of him looking as radiant as ever. he swore right then and there that he would tell you every day how much he loves you, how much you mean to him. he swore that he would do everything in his power to always protect you.

before he could get up, you ran towards him smiling. you threw yourself into his arms and his back hit the ground. he held onto you tightly, hoping that this was real. he took in every detail of your beautiful face as you gently wiped his tears away. he couldn't stop smiling, tears kept flowing as he laughed. he couldn't believe it, you were in his arms again. you were alive and happy to see him. his heart melted as you brushed his hair out of his face, your soft touch warmed him to his core. you placed a soft kiss on his lips before kissing his tears away.

"my love, you have no idea how happy I am to see you again."

✄ ——————————————————————

feel free to comment, reblog, shoot me a message, or an ask <3

please do not use my work as your own!

m.list

283 notes · View notes

noxcorvorum · 7 months

Text

I uh. I just finished ghost wax ep 44. I'm devastated. I need several moments. At least a day actually. Jesus christ.

(spoilers for part 44)

First of all I love the incantations. Iconic. I have all of them written down in Google keep. The empty table. The world's last fable. Dead mortar, bone pestle. Come death to your vessel. Come now, entropy. The spiral of time. Spin, spin fast. And seer and cable. Pen, fog, and fable. Stay within, flat and pinned. Love all of it and I am actively wanting more of them to memorize for enrichment. And now time to go feral over the Happenings.

So I'm kindof unclear on what happened to pip, did she essentially get jonah magnused, as in whatever entity Charles served controls her eyes now? Does she still have control of the rest of her body? Does the entity have control and she's just watching from within or is she essentially dead/incapacitated with the entity puppeting her? Ack augh I really liked the episode where she had the dream thing where the other characters were her friends and family, Luca as her brother, Owen and Azem (AUGH ILL GET TO HIM) as her uncles ("Uncle cid will be delightfully catty," ACK.), and she lied her way out of it even with the incredibly tempting offer of a world she could control where she can have an actual support system, and she gave it all away to protect the same people in the real world. That episode made me much more familiar with her character than I had been, idk what happened while I was listening but I was pretty neutral about her before this episode bc I didn't know her and AUGH she was just trying to help Charlie and he manipulated her away and into getting caught by whatever he serves and AUGH SHE DOESNT EVEN KNOW WHATS HAPPENING WITH OWEN AND LUCA

We also get a lot more Luca lore in the most recent episodes with his childhood and the beginning of whatever's going on with his soul that at one point Owen said his spirit is incomplete? And Owen gives him a replica of the thing he pulled out of his dream 😭 sobbing. Luca my beloved augh is he dead?? I saw a theory that the body Owens hamsa instincts latched onto was his so what's going to happen to them if that's true? Is one of them going to disappear or is it going to be a John and Arthur Malevolent situation or even will they combine like Paul from Nona the ninth? If that is the case I'm leaning towards something between disappearance and a malevolent situation bc Owen seems to have kept what remains of Azem with him all this time, and he cares enough about Luca that I think he'd do his best to not erase him as much as he possibly could. Luca my boy please don't be dead ;_;

Owen my beloved AUGH. ACK. ALDKSJ. Owen you are devastating me. Apologizing to Charlie bc he failed him when from what I understand pretty much nothing Owen could have done for him would have helped him not do this and then pleading for just five to seven more minutes so he can release what's left of Azem and also cause as little damage as he does as possible??? SIR. I AM WEEPING. He's old, so so old, and he's been here for so long and held on to Azem for so long that all he wants is to be able to let him go, to give him this one last thing. He accepts that he's about to die and that he will lose this last connection to his partner so quickly, and he just wants to give that which remains of Azem the best chance he can give him. I think the fact that he was pleading for this long-dead figure that only remains in mere fragments in Owens head at best to be released and not for his own life and continued connection to Azem broke me. I do think that the body he was in for all that time had some significance regarding Azem, maybe it was azems body?? I think it might be more likely it's the body he held when he met and was with Azem though, but also that whatever parts of Azem are left are tethered to that body, and he can't take him with him if he takes a new one, and he's afraid of letting go even when it's to his own detriment, because he starts using the wax recorders when he starts losing memories of reclaiming from the sheer vast amount of them he has in that brain. When he doesn't want to use an observed as bait and someone suggests he use himself instead and he says he can't, and I think the intro to ep 41 has some interesting implications:

A: ["will you- will you"? Could be a name?] please, oh god, ["please don't make me"?] just let it be over, I don't want it I don't want it anymore-

B: shh, come now, come now it's almost over. hush, hush, my love, we believe in you.

A: I can't, please

B: you knew this would not be easy. You know that. you cannot stop now, it is too late.

A: [weakly, as if weeping] please don't make me

B: this is what you chose. It is the right choice. None of this, none of it is real. It's all just a vivid dream. You choose to wake up. Just a few steps further, my love. [Interspersed with noises from A that sound like sobbing] Free yourself. Almost. [sigh? Or a laugh? Possibly "there"?]

I think "A" is Owen and "B" is either some corruption of Azem or something using his countenance and voice. It's too late at night and I kinda forgot what exactly happened in 41 so I can't elaborate exactly why I think this. However perhaps it is related to the thing Charles is serving (the cypher? Unclear to me) possibly attempting to get Owen to give up prematurely, maybe with a dream such as the one pip had but Actively Bad And Worse? It's something, that's for sure. I couldn't understand some of it too so that's probably contributing to my confusion

#ghost wax #ghost wax spoilers #luca ghost wax #owen voncid #charles baybridge #ghost wax pip #long post #i really like owen if it isnt clear yes i love pip especially with recent episodes yes i adore luca however i love owen lots i just think #hes neat <3

15 notes · View notes

after-witch · 2 years

Text

Life is Pain, Highness [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Life is Pain, Highness [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You have chronic back pain. It only gets worse once you’re stuck with Chrollo.

Word Count: 4035

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, reader has chronic pain/chronic injury and physical disability and Chrollo takes advantage of this

Life hasn’t been fair to you for a very long time. For instance, you can’t remember the last time you went a full day without debilitating pain that left you feeling helpless, agonized--and like you were an incomplete person.

Like the inability to simply get up from bed and change your clothes and make a meal on your own, without finding yourself leaning over a metallic walker and crying from the spasms in your back, made you less of a person.

Did it? You don’t know. You do know that you feel like even less of a person now that your autonomy has dropped down to negative digits. Now that you were stuck with Chrollo, who claimed to love you, who kept you with him no matter your personal opinion on the subject.

The worst of it all was that the pain is even worse now. Perhaps it’s the stress of your situation. Perhaps it’s the lack of stability. At home, you had amassed a collection of routines, aided by medical equipment that you kept at hand day and night. Canes. A walker. Boxes of expensive pain patches that you could slap on your back. Ice packs that you swapped out whenever they stopped being useful. All this on top of your pain medication, dutifully prescribed every 30 days and picked up on time by a neighbor you paid to drive to the pharmacy. You could’ve wept for relief every time your refill came in.

You could still weep, now. Even when you have a fresh ice pack on your back. Even when Chrollo tries to rub away the pain in motions that only make you feel revulsion from his touch on your skin. Even when you’ve taken your pain medication .

He was held down from you, once. When you crossed a line that was apparently too much even for him. You learned your lesson swift and fast, that time, and since then you have accustomed yourself to going with current of his demands. You don’t want to know what will happen if you push back that strongly again.

That doesn’t mean you haven’t held onto little things. God in heaven, if you didn’t do that, you might have just gone crazy. The little things are what keep you from fully falling into his grasp, you think. The way you shift your body just a tad when he holds you. The way you keep your lips still when he kisses you. The way you pretend, sometimes, not to hear him when he asks you questions or commends on something that he clearly wants your input in.

