#not even filled with rage ever its just a constant simmering bitterness. ^_^

[quadrantbreaker]

(flashes red like enraged gabriel for 0.00001s before returning to normal) bros filled with rage! he mad!

[onlymorelove]

fic: We are made to bleed (and scab and heal and bleed again)(3/4)

Title: We are made to bleed (and scab and heal and bleed again)(¾) Fandom: Teen Wolf Relationship: Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken Characters: Theo Raeken, Liam Dunbar Summary:  What doesn’t bend, breaks. (Liam and Theo both have questions.) Rating: T Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms,  Liam Dunbar needs a hug, gratuitous Florence + The Machine references Chapter Title: “The laws of physics bend, when you touch my hand.” A/N:  Thank you, @tabbytabbytabby & @eclecticklutz , for giving me song suggestions when I was looking for additional angsty tunes. :)

Read under the cut or on AO3.

The autumn days swung soft around me, like cotton on my skin But as the embers of the summer lost their breath and disappeared My heart went cold and only hollow rhythms resounded from within But then he rose, brilliant as the moon in full And sank in the burrows of my keep And all my armor falling down, in a pile at my feet And my winter giving way to warm, as I’m singing him to sleep

— Fiona Apple, “Pale September”

Early September, and the summer heat that had girls and guys alike turning bare shoulders and legs toward the sun eases into crisp hints of the fall chill still to come. If Liam closes his eyes, it bites at his nose, the faint, bitter scent of rot and decay wrought by dry, crumbling leaves and broad swaths of grass that have gradually shifted from the brilliant green of a lacrosse field to dull brown.

Green. Brown. The mix of which Liam finds in the quicksilver flash of Theo’s eyes.

Seasons turn; civilizations die. If there’s anything history has taught Liam it’s this: change and death are the only constants in an inconstant world. And yet— 

Without the sun’s rays to warm him, goosebumps rise on Liam’s bare forearms. When his bedroom started to feel too small, shoving against each one of his boundaries; when all the oxygen in the atmosphere seemed to have fled, and his lungs struggled to pull in the air his brain said his body needed; when that scalding ball of rage started simmering in his stomach, he’d opened his window, jumped out, and run.

He’d only been wearing a loose pair of sleep pants. The fact that he was shirtless hadn’t mattered at the time. But slowing down enough to think instead of just acting on impulse when he’s angry hasn’t been one of his strengths for a long, long time, if ever. Now he’s cold, even wearing the t-shirt Theo had forced on him. He’s grateful to the other boy for loaning him a shirt. For saving his ass, yet again.

Why does Theo even bother? What anchors him to Beacon Hills? He could go almost anywhere, and the thought of having that kind of freedom—the freedom to choose—fills Liam with sour jealousy.

Scott never asked him if he wanted to be a werewolf, something to be feared, hated, and threatened by a slavering mob; he bit him when they were still strangers and then offered hollow platitudes like “The bite is a gift!” after the fact.

(Nor did anyone ever ask Liam if he wanted an asshole for a fa— He’s not thinking about that. Nope, not going there.)

The shirt Theo tossed him to wear smells like cheap laundry detergent and Theo’s truck, and Liam really, really doesn’t want to think about what it might mean that as he stands in the darkness and drinks in the combined scents like a man who’s been wandering in the desert for a hundred years, throat parched, skin blistering, his wolf whines piteously and throws itself against the bars of its cage in an effort to get closer to Theo.

Theo, for his part, watches him, hands in his pockets and head angled down the slightest bit because of the few extra inches of height he has on Liam. He holds his body perfectly still except for the slight furrow between his eyebrows.

Questions curl in the night air around them, in the space between one breath and the next. But Theo doesn’t voice them. His gaze glides skyward for a moment, luring Liam’s attention to the sleek line of his throat. Then he looks to Liam again, endlessly patient in a way most people stopped being ages ago, if they ever bothered in the first place. That patience is a dangerous thing because it catches in Liam’s throat and his hands; makes him yearn to forget caution and tell Theo things—important things.

