#goremade

goremade:  mend.....but with a lil bit of scold, too 😘✨

fingers   prod   at   the   bruises   on   his   back,   Will   feeling   close   to   dry   heaving   from   the   rush   of   pain      &      the   taste   of   salt   water   still   in   his   throat,   his   stomach,   his   mouth.   the   fall   was   broken   by   Hannibal   for   the   most   part,   though   both   of   their   states   would   only   do   better   with   a   visit   to   a   hospital.   considering   their   names   may   already   be   plastered   on   every   news   channel   by   Jack   himself,   however,   they   aren’t   given   much   of   a   choice.   Will   has   no   answer   to   the   why’s   that   plague   even   his   own   thoughts      &      truthfully,   he’s   surprised   Hannibal   has   not   pried   the   reasoning   from   him,   either.   a   part   of   Will   had   hoped   that   the   two   of   them   would   sink   to   the   bottom   of   the   sea      &      only   there,   only   then   would   they   be   utterly   at   peace   from   their   own   turmoil.      ❝         ah,         ❞         the   words   fall   in   an   almost   whine      &      he   bites   down   on   his   lip   harshly   to   silence   anything   else   that   may   voice.         ❝            you   shouldn’t   -   yours   are   worse.      ❞

it   was   true.   Hannibal’s   back   is   spotted   with   black      &      blue,   Will   almost   positive   that   something   must   have   broken.   that   -   and   the   gunshot.   the   gunshot   that   Hannibal   seems   almost   unbothered   by.   nonetheless,   capable   hands   work   on   tending   to   the   slashes   across   Will’s   legs,   his   thighs   -   and   finally,   with   a   hiss   between   his   teeth,   his   cheek.   as   soon   as   fingers   prod   the   edges   of   the   wound,   Will   yanks   himself   from   Hannibal’s   grasp.   eyes   cast   down,   the   sting   of   alcohol   blotting   his   eyes.   

*  { @goremade​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ sent​​​​ } ⸻ ' I need you to stay awake for me, harleen. keep your eyes open. '

safety has always been in somebody else’s arms.  harleen has bounced from lover to lover since she was eighteen years old,  gravitating towards men older than her,  stronger than her,  crueler than her.  if their scarred hearts can learn to beat only for her,  then she is pretty enough,  smart enough,  worthy enough. ‘ daddy issues, ’  she once joked to hannibal. ‘ there.  that ought to cover about a year’s worth of therapy. ’  

see,  it’s easier for harley to blame every rotten thought in her head on someone else. it’s true ⸻ she’s suffered and suffered and suffered. but lately she’s started to wonder if their sins have been absolving her of her own -- covering her greed,  her pride,  and that gaping black hole in her chest that's destroyed everybody she’s ever loved. maybe she was always going to end up this empty.  maybe nobody put her on this path but herself.

there are good people in gotham,  but harley quinn's given up on being one of them.  

[ text: hannibal lecter ⸻ 11:38 pm ] help me

by the time hannibal arrives,  there’s blood pooling outside harley’s unlocked door.  the foundation of her apartment’s always been slanted -- you can’t drop anything without it rolling away from you.  it’s never been a problem until now.  inside the apartment,  the trail of blood branches ⸻ footsteps into the bathroom,  marks on the way to the kitchen. 

in the kitchen: marian drews,  joker’s latest lover,  the new harley quinn.  her entire body is covered in burns,  her clothes melted into her skin.  there’s a syringe & a bottle of morphine on the kitchen counter.  marian’s dead but not cold. 

in the bathroom: harleen quinzel,  joker’s ex-lover,  the only harley quinn.  she’s sitting in the shower,  water beating down on her face,  knees pulled up to her chest.  she’s still wearing a black & red bodysuit.  it’s hard to tell if the red tint the water pooled around her is taking on is dye or blood. her head hits the wall,  and everything goes black. 

‘i need you to stay awake for me, harleen. keep your eyes open, '  hannibal says,  and she shakes her head.  she won’t.  she can’t. she’s so fucking tired of other people telling her what to do.  she’s so fucking tired of people dying.  

but harley’s tired of fighting,  too.  she presses her hand to her stomach;  when she pulls it away,  it’s covered in blood.  all she says,  flat and numb,  is  “ i took an oath, ”  but it’s not enough.  she’s never going to be enough.  

when she shrugs out of the top half of her costume,  a jagged red mark is revealed, slicing all the way across her stomach.  next to it is a mark from a needle.  no wonder harley doesn’t feel anything.  

for a brief moment,  harley looks as if she’s about to cry.  her lips press together,  her eyes well.  she opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something else,  but it dies on her lips just as marian drews died on her kitchen table.

            @goremade​      //       starter

                    UNCOMFORTABLE.    cloth shifts in the heavy chair.   bare hands clenching.   unclenching.   clenching.   he hates the barren vulnerability.   the intimate expectation of being.   pale eyes shift to the books which line the shelves.   unseeing.   a blur to eyes half-blind.   “   am I supposed to say something?   ”  guarded.   unsure.   the young man turns his head again, searching for something on which to focus.  let the strange smells.  the feeling of being watched.  dissected.  fade into the background.

❝   my   therapist   told   me   to   write   letters   to   people   i   hate   and   then   burn   'em   to   get   rid   of   anger.   i   did   it   ―   worked   great.   but   i'm   not   sure   if   i'm   'posed   t'   keep   the   letters...   ❞   a   brief   pause   and   garret's   lips   break   into   a   grin,   ever   pleased   with   himself.

