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saintsenara · 6 months

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this piece was written for @ladiesofhpfest monthly minis, focusing on andromeda tonks.

grief is a theme which has been prominent in my reading and writing lately, and one aspect of grief which i am particularly drawn to at the minute is the fact that grief can often make the grieving quite unpleasant. the rage of grief, its vindictiveness and petty cruelty, are subjects which i think this fandom often shies away from. after all, nobody likes to think of their faves being horrible in their sorrow.

but i think andromeda makes a good case study for this feeling. i'm always struck in deathly hallows by how there's such a potent undercurrent of anger and disapproval in the way she deals with harry and hagrid. i like the description of her looking haughty - above and beyond the visual comparison it draws between her and bellatrix - and i like her complete lack of interest in doing anything other than talk about tonks and her fear for her.

i've written a lot about how i think someone in andromeda's position would understand the risk which tonks has taken on by joining the order (i'll die on the hill, written about in several of the pieces i did for the fest this summer, that she is aware that bellatrix has convinced voldemort to leave her and ted alone, which then becomes forfeit). and so here i'm thinking about just how furious she'd be when her fear and rage and warnings about that risk were proven to be completely justified - set around dirge without music by edna st. vincent millay. because andromeda does not approve. and she is not resigned.

Spring did not amble into summer that year, as it usually did.

It did not drift with mellow ease from April’s pale into May’s gold, lying idly on the grass in Richmond Park with the cracked-sugar coating on mini eggs on its fingers. It did not wake up one morning and put all its jumpers into storage, then fish them out again three days later when there was still a chill in the morning air. It did not spoon mint sauce onto its Easter lamb and watch as the tendrils of the broad beans curled themselves around their frame.

Death was squatting in her house, disarraying the furniture and stretching the sleeves of her cardigans, a winter’s dirge in his horrible voice and a sepulchral damp trailing in after him whenever he opened the door.

And although she had prided herself for years on her skill as a hostess, she was growing furious with her unwanted guest.

May was a month of rain and of rage.

For all the others - the other mothers in the club she had not asked to join, whose company she loathed, whose losses she refused to comprehend - it seemed that May was a month of silence.

She could picture them, sitting mutely by empty beds, the ephemera of childhood clutched in their white-knuckled hands, as if it will help clear the fog. She could see them searching through the gloom for the glittering past; the memories of summer’s haze which parents cast unthinkingly away, believing that there will never be a time when they will have to beg death to let them remember the way a seven-year-old face looked on a particular May morning.

She could picture them, sitting mutely by the fresh-turned earth of newly-dug graves, spring’s white flowers - apple blossom and yarrow; baby’s breath for their unbreathing babies - laid before headstones slick with the unseasonable squall. She could see them letting the rain mingle with the tears on faces rubbed raw, until the one cannot be distinguished from the other in the drops falling to the earth.

But she could not sit. She could not search or cry.

She could only spit; and snarl and scream until her teeth clashed through the dry and splitting skin of her lower lip and blood pooled in her mouth.

While death laughed at her.

They had never been able to work out where Nymphadora’s talent - the clay suppleness of tendons and bones, the shape-shifting malleability of skin and marrow - had come from.

Ted had been a solid man, substantial in the way that bookshelves are: never rickety; never uneven; smelling of wood polish and leather. He contained a hundred thousand little treasures; he was a source of knowledge, a place of solace on rainy days; a best friend in the aftermath of a lonely childhood.

And she herself was solid, in the way that music is: the tempo can be varied but the notes remain the same. One sister can strike out on her own, but there is a refrain which follows her, the same funeral dirge which lilts in the air after her sisters, letting the careful listener know that these three women are one and the same. No matter what one was pretending.

Nymphadora had none of her father’s solidity. She was an opal: gaudy and colour-changing and brilliant, but with a softness beneath it all. She was fragmentary and fractured. She had wanted her jokes to be laughed at. She had wanted to be taken seriously.

She had wanted to be loved, in all her contradictory, flesh-and-blood glory.

She lay now beside her lukewarm lover in the earth.

She did not speak to her daughter when she visited the graveyard, its pathways washed with rain, a yew sagging against the church’s ancient walls. She did not speak to Ted either, though he mouldered next to his daughter. She did not leave flowers leaning on their headstones. She clenched her fists until her nails pierced the dry and splitting skin of her palms, and blood dripped over her wedding ring to the ground.

She was too angry at them both; at how they had clearly been in cahoots to turn themselves into food for the worms, and leave her pouring tea for death and keeping the radiators blasting. This is how it had always been - Ted’s gentleness turning into permissiveness when it came to Nymphadora throwing herself from the tops of trees or telling old ladies who reprimanded her on her knicker-baring miniskirts to go swivel, and she was forced to become the strict one, the one who disapproved of burping and pot noodles and joining the Aurors.

Neither of them had ever listened, adventure twinkling in their identical eyes and schemes whirring in their swashbuckling minds. They thought her silly - nervous and elegant and a lover of order. In their unkinder moments, they thought her rigid, icy, cruel. She could still picture Nymphadora at the breakfast table - sixteen and sulking over being told off for overindulging at a party and being sick all over the hydrangeas - and how it had felt to know her eyes were raking over her mother’s heart-shaped face for the fragments of Narcissa and Bellatrix that a quiet life in a Muggle suburb could not erase.

But look at that. She was right and they were both dead. And she was furious.

She did not speak to her husband when she returned to the house, where death was laying on the sofa instead of babysitting. There were crumbs on the coffee table, the gingery shards of a whole biscuit now snapped and softening. Like Ted - with his hair the colour of saffron cake and his eyes like spring water - would be in the damp of May’s earth.

As a child, her after-dinner habit had been bridge - a constant torture since Bella would never pay attention long enough for them to have a really good game. As an adult, it was coffee and chocolate liqueurs on the sofa with Ted.

As a widow, it appeared to be screaming.

The morning dawned as grey as all its cousins; May was a month of rain and of rage. Death clattered around the kitchen, leaving eggshells on the floor and teabags staining the worksurface with their tannic drool. The disorder made her skin itch.

She looked at herself in the mirror, her face prickled and pink from a shower which had scalded her. The heat was a comrade; the water was boiled up to a flesh-burning point, her blood was hot enough to eat her marrow, turning her from the inside out into mulch. Somehow it all evened out.

Ted and Nymphadora were competing over who could decompose the quickest, laying in the graveyard and giving thanks for all the damp. It would putrify them all the quicker. Still, how shocked they would be when victory was snatched from them before their sightless eyes. If there was a prize for shattering first, the person they’d left behind would win.

Her day was one of half-drunk coffees and constant movement. She could not sit, there was no way of relaxing with a magazine on the sofa when death was leaving so many crumbs. There was no way of staying in the house when there were so many fragments lurking on shelves and in wardrobes. Ted’s jumpers curled up like newborn kittens in a drawer; his mismatched socks were lined up like limp orphans in the laundry basket.

A hairbrush, entangled with bright pink strands, lay on the stairs. She had told Nymphadora to take it up with her the last time she went to bed. Her daughter hadn’t listened.

She was so angry at her.

#asenora fics #andromeda tonks #fragments #ladies of hp fest #monthly minis

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dilf-din · 11 months

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Suddenly

Chapter 3: Autumn

Din Djarin x florist!reader

WC: 2800

Warnings: absolutely none, all fluff and domestic cuteness, no use of y/n but reader does have a nickname and is female presenting

A/N: I’m loving writing this little world and sad that there’s only one more chapter planned! As always, inspiration is Venus by Sleeping at Last. Enjoy 💕

Chapter 4

Like a telescope

I will pull you so close

'Til no space lies in between

It took longer than anyone originally expected, but your apartment was finally in working order. The innkeeper, Lindi, helped you move all your belongings to the stoop outside, and you were doing your best to haul them across town before the sun was too high in the sky. Once again you found yourself thankful for the scarf, using it to keep your hair from clinging to the sweat on your forehead. On what you thought was your fifth trip, you saw Din waiting outside your shop, leaning on his shoulder against the wall.

When he saw you, he jogged the rest of the distance to take the boxes you had double stacked in your arms.

“Moving day?” he queried, the weight doing nothing to slow him down like it had you.

“Yeah,” you huffed out attempting to regain control of your breathing.

“Is this it?”

“I’ve still got a few trips left,” you panted, hands fumbling around in your pockets in search of your keys. “Here, this way’s quicker,” you nodded your head into the alley, leading him to the back stairs that stopped at a wooden door. A small hand-painted “welcome” sign hung from a single nail. Din’s mouth turned up in a smile. He recognized your writing from the blackboard downstairs.