But outright defiance? No, no. That was stolen from you in three days of red hot pain, spasms that seemed to never end, crippling agony that left you unable to move.

Lately, though, your pain is getting worse. The pain medication doesn’t numb as much as it used to; sometimes, it barely touches your pain, and you simply weep. Ice and heat, stretches, taking it slow… nothing seems to work. It takes you longer and longer to get out of bed. You strain to get dressed, stopping when your back spasms, stopping when you’re sure that stretching your leg one more inch will completely throw your back out.

Some mornings… some mornings you’re even forced to ask Chrollo for help, which makes you feel infinitely worse. You can’t get rid of the memory of how his hands felt, snug and warm around your body, as he simply carried you bridal style to the bathroom on a morning when you were forced to admit defeat. You just couldn’t get dressed, couldn’t get up, on your own.

He didn’t say anything about it, didn’t make a teasing remark; he simply carried you in silence and set you down on the closed toilet lid and got to work. Goosebumps pimpled up your arms as he raised your arms to shoulder height, slowly slipping off your nightgown and pulling it so that you didn’t have to try to raise your arms all the way.

He didn’t even remark on your nakedness underneath, which was worse, somehow; it made you feel all the more vulnerable. Like this was part of your routine now. And then came your underwear, which he slipped down your legs that trembled from pain and humiliation.

Then he dressed you. Dressed you. Like you were a child. Or a frail thing, incapable of doing anything for herself. He was so gentle, so gentle, that the memory of it makes you feel sick. The clothes felt softer on your skin, somehow, with the ghost of his warm fingertips brushing against you as each piece was carefully, considerately, slipped onto your body.

When he retrieved the hairbrush from the bathroom cabinet, you wanted to run. But you couldn’t, could you? And so you had to sit there, face burning with embarrassment, as he tended to your hair and gave you a damp cloth to wipe your face with. He even took care of your toothbrush, though--thank God, truly--he let you brush your teeth yourself.

You’ve resorted to enduring the pain, no matter how horrible it gets when you have to bed and twist to get ready for the day, since that morning. So far, he has been content to simply remind you that you can ask him for help when you cry out in pain, pitifully attempting to do something as simple as putting on a pair of trousers. You bite your cheek and ignore him an endure.

But it’s only getting worse. And you don’t know how long you can hold out.

More and more often, he has to bring your walker to the bed, and you spend the day gingerly walking around the apartment with the creaking of the metal underneath you--feeling old, feeling weak, feeling awful.

What if one day, you can’t move at all?. If you’ll be stuck in bed forever, or forced to use a wheelchair. Would he even give you one? Or would he carry you around like some sort of overgrown doll?

You’d be so much more at his mercy then, wouldn’t’ you?

The thought makes you shudder. And then it makes you angry, suddenly, cheeks heated and heart angry.

It’s not fair. None of this is fair. You shouldn’t be in pain. You shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

You haven’t seen Chrollo look surprised before. Yet he does now, for just a moment, when you actually slap his hands away from your arms. He had tried to pull you closer to him on the bed, a gesture he apparently thought was domestic and romantic. But the moment he shifted your shoulders, there it was--searing pain shooting up your back, making you screech.

“It hurts. It hurts, you bastard,” you spit. And God, it does hurt. Sore and stiff and hot all at once.

He raises his eyebrows, the look of confusion replaced by one of practicality. “You took your medication earlier, did you not?” He pauses, seeming to consider something. “You didn’t hide it under your tongue?”

The idea makes you laugh. A short, harsh, barking sound.

“Why would I do that?” Your mirth is entirely false and bitter. “It’s not fucking working. My medicine. It’s.. I need more. Or something different. I don’t know.” The last words come out frantic, hollow, pathetic.

You try to shift on the bed, hoping to get some ounce of comfort. But all it does is send pain cramping along your lower back, making it stiff and achey, even traveling a little down your legs in a terrible burning sensation.

Your throat is tight and the sound that comes out of it is guttural and helpless. “It hurts. It hurts so bad.”

You weep, then. Hot tears of pain and anger. You hate your body. You hate this pain. You wish things were different.

It’s Chrollo that shifts on the bed, scooting himself closer to you. Vaguely, you feel a pang of jealousy. What would it be like to simply move about whenever you pleased? Without worrying that the change in position, the slightest shift of your shoulder, might hurt like hell?

He wraps his arms around you and you let him. Partly because you don’t want him to be annoyed enough to withhold your medicine again. But mostly because the mere thought of jerking away gives you phantom pains, and you have enough real pain to deal with at the moment. You can’t even turn around so that you aren’t facing him, but you can always shut your eyes and pretend to sleep. He might not care, as long as he was holding you.

For a few moments, all he does is just that: hold you. But like all good things, his silence being one of them, it doesn’t last.

“There’s something I could try, if you like.” His voice is soft and calm and soothing. It puts you on edge--of course it does.

Your lips are down-turned. From the pain. And the wariness.

“What do you mean?”

He sighs and looks away from you. There’s something pensive in his expression that has you curious, the wariness ebbing away bit by bit.

“There’s an ability I acquired oh… some time ago now. But I know you dislike it when I bring nen into things.”

Nen. The invisible power that made him… him. Nen, that gave him control and strength and powers that you couldn’t even fathom. Even if you’d been pain-free, you wouldn’t stand a chance against him. You’d only been on the receiving end of such ‘abilities’ once, the first day he took you, and that was enough.

Nen could help you in some way?

Your pain throbs and you clench your eyes shut, riding out a wave of it. When it passes, you open them to find Chrollo watching you.

Nen, huh…

“What… would it do?”

Chrollo reaches out one hand and idly strokes your cheek. Not wiping away your tears but seemingly stroking them, following the tracks they’ve made. Again, the thought of jerking away has to be forcibly pushed out of your mind. And he probably knows it. The asshole.

“It’s designed to dull your pain receptors,” he says, still stroking. “Temporarily, of course. The effect lasts a few hours or so.”

Your back is trembling, and your chest tightens, fearing another spasm. Nen that dulls the pain. It would be better than pain medication, wouldn’t it? It would actually work. A strange thrill makes your heart flutter. And he would use it on you?

“But…” And his tone has a thick edge of admonition to it. “I know you abhor such things. I cannot, in good conscious, use it on you unless you give me your consent.” He sounds so reasonable, so fair, and you know it’s not right and not normal to be in this situation but you cling to his words.

You shift in bed, wanting to push yourself up, to give yourself the tiniest amount of leverage in this conversation. The moment you move, your back screams, and so do you, falling forward and muffling a groan into his shoulder.

You ride it out, but it never really goes away, does it? The pain is always there, lingering, sore, feeling like invisible bruises that keep you from living a full life.

You pull back just enough to turn your head to the side, keeping your cheek resting against his body.

“Do it.” Your tongue tastes your own salty tears, bitter pain, cheeks hot with agony and the humiliation of pressing your face into his shoulder like a child. “Please. Chrollo. Use it.”

The stretching silence is more terrifying than anything you’ve experienced so far. Slow and thick.

“All right,” he says finally, whispering. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

He moves slowly, but it doesn’t matter. It still hurts when you have to sit up fully and support yourself so that he can bring out his hateful book. You look away, seeing only the faint glow of it, hearing only mumbles as you tune out whatever ability he’s stolen from some poor fool.

Your body tingles. In pain, yes, but then in something else. Something thick and wet, like being covered in wet mud. It tingles.

And then…

And then it feels like nothing at all.

You don’t move. You’re afraid to move. Years and years of habit has taught you that sudden movements mean pain. Even slow movements can mean pain.

