#imagining Hannibal smelling will’s clothes

[puppydoggraham]

I fucking love stalker Hannibal

[daisies-on-a-cup]

i know it's funny and a lot of fun to always imagine will as this sweaty, dirty, constantly covered in dog-hair character, who contrasts spectacularly with hannibal who is always put together, never a hair out of place, but i actually think will is quite clean... like, with the assumption he does come from a poorer background, as well as the assumption that he has mostly had to rely on himself for most of his life, including financials, food, housing, etc., and the additional assumption (all assumptions based in canon however) that he does his best to take care of what is his... it just doesn't make a lot of sense for will to ever be "unclean". like, some aspects of it do make sense, like the occasional sign that he owns multiple dogs, or his feverish sweats, but i can't imagine these are traits will necessarily likes to show to others, especially considering how desperate he was in the beginning to be accepted by those around him and conform as best as he could to societal standards--- which include certain standards of cleanliness

the few instances we get to see will in a personal, comfortable place (i.e. his home), you can tell it is lived in but that it is mostly clean. his clothes are all folded and put away in selective drawers. he obviously has his dogs on a routine that includes bathing them, caging them, and letting them outside on a regular basis- which also includes "porch talks". despite all his hands-on interaction with his dogs, never once does he ever show up somewhere covered in hair, and it's never mentioned by any of the characters. the only time anyone has ever really commented on will's appearance is either about his physical attractiveness or whenever hannibal comments on how will smells- which he never says anything about him smelling like dog or otherwise, just that awful aftershave

idk something about the abundant use of characterization that surrounds "poor" will graham as a man who smells bad and is generally not "clean" rubs me the wrong way, especially when it's so clear in the show that he does do his best to remain clean and keep up appearances. why would he ever do anything to stand out when his goal, from the start at least, was to blend in as much as possible?

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Tepid Bath

@sicktember 2022 Prompt #23

Fandom/OCs: Hannibal TV

Title: Need You Now

Words: 1402

Inspiration: The phrase “I can smell that fever on you” originally came (I believe) from @victoriablackrose and her witcher fics! 

Author’s comments: Much more dark and angsty than yesterday’s fill, but always with a happy ending. It was only fitting to make both of the murder husbands sick this month if I was going to write them twice, so today enjoy the sick, pathetic wet kitten that is Will Graham when he’s missing Hannibal. Set in the same post-canon cottagecore AU as yesterday’s fic. 

Will was in bed when Hannibal returned. He had been in bed for… a while. It was hard to be sure how long. Since he'd fallen into the river, whenever that was. At least a few days, he thought. 

Everything was hazy. Will, alone, wandering around the frozen river, trying to find a good spot for ice fishing. Tired. He never slept well without Hannibal (hardly slept at all, really) and Hannibal had been gone for over a month on one of his mysterious trips. 

Will, out on the ice. Not paying close enough attention. The sudden crack, the splash that at first seemed distant and separate from him, until he felt the cold. Cold, hot, cold, numb. His body didn't know how to respond to the frigid water. He briefly feared for his life as his legs refused to move, to save himself from drowning. But at last he could kick, so he kicked against the rushing water and his wet, heavy clothes. He broke the ice with his arms until he reached a spot where he could stand and walk up the bank. 

He felt as if he were watching himself from a distance as he made his numb, shivering way back to their cottage, almost a mile away. His limbs were barely responsive, frozen as his blood seemed to be, so walking was more than difficult through the deep snow, but he also felt cold, stinging pain over his whole body. His teeth rattled in his head. His arms were locked around his torso in a futile attempt to retain any non-existent body heat. 

He reached the cottage somehow. Unlocking the door was almost the hardest part as he couldn't feel his hands and couldn't hold them still. Somehow he managed that, too, though. He stripped off his frozen clothes the minute he was in the door, frightened at the unnatural, waxy color of his skin. He staggered into the bathroom and started the shower as hot as it would go. 

The shower brought him back to life, at least for a few moments. He could feel again. He could think again. His skin turned pink, then red. He wiggled all his joints, focusing on the sensation. 

Eventually the hot water ran out, so he was forced to leave the shower. He bundled himself into several layers and considered starting a fire in the fireplace, but instead decided to rest for a while in bed. He thought it would be just a nap. He thought he was just tired. He slipped into sleep, wrapped in several blankets, and did not wake again for a long time. 

He partially woke more than once. The dreams would become more solid, and he would realize that he was at home in bed. He would listen for Hannibal, needing him, and be disappointed when he realized he was still alone. It would occur to him that he should eat, or see to his chores, or shower again, but before he could act on these thoughts, the tides of unconsciousness would pull him under once more. 

He was so, so cold. From the moment the hot water had begun to peter off he had been shivering again, through both dreams and waking. He was curled into the tightest ball, wearing several layers of clothes and covered in several more layers of blankets in a well-heated house, but all he could feel was the icy river water. The dreams passed in and out of nightmares, and he wasn't sure if he cried out or just imagined it.

Somehow he knew when Hannibal arrived. There was a shift in the dreamworld. He was aware of Hannibal's presence nearly as much as he was aware of his own. Hannibal's presence was like a rope he could cling to, to help pull himself out of unconsciousness, the thing he needed now more than ever. He grasped it desperately, yanking himself past the surface of the icy river at last. 

Hannibal was speaking to him. Asking him if he was well. 

" 'm tired, Dr. Lecter," Will heard himself mumble, hardly intelligible. " 'm so cold."

"I could smell your fever the moment I walked through the door, and now I can see it, too. What happened?" Hannibal knelt at his side, solidifying even more, and Will tried to focus on his face. 

"Fell into the river. Few days ago. Broke through the ice."

Hannibal's hand on his face made him jump, but it was something else solid that he could cling to, to remain awake.

"Your fever is dangerously high. We must bring it down immediately." Hannibal spoke matter-of-factly, rising to his feet again. He turned and strode out of the room, and Will faded out once more. 

A hand on his back wakened him. The hand was forceful, pushing him to sit up, as was the other hand around his wrist pulling him forward. Hannibal’s face was hovering in front of him again as he was helped to stand. Steely strength outside of his own propelled him to the bathroom. The water in the tub was running, and it had filled about halfway. Will noted all this absently, giving it no connection to himself, until the same strong hands began to strip off his layers of clothing. The cold encroached closer and closer until he was standing naked in the bathroom and being helped into the tub, shivering so violently that he couldn’t stand on his own. 

The water was not warm. The shock of it made Will hiss in surprise and fear. He pulled back from the sensation, splashing and writhing to get away, but the strong arms behind him were unrelenting. 

“In you go, Will. This is for your own good.”

Will couldn’t bring himself to put more of his skin into the water, but he was given no choice. He was pushed down, gently but firmly, until he was lying fully in the water that to him felt freezing cold, submerged up to his neck. He struggled to get out, imagining the tiny bit of heat he’d been maintaining slowly leaching away, but Hannibal wouldn’t let him. He held him in, rubbing his chest and shoulders soothingly. Eventually Will had to stop fighting. Hannibal was still so much stronger than he. 

Will realized after a while that he was actually, finally awake. He looked at Hannibal and truly saw him for the first time. Their eyes met, and held. Many emotions flooded through Will, and he struggled to verbalize a thought.

“I’m glad you’re home,” he finally said. “I needed you.” It felt totally inadequate, yet summed up his thoughts better than anything else. 

“As am I,” the doctor replied softly. “And I’m glad to see you’ve rejoined me now too, in mind as well as body. That must mean this treatment worked. I think I’ve tortured you enough for one day.”  

A gentle hand was offered, and Will took it gratefully as he stepped out of the bath, which he realized was really tepid, not cold. Hannibal quickly helped him dress again before leading him back to bed. As soon as he was lying down, a cold rag was placed on his forehead. Will sighed in relief, realizing the cool was now pleasant, rather than painful. Lastly, Hannibal handed him a handful of pills and a glass of water, both of which Will swallowed gratefully. 

“Thank you,” Will whispered earnestly, meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “I guess you’ve saved me again.”

Hannibal chuckled fondly. “As always, it was my pleasure. Though by my reckoning, we’re fairly even on that score. I’m glad I returned when I did, and I won’t be leaving you alone again any time soon if this is what you get up to when I’m gone. I won’t even be able to leave this house for the next few days until we get that fever under control, and all this could have been avoided if I’d been here when you had your accident in the first place, so you see where I’ve landed us.” The pair shared a warm smile, though Will’s was decidedly sleepy. Hannibal squeezed his hand. 

“You can go back to sleep now. I’m watching over you.” 

That was all the permission Will needed. He let his eyes slip closed and the dreamworld was waiting to meet him with open arms as he slept deeply for the first time in weeks. 

[darling-i-read-it]

Dancing Alone

Hannibal Lecter x fem!reader

Word Count: 900

Warnings: embarrassment, a hard day, drinking

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy love! I’m sorry it’s a bit short, I wasn’t sure how to make it much longer.

Requested: by @russian-soft-bitch, Hey bestie ❤️ if that's okay, could you please write a Hannibal imagine? Can be Hannigram x reader, can be just Hannibal x reader. Hannibal and Will decided to discuss some things in Hannibal's House and when they come into the house, they hear music. In the living room they see the reader drinking wine, singing and dancing dressed only in Hannibal's shirt (she had a bad day). Thank you in advance x

Summary: the request

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

You walked into your home and dropped your bag on the floor. You were sick of this. Sick of work, sick of life. You just needed a vacation. A really, really long vacation.

You ran your hands through your hair and slipped off your shoes.

“Hannibal?” you called. The only thing that answered you was the quietness of your home. It was odd without Hannibal in it. All the things inside were mostly his. He had this place before you and may have this place long after you. He had chosen the silverware and the curtains. He was always very kind when you suggested a small change. He even encouraged you to do so. But you liked that the entire place felt like him. The blankets smelled like him and the food in the fridge was made by him.

You wanted him to get home.

You let out a loud sigh and walked to the bedroom to get out of your itchy uncomfortable work clothes. You tossed them in the hamper to be dealt with later and pulled out one of Hannibal’s dress shirts. He had immaculate taste. If you wanted you could have pulled out socks and ties that would adequately match this shirt but you weren't looking to go that fancy tonight.

You tossed the shirt on and looked at yourself in the mirror. If you couldn’t see your reflection you could almost imagine that he was there hugging you. He would be home soon, you reminded yourself. There was no need to get very weepy.

You walked back into the main room and then to the kitchen. Hannibal had a speaker in there for when he was cooking. You pressed play on whatever CD he had inside. It was classical but you weren’t surprised. You walked down the stairs into the wine cellar. Hannibal had a dozen or so wines down there that you weren’t to open. Instead you went for one of the whites that he opened for dinner often and brought it back upstairs.

You poured yourself a generous glass and hummed to the song.

“Bach,” you whispered to yourself. “That’s what this composer is.” Hannibal would be proud that you knew. You let out a sigh and allowed yourself to take a sip of the wine, feeling your joints let loose so you could dance.

===

Hannibal and Will drove in mostly silence. They spoke infrequently about different things here and there. The occasional mention of murder. Hannibal had to obtain something for Will from his house so he invited him over for dinner. It would be a nice chance for you and Will to get to know each other.

In truth, Bedelia had suggested it. You had just agreed to go along.

“Here it is,” Hannibal said easily, pulling into his driveway. He and Will got out of the car and approached the front door. Hannibal tried the door knob to find it already unlocked. “I suppose the missus is home already.”

He opened the door and was met with you, dancing around the main room, wearing his shirt and holding a glass of fine white wine. You didn’t seem to hear the two of them enter. Instead you just kept moving, hands moving gracefully to the classical music. Your step went jagged with the song's crescendo.

Your eyes landed on Hannibal. You stopped adrubtley and nearly fell over, spilling a bit of your glass.

“Hannibal! Oh! Will!” You laughed nervously. You rushed into the kitchen and turned off the loud music. “I didn’t think you’d be back till after your appointment together.”

“We decided to have it here while I prepared dinner. I apologize, I should have called to let you know but it completely slipped my mind.” You shook your head.

“It’s alright, really.” You shook Will’s hand. “I’m sorry about my appearance, I will go put on clothes right now.”

“It’s alright. We all have those moments and I’m intruding on your house after all.” You nodded, clearly embarrassed.

“Just give me a moment.” You disappeared in the bedroom.

“She must have had a hard day. She only pulls out Bach after a hard day,” Hannibal commented. Will laughed gently.

“She has good taste in wine.”

Hannibal Tag List: @michaelmyersthestabbyboi, @elisaa-shelby, @russian-soft-bitch, @lov3vivian, @ceruleanrainblues, @alexxavicry

[your-obsessions]

So I saw this gif and got all inspired.

Hannibal x Reader (smut)

18+ explicit, for mature audience

You had a long stressful day at work and all you wanted was to make it home to him. It had been days since you saw him and only he knew how to help you relax.

He prepared a warm bath and helped you undress. Caressing your body, skin reacting to his lingering touches. Pushing your hair back, and exposing your neck. His lips leaving a hot wet trail down to your chest igniting a warmth in the pit of your stomach. His hands traveling up your naked form causing you to get self conscious. He pulled back and with all the care and love In his eyes he looks at you. Admires you, his hands traced all your curves, and imperfections that made you perfect to him. You were beautiful, a goddess in his eyes. Like a painting in a museum for him to admire every day.

You gain a little confidence and begin to undo his shirt, you ran your fingers up his toned chest feeling his heart beat faster. His shirt meets the floor and so do the rest of his clothes. Your fingers running through his hair pulling him to you, lips meeting in a passionate exchange. You can feel yourself getting warmer as his kisses become more desperate. His hands pulling you closer to him. He missed you, he missed your touch, your smell, your taste. The way your soft skin felt under his touch, how your body fit perfectly into his. He missed your voice and the way you humm when his lips touch that spot on your neck right under you ear. The way you gasp when he holds your hair and gently pulls back your head.

“The water is going to get cold” his lips brush against yours “we should enjoy a bath, I know it’ll help you relax” he rubs your cheek. You nod agreeing with him and slowly get in after he does.

Once you are done bathing you walk into your bedroom to prepare for bed but he has other plans.

You hear him walk towards you and feel his chest press against your back. His aura is full of dominance and power. With one hand he presses you against the dresser and with the other he loosens you’re towel until it falls to the floor. Your eyes dart to the mirror and you make contact with his eyes. As he looks at both of your reflection he thrust into your hip showing you the effect you have on him. A gasp escapes your lips as he pulls you back harshly against his chest feeling his hard erection press against you.

“Do you see what you do to me?” He asks into your ear. His free hand rubs down your body reaching your folds and feeling how wet and warm you are. A moan escapes his lips as his fingers slowly rub your sensitive area “I missed you so much. I missed how your legs wrap around my hips, how warm you feel as I’m in you, the way my name rolls out of your mouth as I pleasure you” he turns you around, picks you up walking to the bed and laying you down on it.

He stands naked before you. All you want is for him to take you and make you his all night. His lustful eyes meet yours and he slowly crawls over you. He kisses you softly and moves down to your neck, with one hand he cups your breast and with his mouth he softly bites the other. Your body quickly reacts and your back arches giving him more access . He uses his tongue and lips and slowly moves down to your wet center. He flicks his tongue and slowly kisses you. A loud moan leaves your moth causing him to do it again and again. Your body begins to feel the build up and he can sense it too. His hands hold your thighs tight and he keeps them apart. With an overwhelming rush you gasp and grab onto the sheets feeling your body reach your climax. Panting you pull him back up.

“Please” the expression in your eyes raw

“Say it” he simply responds. He loves the power he has over your body and how you yearn for his touch. How you need to feel him inside of you begging to become undone by him.

He grinds against your entrance and pulls your arms above your head holding them tight “Beg me”

“Please Hannibal, fuck me”

An animalistic sound leaves his mouth and he spreads your legs wide open with his knees and thrust into you. He begins with a slow and hard rhythm but quickens his pace. Your hands run up his arms and down his back. Feeling his muscles twitch and move with each thrust into you. Your moans fill the room as you feel him deep inside of you.

No man had ever made you feel the way he does. He knew how to pleasure you in ways never imagined. The man did things to you that left you seeing stars. The way he moaned and groaned into your ear. The dominance he possessed over your body. His teeth sinking into your shoulder as your walls tightened around him.