The door opened to a roomy space. The living room opened into a kitchen on the left end and your bedroom was walled off to the right. You had a sofa and two chairs delivered along with a simple table. A tv was set up in front of the window across from the sofa. There was a long, narrow patio in the very front that ran the length of the living room, it was visible from the window.

“These are just some books,” you directed him towards the bookshelf sitting in the small wall space between the kitchen and bedroom. He set them down gently, and Grogu hopped out from his place in the bag at Din’s hip.

“Hey buddy!” you greeted him, “Need a snack?”

He waddled closer to you as you pulled a bag of dried fruit pieces off of your counter to hand him one by one.

“I can go get the rest of the boxes if you want to start unpacking,” Din said gesturing to the piles of boxes already towering in every corner.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you started.

“I’d be happy to,” he said sincerely.

You gave him a smile as he made his way back out and down the stairs.

“Your dad’s a really nice guy, you know that right?” you said to Grogu as he smacked loudly. He nodded as if he understood exactly what you were saying.

“Buir,” he chirped.

The two of you worked on unpacking everything you had dragged there with you from Naboo. Dishes and cookware, books, and clothes filling most of the boxes, but you had a few stacks of trinkets that you decided would make it feel more like home. Grogu stacked books on the bottom shelf as best as he could while you hung a few paintings. Some figurines your dad had gotten for you on his travels plus a few family photos found their places on the clay shelves above the sofa. Din made the last few trips in no time all, piling everything in neat stacks by door.

“How can I help?” he asked, hands on his hips surveying the room that was admittedly in disarray.

“You’ve done enough, just sit down for a minute,” you urged. You were busy unpacking the last of your pots and pans and stowing them in a low cabinet.

He hesitantly took a seat at your instruction and groaned a little as he sank into the plush chair.

“Can I cook you boys some lunch?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

“It’s really no trouble. I have to cook for myself anyway. At least this way I won’t have leftovers,” you smiled.

Din hesitated a beat before answering, “I can’t take my helmet off.”

“That’s okay. I’ll shower and get out of these sweaty clothes to give you some time, I probably smell like a bantha,” you joked.

He chuckled and nodded, “Okay, thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do. Helping someone move is no small feat, much less with that sun beating down,” you grabbed your remote off the counter to turn on some kids’ program for Grogu. He hopped up on the couch and snuggled into Din while you chopped some veggies and greens to make some quick dumplings.

After a few minutes, Din stretched his arms behind his head and got up to take a look around. He ran his gloved fingers over the wooden carvings from your father.

“Is this a dewback?” he asked in picking up the small creature and turning it over in his hands.

“Oh, yeah!”

“I’ve ridden one before.”

Your eyes went wide.

“A friend taught me,” he said fondly, taking note of your expression.

“I’ve never seen one. This is the farthest I’ve traveled,” you commented, flipping over the dumplings to sear on the other side.

“You never left Naboo before?” he asked, closing the distance between you and leaning onto the island. It felt so casual and intimate in contrast to his gleaming armor and blaster peeking out from under his cape.

You shook your head, “No, I always dreamed of traveling, seeing the stars, but our whole family lived on Naboo, so my mother said she didn’t see the point. The ride here was exhilarating,” you said wistfully.

“Is there anywhere you’ve particularly wanted to go?”

“I want to see it all, woods, oceans, deserts. Naboo was beautiful, but I know there’s so much more out there,” you commented, scraping the pan’s contents onto a platter with a small ramequin of sauce for dipping.

“I’ll have to take you one day. Anywhere you want to go, I’ll do it,” he said feigning boldness, but his heart was pounding so hard in his beskar he was afraid you’d be able to hear the dull echo.

You couldn’t help the heat that crept into your cheeks at his words, only doubled by the firm hold of his hands on yours as you passed the dish to him.

“I really like you. THAT. I would really like that,” you stammered. Laughing nervously, you excused yourself to your room. Behind the solace of your closed door, you sank onto your bed with your head in your hands. He was too sharp to not have noticed your slip up, but Maker, how were you supposed to feel? He had spent the better part of a year sweeping you off your feet with kind gestures and gifts and company and lengthy conversations, walking you home almost every evening that he wasn’t away on a hunt. The two of you had stolen small touches here and there, lingering hands on forearms mostly. The one time he had wiped paint off your nose so delicately when he stayed late to help you re-decorate your window display still burned in your mind.

You hoped a shower would clear your head, wash away these feelings you knew were off limits. The slightly cool water felt so good against your sweat heavy skin, rinsing away the sticky layer that had clung to you since early in the day. Having him in your life, even just as a casual companion is something you were more than happy with. You’d have to be careful to stamp out the parts of you that longed for more. His religion, his whole way of life, those weren’t things that allowed you to hope for a future with him.

You stepped out of the shower feeling emotionally and physically exhausted. You noticed the ache in your arms as you ran a towel over your head to roughly dry your hair. You noticed the ache in your heart as your hand reached for the door to re-enter the living room dressed in a matching light grey linen outfit with the scarf hanging loosely around your neck. You took a deep breath and faked a smile sliding the door shut behind you.

“How was it?” you asked taking note of Grogu settled on one of the couch cushions with heavy eyelids and a full belly.

“Delicious, thank you. I’ll have to learn how to make those, he really enjoyed them.”

You smiled while you grabbed the dish you had set aside for yourself, hesitating for a moment as you surveyed the empty seating options. Not wanting to seem off, you chose the seat directly between Din and Grogu. The two of you chatted while you flipped through channels to find something to watch. Grogu was fast asleep by this point, tiny snores erupting from his open mouth. Before you realized it, you were nodding off too, eyes drifting shut and head bobbing unsteadily. You tried to prop your neck on the back of the cushion but found it to be uncomfortable. Din lifted his arm to create a cavity against his chest that your sleep heavy body willingly leaned into.

“Hold on,” he said quietly, shifting quickly to unsnap his chest plate and rest it gently against the table. You felt the warmth of him under your cheek, only separated by his shirt now. The embrace of sleep swallowed you whole in an instant with the comfort of him so close, the smell of gunpowder and leather flooding you, his steady breath, his arm draped around you. You committed each frame of this moment to memory knowing full well you would play it on repeat each night like an old beloved song, familiar, comfortable, full of love.

The hazy glow of early evening bathed your living room in a dull blue light like a little bit of the sky had leaked in through the window. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting quickly to the dimly lit room. Grogu was still snoring softly, from the position of the sun you could tell that not much time had passed.

“Good morning, mesh’la,” Din’s soft voice teased when he noticed you stirring.

For a moment, you hesitated, the warmth of his embrace holding you in place like gravity itself. The thought of pulling yourself away made your bones feel like lead. He gave no indication of expecting you to move, his body just as relaxed as when you had first curled into it. Steady heartbeat, steady breaths, all caged under the broad chest you found yourself pressed against. Your own senses quickening while your thoughts raced against your heart, the two pounding in your ears. Desire and reason, longing and logic going toe to toe.

Your mind started to drift, wondering what his lips would feel like pressed against your own, whether the palms of his hands were rough with calluses like yours or smooth. You wondered about the shape of his nose and the feel of his hair, whether or not he had a beard. And his eyes, oh his eyes. Surely they were warm like his voice with wrinkles at the edges from all his hidden smiles.

He must’ve felt your heart rate increase from where your chest was connected with his.

“Is something wrong?”

You bolted up not wanting to give yourself away.

“No, no, I was just thinking.”

He brushed his fingers along your shoulder lightly, his arm still outstretched behind you keeping his body open to you should you choose to succumb to the unspoken call of his cells to yours. “What are you thinking about, cyar’ika?” his voice came out low and smooth.

“Things that’ll get me into trouble,” you whispered with a sad smile.

“Tell me,” he almost begged, “I want to hear you say it.”

It felt like a knife in your heart. Was he getting off on torturing you, dangling himself in front of you like a prize you would never have. Surely he wasn’t that cruel, was he? You withdrew farther away from him sinking into your own body and wishing you had a shiny suit of armor to shield your face from him, keep him guessing.

“I overstepped, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” he said standing up and walking to the window to create even more distance between the two of you. The sound of his cape caught in the wind of his quick movement the only perceptible noise in the otherwise dead air, tight with some unnamed tension.

For the second time tonight, you buried your head in your hands.

