#the bit really did spiral a touch out of control but the fic is glorious and i highly recommend it!

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 4

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: Let me know if you want on my tag list?? I’ve had a couple people ask to be added. Ongoing Queen fic and such, expect updates weekly, if not more frequently.

Warnings: Drinking, swearing, and some steamy AF cupboard action? Does all of Queen appearing (finally!) in this chapter count as warning-worthy??

Abstract: A child’s game is played, though several people win at games not everyone knew were being played.

You weren’t sure exactly what Roger Taylor was offering, and you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to turn him down; if it weren’t for the enigmatic, dancing God standing next to the blond God, you might have a hard time resisting the glamorous Roger. Your heart was already spoken for, even if you hadn’t realized it yet. Roger put an arm around Deacy’s waist. He had to admit, Deacy had delectable taste in women. The kind of women that tended to go after his friend, however, weren’t always the kind of woman Deacy was looking for. He wasn’t strictly a one woman a night kinda guy; that wasn’t to say Deacy didn’t like to have his fun or indulge his base desires, rather that he was a bit more choosy than most about the women he invited along for the ride. Roger respected this the most about his friend. And even though he’d never admit it, he admired him even more for his discerning palate and all-encompassing self-control.

They could get whatever they wanted when they wanted it, Roger thought. Perhaps the most chaotic thing about Deacy was his ability to simultaneously flaunt that fact and yet outright deny it; turning away from limitless lechery and immediacy was perhaps the ultimate form of Deacy’s rebellious chaotic energy. He could allure anyone and say no in the same breath. Roger, however, rarely said no, considered seduction his favorite hobby--besides his cars and his drums. He was maybe a cad, but he never took advantage; Roger Taylor always knew where to draw the line, and if that line was the curve of a woman’s body, even better.

He hoped you were capable of dealing with Deacy’s complexities, because from the look in his friend’s eyes, Roger could tell Deacy was falling in such a way he was probably already writing songs about you in his head. He hated the idea of seeing his friend get hurt again. Roger was all fire and every emotion was always plastered on his fine face; if you could read a book, you could interpret his face and his feelings; Deacy felt everything startlingly deeply, and even though he trusted the members of Queen above all, there were times he’d rather run away for weeks than tell them what was wrong. Could you be the exception?

“That depends,” you said, “What kind of game are you playing?” A wry smile had appeared on your face. You were feeling the alcohol a bit more, and felt braver because of it. You looked at Deacy, and had a hard time not thinking about what it would feel like to kiss him in this room full of witnesses. To claim him publicly would be the most fantastic move, you thought. Not to mention a huge turn on for you. You tried to put it in the back of your mind next to your thoughts of pressing him up against a wall and running your hands all the way down his torso.

There was a faraway look in your eyes Deacy couldn’t help but find intriguing and exquisite. That, he thought, was the perfect word to describe you: exquisite.

“I have an idea what you’re playing.” Deacy said, “You and Freddie really can’t help yourselves, and you’ve enlisted Y/N’s friend, and now you’re trying to enlist us to be party to your...foreplay adventure.”

“I would never say ‘foreplay adventure.’” Roger simpered. He licked his lips, and looked at you, “Listen: we’re simple men who play scrabble for fun for fuck’s sake. And what we’re doing now is equally childish, yet a rockin’ blast of a time.”

“Oh yes! Sardines is without qualification a ‘rockin’ blast of a time.’” Jim laughed sardonically.

“Wait--you’re playing reverse hide-and-seek?” You asked somewhat gleefully.

“What of it, love?” Roger asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Let me get this straight--”

Jim snorted into his cocktail, and the boys smiled at him fondly.

“Let me get this straight,” you repeated shaking your head a Jim, a full-on smile on your face, “You’re adult rock-stars playing sardines?”

“Come now, this is a time-old romantic tradition dating back to the Victorian Era.” Roger explained, rather scholarly, you thought.

“God save the Queens.” Deacy said automatically.

“God save the Queens,” Jim responded. You had the distinct feeling Jim was talking about one Queen in particular, and that this call and response was a typical exchange of the group you had become part of.

