#abyssal birthplace

[dromaeo-sauridae]

This Never Before Seen Aquamarine Pool Is Hiding Inside Lechuguilla Cave In New Mexico

"Just when you think you’ve seen everything, science unearths a new discovery that showcases the astounding beauty of our universe, whether here on our home planet or out in space. Recently, subterranean researchers made a humble yet fascinating discovery right here in New Mexico.

During an expedition deep into Lechuguilla Cave, a team of explorers came across this pristine, aquamarine pool. It was found in October 2019 but only made public last month. The pool, surrounded by cream and peach-colored minerals, is tiny in comparison to other cave water sources. However, the pastel color palette combined with the presence of human-free bacterial colonies makes this a stunning find."

isnt this cool! theyve made a new discovery in lechuguilla cave! lechuguilla is in carlsbad caverns nat'l park and is currently the 8th longest known cave in the world. it's closed to the public due to the presence of so many rare and fragile formations.

[tonythr]

A tribute to my favorite quote from Hollow Knight. My biggest finished artwork so far

[leaslichoma]

IDK why, but sometimes the Daggerfall dungeons look strangely comfortable to me. I wanna live here.

[illmoraineakoi]

Do you think that post-Dream No More Hornet dug a grave for Ghost and the Hollow Knight's masks, to put them to rest?

Or do you think she took them back down into the Ancient Basin, setting them on the platform at the door because that's all the further she could go without endangering herself?

For all her callousness, I like to think that she was emotionally invested enough to at least wish to grant the two Vessels who gave their lives to stop the Infection the respect of being laid to rest. Out of gratitude, if nothing else (though I feel like there would be some sorrow as well.)

[dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice]

The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Prologue

I'm not super happy with this prologue but I've done my best with it :'). Also I gave God He/They pronouns. Enjoy!

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 1227

Warnings: Uhhhh idk unless you count God as one.

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

Prologue // Chapter 1 >

Prologue

Before time began, there was her.

Cælitis (Definition): The divinities who dwell within the celestial planes. (Noun)

The Universe – The Beginning

Perhaps it was a coincidence, or a mistake, or there was something far greater beyond the confines of the ever-expanding walls of the universe. They had accepted solitary, thinking they were the only one, the first, when they awoke to a dark abyss, with the veins of creation pulsating at his fingertips. This was what God thought when they reached out for the first time, light bursting from within, shooting out and collecting into a colossal sphere. A star, he had named it, and he had much fun for who knows how long, floating through the endless vacuum, using these fiery balls of fire and gas to light his way. He would make them every colour he could think of, clumping some together to form the nebulas, or shooting some off into the middle of nowhere, just for the sake of it. Sometimes, he would press atoms so close together they would form rocks of all shapes and sizes, letting them wander and float around until they began clumping together into similar spherical shapes. He even swirled some clusters of stars and rocks around, watching as they turned into disks that would spin forever – galaxies, he decided to label them as. Before long, the universe was scattered with clusters of stars, planets, and whatever else they felt like creating, some so big their size was incomprehensible, others microscopic in comparison, and the rest varying in between.

When God had decided to rest their powers for a short while, he hadn’t expected to awake to the feeling that something was off when he observed his work. A small ripple, something he wouldn’t have picked up on if he knew they were the only being currently in existence. It passed through them, and he quickly shot towards the nebula that sat in the centre of his universal domain, their birthplace, so to speak. And what he came across was something very wrong. And he finally came to the realisation that he wasn’t alone.

It looked like a cloud at first. A dark mass that swirled and flared it tendrils around frantically as it contorted in and out of itself. He wouldn’t have been able to see it if it weren’t for the carnage it had left behind, it’s pitch black silhouette a stark contrast against the flickering specks of light behind it – the broken remains of his precious stars and planets.

Though he did not fear it. They knew that if this being had come into existence, it was here for a reason.

The Goddess was a being not many creatures knew about, and God wanted to keep it that way. He didn’t want anyone to know he had an equal, someone, if aware of everything they could do, could rival him and his authority.

He was Creation, and she was Destruction. Not solely there to destroy everything, no. She was brought into existence to ensure there was change, to make sure God didn’t slow down, always keeping him on his metaphorical feet. He had welcomed change when they had first come across her, but not too much. See, he wanted things to progress, but on his terms, so when the flailing tendrils of the Goddess had parted to reveal a mass of black wings and hundreds of very curious eyes peering up at them, he immediately took them under his own wings, teaching them the timeline of the universe around them. Her naivety hadn’t flown past him, she had just come into existence after all, and at this realisation he was delighted.

Billions of years passed by under the tutelage of God, telling the Goddess that she was his creation, what was divine and what was sacrilege. She absorbed it all, enchanted by the ways of what she believed to be her ‘creator’.

At one point, Destruction was overseeing a supernova just outside the Andromeda galaxy when God had approached her, eager to show her something. Reluctant but curious, she agreed, allowing them take her to another celestial plane, gesturing his arms out wide and welcoming her to Heaven.

He introduced her to his creations, his hierarchy of the divine. From the Seraphims, all the way down to the angels. For a time the Goddess resided with them, telling them about her ways of existence, though it wasn’t always received positively. In fact, there was only one creation that was intrigued by her path of dismantlement, a chirpy seraphim named Lucifer, who would spend most of his free time following her around with wide eager eyes, asking questions a mile a minute. The Goddess would always answer truthfully, and soon enough God began to grow weary of the friendly exchange between the two.

It wasn’t long before he was dragging her back through the planes, until they came across a very colourful planet. Entering through the atmosphere, the two floated down until they arrived on top of wall that encased a very interesting sight.

For as far as the eye could see, there was desert, but within the confines of this wall was a lush paradise, filled to the brim with every possible plant. The Garden of Eden.

God revealed two creatures that he had brought into existence, their names Adam, and Lilith, and they were to create the human race. Though his idea didn’t last very long – Lucifer had trailed after the Goddess into Eden one day, going off on another one of his excitable tangents on whatever was flying through his head at the time, when he had come face to face with the cunning and evaluating eyes of Lilith.

Obviously most know what happened after that, and God had quickly created Eve, but when she and Adam both failed his expectations after Lucifer and Lilith tempted them with the apple from the tree, he soon made changes.

The Seraphim and his new wife were cast down into a new celestial plane called Hell, and God then turned to the Goddess, seething, accusing her – that she had planted those thoughts and questions into his creation’s mind. They wouldn’t hear any excuse, leaving her until near the end of Adam and Eve’s once immortal life on Earth.

When he approached her again, they said he had a new job for her, and she followed, hopeful for their friendship to be restored, though doubts began to creep into her mind when she saw what was before her.

Purgatory, he had revealed it to be, was where she would take mortal souls after their physical body expired and sort them between Heaven and Hell. Next was the Underworld, where, if a soul was displaced in either of the two afterlives, it would go there to remain for eternity, or if she decided to send it back to Earth to be reincarnated. It was her new domain, where she would reside when she wasn’t on Earth collecting new souls.

Distressed, the Goddess asked why she was to do this, but God said nothing, only explaining further on what her new purpose entailed, and she grew more and more distraught at the new path he had laid out in front of her. She was no longer to be regarded as Destruction, but instead would spend the rest of eternity to be called a new, more fitting name, one he thought described her purpose of being perfectly:

Death.

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Prologue // Chapter 1 >

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[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch16

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

some of this chapter is born out of me realizing, as i read The Red Dragon, that i essentially limited Alana’s presence in this fic to that one rather tumultuous interaction, instead of expanding on her potential as both a strong, intelligent side character and a friend to the reader. Hopefully this makes up for that a little bit. Alana’s pretty cool. I sort of lost sight of that.

warnings: negative self talk, suicidal ideation/thoughts, panic attack, hyperventilation, derealization, canon-typical blood, violence, & gore

The darkness swirling around you is relentless in its writhing, distorting and jerking you around in its shadowed grasp. For a while, you’re content to let the shadows take control. You float in an endless abyss. Memories flit before your eyes, just long enough for you to reach out to try to grab them. They never stay long enough, flickering and disintegrating before you get the chance to grasp them and dissect every miniscule detail. 

Stay awake, says a whisper itching at your skin. 

You take a deep breath. The next time you blink, you find yourself standing in a far too familiar place. Hannibal’s kitchen is quiet—eerily so, you think as your footsteps echo against the floors. There is hardly a sign of life on these countertops, hardly a stain or sprinkling of powder to assure you this place has ever been used. There is a single light boring down on the back of your head: a spotlight. You swallow hard and step to the side in an attempt to escape the light, only to find Hannibal’s rolodex sitting in the middle of the brightness. Your business card sits on top, displaying your name, phone number, email address, office location at headquarters, birthplace, height, weight, eye color, age, and any other demographic information you could possibly imagine. The font is tiny, yet you can read it with ease. Feeling a sudden urge to touch, you grab the business card and let it lie flat in your palm. There’s a tear in the corner, you realize. Frowning, you move to touch it, only for the tear to extend further down the flimsy material. Crimson dots appear on the white background, swirling and twisting until there’s blood collecting on your fingertips. You look down, only to realize that the dark red stains have permeated the fabric of your shirt. Puddles are gathering at your feet, marking your footsteps with every movement you make. The card melts into the blood gathered in your hands, and you’re left holding the tattered remains of your identity. 

