#slasher fandom

[peppersmert]

It's all the bunny's fault

[cece693]

As You Are

pairing: will graham x male reader tags: reader can be envisioned as hannibal, just a cute one-shot I thought about while looking at season 2 will, he really had a whole ass makeover for his man, and I don't disagree :)

You’ve never been one to tone things down. Even on your laziest days, you exude a poised elegance that might make others question whether or not you had just stepped off a runway. Crisp trousers, perfectly tailored shirts, the occasional dramatic coat—your reflection in any mirror radiates quiet confidence, your style as precise and deliberate as a well-curated art piece.

Will Graham, your partner, appreciates that about you—at least, you always believed he did. After all, his world is one of details and subtleties, the minutiae that others overlook but that he cannot ignore. It’s partly why he fell in love with you in the first place: your presence is a bold, comforting light against the often dark corridors of his mind.

But lately, something has changed.

It starts small: a new bottle of expensive cologne on the bathroom counter, a neatly pressed button-up shirt you’ve never seen before. At first, you chalk it up to Will wanting to experiment. Everyone deserves the chance to switch things up every now and then. But as days turn into weeks, the shift intensifies. You notice Will meticulously combing his hair in the mornings until every strand lies perfectly in place. His usual scruffy beard is now trimmed with almost surgical precision. He steers away from his beloved flannels, opting instead for slim-fit sweaters and stylish jeans that look expensive and out of place in his closet. His hesitant eyes dart around you, as if searching for approval.

And while you appreciate the effort, there’s a mounting worry in the back of your mind: This isn’t Will. At least, not the Will who would stride into the kitchen barefoot, wearing an old T-shirt and sweatpants that revealed a soft vulnerability you found achingly beautiful.

One quiet afternoon, you’re both in the living room. Will is seated on the couch, fiddling with the collar of yet another crisp shirt. You watch as his shoulders tense, the small furrow in his brow betraying some hidden worry. “Is something on your mind?” you ask softly.

He glances up, surprise flickering across his face, as though he forgot you were there. “No,” he says at first, too quickly. When you keep your gaze on him, patient and unwavering, he sighs. “Yes. I’m just…I don’t know, I feel like I should try harder.”

Your brow furrows. “Try harder at what?”

His eyes dart away. “At looking nice. Being the kind of partner you deserve.”

You let his words sink in. For a moment, you’re unsure how to respond. For you, Will had always been the standard of softness and genuineness. No illusions. No artificial shine. You love him for his earnest nature, his gentle intelligence, his compassion. “What makes you think,” you begin carefully, “that the way you’ve always been isn’t already more than enough?”

Will exhales through his nose, hands fidgeting in his lap. “Look at you.” There’s a small shrug, like he’s embarrassed to even say it. “You always look like you stepped out of a fashion magazine—effortlessly stylish. When I’m next to you, I just…I feel like I should try not to be an eyesore.”

There’s a pang in your chest, tenderness for the man who so often sees the worst parts of the world—and sometimes sees the worst in himself, too. You stand from the armchair and make your way over, sitting beside Will. Without hesitation, you take his hands in yours. “Will,” you say quietly, “you are not an eyesore. You never have been.” He searches your face for any sign of dishonesty and finds none.

“That’s kind of you,” he mumbles, “but I see how people look at us—how they look at you.”

“So what?” You tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Let them look. I don’t dress well or groom myself meticulously because I think I have to be perfect for you. It’s just part of who I am, and I enjoy it. You—” you press a hand against his cheek gently, your thumb grazing the delicate stubble “—are perfect for me as you are. I don’t want you to feel like you have to change just because I dress this way.”

Will swallows. His gaze drops to your lips, then lingers on your eyes. “I guess I just didn’t want you to feel like I was letting you down or not matching you in any way.”

You can’t help but chuckle softly. “You could dress in a potato sack, and I’d still think you were the most compelling man in any room.” You brush your thumb across his cheekbone. “Your intelligence, your kindness, the way you notice when I’m feeling off even before I do—that’s the Will Graham I love. A tailored shirt doesn’t change what’s already here.”

