#mite be a fic

[realbeefman]

house would put a tracker on wilson’s car to monitor where he is at all times but. then wilson would find out and start purposefully fucking with him. como he’ll leave the tracker in the parking lot of a strip club while he goes grocery shopping and then watch house lose his mind later over why wilson went to the strip club and didn’t invite house along

[museaway]

The biting insects were attacking me, but there is a steady breeze so I was able to turn off the air conditioning and open the windows. It's kind of like being outside. Writing by hand with some wine. My goal is to complete a short fill so that I can refocus on longer works tomorrow.

[eemoo1o-animoo]

It was an idea that I played around with in an unfinished WIP, but I’ll ponder over it again here. What if Sebastian planned to, after his contract with Ciel, try to convince Agni to make a contract with him (for seemingly mutual benefit but really it’s for Sebastian’s emotional benefit, possibly under the guise of it being for Agni)—whether that’s through protecting Soma alongside him, or Soma’s family as a means to make Soma happy, etc, perhaps even take the manor for them to move into—and in the process try to make the contract so there were several loopholes and clauses that made the goal of the contract near or entirely impossible to achieve. And, if the goal is met, then—after a while of remorse and apprehension—he’ll eventually devour his soul. And then he’ll be able to keep him close, forever.

[spectral-rat]

Ughhhhh

I’ve been going back and finding some fics I really liked last year but there’s just one I can’t find!!!! It’s about MC seeing the demon brother true forms for the first time, it was really well written and cross posted on Ao3 I think but I just can’t find it and I’m sad :(

[saenora]

I READ YOUR TAGS ON MY YUZUHA FIC AND SIDBISBSJSH

VAMP YUZU DONT LEAVE MY BRAINNN !!! UGHH I AM HOPING YOU WRITEE MORE FOR HER 🥹🥹

[distant-screaming]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 君のことだけ見ていたい | Kimi no Koto Dake Mite Itai (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Asakura Sakura/Nagase Yuma Characters: Asakura Sakura, Nagase Yuma Additional Tags: Fluff, Canon Compliant, Backstory, Children, Friendship, Pre-Relationship Series: Part 17 of Flufftober 2023 Summary:

It's something like this.

Sakura has always been a quiet kid. Yuma is full of energy.

Somewhere along the way, they fall in love.

[saexy]

gotttaa write two reports today and finish cfd revisoon + alg. top.

[icarrymany]

i have this disease where i 100% believe jay merrick is gay but i also think he has way too much going on to even remember that he is 💔 bro has one (1) moment of down time and his world spins because he thinks his friend is hot and he has the 'holy shit im gay' realization AGAIN. operator memory loss just eating his brain he does NOT remember college at all late series

[lizzy06]

Tokoyami Fumikage x Reader Fic Recs!!(Tumblr/Ao3/Wattpad)

My Hero Academia Fic Rec Masterlist

Advice✨ by @bnhascribbles  /ScatteredScribbles (oneshot, fluff)“Your feathers look dull,” you say, a little too fast, “And frayed. That means you don’t get enough Vitamin D.”[COMPLETED]

The Courtship Rituals of One Dark Little Bird✨ by IWillBeTheEndofYou (oneshot, fluff) Tokoyami is trying so hard to tell you something. You're so smart! Why can't you just figure it out on your own?[COMPLETED]

Rip It Off Like A Band-Aid ✨by @myheroacademiashorts (oneshot, jealousy, fluff, lil angst) You knew Tokoyami still liked you… At least, you were pretty damn sure he did. You glanced over at the scene again, brows furrowing as you watched your boyfriend duck his head closer to Tsuyu as the pair whispered.[COMPLETED]

Misunderstanding ✨ by @lordsister (oneshot, fluff, humor) Reader’s Quirk: Weretiger (can turn into a giant Siberian tiger) Kaminari stared at you as you gazed at Tokoyami, what he perceived to be a predatory gleam in your tiger-like eyes. “This is bad! She totally wants to eat him!”[COMPLETED]

You Are Just My Type by @myherofuckademia  (oneshot, fluff)Despite his life of darkness, you were Tokoyami’s sunshine.[COMPLETED]

Beak Kisses [Tokoyami x Reader]✨  by  Angry_Kitten_Bakugou (oneshot, fluff) Tokoyami is worried about kissing you, and you assure him through fluffy beak kisses that you don't mind.[COMPLETED]

attracting opposites✨ by  whatisreggieshortfor(oneshot, soulmate au, fluff) Your Quirks complement, you marks line up. It’s how you find the one that’s yours.[COMPLETED]

Face the Sun by @dira333/ Fogfire (oneshot, fluff) Tokoyami has a Crush and Class 1-A is adamant on helping, or at least getting all the tea about it.[COMPLETED]

Gift | Tokoyami by Nacatu(oneshot, friends to lovers, fluff) It’s the holidays and you want to send Tokoyami off with something from the heart.[COMPLETED]

Secret Admirer by AshREvans (oneshot, fluff) A fluffy tokoyami scenario where his female crush confesses to him after sending him a few secret admirer notes?[COMPLETED]

Sun-Kissed by LennonBlue(oneshot, fluff with lil angst)Just as the moon had fallen in love with the water and all of its ripples and mysteries, Tokoyami had fallen in love with you and all of the little things that made you yourself.[COMPLETED]

Maybe Feather Mites Aren’t so Bad After All ✨by BlackSoul36 (oneshot, fluff) Hawks gets feather mites and infects Tokoyami. You have to deal with treating them.[COMPLETED]

