#manna fic

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: GATEAU

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon/rape, abuse, past child abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, death mentions (including of a young people), Stockholm Syndrome

Read after the cut

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As the night goes on, made odd by the truths held above your head, Hannibal sends you into the kitchen for the wine Will has forgotten there as though you are his little maid to be so imperiously commanded. Grumbling under your breath you slope into that other room, thinking to spit down the neck of the bottle to lend it the flavour of your displeasure.

Your gaze falls first upon a vast chocolate gateau resting on the sideboard, its rich aroma stirring awake your appetite, the pangs of which you now rarely know.

At this you feel an acute disgust at your body’s failing. No doubt some human matter has found its way into this creation, likely by blood to bring salt to its flavour, but even if by a rare chance it hasn’t you cannot stand that you desire it after all the years you’ve abstained from dessert.

Still, even as you scorn yourself you reach with one finger across to the cake and scoop from it a curl of icing, shuddering as it glazes the roof of your tongue with its silken sin.

Guilt rides over you at once: the totting up of numbers, the phantasmic sense of weight already building on your bones. In a panic you smooth over the gap in the cake left from your burrowing finger with a nearby clod of icing, hoping it won’t be noticed when Hannibal comes to cut a slice for supper.

The kitchen door opens behind you, making you jump and wipe your guilty hands together as Will appears in the frame.

“You were taking a while,” he says. “Thought I’d check on you.”

“What do you care?” you reply with a haughty toss of your head. “You’re barely here anymore. Don’t pretend to give a damn now you’re back.”

Will shuts the door behind him and leans against it, his arms folded.

“I thought you wanted me to put my full efforts into this case.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you should just abandon me.”

With an unpleasant laugh Will says, “I’m sure you and Hannibal get along just fine on your own.”

You think cynically of your elder captor assaulting you against his front door, biting at your flesh. A lean coyote in a gentleman’s clothes.

“You don’t like the idea of him fucking me when you’re not there, do you?” you ask, and Will shrugs, refusing you an honest reaction.

“I’m just aware of what I’m missing, that’s all.”

It occurs to you to question how often he thinks of rutting you in those elongated hours apart, or if it is only Hannibal that inhabits his mind in ire and yearning alike. Will may not have forgiven him the harm he’s done, but he certainly cares for him still.

Perhaps it is the homosexual angle of the romance that prevents him from viewing it as such; if only women have otherwise enchanted him what sense can he make of this new lust?

“Well,” you say, “if you want we can swap places. You stay home with Hannibal and I’ll play detective with the FBI.”

“Funny,” says Will. “I like our arrangement the way it is.”

You look at him doubtfully.

“So you’ve really never considered it? You and him together, the way I am with him?”

“I consider you and me together,” says Will, and he steps towards you, driving you against the kitchen island until its edge impresses a horizontal groove into your back. “How I’m starting to forget what you taste like.”

Your breath jars in your throat, and you’re ashamed by the airless, claustrophobic sensation of desire that his words elicit.

“What would Uncle Jack think hearing you talk like that?” you ask.

Will smirks.

“Not everything I do is for Jack’s approval.”

He loops an arm around your waist, his palm grazing your skin through the smoke of your dress.

“Maybe you should be thinking about him,” you say, wriggling against the hammerhead of Will’s forceful want. “I don’t think he’d put you and dear, dear Daddy onto the Lover case if he knew that you were raping me.”

“Are we?” asks Will, and there is laughter of such an easy cruelty in his eyes that you wonder how you ever thought him good.

“Yes,” you say. “You are raping me, even though you love me. Maybe even because you do.”

Your voice is frail with emotion, no longer teasing. Will touches your cheek, and even that light touch is something evil, knowing of your weakness for him.

“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” he says. “Not about me.”

You shake him with both hands, unhinged with a sudden desperation.

“It’s messed up, but I’m right, aren’t? You love me. Say it. Just say it. I need to hear it.”

With an abrupt motion Will hoists you up onto the kitchen counter, your unmoored limbs flailing around him.

“How about I show you?” he says, and reaching up under the gauzy skirt he pulls your underwear down to your ankles.

How often he disappoints you, refusing to free you, refusing you the words you beg of him.

Will kisses you from your hardened mouth down your clothed body to your unclothed cunt, and his lips are like a roaming spark beneath which you flinch in revulsion and response.

Your hands weave through the thick of his hair, and you kick at his shoulders briefly before the motion of his tongue makes you still.

The sight of Will glancing up at you between your thighs, the stirring of his mouth against the bead on which he strings you out—

You moan, yet through you, as always, is the disgust of having your flesh expressed of its need like juice from a persimmon, that he to whom you’ve grown close engages in this incest, and has you indulge in it, as well.

No longer can you envision an existence with him where that element were not part of it, nor one absent of his envy.

Even as Will devours you it is Hannibal whose taste he seeks, hunting the remnant he’d left in you that morning against the shower wall, hoping there is some trace not rinsed down the drain.

Against Will’s claims you know there is some sleeping shred of him that thinks of the hand, the mouth, the carefully trained form under the designer suits, and resents that you—his subordinate, and unwilling at that—have experienced all in place of him.

You muse upon how it will be if ever Will gives in to the cravings of man, envision him shunting you off into some corner to observe as they make violent love like the dispute of brother gods.

This, in conjunction with the roll of Will’s fingers and tongue-tip upon you, conducts a new music of pleasure, and afterwards an anger that he has transformed you so utterly as to be this easily aroused.

Scuttling your hand across the kitchen island you feel for the wine bottle, toying with the notion of striking Will over the head with it, and wonder if you’ve gone as bad as him to feel joy at the thought of his red brains and the red wine of his warm blood across you.

You’d never do it, yet the thought comes back and back unbidden. Hannibal has beckoned it in with his talk of killing, the resurrection of the poorly buried dead.

It’s as your fingers wrap around the glass that Will says darkly, “Don’t you dare.”

His face is turned against your thigh, its expression stern, though not entirely serious.

“I wasn’t doing anything” you protest.

“You were thinking it,” says Will. “That’s enough.”

Then his jaws are on you again, and pleasure crushes you flat as though between the earth and a stone.

He loves you, you think, in the midst of it. The only man outside your family that ever has, and he has treated you with greater cruelty even than Leland Frost. Yet you cannot resist affection of any kind, and so as Hannibal rightly guessed it is no longer entirely unrequited.

Self-loathing takes over in your orgasm’s decline, and you push Will away with the soles of your feet, not wanting to sully your hands with him.

“I’m bored now,” you snap. “Take your wine in yourself.”

You thump down onto the kitchen floor, swerving Will as he reaches for you with a testy jerk of your shoulder.

“Little One,” he says, and then he corrects himself with your real name, so rarely heard from him now that you are touched that he thinks of its use.

Still you leave the room, finding yourself on the bitter verge of tears.

*

In sleep you have one of those particular dreams that read more of latent prophecy, a canon yet to give itself birth. In a scrub of forest you crouch over the nude body of a woman, pulling from the open mouth of her gut glittering organs upon which you feast with a scavenger’s appetite.

Will and Hannibal oversee this feast in approving silence, their figures a second darkness in the night.

Why they do not share in that meal you do not know; perhaps they have eaten already of their own kills, observing with full bellies as you follow suit.

It does not strike you in this dream to loathe the thing you do, for to eat is to survive, and so to meet the approval of your masters. With eagerness you crawl up the cool length of the cadaver, ripping up carpets of meat as you go.

Only when you reach the face, upturned to the dish of the moon, that you recoil with a spasm of horror and recognition of it. You know this woman, yet cannot in sleep recall her name, nor conjure the place from which you remember her.

“Did I kill her?” you ask, for this, too, you do not know.

“No,” says Will. “Not with your own hands.”

“Your proximity to her was enough,” says Hannibal. “All those who have been even in passive orbit of you may fall foul of death. We have told you this, Little One.”

You stare into the dead woman’s sunken eyes which appear in their stillness like replicas of glass.

“But if I didn’t kill her, and you didn’t either, then why am I eating her?” you ask.

“I fear you will go mad in losing those you love,” says Hannibal. “So you must consume and accept the dead as part of you, as I have. That way both mind and memory will last, if not intact then transformed as you are by the sating of your hunger.”

“It won’t work,” you say. “I don’t believe that. That’s your religion, not mine.”

“You’ll learn to embrace your madness, then. After all, each of us three would be consigned to an asylum for our habits by those that don’t understand us. But I would always understand you, Little One, no matter what condition your broken mind was reduced to, in the end.”

Then your captor’s hand presses down on the base of your skull until you're forced to lap at the dead woman’s blood.

You awake half hanging off the side of your bed, your body having mimicked the acts of your dreaming self as it has not done since you were young. In those years you’d often jarred yourself awake by attempting to speak aloud or to gesticulate to some ephemeral figure.

That you’ve resumed this abandoned habit disturbs you far more than the content of your dream, and in a panicked rush you start out of your bedroom into the hallway, turning not into Will’s chamber—which tonight is occupied by his sleeping form—but into Hannibal’s.

The door swings open under your frantic touch, and a startled figure sits upright in the shadows, as disbelieving of you having come to him as you are yourself.

“What’s happened?” asks Hannibal. “Are you feeling alright?

“I had another dream,” you say. “I’m scared.”

You find yourself sitting on the end of Hannibal’s bed, the first time you have done so willingly. His face is an amazed blank, unable to translate the meaning of this new and impulsive action.

“Your nightmares are likely a side effect of reducing your medication,” he says, at last. “I should have warned you. I apologise; it’s my mistake.”

With a hoarse laugh you say, “What do you have to be sorry about? Everything that ever goes wrong... you know exactly what to do. You take care of me even if I don’t want you to. You’re always so sure of yourself.”

Hannibal switches on the bedside lamp, his face solemn in the belt of its light.

“That is untrue. I have many flaws and failures; you’ve seen for yourself that I’m not always as in control as I’d like to be.”

The attack with the knife, he means, or his tampering with Will’s mind, both grave mistakes, so few of which have occurred throughout your stay that only they, of all, occur to you. That Hannibal is a killer, a defiler of flesh living and dead does not present itself despite its obvious nature, for even in this he is unerring, cunning and clean.

“I’m going to let you down,” you say. “You think you can fix me, and I know how hard you’re trying, but I’m not okay. It’s going to get worse.”

Hannibal runs your cold fingers between his own until they warm.

“You say this because recent developments are frightening you. Because you assume the good that will come of submitting to mutual love will not last. You would rather propel yourself into a fit of anxiety than permit yourself the slightest happiness.”

You turn him a look of reproach.

“You know why I can’t.”

“Because we are killers.”

“Yes.”

“But you love us still.”

Tugging your hands from Hannibal’s own you say, “If I did I’d be a terrible person.”

“We can’t help who we care for in this life. That you are able to love against the bounds of your morality isn’t evidence of personal failure.”

Yet surely it must be, you think, is in fact a marker of how greatly you’ve given in to him.

You say nothing of this aloud, however, only inch across the bed into Hannibal’s arms, kissing him in the hope of ridding your mouth of the taste of blood from your dream.

“There’s time for this tomorrow,” he says, gently, drawing away; clearly he thinks you’re seeking sex, an invitation you’re amazed to see him decline. “It’s very late, and I have patients to see in the morning. Rest now. You’ll feel better for it.”

You sleep nestled against him, his palm on your belly, which for once you neither mind nor think much of, merely consoled by his presence there with you.

*

The following week you are suspended between shame and self-pity, aware that you have fallen by a missing rung on the ladder of pious restraint into collusion with the men that you’re unsure you can arise from.

Will becomes as present in the household as work and commitment to his dogs will allow, the continued, quiet feud with Hannibal still complicating the evident need to remain at his side.

With you Will is tactile, sensual, smothering you with the weight of his covetous desire.

"You need to talk to him about what happened between you," you say to Hannibal one night, your head in his lap as he draws another portrait of Will as some tragic hero. "He's driving me crazy. I wish you'd just hash it out together or something."

"He's lost trust in me," says Hannibal in a tone of martyred sadness. "That can't be rebuilt inorganically. In time I hope his anger will pass."

It's on the tip of your tongue to suggest that he unburden all of his wrongs in one grand gesture, but thinking the better of it you return to placid silence.

This new method of survival you have taken on, though considered wise even in your early days of imprisonment, is so indistinguishable from genuine attachment that you could not confidently distinguish the two from one another.

Amy would be disgusted with the woman you've become, pining for the approval of predators, one of which has struck up a friendship with her own attacker. It is a dark blessing that through hypnosis she has forgotten this, will read of you in Tattle Crime and frown at the strange pang she feels at the notion of you shared by the named men.

In this way you become your own accuser, sparing no empathy for the difficulty of your plight. As others would judge you so you judge yourself, are brutal in the manner your keepers have sought to discourage.

Rebellion comes in strange forms, as of late.

You while away your days in windows frosted with the turning of autumn into its pale sibling, writing the first coherent entries of the journal you've long been unable to manifest. Your prose is clumsy, your handwriting without any particular art, but in this alone you gain some tangible accomplishment and distraction from your conflict.

Knowing Hannibal surely reads your diary you consider caution, but upon realising there are few secrets left between you both you write honestly and without fear of being bent across his lap.

“WEDNESDAY—

I haven’t been allowed to talk to my parents in so long that I can’t even hear their voices in my head anymore. I guess I’m realising that I’ve been picturing strangers ever since I came here, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

Do I even miss them anymore, or is it other, made up people I just tell myself I miss? Were they ever real to begin with?

They call it solipsism, the theory that nothing actually exists outside your perception. I read that it one of Hannibal’s books— George Berkeley was the name of the philosopher. I hope I spelled his name right.

Since I was little I had this fear that I was the only real person in the universe, that everyone else I ever met just vanished the second they weren’t in front of me. I still feel that way, I guess.

My bad memories are the only proof that I’m not alone, as much as I’m afraid—or sometimes find myself wishing—that I am.

I just remembered a day my parents took me shopping around Christmas one year. We went to this huge shopping center, and it was so busy and noisy that my Mom got really worked up and started snapping at everybody as if it was our fault the whole city picked that day to buy presents too.

I guess I did something wrong— maybe I wandered off, or I said something she didn’t like. But suddenly she yelled so loud everybody around us turned to stare at us except my Dad, who looked away just like he always did. Messed with his glasses. Pretended he saw something interesting in a store window when we all knew he hated shopping and was just dying to get out of there and go home to the TV.