His breath shudders as he releases tension he’s been holding onto for weeks—maybe longer. You shift closer, pressing your forehead to his. A subtle wave of relief seems to wash over him, though you can still sense some hesitation.

“If you enjoy dressing up,” you say, “then by all means, do it for yourself. But don’t do it because you think I need more from you. I promise, I don’t. I never did.”

Over the next few days, the tension in Will’s brow subsides. He hasn’t tossed out the new clothes—he keeps them for special occasions, or for days he does feel like dressing up. But he also goes back to his beloved flannels, the comfortable jeans, the no-fuss hair that curls just above his ears. He’s not putting on airs anymore. And whenever he does slip into a tailored sweater, it’s not born of insecurity—he’s choosing to do it. He still takes care with his appearance, but it’s more authentic, more him.

And each time you catch him in moments like that—hair slightly mussed from his morning shower, wearing clothes that might be a touch mismatched—you can’t help but grin with love and relief. Because that is the Will you adore, the Will who does not need to change, the Will who has your heart and will keep it, forever, exactly as he is.

[lrithill]

Unzipping You (pt. 2)

Hello everyone, this is the second part of my Terrifier fanfic, "Unzipping You."

I want to thank everyone who voted "like" on the first part and comented—I couldn’t leave you without the second one (wink wink).

For those who haven’t read the first part, I’d love for you to do so!

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/775317132986744832/unraveling-you?source=share

It’ll be much more satisfying, as you’ll get a better understanding of the characters’ dynamics and how I’ve interpreted them (I did my best!).

Hope you enjoy it! And stay tuned for my upcoming posts—there’s more to come!

I will also take request, so leave a comment and I will happily make your desires come true (everything is allowed).

With all that said, here you can enjoy 2,300 words of smut.

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The air in the room had grown thick, intoxicated by the heat radiating from your bodies—an infernal fire consuming you, reducing you to ashes… You needed to put an end to this torture.

And there you were, half-naked, and though trapped beneath Art’s body, you had never felt so free.

You found yourself smiling at the thought of being his captive forever—you truly wanted this creature from the underworld to take your soul and swallow the key that would keep it locked away. Right now.

You felt Art’s movements become more inquisitive, insistent, almost possessive. His body moving instinctively, tending to his primal needs—a remnant of lost humanity flickering in his obsidian eyes.

And then, his fingers dug into the small of your waist, gripping your flesh as if clinging to the last shred of self-control he had left.

"Is this lust?"—Art wondered—"I wouldn’t mind burning in the second circle of hell with you."

His blood burned, he was dying of hemophilia—and of desire.

Silence.

Neither of you needed to say it—the heat between you spoke for itself.

– Art…—your voice was more of a plea than a call— Make me yours…—you prayed— Please...

Art was intoxicated with passion—seeing you so devoted to him, a true slave… You set his forgotten ashen heart on fire again.

– Please, Art…—you begged— I can’t take it anymore… I need you inside me.

At this, Art completely lost control. He lunged at you, brushed your hair away from your nape, and began devouring you with kisses as if he were starving.

He buried himself in the crook of your neck and bit you passionately—you bled; but his teeth were followed by his warm, thick tongue, savoring you—you were melting.

His arms were no longer on your waist; they were traveling to your belly, claiming you completely, pressing your body against his as if he wanted to fuse with you—as if he wanted you to become a part of him.

You felt his chest against your back—you fit together like a puzzle.

And that’s when you felt it… his hard, demanding erection—beneath his suit—settling against the curve of your ass.

God.

He’s huge, and he’s so close to your entrance… You can feel his swollen tip pressing against your lips.

You arch your back to welcome him, to increase the friction between your desperate bodies. And, God, does it intensify.

At this, Art lets out a muffled moan—his mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His eyes are half-closed, his breathing ragged—he’s never felt anything like this before.

He’s trembling. He doesn’t know what to do.

–It’s okay, Art…—you soothe him— Just feel. Feel me.

And then everything changes. Art pulls away from you, and with one swift motion, he rids you of your panties—the last piece of clothing you had left—before stripping off the bottom half of his suit.

