#I CAN'T BELIEVE I FINISHED THIS FIC

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch16

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

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

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

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

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

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

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

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

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

Stay awake, says a whisper itching at your skin. 

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

Stay awake.  

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

Stay alive.  

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

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

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

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

“See?” Stay awake. Stay alive.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can handle it,” you assure him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Dracula by Bram Stoker

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

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

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

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

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

And now… Act 1 of this story is complete! 

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

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

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

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

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

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[static-radio-ao3]

all the wanting in the world

There is nothing James Potter loves more than his art.

[sinofwriting]

ours - Daniel Ricciardo (listen, please verse)

Words: 5,479 Summary: Daniel and Sweets first time together. Warnings/Notes: Smut, oral sex (female receiving), penetrative sex, dirty talk, Daniel’s really filthy mouth and thoughts, Daniel being a freak, barebacking, creampie(?), slight angst towards the end but ends in fluff, and once again Daniel's filthy mouth and thoughts. (Also the first time I’ve written full on smut in so long and it’s been this lengthy (no pun intended). Really proud of it though and hope you all enjoy.) (part of the listen, please verse but can be read separately)

Masterlist | Support Me! | listen, please verse

He sucks in a harsh breath, trying to breath again at the sight in front of him. It was fucking beautiful, gorgeous and before he can stop himself he opens his big mouth.

“You’ve got the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen.” Her thighs clench together, “Daniel.” She whines and he drags his eyes away and up her body. Taking in her heaving chest, bottom lip caught between her teeth and wide eyes. His own eyes however immediately fall back to in between her thighs and he can feel his dick throb.

She really did have the prettiest cunt he’d ever seen.

It was all pretty colors, a little slick clinging to her. She wasn’t completely hairless either, something that made him swallow hard. The space where her thighs and pelvis met was free of hair, along with a good majority of her pubic bone. But where she did have hair, it was trimmed. Clearly very carefully groomed and it was all in the places that he knew from a previous ex girlfriend needed a little hair to help protect everything. Though the sight of her like this had never gotten him so excited.

Daniel presses closer, face in between her thighs and he flicks his eyes up, looking at hers. “Can I?” She quickly nods, lip still caught between her teeth.

With her permission, he presses closer. Face just barely an inch away from where he wants to bury himself when he takes a deep breath through his nose and immediately fucking groans. His dick throbs again at the mouth watering scent of her.

“You’re fucking perfect, sweets. Haven’t even gotten my mouth on you yet and fuck,” he cuts himself off with another groan as the image of his mouth on her enters his mind. He was fucking thirty-two yet he felt like a teenager. About to bust just from the thought of touching a girl.

Her thighs try to press together and he grips them tighter. He’d happily let her suffocate him some other time, but not right now. Not for the first time.

“Can I taste you? Get you off with my mouth before I stretch you with my fingers?” “Yes,” she gasps, hips bucking a little. “Please, Daniel. Please.”

He wants to grin at the sound of her begging, at how eager she is. But he can’t not when he’s the same way.

He wants to dive straight in, bury himself in between her thighs and make her cum on his tongue until she’s yanking his curls so hard they're nearly torn out as she tries to get him to stop. Wants to feel her push him away and then closer, pain and pleasure mixing together so much that her body doesn’t know what it needs. He just wants.

Ducking his head, he presses a kiss to her left inner thigh before turning to do the same to the right. He then presses a kiss to her clit, shuddering at the whine that leaves her at the contact. Moving his head down a little, he pokes his tongue out tasting the small amount of slick clinging to her folds and immediately groans at the taste.

He can’t narrow down everything she tastes like, but he can taste a bit of sweat and blood, which makes him take another deep inhale, it also reminds him of some of the plain yogurt he gets every time he’s in monaco. It’s intoxicating and he moves so his left arm is pining her hips to the bed while his right hand moves so it’s fingers are exposing more of her. Spreading her open so he can taste everything she has to give.

Daniel isn’t sure how long he spends between her legs. Going between licking her open, spit and slick making her deliciously wet, to pressing his tongue to her clit, making shapes, spelling out letters and numbers till he finds what makes her legs shake and his name come out as a gasp. He tries not to let it get to him that it’s the number three that makes her gasp and try to buck her hips upwards, wanting more.

He tries, but when he does it again and she whines, he can’t help but groan, rocking his own hips into the bed before really burying his face in her. Nose bumping her clit as his tongue presses inside her.

“Daniel!” She clenches and he flicks his tongue upwards again, rocking his hips when he’s rewarded with his name as a near shout spilling from her lips again.