Stay awake.  

You blink again. Abel Gideon is peering at you from behind the bars of his interrogation cell. “You have Lecter on a leash, don’t you?” Gideon remarks with a laugh. You huff a laugh under your breath. The thought amuses you, for reasons you cannot quite discern at the moment. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.”  Your hands tremble at your sides and you restlessly shift your balance from one foot to the other. Gideon’s gaze is knowing and it pins you to the ground. 

Stay alive.  

A blink. You’re standing in the doorway of your office at headquarters. Everything is as you left it, save for your chair, which has an inhabitant. Franklyn Froideveaux stares at you with empty eye sockets and a gaping maw.  Blood slips down his gaunt frame, leaving murky red-brown streaks down his cheeks and around the cavity of his chest. You blink and his skin turns a murky yellowish green from decay. 

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons from over your shoulder. You can feel the smile on his face, feel his breath hitting your neck and provoking a deep nausea in your gut. 

Another blink. Blood slips hotly down your fingers as you stand in a dimly lit hallway. Your skin feels lit with flames and the knife in your hand gleams a sickening crimson. You want to release the weapon from your grip, but your fingers are locked around the blade with unshakeable force. The smell of death and decay wafting through the enclosed space makes your stomach turn. None of these sensations are powerful enough to rip your attention away from the corpse at your feet. 

“Killing must feel good to God, too,” Hannibal remarks with a hum, hands behind his back as he regards Abel Gideon’s form. There is a mildly intrigued expression on his face as he studies the body, before looking back to you with eerily crimson eyes. As he pivots, bloodstained antlers stretch from his perfectly coiffed hair. They disappear in a moment—a trick of the light. His voice is dark and airy all at once. “And are we not created in his image?” You swallow past the nausea building in your chest. Time stretches on with terrible slowness. His gaze is flaying you apart. “Don’t you want God To want you?” He asks softly.1 

“See?” Stay awake. Stay alive.  

Darkness, then light. “To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal says, a flicker of a smile settling on his lips. His hands are folded and he leans forward. Your chairs are close enough to force you to knock knees with him, but Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered by the prospect. “You are the first person to see through his façade, through the layers of his mask.” His skin looks strangely patterned, as if it's made of ceramic. You reach out to grasp his face, to yank off his mask, only for Hannibal to catch your wrist and hold it in a tight grip. Suddenly, your chair is tipping backwards precariously, lurching further into the abyss. You try to reach out and grab onto something, but Hannibal’s hold is the only thing that keeps you tethered. The void crawls up your skin mockingly, waiting to drag you into its umbra. Your momentum is slipping backwards and you’re filled with an unsettling anticipation. Contrary to your expectations, Hannibal’s grip remains strong. You look at him. The Ripper looks back, a bloodstained smile on his lips. You feel his fingers trace the edges of your skin with a mocking gentleness, before you’re falling backward into the darkness again.

You slip out of the darkness and bolt up, only to find yourself in a painfully bright room. You can’t quite stop the gasp that comes from your lips, nor can you suppress the urge to look around frantically, searching for the signs that this is a dream. The incessant pain in your abdomen is a harsh reality check. You look down at the area, only to find meticulously wrapped bandages covering your lower torso. Your upper forearm stings from the IV burrowing under your skin. 

“Hey,” a voice says. You squint in the bright light, waiting for the blurred figure in front of you to sharpen. It’s a nurse—the same one who helped you the last time you were wounded. She holds her hands out in a placating gesture. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You were just dreaming.” Her eyebrows are furrowed in concern, a sentiment you feel you don’t deserve. 

You bite back your questions—knowing the answers are clinging to the blinding white walls around you. The nurse asks you several questions about your symptoms and your pain level, before departing with the promise that she will return soon. 

The events that transpired in Hannibal’s office cling to your skin with fervency. Your abdomen burns, especially when you remember that Hannibal inflicted the wound. You shouldn’t feel betrayed. You shouldn’t be afforded the privilege of being betrayed, not when you knew Hannibal Lecter’s nature since that night you sleepwalked out into the middle of the street. 

Even so… you enjoyed being in Hannibal’s presence. You enjoyed the song and dance you had gotten so accustomed to playing. You spent so long spectating the game that you forgot your role in it. You were a pawn, and nothing more. The thought displeases you. With each passing second, the ugly feeling in your chest grows and swells within the confines of your rib cage. It’s getting to be too much. 

There is no one to sit at your bedside this time. When she returns, the nurse pointedly does not mention your husband. You don’t have the heart to tell her that your “husband” was the same person who stabbed you, or that your husband was never really your husband in the first place. She seems to understand anyway. Pity is hidden beneath the kind smile on her face. You stop making eye contact with her. 

Lying in this hospital bed is a lonely existence, dominated by a constant state of pain (at worst) or mild discomfort (at best). The only interaction you get is from the nurse herself. You get the feeling she’d be a good listener, but your tongue feels ironed to the roof of mouth and your conversations quickly morph into anecdotes about her life. You’re grateful for the small kindness—for the prospect of being treated like a human being, despite it all.  These small moments of humanity push you to keep going, even amidst the several voices crooning in your ears about your cruelty.

You don’t expect any visitors. Indeed, your first visitor is entirely unexpected. When you’re first told that someone wishes to speak to you, you think of Beverly, Jack Crawford… hell, even Freddie Lounds. You certainly don’t foresee Alana Bloom walking through the door, a gentle, reserved expression on her face. Seeing her brightens your day, and her presence reminds you that you’re not entirely alone. You welcome the thought. 

“Alana,” you greet her, your voice rather raspy. You cough to clear your throat. “How are you?” You ask. 

“I should be asking you that,” she responds with a wry smile. She stands at the end of your bed, before walking to the side. Alana regards the lonely chair at your bedside, before placing her hands on the back. She looks well—albeit a little tired. “I’m good. And you?”

“I’ve been better,” you decide to respond honestly. There’s no point in lying to Alana—she used to be your psychiatrist, your girlfriend. She would be able to see through your dishonesty anyway. Sure enough, Alana seems to appreciate your honesty, because her eyes momentarily widen before she moves to sit down. Seeing her sit in that chair makes your stomach turn. When you blink, you see Hannibal sitting there—lithe frame effortlessly arranged, tupperware in hand. You rub your eyes roughly, dispelling the image to the recesses of your memory. Alana was courteous enough to visit you—the least you can do is acknowledge her presence, instead of imagining her as someone else. 

For a moment, you stare at Alana. A mundane sense of envy strikes you, but it’s fleeting. You don’t deserve to be envious of her good health and safe wellbeing. Your own hubris is the reason why you’re currently confined to this cot. You look at her for a moment longer, before letting your eyes rest on the plain walls around you. You can feel Alana staring at you with concern. Instead of acknowledging that sentiment, you let the first question on your mind pass through your lips. “Where’s Jack?”

Alana is silent for a few seconds. Is it a difficult question? You don’t think so, yet Alana almost seems to falter. Eventually, she must manage to find the words. “Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she evidently settles for saying. Upon closer examination, her hands are clasped in her lap—whitened knuckles betraying her otherwise tranquil image. Alana’s next words are quiet yet firm. “He’s tracking Hannibal—the Chesapeake Ripper.”

You inhale slowly. Somehow, hearing her say that cements the reality of it all. Everyone knows Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper. It’s not just you anymore. You bring up an arm slowly, before tilting your head down and pinching the bridge of your nose. Somehow, it is this statement that reminds you of the pounding sensation behind your eyes and the aching clustered around your temple.

“Are you alright?” Alana asks, lips twitching into a slight frown. 

“Yes,” you respond flatly. Your answer sounds devoid of emotion and purpose. 

“Are you sure?” Alana persists. You don’t have the heart to lie to her twice in a row. 

“...No.” You acquiesce. You rub a hand over your face, feeling rather small in this hospital bed. The sheets are slightly scratchy and the weight of them feels constricting, rather than comforting. You’ve never felt so small. 

“I’m sorry,” Alana sighs. She seems entirely sincere and it almost makes you want to scream. You don’t deserve her sympathy. “I know you two were close. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” That statement is incredibly reassuring, despite the frenzy you had worked yourself into surrounding Alana. When you reflect on the events of the past months, you realize that you have few allies and even fewer true friends. One of those true friends is sitting right next to you. 