“Din, what is this? What’s going on with us? Just tell me now because I can’t stand hoping for a future that will never happen,” shocked by your own boldness, you did your best to hold a firm look on your face, afraid that, at any second, your lip would quiver and give you away.

He stood frozen. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he was just a statue, a wordless wall of metal reflecting your own insecurities back at you.

“If you’re going to break my heart, just go. Do it now,” your voice wavered, “Because I can’t sit here week after week and wonder what it would be like to kiss you and laugh with you and go to other planets with you knowing you’re just going to end up with some Mandalorian instead of some nameless florist from Naboo.” By this point you had rounded the coffee table to stand face to face with him.

You stood resolute even though inside you were trembling. You wouldn’t break and say anything else until he responded. You stated daggers into his visor waiting for an explanation.

“All this time you thought I was just toying with you because I was bored? Or that this was meaningless? Cyar,ika,” his voice came out like velvet as he took a step closer to you, “I never wanted you to feel like you weren’t my first priority. The reason I’ve been hesitant isn’t because you aren’t a Mandalorian, it isn’t fair to keep you waiting her for me while I’m off hunting for weeks on end. That’s not the life you deserve.”

“I would gladly wait for you, I do. I’d do it over and over again. But I’m still not a part of your creed,” your voice faltered again and you cast your eyes downward.

He took another step closer and tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, “Cyar’ika, I don’t care that you aren’t a part of my creed. That’s who I am, not who you are. You don’t need to be a mirror image of me to catch my eye, you did that all on your own. I can be with people outside of the creed, I can date them, court them, I can even kiss them,” he whispered the last part in a low voice leaning even closer than he was before. The front of his helmet ghosted over your forehead and you closed your eyes in reverence at the nearness.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” you whispered back.

His hands went behind your head to undo the knot of the scarf that hung around your neck. He folded it carefully and your breath hitched when you realized what he was doing as he gently tied it over your eyes. You heard a hiss and a soft sound indicating he had placed his helmet on the cabinet next to you. The soft leather of his gloves cupped your jaw, his thumbs running gently over your cheekbones.

“Ready?” his low voice falling on your ears for the first time without the mask of the modulator, and your knees nearly buckled. You nodded, leaning your cheek farther into the touch of his hand. His lips met yours tentatively, like he was afraid you would break. The two of you exchanged soft kisses for what felt like hours, but in reality was closer to a minute. He nuzzled his nose against yours pressing one final one to your lips before pulling away.

“I don’t stop now I might never.”

“I see no issue with that,” you smiled against his lips drawing a chuckle from him. He released his hold on your face to set his helmet back in place.

“You can open your eyes,” he spoke once again through the modulator. You pulled the scarf off and looked at him wistfully. Your lips swollen from the touch of him, cupids bow slightly irritated from the scratch of his scruff.

“Mesh’la,” he breathed quietly, hand cupping your jaw once more.

“Are you going to tell me what that means?” you smiled raising one eyebrow.

“Beautiful,” he whispered back, tilting his helmet to press against your forehead once more.

Mando’a translations

Buir: father

Mesh’la: beautiful

Cyar’ika: sweetheart

Taglist: @harriedandharassed

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fic #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #suddenly

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kujojotarolover · 2 years

Note

Also o for Rohan please

cw: Yandere Themes, Allusions to Stalking, Mentions of Stalking, Obsessive Thoughts / Nature, Angst, Dire Situations, Torture, Graphic Descriptions / Thoughts, Brainwashing and / or Memory Wiping Allusion, Thoughts / Mentions of Death, General Dark Themes not Suitable for Immature Audiences. Reader-Insert, Gender Neutral. Uncomfortable scenarios included, read at you own discretion! 18+ ONLY!

author's note: Totally not inspired by House of Wax or anything, nah. This is my first ficlet involving Kishibe Rohan, I hope that you enjoy this delusion man and this creepy fic! These "Yandere Prompts Flower Language" were written and coined by @/nanasparadise . That original post can be located here. I do not condone unhealthy behavior in any sense! This is not a good situation! I hope you enjoy this!

PROMPT: Orchid (love, beauty): "My, you're breathtaking. Your beauty needs to be cherished."

word count: Approximately 1.8k

Swish.

Swish, swish. Swish.

Swiiiiiiish.

Everything dimmed and blurred in a flurry haze. Bright light like you’ve never known before shone and rushed like a hurricane, circling and widening and engulfing. You quickly tried to shut your eyes from the blinding hues, but something pulled uncomfortably against your face. Your mind scrambled.

Why couldn’t you blink?

Your pupils whizzed in frantic dashes, desperately trying to escape the maddening light that started to dull more and more and more and… wait. Hey, yeah. This… you’re standing in a room. It’s not a room you’ve ever seen before and that worries you, but you can finally pick up the faintest edges and outlines of details now. You want to squint, but the pressure from earlier comes back fast so you just settle for letting your eyes slowly adjust.

Swish, swish, swishswishswish.

There it is again. That noise: the sound that had brought you forth into this waking world. Your brain can’t quite comprehend what it's hearing, but it distinctly reminds you of the strokes of a paintbrush. Which, funnily enough, only brings more questions than answers. So, you turn your head.

You… turn your head.

Panic emerges from your chest in a rupture as you start straining your muscles. Why can’t you move your head? It feels like it’s pinned in place, pinioned by that weight from earlier that kept you from closing your eyes and that petrifies you. This doesn’t make any sense, none of it does. Your head is whorling in nasty waves and you start to struggle.

A rattling, like cracked porcelain. Muffled panting, the sound of terror huffing against something solid. You breathe. You try to breathe in but your lungs refuse to expand very far—held down, immobile. You think you’re hyperventilating now, shaking in place like a ball filled with too much kinetic energy and you feel like you’re going to explode with madness.

Then, a voice.

“Oh, you're waking up now, are you?” A deep siiiiigh. “Well, I suppose I did only write ‘until Kishibe Rohan finishes painting the initial coat’, didn’t I?”

A lackadaisical, nasally voice rhetorically questions himself before the swish swish swish begins once more. You don’t recognize the voice. Or, no, you do. The tone and intonation tickle the furthest reaches of your mind and you wrack your brain to call it forth. The name, think of the name. Kishibe Rohan. Why does that sound familiar? You feel something twinge. Yes, you do know him.

“That doesn’t matter now, of course,” Rohan comments, “just stop panicking. The clay may be dry, but you’ll be irreparable if you accidentally tear any of it off at this stage.”

What… What in the hell did he just say?

“It will also bring you unbelievable amounts of pain,” Rohan pauses. Something clacks against wood. He had set his brush down. “But to see you in such agony and in such disarray would cause me more misery than you’d ever imagine.”

Rohan picks up something—another paintbrush, probably—and leans in close.

Your dry eyes have finally cleared and the image before you is flawless.

The room looks unique, for sure, with a triangular bookshelf pressed against the side wall and the artisan desk not too far ahead. There’s also various prints framed and hung around the extra space of the room. The floors are hardwood, the walls are flamingo pink, the room’s trimmings are mauve, and the blinds are a rich royal blue. Everything is dimmer than you’d originally expected, but you notice a singular curtain is drawn up to allow beaming sunlight to gleam across your face. Nothing looks familiar, you’ve never been here before; so, the only logical conclusion is that this is Kishibe Rohan’s office.

Another hopeful scan of the room births nothing of use to you. There’s a flame that withers inside, you can feel a flicker of hope diminish in your chest. What will help you escape? Another fretful glance. What can get clay off of your body?

But your eyes can’t take in the details quick enough before a dark shadow looms before your eyes and you’re forced to focus on that instead.

Kishibe Rohan.

He looks as eccentric and as fashionable as he did the very first time you laid your eyes upon him. That lusciously vivid sacramento green hair of his swoops over his forehead and stays tucked away by the lime eggshell headband he dons. Intense emerald orbs pierce through you, awash with such emotions that you feel a queer turn in your stomach that make your body involuntarily hitch. Rohan’s expression is tense, but focused. He calmly watches your eyes meet his and the corner of his lips quirk upward.

“Good, my little muse,” Rohan’s eyes close briefly as he sighs again and starts to titter. “Though the clay is much too solid for much to shift it out of place, I’m sure the heat of it and the nature of the substance has caused it to permanently iron itself to your flesh.”

Your heart thunders against your ribcage.

“Moving it or grinding against it could possibly disrupt it and, well, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what will happen after that,” Rohan’s sudden humor is once again lost as he lifts his arm back up and brings the paintbrush towards your face.

