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curryshesus · 1 year ago

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bts fics that give me life in a drought

(aka my favorite fics of all time) pt. 2

didn't expect to make a part 2 so soon but seeing how much recognition the first one got, here we are! some of these contain a hearty amount of angst, and oh they're just simply divine :( once again, please make sure to show your love and support to these lovely authors if you enjoyed any of these reads as much as i did!

➺ knife’s edge - by @readyplayerhobi

| jungkook x reader, jimin x reader | 141.8k

mafia au, fluff, angst, smut, violence, series

>> summary: "the jeon clan is family, built on blood and loyalty. it’s been an unspoken fact that one day you will marry the heir to the clan, jeon jungkook. you would be a fool to deny that you love him, but what happens when you meet a blue haired man who offers you a chance at normality?"

this fic absolutely BROKE ME. i was so conflicted all throughout and deadass went through all the 50 stages of grief. the angst was unparalleled. the fluff had me giggling like a madman cuz jk is an absolute sweetheart :( jimin is too :(( y/n is dumb and so is her situation :((( i cherish this fic sm

➺ novocaine - by @kinktae

| jimin x reader |

1990s au, exes au, angst, eventual smut, series

>> summary: "going home was hard – painful even. but falling back in love with jimin, the boy you left behind? downright gut-wrenching."

➺ ghostin him- by @adonis-koo

| namjoon x reader (taehyung x reader) | 26k

angst, angst, as well as angst. comfort too dw, one-shot

>> summary: "life is nothing more than dull colors for you, your world shattered and laying in the shards of what once was rather than focusing on what is. that is until you meet kim namjoon, who is immediately taken by you without realizing you’re a girl with a whole lot of baggage, through tears and many sleepless nights you’re faced with a choice of hanging on with bleeding hands, or accepting what is, and letting go."

ohmygod the writing hello? the amount of soul, depth, and sheer utter beauty in missy's words are beyond me. had me sobbing every other line and my heart aching all throughout and boy was it worth it.

➺ take five - by @jiminrings

| yoongi x reader | 10k

angst, fluff, unrequited love, pinning

summary: "dr. min yoongi's a board-certified dermatologist; skilled, renowned, and in-demand - oh and also, he's divorced."

➺ page turner - by @gukslut

| taehyung x reader | 13.6k

teacher!tae/ librarian!reader, fluff, smut, minor angst

summary: "corny romance and a zillion cheesy Romeo and Juliet quotes and references."

my tainted hopeless romantic heart ugh. they're so cute.

➺ bloom- by @hobidreams

| namjoon x reader | 20.7k

assassin!reader x florist!namjoon, smut, angst, action, sprinkles of fluff

>> summary: "family is who you kill for. who you die for. in this society, you and your kin are shadows, clinging to the darkness to obey orders absolute. but when such orders command you to abandon what little honor remains for wealth and notoriety, you find yourself lost in lonely uncertainty about the only vocation you’ve ever known. that is, until you meet a man with gentle hands, a poet’s heart, and a love for coaxing the world into bloom."

➺ counterfeit culture - by @ggukcangetit

| seokjin x reader | 29k

modern day au loosely based on jane austen’s pride & prejudice, e2l, fluff, smut, comedy

>>summary: “for as long as you can remember, you’ve always known right from wrong, good from bad, and woke from entitled/ignorant. but when you continue to cross paths with Kim Seokjin - the apparent antithesis of everything you believe in - certain walls begin to crumble. and over time, you come to realise that the world isn’t black and white, first impressions can be misleading, and that you are just as guilty as each person you’ve judged so harshly. realisation brings acceptance, and maybe, just maybe, acceptance can bring something more.��

➺ if i told you - by @gukyi

| jungkook x reader | 22k

friends to lovers!au, college!au, fluff, comedy, angst

>> summary: "in order to pay for university, jeon jungkook decides to market his most valuable asset to the wealthy socialites of campus: himself. donning a suit and tie, tousled hair, and glasses (to look smarter), he becomes every rich daughter’s dream: the perfect boyfriend to bring to balls, dinners, and business gatherings. all while you watch from the sidelines, only able to dream of having that much money to buy yourself what you really want: him."

➺ to hold a dragon's heart - by @softlyjiminie

| taehyung x reader | 19.1k

dragon prince!kim taehyung x warrior princess!reader, smut, angst, fluff, forbidden romance, dragon shifter!au, royalty!au, enemies to lovers!au

>> summary: "two kingdoms, two hearts and the world between them. your whole life has been a challenge, never an easy moment on your road to becoming queen but will one decision, one encounter with the man you were destined to hate, change the fate of your worlds, forever?"

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zot3-flopped · 8 months ago

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Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

#this review is everything #anti taylor swift #taylor swift #travis kelce #3.6 !!!#hope Pitchfork comes for her too #jack antonoff #taylor swift reviews #the department of tortured poets #poets review #ttpd reviews

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bitethedevil · 3 months ago

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I swear, I’m minutes away from pulling out a giant bulletin board and covering it in pieces of string that connect Rafael to every single event in the game. I feel like a crazy person, but I know that he basically spiderwebbed most of the plot together.

Goddamn it, anon (said lovingly). Now I feel like making my own too. Because I swear, he pops up all over the place, even just for stuff that’s not even plot relevant.

Spot the Devil: Raphael's Involvement in the plot

I’ll start out with letters and books I’ve found that made me go “hmmmm”.

Letter in the Harpy Nest (Maybe)

When you’ve saved Mirkon he mentions something about a nest nearby. If you get to it there is a ring, a journal, and a letter. The letter is what made me go “hmm”. You can read the full thing here. Basically, a guy named Edmund tells wife/girlfriend that she doesn’t have to worry about someone named Maggie Two-Fingers anymore, because he has settled a debt. To pay off said debt, he makes a deal with a cambion and becomes a warlock:

”[…] I took the deal the cambion offered. I'm not going to say I had no choice, because that would be a lie. But I don't regret it. I'm a new man. I feel strong for the first time in my life. Aside from being awoken in the middle of the night by the smell of sulphur (he likes to drop by to 'see how everything is going') I have no complaints […]”

Now, there was a journal too, but I don’t believe the two things were related, even though the journal talks about a devil too. From what I can see, the journal is an easter egg for a campaign called ‘Tomb of Annihilation’. Besides, Edmund is going to Icewind Dale and the campaign takes place in Chult.

It just makes sense to me if its Raphael. We know he hangs out near the grove because we get jumpscared by him before going to this area. It could be our boy and with how much he pops up constantly it wouldn’t surprise me.

A Pleasurable Deal (Maybe)

You can pry this theory from my cold dead hands: Raphael was involved in making this play. It stinks of him.