“Thank you,” you nod. Guilt stirs in your chest as you stare at your old psychiatrist and ex-girlfriend. Every time you’ve seen her since she kissed you, you’ve purposefully cut conversation short. Somehow, the thought feels silly to you now. Perhaps almost dying a second time does that to a person. You stare at Alana for a moment. She looks well put together, as always. “Alana?”

“Yes?” She questions patiently. That’s another thing you envy about her—her unwavering compassion, her unflinching patience. You could stand to learn a few things from her, you think. 

“I’m sorry,” you remark. The sentiment has been dancing on the tip of your tongue for the past several weeks, yet you never got the chance to verbalize it. Life has been a whirlwind lately. You’ve been so caught up in everything swirling around in your mind that you never paused to think about those around you, or how they were affected by the recent turn of events. “For…” You break off, unable to articulate it. You settle for a vague hand gesture. Alana seems to understand anyways, as her eyes momentarily widen before comprehension passes over her face. 

“Don’t apologize,” Alana is quick to say, nothing but sincerity written in the lines of her shoulders. Her eyes look slightly glassy for the briefest of moments, before she shakes her head and looks at you once more. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry for kissing you without warning.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silence descends upon the brisk air, leaving the two of you to your thoughts. You’re not content to let this overbearing tension rule over your conversation. You clench your fists slightly, filled with renewed resolve. You stare at Alana for a few seconds, until she notices your gaze and returns it. “Friends?” You ask, extending a hand towards her.

“Friends,” Alana responds with a smile, rising from her chair to meet your outstretched hand. Your handshake is short but reassuring. It’s enough to convince you that there are no hard feelings between the two of you. Alana fills you in on some of what’s happened since your admittance to the hospital; mostly, though, the two of you talk about the small things. You know Alana is trying to give you some semblance of normalcy. You appreciate the effort, you really do… but you’re not sure you’re capable of pretending everything’s okay. Furthermore, the small things seem inconsequential—now that you’re entrenched in the middle of everything. Even so, you make sure to thank her before she leaves. You don’t know how you would have coped without seeing a familiar face. Alana smiles and promises to be back soon. 

As you expect, Alana doesn’t turn up the next day. You certainly don’t expect her to stop by, since you know she’s always rather busy.  Ultimately, you come to the conclusion that you want nothing more than to be out of this hospital. Even worse… apparently, the stunt you pulled with Beverly during your past hospital visit did not go over well. You’re firmly reminded to avoid any attempts at an early release. You’re too tired and embarrassed to argue. You don’t have anything better to do than rot in this hospital room, anyway. Besides, you’re certain you’ll be met with some unpleasant reminders of Hannibal as you get home. You think you have a few cardigans in your closet that you meant to give back to him. The thought sends a bolt of nervous excitement through you, and you have to actively talk yourself down that precarious ledge. 

Alana does visit the day after. Beverly turns up the day after that and gives you several hugs. After that, at least one of your friends—Alana or Beverly— visits every day, which you’re extremely grateful for. You’re certain you’d go absolutely stir crazy in this hospital bed if you didn’t have anyone for company. Your conversations are typically fun and refreshing, like light breezes of summer air. Sometimes, though, you’re bogged down by your memories. Sometimes, you’re forced to remember the corpses you left in your wake. 

Even with Alana and Beverly visiting, you’re given more than enough alone time to contemplate everything. You have ample time to pick apart Hannibal’s actions and discern his true motivations. So, when Jack Crawford finally visits, his shoulders drawn tight with stress, you’re prepared to recount that night to him. Jack is insistent on the fact that you don’t have to speak about anything you don’t want to, but you know the offer is more for pretense than anything else. He needs this information, needs to understand the Ripper’s past actions and how they govern his future.  With that in mind, you wave off his concern and tell him about your late night meeting with Hannibal.

Jack is silent throughout, never once interrupting you or reacting in a manner other than an affirmative nod. It’s very characteristic of your boss; you think that you would have been unsettled if he responded with heightened or dramatic emotions. Jack’s cool composure is an anchor that you quickly latch on to. 

“He wanted you alive,” Jack states, once you’re finished explaining everything. He says this with frightening assuredness. His utter conviction surprises you, prompting you to ask how he knows that. 

Of course, you certainly considered that same possibility yourself, but it feels more real when you hear it from Jack. “The stab wound wasn’t fatal,” he points out. His gaze falls to the edge of your abdomen. The bandages feel extremely constricting. You wonder if they need to be changed soon. “It easily could’ve been. The Ripper is a skilled killer—he wouldn’t have missed unless he wanted to.” You take a shuddering breath in. 

“He’s toying with us,” you manage to agree. Your hands fidget restlessly along the rough blanket thrown over your form. You feel restless once more. 

“He’s toying with you,” Jack supplies. There is no room for argument in his voice. He doesn’t look restless, afraid, or frustrated. Not for the first time, you wish you had Jack’s control and constitution. However, you know Jack well enough to see the signs of tension in his clenched fist and drawn lips. “Taunting you, and the rest of us, by proxy.” That statement in particular sets everything in stone. Your theories are no longer just theories—they are unobjectionable facts. 

“Jack.” you remark, trying to push the words past the dread settling on your tongue. 

“Yes?” Jack asks, patient and restless all at once. You’re choking on the words. It’s such a simple sentence, yet so dangerous of an admission. If you told the truth—confided in Jack about how you suspected Hannibal the moment you met him, and grew to realize that he is the Ripper—you would certainly lose your job, not to mention all of Jack’s trust. 

Selfish, your victims croon. Your psyche nods in agreement. It’s truly selfish of you not to provide Jack with your utmost honesty. You’re doing a disservice to every person Hannibal has ever killed, every waking moment the team spent hunting for the Chesapeake Ripper. You wasted so much time, so much space. 

“I-” You try to continue. I knew. I knew and I did nothing. I am complicit in his crimes. Tears are slipping down your cheeks. You’re a rotten excuse for a human being. You don’t deserve to be alive. Why hadn’t Hannibal just finished the job? It’s cruel, almost. He allowed his other victims the mercy of death, yet he left you alive. You will forever be scarred—both by Hannibal’s knife and by the bone-deep knowledge that your silence made you an accomplice to his crimes. 

Breathing is suddenly a far more arduous task. Your lungs burn and your throat feels as if it’s closing in on you. Your vision is extremely sharp and your shaking hands are drawn with harsh lines and even harsher edges. The world around you is suddenly rendered immensely inconsequential. The beeping of the machines at your bedside, Jack’s steady breaths, the traces of conversation slipping in from the hallway… It all fails in comparison to the chimes of the grandfather clock in your mind. You dig your fingernails into your skin, desperate for unspoken confirmation that you aren’t dreaming.

At this point, you’re panting. Drool falls from the sides of your mouth and hits the scratchy blanket. Every nerve in your body feels as if it’s on fire. You’re a puppet cut loose from the puppeteer’s careful hand, yet you’re still strung together with wooden bones and durable string. You bring your hand to your chest and try to breathe, but the more you try, the harsher and more rushed your attempts become.  

“Agent.” There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s enough pressure to make you feel as if you’re melding with the thin mattress below you, sinking into the floor and the shadows. For a moment, you can see Hannibal looking down at you in your mind’s eye, a contentious expression on his face as he lets you fall to the darkness below.  “Breathe.” Jack grabs your hand and brings it to the inside of his wrist. His pulse beats steadily beneath your fingertips and you latch onto the rhythm.  Jack begins counting, prompting you to breathe in time with him. You’re not sure how long it takes you to clear your airways—you just know that, at some point, Jack migrated from where he stood at the end of your bed to the side of the bed. 

“Jack,” you try again. Your lips part but nothing slips out. It’s such a simple confession—a mere few words, yet you can’t utter them. 

“Agent,” Jack interjects, before you can choke on the words you don’t want to say. His expression has returned to a combination of rigidity and anticipation. You know what Jack will say before he says it. “Can I trust you to handle this case? Do I need to remove you from this case? ” He doesn’t say that last part, but you hear it anyway. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face. Your eyes burn from all the tears you shed. 

“I can handle it,” you assure him. 

“You’re close to all this,” Jack remarks. He gets up from where he had been sitting and walks back to stand behind the edge of the bed. His gaze meets yours, but you know he isn’t really looking at you. That expression on his face means Jack is looking through his options, puzzling out the future in his head. You wait for him to refocus. “You know I don’t typically assign agents with personal investments in cases… But, you’ve been on this case for a long time. You know the Ripper better than anyone else does, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You stare at Jack silently, daring him to take you off the case. You know that your words will fail you here, so you hope your conviction shows through in your eyes. Jack stares back and, for a long moment, you’re both trapped in silence. Eventually, Jack seems to ascertain that you think yourself capable. He takes a deep breath. 

“In terms of the Ripper, we currently have a unit determining his whereabouts,” Jack begins. “The Ripper—Lecter—covered his tracks very well. The last time he was seen was…”

“When he stabbed me,” you say for him. 