“Fuck y/n” he moans

Suddenly he stops and flips you on to your stomach, his arm under you lifts you up slight and aligning himself he slowly fills you up again. His face on your back as more groans leave his mouth.

“Oh m....mmm” you couldn’t even finish the words as he begins to thrust harder into you. Again you begin to feel the buildup as he’s thrust begin to loose rhythm. Both your moans can be heard all throughout the house. “Hannibal” your muscles contract even more around him

“That’s it baby girl, say my name” he straightens up and holds on to your hips. You begin to reach a level of satisfaction like never before. You moan his name and you close your eyes and begin to feel your body explodes with ecstasy as you reach your orgasm. Seconds later you feel him tense and with a load moan release into you.

He falls into the bed next to you and you roll over to lay your head on his chest.

“You’ve left me speechless” you mention as you catch your breath

He smiles and reaches down to softly kiss your lips as you both drift to sleep.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 16

<- Part 15 | Part 17 ->

Summary: A flirtatious moment in the hospital garden turns sour. 

Warnings: Brief nsfw themes, injury-recovery angst, post-traumatic stress/flashbacks, graphic past injuries, KISSING, hurt/comfort. Love and fluff. 

3,700 words

After being gutted left him with a limp, a cane, and an overbearing sense of weakness, Frederick Chilton began copying Hannibal Lecter. His patterned suits, his clean-shaven face. The mimicry wasn’t deliberate exactly, but he looked to a man who radiated calm dignity and strength, and tried to capture some of it for his own.

It didn’t work. Frederick Chilton was still Frederick Chilton.

But shaving the beard did make him look younger. The razor glided over his smooth cheek as he cut through the facial hair that had grown unruly in the hospital. A new man stared back at him. One not traumatized by Gideon’s knife.

Only a few months later, he was shot in the face, and let the stubble grow back to distract from the scar. To obscure the hollowing where maxillary bone was missing. Like a chameleon, Frederick was always changing—hairstyles, wardrobes, colognes—always imitating someone, drawing the eye away from a flaw, never comfortable with himself. Ever improving. Refining. Hiding.

Every day, the burn ward’s physical therapists had him using one exercise machine or another. A pedaling machine lowered over his bed so he could build muscle while lying on his back before he was able to walk. The next step was a tall, rolling frame that he strapped into like a fighter pilot hanging from a parachute harness, which allowed him to take a few weightless steps. His legs shook. His feet did not know how to align themselves on the ground anymore. He hissed curses when you cheered him on just for shuffling one foot forward along the smooth grey linoleum.

One damned foot.

As if he couldn’t walk before. As if one shaking, machine-assisted step was an accomplishment. He was an overgrown baby in a Jumperoo.

While he could not walk on his own yet, he could get into and out of a wheelchair without screaming bloody murder. This allowed him a new level of freedom, if not autonomy. He still required two nurses to lower him into the chair. Still needed help getting to the bathroom. But he could at least use the bathroom instead of a bedpan and catheter.

Healing came at a cost.

Until now, he had caught flashes of his reflection in polished surfaces. Warped teeth in a metal IV pole. The fuzzy silhouette of a mask in the black of his computer screen.

He stood with his hands on the bathroom sink, staring. The nurse at his left elbow tugged him, told him it was time to sit back down in the chair. He needed support to stand, a babysitter to ensure he didn’t fall, and she was tired of waiting.

The thing staring back at him did not move.

When he took the compression mask off for the one hour per day he was allowed to remove it for cleaning, he somehow expected to find his own face beneath it. Skin. What he saw was a stranger. Gnarled scars made an uneven backdrop for one dead blue eye and a skeletal grimace. His own bones were buried somewhere underneath like bedrock, but the flesh was rearranged and distorted.

If he had met this man a year ago, Dr. Chilton would have felt inward pride at his ability not to sicken at the sight. He would have shaken his hand with a smug, professional detachment that said, “I am accustomed to horrific things in my line of work—abnormal psychiatry. This does not shock me as it would a layperson.”

He was a creature to be pitied.

Then a familiar reflection appeared out of the blind spot of his left side. Your image wrapped its hand behind the broken stranger, and he felt it land on his lower back. Warm. Comforting as your face, which was knit with worry. You told the nurse you could handle it from here, and she retreated out to his room.

When she was gone, Frederick began to laugh, dark and cruel, eyes never leaving the matching set staring cruelly back.

“What is it?” you asked, tightening your grip on his arm as he began to tremble.

“Do you think I look younger without a beard?”

The laugh cracked in his throat. His shoulders heaved as he finally looked away. It was too embarrassing to watch a grown man cry.

***

The heat of July was not easy on a body that could no longer sweat and was covered head to toe in a compression suit, but Frederick Chilton was thrilled to be outside. As the automatic sliding doors opened, he breathed in deeply through the nose and exhaled the spinning summer fragrances with a blissful sigh.

You resisted the urge to tease him. Of the pair, you were the more outdoorsy by far, and the last time you dragged him camping, he’d managed to complain the entire two days. He was not, generally, one to appreciate sunshine and birdsong. But this was different.

It was his first time away from the lifeless hospital air—the same smells day after day—in four months.

Now a breeze hit his face—a breeze! He had forgotten what that felt like—and brought with it the smell of cut grass and flowers, and exhaust fumes from the nearby roadways. The scent of gasoline urged his stomach to wring itself empty, but it was faint and easy enough to shake off as sparrows chirped and flitted about the hospital’s “meditation garden.”

Gently curving paths snaked through the landscaping of lush greenery and small trees. Few flowers were planted, out of respect for patients with allergies, but a fountain at the center babbled soothingly. The walkways were wide and smoothly paved, so the grey wheels of the hospital-issue wheelchair rolled over them easily, performing their function despite being over-worked and worn down, not unlike the staff. The black rubber handle grips had a dull patina from hundreds of hands, yours being the latest to circle around them as you pushed.

It was nice to have a private courtyard to enjoy the fresh air without the eyes of the general public watching.

Frederick was able to wear clothes from home now, but they had to be loose-fitting and short-sleeved to not interfere with his treatment. In a navy polo shirt and athletic shorts, he felt horrifically under-dressed, and did not want to be seen that way. The fashion crime was almost as bad as the face he could not bear looking at.

An elderly patient and what appeared to be her adult daughter sat on one of the benches between two daylily patches, blooming garishly cheerful red and gold. The daughter looked up, and Chilton looked away.

“You are certain you checked the bedroom closet? Left-hand side, second drawer to the bottom?” he asked again, agitation rising.

He was looking for the more fashionable Chino shorts he rarely wore, preferring to overheat in long pants than expose his pale, door-knob knees to imagined ridicule. You told him the housekeeper must have misplaced them.

He clenched his fist as tightly as the pink, shiny-scarred claw could manage and went on a gruff, impotent rant about the help growing careless without him to keep them in check. (If anything, the “help” were desperate to keep you in check without him there to manage your habit of leaving everything out—your clothes on a chair, the cereal box on the counter.)

“I know, I know. Awful,” you nodded along to the music of his words, if not the lyrics. You wished he would change the subject, but he pressed on with his investigation of the Case of the Missing Shorts.

“Mrs. Pérez brought a load of laundry down from the bedroom last Wednesday,” he noted. Frederick had taken to watching the security feeds remotely from his laptop. “Has she been using the cheap dry cleaner on Cherry Street instead of the good one so she can skim the difference? I have explicitly instructed the staff not to use them—they have lost or ruined several articles over the years. Inform Mrs. Pérez that I will not stand for lazy—what?”

Your tense smile began emanating a tenser whine.

It was rather suspicious.

Frederick watched you for a moment, puzzled, and then resumed, “The new security guard shares my pant size. Perhaps—”

“I DID IT. I brought them to Good Will.”

“You what?!”

Clicking the wheelchair brake, you doubled over the back of it, laughing at your childish ruse and how seriously Frederick had taken it. God, the man could never let anything go! “Over a year ago! You never wore them!”

“Come here.” His clipped tone did not invite argument.

You walked around to the front of his chair, the repentant pout on your face strongly undermined by rounded cheeks that were barely holding back a chuckle.

He growled with affectionate anger—the kind where he wanted to grab behind your knees and pull you into his lap, telling you with a low purr exactly how much trouble you were in. Except at the moment, your weight crashing onto his skinny, bony lap would have bruised a femur and torn five stitches. And if he was not confident enough for a kiss, he was in no condition to promise punishments of that nature.

So he gave your rump a sharp smack and tried to make his mouth smirk in that playfully disdainful way that said, “I love you, but I am going to kill you. You know that, right?” Sometimes wanting to kill someone can be such a personal, intimate love language.

“Doctor Chilton!” you gasped, feigning shock. “Such a naughty patient. I have told you time and again, this is simply unprofessional.”

The old woman and daughter had moved on, leaving you alone in the garden.

He let out a soft huff of amusement, catching on to the new game you were playing. Back when he was the administrator of the BSHCI, you would often saunter into his office playing the oversexed patient to his sleazy therapist. Now the roles were reversed.

“You protest,” he said in a low, lecherous tone, “and yet you continue to lavish extra attention on me. Do not think I have not noticed.”

“I don’t know what you could mean,” you deflected coyly. “Please keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

He grabbed your hand and spun you to face him, skeletal fingers interlocking with yours. Even through the compression glove, you could feel how skinny they had become, knobby knuckles protruding.

“Doctor,” he corrected.

You swallowed. “Doctor.”

“Why deny it? You guard all my treatments for yourself like a prize when other nurses could do it. You crawl into my bed to warm me with your body heat—hardly standard practice. I think you like the attention,” he said, giving your ass another lurid slap.

“D-Doctor! I’m not supposed to—we’re not supposed to…”

“If you worked at my hospital, I would fire you for such fraternization. Yet you call me unprofessional.” His hand still rested on your ass.

“You would fire me, doctor? Why fire me when there is so much I could offer?”

“And what is it you would offer me?” he asked, voice thick with meaning. His fingers kneaded the fat of your ass gently. It would have been harder, more possessive, if his hands were at full strength.

Not long ago, getting an erection had been painful, though he’d had several corrective surgeries since then, and the grafting had time to heal. Perhaps the sunlight was sparking him back to life. He was in a flirtatious mood—more excited than you’d seen him in a long time, and you were not about to tell him to slow down.

“Anything you want, doctor.” You lowered yourself in front of his chair, kneeling between his legs and looking up at him expectantly.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

No one else was in the garden, and statues and shrubberies hid it from the road, but it was not entirely private. Anyone could walk in or see from a window of the tall buildings. You were just pretending. You weren’t going to slip his cock out right there and suck it for all the world to see. And yet… it had been so long. The thought of your moist lips closing over his lonely, aching hardness, your head bobbing in his lap…

“You… are fascinated with me, nurse,” he observed, licking his non-lips. His composure was holding, but barely. “You have seen many patients, but never one as badly burned, have you?”

“No.”

“Does it excite you?”

You took a moment before answering. Part of him resented you for still finding him attractive. At his lowest, he even blamed you for wanting these brutal injuries to happen. A bird sang a few metallic notes on a nearby branch before fluttering down to drink from the fountain. You stroked the top of his narrow thighs, careful not to push too far by going near his cock, but he showed no sign of hesitation today. The heat in his eyes as he watched you was not accusing, but hungry.

“Yes,” you panted. “You are striking. I’ve never met anyone so strong, so resilient.”

“Do you dream of kissing me? Your most striking patient?”

“Yes.”

The sun beat down hotter, but it was only your own internal temperature rising. The birds seemed to pause in their songs, and the leaves on the trees ceased to flutter.

You had waited so long—was he really asking?

His gloved hand reached down between his legs, and nailless pink fingertips stroked the side of your face thoughtfully a few times. Then he motioned you to get up off your knees, offering his hand as a symbolic gesture only. You put some of your weight on the padded rubber armrest as you stood.

“It will not be pleasant. For either party, I imagine,” he said, breaking character.

“It will be for me.” Your voice was soft.

“I do not know what to do like this. Mash my teeth against your face?”

You laughed a little. It was probably more nuanced than that, but that sounded basically accurate. “We’ll find out together.”

He looked off into the distance, toward the humming road weaving through the city. A warm breeze brought the smell of sea off the harbor: salty, humid, and stagnant with rotted fish and garbage. “The memory of your lips against mine is already fading,” he said. “That memory is all I have left of them. Whatever this will be, it will not feel the same.”

“I know.” You rested a hand on his shoulder. The dark blue polo was informal for his old life, but the woven cotton texture was rich compared to the thin hospital gowns you were used to him wearing. The last kiss you shared with Frederick was preserved behind a glass display case in your memory palace. A new kiss might break the hermetic seal. You could forget what it felt like to kiss him before. But it seemed worth the price to build new memories—a future just as full of love as the past.

He looked up at you like a broken ceramic being pieced back together with gold. His eyes shone with love, but his shoulders were slumped low.

“You may say I’m a slutty nurse for wanting to kiss my patient, but you’re to blame!” you said, playing the game again. “How could I resist your charm? I bet you seduce every nurse—I’m only your latest conquest!”

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth.

“No, my dear,” he purred, grabbing your arm and pulling you down to him until your face was inches from his. “Only you. I only want you.”

“Can I kiss you?”

He breathed in. He nodded.

You leaned the final inch down, and pressed your lips to his teeth.

The Red Dragon’s teeth sunk through flesh and tore deep. Coppery blood flooded his mouth, the taste so metallic and strong it drowned out almost everything else out—the pain, the unnatural tearing, little pops of veins, ligaments, and muscles stretching to their limits before giving up, his own screams. The truth of his face with all its illusions of grandeur was revealed before him: it was just meat. Nothing but raw, shredded meat.

“NO!” he screamed, and pushed you hard.

It was different than the peevish denials other times you’d tried to kiss. He pushed you away with so much force you staggered backward, and his wheelchair nearly tipped over. It reared on two wheels like a panicked horse and would have fallen except the worn brake gave way, and he shot backward several feet until the vacant bench stopped the chair’s momentum.

“No, no! Get away! No!” he begged no one, shaking and thrashing so violently he risked ripping his healing scars.

His back, legs, and arms were glued to the wheelchair, and he couldn’t escape. No—could have if he were desperate enough, strong enough. But he was terrified of ripping his skin off. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat and made it difficult to think straight. Dear god, he was afraid something happened to his back. Of being disfigured again.

He was afraid to die, but he dreaded even more the thought of surviving yet again to find another piece taken from him.

Not another. Not again.

If he cooperated, he had to be spared this time. He would cooperate. Do everything The Red Dragon said, and fate would be merciful. He had to go home. He had to go home. To see you again. It was not fair that he survived two attempts on his life only to die here. It was not fair! He was going to get married to the love of his life. Things were finally going right. The Dragon’s shadow fell over him. The acrid stench of his breath as he leaned down toward Frederick’s mouth—

“Frederick!”

You ran after him and tried to restrain him before he climbed out of the wheelchair and fell to the pavement, but it only made him struggle harder. Fuck. You weren’t sure if touching him again was a good idea, but you didn’t know what else to do. He was going to hurt himself.

“Shh, I’m here.”

Crouching next to him, you tried to keep him seated, murmuring soft, reassuring words. Eventually, he stopped thrashing to escape, his jerking limbs resigning themselves to passive trembling. His eyes were open, but they didn’t see you. They didn’t see anything but a dark room with a flickering projector.

You laid your head on his lap. “I’m right here. It’s OK. You’re safe, Frederick. You’re safe. Shh, shh...”

It took several minutes, but his breathing began to slow, and he began to calm down. His fingers found your hair and stroked it, mindlessly running over the contour of your scalp. Familiarity. Recognizing you, he grasped at your shirt to draw you closer, clutching you like a teddy bear to his chest. It was an awkward angle, but you shifted so your butt was partially supported by the bench he’d crashed into, and used the chair’s armrest to hold yourself in the bent position. Frankly, even if every muscle in your body cramped up, you weren’t going to leave him as long as he needed to hold onto you.

Finally, he whimpered your name and asked what happened.

“I… kissed you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

He sniffed and wiped his face, which he discovered was soaked with tears, and looked off into the trees. You sat back onto the bench, straightening your crooked spine, but keeping a firm hold on his hand, staying close as he returned to reality. He would be embarrassed. Add this to the growing list of Ways Frederick Chilton is Broken and Useless. But for now, the humiliation was dulled by the fact that he was not in that room again, with the projector flickering. You stayed that way for a while, sitting in the dappled shade of the garden and the warm breeze, the fountain burbling a constant, relaxing, tuneless song.