“Go on,” Chrollo urges, something mirthful just detectable in his voice. “It won’t hurt.”

You’re afraid. You’re so afraid.

But you swing your legs over to the side of the bed and there’s nothing.

You sit up straighter and there’s nothing.

You stand up and there’s nothing.

Nothing but your body moving as it should, responding as it should, letting you stand up and walk and stretch your arms without a care in the world. You walk from the bed to the closet and reach up to pull on the curtains pulled across the empty space. Not a hint of pain, not a spasm.

Giddy, biting your bottom lip, you reach down to the floor and pick up a book that fell off the shelf earlier that day.

It doesn’t hurt at all.

And then you cry.

Not from pain, for once. No. But from happiness. How many years has it been since you were pain free like this? Pain free but not doped up to high heaven, an IV in your arm and nearby nurses who refused to believe you weren’t a drug seeker until they called your physician to confirm your condition.

“Come back to bed,” he says. “It will be nice for you to sleep through the night, won’t it?”

You glance back at Chrollo, honestly having forgotten his presence for a few precious moments. He’s smiling, not unkindly, but you don’t want to go to bed. You can’t imagine falling asleep right now. Not when you can do so much more.

“No, I…” You shift, and it’s such a strange sensation, to shift your body without feeling something tug terribly as a result. “Can we stay up longer.” You glance towards the window, the inky black sky, the stream of city lights underneath the window. “Can we go for a walk?

He raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t actually seem surprised. “It’s midnight.”

You feel stupid, but somehow it doesn’t bother you. You feel stupid, but not helpless. You feel like you’re holding your own, for once. Like you’re a real person and not some agonized creature forced to deal what life and Chrollo gives you.

“I know, but…” You shrug--shrug! Without feeling a damn thing!--and clench your hands together. Hopefully and, dare you say it, even silly. “It could be fun?”

He chuckles, and the low sound sends an uncomfortable thrill into your stomach. “Well,” he says, pivoting on the bed and standing up himself. “I can think of few things more romantic than a walk in the moonlight.”

He approaches and you stay will as he grasps your hand, pulling to his lips and kissing your knuckles in a swift, smooth, outdated gesture. You feel revulsion, but it’s pushed down, somehow. As if it too was numbed by the nen he wielded. Or maybe you were just so pumped full of pain-free adrenaline that you couldn’t help but feel something like gratitude to him. .

It’s bliss. He can’t use the nen all the time, but he uses it enough. Mostly when the pain gets so bad that you’re finding it difficult to move or think or do anything for yourself. The pain medication seems to work better now, taking the edge off, with Chrollo and his power getting you through the worst of it.

And if you begin to stop shifting away from him when he insists on holding you, if you find yourself feeling too guilty to ignore his questions when he asks them… can you blame yourself? He’s finally done something good for you, something that makes a positive difference in your life. You can sit and read without having to stop after a few pages, back aching. You can bend over without worrying that you’ll feel that tell-tale tug that promises weeks of suffering and stiffness. You can live.

Is it any wonder that your smiles are freer, your words are kinder? Is it so strange that even your kisses are softer, lips moving ever so slightly against his now?

Last night, you went for a walk in the evening and didn’t even have to return home because you were in pain. Today, you’re lounging together on the bed, each reading your own book. You’re thinking of nothing but the story and characters and what the next pages might bring.

Chrollo makes a noise. A hum, maybe. You turn, and there’s a familiar ache in your back that gives you pause. It has been a few hours since he used the nen this afternoon.

When you turn, you see Chrollo watching you, which isn’t really new. But there’s something in his expression that keeps you from turning back to your book. He looks frustrated. Annoyed, maybe. Like something is bothering him. Like he’s deep in thought, and about what, you don’t really know.

“Are you all right?” You ask, because anything that disrupts the routine the two of you have created lately is bound to worry you. On cue, your lower back twitches, the promise of a cramp of pain in the near future.

He doesn’t speak for a while. And then:

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, quiet. Serious. “About the past few weeks.”

You have too, but not so seriously. The past few weeks have been the best weeks of your life, if you can ignore that you’re a captive, anyway. You’ve gone on walks. You’ve skipped. You’ve bent over and twisted and even convinced Chrollo to rent a pair of bikes for the afternoon, with not a single shred of pain to be found until later on that day.

You’re thinking of the good things. So what is Chrollo thinking about?

“Oh?” You don’t know what so say, really, and you settle for that.

Chrollo turns towards you finally, and there it is, a frown on his face. It makes your stomach clench with worry.

“I must admit, I’m rather hurt, my dear.”

You shift closer to him on the bed, setting your book on nightstand, and you grimace. It hurts. You itch for him to use his book, to take it away. But you can’t ask. Not right now.

“Hurt by what?” If your voice is a little thin from the pain, he doesn’t seem to notice.

His eyes flick across you, analyzing.

“Your behavior towards me has changed recently.” He pauses, and you say nothing. He’s right, of course. You have been acting differently towards him. “But it’s only after I started managing your pain.”

“I don’t understand,” you say. But you’re starting to, you really are.

You swallow against a thick feeling in your throat, but it returns tenfold with his next words.

“I feel used.” He looks away, and he looks distant, almost vulnerable somehow, in profile. You’re keenly aware of how much Chrollo puts on airs, puts on acts, around you, but for once you can’t seem to tell if this is genuine or not.

Something cold and clammy takes hold of your stomach, and you swear your back begins to stiffen as fear settles.

“Used?” You don’t mean to sound so incredulous, but that’s what you are. Astounded that he could say such a thing to someone he kidnapped and kept captive at his whims.

He doesn’t seem to notice your tone, anyway. He brings a hand up to his chin, holding it gently, lost in his own line of reasoning that comes forward in measured, steady words.

“Yes. Your positive behavior is a direct results of me easing your pain, is it not? And so, if I were to stop doing so--” Your stomach curdles, a cramp shoots across your back. “Or if I lost this ability, which is a possibility after all, would you simply revert to your previous untoward behavior?”

“No.” The word is barely etched out of your throat, tight as it is. You reach for him, not sure what you’ll do. “Of course not. I--I wouldn’t.” You would thought wouldn’t you? If you didn’t have a reason to play nice with him, why bother?

He looks at you like you’ve told him that he has two heads. Or like he can read your thoughts. It’s really one and the same.

Chrollo shakes his head, letting his hand drop to his side. He sighs, sounding a little forlorn. “I’m afraid these sound like empty words, even from your sweet lips.”

The thought of no more pain-free hours, the thought of being stuck in bed again of being carried and helpless and constantly wishing you could just fucking move without it hurting, terrifies you beyond belief.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair, is it? How were you to know that acting the way he wanted you--companionable, conversational--would have him upset? Chrollo was a puzzle, and you felt no closer to figuring out what pieces went where.

But you do know enough to know that doing nothing will result, in all likelihood, in him refusing to help you at all. In you going back to the pain and stiffness, in the removal of what blissful physical freedom you’d obtained over the past few weeks.

So you force yourself to move closer, despite the pain, despite the telltale burning tugging in your back. You force your arms to move, to wrap around his shoulders, to pull him closer to you. He smells of cologne and faintly of wine on his breath. Maybe it was the wine that got him in this mood in the first place.

“That’s not… true. I do. I do feel differently towards you.” The words come out slow and sticky. You have to lace the bitter truth with honey, to hide the taste. “And yes, you… helping me has something to do with it. But. But not like that.”

You feel your cheeks heating up, from the stress and fear and from admitting something that is essentially the pure truth now. “It’s easier. When I don’t hurt. It’s easier to be with… to think about things differently.” You blink away tears and shrug, and God, it hurts, but you have to make sacrifices for your greater good. “To try to adjust.”

