ILL WILLED ;

[illwilled]

RULES .

independent, private, mutuals only multi - muse writing blog . unformatted & iconless. sporadic activity & mature themes. themes of nsfw , gore , trauma will be heavily present. sexual nsfw will be tagged - nsfw tw. plotting & crossovers are highly welcome. please proceed with caution. dni if you are under 20. glorified by merlot, 26.

MUSES .

rk900. detroit: become human. ( main v. )

miles upshur. outlast.

eddie gluskin. outlast.

johan ross. soma.

catherine chun. soma.

yuri. doki doki literature club.

hannibal lecter. nbc hannibal.

henry creel. stranger things.

richie tozier. it.

john mandrake. the bartimaeus sequence.

[illwilled]

starter call!

[illwilled]

independent, private, mutuals only MULTI-MUSE . featuring horror themed muses including but not limited to from franchises such as OUTLAST, SOMA, HANNIBAL, STRANGER THINGS & IT. canon typical dd:dne themes will be heavily present. sexual nsfw wil lbe tagged. MDNI. glorified by merlot, 26.

[finalslay]

@illwilled sent : [ WOUNDED ] for receiver to stab or shoot sender. - henry @ nancy

the gun in her hand is held with a death grip ; she will not hesitate to pull the trigger again. not here. not with him. nancy cannot even be sure how much of this is real — in this place, where he creeps into her mind like a disease, infecting and decaying, does the bullet she fired into his side even matter? she cannot be sure. he bleeds, though. surely that counts for something.

a part of her wonders if this is a test, if he just wants to see what she'll do.

is it passing or failing if she fires the gun again?

is the revolver she holds real or a figment of her imagination, placed there just for this purpose?

“ get away from me. ” the command is surprisingly calm, given the circumstances. even as he approaches her, blood staining his side, nancy does not flinch. she does not back away, does not take her eyes off of him. “ or, do you want another bullet? ”

[illwilled]

like all living matter, he bleeds, but there always more growth to replace it. blood, gristle & gore gather in a filmy sludge to fill the part that was broken & lost. he feels at home in the filth, enough so that all of the fleshy patches mirror his breaths, undulating with each fill of his tired lungs. he reaches out with an appendage to encircle the girl's wrist, forceful enough so that a second shot will surely ring into the sky.

even if her aim is true, there's no point. he is untouchable in the skeletal casing; godly. this all serves to put her in place. in the upside down, he's the one who calls all the shots.

he stares at her, dispassionate assessment of her wide eyes & affected bravery. stupid girl. the small town of hawkins remains the same, with their assumptions & labels. 20 years ago feels the same as now. in his mind's eye, the candle on the attic's ledge flickers.

" pity, you don't know which side you're fighting on. "

[illwilled]

“ so you've just been lying to me this entire time ? ” / to henry creel.

@dopplgaenger

" my entire life has been a lie, cami. i have been lying about who i am since the ground opened up to swallow me. " he grins with the sharpness of a man built up on decayed foundations, balanced precarious on the daggers of his loneliness, a rotten becoming, fallen angel . " is it really that much of a suprise? really, it was so easy to get you to believe me. " he grin forms into a wry smirk, porcelain features falling to reveal his true flesh, forged in the upside down . lipless grin looks like an animalistic bear of teeth. " just don't take it too personal. "

[illwilled]

“ you shouldn't have touched that . ” / to johan ross.

@dopplgaenger

he startles at that ; he thought he was alone. he's never seen her on the carthage site before. brow furrows. a new recruit or a visitor? still, her warning piques his interest. " why do you say that ? do you know what this is? " he is well aware of the importance of this technology, the ai foundation of carthage's achievements. " what's it to you? "

[illwilled]

@sansgout

he's grown stupidly attached to this corner seat along the bar, a nook where the waves seem quieter & the tides don't try to drag him out into the deep. he surmises that it's an affection for the routine, not the life, but he's never sure because of the company he keeps. it makes him want to forget his timeline, this absurd path he's been set on; a suicide mission, likely.

he catches a familiar face & tries to gain attention as a loyal patreon. he's eating into vince's time like he's owed it, but it's too addictive not to take. he raises his glass, already more than half empty. the liquor easing his posture, flows through him honey sweet. " vince, hello. " he smiles, small but genuine. he eyes the restaurant, which appears mostly empty due to the hour ( it appears to be empty most of the time, really, but he's too polite to speculate ) , " care to join me, if you have a minute? i know it's your food and liquor that i'm offering you, but it must count for something, if it's on my tab. "

initially, it'd been easier to pretend to be some unemployed bastard, drowning his half-baked hopes in alcohol; it's what he set out to do, but vince had a way of getting him to open up. he's divulged more than he's allowed, probably. even so, he doesn't want to stop. screw carthage. " how are you? "