“The last man to bring his lips to mine bit them off.”

“I’m so sorry, Frederick. I shouldn’t have been so stupid...”

He squeezed your hand. Straightened up in his chair. “I heard the FBI has the video. Have you watched it?”

You shook your head, then quickly added, “No,” aloud, knowing his vision was poor and still focused on the tree branches swaying and morphing in the wind. Jack Crawford had offered, but you didn’t want to see it. You couldn’t bear to.

It had been hard enough hearing him describe how Francis Dolarhyde glued him naked to his grandmother’s wheelchair and made him watch macabre home movies of the families he had slaughtered. His voice was too calm, too distant from the memory as he dictated graphic details for the Journal of Psychology, desperate to tell his story, grab his fame before he died.

You should have known how your mouth coming at his would make him feel. You were so caught up in your romantic imaginings, you forgot how kiss-like that moment of horror must have been, just before the pain.

The nightmare his life had been for months already, and would continue to be. The scar tissue that wouldn’t fully mature for two years. Two years wearing a compression suit to help them heal. Years of follow-up procedures so that he can continue to move. To breathe. To hear. Longer until he could get a new face. His entire life altered forever.

It started with a kiss.

“We don’t have to kiss. I should never have pushed you to,” you apologized, wincing preemptively.

You expected him to be angry. To sarcastically tell you, “Now you decide we don’t have to? Now that it is too late? What fine timing.”

“I am not weak,” he bristled instead, but his agitation only spanned the length of a breath. He squeezed your hand softly, and pulled you halfway into his chair to wrap his arms around your waist and back. “I did not think that would happen either,” he spoke comfortingly into your hair. “Attempting it for the first time in a wheelchair was a mistake. I should have been more aware of that, but I grow tired of not being able to show my affection. You are not the only one impatient for my recovery, darling. I want to try again.”

“Now?” You pulled back, widening your eyes at him.

“No,” he said plainly. “I think not.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

@beccabarba​ / @itsjustmyfantasyroom​ / @thatesqcrush​ / @dianilaws​ / @permanentlydizzy​ / @mrsrafaelbarba​ / @madamsnape921​ / @astrangegirlsmind​ / @neely1177​ / @onerestein​ / @dreamlover31​ / @isvvc-pvscvl​​  / @shroomiehomie / @storiesofsvu​ / @welcometothemxdhouse​​ / @feedthemadness-sweetie​ / @law-nerd105​ / @amelia-song-pond​ / @michael-rooker​ / @xecq / @madpanda75​ / @alwaysachorusgirl​ / @bananas-pajamas​ / @leanor-min​ / @mad-girl-without-a-box​ / @katierpblogg​ / @worldofvixen​ / @sassyada​ / @barbingchilton​ 

[writeblrfantasy]

born from the prologue of the way of kings, some old school supernatural inspiration, and my entry into the hannibal fandom, i give you cyril's hell! all the characters in this are gods of actium state and urkon, and this happens well before acogs takes place. nikolai and katya tell this story over the fire over the course of the book. it's a mythology story.

cw blood, very vague descriptions of pain and torture and injuries, everything you can think of about someone being tortured in hell basically

word count about 7000

thank you guys for all the love on the summer of seret ashling, it definitely inspired me to write another short. i love writing shorts--you get the serotonin from finishing a wip and seeing people's reactions to it much faster. lower stakes. i have plans to write many more :)

enjoy! <3

Cyril wakes to burning pinpricks of agony seared into his arms. Unfortunately, this is perfectly normal.

The ghost of Alabaster’s laugh echoes in his ears, slowly fading out, but never completely. He never leaves Cyril alone, whether he’s sleeping—if you can call it that—or widely, excruciatingly awake. He’s dropped Cyril back in what has become his home, a room brightly lit with distant fire and a musical background consisting of the screams of the damned.

This place, out of all, is probably the safest for him, despite the metal piercing his arms, the chains connecting him to the ceiling. His arms went numb from the angle minutes ago. He tries not to jostle them, as well as his collection of new wounds, only healed enough not to kill him.

What does Cyril have to do to prove he knows he can't escape?

It’s not about that, he knows.

Alabaster's hell is more than pain, more than agony. It transcends anything Cyril has ever experienced, and yet every week Alabaster finds ways to show him something else new.

How long has it been?

Does it matter?

Alabaster’s cologne lingers on Cyril’s skin, one more layer of invisible pain. The worst thing is perhaps how he’s unable to wipe away the sweat dripping into his eyes. It only takes minutes after Alabaster deposits him back in here for his whole body to become soaked again.

Cyril naively thought, when Alabaster first brought him here, that it wouldn’t be so bad. That everything he’d be made to endure would be softened or cushioned in some way, more about drama than actual pain.

How wrong he was.

Alabaster, or perhaps just his own mind, has trained him to be relieved when he comes to unlock Cyril’s door every week. Freedom, he thinks, respite from the endless heat and sweat and reprieve for his aching arms. For the first few seconds, Alabaster’s smile looks pleasant. He’s undoubtedly excited to see Cyril, but Cyril somehow manages to forget every single time that smile means nothing good for him.

“Hello, beautiful,” Alabaster always says, in such a familiar tone it’s imprinted in Cyril’s dreams. “Let’s go.”

Reprieve turns into regret quickly.

Cyril has learned how to manage this, somewhat. Stay very still, don’t trigger anything, don’t tense up, try to sleep. Doing nothing but sleep for the whole week until Alabaster comes still won’t do enough, but in sleep, he has relief for a bit longer, a chance to see Damokles’ face again.

Tonight, when he closes his eyes, it’s not just Damokles’ kind eyes waiting for him, it’s Thea’s dark ones, clearer than usual, almost like they’re calling out for him.

He opens them and jostles himself a bit by accident, groaning in agony. He searches the shadows in the corner of the room for her face, and he could’ve sworn—

There’s nothing there but the sweat in his eyes.

***

As he drifts through sleep and wakefulness, Thea’s dark eyes return to him. He sees flashes of her through the haze of flames and screams, a striking dark clarity and a sense of peace.

The days just before Alabaster collects him are the worst. He finally has his strength back, or as he much as is possible down here, and it’s a new kind of agony to feel so glorious the day before his feet will be knocked out from under him. In the early days, when he still believed he could sway Alabaster by repetition alone, that if he begged just enough, Alabaster might listen, he pled to be left alone for just one more week.

“Not this time,” he’d sob, back when he still sobbed, when he gave Alabaster the pleasure of savoring his carefully crafted creation. Let him see, let him have it, he once thought. If he gave Alabaster what he wanted, he’d get a reward, because that’s how fair people work. All it did was make Alabaster hungry for more of his tears.

“Thea?” he whispers, low, as he swears her face appears in the shadows again. She’s exquisite, and she’s not real. if he’s not just seeing things, she’s one of Alabaster’s new experiments designed to drive him out of his mind.

Cyril will not fall for it.

“Thea?” he asks, still, hopeful and naïve despite everything.

The darkness in the corner moves, too clear to be a product of the shadows cast by the flames. Cyril stands straight so that his feet are supporting his weight instead of his arms, alleviating the perpetual ache in his back for a precious moment.

Theadora, in all her glory, walks out of the corner, dripping darkness and shade. Her long dark hair flows behind her, and her skin shines under the straps of her long dress. She doesn’t seem to walk on solid ground—her feet and the bottom of her black dress melt into shadows before his eyes.

Cyril loses his breath. She’s just as beautiful as he remembers. Most wonderfully of all, she’s clean, her face free of sweat and her arms free of blood and age old wounds.

She rushes over to him immediately, cupping his pale, ashen face in her dark hands. “Cyril,” she whispers, perhaps afraid of disturbing nonexistent peace. Cyril would be more afraid of drawing Alabaster’s attention.

“You’re not real,” he murmurs as she presses their foreheads together. She smells like their garden in the clouds, sweet and fresh, not a trace of smoke anywhere on her. She kisses him, and Cyril melts into it like liquid, imagining he can sip freezing water from her lips. She’s so refreshingly cold. Her heart is the only part of her that’s warm, and pleasantly so. It burns for him.

“He fabricated you to taunt me with for his pleasure. You’ll be gone in a moment, and I’ll be screaming for you because I still haven’t learned after all this time, and in a few days he’ll come in to see the results.”

“No. Cyril, I am real.” She touches one of his hands, clearly resisting the urge to squeeze it but knowing the ramifications. The way she stares at the chains holding him to the ceiling makes him shiver. He’s almost forgotten any type of power existed other than hot, burning, prodding pain.

How he’s missed the icy power of the moon.

“I am here to get you out,” she insists. He closes his eyes—they’re the words he’s dreamed of thousands of times, exactly in her sweet, desperate voice, but it’s too good. If he concentrates hard enough, he can see Alabaster’s grin in Thea’s eyes.

“You can only open the door from the inside, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let you in,” he argues. Anything else pleasant would tear him apart when it inevitably crumbles down on him. “You—you wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you?”

“Of course.” She brings out a jug and raises it to his lips. He drinks eagerly, the water sweet and cold, probably from the Pelia, her favorite. He doesn't care if it's poisoned.

Her silver bracelets sparkle in the firelight, and his eyes follow her fingers as she wipes the swipe off his face with a velvet cloth. He jerks his hands towards her as she begins to pull away on instinct, remembering his chains with a sigh. She’s still close enough for him to press his lips to her dark wrist, light as a feather.

He jerks again when something wet hits him, but his heart lurches when he looks up and sees that it’s her tears. For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire lining the walls and the distant screams of Alabaster’s victims.

Cyril has never wanted his hands back as much as he does now. He wants to wrap his arms around her, whisper assurances in her ear like he used to when she grew worried. Instead, she wraps her arms around his torso and buries her face in the hollow his neck, crying quietly. The slight twinge of pain her salty tears bring to his hundreds of wounds old and new is more than worth it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

She gathers herself enough to say, “What? Why?”

“I’m sorry for getting caught. I never should’ve left you. I should’ve been smarter, shouldn’t have let him anywhere near me, I knew what would happen—”

For a moment he's back in that seedy human tavern with both of them, intrigued but not alarmed by Alabaster's sudden presence and mischievous grin. What a fool he was to let Alabaster take him outside. Before he knew it, he was here.

“I would slap you," Thea says. "This is no one’s fault but Alabaster’s.”

He raises his eyes and smiles at her through his lashes. Thea makes him feel young again, as free and painless as if he’d never been dragged down here.

She pulls back, dries her eyes, and says steadily, “Me and Damokles have been waiting outside the door every night. Alabaster has been greedy, going out more often to collect new victims. He’s been careless. He leaves the door open enough for me to slip in through the darkness. He’s bright enough to take up all the light, he doesn’t notice me.”

Cyril’s heart pounds. Damokles. He resists temptation to ask about him—Thea would tell him if something was amiss with him—and instead asks, “How long have you been trying to get in here?”

“Too long. I’ve only been able to set foot inside some of his maze before he comes back or locks the door. This place is convoluted.” She swallows. “Do you even know where you are?”

He doesn’t care about where he is, he cares that she is actually starting to sound real, which is the worse option. If she’s just Alabaster’s creation, she’ll be ripped away from him. if she’s real, she’ll be ripped away from him when Alabaster discovers them together, and that will hurt ten times as much.

“Yes,” he says, smiling. “The eighth ring of hell. I’ve been through them all. The misconception is that each gets worse the further up you go, but that’s not true. Each sector of hell is just as bad as the last, just in different ways.” He licks his lips.

“Alabaster has spared nothing spared nothing in my tour of his domain. He’s shown me every piece of what he calls art. I have become so intimately familiar with the beauty of hell, the beauty of pain, the purity of it. He says it reduces us to our most basic needs again, tears down our walls and erases our dignity. He loves watching the change.”

Her mouth drops open. “He—” A distant creak draws her eye, whipping her hair into his eyes.

“That’s nothing,” he says. “I hear that ten times a day.”

“Nothing for you, maybe. That’s the sound of Alabaster opening the door.”

“Really? It’s that quiet? That’s a bit anti-climactic.”

She hasn’t taken her eyes off the door. “I need to go.”

“No,” he says, rattling his chains, which is more likely to draw Alabaster than their voices. He seems to have a sense for when Cyril is struggling or in pain more than when he’s talking to himself. “Please. Don’t leave. I won’t survive it.”

I won’t survive it? He’s survived far more corporeal pain than Thea’s absence. Moreover, where is this panic coming from?

“I’m sorry,” she echoes—now she’s the one with nothing to apologize for. The last thing he wants is her getting trapped down here too. He’d sooner endure everything Alabaster has done to him again than let him touch her. “I’ll be back, I swear. Damokles and I miss you more than you know.” She feeds him the rest of the water and kisses him one more time, a break from the endless heat. He takes it greedily. He’ll take everything he can get.

“That one’s from him,” she says, longing eyes raking him over one last time, before disappearing into the shadows of the corner. He knows she’s gone—the flames flicker, almost going out, before returning in full force. The sweat she wiped away from his forehead returns quicker than he would’ve liked, but at least Alabaster doesn’t come running.

***

“Hello, beautiful. Let’s go.”

Alabaster sweeps into the room in a ray of light blocking out the darkness of the hallway behind him. The clank his lantern makes when he sets it on the floor is a noise Cyril hears in his dreams.

Cyril stopped speaking to him long ago, and he ignores Alabaster while he reaches up, spreading his sweet smell everywhere, to free his arms. Through gritted teeth and a stifled shout, he lowers them, resisting the familiar temptation to shake them out.

“You know you don’t have to hide your sounds,” Alabaster says. “They’re like music to me, the finest lutes and cellos all at once.”

“That’s exactly why I do.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in a week, and his voice is hoarse and dry with thirst and underuse. “No water this time?”

“I have something better.”

“Better for you, maybe.”

Alabaster grins, showing sharp white canines, running a hand through white blond hair. He’s always chosen a wickedly tall body with long, pale fingers, skinny as a stick. The sleeves of the crisp white shirt under his brown waistcoat are always rolled up above his elbows, ready at a moment’s notice to get elbow deep. Black trousers are always stainless and black shoes are always shined perfectly.

He never wears a hint of the filth that lives in his mind, the grime that’s often under his fingernails. The only light he gets is that of the flames—he’d never go near Cyril’s sun if he could help it, just in case it might hurt him. He only leaves to draw in more victims, never under Thea’s moonlight. Cyril has been around him long enough to know that he’s not invincible, not mentally, at least. He does have fears.

To be fair, Cyril can’t think of many who wouldn’t be terrified of Theadora.

Alabaster rests a hand on his lower back as he escorts him out of his little room; Cyril jerks out of the way.

Alabaster is a whole head and slim shoulders above him, and Cyril hates having to look up at him, but his power on this place prevents Cyril from changing his own appearance. He’s been stuck with white skin, plain blond hair and sea blue eyes for however long he’s been down here, a short body with a bit of fabricated muscle—Thea liked that. He hasn't seen his own shirt since he got here, and his pants are somehow still clean.

Gods don't need to eat, so Alabaster never feeds him. Just one more pleasure he can deprive Cyril of.

After this, when he gets out, because there will be a when, Thea will come back—he’ll never be able to stomach wearing a toned body again. Perhaps the strength Cyril gave himself improved his endurance a little bit, but he stopped counting his blessings long ago.

He and the others are the ones who give the blessings. They shouldn’t be able to take them from each other, but Alabaster has taught him with not just words that anything can be broken if you try long enough, human or god.

The only thing Alabaster doesn’t have control of down here is his eyes, orange like his flames. Every master of hell has to don them while they’re down here.

The orange glows and dispels all hints of innocent gold. That gold fades every time Alabaster sets foot here in his heaven, and returns when he mingles with normal humans, enticing them with his beauty to follow him to the point of no return.

“So,” Alabaster drawls as they walk out of Cyril’s little prison room into the darkness of the hall together, the screams louder and everything dirtier, “you’re in a rather good mood.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re glowing. I work hard to make sure no one glows except me.”

Cyril rolls his eyes. Let Alabaster psychoanalyze him all he wants, that won’t change the fact that for the first time, Cyril has hope built on fact. Hope is something Alabaster can beat out of him, but not if he doesn’t know why Cyril has it, and he’s already exhausted the Thea-and-Damokles-aren’t-coming-to-save-you angle. It’s a novelty now.