Pulling back, he rubs her clit with his thumb. “You gonna cum for me, sweets?” She nods, “yes, please.” He runs his pinky gently over her thigh, soothing her. “Gonna cum all over my tongue, let me taste you?” He asks as if he hasn’t spent however long doing exactly that. “Yes.” “Good girl.” And before she can react to the name, he’s back between her thighs, keeping his thumb rubbing circles on her clit even though it’s awkward and overkill with how his nose bumps into the small bud. But it earns him more slick flowing out of her and onto his tongue, which he laps up. Pressing his tongue back inside of her, he thrusts it once, then twice before feeling her body tense up.

He quickly rubs harsher circles on her clit, being rewarded with her hips trying to push up, thighs attempting to come together and her moans and groans before she finally spills over his tongue with a near scream of his name as she tugs at his curls.

He groans at the wave of cum that floods over his tongue as he pulls it out of her. He laps over her entrance trying to get every drop until she’s pushing his head away.

Lifting his head, Daniel smiles at the sight of her. Her eyes are closed, mouth open a little as she pants. Chest moving up and down rapidly. One of her arms still extended downwards from when she had her fingers twisted in his hair, the other laying flat against the bed.

The sight makes him throb a little in his joggers and he can’t resist rocking down one more time against the bed, before he pushes himself up. He quickly moves so he’s laying right beside her, wanting to reach out and gently touch her arm but doesn’t know how sensitive she is.

“That was…” she trails off, finally opening her eyes and turning her head to look at him. “So good.” “Yeah?’ He grins, hand twitching, wanting to touch her, but he redirects it to his shirt which he draws up to wipe at his face. Getting rid of any slick on his face that hasn’t yet dried. She nods, letting out a breathless sort of laugh, eyes falling to his exposed chest before they move back up when his shirt drops. “Yeah.”

Reaching up, her hands rests on the back of his neck as she presses for him to lean down, pressing their lips together as soon as he’s in reach.

She’s never tasted herself before, never done anything sexual with someone else except give a few previous boyfriends handjobs, but she doesn’t mind the taste of herself. It’s not like anything she’s ever really tasted before and she can feel blood rush to her cheeks at the thought of kissing Daniel after he’s cummed in her mouth. Wonders if he’d even want to kiss after she’s given him a blowjob. Her mind then conjures the image of him in between her legs, but this time inside of her and she can feel herself clench around nothing.

“I want more.” She murmurs, when they both pull back, foreheads pressed together, breathing in each other's air. His eyes widened slightly, “you sure? Your thighs have barely stopped shaking.” “I’m sure.” She takes a breath, “I want you in me.”

She doesn’t expect the way his eyes slam shut and the groan of her name, but it makes her confident. And she pulls him until he’s on top of her, hovering, with his arms on either side of her head, bracing his weight.

“Are you sure?” He asks again, eyes open and looking into hers. “We haven’t done anything like this before. And I don’t mind waiting for us to have sex for the first time. It’d be worth the wait.” Something in her stomach flutters at his words, at how sweet he is. “I know, but I want this.” She takes a breath. “I want you, Daniel.” He leans down, sharing a sweet kiss with her. “Okay. But I want to apologize in advance for how short this might be. I’ve been hard as a rock since we we’re on the couch.” She can’t help but laugh and he grins at the sound.

He liked being playful in bed. Liked being able to laugh during and before sex. Because sometimes sex was stupid and things happened that if you didn’t laugh about it then, it would just be awkward later.

It had taken him a while to know that pausing to laugh during sex or just laughing mid thrust was okay, didn’t mean that it wasn’t good or that the night was over. He was glad that despite how much younger and maybe inexperienced she was, that she was okay with laughing in bed.

“I know we’re both clean.” They had exchanged results just a month ago, when tension had started to really build between them. “But I still need to grab a condom.” She frowns at the idea of him getting off the bed to go over to where his bag is. Where she knows a strip of condoms is. It was barely a few feet away, but it seemed too far. “What if we went without?” His heart skips a beat, before coming back twice as fast. “You want to go bare?” “I just,” she pauses. “We’re both clean, I’m on birth control, and I can always doordash some plan b.” “I’ve, uh. I’ve never gone bare.” Hadn’t really thought about it either, other than when he was younger and it seemed like a fucking hardship to walk three feet to get a condom. But even then the thought had been fleeting, just in the moment. But the thought of it now? Of nothing separating them? Of getting to sink into her sweet, hot cunt with no condom on? It made him throb and swallow hard around the sudden lump in his throat. “It could be a first for both of us.” Her gentle voice saying those words, made him squeeze his eyes shut, hand suddenly disappearing between them to grab at the base of his cock. “Shit, sweetheart.” He hisses.