“Is that so?” His hand catches your chin and tilts it up. It hurts your neck, but you don’t say anything. “How can I know you aren’t simply telling me what I want to hear?” His thumb gently rubs against your chin, tickling.

You lean in, too quickly to not hurt like hell, and kiss him. Kiss him hard. Groaning in pain at the movement, the sound perhaps indistinguishable from the groan of a lover.

Your lips move against his and he doesn’t move for a moment and your thoughts scream oh-God-what-if-this-doesn’t-work.

And then his mouth finally moves, wet and warm, against yours and your terror melts into his mouth.

But is it enough? Will it be enough? You’ve kissed him before. You have. But you haven’t...

Your hand goes for the waistband of his trousers, shaking, both from the growing stiffness in your body and the fear at what you’re about to do. If you want to convince him, he’ll need more than a kiss. He’ll need so much more. And you? You’re willing to give it, if it means it will be followed by the sweet relief you’ve grown accustomed to over these past few weeks.

“Once you’ve shown me enough,” he murmurs, breath warm against your mouth, hands groping for your clothes. “I’ll use it. Perhaps halfway through.” He plants kisses to your jaw, your neck. The pain isn’t agonizing, not yet, but you wonder how much your body can take before the aches turns to flashes of pain.

He smiles against your lips, but you’re too distracted by the ache in your muscles to think about why.

#yandere chrollo #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere #chrollo x reader #afterwitch writes

951 notes · View notes

grilledcheeseandguavajelly · 2 years

Text

I will never be over the fact that we didn’t get to see Mildred and Gwen’s first time, and here’s why:

This entire series, we have been building to this moment, and they didn’t show us??

I know it’s not /about/ her budding lesbianism. I KNOW it’s not. However. It kind of really is?? We’re in the room when she tries to shove it down by having sex with a man. We’re in the room when she is battling with the treatment she’s giving those women. We are in the room when she tells Gwen that she has feelings for her. We are in the room when she confesses that she is a lesbian to Huck. We are in the room when she tells Gwen that she loves her. For their first kiss. And then it just magically hops forward a month and they’re casually making out in bed and that’s great. Don’t get me wrong. That’s /great/ and I will never complain about lesbian content. But this entire show we have been following this journey. And while it isn’t the main plot of the show, it is ONE of the main plots. And it runs under EVERYTHING, constantly. So to time jump right over this huge moment?? Everything was building to /this/ and they cut it right out. See, here’s the thing— If you’re not going to show me the first time she has sex with a woman, don’t show me the two sex scenes she has with a man. I don’t need something explicit (although if I have to watch her lower herself down on a man I feel like it’s only fair) but I just need that MOMENT. The one where she decides that she is ready. Because she tells Gwen, plain and simple, I have feelings for you but I need to take this at my own pace. So SHOW ME her pace. Because now I have too many questions. Did they fuck right after their first kiss?? They had the whole house to themselves. Or did they wait? Did Mildred say she wasn’t ready? Or did Gwen make them stop so that she didn’t push her? To me, that first time is a CRUCIAL point in their relationship. Show me Gwen trying to slow her down. Show me Mildred saying no, pulling Gwen’s fingers to her mouth, sliding them down between her legs. Show me that glorious moment of consent when Gwen’s brow pushes up and she whispers “Millie...” and Mildred NODS and Gwen absolutely devours her. I want to see all of it. I want closure to their story. Something that leads me along the path /the creators/ set out and doesn’t pull giant pieces of the road out from under me on the way. Again, they don’t even have to be explicit. Just them making their way to the bedroom and Gwen pushing Mildred down on the bed and crawling over her while they kiss. Or Mildred slowly unbuttoning her shirt while Gwen sits on the bed. Or ANYTHING. Just show me the INTENT to sleep together that first time. I just need to know when it happened and who cut that final line and said it was okay, and what actually happened in Mildred’s mind. Was it too much too fast? Was it like the puppet show where she pushed herself to make Gwendolyn happy? I want that moment when she realizes that being with a man was just as wrong as she always felt it was, where Gwendolyn spoils her and pampers her and makes her feel safe and warm and loved. I mean— we had some pretty harsh sex scenes with her and a man. Show me her realizing how different it could be. How incredible it is supposed to be. How loved she feels. I WANT TO WEEP, OKAY? Don’t get me wrong, they’ve given us great opportunity to write fanfiction and take it in our own directions, but I finished the show and there was still this... hollow space in me that felt incomplete. I followed this woman’s journey for eight episodes, the back and forth, the on and off, the struggling... and I had better not be missing this crucial moment because someone somewhere thought it would hurt their ratings, because so help me. I am so sick. And tired. Of lesbians being cropped out of media to make straight people comfortable. If this sex scene is on the cutting room floor, I request it kindly at my doorstep by tomorrow morning, Mr. Murphy. And if not... well then shame on the writers for not understanding the importance of THIS moment for THESE characters. Because then that means that they don’t understand or care about the characters like they should, and that absolutely breaks my heart.

#oops I just realized I never posted this #welp here we go #ratched #Mildred ratched #nurse ratched #gwendolyn briggs #ratched netflix #Sarah Paulson #cynthia nixon #I’m sorry for the rant but HONESTLY #what were they DOING #also hi hello I missed talking about them 🙈

217 notes · View notes

hayleythecannibal · 4 months

Text

Twisted Minds: Act II- Chapter Fifteen

TW: Crime scenes, Gore, Crying, Implied Death, Malpractice, Lying, Realization, Flashbacks, suspicion, Murder

Warning this is Fem!reader. You can also find this on Wattpad and A03 under the name @HayleyMarieOfficial. Comment if you want to be added to the taglist.

Taglist: @punkin-time @miaowkitty @gabriella-aesthetic @urlocalfanficwriter @dilfdemolisher

Twisted Minds Masterlist

BSHCI - THERAPY HALL - DAY-

“I've lost the plot. I'm the unreliable narrator of my own story.” Will sits across from HANNIBAL and DR.Y/N L/N, who stand behind a white line on the stone floor. Despite the defiance Will showed Hannibal when he last visited, he is more civil. He appears wrung-out. Haunted. “I'm trying to place myself somewhere in the frame of my mind and I have no bearings. No landmarks to tell me who I am.”

“You have an incomplete self. We are who we are in the now and we are the sum of our memories. There are pieces of you... you can't see.” I say gently, Will chews on his words before muttering: “I'm afraid to see. I don't know who I am anymore and I'm afraid.”

“Without remembering, you're seized by something imagined. It has the brilliant immediacy of a childhood fantasy and is just as real.” Hannibal says, Will hangs his head, trying to contain his emotions. “I don't know what's worse. Believing I did it or believing you did it... and did this to me.” He finally glances up at Hannibal, eyes brimming. I look at Will with a soft sad expression. I have to keep the act that i believe Hannibal is innocent in all of this. But its hard when you know the person you care about most is hurting.

Reminds me of when i was young….Mother always said i was the little butterfly who knew too much. Thinking back to where and who i am now versus what i did and who i was then is deafening. Not because i was a teenager, because quite frankly i was a very emotionally and mentally mature person back then. But Because of my actions. I would’ve done anything to protect my Mother before i knew what she was really doing. Maybe thats why I grew attached to Abigail Hobbs….Because she reminded me of well Me.

“Hannibal's not responsible, Will. And neither are you. We have to get to the truth of what happened. It's the only way you can move forward.” I lie, Hannibal is at Fault but will he ever admit it to anyone other than me and Will, Highly Unlikely.. Will forces himself to confront despite overwhelming emotion. “I felt so betrayed by you. All that felt real to me was the betrayal. I trusted you. I needed to trust you.” Will says to Hannibal, if i was him- lets not even go there. “You can trust me.” Hannibal says With earnest. Will winces, feeling the burn of wanting to believe Hannibal. “I'm... very confused.”

