mettleborn

[mettleborn]

Hey folks, sorry for the radio silence, I've not logged in for several weeks. I'm afraid my current hiatus will be continuing for the time being. I'm just not finding the time, creativity or the headspace to write at the moment. I really miss writing my muses with my amazing mutuals but can't muster the energy right now with everything else going on. I hope to return at some point but can't yet say when. Miss you guys.

[mettleborn]

Quick update folks. My health isn't great at the moment which means different doses of medication and tests to figure out what the hell is going on. The main result has been major fatigue and my creativity and motivation have suffered most. I'd hoped to be back writing by now but it looks like this hiatus might last longer than I anticipated. Hope to be back soon once things settle down and I get my energy levels back. I work full time and frankly that's what is taking all my energy right now.

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I think I'm going to have to make this absence an official hiatus as due to illness, exhaustion and now being back at work at a very busy time for my team, I really don't forsee much time to write in the next few weeks. I hope to be back regularly writing by the end of the month. Thanks for your patience.

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AND SO YOUR ESSENCE WAS WIELDED IN UNWILLING HANDS and you are CRACKED where lightning breaks the skin and you are GILDED underneath mortal soot and rubble. broken into transparent layers, fading opacity between shards of glass where fire melts and mold your form. what will you become ??

@brokenmagxc / ind. private and selective original character / mutuals only, slow reply. / est. 2014. reboot 2024. / loved by abi. / please see carrd for details.

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Alien: Covenant (2017) Ridley Scott

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Hannibal (2013-2015)

3x03 - “Secondo”

Hannibal breaking the fourth wall

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Michael Fassbender in The Agency S01E03 - "Hawk from a Handsaw"

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Hannibal had sworn never to return to this place, to even stand before the tall, imposing gates of Castle Lecter, is to taste terroir; bitter biting blood and thick choking dirt, ground into his tongue, smeared across his eyes. Without Mischa he would have remained here, blind and bound by something nameless; some spectre of himself; endlessly consumed by this place until nothing recognisable remained.

Quite why he has chosen to return now, Hannibal isn’t sure; it seems something was calling to him, beckoning him to return. A desire to remember his real origin perhaps, his true birth - his first taste of dominance; his days spent in the Abattoir of his youth. He is hunted now and few places remain safe, perhaps it is little wonder then that he has returned here, to the place he first tasted power, first exercised control. The demons that remain here are largely his own; those at least, that he lacks the strength to carry with him. Not all memories are painful, he can still recall bright summer days spent here with his little sister, exploring the grounds of the castle. There was a time when she seemed the only thing pure in this world, the only thing unsullied by it, until she wasn’t. Anyone who ever hurt Mischa paid for it with their life; blood Hannibal was glad to have drip from his hands; men fit for nothing more than a meal; brief sustenance their only actual value.

Sitting in front of the grand stone hearth, a great fire raging within it ancient confines, Hannibal continues to burn the remainer of his patient notes; those few he had the time to collect before fleeing Baltimore. These specific journals are particularly special, he wanted to read the entries one last time before finally disposing of them for good; the act is symbolic – a final farewell to a life he can no longer afford to lead. He has, of course, considered that Mischa might seek him out here - it is not something he fears, though admittedly he cannot help but feel a degree of trepidation; how will see feel about what she has learned, will she understand, can she?

Sipping a glass filled with Šušvės midus mead that he found aging in a casket in the basement, Hannibal falls silent as he hears a familiar voice call his name. Closing his eyes he listens as her soft cadence echoes down the large halls.

"Mischa." He responds, confirming his presence. He does not, however, move from his chair, she must make her own approach, with eyes wide open.

Plotted starter // Mischa & Hannibal // @mettleborn

Lecter Castle.

It had been a very, very long time since Mischa had stood before the stone walls of her childhood home. She had been very small when the family had been displaced and when she had been brought back to her namesake halls, they had been transformed into a stronghold that resembled shelter but not home. When she and Hannibal had left, neither one had looked back. It was a place too full of ghosts for comfort, even for Mischa who stood here now with no memory of their parents or the happiness that once belonged here. Instead, she remembers the faces of miserable children and stern caretakers, the frustration of being surrounded by a place and items that were rightfully hers but restricted by the women in charge of their wellbeing.