So, A Pleasurable Deal is an erotic play. The plot isn’t completely written out, but a cambion, who is named Carlisle in the play, is involved.

“Carlisle: Weep not, young man, though free your wife has fled,

And comfort found in comrade's arms and bed.

She licks her lips and cries his name, oh my!

And now you seek to be the apple of her eye?”

Carlisle basically helps a man named Robert get a bigger dick, or…something along those lines. The ”apple of her eye” line is just so Raphael. The whole thing is, to be honest. In the A Pleasurable Deal: The Shocking Truth, it’s revealed that the author sold her soul to make it:

“Interviewer: So .. what was your deal?

Harp: I beg your pardon?

Interviewer: In fact, this was your directorial debut, wasn't it? You couldn't even get published in the tabloid 'Baldur's Bash' before this play came out. Did you honestly trade your soul for an erotic play?

Harp: I- all right, we're done here.”

I mean, come on. This is so him. It’s right up his alley.

Devil Don’t Rhyme

This is a book you can find in the Devil’s Den. Devil Don’t Rhyme is definitely about him:

“[This is a heroic fantasy in verse form, told in the first person by a bold poet who challenges a devil (clearly modelled on Raphael) to an improvised poetry contest to win back the soul of his lover. The following couplet has been circled in red ink.]

'If the line doesn’t scan,' the devil sneers, 'you forfeit your soul and end in tears.' / 'Ha! I’ll keep my time and make my rhyme, with vim and snap and no "down came the claw" crap.'”

Which is just so fucking funny to me. He has been seething and underlining the parts that prove it’s about him.

Alright, onto actual events: Netheril

Raphael was there when Netheril fell. He told us in the Devil’s Den. He has been searching for the Crown of Karsus ever since. He saw the entirety of Karsus’s fuck-up, but didn’t manage to snatch up the Crown of Karsus itself. We do know, however, that he has other Netherese artifacts (the Archivist says so). The Regalia of Karsus were three objects and Raphael has at least one, meaning that if Raph gets the crown, he has a much bigger chance at actually controlling it and using it like it's supposed to be used. This might also be why Mephistopheles hasn't used it: he doesn't have the other artifacts to properly harness its powers.

There are also theories that he has been skulking about and trying to find it after. There’s a really well written theory by @firlionemoontav that connects him to Lenore from the Arcane Tower in the Underdark. He has left no stone unturned.

Orpheus and Vlaakith

I learned about this from an amazing theory post made by @certifieddilfenjoyer

When you go to the Astral Plane, near Orpheus, there is this Githyanki slate that you can find. It depicts Vlaakith making a deal with a Devil, “his face twisted with wry charm”, for the Astral prism. Yeah, Orpheus’ imprisonment? Raphael helped with that. He even taunts Orpheus while he waits for us to approach him and says something about him looking good in chains or something along those lines (kinky old man yaoi).

And honestly, it makes perfect sense as to why he has the hammer then. The hammer has multiple purposes, but in About Creation of the Orphic Hammer he mentions it as “insurance policy”:

“The Hammer is not a weapon, it is an insurance policy. Its function is specific, but its utility is boundless. No chains forged by infernal hand can withstand its power, for its core is a metalifferous compound combining the purest of essence of all Nine hells. If I should ever need to liberate the prisoners held in the Iron City of Dis, to shatter the vaults of Nargus, or even to free the child of Gith, my hammer will be equal to the task.”

Makes good sense because what he has done with the Astral Prism is a pretty big deal and hard to undo otherwise.

Moonrise Towers, the Gauntlet of Shar and Astarion

So, Raphael makes a deal with the architect of Moonrise Towers, who you also see wandering around the House of Hope. The architect gives up his soul in exchange for Raphael ending Ketheric’s army.

To do that, he sends Yurgir who is tasked with killing every last justiciar. Raphael then makes a deal with one of the justiciars who he then turns into a bunch of rats so that Yurgir can’t fulfill his contract.

We then help Yurgir or kill him, and Raphael helps us with Astarion’s scars. (This is just me theorizing from here) I find it kind of interesting that Raphael seems to know so much about Astarion. You get the feeling that he has obviously done his research on all of the companions, but with Astarion he makes that nasty “you’ve kept your clothes on this entire time? How unlike you” comment. Astarion would be such an easy target to go after, which makes me believe that Raph definitely knew beforehand about Astarion AND Mephistopheles’ deal with Cazador, but he hasn’t been able to pettily do something about it before the things that happen in BG3. But he has kept an eye on it. He can’t be seen defying his father like that directly, after all. I just find it hard to believe that Raph wouldn't jump at the business opportunity of 7000 desperate vampires hiding in Baldur's Gate. Like he definitely knows.

Gortash

Raphael bought Gortash from his parents when he was a kid, and Gortash eventually got out. It’s quite possible that Gortash only knew about the Crown of Karsus because of Raphael. He even went through Raphael’s house to steal the crown (and probably took a portal from there to Cania).

Might also be the only reason that he would ever make a deal with Zariel. He knows the Hells and how they work. In a way its even more of a “fuck you” that he goes to Zariel because she is far above Raphael as she is the Archdevil of Avernus (and thus she is sort of Raph’s boss). We also don't know what Gortash gets in return for handing Karlach to Zariel. It's speculated that it has something to do with the construction of the Steel Watch, but it wouldn't surprise me if peace from Raphael was a part of it too.

A world without Raphael

So, basically: had Raphael not been there, Orpheus would be free and a whole people would have had very different lives under someone else than the Vlaakiths, because Orpheus would have rebelled and told everyone what she did to Gith (his mother). We wouldn’t have had the Astral Prism to protect us, but on the other hand, we might not even have had the whole tadpole business to deal with anyway if Gortash didn’t know where the Crown of Karsus was. The whole thing could literally have been avoided.

(Thank you for the ask <3)

#raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #bg3 raphael #bg3 #baldur's gate 3

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bloodymiso · 7 months ago

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★ pakisabi nalang sa kanya — multifandom x gn!reader

how did they show their love for you pre-confession + how did they confess?

a/n: always wanted to do one of these posts teehee:3 | fandoms: genshin impact, stardew valley, l&co + haikyuu!! | warnings: none!

