#The Den Theatre

[burritosandpeppermint]

Well, guess who we saw last night? We had to surrender our phones because, really, this is him trying out new material and getting some inspiration (the audience was allowed to write down questions that he would answer on stage, which I think might be part of his process). He had two openers who were pretty good but honestly watching him was like watching a master at work; if Mike Birbiglia is the king of NPR-style comedic storytelling, Mulaney is the king of comedy club storytelling. The tickets weren't cheap and even then our assigned seating was all the way on the side but it was still worth it.

[whitehartlane]

some impressions from the city where we made the champions league final 🤍🧇

[applebasketnewsie]

newsies is doing some cocomelon shit to me rn

[starlene]

I’m suddenly feeling super curious about this new original Fenno-Swedish musical: https://www.wasateater.fi/feature/vand-om-min-langtan/

I mean... will it be a pale imitation of Kristina från Duvemåla, or maybe my new musical obsession? Only time will tell, but I sure hope it’ll be the latter!!

[willstafford]

Write On, Shakespeare

& JULIET Grand Theatre, Wolverhampton, Monday 7th October 2024 The premise of this perky jukebox musical is that William Shakespeare invites his wife, Anne (nee Hathaway) to see the world premiere of his tragedy, Romeo and Juliet.  She doesn’t like what she sees and demands on-the-spot rewrites, basically to give 13-year-old Juliet agency she wouldn’t have.  Cue the Backstreet Boys’ I Want It…

[do-you-know-this-play]

[literaryvein-reblogs]

some words for worldbuilding (pt. 1)

Air

billow, breath, bubble, draft, effervescence, fumes, puff, vapor

Arena

aquarium, bazaar, coliseum, field, hall, mecca, stage

Building

abbey, architecture, armory, asylum, bakery, bar, booth, cathedral, club, construction, court, department store, dock, edifice, emergency room, factory, food court, fort/fortress, framework, garrison, greasy spoon, hacienda, hangout, headquarters, hotel, inn, institute/institution, jetty, laboratory, mansion, mental hospital, monastery, mosque, museum, nursing home, office, pavilion, penitentiary, plant, prison, rampart, repository, ruins, sanctuary, shrine, skyscraper, stockade, storeroom, structure, temple, theater/theatre, treasury, warehouse, wharf

City

capital, metropolis, town, village

Furniture

altar, banister, bench, booth, bunk, cabinet, chair, couch, crib, davenport, dresser, furnishings, futon, jetty, lectern, partition, perch, platform, pulpit, rail/railing, screen, secretary, stand, wardrobe

Geographic division

area, county, desert, dynasty, kingdom, outskirts, quarter, sector, suburb, territory, tract, zone

Habitat

abode, ecosystem, environmentalist, habitat/habitation, harbor, home, land, nest, paradise, premises, refuge, settlement, tent

Habitat, human: accommodations, apartment, barracks, cabin, castle, condominium, convent, domesticity, dungeon, element, encampment, estate, grange, hacienda, home, house, housing, hut, jail, lodging, madhouse, monastery, neighborhood, old country, palace, prison, reservation, resort, sanctuary, shanty, suite, vacancy, villa

Habitat, rural: barn, burrow, conservatory, desert, farm, forest, grange, jungle, sanctuary, wilderness/wilds, wood/woods

Land

abyss, avalanche, bank, bay, bed, bluff, campus, cape, cavern, cliff, compost, cove, crevice/crevasse, dirt, downgrade, dune, elevation, estuary, expanse, field, fossil, garden, glacier, gorge, green, ground, gulf, harbor, hillock, inlet, knoll, landscape, lawn, lot, marshy, menagerie, mine, moat, mound, mountainous, nature, outlook, park, patio, pit, plateau, plaza, porch, prairie, projection, property, quagmire, ravine, ridge, savanna, shelf, soil, stack, table, trench, tundra, valley, well, wood/woods, yard

Nation

country, home, land, nationality, soil, state

Personal item

adornment, amulet, beads, best-seller, briefcase, cache, cargo, charm, contraceptive, disguise, effects, equipment, favorite, gem, glasses, handbag, jewelry, knickknack, luggage, marionette, memorabilia, necklace, novelty, object d’art, odds-on-favorite, paraphernalia, pledge, possession, pride, puppet, purse, resources, ring, souvenir, stuff, supplies, sustenance, thing/things, trappings, trifle, valuable

Planet

cosmos, Earth, galaxy, moon, planet, sphere, world

Region

capital, commonwealth, quarter, region, settlement, suburb

Room

alcove, attic, bath, bedroom, boutique, cellar, den, enclosure, foyer, gin mill, hall, lavatory, loft, outhouse, parlor, restaurant, saloon, shop, stage, store, tenement, theater/theatre, vestibule

Shape

angular, beaten, billowy, checkered, concave, conical/conic, crescent, curly, deformed, elliptical, flat, gnarled, kinky, misshapen, obtuse, round, shapeless, spiral, straight

Vehicle

camper, conveyance, motorcade, transport

Vehicle, air: aircraft, armada, blimp, dirigible, helicopter, shuttle, UFO

Vehicle, land: ambulance, bicycle, car, cherry-picker, dolly, excavator, model, traffic, truck

Vehicle, water: armada, boat, craft, fleet, sailboat, yacht

Water

abyss, aqueduct, basin, beach, blackball, brook, cape, channel, condensation, creek, deep, estuary, fountain, gulf, heading, inlet, lake, oasis, pond, promontory, reservoir, sea, spray, strait, tide, wash, wave, whirlpool

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary.