“You like that idea?” Her voice is slightly lower. “Being the first person to cum inside me?” He squeezes a little harder, “Keep talking and I’m going to bust as soon as I get inside you.” The sound of her giggling makes him open his eyes and he can’t help but smile at her. Smile at how she’s smiling at him. “That’s okay.” She mumbles, looping both her arms around his neck, dragging him a bit closer. “You can always make it up to me later.” He stares at her in disbelief, because she wasn’t lying, her eyes shining with honesty. He dips his head down, kissing her deeply. Relishing in the way she moans into it and her nails lightly drag at the skin on the nape of his neck.

“No, this is our first time. I want it to be good for you too.” “It would be Daniel. It’s you. You could do anything and it would be a good first time.” Her belief in him and her ever shining honesty makes him kiss her again. “No, sweets.” He tells her when he pulls away. “I want you cumming around my cock before I finish. For me, to make it good for me.” “Whatever you want.” “Exactly.” He says a serious expression on his face before he breaks into a laugh, happy to hear her giggle along with him.

Her giggle turns to a gasp when his fingers that had been previously wrapped around the base of his cock swipe through her folds.

“Do you have any lube? You’re wet, sweets, but I want to make sure.” She nods, stretching out to reach her left nightstand and opening the drawer and taking out a small bottle of lube. “You’ll have to get undressed first.” She tells him when he tries to reach for the bottle, but she keeps it away from him. “Oh, I see. You just want me naked.” She can’t help but laugh, nodding. “Daniel, you didn’t think that I was with you for anything other than your body, did you?” His mouth falls open a bit at her cheek as he sits back on his haunches, a hand coming up over his heart. “Wow, sweets. That is just cruel. I mean, really. I give you an earth shattering orgasm.” She laughs a little harder at that and he can’t help but grin for a second. “And this is how you treat me.” “Well, I don’t know about earth shattering.” She teases, but before he can say anything she’s quick to say. “But it was without a doubt the best orgasm I’ve ever had.”

“You’re a fucking menace, sweets.” He breathes after a moment, releasing the base of his cock once again. “And you’re still not naked.” The words and filled with want they are, make him flush.

Taking off his shirt, he can’t help but preen at how her eyes settle on his exposed abdomen. It’s awkward taking off his joggers and boxers while still being on the bed, all too aware of her eyes on him, but he manages without falling off or hitting himself or her. Pushing the clothes off the bed, he notices where her eyes are glued and can’t help but smirk, chest puffing out a little at her wide eyed expression and slight open mouth.

He knows he’s big, but not so much that it's ever hurt anyone. He’s just over eight inches hard and is thick enough that he fits comfortably in his hand, thumb only going over his fingers a bit when he holds himself.

Before he can say anything, tease her for staring, she’s reaching out for him with her hand not holding the lube and he goes. Settling between her legs in a different way than earlier. He kisses her next, soft and gentle, reassuring and all consuming.

“You still want to do this?” He murmurs when they break apart, eyes heavy and filled with lust. “Yes.” The answer comes out a little breathless and so do the words that follow. “I want you, Danny.”

The next sound that fills the room is the snick of the lube opening, as Daniel puts some on his right pointer and middle finger, carefully rubbing them together to warm it before slipping his hand between their bodies and then her thighs.

Her thighs twitch a little at the first touch to her folds, before she spreads her thighs a little further apart. Moving his fingers a little further down, he feels her clench around nothing when he presses his finger against her hole. Not pushing in, just resting.

Leaning down he presses their lips together and when she opens her mouth a little to let his tongue slide against hers, he presses his finger inside. She’s warm and wet and tight. So fucking tight despite him eating her out not even ten minutes ago and the thought of her wrapped around his cock makes him groan into the kiss, pulling back so he can look down where he’s fingering her.

It’s beautiful watching his finger move in and out, curling it upwards slightly before pressing in another. Her thighs twitch at the second finger and his eyes flicker back up to her face. There’s no pain or discomfort, not even a hint that the stretch is too much, but the way her hands are curled up in the sheets like she doesn’t know if she can touch makes him frown. Wondering what exactly the guy or guys before him have done to her in bed that now that he’s fingering her, she thinks she can’t touch him.

“Baby,” the word falls out before he can think, making him blink because that’s never been a pet name he’s used.

He likes sweetheart, darling, sometimes honey, and with her he likes calling her sweets, my girl. But baby is a new one to roll off his tongue. He shakes the thought from his head, if he wanted to, he could think about it later, not now.