— through letters “sometimes, love creates a poet.”

words weren’t enough to explain their love for you, but putting some action into it might help. day and night, they put their admiration for you into sweet, beautiful words they wished would help them explain what you had done to their hearts. though they knew those words could never explain even a third(1/3) of what their heart ached to say. once, twice, even thrice a week you’d arrive to school/work with a little note under your desk, locker, or even in your lunchbox. letters filled with toe-wiggling poems, songs, and beautiful paragraphs which overflowed with love in every single line started piling up in your room. they wondered what you even did to their letters, were they rotting away in the trashcan? were they turned to dust by the fire you lit in your backyard? or were they kept safely in a small box under your bed, a heart encircled on its cover? little by little, they added clues to their identity, whether it be a flower which was related to them, or a little trinket from your past encounters. one day, they handed you a letter by hand, after of course getting you on a whole treasure hunt to find out where to go. that little adventure led you to a garden. with you sweaty, stressed out, and confused, they confessed right there.

gi. KAZUHA, diluc, fischl, XINGQIU, kokomi, alhaitham(HEAR ME OUT), charlotte sdv. ELLIOT l&co. kipps(again, HEAR ME OUT) + your faves!! ♡

— quietly “in silence, we often find the deepest connection.”

it took them a while to understand what was happening, the way their hearts beat faster at your mere presence, the way the curve on your lips seemed to infect their own, the way they always couldn’t wait for the next day purely because of you. after hours of staring at the ceiling, they came to a conclusion—it was love. that was all. you weren’t some sorcerer who snatched their heart, nor were you a weirdo who spiked their drink, you were you, and apparently, they liked that. ever since their “awakening” they started doing little things for you. whether it was returning one of your pens they saw on the floor, or refilling your water bottle whenever you were too focused on works/studies. all these little things came unnoticed by you, but they knew they were making a difference

day by day, the spark between you grew. smiles were exchanged as you made eye contact, now, they weren’t afraid to do things for you in the dark, now they could step out of the shadows, and help you as they were. their confession was abrupt, and unexpected at that. as they stood in front of your desk, they held out a singular rose.

gi. NEUVILLETTE, cyno, diluc, XIAO, sucrose, freminet, wanderer sdv. sebastian, leah, penny hq. KAGEYAMA TOBIO, kozume kenma + your faves!! ♡

— proudly “you can’t blame gravity for falling in love.”

oh this little shit. they couldn’t get enough of you, nor could practically everyone else around them, they had no choice! always blabbing about how angelic you were, how your happiness seemed to be so..contagious. “okay so today—“ they started, before their poor friend quickly placed a hand on their somehow always open mouth. “don’t even start.” you’d think people would like to keep their crushes secret, especially to the one they admire but nope! even you knew! get ready for flirting galore. i don’t think they would even need a confession, the whole nation practically knew at this point. there were times you thought their love for you was fake, that they were just joking. i mean, they never actually confessed.

well, until now, of course. they got news to spread around town that they got a lover and that they’ve been spotted at the local cafe which may or may not have caught your attention. now, they stood there, bouquet in hand(coffee in the other) and friends all around.

“so uh, would you like to be that lover?”

gi. TARTAGLIA, KAEYA, baizhu, beidou sdv. sam(?) l&co. LOCKWOOD hq. iwaizumi haijime, OIKAWA TOORU, tanaka ryūnosuke + your faves!! ♡

— through teasing “pride often gets in the way of love.”

oh god did you hate their ass. woke up at 5am just to be early to work/school?oops! they beat you there, now they won��t stop talking about it! they love teasing you, they just can’t stop. sometimes they wonder if the real reason theyre teasing you is to cover up what’s really under their skin, to cover up the hook you pierced through their heart. it ate them up from the inside, but no way were they gonna admit that! if someone’s gonna confess, it better be you first..

they would have confessed rather stupidly. having gone to a bar in the evening with their friends, they called your number(which they got after getting down on their knees and begging) and confessed right there, their voice slurred, it was obvious how many glasses they chugged down. the next day, they remembered absolutely nothing, it took you a few days before finally confronting them about it.

“wait what?! i confessed to you? d-do you like me back?”

gi. TARTAGLIA(again), KAEYA(again), itto, sdv. shane(ig) hq. kuroo tetsurō, TSUKISHIMA KEI, bokuto kōtarō + your faves!! ♡

extra. through songs/music ( kazuha, itto, elliot sdv, tsukishima kei & lucy carlyle) . through food ( XIANGLING, ningguang, emily sdv + me/hj)

(><) wanna support? reblog with tags pookie!!

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kay-elle-cee · 3 months ago

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@jilytoberfest 31 Prompts: Day 10 || 543 Words || Read on Ao3 —

3 July 1977

03 July 1977 1:06pm

Lily: I need to tell you something but you have to promise not to do anything stupid about it.

Cross-legged on her childhood bed, Lily chews on the end of her pen as her eyes stay trained to the little scrap of charmed parchment that sits in front of her. Light pours in through the open window, bathing her in its summer glow and her stomach churns, unsure if he’ll have the ability to reply immediately, though she desperately needs it.

James: …that’s a hell of a way to start.

Lily: You have to promise.

James: I don’t even know what it is I’d be doing something stupid about. I’d like to have the rest of the information first, if you don’t mind.

Bugger. She supposes it’s not that unjust of a request.

Lily: It’s my mum.

Lily: She’s gone and set me up on a date with a friend’s son.

James: I see. And you were expecting me to…what? Come crash the date? Show up like some jilted lover angry to find his girl with another?

Lily: I cannot emphasize how much I don’t want to go, but I told her I wasn’t seeing anyone and I’ve fallen into her trap.

Lily: I just wanted to let you know it’s happening, and it’s not my choice, and I am not happy about it, so please don’t make an already mortifying situation any worse.

James: You haven’t even told me where the date is going to be. Virtually impossible to show up unannounced that way.

James: Unless…

James: Evans, do you want me to crash your date?

Lily: Of course not!

James: You sly thing. You want me to ruin your date so you don’t have to hurt this poor bloke’s feelings all on your own, don’t you?

Lily: Now you’re just being ridiculous.

James: Me? Lil, there is a whole other way this conversation could’ve gone. “I told my mum I wasn’t seeing anyone so she’s set me up with a friend from her knitting group’s son (ugly mug, I’m told, poor thing). It doesn’t mean a thing but I have to go to fulfill some sort of blood oath between knitting club members. Please know my heart beats only for you.”

Lily: Quite the poet, you are.

Lily: And Gerald’s not got an ugly mug!

James: Oh it’s Gerald now, is it?

Lily: Just a quick bite for dinner tonight and we part ways as friends. I promise.

James: Lil, I’m just teasing you. I trust you, of course. I know we’re keeping this under wraps for now…I won’t pretend that I expected something like this to happen, but it’s fine.

Lily: …You’re really great, do you know that?

James: Of course I do. You might want to tell Lily of 1976 that though.

Lily: Poor thing would never believe me.

James: She’d think it was some elaborate ruse on my end.

