hazzyking

[hazzyking]

A STATEMENT IN RED

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader synopsis: After breaking up in Hannibal's kitchen, he's certain you’ll crawl back—no one could match him. Two months later, he discovers you’ve “moved on” and, enraged, kidnaps both you and your new boyfriend to teach you a lesson.

You broke up with Hannibal in his own kitchen, because of course you did. No other room in that townhouse carried as much ritual, as much intimacy—he carved you into his life between copper pots and bone-handled knives. Ending it there was sacrilege, which is exactly why you chose it.

“I’m leaving,” you said, voice steady. The lamb reduced to a glaze behind him; he didn’t turn off the burner.

Hannibal drew himself taller, the faintest twitch in his left eyelid betraying the ripple underneath the surface. “You are upset. We can discuss it after dinner.”

“We’re done.”

At that, he finally faced you. The look he gave wasn’t disbelief; it was assessment. You could almost hear the click of drawers in his mind palace sliding open, indexing: pattern, precedent, probability of return.

“Darling,” he sighed, gentle. Condescending. “You may wander. But you will not go far. What you and I share is…irreplaceable. You’ll try to fill the cavity. You will fail. They always do.”

“Maybe I don’t need another ‘they,’” you shot back. “Maybe I just need not-you.”

A muscle fluttered in his jaw. Then—an indulgent smile. “You will come back. Not because I demand it, but because there is nowhere else to go that will understand you. All of you.”

“Watch me,” you whispered, and walked out, leaving the lamb to burn.

Two months.

Sixty-two days, if you count the ones where he dressed, ate, worked, and slept with your silhouette occupying all negative space. Hannibal hadn’t expected panic at day three. Annoyance, perhaps. Mild concern. By week five, he adjusted the dosage of his patience with the surgical precision of a chemist. By week eight, he admitted—quietly, in a corner of his mind he rarely visited without gloves—that he was irritated.

You did not come back.

Instead, you committed a sin more egregious than absence: you replaced him.

A man. Average in every metric Hannibal considered sacred. The haircut of a man who trusted barbershop mirrors. Hands unremarkable. A laugh loud enough to be insecure. He touched your wrist in public. He kissed your cheek outside a café. He made you smile—a different smile. Softer. Unthreatening.

Hannibal watched from across the street, behind sunglasses he didn’t need, pulse steady but slow—like the prelude to a hunt.

How dare you teach someone else your dialect of darkness.

How dare you offer anyone the privilege of discovering your edges and not bleeding out.

This was not heartbreak. This was insult.

Hannibal decided to correct the misapprehension.

You woke in the dark, wrists bound with something that wasn’t rope—it was smoother, stitched. Leather cuffs. The air tasted like iron and disinfectant. Cold concrete pressed against the back of your skull.

“Don’t move too fast,” Hannibal murmured above you, the words close enough to fog your cheek. “I’d hate for you to faint through the good parts.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t yank. Just slowly opened your eyes to see him: immaculate shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, vest still buttoned, hair perfectly in place. Classic Hannibal. Ritual armor for something he considered personal.

Beyond him, your boyfriend—Daniel? David?—was upright, gagged, strapped to a stainless-steel chair. Eyes wide. Sweating.

You watched as Hannibal dragged an instrument tray closer: gleaming. Prepared.

“Let him go,” you said, because it was the expected script. Because Daniel/David’s eyes begged you to say it.

“No,” Hannibal replied simply, as if denying a refill of wine. He leaned close to you, fingers brushing your throat in faux comfort. “I told you before: what you seek elsewhere will be lacking. I feel insulted that you forced me to prove it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“On the contrary. I do nothing I don’t wish to do.” He straightened, addressing your lover now with a detached courtesy. “I apologize for the theatrics; you were never the point. You were a placeholder in a story you did not understand.”

Your lover thrashed. Hannibal sighed at the noise.