“Yes,” Jack confirms. “As you know, Lecter is proficient at leaving behind very little—if any—evidence.” You nod, thinking back to all the crime scenes he created. There was hardly any evidence left behind. Hannibal was always meticulous and careful in his crimes. 

“He only leaves clues when he wants to,” you continue. “He is not so kind hearted as to leave us clues for the hell of it, or because he slipped up. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“We found very little in his office,” Jack concedes with a sharp nod. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Stress seems to tighten the line of his shoulders. “We did manage to find several concealed weapons, upon closer examination.”

“He stabbed me with a knife that was disguised as an antler on a deer sculpture,” you recall flatly. The thought makes your side flare up with pain again. “I shouldn’t have gone to his office. I should’ve come to you first. I knew, and yet…”

“Frankly, Agent, that is not my concern,” Jack states matter of factly. “The past is the past. If I were to dissect every minute mistake we’ve made along the course of this investigation, we’d never be able to proceed.”

“True,” you answer. You still don’t think Jack has truly comprehended the implications of what you just said. You knew Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper long before that night. After all, you didn’t explicitly state when you first discovered the identity of the Ripper. Of course, you suppose it is also likely that Jack was able to intuit that from your response. If that were the case, you can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t kicked you off this case or fired you. 

You know it’s best for you to drop this particular line of questioning, so you do. For the duration of Jack’s visit, he debriefs you on what the team has deduced so far—both in terms of his current location and where he’ll go next. After an hour passes, however, your luck runs out. Your nurse enters the room and promptly shoos Jack out, claiming that you need time to rest. She is entirely impervious to his objections, even when he tries to pull rank on her. You’re rather impressed. Jack manages to get a last remark in, before the nurse can guide him out of the room. 

“Lecter will turn up soon enough,” your boss states. With that, Jack departs. His cryptic remark leaves you with a lot to think about. You spend the rest of your hospital stay grappling with the implications of that statement, with the implications of Hannibal deciding not to kill you. You’re released from the hospital a week later with a troubled conscience and another scar to add to your collection. 

Somehow, news of your battle with Hannibal has reached the press, Jack tells you as he drives you home in the dead of night. Ultimately, Jack decided it would be best to get you home during a time when most people are sleeping. You’re grateful for his foresight, because when you return home, there are no flashing cameras or microphones shoved in your face. You thank Jack for the ride and he nods, sending you one final unreadable look before driving away. 

When you unlock your front door and swing the door open, you’re surprised to find that your house appears the same as when you left it. You close the door behind you and take in everything before you. Dust is beginning to collect on the shelves and surfaces—the space desperately needs a dedicated cleaning, but you know you don’t have the energy just yet. Right now, you’re content to cautiously walk to your closet and grab clothes. Despite the fact that Jack brought you a pair of old trainee clothes to change into when he arrived, you know you need a good shower to feel clean. The lukewarm water sliding down your skin is rejuvenating, but it doesn’t wipe away the dirt of your sins. You step out of the shower with clean skin and a muddy conscience. Drying off and putting on your clothes is an annoying affair, but you manage. 

After your shower, it’s safe to say that you’re entirely lost. You don’t know what to do next. You need to eat, you remember. Unfortunately, your fridge is pretty much empty. You sigh and survey the space that you call home. It doesn’t feel familiar, despite the knowledge that it’s been yours for several years. These are all your belongings, yet it feels as if you’re standing in a stranger’s shoes. You look around the room, pausing when your eye catches on a scrap of newspaper. The TattleCrime article from before rests innocuously on the kitchen counter. You walk towards it immediately, as if possessed. 

Criminally Insane. You stare at the photos featured in the article. The second photo—the one of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane—led you to realize that Frederick Chilton had been kidnapped. The first picture… It unsettles you. There are hints of the dark circles under your eyes that you now possess, but there’s also an unspoken confidence in your posture in the photo. You choke on a laugh, running your fingers along the rough newspaper. 

It’s a miracle you’re still alive. Well, it certainly feels that way… but you know your survival can’t be put down to mere fate. Inexplicably, Hannibal did not aim to kill you. You contemplate what would’ve happened if he had aimed that way. You would have died in that office, certainly. Would you be free of this terrifying helplessness, this aching despair?

You manage to tear your eyes away from the article. After a moment of thought, you stuff it in a drawer—hoping you will never need to look at it again. Unsurprisingly, you still feel incredibly restless. You begin pacing slowly around the room, desperate for something to do. Perhaps this urge to do something is indicative of a deeper sentiment. 

The cicadas buzz from the trees outside. You’re suddenly struck with a perplexing urge to step outside. You follow that urge and walk mechanically to your front door. Maybe someone is on your porch. You peek through the peephole, unsurprised to find no one there. After a second’s contemplation, you step out onto your porch, letting your arms rest against the railing.  

The brisk night air doesn’t help your worsening mental state. You still feel numb, empty. Nothing feels real anymore. As you look out at your driveway, at the other houses lining your street, you’re hit with an immense sonder.2 How did you end up in this situation? How did you end up here, staring out at the suburbia around you and wishing you could take on the life of another person—someone who isn’t desensitized to blood, gore, violence, and murder?

You don’t know where to go from here. Your feelings are a dizzying combination of remorse, regret, and contempt—combined with an unhealthy amount of wishful thinking. You raise your arms and put your head in your hands for a moment. Succumbing to darkness has never felt so comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Lecter will return soon enough.” Jack had said. There was a certainty in his voice in that moment—a sincerity that was surely unfounded. He was making a prediction and nothing more. Yet… the conviction in his tone made it seem as if he knew the Ripper’s next move. Surely, Hannibal hasn’t grown so predictable. Surely, he will continue to elude capture for as long as he wishes. 

A car’s headlights reach your vision, and you watch as it slowly cruises down your street. There is a certain nonchalance to the way it slowly rises on the horizon. You frown, wondering what this person is doing driving down your street at such a late hour. Perhaps it’s a neighbor. You continue to watch warily. For a moment, you swear it seems as if the car’s slowing as it approaches. Surely that can’t be the case. It’s too dark to make out the details of the car—let alone the driver. You settle for staring in silence as it moves along. Within the blink of an eye, the vehicle moves past your driveway and into the dark expanse enveloping the space past your street. You exhale in relief, just realizing that your breath had hitched during the car’s brief stint in front of your house. 

Why were you nervous? What were you expecting? You don’t want to acknowledge the answers to those questions—those solutions will only bring more problems. You shake your head. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, and everyone knows. There should be nothing to be afraid of, except for a single thought that never seems to leave you. He will return for you, a voice whispers against the wind. He wants to finish the job.  

You’ve never gotten so close to a case before. You almost wish you could travel back in time, to the first time you locked eyes with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. In that moment, you hadn’t been able to rationalize the intense foreboding and trepidation that seemed to crawl up your skin as he stared back at you. You had no true grasp of the danger you would soon experience, the lives you would soon take. When did you stop trusting your instincts? Your intuition is part of the reason why you’re such a successful criminal profiler, yet you were more than willing to entirely ignore it. 

A chill hits your skin, but it’s not from the brisk breeze of night air that gently rustles your clothes. The unsettling feeling comes from the car in your driveway, the bright headlights illuminating the woody forest behind your house. Were you so lost in thought that you neglected to notice someone approaching your driveway? You squint and take a step closer to the driveway, wavering on the edge of your porch. The car looks familiar, and that realization nearly pitches you off the porch and careening to the ground below. The driver turns the car off and swings the door open with taunting slowness. A roaring sound fills your ears. 

“Hannibal,” you remark. The driver closes the door and takes a step forward, close enough to the porch that the light hits their face and reveals familiar angled features. His lip is bleeding and there are droplets of blood scattered about his face. His clothing is ever so slightly rumpled. Other than that, Hannibal appears at ease. The Ripper looks at you, and utters your name in response. 

You don’t know what to do, what to say. Your hands clutch the railing in front of you with enough force to send bolts of pain through your fingers. It feels as if your heart is racing faster than humanly possible. You’re reminded of the pain in your abdomen, the scar slicing dangerously close to your eye. You clench a fist at your side and walk down the steps of your porch, before turning and moving to stand at a strategic distance from Hannibal: close enough to see his face, far enough to have an illusion of control and safety. 

The night is still. If it weren’t for your unexpected visitor, you might take solace in the tranquility of the midnight sky. Now, the stars seem to wink at you in warning. When Hannibal speaks, you nearly convince yourself that you imagine it. “I have evaded capture for long enough.” An ugly, foolish sort of hope settles in your chest. You try to push it away.