Lily: Oh, absolutely.

Lily: If you promise not to make a scene…I’ll let you know where I’m meeting Gerald for dinner. If you’re not busy, maybe we could get some ice cream after?

James: I’ll be on my best behavior. Watching in dutiful silence from the other side of the diner.

Lily: Oh, don’t you dare.

#jily #jple #a life with you #jilytober #jilytober2024 #jilytoberfest2024 #james potter #lily evans

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mauveastrum · 1 month ago

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Classics student’s guide to romanticising november

While I personally love november, I understand why some people can’t really always appreciate it; especially where I live, it gets real gray around this time, when autumn still lingers and Christmas and winter are quite not here yet. A liminal space. Here are some little tips, habits, things from wellness to whatever that I like to enjoy in november when I’m not cooped up in the library battling with the attic verb system. :)

Coffee to wake you up in the morning, maybe another one at lunch if your short nights sleep is still lingering; different teas throughout the day to keep you warm from the inside as the weather gets chillier each passing day

a bowl of (warm) porridge with your favorite toppings in the morning, either prepared at home or ordered at a cafe with your friend

Dark red nails, preferably long, preferably with small metallic accents (I prefer gold and bronze, silver works very well too)

Seasonal fruits and vegetables; pomegranates! Persephone’s journey to Hades has once again taken place.

Adding a little bit of darkness to your eyes, it’s your pick whether that’s with kayal, smudged eyeliner, eyeshadow or just a gracious layer of mascara; but remember to not rub your eyes when you stayed too late at the library translating Catullus’ latin poetry! Alternatively, just rock those dark underyes baby

November is the month of poets, artists, thinkers, lovers and wanderers, you know what they say. Write, draw, think, love, wander! I keep a diary where I try to write everyday. Try to find small pleasures in the mundane and write them down. Beauty is omnipresent. I also have been trying to sketch more when I don’t have the energy nor the time to complete complex illustrations and paintings. Small but meaningful.

Pretty candles, scented or unscented, perhaps each one lit as an honoring to a god, goddess, daimon or your lares; in the colder months I like to light a candle in honor of Vesta/Hestia and ask her to keep my apartment warm

Preparing for winter by slowly switching to more thicker and moisturizing skin- and haircare products. Do this as you run out of one product, don’t give in to overconsumption, be mindful with what you buy and what you put on your skin and hair

Remember to move your body. Whether this is walking, running, stretching, strength-training, pilates… the options are endless and the choice is yours! Even little movement can help you fight that seasonal depression.

Big scarves, long jackets, leather gloves. Gives you an aura of mystery and keeps you protected from the weather

These are just some of my favorite things at this time. If you read through all of this I’d really love to hear if you have your own sacred little rituals around this time of the year. Thank you for being here, remember to be kind to yourself and others, and speak up for those whose voices are being silenced. Go make your novembers mythical🖤

Valete,

Mauve

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cosmic-ghost-hermit · 6 months ago

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Pick a Card: Message from your Spirit Team

I love connecting with everyone's guides! Thank you to the collective and their spirit guides for your support in this reading. I love you! The universe loves you! and your guides love you!!! <3 Take what resonates and leave the rest behind but always be open to new perceptions.

Decks used are: Alchemy Oracles, Archetype Oracle, Necronomicon Tarot

🕯Donate to my CashApp🤍

(U will feed a queer person if u donate)

Drop any reading suggestions, request readings, or reading recommendations in my ask box! Can't wait to see what y'all wanna see!

_________

PILE ONE

Astrology: Virgo, Gemini, Scorpio

Song: Shooting Star by Owl City

Vibes: Black, white, green, blue, thunder, rain, prophetic dreams, illusion, secrets, finders-keepers, forests, 9999, corsets, darkness, frozen fruit, con artist, narcissistic, Hera

Cards: 6 of Swords, Eros, Destroyer, Quicksilver

My friend, you have bitten off more than you can chew while standing upon a really unsteady foundation. It will crumble eventually. It isn't a matter of "if". It will happen. It is a matter of "when". You can't go on like this. You can't play both sides. You are going to lose people who you dearly love if you keep it up. Your intentions are pure I know. You don't want to rock the boat. You don't want to make the wrong decision. The actions you took were driven by a good heart but you are stretching that good heart too thin to be able to continue like this. What you are doing was supposed to be temporary but you are treating it as if it is sustainable and permanent. Luckily, there is an escape from the desolation you could face. You must be honest about how you feel to yourself. You must be true. You can't just follow anymore to make everyone happy. Decide for yourself because there is no staying out of it anymore. If it takes you time to decide that's alright. If you need time to do research on whatever decision this is that is fine. Take your time deciding. But you MUST decide and if you don't decide then it will be decided for you.

This feels like a different decisions for different people reading this. I can see it might be about a situation-ship or familial/friend drama. It could be political as well. Either way you have spent most of your time in this situation sitting on the side lines and not making any moves. You believe if you ignore whatever is happening it will solve itself. It won't. I'm sorry. You are being tested and being indecisive is the only way you can fail. Not deciding will have the most cons and very little pros. I can definitely tell why it has taken you a bit to think about. Either decision you make there will be pros and cons to whatever it is you decide. You think you can escape the cons by not addressing it at all. However, being complacent is a decision, my dude. Not deciding is still a decision to do nothing.

When you do decide, you must stand firm on your decision. You MUST. Don't be wishy washy about it and change your mind once you have chosen. Even if you have regrets you MUST stand firm. Your guides will reward you after with many gifts of love. I also see gifts of knowledge. Later down the line you will see why you had to make the choice. You will be enlightened on what would have happened if you chose the other route. I can hear you sighing in relief when you learn this and not regretting your path. I wish you luck, my dear.

_____________

PILE TWO

Astrology: Sagittarius, Leo, Capricorn

Song: Gold on the Ceiling by The Black Keys

Vibes: Yellow, pink, red, crows, bats, crowbars, dirt, grave yards, 333, courtesan, aging, mushrooms, pine needles, sewing, weaving, looms, large dogs, Persephone, Hades

Cards: The Sun, The Poet, The Lover, Smoke

My dear, why are you so mean to yourself for attempting to be happy? What is the logical purpose of that? Listen, I get it. You have been through so messy messy stuff. It fucked up your head and it corrupted the way you think and talk about yourself. But seriously, can you think of any reason besides "it feels familiar to hurt which means it's safe." Dude. For real, stop being so mean to yourself. It doesn't get work done faster. It doesn't help you when you aren't working and you are trying to rest. It isn't doing you any good to put yourself down for what you enjoy. It just makes life harder than it already is. It doesn't have to be that hard. It SHOULDN'T be that hard. I know what you say to yourself, dude. You mimic those who have criticized you in the past. You are parroting the pain they caused you and repeating the cycles of abuse you faced. The people who hurt you before were looking in mirrors. They weren't truly looking at you. Their opinions of you don't resemble reality. They just wanted to bully someone besides themselves to feel better about themselves.