Deacy removed himself from Rog’s grip, and offered you his hand. You took it, allowing him to help you up. Standing next to him for the first time, you noticed how tall he was, and were instantly relieved you had the foresight to wear heels tonight. You’d still have to stand on your tiptoes to kiss him properly, you guessed.

“Look at it this way,” Deacy pulled you closer to him, staring into your eyes the entire time, “games of proximity are significantly better as adults.”

You smiled at each other knowingly, as if you had been exchanging hidden messages since childhood. It was clear to you now, maybe for the first time tonight, Deacy wanted to get you alone, to experience you by himself, a room all your own. Perhaps, this was the ultimate test for any two people, to survive the tedious one-on-one for the first time. To bypass all the pitfalls and emerge for the better and wanting to know each other better wasn’t always easy or simple. You knew, however, you wanted nothing more than to find out if you were compatible in every sense of the word.

“You’d have to find me, first.” You challenged.

“I could find you in a room full of darkness, you gleam that brightly for me.”

Dumbstruck, you felt that newly familiar sensation of time pausing again. It was such a line, you thought, but there was something about the genuine way he said it, the slight shyness, the undercurrent of embarrassment that showed you he felt flabbergasted saying it, too. Maybe it was audacity of the audience, or the fact you had known each other for hardly an hour, barely knew anything about each other, but whatever it was, it wasn’t just a line for him, because you knew the last thing he wanted was to show bad judgment. Statements, lines like that can seem like a game, something a player would say to get his way, or show the emotional hand of someone who rushes into relationships too quickly. The way he said it, the mixed emotions, however, conveyed what the words couldn’t: he was saying this against his better judgement precisely because he couldn’t help himself. Another paradox, you thought.

“Another paradox,” you whispered.

For Deacy, you had said the magic word. He knew you understood him better in these brief minutes than most had his entire life.      

Roger cleared his throat, “Mates, you’re supposed to be helping me find Lydia. Keep your baseline in your pants.”

“You’re one to talk, Rog.” Jim came around the bar, determined to help in the search. “Pretty sure you’re up for action any day, action any night.”

Roger glared at Jim.

“Right,” Deacy said. “Let’s do this.” You nodded in agreement, and let go of Deacy’s hand.

“Alright, you all know the rules? We all split up and search for Lydia, and when we find her, hide with her until the last one of us comes a long and is declared the loser. Now, keep in mind Bri and Freddie are already playing. I lost track of them, oh, I don’t know, thirty minutes ago? They could be anywhere.”

“I like a challenge.” You said, clapping your hands together.

“Did Freddie start playing before or after the chandelier?” Jim asked Roger.

“...Well, during.” Roger confessed hesitantly.

Jim closed his eyes in gentle frustration, “Thanks for the hint,” he said, and quickly zipped off among the throng of people, deciphering something in Roger’s words only one’s lover could understand.

You lost track of him rather fast, and amused yourself imagining Jim sneaking off into a secret passage like film noir detective.

Deacy wanted to just whisk you away, use this game as an opportunity to get you alone, but he was also competitive and liked to win. He was torn. Part of this game was deception and distraction and knowing your prey. He was contemplating the best tactic when he noticed you had left his side slyly and without sound or word. Surprised, he smiled at your initiative. He took it as a personal challenge, endearing him to your spirit even more than before.

“Hey, hold this for me, mate?” Rog said, handing Deacy a balloon he had fumbled down from over the bar. “Right,” Deacy said holding the string.

That’s when Roger popped the balloon, and made sweet his own ostentatious getaway.

Deacy stood at the bar, quite alone in a room full of people, still holding the string to the popped balloon, “Right.” He repeated.

You were in the room you had most wanted to enter since you arrived at the party. A glorious white grand piano rested in the center of the room. Vast, rich red curtains hung from the bay windows circling the exterior. A spiral staircase was off in the corner of the room, almost hidden, certainly meant to be ignored. What was it like to live in a place where something as inherently fancy as a spiral staircase was commonplace?

