[witchglass]

it irritates me so much when i have so many ideas and thoughts, but when i actually start writing, it turns out to be a mess and complete nonsense. i need ideas, a new hyperfixation, something, aaaaa

[witchglass]

Halloween. The air was thick with the scent of fallen leaves, caramel apples, and something else… something Art always felt like his own, invisible trace in this world. He walked leisurely, his black boots sliding on the wet asphalt. Behind him, perhaps, lay a squeal, a couple of torn shreds of joy, or whatever else ordinary people call a party. He didn't care. The emptiness in his chest, which sometimes, very rarely, felt more than just emptiness, was now… satisfied. Or, at least, didn't require immediate filling.

Ahead, under the dim light of a streetlamp, he saw a figure. A girl. Sitting on a bench, hunched over, her face buried in her hands. Her shoulders trembled. Art paused. Interesting. Usually, when he saw people like that, it was after he arrived. Or, better yet, during. But this one… this one was crying on her own. Not because of him. Not yet.

He bowed his head, his perpetual mask of laughter seeming particularly caustic. Something about this was… wrong. He wanted him to be the reason. The only reason. It was his privilege, his… right. Had someone dared to invade his territory? To provoke the same deep, hopeless horror as he, but… without him?

Curiosity, that strange, twisted feeling that sometimes replaced hunger, washed over him. He was used to seeing tears. Used to being their source, their catalyst. But what was this? A new game? Or… or an empty backdrop, not worthy of his attention.

He took a step. Then another. Slowly, like a predator studying its prey. But this time… this time it was different. This wasn't a hunt. This was… observation. Almost. Almost something else.

Art came closer. The girl still didn't see him, consumed by her grief. Her dark, disheveled hair hid her face, but Art could see the trembling lines of her silhouette. The sounds of the city the distant wail of a siren, the hum of a passing car seemed muffled, dissolving into his own, silent world. He stood very close now, so close he could have touched her. A cold wind blew past, ruffling his own clown-like hair, black as the night itself.

He extended his hand. Slowly, as if unsure of what he was doing. His fingers, white with makeup, hovered a centimeter from her shoulder. Images flashed through his mind. Different. Different ways. Fast. Slow. Bloody. Without. Different. But none of them suited this situation.

Instead of the usual push, instead of grabbing, he… lightly touched her. Like a moth. Or like a stray raindrop. Barely perceptible.

The girl shuddered. She raised her head. Her eyes, red and swollen, met his. And then something happened. Something Art hadn't expected. Not a trace of fear. Not a single flicker of panic. Only… surprise. And a strange, unhealthy clarity in her gaze.

"Hello," she said, her voice hoarse with tears, but not frightened. "Sorry. I… I think I've taken your bench." She tried to smile, and it looked painfully false, yet sincere.

Art froze. His head tilted slightly to the side. This had never happened before. Never. Usually, when they saw him… well. Usually, everything was different. This… this was… different. He expected a scream. Horror. Sobs turning into convulsions. But not this quiet, almost polite… apology.

He took a step back. Not because he was scared. But because… he didn't know what to do. His arsenal of reactions, honed over years of perfection, didn't include "polite stranger without fear."

The frozen smile painted on his face now seemed especially… out of place. He blinked. Again. An internal glitch. A misunderstanding. He wasn't used to such… glitches. He raised a finger, pointing at her face, at the dried tears. And then, completely unexpectedly for himself, he gestured, "What?"

The girl wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Oh," she smiled weakly. "Nothing special. Just… the usual nonsense. You look… very interesting. A great Halloween costume."

Art blinked again. Costume? Her words… they carried something he couldn't decipher. Was it… compassion? Or simply… naivety? Deep, impenetrable naivety? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that his familiar world had momentarily cracked, and a light had shone through that was completely unfamiliar to him. And perhaps frighteningly interesting.

Art looked at her, his finger still hovering in the air, as if his hand had forgotten why it was raised. "Suit" the word echoed in his head, strange, alien. He, Art, was the suit. He was the embodiment. But he didn't wear it. He was it.

The girl stood up. Slowly, as if every movement was effort. She came closer, and Art felt a slight tension in his seemingly insensitive muscles. What would she do? Finally scream? Or… or something else, something ordinary people did but he never understood?

She stopped right in front of him. Her eyes, still moist, but now with a new spark, studied his face. Or what was his face. Art waited. His silent anticipation was almost tangible, but it was the anticipation of something… unknown. Not horror. Not pain. Something that was beyond his usual repertoire.

And then… she hugged him.

Softly. Warmly. Her arms wrapped around his waist, her head resting on his chest. Art froze. Completely. For a moment, the world around him seemed to cease to exist. The warmth of her body through his clothes. The scent of her hair light, floral, completely unlike the acrid scent of fear he knew so well. It was… it was wrong. Wrong and…

And, suddenly, something inside him… trembled. Not pain. Not anger. Something thin, like a gossamer thread, utterly elusive, yet palpable in this strange silence. As if a chord he hadn't even suspected existed was vibrating somewhere very deep.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice muffled by his fabric. "I don't know why. For simply being here? For… not driving me away. Sometimes you just need someone to be there."

Art didn't move. He didn't know how. He didn't know what to do. His arms, usually so quick and deadly, hung uselessly at his sides. He was a machine of chaos, a symphony of terror, but this simple, tender closeness… it unsettled him.