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary

[koyominmonogatari]

Basement New York Large modern walk-out carpeted basement design with blue walls in the basement

[kingkatsuki]

→ Navi → About Me → Rules → Ko-fi → Ask → Main Masterlist

→ Wind Breaker Thirst Posts (shorter posts that aren't full fics).

Endo Yamato & Takiishi Chiika → The Ties That Bind. ↳ Endo would offer anything to Takiishi to make him happy, including you. 2.4k.

Hiragi Toma & Kaji Ren → A Little Help. ↳ Kaji needs a little help being meaner to you in the bedroom, and there’s no one else he’d rather ask than Hiragi. 5.6k.

Kaji Ren & Togame Jou → Control. ↳ Kaji doesn’t mind attending any parties with you, especially when you get all dressed up for him. But he’ll admit, the remote controlled vibe that’s currently stuffed inside your panties makes them slightly more bearable. The only problem this time? Togame Jou finds out. 4.2k.

Kiryu Mitsuki & Sakura Haruka → Lewds. ↳ Thinking about being Kiryu’s girlfriend and sending him a nude when he’s out with friends. But Sakura accidentally sees it by glancing over at his phone screen and cums in his pants. 1.2k.

Kaji Ren → Sucker. ↳ Kaji fucks you with one of his lollipops. That’s it, that’s the post. 1.7k. → Untitled (for now). ↳ Meeting Kaji at a hardcore rock show. ?k. → The Beast Inside. ↳ You want to tame the beast inside Kaji, but maybe you just make it worse. 0.8k. → Will You Love Me Till It Hurts? (Never Leave Me At My Worst). ↳ Kaji hates himself when he gets like this, but luckily for him he has you to bring him back from the brink. 4.6k. → When You Know. ↳ Kaji finds you crying in an alley on one of his evening patrols, and it’s then that he realises just how hopeless he is when it comes to women— especially when he thinks they’re pretty. 2k. → Release. ↳ Kaji is trying to make sure you get home safe on a night out, but has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to do when you need to pee— 1.9k. → Obsession. ↳ Kaji doesn’t consider it stalking. How could anyone use such an accusatory word when he’s just making sure that you’re safe? 1.2k.

Sakura Haruka → Miscommunication. ↳ Based on this silly little post I made here. Basically Sakura can’t fathom anyone could ever like him like that. 2.9k. → Accidents. ↳ Sakura has a real hard time controlling himself around you. 1.4k.

Suo Hayato → Cat & Mouse. ↳ It shouldn’t have been this easy to gain the trust of the notorious Bofurin, but you’d practically been welcomed with open arms. But Suo Hayato had always been far more skeptical than the rest of his friends, and he was determined to reveal your true intentions. 4.4k. Togame Jou → Sleepy. ↳ Togame hates having his naps interrupted— unless it’s by you. 2.1k. → Appreciative. ↳ Togame has never been good at quickies— but why would he want to be when you were made to be appreciated. 2.4k. → Calm Before The Storm. ↳ Togame fingers you at the back of Shishitoren's theatre before training. 1.8k. → The Lion's Den. ↳ You knew all too well how dangerous it was to cross over the border into Shishitoren territory. You’d heard enough stories from the boys of Furin to know what a terrible, terrible idea it was. But the Furin jacket that you wore was like a protective shield around you, giving you the confidence to push the boundaries— and somehow you didn’t think that you would run in to the number two in command, Togame Jou. 4.2k. → A Helping Hand. ↳ When you can’t find any of your girl friends to take with you to the bathroom at a party, the guy you’ve been making out with for the evening will have to do. 1.5k. → For You. ↳ Based on this gorgeous art that I still can’t stop thinking about by @/rabbbitseason. 2.2k.

Tomiyama Choji → Say "Yes". ↳ Choji wants to go out with you, and he won’t take “no” for an answer. 1k.

Tsubakino Tasuku → Lipstick Kisses. ↳ Tsubaki and you like to kiss— it doesn’t matter where, or who’s watching. 1.5k.

[snailpaste]

Can i get some McSugarDaddy Crocodile headcannons but reader actually has feelings for croco? ive been thinking about this a little too much lately

Sugar Daddy!Crocodile x GN!Reader

CONTENT: Crocodile x GN! Reader, SFW, kind of mutual pining

AN: This isn't what i wanted but if I didn’t post it now I think it’d just go to the great fic graveyard in my drive (30 and counting) sorry for the wait ;-;

You’d caught crocodile’s eye at one of the many Gala’s he hosted (after all, charity was always a brilliant way for him to further his influence, to make connections and gain power), where he’d struck up conversation with you after asking to share a drink. It had gone well, and by the time the event had drawn to an end he’d given you his den den number and offered to pay for your taxi home.

Crocodile wasn’t one to chase after people, much more content to work on furthering himself or his many business enterprises. He simply didn’t need to – there were enough many men and women willing to fling themselves at him should he ever be in need of company – which is why he found it so strange that, not but two days after meeting you at a Gala, here he was, den-den pulled closer towards him on his desk than usual, eyes flickering to it every so often as he worked through the growing heap of paperwork.

rest under cut ->

If anyone were to ask why, not they would ever question him, he’d simply tell them he was waiting on an important business call, rather than hoping for a stranger, who’s laugh he unfortunately hadn’t been able to stop thinking about, to call.

Your arrangement started as “purely transactional,” in the words of Crocodile.