The ceiling looked like a renaissance painting, though you were certain some of the angelic figures were, indeed, of cats and not cherubs. You smiled at the adorable yet bizarre tribute to the fine feline kind. Only Freddie, you thought. Unless this was Jim’s dramatic touch? You thought better of it; only a rock-star would do this to their ceiling. You wondered what it would be like to compose rock songs at this piano, in this space, in this townhouse. Down the rabbit hole, indeed, you echoed Jim’s words from earlier. Especially in this room, they rang true. You couldn’t bring yourself to touch the piano without permission, though you longed to sit and play, perhaps to entertain, maybe to show off.

Instead, you checked behind the curtains for Lydia. She wasn’t there, though. You decided to not go back the way you came, but to use the inexplicably curving, tight staircase that led up towards the cat-painted ceiling, and off along towards an indoor balcony. You weren’t sure exactly yet where it led, but couldn’t resist the urge to find out. You ascended the staircase and followed the balcony along into another room. You found yourself on the second floor over a modest library. If a two-story library could be called modest, that is. Large ferns took advantage of the floor to ceiling windows resting between the shelves. You wondered who the gardener was who took painstakingly good care of them.

You wandered between the nooks and crannies, between large and small plants, in dark crevices, and patterned curtains made of kimonos. There was another staircase leading up (how many floors did this place have?) and a doorway leading to a widow's walk, and beyond that only darkness. Shadowy figures were outside the widow’s walk. Maybe one was Lydia and the others?

Opening the door, you ran into someone leaving.

“Oh, pardon me, will you?” He asked, lightly. He was distracted, maybe on a mission of his own?

You looked up at him, and saw a mop of curly long hair. You recognized, with and in-take of breath, Brian May.

“Oh, wow!” you whispered. “I mean, of course--excuse me, I was just looking for my friend; we’re playing a game.” You explained. You couldn’t believe you were talking to Brian May, about a stupid game, when he was in all actuality quite brilliant.

A look of recognition sprang to life on his ultimately kindly face. The smile made Brain absolutely beautiful. It had to be said, he had better hair than anyone you had ever met, including Lydia. Those luscious brown curls, you wondered, how did he keep them so tame? You must remember to ask for tips. Hair tips from Brian May, you really were losing it.

You took in his red and black Henley and silver blazer. He looked classical, relaxed, you thought. And so very tall. Taller than Deacy. You thought then of Deacy and where he was, if he had won yet, and thought of finding him in a dark corner, and what you would do to him if you did. The possibilities were endless.

“You must be Y/N!” Brian said grinning.

His words shook you from your reverie. This rock-star, who played guitar better than any living person in the world, knew your name.

“I am,” you managed to say. You put your hand out for him to shake. Brian took it happily, and he introduced himself. “I think we’re playing the same game, if I’m not mistaken?”

“We are,” he agreed a little bemusedly.

“We must part ways, then,” you said somewhat sadly; Brian seemed, well there was no other word for it, sweet. Maybe genuine was a better way to put it, you thought? You smiled at him and said, “I hope we have the opportunity to learn more about each other outside the cunning nature of sardines.”

Brain laughed at your remark. He liked a woman with a brain. Being a scientist himself, he valued the simple skills of observation and logic. Also, however, being an artist, he admired beauty. Women were like stars for him, each had their own beauty, their own signature, a little something that made them all different and appealing in a myriad of ways. Gazing at stars, for Brain, was like gazing a women: equal parts dangerous and beguiling. A woman could sear your eyes, tarnish your skin, yet envelope you entirely in light and warmth. This, is the essence of pleasure, Brain thought. And, like every other woman, you were very pleasing.

“I’m sure we will have the chance.” Brain smiled as he left back the way you had come through the library. You, however, continued past the widow’s walk to a doorway at the end of a medieval-looking hallway. You opened the door and walked inside. A guest bedroom in pinks and oranges met your gaze. Light mewing and tired sighs could be heard from the canopied bed. You tiptoed past the bed, not wanting to disturb the cats--seven in all, you counted? A second doorway led to another hallway with six different doors leading all of six different ways.