Five minutes later Mom tried to hold my hand like nothing ever happened. Like she forgot what she just did, or didn’t realise that it upset me. Then when I wouldn’t let her take my hand she got mad all over again, and I could tell it hurt her feelings.

I’ve always wondered how she justifies those moments to herself, or if she shoves them down so far that she can just pretend she’s never in the wrong.

If I did imagine my mother, why would I make her that way?

Anyway, I think this whole solipsism thing is why I don’t buy Hannibal’s idea of absorbing life, even if it’s just a symbolic gesture. If I can’t see you then you might as well be dead, so really the thought that something would be left of that person after their heart stops beating makes no sense to me.

Only my dreams are real. Realer than I am. But if they’re repeating what Hannibal keeps telling me then what does that mean?”

"FRIDAY —

“I spat out some of breakfast into a napkin today. Daddy Hannibal took me upstairs and hit me with some kind of leather flogger till I said I was sorry. I wasn’t, though, and he knew it. He told me I’d never get to go to nice places with him if I kept behaving in that way, and that would be the real punishment.

I keep forgetting that’s what he and Daddy Will want at the end of all this. To take me out of the shadows of this house into their light.

Haven’t they thought about how weird it’s going to look to everybody? What will they tell people? That I’m their daughter? Their inappropriately young girlfriend?

They’ll have to take me somewhere nobody knows us and no one really cares. Places we can be different people except to ourselves. But maybe we’ll become the people we pretend to be. I’d like that to be true.”

It’s as you’re finishing this particular entry that you overhear voices in one of the many hallways— Hannibal’s, and that of Jack Crawford, who’s been invited to dinner again. Perceiving a hushed secrecy to their dialogue you return to your talent of eavesdropping and sidle up to the nearest door.

It’s Jack you hear first, partway through some muttered sentence.

“—Heard about the fibre sample Beverly picked up on in Lillian Greyflower’s file.”

“A thread from a hospital gown,” says Hannibal. “Yes. She had Turner Syndrome and was undergoing frequent medical checks to monitor her health.”

“She wasn’t the only one,” says Jack. “Bryce Mulligan was struggling with Kidney Disease, Anaïs Foreau was a premature birth— all the Mask Murder victims had conditions that affected their weight and height in some way. None of them were much over five foot tall.”

So these are the details Will did not wish you to know, cautious of spooking you with the implications of the discovery. Your illness is the reason for the Lover’s interest in you: as many differences as there are between you and his first set of victims this is the one great likeness to have drawn him in.

“The killer’s first muse herself was in poor health,” says Hannibal, “and with stunted development for her age. I suggest you search missing persons records for a white, blonde female under the age of eighteen, last seen accompanying an older male family member; I believe she disappeared around the time the Mask Murders began. Look specifically for girls with growth disorders, genetic, and chronic conditions.”

“We need to narrow down a state,” says Jack. “The murderer is clearly a travelling man.”

Then, clearing his throat, he adds, “Speaking of the Lover, have you—”

Hannibal intercepts the question briskly.

“Not yet. As things are now I couldn’t possibly disturb the peace by announcing such unpleasant news. I will attempt it as soon as I can.”

Lost as to the meaning of this abrupt turn in the conversation you strain your ears, frustrated when the men’s voices lower so far as to become incoherent. Only Will’s footsteps approaching behind you compel you away from the door.

“Stop it,” he says. “You want them to catch you like that?”

Turning around, you stick out an irreverent tongue at him.

“Who says they were going to catch me?”

Will scoffs, scarcely masking his amusement.

“Quit screwing around. Go sit at the table. We’ll be eating soon.”

The dinner you find awkward in the deliberate avoidance of the Lover case, small talk expanded into impossible complexity across the courses. Having seen death in its multiples you are both angered and entertained by the senselessness of your fathers thinking you too delicate to endure what you have learned.

Jack’s hesitation you understand, being that of the three men only he thinks you wholly innocent. Your keepers, however, are purely concerned with avoiding the resulting unseemly outburst, and in this you are reminded that no matter what affections you’ve developed to protect yourself from a prisoner’s despair a prisoner you still are.

Glowering at them both under your lashes you crush a slice of ‘fish’ under your fork, watching it take the shape of the tines. It’s as you’re observing this process that an idea occurs to you, brought on by the visitor in the room. A chance to communicate to Jack that he dines with a cannibal, that he has eaten of the same people for whom his officers seek justice—

Stuffing the morsel of fish into your cheek you say, “I’m full. Can I be excused?”

Jack glances at Hannibal, his brows angled, and you realise that he discerns something overfamiliar in your tone or body language he isn’t sure enough of to interrogate.

“You’re free to leave whenever you like,” says Hannibal. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Thanks for joining us,” says Jack, and you offer him a weak smile before rushing out into the living room where your journal and ball point pen remain.

Tearing a leaf out of the back you write

‘TEST THE MEAT!!! IT’S HUMAN!” in a hasty scrawl and spit the fish you’d kept from dinner into your hand.

Your heart clatters in your chest like a train across some treacherous road as you dart through to the hallway. On a rack hangs Jack Crawford’s overcoat, the pocket of which you intend to deliver your grim parcel to.

This is the answer to the question of your freedom, the sole proof required to unlock the criminal mystery of the Copycat.

Upon reading your note Jack will take this meat to the lab where all forensic discoveries are founded, and in the makings of its DNA will realise what creature he has dined with, and what he has been tricked to eat at his table.

He will get you out of this house, give you back to your parents and end this horror you’ve been bent to fit by moulding hands. Hannibal will be imprisoned or institutionalised, perhaps Will too, if he’s discovered to know more than he suggests of his companion, or if your relations are found out.

There will be no more men and women eaten in the grand house of death, and no more will you be abused and infantilised, or forced to take your fill.

Things will be as they were before your abduction, a known unhappiness which from having lived before you know that you can bear.

Yet even as you reach into Jack’s pocket the negative aspects of this plan suggest themselves to discourage you from this rash and unplanned act.

You think of the Lover’s crimes going unsolved and continuing around you, closing in until you too are taken and locked into a doll. Even if the killer does not dare to capture you in your infamy there are the choking attentions of the press to think of, the humiliating questions as to what you have been made to do as concubine to your insatiable men.

Leland Frost would likely make some comment on it, as thoroughly as you’d attempt to avoid him, his eyes bright with a jilted humour.

“Guess you’re not my girl anymore, cher.”

“Shut up,” you whisper aloud. “I never was.”

The cold grease from the meat soaks the skin of your fingers, and your stomach turns over at the smell of it.

All your doubts have surely been injected by Hannibal’s hypnosis to dissuade you from escape, for even as you dismiss those that have already come to mind more follow, each more unpleasant than the last.

After all, these previous concerns assume the success of your attempt to rally Jack to your side. He has been groomed by Hannibal to think you mad, and a conniving lunatic at that, one poised to invent scandal and atrocities abound if it means you’ll be released from treatment.

Upon discovering the note and meat making filthy his beautiful coat Jack is unlikely to follow the command you’d penned there; rather, with a pitying look, he’ll deliver it to Dr Lecter, bringing down, unwitting, another brutal lesson from your keepers upon you.

But even should Jack believe or humour you and process the sample as is your design there is no likelihood of Hannibal submitting quietly to arrest. He is a killer, and as such will fight every man against him until none stand.

Then he will turn upon you in whatever fashion he decides, and the attempt will be for nothing, one you may not even live to regret.

The risk of failure is not worth the pursuit, you decide, and resign yourself to retreat from the hallway and from the temptation of hopeless escape.

As you turn into another room you collide with Will, who has followed you from the table.

“Sorry,” you mumble, and attempt to sidestep him, your full hand held partially behind your back.

Will takes you by the shoulders, pushing you lightly up against the nearest wall.

“Wait,” he says. “I know you’re up to something. You’d better admit it now before you’re in even more trouble. Don’t bother to lie; there’s no reason for you to be loitering out here unless you were doing something you’re not supposed to.”

When you don’t answer his gaze falls to the fist tightened upon your shame, and the set of his mouth steels.

“You’d better show me what you’re holding,” he says. “Let’s hope Hannibal’s feeling more forgiving than I am.”

[kinnenvy]

Hi! I’m just coming by to say I recently came across your qaf fics and I read them all while I was on a 30 minute work break. And holy shit I kind of hated myself for how quickly I read them because each one of them was amazing and I wish I would’ve saved them to slowly read through them and enjoy them. My heart absolutely melted and broke at Forward. Gosh that was probably my favorite one, it was so amazingly written and it was just everything! From angst to happy to smiling like an idiot to wanting to grab them both and shake them. And then Fifty took me for a spin of emotions! I mean Brian turning 50 alone makes me want to sob. But then it was cute and angsty even and then they talked! Fucking finally! And then the plot twist! obsessed!!!!! And Framing Ben….i mean, need I say more except DAMN. Needles to say, my lunch break was time well spent :)

😳😳😳😳!!!!!!!!!

this is so crazy anon thank you so much!!!!! thank you for reading them, i'm glad to know that you enjoyed them! and thank you for taking the time to send me this message!!!!! i will treasure it forever🥰🧡

[twola]

Chasing Waterfalls

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader  Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link ➵ Next

Welp - this is an interesting one. A half-cooked challenge where some fic writers are inebriated? Perhaps.

To my dear @reddeaddufus - I feel slightly silly dedicating a piss kink ficlet to you, but actually this makes a ton of sense for us :D

cw: watersports, piss kink

“Can we stop up here?” You whine, pulling on Arthur’s jacket from your place on his mare’s rump. You’ve been riding for hours- your back is sore and bladder full, and it’s still another two or so hours before you reach camp. The moon has risen over the pines, shrouding the forest

Arthur looks back at you with an amused smirk. “You sick of ridin’ there, Princess?”

“We’ve been riding for hours, Arthur. I need to stop.”

“Fiiiine.” He complains but urges the mare off the road and a little further back into the woods.

Arthur swings down from the saddle and reaches up to take you by the waist, lifting you from the horse’s rump with ease, setting you down as if you were as light as a feather.

“Y’know, Princess, we’re gonna be back in a tent tryin’ to be quiet again in a few hours.” His hands move from your waist down, down to cup your rear through your skirts, squeezing gently.

“Mm.” You agree, winding your arms up around his shoulders - he did have a point. A knowing smile graces your features.

Your cowboy takes one hand, tilts the rim of his hat up, and leans back down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. His large frame pushes you backward a couple of steps until your back presses against the trunk of a large pine. 

The clicking of metal rings out in the forest as Arthur wrenches his gunbelt open and it clatters to the ground. The rustling of fabric against fabric, the wet smack of lips meeting echo in the night.

“Pretty little thin’,” he rumbles as he starts to hike up your skirts. You clutch at his shirt as you feel him grope for your bloomers, his greedy fingers catching the fabric and pulling downward as he suckles at the curve of your neck. You moan, loudly, enjoying the ability to do so outside of camp.

The syllables of his name drip from your mouth like manna. You pull one leg up as he works the fabric down your legs, then lift the other to step out of your underthings. He tosses your bloomers to the side and they disappear in the tall grass. You give a slight frown before he devours your lips again, pressing you against that pine tree’s trunk once more. You yelp into his mouth before melting into his embrace, and it’s an instant more before he spins you around to face the tree. He pulls you back half a step so that your arms stretch out to press against the trunk as he once again lifts your skirts.

“Think you’re ready f’r me?” He grunts into your ear as he bends you slightly at the waist.

“Always-” you pant, “I’m always ready for y-”

He presses into you and it’s a punch to your gut. Hard, hot, thick inches of him slide into your cunt and you moan like a goddamn whore.

“Oh yes, you are.” Arthur retorts, you can see his smirk in your mind's eye as he he gracious enough to allow you to grow used to his intrusion.

But not too gracious.

His hands clamp around your hips hard as he thrusts his hips once, twice, three times slowly before moving into a much more punishing rhythm.

It’s not long - it never is, until he’s able to bring you to the edge of orgasm - your cunt full of him and cleaved just enough to find pleasure. You bite your bottom lip as you come, trying to stifle the scream that bubbles up from your lungs.

“Ss-stop-” You stutter as he pounds into you, after your orgasm you feel like your bladder is going to burst. As if his steel-hard cock pistoning into your cunt wasn’t enough pressure in your hips, he shoves one of his hands between your legs, and his thumb parts your folds to find that bundle of nerves of your pleasure.

“Stop-  Arthur, I’m gonna-” You squeal and try to jerk away from him, but with the vicegrip he has on your hips, you’re unable to move.

It’s too much - his cock shoved fully up your cunt, his thumb furiously working at your clit, your knees shaking, it’s too goddamn much-

You try to push his hand away but moving him is like trying to move a brick wall - a brick wall hellbent on you being wrung out and left to dry. A groan escapes your mouth through gritted teeth, nearly pained - “No, stop, m’ gonna - you’re gonna make me piss m’self.” 

“Do it.” He grunts hoarsely, rocking his hips forward ever so slowly, even gently, compared to the assault of his digits on your swollen clit. The hand that was clamped near painfully around the curve of your hip bone starts gathering up your skirts, hamfisting them up above your hips so that your legs are bare as you lean against that tree.

“Wh-what?” You grit out, your eyes crossing as you unconsciously clench on his flesh within you.

“Let go.” Arthur groans, his cock twitching within you as he slides his hand upward slightly, so that his thumb rests above your pubic bone while his ring finger continues lazy circles on your abused nub, pleasure racked and overstimulated.

He presses on your bladder with that strong thumb of his and it’s over. You cry out - half in pain and half in relief as that great pressure is loosed from your pelvis. Hot liquid pours from you, forcefully against the ground and you squeeze your eyes shut tightly against the sensation - heightened by the inches of flesh crammed up your channel. 

Arthur slides his hand down to let the stream run through his fingers before pooling on the dirt between your feet.

“Good girl,” he murmurs into your ear as tears collect under your eyes, and you couldn’t stop if you tried. His hips pulse forward jerkily once, twice, and he moans far louder than he ever has with you in the past, his dick splattering his spend into your cunt as your bladder empties first through his hand then pooling on the ground.

“I- I need -” Arthur pulls out quickly, and stumbles forward half a step. You feel his pubic hair against your rear, one of his hands wrapped around his softening cock, “M’ gonna- don’t be mad -” He rambles, and suddenly you feel warm moisture on the back of your thigh, trailing down your leg over your boot. He groans in satisfaction as you gasp breathily, eyes widening as rivulets of hot piss course down your leg. You tighten your grip on the tree to stay upright, your blunt nails digging into the bark until Arthur makes a choked-off gasp and the liquid peters off.

