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kii-nami · 6 months ago

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GILDED DREAMS | SUNDAY

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary. Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood. Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

cw: 6.5k words; part one of three; next part; fem!mc; nameless!mc; i'm not a hsr lore scholar; sunday get behind me i have a glock and nothing to lose except you;

To survive is to suffer. And crippled birds neither fly nor sing. All they are truly good for is to live a life of captivity. The only way to keep them safe is to build them a cage strong enough to protect them from all known predators. A prison of comfort, peaceful enough for them to forget their broken wings and settle down, with only sickeningly sweet scent of heaven in the air. Idyllic enough for it to become a dream.

Thus, Sunday dreams of eternal paradise in which no bird will ever get its wings clipped. In his gilded dreams, humanity’s life is free of misery. There is no survival of the fittest, for there is no weakness. There is no uncertainty, for there is no future. There is no suffering, for there is only Order. Or so the Dreammaster says.

And Ena the Order dreams of a paradise for everyone but Sunday, as he is a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of peace. One must be crucified for the sake of humanity, and Sunday is more than willing to become a martyr if it means he will finally obtain a cage big enough to contain anything and everything that could threaten his family. Or so the Dreammaster says.

To live is to dream. And you, Sunday decides, dream of nothing. For if you were, you would not have been roaming the halls of this maze. Yet Ena the Order sees none of your trespassing, and Sundays dares not to disturb Them with the news of someone so easily escaping their handmade heaven. Yet the ravens won’t stop screeching, the voices continue chanting. You do not belong here, so Sunday has no other choice but to take you out himself. That is the right thing to do. Or so the Dreammaster says. That is what he wants.

“Be not afraid.”

Your hand stops midair. The ribbons of your intricate sleeves keep swaying gently as your fingers tremble a mere inch away from the marble surface of the statue you were admiring. Then you shudder, dropping your arm limply at your side and finally look at him.

“Fear is the soul killer.” You agree easily, the light tremor of your voice betraying you by giving that very fear away. “I’ve been wandering these halls for hours, however. It is natural for me to expect the worst, Mister Sunday.”

You know him yet he remembers you not. So it must be your first time in Penacony, otherwise Sunday would have surely remembered someone like you. Someone who is capable of evading Order’s omniscience. It matters not, however. For he will guide you back to paradise with his own hand.

“I shall show you the way, then.” Sunday offers you his hand in an exercise of faithless chivalry. The white fabric of his gloves is yet to be stained with blood or soiled with the touch of the passing visitors he is forced to exchange pleasantries with. But soon it will be. He doesn't want it to. “If I may.”

“I would be eternally grateful.” You smile. “My family must be worried sick about me.”

There is nothing but kindness behind your voice and the light reflecting of your eyes can blind a sinner if they look at you. Sunday knows better than to trust the emptiness of words and fool’s gold of flattery for he is throwing those around on the daily. So when your palm presses gently against his own, he leads you to your untimely demise with no hesitation and all the remorse one could have, leaving you none the wiser to his true intentions.

Sunday half-expects to be stabbed in the back with some sort of a mythical dagger bestowed upon you by an Aeon who opposes the harmonious Order he is conducting under Ena’s blessing. He's waiting for you to try and snap his other wing right off his back to make sure he isn't even capable of dreaming of the skies. Yet nothing of the sort ever happens. It's a little unnerving, unsettling in a way that makes Sunday feel the phantom pains of things long lost. He wants to accuse you of treachery yet cannot. He wishes to call you a master of deception yet cannot.

Like a saint, you seem to trust him to help you find your way back. Akin to a sinner, it is him who rules over the silver of his tongue and the steel of his word.

Sunday knows he should dispose of you in the waters of the dream pool like he intended to do. That is what the Dreammaster would have wanted. Anything that is a threat to Ena the Order is a threat to his gilded dreams. And those who threaten the cage will inevitably draw a weapon against Robin. Yet he sees no ill intent in your eyes. Just concern for your family who you supposedly burdened with worry of your disappearance. And as it gradually dissolves with each step he takes to the exit of reality, a conflict in him grows stronger.

Standing at the crossroads, Sunday knows nothing. So when the time comes for you to fall back into heaven, he is there to catch you with a promise of never meeting again.

Too bad he never asked for your name. How miserable it is you never thought yourself important enough to give it to him unprompted.

Even in dreams people like Sunday are not exempt from suffering. To suffer is to survive. That is just the price you must pay for being tied to reality like a Charmony dove that has been chained to a metal ball and released into the wilderness. And Sunday may be the head of the Oak Family on paper signed with a bloodstained feather plucked from his own wing, yet he despises dealing with people from the IPC. All precious stone in only name and nothing else, Aventurine is positively infuriating.

In more ways than one.

“One of Astral Express girls disappeared from her room last night.” His smirk is full of poorly hidden mischief and something else that Sunday simply doesn’t care about. He may crave control over all that is his, yet he wishes not to claim someone like Aventurine as one of his own. “How perfectly aligned with your sister’s unfortunate death…”

The muscles of his back are strained. To dominate over his own desires is just as important as it is to rule over every single aspect of the dream that is this life. The gilded dream of Ena the Order must continue, and Sunday will not be the one to sabotage it. To dream is to live.

Sunday taps the railing, “Are you accusing me of kidnapping now?”

Soothing tone and relaxed posture, Sunday will continue his reign over the dominion of Control no matter what he feels or wants. There is no other way. Crippled birds neither fly nor sing, nor do they grow their missing wings back. And even if some foolish being deems them fit enough to recover, takes pity on them and nurses them back to health, domesticated birds will only use those hollow, mended bones of theirs to plummet right back to the ground.

“Just stating my observations.” Aventurine laughs, a noisy little snicker that pierces Sunday’s ears like a nail on the chalkboard. Then he waves dismissively, the lackluster wiggle of his fingers as he turns around to leave. Good riddance, if only eternal. “Good luck. Her Foxian friend is very fond of fried chicken. Me too, now that I think about it…”

Sunday remains standing on the balcony for another hour. There is no rush. He knows who it was that vanished without a trace, and he knows where to find you. But he cannot control someone like Aventurine so Sunday dares not making any irrational decisions. Unlike Aventurine himself, Sunday isn’t fond of gambling. Uncertainty is at the roots of all evil.

He leaves and goes about his business. A sinner to confess their wrongdoings to him; a passerby to shake hands with, a Masked Fool to dampen already soiled mood; a Nameless to throw him a passing glance of suspicion; Robin’s shadow that should not be there for now. If the vermin – a truly formidable man all things considered, yet simply infuriating – is watching, he will see nothing but a busy head of the Oak Family. If Aventurine has better things to do than to follow Sunday’s footsteps in a feat of uncharacteristic obsession, at least Sunday finished all his work for the day and could finally take a shallow breath of momentary relief.