He spreads his fingers, scissoring them as he gets her ready for a third finger. “Touch me.” “I,” she starts, but he curls his fingers upwards and she loses herself to the pleasure with a moan. “Touch me, sweets. I want you to touch me.”

Daniel watches as her hands clench around the sheets before they release the fabric. One of her hands goes to his back and he has a fleeting thought of both of her hands on his back, clutching at him, nails digging in so deep that they leave scratches that bleed, but it disappears when her other hand rests on his cheek. Fingertips dancing over his cheekbone.

He smiles at her, kissing her hand at the same time he pushes in a third finger. She gasps, clenching around them, eyes tightening in the corners for a few seconds, before she relaxes again.

Now with three fingers, he moves so his thumb is gently rubbing at her clit, wanting to keep slick flowing and not knowing if just his fingers inside of her will do that. The stimulation earns him a sigh and a buck of her hips.

Moving his fingers inside of her, he spreads them a bit before pulling them out and back in. He continues to do that, repeating the same motions and watching as fingers disappear inside of her only to reappear with wetness spread all over them.

“Daniel,” she moans when he goes to push his fingers back in. “Please, I want you in me.” “You don’t want to cum like this?” He rubs a circle on her clit, making her clench, but she shakes her head. “Want you in me. Want to cum around you.” He curses, mind scrambling as he pulls out his fingers, hand grappling in the sheets by her hip where there should be a condom, before his mind catches up, remembering that they decided not to use one.

He shuffles a little, before finally wrapping a hand around himself, guiding himself to her entrance before stopping. The tip just pressing against her as he leans down for a kiss. “I love you.” He murmurs. She smiles, lashes fanning out beautifully as her eyes close for a second. “I love you too.”

Pressing against her, he sucks in a harsh breath as his head pops inside of her. Her walls clinging to it.

“Shit.” He breathes, hips stuttering as he pulls back and then forward, sinking himself a little further into her. “Daniel.” His eyes that he hadn’t even realized closed, open at the sound of his name. “You alright?” He asks, seeing her face twisted a little. “Yeah.” She nods, hands clutching at his back, trying to draw him closer. “Bigger than your fingers.” He huffs out a laugh, pushing in a bit more before finally removing his hand and framing her head with his forearms. “I’d say sorry.” She shakes her head. “It’s okay. Good.” She murmurs. He makes a humming noise, trying not to think about how he already feels good to her and he’s barely inside of her.

Daniel watches her face carefully as he slowly sinks more and more into her. Nearly grabbing the lube to pour some on himself at how tight she is, but her own hips are tilting upwards, trying to get him further in. And it’s a fucking fight to not just sink all the way. Feel her completely wrapped around him.

Another twist of her features has him pausing. “You alright?” She nods, “yeah, just big.” Her hips twist a little to the right and the left as if trying to find a more comfortable position. And his eyes dart upwards to the pillows on his side of the bed.

Planting his left hand on the bed, he moves his right arm until his fingers curl around a pillow. “Lift your hips sweetheart.” She does and he quickly stuffs it underneath her. Cursing himself that he hadn’t thought to do this earlier. “Better?” He asks, seeing her face no longer twisted up and her hips bucking a little. “Much.” And she lifts her head, pressing their lips together. “Thank you.” He shakes his head, “this is supposed to be good for the both of us. I’m just doing my job, sweets.”

He starts to pull out, not expecting the way her nails dig into his back and the whine that comes from the back of her throat. It makes him throb, the arousal he had managed to push away coming to the forefront of his mind with vengeance.

“Dan,” “I know.” He mutters, not sure if he actually does. But continues to pull out until just the head of his cock is inside of her. Walls clinging to it, almost like they’re trying to coax the rest of him back inside of her.

Pushing in again, he groans, head falling at the sound of her moaning.

He continues that. Pulling nearly all the way out before pushing back in, going a little further each time. Until finally he sinks all the way inside of her.

They’re both panting, chests and stomachs sticking together a little with sweat and as he kisses her forehead he can taste the sweat starting to gather there.