Alabaster shepherds him to a room Cyril could easily find on his own now, hell’s elevator, or as Alabaster likes to call it, the hellevator. The box of iron bars is decorated with skulls. Cyril started naming them a while ago to occupy his mind. Tiana stares down at him from the top corner, Alis from the outside looking in.

He waves at them. Alabaster doesn’t keep him in chains outside his room, since there’s no hope of him escaping hell. Only the master of hell can open the door, and only from the inside.

The elevator takes off with a lurch that knocks Cyril backward. It's nothing more than a cage, and no more stable, but Alabaster is convinced of his own invincibility, that nothing will ever befall him in his own domain. Cyril is determined to prove him wrong.

As the elevator finally stops, he lands with another lurch that ends with him face first in the filthy ground. It’s far from the first time, and he picks himself up with what dignity he has left while Alabaster strides out upright.

Alabaster brings him past room after room, cell after cell of unfortunate people like him who have endured Alabaster’s abuse like him. They stop in front of a pair of bone decorated double doors that stretch up toward the sky, shadows licking at the walls. Screams seem to come from within, or perhaps that’s just Cyril’s mind.

The doors open slowly, apparently triggered by Alabaster’s presence. “Welcome to my newest creation,” Alabaster says with a grin, spreading his arms. The room is large and shiny and new, not yet tainted with bloodstains and misery. Cyril is here to break it in.

Cyril lays on the table where Alabaster asks him to, doesn’t try to run. He’s tried, so many times. It gets him nowhere. It’s easier just to submit.

Alabaster probably likes this best. Not the physical pain, the scars, the blood, but rather watching all the joy and hope fade from Cyril’s eyes.

Alabaster loves nothing more than inflicting pain, but he has too many unwilling participants to get to. He only personally tends to a handful of his favorites, but he’s made it abundantly clear that Cyril is his ultimate favorite. “I’ve managed to capture a god,” he said when Cyril asked. “An equal. How could I not treasure that? I will find time to visit you personally every week however long as I keep interest in you.”

Alabaster will never lose interest.

What gets Cyril through it this day is the memory of Thea’s icy hands on him, her tear filled kiss, her promising words. Hope. Hope will get you killed here, or it can sustain you if you’re lucky. If you hide it well enough.

Hope is the memory of the natural warmth of his sun on his chest instead of the harsh heat of hellfire. He thinks of one day in particular, laying in a field north of Actium, flowers arranged in his hair by Thea, the wind threatening to blow them away while Damokles’ fingers carded mindlessly through it.

They had so few worries, then. They are gods, what do they have to worry about? They are eternal. Nothing can hurt them but themselves and each other.

The irony of that, as Alabaster does what he does best, is striking.

***

The next time Thea visits, she brings Damokles.

Damokles has no control over the shadows, the darkness, hell, and especially not keeping silent, so Cyril doesn’t know how Thea managed to sneak him in, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that in seconds, Cyril has Damokles wrapped around him for the first time in who knows how long.

Thea stands to the side, her eyes brimming with tears but letting a weeping Damokles have his moment. Not much except pain can bring Cyril to tears, but the deep, chest wracking sobs Damokles lets out nearly do. “Oh, Cyril,” he cries, clearly unafraid of drawing Alabaster’s attention the way Thea was. “Sweet, sweet Cyril. My love. What has he done to you? I will rip him apart with my bare hands.”

Cyril smiles. “I’ve always loved your passion, but I think Thea’s iciness will be more lethal. You are nothing but fire, and while it is beautiful, Alabaster revels in it. Is resistant to it.” He looks over Damokles’ shoulder at her, the way she crosses her arms and passively admires them both.

“Fair enough.” Damokles kisses him with salty tears trapped between them, igniting the fresh wounds on Cyril’s face, but it doesn’t matter. His lips stretch his wounded cheeks into a stinging smile.

“Cyril, have you seen yourself?”

His smile fades. “No. Why?”

Damokles slicks back his black hair with his hand, and Cyril gets to admire the way the firelight dances off his olive skin. Cyril has a love hate relationship with the flames and the light they paint onto his lovers’ faces.

“Thea, can you get him a mirror?” Damokles asks, now decidedly not looking at him. Cyril’s heart begins to sink.

“I’m ugly to you now?” he asks quietly.

“No, no,” Damokles predictably says, cupping his cheeks. “Nothing could ever make you ugly in my eyes, or hers.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Damokles.”

Thea passes Damokles a mirror, who holds it up in front of Cyril’s face.

The sight there takes his breath away.

Alabaster never gave him a mirror down here, ever, and for good reason. What has to be months and months, maybe even years of abuse and torture is shown on his face in lines of scars like claw marks. There’s an x over his right eye—he doesn’t even remember that one. What Alabaster does to him sometimes bleeds into mindless waves of pain.

“Tilt it down,” he breaths in a voice deep and full of grief that’s not his own. Thea takes in a sharp breath, and Damokles searches his face uncertainly before complying.

Cyril has never been vain about his looks—how could he when he could just change them anytime? But Alabaster’s hell is different. He can’t just wave away his scars. Anything etched into his skin down here will remain, which is probably why Alabaster has been so thorough in marking him.

The first time Alabaster brought him out of his little prison room, freed him from his chains, Cyril attacked him. Alabaster would’ve hurt him regardless, but the fire in his eyes increased after he pried Cyril’s hands from around his neck. He gave Cyril his first scar, a slash across his palm that cut deep and bled deeper. Before Alabaster put him back in chains, which effectively cut off his powers, Cyril tried to heal himself. Alabaster’s laugh afterwards still haunts him.

“That won’t work,” he said, smiling. “Hell’s scars cut deeper. They can’t be wiped away by anyone but me. I am going to enjoy making a canvas out of you, beautiful.”

Cyril spat in his face, but that didn’t change the outcome. Now, Alabaster’s masterpiece is unveiled to him for the first time. The body looking back at him in the mirror is unrecognizable in its horrors, faded pink lines wrapping around his torso like a rope, a collection of slashes over his heart, one long cut from his jaw to his collarbone.

He remembers that one, remembers wondering how it didn’t kill him. Of course, Alabaster would never let him die. He has utter control of every piece of matter in every circle of hell, from the worst torture rooms at the top, to the sixth ring where Cyril’s prison lies, to the door leading to the outside world at the bottom.

Cyril is strangely fascinated by his new appearance. A wave of panic that he’s stuck with this now washes over him, but he stubbornly pushes it back. He’s survived so much worse than vanity.

“Please, be honest,” he begs, hanging his head, letting his arms hold his weight like he does when he’s alone. “You truly don’t think differently of me?”

Thea and Damokles are silent for a long time, exchanging uncertain glances, which does nothing good for Cyril’s esteem. Finally Damokles turns to him and says, shaky and angry, “Of course I view you differently. I view you as someone who’s gone through pain and horrors I can’t even imagine, with scars he would probably love to get rid of but can’t. Cyril, I’m pissed.”

Cyril swallows. Thea murmurs Damokles’ name and lays a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off. Damokles never hides his emotions. There isn’t enough space within him to contain everything he feels—it’s the reason every human looks to him for guidance with the head and the heart.

“I’m pissed that Alabaster did this, more pissed than I could ever express. I’m a little pissed at you for not being pissed at us, for thinking we’d ever abandon you, that we haven’t been trying to find you. Don’t deny it, I know that look on your face. Most of all, I’m pissed that we took so long to get here. I’m pissed at myself for not doing more.”

He pushes his hair back again, long curls always falling into his eyes, and seems to get some of his sense back. “Thea will attest that she had to hold me back every time we watched Alabaster leave hell. I could barely keep my hands to myself, I wanted them around his pale little throat. His unmarred, unscarred throat.” Damokles’ fists clench. Cyril shivers under the burning rage in both their eyes, boiling—or in Thea’s case, freezing—just under the surface.

“Cyril, you are the bravest thing I’ve known. I love you. Nothing could ever change that. How could I ever be anything but horrified for you?”

“I don’t want you to be horrified,” Cyril says. “I want you to treat me the same way you always have. I just want to go back to how things were before I was abducted.”

Thea’s sad eyes tell him what he already knows: things will never be the same again. But Cyril can shut his eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that they’re back in the field under the sun with Thea’s flowers and Damokles’ fingers in his hair.

“Can you hang in here just one more week?” Damokles asks. “We’ll get you out. I have a plan.”

Cyril’s eyes dart to Thea, raising an eyebrow. She’s staring at Damokles like she’s never seen him before.

Cyril swallows all his questions and nods. “Okay. I trust you.”

Damokles breaks into a blinding white grin and kisses him again, sweet and hot in the way Cyril needs. Thea is wonderful, and sometimes is the break from reality he needs, but Damokles is the dose of truth no one else will tell him.

Thea’s icy kiss comes next, with both of them their arms around him to follow. “When you’re out and completely free of pain,” Damokles says, a promise burning in his eyes, “I’ll show you exactly what I think of your scars.” Thea hits his arm, calls him inappropriate, but Cyril’s grin reassures them both.

They disappear into the shadows, Damokles holding tightly to Thea’s arm. The heat of the flames doesn’t feel so intense, now. When Alabaster comes the following week, Cyril is almost grinning, and no question Alabaster poses in between cuts and bruises can make him give them up.

***

It’s not Alabaster’s abuse or declining sanity that will kill him, it’s the anticipation, the waiting. When Thea and Damokles finally melt out of the shadows, after an eternity of waiting, Cyril’s stomach is in knots. Even stranger, both of them are empty handed.

“How are we going to get me out of here if you have nothing to do so?” Cyril demands before noticing the expressions on their faces. Damokles’ mouth is set in a grim line, and he tries to force a smile that just doesn’t stick. He’s uptight and determined about something, or, more accurately, stubborn.

Thea is furious. She’s perfectly composed and neat as always, but her fists are clenched and the air in the room is more frigid than usual. Cyril isn’t complaining about the latter, but they’re obviously withholding information. “What’s going on?”

“We’re here to get you out, like we promised,” Thea says in a far stiffer tone than he pictured her saying those words, glaring at Damokles’ back. Cyril has tried getting her to budge when she shuts herself off before, and it’s a fruitless effort, so he doesn’t even try now. He’s always been the calm force keeping those two storms from destroying each other. Without him there to separate them, who knows what they’ve gotten up to.

“And how are you going to do that?” Cyril asks again, shaking his chains. “Only Alabaster can get me out of these.”

“Oh, love, is that what he’s been telling you all this time?” Damokles asks with the pain of the heartbroken. “We can’t open the doors of hell, we can’t remove your scars, but gods have more influence in hell than you would think.”

Cyril’s blood begins boiling just under his skin. “Are you telling me I could’ve freed myself somehow this whole time?”

“No, those chains are as anti-god as I’ve ever seen. We didn’t free you before because we didn’t know—we just found this week—but it’s probably a good idea we didn’t. I would’ve hated causing you the pain of replacing them before Alabastard got back.” Damokles closes his eyes and breathes slowly, fists clenched at his sides. The fire flutters in the room, and a pop of air follows.

The breath is knocked out of Cyril as the chains abruptly break and drop his arms from the ceiling. Much like the elevator, he falls to his knees with the force of it. Thea is there immediately to hug him while Damokles deals with the noise of the chains. Cyril leaves the possibility of Alabaster in their hands, they’re not stupid. He allows himself to bury his face in her neck and shake, weak with relief.

“It’s okay now,” she murmurs into his hair. “You’re going to see your sun again soon. My moon.”

He begins quietly sobbing.

He told himself, all the times he foolishly dreamt of freedom only for Alabaster to drive the dream out of him, that he wouldn’t cry. He’d stay strong, he’d pretend he was fine. Damokles and Thea are too perceptive, too sensitive, he didn’t want to upset them any more than he knew they would be.

So much for that.

“Please,” he begs, a word he’s used so much, but never like this. He’s shaking all over, bleeding from his lip, bleeding inside, burning. He’s always burning, always bleeding, always pleading. Alabaster thrives on it. “Help me. Get me out of this place. Can't you just take me out through the shadows?”

“We will get you out,” she says shakily, dodging the question, cradling the back of his sweaty, bloody head against her. She’s on the verge of tears. Damokles drops to the floor to join the pile, wrapping chiseled arms around them both. They sit there in silence for a moment, grieving and celebrating and fearing and hoping. Cyril’s heart is so full of love for both of them he could burst.

“What about Alabaster?” Cyril has to ask at last. They can’t avoid him forever.

Damokles stands and suddenly shouts, “Alabaster! Come out, you bastard. Face us.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Cyril hisses, but Thea holds him down. "Let's just go out through the shadows." He'll leave Alabaster behind, he'll leave it all behind without revenge if it means he can just be safe.

“He’s an idiot,” she says, “but you have to trust him. He has a plan.”

“I know how hell works, Thea. I know the limits of Damokles’ stupidity.”

She just cradles him closer. He should've known Damokles wouldn't be able to leave without revenge.

After a few minutes of nothing, a great rumble begins shaking the room. If Cyril still hides his head in Thea’s neck, who’s to judge?

Alabaster has never made a dramatic entrance like this before, which must mean Damokles is onto something.

Cyril hears the moment Alabaster enters the room, firm boots on stone, Thea’s inhale. Cyril raises his head and sees Damokles standing tall and strong, his favorite handmade sword stashed somewhere else. It wouldn’t do anything against a god—Thea begged him not to include that in the list of things it could slice through like bread, and he loved her enough to agree.

Quick as Thea’s lightning, Damokles lunges forward and wraps his arms around Alabaster from behind. He is the patron of soldiers for a reason, his strength is unmatched, his grip sure. Alabaster struggles to no avail.

Cyril studies the contrast in them with pleasure. Damokles meets his eyes, panting, and smirks. Alabaster isn’t struggling, bucking Damokles off like he did so easily with Cyril. Perhaps it’s Damokles’ natural strength, maybe Alabaster is more afraid of him than Cyril.

“Oh, Alabaster,” Cyril says, smiling. “You spent so long trying to teach me the beauty of your ways, but you never believed I’d start agreeing with you. Well, here you go.” He raises his arms, trying to hide a wince and stifle a groan of pain. Thea’s hands on his waist help steady him—though that might just be her calming powers. “Here is the result of your hard work in all its glory. Are you happy now?”

Alabaster looks at him through long, pale eyelashes. He manages a manic grin through the grimace breaking out on his face, licking the sweat off of his lip. He’s blinking and flicking his hair like that will do anything about the sweat. Cyril is looking forward to watching him realize nothing will work.

“This won’t work,” Alabaster says. “Keep me as long as you want, but you’ll never leave. Only the master of hell can open the door, and from the inside, and I swear I’ll never open it for you as long as I live.”

“Good thing you’re not going to be the master of hell much longer,” Damokles says, lowering Alabaster to his knees in front of him, hands held behind his back. His eyes meet a breathless Cyril’s. “Shall I place him in your hooks?”

Cyril, open mouthed, is speechless even for that question. He can only manage a small shake of the head. “Keep him low, where he belongs. Don’t give him the dignity of meeting your eyes.”

Damokles nods in approval. Thea helps Cyril to his feet to avoid that exact issue, and Damokles ties Alabaster’s hands more securely with some rope. “What the hell do you mean?” Cyril asks.

Damokles meets his eyes without fear, a dark, intense stare. “I mean, I’m going to kill Alabaster and take his place.”

The whole room freezes. Even the fire seems to still.

Cyril looks at Thea for help, but her arms are crossed and her face set in that same muted furious expression she arrived with. He understands the fierce determination in Damokles’ eyes now.

“You’re not.”

“I will. That bastard doesn’t deserve to live, and you two deserve to get out.”

“Why can’t you just take both of us through with your shadows?” Cyril demands of Thea.

She’s crying now, silent and strong, even with her cheeks shiny and wet. “The moment Alabaster places his mark on someone, like a scar, they are bound to this place and its rules. No shadows for you.”

“Not even after his death?”

She shakes her head and squeezes his waist. “I tried so hard to talk him out of it,” she says, gesturing to Damokles. “His mind can’t be changed.”

“Damokles, no,” Cyril says. This can’t be real. “Don’t do this to us. I can’t lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you, either,” Damokles says, his own eyes shining. He’s smiling, though. “If we could, I would have you kill him.”