Dear lord, you thought. Did this place ever end? You wished Brain hadn’t left you alone. You were a stranger in a strange land. Before you could worry too much, one of the doors started opening, and you wished for a place to hide. You had five options, and couldn’t choose one. You found yourself frozen to the spot, a little too curious about who could be coming through the doorway.

Deacy opened the door and saw, much to his surprise and elation, you.

“Y/N?” He said into the darkness.

“Deacy!” You practically sprang into his arms with relief. It felt as if you had already done it a hundred times before. You felt Deacy’s body seize briefly and then instantly relax. He slowly snaked his arms around your waist and up your back. He was very cliche of warmth and you felt duly undeniably safe. He was a shield in the night.

Deacy couldn’t resist any longer. He had been fighting a silent battle all night. The one against his mind and his heart. That old battle, more a foe than a friend; for we are always our own worst enemies, are we not, he thought? And, really, when you got down to it, he was no different than anyone else. Sure, he was famous and wealthy, but some problems you couldn’t charm away, you couldn’t buy off. Some problems all men had to face.

This fight always ended one of two ways: the heart would win or the mind. He could stop himself, maybe, he thought, if he turned tail and retreated now. If he left you here in this dark hallway, he could continue to guard himself, to lock himself away. Seal away vulnerability once and for all, and give up. Or, alternatively, he could let go. He could succumb to every thought, to every wish he had silently expressed since he noticed you entering the party with Lydia.

That’s when Deacy let go.

He moved his hands down your arms to take your hands in his, and he turned to the left, knowingly, and led you into another room you had yet to see.

It was, you thought, a pantry of some kind. Close-quartered, but not too cramped. In here, in the darkness alone, you would have been afraid. But with Deacy it was an adventure, a beginning. Deacy turned around and snapped the door closed by pushing you up against it. He didn’t ask to kiss you, which you liked. You hated it when people asked to kiss you. It was, you thought, their own insecure way of not really knowing if they wanted to kiss you in the first place. If you have to ask to kiss someone, one of you doesn’t want it, and your intuition is giving you a red flag.

Deacy ran his hungry fingers up your waist, past your breasts, up your neck, pulling you into an exigent kiss. His lips pressed against yours with skill and determination. You responded immediately by wrapping your arms around his waist, one reaching up his back into his coiled hair. Softer to the touch than you had expected. Even the texture of his hair excited you; you had it bad. You smiled as the kiss lengthened, parting your lips.

His lips caressed yours, parting in equal measure and excitement. There was a rhythm to his kissing, you thought. Longer ones followed by softer and shorter ones, passion on top of passion, building to breath and repeats of long crescendos. Every peak would push a bit further than before, before de-escalating to a plateau. Each break made you desperately cling to him and him to you. You kept bringing back each kiss, each feel of the hands, each everything was new, nothing done before, each movement a furthering symphony of ecstasy.

Deacy deftly slid his tongue into your mouth, tracing your tongue. He pulls back, ever so briefly, lightly nibbling your bottom lip, and you moan in response. There is music in it notes know not.

That’s when Deacy decides he could happily make you moan forever and be perfectly, permanently in a state of joy. “Moan again, for me?” He asks, punctuating each word with a kiss or a touch, “I’ll make it worth your while…” He’s curious what other sounds you could make together; he wants to find every sound you make and catalog them into a score, a song that can mean only you, that only you can make together.

You manage a sigh, looking into his grey eyes, you pull him into your kiss. Your hands pull him by the waistband of his jeans, fingers digging into the coarse fabric; it is a dirty gesture done every so innocently. You slink your tongue into his mouth this time, moaning all the while. As you lose track of time, you lose track of which hands are yours and which are his, as if you already belonged to each other. He lassos his arms around you, into your hair, holding your face. Your tongues circle each other in a delighted syncopation. You follow and flow with each other’s lips. You feel him getting harder with each kiss, and wonder how on earth he’s containing himself in those tight jeans of his.

He pulls away, moaning. Bodies still up against each other, he knows he wants more. But he also always wants to wait, to savor these moments and delay sex as long as possible; that was, after all, part of the fun for him. But, before he stopped altogether, he had one more parting shot, one final move to impress upon you how much he desired you.