Valentine's Day - Tokoyami ✨ by  NightfallRevel (valentines day au, fluff)[COMPLETED]

Feathers by orphan_account(oneshot, fluff with lil angst)Newly working as a sidekick under the hero name Harpy, reader finds herself mentally and physically struggling with her quirk when things go awry, and receives assistance from everyone's favourite edgey birb.[COMPLETED]

Soulmate AU Tokoyami w/ Black and White AU hcs by @writing-freak (oneshot, soulmate au)your soulmate’s fears and insecurities are like shadows, and can turn your vision grey until you meet them. when tokoyami’s colors start fading, he becomes desperate to find you.[COMPLETED]

Soft Feathers by @justanotherpersonwhohateslife (oneshot, fluff) Tokoyami let out a small huff as your fingers rand over his feathers again.[COMPLETED]

[2lim3rz]

IN THE EYES OF THE LION (VHA) (Lion El'Jonson x Reader) (WH40K)

As a gift to a friend (you know who you are) Enjoy! Hopefully I can write more! (Part 2 to Gulliman's fic should follow shortly)

You were a nobody amongst the privileged servants. Performing your duty as you always had. Cleaning where no one trusted servitors to. Polishing all the nooks and crannies their bulky metallic bodies couldn't. It wasn't too uncommon for one of your rank and file to be in the same room as one of the primarchs in the grand hall. Yet every time it took your breath away. One of you would stow away and whisper it over your meals. Describing in your meager words of the might. The beauty. The magnificence.

The one visiting your resident Primarch's fortress, Rogal Dorn you recall his gleaming golden figure, was one you hadn't seen before. His steps were somehow lighter and as you peaked around the corner, fighting your human need to scamper and hide, you saw his armor etched delicately with foreign symbiology. Another planet's cultural markings. On his chest in the sea of silvery-blue was a sword with wings. Held in one hand with respect towards his brother was a winged helmet.

Yet it was his face that stole your breath, as all the primarchs did but this one was somehow more intense, an impossibly handsome face passively greeted Rogal Dorn. Elegant blond locks crowned his head and the similarly colored beard didn't look as course as an average man's beard did. Indeed it somehow looked soft.

Though as he spot, no, barely was past the first words of introductions, you saw (hard to see as it was from your hunched ogling manner) the way his steeled face gave a strange twitch. His nostrils flaring and eyes giving the briefest flicker about before settling undeniably where you were.

"Lion?" Rogal Dorn's low voice echoed in the empty chamber hall. You felt a shiver down your spine. A human's predator instincts switching to prey animal overdrive. Your heart thudded. Your palms sweated. All the while the new primarch, Lion (a name so fitting your breath hitched in its nerve wracked fear), just stared and stared and stared.

"We have a spy." his voice was somehow higher than Dorn's and still perfectly masculine. Your skin shivered again so strangely as he idly pointed an armored hand towards you. As if you were somehow so beneath him. You were. A mere mite in the glory of the higher beings.

Rogal Dorn, though his back was against you now, gave a full turn to where his brother's hand was pointed. Looked at you. Little groveling you as you trembled and shook and stared and stared and stared back at the glowering Lion.

Familiarity flashed in those eyes. Amusement on his features. The snapping of his gauntleted hands made you shriek and fall backwards. You saw the minute twitches in the solidly armored Astartes performing ceremonial and true guards. The trusted few around the Lion had their hands twitch to weapons.

"Come here." the primarch's voice, though not harsh, left no room for patience. Though as you stood on trembling hands you only watched Lion's face give those soft twitches as though fighting a snarl. The metal of his helmet gave a protesting groan as you started walking forward.

Rogal Dorn, thank the Emperor you mentally would praise later, noticed the actions of the fellow Primarch. His head looked towards him impossibly quick. The Lion reminded you of a feline. All subtle tensing muscle.

You didn't know it then how out of character it was for the Lion to be so out of characterly ill-mannered. The heavy and fast way Rogal Dorn's hand all but slammed on the breastplate of the other primarch. Steel eyes glaring into the luminated green of the Lion's face face.

"You are dismissed. Leave." Rogal Dorn's angered voice struck you to your core. You turned and scampered away like a punished canid. Yet before you could abscond through servant's corridors, the Lion's smooth snarl of a voice pierced your heart. "You must be rid of that one, brother."

.

.

You recounted the tale to your fellow servants during evening mealtime. Holding your hands together during the moments they threatened to shake. The gasped and held your hands during your dismissal. They tutted their worries, hoping that you would not be fired. Surely, it was just a case of wrong moment and wrong times. Surely, surely, surely.

As sure as the winded runner that panted and breathed you were needed. Personally requested by the supervisor. Worried looks. Murmured rumors already beginning. You were a gossipy lot. The supervisor shouldn't have seen to you. You were just doing your job as scheduled.

You were given a parcel. A location (the loading docks) and a time of leaving. You were being sent off. Punished worst than you ever would have thought. Lashings were preferable to totally being sent away.

Fighting your tears, you made your way at the selected time to the docks. Fighting through the blurry world as you choked sobs and the overwhelming presence of more and more Astartes about you. You were so used to the presences of them and yet there was more than usual, different ones and-

You stopped at the dock you were told to go. Your meager belongings in your arms.

You stared, disbelieving. Waiting for you were stone faced or helmeted Astartes in that familiar silvery blue. Fear washed over you as you mutely followed them. Fear froze you completely from your woe was me sulking. Fear chewed and chewed and chewed. Was Rogal Dorn giving you over personally to the Lion for punishment? He was not like that. He was a kind, if not impersonal, master.