“Of course you are. Ideas and perceived experiences have the same effect on our minds as tossing a rock into a pond. It all ripples. Just dont throw the rock at the glass house of our hearts. It will shatter.” I say softly, my voice barely audible. “Don't trust blindly.” Will nods slowly, understanding my words. He stands up and walks away, leaving Hannibal alone with his thoughts. “Let us help you, Will. Let me help you.” Will clenches, holding his feelings at bay as he admits: “I need your help.”

He's finally overcome with the emotion and can no longer hold back the tears now running down his cheeks. I watch helplessly, desperate to make him feel better, deperate to hold him. But Hannibal, Hannibal watches curiously...

BSHCI - CELL BLOCK - DAY-

Will is led in shackles down the long corridor by a GUARD and a NURSE. Will's head is hung low, clearly still emotional from the confessional meeting with Hannibal and Y/N.

BSHCI - WILL GRAHAM'S CELL - DAY-

The door CLANGS shut and the guard and nurse step away. Will weeping quietly as the guard's

footsteps recede down the hall and end with a CLOSED DOOR. Once alone, Will's weeping ceases almost immediately. His face going cold and calculating... a game is afoot. And Y/Nis his player….

HANNIBAL LECTER'S OFFICE - WAITING ROOM - DAY-

BEDELIA DU MAURIER lost in pensive thought as she waits. Finally, Hannibal OPENS the door. “This is a pleasant surprise.” Hannibal says with a soft urprised expression. “May I come in?”

HANNIBAL LECTER'S OFFICE - DAY-

Dr. Du Maurier ENTERS, followed by Hannibal. She takes in the space. She smiles faintly, something clearly on her mind. “Please. Sit.” She doesn't. “I won't be staying long.”

“I'm curious. What couldn't wait until our next session?” Hannibal says as he looks at her with curiosity. “We don't have a next session. I'm no longer your therapist.” Bedelia says bluntly, she knows he can take the hit. Hannibal pauses, an imperceptible wound. “May I ask why?” Hannibal asks with a clenched jaw. “I reached the limit of my efficacy. I don't believe I can help you.”

“Are you giving me a referral?” Hannibal asks wry, “I'm not. I'm just ending our patient - psychiatrist relationship.” Bedelia says, uncomfortable in the postion he has put her in. “You tried to end it before.” Hannibal points out, he studies her carefully.

“I'm grateful for your persistence with engaging me after my attack. However, in light of all that's

happened with Will Graham, I've begun to question your actions. Particularly, what you might do with Dr. Y/N L/N. And Particularly, your past actions with regards to me. And my attack.” She says calmly and within reason. “Did you share these questions with Jack Crawford?”

“No. Nor am I going to. I would look just as guilty as you. And perhaps that's what you intended.” Bedelia says with fear softly entering her eyes. Though it might have always been there when it came to Hannibal. “What exactly am I guilty of?” He asks with a slight tilt of the head. “Exactly, I can't say. I had to draw a conclusion from what I glimpse through the stitching of the person suit you wear. And the conclusion I've drawn is... you are dangerous.” She says with trembling confidence. She knew better than to tell anyone what she knew he was capable of.

“I'm sorry you feel that way.” She studies him one last time, then: “Please don't come to my home again. I'll show myself out.” She moves to the door, opens it. Before she steps through: “I'm resuming Will Graham's therapy.”

“To what end? Besides your own.”

“He asked for my help.”

“Then maybe you deserve each other.” And with that she leaves.

BAU - MORGUE - DAY-

Roland Umber’s body lies on a slab. BEVERLY speaks across it to JACK CRAWFORD. JIMMY PRICE and BRIAN ZELLER are there. Me and Hannibal are there as well, silent and observing. “His name is Roland Umber. Has the same profile as the other victims. Lived alone, disappeared from home, large dose of heroin in his system.” Jimmy says as Zeller leans forward to see around Hannibal. “Only major difference is the eyelet punctures are all uniformly torn.” Zeller says as he indicates the torn punctures on Roland Umber's body.

“This victim wasn't unstrung. He was ripped from his moorings.” Jack says with crossed arms, I stand beside Hannibal, calmly gazing at the body.“Whatever his imperfection, it was enough to aggravate the killer into tearing him down.” Hannibal says gazing at the body with curiosity leaking out of the essence of his soul. “He was discarded in a tributary four hundred miles away from anything that feeds into the dam where the first victims were found.” Bev says with slight confusion.

“Like dandelion seeds, casts bodies in every direction but his own.” Leaning forward, Zeller finds Hannibal is in his way again. Hannibal steps back and bumps into Beverly. I lean on the empty morgue fridges with arms crossed. This body is different, I dont think he was an Imperfection at all…

“We know they're dead when they hit the water. Their lungs are dry. But the buffeting in the current causes so many postmortem injuries, you can't tell them apart from the ones they got when they were alive.” Zeller says as Beverly gently guides Hannibal to a more strategic spot.

“There may be trace evidence preserved in the craquelure.” Hannibal points out, i think he likes playing the role of my partner, or more so the role of Will Graham. “The what?” Jack asks confusedly. Hannibal points to a series of TINY CRACKS IN THE RESIN.

“It's French for the cracks that appear on an oil painting as it drys and becomes rigid with age. Cracks are not always weaknesses. A life lived accrues in the cracks.” I say for Hannibal, polietly dumbing it down. He gazes down upon me with a slight smirk. Like he was proud or amused.

“Could be something in there. Fiber, debris, might help track where the bodies were before they got dumped.” Jack is still puzzled by:“What do the victims have in common?” Jack asks as Beverly displays the victims' PHOTOGRAPHS on a table. “What if it isn't what they have in common. What if it's what makes them... different.” Bev suggests.

On the table, the victims’ PHOTOGRAPHS -- and Roland Umber's --are arranged as Will and I did to feature the victims as --“Each of these people has a slightly different flesh tone. It could be like a color palette.” Bev says, it causes me to smirk. I know where she’s going, i with the confirmation of Will, created the fucking theory Jack, Jimmy and Brian stare at Beverly, not sure where she's going. But Hannibal is. He nods, thinking.

“The color of our skin is so often politicized, it would almost be refreshing to see someone revel in the aesthetic for aesthetic's sake. If it weren't so horrific, We're supposed to see color, Jack.

That may be all this killer has ever seen in his fellow man. Which is why it's so easy for him to do what he does to his victims.” Hannibal says, “Which is why there will be a lot more bodies on his color palette.”

“A fascinating insight, Ms. Katz. It's as if Will Graham himself were here in the room with us.”

Jack turns his scrutiny from the photos to Beverly herself. “Yes, it is.”

BAU - EVIDENCE PROCESSING - NIGHT-

Hannibal stands over Roland Umber's body. At the back of the room, Price and Zeller are busy at work. Hannibal swings a metal arm holding a magnifying lens and asks: “May I?”

“Knock yourself out.” Zeller shrugs. His eyes drift back to the CRACKS IN THE RESIN-COATED SKIN. A notion floats behind his eyes and takes purchase. He leans in and very inconspicuously SMELLS the craquelure on the corpse’s wrist without drawing anyone's attention. His nostrils flare as he draws its scent. The craquelure is almost as if an alien landscape. Suddenly, the chemical compounds that create the scent become VISIBLE, forming TINY SPROUTS in the

cracks of the resin that begin to grow.