But you can’t even care about that! What the hell else were you supposed to think about? You’re permanently trapped in this clay prison and moving will flay you alive! And you want to freak out even more. Want to flail, kick, scream, throw a damn tantrum to break free—but it’s futile. It’s so absolutely futile and that’s why you feel like your world is suddenly swinging around you like a merry-go-round. Streaking, and slurring, and swimming, and you pant. you pant. you pant.

You feel painful tears sting against the rims of your eyes. The sclera are so desiccated, so aired out from being held open for this long that tears feel like stabbing needles prickling the very organs. Your head reels noisily.

The paintbrush dabs against the clay of your cheekbone as Rohan finetunes the precise details. You can’t focus. You feel so absolutely lost, you’re so helpless, fuck fuck fuck—is this how you’re going to die? Standing, posed, in this crazy man’s home covered in model clay as you slowly starve and dehydrate to the point of no return? Tortured by a man that you met by chance… once?

That’s when you really became flighty. Your head thumped loudly, right behind your sinuses, and you felt so so full. You’d only met this stranger once! All because of a mishap at a local art store. Fuck, you can’t even clearly remember the memory—that’s how long ago this happened! You think you ended up helping him out, there was a miscommunication. You can’t recall. You’re teetering on the edge of passing out and going numb from how heavily you’re breathing against warm, damp clay. Your appendages are tingling and you feel like you’re floating on clouds. Why is he doing this? What did you do to deserve this?

Rohan’s paintbrush feathers over the bridge of your nose and he releases a pleased hum.

“Absolutely stunning,” Rohan’s free hand comes up to cradle your jaw, but he stops and jerks back. “Not quite yet. I would hate to tarnish my hard work, especially after all of the trouble I went through to get you here.”

The memories before this very moment feel fuzzy. They’re like minnows, swaying along with the currents of a stream and constantly going. On and on and on and on and on. You see them fade and disappear, they wink out and more minnow follow their ilk. You cast your line out in distress, the hook glimmery in the light of your conscience, and watch it dip into the water. It gets sucked along and the line screeches as it’s pulled into nothingness.

“Buuut this was very much worth it,” Rohan states. “I’ve been following you for so long, watching you and studying you to make sure you’re really what I believed you to be the first time I happened upon you.”

Oh, Gods, you just want to sob. You want to start weeping and curl up into a tiny ball, but you’re frozen solid and you’re forced to listen to Rohan’s words. You’re forced to listen to the ramblings of a man long gone.

“You’re so pure, so unlike other people, so kind,” Rohan seems to shudder and you want to just collapse under his loving stare. “When you first gazed at me with those beautiful eyes, I fell deeply in love with you. It felt like my heart was going to burst when you departed from me, but… don’t worry, I made sure to keep you within my sights.”

Swish, swish, swiiish.

“I followed you, every day, every waking moment that I possibly could,” Rohan admits. He then withdraws the paintbrush, dips the end into a swatch of color, and continues detailing. “You were filled with this admirable justice, this sense of innocence and purity. Of truth, of precision. Your honesty, your soul… everything about you was like a flame and I was consumed like oxygen into the laps.”

Everything and nothing makes sense. You would shake your head, would avert your face away from Rohan’s lecherous eyes, and try to plug your ears to mute this insanity. But you can just be his little statue. Listening.

“And after a while… watching you from afar started to bore me, honestly.” Rohan huffs, as if he were absolutely bothered by the notion and then turns his stare over his shoulder. “So I waited and waited and waited. There was much to think about, you know. As an artist, I had to make sure this wasn’t sloppy. I had to be positive that you were the one, that nothing would tarnish you. I… I needed to immortalize you.”

Your eyes gape in horror at Rohan as he drags another long sweep of the paintbrush across your cheeks before arching back.

Rohan scrutinizes your face thoughtfully, romantically, and an excitedly giddy grin smears across his lips.

“My, you’re breathtaking.” Rohan shivers, his eyes widening with something wild as he drops his brush to the palette and laces his fingers together. “Your beauty needs to be cherished.”

It feels like the floor is opening up, is dropping you in, and you’re flushing away. You're going so fast, so soon, so terribly. And you just look into Rohan’s eyes, disbelieving, and you feel like your heart

stops.

“My own personal Astraea, that’s what I’ve made you, my muse.”

#rohan x reader #rohan kishibe x reader #yandere rohan #yandere rohan kishibe #rohan x you #rohan x y/n #jjba x reader #yandere x reader #yandere jjba x reader #18+ only please #your average wfsn

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suchawrathfullamb · 4 months

Text

Hannigram Christmas Fic

As requested, that one idea for the Christmas episode. This head hops and I am very aware, but this is impromptu and for fun only so forgive me :).

Flambé - Season One

The air was thick with a foreboding chill as the team arrived at the crime scene, a stately home adorned in festive trimmings. Inside, a spectacle awaited their scrutiny. Bodies, meticulously arranged amidst the holiday decorations, posed in mimicry of shattered nutcrackers. Limbs contorted in a ballet of death, each victim a rendition of dismembered artistry.

Will Graham steps forward, his gaze scanning the unsettling display. His mind, attuned to the twisted symphony of the killer's design, begins to unravel the cryptic narrative woven into the tableau in time with his inner pendulum.

"In this fractured tableau, I see more than disarray; I witness metamorphosis. Limbs twisted, rearranged, mirroring the delicate manipulation of a mind yearning for reinvention."

He moves amidst the scene, his voice resonating with a disturbing rhythm, merging the killer's intent with his understanding, painting a picture of the motives buried within this morbid artistry.

"I don't seek mere death, but a grand reimagining. Each shattered limb tells a story of reshaping, a sculpting of identity. It's not destruction alone; it's the careful, meticulous reconstruction of perception, much like the shattered mirrors of one's mind, reassembled in a new reflection."

As he stands among the shattered bodies, an unsettling resonance echoes within.

"This is my design," he whispers, a chill running down his spine as he acknowledges the disturbing connection between his and the killer's relentless pursuit of reshaping reality.

Jack Crawford, his expression of professional stoicism, approaches Will, his demeanor as gruff as ever. "Graham, what do you see?"

"A killer who doesn't seek death but transformation," Will replies, his tone matter-of-fact yet tinged with a sense of underlying urgency. "These broken pieces... it's about rearranging the puzzle of perception. Something shattered, something reshaped."

Jack nods, his eyes scanning the chilling display. "We need to catch this person before they strike again. Any leads?"

Will's thoughts darts like quicksilver. "It's about reinvention, Jack. Not just destruction. They're sculpting identities like clay, and every contorted limb here is a brushstroke in their twisted canvas."

Jack nods, acknowledging Will's insights, though his skepticism lingered. "Let's get forensics on this. We need every detail we can get."

In the sterile confines of the lab, the team congregates around the evidence, their focused demeanor a stark contrast to the grim tableau they dissected moments ago. Beverly Katz, her meticulous gaze fixed on the forensic findings, directed the analysis with precision. Price and Zeller processed samples and photographs.

Will observes the proceedings. “Have we checked the symmetry in the limb fractures?" He queries, eyeing the x-rays. "It's methodical. There's a pattern in the breakages, a deliberate manipulation of form."

Beverly nods, her focus unwavering as she instructs the lab technicians to analyze the fractures further. "Good catch, Will. We'll map these patterns and see if they correlate to any specific intent."

Price and Zeller exchange a knowing glance. They continue their meticulous examination, though Zeller couldn't resist a quip. "Guess the killer didn't get the memo on holiday cheer. Maybe they're just really terrible at gift-giving."

Price smirks. "Or they're sending a different kind of message, like 'here's the fractured spirit of the season.'"

Their attempt at levity doesn’t earn a slight smile from Will, to him, there is no moment of respite in the somber atmosphere. Jack, overseeing the proceedings, turns to Will.

"What's the killer trying to convey here, Will?"

"This isn't just carnage for the sake of it," Will explains. "It's about a deranged sense of transformation. Breaking down perceptions, reconstructing them. It's like the shattered nutcrackers symbolize the fractured selves the killer sees in their victims."

Jack nods, but ponders, trying to understand what he means. See what he sees. At least in some way that could be practical for the case.

Will perches on the edge of a chair in the opulent confines of Hannibal's office, his gaze flickering across the artwork that adorned the walls.

"Their tableau—it's not just about the act of killing. It's about a grotesque reinvention of form."