“I- uh,” Arthur pants as he straightens up.

“You��like that?” You glance over your shoulder as he steps away from you.

Arthur is sheepishly tucking his cock back into his pants, cheeks blazing red and his gaze unwilling and unable to find yours, “I…,” he buttons his pants with fervor, turning his head away to make himself even further from you, “I understand if you don’t wanna do this no more cause of-“

You spin around and grab at his fiddling hand once he’s finished buttoning his pants.

“I mean… I’m okay with it, as long as we wash up afterward.” You say, shaking your boot slightly, drops of moisture falling to the ground as you step away from the veritable puddle that was between your legs.

“Seriously?” Arthur finally looks up, skepticism plain on his face.

Half a smile comes across your face as you drop your skirts with your other hand, “Let's head on down to the river to clean up. I don’t want to feel sticky.”

Arthur’s frown remains, but he lets you pull him toward the forest toward the nearby river, he leans over after a few steps to grab his discarded gunbelt, throwing it over his shoulder.

Once the two of you reach the bubbling waters of the mountain stream, you let go of his hand.

“Think we could probably take a bath.” You start playing with the laces of your skirts.

Arthur looks around in either direction, knowing that the road’s river crossing is rather close to where the two of you stand.

“Yer not worried about gettin’ caught naked as the day you were born?”

“I mean… worried ain’t the word that I would use to describe it.” Your skirts drop to the ground, your skin completely bare in the moonlight below your waist.

Arthur’s lips crook up into a smile as he starts to unbutton his shirt.

[kirby-derb]

Now a Lil fic cause I can :)

College Au

The university library was packed with students drowning in the chaos of finals week, but the loudest table was undeniably theirs: John, Simon, Kyle, Johnny, and Alex—the group of friends who’d somehow become inseparable over their years at the university.

Price sat at the head of the table, glasses perched on his nose, surrounded by history textbooks and handwritten notes. His usual air of tranquility slightly by the paperclip chain someone (likely Johnny) had clipped to his sleeve. "You lot are hopeless," he muttered, flipping a page. "If you put half the energy into your studies as you do into being a pain, we wouldn’t be in here all night."

Johnny leaned back dangerously far in his chair, balancing a mechanical pencil on his nose. “Aw, lighten up, Jo-Jo. Finals are just fancy pop quizzes.”

Kyle snorted, typing furiously on his laptop. “Spoken like someone who’s failed two pop quizzes this semester.”

“Two?!” Alex chimed in, looking up from his notes on renewable energy that somehow never faltered. “That’s generous. I’d put the over-under at four.”

Johnny dramatically clutched his chest. “You lot dont know what its like bein in engineering, 90% of the class failed!”

Simon, sitting across from him, barely looked up from his physics book. “You’re not wrong, though. I saw his econ grade. It’s a miracle he’s still here.”

“Not everyone can calculate orbital velocity in their sleep, Si” Johnny shot back. “Some of us have to work with personality.”

“Right,” Simon deadpanned. “How’s that working out for you?”

Before Johnny could retort, Price clapped his hands together. “Enough! Five-minute break. I need to find some aspirin before you lot give me an aneurysm.” As he walked away the heard him muttering about something like 'I should just stay home, but noo I just had to go socialize- Jesus-'

As the group dispersed momentarily, the library’s old fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. The building felt more tired than usual, and there was a stack of flyers on a nearby table announcing a fundraiser for the school, that no one had dared acknowledge yet.

Alex returned first, holding two cups of coffee. He slid one over to Kyle, who looked at it like it was manna from heaven. “Bless you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank the last working vending machine on campus,” Alex said, sliding back into his seat.

Johnny returned next, juggling a box of animal crackers he’d swiped from a study snack cart. He started flicking them at Kyle. “What’s the over-under on this campus even having vending machines next semester?”

Kyle caught one mid-air and munched it without looking up. “I’d say slim to none if we keep burning out the Wi-Fi like last week.”

“That was an accident,” Johnny defended.

“You crashed the whole system trying to run simulations for a catapult mate.” Simon said as he reappeared, a water bottle in hand

Price groaned as he sat back down, rubbing his temples. “I still can’t believe the dean called an assembly about that. You’re grown adults.”

“Technically,” Kyle muttered.

The five of them settled back into their seats, though the teasing didn’t entirely subside. Johnny, ever the jester, started crafting increasingly elaborate paper airplanes, one of which soared dangerously close to Price’s ear.

“John,” Price warned, not even looking up from his notes.

Johnny grinned. “Just testing aerodynamics!”

As they worked, the library’s clock chimed midnight. For all their jokes and distractions, the group’s camaraderie was palpable. Even with the weight of uncertainty hanging over the campus, they found ways to laugh and keep each other grounded.

Kyle stretched and yawned, closing his laptop. “Alright, who’s betting Johnny makes it through finals without another disaster?”

“No chance,” Simon said immediately, prompting another round of laughter.

🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🎀

[ravenwraithe]

A Local Delicacy

or the fic where hobie stares at pav and misses all the vital information

(please pay attention to the tags ✨✨ no cw's for this one)

"Wha's this thing called again?" Hobie frowned at the small, inflated crisp looking thing.

'It's called a Pani Puri, stop being so difficult," Pav reached up to hit him on the head, failing not so miserably. Hobie wanted to laugh at his disgruntled face. It had been a hot minute since they had hung out. Plus, Miles could probably use a break after the entire 'destabilising the multiverse' debacle. Pav had immediately dragged them to a nearby stall stacked to the top of the colourful umbrella with these Pani Puris, while blabbering non stop about foot traffic.

Hobie supposed some things transcend universes. Like crowds. Stray animals in narrow alleyways. Rude people. Rude cops. His crush on Pav. Capitalism. You get it. Hobie was broken out of his thoughts by the stall keeper handing him a tiny leaf cup. It was 5 centimetres at most.

"What are these for?" Gwen asked.

Pav smiled. Hobie's heart skipped a beat. "For eating. You'll see." He answered cryptically.

"Thoda time lagega beta, abhi kate pyaaz khatam hogaye," The stall keeper started chopping onions at the speed of light, his knife clacking against the ratty wooden board.

"Koi nahi kaka, aap aaram se karo," Pav bounced on the balls of his feet, replying to whatever the stall keeper said, in his sweet voice. Hobie loved when Pav spoke Hindi, there was something so flowy about it.

"What did he say?" Miles asked. Hobie was curious too. He only caught the heavily accented 'time'.

"He said it's gonna take a few mins, he just ran out of onions."

"That cutting board does not look hygienic," Gwen said, as Pav manoeuvered everyone to stand in a loose circle around the vendor.

"Arey bahut saaf hai beta! Very hygienic!" The stall keeper nodded at her, now chopping coriander. Gwen went red. Miles burst out laughing.

Pav looked embarrassed as well, and Hobie wanted to just. Hold him. He'd settle for standing close to him as he tried to sputter out something.

"Bura mat manna kaka, aapko pata hai yeh videshi log kaise hote hain." Pav scratched his neck, flashing a winning smile at the vendor and Hobie felt something stab in his heart.

"Chalega chalega, badi hi gori dikh rahi hai, pata chal gaya yahan se nahi hai." The stall keeper said while arranging the dishes around. "Uske liye kam tikha dun?"

"Gwen, do you like spicy food? Miles?" Pav asked.

"Nope." said Gwen as Miles nodded.

"What about you, Hobie?" Pav turned to him, his deep brown eyes glinting something pretty in the late afternoon light.

"Sure, why no'." Hobie shrugged, a grin inexplicably tugging at his lips. Pav turned back to the man, saying stuff in lilting tones Hobie didn't understand.

The stall keeper nodded, and cracked open one of the crisps, scooping peas and potatoes inside it and adding the green liquid and onions inside it. He swiftly placed it in Hobie's cup.

"Tha's it?" Hobie was unimpressed. This little thing?

"No, bro, you gotta eat it to get more. Put it in your mouth all at once. Don't nibble at it, or it'll get soggy and get all over your clothes." Pav said, entirely shoving his own Pani Puri into his mouth like a visual example of what to do. Hobie looked at the Pani Puri in his cup for half a second more before deciding to fuck it and copied Pav, mouth closing over the stuffed crisp.

Flavours exploded on his tongue. The sweet tanginess, the crunchy onions and the spicy peas; it was nothing Hobie had expected it to taste like and nothing like anything he had eaten in his life. He chewed, feeling the bits of the crisp puri poking all around his mouth, but that was the experience. It felt otherworldly yet somehow fulfilling. Hobie automatically extended his hand for another one.

Gwen got hers, stuffing it in her mouth, with no small amount of trepidation visible on her face. It was valid, considering she started coughing the moment she chewed it, going 'hoff, hoff, hoff!' which Hobie took to mean 'hot, hot, hot!'.

"Goddamnit Gwen, how are you gonna eat dinner with us?" Miles said easily eating the puri without breaking a sweat, his Puerto Rican taste buds used to the level of spice.

Gwen glared at him, face red and sweat dripping. "Can't you cook unspicy food for me?"

"Mami will never let you in again if you eat like a white person,"

"I am white."

"Yeah, and?"

"Hooo- kaay! Calm down children! Gwen, we can go get a kulfi for you later. Miles, stop antagonising Gwen," Pav made a 'chop' gesture at them, shaking his head frantically.

The vendor had plopped another one in his cup and was holding another one in his hand waiting for them to finish bickering. Hobie ate it, only a few drops of the green liquid spilling on his fingers. And the next one as well. And the next one. This street vendor was so fast, the fuck? With only Pav and him at the stall, because Miles was busy with Gwen, the vendor seemed to make three for each one Hobie ate. Pav didn't look bothered at all, scarfing down every one as it came.

"'oly shit, Pavi, ask 'im to slow down, 'M strugglin' 'ere, mate," Hobie managed to speak in between the positive barrage of puris.

"No way, it's part of the vibe, dude, keep up," Pav was way more graceful, easily talking between the Puris, time seeming to favour him and him only.

"Seriously?" Hobie muttered on the tailend of a particularly large Pani Puri. Pav grinned again, his right canine getting caught on his own lip. Hobie was well aware that he had a staring problem, and if he didn't get himself together, Pav will be too.

"Okay, okay," Sometimes Pav looked at Hobie in a way that had him swearing his feelings were requited, and this was one of those looks that made Hobie wonder how he's still standing up straight and not a puddle on the floor like he felt on the inside. "Kaka, thoda ahistha dena, Hobie bhi yahan naya hai."

"Theek, theek, beta," The vendor laughed. "Apke aashiq ko impress toh karna padega."

Pavi choked on his Pani Puri. Hobie turned to him concerned, as he said something in 3 octaves higher than his normal voice.

"Kaka- aashiq nahi hai woh- hum bas dost hain," Pav said, wiping tears from his eyes with his sleeve.

"Meri beti bhi apne bf ko dost bolti hai. Woh dono bhi ek dusre ko aise hi dekhten hain. Usko lagta hai mujhe nahi pata lekin ham bhi toh aapke umar ke the," The vendor winked, and Hobie was sure this conversation was not about anything he could imagine. Why on earth would this random man be winking at Pav? "Aur hum yeh bajrang dal jaise vishwas nahi rakhte, pyaar toh pyaar hota hai na?"

"Ji kaka." Hobie could see Pav's blush that seemed to radiate because why else Hobie would feel flustered too? "Ahem," Pav looked at his wrist like he was looking at the time, except he did not have a wrist watch on. "Kaka abhi hame jana padega- chemistry coaching hai- kitna hua?"

"Itni jaldi? Theek hai, sukhi puri lelo," He said, handing over two flatter crisps. Without the liquid. Hobie felt it was easier to fit this in his mouth after all the other Pani Puris. "Sath rupay hue,"

"Kya kaka, angrez dekhte bhau badha dete ho? Main akele khata toh chalis ka hota," Pav said, his voice taking a complaining tone and Hobie was surprised to find him even more endearing.

"Beta, jab aap dhanda karoge tab samajh mein ayega, abhi apko coaching nahi jana?"

"Han, kaka, din dahade loot lo," Pav said, and Hobie got a sense of defeat from his slouch, as he forked over what Hobie assumed was the price of the Pani Puris. "Let's go, before uncle embarrasses me in front of someone."

"You paid money to your uncle?" Hobie thought it'd be easier to get around in Earth-50101 as time went on, but here he was, getting more questions and no answers as he hung around.

"He's not actually my uncle, I'm calling him that out of respect. It's a cultural thing, don't worry about it," Pav answered, grabbing Hobie's hand as he wove between the forming crowd. Hobie sighed, letting Pav drag him around, his hand warm in Pav's soft palms.

___

i have nothing to say.

translation (not literal translation bc then id have to explain a shit-ton of grammar, slang and indian pop culture to yall):

Thoda time lagega beta, abhi kate pyaaz khatam hogaye - it's gonna take some time, [I] just ran out of the chopped onions

Koi nahi kaka, aap aaram se karo - no problem uncle, take your time

Arey bahut saaf hai beta! - oh its very clean, kid

Bura mat manna kaka, aapko pata hai yeh videshi log kaise hote hain. - please don't be offended uncle, you know how foreigners can be like.

Chalega chalega, badi hi gori dikh rahi hai, pata chal gaya yahan se nahi hai. - It's okay, she looks very light skinned, [I] assumed she wasn't from around here.

Uske liye kam tikha dun? - should [I] make it less spicy for her?

Kaka, thoda ahistha dena, Hobie bhi yahan naya hai. - Uncle, please slow down [the pace], Hobie is new to this too.

Theek, theek, beta - Alright, kid

Apke aashiq ko impress toh karna padega. - [I know] you have to impress your boyfriend.

Kaka- aashiq nahi hai woh- hum bas dost hain, - Uncle- he's not [my] boyfriend- we're just friends,

Meri beti bhi apne bf ko dost bolti hai. Woh dono bhi ek dusre ko aise hi dekhten hain. Usko lagta hai mujhe nahi pata lekin ham bhi toh aapke umar ke the. - My daughter also claims her boyfriend is just a friend. They look at each other the same [way you do]. She thinks I don't know [about them], but we [adults] used to be your age.