You tested the restraints, slightly. Firm. Not impossible, but you weren’t here to run.

“Hannibal,” you tried again, soft. “Please.”

He glanced back at you, and something flared in his eyes: triumph. Ah. You’re pleading. Returning to the axis. How reassuring.

He chose a boning knife.

The first cut was deliberate and clean, a red smile under the collarbone. Your lover screamed into the gag, high-pitched, muffled. Hannibal barely glanced at the blood beading—he was watching you. Monitoring dilated pupils, tracking the micro-spasms across your mouth.

You didn’t look away.

He carved a second line. No flourish, just function. He was delivering a message written in sinew and breath.

“You can’t keep doing this!” you expelled, voice cracking just enough. “You can’t—”

“Then stop making me,” he snapped, and the sharpened ice under his tone made the air brittle. “Stop testing the perimeter of a cage you built with me. You left. I allowed it. You replaced me. I did not.”

The knife sank again. Blood ran. Your lover’s head lolled, consciousness fraying.

“Hannibal,” you whispered.

He turned, and you let it happen—the mask thinning. The control slipping. His eyes fevered, his breath uneven. This wasn’t about murder. Murder was nothing. This was about you. About being seen. About owning the only soul who looked at him and said: I know what you are and I am not repulsed.

“Please,” you breathed, not to stop him—never to stop him—but to tighten the coil.

He obliged.

One decisive thrust. Between ribs. A kiss to the heart.

Your lover convulsed, then slumped. The gag turned from muffler to stopper, holding in a last thread of sound that would never be heard.

Silence. Except for the drip. For Hannibal’s exhale.

He left the knife buried, head tilting, studying his work like a sommelier savoring a nose.

Then he looked at you.

Expect it, you thought. Expect the sob. Expect the horror. Expect the collapse, the begging, the promise to come home if only he fixes this.

Instead, you smiled.

Slow. Reverent. Eyes bright with something that made his pulse jump.

“Oh, Hannibal,” you murmured, voice warm from the inside out. “There you are.”

A blink. He recalibrated mid-breath.

“What—”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t plan for your inevitability?” You lifted your hands; he allowed you the slack. Not enough to free yourself. Enough to reach his vest lapel. “Did you think I’d be foolish enough to parade a man in front of you without considering the reaction? You’re not a dog, Hannibal. You’re a dragon. You don’t bark. You burn.”

His pupils blew wide. The knife still in Daniel/David’s chest was suddenly background noise to the realization blooming across his face.

“You wanted this?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.

“I needed to see if you would still do it,” you confessed, honest and glowing with it. “For me. Not for the game. Not for your palate. For me.”

You tugged him closer. He let you.

“I picked him because he’d say yes to anything. He thought he was in a thriller. He wasn’t in love with me. He liked the adrenaline. It was useful.”

Hannibal’s thumb traced your bottom lip, smearing a fleck of blood you hadn’t realized had landed there. “You used him as bait.”

“We used each other. He got entertainment. I got a reminder.” You leaned in, breath ghosting over his mouth. “You took too long to come for me.”

A laugh—short, incredulous—shook from Hannibal’s chest. “You are insufferable.”

“You’re delighted.”

He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Not with the proof between you: a body cooling, a knife singing in metal silence, and your pulse racing under his fingertips not with fear—but with worship.

Hannibal unbuckled your cuffs with a tenderness that nearly hurt. You flexed your wrists, blood rushing back, pins and needles prickling. He caught both your hands in his, guiding them up his shirt front, over the steady thrum of his heart.

“I should punish you for manipulating me,” he murmured, forehead pressing to yours.

“You already did.” Your eyes flicked to the chair. “And I adored it.”

The admission snapped something inside him you’d been teasing at since day one. He crushed his mouth to yours, blood-salt-sweet and furious. You kissed back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders—claiming, anchoring.

When he pulled back, breath ragged, his eyes were glassed with something close to wonder. “You are dangerous.”