After a moment, she pulled away. Slowly. Her eyes lifted to his face, and a shy smile flickered in them. "Oh, God," she said, pulling her hands away, as if she'd just realized her mistake. "I'm so sorry! I… I completely lost it. I violated your privacy. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have."

She smiled weakly again, then turned and walked away. Slowly, unsteadily. Under the streetlight, her silhouette seemed fragile and lonely. She didn't look back.

Art stood in the middle of the street. Alone. The cold wind ruffled his hair again. But something had changed. Something inside him felt different now. The emptiness hadn't disappeared, but now it was inhabited by something alien, something soft and… warm. Something he didn't understand. Completely. His frozen clown smile now seemed less sinister than… confused.

He raised his hand and touched the spot on his chest where she had just lain. The warmth was gone. But the imprint remained. Strange, inexplicable. As if someone had just shown him a color he'd never seen before. And he didn't know what to make of it. He turned and slowly wandered the other way, disappearing into the shadows of the Halloween night. His usual satisfaction with the chaos was clouded. Or perhaps… simply altered. Forever.

[witchglass]

synopsis: how he expresses closeness through touch.

He is the embodiment of ice and shadow, but near her… oh, near her, his world begins to shift. Touches that would feel foreign with anyone else become a quiet call, a whisper he can’t ignore. His physical affection is tenderness wrapped in indifference.

Hand in hand, always. He’s not always the one to initiate, but if her fingers brush his, he won’t pull away. Instead, his own will slowly, almost imperceptibly, intertwine with hers, forming a quiet lock a gentle reminder that she’s here, beside him. Silent embraces. In moments when she feels lost or simply worn down by the world, he draws her close. Not with urgency, but with a soft, grounding hold, as if shielding her from everything outside. His chin rests atop her head, and he could stay like that forever, listening to her breath. Passing touches. As he walks by, he might graze her shoulder, run his fingers through her hair, tuck a stray strand behind her ear. Fleeting, almost invisible gestures, but they speak of deep attachment, of always knowing where she is, and always wanting to feel her near. His head in her lap. In moments of complete surrender, when it’s just the two of them, he’ll rest his head on her knees. A gesture of pure trust, exposing his vulnerability. She’ll stroke his hair, and he’ll let himself melt into it safe, protected. His gaze, full of unspoken words. Sometimes, he doesn’t need to touch her at all. Just looking is enough. Eyes that are usually cold fill with warmth, and in that look, she can read all the tenderness, all the love that doesn’t need to be said aloud. A soft touch to her cheek. In rare moments, when she smiles at him truly, openly he might reach out and gently brush her cheek, as if trying to hold onto the moment, to imprint it in memory. A calming stroke along her back. When she’s anxious, he’ll quietly run his hand down her spine, as if passing his strength into her. A gesture that says, “I’m here. You’re not alone.” To him, touch isn’t just physical it’s a language. One only she understands. And the more he loves, the more his frozen shell begins to melt, revealing the tenderness hidden deep within.

[witchglass]

synopsis: After the fruitless talk with Felix about Oliver’s behavior, all that’s left is to try and fall asleep. Content Warning: noncon, coercion, psychological manipulation. This scene contains themes of non-consensual physical contact and emotional pressure. Reader discretion advised.

a touch of nostalgia for the film inspired me to write an excerpt. my english is still a bit of a mess, so forgive any slip ups.

Night had fallen over Saltburn, wrapping the manor in velvet darkness. The branches of old trees outside whispered softly, echoing the rhythm of a racing heart. After the fruitless conversation with Felix, the sense of isolation had only deepened. The door was locked, a chair wedged beneath the handle, useless precautions, but better than nothing. Lying in bed, sleep refused to come. Fatigue wrestled with rising anxiety. Oliver’s face, his smile, those wild eyes, they spun relentlessly in her mind. Felix hadn’t believed a word, and that gave Oliver freedom. He felt untouchable. Sleep crept in slowly, pulling her into a viscous haze. Just as she began to slip under, a subtle shift yanked her back. The mattress dipped. Stillness. Eyes wide open in the dark. Every sense strained to decode the silence. Only breath shallow, uneven. Then came the weight. Heavy. Warm. Pressing down. A hand. Someone’s hand. It slid along her thigh cautious, deliberate. Oliver. Cold sweat broke across her forehead. Paralyzed. No scream, no strength to push back. He lay atop her, breath scorching the side of her neck. His scent musk, expensive cologne, and something feral filled her lungs. “Shh, darling,” he whispered, voice velvet-soft, coaxing, laced with danger. “No need to make noise. Everyone’s asleep. You’ll wake Felix. And he won’t understand. He won’t see what’s happening between us.” A tremor ran through her. This wasn’t just a violation of space it was a trespass against body and will. She twisted, tried to escape, but his grip was firm. Gentle, yet unyielding. “It’s not right to involve others in what we have,” he murmured, lips grazing skin. “They don’t get it. They don’t see what you truly feel. But I do. I feel it. The fear. The thrill. You’re so… responsive.” His hand moved upward, tracing her waist, ribs, stopping just beneath her chest. Her heart pounded violently. Even through the thin fabric of her pajamas, his touch burned. “We haven’t talked much lately,” he said, feigning sorrow. “I missed you. Your sharpness. Your resistance. It excites me.” Slowly, imperceptibly, he pressed his body against hers. Heat, muscle, tension. No kiss. No sudden moves. Just presence. Immersion. He wanted to feel her every inch. “You’re so small,” came the whisper, voice deepening. “So fragile. And yet so strong. It’s mesmerizing.” Tears welled, but she held them back. He wouldn’t get that satisfaction. She wouldn’t cry. “Get out,” she whispered, voice low, laced with hate. Oliver chuckled a sound like dry leaves rustling. “You’re adorable when you’re angry. But you don’t understand. I’m already here. I’ll always be here. In your thoughts. In your dreams. And now, in your bed.” His hand brushed through her hair, fingers trailing along her cheek. He gently turned her face toward him, breath grazing her lips. Every muscle tensed. She braced for a kiss. But it never came. Instead, he leaned into her cheek, nose barely touching skin. He inhaled deep, savoring. “You smell like… sleep. And fear. And something else… something yours,” he whispered. “I’ll never forget it. It’s mine now.” A chill ran down her spine. He didn’t just want her. He wanted possession. Total. He lingered a while longer, heavy but not violent. Just presence. Overwhelming presence. Strength drained from her body. Then, as silently as he’d arrived, he began to rise. The weight lifted. A faint rustle. He stepped off the bed. She lay still, listening to his slow movements across the room. Not knowing what he was doing that was worse. Then came the soft click. The door closed.