Hannibal, draping in an air of curiosity, observes Will with a calculated interest. “The killer's reinterpretation of human form fascinates you. Could it be because you sense a familiarity in this metamorphosis?"

Restless energy surges within Will, prompting him to rise and navigate Hannibal's office, wrestling with his thoughts. "It's about deconstruction, reconstruction. A transformation that distorts, altering the fundamental perception of what was."

"Does this spectacle of transformation resonate with a metamorphosis you're grappling with, Will? A reconstruction of your own perceptions?" Hannibal subtly steers the conversation.

Will pauses, grappling with the subtlety woven into Hannibal's words, searching for the underlying truths. "Are you implying this mirrors my mind?"

Hannibal draws closer to Will. "You and I, Will, have often delved into the realms of transformation. Our discussions navigate the labyrinth of perception and reality."

Seating in Hannibal's chair, Will meets his gaze, a blend of curiosity and an undercurrent of distrust. "Is this about my fractured psyche? Are you suggesting a parallel between me and the killer?"

Hannibal perches on his desk. “The Killer’s artistry may serve as a mirror to your psyche, Will. A reflection worth exploring. Can you discern a fractured self within their creation?"

The next scene unfolded like a diorama amidst the wintry landscape—a disturbing blend of beauty and grotesque artistry. Bodies are arranged in a haunting display reminiscent of a marionette show. Strings, not of cloth but of entrails, hang loosely, connecting the bodies to the Christmas tree's branches. The victims' faces are frozen in expressions of agony, their eyes wide with horror. Some are suspended in mid-air, as if caught in the throes of a fatal dance, while others lie lifeless, limbs dangling as if controlled by an unseen puppeteer. The eerie stillness of the scene contrasts starkly with the implied movement, heightening the sense of dread and the twisted artistry at play.

Will approaches the tableau, his breath forming misty clouds in the crisp air. He surveys the frozen forms, his mind diving into the twisted psyche of the perpetrator.

"It's a cruel, frozen ballet," Will mutters, his voice carrying a mix of horror and fascination. "The killer is manipulating form, freezing identity."

"What do you see, Will?" Jack joins Will, his gaze scanning the display.

"They're not just frozen bodies," Will explains, his eyes fixating on the contorted figures. "It's a twisted rendition of agony, each pose deliberate, sculpted."

In his mind, the world shifts. Reality morphed into the killer's unsettling perspective, offering Will a disturbing glimpse into their motivations.

"Icy tendrils of compulsion," Will murmurs as his consciousness slipped into the killer's vantage point. "The need to immortalize agony in ice."

Meanwhile, the team coordinates their efforts amidst the eerie scene. Beverly directs the forensic analysis with precision, while Price and Zeller cataloge evidence.

"It's as if they're frozen in their final moments of suffering, immortalized in ice," He describes.

"What's your take on this?" Jack inquires.

"This is the killer's canvas," Will asserts, his tone carrying an eerie weight. "Each contortion speaks of a torment etched in ice, a artistic statement."

"Any plans for Christmas?" Hannibal inquires as he leads Will out the door after another session.

"Just staying home with the dogs, no grand celebrations on the horizon."

Hannibal pauses, his gaze fixated on Will. "A quiet celebration can be quite enjoyable."

After a moment's silence, Hannibal continues, his tone gentle but insistent. "I'm hosting a small gathering for Christmas. Your presence would be most welcome, Will."

Will hesitates, recalling the prior dinner he'd missed. "I appreciate the invite. But parties aren't exactly my scene."

"Your presence would truly enrich the evening," Hannibal presses, his tone carrying a hint of genuine desire.

"Alright," Will relents, sensing Hannibal's sincerity. "I'll come. Just to keep the peace, I suppose."

Hannibal's eyes gleams with gratitude. “I assure you, it will be a memorable evening."

As Will leaves Hannibal's office, a mix of reluctance and curiosity swirls within him.

Will's eyes traced the evidence, “It's a perversion of celebration, a frozen ballet of agony," he mutters.

Jack observes the chilling display on the photos, his brow furrowed in consternation. "What could drive someone to do this?"

Hannibal steps forward, his voice carrying an air of contemplation. "In the wake of such carnage, I find myself captivated, not by the grisly artistry itself, but by the mind that originally dared to conceive such a dark story.”

Will, intrigued by Hannibal's tone, interjects with a furrowed brow. “They're drawing inspiration from something? Like a story or a fable?"

“This is The Nutcracker, a maestro orchestrating a macabre symphony, channels the essence of Tchaikovsky's beloved tale into a grotesque rendition that transcends mere brutality."

"So, what does this say about the killer's motives?" Jack probes further.

"This killer is not merely content with snuffing out life; no, they possess an artistic fervor, a relentless pursuit of disassembling the human form, reimagining it in their own unsettling design."

As the team mulls over Hannibal's deductions, Will's curiosity peaks. "But why choose The Nutcracker as the basis?"

Hannibal pauses, his movements deliberate as he drew parallels. "The Nutcracker, at its core, is a tale of metamorphosis, a journey through realms both wondrous and perilous. Yet, this killer's interpretation subverts the essence, weaving a narrative of distorted reinvention."

"So, they're manipulating their victims to tell their own twisted story?" Jack asks.

Hannibal nods. "They dance upon a stage of their creation, a dance not of elegance but of grotesque contortions. The victims, unwitting players in this theater, serve as avatars of transformation, manipulated into positions mirroring the shattered beauty of a once-beloved tale."

In the serene solitude of his home, Will lays out the finishing touches on Hannibal's gift—a custom-made pocket knife.

After meticulously carving the handle, Will carefully selects a rich, earthy-toned wrapping paper. The paper has subtle patterns reminiscent of forest foliage, interwoven with delicate golden accents that shimmer under the soft light. With measured precision, he wraps the gift, his fingers deftly folding the paper, ensuring each corner meets seamlessly.

As he ties the ribbon—a simple, yet elegantly textured twine—around the package, he pauses, a faint sense of hesitation creeping in. Should he give something else, something more casual? Was it even appropriate to bring a gift? He ponders the intricacies of their relationship, weighing the significance of the occasion against the potential for misunderstanding or awkwardness.

But as he gazes at the wrapped package, he feels a surge of determination. This gift is a representation of something, strangely enough, his mind isn’t allowing him to fully translate what, but he hopes Hannibal will know it.

The halls of Hannibal's opulent estate shimmer with an ethereal beauty as guests arrive for the soirée he meticulously orchestrated. Elaborate decor adorning every corner. Floral arrangements, bursting with exotic blooms and cascading foliage, infusing the air with a heady fragrance that teases the senses. Soft ambient lighting, strategically placed, dancing off the polished marble floors, casting a warm glow that accentuates the allure of the surroundings.

The centerpiece of the gathering was the grand table. A rich mahogany table, adorned with intricate carvings reminiscent of ancient motifs, playing host to an array of sumptuous dishes meticulously crafted by Hannibal.

Among the guests are Alana Bloom, radiating elegance in her red dress, engaging in conversation with Jack Crawford. Other attendees, mingling in the captivating ambience, including a mix of esteemed individuals—Gregory Laurent, a renowned art collector praising Hannibal's impeccable taste; Amelia Drake, an influential philanthropist, acknowledging the breathtaking decor; and Simon Marchand, an esteemed professor, admiring Hannibal's culinary finesse.

Hannibal elegantly presents the appetizers, each dish a miniature work of art. Stuffed Fig Leaves with Goat Cheese and Truffle Honey. “The fig leaves represent hidden truths, wrapped around the tangy goat cheese symbolizing the complexity of one's identity. The drizzle of truffle honey signifies the sweetness found within darkness” he says with a bright smile, “A delicate balance of flavors akin to the layers of one's personality.” And the guests indulge, expressions of delight as they savor each bite. "This is amazing," Alana exclaims, her words punctuated by a contented swallow.

As the evening unfolds, an air of conviviality envelopes the gathering. Laughter and conversation flow freely, mingling with the appreciation for Hannibal's culinary prowess.

In the midst of the beautiful scene, the flattering compliments and the delightful banter, Hannibal can’t shake the subtle ache of anticipation in his heart. Will's absence looming in his mind, a quiet yearning hidden beneath the facade of polite grace.

As he mingles with the guests, a part of him can’t help but wonder—is Will really coming? The anticipation waving a faint shadow of melancholy into the otherwise opulent affair. Despite his best efforts to mask it, a hint of sorrow tinges his demeanor.