“You all good?” He asks after a moment, voice tight as he tries to not start thrusting. “I think I hate your dick.” His laugh immediately fills the room, though he stops quickly at the way it moves the two. “Already? Barely been in you?” He grins at her. She pokes her bottom lip out more, enjoying how his eyes lock onto it. “Just not how I thought this would go.” “You thought about this?” His voice lower, rougher and she can feel blood rush to her face. “Yeah, I mean. Of course.” “Hmm.” He rocks his hips a little enjoying the way her mouth falls open with a gasp. “How’d you think it would go?” “Faster,” she gasps as he rolls his hips. “You wouldn’t have ate me out.” He scoffs at the idea. “You’re lucky I didn’t spend more time there. Especially with how good you taste. Might end up living there, in between your thighs, mouth pressed against your cunt.” She moans and clenches around him at the last word and his eyes shine with delight, grin turning dangerous.

“You like that, sweetheart?” He asks, starting to thrust. “Me talking about your cunt? How sweet it is? How wet and tight?” “Yes.” The sound is a mix of a gasp and a moan. “Love hearing you.” “Hearing me what?” He slows his thrusts to a filthy grind. “Love hearing you,” she pauses to moan as he presses his lips to her neck, head tilting back to give him more space. “Love you talking about my cunt.” He curses at the word coming from her lips, dick twitching, and he nips at her neck. “Filthy little thing. Wanting me to talk about your cunt.” He snaps his hips, earning a cry of pleasure from her.

“You like how my cock fills you up, stretching out your tight, hot, little cunt?” “Yes!” Her hips try to press more into him and he curses, pressing all of his weight into his left forearm as his right goes to grasp at her hip, hand gripping it tight. “Fuck, Daniel.” “Can feel you clench every time I say it. Practically strangling me.” “Daniel!” He can feel the coil in his stomach tightening and he stretches his hand out, thumb barely able to reach her clit where he starts to rub. Her eyes rolling back in her head at the sensation.

“Feel so fucking good around me.” He curses. “Best cunt I’ve ever been in.” And his hips stutter at the way she clenched around him. “Please, Daniel.” “What do you need?” “I,” she’s cut off by a whine. “I don’t know.” And there’s tears in her eyes as she feels her orgasm so close but out of reach. “Shh.” He soothes her, pressing down to kiss her. Loving how she sighs into him, mouth opening up for him. “Want me to pull out?” Her fingers dig in deep and he hisses at the sting of them. “Okay, okay. You want me to go faster?” “Yeah,” and her grip on his back loosens a bit. “Still want you to cum in me.” He groans, hips picking up speed. “Alright. I can do that, baby.”

As his thrusts pick up pace, he presses his thumb a little harder against her clit, rubbing tight circles on the little bud, resulting in whimpers and moans of his name that make him groan.

It’s a never ending loop of pleasure that makes him feel dizzy.

“Daniel,” this whine is a little more high pitched and his eyes are immediately darting to her face. “I’m gonna cum.” “Yeah?” She nods, one of her hands moving from his sweat slicked back to his neck. “Go ahead, baby. Cum for me. Cum around my cock.” He tells her. And she does. Head going back as a beautiful sound leaves her mouth. Her whole body shaking around and under him. Her nails dig into the back of his neck and his back, legs tightening so much around his waist that he can’t thrust but merely grind in her.

It doesn’t matter though because the sound of her cumming, the feeling of it triggers his own orgasm, nearly taking him by surprise and the only thing that leaves his mouth is her name.

He barely manages to pull his hand out from between them, before just about collapsing on top of her, hips still pumping into her a bit as he milks the last of both their orgasms. She makes a slight noise at his weight resting on top of her, but then hums, fingers no longer digging into his skin but running over it with gentle barely there touches.

After a moment, he manages to brace his weight on his forearms again. “Was that alright?” She nods, eyes closed and a blissful smile on her face. “Perfect.” She sighs. “It was perfect.” He ducks his head down, unable to resist kissing her. “It’ll be better next time. I’ll try to prove I can last longer than this.” Her eyes pop open, “longer?” He hums a yes, an arm moving so his hand can gently pull her thigh away from where it’s hugging it’s waist and he presses a kiss to her leg when she lets it drop from him and then the other one. “Maybe not as long as I normally do or can last, but next time will definitely be longer than this.” He tells her as he carefully pulls out of her, rubbing at her thighs when she winces, before sitting on his haunches, her hands slipping away from his body at the movement. “You’re going to kill me.” She whines, a hand going up to cover her face but he can’t reply not with what he’s looking at.

Her thighs are all spread apart, slick on the inside of them, and he can even feel it on his groin. Just knows that if he doesn’t take a shower tonight, he’ll regret it in the morning. But the real thing that’s got his attention is what’s in between her thighs. His soft dick giving a twitch and he knows if he was about ten years younger he’d already be hard again, but now it will take him at least another five minutes.