Cyril breathes out. “I don’t want you to get trapped down here! At least, uh”—he rubs his forehead— “you be the master only until Thea and I can find someone to take your place. We’ll find a way to do it without you having to be killed.”

“You would involve a human in this mess? An innocent?”

“I won’t lose you.”

“It’ll be preferable to what you went through,” Damokles counters, though Cyril sees his hands trembling. Cyril’s lower lip begins trembling.

“I’m not sure it will be,” he chokes out. “You’ll be without the physical pain. The rest is the same. I never had to manage the eight rings of hell.”

Damokles shakes his head, turning his eyes back to his prey. He sighs, then his hands are moving.

“Damokles, no!” Cyril yells. Thea’s hands hold him back, but it’s too late—rather, Damokles ignores him. He wrenches Alabaster’s head to the side with a crunch as satisfying as it is agonizing to watch. Thea squeezes his hand and lets out a harsh, shuddering breath, as Alabaster’s pale head falls limp.

The room begins shaking again. Thea falls to her knees and presses her forehead to the ground, Cyril is rooted to the spot. Damokles stands tall and breathes in, embracing his new role. When he opens his eyes, they’re bright, flame orange.

“You idiot,” Cyril hisses, shoving him back. “You didn’t give me any time to input. You never think. We could’ve worn him down in one of the hundreds of rooms alone I was sent to. We could’ve gotten our revenge and our freedom. Instead, you decided to become the master of hell instead. We’re split up again.”

“Better me than you.” Damokles yanks open the door of Cyril’s little room and walking with purpose. Cyril follows him. “Tell me where the door to this place is. I don’t know this place from the inside yet.”

“West,” Cyril says automatically, then curses himself. “You can’t just leave with us. Too long away and you’ll start to wither away, and I’m not coming back here if I can help it. This isn’t a solution. Far from it.”

“Hell no you’re not coming back here. Never again, for you.” Damokles takes a deep breath as Cyril guides him to the elevator. Thea is hot on their heels, shadows licking the ground. “Cyril, I did this because I love you and Thea more than I’ve ever loved anything. I would set fire to our Actium in a day if it meant protecting you. I didn’t care what it would take to free you, I just didn’t want you to suffer you anymore.”

“When you described how we’d spend our time when I was free, had you made up your mind then? Were you lying through your teeth?”

“No, dammit,” Damokles growls, turning around and pushing him against the wall. It burns Cyril’s back, but not as much as his kiss. “Don’t worry about me.”

“What if I love you, too?” Cyril yells back. “What if I never wanted us to be apart again? I will find a way to fix this. We will get you out.”

Damokles doesn’t argue.

When they reach the door Cyril tried to break out of so many times, tall, white, and uncharacteristically clean, Damokles kisses Thea goodbye. Tears begin filling Cyril’s eyes again as Damokles presses both hands to the door and murmurs something under his breath. It opens as easily as a human door.

“There you go,” Damokles whispers. Cyril can smell the fresh air, and it almost brings him to his knees, but he doesn’t look yet. He stubbornly looks back at the aching oranges and blacks, the smell of smoke that’s ingrained into his soul now, the blistering heat they’re leaving Damokles behind in. Thea’s hand snakes into his, and Cyril squeezes it like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

“We’ll meet again,” Damokles promises, before the door swings shut and locks with a boom. Cyril misses him immediately in a wave of incredible grief.

He turns around.

The sky is so very black, the stars so very bright, the air so very cool. Cyril closes his eyes and breathes in, long and slow the way he dreamed of for so, so, so long. But his right hand is painfully empty, the pains of hell too fresh. He needs a thousand baths, a thousand days in the sun, but he’ll never stop wishing Damokles was there.

Cyril breathes, closes his eyes, and with barely any effort changes his hair to a dull, mousy brown. It's an immediate relief, enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Cyril says, “but I already want to go back.”

“Yeah,” Thea murmurs, thick with tears. Cyril lets her cry, too in pain and exhausted to do anything but hold her hand and stand in solidarity.

In his mind, he’s in the field with flowers and fingers and laughter in his hair, the sun warming them all.

It's so peaceful at night.

It's wrong.

acogs taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @inkflight @spencer-nyx @writing-is-a-martial-art @ashen-crest @wisteria-eventide @nikkywrites @denkis-phone-charger @myhusbandsasemni @lynolord @ettawritesnstudies @golden-apple-s-blog

tag of interest: @aelenko

[slashyrogue]

There were many ways for an alpha to find an omega. 

Mating apps and matchmaking services were meant more for those who wanted a mate. There were hookup apps, sure, but Will doesn’t like the idea of putting his face out there like that so the old fashioned bar crawl is the most effective. 

He doesn’t go out searching for slick every night or anything, mostly every few weekends, and keeps his hookups to quick fucks in bathroom stalls or sometimes even the back of his car. Gender doesn’t matter, just scent, and he always left them wanting more he wouldn’t give. 

“I...I don’t do relationships.” 

The disappointed smiles should’ve made him feel bad, but really Will knew he wasn’t meant for a mate. 

His fucked up mind aside, the life he led was a solitary one and he was perfectly fine with indulging in slick whenever the need arose. 

Will didn’t think he’d ever find an omega he wanted to keep. 

Which was why the first time he saw Hannibal Lecter caught him by surprise. 

There was an air about Hannibal the first time you saw him, like time stopped, and when the world started up again you hardly remembered to breathe. Will catches him coming out of the men’s room at Devour, one of his favorite bars, and he’s so surprised he nearly drops the hand of the omega leading him into the nearest stall. 

“Good evening,” he says, eyeing Will up like a piece of meat, “Or...enjoy your evening I should say.” 

Will blinks at him, stumbles, and the blonde omega pulls on his hand hard bringing Will back to his senses while the scent of the one who left lingers in his nose like it had been planted there. He fucks the man hard, grunting as he closes his eyes and imagines the man who’d just left under him. Will shudders as he comes, nearly biting into the neck of the blonde, and opens his eyes in shock when he hears the blonde’s voice. 

“Fuck...so good,” the blonde said, “Thank you, Daddy.” 

He waits for his knot to go down, dazed, and when the blonde leaves Will sits on the stall in shock with the condom hanging off his cock. 

What the hell had just happened? 

Will cleans up and goes home, his mind still filled with the other omega. 

The omega, who he later names Suit, gets him hard again as he showers. He jerks off fast, eyes shut, and comes so hard he nearly blacks out. 

Something was wrong. 

Will was lost in thoughts after that first encounter, so much that he found himself going to Devour every single night for a week straight but never seeing Suit again. 

He doesn’t hookup with anyone, let alone an omega, and jerks off to memories of a split second encounter that haunts him for far too long to be normal. 

When he does see Suit again it’s at another bar, almost a month later. 

Will gets off work barely coherent that night, mind still full of blood and guts, which makes it strange he goes into a bar at all but he needs the distraction. Or rather, the warmth of a sweet smiling omega under him. 

He doesn’t let himself think of Suit. 

Suit, he’s almost sure, was a mirage. 

No omega smells that good or wears suits that nice would ever step foot in a hook up bar like Devour. 

The bar Will goes to that night is called Hemingway. He doesn’t normally go for these types of places but it’s not far from work and maybe he’ll find someone in a suit. 

He sits down at the bar, orders a whiskey sour, and looks around the room. 

It’s mostly couples, all wearing expensive shit, and for a minute he almost goes home. 

Thirty minutes later he smells a scent he’s long since told himself he imagined. 

Suit sits down three stools away from him and orders a glass of wine. He talks to the bartender like they’re best friends, and Will’s entire body can hardly handle the wait. 

This type of omega didn’t go for alphas like him. 

Not even to hookup with. 

Will watches Suit like a lost puppy, shaking, and can’t find it in himself to approach. 

He knows his night is a bust now but can’t bring himself to leave so he just stays. No one comes near him, not for the next few hours, and when he finally has to take a piss he wrenches away from the stool to the bathroom. 

The cold water on his face after he goes doesn’t seem to help the heat that feels like it’s seeped into him so he tries to take a few deep breaths. 

“Just breathe,” he whispers into the mirror, staring at the messed state of his clothes and hair. 

No wonder no one’s approached him. 

Will goes to leave the bathroom nearly in tears, cock aching, and heads for the door only to have it open before he can leave. 

Suit. 

Suit stands there, smiles, but doesn’t move. 

“Hello again.” 

Will blinks. 

“Um...” 

Suit walks Will back into the bathroom by the sheer force of his gaze. He clutches the sink’s edge, cheeks flushed, and stares at him in surprise. 

“Do you not remember me?” 

Will licks his lips. “No, I...I do.” 

His smile widens and he holds out his hand. 

Will’s entire body seems to come to life as they touch. “Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” 

“Hannibal...” Will whispers. 

“Yes,” Hannibal says, smiling still, “And you are?” 

“Will,” he breathes out, “Will Graham.” 

“You wrote the standard monograph on time of death by insect activity,” Hannibal says, making Will blink at him stupidly. 

“Um...yeah, I...why are you...” 

“I love your work,” he says, holding Will’s hand still, “It’s a very well written, I’ve read it several times. The attention to detail is just...astonishing.” 

“Why?” Will says, feeling stupid, “What...” 

Hannibal breathes in deep and Will watches his cheeks turn red. 

“Will...” 

Will can’t seem to let go. “This is gonna sound stupid,” he whispers, “But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the time at Devour. I was so sure you were something I made up in my head that I---” 

Hannibal kisses him before Will can finish, his hands on Will’s cheeks, and Will moans so loud he’s sure everyone outside can hear despite being muffled. He turns them around and presses Hannibal against the door, growling, and can smell the sweet scent of his slick already. 

“Fuck....” 

“I do believe,” Hannibal gasps, griping his shoulders, “We’ve run into a truly miraculous event.” 

Will starts to pepper his neck with kisses, sucking marks as he goes, and hardly can stop himself from biting down. “What?” 

“The first time,” Hannibal sighs, clutching him still, “I thought your scent was pleasant but I did not get the opportunity to...” he moans, “Smell you unencumbered such as now. I...I do believe we’re true mates.” 

He growls, ripping open Hannibal’s shirt and not caring that the buttons scatter around the room. “Not real,” he whispers, licking and biting as he goes, “True mates are a manufactured myth that...” 

Hannibal grips his hair, whimpering as Will’s tongue tickles his belly button. 

“We’re recklessly about to have intercourse in the bathroom of a very high class bar and grill,” Hannibal says, shaking as Will opens his pants, “And yet neither of us seems to care about indecency. What other reason is there?” 

Will turns him around roughly, ripping off Hannibal’s suit coat, and pulling down his pants and briefs exposing his ass. “You smell so good,” Will sighs, hands going around to tease Hannibal’s nipples, “You feel....” 

“Alpha...please,” Hannibal whimpers, “Please....” 

He barely thinks when he opens his own pants and pulls out his cock. Hannibal is dripping already, so eager, and he smells so fucking good that Will can’t stop himself from thrusting inside. They both cry out, no longer caring even a little, and he starts to fuck him in earnest as the door moves like someone wants to get inside. 

“Hello? Excuse me? Hello!” 

Will growls, locking the door, and wraps his hand around Hannibal’s cock stroking with every thrust. 

“Will,” Hannibal sighs, “I’ve never felt so full...” 

He smashes his mouth to Hannibal’s as he continues, desperate to join them together, and when he feels Hannibal spill in his hand he growls in triumph still thrusting and breaks for breath staring into Hannibal’s eyes. 

“Mine,” he moans, “Oh god, Hannibal I...” 

“Alpha...” Hannibal gasps, “Don’t stop, don’t---” 

Will sucks on his neck, teeth aching, and when he comes can’t stop himself from biting down. 

Hannibal shudders and comes again in his hand, whimpering, and when Will’s knot fills he collapses against him. 

They pant for breath after, still shaking, and Will nuzzles his neck. 

“I think you’re right,” he whispers, laughing, “I...I’m sorry.” 

“Mmm,” Hannibal sighs, “Why?” 

“I just...I bit you. Now you can’t be rid of me.” 

Hannibal turns to smile at him. “Promise?” 

He smiles back. “You---” 

The door rattles again. 

“OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW BEFORE WE CALL THE POLICE!” 

“TRUE MATES!” Will yells. 

The noise stops. “That...” 

Will licks the blood from Hannibal’s bite, ignoring any further interruption. 

“You don’t know what you’re in for,” he says, “I...I’m not...” 

Hannibal grabs his hand and squeezes. “We’re true mates, Will. Nothing you could say would make me any less happy than I do right now.” 

Will smiles. 

“Promise?” 

There was apparently one more way for an alpha to find an omega. 

And now, he had his. 

[collectionofcherries]

👀couldnt help but notice you talking about hannibal in your billy loomis imagine 👀 also couldnt help but to notice thats in your fandom list 👀 maybe you should shoot your shot with an imagine with hanni 👀

So over on my Naruto blog I did a little fluff piece called Morning Coffee that everyone seemed to enjoy so I thought I'd bring it here. It’s a simple concept, it follows your morning to the start of your cup to the end of it. Hope you enjoy! --- ☕ Morning Coffee ☕

---

written in the mind-frame of a Female!Reader but there are no pronouns mentioned nor gender specific anatomical body parts.  Warnings: None, flirting with the idea of smut but no actual smut. Sexual longing maybe? Word Count: 1,155

--- Hannibal Lecter

   Having coffee with a friend shouldn't have been this stressful, being this stressed in the morning couldn't be good for you but it wasn't like you could help it. How are you supposed to dress for morning coffee with a man who practically lives in three piece suits? Formal? Business casual? Casual casual? Your clothing covered floor seemed to bare no answers as you stared at what you swore was everything you owned...had everything always been this ugly? God! Why did you even propose a breakfast together? Hannibal does dinner but no you had to pitch breakfast to be different and try to impress him, yeah you're sure he'd be impressed by the amount of clothing on the floor. If you'd been like everyone else and just gone for dinner you'd have more time to try on clothes but a look at the clock told you that you had to leave now or you'd be late and that'd be terrible, that'd be rude and Hannibal can't stand people who're rude. However messy your floor was it was worth it for the compliment you got when Hannibal opened his door to greet you. “I don't see you in colour often, red looks lovely on you.”     Well, guess you're wearing red for the rest of your life.     "Oh thank you.” Finds it's way out of your throat as your face is painted the colour that apparently looks lovely on you.     “Please, come in.” He welcomes stepping to the side to allow room.    You never gave much thought to what a foyer could be, yours is technically where you just kick off your shoes and put your keys but this, this was proper foyer. Just the entrance to his house was nice. God it was big too, he could probably rent it out to a poor college kid for like 500 bucks if he wanted not that he looked like he needed the extra money. Did you even know how to say Foyer properly? You bet Hannibal did, without a doubt he knew all those fancy French words--was that word even French? Oh no, what if you were stupid and it wasn't French? What if this wasn't even a foyer? How dumb were you? H-- hands came up to your shoulders jolting you out of your spiral. Hannibal gently pulls the edges of your jacket and you immediately understand. “Thank you.” You repeat once again.    He smiles with a nod as he slides your jacket off of you with your help and hangs it up on a beautiful wood stand you're sure costs more than half your rent. Thinking about how much money was within these walls could make your head spin but that spinning is halted by the soothing tones of his voice. “Lost in thought?” He inquired.    “Uh, just early morning brain fog you know?” You try to bluff.    It's not convincing but he nods anyway. “Perhaps some coffee would help.”     “Sounds good.” You agree.    Following him through his house only furthers your awe, you could spent a lifetime in here just looking at stuff. “I thought it'd be pleasant to make breakfast together instead of having it ready, eating together is one experience but preparing a meal is another entirely.” He explained    The idea of sharing an experience with Hannibal was one that filled you with butterflies, the more you thought about it you didn't think you'd heard of Hannibal cooking with anyone else, maybe the stress of this morning would pay off after all. “I'm not a chef but I'll do my best, what're we making?”     “Uova al purgatorio.” Which leads to a bit of a blank stare on your end, as pretty as it sounds you've got no idea what that means. “It's an Italian dish, eggs in Purgatory.” He explained.    “Sounds interesting.” You quip.    “It is, the name comes from the eggs sitting in a tomato base, the white of the eggs floating within the red sauce giving the illusion of souls trapped within the unknown of Purgatory.” He explains as he prepares the boiling water for your coffee. “Even at breakfast it seems we wonder where our souls go to lay.”     “Well makes sense for Italy home of the Pope, I'm sure there's religious overtones at most meals.”    He smiles a little and nods. “During my time in Italy it truly does surround you, it's an interesting feeling, almost euphoric to be encapsulated by it at every