[evilstalks]

it is unfortunate to the staff of mount massive that michael's mind is so strong. they thought it'd be the complete opposite. when they were transferring him over from smith's grove, they heard only terrible things. someone completely gone, someone who cannot be saved. they thought he'd be weak and easy to bend and break. a young man who has spent the majority of his life institutionalized. how strong could he be? he has no life experience, no relationships, nothing. he should be nothing but skin and bones, but he is strong, much stronger than most of the patients here. he's younger and in better shape both physically and mentally. it is not to say the "treatments" being conducted here at mount massive haven't gotten to him-- it is a huge difference from smith's grove. yes, in smith's grove he endured electroshock therapy and even a lobotomy, but that is nothing compared to here. here, only sadists seem to be employed. they don't want to help the patients, not at all.

michael sits down to the only person in this place he cares the slightest about. perhaps it is more than slight, but he doesn't know that. doesn't understand it. there are a lot of things he doesn't understand, but how can he be blamed? he has spent his entire life institutionalized. he thinks now in this place, he is learning more than he ever did in smith's grove. he has learned he is not the worst thing out there, even though dr. loomis was convinced he was the face of evil, the devil himself. michael always found it funny-- but he never gave loomis the satisfaction of laughing in his face. never even cracked a smirk. he never communicated with anyone-- not until now, until this place. until eddie. the staff has seen him communicating, but they don't care about him the way smith's grove did. to them, he's just another body to break. another mind to shatter.

"you are right," he signs, making sure the other is actually looking at him before he does so. "they want us broken and moldable. have you thought of killing them?" michael thought about killing the staff of smith's grove many times. he could have done it, really. they weren't heavily armed there, unlike here. but michael and eddie are strong and large, and he is sure any of the other patients would jump at the opportunity to sink their teeth into the guards and the rest of the staff. he tilts his head, offering over his spoon now that eddie has broken the plastic thing.

[illwilled]

he’s scrambling from the mazes & pitfalls of his mind. entrenched in some prison no matter where he goes; addicted to his own misery, people say. it takes him a fair while to focus on the present, but michael’s grab at attention is more than adequate. since he’s rusty in sign, interpretation alone uses much of his brainpower. that grants momentary respite from the silhouette embossed behind his eyelids; the insistent timbre pounding on his eardrums. within that time, syrupy slow, a pristine spoon is in his hands. plastic cool searing a line along the heat of his palms.

” thank you, ” he says vacantly. he doesn’t forget manners, even though they’ve been sequestered in such a ghastly place, he’s been raised better.

he shifts in his seat minutely, uncomfortable. sleep deprived, aching in several places, tasting blood all down his trachea — his body’s an entire bruise. the ailments render his faculties slow, & addled mind takes more than a pause to translate. like a delayed feed, he watches michael’s rough finger slice down through the air like the whistle of a knife. kill, kill, kill. his tired brain focuses, & with a snap, the world rushes back to him in photorealism, like a rush of salt spray tide. eyes drift from those fingers, up to that impassive stare. he’s unable to find something there. most probing of this nature arrives with a subtle purpose but the query is almost perfectly placid. asking the mundane. it’s takes a beat too long for him to answer.

he thought he was getting better. the previous facility … the medication had stablized him somewhat. though he still suffered the hallucinations, he was a better state in mind to discern them from reality. now, it meshes into a jumbled heap. his head burns & aches, tight from overwork. he shrugs, “ i think… yes. maybe. i’m not sure. i dont want… i don’t want to kill anyone. ” unsure. he’s fantasized. he thinks about killing with the tubes sometimes, to use their own machinery to rob their right to hurt him, hurt anyone ever again. it isn't the same feeling as to when he had killed those girls. this feels more reactionary. borne out of some amalgam of wild fantasy & desperation. “ i thought about it. i don’t think i would want to. i don’t … i want this to stop. i’ll stop them if i get the chance. ” he doesn’t know what he thinks actually. his mind is getting worse, like sand slipping past his fingers.

he rests his gaze like a touch, heavy meaning, all pressure & insistent against the line of michael’s features. “ you? do you want to kill them? ”

[meowmiilk]

*holding onto ur heart thru ur ribcage* so what are we

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒 . ( a collection of horror - based dialogue prompts . adjust phrasing as necessary . mature themes present . )

you'll never get what you want .

we need to stay together . no 'splitting up' bullshit .

nobody ever prepared me for this .

so you've just been lying to me this entire time ?

there's too much blood , i can't stop it .

this is over when i say it's over .