“Only because you taught me to be.”

He let that linger. Then: “Come home.”

“I never left,” you replied smoothly. “I just made sure you’d come collect me properly.”

He hummed, pleased. “You are mine.”

“And you,” you whispered, licking a streak of red from the edge of his jaw, “are finally acting like it.”

Cleanup was quick. Efficient. Hannibal always did prefer neat endings, even when the middle was a massacre.

Together, you disassembled the scene: you holding the bags, he dissolving the body with acid and method. You worked in tandem, a pas de deux of destruction.

“Do you think less of me?” you asked at one point, just to hear him say it.

“On the contrary,” he answered, glancing over with a smirk so sharp it could fillet truth. “I think you have never been more…you.”

You smiled. “Good. Because neither have you.”

When it was done—when the last trace of the placeholder was smoke and memory—you washed your hands in his sink, side by side. He handed you a towel. You took it, dried, then turned and leaned against the counter.

“Dinner?” he offered, as if you hadn’t just orchestrated a murder to prove a point about love.

“I’m starving,” you said, eyes glittering. “Feed me.”

“Oh,” Hannibal purred, stepping into your space, blood still under his nails, soul still slick and shining in the open. “With absolute pleasure.”

[hazzyking]

Me searching x reader fics after gaining a new fictional crush after watching a movie/serie

[hazzyking]

Thats all folks

[hazzyking]

Still think this is the funniest Hannibal post I’ve ever seen

[hazzyking]

oh? 👀

[hazzyking]

"They tried to kill eachother!!" oh my godddd that was only a couple of timessss and they were literally flirtingggg shut uppppp

[hazzyking]

I want him to throw my legs over his shoulders and my fingers to be gripped into his hair whilst he swirls his tongue inside me, hearing him moaning against me while he’s desperately sucking on my pussy and that perfect nose is gently pressing against my clit 🤤 him feasting on me like a starving man who is finally getting to enjoy his favourite meal.

I am going insane ❤️‍🔥

[hazzyking]

Was at the beach this morning with a friend who doesn’t love going to the beach, but he accompanied me just so I could have a swim, so… mandatory summer Terzo’s thoughts to relax a little 😌

He doesn’t love the concept of the “let’s spend the day at the beach” in summer. If he has to, he prefers walks by the shore in winter, when the temperature is cool and there’s no one around. He doesn’t enjoy being under the heat of the sun, surrounded by people and kids screaming and playing, and most of all, he despises both the hideous sand getting everywhere and the instability of rocks. But one thing is certain: he wants you to have your fun, even if it doesn’t match his. So you set a compromise: he’s fine with going to the beach with you, but he’ll stay away from the water, the sand, and the rocks (and the people), maybe under the shade of an awning at the bar, watching you swim with a cold beer in his hand, the first couple of buttons of his shirt undone, and his sufferings hidden behind his dark shades. A small, quiet bay is perfect for him to keep things under control and enjoy some peace: the quieter and more secluded, the better.

So you choose a little, not-touristic bay, you enjoy your swim and occasionally wave at him from the water, and that little black-dressed, vampiresque silhouette waves back from a distance, in the shadow, finding it too hard to truly hate the torture you put him through every summer, especially when you join him at the bar, skin all wet and covered in salt and happy...

[hazzyking]

Does Perpetua know about anything happening regarding the resurrection, if he does, does he support it?

The poor bastard has no idea.... yet.

Currently Perpetua is working on Skeleta and is left in the dark about everything going on at the Clergy. And Copia apparently never answers his phone.

Chapter 8 is almost done! Stay tuned for pre-comic soon!! :))

Don't know what's going on? Chapter List- Here!!