Theo had called himself a murderer and a liar. Liam saw no use in arguing against that. But since Liam had released Theo from his underground prison, he’d risked himself to help. When he rinsed the blood from Liam’s battered hands, his touch was gentle, even careful. Is a person merely the sum of his sins, or is there room for a more complicated calculus of morality in their supernatural world? Just thinking about it makes Liam (more) tired.

Moonlight carves harsh lines and casts strange shadows onto the unreadable mask of Theo’s face. All the color has leached from his skin, leaving him pale as a marble statue. As untouchable, too.

Liam shivers. Not from the cold that’s seeped into his bones, though. From holding back.

He wants to touch.

Theo’s pulse thuds even and regular, giving away nothing. Not panic. Not fear. Not awareness of the war raging within Liam.

Must be fucking nice, Liam thinks with no small amount of resentment rising inside him in a bitter, towering wave, to be able to hide what you’re thinking so completely. His hands curl into fists at his sides. The movement sends small glimmers of pain jolting through Liam’s almost-healed skin and bones. A confusing tumult of feelings Liam doesn’t want to name riots inside his chest, making his breath sough a touch faster. To name something is to give it meaning and power; Liam is tired of things having power over him. His IED. The moon. His alpha. Hunters. The Anuk-Ite.  

Nevertheless, he wants— He wants to draw closer to Theo. He wants to plant his hands against Theo’s chest just long enough to feel the throb of his heart and the hot tide of blood rushing through his veins under his palms, and then shove him back until he stumbles. He wants to set his hands to the hard planes of Theo’s cheek and jaw; wants to slide his fingertips over that skin like he’s reading braille and check for the rasp of overnight stubble. He wants to hear Theo’s heartbeat stutter. He wants to make it stutter—in shock; in arousal; in something.

In his chest …  In the whorls of his fingertips … In the storm-heavy electric pressure behind his eyes, Liam wants.

Above all, Liam wants to claw through Theo’s composure and leave him as wrecked and bloody and off-balance as he feels. Why should he get to stand there and look like nothing and no one can touch him or hurt him or make him feel, when Liam is an open wound spilling blood and guts out on the uncaring ground at his feet?

Liam’s body doesn’t feel big enough to hold everything itching and clamoring beneath the surface of his skin. With his breath held, he watched Theo take a dying Gabe’s pain. Tributaries of black swam up Theo’s corded arms, and now, Liam wishes Theo would take his pain. Wishes he could.

He’s not oblivious to how Theo watches him. Watching: he’s always watching Liam. There’s a quiet, patient quality to the way he watches Liam. Theo studies him like a scientist. He observes Liam with those kaleidoscope eyes, as if just the act of looking is enough. As if Theo knows that if he simply bides his time and waits long enough, Liam will act.

(Theo’s not wrong.)

Be careful; he knows you. Liam doesn’t want to be known like this. Liar. He doesn’t want to be understood. Liar liar, everything on fire. Sometimes Liam wonders exactly what Theo knows and understands about him from all the watching he’s done.

What is Theo waiting for? Liam is exhausted from all the waiting and being watched.

One sharp exhale and Liam stands in the sacrosanct bubble of Theo’s personal space, hand stretched over his breastbone. Things crack and splinter inside Liam as he listens to Theo’s heart and feels it, too, in stereo. He taps his fingers against Theo’s chest in time with his pulse, gratified when the tempo increases.

Finally, the scientist is gone. What’s left in his place is a boy looking down at Liam with ancient, shadowed eyes growing slowly wider the longer Liam tap tap taps.

“You first, Theo. Why do you keep trying to save me?”

Theo hesitates, then takes a deep breath. Another. If Liam didn’t know better, he would say Theo’s calming himself.

*** Liam is the warning prick of claws against the carotid arteries in Theo’s neck. A single swift slash and Theo’s blood would jet in a brutal crimson arc. 

Theo’s prime directive is survival. In spite of that, he doesn’t know how to step back from Liam.