The halls of the maze are empty as they should be, yet Sunday didn’t expect to find anyone there in the first place. You remain in the dining room, rooted next to a marble statue, fingertips barely grazing the cool stone. The ribbons are swaying side to side and the white of your clothes is stained with pinks, blues and purples right in the middle of your back. The colors bleed out from there and drip down the dress onto your skin.

“Be not afraid.”

“Fear is the soul killer.” Your trembling fingers falter and when you turn to face him, there is way more of those pinks and blues all over your heaving chest all the way from your neck. Sunday knows not of what happened and he dares not to ask; his harmonic tuning failed once, and he will not be deceived anymore. “Are you here to escort me back to the dreamscape again, Mister Sunday?”

Sunday swears that if Ena could see you, They too would be just as terrified as he is at that moment. “I’m afraid I do not follow, Miss.”

“Then I shall pretend I said nothing.” You shrug, Sunday’s outstretched hand is hovering in the air for you to take. You do. With no hesitation and all the faith of a religious fanatic, you once more let him guide you out of the painful reality and into a dream as if you didn’t just admit to fully comprehending this fact. “Please be mindful that I will wake up no matter what. Your gilded dream rejects me.”

Sunday stops in his tracks. His crippled wing is pressing uncomfortably to his side, smoothed over bone digging into his skin as a reminder that he cannot ever fly even if he was delusional enough to try to. Every breath is a labor of well-practiced habit and an effort of greatest heights. You’re patiently waiting for him to gather his control back into his tightly clenched fist, the one that is always pulled behind his back to the broken wing he could never repair.

The colors are still bleeding all over your dress as your chest rises and falls in odd intervals. You may have the patience of a saint, yet your fears all eat you alive. Fear is the soul killer. Or so you say. To suffer is to survive. To dream is to live. How can you live if you can never dream?

You furrow your eyebrows. The harmonic tuning has failed yet again. This time without even clouding your mind enough to put you to sleep. Yet your jittering palm keeps trembling in his hold as you exhale lightly, trying to shake off the vibrations of his halo. A delicate cross dangling from your neckless is staring back at Sunday with resentment that he only saves for the person who shot Robin and the Cancer of All Worlds which took away their mother and the scissors which clipped his wings so Sunday would never dare to escape. Or maybe it’s just his reflection looking back at him from the golden glow of the cross.

In retrospect, you did nothing wrong. You don’t even try to hide anything from him, laying your knowledge bare for Sunday to interpret however he wishes to. A sinner that has confessed to their wrongdoings is ought to be forgiven in the eyes of any deity. Yet has this so-called sin been committed in the first place? If you allowed him to baptize you not once but twice, fully comprehending it meant abandoning any uncertain future you humans seem to crave so much.

What is right and what is wrong? What is a virtue and what is a sin? What is an Order and what is a Doubt? Sunday knows not. But he needs to collect all his control and pour it into a cup for you to savor one way or another. If not a sinner, you are a saint. Ena the Order sees you not, so you must have been imprisoned by someone else already. And it is Sunday’s duty to free all of mankind of the shackles of turmoil and lead them to paradise.

For he cannot let you leave yet he cannot bring himself to kill you. Sunday can talk in riddles and try to manipulate your emotions all he wishes, yet you seem to reject the vibrations of Order without even trying. So how does one contain something they cannot control? How does a devout believer tempt a messenger of a foreign god?

“I cannot let you go.” Sunday’s voice is a little hoarse, he is not used to telling the truth. It most often than not leads to suffering, yet something tells him you will see right through him if he does lie. Maybe he has much less control than he initially thought. “You know too much.”

“All is fair, Mister Sunday.” It is not a response a sane woman should give. “However, may I be so bold to ask for a clean dress?”

But saints are all-forgiving, and ordinary people are not meant to understand their reasoning. For there is none. At least not with you. No reason and a heart pinned to your sleeve, bleeding color all over your skin. Sunday needs to know your name so he can search high and low for the Aeon who crucified you for Their own selfish whims.

“I shall pick the best one there is.” Sunday nods.

Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood.

Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

The dress is beautiful. And so is the next. And the one after that. And all the others that follow.

Ribbons and feathers. Intricate lace and weightless silks. Gold and diamonds. All never worn even once and kept neatly in the wardrobe of your bedroom. If your disapproving sigh is anything to go by, you don’t appreciate the excessive luxury, yet accept them just to hide them in your closet and put on the simplest of garments that he brought to you the day you entered the mansion.

Sunday cannot understand you, but differences are included in the natural Order of things. Reality is a lonely prison of misery, and Sunday returns there for he has no other place to belong to. Yet you seem to enjoy it as a long-awaited vacation. Way more than your family does it back in Penacony’s gilded dream.

Sunday doesn’t think your behavior is reasonable, yet he questions you not. You won’t give him the answer he is seeking, anyway. Your heart may be out there in the open, yet the pages of your thoughts are written with invisible ink and no amount of heat can paint them with life.

You have a habit of refusing things you deem unnecessary or excessive, your friendly exposition never wavering even under pressure of almost constant loneliness. Some days Sunday wonders what would happen if he doesn’t return here after all his tasks for the day are done, when Aventurine with his Nameless Foxian companion and her other nosy friends don’t breathe down his neck with accusatory air. He does not entertain such foolish thoughts; they would break his carefully crafted routine and Sunday is a being of habit. For habit is Order.

And so, against his better judgment of clipped feathers, Sunday returns. To your palace of a bedroom, with three light knocks and a little apology for intrusion. You are rarely there, so he is forced to look for you just as he is searching for the Aeon responsible for your fate. And when he does find you, all Order crumbles.

To live is to suffer. Your suffering is intricately woven into your every breath.

On Mondays you prepare a special dinner. It’s just you and him and a lonely candle on a little table on your balcony. The stars are dripping the color of your blood, the wine in your glass is untouched and you never eat more than could fit in a teacup. A life of such modesty is far too unfamiliar for the bird who was brought up in a cage of golden bars and silver spoons, yet Sunday doesn’t mind. He’s got other, more important things to worry about. For if the Dreammaster finds out about you, he will wish to dispose of you. And Sunday may have already sinned for the betterment of humanity, yet he isn’t sure if he is capable of turning saints into martyrs just yet.

“Won’t it be easier to just kill me?” You constantly disarm him with your questions. Some days Sunday isn’t quick enough to even imagine drawing a weapon to protect his mingled self.

“No.” Sunday answers a bit too quickly for his liking. “I mean you no harm, Miss [Name].”