The insults you are repeating aren't how you truly feel. You are a so much more than a victim. First of all, you are an important person. Second, you are an artist. A very good artist, I might add. You can capture the emotion you are feeling perfectly when you create. When you write, you communicate what you wish to say so clearly that it touches the hearts of even the most emotionless people. That is power. That is magic. I am not going to say you are talented, my dear. Because I know your skill came from years of practice. Years of love drenched artwork and thoughtful choosing of words. You are more than talent, my dear. You are driven. You are intelligent. Any road block you faced you gracefully jumped over or powered through. Do not be mean to yourself. Do not. You deserve more recognition than that. Only you can do what you do. You are inimitable.

___________

PILE THREE

Astrology: Aries, Libra, Aquarius

Song: Charmer by Aimee Mann

Vibes: Rainbows, candles, moths, reading, pearl, gold bars, ripped clothes, 555, 88, garden, ghost trees, vampires, higher self, lions mane, alternative beliefs, collecting, coffee, Athena, Artemis, Apollo

Cards: 4 of Swords, The Self, The Cave, Mystical Sisters

I am so proud of you. You have locked away who you are for a long time. You recently started to do some self discovery after you left a person who wasn't good for you behind. I don't think you understand what a huge step you've made. I don't think you really see how what you have done is a huge fucking deal. You stood up for yourself. I think you really water down this accomplishment because you had an ally help you. My dude, even if they helped you. Do not forget you have free will. They did not force you to start exploring yourself and standing up for yourself. You could have ignored their offer of assistance. You totally could have said "Nope, I don't want to." Did you forget that? Please don't water down how well you have done. Acknowledge yourself, please.

You are realizing how wonderful you are. You are finally seeing how kind you are and how considerate you can be. I know leaving that person was painful and it is difficult to reopen the book of you without them in it. It is for the best for both you and them. Again, I am very proud of. Your guides congratulate you as well. It is okay to be guarded for a while. I encourage you to protect your peace while you are exploring more of yourself. I encourage you to ask for help if you need it. Especially because I can still feel your heartache from the loss of someone important to you. If it helps your feel better maybe put some energy to your spirituality. I know it might be tempting to look at old photos and dwell on the past connection. It is okay to do that a little bit while you heal but don't get too caught up in what could've been. It is time to focus on the present and keep your mind on where you want to be and not where you were. Your guides are backing you the whole way through.

__________

PILE FOUR

Astrology: Taurus, Cancer, Pisces

Song: Sunrise by More Plastic and Halvorsen

Vibes: Red, light blue, yellow, grey, white, cats, divine geometry, snakes, science, spills, reality tv, 1111, hearts, wine, falcon, dragon scales, astrology, grand square/trine, Hermes, Zues, Chronos

Cards: 8 of Cups, Kairos, Gnosis, Conjunction

Alright my dear, the time is going to be right soon. You know what to do and you know when to do it. Don't question it. Even if it makes zero sense logically, just trust that inner knowing. Trust that you know what to do and where to go. Trust. You will be leaving something soon. Perhaps a group, a relationship or a club. Again, you WILL know when and how, when the time comes. The stars are aligning for this escape route of yours. I know it is a bummer to leave because you have had such good times where you are at. You worked really hard on everything you built there. I know you are really anxious about hearing this because it is a bit vague but you knew this was coming, darling. You could see the signs way before any of the drama started. When shit hits the fan you need to be ready to dip out. Don't worry about preparation. Don't worry about details. The universe is going to take care of that for you. You just have to watch and listen to your heart.

Yes, you are in the right. No, you haven't done anything wrong. Spirit is sorry that it might be kind of sudden but I really believe you have already seen the red flags in the place you are leaving. The BIG drama that is about to take place isn't supposed to be part of your journey. It is meant for others to figure out on their own. You are not their teacher. You are meant to be their friend and companion and I think they have been parentifying you in a weird way. Spirit doesn't want you getting in the crossfire of everything that is about to hit. It wants you to listen closely to your intuition and trust yourself to know. This part of your journey is supposed to be mostly chill at the moment. Except for the sudden upheaval. That part is probably gonna be rushed. Everything will be just right for you, I promise. Keep your eyes narrowed and your perception high. Someone is sprinting in your direction and you will need to keep pace with them when they arrive. They will be your getaway driver. I believe in you. The universe will protect you. You will be rescued. Good luck, darling.

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theredofoctober · 1 year ago

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MANNA- CHAPTER NINE: FOWL

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the ninth chapter in the series. Author's note: the timeline of this AU is vague, being that some events in season two has happened, implied to be a year ago, but neither Will or Hannibal have been to jail.

-‐-

“So,” says Hannibal, pouring scarlet wine into Will's proffered glass. “How much closer are you to establishing the identity of the Silicone Lover?”

The three of you are in the living room, as is customary on Will's frequent visits. The men sit so near to one another as to be almost touching, sensual in the incline of each listening ear and dancing strand of conversation.

You, conversely, inch as far into a corner as you can afford to without reprimand, your fist to your chin, a flimsy artifice of feigned disinterest in their chatter.

By this time, you are sobering into shame of your despair in Will's grudging embrace. He, for his part, seems near sick with regret of it, swallowing and rubbing at his temples like a poet over some gloomy work. Not once has he looked at or spoken to you since you slipped, cringing, from his lap, but you know that he thinks of you, his contemplation extending outwards on a phantasmal limb.

Still, it is of his case alone that he speaks aloud, dredging words up from a cistern in himself with a halting effort.

“I’ve been so deep inside the Lover’s head that I could almost... be him,” he says, through a wince. “Not a place I’d like to be for long. He’s looking for the perfect doll. None of his creations so far have lived up to the idealisation he has in his mind. That’s why he uses the silicone, and cuts the abducted women down to size. He wants them small. Biddable.”

Will sips at his wine. A red bead of it is a winter berry on his lips before he wipes it away with his rough thumb, spoiling the brevity of its mite beauty.

“Either the Lover is trying to form the girl of his dreams,” he says, “or recreate someone that already exists who, for whatever reason, he can’t have.”

“So they are substitutes,” says Hannibal. “As several young women were for Abigail Hobbs. Could the girl on this new pedestal also be a killer’s daughter?”

You glance up at the mention of the familiar name, and Dr Lecter meets your gaze, granting you silent entry into the discussion. He's had half an eye on you since your collapse into Will’s bitter mercy, intrigued by your burgeoning alliance.