Deacy, placing a hand on your face, and another cradling one of your breasts, leaned down, and licked up from your decolletage, up your neck, all the way to the tip of your chin. He felt you shiver in his grasp.

Gasping, you felt every pore, every slice of skin his tongue touched ablaze with a keen desire. You wanted him, all of him, right there. Instantly, you knew without a doubt you needed him past this moment, past this night, past every night, maybe. It was a ridiculous notion, you had just met, but this ultimate need, this yearning was the most powerful feeling you had ever come across. And you never wanted it to end.

“I am not sure,” you said, “how you expect me to go back out there as wet as I am for you right now.”

The flashing in his eyes was a need you had never seen on another person.

He wasn’t sure if what you said was sexier than what you had done thus far, or even what he figured you would and could do for each other. He almost let go again, almost giving in to your skilled seduction.

“Y/N, if we relent now, if we give into each other now, we will regret it.”

“I could never regret that.”

He smiled lightly, “it will be all the better for waiting,” he kissed you again, flicking his wrist to your hips, and traveling down your inner thighs.

“This,” you moan, as he dexterously searched, pressing his fingers to your clitoris, “doesn’t feel like waiting to me…”

“But it is; I promise,” he said, returning your moan, as you trailed a hand across his mostly perfectly erect penis. There it was again, an intimacy that knows clothes. You’ve never been so entirely turned on while having all your clothes on. Was this the beginnings of true intimacy? Of great compatibility? You weren’t sure yet, and for the first time during all this reasoned he was right: you should bide your time.

You gently removed your hands from him, pulling him towards you still with your kiss. He followed suit, and took his hands off your body. Attached at the lips, this was still the hottest moment of your sexually experienced life. Almost as if rehearsed, you ended your kiss at the same exact time.

You saw him in a different light now. A layer of uncertainty melted away; there were different ways to know people, you figured. After this event, you saw him with more transparency, more confidence. He was a song you were learning, and couldn’t stop humming. You wanted to pour over his score until you had it committed to memory. You wanted to know him note-perfect.

You stared at each other silently. You weren’t sure how long, all notions of sardines forgotten in this cupboard.

That was until someone else joined you with a bang, and a push, new hands on your shoulders, and a closing of a door.

“Deacy, darling, is that you?” The man said; his voice was crisp and undeniably alive. You looked to your left, and saw more than felt that he still had a comforting hand on your shoulder. He was wearing a cape, a crown, white hot-pants, and not much else. You’d recognize that mustache anywhere.

“Fuck me,” you said softly to Freddie Mercury.

Freddie looked you up and down, taking in your green dress, bright eyes, and chic hair. He liked your over-large glasses. There was something sly in your eyes he savored. Freddie flicked his eyes onto Deacy, who made a halfhearted attempt to hide his erection; no fool, Freddie knew what had been going on in here even without that particular hint. He raised a thick eyebrow at Deacy. That eyebrow said everything in one fluid movement.

Deacy knew Freddie would 1) never let him live this down, 2) demand later to know everything that had happened in here while simultaneously regaling him of other sexual encounters that had occurred in this pantry, 3) pry every detail about Y/N out of him, and 4) cheer you on relentlessly. Eyebrows could communicate a lot. At least, Deacy thought, if it had to be anyone who discovered this situation, it was Freddie.

Their connection was deeper than his to the others; Freddie, like him, was shy in his private life. He was deeply secretive, and cherished the times when he could be “normal” as much as the times he was on stage performing for thousands of people. They understood each other instinctively, which made them not only good friends but good collaborators. They were able to write songs together with ease and enjoyment. On stage, Freddie was the only one who made him feel free to dance and embrace the music without an ounce of shame. At times, he even looked forward to the times Freddie would wander over and grind up against him, dancing in their own unique ways to the music they created together. That, Deacy thought, was complete freedom. Freddie, on stage, a magician, the great pretender, brought out the best in everyone, including the band. Freddie was, if nothing else, also surprisingly discreet. Deacy knew he wouldn’t even have to ask for Freddie’s discretion; he’d just have it, like he’d always have Freddie’s friendship.