On Tuesdays you clean. The mansion is spotless for it is empty, and there is nothing, but a thin coat of dust gathered around on the bookshelves of his study. You busy yourself with it even if you are told not to bother with such things. Sunday wishes to treat you as a guest despite the circumstances. All people were born equal and pretending that you are anything less than he is would going against what he stands for. His gilded dreams are not built on bigotry or injustice, only harmonious Order of happiness.

Your presence in the room is that of a dove on a branch behind a glass dome. All hollow bones and disarray of feathers, Sunday cannot ignore you even if it is what the Order would have wanted. Yet what the Order cannot see, that is all for Sunday to keep for himself; to hide under his pillow so it won’t ever be taken away from him by any collapsing dreams.

“Do you think me a madman?” He asks.

You laugh and shake your head in amused disagreement. Sunday wishes he could steal your laughter straight from your vocal cords to fill in the holes in his wings with it. He cannot. Yet would you let him if he asked with the utmost honesty? Only time will tell.

You are a willing participant of all and any conversations, despite allowing him to talk most of the time. You listen and ask questions, give your own opinion in bite size pieces that never overshadow his voice. His dreams are grand, and his plans are fragile, yet for all that is worth you take him seriously. A noble man with a heart which bleeds for everyone but himself, you call him. A kind person with good intentions which will pave his downfall for him, you say easily. A caring brother, who will always put his family first even if it is bound to strain the thin red thread that connects them to each other, you smile wistfully.

“A flightless bird which longs for the sky. That is what you are to me, Mister Sunday.”

His soul aches. All bruised and mattered. Sunday would rather you simply called him mad.

On Wednesdays you tend to the garden. Flowers are blooming here no matter the season. Even in reality Penacony is still a dream, albeit not dusted with a thin layer of gold and illusions. You move around the sea of color like a ghost, the white of your dress stained with soil and a twinge of misery.

You don’t think Sunday is mad and you understand his dream of peace, yet you never condone his drastic approach to things. The dreams in which you hold happiness in the palms of your hands simply do not exist. That is what you say to him, picking two stray peonies from the bush and handing one of them to him with the tenderness of a torn-up heart. The other gets its petals plucked one by one with a gentle touch of your fingers, and the pain of the missing parts of him grows with each one getting lost in the green of the grass underneath your feet.

No wishes ever come true in a gilded cage so people will always seek reality, no matter how painful it may be. Sunday thinks his wishes can only ever be fulfilled by a dream in which nobody will suffer anymore. There is simply no such a thing that cannot be obtained by a paradise he wishes to create for everyone with Ena’s holy rule. And you – the misguided messenger of a foreign god, a martyr for a cause which you don’t stand for – you also deserve your wishes granted to you. For everyone is born equal.

“What do you dream of, Miss [Name]?” Sunday wonders, watching you longingly collect every single petal from the grass, mend them together with the hues of pinks and purples and then tear the peony back into pieces.

“I dream of living.”

You look up at him with misty eyes, clouded with yearning and unshed tears. The colors float around your head like a halo. Maybe one of these days Sunday will finally find an answer in those scattered petals.

Thursdays you watch the stars. Time flies as the stars keep shooting from the sky like fallen angels, and you simply observe as they crash and burn. Your fingers twitch as if you wish to catch all of them, yet you ask for nothing.

Sunday comes, his back hunched by the growing weight of endless responsibilities and troubles. Yet when he leaves with his shoulders less tense and buzzing static in his chest, to return to his life of sacrifice that is necessary for the good of all mankind, he never forgets to ask what you wish for. Silence is the only answer Sunday receives, and the gentle sway of the ribbons in a summer breeze tells him he will regret ever asking this question when you finally deem it appropriate to indulge him.

The stars glow bright when you’re out here in the garden. Caged birds keep singing their woeful tunes. Thread and needle in your hands, you’re mending the hem of your dress, still refusing to wear any of those more extravagant ones. Your nightgown is not made for the outside and you shiver. The night isn’t getting any warmer, yet you ask for nothing. To live is to suffer, yet what is life if you only ever knew of torment.

A jacket he places on your shoulders does little, and whatever selfish wishes Sunday has must be drowned in the sea of shooting stars. For they will not be accepted. There is no place for them in this reality in which he lays his mortal body on a stone and holds the nails which he will get crucified with in his own two hands. Yet if the Dreammaster were here, he would have shared Sunday’s vision of the gilded dream that he is bending and breaking to his will just to make enough space in it for you as well. A paradise in which you stay here by his side forever as the messenger for him and no one else.

“I wish for nothing, Mister Sunday.”

Sunday knows it to be a lie. You whisper your true wish with the last breath you take before falling into restless, golden slumber. He will break this world in half to grant it to you, even if it calls for eternity of loneliness. A twitch of a broken wing, you’re almost weightless in his arms. Sunday does not understand why just yet. But he will.

On Fridays you play the violin. For once it’s his fingers that are stained with color. Sunday is staring at the canvas, hues and tones blending together with shadows and highlights to create a heavenly image of absolute divinity. He thinks it belongs to a chapel right where he gets down on his knees to confess his wrongdoings and pray for forgiveness, yet Sunday knows even existence of such a thought in and of itself is a mortal sin.

The melody is full of sorrow and the birds which you released from the cages are all perched on the pews of the chapel where you put them. They cannot fly, so they cannot escape and meet their end in horrifying loneliness. For now, you are here to catch them if they were to fall, so they can only sing along to the miserable tune of a violin in your hands.

“To live is to suffer. We must make peace with this suffering.” You put the instrument back in its case and lock all the birds back in their respective cages.

They do not resist, so Sunday is convinced you are implying that they’ve made peace with their suffering just like the two of you accepted yours. Yet when Sunday washes the pinks and purples of his fingers, he cannot help but think you are wrong. To live is to dream. And to dream is to slumber in eternal paradise, where no suffering can ever touch you.

The portrait he’s made of you will never do your beauty justice, but no icon could ever depict the true holiness of a saint. He will succeed eventually. You will have all the time in the world in his eternal paradise.

On Saturdays you dance. In a world less cruel, the one Sunday will create in the name of Ena, Robin is there to support your performance with the soothing voice of a Charmony dove. She is not, for you and him are stuck in miserable world where no wishes ever come true.

You would have been one of Penacony’s brightest stars, if only you weren’t chained to reality by those who do not deserve you. A twirl, the wind picks up your ribbons as you move gracefully to the melody of a tearful piano. And in a moment of fleeting weakness, Sunday asks about your shackles. And with a sway of your swan song, you share the tale of Istanai the Repudiation.

The Aeon who claimed you at birth and refused to let go even after They forsook your people, and you abandoned Their rusted prison. They are still following you around even after all those years even if They don’t want you. They make no sense for They reject all of it, along with anything else that They have ever touched. Even Their own children, the natural Order of things, any wishes or dreams; They abdicate everything and nothing, for that is the Path that They oversee. It is the Path you were born into and that is also the Path that you abandoned to pursue eternal Trailblaze.