Stepping off with a nudge to your back from a ceramite encoated fist, you nearly fell to your knees as you looked up and up and up. The Lion stood in front of you. Your heart stuttered in your very chest. "Leave me be." Lion did not need to shout his orders. His men obeyed in silence. Slinking off like the predatory beasts in men's flesh that they were.

You were alone.

Watched by the Lion.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER NINE: FOWL

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the ninth chapter in the series. Author's note: the timeline of this AU is vague, being that some events in season two has happened, implied to be a year ago, but neither Will or Hannibal have been to jail.

-‐-

“So,” says Hannibal, pouring scarlet wine into Will's proffered glass. “How much closer are you to establishing the identity of the Silicone Lover?”

The three of you are in the living room, as is customary on Will's frequent visits. The men sit so near to one another as to be almost touching, sensual in the incline of each listening ear and dancing strand of conversation.

You, conversely, inch as far into a corner as you can afford to without reprimand, your fist to your chin, a flimsy artifice of feigned disinterest in their chatter.

By this time, you are sobering into shame of your despair in Will's grudging embrace. He, for his part, seems near sick with regret of it, swallowing and rubbing at his temples like a poet over some gloomy work. Not once has he looked at or spoken to you since you slipped, cringing, from his lap, but you know that he thinks of you, his contemplation extending outwards on a phantasmal limb.

Still, it is of his case alone that he speaks aloud, dredging words up from a cistern in himself with a halting effort.

“I’ve been so deep inside the Lover’s head that I could almost... be him,” he says, through a wince. “Not a place I’d like to be for long. He’s looking for the perfect doll. None of his creations so far have lived up to the idealisation he has in his mind. That’s why he uses the silicone, and cuts the abducted women down to size. He wants them small. Biddable.”

Will sips at his wine. A red bead of it is a winter berry on his lips before he wipes it away with his rough thumb, spoiling the brevity of its mite beauty.

“Either the Lover is trying to form the girl of his dreams,” he says, “or recreate someone that already exists who, for whatever reason, he can’t have.”

“So they are substitutes,” says Hannibal. “As several young women were for Abigail Hobbs. Could the girl on this new pedestal also be a killer’s daughter?”

You glance up at the mention of the familiar name, and Dr Lecter meets your gaze, granting you silent entry into the discussion. He's had half an eye on you since your collapse into Will’s bitter mercy, intrigued by your burgeoning alliance.

Evidently his antiphon is to consent where his friend would deny you, and though you know yourself a tool in Hannibal's craft you allow such use, sensing it may benefit your cause.

“The Lover’s attachment to his muse isn’t incestuous,” says Will. “Not by blood. She’s inaccessible either because his proximity to her would make it too suspicious if he abducted her, or because to ravage her the way he does his other victims would destroy her, and that isn’t what the Lover wants.”

“What does he want?” you ask, and Will starts, a furrow creasing his brow.

“I was talking to Dr Lecter,” he says, shortly; he doesn’t turn to address you. “Don’t interrupt. It’s rude.”

The urge to laugh has you twisting your lips in towards your teeth, afraid to release the sound, lest you crack his scarce tolerance of your presence. The cinder of Will’s palm across your cheek is charred in memory, the impulse of his anger.

Hannibal says, “Perhaps it isn’t that the Lover’s paramour cannot be touched, but that to consummate that initial contact is a frontier that could never be reversed.”

Coaxed back into debate, Will considers the notion.

“He’s afraid he’ll kill her.”

“Perhaps he believes he will have no choice. A wild animal, having fled from its menagerie, is often destroyed to prevent what it may unleash upon those it encounters.”

“The only danger she poses is to the Lover,” says Will, and drains his glass. “He can’t stand the thought of giving up his profession.”

Dr Lecter’s face tilts rather dotingly aside.

“If our murderer had his betrothed in his arms, then perhaps he would practice another trade. Killing is a mere formality to the Lover. A means of disposal, not his preferred indulgence.”

Hannibal stands to walk the length of the room; Will’s head turns with a near imperceptible movement to follow, entranced, through his scepticism. Unable to look away.

“Consider the labour spent upon sexual assault and mutilation,” says Dr Lecter. “The comparative carelessness with which the Lover evicts his darlings when he exhausts their use.”

“That carelessness is their punishment,” says Will, “for daring to be anything but her.”

You lean forward in your chair, scarcely cognizant of what you do.

“Who is she?” you ask, and Will grimaces, his visage taking on a tuberculous cast.

“I– I don’t know,” he admits. “I can’t see her yet. She’s the only doll without a face.”

You are fascinated by the disquiet that has come over him, a reflection of what it is to wear the wants of killers until they feel almost his own. Hannibal, returning to his seat, decants another glass of wine, holding it in his own hand a moment as he examines his friend over the rim.

“How have your episodes been, Will?” he asks. “Have there been any more instances of you waking outdoors without knowing where you are?”

Hannibal’s gaze rests briefly upon you, and you realise, at once, that the topic has been raised partially for your benefit.

Will takes his glass with a terse fist, his eyes lowered.

“I’d rather not go into that while your patient is present.”

Patient. He is forcing distance between you, armouring himself against his illness, and your potential use of such knowledge.

Hannibal does not allow it.

“After all the ways in which you’ve held our guest, can you fairly exclude her from family matters?”