A hand at Theo’s chest, Liam’s hand, holds him in place. His fingertips drum in time with the cadence of Theo’s heart. Through a layer of cotton, through strata of skin, Liam’s touch scalds. It transforms fabric and flesh alike to ash, burning through every one of Theo’s defenses, until Liam’s hand curls around Theo’s naked, pulsing heart. Around the heart Theo stole from his sister.

“Because you saved me,” Theo replies, voice hoarse, and speaking the words is like vomiting shards of glass. Liam’s mouth draws down in a frown. “How?” He leaves one hand resting on Theo’s chest, but the other drifts to Theo’s jaw, strokes lightly, the motion seemingly absentminded.  A sigh breaks from Theo’s lips. “You know how, Liam,” he answers, wondering if there’s blood dripping from his mouth. 

“No, Theo, I really don’t. You know why?”

Theo shakes his head.

“Because you don’t talk.”

“I talk plenty, Liam.”

Liam’s fingers stop their stroking and flick Theo in the chin. “Not about yourself, you don’t. So talk to me now.” Command and plea twine in Liam’s voice, jerking at the choke collar that circles Theo’s neck.

Bile rises in Theo’s throat, thick and sour. Theo closes his eyes; he can’t look at Liam while he says this. He can’t bear to see the horror and condemnation that are sure to follow, even though he knows he deserves it all—and more.

“That heart you feel beating under your hand? It’s not mine. It’s … It’s my …” Coward. “It’s Tara’s. It’s my sister’s.” Theo coughs and attempts to gather the tattered rags of his courage around him. “I killed her.”

“I know you did.”

“You asked, Liam. Let me finish.“ The brusqueness in his tone, he almost regrets it. But he has to finish this while he still can. “It was winter— The creek was icy. She begged me to help her. But I … I just stood there and let her die so the Dread Doctors could give me her heart.

“When Kira split the ground open with her sword, Tara pulled me down. She wanted her heart back. She came for it. Again and again and again, she ripped it out of my chest. It’s hers.” Theo’s shoulders snap up and down in a shrug he hopes appears careless. “She wanted it back.” He laughs, the sound wet and humorless. “She still wants it.” Though his voice remains steady, Theo’s body is anything but. He’s quivering, unbalanced, teetering on a serrated blade. “That’s what you saved me from, Liam.” That’s why I’ll do almost anything for you, he thinks but doesn’t say.      

Theo clasps Liam’s hand, intending to pull it from where it still sits against Theo’s chest. Being touched like this feels nearly unbearable. He doesn’t deserve it, and as soon as Liam’s head clears enough for him to process the immutable reality of what Theo’s done, surely he’ll regret touching him at all. Better to get it over with now.  

But Liam’s grip tightens, and Theo is left holding their joined hands to his own chest.

“Open your eyes, Theo. Look at me.”

A/N: I swear I’m going to put these guys out of their misery and end this in the next chapter. If you’re up to commenting, I would love to hear what you thought. Should you feel like it, you can tell me the good, the bad, and the ugly; it’s all okay. :) Regardless, thanks for reading. 

Click here for my Thiam fic Masterlist post.

[the-tv-ninja]

Atonement

Summary: "Consider this payback," Bakugou manages, as the grip on his hand weakens, "For everything I've fucking done."

There's a pause, one filled with Izuku's breathless words and Katsuki's struggle to take another breath before he finishes,

"Sorry."

Author's Note: Hey, everyone, this is my first time writing for the fandom after discovering the wonderful world of My Hero Academia.

It's not a happy story but I couldn't get it out of my head after watching all those moments between Bakugou and Midoriya.

Title from the novel by the same name.

Hope you enjoy (and bring tissues too!)

                                            Chapter 1: An Apology

It takes Izuku a moment to realize what's going on.

It's in the midst of a fight, in the middle of fire and rubble, blood and death. It's worse than usual, for once the fight doesn't carry the promise of a victory or justice being served.