As if on cue, the doorbell chimes. Hannibal excuses himself gracefully, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and hope. As he approaches the door, a cascade of emotions plays across his face—a flicker of excitement, a touch of apprehension, and a profound longing.

When he swings the door open, his eyes meet Will's, and the corner of Hannibal's lips curl into an unmistakable, relieved smile—a radiant glimmer of joy reflecting in his eyes.

"Will," Hannibal greets warmly, his voice laced with genuine delight. "I'm so glad you could make it."

Will returns the smile, a hint of sheepishness in his expression. “Sorry I’m late.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

As they step inside, Will hands Hannibal the wrapped package, his eyes reflecting a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. "I brought something for you.”

Hannibal accepts it graciously, a bright and surprised smile forming on his face, his fingers tracing it with a touch of reverence. "Thank you, Will."

They begin to walk, Hannibal leads Will to a quieter spot—a cozy alcove bathed in soft, ambient light.

Hannibal pauses, his eyes meeting Will's with a sense of gratitude and understanding. He hands Will's gift to him.

“This is for you.”

Will's eyes widen in surprise as he takes the gift back from Hannibal's hands. It’s a moment of unexpected reciprocity, a silent exchange—a genuine acknowledgment of their bond.

Hannibal's fingers move with practiced grace as he carefully unwraps his package. The paper falls away, revealing the exquisitely crafted pocket knife nestled within. His eyes glint with genuine appreciation, though his exterior remained composed and poised.

“This is beautiful, Will,” He remarks. "The craftsmanship is impeccable, a testament to your skill and dedication."

Will nods, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "I'm glad you like it. It seemed fitting for someone with your appreciation for detail."

Hannibal's gratitude shines through his demeanor, his calm exterior contrasting with the profound joy he feels inside. He admires the intricate design, the unique handle, and the sheer artistry that Will had poured into the creation.

"Thank you, Will. I shall treasure it," Hannibal replies, his gaze lingering on the gift with a quiet reverence.

Will gently interjects, "I hope you don't mind, but I'd prefer to open mine in the solitude of my home. I don’t wanna make a mess with wrapping paper."

“Of course,” Hannibal nods with a gentle smile.

Amidst the animated ambiance, Hannibal gracefully leads the guests to the table. With a silent, knowing glance, he guides Will to a seat by his side. Will acknowledging the quiet invitation with a faint smile.

Hannibal serves the main course— Roast Duck with Cherry Port Wine Reduction, “The duck embodies duality,” he says, glancing at Will, “Representing both the elegance and primal nature of mankind. The rich cherry port wine reduction signifies the complexity of human desires.”

“The depth of which can be as dark and intense as the deepest red,” Will adds, with a smirk, and Hannibal returns, pleased with the effortless understanding.

As the guests indulge in hearty compliments, Will savors the flavors meticulously crafted by Hannibal. “This is delicious." Unlike the boisterous exclamations of the others, Will's admiration is quiet and gentle.

Hannibal's gaze, which had been observant yet serene throughout, rests on Will. A subtle smile playing on his lips, an acknowledgment that transcends words. In that silent exchange between them, amidst the chorus of praises, a quiet understanding blooms—a connection forged not in the grandeur of words but in the subtle nuances of shared appreciation.

The evening winds down, leaving only a few lingering in Hannibal's abode. Alana, Jack, and Will remain, a sense of familiarity lingering in the air as conversations taper into quiet murmurs.

Suddenly, Jack's phone ring, piercing the tranquility with urgency. His expression shifting from relaxed to incensed in an instant, a furrow etching deep into his brow. "What?! When?!" His voice brimming with fury, eyes ablaze with alarm.

The trio, caught off guard by Jack's abrupt change, exchange glances, a silent inquiry echoing in their expressions. Jack's terse conversation concludes with a determined nod. "Okay, thanks. I'll be right there. Get the team. I'm with Will."

Will sighs almost imperceptibly, weariness lining his features. Hannibal notices it and its weight upon Will's shoulders.

"They've found another body from the Nutcracker Killer. We need to go immediately." The call's purpose becomes clear as Jack relays the grim news.

Without missing a beat, Jack takes charge, addressing Will with a sense of urgency "Come on, let's go,” as he heads out the door after thanking Hannibal for the evening.

"Well, I guess I'm going,” Will, resigned to the situation, acknowledges Hannibal with a wearied smile. “Everything was delicious. Thanks for inviting me,” he adds, “And thanks for the gift."

Hannibal’s gaze linger on Will for a few seconds. “I can tell Jack I don't advise you to go if you want,” he offers.

Will, though tired, refuses. "No, it's okay."

"Are you sure?" Hannibal insists. Will nods faintly.

"Yes, that is a good idea." Alana interjects, her voice laced with concern.

"Are you sure?" Will directs the question at Hannibal, seeking reassurance.

"Of course," he responds with conviction.

Jack reappears, still somewhat agitated. "Will! What are you doing? Let's go!!"

"I'll tag along, Jack," Hannibal offers “If that’s okay.”

“Yes, of course!” A quick, genuine smile of appreciation from Jack. “Let's go then.”

"I'll take Will; we'll go in my car," Hannibal states decisively, prompting Jack's nod of acknowledgment as he makes his way out.

"Shall we?" Hannibal looks at Will with a gentle smile.

The night wrapped around them, shrouded in the glow cast by the car's muted lights and the gentle hum of the heater. Will and Hannibal trail Jack's car, the urgency of their destination juxtaposing against the serenity within the car.

In the tranquil silence, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the engine and the muffled sounds of the snow against the windows, Will breaks the calm with a soft sigh. "Thanks, by the way. You're probably exhausted from organizing the party and everything. You didn't have to come."

Hannibal's gaze briefly flickered to Will before returning to the road. "I know, but I wanted to," he confesses softly, a serene smile gracing his lips.

Will's expression soften with gratitude, a gentle smile forming. His thoughts drifting to the gift Hannibal gave him. "Guess I'll open it now," he remarks, gesturing toward the package.

"Please," Hannibal encourages.

Unraveling the wrapping, Will's eyes scan the contents. His gaze fell upon the paper, revealing a day at a private wildlife sanctuary. He glanced up at Hannibal, a quick smile playing on his lips. “For your need for solace and connection with nature,” Hannibal adds.

“Thanks, this will be great, actually."

Continuing to unwrap the gift, Will's eyes widened in surprise at the personalized woodworking kit, rare timber, and exquisite tools nestled within, inspecting the contents with fascination.

Hannibal observes the gleam in Will's eyes with a knowing expression. "Looks like we were in sync. You gifted me something you made with wood, and I gifted you with a woodworking kit," he remarks, a subtle twinkle in his eye.

Will's surprise lingers for a moment. "Yes," he replies, genuinely touched. "Thank you, this is great," he expresses before carefully placing the items on the backseat.

"Tell me about this killer," Hannibal inquired.

"This Nutcracker Killer doesn't just kill; they sculpt the human form, deconstructing and rearranging it into their twisted interpretation. The ballet's whimsy and enchantment, symbols of innocence, now entwined with the agony of the shattered bodies."

He pauses, the car's gentle movement accentuating the gravity of his words. "They navigate the delicate line between transformation and desolation, crafting a morbid symphony where broken limbs and fractured identities dance in discordant harmony."

Will's gaze drifts out the window, the wintry landscape blurred by their speed. "The victims, they're unwitting conduits of the killer's narrative. Manipulated, posed, transformed into representations of shattered beauty, all within the theater orchestrated by his deranged mind."

"It's a tale of metamorphosis gone awry, where innocence becomes the breeding ground for grotesque reinvention. A distorted reflection of human nature itself, mirrored in the fragmented psyche of the observer," he concludes, the weight of his words hanging in the air, painting a haunting portrait of the Nutcracker Killer's chilling pursuits.

As the car traverses through the wintry night, the comfortable silence between Will and Hannibal lingers. In a momentary shift from the gravity of their discussion, Will's voice cuts through the air with a playful lilt. "So... did every guest get a gift, or am I special?"

A beat of silence passes, and Hannibal throws the question back at Will, "Am I special?"

A faint smirk dances on Will's lips. "Well, you were the host."

Hannibal considers the jest with a subtle contemplation before breaking the silence. "And you are special."

Will's brows furrow gently, a fleeting expression of intrigue flickering across his features, as he ponders the cryptic acknowledgment.

The remainder of the journey transpires in a tranquil hush, the car eventually pulling up and coming to a halt at the scene. The weight of the conversation lingered, hinting at layers of unspoken meaning that awaited their exploration.