Will sneers, finally looking at you with as much ire as he can muster in his dishevelment.

“Is this a family?”

“No,” you whisper.

Hannibal says, “It’s becoming one. Time is required for the covenant to form.”

The younger man emits a sardonic laugh.

“If you say so.”

You find yourself struck by something far too like betrayal for your liking.

“Do you think she is a substitute for what might have been with Abigail Hobbs?” asks Hannibal.

“No,” says Will, firmly. “This is something else. I see the parallels you’re making, Dr Lecter, but they don’t align.”

Stung, you interject, “Yeah, because you wouldn’t have fucked this Abigail, right?"

The younger man almost writhes in discomfort, and shakes his head.

“No,” says Hannibal, coolly, more jarred by your coarse phrasing than by the question itself. “That wasn’t what she needed from us.”

The subtle emphasis on the pronoun discourages you from objection, being that you know what he has seen, in your house. What you have watched, while touching yourself in restless hours, your own hand to your throat.

“On the subject of your requirements,” Dr Lecter continues. “You don’t have to join us for dinner tonight, little one. I’ll prepare you a light lunch of seared fish and vegetables, and then you may retire from company early.”

Both you and Will turn to Hannibal, briefly united in your surprise.

“So we’re encouraging her, now,” Will says, and Dr Lecter chuckles, all loving indulgence.

“Far from it. Fasting can be practised in a healthy manner. Self-discipline need not be punitive. Our little one should learn this for herself.”

Considering the statement, you attempt, without success, to understand the machinations of his reprieve.

You cannot find it in you to thank him for the coal with which he has stoked the old flame of starving. But you are grateful for that fuel, no matter its source, and do not know which God of many to kneel to in acknowledgement.

Hannibal would think himself such a lord, with you and Will as his parishioners. Yet again, it may be that Dr Lecter is the churchgoer between the two men, the one who, as in your dream, may acquiesce, hands clasped, to a lover’s word.

“Am I allowed to do what he says or not, daddy?” you ask of Will, in the end, who tsks and all but flounces in defeat.

“Go ahead,” he says. “I’m not qualified to oppose Dr Lecter’s care. But when you regret it, I won’t be there to comfort you.”

You no longer believe him. Like Jack, Will has a partiality for the vulnerable, and though he may deride your other qualities, he aches for you in your suffering even as he worsens its sting.

*

In the auburn night you attempt The Idiot again, tearing through one chapter to the next as hunger rides you like death on horseback, a test against the grindstone of will. You’ve gone longer than this without eating, before, a day or two on water alone, and only sips of it, at that.

But the new frequency of meals in Hannibal’s home has reawakened your appetite, and your gut wails in craving of all that you abjure.

You think of descending the staircase and asking sheepishly for an invitation to dinner, but you would rather see the grave than the humiliation of admitting such hunger before your jailors.

Sleep is an impenetrable country, food the geographic distance between you and its gentle hold. By two in the morning you’re marching the room, yearning to weary yourself beyond appetite. Knowing that after the assaults and the erasure of your outside self you haven’t the mettle to maintain the long walk as once you could.

As you do every night around this time you try your bedroom door, a routine of soothing repetition. Again you find it open, which you have known in your soul that it would be since Hannibal had made his golden offer to you that afternoon.

Surely this, like the time before, is an experiment in what you will do in the slumbering house. You daren’t try for an escape— Hannibal will start from his bed at the sound of a window shattered, a door forced at the lock, and will catch you, barefoot in your lace nightgown amidst the night damp of fallen leaves.

Perhaps, knowing this, he thinks you’ll creep to him or Will instead for want of a love of which they’re bereft. The notion of familial synergy is the absinthe dream that Hannibal chases, shared blood in the appetite of lust rather than parenthood. 

You should remain abed, deny the doctor and his accomplice their entertainment. But hunger shoves you by both shoulders down the staircase, towards the kitchen door, and it lies open.

As in a fairytale you enter, thoughtless, moth-drawn to the flame that is food, in Hannibal’s refrigerator, prising back the hinge to reveal the luxuries within. Pretty displays of fresh vegetables and salad, labelled bottles of milk and cream, truckles of cheese, sliced meat—chicken, beef, ham—

You sway in the song of your hunger, attempting to bid yourself away with thoughts of how firmly you’ve stood against it, thus far, how strong you are, how in control.

In a moment your hand is on the shelf and unwrapping a pale slab of chicken, and then it’s in your mouth, and sectioned between your teeth, and swallowed. The taste of it isn’t chicken, but something else, and you don’t care until you see your face reflected in the refrigerator door, and realise the beast you are. What you have done.

You clutch your throat, attempting to calculate the calories—seventy, a hundred, a hundred and fifty, small numbers to a person not possessed by the spirit of disorder, but to you a devastation, the shattering of your sturdy fast.

It is Will and Hannibal’s fault, you decide, both having pinched you in a vice of brick with its store of feasts, intentional, evil. They have pushed you to break this vow of hunger you have made to yourself, and in that second of despair you thirst to be avenged.

Across the kitchen sits the knife rack, blades of ranging sizes and uses, each ground to a killing edge. You seize one from the middle and return to the stairs, pausing on the landing to consider the closed doors beyond.

Hannibal, you know, would overpower you with flippant ease, but Will, for all his protestations, is fragile. Breakable.

You approach his room and try the door handle with caution. Another left unlocked— fate has passed through the house before you, a goddess on gossamer feet.