Now, you are both completely naked. Completely real. Completely surrendered.

Curiosity is killing you—you can’t help but glance over your shoulder at the man you’re about to give yourself to. You thought your eyes would go straight to his cock, but instead, they lock onto his gaze, trapping you.

He’s looking at you, and for a moment, you don’t see the psychopath the world fears. You see a man—a lost soul, desperate to understand something that has been stolen from him since the moment he became conscious.

He winks at you—an attempt to ease the tension with his charm—but it’s obvious he’s extremely nervous, insecure.

You take his hands, guiding them to your thighs, encouraging him to claim what is his.

He positions you on your stomach once more and lowers himself over you. You suppose this makes him feel safer—less exposed if you can’t see him directly. Less judged. Hiding behind you.

His cock—hard and slick with precum—throbs as it presses against your entrance, dripping, ready for him.

–I’m yours, Art,—you whisper into his ear—Enjoy my body.

And that’s when he penetrates you. Pushing himself inside you, inch by inch.

You feel his cock stretching your pussy slowly—both of you have stopped breathing—until finally, he’s fully inside.

Art remains still, savoring the sensation of having a tight—too tight—and warm cunt wrapped around his length.

He had to grit his teeth just to make it all the way in.

–Hold on, Art—you say urgently—Don't move yet, I need to adjust to you,—you breathe—You're deliciously big...

You turn your head, your lips meeting his, and you kiss him—you kiss him as if he were the last man on earth.

Art's kisses are timid, but desperate—kissing you was what he needed to completely fall apart. Or to let go.

As your mouths indulge in each other, Art pushes even deeper inside you. You can feel his balls pressed tightly against your clit. His tip kissing your cervix intimately, nestled in the warmth of your belly.

You're so happy to have him inside you—you want him to live in you.

Art can't help but ignore his body's natural urges screaming at him to move—that delicious rocking motion, that primal need.

He starts fucking you—at a pace neither too fast nor too slow—and you feel small sighs escaping his mouth, music to your ears. His hot breath caresses your bare neck. Kisses and touches here and there.

The whole time he's fucking you, his eyes remain shut—you can feel him melting, surrendering to the pleasure you are giving him. His arms have you trapped in a prison of desire, and you wouldn’t mind rotting there for eternity.

His cock is so big that you swear if you touched your stomach, you’d feel a bulge protruding obscenely. You slide your hands down your abdomen, searching for your womb with your fingers, and you feel it—the bulge. You massage his cock from the outside—you truly want him to feel at home.

Art is in ecstasy. "This is the closest I'll ever be to heaven," he thinks.

"I'm flipping off Saint Paul right now,"—he laughs at the thought—"That heaven of yours has nothing on this tight pussy I’m fucking so well."

Art kisses you again, and you can feel him growing more confident with each passing minute.

In this position, his cock can hit your G-spot directly. As Art picks up the pace, his movements become sharper, more precise, striking that sensitive spot over and over again.

Your sighs turn into loud, unrestrained moans—a prayer to Art. Who is lost in the sound of your voice

You moan erotically, your high-pitch, feminine voice ringing in his ears. "So submissive, just for me," Art thinks. "Perfect for me."

He gestures for you to "turn up the volume." He doesn’t need to give you orders—if there’s anyone else in this godforsaken motel, you want them to hear the name of the Miles County Clown being screamed from your lips at the top of your lungs.

He thrusts into you brutally.

—ART.

Again—his teeth sink into your neck.

—AAAAAART!

Another thrust, nearly breaching your womb. He’s an animal.

—OH MY GOD, ART, KEEP GOING! --Jesus has abandoned you at this point. —DON’T STOP, YES, YES, YES, YES…

Your prayer turns into a cacophonic mess as Art fucks you mercilessly. You feel like your language has been reduced to a single word—Art—it’s all you can articulate. He’s fucking your brain out, and you don’t want him to stop. You want him inside you in every possible way.

Art can feel you getting close—so is he—your moans are doing things to him. But he doesn’t want to come without seeing your tits first. That means facing you, looking you in the eyes. It overwhelms him a little… but fuck it, right now, another part of him is doing the thinking.