The tableau loomed before them, a haunting display. A nightmarish reflection of a family gathering around a holiday feast. Bodies are positioned as if seated at a table, but their faces are contorted in agony, frozen in grotesque masks of pain. The Christmas tree is adorned not with ornaments but with shards of shattered mirrors, reflecting distorted images of the victims. Each reflection showcases a fractured identity, a distorted representation of what once was, now twisted beyond recognition. The scene is bathed in a surreal play of lights, casting fragmented reflections across the room, adding to the disorienting ambiance. Jack's furrow brow betray his deep concern, while Will's gaze is fixed and focused, trying to piece together the fragmented puzzle before him. Hannibal's curiosity was evident in the way his gaze sweeps over the scene, absorbing every minute detail.

The team swarms the area, dissecting and documenting the tableau meticulously. Their movements are methodical, each member absorbed in their role, yet the unease lingers palpably in the air.

"Alright, everyone out." Jack's commanding voice cuts through the tension.

As the team shuffles out, Will prepares himself, mentally bracing for the plunge into the killer's twisted psyche. But this time, as he delved deeper, a creeping sense of panic began to claw at him, gradually intensifying into a suffocating grip.

His breaths quickening, his heart hammering against his chest, and the world around him blurring. He loses his bearings, sinking into the whirlpool of the killer's mind, unable to find his way back. Panic seizes him, trapping him in the grip of an overwhelming terror.

Suddenly, a hand shakes him out of the reverie. "Will! Are you alright?" Jack's urgent voice pierces through the haze.

Shaking uncontrollably, Will cannot manage a response. "Do you want me to get Hannibal?"

Will nods weakly through the tremors, and Jack yells for Hannibal. "Doctor Lecter!"

Hannibal, startled by the urgency in Jack's voice, swiftly makes his way over. Seeing Will's distress, he steps forward. "He needs you," Jack states, stepping aside to allow Hannibal closer.

Kneeling in front of the trembling Will, Hannibal cups his face with both hands, his voice gentle yet firm. "Will. Will. Stay with me," his gaze unwavering. "I need you to breathe."

With a calm, measured demeanor, Hannibal starts breathing deliberately, willing Will to mimic his rhythm. Will's wide eyes fixed on Hannibal's, and gradually, he begins to synchronize his breaths, finding solace and grounding in the shared rhythm.

As the panic subsides, Will's shaking gradually ebbs, and a semblance of calm settles over him, guided by Hannibal's unwavering presence and soothing assurance.

In the lab's bustling atmosphere, the team pores over evidence while Will, regaining composure after his episode, stands observing quietly in a corner. Hannibal notices Will's withdrawn stance and approaches with gentle concern. "Are you alright?" he queries softly, his concern evident in his poised demeanor.

Will nods in response. The offer to talk later lingers between them, an unspoken understanding.

Beverly interjects with a name, one of the bodies in the scene, identified. "Jean Devaeu," she asserts, “a ballet teacher. The only victim who wasn't distorted. He was just laying there." Her description weaves an intricate narrative of a man in his forties, an unassuming ballet instructor, a presence among the eerie display.

Hannibal's eyes briefly flit to Will, who, with sudden intensity, fixates on the description as though piecing together scattered fragments of a cryptic puzzle. His gaze narrows, a surge of recognition flickering across his face.

"That's him," Will asserts, urgency lacing his tone.

Will's features furrow in concentration as he mentally traverses the hazy realms of his recent dive. "He placed himself in his own spectacle."

The room falls into a charged silence, Will’s deduction hanging in the air, a vital revelation propelling their pursuit of the enigmatic Nutcracker Killer. Jack sighs in relief. "I don't wanna know," he interjects, predicting someone is bound to ask for an explanation. "It's over. That's all I care about."

The clock ticked well past midnight as Will and Hannibal arrive back at Hannibal's house. Hannibal, turning to Will, breaks the quietude..

"It's quite late, and with the snowfall, why don't you stay? You can leave in the morning."

A sense of gratitude flashes through Will's tired gaze. "Thanks, but… the dogs," he replied, a hint of reluctance in his tone.

Hannibal observes him closely before gently pressing, "Are you certain they won't manage until morning? You seem tired, and it's a long drive."

Will offers a faint smile. He turns towards his car, a silent acknowledgment in the gesture. "Thanks," he murmurs softly, opening the door, "thanks for everything, really… I'll see you later."

#lamb writes #this is very okay level lol #i just wrote this so dont judge me by this #nor lola run lmao #hannigram #nbc hannibal #hannibal #will graham #murder husbands #hannibal lecter #fanfic

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claydisarray · 2 years

Photo

Halloween Countdown day 23 - here’s CARRIE! 🎃

#halloween #carrie #horror movie posters #polymer clay #sissy spacek #clay disarray

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vampcubus · 3 months

Note

Content warnings: Gore, brief mention of vomiting, the poor reader will not catch a break anytime soon.

Blood was everywhere. As expected, the crimson substance was caked on everything, pools on the floor not even dry as you stepped inside, the acrid scent invading your nose and making you dry heave. There were stains littering the walls, handprints littered about amongst deep gouges in the wood. Wandering deeper into the house you see everything in disarray; furniture upturned, floorboards ripped up, debris everywhere, all followed by a trail of sickly red. The struggles of all the siblings couldn’t be more evident. A new wave of tears began their cascade down your face as you explored the house. The stench of old, rotting meat blasted your senses as you slid open the door to the sibling’s bedroom, a scream being ripped from you. Limbs were scattered about the room, pools of dried scarlet surrounding and staining them in a sickening tapestry of gore. Fingers were broken and bent in all sorts of directions, the joints on elbows exposed to open air, flesh peeled and bitten away from legs, feet bent backwards- You couldn’t look at it all anymore, you turned and began scrambling to get back outside, practically hurling your body out onto the dirt road, getting on your hands and knees while coughing heavily. You felt bile rising to your throat, the horrendous scene you subjected yourself to playing back over and over in your mind. This is what that monster did to them? Not only mutilating their bodies but ripping their limbs off? How you managed to keep yourself from vomiting only the gods and spirits of these hillsides will know. You gulped back all your feelings of anguish and disgust, shakily getting back on your feet and gazing back at the house of the Gishiwaras. You could practically hear the screams of Yuri and Tetsuki, the youngest of the siblings as they were terrorized and slaughtered, you could only imagine the pain poor Joto was in, watching all his younger siblings die if he wasn’t killed first. You retched, unable to hold back your disgust and pain anymore, the bile that you previously swallowed back forcing its way out your mouth as you coughed. You couldn't despise that bastard you met last night any more if you tried. He had ripped your friends away from you, friends that treated you as if they were your family. Now, your final memories of them are tainted with their agonized faces of death and bloodied walls of their home.

All because of him. You shot a snarl at the house as you wiped the drool from your mouth, imagining that you were actually looking at the one responsible for all of this, all that happened to them. You felt hatred bubbling deep within your stomach as you tore your gaze away and got to your feet again, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Anger was fading fast as you continued to stare down the home of your deceased friends, family really, and a hollow sadness was taking root. You shook your head, starting to walk away. You can’t dwell here too much, not now, not when the wound is so terribly fresh. Glancing back one last time, you grit your teeth before storming back to your village, a renewed fire in your eye and anger ebbing away inside your chest.

It was sunset by the time you arrived back home, your fury now having boiled down into a deep sadness as everything fully sunk in, a conclusion having been drawn; your dearest friends, your family, were now gone, and you can’t even say that it was painless. It was never to be painless for them with that monster at the root of it all. You trudged forward through the shoji doors of your home, vision blurring as tears brimmed around your eyes. Your feet instinctively carried you to your studio room, the hefty scent of powdered marble and wet clay filling your senses and comforting your poor heart. You had trusted Mikami to look after your home while you were away, as you weren’t sure if you would even come back or if you would come back. She was horrified either way and tried to stop you, yet you simply shrugged off her pleas in favor of sating your curiosity.

GLITCH I CAN’T EXPRESS TO YOU HOW BEAUTIFUL YOUR PROSE IS. gahhh and i couldn’t be more more invested in this story. you do a wonderful job of inducing feelings of disgust and hatred here.