[witchglass]

synopsis: how would he behave if she got seriously ill, something that drains her strength and leaves her looking fragile?

First and foremost, his world narrowed to a single purpose: understanding. The library became his outpost. He didn’t ask anyone directly. No. He immersed himself in medical treatises, ancient grimoires, myths and legends of afflictions, in the whispers of hallways searching for every grain of insight, every hint at a cause and, more importantly, a cure. His eyes skimmed the lines while his mind processed data with the cold precision of a machine, discarding the excess, retaining only the essence. He became an expert in this particular illness, not because it was his calling, but because she needed him to be. He didn’t bring flowers or sit by her bedside. His care manifested in the perfection of her surroundings. The room she stayed in was always at the right temperature, with ideal lighting. If there was a draft, the window closed. If she needed rest, the noise outside mysteriously faded. He would quietly ensure she was brought the right tea, the right food things she couldn’t ask for herself. Everything appeared as if by magic, but it was the magic of his invisible presence and subtle orchestration. He didn’t leave notes saying “Get well soon.” But one morning, on her nightstand, there might appear a rare book she’d long wanted to read on ancient rituals or forgotten languages, anything to distract her sharp mind from the weakness of her body. Or, when she could drink, a sprig of rare healing herb might appear beside her cup, its scent barely perceptible, but calculated to soothe.

If anyone dared disturb her with loud voices, uninvited visits, or excessive curiosity, that person would soon find themselves urgently needed on the far side of Nevermore. Isaac’s words, spoken quietly but with unwavering firmness, carried uncanny weight. He became her unseen sentinel, warding off anything that might hinder her recovery, allowing no shadow of anxiety to touch her weakened consciousness. He could sit in the corner of the library, seemingly absorbed in research, yet with every nerve attuned to her condition. If her cough worsened, his gaze darkened for a moment. If her breathing steadied, a faint line of tension on his face would ease. He never asked, “How are you feeling?” he didn’t need words. He knew. And that knowledge gave him strength to act, always a step ahead, always unseen, yet undeniably present in every breath she took. None of this was a display of love, nor an emotional outburst. It was the distilled essence of his “dark” devotion absolute control refined to perfection, all to protect what mattered to him, even if no one but himself understood the true depth of that care.

[witchglass]

synopsis: his thoughts and behavior when his feelings are rejected or ignored.

Every morning, when the sun barely brushed the academy’s windows, he already knew her schedule by heart. Not just knew he felt it, like the echo of her footsteps down the corridors reverberating inside him. It had started as curiosity, light and almost innocent. But then it grew into something sharper, something that scratched at him from within.

She liked the same books. She drank her coffee with the exact same addition he did. But she didn’t know that. Or perhaps she simply never noticed.

Her indifference was like an ice bite burning and leaving an invisible mark on the skin. He saw her laugh with others, saw her gaze linger on someone else, and each moment was a blow. Not one that broke him, but one that hardened his resolve. She didn’t respond to his subtle gestures, his quiet attempts to draw her attention that much was clear. But what did she know of his methods? He wasn’t someone who gave up.

In his room, beneath the bed, tucked into the far corner of a drawer, he kept notes. Not just notes a chronicle of her life, her habits, her preferences. The flowers she liked. The music that made her smile. Even the faint, barely visible creases around her eyes when she was truly engrossed in something. He knew it was wrong. But it felt necessary. For him, it was like assembling a puzzle each piece bringing him closer to understanding how to make her want him.

One day, he overheard her mention a rare, nearly forgotten kind of tea she liked. Finding it was difficult nearly impossible. But he found it. He spent days, weeks, until he tracked it down. And when he casually left a sachet of that tea on her desk, and she looked up at him, there was no recognition in her eyes. Just a flicker of confusion. Then she turned away.

Something inside him cracked, but didn’t collapse. It was like a door he’d been trying to open had locked itself, and now he had to find another way. Maybe longer, maybe more twisted, but still leading to her. He couldn’t allow her to be with someone else. Couldn’t allow her to remain unaware of how deeply he felt her. He wasn’t cruel. He was just… persistent. And a little mad. He knew that. And it didn’t stop him. Because love, in his mind, was a complex puzzle one that had to be solved at any cost. And he was the best at solving puzzles.