[ name ] , be careful . i've already lost enough people that i care about .

i never should have trusted you .

this is getting really out of hand , okay ?

i feel like we're not alone .

revenge is the best medicine !

put your head on straight , this isn't over yet .

maybe we should ... y'know , check it out ?

run . run and don't stop .

i thought i saw something ... i - i must be going crazy .

you couldn't pay me to go down there .

the cops are on their way .

would you rather stay here and die ?!

there's no such thing as [ ghosts / demons ] . it's made-up .

you aren't going anywhere .

i'm putting you out of your misery .

i know you think you're untouchable , but they will kill us .

you shouldn't have touched that .

we aren't going to make it out of here , are we ?

why are you following me ?

there has to be a medical kit here , somewhere .

i'll go with you . strength in numbers , right ?

don't move ... a fucking muscle .

fuck , the door is locked from the other side .

don't get ... dead , okay ?

that was the only [ bullet / round / flare ] we had .

did you really think it would be that easy ?

we've come too far , we can't turn around now .

put down the [ weapon ] . please .

come on , help me barricade the door .

[ name ] , is that ... blood ?

haven't you seen a horror movie ? the blonde always dies .

it was you ? YOU did this ?!

you are gonna fucking pay .

i'm going to give you ten seconds . nine , eight ...

i want you to admit what you did .

hey , look at me -- it's not real . it's not real .

do you think they're watching us right now ?

we're in this together . no one gets left behind .

let them go ... please , just let them go .

oh my god , what the hell was that ?!

you know i'm capable of this .

i had to ... i had no choice .

you don't have the guts .

this is fucked up , this is so fucked up .

what we're dealing with isn't even human .

you need to hide . find somewhere & don't come out .

stop ! don't touch that . we don't know what it is .

i've done bad things to good people .

if they catch us , they will kill us .

why are you covered in blood ?

i can't ... i can't feel my -

[ name ] is dead . i saw it happen .

what , you're gonna kill me ? i don't believe you .

there is an evil in you . i see it .

this shit only happens to people in horror movies .

forget about me , just save them .

what's one reason i shouldn't kill you right now ?

you aren't supposed to be here .

please don't . i'm begging you .

are you scared ?

whatever happens , don't let go of my hand .

[ name ] , this isn't you .

well , what the fuck are we supposed to do ?!

get out of my house before i call the cops .

you're going to regret that .

there's that smile ... i'm glad it's the last thing i'll see .

if we make it out of here , tonight will haunt me forever .

[godstrayed]

　It’s unlike him to be so brazen, to force his way in with such a loud, unwelcome intrusion, staking claim in another’s sanctuary. It’s almost as if he demands the space—though beneath that, there’s a raw, desperate need. He knows all too well the burden of that kind of unwanted attention—the same pitying vigilance Alana and Jack impose on him, always hovering on the edge of expectation, bracing for the worst in him. Now, he repeats the same pattern. This time, however, he isn't sure if he’s the one luring or the one ensnared, his mouth agape, hands desperately grasping at nothing.

Blood. Of course, there’s blood. Veins of crimson, shards of iron-willed flesh, split open and shattered along jagged, rent edges. He doesn’t have to question it. Logically, he knows Hannibal is in capable hands—his own hands, steady as a surgeon’s have to be, capable of holding life and death in balance.

And his mind barely registers the other man’s words.

Will glances flighty—Hannibal’s gaze holds steady, unyielding. Will doesn't lower his own. His brows knot with unease, betraying the calm he strives to maintain. It was a futile pursuit, as if Hannibal, with well-practiced precision, wasn't already capable of unraveling Will down to the very atom of his existence—perfectly able to consume, dissect, and devour him to his core. That gaze presses into him, too quick to invade his thoughts.

But the doctor is presumably okay. And with that small fact comes a strange, almost irrational relief. It doesn’t matter why—at least, not yet. Almost.

“You look like you’ve had an eventful evening," Will says, his voice taut with something like recognition. "You must have had an appointment with your own reckoning.” Though, of course, he has intruded. There was no shaking the displeasure eating away at Will for his own rude behavior. "I had to check on you. Something felt… off. And it seems I was right. What did you do?" The last question comes out sharper, accusatory. Because if this is Hannibal, then what of the man or woman who could do such a thing? What part of them remains?