He readies himself to charge, to attack and then-

At first all he hears is a scream, one that tears through the air and goes straight into his brain-

"You useless fucking Deku!"

It's something he's heard a million times and more, words so intrinsic to his life they've become background music.

He doesn't think much of it, until he feels the impact and the blast that comes with it. One of Bakugou's explosions propels him away. Away from the fight, the villain and the explosive hero himself.

Izuku manages to catch himself before he falls and yet the anger is there, simmering in his chest.

"What was that for, Bakugou!?" he shouts back at the other, at his rival, friend or enemy – whatever they are now.

(No Kacchan these days).

There's no answer, no swears thrown back at him.

A shift in the atmosphere and his fury dissipates, melting away in the heat of the fires all around.

"Bakugou?" he tries, voice louder and laced with panic.

Worry sets root deep in his heart as his eyes search for the other man. The curtain of smoke finally scatters and he sees him, metres away from where he was a second ago.

No trace of the villain, as though he might have vanished into thin air. Vaguely Izuku registers his quirk might have something to with teleportation and yet he has no time to dwell on it, more pressing matters at hand,

"Why did you push me away!?" he demands, voice harsher for once, "I could have-"

The words dry up on his lips and hang in the air.

As soon as he takes in Bakugou's state he knows. Dread spills into his chest and for one moment he doesn't feel panicked or desperate, just numb.

"No, you fucking couldn't," Katsuki shoots back, tone as biting as ever, "Hell, no one could have survived that hit,'

Midoriya shakes his head, running towards him and kneeling down, desperation washing over him in thick, strong waves.

The blonde's bloodied lips stretch into a small, brittle looking smirk, as though he's just won another round between them,

"Hell, not even you, Deku."

It's the closest he'll get to recognition from the explosive hero and it's what sends bells ringing in his head.

"K-kacchan," he whispers, the nickname rolling off his tongue like second nature.

It's still sounds the same it did so many years ago. For one long moment it feels as though they're four again and their entire life is before them, rich with possibilities,

"Haven't fucking heard that in a while," Bakugou snorts, attempting to shake his head but too weak to go through it.

Izuku presses his hands over him, over his mangled chest, even as he realizes it's in vain. There's no power of friendship in the real world, he's learnt that the hard way.

He shoots up a frantic glance around, the world reduced to smears of black and red. Sirens wail in the distance and if he really listens, he might even hear the Uraraka's voice from far away,

"Help will be here in a few minutes," he tries to assure, lips curling into a warm smile even as his cheeks are wet.

"Come on, Deku…" Bakugou begins, the sentence pierced by a painful cough and more blood, "Hell, we both know there's no way in fucking hell I make it,"

Izuku realizes with the clarity of a cold January morning it's true - there's only so much that can be fixed. Even superheroes can't cheat death.

As if in confirmation Bakugou sounds almost peaceful, the way he never did during his lifetime.

Beyond the swears and harsh words there's acceptance in his voice and it's what scares him the most. Fury bubbles up his chest and he's ready to yell and smash and beg – anything to get the other back on his feet and erase the look of acceptance from his face,

"So what…you're just going to fucking give up!?" he screams, anger and desperation tearing through his words. And that's a first.

It's as though their roles are reversed.

Now he's the one shouting, demanding answers. He can't help it, not when Bakugou's warm blood sips through his fingers. Not when he can see the life slowly melting away from him, the raging fire in his eyes now reduced to dying ambers.

Katsuki attempts to speak, throw back an insult or a dozen but never goes through with it, choking on his own blood.

Midoriya's eyes widen in horror at the sight and he wraps his hands around the boy's shoulders, clinging onto him. He pulls him against his own chest, allowing air to enter his lungs easier.

"Come on, Kacchan, what happened to beating me?" he attempts to tease, to provoke, praying it gets the rise out of him.

It works. One thing he can always rely on is for the other to be angry with him. Bakugou's incessant wrath is the one constant in his life and he's not planning to lose it.

"Of course I'll fucking beat you, you useless Deku," the blonde insists, fingers curling into fists by his sides one last time.