He watched her laugh. Never with him. Not once. That laugh was like a bell ringing in his soul, but its sound was poisoned with bitterness. And that bitterness didn’t fade. It thickened, becoming something dense and heavy. He liked her too much to let go. And that “too much” was the fine line where attachment ended and fixation began.

His days became a cycle revolving around her. Every movement, every word, every glance was etched into memory, analyzed like complex equations. “What does she like?” “Why does she look at him that way, but not at me?” The questions spun in his mind, demanding answers he was determined to find no matter what. He didn’t want flowers she’d throw away, or gifts she’d forget. He wanted her choice. For her to choose him.

He began to subtly influence her surroundings. Gentle nudges. Offhand comments that might shift her opinion of someone else. Small “accidents” that made those she liked seem less appealing. His methods were invisible like strands of a web he wove around her, narrowing her circle until he remained the only constant. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to help her see that he was the only one who truly understood her, who could care for her.

One day, he noticed her reading an old book on occultism, hidden on the furthest shelf of the library. It was rare, nearly forgotten. The next day, “by chance,” as he passed her, he dropped a comment about an error in one of the rituals described in that book. Her eyes widened. Curious, but skeptical. And for the first time in a long while, her gaze lingered on him longer than a second.

It was a small, almost imperceptible success. But to him, it was like a breath of air after being underwater too long. A crack in the wall of her indifference. He knew it was only the beginning. He wasn’t going to give up. She was his goal, his mystery, his obsession. And he was willing to do anything to solve that mystery, to reach that goal. Because to him, her happiness was inseparable from his presence in her life. He believed that this, this was what true, deep attachment was meant to look like.

[witchglass]

synopsis: the manifestation of the darker aspects of attachment in relationships.

His gaze is an ink-black abyss, reflecting the entire world though only a fraction of it is reserved for the chosen few. And those few feel his attention like a faint breath of icy wind at their back, even when he’s nowhere near. He doesn’t stalk, doesn’t linger in corners, doesn’t send anonymous messages. His methods are subtler, more refined. There he is Isaac seated in the library, immersed in ancient tomes. Between the lines of forgotten rituals, his thoughts weave invisible threads. Threads that quietly wrap around the object of his interest. Tomorrow, by sheer coincidence, the item they’ve been searching for will appear in plain sight. A door that’s always been locked will be slightly ajar. Words once spoken in passing will suddenly take on new meaning, revealing themselves as pieces of a puzzle only he can solve. He doesn’t ask questions he already knows the answers. He doesn’t need to be present to understand what’s unfolding. His “obsession” manifests in foresight, in subtle control over the environment. Whenever doubt creeps in, a silent clue emerges, as if fate itself were pointing the way. But it’s not fate it’s his meticulous, invisible labor. His presence is felt in every carefully chosen word, spoken at just the right moment. In every detail that fits seamlessly into the larger picture. It seems even the shadows bend to his will, stretching or shrinking to match his design. And the one who’s become the focus of his attention begins to sense this unseen web spun from silent observation and quiet anticipation. It doesn’t frighten. It intrigues. It makes one wonder: how deeply does he see? How intensely is he… involved? His “obsession” reveals itself even in the smallest things. If he enters a room where the person of interest once stood, he lingers absorbing the faint traces left behind. The scent of old books, the subtle trail of a familiar fragrance for Isaac, these are part of a ritual, affirming an invisible bond. Isaac doesn’t merely observe the present. He dives into history studying bloodlines, legends, old journals. Not to uncover dirt, but to understand the roots. To learn of vulnerabilities, hidden talents, forgotten ties. He gathers these fragments to build a perfect, all-encompassing picture, where every element finds its rightful place. And when he speaks of something no one else could possibly know, it stirs both unease and admiration. He doesn’t collect photographs or personal belongings. His “collection” consists of items that seem insignificant but to him, they’re rich with meaning. A wilted flower dropped in a hallway. A broken quill once used long ago. These objects become artifacts, affirming his silent connection to the one he watches. They allow him to “feel” their presence, even from afar.

[witchglass]

The dim light of Nevermore’s old library was Isaac ideal environment. The rustle of pages, the soft creak of wooden floors, the muted glow of desk lamps - all of it fostered focus. He sat at one of the heavy tables, immersed in a centuries-old tome on alchemy, his brows slightly furrowed in thought as his gloved fingers carefully turned the yellowed pages.

Across from him, at another table, she was hunched over flasks and test tubes. Her hair was slightly tousled, and a faint smudge likely a trace of her current experiment marked her cheek. The scent of herbs and a thin trail of smoke drifted from her workspace. She was completely absorbed, murmuring to herself, occasionally jotting notes in a notebook, sometimes watching a reaction in a vial with a barely-there smile.

Though Isaac appeared deeply engrossed in his book, he was acutely aware of her presence as keenly as he felt his own heartbeat. He heard every rustle, every movement, every quiet breath. And he liked it. He liked this almost domestic atmosphere of shared concentration, with someone whose passion mirrored his own.

Twenty minutes must have passed. Isaac closed the tome. His eyes finally lifted from the text and drifted toward her. He watched as she carefully combined two liquids, her attention fully locked on the process.