“Well, to be honest, Deacy dear,” Freddie simpered, “I expected to find Roger and his belle de jour in here, not you and this delicious beauty.”

“Rog is quite fond of cupboards,” Deacy grinned mischievously.

“A queen if i ever saw one,” Freddie sighed.

“Are you referring to Roger or Y/N here?” Deacy questioned straightening his button-down.

“Myself, of course!” Freddie chuckled extending his hand to you. “Y/N L/N,” you said smiling from ear to ear, shaking his hand.

“Freddie Mercury, an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, darling. I’ve heard so much about you, if it isn’t gauche to say so?”

What was tonight, you thought? How many rock-stars knew your name? How many were vying for your attention? And, well, that’s not not mention everything that had transpired in this cupboard with one John Deacon.

“Not at all! As long as what you’ve heard has been favorable--if not, i may have to do something unspeakably devious about it.”

“My husband has a very high opinion of you, actually.”

“Oh! Jim! I just am so taken with him. We’re getting lunch tomorrow.” You excitedly exclaim.

“Indeed! I find myself jealous. How about you, Deacy. Jealous of my dear husband and your...friend?”

“Jealous,” Deacy said with a wry smile, “Doesn’t even begin to touch my feelings, Fred.”

“Freddie?” you asked, remembering the game, one of many, you thought.

“Hmm?”

“Have you seen the others?”

“Oh! Well, to be honest, I was hiding from Jim because of the chandelier incident. Though, that man is the canniest; I’d suspect he and Brain would have found Lydia by now. Technically, I think we aren’t allowed to search for her together…” He sounded like a parent now, catching two children breaking an obvious rule.

You were loath to split away from Deacy again. This, Deacy could read on your face. He took your hand, placing something in it, and said, “Y/N, we will find each other again tonight, I promise.”

He left the pantry, determined to win more than just your heart.

You opened the palm of your hand to find a long string in it.

“What’s that?” Freddie asked.

“A distraction,” you said, looking at the closed door, with an impressed smirk.      

     Tag list: @phantom-fangirl-stuff @triggeredpossum        

[somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds]

Thought I’d take a moment and plug my own fic series :)

Season 4 AU. Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham were married and living happily in Cuba together when the FBI catches up to them in a shootout. When both come to in the hospital, they are told the other one is dead and are placed back the in the BSHCI.

One year later, Buffalo Bill is out there skinning girls, and Jack Crawford deploys his new trainee, Clarice Starling against the darkest minds he still has access to. Will Clarice become the prey, or will she take control of the chessboard and find Catherine Martin?

First chapter is posted below, go read the rest here! Leave comments if you liked!

Will stands outside the door to their home in Cuba. He can smell the dinner cooking, hear the sounds of their dog yipping and an opera record in the player.

He savors all of these feelings and treasures them in his heart, and then pushes the door open. It’s not locked, they don’t have to lock the door here. Anyone would be a fool (and tomorrow's dinner) to dare enter without permission and ruin what they have.

Will removes his shoes and sets them beside the door on a special mat, and their dog barks in delight as she races over to sniff him. Will laughs, petting the dog on the head and rubbing her stomach.

“Will?” Hannibal calls from the kitchen.

“Sorry, darlin’," Will teases, knowing that Hannibal Lecter does not blush, but his face is notably warmer whenever he calls him that. “Cephy wanted attention. But I know you do, too, one minute.” He pets Cephy on top of the head one last time before heading into the dining room, dog following at his heels.

Will’s heart warms as he watches Hannibal looked up from arranging the roses in the handblown black vase that Will had given him for their anniversary that past year. Hannibal has that glorious smile on his face, and walks over to Will, pulling him into a deep kiss. Will’s fingers reach up, pulling his the longer, silvery hair just the way Hannibal liked, making him chuckle softly. After he needed to breathe, he tries to pull away, only for Hannibal to press his face against his neck.

“Will,” he sighed, his hand gently rubbing at a hard knot in Will’s neck. “My love, you’ve been away for so long.”

“Just all day, Hannibal,” Will says fondly, knowing that Hannibal hates being described as clingy even though it suits him perfectly.