“To live is to suffer. For you can keep nothing. Cannot wish to hold anything.” And then you admit, heat radiating off you in waves, “And I am only useful to this world for as long as I keep Their gaze on me.”

Sunday thinks you are wrong. Yet then the clock strikes midnight, and it marks the Seventh day. And on Sundays, you weep.

With your knees on the cold floor and hands pressed close to your heart, you keep praying in a tongue he cannot comprehend. The words fall from your lips hastily and desperately, as you beg for forgiveness in a language he does not know. Yet the things that Sunday does understand, all relate to the Aeon who stole your will and clipped your wings, chaining you to reality where the weak only get weaker and the strong keep getting stronger.

That is not the Path one should walk on, the loneliness of martyrdom for someone else’s sake is not a burden that should be bestowed upon someone but instead a choice one makes willingly. And you chose not your fate, yet suffer the consequences, nonetheless.

Maybe, Sunday muses kneeling next to you for a prayer. Maybe something simple like a dream is not enough. If They refuse to let you go yet condemn you for keeping them, Sunday can create something bigger than a gilded dream of illusion. Maybe a real paradise will be just enough to steal you away to a life that is worth living.

Your hand gently wipes a tear away from his cheek before it can fall and stain the floor of the chapel. It lingers on your fingers with deep red. One glove, then another. You are as warm as he imagined in the dreams he cannot keep, for he is the lamb of Ena and he is ready to be slaughtered if it means people like you – or Robin, or their dear mother – won’t ever cry anymore. The skin of your palm is smooth against his lips. It’s all Sunday can ever allow himself to have, and that is all that he will ever keep.

“You must leave tomorrow, Miss [Name].” He says, hands grasping your own.

A tear falls. This time it feels like you are weeping for him and him alone.

Maybe being a messenger of the Order is not the end for harmony of happiness, and somewhere in the realm of gods there is a spot for his own ideals as well. The Dreammaker may not understand or approve, yet when Sunday ascends to greatness of true holiness, on his first day he will free you from suffering. And on the seventh, there will be nothing but peace. For his gaze will never abandon you.

Sunday can promise on his blood on your hands.

And as it always is, crippled birds neither fly nor sing. They fall. Shooting stars and collapsing dreams, all Order has been forsaken as gravity pulls Sunday closer to his inevitable demise. His flesh and blood clings to him like the ideals he cannot ever atone for, yet in his noble pursuit of eternal happiness a sliver of selfish desire for comfort remains. So he lets Robin linger yet dares not to soil the purity of her embrace with the dullness of his touch.

A cage will always rust and corrode with time, falling apart at the seams. Gilded dreams are not meant to last forever. Nothing is truly eternal except for humanity’s striving to move forward into that useless future full of self-inflicted misery.

Robin’s breathless voice mutters something that is instantly lost in the wind and she pulls him closer. If Sunday were a better brother, a better man, a better person, he would have stopped all galaxies and frozen this moment just to let his sister descend this condensed and polluted air of his crumbling paradise like a stairway to heaven. He isn’t any of those things. So, he doesn’t even try. No miracle will happen if he does. A bird missing its wing will never catch flight right before hitting the ground.

And Sunday is nothing more than a crippled Charmony dove – a dying raven, truly – destined to roam the cage of his gilded dreams forever, for stepping outside signifies the end of Order and the beginning of Suffering. And he isn’t ready to die yet. He wasn’t ready.

To live is to suffer. To dream is to survive. With no cages and no birds in sight, Sunday accepts the inevitable.

“It is in human nature to reject usurpers, Mister Sunday.” Weightlessness of your voice envelopes all in bright light of heavenly warmth.

A feather. A ribbon. A silken touch of divinity confined in a painfully human vessel. If Sunday didn’t know any better, he would have thought he met face to face with some foreign man’s Goddess. Sunday knows better, however. So he closes his eyes and lets Istanai the Repudiation touch him. There are no rules he wouldn’t break to ensure Robin’s survival. And yet…

“I told you to leave.” Sunday is not used to repeating himself twice. His fingers tremble as he watches Robin take your hand and walk down the ladder he thought to be impossible.

“And as a human that I am, I rejected your order.” You smile. The light in your eyes is made of purest of diamonds and it keeps burning with holy fire. Sunday was foolish to think you would listen to reason and not your bleeding heart. “It seems we don’t have much time, so let me heal your wounds as I celebrate that my naïve soul has won for once.”

Robin, as all free-spirited birds are, is a creature of curiosity. She tilts her head and finds comfort on one of the floating ribbons, swaying on it like a swing. There’s a little ruffle to the feathers of her wings, yet she minds it not, opting to watch the two of you instead. Your eyes may be glowing, yet the sturdiness of your will is starting to wear off. Sunday isn’t sure whether it’s his silence that is making you doubt your decisions, Robin’s dedicated stare or your own thinning convictions. His guess is as good as any, but the most logical answer will always be him.

Your forced companionship has come to its inevitable end. Yet just like the day you two met, Sunday is at the crossroads yet again.

“Robin first.”

There are no protests, just gentle swaying of ribbons, a warm glow of pale pinks and purples, and Robin’s hushed voice humming a tune. She looks livelier, well rested, the shadows under her eyes dissolve under the shimmer of divine rejection. Your hands are hovering over hers, almost grazing the skin yet never daring touching it. As if you too, thought yourself undeserving. It made no sense, yet Sunday had no right to question the natural Order of things. Istanai the Repudiation refused to give Their children up, even if They abandoned them first in pursuit of eternal rejection.

A song stops. A couple of grateful words fall from Robin’s rosy lips. You nod politely, a smile returning to your face with a bit more brightness. You offer him a place to sit, a fleeting glance cast over your shoulder. Sunday has half a mind to follow in your footsteps and refuse, yet he does not. He is tired, wasted efforts and unyielding dreams quivering under the weight of reality, all he truly wishes for is to collapse for good. With his missing wing and shuttered principles. How long has it been since he took a proper breath?

Sunday takes a seat. Like a holy dove that you are, you hover near him from your own heavenly branch. Never touching and always lingering, yet the heat of your skin burns him just like divine flame would scorch a sinner. The light under your fingertips rejects his wounds and exiles his exhaustion, it bends his will and breaks his bones. And if letting go or Order meant keeping you by his side for the rest of his life – however long it may be – then Sunday wouldn’t mind a life of sin of a different kind. And if you were to cross this distance and touch him, he would ask you to stay. Yet you don’t.

To live is to survive. To dream is to suffer. Your mind is somewhere far away, and the ache of his bones makes Sunday feel like he is being reborn. From a dying raven to a Charmony dove with all his wings intact, capable of flying on his own.