Aur hum yeh Bajrang Dal jaise vishwas nahi rakhte, pyaar toh pyaar hota hai na? - I don't believe stuff like Bajrang Dal. Love is love, isn't it?

Ji kaka. - Yes, uncle. (in this case)

Kaka abhi hame jana padega- chemistry coaching hai- kitna hua? - Uncle, we need to go- It's time for my chemistry tutorial classes- how much [were the Pani Puris]?

Itni jaldi? Theek hai, sukhi puri lelo, - So fast? Okay here's your [aftersnack snack (that's that least complicated way to explain what a sukhi puri is)]

Sath rupay hue, - it's 60 rupees.

Kya kaka, angrez dekhte bhau badha dete ho? Main akele khata toh chalis ka hota - C'mon, uncle, y'all see a foreigner and increase the price? If I was here alone, this would have cost 40 rupees.

Beta, jab aap dhanda karoge tab samajh mein ayega, abhi apko coaching nahi jana? - Kid, when you grow up and have a job, you'll understand, now, don't you have classes to attend?

Han, kaka, din dahade loot lo - yeah, okay, why don't you just rob me,

Some context (you dont need to read this)

kulfi is an ice cream equivalent, usually flavoured with almonds, pistachios and saffron

beta literally means 'son' but its used to refer to any kid who's very young relative to the speaker's age; and also for jokes b/w buddies but that's a different thing

kaka literally means 'father's younger brother ie uncle', but can used to referred to any man who isnt related to you and is about the age of the speaker's parents; there are also other terms depending on by who and how you were introduced to the person

Bajrang Dal - an anti-societal group against religious and sexual minorities(as defined in the indian constitution, do not come at me with politics). Famous in pop culture for being vehemently against valentine's days and premarital eye contact (you think im joking)

The Chemistry Coaching thing is a big deal. Kids have great pride about which institute they go to. The institutes teach accelerated courses for specific competitive examinations, usually in an unethical way. It's considered kinda shameful if you don't go to one. (very dystopian, ik)

[thesandsofelsweyr]

BOY TOY

《 CHAPTER 1/2 // READ ON AO3 》

While the Bird's away, the Clown will play.

《RATING》 🔞 Explicit 《WORDS》 1,094

《PAIRING》 Joker x Jason Todd/Robin

《TROPES》 Hurt No Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

《WARNINGS》 Somnophilia, Non-Consensual Touching, Ownership, Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Genital Torture, Caning, Blood and Injury, Scars, Underage, Non-Con

《TAGLIST》 @aaliyah-wayne @ladytauria @betty-1880 @deans-spinster-witch @hlg8 @plantixst

Written for @dcdarkweek 2024

Day 2: Consent Issues: Somnophilia, Forced Orgasm (Ch. 2)

Day 3: Interpersonal Dynamics: Underage

Day 5: Power & Control: Ownership

Day 6: Graphic Violence: Stress Positions, Genital Torture, Caning

《NOTES》

This is a DARK FIC so please be aware of the tags!

There will be smut in Chapter 2. It will be my first attempt at writing M/M

If you enjoy the read please kudos, comment, and reblog 💛

《 READ ON AO3 》 (excerpt below the cut)

Exquisite. 

The sight before him inspires many words, but exquisite is the one Joker likes best. He sighs a contented sigh as his eyes crawl up and down the unconscious figure before him, from matted black hair to bruised and broken toes. His latest pair of Batman imposters had left the naked kid dangling by his bony wrists after their playtime was over, and Joker can’t help but think of this mutilated slab of boymeat as an offering, a sacrifice to him. Batsy’s little lambchop led like a sheep to the slaughter, and he’d been waiting, bib tied ‘round his neck, knife and fork in each hand at the ready. A slavering wolf cartoon about to devour his long-awaited feast.

Joker slips off his lavender gloves, finger by finger by bleached-white finger, while he stalks toward his ensnared prey. Toddy’s head hangs dejectedly between dislocated shoulders. Swollen eyelids swim in pits of purply-black bruises and hide behind a veil of stringy hair. His cherub face is puffy, streaked where tears cut tracks through the caked filth. Protruding ribs rise and fall as his lungs gasp for air, each coveted breath sucked in with an adorable wheeze. His toes are curled like a proper ballerina, desperately reaching for the merciful floor below. Fresh blood dribbles down his skinny arms from where the metal cuffs bite into that paper-thin skin.

Joker’s ravenous grin splits wider as his mind drifts back to his little bird’s last playtime. After the bogus Bats had beaten him silly, they’d stripped the jailbird of his orange jumpsuit and cut away his briefs before stringing him up for a flogging. That big brainless brute Blockbuster turned out to be an expert at wielding a bamboo cane, leaving the kid’s backside striped bloody, from the nape of his scrawny neck to the hollows of his knobby knees. Oh how his bird had begged while his skin was shredded to ribbons all over again! But that wasn’t the best part of the performance, no sirree. Before leaving the kid to his tears and fears, Catman had squeezed the baby birdie’s bruised balls in a gauntleted fist until he’d passed out from the pain.

And here they are now: his darling boy still sleeping unsoundly, brain still scrambled from the good Doctor Quinzel’s overdose of hallucinogens. Joker stops short before this tapestry of torture. Resisting the urge to trace the puckered ‘J’ forever seared into his boy’s delicate cheek, he instead takes a moment to admire the full expanse of his handiwork. When the Boy Blunder had fallen into his lap like manna from heaven, he’d been built in the Bat’s own image: a well-muscled adonis with a roleplaying fetish. But after months of depravity those bulging muscles had all but withered away. Now only pallid skin remains, hanging loosely from broken bones. Deeeee-licious!

Read the rest on AO3→

[lostdrarryfics]

Hi helpful folks. I’m looking for a shortish fic I read on AO3. It’s drarry. Harry comes into a corporate office run by Draco. His secretary is based on the competent secretary in Manna Francis’s The Administration series. The company makes some kind of sentient dreams - like pensieve memories that you can be anyone in. There is smut. Thanks for trying to figure it out!!

We believe you are looking for Dreams Made Real by oceaxe (4k, E)

Don’t forget to bookmark, leave kudos and comments!

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

Did he know then, that Elio was already offering him a way out? Permission, almost, to preserve their perfect summer romance in amber. To pack his memories up in a neat little box until such times as he could look back and smile?

Shameless reblog because I've just had a lovely comment on this little series, and despite often forgetting that it exists, these fics are actually some of my favourites...

ETHEREAL

When he dreams he can hear the roar of the ocean. Smell the salt-tang of the waves that swirl between his bare toes. Feel the coarse sand whip at his reddened skin as the wind ruffles his hair. 

When he dreams, he can see him.

Elio.

His true self.

His sunlight in the shadows.

When he dreams, when he says I’ve been happy in B, he finishes his sentence the way he’d originally intended. 

I’ve been happy with you.

Did he know then, that Elio was already offering him a way out? Permission, almost, to preserve their perfect summer romance in amber. To pack his memories up in a neat little box until such times as he could look back and smile? 

Did Elio know himself it was an impossible task? 

That like Sisyphus, his upward struggle would be incessant?

So many wasted days. 

So many weeks, months, years spent grieving that which he’d deemed impossible.

You’ll be fine, he’d said in the moment, but when he dreams, it’s Elio who asks if he’ll be okay, and Oliver, knowing the truth deep down to his soul, who reaches out and cups his cheek, rests it there, unable to lie.

“I love you,” he says instead, thumb tracing light patterns over Elio’s evening stubble as trembling fingers rise up to capture his wrist.

His pulse races in his ears, Elio’s eyes a solemn promise when he parts his lips to speak. “I loved you, too," he says at length - always the past tense - and in doing so confirms the gentlest of nightmares are actually the cruellest.

“Elio,” he chokes out, threading his hand into those windswept curls to draw him closer, his other arm banding around his waist, hauling him into his lap. Three years may as well be yesterday in this maelstrom of emotion, and Oliver’s words fall woefully short of what he truly feels. What he’s always felt. Always will. “My Elio…”

Already, he can sense the illusion slipping away. Hear the sobs Elio doesn’t want him to see. Smell the train carriage as it waits to depart the station. Feel the lurch of turbulence as his heart breaks all over again.

But when he dreams, when his lips find Elio’s like a bee to nectar, the sweetness of his kiss freezes all other considerations on the landscape of his mind. A perfect Monet, he thinks, as Elio sighs the same plaintive sound he makes upon first stretching awake, opening his mouth to his. Soft and wet. His own personal manna in this self-imposed exodus. 

It’s not enough though - not nearly enough - and Oliver hugs him tighter until he can hear the gulls circling overhead. Feel the sun-warmed rock beneath the soles of his feet. Smell the peaches on Elio’s breath. Kisses him like a man starved until reality crashes back, squeezing his eyes shut until the very last second before whispering his own name between them.

Elio doesn’t get the chance to respond - he never does - and the bitter sting of tears stays with him long after the six o’clock alarm call.

[residenthesitant]

hey what if i wrote a passover fic

Title: Manna from Heaven Warnings: None Rating: Gen Relationships: Married Tubbo/Ranboo, Tubbo & Everyone Characters: Tubbo, Ranboo, Techno, Michael B, Foolish, assorted others Tags: Post-Canon, Domestic Fluff, Jewish Holidays, Pesach | Passover, Tubbo-Centric, Found Family Summary: One of the perks of having a rich husband, in Tubbo’s opinion, is getting to send out the fanciest, most over-the-top invitations for what is, essentially, a small dinner for friends and family. The size of the dinner does not matter. The amount of invitations being set out does not matter. The fact that Tubbo can commission a calligrapher to make ten overly-decorated and horrendously fancy cards to invite people to his home is what matters.

You are cordially invited to the Underscore-Beloved’s home on Friday at sundown for Passover. Contact Tubbo or Ranboo to RSVP.

Oh, gods.

Tubbo’s never hosted a seder before.

i wrote the world's most self-indulgent passover fic in the world for @mcyt-passover-event! read it on ao3 <333333

[gingerlee-holds]

On the Featherflake

This was at the suggestion of Hypah (Ms. SS2023 herself!). It was originally meant to be a simple info page, but I ended up inserting a tiny fic (?) about this character I made up named Eren Fernsby. I was imagining this eccentric little Victorian British twink, wearing little spectacles and messy black hair - I'm sure you can imagine the character in your head, you're a clever little cutie, I believe in you. I hope you enjoy the fic! Let me know if you'd like to see anymore from the character ("The Fernsby Journals" has a nice ring to it). I'm also in a rush because I have a lot of schoolwork, so that too.

Word Count: 711 Reading Time: ~5 minutes Warnings: Un-proofread fic lmao- not the usual level of "quality"- also a lot of feathers

The featherflake is a rare phenomenon, only witnessed by a lucky (or unlucky) few. 

The flake itself is nothing impressive. It's a small, white flake, resembling a snowflake from afar. However, upon further inspection, an observant passerby will notice key differences.

The most noticeable attribute of the featherflake is its size, ranging from 12 millimeters to 25 millimeters in diameter. Furthermore, their structure allows the flake to cluster, interlocking to form large piles.

If one were to look closer at such a pile of featherflakes, one would instantly notice this structure. Instead of a crystalline water-based design, it appears light and fluffy, similar to a goose feather. Indeed, the average featherflake has about eight "feather" structures connected in the middle to form a flake. This is another key difference: eight points instead of a snowflake's six.

The observer may even step a little closer, hesitantly picking a small cluster of featherflakes up to inspect them closer. The feeling of the feathers may tickle an exposed palm slightly, but for someone wearing mittens on a cold winter's day, one typically pays no mind. They aren't cold like snow is. For all the observer may know, feathers have fallen randomly out of the sky. 

Despite how uncommon this is, a featherflake event has happened throughout history, and many a prudent meteorologist has documented the event well. For instance, in 1744, then-amateur natural philosopher Eren Fernsby recorded the following in his journal on a particularly blustery November evening:

"How remarkable this all is! An act of God indeed, though instead of manna, He has brought feathers! For what end, I know not - this weather seemingly defies explanation. At 6:42, right when the sun had peaked from behind the hills, I was lying in bed, and I must confess, I did not wish to rise. The wind had been pressing at my windows so violently in the night that I had shuttered them tightly. However, when the sunlight began permeating my little room, I saw with surprise that my windows had been flung open! Grumbling with chagrin, I rolled over and held the covers over my head, cursing the sun for its horrible punctuality.

It may have been another hour when I awoke with a gasp. I felt something soft against my stomach, and upon observation, I saw it was a snowflake... made of feathers! Imagine my surprise when I looked around my room and saw the place teeming with them, covering every imaginable surface! Oh, what a chore to clean - or at least, that is what I would have thought were I not enraptured by the sight. I stepped out of bed, yet I severely miscalculated my bedsheet's location and fell onto the floor with an indignant yelp. Instead of an annoyed mutter, I let out a soft giggle. How very strange it felt! The troublesome little feathers had found their way into my bedrobe. And it felt extraordinarily tickly sensitive.

As I rolled about on my floor, attempting to untangle my ankles from the bedsheet, I only managed to agitate the flakes' positions, causing them to fly everywhere in my clothes in a flurry. I would not count myself as a particularly ticklish sensitive individual, but I must admit I cackled hysterically chuckled lightly at the feeling. The feathers swirled about in my robe, wiggling over my stomach, sides, thighs, and chest. I squealed and squealed. No matter how many times I squirmed, they continued their onslaught. It took half an hour to get rid of them! I was breathless, wheezing, blushing, and immediately began this journal entry. 

What possible cause could be engendering such a strange occurrence! I think I loved it It was very odd. I look forward to seeing this event again, if it ever does repeat, purely for research purposes.

Upon rereading this journal a year later, I have decided to add a post-script. At various points in this entry, I have broken decorum. If I ever choose to publish this journal, I must adequately expunge any and all unprofessionalism. I have an image to maintain, after all."

Mr. Fernsby (and later, Sir Fernsby) did indeed record other entries about other featherflake blizzards and other phenomena, garnering him wide acclaim. He always seemed to scribble out some parts of his journals, though.

Read the following entry in The Fernsby Journals!

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TRIPE

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, child abuse and more (check the tags)

Read after the cut

-

By some sense of duty, or else an undug tendril of guilt, Will volunteers himself to oversee your evening routine alone. You allow him this, being in scant possession of what slim tolerance has borne you through Hannibal’s accompaniment thus far.