[illwilled]

' the eyes are the window to your soul, or was it just an illusion, his version of what was, is or could be, conception of a thought brought into reality by the wandering of the ever-restless mind of william.' lips twitch , aching to curl as the sudden passage surfaces to mind. how very apt, for english sonnets to cling to him now.

carmine stares into those soul - windows. he doesn't possess the near - supernatural instinct that will has ; doesn't know how to carve out a hollow space underneath gore and bones, & wear the remnant carcass over his shoulders like a perfect guise. still, psychoanalysis suits him well, & what he identifies in those liquid pools are painfully emotive. he inhales sharply, excuse provided by the push of the suture needle into butter flesh -- & he finds the smell of will's concern warring thick with suspicion, a delicious thing.

" why are you so quick to assume it was my fault? " he asks, eyes peering under his lashes, beseeching. it is such a flagrant ruse that a responding mirth glitters clearly in his eyes. macabre curve to his lips destroys any plausible deniability, & at the end of it all, he offers a refined shrug, the beast tugging at the seams of his person-suit. " i may have been impulsive, dear will. but you don't have to concern yourself with. " eyes hover meaningfully, because it's clear that a healthy dose of will's stress is not directed at him, but for him. " i assure you that i have it handled. "

" we may not have a session, but . as i have said before, my home is open to my friends. " he gestures to the lounge-chair adjacent, " this may take a while, you can stay comfortable if you wish. keep watch. " to his surprise, he finds that he enjoys this. it gives him a great deal of pleasure, for will to know him scrupulously , even when that knowledge pries against the surface of his vulnerabilities. maybe will would learn to take fascination from it , too , the way the sutures cause his teeth to grit, & sweat to bead on the edges of his hairline.

[illwilled]

@evilstalks

the pores of the walls bleed evil. he smells the filth wafting off their bodies; the rot , that acetic succor . hears the cries of the helpless, the damned. worst of all, the endless rotation of staff & their wild, insistent gazes, expectant . he thinks he's going crazy again. father whispering in his ear, the sordid heat of his breath. fingers tremor, trigger-happy violence on the tips of his digits, the bloody cuticles where he scratched at the sharp tubing down his throat & the concrete edges of the walls. he pushes his fingers into his palm to ground himself ; into the spoon so it hurts . concentrate, do better. mechanically, he spoons slop into his mouth. tasteless.

a shuffle to his right . he cranes over his shoulder, squints. it's michael. he arrives slow to the table, but forms a silent, solitary figure, imposing in his own right. patients scoot over as he joins their crowd, like a pebble engulfed by a wave of dirty fire. unlike many of patients who opt to scream & cry, michael is a respite -- at the very least, someone for him to talk to. it feels like his mind is burning, crisping up without any other stimulation, apart from than that endless inkblot torture.

" michael. " he says, barely a greeting . he's not always well-grounded, but today feels better. is he really ? well. he's had pain to help him through the day. he looks at the newly accrued marks along skin, self-inflicted or by a guard, it's not always so easy to tell. pathetic, weak. he'd hold out longer, only if he wasn't such a cunt. yeah, eddie, you. fist clenches. he wishes desperately for something other than a spoon. no new thoughts yield. the flicker - shadow in the corner of his vision snickers. he looks at the table firmly, talks to take his mind off it.

" did they take you today ? they took me. they took me and shoved a tube down my throat. " spoon slams into the mess table. " i think its all getting worse. that i'm getting worse. are you getting worse? " he gives michael a once over, frowning. " you don't speak, so i can't really tell most of the time. " the spoon is in hand again, somehow. it hurts. his palm is scraped red & raw. did he do that ? he picks at the food. " do you know what i think ? they're not trying to help us at all. they want to torture & rape us until we all lose our minds. "

[illwilled]

❛  i finally found my way.  ❜ [ for henry! ]

@dgrayd

“ did you now ? ” he has no inclination for laughter, but the lilt of his voice comes awfully close. “ is that something i should congratulate you for ? ”

in truth, this land is barren. save for motes of corpse dust, endless thunder and the shadow of that multi - pronged entity hovering in the distance, it’s a ghost town. he breathes in, savouring, lungs blooming pink and full of dead air. this place smells clean to him, like hints of laundry detergent or matronly perfume that would linger in the hallway of a house — like home. it is exactly where he wants to be : a yawning expanse of violence & darkness, a place where he can be himself without shame.