She’s all slick and shiny. Lips puffy and swollen and her clit is as well. But her hole is gaping slightly as cum, his cum, drips out of it. It makes him want to bury his head back inbetween her thighs, scoop up his cum with his tongue and fuck it back into her. The thought makes him swallow hard and shake his head. Fuck, he really was a dirty bastard.

It’s only as his dick gives another stirring interest that he forces his eyes away. “What did you say?” Daniel asks, only remembering him telling her that he’d last longer next time. “You’re going to kill me.” She repeats, though it’s muffled by her hand. He laughs, “what you’ve never had sex that lasted more than fifteen minutes before? Because trust me sweetheart, it gets good the longer you go.” He nearly winks but her widened eyes and suddenly tense body stops him. “Oh my god.” She murmurs, hand falling away from her face. And suddenly she’s scrambling to sit up, hissing at the way muscles she’s never used before burn. “What? What’s wrong?” He asks, reaching out to hold her, but she shakes her head, and his arms fall back to his sides and hurt filling him. She had never not let him touch her. “I’m so sorry, Dan. I thought I’d mentioned it or brought it up. Whatever you want to call it.” She apologizes, tears starting to gather in her eyes. “Sweetheart, it’s okay.” And he wants to reach out again, but doesn’t want to get rejected again, doesn’t know if he can handle it. “It’s not.” She shakes her head and she regrets not letting him hold her. This would be much easier if he was holding her. “I’ve never, or I had never done this before.” She tells him, but he just looks at her confused and it makes her lips pressed together. “This was my first time.” The words come out a little quiet. “I hadn’t had sex before until now.” His face goes blank at her words and she can feel herself panic a little. “I’m sorry, Daniel. I thought I’d brought it up before. I was so sure I had, because we talk about everything. I don’t know why,” she stops herself with a groan running a hand over her face. “I’m sorry.” She says again, not knowing what to do or say.

Silence fills the room and her eyes fall onto her lap where her hands rest, fingers interlacing before separating and then repeating. Her heart sits a little heavy in her chest. She doesn’t think this will ruin her and Daniel or mark the end of them. But she does think that maybe it will fracture some of his trust in her.

So in her head, she doesn’t notice his arms moving until they’re wrapped around her and pulling her into his lap and she can’t help but make a face realizing that his cum is still trickling out of her and probably trickling onto him.

“Get out of your head, sweetheart.” “Dan,” she starts, but he covers her mouth. “No. Out of your head.” His voice is a little more stern, accent a little thicker and it makes her wriggle a little in his lap. “This doesn’t change anything. We do talk about everything, there’s no blame to be had for thinking we had talked about this when we hadn’t. Besides,” he swallows. “I think earlier you did mention it, but I thought you were talking about our first time, not both yours and our first time. But it’s okay. You know why?” She shakes her head and he removes his hand from her mouth, looking into her eyes. “Because I wouldn’t change a single thing about this night, other than the pillow. I should’ve had your hips propped up from the start.” She lets out a little laugh and he smiles. “But really. I made you cum around my tongue first, got you all relaxed for me. Didn’t half ass the fingering or just stuck it in you. So, I’ve got no problems with this being your first time and ours.” “Really?” “Really.” He then grins, a little smug. “Besides, I kind of like being the only person you’ll ever have sex with.” She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.” But her smile turns soft and she brushes their lips together. “I like the thought of only having sex with you as well.” “Good. Because it’s just you and me for the rest of our lives.” She nods. “Just you and me.”

---

Tagging: @lpab @gemofthenight

[demidoodlefox]

And that's a wrap, folks! This idea's been stewing in my head for quite a while. Thought I'd inflict it on y'all!

[reibekuchen]

Let me guess, "often"?

[420pogpills]

do you ever just finish reading one of those fics that have you staring at the ceiling in silence because you can't comprehend that you got to read something that is nothing short of a masterpiece and FOR FREE ??? god bless you writers you truly make the world a better place

[pearlcaddy]

lockwood & co appreciation week 💀 favorite ship

Locklyle [insp]

[your-ace-cousin-clover]

""With a serious look on his face, Max asks “Do you want a deal with the devil?”

Checo ponders. Or at least he pretends to. The answer has been in his mind, the moment Max has been on his knees. In any universe, the answer would’ve been the same. And just as same as all of those years ago, Fernando would call him stupid."

-

Max is the disowned heir of a corporate empire. Checo is a lawyer struggling to hold on. And the entire Wall Street watches as Red Bull Co. combusts into a trashfire.