Will proves himself to be far less involved than the other man would have been in his stead. He leans against a wall with the nonchalance of a prison warden as you shower blood and spend alike down the receiving drain, allows you to pad into your bedroom, towel-wrapped, to select a clean nightdress and sanitary products with his head turned nobly aside.

You cannot determine if his distance from you is through respect for your condition or some lasting dislike of you, neither of which holds entirely true.

More likely it is that he does not see you as his child, yet, nor quite with the equality of a lover.

Still, as you get into bed he cannot help but come to you, uncertain as he his of his purpose.

“Will you give me a goodnight kiss?” you ask, part in bitter jest, and part in annoyance with his indecision.

That a man can fuck and beat you in throes of black delight and still skulk about like a repentant sinner would have confounded you in the days before you became accustomed to such duality. To what end, and upon what strength the latter side subsists is now the greater puzzle, for it is this that drags its heels and restrains Will from his full devilry.

“Well?” you say, brusquely. “What are you waiting for? Dad’s permission?”

Will gives a hard laugh, one hand kneading the back of his neck.

“I admire your commitment to the part, but you don’t have to keep it up so seriously when it’s just you and me.”

“I promised I would,” you remind him. “Why can’t��you? You had no issue kissing me in front of Hannibal. I don’t see why it’s a problem now.”

You see Will’s fingers go to the bridge of his nose, wanting the guard of the eyeglasses he’s neglected to wear.

“It’s not genuine,” he says, flatly. “The only reason you’re asking is to manipulate me.”

“So what?” you say. “Scared that it’ll work?”

“Not scared, no.”

“Sure you’re not.”

There is something hysterical in your tone, the cut string of a trapped and weary madness.

Will examines you, aware of the power play you’re attempting over him, intrigued by it, despite himself. Attracted, even.

His gaze is like a stone in the sun, all heat, all black, all blue.

He knows what revulsion you must push past to test him like this, still slightly high from the forced euphoria of fucking, and the drugs. You’re beyond consideration of the consequences, irrational, barely attached to the tongue and teeth that bite at the air in their ire.

Still Will hangs from your words like a pilgrim knelt before an oracle, dependent on your answer.

“Haven’t you had enough of me kissing you tonight?” he asks.

Sniffing, you turn to face his gargoyle shadow on the wall.

“So it’s a no. You’d make a really terrible father.”

“One...”

“Not my name.”

So Will says it, gently, and you roll back towards him, your heart quick and high behind a rail of bone with the thrill of his appeasement.

Your truce, the union of flesh: they’ve altered Will, for as he looks at you a second time his pupils are the chasms between worlds, wild and deep.

Kneeling up on the bed, you make a trellis of both hands through his curls and clutch him to you in an ungainly kiss. Will stumbles in the force of it, his arms spilling about your back so as not to fall upon you with all his weight.

You gasp against his lips with eagerness to take what he has taken, to fallow the rose flesh of his inner mouth, the lathe of your tongue churning. Will is too surprised to kiss you in return, but as you hitch one leg after the other upon his hips you feel the vine of him against your groin, wanting you again, as always.

You think of him fucking you now, pinning your wicked hands with the nail of his fist as he thrusts through a sheen of blood. Though you despise him still, your loins smart with interest in engineering the act rather than merely suffering it as ever before.

At last Will returns your kiss, but briefly, and with a knowing restraint before he lays you back upon the bed again.

You grasp at his face in an attempt to reclaim his lips. He pushes you lightly away.

“Hey,” he grins. “You made your point.”

“Oh?” you say, coolly. “And what is my point?”

“That I like kissing you. That I want to kiss you, whether Hannibal’s here or not.”

“Right,” you say, twisting a corner of your quilt around one finger for something to do with your hands. “But you never would have picked me. Like, if I was in one of your FBI classes. If I was your student. Would you even have noticed me?”

Will laughs again, with a startled unease, as though the notion is foreign to him.

“Starting affairs with students isn’t exactly my style. I turn up, I teach. That’s it. I don’t get personally involved. Or didn’t, till now. Letting people get close is... uncomfortable for me.”

He glances down at the bunch of quilt in your closed knuckles. Unlike the ever-tactile Dr Lecter, he makes no attempt to take it away.

“So how come you got so close to Hannibal?” you ask. “Didn’t you say you had reservations about him?”

“He saw me even when I was making an effort to turn away. He and I have commonalities I can’t ignore, and enough differences to keep me wondering who he really is. There’s a lot even I don’t know about him, and there are times I wonder what I’m doing letting him in.”

You’re on the verge of another question as Will steps sharply back from the bed.

“We can talk more tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll still be here in the morning. But if you want my thoughts about Hannibal then it’s only fair that you tell me a little about you in return. If this is going to work long-term I need to know who you are.”

Then he goes over to the light switch and closes you in behind a shutter of night.

*

 

You’re roused from the saccharine heat of your bedcovers the following morning by Will rapping on your bedroom door. His face appears in the crevice between it and the frame as though wary to trespass, the broken spell of your desperation in his eyes.

“It’s so early,” you whine, noting the bare line of sunlight beneath the curtains. “And I feel like death, thanks to you and Dad. Can’t I stay in bed?”

“Hannibal just rushed out to an emergency appointment,” says Will. “One of his patients is having some kind of crisis, so it’ll be just you and me for a while. You want coffee? I was about to make some.”

An apology, you think, something to alleviate the swaddled and perspiring misery of your comedown.

“Sure,” you say, weakly. “Black, please. Sweetener, if there is any. The low calorie version.”

Will’s brows rise.

“You think Hannibal keeps that around?”

Reflecting on the little paper sachets that had been favoured throughout high school you say, “Ha. I guess not.”

Within twenty minutes you’re sitting up against your pillows, one hand gripping a delicate, steaming cup, the other soothing your stomach through which bites the first monthly cramp.

Will takes a nearby chair, eyeing the bars on your window as though assuming your daily view through the glass.

Though you loathe him still in his unpredictable oddities, you’re keen to make closer yet the allyship you’ve struck up with him, watchful though he is of that very attempt. If he will not help you escape, then a friendship at least may fortify the sanity you fear will leave you in this quasi childhood.

Will doesn’t seek your regression quite as Hannibal does— a cantankerous teenager is as young as he perceives you, the sick girl that never grew up. This house, then, is a Neverland in reverse, a sumptuous den of brutal sex.

Closing your eyes against such thoughts, you take in your coffee, each dark mouthful a long-acquired taste. You remember forcing back cup after cup of it, trusting it over plain water in the belief that it would burn calories as you drank.

Suddenly you’re acutely nostalgic for the days spent in your childhood room, scrolling through online threads of ailing young women in a community of mutual suffering.

It occurs to you that you may never feel so entirely comprehended without judgement as you were there again. You understand Will rather more through the thought, his convergence with Hannibal a relief to so lonely a monster.

“Tell me about ‘Dad’,” you say, into the silence. “You said you would, last night. Like, who even is he? Where did he come from?”

Will blinks, stirred up from his own brooding thoughts. In the dreary daylight he has the face of a beautiful invalid, all its angles skirted in shade.

“Hannibal’s from Lithuania, originally,” he says. “He had a younger sister, Mischa. She died a long time ago. I don’t know the finer details of what happened to her. She’s the only family he’s ever talked about, and even then it’s been bare bones.”

You sit up straighter, envisioning a young girl with Hannibal’s eyes, and none of his appetite.

“Huh,” you say. “That makes a lot of sense.”

"Hannibal would disagree. He doesn’t put much stock in the past making him who he is.”

“Seems kind of a weird thing for a therapist to say. He’s always digging into mine.”

Will looks at the floor, as though distinguishing some new pattern from the grains in the carpet.

“Hannibal views himself as... separate from other people. Being that he acts outside of ethics and the law in his own profession, I’d guess that what’s between us isn’t his only secret.”

“I’ve tried to tell you,” you say, tapping your coffee cup with bitten fingertips for emphasis. “I’ve known this for so long. But since you’re going along with his games how can you even judge him for whatever horrible things he’s doing?”

“Without knowing what he has or hasn’t done,” says Will, slowly, “I can’t say that I do.”

He gets up from his seat and paces before the window, his hands gesticulating like pigeons frenzied into startled flight.

“You assume that what I’m trying to learn about Hannibal—the core of who he is—is something ugly. But that isn’t what I’m afraid of. It’s the possibility of him lying to me. I don’t know if I could forgive him for that after the bond we’ve made. After what he encouraged me start with you.”

“You shouldn’t trust him,” you say, urgently. “Don’t. You don’t need him.”

Scoffing, Will says, “Jack seems to think I do. Alana— she’s convinced I’m one nudge away from disappearing so far into a case that I kill someone without even knowing it. Hannibal's the only one that doesn’t think of me as broken.”

You consider informing him of his suspected encephalitis, that Hannibal surely withholds this truth and more so as to keep his favour.

In the end you retain your silence; better that Will discovers the manipulation alone and behold how he has been misled upon this trail of darkness.

“Enough about me,” says Will, abruptly. “I know that someone hurt you, long before Hannibal. Before me. Someone you've never forgotten.”

Alarmed by the twist in conversation, you stammer, “I— I already told him some of it. I said I didn’t remember. But I was lying about that. I just don’t know if it was only one, long night, or it happened other times. I don’t know which is worse.”

You pause, slightly breathless. Like a portent from the white lips of some phantom you know that you must tell Will the truth, adhere him to your weeping heart with empathy for you.

“I was just a little kid,” you say. “And he was an adult. Nearly family— I used to call him Uncle Lee. Hannibal probably told you that. Anyway, I got my ‘wrong’ feeling about him way before he did what he did. Like I knew it was coming. Then he came into my room alone one night and... it happened.”

You put down your coffee cup, almost knocking it from the bedside table with the shaking of your hand. Will comes away from the window at once, dragging his chair to your bedside to listen. He neither speaks nor looks into your eyes, aware that you can bear neither without faltering.

“He touched me,” you say, “and the whole time I couldn’t even face him. I don’t even remember what I felt. Maybe I didn’t feel anything at all. Just stared at the ceiling or whatever. He did stuff to me that changed me forever. I felt like a tiny old person in a kid’s body, after that, knowing about things I wasn’t supposed to know.

“And the worst of it was still having to see him after. My parents— I tried to tell them, but I couldn’t get the words out. They just thought I didn’t like him. So he came back to the house, now and then. Never saw any consequences.

“I’ve always wondered if I was the only one, or if there were others. He was a plumber, or something; he could have access to people’s daughters anytime he wanted. Just walk into their room and... you know. I think maybe he did do that, a couple of times. Who knows.”

Your restless fingers pick at the gold embroidery on your bedspread, working it loose from the velvet. One of Will’s hands folds over yours, gently holding them still.

“What I always think about is how he treated me, afterwards,” you say. “I tried avoiding him, but it didn’t always work. One day he cornered me at the top of the stairs— my parents were in the kitchen, so it was just me and him.

“I must have been maybe twelve or so. Not far off thirteen. My body was changing. I was growing up. He said, ‘you’re getting a little chubby, you know. You ought to do something about that before you look like your mother.’

“Then he smiled at me, and just walked into the bathroom like there was nothing wrong with what had just come out of his mouth, or what he’d done to me all those years ago.”

Inhaling an unsteady breath, you try, with dubious success, to smile.

“So now you get why I’m like this. And knowing it wasn’t my fault, that Leland Frost is just a predator... it doesn’t fix anything. Like, where do I go from there?”

“He injured you,” says Will, softly. “And it may never stop hurting. But you can recover. No matter what you believe, it is possible. His shallow cruelty is not your compass. You don’t have to live on the basis of an insult.”

Scowling, you pull away from Will, trapping your hands under your armpits.

“How can I change when I’m reliving what I went through every day? Why does Hannibal think this’ll heal me? Why do you? Oh, yeah. You don’t.”

“I want it to,” says Will.

You snort dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah. Not so long ago you would have punched the air to see the back of me. You don’t want to share Hannibal with anybody.”

Will leans back in his seat, arms folded; it takes a moment for you to register that he is, by some subconscious impulse, copying your posture.

“I’m not sharing Hannibal with you,” says Will. “I’m sharing you with him. And I want to do that. You knew it before I did.”

His gaze snaps to yours, more arresting than his hands on you had been.

“You’re more like me than I cared to admit. Hannibal was right about that. And though everything about you should repulse his sensibilities he finds you adorable. You clearly don’t appreciate it, but there it is.”

You yearn to deny him, to condemn this speech as sophistry, but you are silent, as much a congregant to him as he has been to you.

“Leland Frost tore you down because he saw that you were growing up and away from him,” says Will. “He knew that one day you’d have a life, and achievements, and people that really cared about you. He was going to fade out of your world, and he couldn’t stand not leaving a mark.”

“I just don’t get it,” you whisper. “He loved me. Why did he do it?”

Will shifts his chair even closer to the bed so as to lean into you, his expression tender, tragic, sombre with a father’s sympathy.

“Leland never loved you, and that’s no reflection on you or your worth. It makes him weak, that he could throw away the relationship he had with you over an urge.”

You don’t have the strength to rage against the whited sepulchre in Will, not when he speaks the truth you’ve always yearned to hear from another. Pain winds through your body, throat to gut, great, twisting pulses, as though eviscerated on a blade of past.

What advice would Will give for you to survive what he and Hannibal have done, and will do?

Nothing. Not a word. He knows that the structure of the home, even comfort from those that afflict you has changed you in so short a time. Your desperation to be gone from him he senses, too, and with it your lust to be loved.

Will holds your hand for a long time before he speaks again, on another subject quite as dreary as the last.

“When you said it’d been years since you...”

“Since I last had my period?” you ask, touching your stomach through the sheets. “Yeah. It has been.”

Your body, the betrayer, making a scarlet banner of your betterment through cruelty.

“I never wanted it to come back. Having it again means I’m not as sick anymore, and that’s like... messing up for me.”

Will's head tilts, his face carved up by the shadows thrown from your barred window into a lattice of snow.

“Failing to die is barely a failure at all,” he comments.

You shrug yourself further under your bedcovers.

“It is if what’s happening to you is something worse,”

“Is it always so bad, being here with us?”

Will’s hand rises. Doesn’t quite touch your face. You turn your head away, but not cruelly; he’s not a bad man, you decide, only contorted so utterly from the ways of his fellows that he is some creature other, or from before, the flint-armed hunter of the caves.