A soft breath escaped his chest barely audible, easily mistaken for a distracted exhale. But it wasn’t fatigue. It was something else something rare for him, almost childlike in its simplicity: a quiet longing.

He slowly, almost silently, slid his chair closer to hers, as far as the space between them allowed. Then, without breaking his gaze from her focused face, he reached out. Not to take or interrupt. His finger gently, almost weightlessly, touched her cheek right beside the smudge.

She flinched, her hand froze above the vial. Slowly, she looked up. Her eyes held a question, tinged with mild surprise.

“Yes?” she asked softly, tilting her head.

Isaac said nothing. Instead, he inclined his head slightly toward her, his gaze still serious, but with something softer flickering beneath. His lips, usually pressed into a firm line, were slightly parted, and his eyes lowered, not out of shyness, but as if he didn’t want to startle her, yet couldn’t hold back his desire. It was silent, but unmistakable. He was asking for a kiss.

She looked at him, then at her unfinished work two vials nearly touching, but not yet mixed. A gentle, kind smile curved her lips.

“Give me a minute,” she whispered, barely suppressing a laugh. “Just a few more drops and this reaction will be perfect. You wouldn’t interrupt a moment like that, would you?”

She looked at him again, and this time her smile widened, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Although…” she added after a pause, “I suppose it can wait. But you’ll have to be very patient.”

Isaac didn’t move. His expression remained unchanged, but deep in his eyes, a flicker of quiet satisfaction appeared. He nodded. His desire wasn’t fleeting it could wait. He knew she’d return to him. And that waiting, in the silence of the library filled with the scent of her experiments, was just as precious as the kiss itself.

He lowered his gaze again not to the book, but to her focused face and waited for her two vials to meet, so their worlds could briefly merge as well.

[witchglass]

synopsis: hidden fears and quiet dreams he never lets anyone see.

The world, for Isaac, was a complex mechanism that had to be carefully studied, predicted, and controlled. He saw patterns where others saw chaos and found logic in the most irrational actions. This ability was both his shield and his curse. It helped him survive, but it also kept him apart from what others called a normal life.

His fear was not a loud scream but a quiet whisper, an echo that filled the empty hall of his mind when he was alone. He feared uncontrollable chaos. Not just disorder, but the kind of all-consuming madness that obeyed no laws and had no predictable consequences. It was the moment when all his careful calculations would prove useless, when the world around him collapsed without reason.

He saw that chaos in the eyes of certain students, in their impulsive actions, in the panic that swept through crowds. He saw it in his nightmares images of endless mazes with no exit, where every movement created more confusion. What he feared most was losing control of himself, becoming part of that chaos, letting emotions overwhelm him and strip away his ability to analyze and act rationally. For him, that would be like death. His restraint was not just a personality trait, it was a defense mechanism that kept the chaos out.

But beneath that fear, deep below it, there was a tiny flicker of hope. A hope he would never show anyone, because it felt too fragile, too human to survive under his sharp, analytical gaze.

It was the hope of unconditional acceptance. Not just understanding his logic or approving his actions, but accepting him entirely with all his oddities, his silence, his need for distance. He dreamed of someone who could see through his mask without asking him to remove it, someone who could value his presence even when it was quiet and unspoken.

He often watched the interactions of other students laughter, hugs, arguments, reconciliations. All of it seemed like a mysterious ritual he didn’t know how to join. But somewhere deep inside, he secretly wished for someone who would simply be there, without asking too many questions, without demanding explanations. Someone who understood that his silence did not mean indifference and his distance was not coldness.

[witchglass]

Where silence speaks

Isaac had always been a man of shadows and subtlety. His presence was felt but rarely drew attention. He preferred to observe rather than participate, his thoughts left unspoken, his emotions carefully hidden behind a constant mask of calm. Even when passions flared around Nevermore, he remained the unmoving center, his gaze drifting across faces, registering every detail without giving anything in return.

One night, after another day filled with student intrigues and mysterious incidents, Isaac found himself on one of the castle’s high terraces. He came to sort through his thoughts, enjoy the silence, and look at the stars, the only companions that never demanded answers. The sky was unusually clear, hinting at an approaching meteor shower.

Suddenly, the door behind him creaked, and another figure stepped onto the terrace. Not someone he expected, and not someone he would usually acknowledge with his presence. It was someone who, like him, often kept to themselves, but for entirely different reasons, more out of open, almost naive vulnerability than a deliberate choice of detachment.

The figure stopped at the railing, not immediately noticing Isaac, who had blended into the shadow of an old gargoyle. Tension hung in the air. Recent events at school had left their mark, and even the most resilient felt a little lost. Isaac expected the visitor to linger briefly and leave, or perhaps speak aloud to themselves, as some did in moments of stress.

But the visitor said nothing. Instead, they let out a deep, trembling breath and then, as if unable to hold back any longer, quietly sobbed. Not loudly, not hysterically, it was the sound of deep, almost desperate sorrow, so personal it pierced Isaac’s usual armor. It wasn’t a plea for attention or a complaint. It was simply pain released into the night sky.

Isaac froze. His instinct told him to remain unseen, to let the person release their emotions in solitude. But something inside him, a delicate string he hadn’t known existed, stirred. He had seen this figure many times, noted their traits, observed them, but had never witnessed such raw vulnerability. It wasn’t weakness, it was the overflow, the point beyond which hiding was no longer possible.