He didn’t expect sexual favours (at least, to begin with) but simply wanted your company at events, a presence beside him to help gnaw away at the tedious meetings and public appearances he endured in the name of business. You’d wake up with a voice message on your den den, telling you to be ready at 7, with details scarce aside from to check your mailbox, inside which was a new outfit fitting for whatever event he saw fit to bring you to. Over time as he learned more about you, they became more and more tailored to your tastes.

He kept things distant at the start. His touches were modest, an arm around your waist or shoulder, a hand guiding you at the small of your back, but nothing more. You found yourself begging to crave his touch, leaning into the warmth of his palm or wrapping your own around his arm.

His conversations, while interesting, never betrayed any of his true emotions, and he opted to leave you with cash rather than buying anything else for you specifically. Gradually, you began to hope might actually start to open up to you. What did he look like unguarded? How did he look when he was at peace 

As the weeks passed, you found yourself growing accustomed to his presence, the initial intimidation and curiosity replaced by a quiet comfort. Crocodile listens to whatever you have to say intently, eyes never leaving your face, always asking the right questions and relishing in the way you blush when he leans closer to you, blowing cigar smoke out the window and brushing your hair out of your face.

While Crocodile isn’t out of touch with his feelings, he does prefer to ignore them. He immediately noticed how you changed towards him, leaning your head into his hand when he cupped your cheek and laughing a little bit more openly, and sneaking looks when you thought he didn’t notice – he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his heart feel just a little warmer.

Your dates, as you unknowingly began to phrase them much to his amusement, became far more frequent, with him using anything as an excuse to be around you for longer. Crocodile, it seemed, had an uncanny ability to understand your desires. He took you to places and events you’d been wanting to go to without you asking, such as art galleries, cosy bookstores and grand libraries, or bookings at theatres or cinemas.

Crocodile encourages you to pursue any and all of your interests- there’s nothing he admires more than when you go off on a tangent about something you’re passionate about, or your dedication. With him, money isn’t an issue, he’ll happily pay whatever fees you might need to achieve.

Your relationship progressed from you being a pretty thing draped off of his arm, another way for him to flaunt his wealth and power, to something more personal. He surprised you with a visit to something you’d mentioned excitedly to him weeks ago, booked the wing of a restaurant you fancied for just the two of you, and invited you with him to the opening evening of an exclusive art exhibition of his favourite movement.

It was only when he caught himself thinking about you with a smile while smoking his evening cigar, that crocodile decided to address how he felt– whatever it was.

After a long night that left you nodding off and leaning against him, crocodile opted to take you back to his house. He’d carried you up to a guest room with his jacket wrapped around your shoulders, placing you down in the bed and mumbling a soft good-night into your hair. It was then that, in your half-asleep stupor, you accidentally confessed your feelings, clinging sleepily to his shoulders and mumbling for him to stay with you. He didn’t make a big deal of it, but he felt his heart skip a beat, and allowed you to cuddle against his chest until you fell asleep.

The following morning he told you plainly and simply, wanting to cut the tension that ran thick as you drank him out of the corner of your eye (and how could you not, with normally slicked back hair in loose waves, ringed hands sliding you a coffee across the island, his bare chest peeking through his dark brocade dressing gown) that he was interested in you, interested in a relationship more than this.

After this, he begins to open up- lets you run your hands through his hair from behind, and stay at his house as often as you’d like. His laughs become lighter and more genuine, and you find he has a dimple in his left cheek whenever he smiles just so.

He still buys you gifts and treats you, but now they’re far more intimate, and more tailored to your tastes than ever. He takes you with him on his business trips around the globe, letting you soak in the sun or encouraging you to explore the attractions while he attends to business.

He surprises you with gifts delivered directly to your house, a box of your favourite treats, each delicately wrapped in coloured paper, a potted plant he collected from your shared trip to alabasta, or something he saw you looking at or considering buying with his own note attached. Another time, he appeared at your doorstep with an assortment of flowers, (he’s very into “classic courting”) each flower was one he picked carefully to reflect a message to you.

His love languages are quality time and acts of service, but he craves physical touch and, as you find, becomes quite clingy when he’s tired. He loves sharing baths with you, holding you to his chest and relaxing in the warm bubbles, and on his one day of rest per week, lazing around in bed with you during the early morning hours.

The time he realised he was well and truly in love with you was when you were sitting in his lap, his arm looped around your waist and hand smoothing over your cheek, as you had reached up to trace your fingertips over his raised scar. He’d felt his heart jump into his throat at the feeling, realising he’d never allow anyone else to touch him there, and when you smiled at the light dusting to his cheeks, he realised he was well and truly fucked.

[atmostories]

Terry Silver x Reader

Tags: NSFW, Female Reader, Exhibitionism A gift for @terrence-silver 🖤🖤🖤 An Evening At The Opera

You were out like a light. Was the opera really that boring? Terry sniggered to himself as he possessively caressed your hair, fingers twirling and wrapping around the strands. You were napping on his lap while Reginald drove the limo back home to the hills. The lights of LA streamed past him in an unintelligible blur, the events of the evening still rushing through his body like two fresh hits of ketamine in his bloodstream. He could do with a cigar right now, but didn't want to disturb you with any movement. The celebration could wait. There was a growing urge to take you the moment you entered the mansion's threshold, or hell he could even fuck you right on the entranceway, smear his come and yours on the front door to mark this home as both his and yours forever. Like two king cobras marking the entrance to their den, a declaration of their mated nature, a warning to strangers to stay clear or face the consequences. Love and death all intertwined as one. However, his beloved needed to rest. He'd have you again first thing in the morning, wake you up to the sensations of his body desperately rubbing against yours. "We missed over an hour of the opera, my dear, we'll simply have to go again." He'd whisper and giggle into your ear, no doubt thinking of what transpired.