Evidently his antiphon is to consent where his friend would deny you, and though you know yourself a tool in Hannibal's craft you allow such use, sensing it may benefit your cause.

“The Lover’s attachment to his muse isn’t incestuous,” says Will. “Not by blood. She’s inaccessible either because his proximity to her would make it too suspicious if he abducted her, or because to ravage her the way he does his other victims would destroy her, and that isn’t what the Lover wants.”

“What does he want?” you ask, and Will starts, a furrow creasing his brow.

“I was talking to Dr Lecter,” he says, shortly; he doesn’t turn to address you. “Don’t interrupt. It’s rude.”

The urge to laugh has you twisting your lips in towards your teeth, afraid to release the sound, lest you crack his scarce tolerance of your presence. The cinder of Will’s palm across your cheek is charred in memory, the impulse of his anger.

Hannibal says, “Perhaps it isn’t that the Lover’s paramour cannot be touched, but that to consummate that initial contact is a frontier that could never be reversed.”

Coaxed back into debate, Will considers the notion.

“He’s afraid he’ll kill her.”

“Perhaps he believes he will have no choice. A wild animal, having fled from its menagerie, is often destroyed to prevent what it may unleash upon those it encounters.”

“The only danger she poses is to the Lover,” says Will, and drains his glass. “He can’t stand the thought of giving up his profession.”

Dr Lecter’s face tilts rather dotingly aside.

“If our murderer had his betrothed in his arms, then perhaps he would practice another trade. Killing is a mere formality to the Lover. A means of disposal, not his preferred indulgence.”

Hannibal stands to walk the length of the room; Will’s head turns with a near imperceptible movement to follow, entranced, through his scepticism. Unable to look away.

“Consider the labour spent upon sexual assault and mutilation,” says Dr Lecter. “The comparative carelessness with which the Lover evicts his darlings when he exhausts their use.”

“That carelessness is their punishment,” says Will, “for daring to be anything but her.”

You lean forward in your chair, scarcely cognizant of what you do.

“Who is she?” you ask, and Will grimaces, his visage taking on a tuberculous cast.

“I– I don’t know,” he admits. “I can’t see her yet. She’s the only doll without a face.”

You are fascinated by the disquiet that has come over him, a reflection of what it is to wear the wants of killers until they feel almost his own. Hannibal, returning to his seat, decants another glass of wine, holding it in his own hand a moment as he examines his friend over the rim.

“How have your episodes been, Will?” he asks. “Have there been any more instances of you waking outdoors without knowing where you are?”

Hannibal’s gaze rests briefly upon you, and you realise, at once, that the topic has been raised partially for your benefit.

Will takes his glass with a terse fist, his eyes lowered.

“I’d rather not go into that while your patient is present.”

Patient. He is forcing distance between you, armouring himself against his illness, and your potential use of such knowledge.

Hannibal does not allow it.

“After all the ways in which you’ve held our guest, can you fairly exclude her from family matters?”

Will sneers, finally looking at you with as much ire as he can muster in his dishevelment.

“Is this a family?”

“No,” you whisper.

Hannibal says, “It’s becoming one. Time is required for the covenant to form.”

The younger man emits a sardonic laugh.

“If you say so.”

You find yourself struck by something far too like betrayal for your liking.

“Do you think she is a substitute for what might have been with Abigail Hobbs?” asks Hannibal.

“No,” says Will, firmly. “This is something else. I see the parallels you’re making, Dr Lecter, but they don’t align.”

Stung, you interject, “Yeah, because you wouldn’t have fucked this Abigail, right?"

The younger man almost writhes in discomfort, and shakes his head.

“No,” says Hannibal, coolly, more jarred by your coarse phrasing than by the question itself. “That wasn’t what she needed from us.”

The subtle emphasis on the pronoun discourages you from objection, being that you know what he has seen, in your house. What you have watched, while touching yourself in restless hours, your own hand to your throat.

“On the subject of your requirements,” Dr Lecter continues. “You don’t have to join us for dinner tonight, little one. I’ll prepare you a light lunch of seared fish and vegetables, and then you may retire from company early.”

Both you and Will turn to Hannibal, briefly united in your surprise.

“So we’re encouraging her, now,” Will says, and Dr Lecter chuckles, all loving indulgence.

“Far from it. Fasting can be practised in a healthy manner. Self-discipline need not be punitive. Our little one should learn this for herself.”

Considering the statement, you attempt, without success, to understand the machinations of his reprieve.

You cannot find it in you to thank him for the coal with which he has stoked the old flame of starving. But you are grateful for that fuel, no matter its source, and do not know which God of many to kneel to in acknowledgement.

Hannibal would think himself such a lord, with you and Will as his parishioners. Yet again, it may be that Dr Lecter is the churchgoer between the two men, the one who, as in your dream, may acquiesce, hands clasped, to a lover’s word.

“Am I allowed to do what he says or not, daddy?” you ask of Will, in the end, who tsks and all but flounces in defeat.

“Go ahead,” he says. “I’m not qualified to oppose Dr Lecter’s care. But when you regret it, I won’t be there to comfort you.”

You no longer believe him. Like Jack, Will has a partiality for the vulnerable, and though he may deride your other qualities, he aches for you in your suffering even as he worsens its sting.

In the auburn night you attempt The Idiot again, tearing through one chapter to the next as hunger rides you like death on horseback, a test against the grindstone of will. You’ve gone longer than this without eating, before, a day or two on water alone, and only sips of it, at that.

But the new frequency of meals in Hannibal’s home has reawakened your appetite, and your gut wails in craving of all that you abjure.

You think of descending the staircase and asking sheepishly for an invitation to dinner, but you would rather see the grave than the humiliation of admitting such hunger before your jailors.

Sleep is an impenetrable country, food the geographic distance between you and its gentle hold. By two in the morning you’re marching the room, yearning to weary yourself beyond appetite. Knowing that after the assaults and the erasure of your outside self you haven’t the mettle to maintain the long walk as once you could.

As you do every night around this time you try your bedroom door, a routine of soothing repetition. Again you find it open, which you have known in your soul that it would be since Hannibal had made his golden offer to you that afternoon.

Surely this, like the time before, is an experiment in what you will do in the slumbering house. You daren’t try for an escape— Hannibal will start from his bed at the sound of a window shattered, a door forced at the lock, and will catch you, barefoot in your lace nightgown amidst the night damp of fallen leaves.

Perhaps, knowing this, he thinks you’ll creep to him or Will instead for want of a love of which they’re bereft. The notion of familial synergy is the absinthe dream that Hannibal chases, shared blood in the appetite of lust rather than parenthood.