turn.” He remarked.    “Wow, you spent time in Italy? It looks beautiful there.” You say, trying to stray a little further from the religious aspect, you don't exactly know where Hannibal falls on that spectrum and the last thing you want to do is come across rude or disrespectful to him. “Coffee smells great.” You add as he pours the boiling water into his very fancy looking French Press.    Your attempt to change subjects doesn't go unnoticed at all but he once again nods as he looks at you. “Yes, I traveled quite a bit in my youth, I called Italy my home for some time.” He explains.     “Do you ever miss it?” You ask    “I take with me what I relish in the places I've been, while I may no longer be surrounded by the Primavera or the walls of Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini they are ever present in my mind, reproduced with the utmost detail.” You could listen to Hannibal talk all day, it wouldn't matter what he said you just like the way he said things, the timbre of his voice. “Have you ever given thought to travelling?” He prodded.    “Course, who doesn't think about travelling? See far off places, experience new people, new things, different cultures.” You reminisce.    “What stops you?”     You shrug a little. “Funds mainly but I'd want to take the time to learn the language of where I'm going, understand the culture so I don't offend anyone. I don't want to be one of those tourists that makes an ass out of themselves.” You said cringing at the end.    “It's considerate to take the time to understand a culture you will not live in, many go on whims like they're visiting amusement parks.” He agreed. “Would Italy be a place you'd like to visit or would you find their taste for religion leaving a sour taste in your mouth?” He asked.    Did you really think you'd get out of a question Hannibal wanted answered? You shrugged a little once again trying to make sure you phrase things that wouldn't step on toes that were in shoes that likely cost more than your rent. “I'm unsure...I don't know if my broader and more open views would be welcome in the narrower scope of such a religious place and I wouldn't want to impose myself or my views upon anyone.” You slowly clamber out as he pours two cups of what smells like incredibly coffee. “Thank you.” You quickly add as you take it from his hands.    “While I do know you enough to welcome you into my home, I'm not sure if I know you well enough to know of the open views you believe would be scrutinized under the gaze of the Church. Do you speak a broader view of all religions? Racial rights? Sexual appetite?”     You stomach almost leaps into your throat at the last question, talking sexual appetites with someone who could feed that said appetite for the rest of your life? How were you supposed to talk about that? You didn't want to impose but you certainly didn't want to miss any chance of feeding that appetite. “All of the above, you know?” You pitch at first. “I'm a big believer in religious freedoms for everyone, from anywhere--just freedom for everyone in general.” You tackle first, that's the more important one and the one that won't get you into any trouble. “And um--yeah I suppose my sexual appetite wouldn't please the Church.” You say with a small laugh breaking your gaze from Hannibal and down at your coffee cup. “Not exactly a born again virgin.” Smooth. Great job. Wow. Fuck. Maybe you could drown yourself in this coffee? You take a sip and to spite being too shy to ask for sugar or milk this coffee is great, actually smooth. Unlike you. “This is great, what is this?” You try.    Why do you try? He always notices, you're luckier than you know that it endlessly amuses him rather than annoys him. “It's Peaberry Coffee from Tanzania, it's a rounder sweeter bean, almost tea like.” He explains, allowing for a moment for you to believe you've somehow fooled him into letting his prior question go thoroughly unanswered. “It can take a more refined palette to taste all the notes.” He remarks.    “I don't know how refined mine is, I just know it's nice.”

You admit with a small laugh.    “Usually our tongues know more than we think, close your eyes and allow the flavours to dance over your tongue.” He instructed.    Hannibal could tell you to jump off a cliff and if he said it nice enough you probably would. You take a small breath and take another sip and try your damnest to impress Hannibal if only even a little but as you swallow you know your guesses are little more than shots in the dark. “It's sweet...kind of like a berry...?” You weakly pitch.    You're not wrong but Hannibal can tell your guess isn't confident. “Do you know you have a habit of coming in on yourself when you're unsure of what you're saying?” He asks letting you know he's been on to you for much longer than you would have hoped. He comes around from his large kitchen island to stand in front of you and you fight the urge to step back and away which only adds to how hard your heart beats in your chest. “Coming in on ones self allows negative neurons to fire, by simply lifting your head you'll allude more confidence and though red looks lovely on you so does that.” That compliment alone made your head spin so his next action of bringing his warm hand up to gently lift your head? Your entire body felt weak. It was laughable that the simple touch of his thumb resting on your chin and his forefinger below it could have such an effect on you, looking up at him him with unsure eyes as to where this went next was laughable to him. You were putty in his hands, vulnerable in every meaning of the word. "Try again, close your eyes and when you take a sip allow it to work around your mouth, to explore every inch of your tongue.”    Was this porn? This could be porn, this might as well be porn as far as your body was concerned apparently. It took you a moment to actually get your limbs to move and grab your coffee again and it felt good to close your eyes, you liked Hannibal but being so close and having him stare back at you was overwhelming. And he knew it, there was something very satisfying about your kind of vulnerability, it was raw and open for him to touch and mold with his hands. You brought the cup to your lips and took another sip and once again tried to find a defined note in this coffee and maybe it was having your head tilted up, maybe it was having him so close but an answer did come from your mouth. “Cedar?”    Opening your eyes you knew you'd gotten it right by the contented look you were rewarded with. "I had a hunch your tongue knew more than you were letting on.” He teased.    He let his thumb trail back and forth on your chin before moving it away and your head felt like it was floating. “What does your tongue taste? I'm sure it's much more experienced than mine.”     You're sure if you didn't feel so floaty such a blatantly flirty question wouldn't have come out of you but it seemed to fly just fine as a small amused breath made it's way out of him. “Your assumption would be correct.” He let you know. “The notes in this coffee I've become very acquainted with over the years so it wouldn't be much of an exercise in taste for me to tell you them all. Perhaps another breakfast we could expand upon both our tongues.” Your entire body clenched and you had to practically drown out your whine of want by taking a sip of your coffee. “For now we'll be expanding on yours, come, wash up I'll show you how to make uova al purgatorio, a taste from my past.” He said walking back around the kitchen island.    You follow him around the island and with one last sip put your empty coffee cup into the sink. --- ~Admin Coral 🍒 Buy Me A Coffee?

[tiny-yoongienthusiast]

whumptober day 1: lose control

Hannibal's office had become his home away from home of a sort, glass of wine in hand by the fire while his mind was somewhere else beyond the four walls. During one of these particular nights of warmth buzzing under his skin, Hannibal's phone rang, cell not office, a personal call.

"Hello?"

Quick and ragged breathing on the other line, "I don't know what happened he just came at me what was I supposed to do?" Will. His sentence was slurred with fear so strong Hannibal could practically taste it even through their mid air connection.

"Will, who came at you?"

But Will wasn't all there, he was muttering quietly to himself, something something teeth, something like an animal, the ramblings of a man lost to something just out of view.

"Will, I want you to try and calm your breathing. If you start to hyperventilate you may suffer a fainting spell." It was like talking to a brick wall, he wasn't going to have any effect from over the phone.

"I'll be over momentarily."

The entire drive, Hannibal tried to imagine what he would find upon his arrival. Would Will be on the floor, eyelids fluttering or would Hannibal find the screen door torn from its hinges with no sign of the curly haired man? What would become of him?

As Hannibal pulled up to the lone house he was quick to notice how normal it looked. Door still intact, dogs still inside if their muffled barking was anything to go off of. Hannibal knocked and the front door creaked open revealing that all the lights were off. Hannibal didn't hesitate walking through the entryway only to realize he was walking onto a crime scene. Randall Tier was sprawled out on the floor, his mechanical skull ripped away from his face and abandoned in a dark corner. His empty eyes stared unblinking at the ceiling, the room smelled of fear.

“Will?” The investigator was nowhere to be found and Hannibal was half worried the man had fled the scene of his crime but a small sound that one would assume could only come from a wounded animal sounded from a dark corner where Hannibal knew Will’s bed was situated based on previous visits. “Will?” Soft scuffling of cloth against the hardwood floor before Will came forward, moonlight spilling in from the doorway illuminated his figure. The blood covering his gorgeous hands and staining his shirt came as a slight shock but Hannibal really had to fight against himself to hide his excitement at the look on Will's face. The mixed look of grief and terror swimming in his irises blue as the deepest ocean, so much depth and so much yet to discover. His face reflected his exhaustion but Hannibal wanted more. He wanted to see just how terrified of his own reflection he could make the fragmented man in front of him.

“Will,” the slight tremor in his voice would have made him roll his eyes had he not had them trained on Will, “What have you done?” Will’s arms were wrist up in front of him, blood up to mid forearm, “I didn’t do it- I didn’t-”

Hannibal could almost see himself from above, closing his eyes and putting on a nervous stance obvious enough to be noticed by Will even in his absent state, “Well then who do you suppose did? I see no one else here and he surely didn’t do it to himself!” The way his voice rose slightly at the end in faux anxiety made Will flinch, gaze shifting to the floor but trying his hardest to ignore the cooling corpse displayed in the center of the room. “I d-I don’t know but I couldn’t...I couldn’t do this. This-this,” his head shook and his lips curled into the anxious, awkward frown tinged smile Hannibal hadn’t yet tired of seeing, “This is the work of a…” His voice trailed off, swallowing his saliva, hesitant. How Hannibal wanted to peel back the cover and peer into Will’s psyche, dip his fingers into the black pools of his mind and gain all the knowledge of his life.

“The work of what, Will?”

Will closed his eyes as if trying to hide from whatever images played in his mind, like a child scared of the dark, hiding underneath the duvet for protection against creatures just out of reach.

“Say it, Will. What did this?”

A quiet sob escaped his lips, “A monster…”

“I didn’t hear you, Will.”

“A monster!” Tears flowed freely down his perfectly reddened cheeks, Hannibal had seen him so disturbed only a handful of times, each time more enrapturing than the last. The poor boy was shaking where he stood, fingers gripping at his dark chocolate curls like a lifeline. “But it’s not my fault! He-he attacked me-”

Hannibal stared down at the broken body of what was once a man, reveling in how brutalized he now was. “You butchered him, Will,” His words brought back memories of Abigail standing over Nick Boyle’s crumpled form much like Will, so alike in ways they’d never known, beloved victims of The Chesapeake Ripper.

“I didn’t mean to…”

The way his voice shook and was filled with the purest hurt he’d felt in the boy, almost identical to the day Will found out about what really happened to Abigail.

“Apologies won't fix this. You can’t fix him.” Hannibal sighed and looked down at the floor, “I’ll have to call Jack.”

Hannibal knew from their sessions that Will valued his ability to lower people’s perceptions of him, make himself a quiet presence to ensure he wasn’t seen as a threat, but in the moment all sensibility was lost on him. His eyes went wild with fear as he practically fell into Hannibal, “Hannibal, please! You can’t tell Jack I did this, I didn’t!” His bloodied hands grasped at Hannibal’s coat, red rimmed eyes stared up at him, Will was making himself up to be quite a lowly creature. Hannibal didn’t appreciate being grovelled to by his victims, he found it disgusting, but looking directly into the gaze of a man gone wild with fear and even more so such an exquisite one at that; it only made him feel more powerful. “I can’t rightfully go on as if nothing has happened now can I?”

Will nodded frantically, eyes wet with tears as he slipped to the floor, still clinging to Hannibal’s coat, the blood on his hands soaking into the fabric. “You can! Pretend it never happened just-just please don’t say anything to Jack!”

Hannibal looked between Randall Tier and Will. A millisecond passed where Hannibal imagined telling Will that he was the one who told Randall where the lone, little house sat, no neighbors for miles. He craved the look on Will’s face, would he lash out in anger or simply shut down? Only time would tell but for now, Hannibal was happy to play the good guy.

“You need help, Will.”

As much as he didn’t want help, knew he couldn’t have possibly done this, he looked around his destroyed living room and he could see the evidence stacked against him, knew the jury would take one look at him and what he did and would only see a killer.

“Please help me Hannibal.”

[sheultrabeef]

I’m on season 2 of Hannibal and let me TELL YOU THIS SHOW IS FUCKING GREAT.

And the thing I really love about it, besides the incredible, amazing drama that it imbues in every single second, sometimes for no reason at all, is that the fandom headcanons are HILARIOUS.

Like, I’ve been long used to Supernatural headcanons and those are almost always very, very depressing.  And Avengers and The Umbrella Academy and The Boys are no different. In fact I can’t think of a single show I’ve watched in years that had headcanons from fans that weren’t sort of depressing.

But Hannibal??  Fucking Hannibal???  

Will Graham is a sweaty, dog smelling man who eats dog food out of the can over the sink and you CANNOT convince me otherwise.  He’s a walking disaster.  He smells like dogs and river water and has never cooked a meal in his entire life.  I’m 100% sure he buys his clothes out of catalogues. He’s not coping with anything in any shape or way even before the show starts. 

The fact that Hannibal is deeply in love with him is so fucking funny I can’t stop thinking about it and laughing about it and coming up with worse and worse things that Will does or ways he lives.  

Will Graham is a walking disaster and it is insanely hilarious that Hannibal is in love with him.  It’s just the best of the best of the funniest headcanons I’ve ever seen from other fans.  All this murder and blood and horrible deaths and fans are like, “Will blasts Tim McGraw when he’s mad at Hannibal” and I fucking CAN’T HANDLE IT, IT’S SO FUNNY YOU GUYS

CAN YOU IMAGINE HANNIBAL RIDING IN A FUCKING TRUCK?  OR EATING DORITOS?  I AM LIVING FOR THIS FANDOM

[darling-i-read-it]

We'll Stay

Midsommar AU

Will Graham x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: cult, murder, suicide,

Author’s Note: I’m sorry it’s only one part, I wasn’t quite motivated enough to do 2! But I hope you enjoy it anyway <3

Requested: by anon, hiii!! so, I was curious as to whether u could possibly do a will graham (baby boy!!!) x fem!reader 2 part oneshot (with a SLIGHT Hannibal x reader but main is will graham) in which...it's practically a midsommar au! except Y/N doesn't have a fallout with partner unlike dani. Y/N, however, indulges herself into a cult after a fallout hits close to home and....yea! u can go from there and hopefully u can do it! thanks :)

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

You looked out the window at the passing scenery. You hadn’t seen another person for miles upon miles. You wondered how close you were to Pelle’s commune. Hopefully close. You were getting tired and your legs were stiff from sitting in one spot for so long.

You glanced at Will beside you in the backseat. He was napping pleasantly on his jacket, his breathing even. You wish that you had been able to fall asleep so quickly. Your eyes wandered up to the front of the car where Pelle was driving, Alana sitting beside him. They were speaking so quietly, you couldn’t even make out the words. You weren’t sure why you were here.

Pelle worked alongside Alana for some time in a research based job Alana had been doing on the side. He had tagged along with her to a couple of Hannibal's dinner parties where he had met you and Will. You and Pelle had hit it off right away. He explained that he came from Sweden and would love it if you, Will and Alana went with him for the midsommar festivities. You were hesitant but Alana insisted and you didn’t want her to go alone. Plus, you were dealing with some family stuff at home. You just wanted to get away from it. As far as you could. Sweden seemed like a nice deal.

Your phone buzzed. You picked it up mindlessly, sliding it open to see the text. You only had one bar left. You must be getting out of service soon. Hannibal had sent a message.

Be safe. Watch Will.

You smiled a bit at his worry. You had wanted him to come along but he declined, saying being so far out in the wilderness wasn’t his style. You sent him back a quick text.

I will, I promise.

“Are we almost there?” you asked Pelle. He nodded pleasantly.

“Ten minutes. Can you wake up, Will please?” You nodded and turned to your boyfriend, nudging him. You caught Pelle glancing at the two of you through the rear view mirror as Will perked his head up, grabbing your hand gently.

“Almost there,” you whispered. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. He leaned over onto your lap and closed his eyes again.

“5 more minutes.”

====

“This walk was longer than I thought,” Alana muttered, laughing gently. She hadn’t worn her regular fancy clothing. It felt odd to look at her without it. Will had still opted to wear a flannel, though you told him it was going to be hot and you were going to be walking.