Unexpectedly, Isaac stepped out of the shadows. He didn’t move close, didn’t offer words of comfort that felt foreign and misplaced. He simply positioned himself so his presence could be felt. He didn’t look at the visitor’s face; his gaze remained fixed somewhere above, on the distant stars, but his emergence was a statement.

The figure flinched, then slowly turned. Their face showed surprise mixed with a hint of fear. Isaac’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t smile. He simply stood there. His presence was a silent offer of support, requiring no words or explanations. It was an acknowledgment of shared human pain, something he rarely allowed himself to feel.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then the first meteor streaked across the sky, leaving a shimmering trail. A second followed, then a third. The shower had begun.

The visitor, forgetting their tears, lifted their head, captivated by the celestial display. Isaac watched too. He felt no need to speak. That night, beneath the silent meteor shower, he understood that sometimes, to support someone, you don’t need to be loud. Sometimes, it’s enough just to be there. And in that quiet, involuntary act of empathy, he felt something inside him shift, small, but real. The mask didn’t fall, but it became slightly less impenetrable, letting in a sliver of light. And he realized that maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

[witchglass]

Isaac Night in love

If Isaac feels romantic affection for someone, you can be certain that person will be under his quiet but powerful protection. Just as he instinctively defends his sister, he will shield his partner from any hardship. It won’t be a show of chivalry, but rather a steady, silent vigilance and a readiness to act when it truly matters. His partner will feel safe knowing Isaac is always nearby, even if it’s not outwardly obvious.

Don’t expect grand declarations or serenades beneath your window. Isaac’s love is expressed through actions, not words. He’ll remember your favorite coffee, notice the small things that make you happy, and quietly take care of tasks that ease your day. If you ever ask for help, he’ll be the first to offer it, without hesitation or questions.

Because of his intuitive nature and observant mind, Isaac will likely understand his partner on a deep, almost telepathic level. He’ll pick up on shifts in mood, unspoken wishes, and hidden sadness. He won’t need long explanations; one glance will be enough to know what’s going on. This can be a gift, but also a challenge, because sometimes you want your thoughts to remain your own.

Just like with his sister, where any threat to her well-being triggers a quiet tension in him, Isaac may feel jealousy. But he’ll never show it openly. It will be a subtle, nearly imperceptible shift in behavior, a slightly sharper look, a more rigid posture, maybe even a touch of distance. He’ll analyze the situation before acting, and his response will aim to remove the source of discomfort, not to create drama.

Isaac deeply values his personal space and time for reflection. In a relationship, he’ll seek a partner who understands and respects that need. It doesn’t mean he’s distant, but rather that he recognizes everyone needs solitude. He’ll be willing to share his world, but only with someone who won’t intrude on his inner sanctum without invitation.

Once Isaac opens his heart, his loyalty will be unwavering. He’s not someone who takes promises or bonds lightly. His partner will know they can rely on him completely. It will be a relationship built on trust and a profound, even if not always overtly expressed, love. Overall, Isaac, in a romantic relationship, would be a complex but deeply devoted partner. He won’t shower you with flowers every day, but he’ll stand by you in the hardest moments. His love will be a quiet harbor in a stormy world.

[witchglass]

Threaded by Violence - Part 4

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

A week had passed since the night Mari saw Hannibal near her home. She did everything she could to avoid him, steering clear of hallways where he might appear and rejecting any attempt he made to start a conversation. Will noticed her growing anxiety and withdrawal, but Mari couldn’t explain the reason behind her fear. How do you explain being afraid of someone who seemed to everyone else the embodiment of elegance and intellect?

One morning, arriving at work, Mari found a small, impeccably wrapped parcel on her desk. Inside was a finely carved wooden bird a jay, wings spread in flight. Attached was a card written in calligraphic script: “I know you are tired of other people’s nightmares. Let me show you the beauty you’ve forgotten. Dinner at eight. Dr. Lecter.” The address was written on the back.

Mari’s heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t an invitation, it was a declaration. He wasn’t simply asking her, he was expecting her. She looked at the bird in her hand, delicate craftsmanship, every detail considered. It was a gift meant to charm, but to Mari it felt like a warning. Like a bird lured into a trap.

All day she felt on edge. Work wouldn’t flow, her thoughts kept circling back to the parcel and its ominous message. Refusing over the phone wouldn’t be enough. She needed something that could push him back, or at least show she wasn’t a toy in his hands.

By evening, Mari had made her decision. She took the jay he had given her. At eight o’clock she stood at the door of Hannibal Lecter’s elegant home. She rang the bell, and the door opened almost immediately. Hannibal stood in the doorway, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, a faint smile on his lips. A spark of triumph lit his eyes.

“Mari,” he said, his voice warm and welcoming. “I’m glad you came. Dinner is nearly ready.”

“I didn’t come to dine, Dr. Lecter,” Mari’s voice was firm, though inside she was trembling. She held out the carved bird. “I came to return your... reminder.”

The smile faded from Hannibal’s face. His eyes, usually so vivid and expressive, turned cold as ice. He slowly took the bird from her hand, his fingers brushing lightly against her skin.

“I thought you would appreciate the gesture, Mari,” he said, his voice dropping slightly.