And like such a creature, he seeks your answering affection for want of some warmth in the dark beginning of the earth.

You allow him to kiss your forehead, clumsily, inclined towards him as though you were not both aware of the fiction that allows this contact.

He can only guess how far you’d run from this, had you your chance. How readily you’d betray him.

*

 

You’re much recovered by the time Dr Lecter returns, having been hydrated and energised by a selection of unnamed supplements Will had you take with lunch; there is a cure for every ailment in the makeshift laboratory of the kitchen, it seems.

Hannibal discovers you at your usual perch of the parlour couch, writing in your journal with a blanket tucked loosely around you against the October cool.

Will stands to greet his companion, setting aside a book you’d offered him from your shelf to peruse, its cover depicting the bloody half-brain of the sun on a desert horizon.

“I didn’t expect our charge to be in such high spirits,” says Hannibal, with unmasked surprise. “Thank you for caring for her this morning, Will. I’m aware that whatever time you can spare for us in the midst of an investigation is very precious.”

Likely aware of your eyes on him, Will says, “I’m glad I stayed. I appreciated the company. How’s the other patient?”

“Suitably quieted. I doubt that I’ll be called away again on her behalf. Still, I made the most of the journey home.”

Hannibal reaches into a shopping bag looped over one arm and produces from it a wrapped package of fresh meat, marbling the paper with blood.

Grimacing, you say, “Ew. What is that? Looks like an organ.”

“It is. I’ll be making trippa alla romana tonight. It’s an Italian dish made from cow stomach. Don’t turn your nose up till you’ve tried it. Have I served anything to you yet that you haven’t enjoyed?”

*

After dinner, all three of the household recline, full and talking lazily before the fire. Had your company been any other than your abusers you would almost be content, for having been allowed to leave the table after a valiant half plate you are not so guilt-soaked as you’d have been had you finished it all.

You had, in fact, disliked the meal, a first in Hannibal’s house. The thought of the organ, plucked from the rib of a butcher’s shelf, had struck bile to the back of your mouth from the first bite.

A cup of chocolate, warmed to a froth and unadorned with cream is set in your hands instead, which you drink in feline licks to make it last.

Will’s phone shrills abruptly in his pocket. Frowning, he glances at the lighted oblong of its screen and starts at a familiar name.

“It’s Jack,” he says. “I’d better take this.”

He promptly exits the room, speaking with clipped tones into the device.

Alone with Hannibal, you become acutely aware of him looking at you, not quite with suspicion, but not so far from that.

"I see that you and Will are becoming close,” he says, at last. “I’m glad to see it.”

Humming vaguely, you snatch up the journal again and weave your pen about in a pretence of writing.

Hannibal says, "Still, it saddens me that—for all your pretty words of promise—you display a lesser willingness to befriend me.”

You do not answer, pressing your pen so hard against a page that it blots through to the other side.

"Put your journal down a moment, Little One,” says Hannibal. “I’m speaking to you."

Without looking up, you answer, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You needn't say anything at all. It's your behaviour I wish to change."

In a flounce of irritation you throw the journal upon the floor, its spine creasing.

“I do what you say, and I don't fight you anymore,” you say. “Isn't that daughterly enough?"

"For the purposes of your treatment,” says Hannibal, “it is not. You remain closed to me, parted only by narcotic aid. I'd prefer you to open to me of your own volition. With Will, you prove yourself increasingly capable of that.

“I’ve given you all you’ve asked for, and more, and yet you show little gratitude. I wouldn’t wish to remove these luxuries for you to appreciate my endeavours.”

You look at him, then, this man both jealous and performing jealousy to groom you into his concubine, and in looking see that he will deconstruct your room into the barest cell, should he not have his way.

"I do appreciate what you’ve given me," you hastily protest. "I do, Daddy. You don’t have to take anything away. But I— I just don’t know you the way I know Will.”

“But you do,” says Hannibal, rising to sit beside you, a dangerous proximity. “That’s why you are so afraid of me, is it not?”

You begin to object, trailing off at the sound of approaching footfalls as the younger of your captors returns, listing in the churning swell of stress.

“It's the investigation,” says Will. “Another doll’s been found. Savannah Belmont. It’s too soon to be the Lover’s kill. He has a cool off point between each abduction.”

Hannibal straightens in his seat, rapidly alert.

“A copycat, then.”

Will nods, his throat tightening. His eyes touch your face briefly, and you offer him a small, close-lipped smile, an extension of comfort from across the room. His shoulders drop from their rigid line, and when he speaks again the frantic note in his voice is tempered slightly.

“Definitely a copycat,” he says. “The Lover disposes of the dolls by throwing them into rivers like garbage. No attempt to lay them to rest. Savannah was put on display, placed in a chair on a dirt bank as though she was waiting to be found.

“Both killers meant to degrade their victims, but only the copycat’s is implied to understand and accept that humiliation. Savannah Belmont died aware of her inferiority in the eyes of her murderer.”

You find yourself sitting on your hands to prevent them from betraying your agitation with their unsteadiness. Your leg, however, you cannot control, the right foot gyring an inch above the floor.

Hannibal eyes it without speaking, folding your reaction into the lengthy tome of his mind.

“The victim’s stomach was missing,” says Will, turning to pluck a bottle of whiskey from a nearby cabinet like some bronze fruit. “That’s new. The Lover’s mutilations are all with the purpose of fitting the bodies of his victims inside their silicone casings. He has no surgical skills.

“This new killer obviously has expertise. Savannah’s stomach was cut precisely from her body with the clear intent of taking it as a trophy.”

“Her stomach?” you repeat.

You feel the heaviness of meat within you and are chilled by the coincidence.

Hannibal could not have known what the copycat would take to reference it, could not have known of his existence to begin with, and yet as you glance at him under your lashes you don’t quite trust the seriousness of his expression, his eyes gleaming dimly as tarmac in the rain.

“You mustn’t worry, Little One,” says Hannibal, turning to lift you up onto his lap. “The Lover can’t hurt you. We will protect you, always.”

He settles your head against his chest, which resounds with the slow beat of his heart and the machinery of organs digesting his own rich meal.

The monster knows of your renewed distrust and is unthreatened by it, declawed and tooth-filed as you are by his influence over you and all the passageways of the world you’d otherwise cross in your escape.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Daddy,” you mutter, against his shirt, and the warmth of Hannibal’s palm cups your buttocks with a tormenting friction, both threat and tease at once.

While you hate him—are in terror of him, always—your form is increasingly enamoured by his touch as though it knows that it must be so, or die.

“No need to thank me for performing my duty to you, Little One,” says Hannibal, into your ear. “For you belong to me, and to Will, and you must never forget it.”

[dagger-n-ravvi]

Chapter Two: Ever-So-Patient

Jade and Floyd satiate their food cravings. Azul finds their method of doing so to be rather alarming.

Warnings: The graphic eating of raw eggs, public blowjobs, 69ing, mildly dubious content (on Azul’s part)

Previous | Next Chapter | Fic Index

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46007587?view_full_work=true

The brothers make their way out of the lounge, and into the kitchen. Floyd grabs all the eggs he can find out of the fridge and stacks them grumpily on the table. Jade watches distantly as he flicks open the first carton and swallows an egg in one gulp, shell and all.

“Ahhhhh…” he sighs, expression smoothing into relief as he takes another. Jade sits down beside him, plucking an egg out of the carton for himself. He hesitates for just a moment as something in the back of his mind suggests that he should…cook this first. Be civilized…

He swallows the egg as Floyd did. He has no gag reflex in his eel form, and only a very slight one as a human, so it goes down easily. The smooth shell feels unbelievably satisfying as it rolls down, easing the emptiness in his middle with blissful, nourishing weight. Eagerly, he takes another. 

"We're...we’re not off…are we?" he asks, feeling lightheaded as takes a third. The crunch is soooooooo satisfying. And then the yolk sliding down…wonderful. Like manna from heaven…

"Hmmm?" Floyd crunches through the shell of his next egg before swallowing. His throat swells briefly, and a dribble of raw yolk leaks from the corner of his mouth. "I dunno. I feel weird, but not sick like Azul said. Not enough to see the nurse, prolly."

"I don’t know. He might be right," Jade admits, swallowing a fourth egg. “These are so good…why do we ever bother cooking them…” He looks over to Floyd, suddenly overcome by an urge to lean on him. So he does. He rests his head on Floyd’s shoulder, sliding over in his chair until he nearly falls out of it. Floyd grumbles irritably, but doesn’t shove him away like before. 

“You are so weird…”

“But you love me anyway~” Jade sings, taking in Floyd’s comforting scent. “You know… I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning.” The admission makes his cozy new pillow pause in surprise before eating the next egg.

"You? Stay in bed? HA. Maybe you ARE getting sick." Floyd licks the yolk off of his chin before grabbing another. Jade whines at him, and Floyd hesitates with the egg halfway to his mouth.

“You have arms. Get your own.” 

Jade whines again, clinging to Floyd’s arm with both hands and pleadingly opening his mouth. Floyd breath catches in his throat at the unfairly adorable display. His hand trembles slightly, and then he rolls his eyes, then pops the egg into Jade’s waiting mouth. He swallows it with a dull crunch, and a sing-song hum of satisfaction.

“Thank you, big brother. May I have another?”

“No. This one is mine.” Floyd pouts, shoving it into his mouth before Jade can use cuteness to beg him out of it again.

“How cruel… How could you be so cruel to your only living brother?”

“You want another? Give me space in your room for my clothes.” Floyd grins, seeing a chance to expand on his territory.

“Absolutely not.”

“Wha!? Why not?”

“My space is my space. Not Floyd’s,” Jade says primly.

“Then I ain’t feeding you!” Floyd shoves another egg into his mouth. He refuses to look at his twin’s big, begging eyes…

He glances down for just a moment and sees Jade pouting at him and nuzzling forlornly against his arm. “Stop it…”

“Nnnnn…” More pouting and faint, pitiful whining.

“No.”

Little snuggles continue. More whining, more pouting. 

“... Okay one more.”

Azul stares at them from the doorway, mouth open in silent shock as he watches them eat. A full three dozen raw eggs. They might have eaten more, but that is literally all they had in the fridge. Something is VERY wrong with both of them, and all he can do is pray it isn’t contagious before he has to buy up the island’s entire egg supply.

Floyd finally pushes Jade away and he wanders off with a disappointed grumble, but Azul manages to cut Floyd off before he can disappear too. Jade might have escaped, but Floyd won’t! 

“Nurse. NOW,” he insists, pointing to the gooey and shell-flecked remnants of his and Jade’s ‘dinner.’ “I’ll walk you there, come on.” 

“Noooo!” Floyd gripes, finding himself getting dragged unhappily into the hallway. “I’m tired! And my feet hurt. And my back. Wanna lay down…” He rubs his eyes. Azul notices that they’re bloodshot, and have dark circles underneath them. Is he not getting enough sleep?

“Floyd, I can’t have an epidemic spreading through my dorm on finals week,” Azul sighs, dragging Floyd into the campus hallway. “I need you to behave for me. What do you want in return for a few moments of your patience?”

Floyd freezes when Azul asks what he’d have to do for him to behave. “Suck me off,” he says bluntly, without any hesitation at all. Azul flinches, looking around to see if anyone heard that, but thank Seven, the hallways are empty. Their fellow students must all either be outside enjoying the sunset, or cooped up in their rooms cramming for the upcoming exams.

“Suck you off? SERIOUSLY?”

“Yeah.” Floyd plants his feet right outside the nurse’s office and crosses his arms refusing to move. Azul groans, noticing distantly that even though Floyd isn’t out of breath, he’s sweating enough to make big, dark blotches on his shirt. Fever maybe? 

“All right. Yes, but only AFTER we’re done here. Deal?” If Floyd is sick, then getting up close and personal with him will all but guarantee that Azul will catch it too, but so be it. He’s not exactly in a position to refuse. 

“No. Right here.” Floyd follows him into the empty infirmary. “C’mon Azul~” 

Azul freezes as Floyd comes up behind him and inhales deeply, nuzzling his nose into his hair. “Azulllllllll, you smell so good…” His hands creep underneath his shirt to palm his chest. Azul flinches, panicking lightly. Shit. What is the only thing that might be worse than an epidemic spreading through Octivanelle? The wrong person walking into this VERY PUBLIC space and catching him halfway through a blowjob. But if he turns Floyd down now, he’ll likely just head back to the dorm…

“You smell good too,” Azul purrs, eyeing the nurse’s office. It’s not a lie. Jade and Floyd both have a faint, brine-and-ocean-air smell that he assumes is unique to transformed eelmers. There’s a sweet, oddly enticing topnote on the scent now. It’s pleasant, like perfume with a touch of musk in it. “Come here then, if that’s really all you want.”

He pulls Floyd toward the office, hoping he can get him inside and lock the door before he gets it into his head to start taking off his clothes out here…

Floyd purrs in his chest and happily follows along. His pants are tight… soooo tight… he fumbles at his belt and shoes, kicking off one outside the office door, and the other inside.

“Isn’t it fun? The idea of getting caught…” Floyd whispers as Azul pushes him onto the exam bed.

“NO.” Azul locks, then double-locks the door with magic.

“Awww… I wanna see who would be ballsy enough to try and blackmail us~” Floyd deliciously runs both hands down his stomach, then slips his fingers into the waistband of his pants and pushes them down. The bulge of his hardening shaft shows perkily through the fabric of his octopus patterned boxers and he smiles giddily. That would be incredible… Azul’s mouth stuffed full, panicking as someone walks in~ Azul wouldn’t be able to say anything because obviously there would be a dick in his mouth, but Floyd would make sure that the fucker walks away from interrupting them with TWO broken legs…

“I have no desire to get caught by a stranger while in coitus EVER,” Azul shudders. He rapidly walks past Floyd and opens a drawer, flicking through thermometers, tongue depressors…ah. He finds a handheld biomagic medical scanner and turns it over in his hands…then swears under his breath. He has no idea how to use it.

“Booo…boring, but I get it.” Floyd sighs, idly kicking his legs and clinging wistfully to the fantasy. Azul should trust that Floyd will keep him safe~

“Not boring, practical.” Azul goes back into the drawer and finds the user manual, resisting the urge to groan when he sees that it’s literally an inch thick. The school nurse should really be here to do this. Is that man EVER at his post?!

“Azulllll….” Floyd growls softly. “If you aren’t gonna to play, then I’m gonna leave…”

“Ok, ok…” Azul tucks the scanner into his back pocket and walks back over to him. “Don’t be so impatient.”