“So it is true that your kind cannot be manipulated.”

You shiver. Sunday’s back is throbbing. There’s not a person here but a cat. Cursing you with a heavy gaze of his eyes.

“It’s not nice to sneak up on people like that, Mister Elio.” You chastise him gently, pulling away from Sunday and taking all your holiness away. It is only the sheer power of self-control that allows him to not reach out to tug you back into him so your sunlight can burn him alive. Such earthly desires matter not if you two are soon to separate and never meet again.

The cat – Elio – huffs, unamused by your demeanor. You pay it no mind, your ribbons dissolve into thin air until only two remain. Neither do you answer Elio’s question. Simply gather your holy blood with your own two hands and let it all spill yet again through the stigmata on your palms.

“May heavens be kind enough to let our paths to cross again, Mister Sunday.”

His bones keep aching. The restless feathers of his wings flutter even if he wills them to stop. He can surrender his halo to you and despite it being all that is truly his to own in this life, it would never be enough. Deities require giving up all mortal possessions before devoted worship could be possible and what else can he offer to you if not himself?

Sunday has no time to ponder that question. He doesn’t even have the time to say goodbye to you properly. As gilded dreams are not meant to last forever, and this one too is taken away from him by something he cannot control.

“[Name]!” Himeko seems inhumanly comforted to see you safe, pulling you in a tight hug. And considering she wholeheartedly supported the young Foxian woman threatening to pluck his wings naked for taking you hostage, it is only logical for her to do so.

A brooding man – Dan Heng, if Sunday’s memory doesn’t fail him – stands awkwardly a little behind the two of you, while the aforementioned Foxian lady and her eccentric pink haired friend share a collective sigh of relief. You hesitantly pull away and take a hurried step forward, ushering them away before they can notice anything – anyone – else. You are far too kind for your own good and someone ought to exploit it eventually. At least it won’t be someone like him. It is far out of reach of Sunday’s capabilities to shackle a bird born of paradise.

The cat laughs. Sunday hates cats. You cannot cage them, yet they can snap your wings even if you are perfectly fit to fly on your own.

And so, the cat does.

Sunday’s bones are still aching even when he shakes hands with Kafka. Such is the nature of growing pains. A lot of misery is in Order.

#sunday x reader #hsr x reader #hsr imagines #honkai star rail x reader #sunday imagines #honkai star rail imagines

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candywife333 · 5 months ago

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Moo Moo

PART 2

I know it has been a while, so sorry about that guys. Here is PART 2, hurried along due to popular request. Thanks babe, @yuna0309, for making this story come out faster😂than it was originally slated to! I definitely needed the push. We will have one more part to this. I intend to not procrastinate the last part and have it out ASAP.

chubby cow hybrid y/n x alpha wolf jungkook

cameo of Wheein and Hwasa from Mamamoo and a lot of Taylor swift lyric references throughout

triggers: lactation kink, humiliation, dub con, bullying, body shaming, angst, betrayal

Recap:

He continued crucifying Y/N's gentle heart, "Do you know how many times I did her? She moo'd like a cow every time, as she spilt milk onto the floor. Her pussy is loose and floppy, used up by me. Why would I get with someone with such low self esteem that she gives me unlimited access to her pussy like that, screaming of love every single time. Delusional bitch. As if she would be ever worth my love or undivided attention".

He was so casually cruel in the name of being honest, in the name of telling the truth. What an honest, upright man. Y/N hid behind a potted plant , sliding down to the floor in agony. He had crumpled her like a useless piece of paper , whose words were forgotten.

Maybe she was just a low down cow slut, who wasn't good for receiving love from him or anyone. Maybe it was time she left.

_________________________________________

And that is what Y/N did.

She packed her bags and left.

The horrifying debacle had happened the day before graduation incidentally. Y/N said good-bye to her friends and packed up whatever remnants of her life she had in her hometown. Hwasa sniffled loudly, tears spilling down her face as she sobbed ,"Why are you leaving us? BECAUSE OF WHAT SOME STUPID, UGLY ASS , DISGUSTING PREDATOR SAID ABOUT YOU"? To Y/N's dismay, even Wheein hiccuped, tears streaming down in torrents down her pale cheeks.

Wheein mumbled out ,"You know that you are worth more than any of the predators in this town. You are the heart and soul of our town. Without you, all the young hybrids without parents would go without milk. They would go without your care and love that you give them every Saturday at the orphanage".

Even Y/N couldn't help herself as she silently wept, eyes red, riddled with sorrow at her situation. Even as Wheein and Hwasa embraced her, as she sobbed wretchedly on the floor of her room, she could not stop weeping for all she had lost and all she was going to lose. She may not love her classmates or her school, but she loved the young souls in her town. She sure loved the babies of her town, the gentle souls who never judged her by her looks. They held a pure, unconditional love that she had never been the recipient of. A love she was deemed undeserving of, in the eyes of teenagers and adults . She never received that type of love even from her own parents.

She would miss the babies with chubby cheeks, thick thighs, and pudgy arms. The ones who she cooed and stumbled around, as she cradled them in her lap on the cold harsh winds of winter that were not protected by the red brick walls of the decrepit, run-down orphanage. She would miss the ones she would babysit and watch when their parents were not at home, working long hard hours in the town factory. She would miss feeding them her milk, quenching their thirst for love and attention-their little rotund hands fisting and catching on her shirt in silent adoration as they nourished themselves. Feeding was never just about feeding, it was about connection. Connection to another's soul--transferring unto young babies love and care that they deserved. It was about celebrating a child's entry into the world , by bestowing onto him/her, unconditional comfort and warmth.

But the town would not understand...only absence might teach them. And so she would make herself scarce, absent. She thought she would miss Jungkook, but there was no love left within her to give to him anymore. He had ripped her heart open so callously, she did not know if she could ever heal from this. It would leave a scar, a permanent dent in her soul. It would confirm to her, that perhaps she could never be loved by a man or by perhaps anyone --other than the innocent souls who depended on her.

He had blessed her with a revelation, and if Y/N was anything ---she was perhaps naive , but she was not a goddamn fool to stick around as he trampled her heart to prove his worth in the eyes of other foolish men. He had devalued her, maligned her name, called her a slut- a blatant lie , called her delusional for giving him the gift of her love and her presence. He had insulted her body that wasn't merely to serve as an ornament for any singular man's lust, but he insulted her functional, life giving body--the body of a maternal figure to many kids who had none , a nurturer.

Yet the revelation was, that, what she could give--she could very well take away. And the time had clearly come to do that action.

So, she disappeared into the darkness.

The clock had struck 12 , and there was not a sound to be heard in the town square.