Izuku can't believe he's lived long enough for those words to make him happy. He clings onto the other's body, inhaling in his smell and ignoring the stench of blood and burnt flesh which invades his nostrils.

He lets himself hold him, be close like he never was before. He wants to confess, to say how many times he's wished for this, the intimacy between them a fleeting dream.

But… not like this, never like this.

Hope sprouts in his chest like a weed and he doesn't have the heart to crush it, ever the eternal optimist. Bakugou will live another day and then another and he will, no, they will -

"Just…I'll fucking beat you in the next life,"

The world shatters and Izuku can't stop the strangled sob that flies past his lips,

"Kacchan, just please, no," he begs and it's like when they were kids, he's pleading once more except now everything is different, "Just please, hold on."

Katsuki attempts something like a snicker, the sound broken and out of place on his lips as they're stained red.

"Jeez, I'm the one who's fucking dying and yet even now you have to be a little bitch and cry,"

Against all odds Midoriya smiles at it, realizing he already misses the jabs and insults and he hasn't even lost him yet.

It feels like it, the moment slowly morphing into a memory.

"I told you you'd be the death of me,"

The words because resonate with him on every level, from his heart to his overanalytical mind because they're true, of course they are. It's because of him Kacchan will die, because of his own weakness, his inability to save everyone.

"I know, oh God, I know," he sobs, the sounds muffled against the other's chest, "I am so, so sorry Kacchan!"

For the first time in years he feels weak except this time no quirk can help.

There's another snicker, quieter than the one before,

"Who said I blame you?"

Shock washes over him as he looks up, their eyes colliding, green falling over red.

Bakugou's eyes are half closed, as though it takes tremendous effort to keep them open and he knows from experience it does.

For once there's no anger in them, no lust to hurt and destroy. No aim to be alone at the top, rather something else entirely – a desire to help, to save. For one long moment, an eternity on its own, all Midoriya can think is how much the other has grown, how there isn't a trace left from the former bully.

It's a Catch 22 really, how in his last moments, in his loss and vulnerability Bakugou looks so strong, so mature.

Suddenly he's reminded why the boy used to be an idol to him and why deep down he never let him go,

"I made the fucking choice, I took the hit for you," Katsuki points out, words barely above a whisper, yet speaking volumes, "So don't you fucking dare blame yourself, shitty Deku."

They both know he will but the encouragement still helps, especially when it comes from him.

His hands act on their own as he cups Katsuki's pale face, smeared with blood and sooth. He half expects to be pushed away like every other time and yet it never happens. Perhaps it's because of the heavy blood loss and yet the expression in those half closed eyes tells him otherwise. It's as though there's some hidden reason for the hero to hold on.

Katsuki almost leans into the touch, which sends a wave of shock, similar to a jolt of electricity, down his spine.

"I know you probably don't care but…I'm so proud of you Kacchan," he says, forcing the tears away from his face.

There's no swearing, no explosions this time. For the first time Bakugou doesn't fight off his hand, his words, the silent offer for friendship, possibly more.

In fact he seems to welcome it, allowing himself vulnerability only in death.

Slim fingers curl around his and he's taken by surprise when the blonde pulls himself into a sitting position. Izuku's eyes widen in owe, gasping at the other's will to live, his pure stubbornness to succumb to death and then –

Then a pair of lips crashes against his own.

The world comes to an abrupt halt.

For a small eternity it's reduced to this - the tiny space between them. The bitter taste of blood, Kacchan's dry, chapped lips claiming his own. The way his fingers cling onto his hair, pulling him closer, demanding to feel more.

As though they can make up for the all the time they've wasted, all the words they haven't said.

All the chances lost because of pride and fear.

Of course they have no credit left, Bakugou running on borrowed time.

They part in the end and Izuku can't utter a single word, too stunned with the kiss and too scared with its implications.

"I would've fucking killed myself if I didn't do this," Bakugou grunts, tone uncharacteristically biting for someone who's about to die.