/ / / La Bohème was completely sold out. So of course, Terry had purchased the biggest box of the theatre, best seat in the house. The previous holder of the box had been outbid, much to their distress Margaret had assured him. Well, if you wanted something, you took it. Why was that so hard for people to understand? Just like he took you. Somehow you were both easier and harder to take than he thought it would be. Easier because your feelings for him were so potent even from early on. That made his toes curl just at the thought, how much you wanted him, how your devotion shone through you like a reflection of his own, more blinding than the sun itself. And it was harder because he needed to earn your trust. Trust had never been something he'd needed to foster when he was seducing someone. Usually all he'd need to do was give the right look, mutter an innuendo here or there, and his body would do the rest of the work. He never had to chase someone before. Whoever peeked Terry's interest, already wanted him. There was never any hesitation involved. He never realised how exciting the thrill of the hunt would be. Forever being thrown prey into his cage, fat and lazy from the endless offerings, until the day he spotted you beyond the threshold of his contained dominion. He couldn't just take your body, that was too easy. He needed your mind, your heart, your fucking soul cradled against him to keep for all eternity. When you both arrived at the theatre, Terry ensured you went through the staff only entrance. You simply looked too ravishing tonight, he couldn't allow the paparazzi to have up close shots of you. He guided you through the back area like he owned the place, which he of course did now, past the stage hands and technicians, past the dressing rooms of the performers. They cooed and greeted you like you were both the star lovers of the show, wishing that you enjoyed the evening.

"Break a leg." Terry announced to them. He smirked at you then, enjoying the amused but almost reprimanding expression on your face. His heart panged with desire, fuck he wanted you so badly. The waiting area was buzzing with guests and conversation, the excitement palpable in the air, but the noise noticeably quietened when the two of you came in. Many faces turned to you, Terry subconsciously tightened his grip around your white faux fur capelet-covered shoulder. Your capelet matched the white ribbon adorned on his ponytail, which you had tied yourself. Your blood red tailored dress matched his cravat and waistcoat underneath his jacket. He ensured that it was the exact shade of your blood from the cut he most definitely didn't purposefully cause by prodding your finger against a rose thorn in the east wing greenhouse almost a month ago. His mind was filled with the image of sucking your finger for almost half an hour, the heady metallic taste of you ripe in his memory. Heading to the box, he led you up the stairs, hand in hand. An announcement was made over the speakers that the performance would start shortly. Right on cue. You were shown into box by a personal butler who he immediately dismissed after you'd taken your seat. He wanted the two of you alone, undisturbed. After all, he wasn't here for the damn opera. The box was extremely luxurious, it had its own bar in the corner, its own bathroom. Rather than two separate seats, the two of you sat on an eighteenth century Chesterfield that he'd had specially procured for the evening. He asked whether you liked the box and you were gushing out compliments to him, eyes wide with excitement as you took in view of the theatre, the perfect central location with the best view of the stage and the orchestra in front of it. "Have I told you how beautiful you look, my dear?" Your cheeks reddened like he was summoning your blood to the surface like a satanic blood ritual, your skin almost splitting open upon a rose thorn. “Yes you have, Terry, thank you. And you look very handsome.” "Do I?" He feigned, his hand reaching up to rest on your neck. The lights of the theatre dimmed, his thumb rubbing along your throat. It was his explicit gesture to you that he was hard and desperately needed to be inside of you. A gasp escaped your mouth before you stuttered out a yes. His eyes flicked down to his lap, his silent command for you to place a hand on his cock, to feel how much he needed you, for you to dare question his desire for his beloved. Your motion was slow, delayed, you weren't entirely comfortable doing this here, but you obeyed, you always did. You were so good to him. You gasped again, feeling how hard he was over his slacks. You never could exactly grasp the depths of his want for you, the hardness of his cock physical proof that words couldn't quite place. La Bohème began its opening act with its star lovers rather too preoccupied, he mused before shifting his body like he was paying attention to the performance. You followed suit, though your soft, gentle hand kept up its teasing motions, fingers rubbing against his length.