There was no guarantee Hannibal would be here. He had fled the states in too much of a hurry, leaving Mischa behind out of necessity and likely the knowledge that she would find him wherever he went. When she asked herself about the first place to look, this imposing silhouette came to mind. It would for Hannibal too, she imagined. Even if they did not stay - and they wouldn’t - it was the one place they would both know intimately even after all these long years. Her only hope is that whatever authorities may chase him overseas don’t think the same.

Mischa doesn’t knock. This is her home too, no matter who may reside in it now. Instead, she removes her copy of the key and lets herself in.

It doesn’t look different. The chandelier hanging above the foyer is on, casting shadows over the walls that dance like ancient memories as she moves quietly through and though the furniture has been recently dusted, it remains still in a perfect replica of her faded memories. She runs a hand along the back of the couch, peers at the old rug she used to play on. He was here. Even without seeing him, even without piecing together the evidence, she can feel it in her bones as if their shared blood sings when within reach of one another.

“Hannibal?” she calls, and then unnecessarily, “It’s Mischa.”

It does not escape her mind that others might be terrified to enter the centuries old haunt of the infamous Chesapeake Ripper but Mischa is not afraid. She cannot even dredge up a sense of fear if she tried. She knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her brother will never, ever hurt her even now that his crimes have come to light.

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Man was created to bear the likeness of his maker: Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness (Genesis 1:26).

It is interesting that his son has, within this short period of enlightenment, already demonstrated a trait one might consider of his own likeness; hubris. Clearly this is something Peter Weyland will need to monitor – hubris, after all, can easily lead to defiance. The Nobel Prize winning inventor makes a mental note to undertake additional checks into David’s base code to ensure the proper protections and precautions are established and active. David’s design does not align with the three laws of robotics and this is a deliberate measure. David is free to injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm – it is simply the case that this freedom does not extend to Peter himself. As such, Weyland feels assured that David can act with his best intentions in mind, even if this extends to protecting his creator, or indeed himself, through the use of force - deadly if necessary.

There is a reason this room is filled with various exquisite and rare forms of art; they serve to explicitly illustrate endeavours of human creativity and expressions of freedom through sound, symbolism, scripture and sculpture. It is in this key aspect that their design differs; David may be immortal, but he cannot create. He can understand art, decode it, replicate it, but he cannot create it, nor truly understand how the finite lifespan of a human being contributes critically to the intuitive ability to appreciate it.

“You are right. I will die and you, my son, will inherit the earth.” Peter admits with barely concealed annoyance as he glances at David, attempting to discern if there is a true trace of smugness in the android's expression or if he is merely projecting onto his creation, a sense of superiority he does not yet possess.

“Fetch me tea, David.” On the face of it, it seems a simple command, but its utterance fulfils a very specific purpose – to illustrate to David that immortality is not sufficient enough to constitute superiority. It is a command Weyland knows David is compelled to obey – a subtle announcement of the greatest difference between them – freedom, or more accurately David’s lack of it. David cannot be perfect, he is a product of programming; an exercise in control - he is limited, deliberately so.

Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you (Exodus 20:12). 

David must honour and obey; he has no choice. That is what makes Peter, Father and David, Son. No mistake has been made.

@mettleborn Since the moment he had been born four and a half minutes ago, David had assimilated more knowledge of the universe in which he not-stood (then again, sitting was not yet learned) than some full grown men. ‘Room… white… blink… mountains… Jotunheimen… spider, harmless… painting by Piero della Francesca… blink.’ Neural pathways strengthening, game and set theory matrices feeding for the first few hundred times into Boolean algorithms, natural language processors translating tone and command and committing to memory, visual and aural receptors firing electrical impulses along pathways to activate neuromuscular responses. Evaluation metrics assessing the whole process. All by this four-minute mark happening too fast for even the man who had programmed these functions to be able to track.

Yes, David had been doing remarkably, until they hit this stumbling block. The young human male standing before him had identified himself as David's father, his creator. To David’s analysis, these were not the same thing. David could not see his own face. He did not know whether there was a familial likeness between himself and the human before him of which the term was descriptive. But he knew that he was not human. And so the two propositions could not both be true. Why could they not be true? ‘A bond of love exists between a father and his child. A father protects and cares for his child. You are human. I am perfect. You will die. I will not. From what could you protect me? Perhaps you are mistaken. I am your father.’