Not a sound to be heard, except the squealing and gurgling of babes faintly resounding in the balmy summer night.

----------------6 years later---------------------------

Jungkook was at his wit's end as he sat down at his office, thick black hair askew , perspiration trickling down his temples . He had become the mayor of the town and he could not have a single night of rest for the past few years as he struggled to take on the burden that came with the heavy mantle of power from his dad.

Their town had been doing alright 5 years ago, till they started noticing a decline in the health of infants. Infants of the town, and especially infants from the orphanage, were becoming more prone to sickness, and some were even dying off without explanation. Nobody could truly explain what was happening, not the doctors, not the parents. The only explanation that the town orphanage could come up with, was Y/N's absence.

According to the orphanage, Y/N used to annually pump a year's worth of milk for the town since she hit puberty - on top of the milk she fed to babies at the orphanage . The sheer volume and quality she was capable of providing was unheard of. A fact Jungkook and many of the town's council members were astonished to find out. Before Y/N , they had been providing all the babies a fortified formula of milk that came from the next town over.

But, once that town's supply had dried up and they refused to help, their town had been getting by in terms of milk supply (without having to seek out costly alternatives) by drinking the milk Y/n produced. The town had been skimping and saving money, instead of buying costly formula--and had skated along on Y/N's abundant supply.

Even when Jungkook decided to buy costly formula from a distant city, to make up for the lack---it simply wasn't the same as Y/N's milk. And the effects of Y/N's milk were abundantly clear as , prior to, and after her supply , rates of infection were higher among infants--compared to when she supplied the milk. The babies of the town on Y/n' supply had flourished, they were a smarter, happier, healthier bunch.

The doctors of the town had to beg the question, if it was merely attributed just to the superior quality of her milk---or was it also her interaction with the babies as she had fed them? And as most elders of the town like to say, "True love cannot be bought".

Something the town had clearly lost out on in Y/N's absence. Y/N thought that the adults of the town wouldn't feel her loss. But they had. The adults had lost Y/N's kind presence around their children, and the eagerness with which she cared and provided support for busy working parents and even the elderly of the town.

Nobody understood why she had left so suddenly without warning.

Nobody except Wheein and Hwasa, who glared contemptuously in Jungkook's direction with disgusted gazes anytime he passed in the town square. And Jungkook was left with the horrible feeling, that Y/N had heard or seen something she wasn't supposed to. He had been trying to prove himself as worthy of this position, since he was in highschool- especially their Senior year.

He had said some harsh words about her at the time, to save face for liking someone rather unconventional in appearance. The entire group had been teasing him, and so had to do something to right their perception of him. He couldn't be known as the chubby chaser, if he was to be mayor.

As he matured, he felt tortured by the memory of what he had said about her that day. She hadn't deserved such disgusting, cold words that put her down. Clearly, she was more important than any of the predators in this town, the so called head honchos of this small town. It was abundantly clear just how much power her love had--- that they all had lost because of his stupidity and immaturity.

He realized it now, that she was the love of his life. And he cringed in pain, recounting how he called her a slut-when he very well knew that he had been her first. The memory stabbed him in his gut, reminiscing how he had ridiculed her body--- her life giving beautiful body. All the slurs he had hurled against her to gain the acceptance of a society, that was anyways crumbling without her.

Even the immature kids that they had gone to highschool with, most of whom stayed in the town, had understood what type of blunder they had made. Pushing Y/n away, harassing her for no reason, ridiculing her body that was valuable regardless of what it did , or did not produce. Most of those who did know what Jungkook did, ceased interacting with him.

Jimin had stopped talking to Jungkook after his statement that day. One thing that Y/N never got to see, was the way Jimin had slapped Jungkook for his cruel words, scoffing at him, yelling, "You miserable son of a ****, how dare you put down your childhood friend like that? Can you even call yourself a good person after what you have implied about Y/N"?

She had not looked up to peer at anybody's face during graduation, or else she would have seen the red imprint of a hand on Jungkook's cheek on the day of their graduation. She would have seen Jimin's righteous indignation as he continued to shiver in anger well into their graduation ceremony.

So, now Jungkook had to right his wrong. He had to somehow find Y/N, and convince her to come back to a town that she thought hated her. He had to somehow show her how lost he felt without her love, how what they had was all he could think of day and night. He couldn't get with anybody after what he had done to her, nobody was enough. He couldn't forget her. He couldn't forget her beautiful lush body stretched out beneath him as she mewled rhapsodies of love into his ear.

He couldn't forget how she listened to every one of his fears and insecurities, and smoothed her hands over his forehead, cupping his cheeks as she kissed him well into the night. His brain could not forget how he pounded into her, his sweat dripping onto her chest as he drinking sweet milk from her nipple-- her wrapping her thick legs around his back as she hugged him , hands around his neck - littering his face with tiny kisses ,cradling him as though he was something precious, as though he was worthy of all the love in the world .

He couldn't forget her love, her kindness, her warmth, her body. Her. She was unforgettable. There was not a second that passed, that he did not remember her shy smile and her warm eyes.

She had ruined him for anyone else, imprinted herself onto his soul. He had found out too late. He had to lose her to find out that he loved her.

And she had given him the greatest punishment of all eternity for his sins. By withdrawing the love he had spat upon mercilessly.

By leaving him.

tags: @yuna0309, @ghostlyworld, @cutiethecupcake

#bts x plus size reader #chubby reader #bts x reader #jungkook x y/n #bts x chubby y/n #bts x plus size y/n #bts x curvy y/n #jungkook x chubby reader #jungkook x chubby y/n #jungkook x plus size reader #jungkook x curvy y/n #angst

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rhaenin-time · 8 months ago

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No, House Targaryen is not inherently "doomed" by the very same flaws (and themes) that doomed the civilization that they left.

No, they're not fated to succumb to the Doom that they survived specifically because of the foresight that set them apart from everyone else who perished. Not only would it be terrible, simplistic writing, it would also endorse a terrible, simplistic worldview.

People choosing to make House Targaryen a representation of and thematic successor to not just the civilization that they differentiated themselves from, but the power structure that they chose to leave, literally divested from, and actively worked to prevent from rising again in another form... really rubs me the wrong way.

Why isn't this projection and generalization done for any of the families that come from the cultures that are not coded as other? Why is it only the family that's been separated from their cultural context? Why do the other families each get to be unique, complex manifestations not just of different aspects of their cultures, but of their own specific histories?

Why is the foreign degenerate family both a representation of everything wrong with the culture they come from, and a scapegoat for everything wrong with the system they assimilated into? How is it they represent everything bad about what they left behind, and also everything bad about the land they came to? Even though all those flaws are not only shared by the system as a whole, but are flaws that predate their arrival, that they were punished for resisting, and that they are demonstrated to be incompatible with. Why is it always both?