Hannibal stands upright after being bent over the body, looking through the magnifying lens. He considers the craquelure of the corpse and smiles almost imperceptibly

BSHCI - THERAPY HALL - DAY-

the THERAPY CAGES to find Hannibal running his shoe over the line of tape on the floor. Will sits on a stool in the belly of his own therapy cage. He has resumed his act of wounded bird and it remains authentic. “I've been advised to stay on this side of the white line.” Hannibal says with slight amusement. “Select patients have taken to urinating on the therapists. The stone you’re standing in front of? If it were wood, it’d be warped.” Will says with amusement in his own eyes.

“I would argue, drawing a line might encourage a pissing contest.” Hannibal suggests with a soft smirk. “I'm not interested in a pissing contest with you, Dr. Lecter. Please. Pull up your chair.”

Hannibal scoots his chair across the white line and sits.

“You said the light from friendship won't reach us for a million years, that's how far away we were. I hope our friendship feels closer today.” Hannibal says gazing up at the Caged Will Graham. “Friends have a symmetrical relationship. Psychiatrist and patient, that's unbalanced.” Will says, The power imbalance is something to always take note of when dealing with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. “There is a power differential between psychiatrist and patient. One that I'm well aware of, particularly with my own therapist.” Hannibal points out.

“But we're just having conversations.” Hannibal smiles, seeing a glimpse of the old Will Graham.

“You threatened me with a reckoning.” Hannibal says, remembering the day Will Graham changed. “I did. I can't claim unconsciousness on that one.” Will says with a quick raise of the eyebrow. “You were searching for something in your head to incriminate me. I can only assume you didn't find it.” Hannibal says inquiring, but i don't think he really thinks Will could find anything at all. “Not much in there I recognize.”

“Whatever you remember, if you do remember, will be a distortion of reality. Not the truth of events.” Hannibal says, Will could almost laugh at it. “I'm realizing that.” Hannibal studies Will, inscrutable as to what he sees. “Beverly Katz has come to see you.” Hannibal questions with curiosity. “Yes.” Will doesn't say anything about Y/N because he wants her to be the least suspicious person at the BAU.

”Does she show you pictures?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn't want Y/N to worry you're dwelling on anything morbid in what's to be a time of recovery.” Hannibal says, almost guilt tripping Will. “It's the only thing that feels normal.” Will admits truthfully. “The violence?” Hannibal asks with a slight tilt of the head.

“The structure of understanding the violence. That feels normal.” Will says his cold gaze never leaving Hannibals. “You're missing pieces of yourself. Careful what you replace them with. What did you see in the pictures?” Hannibal advises. “This killer. He's not stringing his victims up. He's stitching them together. Every body is a brushstroke. He's making a human Mural. But Y/Nalso saw the same thing probably even more.”

“Why does he do it?”

“Y/Nsaid He's missing pieces, too.”

BSHCI - WILL GRAHAM’S CELL - DAY-

Y/N and Beverly stand on the other side of the bars, holding an abridged file of photographs and forensic data. “Dr. Lecter has advised me against dwelling on anything morbid.” Will says with sarcasm, I roll my eyes and continue towards the bars. “I know you want to stop these murders as much as we do.” Bev says to Will.“Reasons to stop multiple murders do occur readily to me, but I'm going to need something in return.” Beverly stares at Will, curious what game he's playing.

“There are things you don't have. I can talk to the chief of staff.” Bev says thinking Will needs something materialistic. “Chilton?” Will asks with a raised eyebrow. “He's being very cooperative.” Bev says, boy if she only knew What Chilton really acts like whewwww….

“Of course he is. He loves when I have visitors. He's recording every word. He's gossipy that way.” Will says with obvious annoyance towards Chilton. “He’s always been that way. What do you want, Will?” I ask Equally annoyed with the overly flirty and obnoxious Psychiatrist. “I'm wondering if you can get me the thing I really want.” Will says with curiosity “Try Me.” Beverly says confidently. “I want you to ignore all the evidence against me.” “You're right. I can't get that.”

“How many more colors is this killer going to add to his box of crayons?”

“Say I were to ignore the evidence against you, what then?” Beverly asks calmly, “Strike it from your mental record. Start over. If I'm guilty, you'll find more evidence. If I'm not guilty, maybe you'll find that too.” Will says as he leans closer to the bars of his cell. “All right. I'll keep looking.”

“Good. Let me have the file then. I'll tell you what I think.” Beverly puts the file in a tray, slides it through the bars. “Do you mind if I do this privately?” “Yes.” She places the folding chair against the opposite wall, sits.

He rips the envelope open, leaving torn edges where the staples were. He shakes BAU PHOTOS out of a padded envelope. Shots of Roland Umber at BAU. Will glances at Beverly

through the bars and returns his attention to the pictures. Will focuses on the photos and he CLOSES HIS EYES. A long beat before the AMBIENT CELL BLOCK SOUNDS are replaced

as the DRONE of Will’s BLOOD FLOW presides. He OPENS HIS EYES, glancing down at the himphoto in his hands, of Roland Umber's wounds. He lowers the photo to reveal Y/Non a metal table. We are --

BAU - MORGUE (HEIGHTENED STATE OF WILL'S MIND)

The environment is wrapped in shadow and mood. Will now stands over Caroline’s corpse on a metal table, Beverly behind him on the other side of the glass wall. Will stares at the RAGGED WOUNDS WHERE FLESH TORE AWAY FROM STITCHING. “Skin isn't as discolored as the other victims'. Looks fairly well- preserved, all things considered. Why would I throw you away?”

BSHCI - WILL GRAHAM'S CELL (OMNISCIENT POV)

WILL’S GAZE to the ENVELOPE the photos came in. Its end had been STAPLED SHUT, but when it was opened and where the staples were removed, THE PAPER IS TORN. “Did Roland Umber have any priors with substance abuse?” Beverly watches Will standing in the middle of his cell, as if he's in the BAU, his back to her in the corridor. “He was in an outpatient treatment program for drug addiction.”

“Heroin?”

“Among others.”

BAU - (HEIGHTENED STATE OF HIS MIND)

Will studies poor Caroline, dead on the slab. What a cruel trick his mind is playing on him.

“Had a high tolerance for opiates, the overdose didn't kill him. He survived what was done to . He tore himself free. He ran.”

BSHCI - WILL GRAHAM'S CELL - DAY

Will finally turns to face Beverly and Y/N. “How did he end up in the water?” Bev asks Will, but i already knew the answer. “Killer didn't put him there. He'd have put him back in the mural if he caught him. Other bodies were dumped. Roland Umber got away.” I say as i look to Will. “Got away from where?”

“This killer needs someplace private to do what he does. A warehouse, a farm, someplace abandoned, upstream from where the body was found. It'll be close to the water.” Will explains, exactly what i was thinking. “Thank you.”

“I'm curious. What'd Hannibal Lecter have to say about Mr. Umber?” Will asks causing me to softly snort out a chuckle. “He thinks the killer tore him down, dumped his body like the others.” I smirk and look at Will, knowing that we both know thats not necessarily what he thinks. “That may be what he said, but not necessarily what he thinks.” Will says basically reading my mind.

FARMYARD - GRAIN SILO - DUSK-

A GRAIN SILO looms behind, a royal sentry in a bearskin hat. Hannibal, his CLEAR PLASTIC SUIT over his traditional three- piece, crosses the property. He walks along the field of corn, toward the grain silo. He approaches the silo and regards a steep METAL STAIRCASE on

its outer wall, leading to a silo opening twenty feet up. Hannibal sees mud clumped on the lower steps -- STILL MOIST. Hannibal turns his gaze UPWARD from the locked door and begins to climb the metal staircase. Hannibal reaches the upper opening. He steps into the silo’s upper catwalk.