“We’re very close. It will be worth it,” Pelle explained. Will grabbed your hand as the two of you walked a ways behind Alana and Pelle.

“What happens if we want to leave?” he asked. You shrugged.

“We can leave.” You raised his hand and kissed the back of it. “Don’t think too hard on it.” He scoffed.

“Oh no. Me? Think hard about something?” You rolled your eyes but was quickly distracted by the clearing you came upon. There were a couple large buildings and people in white everywhere. You let go of Will’s hands in shock and looked around incredulously.

“This is my home!” Pelle said. People rushed up to see him. Your eyes went wide as he hugged and greeted them all, seeming to know each and every one of them personally.

“You know all of these people?” Alana asked.

“They’re my family,” Pelle explained before speaking some words in Swedish you didn’t understand. You smiled gently and looked over at Will.

“It’s beautiful.” He seemed skeptical. You nudged him. “I know it isn’t Wolf Trap Virginia but try and enjoy the sun.”

“We get sun back at the house,” he muttered. “I miss the dogs.”

“Me too. But they’ll be okay I promise.” Pelle had brought some people up to you. You gave them kind smiles.

“Welcome! We are so glad you were able to make it. We are about to make the announcements, you’re just in time. If any of you need anything, speak to me or Pelle.” You nodded.

“Thank you for having us,” Alana said.

“It is our pleasure, trust me.”

====

Pelle led the three of you out alongside everyone else to a nice clearing with a cliff. You had a weird breakfast that morning but you were trying to keep an open mind. Will, not so much. He was ready to go. You insisted on a couple more days.

“So what is this again?” you asked Pelle.

“Shhh, it’s starting.”

You closed your mouth and nodded a bit, watching as two older people were carried up the cliff. You and Will exchanged a look.

You watched carefully as the woman launched herself off. One of the other visiting groups screamed. Alana grabbed Pelle, asking quick questions, shaking her head, holding her stomach.

You and Will were silent. Almost unphased. You had seen so much death, it never seemed to bother you.

Then the man jumped and you just watched, his head smashed on the ground. You opened your mouth a bit and Will grabbed your arm.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

“No,” you said, probably too aggressively. Will’s eyebrows furrowed and he stood back.

“Why?”

“I don’t want to.” Pelle watched you carefully as he calmed Alana down. He suppressed a smile.

===

You went back to the houses after everyone had calmed down. Everyone had spread out a bit. Will took Alana for a walk while you stayed in the house where you slept, making sure all of Will’s things were in order if he really wanted to leave. You almost didn’t hear Pelle sneak up on you.

“You reacted well. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you up front.” You jumped, turning back to him. You shook your head gently.

“I see a lot of death in my job.”

“Still. I imagine it was a shock.”

“A tad.” You averted your eyes. He sat down on one of the beds.

“It truly is a lovely place here. I feel very loved. They’re my family and they protect me through everything. From what I know of you, I feel you would like it here.” You tried to figure out why he was telling you that.

“I do. I mean...I don’t know.” You sat down beside him.

“Here. This will help with your nerves, just smell it.” You didn’t even think about it, you just did as he said. He put it away and then watched you for a moment. Pelle put his hand on your leg. Your eyes went wide and you stood up.

“I’m with Will,” you said. “In case you had forgotten.” Pelle looked concerned though you didn’t understand why.

“But you’re meant to feel held by the things you love. Do you feel loved by him? Held by him?”

“Yes,” you said without a beat of hesitance. “He’s my best friend.”

Pelle acted like your relationship with Will didn’t mess with his plans of having you here. But who knew. He still had Alana.

====

You hadn’t seen Will since you woke up this morning. Pelle had made you go to the May Queen dance, shoving a glass of something on you. You asked where Alana was and he said he didn’t know. Where could she have gone? Where was Will?

The worries subsided when you were dancing. You couldn’t quite see what was going on and you didn’t understand it at all but your feet were moving. Your hands were being held by the other women of the commune, their laughter infectious. It almost made you forget about Will.

Almost.

You caught sight of him walking into the field of women who had already stopped dancing. You didn’t stop but you kept your eyes on him as you moved. He looked uncomfortable. You wanted to go to him but your feet told you to keep on dancing.

There was a yell and you stopped. You were the only person still up.

“You are our May Queen!” someone yelled. You were dizzy and tired. You started to walk to Will but people were getting in your way. He reached for you.

“What?” you whispered. “Why me?”

As you struggled, people put a flower crown on top of your head. You just barely touched Will’s finger tips before they dragged you away.

“I want to see Will,” you said, sounding far away. “Let me see Will.”

They didn’t bother answering you. You started to cry quietly, shaking your head.

“We are going to do a ritual!” Pelle said, holding your hand.

“Where’s Will?”

“You are the May Queen. He will not be harmed if you so wish.” You shook your head.

“Leave him alone.” Pelle nodded and gestured for Will to come forward. You grabbed his arm and he looked you up and down. How did this dress of flowers get on you? “Don’t leave me,” you said to him, slurring your words.

“I won’t. We’ll stay together.” You looked around at the people around you. They were smiling at you, hanging off of your every movement. You took a deep breath and suddenly didn’t feel the need to hide from them.

They were like a family. Like the one you should have had.

“We’ll stay,” you said convicted.

“Huh?”

“We’ll stay.”

Hannibal Tag List: @michaelmyersthestabbyboi

@elisaa-shelby

[ethicsbutcher]

[img.2] Patrick Süskind, Perfume: The Story of a Murderer [img.1] & [img.3] Hannibal, S01 - EP05, Coquilles

Giving Hannibal an unnaturally keen sense of smell not only brings the show into the realm of magic realism as it reinforces the true nature of Hannibal Lecter; despite his passion for fine art and classical pieces, the fact of the matter is that there’s something terribly repulsive about him. He disguises his gruesome nature behind three-pieced suits and an expensive taste. But I like to think his keen sense of smell as something beastly. Something archaic and old that evolution has ceased to develop. The modern man does not need a powerful nose. But Hannibal is not a man.

Imagine categorising smell as the most animal-like of all of our senses. To find prey by sniffing the air, to be able to tell that which is poisonous or nutritious by sticking the snout into the mud, something ancient and primitive, something filthy. Hannibal Lecter’s remarkable nose is but another clue as to what he is; a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Or better yet, a monster in a remarkable man suit.

[anamelessfacelessnerd]

Mizumono by noisey_burlesque_peach

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: M/M

Fandom: Hannibal (TV)

Relationship: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Characters: Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Abigail Hobbs

Additional Tags: Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Bloodplay, Blood Kink, Biting, Love Bites, Hickeys, Coming Untouched, Coming In Pants

Language: English

Words: 1866

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: Sometimes a single kiss can change everything.

“You were supposed to leave,” Will said, eyes filling with tears.

“We couldn't leave without you.” Hannibal took a tentative step closer to Will, one hand reaching for his face as the other drew a knife closer to his abdomen just out of sight. He hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but he had anticipated it nonetheless. He had known ever since he smelled Freddie Lounds on Will days ago that he was planning on betraying him, but still he hoped that Will would change his mind at the last second.

All of a sudden Will’s hands came to Hannibal’s face. Hannibal brought the knife to Will’s stomach, but hesitated just a second, wanting to see what Will planned to do.

Perhaps for the first time in his life, Hannibal was surprised by Will’s actions. Rather than attempt to attack Hannibal, he crushed their lips together in a searing kiss that immediately took Hannibal’s breath away. He kissed back as if it were a reflex. The hand that still clenched the blade loosened and then dropped it so that he could grab Will by his hips and pull him in close. Will squeaked as he was tugged forward and Hannibal took the opportunity to shove his tongue into Will’s mouth, lapping at the warmth he found there.

Will groaned loudly, snapping Hannibal out of his momentary trance. In his confusion and lust he had nearly forgotten about the situation they were in.

Hannibal pulled back reluctantly and had to stop himself from diving back in when Will attempted to follow his lips. Kissing the man that stood before him was intoxicating. He would be content to stay here forever, surrounded by the heady scent of blood, sweat, and lust.

“Hannibal,” Will whispered. His eyes fluttered closed as Hannibal’s fingers tightened at his waist.

“Time did reverse. The teacup that I shattered did come together. The place was made for Abigail and your world. Do you understand? The place was made for all of us, together,” Hannibal said. He had planned on saying these words to Will, but the tone was completely different. There was no hurt or anger, only adoration and a sense of excitement about what was to come.

“I want to go there,” Will said, “I want to be there with you.”

“Then we will go.”

Hannibal already had everything planned out. He had new IDs and passports for the three of them, a car waiting to bring them to the airport, and everything else Will could think of. It was too easy.

Hannibal ushered Will and Abigail down the stairs and past Alana. The three of them disappeared into the night, leaving a crime scene behind them. They got into Hannibal’s car and sped off into the night without a trace.

Will had so much he wanted to say to Abigail, questions, apologies, promises, but he remained silent, worried that if he spoke to her, somehow she would break again.

It wasn’t until they were in the car that Will had the opportunity to speak to her. He slid into the backseat to be closer to her and to put some distance between himself and Hannibal. Hannibal did not ask him about it, nor did he look surprised.

Abigail held her breath until the car pulled out into traffic. Then she let out a broken sob, curling up into herself. Will wrapped his arms around her and let her sob into his check, hands balling up around fistfuls of his shirt.

“It’s okay,” Will cooed, doing his best to soothe her, “everything is going to be alright now.”

Hannibal couldn’t help but smile as he glanced at the two of them through the rear view mirror. He couldn’t contain his pride as he saw these two radiant people that he had transformed. He wasn’t upset with Abigail for crying, he knew that she wanted this just as much as he and Will did, she was just overwhelmed and he understood that. He was quite overwhelmed as well, he just showed it differently.

Will caught his gaze in the mirror and gave him the most heated look he could muster. A thrill ran through Hannibal as he thought about what that look meant. Hannibal was a patient man, always willing to wait for what he wanted, but he found that he was feeling antsy now as he anticipated being able to touch Will again.

“You’re hurt,” Abigail said once her tears had stopped. Sure enough there was a splotch of crimson soaking into the fabric around Will’s abdomen.

Will lifted his shirt and winced as his hand brushed against the shallow gash in his lower abdomen. Hannibal must have pressed on his blade a little harder than he had intended and cut Will.

“Would you like me to pull over and take a look?” Hannibal asked.

“No, I think it’s fine. It’s not bad at all,” Will said. He ripped a piece of his sleeve off and held it to the cut to stop the blood flow.

Hannibal kept a close eye on the two of them until they boarded the plane. He didn’t think that either of them would be dumb enough to run, but one could never be too careful.

Abigail fell asleep almost immediately after they reached cruising altitude, her head leaned up against the window. She looked peaceful in a way that Will had never known her to be, while she slept. Even in her coma she looked tense with all of those tubes stuck in her.

“Will.” Hannibal’s deep voice brought Will’s attention back to him. He turned his head slowly, trying not to show how obedient he truly was. He may be willing to fully submit to Hannibal, but it was best not to let Hannibal know that.

“I am going to the restroom. If you’d like me to take a look at your wound, meet me in a few moments,” he said, then got up and sauntered off toward the back of the plane.

Hannibal didn’t have to wait long until he heard a single rap on the door followed by “it’s me,” spoken in a familiar voice. He unlocked the door and pulled Will inside, kissing him with double the passion as their kiss back at the house.

Hannibal’s hands worked their way down Will’s chest until they were slipping under his shirt to press against his hastily bandaged cut.

Will groaned in pain at the unpleasant sensation. He squeezed his eyes shut and his hand gripped Hannibal’s arm tightly to steady himself.

Hannibal withdrew for a moment in order to unbutton Will’s shirt and remove the now soaked bandages.

“It appears that the damage is only skin deep. I don’t think I did any damage to your internal organs,” Hannibal said. He dropped to his knees in front of Will and pulled out the first aid kit that he kept in his bag. First he cleaned the wound with some alcohol wipes. Will winced at the slight sting and Hannibal had to suppress a smile. His boy was so sensitive.

“I am afraid I did not bring the proper materials to stitch you up, but I do have this.” Hannibal flashed a small vial of liquid sutures. He swiped the clear liquid over Will’s damaged skin, holding the edges together as he did. When he was done and the liquid was dry he covered his work with another large bandage. He pressed a soft kiss to the bandage, looking into Will’s eyes the entire time.

“Thank you,” Will muttered breathlessly, his eyes half lidded and his cock half hard.

“It is a shame it won’t scar,” Hannibal said, his fingertips dancing around the sticky edges of the cotton. “I would have liked to have marked you.”

“You have already marked me in so many ways,” Will said, his hands drifting from the counter behind him to rest on Hannibal’s shoulders. “I am yours.”

“Mine,” Hannibal repeated, getting to his feet and smiling like the fox that has just seduced the rabbit. “Still, it would have been nice to have a physical mark to prove my ownership.”

“It’s not too late,” Will said, subtly bearing his neck to Hannibal.

“No, it isn’t.” Hannibal ran a hand over and the smooth, unmarred flesh, thumb pressing ever so slightly on his adam’s apple. “Would you wear my marks proudly? Would you want the world to know exactly who you belong to?”

“Yes.” Will’s voice was barely above a whisper as he grabbed Hannibal’s hips and pulled him closer, their clothed cocks rubbing against each other.

Hannibal brought his lips to Will’s neck, placing a few gentle kisses and lapping up his sweat before his teeth got involved. He bit and sucked at the skin mercilessly, always stopping before he drew blood. Despite his desire for a mouthful of that metallic tang, he held himself back, not wanting to scare Will off. His boy was still a little skittish, and he knew that if he went too fast he would spook him.

“Harder,” Will mumbled, as if he could read Hannibal’s thoughts and he wanted it just as much as he knew Hannibal did.

Hannibal didn’t need to be told twice. He dug his teeth into Will’s soft flesh, not letting up until his sharp canines pierced the skin. Will bucked his hips when he felt the tear, his hands scrabbling for purchase in Hannibal’s clothing.

“My dear Will,” Hannibal said between swipes of his tongue over Will’s weeping skin, “you enjoy this far more than I would have guessed.”

“Have I managed to surprise you Dr. Lecter?” Will laughed breathlessly.

“You have. Many times tonight.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Delighted. Thrilled even. I was worried I might get bored of you, but it seems there is still more for me to learn.” That wasn’t true. Hannibal would never get bored of Will. His mind and body were beautiful, divine even, and he couldn’t imagine ever tiring of exploring him.

“Hannibal, I’m gonna-“ Hannibal cut Will off with a hard suck just above his collar bone. He was rutting with abandon now, chasing the release that was quickly coming to him.

Finally, with one more hard bite, Will came right in his jeans with a muffled cry, as he clamped his hand over his mouth to silence himself.

“Fuck Hannibal,” Will sighed, his head dropping to Hannibal’s shoulder.

“That was quite something my dear boy,” Hannibal said.

“I- uh- I didn’t know that I liked it enough to, you know.” Will panted.

“Well I am certainly fond of this discovery. I look forward to taking you apart properly when we have some privacy.”

“In the meantime, we have another issue to sort out.” Will grinned and dropped his hand to the bulge in the front of Hannibal’s pants.

“Ah yes, what ever shall ever do about that?” Hannibal asked, mirroring Will’s smile.

“Well now that I know what your mouth does, it’s only fair that you get a taste of what mine can do.” Will sunk to his knees, hands coming to rest on Hannibal’s belt buckle.

“I think that will be a satisfactory solution.”

[lockdownfest]

LOCKDOWN FEST MASTERPOST WEEK #2 EXTENSION

*

BLOOD AND CHOCOLATE (2007)

Stuck in the Middle with You by InsanelyWriteful (M) 6k, WIP. With the zombie pandemic in full swing, Nigel flings himself into the fray on the hunt for groceries. Don't even get him started on trying to find that most-sought-after, priceless item of all items: toilet paper. As far as the world's concerned, that doesn't exist anymore. With the world going to hell, Nigel finds himself trapped with a strange man named Aiden Galvin. But, hey, there are worse fates than being stuck with a hot piece of tail, right?

BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA

Two Weeks In Quarantine by JedIzuku (T) 48k WIP, Midoriya Izuku/Todoroki Shouto. A virus threatens all of Japan. Everyone needs to self-quarantine for two weeks to help prevent the spread. Izuku Midoriya learns that his friend, Shoto Todoroki, would be quarantined alone because of his father’s work. And Izuku won’t stand for that.A love story.