It just rings so familiar to the way so many people view the other in real life. Because the Targaryens are overtly, and intentionally written as the other. It's the reason so many people identify with them, and it's the very same reason that other people vilify them. They're not just the in-universe other to the 'default' culture established in the text, but they're also given characteristics that we, the reader and audience, can recognize as other and even sometimes anathema to Western Christian culture.

Perhaps the old tales were true, and Dragonstone was built with the stones of hell

A Storm of Swords, Chapter 25, Davos III

I want you to ask yourself: Why is the idea of "fire and brimstone" evil?

To paraphrase the annoying people that love to cite Ramsay when they feel like it: If you look at a morally complex family surrounded by other morally complex families in a morally complex world in a story that's famed for seeking to challenge your underlying assumptions, and think that their association with fire and brimstone is meant to signify their singular satanic evilness, rather than say... challenge that very Eurocentric assumption, you haven't been paying attention.

This vilification mindset where the Targaryens are the singular evil of Westeros is so common to people who seem to want to consume ASoIaF without engaging with the criticisms of the Eurocentric worldview of history at the heart of it. And they end up using the convenient “others” to project all the wrongs of that world onto so they don't need to examine it any deeper.

This is the part where I so often get crucified!

This is the take that so often gets me crucified for "trivializing real world bigotry" in an attempt to "moralize interpretations of fiction" by an onslaught of people with troubling ideologies who then ironically steer the onslaught to moralizing their interpretations of fiction in a way that seeks to either mask or justify their troubling ideologies.

The worldbuilding of ASoIaF is an almost unparalleled projection of the Eurocentric worldview. That's what makes the world feel so rich. That's why GRRM and even the readers and audience are able to craft so many details that feel intuitive. But that also means that how you choose to interpret that world is often driven by underlying biases and ideologies that relate to that worldview — especially if you're not willing to challenge them the way George RR Martin does and encourages you to do.

It means that certain potential biases and ideologies people might balk at outwardly expressing in the real world are recontextualized in a way that feels more comfortable to indulge in.

There are countless examples from countless parts of the narrative. Honestly, you could fill books on the matter. But the one I'll point to right now is how the vilification I pointed out earlier is so emblematic of how the Eurocentric worldview often seeks to project their own flaws onto the other or choose scapegoats for systemic issues.

It comes from the same place with how someone pointed out that the baffling bastardphobia that would have medieval peasants giving the side eye is so often people jumping at the chance to “cosplay” as bigots who base their arguments in misogyny and bio-essentialism. Because it's an acceptable channel to indulge in that mindset in a way that they'd often otherwise question, or at least hold back from expressing out of caution.

And there I go again. "Moralizing fandom" for pointing out that fandom is so often used as a 'safe space' to build communities that share and spread troubling ideologies that you're not allowed to criticize because those ideologies have been 'appropriately' decontextualized from their real-world parallels, even though those parallels are still very much there.

But the problem is that it's impossible to simply 'channel' bigotry and leave it in an 'acceptable' space, because bigotry doesn't work like that. It's not a static object you can carry around in your pocket to play with when you think it's safe to do so. It's a blight. A living poison that feeds and grows and spreads. And if you give it a 'safe space' and continue to feed it with 'acceptable' fuel, it will always find its way out.

#oh my god this rant took so many turns #but how poetic would it be to get 'crucified' over this take #this was just supposed to be me slowly working towards my long essay about why people love to call targaryens “nazis”#but god i could fill a book with how fandom is an incubator for bad real-world politics #and then i was like - fuck - i got cancelled on twitter so often for any take like this and it's actually aggravating #asoiaf fandom #asoiaf #hotd #fire and blood #house targaryen #daenerys targeryan #hotd critical #because you KNOW some of those writers have been indulging in this interpretation #don't get me started on the 'eastern decadence' themes that also pop up around the targaryens #and how it relates to their 'eastern aesthetic' that would take all day

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hansuoddie · 2 months ago

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i had to do it guys..

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eclipseshotel · 6 months ago

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#yautja #crucified predator #cruci kitty had a lot to say #the grunt he makes when he hits the ground 🤭

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junophernelia · 3 months ago

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The Name of Blasphemy

Vampire Hannibal X Monster Hunter Will Graham

Part 1: Authority to the Beast

No warnings, 1.8k words, Will goes to meet the Lord, Next Chapter

The night was thick with the scent of decay, the type of palpable rot that clung to the damp earth. The moon, veiled by clouds, cast a dim light over the dense forest. Will moved through the shadows like a predator, his senses heightened, every nerve on edge. He wasn’t nervous—his body had simply slipped into the familiar state of heightened alertness. His crossbow was strapped to his back, the silver-tipped bolts gleaming faintly in the darkness. In his hand, he held a knife—its edge honed to a razor-sharp finish, ready to cleave through flesh and bone. Will had been hunting monsters since he could hold a weapon, trained to see through their disguises, to kill without hesitation.

The day before, he had spent hours speaking with the wary townspeople of the dilapidated village he had been led to after years of relentless tracking. His father and grandfather had both been rangers, sworn to protect the world from the godforsaken horrors that lurked in the night. His earliest memories were of his father telling him that no one was to be trusted. Will’s childhood had been shaped by old folklore books and his father’s brutal training, which often bordered on beatings.

The stories the villagers had shared were familiar—tales of missing people, of strange figures seen at dusk, of something lurking in the woods that no one could explain. But these accounts were different too. There was a consistency to them, a deep-seated fear that felt more genuine, more immediate. This village had been touched by something ancient and malevolent.

His initial thought had been a werewolf, or maybe, in the best case scenario, an angry fae. But after stumbling upon a man drained of blood and crucified in the town square, Will knew he was dealing with vampires. The gruesome display was too deliberate, too cruel, to be the work of anything else. A couple of days later, he was certain it was the work of a single vampire—one with a particular taste for theatrics. Beyond that, though, he wasn’t sure of anything else. The uncertainty gnawed at him, a constant reminder that this hunt was far from straightforward.

The townspeople had directed Will to the lord’s house, insisting that the manor would hold records of past events and perhaps even details about notable figures in the town’s history. They spoke of Lord Lecter with a mixture of reverence and awe, describing him as a recluse but undeniably benevolent. He had been kind to the people, building churches, employing farmers on his land, and ensuring that no one went needy under his watch. Yet, as Will approached the manor, it became clear that this was no ordinary estate. The structure loomed on a rocky seaside cliff, its towering spires cutting into the sky cutting the moonlight and casting shadows on the land in front. The air was thick with the briny scent of salt, the ocean waves crashing violently against the rocks below, echoing through the cavernous halls that lay just beyond the fortress’s cold stone walls.