“You’re… surrendering,” you remark cautiously, waiting for him to dispel that notion. The Ripper does nothing of the sort. Instead, Hannibal stares at you, making strangely heated eye contact with you as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife. The moonlight briefly hits the metal, causing it to glimmer mockingly. Your stomach turns. The moon’s warm glow reveals more than just a shimmer—there are murky brown stains on the blade. You recognize the splatters as dried blood and your skin crawls. Hannibal is holding the very same knife he stabbed you with. He maneuvers it expertly, holding the blade and extending the handle towards you. Everything about this moment feels like a trap, but you willingly reach out and take the proffered knife, fastening it at your belt.

After a stretch of time in which neither of you elect to say anything, you decide that Hannibal must be telling the truth. Eyes locked on the man, you fumble around in your pocket for your phone and pull it out, dialing the only number you have memorized. Your intended recipient answers before two seconds pass. “Jack,” you say, your gaze still firmly fixed on the Ripper. 

“Agent,” Jack responds. Hannibal is staring at you with intense scrutiny, evidently attempting to decipher what Jack is saying to you. That recognition causes you to pause for a moment. At your hesitation, Jack’s voice takes on a concerned yet impatient tone. “What is it?”

“I have him,” you say, vaguely satisfied that your voice sounds clear and composed despite the emotional rollercoaster you’ve been subjected to. “The Ripper. He’s in my driveway.”

Jack’s end of the line is quiet. You know it must be nearly impossible to believe. You look at Hannibal and then look back at the phone, realizing what you need to do. Taking a deep breath, you bring a shaky hand up and press the speaker button. Despite every instinct in your body screaming at you, you take a small step forward—and another—until Hannibal is close enough to the phone. For a moment, he stares down at the device pensively. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grabs your wrist and tugs you closer—evidently to get to the phone. You glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal remarks, voice laced with amusement as he grasps your hand— the phone, you tell yourself—with unshakeable strength.  Despite the severity of the situation, you can’t do anything but roll your eyes at his chosen greeting. It seems Hannibal’s dramatics know no bounds. Even when his very freedom is threatened, he will continue to wear his carved mask of politeness and elegance. You try to listen for Jack’s response. There’s still silence on the other end—Jack is probably dispatching a unit as you speak. You’re sure Jack himself will be on his way before long. 

Indeed, Jack confirms that a team is on the way. He hangs up and your phone screen fades to black. Despite the call’s termination, Hannibal is still holding your wrist. “Can I have my hand back?” You ask wryly. You try to shake his grip off and pull away, but he doesn’t budge. Your heart is racing as you try to find an escape. Hannibal doesn’t seem keen to let go, instead looking at you with mild amusement written all over his face. It doesn’t take you long to come up with an idea. You attempt to shake off his grip once more, knowing it will not work. The moment you try to pull your wrist back, you take advantage of the momentum and aim a harsh kick just above his knee. Per your expectations, he doesn’t anticipate the attack and is forced to fall down to a kneeling position to avoid falling over. You lock eyes with him and tear his grip off.

Hannibal looks up at you on bended knee, entirely silent. You begin to realize just what you’ve done—you just disrespected him. You were the epitome of the rudeness Hannibal abhors. You swallow. If you weren’t dead before, you’re certainly dead now. The Ripper is still silent, before tilting his head down to hide his face. Fuck, you’ve really done it this time. You feel yourself taking an instinctual half step backwards, and you’re moments away from turning on your heel and running when you hear an odd sound. 

Hannibal is laughing, you realize. It’s a far cry from the typical gesture of joy you’d associate with laughter, but his amusement is still evident. He brings his head up once more and regards you with interest. “You never fail to surprise me,” he remarks amiably, getting to his feet and pushing the dust from his pant leg with a quick swiping motion. Hannibal doesn’t give your threat any consideration, instead simply regarding you with that same eerie look you’ve grown to associate with his full attention. 

Your hand twitches to grab the bloodstained knife at your side. You imagine yourself plunging the blade into Hannibal’s side, watching his smirk falter and his victorious expression crumple. The vindictive thought thrills you for a second, before you come back to yourself and feel immense revulsion and disgust. Hannibal almost seems to sense the mental gymnastics you're going through, as an intrigued expression flickers across his face before it’s gone in a flash. 

Truthfully, you don’t know how long you stand there—across from Hannibal, staring him down as he stares you down, prey regarding predator—until Jack arrives. It feels like an eternity. Time seems to entirely stop during those moments. Somehow, the quiet is more informative than a conversation ever could be. You don’t need words—not when you can see the tight line drawn across Hannibal’s shoulders, the persistence in his gaze. 

Even eternity must come to an end, though. Police sirens blink in the distance, drawing you away from your thoughts. You watch as several police cars find their way to your driveway. Jack sits in the passenger seat of the car at the front, and he’s quick to step out of the car. S.W.A.T. officers swarm out of the cars, weapons pointed at Hannibal. There is a horrible tension settling in the air, thick enough to make your breaths occur just a little faster.

Despite the exorbitant amount of fully-armed S.W.A.T officers, you’re still afraid. Hannibal is closest to you. If he wanted to, he could kill you—even with so many people present. You don’t doubt his strength or agility. These recognitions leave your heart drumming in your chest at an incessantly quick rhythm. You glance over at Jack and he nods, holding a hand up to the officers and walking towards you. 

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack remarks. Even now, he is incredibly composed. You latch onto his composure and try to emulate it,  though you know it won’t look convincing enough. The headlights from the cars are blinding and you turn your head, giving your burning eyes a brief reprieve. 

“Jack,” Hannibal responds, his hands raised in the air in surrender. The Ripper is indeed powerless, yet the gesture looks mocking. A few officers step closer and surround Hannibal, who kneels down with his arms still raised high. “You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper.” His hands move to rest behind his head. 

Jack stares at the killer with an indecipherable expression. “You surrendered.”

“I want you to know exactly where I am,” Hannibal responds to Jack. After that remark, his head turns and dread rises in your chest as you realize he’s looking towards you. His eyes are glittering in the moonlight. “And where you can always find me.” You’re frozen, limbs locked as his crimson eyes pierce through you. 

Vaguely, you hear Jack order for Hannibal to be placed in his car. The officers pull Hannibal up from his knees and escort him to the police car. The Ripper’s gaze is locked on you until he enters the vehicle. Jack remains where he stands, sending you a look. You incline your head slightly, to wordlessly encourage him to leave you. Jack seems hesitant to do so, but his sense of responsibility must win out, because he walks back towards the car. You still feel as if you’re being watched, and you get the feeling Hannibal is staring at you from behind the dark tinted glass. The police car slowly reverses out of your driveway, before heading down your street and eventually out of sight. 

You purse your lips, before walking back up the steps to your porch. Everything seemed to have happened far too fast. In the blink of an eye, you’re left to stand alone, with nothing but your conflicting feelings of grief, anger, and remorse for company.  Memories burrow their way under your skin. Each breath is a testament to your own cruelty. 

Inexplicably, you reach up to touch the jagged scar cutting down your face. Your fingertips brush against the marred skin and you jolt. Your abdomen burns in remembrance. Hannibal Lecter has given you the quiet evenings, the comfortable silence settling in the air, and the thrill of an attentive, burning gaze that sends warm embers dancing up your skin.

But he has taken so much more from you in return.

Gone is the gentle caress of a hand on your cheek and the comfort of having unquestionable support. Gone is the hard-won feeling of being truly seen for who you are. Gone is the excitement, the anticipation of knowing that your companion can never truly be predicted. All of it is gone. 

You look up at the moon glimmering in the dark night sky. You idly wonder if Hannibal sees it too. It’s a foolish thought. His cell likely won’t have windows. He has probably been confined to four walls of cement, a metal toilet, and a thin, dingy mattress on a cold metal frame. There is no hope for someone like Hannibal—he will earn several life sentences and spend his entire life in that cage. You have to wonder: why? Why would he surrender?

It was a tactical surrender—that much you know for certain. Hannibal could easily have spent the rest of his life moving from place to place, taking on new identity after new identity. He could have spent however long he wanted, camouflaged but free. 

Freedom. Maybe that’s the answer. After all, that kind of aggressive mimicry is not necessarily freedom. Hannibal Lecter values being an enigma. The mystery that surrounds him, in part, relies on his reputation. Life spent in hiding isn’t really life at all. Even someone like Hannibal—someone with arguably everything to lose—would understand that sentiment. 

You exhale slowly, watching as your puff of breath fades into the air. You suppose Hannibal’s statement may have carried some truth. You will always know where to find him; you won’t be able to bury the memory of him next to the other skeletons in your closet and leave him to rot. Whenever your psyche falters, Hannibal will be there—imprisoned within your mind palace, gathering strength and lying in wait. 

Your phone rings in your pocket. You pull it out, momentarily surprised by the time displayed. It’s getting late. You hadn’t realized how long you spent lost in thought. When you answer, your voice sounds unfamiliar to your ears. 

“Crawford,” Jack clarifies, cutting right to the chase, “We got him.” There is no further explanation needed. 