In reverential silence you cross the room to Will’s sleeping hump on the bed and stoop over him, the knife raised in both hands, watching him twitch through unpleasant dreams.

In the dark Will’s face is corpse-like, ailing; you almost marvel to think this same man capable of the savage acts you’ve come here to kill him for. Perhaps his death will rinse you of the filth and pain that braids you into so gruesome a shape as you find yourself in. Perhaps his death will distract Hannibal enough that he tends to the cadaver rather than pursues you from his door—

You know not whether to slash Will’s bobbing throat or stake his chest, nor how hard to strike to ensure his death over injury. A mistake may be your end, not his, yet you lean with one knee upon the bed, the knife like a steel flame igniting the dark.

You contemplate how it will feel to kill, whether your form will throb with joy in excelsis, or if you’ll merely recoil, sickened by the blood, by the sounds and the many smells of dying.

But what of afterwards, when you have run, and Hannibal has turned to the police? He has the force in his pocket, and being that there is no mark of Will’s crimes upon your person you will surely be imprisoned for murder.

Tattle Crime will call gleefully of the act: “ANOREXIC CHARGED WITH STABBING RECLUSIVE SPECIAL AGENT IN SHOCKING ATTACK”.

Your family, your parents, stained and shunned for having raised a killer—

The reluctant knife withdraws, and you make to climb down off the bed. Disturbed by the lifting of weight from the mattress, Will stirs, muttering, then takes a seizing breath that jolts him suddenly awake. His eyes roll, glazed, before fixing upon you, a gothic figure in a pallid nightdress, holding a blade.

He tussles upright, rigidly alert. His expression is terror and fury, disbelieving.

“What are you doing?” Will demand, and snapping from the spell that holds you fast, you break for the door, thinking, even as you run, how few places there are in the house for you to hide that he will not find you.

Will follows in a sleep-numbed stagger, a corpse revived from the grave. He ought to be slow, but he is on you before you’ve gone further than the nearest corridor, shouldering you against a wall so hard that a shelf of ornaments jingles in ominous response to the collision.

You think nothing, only the animal blank of facing the bolt gun, the huntsman’s cur.

The knife rises, erect, between you, and Will folds your arm against the wall. His other hand wraps across your mouth, cupping your rising scream like the sea in a shell.

“Do you want Hannibal to wake up and find out what you did?” asks Will, in a coarse semi-whisper. “No? Then be quiet.”

His stare flenses the tallow darkness with a nocturnal literacy. He’s no longer trembling. The danger in him is well lived in, inherited from the killers whose minds he’s made his crown, and from his friend, in all his tutorship.

It’s what makes them so close, Will and Hannibal, almost one, synonyms of a pagan death.

You turn your jaw from your attacker’s hand and coax him down from his ire in a pleading moan.

“I’m sorry. I'm sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was upset. I don’t know why I did it. I wasn’t really going to—”

“Oh, I know you were never going to go through with it,” Will spits. “You’re not capable. Killing isn’t in your nature. You’re too soft for that. Aware of the consequences.”

He looks you up and down with a sour leer.

“You wish that you were a murderer. You held that knife and prayed for something to come over you, a holy, righteous need for revenge. But it didn’t. Couldn’t, because you don’t believe that you deserve to be released from what others have done to you.”

His grip squeezes your wrist, and you gasp into his hand, smothered by your own breath.

“Next time you pull a knife on someone, you’d better hope that you’ve gained enough self-esteem by then to see it through,” says Will. “I don’t plan to kill you tonight, but someone else might. Maybe that’s what you were hoping for, after all.”

He leans into you, curls falling in dark links across his brow. He smells of bed, the damp pelt of animal, and bottled scent. His white t-shirt is nearly black with night sweat, his stale breath metallic against you.

There is a joist of firm flesh at your thigh.

He likes this. The chase and capture, even the knife meshed between the bones of your slippery fingers and his, the knowing that he could make a gushing rose of your throat with the most delicate turn of it— he loves it all, the rut-hunger of all creatures that look death in the eye and survive.

You look sideways at the blade, and with leaden reluctance, Will turns to a nearby bookcase to set it down.

“Little girls shouldn’t play with knives,” he says, and you give a hysterical laugh.

“Hannibal isn’t here. You don’t have to try and impress him.”

The young man chuckles softly.

“What makes you think Dr Lecter isn’t trying to impress me?”

“I guess he is. He brought me here for you.”

Will sneers.

“An unwanted gift. You make it difficult not to be ungrateful.”

Mirroring the cruel twist of his expression you attempt to glide away from him, along the wall.

Will’s arm shoots out, blocking your path.

“Let go of me!” you cry, but your voice has no force to it, only mounting fear.

“You think I’ll just let you go to bed after threatening to kill me?” asks Will, incredulously.

“Why not? You deserve it. You even said so. And maybe you’re wrong about why I didn’t do it. Maybe I don’t want to be like you and Dr Lecter.”

Something shifts in Will’s expression, a murky wind of silhouette.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re murderers,” you spit. “You killed somebody. Garret something.”

“Garret Jacob Hobbs was the Minnesota Shrike,” says Will, almost defensively. “He killed and mutilated girls all over the state. His wife became his victim, and he slit his own daughter’s throat. I had no choice but to shoot Hobbs. I acted. It had to be done.”

“And Hannibal?” you ask, trembling in Will’s hold. “He’s killed before. I know he has. I know. Please don’t lie to me.”

For a beat you think that Will won’t answer, his eyes shifting to some point down the hall.