GRAIN SILO - CONTINUOUS-

...the TRUE ORDER in the carnage on the silo floor. SEEN FROM ABOVE, the mass grave reveals its intended form and purpose: The bodies, with their variety of shades and positioning,

form a UNIFIED PICTURE -- the image of a huge, GLOWERING EYE. A stern, unblinking representation frozen in resin and death. HANNIBAL Sees LIGHT come through the lower opening. A man -- THE KILLER -- enters with a lantern and a resin tank with a spray wand.

“Hello.” From the silo floor and behind the Killer who spins to see Hannibal in his plastic suit, watching from above. HANNIBAL with the utmost sincerity: “I love your work.”

FARMYARD - DAY-

A full-blown crime scene, populated by considerable local and state police presence. FBI PERSONNEL work amongst them. BODY BAGS have been lined up. Each pile flapping in the wind, weighted down with a heavy stone, ready to be filled. BEVERLY AND HANNIBAL approach the silo, navigating around the CRIME SCENE PERSONNEL and between waiting rows of body bags.

“You, Dr. Y/N L/N, and Will Graham are a good team. You gave us the "what" we were looking for. He gave us the "where." Corn dust in the craquelure.” Beverly says earnestly, “And Will's insight? And What does Y/Nbring to the team? “

“He didn't think Roland Umber was discarded. He escaped. We just had to go upstream from where his body was found until we hit corn. And Y/NGives us the Why…Her connection with others’ emotions along with what her and Will do with their imaginations….Shes the Triple threat…She can tell you the what, where, and why.” Beverly says with fondness of Caroline. Though Beverly does think that Y/Nneeds to take a break at some point.

“We do make a good team.” They approach Jack Crawford near the silo and Beverly hands Hannibal off. Jack hands Hannibal crime scene gloves. “Dr. Lecter. Follow me. Might want

to prepare yourself. You haven't seen anything like this before.”

“I'm sure I haven't.”

GRAIN SILO - DAY-

Jack and Hannibal head inside, MOVING ACROSS the expanse of bodies like dunes of sand made flesh. Hannibal takes in the magnitude of the horrific display. Jack turns to see him staring, genuinely awestruck. “How can being human go so bad?” Jack asks the obviously rhetorical question.“When it comes to nature versus nurture, I choose neither. We are built from a DNA blueprint and born into a world of scenario and circumstance we don't control.” Hannibal Answers.

“Praise the mutilated world.” Jack says grimmly, “I do.” Hannibal glances around, up into the ceiling, wondering: “What does it look like from above?” Jack hands him an iPad. On it, a DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH reveals the human mural from above. It's very clearly an eye. “Fascinating.”

“This feels ritual. In the vicinity of voodoo. Is it human sacrifice?” Jack asks The stoic Psychiatrist. “I'm not sure if it's an offering, but it's certainly a gesture.” Hannbal says as he gazes at the Image. “To who?” Turning to the human mural, Hannibal points to the CAUCASIAn MAN in the fetal position at the center of the brown iris, one leg tucked under the other as if it has been amputated at the knee. We will call him the REFLECTED MAN.

“The eye looks beyond this world,into the next, and sees the reflection of man himself. Is the killer looking at God? A challenge of equals? "I can be as terrible as you. I can take and I can create."” Hannibal Inquires, “Sounds like human sacrifice to me.” Jack says with a raised eyebrow. Jacks Mind is very black and white. If there is evidence that proves someone guilty, he doesnt even stop to wonder if there was a possiblity of that person being framed. “Not to appease, but to defy.” Hannibal says as he stares at the mass grave. “Is it an existential crisis?”

“If it were an existential crisis, I would argue there wouldn't be any reflection in the eye at all.” Hannibal says genuinely, “Someone who could do this... are they likely to keep doing it?” Jack says as he looks at Hannibal. “This could be his beginning and/or his end.”

“You said he doesn't see people. He sees... material.” Jack says as he furrows his brows.“Those in the world around him are a means to an end. He uses them to do what he is driven to do.” Hannibal says inquisitively.

BAU - MORGUE - NIGHT-

The HUMAN MURAL is an ENLARGED PHOTOGRAPH. it's mounted on an easel between the bodies of Roland Umber and Reflected Man, side by side on tables. “No record of fingerprints. He was never arrested, never had a job that required any kind of security clearance or background check.” Jimmy says as he looks at the VARIOUS BODIES are present in the BAU, not only in the morgue, but in the hall, on tables, gurneys, morgue drawers. “Hopefully he's been to a dentist.” Zeller says as starts to take imprints of the body’s teeth. “Why am I looking at this man?”

“Stitch patterns on John Doe Twenty-One match Roland Umber.” Beverly says as she indicates the lateral stitches on both John Doe Twenty-One and Roland Umber; both travel similar lines. “John Doe Twenty-One was Roland Umber's replacement in the mural?” Jack asks confusedly, “But bigger.” Jimmy says as he indicates the leg, amputated below the knee. “Too big, really. Killer cut off his leg to make him fit.” Jack studies John Doe as Zeller, Price and Katz look on.

“He changed colors mid-brushstroke.”

"The eye looks beyond this world, into the next, and sees the reflection of man himself." There wasn't supposed to be a reflection. “This killer was having an existential crisis after all. How did he find his faith?”

BSHCI - THERAPY HALL - DAY-

Beverly Katz and Hannibal Lecter sit side by side, the personification of good and evil working as one. In the Middle is Y/N, The literal personification of Chaotic Nuetral. Will stares back at them, saying nothing. “Now you're just taking advantage. You're going to burn me out before my trial and then where will I be?” Will says Blankly. “Can't afford to let you burn yourself out for nothing, but maybe for something?” Bev retorts with a soft smirk. “What would Jack say?” Will says as he raises an eyebrow. “Jack Crawford's excellent administrative instincts are not often tempered by mercy.” Hannibal expresses with a light smile.

“Clearly. If you brought him as a psychiatric safety net, I've fallen through that net before. Y/N might be a better fit for that role for me. No offense.” Hannibal nods, none taken. I smirk and contain my laughter. Beverly cuts through Will's BS.

“I'm devoting a lot of time to this mural, Will. It's hard for me to focus on anything else I've been

tasked to do. Could use your help.” Subtle, but perhaps not subtle enough for Hannibal. Beverly

walks the crime scene photos over to Will. Will, getting the drift, begins to flip through the crime

photos, studying each momentarily before moving to the next. I drag my chair closer to Will.

“During the nineteenth century, it was wrongly believed the last image seen by the eyes of a dying person would be “fixed” on the retina.” As Will finds the overhead photo of the eye. “What would be the last image fixed on this dying eye?” He takes a breath, exhales, He grabs my hand and then closes his eyes. I know what i saw but- i can never be too sure. I close my eyes and squeeze Will’s hand.

A PENDULUM It swings in the darkness of Y/N’s mind, keeping rhythm with her heartbeat. FWUM. FWUM. Her eyes are closed. FWUM. The PENDULUM is now outside her

head. It swings behind Y/N, wiping away Hannibal, Will, and Beverly. FWUM. The PENDULUM swings and the CORRIDOR outside her cell PLUNGES INTO DARKNESS. FWUM. The PENDULUM swings and the floor under his feet goes completely dark.

The picture of the HUMAN MURAL FILLS FRAME reveals Y/NSTANDING IN DARKNESS. As LIGHT SLOWLY ILLUMINATES THE FLOOR AROUND CAROLINE, REVEALING DOZENS OF CADAVERS. We are --

GRAIN SILO - DAY (Y/N’S POV)-

Y/N stands amongst the mural of bodies, still holding the photo of the carnage in her hands. FWOOM. The PENDULUM swings and the photo disappears. FWOOM. FWOOM. The PENDULUM STOPS SWINGING, snapping into place as Y/Nsnaps into focus. she turns, taking in the bodies.