His hips lazily kept raising slightly to meet your touch, the music and singing mere noise in the background. He slid an arm around your shoulder, his thumb rubbing up and down your throat, I want you, I need you, I want you, I need you, he conveyed to you over and over and over. Branding his desire onto your body. Were you wet yet? Were your thighs aching? Were you finding it impossible to take in a deep breath? Was your clit twitching? His other hand rested on your thigh, and your free hand shot out to his with surprising speed as you began urgently rubbing his inner wrist. Now this was your explicit gesture to him. I want you, I need you, I want you, I need you, you begged him, you screamed at him with your wordless gesture. He shot up from the Chesterfield, wrenching the privacy curtains closed as far as they would go. Climbing on top of you, his mouth devoured yours, his lips pressing against yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth to meet your own before he began to suck on your own tongue. He growled at the way you groaned in surprise at the sensation. He pulled away. This wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all, would it? He hurried you to your feet, ready to carry you out of the box and down the theatre stairs if you weren't fast enough. But you were up and being pulled by him out through the door like the box had been set on fire. “Mr. and Mrs. Silver?” The butler called out, concern heavy in his voice. Terry knew you'd want to satiate this complete stranger, purely out of the goodness of your heart. He sighed internally. "Pressing business!" Terry shouted back, pulling you around the corner. He looked back at you, inflamed by the smile on your face for him knowing just what you wanted. He immediately stopped at the top of the stairs, out of sight from any of the staff. His hand slid under your dress, cupped your cunt and squeezed, forcing a squeal out of your hot, wet mouth. "Pressing indeed." He murmured, capturing your lips for a brief moment before forcing himself to take you down the stairs. Otherwise he'd be fucking you right there and then. He told hold of your waist, taking some of your weight to keep you balanced, how could you not be weak at the knees for him? He came to a halt in the waiting area, head flicking side to side as he took in his options, body shaking in need, cock straining against his underwear, hand gripping onto yours like a lifeline, it was too far to the limo, the back area was busy with people, hmm. . .coat closet? Practically shoving a wad of cash at the attendants, he ordered for them to leave and slammed the door shut behind them. With no time to waste, he stripped off the fur capelet that was covering your bare shoulders and ripped the top part of your dress down, the sound of tearing material made his balls ache. As you stood frozen in shock, his mouth immediately attacked your nipples, he manoeuvred you against one of the coat racks, your back cushioned by real fur coats. He nipped and sucked and nibbled at you without breaking away, you were more out of breath than he was. Something had to be done about those real fur coats, he thought to himself, letting out a chuckle as he pulled back, giving you a second to take in oxygen. Taking to his knee, he wrenched up the dress to your hips, knocked apart your legs and shoved his mouth into your wet cunt like a man dying of thirst and god he felt like it. You squealed and desperately grabbed onto his shoulders for support. He played with your clit with his tongue, incensed by your constant stream of moans and cries. Working a finger inside of you, he began a relentless pace, rubbing your clit side to side, fucking you deep with one finger before working in another, and then a third. Your legs were shaking by then, your eyes kept rolling back, your hand mindlessly gripping onto his hair, undoing the meticulously neat ponytail you'd tied back earlier that evening. His white ribbon fell onto the floor.

He was too selfish to let you come first, he wanted to come with you. Pulling his mouth and fingers away from you, he rose off the floor to stand. You looked like you'd been fucked out of your mind and his cock hadn't even been inside of you yet. As he scrambled to release his cock, he lifted up one of your legs and you cried out together when he sunk into you. He growled at the wet, tight, hot sensation, relishing it for a fleeting moment before he began to move. Leaning down, his forehead pressed against yours, his tongue licking up the side of your face, his lips laying kisses on your cheeks. He could taste your come, your sweat, your skin. He fucked you hard and fast, your bodies laced together, the mated king cobras deep in the throws of heat. The two of you as one, like it was always meant to be. His hips kept thrusting into you. He knew you were close, he was close to. Weeks and weeks had been spent tuning himself to your rhythms, learning how to delay his pleasure and the effort had paid off tenfold. He upped his paced, feeling that you were about come, his body clinging onto yours. Falling silent as you climaxed together, the sound of you orgasming was music to his ears. He slowed his pace after you reached the peek, emptying himself inside of you. He looked at you then, his thumb coming up to rub against your throat. The touch made you come back to reality, you looked back at him, mouth open, expression spent, someone needed a nap, rest her head right up against his cock. Pulling out of you, he took to his knees again to admire some of his come drip down your thighs. He wiped it off your skin with his hand and wiped it on the fur coats behind you. "My dear doesn't like fur." He commented casually as you stared at him quizzically. After collecting more come leaking from you, he wiped it on another coat, and another. He was doing his part after all, ruining these horrible people's coats. The curiosity on your expression was replaced by concern, your eyebrows furrowing when he took to his feet. “Angel, your hair,” you muttered, regret on your expression, hand reaching out to tuck some of it behind his ear. He snatched onto your hand, staring at you for ten long seconds before sniggering and falling into a fit of laughter.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER NINETEEN: DUCK

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions

Read after the cut

---

“Family,” says Hannibal. “Let’s return to that subject today.”

You occupy the living room, each in a velvet armchair tilted with intent to replicate the layout of his office, the clever dressing of a theatre set. Attempts to put off this particular session had proved inefficacious, the coercion of your attendance rendering you curt and snappish in demeanor.

Truthfully you’ve been so since this morning, having rolled, coughing and vaguely feverish, from dreams of bodies hung rattling like so many clothes hangers in some subterrestrial den.

Hannibal, as expected, had still seen fit to persist with his agenda, weathering your complaints with a brisk good humour.

Will had made himself scarce sometime before you’d awoken, and has left word that you’re not to expect his return for many days. You yearn for him in all his brittle ferocity, a gabion against his friend’s subtle erosion of your mind as you know it. The early hour, the assault of unwanted conversation: such sly methods of torture will damn you to madness as quick as the murkiest secret.

“I’ve told you about my family,” you say to Hannibal, fingering a loose tuft of angora on your sweater. “Besides, you won’t even let me talk to them.”

“I don’t think that it would be to your benefit for me to do so,” he answers, and makes a gracious pretence of examining his pen.

Had you not extended a hand to Amy there would indeed have been a second call, this you’re clearly meant to understand. Hannibal is not above such trivial warfare, as he makes a continuing point to prove; you might be entertained by so comic a flaw were you not in such dire opposition.

“Maybe it’d be good for me to talk to my family,” you say, smartly. “And how can you know that it wouldn’t be when you barely know anything about them?”

Hannibal smirks, pleased to have cast such irresistible bait.

“Enlighten me, then. Begin with your mother, if you like. A predictable start, but in that simplicity rather less challenging than other avenues.”