“We got him, Jack,” you echo. The recognition sounds hollow, empty. Your gaze is pulled towards your driveway once more. Jack’s voice reaches your ears, but you can’t discern what he’s saying over the ringing in your ears. 

Hannibal Lecter is behind bars now, yet you’re the one who feels trapped. You’re a prisoner—trapped in a cage of your own broken design.

1. Dracula by Bram Stoker

2. Sonder refers to the feeling of realization that everyone, including strangers and passersby, have lives just as complex and vivid as your own.

Sorry if the intro parts were confusing. I wanted to *try* to write it in a way that showed how weird and unusual dreams can really be, especially after traumatic events.The mind is infinitely powerful, able to conjure up a new reality at a moment’s notice. I liked the idea of the reader drowning in a whirlpool of their own mind’s creation—as they fight to get back to reality. (also, I found the word “umbra,” which is apparently used to describe the shadow created by an eclipse. I think that’s cool as hell, so I included it.) Dream logic never quite makes sense and can be extremely convoluted, which is why the intro is a messy assortment of memories with no clear beginning or end.

Y’all seemed to like my rationalization for the previous chapter, so I’ll include some similar notes for this chapter if you’re interested:

Hannibal’s surrender in this chapter is very much calculated. He realizes that he’s no longer free—since the FBI are onto him. There is a sort of cruelty in the life he would have to lead, as his “freedom” would include lots of mental effort, relocating, and subterfuge. Hannibal likely weighs his options, and decides between a life of constant stealth and relocation, and a life behind bars. It’s reasonable to assume that he also would have realized that his status as the Chesapeake Ripper would grant him special privileges as a prisoner—he’s aware of how much the Ripper has dominated the cultural zeitgeist and knows he will be able to use that notoriety to his advantage in captivity.

Of course, Hannibal also knows how to best dominate your thoughts: by remaining in one place. As he mentions, you will always know where he is and where to find him. You will not have to track him down by following the calculated clues he leaves behind—rather, you will constantly have to live with the underlying knowledge that Hannibal is accessible at any and every moment. In this case, Hannibal’s surrender is quite a tactical and manipulative move. He truly chooses to go to prison. It would be unsettling to know that the Ripper was on the loose, yes. But, the Ripper has been on the loose and free for several years already. On the other hand, it would be downright disturbing to know that Hannibal’s presence in prison is a willful choice—one that can be taken back at any moment. That can easily manifest a constant lingering fear in the back of the reader’s mind, in addition to an eternal desire to pin down exactly why Hannibal is remaining captive, chained. The chessmaster is willingly surrendering, but the game is far from over.

And now… Act 1 of this story is complete! 

Never fear, Hannibal will return in Act 2! As for the other characters… Well, you’ll have to wait and see. ;) I will say that Act Two embraces some elements of The Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs. Don’t worry, though—you don’t need to have read either of them. :3

Here’s a scrap for your efforts! (*throws you this unused dialogue like a scruffy middle-aged man with grey hair and a scratchy quarter-zip throws a piece of raw beef to the wolves outside his cabin*) This was one of the MANY options I had considered (but never used) for the big reveal:

“How long have you known?” Hannibal asks. “From the moment you invited me into your home,” you answer. There’s silence for a dreadful moment. “And you stayed.” “I did.” “Why?” “I like talking to you, I enjoy your company.… Does one really need a reason to keep the company of another?” You finish. A beat of quiet. “... I suppose not,” Hannibal acquiesces.

Act 2 will be posted as the second part of this series. Here's the link to the AO3 series: these jagged scars. I'll also post it over here on Tumblr. :)

Thank you so so so much for all the support! Your likes, comments, and reblogs keep me going! <33333

taglist 🖤: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

[dragonfiremagic]

I have given in and made a vessel character alongside their smol adoptive bug sibling I love this bug game sm and may draw more stuff about it Pilgrim and Filip's info under the cut~

Pilgrim (Or Trini) is one of many discarded vessels that was lucky enough to escape abyss alive and leave the doomed kingdom of Hallownest. They trekked far away from their birthplace, losing their memory and sense of self before stumbling upon a small family of beetle-like bugs within a hidden distant town that flourished within the wastelands. That is how how Pilgrim met a small bug child named Filip, their now-adoptive brother, who was immediately curious about the strange foreign visitor. It did not take long for them to form a strong sibling like bond that would last their entire lifetime. Because of that bond, the vessel refused to travel back to Hallownest after The Hollow Knight's call and stayed with Filip's family to train and live as a nomadic traveler together with their brother.

Pilgrim's personality is mainly calm and collective most of the time. They are the smarter of the duo and excel at archery, instead of nail combat. They can infuse both soul and void into their arrows to empower them further. Filip is a confident, short-tempered, headstrong and stubborn little creature, who wields 2 daggers. He specializes in rapid melee attacks and combos, however he can be reckless and impulsive, forcing the Pilgrim to act as a "mind of reason" to help prevent him from making dumb mistakes.

[the-ragbros-are-okay]

!! SPOILERS FOR CARIBERT ARCHON QUEST UNDER THE CUT !!

holy. fucking. shit

okay so i did all of it in one go the SECOND the update dropped and first of all???? kaeya actually being somewhat open about his past at dawn winery and talking about sneaking off to sumeru to see if he could find anything about Khaenri'ah,,,

part of me wonders if he was trying to find his way home. that was my first thought, at least

either that or he could've just wanted to investigate the possible remnants of his homeland

also the mental image of crepus traveling to sumeru to drag kaeya back to dawn winery is SO funny omg

anyway. this confirms that as a kid, kaeya was great at hiding and going unnoticed (for a short period of time, at least)

he described it as a "short-lived adventure" as if it was just something he did for fun, but i feel like it was more of a "i don't know where my father went after leaving me here and i know i can't ask for help from anyone around me so i'm going to take matters into my own (tiny) hands and try and get home/learn about home"

also, on that note, kaeya knowing khaenri'ah is near sumeru is...interesting

honestly, just the location is interesting to me

sumeru is, for the most part, surrounded by other nations (liyue, natlan, maybe fontaine? idk i'd need to look at a map) so unless khaenri'ah is west of sumeru, it's somewhat central to the other nations and has gone completely unnoticed since it was destroyed

anyway, back to talking about kaeya

in the weinlesefest, we heard kaeya's father's voice for the first time, and it was the line about kaeya being their nations only hope. however, i guess that line doesn't really affect kaeya in the way we thought it did. while we assumed he was always being torn between mondstadt and khaenri'ah, he was actually starting to think that his father left him there for his own good

honestly, healthy mindset there, king!

anyway after that he says "A happy life sounds good to me, of course. Even if it means being cut off from... certain things."

king. hey. are you talking about being cut off from your birthplace or being disowned by diluc; you gotta give me some direction here. personally, i'm going to assume he's talking about diluc now

kaeya had a very happy life when he was with crepus and diluc, and maybe he's including other people's happiness in his definition of a happy life. he's a people pleaser--if others are happy, so am i--and he thinks diluc is happier without kaeya

also him just saying that alberich is his surname makes me :(

like. listen. i know diluc disowned him so he cant really use the surname ragnvinder. but like cmon :(

and him saying his surname is "probably" the only link to khaenri'ah he has left,,, very interesting

ALSO DAIN???? "...One Death After Noon please, Boss." YOU LITTLE SHIT???? he REALLY just went in there with "i'm going to look you in the eyes, sit at your table, and order your favorite drink from your estranged brother's tavern. just for fun, ofc" like bitch????? omg