“I appreciate art, Dr. Lecter,” Mari replied, trying not to flinch under his gaze. “But I don’t accept manipulation. And I don’t like being coerced.” Hannibal was silent, staring at the bird in his hand, then looked back at Mari. Something flickered in his eyes that made her heart skip again not disappointment, but a deep, almost painful understanding. And something else, darker, that she couldn’t decipher. “Well,” he finally said, regaining his composure. “Then I wish you a pleasant evening, Mari. And remember, the doors of my home are always open. For those who appreciate true beauty.” He closed the door, leaving Mari standing alone in the cool night air. She turned and walked away, feeling adrenaline still surging through her veins. She had refused Hannibal Lecter. And now she knew he wouldn’t forget it.

[witchglass]

Threaded by Violence - Part 3

Part 1 - Part 2

Days turned into weeks, and Hannibal’s presence in Mari’s life became increasingly tangible. He wasn’t just consulting on cases he began appearing in the most unexpected places: in the FBI hallways, at the café where Mari had lunch, even near her home under the pretext of a “casual walk.” Each time he found a reason to talk, to exchange glances, to learn something new about her. One evening, after an especially difficult day at a crime scene, Mari’s phone vibrated. An unfamiliar number appeared on the screen, but she immediately recognized the voice. “Mari,” said Hannibal, his voice velvety and soft, like a nocturnal touch. “I hope I’m not distracting you from anything important. I thought that after such an intense day you might want a diversion. I’m preparing dinner. It won’t be a boring conversation about work, I promise. Rather, it will be… a culinary adventure. Will you join me?” Mari gripped the phone, feeling a surge of panic. Refusing would be impolite, considering his position, but accepting meant voluntarily stepping into the lion’s den. She knew Hannibal Lecter didn’t extend invitations lightly. His offer wasn’t just about food it was an invitation to enter his world. And that terrified her to the core. “Doctor Lecter,” Mari began, trying to keep her voice steady. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m extremely tired today. I think I’d better stay home.”

There was a brief pause on the other end. Mari thought she could even hear a smile touch his lips. “I understand,” Hannibal’s voice grew slightly deeper, with a faint note of disappointment that quickly vanished. “What a pity. My dinners tend to leave a lasting impression. But I won’t insist. Still, I’m sure we’ll have another opportunity to share a meal.” He said goodbye, and the call ended. Mari slowly lowered the phone. Refusing the invitation didn’t bring relief. On the contrary, she felt as though she had just fueled his interest. Her intuition screamed that Hannibal wouldn’t back off. His “I won’t insist” sounded like a promise that he would wait and his waiting was far more frightening than any direct challenge.

Mari walked to the window and looked out at the night city. Somewhere out there, in one of the elegant apartments, Hannibal Lecter was likely preparing his exquisite dinner, perhaps imagining her sitting across from him. The thought made her shudder. -

Mari tried to avoid Hannibal, but it was nearly impossible. He seemed to appear out of nowhere when she least expected him. At the office, he always found a reason for a brief conversation, his gaze pierced through her, making her feel like she was under a microscope. He asked her questions about her dreams, her thoughts, what she felt when she entered the mind of a killer. These questions were too personal, too intimate, and each time she tried to avoid giving a direct answer.

One evening, as Mari was returning home late, she noticed his car parked at the corner of the street. She was certain it was him. Her heart began to race. Hannibal Lecter. He was waiting for her. Why? For what?

She walked past, trying not to reveal her anxiety, pretending not to notice his presence. She wanted to run, but forced herself to walk steadily. Once inside her apartment, Mari immediately went to the window and cautiously looked out. The car was still there, but the headlights were off, and Hannibal’s silhouette was barely visible in the darkness. He was simply sitting and watching her window.

Mari felt a cold horror grip her. This wasn’t mere curiosity. This was… obsession. In her mind echoed Will’s words, who once told her, “Hannibal doesn’t see people as they are, but as he wants them to be. He constructs them like his dishes.” And now Mari felt like one of his “dishes,” slowly being prepared for serving. She realized his interest in her had gone beyond professional boundaries. His glances, his questions, his silent presence near her home all of it screamed of a deep, unsettling attachment. An attachment that promised nothing good. She spent the rest of the night by the window, watching the shadow hidden in the car. He didn’t leave until dawn. When the first rays of sunlight touched the horizon, Hannibal Lecter finally started the engine and slowly drove away. Mari remained standing at the window, trembling with fear and the realization that she had become the focus of a predator who wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted.

[witchglass]

Threaded by Violence - Part 2

Part 1 After her first case, Mari felt drained, but her sharp insight had left an impression on Crawford. That’s why, the very next morning, he introduced her to Will Graham.

Will was already waiting in Crawford’s office. His tousled hair and perpetually tense gaze betrayed a man living on the edge.

“Will, this is Mari,” Crawford said. “She’ll be assisting us with investigations. She has… a particular gift for empathy. Like you.”

Will slowly turned his eyes toward Mari. There was a mix of exhaustion and suspicion in his look. He was used to working alone or with the rare few who understood the weight he carried. A new girl, with similar abilities? That was unusual.

“Hi,” Mari said, extending her hand. Her voice was soft, but steady.

Will gave her hand a light, almost weightless squeeze. “Hi,” he replied. “Empathy, huh?” There was no sarcasm in his voice more a strange sense of recognition. “I hope you’re ready for what you’ll see. It’s not always pleasant.”

“I know,” Mari answered quietly. “I’m used to it.”