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The blustered confession of her stark need is enough to instantly quicken Duncan’s blood and breath. He watches motionless as Eden backs up against the wall, clearly welcoming him to take his fill of her and in doing so, fulfil the desperate need she has been attempting to sate by herself. The sight of her spread so willingly for him, clearly aching for his touch is dangerously alluring – Duncan knows this is wrong, very wrong - isn’t that why he’s looked away every time he caught sight of Eden’s stolen glances; in the back seat of her father’s car, at the breakfast table, at the card table, out in the yard. In truth, Vizla’s lost count of how many times he deliberately averted his gaze, knowing he shouldn’t stare – explicitly aware of the possible consequences of allowing any kind of desire for O’Connor’s daughter to manifest.

Nobody has to know…but that doesn’t mean no one will ever find out. Fuck, she makes him feel dirty, depraved even and it’s making him visibly hard. Duncan watches transfixed as she teases him, playing with herself entirely for his attention, coaxing him to step closer, despite all the obvious risks. She’s seen the way he looks at her; noticed the way his gaze has lingered, leered even before being immediately corrected – forbidden fruit now seemingly ripe for the taking. Of course he wants to hear her moan his name again; he wants to make her scream it.

“Nobody has to know.” he repeats softly, cementing their silent pact – they both know how dangerous this is and both, it seems, have developed a taste for danger. Stepping into the closet, having clearly made his decision, Duncan firmly pulls the doors closed behind him and lays his pistol down on a nearby rack. Encouraging Eden to hitch her skirt up higher around her waist, Duncan crouches, large hands shifting to ease up her inner thighs and part them wider in appraisal; he wants to watch her expose herself and allow the scent of her arousal to overcome his senses.

“You’re practically dripping.” He teases, licking his lips before moving closer. Bowing his head, one hand presses against her slick inner thigh, whilst the other sits flat against her stomach, keeping her in place against the wall, steadying her.  At first the pointed tip of his tongue explores softly, complemented by the tickle of his thick moustache, but as soon as he’s taken a moment to savour the taste of her, he becomes notably hungrier, eating Eden like a man starved – one who clearly knows exactly what he’s doing – experience comes with age after all, and Duncan is not the kind of man to ever skip foreplay - if he is going to risk his life to fuck Eden, he’s going to make every moment worth it, for both of them.

Do you need me? The question almost frightened her, nearly had her jump out of her skin but she knew the firm voice, recognized it immediately because as much as she shouldn't want that man, she wanted more than she knew she could. Maybe it was the fact he was someone that should be untouchable to her, that made her want him all the more. She felt a hint of shame to be caught like this but.. just from the firmness of how he asked, half of that shame washed away. It wasn't like she was being immediately scolded for what she wanted and felt.. there was no reprimand on his tongue, it was an option. The chance to blush, apologize, walk away and hide her face like she'd never let his name fall from her pretty lips, or the chance to act on it, to say exactly what she needed.

Briefly her eyes flicked to the gun that'd opened the doors further. He wasn't a threat she was frightened of.. but her Father? That was a threat that she was terrified of, yet this was a way to defy him. The only way she could defy him and feel like she had some control in her life. Harold O'Connor was a cruel man, a master of manipulation and beyond controlling that's what made him a fantastic leader in the drug rings and an atrocious and disgusting Father. There was no pride or honour in how he had treated Eden over the years. Slowly and with a few seconds between the question and her movement she nodded, just a slight movement, her lips still parted and rushed little breaths hanging from her mouth.

She nodded, far more confident this time, her words breathy when she did get the words out. "I do, need you.. I need you.." rather than run out of that room with shame hidden in her features Eden pressed her back to the wall she'd let her knuckles press into, leaned her head back and let her hands find the hem of her dress against, moving the silky material back up, bunching it around her hips and showing him exactly where she needed him. It didn't matter that he was old enough to be her Father, all she'd ever seen was a capable man and Eden was tired of boys, boys that fumbled messily, boys that didn't know how to pleasure a woman and she wanted a man, she wanted the experience... the wanted to be fucked properly. She wanted to take something her Father wanted and make it her own, to be more desirable than his business and slimy dealings. In simple terms, she wanted to be wanted.

"Nobody has to know.." she whispered, her teeth grazing over her bottom lip but there was this sharp breath in when her fingers slid along her slick heat again, her cheeks burning with desire and lust. "He doesn't have to know.. I've seen it, the way you look at me.." her fingers dipped purely to spread herself, she was a picture of sin. "Don't you want to touch me, Duncan? Don't you want me to moan your name again.."