Behold the Succession AU

[purgaytorysupremacy]

oh nuts. a life experience has given me a new layer of perspective on Cas's homosexual declaration of love to Dean.

recently I had occasion to tell a person I had feelings for them knowing full well they didn't feel even a twinge of the same thing for me. while the whole thing was a decidedly unpleasant experience, I kept laughing at myself internally bc I didn't want to say "the happiness is just in saying it" like fucking Castiel over here. (we don't need to talk about it, it's fine.) (I am happier having said it and it's kind of bullshit, but I digress.)

because the thing is, the happiness isn't in just saying it, right? the happiness is in the having. I made a whole TikTok "proving" that the Empty didn't come for Cas when he confessed his love, but rather when he realized Dean loved him back. even for Cas, the happiness was in the having, not in the saying, however brief it was.

and I've always been one of those people who rolled their eyes at the whole concept. why would the happiness be in just being, in just saying it, if it's right there in front of you to have. and then it hit me like a tonne of bricks (as I was washing my kitchen counters).

Cas really didn't think he could have Dean.

at all. in any capacity. he really, truly, and honestly felt to the depths of himself that Dean did not have any twinge of similar feelings, that this really was a Hail Mary shot-in-the-dark. and I think me, personally, really didn't understand that about Cas. that his belief in his love being unrequited was that unshakable.

something else I've been pondering is how audiences have so much more empathy for fictional characters who share traits that IRL they find objectionable and unappealing. but the thing is about fictional characters is that we follow them around in their most private, vulnerable moments. we see Dean mourning Cas when he dies, literally killing himself because he can't live without him, but it's so easy to forget that we're the omniscient ones here.

Cas never knew.

Dean's whole thing was pushing him away, keeping him at arm's length, making it seem like whatever heroic thing he does for Cas he'd do for anyone. he downplays how important it is for Dean to share the Deancave with him, to show him his favourite movies, share his favourite songs. he acts like the things Cas does for him don't mean that much to hide how much they do mean. he uses "we" whenever he even gets in the vicinity of expressing a feeling. "We were worried." "We're glad you're back." "We needed a win." "You're our brother." The audience knew the difference. We saw how he'd clench his jaw or swallow hard or make a face that said "God, I'm being such an idiot". Because we saw him in those little moments. We got to see the cracks in the mask.

but Cas never knew.

the self-hating angel of Thursday was never going to think it was all a way for Dean to protect himself. obviously, that's the delicious tragedy of it all, but what I think I realized at the end of all that is Cas confessing his love to a Dean who didn't love him back wouldn't have worked. Because the happiness really is in the having. If happiness was just in saying it, then The Empty would have come before Cas even finished getting the words out of his mouth.

so Cas's plan wouldn't have worked if Dean didn't love him back.

this is just me yapping on about my own nonsense, but I do think it's really interesting. there's contentment in "just saying it". there's freedom and relief and an unburdening. I think one can argue that it makes being happy in the being easier. there is certainly some joy in telling a person you think that highly of them. but true happiness?

nah.

true happiness is always going to only be in the having. Cas didn't understand the difference until he experienced it, and by then, it was too late.

[buckera]

Fuck It Friday ☔️

Tagged and tagging @diazsdimples @daffi-990 @wikiangela @honestlydarkprincess @exhuastedpigeon and my sweets whose continuous support means the world to me @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @jeeyuns MWUAH 💛💛

Hey peeps, I've been having some not-exactly-good dreams last night and then had a really not-exactly-good day, on the flipside I have officially finished the first draft of the mudslide fic. 🫡

It still has a lot of blindspots and some kinda vague bits, but the skeleton is there, all I gotta do is build on it! It ended up just over 62k and though now I'm trying to avoid guessing word counts in general, I think it'll come to round out around 70k or so. Anyway, here, have some more Buckley-Diaz domesticity:

“What is it, Chris? Where is the fire?” “Dad!” His smile was so bright that his eyes crinkled with it and it was enough for Eddie to soften and let his grumpiness melt away almost instantaneously. “The Aquarium opens at nine!” Eddie dragged his hands down his face in an attempt to make himself more alert. “You didn’t forget about that, huh?” The door to his bedroom opened behind them and Buck walked out, squinting and looking just as disheveled as Eddie left him in his bed a moment ago. “Buck!” Chris turned his head into his direction. The air stuck in Eddie’s lungs for a split second, expecting the row of questions or accusations from Chris — after all, the kid was intuitive as hell — but it never came. Instead he just pushed past Eddie and grabbed Buck’s wrist, tugging him towards the kitchen, Eddie wandering numbly in their heels. “Hey Chris, wha- what’s going on?” Buck asked, clearly still in awe of the situation he found himself in only minutes after waking up. “The Aquarium opens at nine.” He relayed the same information to Buck as well, but while Eddie just felt a little out of sorts that he actually forgot about their plans, Buck’s face lit up like commercial LED lights. “Well then, we better get started on breakfast, hm? What do you say?” “Waffles!” Christopher cheered and Buck laughed, jovial and full of love and not for the first time, Eddie found that his heart was beating to the rhythm of hope. It wasn’t his fault that waking up in the same bed with Buck, followed by a family breakfast sounded perfect. Well, maybe too perfect. “Sorry bud, I don’t think we have any left in the freezer.” Eddie informed him regretfully, but before Chris could’ve expressed his disappointment, Buck cut in. “Come on Eddie, who needs frozen waffles when I have my Sous Chef to help me with the batter?” Buck winked at Chris who just beamed up at him in response. Eddie didn’t even know what to say to that, so he just watched the two of them idle towards the kitchen before following suit.

[bizarrelittlemew]

Bring the boat to shore

~14k words | E | one-shot | part of a series | modern au/age gap

Ed sat up with a start as the intercom buzzed, cursing as he moved his leg, a sharp pain shooting from it. He could just… not open the door. He could stay here, ignore Stede, un-pause 10 Things I Hate About You and ask Lucius to bring the damn ice cream himself in exchange for the saucy details of his recent sex life, as long as Lucius was prepared to have him bawling on his shoulder. *** Ed buys a new motorcycle, but when he goes over to Stede's house to show him—and to tell him he loves him—things don't go as planned.

READ HERE

[quick-catton]

Get a Good Angle (Be a Good Angel)

[NSFW | 5K | Felix Catton/Oliver Quick, Friends to Lovers, Praise Kink Discovery, Teasing, First Time Blow Jobs, Slow Burn, Fluff & Smut, Drama Queen Felix]

“You always forget your sunglasses,” Felix says fondly as he holds out a pair of shades. “I brought a spare for you." Oliver takes them with a smile, relaxing back onto the towel and putting them on.

“Ah, good boy,” he jokes lightly, patting Felix’s arm in thanks as if he were a dog bringing him the morning paper. He senses him tense up, and he turns his head questioningly, but Felix just rolls over onto his stomach, burying his face into his folded arms. Weird.

[title from 'nevr' – ray bull]

[alchemistc]

lover to burn

Tommy never left the 118. He's riding shotgun when the bomb goes off. 2x18 redux

The final chapter is live!

On average, most casual relationships last three to four months. Or at least that's what all his research suggests. This one had been different. This one had lasted, despite the fact they spent more time insulting each other than anything else, despite Buck’s desperate need to prove himself constantly and Tommy’s always unruffled attitude, despite a series of shitstorms that had had 133 murmuring that the 118 might actually be cursed — their casual thing had stood the test of time. Maybe it was the fact that they'd been coworkers and therefore in each others hair often enough to keep reminding them of it, or just that they'd suited one another. Maybe the sex had just been that good.

[lighthouseas]

shake it out - chapter 4

The morning after the Kissing Incident, Mike wakes up before Will does—which is a remarkably unusual occurrence.

[facedock]

Face: Unmasked – The A-Team (TV) [Archive Of Our Own]

Rated T for language and heavy themes of internalized ableism 12,188 words, 9/9 chapters, completed

Summary:

Face was slipping. He needed to get out of there. There was too much noise. He’d been forcing himself to interact with other people too much, too long. He needed to get out of there.

Autistic!Face learning to cope with not being able to mask as well as he used to.

[Read on AO3]

[desert--moonchild]

i wanna chase every high with you

rated: t

chapter 10/11 (almost done!!! what!)

“Bobby what’s going on?” Eddie asked as they walked in. “Chim and Hen were attacked. Sal found them unconscious in the side lot and called 9-1-1. It looks like they might have walked onto someone breaking into the Thunder Trackers van. The police are checking the hotel’s security cameras right now. They’ve both been transported to the hospital already.” Bobby explained. “They’ve both got concussions and they think Chim’s shoulder is dislocated. And they were awake and talking when they left but neither of them was really coherent, but they think they’ll both be okay.” “What?” Ravi asked in disbelief.  Cold fear spread throughout his body as he looked around the parking lot. “Bobby… where’s Evan?”

read chapter 10

tags for the lovelies: @bibuckkinard @rdng1230 @broadwayshelbay @tiltingheartand @herrmannhalsteadproduction

@actuallyitsellie @perfectlysunny02 @jackmichaela @geniusjester