[hazzyking]

Wait... That's weird cause whenever I listened to it, I heard Waltz played on an accordion cause the whole song kinda had Victorian vibes to me, so i thought it was like music played for high society 🤣🤣🤣

Okay random rant because my brain won't leave it alone, I was listening to Lucifer & Lucia from tobias' passiflora album on YouTube and I saw a comment that said they like the circus music at the end ITS A WALTZ like yes it does sound very circus-ey cause circuses use waltz music 😭😭 I don't know why it's bothering me so much but it is so I'm yapping to my invisible audience

[hazzyking]

So Copia and Perpetua are twins. We all know this. But what if they are identical twins? Obviously since Copia got plastic surgery the resemblance is lost but can you imagine with me for a moment...

Copia and Perpetua finally meet, and as a sign of respect or as an attempt at vulnerability, Perpetua foregoes wearing his mask. And Copia is just stood there, unable to find any words, because he's looking at a face that he hasn't seen in years but it's also not the same. He's confused by how Perpetua can look so familiar but also so foreign at the same time until he realizes that this is what he would have looked like if his mother hadn't pressured him to get the surgery. And on some level it upsets him because Perpetua didn't have to change anything about himself to fit into his new role, but on a higher level he feels an odd sense of pride for his brother and in himself. He may not have interacted with him much but he also didn't make him change anything about himself to fit in. He could have been cruel, made him cut his hair, or shave his sideburns, or perform without his mask. He's Frater Imperator after all, if he thinks it'll benefit the ghost project then his word is law. But he didn't do any of that. He let Perpetua stay himself and now, finally getting to meet him face to face, he feels like he's looking into a mirror that's showing him what could have been. How he would have aged without all the changes his mother and the upper Clergy pushed into him. And he finally gets to feel the familial bond click into place because he finally feels like an older brother who's been protecting his little brother (even if the age difference is only mer minutes) and he finally, truthfully get to say...

"Welcome home mio fratello"

[hazzyking]

I’ve been thinking about sex with dracopia… but it’s in front of a large mirror and he’s simply invisible in the reflection. Thoughts?!

co-signed, sealed, and delivered.

-

in fascination, you watch as you see the indents of his fingers appear on your thigh in the mirror from where Copia’s gripping your leg. but his hand remains absent, the silver-backing of the mirror unable to show off the vampire who holds you in his arms. it feels strange, to see things happen to yourself without any visible force doing them— you can look down to see his hand, but the mirror shows nothing but empty air.

his fingers trace along your hipbones where you’re straddling his leg, occasionally dipping down to wipe through some of the wetness between your legs. the hand not holding you in place disappears between your thighs and you look down to see him press a finger inside you, sighing at the feeling of finally having something to fill you.

he’s been teasing you for so long, it’s about time he actually made good on his promises.

“so warm…” Copia murmurs in your ear, the tips of his fangs brushing against the shell of it. you shiver at the feeling as he pushes the finger further inside you, crooking it into your walls right where your sweet spot is. a moan escapes from your lips, thick and heady.

all the while, as you stare at the mirror in front of you, it looks as though your arms are thrown bak around nothing but empty air. you can see your pussy in the mirror, can see that you’re spread wide around something, can feel his finger inside you when you clench down— but your eyes tell you that there’s nothing there.

“more,” you groan out. “I can take it.”

Copia obliges you, pulling the single finger out before he adds another. he starts to thrust them gently, slowly, carefully prying your walls apart in anticipation of you taking his cock. with his thumb, he presses down harshly into your clit on a particularly hard thrust, making you jerk in his grasp.

a low laugh in your ear tells you just how much he’s enjoying himself, playing with your body like this.

“is this everything you ever dreamed of when you asked me to fuck you in front of a mirror?” he asks, and you nod, unable to find the right words to answer him when his fingers are scissoring inside you. finally, he seems to deem you stretched enough that his hand withdraws from between your legs.

both of them settle on your hips and then he’s lifting you effortlessly, poising you over his cock with the tip of it pressed right up against your entrance. you watch yourself seem to float in the air in the mirror, jerking your hips down to encourage him to press inside you.