Then he says, “It was self-defence. A serial killer named Tobias Budge. He broke into Dr Lecter’s house. Would have killed him if Hannibal hadn’t overpowered him. How do you know about that? He didn’t tell you.”

“Self-defence,” you repeat, ignoring the question. “I bet Dr Lecter liked it. I bet you both liked it. That’s why I’m here. So whatever you feel when you murder people you can feel with me all the time.”

You grope along the wall for the knife, half-heartedly, knowing your captor will never let you take it. He pins your hand down with a scrambling clumsiness, damp fingers locked into yours.

“Is that how it feels?” Will snarls. “Like we’re killing you? Because it should remind you that after all you’ve done to your body you’re still here.”

Then, as he speaks again, he invokes your dream, as though by psychic synthesis you conceive the same thought at once.

“It should remind you that Hannibal and I are the reason you’re still alive.”

You let out a cry of fear, involuntary and absolute, and again Will binds your mouth with his palm until you taste the dirt of his sweat, and cannot breathe.

Suddenly the heart of shadow that is Will’s face is mud and thunder, and he lets go of your arms to rustle your nightdress to your waist in an tenor of cotton and ribbons.

You struggle and strain against the wall, knotting your legs over each other against him. With ease Will parts them again and runs two fingers beneath the trim of your panties until they are buried in your satin angst.

They move with skill, with spite, with will to wound; tears start from you like a spring from mountain rock, and the cruel young man observes as they fall without sympathy, still playing your cunt with his hand.

He does not strike you as a man that beds women often, yet he has done so, to know how to smith such pleasure from even unwilling flesh. You can do nothing but submit to him, a blót to such gods as have taken you to bleed.

Sensation, salt-sweet, unburdens you of pain, and you find you can only stand through Will’s hold upon you. Cannot speak, cannot scream, as he cuts his pleasure from you. Like a sorcerer beneath the waves he has stolen your voice, as well.

Will widens your legs with the jut of a knee, loosening himself from his undergarments as he may take some drill from its hellacious box. You stare into his eyes, begging, without words, for him to revoke his darkness. The dark stares back, the mouth beneath like something dreamt of by heathens in its fathomless cruelty.

“You’ve earned this,” says Will. “Take it with grace.”

He lifts your right leg and clips it to his waist, unlatching access to your heat. With his sneer close to your cheek he runs you through, his cock a barbarous girth to which you cannot acclimatise, cannot accept as a thing that must be.

The bones of your back bruise against the cool wall, and your breath, beneath Will’s palm, is a simian pant-hoot of woe and suffering lust.

You do not want him, but to be propulsed into this place without agency is your liberty: what you feel is his fault, and you come apart like a snarl of soot in the working of his evil.

Will’s hand impresses its print upon your hip. His mouth comes to the crook of your neck in a bite, a kiss, or something worse. His slim body snaps like a birch switch against you, and he opens your centre to his girth until your mind is a vapour of fright and climax, wetting your legs in the rotten release of it.

Your captor feels the quake of your orgasm and, in recognition, follows, his groan muffled by your neck, his frame a trap against you, shaking into stillness.

Then he steps away from you, turning his head as you rearrange your dress, oddly chaste.

You look at him in numb silence, unable to move from the wall without his word.

At last Will picks up the knife again and nods towards the staircase.

“Let’s put this back in the kitchen,” he says, “before Hannibal gets up and notices that it’s missing.”

You follow him downstairs, soundless as a wraith, close to his side, as though by hurting you he has somehow bound you to his flank. Will returns the knife to its rack with meticulous care, considering it for a long time before he speaks again.

“I doubt this’ll be the last time you contemplate murdering one of us. That’s as far as I recommend you go.”

You search yourself for the ability to answer him.

“Why?”

“Wolves kill their rivals' pups to keep them in check,” says Will, “and Dr Lecter is not above emulating that behaviour if he thinks it’ll keep you in line.”

As usual, you cannot tell if he’s being literal or not. You settle to nod, and Will glances around the kitchen, his eyes falling on the refrigerator door where a greasy smear remains in the autumn moonlight.

“Your handprints?” he asks. “So you stole food. Should have asked to join us for dinner.”

You lean against a countertop, your head hanging, truly ashamed.

“I messed up.”

Will picks up a hand towel and rubs at the door until your fingerprints vanish.

“You live here,” he says, grudgingly. “It’s not exactly a capital offence to eat from the fridge.”

“No,” you say, in a piteous wail. “I mean I shouldn’t have eaten at all. I gave in. I ate. No self-control.”

You see Will’s shoulders drop, and he says, with pained neutrality, “That isn’t true. You gave your body what it needed.”

Half-sobbing, you pull at your flesh through your nightdress, gathering up handfuls of skin.

“I don’t know why you even want to touch me. I’m so disgusting.”

“No,” says Will, and this time he speaks firmly. “You’re a lot of things, but that isn’t one of them. I don’t want to hear you say that again.”

He passes a hand across his face, an exhausted reflex.

“Go to bed, One,” he mumbles. “And tomorrow you’re going eat again. I’ll see that you do.”

The next morning, red-eyed over coffee, Will watches you attempt your breakfast. He makes no comment, only waits as you masticate each scrap of beetroot and artfully scrambled egg twenty times until the slow process meets its finish.

Hannibal turns Will an unreadable look across the table.

“You look weary, this morning,” he says. “I thought I heard you wandering the house last night. Was anything the matter?”