“That’s why I made a special dinner,” Hannibal smiles, pulling away at last, leaning to the side to pull out Will’s chair for him. Will rolled his eyes, but sat down anyways. Hannibal leans down and kisses him on the cheek before going into the kitchen.

Will grabs a few of the prosciutto roses off of the table and gave them to Cephy, but he was caught as Hannibal came back into the dining room with the plates.

“At the table, Will? She already has some in her dinner dish.”

Will only winks at him as Hannibal sets the plate down in front of him.

“Coq au vin, made with Burgundy bottled in your birth year, and a side of Swiss chard with crumbles of goat cheese, and just a hint of pomegranate juice reduction,” Hannibal murmurs in his ear, sending chills down Will’s spine as he slowly pours the sauce over the dish. "Bon appétit."

Hannibal then takes his own seat across from Will, staring into his eyes. Will smiles like he has a secret, as he spears a piece of the meat and swirling it in the blood-red sauce. Then he carefully lifts the forkful to his mouth, pulling the meat off with his teeth and chews it slowly.

Hannibal looks as though he is holding his breath.

“Delicious,” Will smirks. Hannibal looks at him with such fondness that he can feel it spreading through his body, warming like the wine the dish was soaked in.

They eat in this way for what felt like hours, staring into each other’s souls as they took bites of the delicious food until the air felt thick with wine and lust. As if on cue, Hannibal stands up just in time for the record to end.

“Do you care to dance, Will?” he asks, flipping through the record collection before selecting the perfect one. Will nodded, unable to fight the smile or deny Hannibal this simple joy. Hannibal takes his hand and kisses it gently before pulling him into his arms, a hand tracing patterns on his lower back. The dance is slow, no fancy steps that Hannibal has spent the past few weeks teaching Will. In fact, it seems like they are just swaying back and forth in tune to the music. The tension is thick like the smudge of compote on the corner of Will’s mouth, and Hannibal kisses it off, savoring the sweet flavor. They both break at the same time, clutching so desperately at each other, as though they were smoke that would slip through their fingers. Hannibal kisses him hard, stealing his breath away, and immediately Will feels his knees wanting to give out.

Most days felt like they ended this way. But they always got here differently. Sometimes Hannibal interrupted dinner, letting it get cold while he dragged Will over to the couch. Sometimes Will barely got in the front door before Hannibal has him pressed up against it, he got desperate when Will was away, letting dinner burn in the oven as he covers every inch of exposed skin in kisses. Funny how he always prided himself on patience until he finally had Will. Sometimes he wanted Will to be in control, and on those occasions, Will probably could have slowly choked Hannibal to death and he would have let him.

Sometimes it wasn’t necessarily sexual when Will got back home. Sometimes they ended the night with just dancing and then reading in bed for hours while Cephy tried to crawl under the blankets. Will always let her.

But now it is the exact opposite of those times. Now it is urgent they go upstairs, now.

“Bed,” Hannibal purrs against his mouth, and Will nods, unable and unwilling to let go of Hannibal. He smiles, pressing another kiss to Will’s lips, a softer one this time, before guiding them both up the stairs. They don't stop kissing the entire way.

“Hannibal,” Will hisses, trying to not bust his ankle but really, really, not wanting him to stop kissing him. “Why - why the fuck did we buy a house with a spiral staircase?”

His husband only smirked as he pushed him harder against the very thin stair rail. For a split second Will thought Hannibal would actually bend him over the rail backwards and kiss him. It would not be out of character.

“Elegance,” is Hannibal’s answer to Will’s question. “And it allows me to do this.” 

And then without a single warning, he physically lifts him up into his arms, causing Will to laugh, feeling dizzy and slightly drunk on Burgundy and lust. He gets another kiss, and then another, and then he lost track until he feels his back hit the bed. He opens his eyes and smiles at Hannibal, who is gazing at him in complete rapture.

“You can touch, doctor,” Will teases, stretching out in the expensive sheets, groaning softly. “Please.”

Hannibal lunges forward, ending up on top of Will and kissing the air right out of his lungs.

“You are my life, Will,” Hannibal murmurs against his ear. “You know that?”