All for One or not, he can't do anything to keep him, make him stay. It's as though he's powerless all over again.

"I've always wanted this," he admits because they've already lost a lifetime in secrets, "Ever since we were kids."

To his surprise Katsuki's lips curl into a small, brittle smile. It looks absurd on his ashy, bloodied face. It's the most beautiful sight Midoriya has witnessed.

"C-consider this payback," Bakugou manages, as the grip on his hand weakens, "For everything I've fucking done to you."

There's a pause, one filled with Izuku's sobs and Katsuki's struggle to take another breath before he finishes,

"Sorry."

Author's Note: English isn't my native language, so I apologize for all the typos and other mistakes.

What did you think of the story? Bakugou dying is one of the very few scenarios I can allow myself to write him as more vulnerable and sincere about his real feelings, apologizing to Izuku for all he's done. Hopefully it didn't come as too cheesy or out of character.

(And I really hope something like this doesn't happen in canon! Let this be reserved to the realm of Fanfiction).

Please share your thoughts, kudos and comments much appreciated! ^^

[lizardkingeliot]

Since my head is too much of a mess to even fill a short prompt right now, here’s a little preview of that tentacled alien Will/wendigo Hannibal fic I started writing months ago and have yet to finish. This is sort of an unedited mess and mostly just a tease and I’m so sorry that I’m like this.

The blur of distant embers, a flicker and a pulse. Absently, Will wondered if he were back in his childhood home, in that place just close enough to their little star for life to spring and thrive. The sky had been different there. A constant, shallow burning.

Fog swam away from Will’s mind, and he knew there was no fire. Only the sickly yellow swing of overhead fluorescents, and the realization he could no longer move his legs or arms. At his sides, other parts of him were nothing more than static.

“Mr. Graham?” An unfamiliar voice echoed from behind. “Are you waking?”

Will groaned, breathing in. Acrid dampness filled his nose and mouth, clinging tightly to the back of his throat. He opened his mouth to speak but his tongue refused to work.

“You’ve been very rude, Mr. Graham,” the voice continued, “and unfortunately for you I’m feeling quite famished.”

Will forced his mind further into waking, panic rolling in to replace the fog. The cold sting of metal encircled his wrists and ankles, pulling his limbs out and away from himself. He lay on an equally chilly slab, hard and flat and unforgiving at his back.

“Where—” Will struggled to form words in his dry mouth. His head throbbed in time with his heart and pain blossomed up to his crown. “Where am I?”

No answer. His captor moved about the harshness of the room, the single point of light above blocking out Will’s vision. Will tugged at his restraints but knew at once there was no use.

A second wave of panic, thick and cloying beneath Will’s skin. Was this the moment that had festered like a wound just beneath the surface all his life? Found out. Captured. To be poked and prodded and experimented with until the end of his days.

“Please,” Will choked, “just tell me what you want.”

The captor came into focus, his sharp face a shadowy skull blocking out the light. It glowed like a halo behind his head as he produced a pair of surgical shears and set about snipping the front of Will’s shirt.

“No,” Will whined, flopping helplessly against the table. “Please don’t do this.”

There was a moment between the halves of Will’s shirt falling to his sides and the skull-man’s eyes going wide, then narrowing with a curious tilt of his head. He looked genuinely surprised at what he had found.

“You are not human,” he said, setting the shears down with a clink. He circled the table, eyes never leaving Will’s middle.

“You’re telling me you didn’t know that before snatching me off the street?”

“I did not.”

Will’s laugh came out dry and bitter. “Why then?”

“I had planned on killing you and eating your organs,” he said flatly. “But I can’t very well do that now, can I?”

—

Coiled like great sleeping snakes at Will’s sides were two extra appendages, thick around as forearms with ruddy flesh slightly darker than the rest of him. Tentacles, Hannibal thought, though unlike any he had ever seen before. He prodded at them with fingertips, leaving stark white prints behind.

“Can you extend them for me, please?”

“No.”