You drop your fork with a frightened loss of coordination, expecting to be handed over to him for further hurt. Yet Will only puts down his coffee cup, folds his arms across his chest, and says, quite casually, “She was hungry, just like I knew she’d be. She went looking for food. I sent her back to her room. Nothing to write home about.”

It’s only when Hannibal carries your dirty plate back to the kitchen that you look up at Will, softening your eyes against the flint of hatred within you.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

An almost smile turns the edges of Will's mouth.

“I’ll tell him, someday. Just not now.”

[bk-4-trash-fire]

Ok but I seen some fic of the reverse sagu, I think it's cool concept

But only with a normal human reader

Anything else would be horrifying or headache to deal with

Anyways....

REVERSE SAGAU BUT WITH DIFFERENT READERS

make sure to not spam my account please I don't want to block you

Thinking about how if the reader came from places with a not so good environment to live in

Favorite example [the last of us, resident evil, and more obvious ones

But think...

How about thing like rain world and little nightmares ?

That world be probably a literal nightmare [pun intended] do deal with

With little nightmares they are either dealing with a creator that is

A child no older than 12 who has most likely eaten something or someone

Or

A person who has [somehow] grew up in the world of nowhere and managed to not be corrupted by it

If they are a slug cat tho..

Then the characters should be worried of the many thing ready to kill them snd their creator at any second

Plus having to understand the world their creator lives in is just a shadow of the world it once was

EVEN SPLATOON WOULD BE SOMEWHAT TERRIFING

Because they characters by the logic of the world of splatoon, they would be considered as living fossils

And them having to find out what happened TO humans definitely wouldn't be a happy experience

We literally nuked ourselves so hard we went extinct

Plus I think it's funny that one of the only remnants of our time is a fucking cat

AND SINCE WE'RE HERE MITE AS WELL TALK ABOUT CULT OF THE LAMB

CUZ HAVE OF THE SHIT THAT HAPPENS IN GAME WOULD SCARE THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF THEM

All this blood, guts, murder, and violence is done by this tiny fluffy death lamb that probably sees the reader as a god

Lil shi probably wants to kiss the reader feet

That's all for now and have a cool night

:]

[gallusrostromegalus]

AEIWAM: Why DOES the God Machine decay, anyways? It's operating outside of time and space. For that matter, I have Other questions about it. Why does it generate existence in the first place? Does it change its composition over time? Does it communicate with others like it? Did someone make it?

Strictly speaking, there is no reason for life to exist, here or in the fic. This is all just a very fun accident. Life exists in the 4 dimensions we're familiar with not because there is a reason FOR life to exist, but because there is no particular reason for life to NOT exist. I think it's the same in twelve or two hundred forty-seven dimensions. There's no reason for life to NOT exist outside of our understanding of time and space, so there's not particular reason to think it does not exist.

So the life machine exists, not because it was made, but because there is no reason it should not exist.

One thing that does seem to be true across different dimensions (and by "dimensions" I mean "measurable spectrums in which reality can exist", not "Alternate universes") is that death, or at least, entropy *does* exist. The universe we live in will eventually experience heat death. Time unravels under specific conditions and indications are that those conditions will eventually become dominant. All things, even the laws of physics, eventually die.

So the Life Machine dies, because for some reason, all things do.

...But also Things are born for no particular reason.

The big bang happened for no particular reason other than nothing was stopping it (kind of literally). Some people think that the universe will not experience heat death at all, but a dimensional collapse that crushes it all back together, before it explodes again, like a cosmic inhale and exhale.

Perhaps the Life Machine is not dying at all, so much as this version of it is reaching the next phase of it's life cycle, and it departs it's mortal coil not for oblivion but it turns to goop to reform into a body measured in entirely different dimensions.

Which is a bit of an upheaval for its microflora.

The Life Machine generates life in the same way you and I 'generate' the conditions of our intestines that support bacteria. If you ask most people, they do not think their primary purpose in life is to play host to billions of microorganisms, but that is very much something we do, and depend on.

Likewise, the Life Machine is misnamed, because it's got purpose beyond human understanding, like how humans have purpose beyond the understanding of eyelash mites. It's doing it's own thing, we just live here. but if all our microflora and fauna were to leave, it'd be a major problem for us, and if all life were to stop, it'd be a problem for the Life Machine.

In the Tarot, "Death" symbolizes change, and the Life Machine is Dying in the sense that it's definitely changing. Whether that change is the change from caterpillar to butterfly or from whale to whalefall is beyond the comprehension of Mortals, or even things like The Soul King.

Soul King's job is to keep the souls alive through this, and they achieve this by exploiting the fact that this change is also when the Life Machine reproduces. Regardless if the current Life Machine becomes a butterfly or a corpse, it's offspring will have suitable conditions for life to continue. Maybe this is a gift form parent to child- the life machine passes her internal flora to her offspring like a mother transfers her own colonies and antibodies to her child via colostrum. Maybe the Life Machine isn't thinking of it's offspring at all and this is all just the machinations of the parasites to propagate themselves into a new host for the sake of future generations.

Either way, neither action is planned or designed, but are still acts of love from a parent to child. Woman and Nematode alike loves her daughter.

TL;DR: As Above, So below, in the gooeiest and most incomprehensible but deeply loving way possible.