the tension between kaeya and dain is...yeesh

anyway. kaeya is the descendant of the abyss order's founder! yippee :) and now that he knows that for sure, there's definitely going to be SOME kind of interesting thought process he has

~~~~~

okay just my thoughts on kaeya for this post but the caribert quest fucked me up omg. like.

okay :)

how am i supposed to live knowing that this man spend SO many years trying to save his son only for it to fail and for him to be buried with a lover

also i love paimon!! she cares for the traveler and it's so sweet i don't get how people don't like her :(

NOT TO MENTION THE PART WITH OUR TWIN

LIKE. WHAT WAS THAT :DDDD

[ruthlesslistener]

Wanderer's Journal (pt. 4)

Now we have the section on the Abyss, which is always a fun time.

We've got confirmation that the vessels hatched in the Abyss and died trying to get out, which we already saw in the Birthplace cutscene, but is reinforced here.

Additionally, we get proof that the thing we dreamnailed was indeed an egg. Or at least, something very similar in function to an egg. Either way, it's clear that the vessels hatched from them, apparently with great effort. Vast strength seems to be something that they get bestowed with from the very start, which makes sense considering their less-than-mortal nature.

Wyrms or Roots, Ellina. Best not to ask.

We've got the restless void, most likely haunted by the shades of long-dead lost things (given that it settles after Ghost obtains the Voidheart), as well as the dead siblings haunting the Abyss, which is always fun. Gotta love getting stalked by an army of dead newborns who died desperately clawing towards the light of the father that forsake them.

Here's more proof of the Void's ancient civilization potentially facing a very violent end, given the fact that when you dreamnail the pedestal here, you get the text 'our voices will cry out again'. There's lots of suffering and old hurts hidden away down here. Not all of it belong to the vessels.

And here's poor Broken Vessel! It hurts my heart to hear that they were a very talented nail wielder- I wonder who taught them how to fight? Maybe they just picked up on nail arts before Hallownest fell, since we have no idea when they died. Poor kid.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

[maguro13-2]

[Apotos (Day) by Fumie Kumatani]

Happy : I love Greece! And this Chocolate Chip Sundae Supreme look tasty! I love it! I love it!

Lucy : So what does it make for us to be so reliable in these here parts of Greece?

Erza : Oh I don't know. I mean, Greece is okay. This is where the Olympics originated at, it's probably a home to the Gods of the Earth.

Lucy : Oh yeah, I know lot about Greece, ancient history, facts about the Gods of Greece, famous warriors like the Spartans, and Mount Olympus. But what about mythology?

Erza : Mythology? Oh yeah, Mythology, it's a great historical fact mythology is all about powers of the Gods, lot of warriors came to be in the name of Sparta and Olympia. But I think it's clearly satisfying that this is a wonderful paradise. But I think we will get along with this new profound ways of seeing the good ways of Olympus, I mean "Good ol days of Olympus".

Lucy : Olympus is, Olympus does. Mykonos and Santorini are great inspirations for Windmill Isle. But what does Greece have to do with the Mykonos and Santorini thing in the Sega Worlds. Something like Blue Coast or Water Palace Zone, I think those places are based on the islands of Mykonos and Santorini. You sure about Greece having weird suspicions of Kratos?

Erza : Kratos. Yeah, he's probably in greatest desires of going against the Gods.

Lucy : Hercules? The hero of Greece?

Erza : Such a fine pleasant way to care of things for the great hero of Greece himself. But he do cherish things for Meg.

Lucy : Hades?

Erza : Still thinking about Hercules after foiling his plans.

Lucy : Underworld?

Erza : Not as a good as always, but the Underworld is really a good place of Greece in Mythology. Now I've seen all the glorious details in all of Greece. Let's just that Greece is the wonderful that is the birthplace of the Olympics and the home of the Gods, as well as the Windmill Isle. Thinking about it. I just don't know why is it so hard to find the details about this world complaining the secrets of Greece? Is it something about the place of torment. Blades of Olympus, Chains of Olympus, and everything else Olympus has done something for Maybe Olympus can be the great source of the Gods. Greece has been pulling the strings when Zeus reign over mortals against the God of War himself Ares.

Lucy : Ares, what does Area know about God of War? I've seen Natsu playing that game when he was at the debut preview during the days of you being Clear Heart Force's elite. I've seen everything about playing a God of War stuff, but I thought Mars was the God of War, oh, that's the name of a planet.

Erza : Yeah, yeah. Same as ever. Well, Greek Yogurt and this Moussaka is quite delight. I find it tasty! It's really good with the textures and flavor, but I have a common sense that this iconic dish taste better like lasagna and more importantly, it's very exquisite and edible to eat.

Lucy : Maybe you are right, heck! Who knows maybe we can a little free time in this wonderful friendship of ours.

Happy : But what about the Underworld's second coolest place of all? I bet Greece's underworld second place could be Hades's locker room, or even his secret stash, or probably his room full of drips.

Erza : Well, yeah, you said that. I would probably tell jellal about this arc incident thing with Natsu going on. Hope he doesn't bite on my "Tail" feathers about this incident.

Lucy : Well, glad we are having this conservation so well, Erza. But never forgot to mention that the Underworld's deep abyss, AKA "Tartarus" or "Tartaros" as we call it--

Erza : Wait. "Tartarus?" What do you know about "Tartarus" or "Tartaros"?

Lucy : It's one of them places that Hades had in the abyss, it's used as a dungeon for tormenting and suffering for the wicked, eh? And it's also the name of the guild that we encounter.

[River Twygz Bed theme plays]

Erza : Tartaros? Guild? Dungeon? Torment? A place of suffering?

*Voices overlapping*

Erza : No...Not that place...Not that name...That name that...we had to suffer and I was lucky enough what would happen if we were slaved in Tartaros for all eternity or whatsoever. Not what happened after that She-devil Kyoka did this to us! I will never forget that.

Lucy : What? You don't remember Tartaros. Tartaros was the name of that guild who we face against, but in the end it turns out that Tartaros has now been sued by Hades for taking the name Tartaros, but let's just to be sure that it ended on all terms on legal cases with the copyrighted names, but thank heavens, I am so fed up with an overrated/underrated guild that tormented us like pieces of trash and garbage.

Happy : Yeah, it's one of the worst things that villains ever did to us, Erza. But...who are we trying to convince?

*the word "Convince" is echoed*

[The Evil Giygas Attacks plays]

Erza : ....?

Lucy : Erza. Aren't you going to say anything?

Erza : ...(breathes heavily)

*images flashing*

Erza : No...I don't want to be tortured by them anymore! Naked. tormented, slaving me, all those painful memories, those dreams, and even the nightmares.

Lucy : Erza what's wrong?

Erza : I...Hate...them. Tartaros. Guild. Torment. Bad.

*Images flashing rapidly*

Erza : What is even happening to my life!? What did I ever deserve to be a slave to other women?!

*Erza twitches*

Lucy : Wow, I guess that this whole Tartaros thing has gone off your head. But...You okay Erza?

Natsu : Hey, Scarlet? Why are you twitching like that? You've been hitting the sauce again?

*Erza starts shaking*

Erza : I...don't want to be...tormented...by....*Screams in agony*

*DBZ SFX : Collapse*

Lucy : Oh my God! Erza!

Happy : Someone call a therapist!

Natsu : Someone google Web M.D!

*scene later flips*

Natsu : Good news, Erza finally learned some physical therapy with some health insurance to hope that we may recover from the Tartaros trauma. It traumatized all of us, who says anything about Tartaros, the name of a guild which was named for the deep abyss?

Happy : What? You told us that Tartaros would be the perfect thing. But Erza is good from her Therapy session.

Natsu : And...?

Happy : She'll be good as new! Oh look, she's coming back from therapy and-Oh boy, I don't think she's happy about it.

*STOMPING ANGRILY*

Jellal : Erza! You're back! How was Therapy? And why are you furious all of a sudde-

*GRAB+STEAM BLOWING*

[Kraid Theme by Kenji Yamamoto]

Erza : *furiously* I'LL TELL YOU HOW MY THERAPY WENT! AFTER ALL THE TORMENT AND THE SUFFERING, I SUFFERED A LOT FROM OTHER WOMEN AND TENTACLES, DO YOU THINK THAT FANSERVICE WOULD BE THE OPPORTUNITY OF ME GETTING TORMENTED BY A BADASS IN DISTRESS!?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE TREATED BY OTHER WOMEN!?

Jellal : Erza...But...the villains of Fairy Tail were supposed to be smart and elegant, not make them sadistic or go cray-cray.

ERZA : YA DAMN RIGHT THEY ARE! I'VE BEEN DOING ALL THE HERO STUFF IN EARTH-LAND WHILE I WAS TORMENTED IN THE DUNGEON AS A NAKED SLAVE OF TORMENT, WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM, AN R-RATED HERO IN DISTRESS!?! I DIDN'T COME ALL THE TO TARTAROS TO BE TORMENTED, WE CAME ALL THE WAY TO BEAT THEM FAIR AND SQUARE! THIS GUILD, THIS WOMAN, AND THIS WHOLE TORTURING AND ENSLAVING ME ARE THE WORST THINGS THAT HAS EVER DONE TO MY LIFE! SO HELP ME, I WILL KILL THEM WITH MY--

*POKE*

Erza : Ugh! *dazed* Can I please someone help me to get my blankie...

*DBZ SFX : Body Lands*

*erza snoring*

Virgo : Don't worry, she'll be fine in about hours.

Natsu : Okay, guys. Let's pretend that we never heard about another Dark Guild that almost made us loose our sh*t and start all again. Agree?

All : Agree.

Natsu : Pretend after me, Who in the gosh forsaken world was someone's idea that is responsible for the Etherious and that cruelty of Tartaros in the first place!?

*They all look at Zeref in huge disappointment*

Zeref : *nervously chuckles* Sorry about making E.N.Ds...That was me.

Natsu : I know, Bro! I know that it's not your fault,but could be.

Lucy : Okay...We believe in you. Sorry for getting into a conflict with those guys like that.

[dromaeo-sauridae]