The closer Will drew, the more the manor revealed its true nature—a castle, ancient and foreboding.Something about this castle felt wrong. The stories of Lord Lecter’s benevolence didn’t match the oppressive weight of the place, and the scent of salt was mixed with something heavier in the air, a smell he couldn't explain. It was a place that had seen centuries pass, a place where secrets were buried deep within its walls, and where the very stones seemed to hum.

Will approached the massive iron-bound gate, pushing it open with a creak that echoed through . Beyond it lay a large courtyard, surprisingly well-kept despite the castle’s ominous presence. Through the windows, he could see figures moving—servants hurrying down corridors, shadows flitting by that he couldn’t quite decipher. The castle was alive with activity, yet it felt like a world unto itself, isolated and steeped in an ancient darkness.

He reached the entrance, a large wooden door adorned with a brass knocker shaped like a snarling beast. Grabbing the knocker, he rapped it against the door, the sound reverberating through the still air. After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing a young woman in a maid’s outfit. She was tan, with long dark hair pulled back, and her eyes flicked over him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

Before Will could speak, she began, her tone brisk and unimpressed. “Is the lord expecting you?”

Will pulled back his hood, revealing his face. “I need to speak with the lord of the house,” he said, his voice clipped and urgent.

She sighed, rolling her eyes as if she had dealt with far too many such requests. “If you have an issue, please wait until the next council meeting and present your complaints with the rest of the townspeople.”

She started to shut the door, but Will quickly stuck his foot in the gap, stopping it from closing. “It’s imperative,” he insisted, his voice low and steady. “People’s lives are at stake.”

The maid hesitated, her eyes narrowing as she appraised him more carefully. With a huff, she relented, opening the door wider to let him in. “The lord is currently entertaining guests,” she said, her tone slightly less dismissive, “but I’ll show you to a drawing room. You can wait there.”

The maid led Will through a labyrinth of winding servants' hallways, each turn revealing more of the castle’s opulent yet eerie interior. Finally, she ushered him into a well-decorated drawing room. The space was elegant, with dark green walls lined with bookshelves that held a collection of old, well-preserved books. Shelves scattered with expensive-looking knickknacks.

On one wall, a series of landscapes hung in ornate frames, each capturing serene sites of places he will probably never see. However, it was a single portrait that drew Will’s attention. It was unlike the others, standing out with a striking intensity.The subject had a chiseled face, high, defined cheekbones and a strong jawline. His eyes were deep-set and piercing, the irises a shade of blue so intense they seemed almost unnatural, as if they held secrets that could unravel one’s soul.

His hair, dark and slightly tousled, framed his face in a way that added to the portrait’s compelling allure.The man’s expression was a blend of calm confidence and something darker, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, as if he were privy to some profound truth that others could not grasp.

Will found himself drawn to the portrait, unable to look away. There was something about the man’s gaze that seemed to follow him, a magnetic pull that made him feel as though he were being observed, scrutinized. It was as if the man in the portrait was very much alive, his presence filling the room with an almost tangible weight.

The doors of the drawing room swung open, and, as if the portrait had been an omen, the subject himself entered. Hannibal Lecter was even more striking in person than his painted likeness. His presence was almost magnetic, commanding attention with an effortless grace. His tailored suit and the way he moved—calm and assured—added to his aura of authority and intrigue.

As their eyes met, Will instinctively looked down and gave a short bow, the kind that highbrow types often favored. “I’m—uh, I’m Will Graham. A mercenary of sorts,” he introduced himself, careful to leave out his true identity as a ranger. Something about Hannibal’s presence tugged at him, an unnameable feeling that made him cautious.

Hannibal’s gaze was both probing and amused as he took Will in. “A pleasure, Mr. Graham. I am Hannibal Lecter, the lord of this land, though I assume you already knew that.” His voice was smooth and cultured, with an undertone of warmth that made it clear he was accustomed to wielding power.

As Hannibal moved further into the room, Will, almost driven by nervousness, spoke again. “There’s been a string of murders in the village, and I’ve been contracted to solve it. The people pointed me toward you.”

Will shuffled his cloak, a gesture of both discomfort and determination. “They say you keep records that could help me, my Lord—records of similar events and notable people.”

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully as he settled into one of the plush chairs, his posture elegant and relaxed. “I’m afraid they’ve sent you at an inopportune time. The records are kept in the manor’s vault along with other artifacts. I have a particular interest in a rare painting, and I’ve sent my in-house historian to verify its authenticity.”

Will, still standing, felt a twinge of frustration. He shifted uneasily, eyeing the armchair as though considering sitting, but deciding against it. “Can I not just enter the vault? I promise I won’t ruin or take anything.”

Hannibal’s expression softened slightly, though there was an air of finality in his words. “I’m afraid not. I have entrusted the only set of keys to the vault to my employee.”

Will’s shoulders slumped slightly, his hope of a quick resolution fading.

“When will he return, my lord?” Will asked, his tone tinged with frustration.

Hannibal’s response was measured and calm. “In about a week, give or take.”

Will’s face contorted with disappointment, and he began to shuffle around the room, his restlessness evident. Hannibal, observing his agitation, spoke up.

“You are welcome to stay and wait. I care deeply for my subjects and would not want to send you back empty-handed.” His tone was sincere.

Will let out a nervous cough before replying. “That’s a kind offer, but I’m fine staying at the inn.”

Hannibal stood and walked towards him with a graceful, deliberate pace. “I insist. Though the records are sealed, you are welcome to access the library. I’m sure you could find something of use there.”

Will considered the offer. He knew that old libraries often held rare editions of folklore and historical texts—books that weren’t available in bookshops or markets. It could be valuable in his hunt.

“I appreciate your offer,” Will said finally, “I’ll leave as soon as I find what I need.”

A genuine smile spread across Hannibal’s face. He clapped his hands together, the sound crisp in the quiet room. “Excellent. I’ll have a maid prepare a room for you near the library. You can begin your search at your convenience.”

Hannibal’s assurance had a reassuring quality, though Will remained wary. He nodded, accepting the arrangement.

A maid suddenly swung the door open, her entrance abrupt and her demeanor respectful. “My lord,” she said quietly, then turned to Will and gestured for him to follow her.

As Will moved to follow the maid, he heard Hannibal’s voice behind him, smooth and composed. “I’ll see you around, Mr. Graham.”

Will could feel Hannibal’s gaze lingering on him, even as he walked away. The weight of those eyes on his back was almost palpable, a reminder that he was under constant scrutiny in this castle. The feeling only heightened his unease as he followed the maid down the winding corridors.

#hannigram #hannibal #nbc hannibal #nbc hannigram #will graham #hannigram fanfiction #fanfic #hannibal lecter #will x hannibal #hannibal au #murder husbands #vampire hannibal

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