Hannibal pulled his hands away and gazed into Will’s pink face. “You can’t, or you won’t?”

Will gave an indignant huff. “I can’t move them. I don’t know why. Something you gave me or the way you knocked me out.” He winced as he slammed his head back against the table. “If I could, I wouldn’t be strapped to this table right now.”

Fascinating. “What am I to do with you, Mr. Graham?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your identification is in your wallet,” Hannibal said, fetching a syringe from his bag. “Is it your real name, or one you have acquired?”

“It was given to me as a child.”

“By whom?”

Will grunted, eyes glossing over with rage. “I’m not doing this. Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone about your little hobby.”

“I’m afraid I can’t take the risk. Which puts me in a very peculiar position. You’re a rarity, Mr. Graham.”

Will visibly shivered. “What are you going to do with me?”

The needle slipped into Will’s vein easy. He was out before another word would pass across his lips.

—

When Will awoke again, the ache in his head had dulled considerably. He was still in the dank and dark, though softness had replaced the cold metal at his back, and his shackles had been removed. On three sides of him were bars. An iron cage had been worked right into the stone of his captor’s basement.

Will’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. Outside of his cell and across the room sat the metal slab to which he’d just been fettered. Chains and hooks clanked down from the ceiling. The adjacent wall was fixed with several sets of heavy manacles and another, smaller cage. In the center of the room there was a drain for his captor to wash his sins away.

Will’s cage had a single mattress tucked into the corner. Made up with soft sheets, a down duvet, and several pillows, it was far more than Will would expect to be afforded to a prisoner. In the opposite corner there was a toilet and a sink. Next to the mattress his captor had left him a tray arranged artfully with fruits and cheese, and another that held bread and various meats. Several bottles of water awaited him in a bucket of ice.

Will still couldn’t feel his side appendages. The shriveled tightly against him like dying worms baking in the sun. His stomach rumbled at the sight of the food. In the confines of his cage, hunger was the one thing he could abate.

Remembering what his captor had told him, Will avoided the meat. He stuffed himself with slices of fig and apple, big bunches of dark purple grapes and bread topped with cheese his tongue couldn’t identify. When he was through, he chugged down two bottles of water before retreating back to his mattress.

At the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, Will shrank back against the cold stone, waiting for his captor to emerge.

“How are you feeling?”

Will scowled. “Like a madman has me locked in his basement. Do you afford all your prisoners such lavish accommodations?”

“My prisoners are seldom prisoners for long. There has scarcely been a need. Your bed was pulled from a guest room.”

“How thoughtful.”

Through the shadows, his captor smirked. “Have you regained movement in your auxiliary appendages?”

Will crossed his arms against his chest and turned his head away. “Fuck you.”

“Discourtesy will not get you far in your present state, Mr. Graham.” He pulled up a chair, its metal legs scraping a shrill tune across the floor. “You weren’t born on this planet, were you?”

Silence. Will wasn’t going to play this game.

“Though I suspect you’ve been here since you were very young, when you received your name. Are the additions at your sides all that set you apart from us in appearance, I wonder?”

Will had been redressed in a clean shirt, but the pants he had arrived in remained intact. The captor had not looked lower.

“What purpose do they serve? Different from your arms, I assume.”

Will tried desperately to move them, muscles painfully straining and face going red from his effort. He turned his wet eyes to his captor, who sat watching him expressionless. “Tell me your name,” he said. If he were to stay there simmering in his hate, he’d at least like to know who he was aiming it toward.

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

Will laughed, a bitter sound that rattled the bars of his confinement. “I wonder how your patients and colleagues would feel knowing what secrets the good doctor is keeping locked inside his basement.”

“And you are a teacher and sometimes consultant for the FBI. Certainly they are aware of your true nature?”

“Certainly more aware than your colleagues are of yours.”

Hannibal smiled, the sharp tips of his teeth jutting out from his lips.  He stood then, returning his chair to the corner and making his way to the stairs. “I’ll return this evening with dinner,” he said, ascending toward the light.