he evenly regards this amalgam being, a blend of human and other, before gesturing blandly, " if you wish to leave this underworld i’d make no move to stop you. you are not of the above, after all. ” he has no qualm with the man. still. bloodshot, milky eyes address the paltry wind - buffeted form . machiavellian smirk . “ though … i do wonder how you’d fare in that state. ”

[stepghost]

[illwilled]

[ intrude ] sender walks in on receiver treating their wounds - hannibal & will

@godstrayed

motion arrests; nostrils flare as the deafening unlatch of his door brings in the smells of dirt & rain. the masculine tinge of sweat follows, fatigue souring the musky notes. there’s only one person in his circle that would so brazenly shatter his sanctity; to step past the threshold of his living space without a single moment of hesitation. he, who at first glance appears to resemble prey: a deer bounding an eager leap into the mouth of a lion’s den. a fond, reflexive smile hangs on his lips — he knows by experience that will is an expert craftsman, and that this lure - feathers, beads and all - is exactly what’s necessary to reel him onto shore. he licks his lips. anticipatory.

shoes tread succinct steps into the floorboards, and hannibal welcomes the entry. body loosens as he turns to face his mirror; this young wendigo, chrysalis - shed. uncoiling despite the prick of needle pain that accompanies the motion, the tight sear of antiseptic seeping deeper into his bloodstream, irrevocable stain, like red running through the river. deliberately, he resumes the ministrations: dabs of bromine as the finishing garnish, chestnut-umber, complimenting to the dried flecks of rust gathered along the gash.

will’s gaze is a beautiful, piercing thing. one he meets headily. “ will? i don’t recall any appointment. is something the matter, that you rushed so urgently in with nary a knock, to consult me ? it is the middle of the night. ” he makes no reference to his injury; though there are various quicksilver words that spring to mind, skirting the tip of his tongue, eager to trip into the in this heavy silence, he doesn’t wish to lie. not about this. and not to will.

[illwilled]

[ wounded ] ( @ rk900, whichever way around you'd like ! )

@synthwealth

she’s a nuisance , bleeding heart . it doesn’t understand : all this , just to sate her meaningless convictions ; she’s close to death on that bloody hill . this alliance is shortsighted — it knows that their motivations differ at the core . after all , its head’s the one on the chopping block , not hers . god forbid she crawl upon cyberlife’s doorstep and convict it to deactivation with her lifeless eyes . jaw clenches at the thought . considering their acquaintance , commanding her to abandon the revolution would only bear argument . all it’s able to settle for is a slow , surgical wrap of papier - mâché cotton around her wounds . inadequate . it’s supposed to be better than this . reflexive anger is swallowed like a fiery poker when her gaze hovers to meet it . through thick irritation , it ensures that hands are kind and steady as they encase hers .

protocol for care deploys as optics perform cool analysis of the bloodied knuckles , reconstructing the welts of violence along the bone . intone is deliberately affable, even as it berates, “ what did you do this time ? ” a shake of its head to pass for gentle, this metallic weaponry encased in soft plastic . “ and don’t you try to talk your way out of it . you’re awfully predictable aren’t you ? ” imploring eyes . “ can i persuade you to stop picking fights with cyberlife , for your own damn good? ”

[illwilled]

charcoal drawing of roused eyes. vitruvian man pierced thrice over. amber eyes lid, crimson pools in the trickery of firelight, pleased. the images whet his appetite. soft murmur of wine as it sloshes a parabola in fire-blown glass ; solitary movement is sufficient, brings the sharp waft of tannin to his nose. glass clinks, barely audible on the rich mahogany, before artistry resumes. lips purse as he envisions the dull bludgeons of antlers, six pinpoints of fresh blood before they follow the traverse of gravity & collide passionate - soft into dirt. how much longer until his masterpiece is unearthed? what stage of degradation awaits, he wonders, licks lips like a predator scenting violence in the air. blood would be vitreous thick as it pools into her legs, swelling, before seeping out of the pores. in his imagination, morning light arrives before discovery, & she falls apart as the touch of heat caresses the turgid rot of flesh. a deconstruction of his art. cesspool filth & organic degradation, unveiling tough strings of veins running along the striated mass of blanched muscle as skin peels away, leaving spaces for the truth. the wendigo's maw yawns its grin, momentarily sated. contemplation arrests him, before the blood upon the figure is shaded a tad darker. deliberate stroke after stroke after stroke.