Azul leans forward and presses a deep kiss between Floyd’s teeth, lightly running his fingers through his hair. At the same time, he lifts the manual behind Floyd’s back and opens it one-handed, flicking through pages with his thumb and looking frantically for operating instructions. If he can slip out of here without going further than kissing and heavy petting, he very much will. Floyd hadn’t taken his earlier deal, after all… 

Floyd sighs into the kiss, relaxing for just a moment before vigorously kissing back. His arms entwine around Azul’s body, greedily squeezing his ass and thighs. He breaks the kiss just a moment later with a tight, needy gasp. “Feel that…?” He grinds his pelvis into Azul’s with a low moan. “It’s waiting for you~“

Oh, Azul does feel that. He can’t NOT feel it, but Azul is no stranger to splitting his concentration between half a dozen tasks. He lightly traces Floyd’s lower lip with his tongue before capturing his mouth in another kiss and crawling onto his lap to grind against him, flicking through pages all the while. Is literally half of this wretched manual just the warranty agreement?! He would normally be impressed, but at the moment he just needs to know what buttons turn the damn thing on!

A little grumpily, Floyd pulls back from the kiss, and traces Azul’s swollen lower lip with his thumbs. “Whatcha doing?”

Azul gently takes one of Floyd’s thumbs into his mouth, suggestively folding his tongue around it in a slow, sinuous lick. Floyd’s breath stops, and a warm shiver rolls through the pit of his stomach as sucking pressure rolls over his skin. So warm, so soft... ‘oooohhhhooo… you absolute slut…’

Azul’s eyes flick away from the manual for just a moment to stare up into Floyd’s as he pops the now-wet thumb out of his mouth. “I’m getting ready,” he murmurs and tries to lean forward for another kiss. Floyd accepts this… for a second. And then he impatiently flips Azul over and pins him to the exam bed. Azul makes a surprised squeak, flailing and then gasping as kisses and feral nips are pressed to the underside of his jaw.

“Liar… you’re reading a stupid book.” Floyd chuckles in his ear.

“W-whhhh, F-Floyd?!” The manual is whipped out of his fingers before he can even think to hold onto it. Floyd tosses it over his shoulder, where it hits the far wall, and falls out of sight behind the desk.

“You are sick and I wa- HHH!” He arches as Floyd paws open his belt and all but tears open his pants. “I’m trying to find out why!”

“No more finding out,” Floyd drags Azul’s pants down his legs, leaving them bunched up around his ankles. “No more ‘why’.” He nips at Azul’s bare thigh, hard enough to break the skin and teach him manners for being distracted during sex.

“AGH! MUST YOU?!” Azul yelps, and Floyd soothes the bite, gently lapping up a few drops of coppery blood. He licks higher, creeping closer to Azul’s crotch before a wad of inconvenient underwear fabric gets in his way. Slowly he blinks, tracing the outline of Azul’s body underneath his tight fitting boxers in a somewhat dazed state.

‘Smells good… why does he smell so good?’ He barely has the presence of mind to pull Azul’s underwear down instead of tearing it off. Painting softly, he leans down and gives his cock a long, ardent lick. 

“If I…if I do you…” Floyd gives Azul’s cock a sloppy kiss, then probes teasingly at the slit with his tongue, “then you… do me…”

“Whh-HNGHHH!” Azul arches, fumbling weakly at Floyd’s head as he digs right in without a word of warning. Oh, oh, OH- His bared backside and thighs feel blisteringly vulnerable and chilled. He presses a hand over his mouth and glances desperately at the door. It would just be PERFECT if that worthless nurse decided to come back and do his job right as THIS is happening. At least he’ll have to unlock the door first, so that might give him some time to react...

In spite of his anxiety, or perhaps even because of it, his body is cheerfully responding to the attention. It’s been a few days since he had time to do anything sexual at all, and his skin feels traitorously needy. The resulting conflict leaves him lying frozen under Floyd’s enticingly-scented body, cock hardening and breath coming in short, shaky gasps. 

Floyd flicks his tongue against the head of his cock, then suckles it generously, savoring the flash of salt as precum beads at the tip. He hums in pleasure as it hardens, and lifts his mischievous, mismatched eyes to glance back at Azul’s face…and then rolls his eyes with an irritated sigh. He’s staring at the stupid door again instead of enjoying himself…

“Oi… you don’t wanna attract attention right? I got an idea, but you gotta lay the back of your head here.” Floyd reaches forward and taps the center of the pillow at the head of the exam bed. Azul swallows hard. Will it be faster to wrestle himself out from under Floyd than to just let this happen? Likely not, and even then, he doubts he’ll be able to get an angry, horny Floyd to hold still for a medical scan that he still has no idea how to perform. So in the interest of getting through this quickly, Azul does as directed, moving his head to the indicated spot. 

“I thought you wanted me to suck YOU off,” he protests weakly. “Did you change your mind?” 

Floyd kicks off his boxers, then flips around to straddle Azul’s head with his knees, letting his large, and fully erect cock cheerfully smack him in the face.

“Nah… I just thought if your mouth was occupied, you wouldn't be screaming so much.” Floyd snickers, crouching forward over Azul’s legs and giving his cock a fond lick to let it know he hasn’t forgotten about it. “And now you can’t see the door, so you won’t keep getting distracted by iiiiit~”

Dear god, this has really gotten out of hand. Blushing furiously, Azul takes the offered dick into his mouth and rolls his tongue over it, tilting his chin up and down to awkwardly move it in and out with the pillow pressing restrictively into the back of his head. Human bodies and dry-land limitations…if they were 69-ing underwater, it would be much less awkward. He has to mostly use his tongue, and he’s getting clumsier…the more Floyd distracts him…with his own mouth… 

Floyd sinks down to try and make Azul take him deeper. “C’mon Azul~ you're getting clumsy… I thought that mouth could do almost anything…” he taunts between licks.

“Hrrrk?!” Azul blushes harder, with a touch of offended pride this time. He wraps his arms around Floyd’s hips and jerks him down, holding his breath and swallowing around him. Floyd gasps mid suck, shuddering with pleasure. Hoping to surprise him into a fast orgasm, Azul thoroughly suckles Floyd’s shaft and rolls the back of his tongue beneath the head of his cock, before he literally bench-presses Floyd’s hips upward and draws him back out of his mouth with a dark chuckle. 

“Ah! Azul!” Floyd gasps, squirming as cold air curls over his dick. 

“You’re trying to get more out of me than we bargained for. You’d better be INFINITELY patient for me after this…”

“Ehe… what deal? I didn’t shake on-HHHHHH!“ Floyd gasps as Azul swallows deeply enough that his tongue peeks between his teeth and his nose brushes lightly against Floyd’s pubic mound. ‘His mouth can do almost anything.’ The nerve… 

‘Fuck Azul! Soo good! So good!’ Floyd moans. It’s so much but he wants…wants to make Azul come first! He redoubles his efforts, bobbing his head and sucking noisily while laving the shaft and head with his tongue. Azul shudders underneath him, choking lightly. Despite Azul’s initial bit of skill, it’s not much of a contest to see who can get who off first. In all things, Azul makes up for his lack of endurance with tricks, planning, preparation and fancy toys. In a spontaneous one-on-one, he has as little chance of holding out against Floyd’s endurance as a snowball does of staying frozen in a lit oven. It’s almost adorably soon when he comes, pushing Floyd out of his own mouth with shaky arms and an overwhelmed gasp. His core muscles flex and he arches up into Floyd’s chest, gripping his hips so tightly that it leaves the imprints of his fingers behind.

“F-fuck-” he whimpers, feeling overwhelmed by scent, sound, and feeling as Floyd noisily drinks up his release like a man dying of thirst. He even swirled his tongue as an added cherry on top!

“Haaahhh… ok… ok, now finish me off.” Floyd sits up and flips around, sitting across Azul’s face and shoulders. He tangles his fingers into Azul’s silvery hair and thrusts back inside. 

“Gugh-!?” Flinching from the overstimulation, and then the RUDE hair pull, Azul narrows his eyes and pushes him away.

“Noooo…You feel so good… c’mon… c’mon!” Floyd urges, desperate to reach climax himself. Azul rolls his eyes, then allows Floyd’s cock back into his mouth, and sneakily casts a spell. Deep, resonant vibrations immediately curl over Floyd’s entire length, rolling through the shaft and over the head as though an invisible vibrator has been pressed inescapably to his skin. 

“FUCK!” Floyd screams as he instinctively thrust down. “Oooooooh… cheater, cheater… fuck, I love it…”

Azul holds him in place, only lightly licking at the intrusion and smugly letting the spell do all the work. He chuckles to himself, feeling victorious…right up until the point where Floyd grinds down, and comes. 

It tastes completely wrong. Heavy, rich, sticky, and A LOT of it. It’s also oddly cold, which seems even stranger given that Floyd is sweating like his skin is on fire. This is all much more like what he’d expect from Floyd’s eel body than from his human one, but that shouldn’t be possible if he’s taking his potions! Azul flails underneath him, trying to push him off and wincing as Floyd’s fingers tangle more firmly into his hair. He has half a mind to bite him for being this rude, especially when the cool liquid overflows his mouth and pours down the sides of his face in a horrible, gooey mess.

‘LET ME GO!’ He chokes as some of it slips down his throat, and wrenches his head out from under Floyd’s body, tearing his hair out and losing his glasses in the process. He rolls off the bed and onto the floor, coughing and gagging. Spit and thick, pearly cum drips from his face and mouth in shimmering, gooey ropes, nearly making him throw up and add his lunch to the awful mess.

“Are. You. HAPPY NOW?” Azul spits, curling his fingers into a fist. The vibration spell kicks up a notch, giving Floyd absolutely no time to rest or catch his breath as Azul wipes his face off and clumsily yanks his pants back on. Where did his glasses go…?

“HAAAAAAHHHHH! Uh…uh huh…nuhhhhhh~” Floyd moans as he collapses onto his stomach and the dizzying smell of sex fills his awareness. He holds himself, hips twitching and vision fuzzy as Azul plucks his glasses out of the puddle beneath his head and wipes them off. So good, so good, so goooooooood~ He shakily grabs the pillow off the exam bed and shoves it between his legs, rutting into it with delirious satisfaction. Thank Seven. Azul can only imagine if Floyd grabbed him again. He… doubt he would maintain the ability to walk given how Floyd was treating the pillow.

Azul irritably straightens his bent glasses, jams them back onto his face, then staggers behind the desk to pick up the user manual. If Floyd doesn’t want to cooperate, then he’ll DISTRACT him long enough to find out why he’s suddenly so insanely horny on top of EVERYTHING else. He flips through the pages, absently maintaining the vibration spell and listening to Floyd’s moans, just in case he works himself up to the point of passing out. He wants him distracted, not dead.

“Finally! Who puts the user interface diagram on page seventy-three?!” He retrieves the scanner from where it fell beneath the bed and switches it on…

[love-bokumono-fics]

Fresh Crops! July 1 - July 7, 2024

This week's newest fics and chapter updates for Harvest Moon and Story of Seasons on AO3!

A Wonderful Life - by Aqueird; WIP, 1/?, 1.4k

Rating: Mature; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M Fandoms: A Wonderful Life, DS Cute Relationships: Cody | Gordy/Chris, Cody | Gordy/ Original Character(s), Pony | Aya | Jill/Rock, Pony | Aya/ | Cody | Gordy, Chris/Wally | Suarii; Characters: Pony | Aya | Jill, Original Characters, Cody | Gordy, Chris, Hugh, Wally | Suarii Additional Tags: Cheating, Implied Sexual Content, Established Relationship Summary: Chris needed a distraction: “Something to cope. Life can hit you unexpectedly, so you either let it lay you down or you hit the ground running. And if you can’t run, you find something to lean on” Gordy eyed her for a long moment without moving from his position on the bed. “So, you’re leaning on me?” He asks more like a statement. Chris fastens her buckle tightly, “I’m walking with you.” Chris and Gordy have a conversation about an upcoming gallery opening.

Her Voice Within - by syavwits; WIP, 11/?, 23k

Rating: Not Rated; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Category: F/M Fandoms: Back To Nature Relationship: Claire the Farmer/Gray; Characters: Claire the Farmer, Pete the Farmer, Gray, Rick, Kai, Cliff, Doctor | Trent, Mary the Librarian | Marie, Karen, Popuri, Ann the Innkeeper | Ran, Elli | Elly, Manna, Duke, Doug | Dudley, Old Ellen, May | Mei, Stu | Yu, Zack, Won | Huang, Anna, Basil the Writer, Saibara, Harris, Gotz | Gotts, Kano, Louis the Entomologist | Chuu, Greg, Barley | Mugi, Aja | Adge Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Romantic Soulmates, Soul-Searching, Mystery, Mute Protagonist, Found Family Summary: It's not that Claire can't talk, she sometimes speaks yes, but only when she really put all her energies to do it. Then there's Gray, the stoic guy with the famous resting b*tch face, he doesn't want anything to do with anyone, everyone, even the new girl although she's… cute. While Pete tries to save his farm, he also confides in Claire and asks her help to search for his unknown childhood friend, his first love, who apparently is one of the girls in Mineral town?!? Will Claire manage to find Pete's long-lost Best friend? Will Claire find what she truly desires in her second chance at life?

Tumblr Posts for A Wonderful Life Characters - by actaeoncross; WIP, 54/?, 62k

Rating: Not Rated; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi Fandoms: A Wonderful Life Relationship: Multiple Characters x Reader; Characters: Celia | Seperia | Cecilia, Cody | Gordy, Daryl, Flora, Gustafa, Lumina, Marlin | Mash | Matthew, Muffy | Molly, Nami, Rock, Reader Summary: A collection of Tumblr posts for A Wonderful Life Characters x Reader prompts.

Sugar and Spice - by Chibimiie; WIP, 64/?, 173k

Rating: Mature; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M Fandoms: Animal Parade Relationships: Chase/Molly the Farmer, Angela/Luke; Characters: Molly | Hikari, Angela the Farmer, Chase, Luke, Kasey the Farmer Additional Tags: Slow Burn, oh god how do you tag fics, mentions of eating disorders, alternating povs, Friends to Lovers, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, bumped up the rating because i honestly should have a little bit ago, burn so slow it's honestly a simmer, Mutual Pining Summary: Wanting to get away from past hurts of the city, sisters Molly and Angela decide to respond to a flyer advertising an abandoned farm on the faraway island of Castanet. Leaving behind their closest friends and brother Kasey, the two take a chance and move to the tiny island hoping for a new chance at life.