“I made you pliable. Molded you. Set you and sealed you where you lay. This is my design. A dead eye with vision and consciousness.” Caroline, a large speck of dust in the eye, stares upward, searching for what the eye sees. What the eyes owner Feels. Hopelessness. Finality.

“I am fixed and unseeing... unless someone else sees me.” Y/Nglances down at the Reflected Man in the mural. “Someone else has. They were here.”

HANNIBAL - BSHCI - THERAPY HALL (OMNISCIENT POV)-

Hannibal stands with Beverly, watching Y/Nand Will. He smiles an almost-imperceptible

GRAIN SILO - (Y/N'S POV)-

Y/N steps carefully over the bodies until...“One of these things is not like the other things. One of these things just doesn't belong.” ...she is standing over the Reflected Man. “Who are you? Why are you so different from everyone else? I didn't put you here. You... are not my design.” Suddenly, a NOISE from above causes Y/Nto look to the ceiling where a SILHOUETTED FIGURE watches from above, his antlers rising majestically into the air.

Y/Nnow lying NAKED, her LEG MISSING, her body CONFIGURED into the opening in the mural where the Reflected Man once was.

A NEEDLE SUDDENLY PIERCING Caroline’s forearm and pulling THREAD through, drawing the length through. She feels relaxed almost like a pliant material. She looks from the SUTURES through her arm to the one wielding the needle. The LIGHT SILHOUETTES THE FIGURE... until it SHIFTS and we see it’s HANNIBAL LECTER, eerily comforting. “Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in His image?” Caroline, immobilized, with a dawning realization...She looks up from the photo. We are now --

BSHCI - THERAPY HALL - DAY.

Beverly and Hannibal watch Y/Nand Will, waiting for them to draw a conclusion from their process. Y/Ntries to gather herself together, knowing Hannibal is watching her and Will closely. “The killer is in the mural.” Will speaks first, I stare blankly as i push my chair back to its origin. “What do you mean? Literally?” Bev says as her gazes goes from Will to Me.

“We mean, the man you're looking for has been sewn into his own mural. This man.” I say gently, my hand goes to my hair. A comforting thing ive done since i was a child. My Dad used to play with my hair to comfort me when i was upset or stressed. Something ive taken to doing myself ever since the incident when i was a 16.

“What happened to his leg?” Bev asks confusedly, “Whoever sewed him in... took a piece of him. As a trophy. Question is, who sewed him in.” Will says as he watches my actions with a worried look in his eyes. “He must have had a friend.”

RIVER - DAY-

Will Graham fly fishing. He casts his lure and watches it land with a small PLIP that breaks the surface of the river. He shades his eyes from the sun, his gaze falling to the water flowing around his waders. A PALE BODY DRIFTS BY just beneath the surface. Will startles as a KLAXON SOUNDS. We are --

BSHCI - WILL GRAHAM'S CELL - DAY-

Will stands in the middle of his cell. Footsteps approach from down the hall and a chair SLIDES on the concrete floor. His eyes follow the action, “I don't know you.” The figure steps into the light revealing Bedelia Du Maurier. She sits across from Will “My name is Bedelia Du Maurier.”

“You're Hannibal Lecter's therapist. What's that like?” She studies him, somehow identifies with him. “I've heard so much about you and Your Partner, I almost feel as though I know you both.” Bedelia says as she gazes at one of the topics of the many conversations shes had with Hannibal. “You don't.” Will says with a wary eye.

“No, I don't, but I understand you better than I thought. I wanted to meet you before I withdraw.” Bedelia admits, she understands his wariness she herself too is wary of her decisions. “What are you withdrawing from?” Will asks curiosly concerned. “Social ties.” Bedelia says numbly, It wont stop what or whos coming for her but it will slow them down. “You're a psychiatrist. Isn't our sense of self a consequence of social ties?” Will Questions confusedly.

“It certainly is in your case. It may be small comfort, but I am convinced Hannibal has done what he believes is best for you.” Bedelia says gently, she doesnt just mean What Hannibal has done to Will but What he will do to Caroline.

“That's not small comfort, that would be no comfort.” Will says with slight sarcasm. “You can transform this experience. The traumatized are unpredictable because we know we can survive. You can survive this happening to you.” Bedelia says with shaky confidence. “Happening to me.” Bedelia steps right up to the bars.

“Step away from the bars. Ma'am, step away from the bars.” GATE KLAXON SOUNDS as a NURSE and GUARD ENTER the cell block. Will Graham joins Bedelia at the barrier of his cell and she whispers so quietly she may be only mouthing the words: “I believe you.”

A nurse and guard approach from down the corridor. “Okay. That's enough. Come with us.”

Will stares at her, a wave of emotion washing over him as Bedelia steps away, gathered by the nurse and a guard and escorted back down the corridor. He begins to tremble. A great relief

having heard three simple words he's needed to hear from someone other than Caroline.

BEDELIA'S HOUSE - FOYER - NIGHT

THE SOUND OF A KEY IN THE DOOR Breaks the quiet. LIGHT SPILLS in as the door opens. Not Bedelia but Hannibal who enters with a key of his own in his GLOVED HAND. The transparent plastic of his bespoke CRIME SCENE OVER-SUIT catches the light of a distant streetlamp. He quietly moves inside, closing the door behind him. THROUGH THE ARCH OF THE LIVING ROOM Hannibal creeps further into the hall and asks the darkness no questions.

He turns to the living room as to reveal almost every piece of Bedelia's furniture is beneath a clear plastic cover. All the furniture has been protected against dust for an indefinite period of time. He takes in the shroud over the chairs. He walks the room's periphery, searching for some sign that she isn't truly gone. Hannibal pauses and sees something on Bedelia's chair. A CUT-GLASS PERFUME BOTTLE Hannibal takes in the shadow of Bedelia's fragrance and picks it up, considers it for what it is: a memento of friendship. “You’re not alone, you know…”

GRAIN SILO - DUSK (FLASHBACK)-

The Muralist is lying, unclothed, in his own mural. He is configured into the space from which Roland Umber pulled free. A SHADOW cast by the gas lantern moves over him. HANNIBAL Is in his plastic suit, kneeling, the syringe in hand. “In The Resurrection, Piero della Francesca placed himself in the fresco. Nothing flattering -- he depicted himself as a simple guard asleep at his post. Your placement should be much more meaningful.” The Muralist's face, increasingly complacent, clouds over: “It's not finished.”

“I'm finishing it for you. We'll finish it together.” He trades the hypo for a LARGE CURVED NEEDLE and FILAMENT. Hannibal LICKS the tip to thread latter through the former: “When your great eye looked to the heavens, what did it see?” “Nothing.” Hannibal glances up to the roof of the silo. “Not anymore.” “There is no God.”

“Certainly not with that attitude. God gave you purpose. Not only to create art, but to become it.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Your eye will now see God reflected back. It will see you.” Hannibal leans over and begins SEWING the man down. “When God looks down at you, don't you want to be looking back at Him?” Hannibal sews. Blood flows. And sews. More blood. Then, incredibly: “Yes.” As the narcotic takes hold, his life ebbing away, the Muralist recalls their agreement: “What is it you wanted from me?”

“Only this.” Hannibal stitches the Muralist into his own masterwork, making Will And Y/N’s forecast come to pass. A valentine. And just as Will and Y/N intended.

#hannibal nbc #hannigram #fem!reader #hannibal x reader #hannigram x reader #will graham x reader #twistedminds

14 notes · View notes