“take all of me,” he murmurs.

his hips move and then you see yourself slowly speared open on something unseen, watching as the mirror reflects only the parting of your labia. but you can feel every inch he presses inside you—

yes. this was everything you’d dreamed of.

[hazzyking]

Cardinal Copia 🖤 Photographed for Metal hammer magazine

📷 John mcmurtrie

[hazzyking]

As much as I love all the theories that Perpetua has some kind of facial deformity/birthmark under his mask, I don't think that he wears it because of anything physical he's trying to cover. I think he wears it as a way to be someone else. To be what the Ministry is expecting of him. To live up to the ridiculously high standards set by a brother he's never met and to make the family he's been estranged from proud.

Trust me as someone with minor facial scarring it brings me great joy to see people not shying away from drawing characters like that, but I think Perpetua isn't the type to care about covering his face so much as shielding his heart. I believe that deep down he is shy and anxious and that the mask (much like Tobias's use of the Papas as stage personas) allows him to let loose without the pressure of being truly perceived.

Essentially I think Perpetua is autism masking via use of a literal mask. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[hazzyking]

how non-writers think writing works: creating a detailed outline and plan, writing each section carefully and weaving in all the different story threads like a master creator, expertly creating a masterpiece with care and precision

how writing actually works: daydreaming that one scene, creating a half-formed plot in a daze all around it, swearing at characters that don't magic themselves into existence, becoming absolutely obsessed with the story for a solid week, it becomes your entire life, you sit down open a blank word document and write approximately two and a half chapters, lose interest, daydream an entirely new idea for a new story, rinse and repeat

[hazzyking]

Body part: 17

Line of dialogue: O

With Copia (i don't care which one, surprise me 😏)

Thank you ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Thank you for the request! ♡

Request: Cardinal Copia x f!reader, #17. a tip messy with precum and O. "I need you so bad it hurts."

Warnings/tags: 18+, nsfw, sweet lovemaking.

*

Entering the ministry after months on tour always felt like a lifting of the burden for Copia. Of course, he loved being on tour, performing on stage, and getting the love and adoration from thousands of people. The stage was the place he thrived the most. But sometimes...sometimes, he just wanted to be...Cardi. And there was only one place he could truly be himself.

In your arms.

"I need you so bad it hurts," Copia panted against your lips entwined with his in a needy kiss as you stroked his cock at a steady rhythm that slowly drove him mad. Copia whimpered as his cock twitched in your hand, the tip glistening and messy with precum as he threatened to cum at any second.

"P-Please, tesoro...let me cum inside you," he groaned, his hips bucking desperately into your fist.

You smirked and dragged your thumb across the meaty head of his cock, spreading his precum down his veiny length. Copia shuddered at your touch, voice cracking through his whimpers.

"Then, take me, C...I'm right here," you whispered into his ear, your warm breath on his skin sending a ripple of goosebumps down his body.

Copia growled and stood up on his knees, his gaze dark and wild as he stared down at you whilst unbuttoning his shirt and letting it slide off his shoulders.

You bit your lip at the sight of him above you, his cheeks all flustered with arousal. Not wanting to wait any longer, you lifted your hips and pulled down your panties, quickly tossing them aside.

"I need you, Cardi," you begged sweetly and lifted your arms above your head, arching your back and spreading your legs, inviting him in.

You received a growl in return, then he grabbed your hips and pulled your body up against him, your legs bent at his sides. Copia was still standing on his knees as he slowly pushed inside you, both of you moaning at the pleasured, shuddering sensation of finally having him inside you after months apart. Both of you knew he wouldn't last long, but none of you cared. He had weeks to make it up to you.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips as he started thrusting into you, sliding his cock in and out of your tight wetness at a steady pace that grew faster and harder with each thrust.

"Oh, Cardi...," you panted, your fingers curling into the sheets above your head as you felt your orgasm approaching.