You glance about the room as though seeking inspiration from it and find it wanting. Only the window at which the dying autumn presses its face wets the brush of conversation again, that symbol of fleeing dark brick to beyond a reminder that you must play on.

“We fight a lot,” you say. “My mom and me. She always has to be right about everything all the time. Never made a mistake in her life. Never apologises for anything. And if you criticise her— well, just don’t. Plus, she used to hit me when I was little. Nothing crazy, but still. She hit me.

“Then one day I slapped her right back and she never did it again.”

Pausing, you tug the hem of your sweater to your knees, an instinct to cover skin that today is not an inch bare.

“It’s funny,” you say. “She acts like she doesn’t remember any of it now.”

“Those in denial of their misdeeds often excise those shameful moments from the past,” says Hannibal. “It may not even be a conscious decision on her part.”

“It’d almost be better if it was. Then maybe she could own up to it, some day.”

Hannibal’s pen mars a fresh page in his notebook; even were it not upside down you suspect you’d fail to untangle his complicated hand.

“Has your mother’s behaviour caused friction surrounding your anorexia?” he asks.

“God, yeah,” you say, half laughing. “She used to yell at me. Tried to bully me into eating. Now she cries a lot and kind of makes it all about her. She loves me, but not in the ways you want in a mother. She pays for stuff. Drives me to places. Ticks all those boxes, you know? But she’s never been kind or comforting, really.

“It’s not all her fault. I guess she just doesn’t know how.”

A leaf falls against a windowpane like the hand of a dead, withered child, and you find yourself drawing back in your seat, wishing you’d the strength to push the chair against the wall.

“Why do you think your mother is unable to fulfil her role as you would like?” asks Hannibal.

“I guess my grandparents treated her the same way she treats me. They were always kind of cold with me when I knew them.”

“Generational cruelty is an infection one must wittingly sterilise. A pity so few are self-aware enough to administer that treatment. Was your father sufficiently conscious?”

Odd, this invocation of the paternal when Hannibal and Will have worked so diligently to embody it in place of your genetic relative.

Now, in a shirt the colour of thatch rolled pristinely back from the jewel of his wristwatch, the doctor could well be the wealthy father of a girl your age, the type to pour upon you his thousands, to walk you down the aisle in a venue of his choosing to marry an approved match of your class.

But you will never wed now that Hannibal has claimed you. He speaks of your family from a wreckage of his making, at ease with his distance from it.

“I love my dad the most,” you say. “But he’s a weird guy. Quiet. Never opens up about his feelings. He’ll talk about movies, or the news, but real stuff? Nope. So I've never felt all that comfortable around him. I mean, with good reason after... after everything.”

“More than good,” says Hannibal, firmly. “That you aren’t angrier with both parents for their abandonment in your time of need surprises me.”

“I don’t really blame them. Uncle Lee has this way about him. He can make people believe pretty much anything he says.”

Inevitable that you should mention Leland, who—though of other blood—is still an incestuous growth on the vine.

“What is this way of his?” asks Hannibal. “You’ve previously spoken of a power to sash the eyes of loved ones against what you perceive to be an obvious darkness. How does that ability present in him?”

You bring your legs up onto the chair, crossing them under you for comfort.

“He moved from Louisiana in his twenties,” you say, “so he still has the accent and everything. He even speaks French sometimes. Then there’s this way of holding himself he has. Kind of cocky, but funny, though. From the second he moved in on our street my parents just loved him, apparently. They never saw what I saw.”

“He’d donned the rubber mask.”

You look up at Hannibal almost shyly.

“Yeah. You remember.”

“Yes. And did you love him, in spite of what seemed to you an obvious guise?”

“I did. In some sick way I still do. So I get why my Mom and Dad believed him over me, but sometimes I think maybe part of them knows the truth, but they just shove it down deep like something dead.”

Scrubbing your face angrily with the sleeve of your sweater you snub, without noticing it, the omnipresent box of tissues on the nearby table top. Hannibal makes no remark on your unclean habit, only pours you a cup of green tea which you accept for the sake of avoiding an argument.

“To truly love someone you mustn’t bury their evils,” says Hannibal. “You must find acceptance of them in whatever form you can. Your parents do not care for this friend so much as fear the upheaval of the known. A suburban life, a sullied idyll— by sending you to me they are attempting to reverse its disunion from their image of it in memory.”

“They’re selfish,” you say. “I know. What’s new there?”

You look at the bottom of your teacup, hunting an impossible pattern in the pale ceramic.

“I don’t want to talk about my family anymore. What about yours? You had a sister, didn’t you?”

Hannibal’s eyes change like the blackening of dusk.

“Will told you this,” he says.

“Does it matter?” you ask, shrilly. “I want to know who you are, Daddy, and this is where I want to start. What happened to Mischa? What did she die of?”

It’s frightening how the man before you alters in only light adjustments: the quiet crossing of a limb, the rhomboid slant of shoulders under his jacket, each a signifier of the restless potentiality for truculence in him.

His face is not so beautiful in moments such as this. The flaws in it stand out to you: flesh racked over halberds of bone, something amphibious in the mouth, of some alien taxon. A killer’s physiognomy, little though you care for such sciences as would define it so.

“My sister was murdered when she was a little girl,” says Hannibal. “I interrupted the culprit in the midst of defiling her body, but it was too late. She was lost to me.”

The moon opal of a tear tips loose of an eyelash, its passage a kinetic artistry. What you’d taken for anger is another emotion: a raw and ancient loss.

“Oh my god,” you say. “That’s awful. Do you know who killed her?”