#‧₊🧛🏻‍♀️˚⊹ ashi rambles #glitch <3

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ubercharge · 1 year

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rtmi just to show you can be aroace and still have things to say

When I was in middle school, all the kids from the neighborhood would play in this unbuilt lot on the cul-de-sac (there was one with trees, and one with a red clay hill. The one we most frequented was the tree one for various reasons). In this lot we did basically a miniature town rp with pinecones as our currency, and we made funny little shops to ‘sell’ cool leaves and rocks etc etc.

Well, the power had gone to this one girls head. She was one of the two eighth graders, so obviously Cooler ™ than the other younger kids and they had fun bossing the elementary ones around, but my sib and I weren’t really cool with that. We weren’t super confrontational though, and only really started saying something when things became obviously bias against us (like hoarding the precious pinecone currency especially from us and ‘not knowing’ what happened to our stores when they ended up in disarray when we returned the next day)

So I confront her one day, tell her that what’s she’s doing isn’t fair and that she should stop. She antagonizes me instead, of course, cause oh, what was I going to do? Tell on her? For a fake store? Which I mean, ye, I wanted to, but it pissed me off that she was acting like it wasn’t a big deal when OBVIOUSLY it was a big enough deal for her to be harassing two younger kids about it.

So I say this, and she gets upset. She starts calling me names and other means things I no longer recall (I mean c’mon it’s been well over ten years since then), but then that’s not working, so she says something about my sibling, who mind you, their only crime so far that day had been supporting me in saying we were being treated unfairly. Anyways, either way, that was not flying with me. She can be mean to me all day but she has no reason to be mean to my younger sibling, especially not /in front of me/.

A dastardly idea comes to mind as I recall that she had been complaining of getting her braces tightened earlier that day, and before I can run through any list of logical consequences my fist’s against her cheek in an astounding right hook for a sixth grader

She cries out in pain, clutching her cheek, and the younger kids scatter and I grab my sibling and we run too.

It’s the only time I had ever thrown a punch and i was worried that someone would tattle, but no one ever speaks of it apparently as I never get in trouble for it. We simply stop seeing them in the area, as the lot is next to our house, and no one ever brings it up if they do see us. The parents don’t know what’s going on, just that the groups has a falling out.

I somehow manage to keep this a secret from my mother until I’m 23 and casually mentioned I’ve only ever punched someone once and that they really deserved it and had to regale the whole tale to her. Hilariously, she says she remembers the fallout happening and having been confused, but that she had 100% covered for my sibling and I when the neighbors mom had come to ask about us.

Anyways, Idk how to end this, but just remember that it’s always okay to punch bullies 👍

based. unfathomably fucking based. anon you dropped this 👑

#ask answer #anon #reverse tmi #NO SNITCHES TOO . RESPECT

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elegyforiphigenia · 1 year

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KRONOS.

⚠️ trade offer ⚠️ : next time i visit the burnt city i finally get to know what that 1:1 is all about and i'll rewrite this with that in mind. i joke. anyway, shamelessness aside! here's a piece inspired / telling the brand of weird guy loop that is kronos. so, all the usual punchdrunk triggers apply on top of spoilers for his loop - this is specifically based on milton lopes interpretation of the role, and i believe kronos is one where the loop can differ greatly! also potential spoilers for things people have said about hades.

He sweeps a little.

One must wonder if he was always a beast. After all, how does Tartarus craft the caretaker who will stalk its tenements? Perhaps before Prometheus was liver-bitten, he made him like mankind; crafted him from clay and then let the kiln be the fires of Hades. He shares his name with a Titan – it makes the picture come together clearly: maybe Hades ordered the bones of that first Kronos to be powdered into the clay that would forge the second Kronos. And so the first would have his own ribs encage him. We will never know. In spite of Kronos taking care of that infinite resting place, finality does not mean all answers are known. It only begs that we ask more. Even uttering Tartarus stirs up more falsehood than truth: fifty pairs of underwear hang from washing lines and a feast waits never eaten, but – but there is little use in theorising now. The boulder will always stumble to the foot again.

Pinboards of franticising is such a trivial thing to the one who finds obsession amongst only the thread upon those boards. Red string. It never leads him anywhere. Still, though, he likes to take out a small torch and shine it upon the string threaded across the tenements he cares for. The pattern it takes – the writing surrounding it – if those way down were given hours, he would spend hours staring at those threads. All to a fruitless end – each cock of his head, each forward inspection, he is always led back to the tenement square. The most innocuous item is a constant source of distrust for Kronos. With dice, his constant pocketed companion, he experiences similar puzzlement. Too many a glad time spent pacing amongst the various rooms of Troy, slipping into an absent corner. He will take them, hold them in his palm, and occasionally, he will lightly throw them up. Only numbers fall back down. And still he will watch them with enough furrowed brows to make any watcher believe they are full of a higher purpose.

He sweeps a little.

Corridors possess the strangest of things. Kronos delights in this one for it is a collection of ordinary items. Bending down, the display is careful disarray, with a spillage of cutlery asleep near cans. From this heap, he picks up a knife, clutches it around his fist, and meanders onwards to where ordinary once more approaches him. On this occasion, it is ordinary death; even electric sheep must die and so a toaster must be broken. He sticks a knife into where bread should go. He feels nothing for nothing happens. The caretaker knows that his city is decaying, for it is not his city. Nearby, in a different room, he unfurls some paper near potpourri and a lamp. Yes. There is something he must do. Something grand in design, yet done as many times as he tosses a dice. It is only fools who think a caretaker offers entirely up that first half of his title to the population bleeding around him. Kronos is deliverance.

He sweeps a little.

In the uppermost level of Troy, confusion pounds blindingly through Klub. The sorts of men who attach a space of Bacchic potential to their office are the sort who make themselves a model citizen of Troy; the city is on the verge so let us drink; dance; drug ourselves into oblivion like the writhing snake in leather who is sharpening red under their eyes. Within this space, Kronos leers up against any who might provoke him with a look. He is a zoetrope spun at a faster speed, lunging harsh as the strobes make each second appear a changed picture. Beast! Not a god. Not a man. A young man, casually smart, watches this terror through the windows. The man – the boy – thinks it looks like a bull thrusting. When it is over, Kronos stands, looming over him, and cranes his neck from one side to the other. He watches the boy. From his pocket, he pulls out a necklace made only of red string: he ensnares the boy in it.

He sweeps a little.

To be a caretaker is to have access to all the rooms of the tenements. Most of the rooms appear abandoned. In one, he reduces the puzzlement of his world to a jigsaw. In another, he sits at a mirror. Whilst he sits there, girls and boys are being sacrificed and all the flowers have gone away to make their weeping graves. He looks at his reflection – worn-out clothes licked by sweat, a face peppered with slow days tiring – and raises a handheld mirror so that he might gaze around him. Flickering just a little are his lips as he catches the eyes of the strangest creatures from the corner of his own. These shadows of people reflect in the small mirror. Slowly, smiling slightly as he does so, he guides the mirror from side to side. He sees them. He briefly acknowledges their gaze when meeting their fearful-loving awe. It is all he can see of their face, and it is beautiful. He likes to make them scared. Terror is not always a threat; terror is the vulnerability of being known. In one pretty way, he admires them – so he lifts a masquerade mask adorned with a feather from the dressing table he sits at. He wears it and practices smiling in the larger mirror. Whereas his ones to the ghosts are minacious, his ones to the mirror are sickening in their forced, bright falsity.

He sweeps a little.

Kings receive floods of crimson, but a prince only receives a sprawled out sheet. Polydorus is a boy and he claws at the red string around his throat as his eyes bulge purple. When his sister dies, she will be stroked onto a sheet by a lover, but he stumbles onto the white sheet awaiting him and is unceremoniously tugged into a locked room by Kronos. Moloch must be sated. Child after child, Kronos takes them as provided sacrifice, feeding the golden bull god. Speak it again – beast! Not a god. Not a man. He understands the machine he is instructed to feed; he pumps it full of the unfortunate youthful blood who by birth are trapped in the labyrinth of Troy. Kronos smiles again for he sees the beautiful strange creatures process their despair at death like they should: the machine operates on too many levels he does not care for, but he understands that even the unseen feed it. Polydorus is left dead in his room. He hopes Moloch is satisfied for now. His task is done; odd jobs and business, he takes care of it all.

In a dark corner, he plays with dice, and stalks red thread. It will never lead him out of the labyrinth. Instead, it loops back round on itself: he does not register time beginning again as the red traps him. But it begins again.

He sweeps a little.

#the burnt city #kronos #punchdrunk #milton lopes #i actually do not think i saw milton!kronos sweep really. but i have heard it is a kronos trait so here goes.

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