CHARLIE COUNTRYMAN

Stuck in the Middle with You by InsanelyWriteful (M) 6k, WIP. With the zombie pandemic in full swing, Nigel flings himself into the fray on the hunt for groceries. Don't even get him started on trying to find that most-sought-after, priceless item of all items: toilet paper. As far as the world's concerned, that doesn't exist anymore. With the world going to hell, Nigel finds himself trapped with a strange man named Aiden Galvin. But, hey, there are worse fates than being stuck with a hot piece of tail, right?

FALL OUT BOY

Gradually and Then Suddenly by earlgreytea68 (G) 3.3k, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz. Life in quarantine: fourth-grade science, couch concerts, blanket forts.

HANNIBAL

Point of View by house_of_lantis (M) 3.8k, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter.  Summary: Franklyn Froideveaux gets an unexpected peek into Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s personal life during their self-isolation. 

HARRY POTTER

Locked Inside Your Temper Trap by VeelaWings (E) 4.3k, Draco Malfoy/Neville Longbottom. This was a minor problem. Not the being trapped in a humid greenhouse with a sweaty, gorgeous Draco, mind you. No, it was being trapped with a sweaty, pissed off Draco who would inevitably blame Neville.Plus the obstacle of not having the privacy to enjoy a fast and dirty wank with all this evening’s material.

Top Priority by JayGwen23 (T). 8k, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter. England is trying to stop the spread of an aggressive, new virus that is affecting both wizards and muggles. Everyone is being told to self isolate. House mates, Harry and Draco are stuck at home trying to brave it through the madness, while trying not no go mad themselves.Written for Lock Down Fest.

Bored Harry by foxymoley (G) FANART. Harry's been stuck in his room at Privet Drive and is bored out of his mind!He uses his wand in a mug as a lamp as Hedwig stretches as much as she can in her cage.

Harry Potter and the Secret in the Library by EvAEleanor, tasteofshapes (E) 11.6k, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter. Draco stands outside the library for a moment, before he turns the handle and pushes the heavy double doors open. What he expects to find is a silent library cloaked in darkness. What he gets instead is a fire crackling merrily away in the grate, the library lit only by firelight, and Potter lounging on the fur rug in front of the fireplace, clad only in a terry-cloth bathrobe, a glass of wine in one hand.“What the… Potter—!” Draco yelps, and Potter looks up from the book open in front of him and raises an eyebrow at Draco.

The Magic of Muggle Films by sunshinedraco (E) 5.3k. Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter. Harry is happy to get home from an Auror mission in Northern Ireland, but may have been exposed to a contagious disease. Draco Malfoy, who comes with a team of Healers to inspect Harry and also happens to be the subject of Harry's long-term awkward crush, is also accidentally exposed. The two are quarantined together. You know what happens.

Sweetheart by WolfyWordWeaver (T) 3k, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter. Remus Lupin comes home after a long day working at the hospital and quickly realizes that something is wrong with Sirius. Avoiding COVID-19 doesn't mean avoiding all hurts and Sirius has to deal with a major hurdle. While Remus doesn't have all the answers he does know how to do his best.

Stuck Senses by TheUltimateUndesirable (E) 12k, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood. In the mist of the 2020 pandemic the wizarding world is left with a dire and unknown future as Covid-19 makes it's way into Europe. Hogwarts ends up on quarantined leaving students, professors and a Luna stuck at the school. How long will anything last and what will anything become? No one knows.

Augmented Agony by Drarrelie (T) 365, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter. Of all days... Draco's luck was apparently just as abysmal as ever. This work is part of a series of connected weekly drabbles written during 2020. It takes place in 2001, before the rest of the currently published drabbles in this series, while the two of them are still in Auror training.

If It Takes All Night by tackytiger (M) 11k, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter. It's not the first time Harry's been the victim of a botched curse (that's one of the reasons he doesn't like crowds), but he feels bad that Malfoy had to get caught up in it too. So they're bonded. That's ok, they just have to make sure to be touching at all time. No problem. Because Malfoy smells so nice, and has such lovely shiny hair, and his skin is so very warm.But this isn't going to be a problem for their friendship at all.Is it, Harry?

I'll Tell You Mine (If You Tell Me Yours) by MarchnoGirl (E) 4.2k, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter. When a cauldron of Veritaserum explodes all over Harry and Malfoy, Harry has the chance to finally discover Malfoy’s secrets. And maybe something about himself too.

Correspondence in the Time of Quarantine by Lediona, Zigster (T) 1.5k, WIP, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter. After informing Scorpius of my plan to bring him home, he wrote back immediately to ask if he might bring a friend with him to isolate at the Manor. When I inquired about the identity of this friend, imagine my surprise to discover that it was none other than your son, Albus Potter.

Garden War by Cibee (Cibeeeee) (T) 5k, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter. Harry and Draco are quarantined in their houses, a lake across from one another. What better ways to spend this time than to annoy each other with letters and attempts to prove that their garden is better ?

LITTLE WOMEN (2019)

Chocolate Kisses by lady_needless_litany (T) 3k, WIP, Theodore Laurence/Josephine March. If Jo had to be shut in her house for the foreseeable future, at least she had Laurie to keep her company.

MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE

Strange Attractors by dance4thedead (T) 882. There's an asshole in Matt's apartment. An unworthy love letter to the fic "The Goldilocks Principle". Set in late March 2020, during the COVID-19 crisis.

I walk this lonely road by xxx_cat_xxx (T) 1.6k, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov. Part 3 of Red in my Ledger.

MERCY STREET

We run a very tight ship by middlemarch, sagiow (t) 3k, WIP. Jedediah "Jed" Foster/Mary Phinney. "There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said -- no. But somehow we missed it.” Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.Every single passenger on the ship would have that thought. At least once. Sometimes, on an endless loop, like the announcement about pina coladas on Deck 4. It turned out, the only way out was through. With card tricks.

OCEAN’S 8

You Shall Go To The Ball by ShadowHaloedAngel (T) 1.4k, Daphne Kluger/Rose Weil. The lockdown means the parties are all cancelled, but Rose and Daphne decide to have a little ball at home instead. After all, when else can you have a costume party for the hell of it? And with your own fairy godmother on hand, your gown is always going to make you feel like a princess.

OVERWATCH (video game)

nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody (ooh) nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody no— by faorism (M) 9k, Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada and other ships. Like most things now, it's more a matter of not if, but when. (Or: five times Jesse kept himself together and one time he really, really didn't.)

PITCH PERFECT

Icy Hot by Notsoawesomenerd (E), 7k. Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell. No, this is not a story about the topical pain reliever. This is a story about the interesting things Chloe can do to Beca with ice and ice-related items.

Desperate Measures by aliciameade (M), 6k, Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell. Chloe and Beca have everything they need to weather the mandated period of social distancing and staying home: food, water, shelter, games, entertainment, and each other's company.The one thing they don't have?Much-needed privacy.

RWBY

The Man in Your Head by goreds (G) 431, Ozpin/Salem (RWBY), Ozma/Salem (RWBY). Salem has a friend in her head. Not that she considers him a friend...

STAR TREK: ALTERNATE ORIGINAL SERIES

fourteen by sciencebluefeelings (T) 2.6k, James T. Kirk/Spock Prime. Two years ago, Spock waited for Jim. Now it's Jim's turn to wait. 

STAR TREK: ORIGINAL SERIES

Seventy Two Hours by LiraelClayr007 (G) 2.4k,  James T. Kirk/Spock Prime. Kirk lowers his voice, makes it almost too low to hear, and this time he is pleading. “Bones. You know why I can’t stay here. You know what this’ll do to me.” He closes his eyes, then says one more time, “Please.” He can’t look when he says it. He already knows the answer.“Sorry, Jim. It’s only three days. If it’s any consolation I don’t think you were actually exposed, but we have to be sure.” He looks at Kirk, then at Spock, then shrugs. He knows what he’s putting Kirk through.Or: Kirk and Spock are accidentally exposed to something on an alien planet and have to spend seventy two hours together in an isolation chamber. Easy, right? Except Kirk is going to go mad, because he's head over heels for Spock.

STAR WARS

grey and sprawling by srawratskcuf (Doreen) (E) 7k WIP, Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren. Ben and Hux have had a rocky long-distance semi-relationship ever since Hux went away to college. Basically, they call each other once a week and have phone sex, and absolutely do not talk about their feelings.When Ben finally saves up enough to fly across the country to visit Hux, his ten day trip gets extended indefinitely. Sheltering in place together will make or break them.

SUPERNATURAL

some kinda something by quillquiver (E) 2k, Castiel/Dean Winchester. There are only so many places to hide shit when you’re playing with 700 square feet of totally shared living space. This is something Dean has become very aware of in a very short amount of time.

Que Sera, Sera by wigglebox (G) 4.3k, Castiel/Dean Winchester. A few months into his new human life, Cas comes down with a fever and cough. Usually, that wouldn't be a concern, but now there's a contagious, new illness spreading across the country, and the anxiety that comes along with it.

I Don’t Understand These References by CeliPuff, Winchesterlovr0508 (M). 1.5k. Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam Winchester. Dean says the president extended the quarantine so Sam suggested I make a journal. I suspect it’s a ploy to keep my hands off his brother but being extremely old, I’m entitled to do what I want. And I happen to have eons of experience in multitasking.I prayed to Gabriel to run some interference. I believe this is a foolproof plan.

Apocalypse by Maleyah (Katherine_Kat) (E) 36k WIP, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam, Michael/Adam Milligan. Dean moves through Cas’ kitchen with the ease of familiarity, as he sets about re-heating the leftovers. Ironically Cas’ kitchen is better equipped than the one in his apartment. It’s just that he’s been pouring all his money into The Roadhouse. The apartment is a rental anyway.“You have got to be shitting me!”His eyebrows shoot up at the language. Cas doesn’t curse often, but given the fact that the world is slowly descending into madness, he has a good guess what is provoking it. He glances behind him, across the counter that connects the open kitchen to the living room, where Cas is staring at the television. 

THE MAGICIANS

hard rain, honey, and the sweet sun by Allegria23 (E), 7k, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh. Eliot and Quentin are staying in their apartment. They both have some ideas.

THE WITCHER

Love in the Time of Video Conferencing by Elizabeth (M), 15.6k, Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier. Pestilence is a bitch, and the entire university has had to shift to e-learning overnight. Jaskier is a systems admin being forced to pick up slack for the overwhelmed help desk. Work ended hours ago, so why is he on a support call with the most technologically-incapable history professor he's ever met? And really, what is the deal with this guy?Based on the "OMG they were Zoommates" prompt from the AO3 comment Tumblr.This is, five times Jaskier and Geralt used Zoom for tech support, and one time they used Zoom for... something else. I apologize if this upsets you; it helps me cope with the emotions, so I'm hoping to channel stress into fluff and put it out there so it can possibly help others.

YURI!!! ON ICE

Music from the Heart by Multiple_Universes (G) 6.5k, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov. A curse falls over the land. It keeps people stuck indoors and will not let them out. The most powerful magician in the land seems unable to break the hold of the curse. But, as they say, love will always find a way.Inspired by videos of people singing from their balconies during the coronavirus quarantine.

[replicantdeviancy]

did someone hurt you? -connor (hannibal)

                           @intuitkiller​  || interrogation starters || Accepting

                  There had been a prevailing feeling which lingered upon every just slightly too deep breath taken & every wrong twist of his posture that the detective’s sore bones were a dead giveaway to injury. Pain was not something Connor Graham was intimately familiar with - an oddity which could be perceived as a blessing  or a curse depending on one’s point of view - but the fact still remained that when he was hurting, it was very, very real. The encounter with the Italian thugs hadn’t been an expected one, though subsequently it was not surprising. It seemed as though the game had a few new players which had entered the board & the detective could not help but speculate as to whom had tipped them off. His money was on Pazzi, whom had been acting somewhat suspicious since their last meeting. The man was avoidant, seemingly too busy to exchange pleasantries with American law enforcement, especially an FBI agent.

                  A quiet moment of pensive thought lasting a bare, miniscule instance, yet far too long all the same. Fractions of a second felt like an eternity as Will reached, touched. Connor tried not to flinch. His ribs were bruised. He did not imagine any were broken, but they must have been utterly blackened beneath the thin cloth of his fitted collared shirt. He released a breath from his nose, small & thin, & tried to smile that usual charming little smile as he remained as noncommittal as possible about his pain. Though one did wonder how committed one must have been it a touch brought hitch breath & pressure could agonize.

                  ❝ It’s nothing, ❞   he assured with a brief, shallow shake of the head. Aloof in his own way, stubborn. He led Will to the steps beside a fountain not far off & carefully eased himself to sit upon the ancient stone. The sun was setting, creating an ambiance throughout the piazza, one Connor wished he could enjoy. Alas, there were more important ventures abound than the carefree meanderings of a couple on vacation in Florence. There was work to be done, though Connor did long for an excuse to explore. Italy was more beautiful than he had ever imagined, the air itself warm & soothing, like the peaceful end of a springtime day. It was no wonder Dr. Lecter favored the country so, as it’s rich culture & the ease of obtaining life little fineries abundant. Connor wondered why the feds hadn’t tracked him here sooner. It felt far too obvious.

                  He sigh out his frustration to the loss of a beautiful night of just himself & Will, hazelnut hues turning upwards to meet richly blue tinted hazel.   ❝ It seems as though we aren’t the only ones hunting Il Monstro, ”   he informed with a pointed factualness that Connor was known for; always straight to the details, to the facts.   ❝ I met with a couple large thugs I can only assume are hitmen of a kind. They’re Italian, but not local. ❞   Not from the area but clearly native. The smelled of farmland & pigs, of filth from a less than ideal grooming routine. Countryside dwellers & very tough. He continued.   ❝ I was informed in no uncertain terms that I was to cease my investigation into Il Monstro, & I’m very sure they aren’t in affiliation with the dear doctor. ❞   Lecter might have found himself part of some colorful crowds in his time, but he would have never associated himself with such men. This stunk of outside interference. It stunk of Mason Verger.

                  ❝ I think they’re working for Mason. That lowlife has a grudge & more money than god. ❞   & an obsession with the pig farming industry, which would line up with the evidence thus far, circumstantial or not. Connor was the sort to make inexplicable leaps, just as Will did, to move further with a case. It just so happened that much like Will, he was usually right.   ❝ & I also think Pazzi might be involved. ❞   This notion made just as much sense, as the inspector had fiercely hunted down Il Monstro in favor of mending his damaged reputation. But a large payout from a wealthy American patron must have been more appealing than pride for Pazzi. The man had a young wife to consider, but this felt bigger than the capacity to spoil one’s spouse. There was something he wasn’t seeing; not yet.

                  A little anxious & stubbornly primed to continue, Connor ignored his own injuries for the sake of the hunt.   ❝ We should-- A-aah! ❞   Sitting up just a little too quickly, movement tugging at the sore muscles & bruised bones, the detective froze in his sudden motion to rise to his feet & carry on. Breath caught, breathless shivering as that pretty visage screwed up into that of anguish battled long & hard, yet this was a fight lost. A trembling hand moved to reach towards the site of the pain, only to hover there for fear any pressure would make things worse. Whoever those men were hunting down Lecter for Verger, they were tough. But Connor was no damsel, no delicate thing. He was skilled as could be in various combat techniques, but agility & speed did little when one was trapped. He had held his own, easily done worse to his opponents before his escape, but not without consequences.

                  Maybe he did have a broken rib or two. It was difficult to tell. No matter the diagnosis, the detective understood one thing as he looked into the concerned eyes of his fretful husband; the investigation was over for tonight. Connor needed rest, a bit of doctoring & some food. Pearly teeth caught the reddened swell of his bottom lip as he let out a soft series of little groans, breathy sounds of embittered anguish.   ❝ Sorry. I think I screwed up. ❞   An apology not of necessity - Will knew full well this was not his fault - but of the heart. The investigation didn’t matter to the profiler as much as the safety of his loved one, revenge second place to Connors wellbeing. A small sigh left the younger as his head lowered, eyes cast downwards. Only briefly. Only a moment. He looked to Will once more with pleading, quiet & hopeful.   ❝ Take me back to the hotel? ❞