“A man who remains imprisoned to this day,” says Hannibal. “That is his penance for taking Mischa from me.”

You are in too great a terror and disgust of this man to embrace him, as would feel apt for a moment such as this.

“I’m sorry,” you say, weakly.

Hannibal closes the notebook in his lap and asks, almost blandly, “Are you?”

His bald disbelief flusters you.

“Yes. Of course. She was just a little girl. In fact, I feel like I get it, now. All of this. Me and you. It makes sense why you want me. Why you are what you are. It’s because of her.”

Forcing a smile, you reach over and touch a hand to Hannibal’s cheek.

He turns his face gently away from the caress.

“You’re mistaken, Little One. Whereas you were moulded by your circumstances, I was liberated by mine.”

You stare at him, endeavouring to bone his words for their meaning.

“What are you saying?”

“My philosophies and desires pre-existed Mischa’s death. My love for her restrained me, for while she lived I was never free to act as I yearned to in fear that she would be harmed. In some ways I resented that restraint, but in passing Mischa offered me the opportunity to forgive her.”

A cloud snuffs out the sun, and you sit in the dark of it, aghast.

“Forgive her for what?” you ask, in a near whisper. “Helping you? Hannibal, I—”

“We are still at an impasse, I see,” he says, coolly. “We must rectify this. Would you like to know how she received her absolution?”

You shake your head.

“But you must,” says Hannibal. “You’re a curious girl. Mischa’s remains now lie in a grave in my home country. Before I buried them there, I ate part of her. That is how I reconciled my feelings for my sister with what I am.”

Shock throttles your body in its tremor, and the empty teacup drops from your hand, prevented from breaking only by the carpet underfoot. You had, with all the delicate senses of a medium, deciphered the presage of his appetite, and still you feel the plates of the earth shudder with the magnitude of his confession.

Hannibal gets up from his seat, places the cup back into its saucer, and takes your hand in his.

“Let’s end the session there,” he says. “I’d like to involve you in preparing today’s meal, since that’s a new interest of yours.”

With a fear-stricken servility you walk with him to the kitchen, expecting him to have something—someone—preserved in the glossy coffin of the refrigerator.

Instead Hannibal kneels to unlatch an ingenious door in the floorboards, revealing a neat little staircase which runs down into a basement room. From it emanates a rolling field of cold, biting at you through your clothes.

You take a step back, near tumbling in your eagerness to escape it.

“What is that?”

“It’s an expansion of the freezer,” says Hannibal. “With all the dinner parties I host it’s natural that I found myself in need of more storage space. This is my answer to that problem. I’d like you to go down and choose a cut of meat for dinner.”

There’s no threat in the statement; he speaks, in fact, quite casually, meaning to impress upon you the mundanity of his diet in his eyes. To make supper of his sister, to dine upon lamb: there is no separation for him, being that all of it is meat.

You squeeze your eyes shut, cannot face the oblong of shadow beyond the steps which you’ve dreamt of, unknowing,

“Please don’t make me go down there, Daddy.”

“There’s nothing to be frightened of. Open your eyes, Little One.”

“No. No. I don’t want to.”

You try to turn away, but Hannibal arrests you by the arms, holding you as a farmer would a wriggling hare.

“I’m not going to eat you,” he says. “If that’s what you think.”

“I know!” you wail. “But it doesn’t matter. If I go down there and... see, everything’ll change forever. Because I’ll know for sure, and I’ll be part of it. And I can’t be part of it. I’ll go crazy.”

You jerk passionately in Hannibal’s grip, but his greater strength prevails.

“Wait,” you say. “When you talked about Leland—bringing him to me—you meant that I should kill him to eat.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal, simply. “I did.”

There is a softness in his eyes you recognise as hope. He is a man desperate to create others like him, for all that he believes that they are born.

“But you said with Mischa that eating her was forgiveness,” you say. “But you don’t want me to forgive Uncle Lee. So what would it mean to eat him?”

“Look to why trophy hunters keep mementos of their sport. Some as markers of achievement and dominance over the animal, and others in a subconscious humiliation of the predator they’ve slain. Man gloats to bring a tiger to kneel; a girl, having conquered man, might do the same.”

Thinking of Hannibal’s recorded killings, some of them young women, you say, “Most animals don’t deserve humiliation.”

“That’s all a matter of perspective, my dear. A seasoned hunter develops rather a discerning eye for flaws in his quarry.”

Hannibal smooths a lock of hair behind your ear, his rancid touch queerly soothing.

“What did Savannah Belmont do to deserve humiliation?” you ask, sulkily. “She wasn’t a bad person. She was just a girl, like me.”

“A cursory reading of obituaries and odes to Miss Belmont’s life denote her brief career at a rare bookshop,” says Hannibal, “for which position her personal tastes suggest she was underqualified to take. It wouldn’t be so unrealistic to assume that she left customers unhappy with her inadequate ability to serve them.”

Horror breaks over you like the falling of a chandelier. This, too, you had foreseen: no serious cause to kill was ever required for Hannibal, and that you are fucked rather than murdered by him is but a flourish of fate.

Peering into your eyes, Hannibal comes to a rapid decision and bends to close the trapdoor again.

“Duck, tonight, then,” he says. “That will suffice.”

*

Through terror you cling to Hannibal long into the afternoon, lurking at his elbow, a thumb in your mouth, as he prepares for the day’s appointments.

If he is he here, with you, he cannot kill, you reason, not while he thinks only of the invitation of tear-salt on your lips, the liquor of your nether mouth around him. Again and again you’ll die upon his cock as tribute, for though cold in your disorder you are not so callous as to allow others to, if you can help it.