Art pulls away from you.

Confusion washes over you. Your abused hole clenches at the abrupt emptiness, desperately trying to suck in something that’s no longer there—uselessly.

Art meant to be quick—he's just as eager to continue—but he decides to take his time… He knows it won’t take long for you to beg for his cock, and he wants to see you squirm for him, a bit.

"Art…?"—your voice is a whisper—"Come back, my king… don't leave me now…"

Art watches you—his usual grin spread across his face. He wants to mock you, to imitate sobbing sounds just to tease, but no… he actually wants to take this seriously.

He makes a circular motion with his finger—the same one he used earlier during the massage—telling you to turn over and lie on your back.

Your eyes shine with excitement at the gesture. You obey without a second thought.

You roll onto your back, your legs spread shamelessly—just for him. Art adjusts himself, letting your legs wrap around his waist. He grips his hard cock with one hand, searching for your entrance.

He finds it and thrusts into you again, filling you completely. A wave of pleasure rushes through both of you—a different kind of pleasure in this position, a fresh new sensation.

Art moves back and forth, but he can't stop himself from collapsing over you as the new feeling overwhelms him.

His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving violently.

You hold him with your arms and legs, your hands roaming his back, your thighs squeezing around his waist—locking him into an erotic embrace.

Art looks into your eyes, then at your tits, then back into your eyes… then back to your tits. And that’s when he realizes his mistake: he can't hold on any longer.

He rushed into this position without thinking about the consequences.

He doesn’t want to come before you do.

His gaze drops, staring at your belly. His eyes are wide, almost in shock—paralyzed, submissive… Cold sweat drips down onto your skin like falling icicles.

And then, you realize what he needs.

You grab his head and pull his face close to yours, capturing his mouth between your lips as you kiss him passionately. You part your lips, letting your tongue slip out in search of his, and he responds by welcoming you, accepting your kiss.

The kiss is electrifying, full of raw energy.

You feel the hairs on Art’s skin stand on end as he melts into the moment, drinking you in, as if you were breathing new life into him.

Art pulls away, staring at you with admiration—his expression softened, almost tender, almost loving.

He fucks you at a fast rhythm, your bodies colliding with obscene, wet, sinful sounds.

His forehead rests against your collarbone, his hands gripping your hips so tightly that you know it’ll leave bruises.

You can’t hold on anymore—your walls start clenching uncontrollably around his cock, begging him not to stop—that electric sensation coursing through your entire body.

You scream.

You can’t help it. Your body arches and writhes against his, surrendering completely to the orgasm taking hold of you.

You keep screaming.

—I’m yours, Art—you moan.

Your orgasm feels endless, stretching on indefinitely as long as Art keeps pounding into you.

Your lips part into a silent "O," your head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut—yet the image of Art is seared into the darkness behind your eyelids.

Art’s gaze drops to your neck, his eyes locked onto the pulse of your jugular—throbbing just beneath your delicate skin.

The bloodthirst rises in him, his instincts clawing their way to the surface. He kisses the spot, tracing it with his tongue, feeling the rush of life beneath his lips.

So delicate… and you, offering yourself so freely. It would be so easy.

So easy…

The thought crashes into him: sinking his teeth into you, tearing you open, devouring you whole. Cumming while your blood spills, while the life drains from your body, while he has your flesh in his mouth, drunk on you.

To have you inside him.

The thought alone—combined with the way your tight cunt is milking him, breeding him, pulling him deeper—is all he needs.

His body tenses.

A deep, primal moan escapes his lips. Spilling himself completely inside you—like an overflowing cup.

Art comes in shots. 

First shot—The thickest one. He squeezes his eyes shut, his body trembling, muffled moans and ragged breaths escaping him. Overcome. He never thought he would experience this in his life.

Second shot—His teeth sink into your neck, into that precious, vital place. His treasure.

Third shot—His lips crash into yours. Both of you moaning into each other's mouths, a kiss that, if it were up to you, could last forever.