"C-Cum for me, my love. I need you to cum for me," he gasped through trembling moans, a whimpering "hah!" escaping from his lips with each forceful snap of his hips.

You arched your back as pleasure mounted in your core and then released a silent moan ghosting on your half-open mouth as you reached your climax.

"F-Fuck," Copia exhaled as he released inside you at the feeling of your tight walls clenching around his cock. Panting, he slumped down on your body, burying his face in your neck as his heavy breaths matched yours. Smiling contently, you wrapped your arms around him and gently caressed his back.

"I love you so much, cara," he mumbled softly into your neck.

Smiling, you placed a kiss on his shoulder. "I love you too, Cardi.”

[hazzyking]

hiiiiiiiiiiiii for smut ideas what about terzo telling you he likes the feeling of your hands on his neck (doesn't need to be choking necessarily, whatever you feel/are comfortable with)

terzo x gn reader

hiii!! thank you soo much for this, i love this idea so much 🥵 i always love some choking so i went that route with this ask, i hope you like this lil something <3

contents: marking and biting (i can't help it guys), terzo's in love love, bottom choking top because we need more of that

NSFW under the cut - MDNI

Firm hands gripped your waist, fingers digging in so hard you were certain you would be left with little fingertip-shaped bruises in the morning. Terzo’s face is buried in your neck, lavishing the flesh there with tender kisses, long laps, and vicious nips as a series of broken up groans interrupt him while you roll your hips into his. 

You’re sat on top of your lover, a knee bracing on either side of his hips while you lean down onto him, both of you rutting into one another at an inconsistent and desperate rate, too worked up from teasing each other all day to do much else. You clutched onto his biceps, grip on him just as tight as his on yours.

Terzo pulls back from your neck, head falling back against the pillows as he releases your waist with one hand in favour of cupping your cheek gently, urging you to come down to kiss him. 

“You’re so beautiful like this, amore. If I were- Cazzo, if I were to die, my last thought would be of you like this.”

The honeyed words draw a gasp from you, and you’re clenching down on his dick to show your appreciation, prompting a loud moan from Terzo. A slightly devious smirk tugs at the corners of your lips, pleased seeing just how much control you have over a man with so much power. Many were scared of Terzo, but you knew full well you had him wrapped around your finger.  

You release his arms, fingers gliding across his skin until they press against his chest for leverage as you ride him. You sit fully up, earning a small whine of protest from Terzo as he tries to pull your body back to his, before you begin tracing along his collarbone with your right hand. 

“Shh, it’s okay, baby. I’m still right here,” you hush him gently as your hand continues its path of exploration, pausing just below his neck. 

When you try to continue moving, the hand that cupped your cheek comes flying down to grasp your wrist so firmly you swear you can feel his nails digging into your flesh. He then gently guides your hand ever so slightly higher, until your hand rests just below his chin. There’s a flash of desperation in his eyes, pupils blown so wide with desire as he stares up at you. 

“Please- I like that,” his voice comes out stuttery, broken. 

“Is that so?” You purr down at him, giving a little experimental squeeze at either side of his throat. “Do you like it when I do this, too?”

The moan pulled from Terzo’s lips is utterly sinful, and he can only find the power in him to nod enthusiastically- the best he could with the hand wrapped around his neck. A low chuckle rumbles in your chest, and you lean down once more to press a quick kiss to his forehead, accompanied by yet another squeeze. 

A high-pitched whimper is the reward you get from Terzo, and hearing such pretty sounds from him fills you with a bit of glee. 

“You like it when you have my hand around your throat? Knowing I have such control if I squeeze just a little bit harder?”

Another whimper as Terzo nods his head. You ease up on your grip ever so slightly.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Sí! It feels so good,” he sobbed, his grip around your wrist matching that of the one you had around his neck. 

“That’s a good boy, Terzo. How about you show me just how much you love it?”

When he gives a brutal buck of his hips in response, you know you’re going to be in for a long night.