something about the fact that the earth moves around gets to me. what do you mean plate tectonics shift, split apart, and smash together, rocks from miles beneath the surface get shoved up into the air, exposing millions of years of some chaotic superheated dance. i went into a cavern once, grand caverns, and the rock had been so crushed and pried apart that it formed dramatic, vertical waves. just by looking up at the ceiling from left to right, i could see across several hundreds of millions of years. and that cavern is still alive. if you walk into it, you can hear mineral filled water dripping from the stalactites.

[hollownest-whore]

On the official wiki page for Ghost it says: “… despite the entrance being sealed, the Knight and some of their siblings managed to escape the Abyss.”

So our Little Ghost isn’t the only vessel outside of hollownest, just the only one that bothered to return. How many do you think escapes with ghost? Would there be a little hamlet, or possibly a village of vessels out there somewhere? Or would they have gone their separate ways?

I imagine, most if not all either died/was captured in said escape (broken vessel in their arena, All the dead vessels in the nosk-nest) or returned aswell as Ghost and died (Greenpath vessel being one hit by Hornet)

Though in a more hopeful sense I could imagine a few made it out and are just..existing! Like the cool pre-game cut-content tribe(?) of masked people, reminds me of the vessels

Hallownest tends to draw it's past inhabitants back, like a cursed graveyard seeking "the ones who got away" (Quirrel drawn back by Monomon) wouldn't be long till said little ones flocked back to their birthplace for better or worse

[the-broken-knight]

have you ever wondered what the abyss was like before the vessels were even an idea? That, maybe, the abyss was a true chasm, and the sea of void we see now is but a shore for the real lake? What relics would hide down there, do you think, in our birthplace?

(-asking in character via one of my ocs, the void twister)

Ah… hm… quite the… er… number of complex questions you ask of me… unfortunately, none of which I can provide a concrete answer for. My sincere apologies…

[bluegekk0]

i have recently decided that hk got bigger from killing a bunch of kingsmoulds and that is why the rest of the vessels are so small

[this has nothing to do with any of your aus]

that is an interesting way to explain it! it would make sense that they'd fight them as a form of training, and i could see it as them "absorbing" the void from the kingsmould in order to grow

personally, i like to think that, since the vessels are void beings, the proximity to the abyss plays a big role in how fast and how much they can grow. they all have the potential to reach their adult height, though the full size varies depending on other factors (like, for example, how well they were cared for, or whether they share more traits with their father or their mother, like i mentioned under my au designs)

thk/holly grew up in the ancient basin where the palace was, and they inherited many traits from the white lady, so that is why they are the tallest of the known vessels. their upbringing also contributed - even if they were, unfortunately, not seen as an actual child, they were still provided with everything necessary for fast and healthy growth. it's a combination of factors that makes it very unlikely for any other vessel to reach their impressive height

broken vessel/lost kin i imagine hatched later and are thus younger than thk, but they stayed in the basin following their escape from the birthplace. consequently, they were the second tallest at the moment of their death. although, if they were able to fully grow, they would still be shorter than thk due to the fact that they inherited more from their father

ghost spent most of their life far away from hallownest, and that stunted their growth. on top of that, they were unlucky in the gene lottery and, similarly to hornet, inherited their father's short height. even if they were raised in the palace alongside thk, they would still be noticeably shorter than them

though all of this raises the question: how many grown up vessels are there that we don't know of? i would say not many, though i imagine some of the dead vessels in the abyss are larger than their siblings, likely as a result of avoiding the climb and surviving for a bit longer before perishing. perhaps some of them managed to escape in that state, hallownest is massive, there ought to be a few vessels out there that survived. my oc, moss, would be one of them, since they were lucky enough to be found and raised by sheo. perhaps there are other vessels who shared their luck, maybe some of them left hallownest altogether, though that would certainly impact their growth just like it did to ghost

i know you said your ask has nothing to do with my au, but since you're visiting my house, i might as well infodump about it hahaha i hope you don't mind. i do really like your idea, though! i could absolutely see that as another of the factors that allowed thk to grow this much. i just like to think of other possibilities that would also explain the rest of the known vessels

[sinvulkt]

Get to Know You

Thanks for the tag @insertmeaningfulusername @cinderfeather ! So many people want to get to know me 🎶

Last song: Bad Apple (a vocaloid song)

Currently watching: Magi: the Labyrinth of Magic (an anime. Got a nostalgic wave wash over me so I went on a re-re-re-re-rewatch)

Three ships relationships: Vader & Ahsoka (Star wars), Gwen Stacy & Murderdock (Spider-verse), Nagyunn & Zius (The Ember Knight) 

Mentor & Apprentice with drop of salty ’stand on opposite side’ = my fav dynamic 🎶 (I only live in the Gen world, sorry not sorry XD. Also very well known relationships is boring so I gave slightly more underrated ones :3)

Favorite color: Twilight or dawn. But otherwise purple is fine.

Currently consuming: Homemade pizza and pies cooked in a wood oven. They're delicious! And fruits. Fruits are life. 🍇🍊🍍🍎🍐🍒🍓🥝

First ship: Bold of you to suppose I ever had one. One of my first favorite movie was Spirit: Stallion of the Cinnamon however!

Birthplace: The Abyss.

The true ones know.

Current location: My head is in the clouds. ☁️🦅

Relationship status: With whom? Life? Living.

Even Laplace’s Demon doesn’t know the answer at this point.

Last movie: The Legend of Zorro (2005)

Currently working on: So. Many. WIPs.

Send help.

- The Monster and the Child (this was supposed to be finished in october XD)

- On the Edge of Twilight (need to come back after one year hiatus)

- Dreamt of a Never Ending Sky (i'm two chapters from the end. Two!)

- hopefully nothing else, but might get distracted by bg3 or other fandom one shots, or by another of my WIPs (Batman’s Downfall (To Stand Alone), What If Doctor Strange Lost His Humanity ?)

Otherwise I also spend a non-negligeable amount of time setting up the Vaderkin artist-writer gift exchange event I (with help) organise. :3

No pressure tagging:

@purpleopossum @trickstress333 @ravenite-void @bluntblade @pat-the-togorian @fanfictasia @tonhalszendvics @kuraiarcoiris @purple-iris @kefalion @wendingways @linzerj @beguilewritesstuff @doctorgeekery @threeberners @aimportantdragoncollector @alex-the-gay-disaster @tramp-fiction @sogira-imno @dreaminghour @udekai @lurkinggoose @retciwrites @vandervoiz @reliable-demon-whispers @starmahgalaxies @131-vr @katrina-loves-birds

Please send me a message if the tag bother you, i’ll never tag you again!

[daisychainsandbowties]

three body problem ❤-💛-💙 -> LB Lilith-Ava-Bea, always in orbit of each other

i can’t get over it sometimes that those are the colours of their lightsabers but anyway time for a shameless excerpt from my favourite thing i’ve ever written 😌😌 written, in part, because i knew that luminous beings would be dark, plagued by scatterings of light and little else, but i wanted to make it plain as daylight on this tiny planet that there is always peace in the end

orbital mechanics

///

the ceiling in their bedroom has a domed viewport that shows the stars, and beatrice watches a bright spot in the impossible distance and remembers what they told her about star nurseries, and what lilith called the three-body problem.

lilith, staring out of the viewport, the abyss of space reflected in her dark eyes.

stars have violent birthplaces. a cloud of dust collapses so completely that it forms a hydrostatic core. a point that draws heat towards itself, growing denser and denser, helplessly eating up everything around it. and then, eventually, it forms a star.

sometimes several stars. they form together.

with her red marker ava drew three circles, colouring them in with a loud squeaking sound that made lilith close her eyes momentarily and sigh.

where three stars become gravitationally bound – caught, shall we say, in one another’s pull – we call them a trapezia. like this one.

the Mantis sat on the edge of the system, where it was safe.

young, by the standard of stars, and incredibly unstable. prone to ejecting parts of itself at high velocities. a trapezia is an example of a three-body problem.

ava laughed.

this problem attempts to predict the motion of three bodies, taking their initial conditions to solve for their subsequent motion.

at this point, ava’s red marker began drawing with proper notation. nothing beatrice could read. just letters to the power of numbers. radical signs and brackets and factoring. some subtraction.

the problem with this problem is that the orbits of three massive bodies quickly become complicated. they seldom repeat their trajectories – after all they are pulling at each other at different times in different places, moving along strange orbits. they compete for the stability of their want without forming a proper hierarchy, as many other systems must. they just careen, wildly, through their space.

it is possible for these stars to collide. it is possible for these stars to be ejected from their system. binary orbits are far simpler, far safer.

there is an inevitability to the three-body problem. lilith said this strangely, and beatrice reached out to take her hand. a violence and a beauty and a tragedy to them. three bodies do not easily exist in this way. or, perhaps it is easy for them. perhaps it is wonderful, and free in its unpredictability, but it is probably doomed.

what could survive against all the laws of physics?