Art paints your walls with his seed, and you accept it like the precious liquid it is. All of it, deep inside you—where it belongs.

Art pulls away, exhausted but content.

You see a satisfied smile on his face. It’s obvious—he needed you just as much as you needed him, after all.

You pull the blankets over yourselves. Words aren’t needed—you understand each other without them.

Beneath the intimacy of the sheets, you pull him into an embrace.

He nestles against you, needing your skin.

The image pulls you back to the shooting—to that moment when, after escaping the grip of that wretched abuser, you had instinctively sought out Art’s warmth. You remember how vulnerable you felt, how desperately you needed the safety of his presence.

And now, you wonder… “Is Art feeling just as vulnerable in this moment? Clinging to me? Needing me?”

You kiss the top of his head and gently caress him.

And then, Art does the last thing you expect.

He lifts his head, looks at you, and makes a gesture—his hands clasped together, pulsing lightly over his chest, imitating a pulsating heart.

You stare at him, trying to decipher its meaning.

"Does this mean he loves me?" you wonder. "Or maybe… maybe it means he feels alive?"

You don’t get much time to think about it.

Sleep overtakes both of you as morning comes. The sun peeks over the horizon.

It’s a new day for both of you.

In every sense of the word.

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Thanks for reading this far, I really appreciate it ;)

I will also take request, so leave a comment and I will happily make your desires come true (everything is allowed).

[happy74827]

Oh the Deadpool tag is trending? I wonder why—

… oh

[slashthrashandcrash]

PSA to please be mindful of your screen size when you're watching cursed Japanese videos!!

[psychotic-star-girl]

[sold2vlaykz]

[multific]

Motherhood

Yautja x Reader

Summary: After you gave birth to your son, it took you some time to get used to having a half-Yautja and half-human. 

You felt sore all over. 

You moved against the fur but your whole body felt sore.

You could hear your mate’s soft breathing, it immediately made you feel at ease.

Yet, something felt out of place.

As you stirred from your sleep, you sat up in your bed and looked around. Everything looked normal, except for one thing.

The little child who used to be under your heart was now in a crib beside you. 

You looked at your mate, sleeping soundly beside you.

He got used to sleeping with you to the point where he didn’t even care anymore if you moved or woke up. 

It wasn’t always like that.

He often woke up with you when he took you into his home, but he got gradually used to you being with him.

You moved over to the crib, leaving the warmth of your bed, you stood up and got your son out of his crib.

It was a little strange to call him your son, after all, he looked nothing like you.

He looked like a pure Yautja, except for his eyes, his eyes were yours.

He wasn’t sleeping when you lifted him out of his crib, instead, he was watching, learning.

You ignored all the pain in your body as you moved out of the bedroom and into what you would call a kitchen.

You got yourself a glass of water as you sat down on one of the chairs. With your child in your arms, you moved him so you could see his face.

He laid in your lap.

“Will you never cry?” But your Baby had no reply. Of course, he didn’t he wasn’t even a day old. You watched him as his eyes wandered from your eyes to your chest and hands. 

You held a finger out to him, which caught his attention and he immediately grabbed it.

He continued to watch your finger as you smiled.

This little moment reminded you that even if he looked like a Yautja, he was still a baby.

Your baby.

This little boy in your lap was not so long ago in your stomach.

It was crazy to think about.

Your house felt a little too quiet, usually you were never up without your mate. So, this felt a little strange. 

You looked at your son.

“How am I supposed to feed you?” You said as you lifted him, trying to see if he was hungry or not. He was, you didn’t know how, but you could tell.

You pulled your nightgown down and you didn’t know how, but he was a natural.

You watched as he fed. 

He truly didn’t feel like your son. You looked after so many Yautja babies when you joined their tribe, this felt almost like one of those moments.

Except for the feeding part. Only a mother can feed their child.

And your son was no exception.

While he was born into a very high place in the hunting tribe, he was still your son. 

A highly anticipated member.

Your Mate was the right had of the tribe leader, a high position with lots of responsibilities.

One of which was to bring a son into the world.

Which you just managed to do.