“I’ll be gone for just a few hours, sweet girl,” he says, pausing to rock you in his lap. “No more of this. I’ve left a new book for you in your room. Please begin reading it for me. And there is the recording of an opera I’d like you to watch. That should keep you occupied until I’m home to you.”

It’s only after he’s driven away in the hearse of his car that you succumb to the awfulness of all you've heard. As in those primordial days of captivity you grasp the bars of your window and scream into the burnished day, beating your fists upon the iron until they burst across the bone.

Only a volley of coughing halts you in this fit, sending you to your bed alarmed by the weakness come over you. You lie shivering for hours, wondering if this is the nervous exhaustion you’ve read about in novels that ends in heroines consigned to the madhouse, sunny climes, or else the grave, none of which you might expect to be released to.

When Hannibal returns he feels your forehead and listens to your coughs with a mildly furrowed brow.

“Hospital,” you croak, but he only laughs and strokes your head.

“There’s no need for that. You have a chest infection. Your immune system is very poor. Nevertheless, you’ll be well again soon.”

He perfumes your damp neck with a kiss and sits down in a chair beside you.

“Perhaps it’s for the best that Will is occupied with work,” he comments, at length. “I wouldn’t like his condition to worsen again.”

[fitzrove]

(Rest of the cast in case they're also famous agfhajfj: Cecilie Nerfont Thorgersen as Elisabeth, Christer Nerfont as Luigi Lucheni, Björn Eduard as Franz Josef, Martin Kagemark as Rudolf.

Funnily enough, I have Learned that a bunch of them were also in the Swedish production of Mozart in 2005 - Christer Nerfont as Mozart, Martin Kagemark as Schikaneder, Björn Eduard as Leopold and Cecilie Nerfont Thorgersen as Nannerl.)

Elisabeth at the Värmlandsoperan (Karlstad, Sweden), 1999

[starlene]

Missing the original production of Så som i himmelen.

[willstafford]

Ghosted!

BLITHE SPIRIT The Attic Theatre, Stratford upon Avon, Wednesday 24th May 2023 Noel Coward’s classic comedy gets a spirited revival in this new production at Stratford’s cosy Attic Theatre.  Adam Clarke and Sue Kent’s set design uses the intimacy of the space to put us right in the living room with the characters.  Up close and personal with the cast, we feel part of the action. Novelist…

[hummingbee-o0o]

Armand Molloy's Vampirism Course for the Gifted

Apparently, Daniel is something of a vampiric prodigy.

He’s a very efficient and neat killer, sure, but that’s not it. It’s about The Gifts, or whatever. Well, one gift, for now, but Armand is so hopped up on it he’s going full Montessori on Daniel’s ass. He apparently wants to make up for being an absentee maker at the start there, and he’s determined to nurture Daniel’s talents.

It started a couple months ago, when Daniel casually set a shitty book on fire, and even he was surprised at how easily it came to him. Armand then said something weirdly erotic about his blood being inside Daniel, and the whole incident got them both so horny they repeatedly had sex about it for a week.

And now Armand is of the opinion that Daniel should try branching out into other gifts as well.

Except…

You know how some birds of prey will deliver a kill that’s still wriggling to their nest, so the young can learn to deal the killing blow? Yeah, that’s pretty much Armand’s teaching methodology.

Only it’s not about killing, because Daniel, disturbingly, never had problems in that department. No, this is much more complicated, and Daniel is kinda regretting watching that David Attenborough documentary with Armand last night, the one about the European golden eagles lifting entire-ass goats off cliffs, because he’s pretty sure that’s the bit that inspired Armand’s current teaching efforts.

There’s a cop standing in front of them, staring straight ahead with the creepy, vacant stare of an antique doll. They’re in the middle of an abandoned construction site, the kind that really ticks Daniel off, because the housing crisis is a real thing, but at least there’s nobody to see them; and if anybody comes along, well, Armand can do what he’s done to the cop.

Which brings Daniel back to his predicament.

“Come on, babe,” he tries. “Can’t we do it some other time? I’ll blow you if we go home right now.”

Armand laughs, beautiful like a goddamn midsummer night. “That’s a very tempting offer, beloved, but we both know you’ll do that anyway.”

Yeah, he’s got Daniel there.

“Try lifting one of his arms.”

“God, can’t we just drain him?”

“You just ate,” Armand reminds him, and that’s true, there’s even still some blood in the corner of Daniel’s mouth; he licks at it pensively, staring at the cop. “Go on.”

Thing is, Armand is really so fucking calculated. He’s orchestrated every detail here like the ultimate theatre kid he is: he knows that choosing a cop will remove any sympathy inhibitions Daniel may have otherwise had for a technically still-living subject, and he also knows the cop will trigger Daniel’s fight-or-flight responses, because you can take the boy out of the drug den, but you can’t take the junkie out of the old man.

The empty construction site, the open space and illusion of isolation, and the goddamn stretched-out t-shirt Armand is wearing, the one with a neckline that droops well past his collarbones, because he knows Daniel is weak with horniness when he puts that on.

(Look who’s bartering with desire now.)

“Fine,” Daniel finally breaks, as they both knew he would. “Fine. But don’t get disappointed if nothing happens.”

“You’re my Daniel. I could never be disappointed in you.”

Well, shit, and then he goes and says stuff like that. And he means it too, it’s right there in his eyes. Daniel doesn’t know what to do with him, other than love him.

-

(continue reading on AO3)