                         “    why    do    people    feel    the    need    to    talk    about    their    feelings    so    much    ?    “    he’s   a   doctor,   isn’t   he?   a    psychiatrist.   he   has    to    listen    to    people    drone    on    and    on    about    their    problems        -        something    that’d    bore    me    without    one    single    doubt.        “    and    why    do    you    care?        you    could    have    done    anything,      hannibal    lecter        -       and    you    chose    to    listen    to    sad    people    drone    on    about    their    sad,    boring    little    lives.  doesn’t    it    make    you    want    to    shoot    yourself?    “        the    look    of    disgust    on    my    face    is    evident,    unchanging.        i    just    don’t    get    it.        “    it’d    make    me    want    to    shoot    myself.    “    a   pause,      and    then    ;      “    do    you    have    any    cake?    i’m  starving.    “   

she tries to imagine   𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 ,  not as in empty , but as in ruthless.     in which stars open up as eyes or mouth , even where they might not be watched by god or devils or fools.     the red hollow of his mouth , haunting the back of her memory , the strangest red , the strangest mouth.

𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ,  & clarice starling answers the phone by the window , under estranged stars , between the half-moment of a dream and the instant it ends.    a light passes through the window , & the grace of the moon transforming her face , if dr. lecter could see her now , he’d see her small white teeth against her pink mouth , the tip of her pink tongue against her lip  in uncannily ingénue picture , & maybe he’d draw it.       she wonders if he’d hang it upon his wall. 

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞 , 𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 ,     that haunts the tip of her fingers , lives at the edge of her tongue , the instinct of the body sensitized and intoxicated which is to say she likes it that he likes her , at the same time that it terrifies her — that , between an instant and another , when she had picked up her phone :     a shiver of the most ambiguous kind.

𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 , her voice matching the rain outside , as the futile light of her digital clock turns her face a darkening blue , modern aesthetics for long existing hauntings.      ❛  doctor ?  dr. lecter ... ?  aren’t we both a little too old for that ? aren’t you a little late too ? ❜ 

continued from @goremade​    /     never let me go verse.

                            ❝   𝚒𝚏   𝚒   𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎   𝚊   𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎   𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜   𝚖𝚊𝚗   i   might   consider   that.      .      .      alarming,   ❞   he   says   it   while   twirling   his   fork   in   his   hand,   tilting   his   head   to   gawk   at   his   host.   it   was   odd   that   a   man   like   hannibal   lecter   might   cook   for   a   guest   and   only   a   guest,   but   hearing   the   remainder   of   his   words   causes   his   hand   to   pause   where   it   cuts   into   another   bite.   detachment   -   as   if   they   were   not   considering   human   beings   and   their   livelihood.   as   if   their   jobs   were   remotely   similar   in   any   comparable   fashion.   of   course   he   understands   what   hannibal   means,   but   that   doesn’t   mean   he   likes   it.   and   unfortunately,   will   cannot   help   himself,   he   really   couldn’t   even   if   he   tried,   though   his   words   fall   almost   houmously.   ❝   ah   yes,   detachment.   i   must   learn   not   to   care   about   the   lives   you   take.   and   you   pretend   our   kind   aren’t   praying   for   your   downfall.   thankfully,   i   have   nearly   mastered   it.   have   you?   ❞

he   bites   his   lip,   then.   there   is   no   telling   just   how   much   hannibal   knows   of   the   original   will   graham’s   involvement   with   clones   despite   their   relationship,   or   where   he   truly   stands.   a   man   of   his   wealth   and   reputation   benefits   from   will’s   kind   being   utterly   submissive.   originals   on   this   level   of   the   social   pyramid   would   rather   turn   his   kind   in   for   a   whisper   of   dissent.   or   so   he   assumes,   though   it   doesn’t   seem   quite   right.   there   is   an   underlying   sense   of   something   he   is   missing.   surely   will   graham,   the   very   human   he   is   modeled   after   to   utter   perfection,   would   not   keep   an   original   with   opposing   beliefs   so   close.   not   when   he   was   so   involved   in   their   clone   organizations–will   wonders,   briefly,   if   hannibal   lecter   knows   more   than   he   shows.   does   he   suspect   his   involvement?   

❝   we   aren’t   meant   to   keep   up   with   our   originals.   it’s   forbidden,   ❞   will   says   carefully,   this   time   meeting   hannibal’s   eyes.   eye   contact.      .      .      is   not   something   he   enjoys.   too   large   of   a   window   for   souls   that   are   not   worth   looking   into.   hannibal   lecter’s   window   is   shut   tight   and   so   he   keeps   looking,   and   looking.   ❝   even   more   taboo   is   your   situation.   you   must   think   him   dead   if   you’re   looking   for   me,   dr.   lecter.   ❞   

will   hates   himself   for   it,   but   he   squirms   in   his   seat.   at   the   prospect   of   will   graham   dying,   but   also–that   hannibal   lecter   brought   him   here   because   he   resembled   his   missing   lover.   what   does   he   see?   a   tired   man,   torn   with   a   grief   too   heavy   for   his   shoulders?   would   he   recognize   the   scars   on   his   body   from   his   former   donations?   does   he   see   hope.      .      .      another   opportunity   to   lose   will   graham?   or   does   he   see   another   experiment,   ripe   to   slice   into?

Carol Tufts, Hades and Persephone,

Alexei Pal, Still Life with Pomegranates,

The 1975, Antichrist

Schuyler Peck, Horoscope for the Heartbroken

Ambrogio Borghi, Detail of Berenice’s tresses

Nikita Gill, Persephone to Hades

Graveyardguy, Final Girl

Francisco Goya, Saturn Devouring His Son

Richard Siken, Wishbone

Goblin Market, Christina Rossetti