“Conjoined,” Will breathes out. “Can’t survive separation. Love is too small a word, but I love you so much. Love you so much.”

“And I worship the very ground you walk on, Will.”

Will laughs, it’s so perfect, laying in this bed, so hopelessly in love. “You - you can just tell me that you love me, Hannibal.”

“I refuse to be so passé,” is the muffled response Will gets as Hannibal pops open his shirt button, kissing him there. He pauses for a moment before pulling himself back up, hovering just above his lips.

“I love you, Will.” And then they share the softest, gentlest kiss. One that slowly gets more heated, more intense....

and they start going lower, and lower, and lower...

“Fuck...please, Hannibal, please, don’t stop, don't stop.”

“Will.”

“Hannibal.”

“Will.”

“Hannibal.”

“Will.”

“Haaannibal....”

“Will!”

Will’s eyes shot open then, sitting straight up and groaning as he felt the cold, uncomfortable mattress of the cot in his cell. He stretched his neck out, wiped the downpour of sweat off of his forehead. Not fucking again, he thought with gritted teeth as he glared over at where Frederick was staring from the other side of the bars.

“Enjoying your show, Frederick?” he chose to say, knowing that the doctor was easiest to deal with when he was flustered. “What - what do you want?”

Frederick visibly bit his lip, trying to find the best way to broach the subject, deciding eventually to go with, “You were moaning Hannibal's name in your sleep. Again.”

“Yeah? Good thing I got the shame knocked out of me in that cliff dive,” Will snapped, trying to get his breathing under control. The endorphins rushing through his veins faded fast at the sight of Frederick’s smug face. Every time he was woken up from dreaming, it felt like a rug had been yanked out from under him, like he was falling off another cliff but with no support this time.

“I’m changing your medication, you shouldn’t be sleeping so much, it’s not good for you.”

“I have worse nightmares when I’m awake,” Will said, staring at the tan line on his ring finger. The wedding ring was long gone, Jack probably had it melted down or something ridiculous like that. They had taken it when he was in the hospital, after he woke up with a new bullet scar, after he found out that Hannibal was - was -

“You’ve been having these dreams for weeks, Will, it’s not healthy for you to still be-”

“In mourning for my dead husband?” he shot back. Frederick took a deep breath and then tried to look sympathetic.

“Will, you know you can tell me if-”

“All you want to do is grasp at my mind like how a nervous virgin grasps at a pair of panties on prom night,” Will rolled his eyes, forcing down bitter, angry tears. Instead, brittle laughter came out.

“And please, Frederick,” Will said, stretching back out onto the cot, sighing deeply like he was remembering something (someone) better (he was), “I wouldn’t trade years of name brand for the cheap knockoff.”

He turned over to his side, facing the wall. “I’m going back to sleep, Frederick, don’t wake me up. Ever again.”

Frederick opened his mouth to snark back when his phone rang.

“We’ll discuss this in your next session, Will.”

“Don’t get too excited,” was the only reply.

Frederick sneered then, answering the phone as he left Will alone. “Jack? No, I didn’t get to tell him, he was - well, never mind, doctor-patient confidentiality, you know. Just make sure you brief your new...trainee... on Will. Tell your new canary about her coalmine before you drop her in here blindly. And warn her that he’s going to be in a very bad mood in the morning.”

“Will?”

Will is back in Cuba now, back in bed, back where they left off, but it is bittersweet now. He can't stop the tears from falling, even as Hannibal kisses them away softly.

“Will, I’m here. I’m here, love, don’t cry.”

“No,” Will whispers, his voice sounding as though it would shatter like glass if he spoke above a certain volume. “You’re not here. Not anymore. I - I miss you, Hannibal, I need you back. Please come back.”

Hannibal pulls away then, looking Will deeply in the eyes before brushing away the hair in his face and kissing him long and slow. He then curls up beside Will, pulling him close to his chest and Will almost starts to cry again. He presses against Hannibal, his eyes squeezed as tightly together as possible, and then everything is just a breath away from being real.

“I’m always here, Will. All you have to do is close your eyes and go back to sleep.”