And two Not Safe For Tumblr stories by Thefallen1986, with NSFT Titles.

[antimony-medusa]

Fic Recs April '23

What did I read this month? As ever, it's mostly going to be Dream SMP, but I wander outside the fandom ocassionally, and we've got some QSMP and 3rd Life this month! You can keep an eye on my Ao3 bookmarks if you ever don't want to wait the full month, but here's a shor tlist (I tried to keep it short) of especially fun/intersting/good things.

The Fics - Oneshots

Human condition by InsomniWillow Fandom: QSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Alexis | Quackity/Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Tallulah, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson | Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Developing Friendships, Human/Monster Society Length: 1/1 chapters (this might be a multi-chapter though), 3,515 words

New to Qusadilla Island, Ordinary Guy Wilbur Soot brings his tiny daughter to the new school that's opened up. The school that is FULL of terrifying players and their kids. This is just super cute slice of life fluff and it's a fun setup to see Wilbur go "oh god, that's a demon, that's a shark god, is that Philza Minecraft?????" while he's trying to remain chill for his daughter.

where you hide your heart from me by 75hearts Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Alexis | Quackity/Wilbur Soot Tags: Pogtopia, Suicidal Thoughts, Wingfic, Wilbur Soot Is Not Okay Length: 1/1 chapters, 2,223 words Just gonna grab the summary for this one cause it's perfect.

“I’ll fucking kill you if you pull a single feather,” Quackity says. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Wilbur says.

-

or: in Pogtopia, Wilbur preens Quackity's wings.

They're SOOO prickly and the situation is just two people full of broken edges hitting off each other, and you want it to be better, and at the same time this is the only way it could be.

you think they'll make it? by honeyblock Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Niki Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Niki Nihachu & Jschlatt, Niki Nihachu & Wilbur Soot & Jschlatt Tags: Alternate Universe - hadestown Fusion, Niki Nihachu-Centric, niki as orpheus and wilbur as eurydice, implied/referenced suicide. Length: 1/1 chapters, 7,968 words

Niki breaks into Hadestown to try and get Wilbur back. And then she meets Jschlatt, and then she goes spare. Oh man this is a beautiful and lyrical setup, and then Schlatt is just so odious and hateable, ad then Niki getting furious enough to take on a god is So Satisfying. Delightful.

Manna from Heaven by ResidentHesitant Fandom: DSMP Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Ranboo/Tubbo Tags: Married Ranboo and Tubbo, Domestic Fluff, Pesach | Passover, post-canon, slice of life, Found Family Length: 1/1 chapters, 3,152 words

Tubbo hosts his first seder. This is just a joyous slice of life with the whole community coming together to celebrate passover. A glimpse into other traditions for me, and full of love for the characters and for judaism. This fic is so happy. It's canon to ME. I love it.

take this life and hold it by the hand by Odaigahara Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Technoblade & Philza, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crow Hybrid Philza, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Happy Ending, Inspired by that video of Kestrel Dad. Length: 1/1 chapters, 2,292 words

Technoblade is just having a perfectly normal day with his family (who are polar bears) when his friend the crow shows up with— Phil, is that a BABY? What are we gonna do with it? And what does it eat? This is just so so funny. Techno and Phil are both so helpless with a tiny baby, they don't now how to feed this little one, at one point a dead mouse is put on the baby's face and everyone looks at him hopefully. It's so funny.

The Fics - Longfics

The Musketeers - SBI AU by Anarchy_and_Piglins Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Wilbur Soot & Tommyinnit & Technoblade & Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, 3 Musketeers Fusion, BAMF Everybody, Tommyinnit Angst, Philza Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Humour, Emotional Hurt/Comfort Length: 2/4 chapters, 8,086 words

TommyInnit is on a mission of vengance to kill the man who murdered his father, with only his dying words that a man named Philip d'Athos is responsible. Philip, meanwhile, is trying to figure out who's impersonating musketeers. They are on a direct collision course in 17th century France. I'm sure this will go well.

missing or obstructed by skelew Fandom: Hermitcraft, 3rd Life Rating: Teen Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationship: Grian & Rendog, Grian & GoodTimesWithScar, Rendog & Martyn InTheLittleWood Tags: Post 3rd Life, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Watcher Lore, Amnesia Length: 4/? chapters, 13,890 words

Grian is back in Hermitcraft but he can't forget what happened in 3rd life. Unfortunately everyone else has forgotten what happened. Everyone except Rendog, who he remembers very strongly as his enemy. This one started as a character study and you can tell, it's very deliberate and mediative with the characters, and it's just slowly growing through the questions of what they do now, and what they do with these relationships they have to people they care so much about and also those people don't remember it.

See How They Run by Aard_Rinn Fandom: DSMP Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Tubbo & Tommyinnit & Ranboo, Technoblade & Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Borrowers Fusion, Rescue, Captivity, Dark SBI, Dehumanization, Non-consensual touching (nonsexual), Tubbo-Centric Length: 3/3 chapters, 10,590 words

Benchtrio are Borrowers, and Tubbo gets caught by Emduo! Man, this starts with Tubbo falling into oil and not being able to climb out (he's eventually rescued by Emduo), and it's honestly terrifying. I really felt like I was a tiny creature clinging to a spoon. It continues to play with the fact that Tubbo is just so TINY and defenceless.

wasteland by chrysalizzm Fandom: DSMP Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death Relationship: Dream SMP Ensemble Tags: Alternate Universe - Heroes & Villains, Hurt/Comfort, Disillusionment, Morally Grey Characters, Political Corruption, Systemic Bigotry, Unreliable Narrator, Alternate Universe - Superheroes & Superpowers, Mind Control, Bittersweet/Open Ending, Multiple POV, (and more! It's a series) Length: 11/30 fics, 72,431 words

MASSIVE sprawling superhero epic digging into power issues, morality, villainy, cohersion, sexism and other 'isms, marching towards an inevitable end. It all ends in tragedy, but oh my god the journey there is so rich and beautifully drawn. Each fic in the series is a different spot on the timeline and you see characters from so many different POVs, as events come into greater focus and you realize what the fuck HAPPENED to break people like that. This is very much a fic to read while spamming the sobbing emoji in the chat with a friend, but oh man I have to see how it all comes together and if ANY of my guys make it out. I don't know if any of my guys make it out! :SOB:

sharp temporary walls (the long-term cliff edge of the world) by Odaigahara Fandom: 3rd Life SMP Rating: Teen Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationship: Grian & GoodTimesWithScar Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ghosts, Memory Alteration, Corpse Desecration, Animal Death, Friendship, Horror, Angst with a Happy Ending Length: 1/3 chapters, 5,042 words

3rd life is down to two players, but they're both hurt. They decide to wait and heal before a final fight. The world waits around them. Just the tone of this one is so eerie and creepy. The world is just so silent and malevolent, while Desert Duo tries to heal, while also knowing that it all ends in death. I'm not gonna spoil it but what happens when Joel's dogs show up looking for their master is SO GOOD and SO BAD at the same time.

And They Were Ghosthunters | TNT Duo AU by commaclear Fandom: DSMP Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationship: Alexis | Quackity/Wilbur Soot Tags: Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Fish out of Water, Alternate Universe - Angels and Demons, Happy Ending Length: 21/21 chapters, 46,984 words

Wilbur Soot is a demon who's tired of being bored in Hell and decided to go to Earth, where he gets a job on a Ghost Hunting show run by a guy named Quackity. Surely he has lots of oppurtunity for sin here! Two problems though: Quackity is really cute and might actually be a genuinely good person and Wilbur is falling for him, and Love is toxic to demons. This one is legitimately so very funny and such a fast read. I sat down to read the first two chapters and then i looked up and I'd read 46k.

catbag by supinetothestars Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationship: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Philza & Tommyinnit, Tommyinnit & Tubbo Tags: Alternate Universe - Superheroes & Superpowers, Villain SBI, Hero Tommyinnit, Child Abuse, Truth Serum, PTSD, Secret Identity, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort Length: 5/? chapters, 30,665 words

Okay so the summary for this one was:

Suspected of betraying the Hero Guild, Apprentice hero Tommy (A.K.A. Blindspot) is put under Security Protocol Catbag: a locked-on noise cancelling mask equipped with truth gas. His mentor, Dream, calls it a necessary teaching tool.

Meanwhile, SBI wants to know why their least favorite loudmouth little Hero has suddenly stopped talking.

And I read that and I was like "supinetothestars is going to get me back into reading tommy-centric superheros", and it's happened. It's so good, the characters are so thoughtful (and feel way more like canon characterizations vs fanon), and they run up against each other in really interesting ways. Wilbur is a paranoid bastard in a way that feels realistic and canon! The superpowers are interesting and interestingly played out (tommy's power is he can make himself unnoticeable!) and the relationships are adhering to tropes enough that they're like, oooooo, what happens next, I have a delightful suspicion, but they are pulled off well enough that they still feel fresh. It's really good.

Double Down by Onelituli Fandom: DSMP Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death Relationship: Dream & Tommyinnit & Tubbo, Ranboo & Tommyinnit & Tubbo, Dream & Sapnap & George, Tags: Alternate Universe - Imawa no Kuni no Alice | Alice in Borderland Setting, Rated for Language and Dark Themes, Mystery, Flashbacks, Slow Build, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Grief/Mourning, No Villains just Antagonists, Bittersweet Ending Length: 11/13 chapters, 67,663 words

Oh man how even to explain this one. The Dream SMP ensemble is imprisoned in this post-apocolyptic setting where they have to compete in challenges to win cards. The higher the suit of the card, the harder the challenge. And people will die, they are dying, the challenges are killing them. They don't know why they're here or who is making them do this, but all they can do is try and make it together despite a structure that keeps trying to turn them against each other and destroy them. This is structured with lots of flashbacks and mysteries, and the mystery of what HAPPENED to these people is ever-present. And how on earth they possibly make it out of this challenge with even one person alive. This one is such a mystery, I don't know what's HAPPENING but I want to KNOW. And that's it for this month! I'll see you next time!

[not-sewell]

@ava-du-mortain, my beloved, tagged me to post 10 songs i've been into. so here goes:

songs i've been vibing to this month, in no particular order

1. All Things End by Hozier

the heavenly chorus. that's it. that's all.

2. Sunflower by Tamino, Angèle

this song, the music video everything makes me feel downright unwell.

3. Left Right by Abdullah Siddiqui, Ali Sethi, Maanu & Shae Gill

i'm just such a hoe for Ali Sethi and Shae Gill's pair and i'm eternally grateful to @zeesqueere, my dear friend, for sending me this.

4. Hum Aapki Aankhon Mein by S. D. Burman (performed by Geeta Dutt & Mohammad Rafi)

it's a very Mona x Nate song and i'm stuck with a Mona x Nate fic idk what else is left to say

5. Adiye by A. R. Rahman (performed by Sid Sriram)

well. i have one A. R. Rahman song zooming through my brain at any given time.

6. Khabar-e-Tahayyur-e-Ishq by Ali Sethi

Ali Sethi + Ghazal (specifically, ones with the themes of mysticism) has my body, mind and soul, friends.

7. Ay Hairathe by A. R. Rahman (performed by Hariharan, Alka Yagnik, Mohammed Aslam & A. R. Rahman)

OKAY SO I LIED. i always have multiple A. R. Rahman songs zooming through my brain at any given time.

8. Unnai Kaanadhu Naan (Live) by Berklee Indian Ensemble

this version of the Vishwaroopam song fucks severely. that's all.

9. What Colour Is Your Raindrop by Tajdar Junaid

this has exactly my kind of sentimentality to it, so... 🤷

10. Hoyto Tomari Janya by Sudhin Dasgupta (performed by Manna Dey)

again, this is has got a very Mona x Nate vibe, and i'm stuck with a Mona x Nate fic. :))

tagging (and pls ignore if you've done this already skfjks): @zeesqueere, @brightpinkpeppercorn, @bengalifairy, @serenpedac, @amlovelies, @ottobooty

[shame-is-a-wasted-emotion]

20 questions with author: my edition.

Thank you so much @special-bc-ur-part-of-it for tagging me. And I am tagging (of course I will be happy to read any body's list. So invite yourself and play the game) @rockitmans ,@kirakiwiwrites ,@hkvoyage , @fallevs

1. How many words do you have on ao3?

11. 2 are wip so 9 actually.

2 What is your ao3 word count?

187,023

Well that's surprising!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Glee Klaine for now. Just them. I could write for charlie/nick .

4. Top 5 fics by kudos?

5.Do you respond to comments? Why and why not?

Hmm some of mine are hit by kudos . So we'll see.

1. One step closer(86)

2.living haphazard (29)

3.juliets boudoir and Paris of my childhood (23)

4.A cradle is an art(20)

5.Warm milk? Really?(18)

I do every single time. I get comments very rarely so it's like a manna.

6.What fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

None. May the one I started writing yesterday. But as of now, none.

7. What fics you wrote with happiest ending?

I am a sucker for hurt/comfort. So almost every fic. Maybe this one:

These are fully husbands fluff.

8. Do you get hate on your fics?

Fortunately nope. I got one which was weird but it's not a hate. The fandom is so sweet.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I've never written one. I wanted to do. I want to do a wedding night fic. And further more .

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've ever written?

None. I know I'm not adventurous. But I am thinking of a klaine(maybe with brittana) and rwrb crossover..

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I can't per se say it was stolen. I hear someone collecting random fics like mine and other amazing authors and posting on their website.(do you remember that @datshitrandom ?)

12. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not aware of. But I would love to. I'll let Google translate my fic and have fun ;)

13.Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Nope. But I would love to.

14.favourite all time ships?

Klaine are my first babies. Alex/Henry are great too.

15. Wip you want to complete but doubt you will?

The first ever fic I wrote One step Closer. I have to clear up all the grammar shit cause I was worse back then.

16. What are your writing strengths?

The flow. If I write, I can write so much. And the picturization. I guess.

17.what are your writing weakness?

Vocabulary and grammar. No way I can save myself. I need a beta mostly.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

I love that. Google translate always gives a helping hand. Though I know a little French, English and tamil,I have to use Internet.

19.First fandom you wrote for?

Klaine.

20. Favourite fic you've written?

I've got a lot.

Thank you so much for asking. It was fun