You should remain abed, deny the doctor and his accomplice their entertainment. But hunger shoves you by both shoulders down the staircase, towards the kitchen door, and it lies open.

As in a fairytale you enter, thoughtless, moth-drawn to the flame that is food, in Hannibal’s refrigerator, prising back the hinge to reveal the luxuries within. Pretty displays of fresh vegetables and salad, labelled bottles of milk and cream, truckles of cheese, sliced meat—chicken, beef, ham—

You sway in the song of your hunger, attempting to bid yourself away with thoughts of how firmly you’ve stood against it, thus far, how strong you are, how in control.

In a moment your hand is on the shelf and unwrapping a pale slab of chicken, and then it’s in your mouth, and sectioned between your teeth, and swallowed. The taste of it isn’t chicken, but something else, and you don’t care until you see your face reflected in the refrigerator door, and realise the beast you are. What you have done.

You clutch your throat, attempting to calculate the calories—seventy, a hundred, a hundred and fifty, small numbers to a person not possessed by the spirit of disorder, but to you a devastation, the shattering of your sturdy fast.

It is Will and Hannibal’s fault, you decide, both having pinched you in a vice of brick with its store of feasts, intentional, evil. They have pushed you to break this vow of hunger you have made to yourself, and in that second of despair you thirst to be avenged.

Across the kitchen sits the knife rack, blades of ranging sizes and uses, each ground to a killing edge. You seize one from the middle and return to the stairs, pausing on the landing to consider the closed doors beyond.

Hannibal, you know, would overpower you with flippant ease, but Will, for all his protestations, is fragile. Breakable.

You approach his room and try the door handle with caution. Another left unlocked— fate has passed through the house before you, a goddess on gossamer feet.

In reverential silence you cross the room to Will’s sleeping hump on the bed and stoop over him, the knife raised in both hands, watching him twitch through unpleasant dreams.

In the dark Will’s face is corpse-like, ailing; you almost marvel to think this same man capable of the savage acts you’ve come here to kill him for. Perhaps his death will rinse you of the filth and pain that braids you into so gruesome a shape as you find yourself in. Perhaps his death will distract Hannibal enough that he tends to the cadaver rather than pursues you from his door—

You know not whether to slash Will’s bobbing throat or stake his chest, nor how hard to strike to ensure his death over injury. A mistake may be your end, not his, yet you lean with one knee upon the bed, the knife like a steel flame igniting the dark.

You contemplate how it will feel to kill, whether your form will throb with joy in excelsis, or if you’ll merely recoil, sickened by the blood, by the sounds and the many smells of dying.

But what of afterwards, when you have run, and Hannibal has turned to the police? He has the force in his pocket, and being that there is no mark of Will’s crimes upon your person you will surely be imprisoned for murder.

Tattle Crime will call gleefully of the act: “ANOREXIC CHARGED WITH STABBING RECLUSIVE SPECIAL AGENT IN SHOCKING ATTACK”.

Your family, your parents, stained and shunned for having raised a killer—

The reluctant knife withdraws, and you make to climb down off the bed. Disturbed by the lifting of weight from the mattress, Will stirs, muttering, then takes a seizing breath that jolts him suddenly awake. His eyes roll, glazed, before fixing upon you, a gothic figure in a pallid nightdress, holding a blade.

He tussles upright, rigidly alert. His expression is terror and fury, disbelieving.

“What are you doing?” Will demand, and snapping from the spell that holds you fast, you break for the door, thinking, even as you run, how few places there are in the house for you to hide that he will not find you.

Will follows in a sleep-numbed stagger, a corpse revived from the grave. He ought to be slow, but he is on you before you’ve gone further than the nearest corridor, shouldering you against a wall so hard that a shelf of ornaments jingles in ominous response to the collision.

You think nothing, only the animal blank of facing the bolt gun, the huntsman’s cur.

The knife rises, erect, between you, and Will folds your arm against the wall. His other hand wraps across your mouth, cupping your rising scream like the sea in a shell.

“Do you want Hannibal to wake up and find out what you did?” asks Will, in a coarse semi-whisper. “No? Then be quiet.”

His stare flenses the tallow darkness with a nocturnal literacy. He’s no longer trembling. The danger in him is well lived in, inherited from the killers whose minds he’s made his crown, and from his friend, in all his tutorship.

It’s what makes them so close, Will and Hannibal, almost one, synonyms of a pagan death.

You turn your jaw from your attacker’s hand and coax him down from his ire in a pleading moan.

“I’m sorry. I'm sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was upset. I don’t know why I did it. I wasn’t really going to—”

“Oh, I know you were never going to go through with it,” Will spits. “You’re not capable. Killing isn’t in your nature. You’re too soft for that. Aware of the consequences.”

He looks you up and down with a sour leer.

“You wish that you were a murderer. You held that knife and prayed for something to come over you, a holy, righteous need for revenge. But it didn’t. Couldn’t, because you don’t believe that you deserve to be released from what others have done to you.”

His grip squeezes your wrist, and you gasp into his hand, smothered by your own breath.

“Next time you pull a knife on someone, you’d better hope that you’ve gained enough self-esteem by then to see it through,” says Will. “I don’t plan to kill you tonight, but someone else might. Maybe that’s what you were hoping for, after all.”

He leans into you, curls falling in dark links across his brow. He smells of bed, the damp pelt of animal, and bottled scent. His white t-shirt is nearly black with night sweat, his stale breath metallic against you.

There is a joist of firm flesh at your thigh.

He likes this. The chase and capture, even the knife meshed between the bones of your slippery fingers and his, the knowing that he could make a gushing rose of your throat with the most delicate turn of it— he loves it all, the rut-hunger of all creatures that look death in the eye and survive.

You look sideways at the blade, and with leaden reluctance, Will turns to a nearby bookcase to set it down.

“Little girls shouldn’t play with knives,” he says, and you give a hysterical laugh.

“Hannibal isn’t here. You don’t have to try and impress him.”

The young man chuckles softly.

“What makes you think Dr Lecter isn’t trying to impress me?”

“I guess he is. He brought me here for you.”

Will sneers.

“An unwanted gift. You make it difficult not to be ungrateful.”

Mirroring the cruel twist of his expression you attempt to glide away from him, along the wall.

Will’s arm shoots out, blocking your path.

“Let go of me!” you cry, but your voice has no force to it, only mounting fear.

“You think I’ll just let you go to bed after threatening to kill me?” asks Will, incredulously.

“Why not? You deserve it. You even said so. And maybe you’re wrong about why I didn’t do it. Maybe I don’t want to be like you and Dr Lecter.”