[electricaquarius]

Midnight fanfiction time strikes again, this is my first Gale x reader! Completely gender neutral, only thing described is that the reader is prone to migraines. Short and fluffy. (Also it seems like some of my fics are missing? I'll repost them sometime soon)

As you slowly opened your eyes you felt the morning light like two daggers directly to your skull. You rolled over and groaned, using your arm to try to block it out but it was no use, you officially had a migraine. As if the tadpole wasn't enough your head was now trying to implode on itself. The sound of Lae’zel sharpening her blade was nearly enough to make you cry. Hands over your ears you stumbled out, still dressed in night clothes, needing to explain you cannot possibly adventure out today. As the unofficial leader you felt a certain sense of guilt taking a day off but the world feels so spacey and dreamlike it's impossible to concentrate on much other than the pain. You believe Wyll had ordered you back to bed at some point but honestly it could have been any of your friends. You're just happy to be able to rest once more.

You woke up later, but you're not sure how much time had passed. Hours, certainly, since it was dark outside. Although, there was a slight tinge of weave in the air that made you question that, alongside the soft sound of waves even though you were miles from the nearest coastline. You sat up and scanned your tent to find Gale sitting in one corner, book on his lap. ‘Gale…?’ You croaked out, throat dry from sleep.

His voice was a low whisper. ‘Ah, good morning. Or evening, as it might be.’ He chuckled. ‘I thought a darkness spell might help, I understand you were quite light sensitive this morning. Please, let me know if you want me to stop.’ He reached over and poured a cup of water for you. ‘Drink. Dehydration will only make your headache worse.’

You took the cup from him gratefully and took several small sips. ‘How long was I out? Have you been concentrating for all that time?’ Added to the guilt of a wasted day, you now have the shame of taking up Gale's time when he could have been doing one of the thousand little chores you were unaware of before you started camping with your be-tadpoled friends.

‘Most of the day, I'm afraid. I do hope you're feeling better. Although you needn't worry, darkness is hardly a demanding spell even to maintain it for several hours.’ There was that pride coming through again. At times it infuriated you but right now it was quite endearing.

You sat up properly and brought your knees to your chest. ‘Still, to sit with me like this for the whole time I was asleep… you're very nice to me. I'm not quite sure why.’ You shrugged. It was true enough, you couldn't quite see Gale doing something *this* nice for your other companions. There had been something between you ever since your little magic lesson but nothing that either of you could name.

‘I could say the same about you, after having not only accepted my condition but helping to treat it. Let's say it's an equal exchange.’ He tucked away the book and brought a hand to your forehead. ‘No fever. Good. I'm afraid treating that would be a mite more complicated.’

You rolled your eyes and flopped back down onto the bedroll. ‘Must you be so mercenary? That was the perfect time to tell me how much you like me.’ You took another sip of water to avoid Gale's gaze for a moment.

‘I won't argue, considering you're still recovering, but I will say you were the first to bring it up. And I won't waste time telling you what you already know. You mean a great deal to me, and if I may be so bold, I do to you.’ He leant down and kissed your forehead before rising. ‘I'll call you when dinner is ready, you should eat.’

Stunned into silence, you can't respond until Gale is across the camp and preparing dinner. If this is how he reacted, you make a mental note to play sick more often.

[detectivebambam]

imagine if you will,

jeremy, jean, andrew, and neil pining over kevin and eachother. they keep on flirting with eachother. jerejean and andriel are already together talked about this. kevin is even more oblivious about emotions, especially romantic ones, than neil was. He keeps tamping down the way he's always smiling around jeremy, leaning towards jeans touch, staying closer to andrew, and more enthusiasticly happy around neil. one day jerejeanandreil talk it out and make a plan to ask kevin. jean, neil, and andre are conviced that kevin likes them back but is just holding back. jeremy is a bit more unsure but they reassure him. They flirt with kevin big time. he notices but thinks that its the way that he thinks it is ( the dumbass). the other get frustrated then during one night in california after a fox vs trojan game (trojans won) they get so frustrated because everybody (especially jean) flirted with kevin 200% more. both teams noticed and even helped them, dropping hints to kevin who thought that it was just because of the excitement of the game (idiot). Jean can't take it any more so he drags kevin to a seperate room with the others and they spell it out infront of him in a extremly passive aggressive way. even jeremy except he was mite bit too shy. still annoyed. Kevins shocked. he agreees to be in a relationship with them all and they go to where jean lives, throws the others out and take turns kissing kevin for long periods of time all over his body. (especially jean who spent much more time daydreaming about this). by morning his lips are slightly split and extremely bitten red and puffy. His neck is a mixture of purple and red. they had to kevin out to where the other foxes were staying to ask allison for concealer and color correcter. nobody let him forget this. the trojans smirked at him for a whole month after. do with this what you will but if you turn this into a multi chaptered fic or ask someone to do it and send me the link then i worship you as if you are god (pleas) or if not then can i just have some Keverejeandreil headcanons? although i would like the first option more but do whatever your comfortable with!

oh so sweet i love them

my buddy @bokuakamazing has a v nice Keverejeandreil fic idk if it's on ao3 but it's on its page

Headcanons would be that Jeremy is the most dominant for sure, with Jean being the most submissive (Jer - Neil - Drew - Kevi - Jean)

Jer and Drew are always chilling while the others bicker

Jean and Drew snuggle the most

Kevi and Neil fight the most

Jean is everyone's favorite but Kevi is the princess

[distant-screaming]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 君のことだけ見ていたい | Kimi no Koto Dake Mite Itai (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Asakura Sakura/Nagase Yuma Characters: Asakura Sakura Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Internal Monologue, Confessions, High School Series: Part 17 of Whumptober 2023 Summary:

Sakura decides to go boom.

(or: Sakura confesses)