Crawford cleared his throat. “Alright, Will, Mari we’ve got a new case. Something gruesome in the woods. I need both of you out there. Maybe two pairs of eyes that can dive deep into a killer’s mind will get us somewhere faster.”

Mari and Will exchanged a glance. In that moment, something unspoken passed between them. They were alike two people cursed to see what others couldn’t, and to carry the burden of that knowledge. Will nodded, and they headed out toward the next nightmare waiting in the trees. -

Weeks into the job, Mari found herself spending more and more time with Will. They spent hours at crime scenes, diving into the shared abyss of other people’s horrors, then dissected what they’d seen in the quiet of his home, surrounded by barking dogs. Will, initially guarded, began to trust her not just as a colleague, but as someone who understood his isolation. He even smiled a few times in her presence, which, for the reclusive professor, was no small thing.

One evening, as Mari helped Will sort through evidence from another tangled case, the doorbell rang. Will frowned he rarely expected visitors.

Standing at the door was the ever-elegant Hannibal Lecter, holding a bottle of wine.

“Will,” Hannibal said with his usual refinement. “I came to check on your progress. And, I suppose, to apologize for the intrusion. Though I see you have company.”

His gaze slid over Mari, lingering just a moment longer than politeness required. There was no surprise in his eyes, no jealousy only a deep, almost predatory satisfaction. Mari felt a chill run down her spine. It was as if Hannibal had expected her to be there.

“Dr. Lecter,” Will said, visibly uneasy. “Mari, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal, this is Mari our new consultant.”

“I remember Mari quite well,” Hannibal said with a faint smile. “We’ve had the pleasure of meeting before. Mari, you look… remarkably well for someone who’s spent the evening wading through filth.”

His compliment carried a strange, almost sinister undertone. Mari simply nodded, uncomfortable. As Will invited Hannibal in, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d walked into a trap and Hannibal was the spider who’d just caught a new fly.

The rest of the evening unfolded in a strange atmosphere. Hannibal was impeccable, discussing the case with Will, occasionally casting piercing, almost hypnotic glances at Mari. He asked her about her work, her “gift,” her impressions of Baltimore. Each question felt like a calculated move, peeling back another layer of her identity. Mari kept her answers brief, trying not to reveal too much, but she could feel Hannibal dissecting her soul like a surgeon.

Will, absorbed in the case discussion, seemed unaware of the subtle, almost invisible game playing out between Hannibal and Mari.

When Hannibal finally left, Mari felt a wave of relief and unease. She knew that encounter hadn’t been a coincidence. Hannibal Lecter was interested in her. And that interest was nothing she wanted.

[witchglass]

Threaded by Violence

synopsis: Mari is an analyst who sees more than most the moment she steps onto a crime scene. Her empathy isn’t a weakness-it’s how she reads what others miss. She doesn’t seek closeness, and that’s exactly what draws Lecter in. While Will tries to figure her out, Hannibal already knows he wants her. A story about observation, obsession, and the thin line where interest turns into control.

The wind, cold and biting, whipped through Mari’s hair as she stood at the entrance to the FBI building. It was her first day in Baltimore, and she could already feel the city wrapping around her with its fog and hidden secrets. Her transfer to the FBI’s forensics division had been unexpected, but welcome. Mari possessed a rare gift-she could “see” what had happened at a crime scene, as if stepping directly into the past. It was both a blessing and a curse, because each time she plunged into the depths of someone else’s pain.

Inside, the usual bustle of a police office filled the space. The scent of coffee, old paper, and something faintly metallic, like blood, hung in the air. She introduced herself to the officer on duty and was soon led to the office where her new supervisor was waiting. Jack Crawford. He was exactly as described solid, weary, but with a sharp, perceptive gaze.

“Mari, welcome to the team,” he said with a nod. “I’ve heard about your abilities. Hopefully, they’ll come in handy soon. We’ve got a lot of work.”

His voice was hoarse, as if he’d spent years shouting. Mari simply nodded, feeling a creeping sense of dread tighten around her. She didn’t yet know that her world was about to collide with one where art and horror intertwine in the most twisted forms. -

The very next day, Mari was thrown straight into the thick of it. The crime scene was a house on the outskirts of the city, where two bodies had been found. The scene was horrifying. A man and a woman, carefully dismembered and arranged into a strange installation. Cold sweat broke out on Mari’s forehead as she stepped inside. The smell of blood and formaldehyde hit her instantly.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let her gift unfold. Images began to surface in her mind’s eye sharp steel, methodical movements, silent screams, terror frozen in the victims’ eyes. This wasn’t just a murder. It was an act of art, dark and perverse.

As she stood there, absorbed in the visions, Mari noticed a figure just off to the side. A tall, elegant man with impeccable posture. His gaze was fixed on her studying, piercing. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. A psychiatrist who consulted with the FBI on particularly complex cases. He was known for his refinement, intellect, and a certain ominous aura. Mari had heard of him.

Their eyes met. His held no judgment, no curiosity only a deep, unfathomable interest. Mari looked away, unsettled by the intensity of his attention. She had always avoided people who looked at her as if trying to read every thought. But Hannibal seemed to see even deeper.

When Mari finished, having made a few sketches and notes, Crawford approached her.

“Well, Mari. What did you see?”

“It’s not just a killer,” Mari said quietly, her voice trembling from what she had witnessed. “He’s an artist. He enjoys it. And he’s very methodical.”