Something shifts in Will’s expression, a murky wind of silhouette.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re murderers,” you spit. “You killed somebody. Garret something.”

“Garret Jacob Hobbs was the Minnesota Shrike,” says Will, almost defensively. “He killed and mutilated girls all over the state. His wife became his victim, and he slit his own daughter’s throat. I had no choice but to shoot Hobbs. I acted. It had to be done.”

“And Hannibal?” you ask, trembling in Will’s hold. “He’s killed before. I know he has. I know. Please don’t lie to me.”

For a beat you think that Will won’t answer, his eyes shifting to some point down the hall.

Then he says, “It was self-defence. A serial killer named Tobias Budge. He broke into Dr Lecter’s house. Would have killed him if Hannibal hadn’t overpowered him. How do you know about that? He didn’t tell you.”

“Self-defence,” you repeat, ignoring the question. “I bet Dr Lecter liked it. I bet you both liked it. That’s why I’m here. So whatever you feel when you murder people you can feel with me all the time.”

You grope along the wall for the knife, half-heartedly, knowing your captor will never let you take it. He pins your hand down with a scrambling clumsiness, damp fingers locked into yours.

“Is that how it feels?” Will snarls. “Like we’re killing you? Because it should remind you that after all you’ve done to your body you’re still here.”

Then, as he speaks again, he invokes your dream, as though by psychic synthesis you conceive the same thought at once.

“It should remind you that Hannibal and I are the reason you’re still alive.”

You let out a cry of fear, involuntary and absolute, and again Will binds your mouth with his palm until you taste the dirt of his sweat, and cannot breathe.

Suddenly the heart of shadow that is Will’s face is mud and thunder, and he lets go of your arms to rustle your nightdress to your waist in an tenor of cotton and ribbons.

You struggle and strain against the wall, knotting your legs over each other against him. With ease Will parts them again and runs two fingers beneath the trim of your panties until they are buried in your satin angst.

They move with skill, with spite, with will to wound; tears start from you like a spring from mountain rock, and the cruel young man observes as they fall without sympathy, still playing your cunt with his hand.

He does not strike you as a man that beds women often, yet he has done so, to know how to smith such pleasure from even unwilling flesh. You can do nothing but submit to him, a blót to such gods as have taken you to bleed.

Sensation, salt-sweet, unburdens you of pain, and you find you can only stand through Will’s hold upon you. Cannot speak, cannot scream, as he cuts his pleasure from you. Like a sorcerer beneath the waves he has stolen your voice, as well.

Will widens your legs with the jut of a knee, loosening himself from his undergarments as he may take some drill from its hellacious box. You stare into his eyes, begging, without words, for him to revoke his darkness. The dark stares back, the mouth beneath like something dreamt of by heathens in its fathomless cruelty.

“You’ve earned this,” says Will. “Take it with grace.”

He lifts your right leg and clips it to his waist, unlatching access to your heat. With his sneer close to your cheek he runs you through, his cock a barbarous girth to which you cannot acclimatise, cannot accept as a thing that must be.

The bones of your back bruise against the cool wall, and your breath, beneath Will’s palm, is a simian pant-hoot of woe and suffering lust.

You do not want him, but to be propulsed into this place without agency is your liberty: what you feel is his fault, and you come apart like a snarl of soot in the working of his evil.

Will’s hand impresses its print upon your hip. His mouth comes to the crook of your neck in a bite, a kiss, or something worse. His slim body snaps like a birch switch against you, and he opens your centre to his girth until your mind is a vapour of fright and climax, wetting your legs in the rotten release of it.

Your captor feels the quake of your orgasm and, in recognition, follows, his groan muffled by your neck, his frame a trap against you, shaking into stillness.

Then he steps away from you, turning his head as you rearrange your dress, oddly chaste.

You look at him in numb silence, unable to move from the wall without his word.

At last Will picks up the knife again and nods towards the staircase.

“Let’s put this back in the kitchen,” he says, “before Hannibal gets up and notices that it’s missing.”

You follow him downstairs, soundless as a wraith, close to his side, as though by hurting you he has somehow bound you to his flank. Will returns the knife to its rack with meticulous care, considering it for a long time before he speaks again.

“I doubt this’ll be the last time you contemplate murdering one of us. That’s as far as I recommend you go.”

You search yourself for the ability to answer him.

“Why?”

“Wolves kill their rivals' pups to keep them in check,” says Will, “and Dr Lecter is not above emulating that behaviour if he thinks it’ll keep you in line.”

As usual, you cannot tell if he’s being literal or not. You settle to nod, and Will glances around the kitchen, his eyes falling on the refrigerator door where a greasy smear remains in the autumn moonlight.

“Your handprints?” he asks. “So you stole food. Should have asked to join us for dinner.”

You lean against a countertop, your head hanging, truly ashamed.

“I messed up.”

Will picks up a hand towel and rubs at the door until your fingerprints vanish.

“You live here,” he says, grudgingly. “It’s not exactly a capital offence to eat from the fridge.”

“No,” you say, in a piteous wail. “I mean I shouldn’t have eaten at all. I gave in. I ate. No self-control.”

You see Will’s shoulders drop, and he says, with pained neutrality, “That isn’t true. You gave your body what it needed.”

Half-sobbing, you pull at your flesh through your nightdress, gathering up handfuls of skin.

“I don’t know why you even want to touch me. I’m so disgusting.”

“No,” says Will, and this time he speaks firmly. “You’re a lot of things, but that isn’t one of them. I don’t want to hear you say that again.”

He passes a hand across his face, an exhausted reflex.

“Go to bed, One,” he mumbles. “And tomorrow you’re going eat again. I’ll see that you do.”

The next morning, red-eyed over coffee, Will watches you attempt your breakfast. He makes no comment, only waits as you masticate each scrap of beetroot and artfully scrambled egg twenty times until the slow process meets its finish.

Hannibal turns Will an unreadable look across the table.

“You look weary, this morning,” he says. “I thought I heard you wandering the house last night. Was anything the matter?”

You drop your fork with a frightened loss of coordination, expecting to be handed over to him for further hurt. Yet Will only puts down his coffee cup, folds his arms across his chest, and says, quite casually, “She was hungry, just like I knew she’d be. She went looking for food. I sent her back to her room. Nothing to write home about.”

It’s only when Hannibal carries your dirty plate back to the kitchen that you look up at Will, softening your eyes against the flint of hatred within you.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

An almost smile turns the edges of Will's mouth.

“I’ll tell him, someday. Just not now.”

#manna fic #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #yandere hannibal lecter #yandere will graham #tw noncon #tw eating disorders #dead dove do not eat

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