You had a pregnancy which left your body sore and your mate feared the worst, but thankfully, you were able to give birth without any major issues.

And now, here you were, holding him and feeding him.

Your thumb ran down his little cheek, right next to where his mandibles were.

“You are beautiful.” You smiled and the child just kept looking at you.

Once he finished eating you pulled your gown back and pulled him to your chest, laying him down.

Did Yautja babies even burp?

Guess you will find out soon.

He did burp.

A small little burp.

And soon, he was off again.

You got up from the chair and headed back to the bedroom.

You got in, the fire was still going, but now, your mate was up.

He looked at you then at your son in your arms.

“He was hungry.” You said as you put him back into his crib before climbing back on the furs.

You let out a long yawn before getting under the covers. 

Your mate made a sound before laying back down himself. You lay down closer to him as he pulled you closer.

Maybe it was a difficult thing to give birth to a Yautja baby. Maybe it was difficult being married to one as well.

But you loved them both with all of your heart and that was enough, more than enough.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @il0vebeingdelulu @deliciousfestsalad @groovyqueer @lilliumrorum

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[peppersmert]

POV: you ran away from a family of cannibals into a wheat field

[cece693]

I really loved the silent but angry reader with hannigram!! would it be possible to request a part 2? Maybe something where the reader finally snaps and like- beats someone up or something? idk lol Thank you for your time and your writing!

On The Tip of Your Tongue Pt. 2

pairing: hannigram x male reader tags: reader doesn't care about what's said about him but when it comes to his lovers, phew, just phew, guard dog, altercation, hannigram finding it unnecessary but sweet, you showing people they're wrong

A week after that peaceful evening at Hannibal's home, you found yourself back in the maze of FBI corridors—late at night, subdued fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It should have been a routine debrief, but Agent Lange had a knack for turning even mundane situations into confrontations. His favorite pastime: picking at your silence.

By now, you’d grown skilled at blocking his barbed comments about you—he never seemed worth the trouble. But the moment he made Hannibal or Will the targets, every fiber in your body tensed like a coiled spring, ready to snap.

The trouble started in the break room, of all places. You were rinsing out a coffee mug while Will stood nearby, silently reading through case files. Hannibal was down the hall, finishing an impromptu consultation. Agent Lange sidled in, a smug half-smile plastered on his face. He began with a low mutter, obviously wanting you to overhear. “Doesn’t say much, does he?” Lange said to no one in particular, though his eyes never left you. “Probably thinks he’s too good for the rest of us.”

Will glanced up, brow furrowing. “Cut it out, Lange,” he warned, voice quiet but firm.

Lange scoffed. “Oh, look, Graham is here to defend his little buddy.” He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, then smirked. “What, you guys have some kind of arrangement with that doctor of yours? Must be real cozy, you three. Freak show if you ask me—Doctor Lecter with his fancy dinners and you, Graham, with your messed-up head. Not sure what he—” Lange shot you an assessing look “—sees in a pair of psychos.”

Your grip on the mug tightened until your knuckles turned white. You could handle insults directed at you alone. But calling Hannibal a freak—calling Will messed up—that was a line no one should ever cross.

Will started to step forward, frustration rippling in the set of his jaw. “I’m warning you, Lange—”

But Lange just kept on. “Warner from Accounting told me the three of you even share a place sometimes,” he sneered, letting out a low, mocking laugh. “That’s a real nice arrangement. Guess all the weirdos have to stick together, huh?”

In that moment, your heart pounded so loudly in your ears that you barely registered Will reaching for your arm or Hannibal appearing in the doorway. All you knew was that Lange had just gone after the two people you loved most, spat insults that made your blood boil. Before Will could hold you back, you lunged at Lange, slamming him against the countertop before grabbing him by the collar.

“Don't you ever talk about them like that,” you growled, voice trembling with fury.

Lange’s hand shot up to shove you away. Big mistake. You seized his wrist, twisting just enough to yank him off balance. Then your fist crashed into his jaw, the impact ringing through your arm. Lange staggered, barely staying on his feet. There was a collective gasp from the few agents who’d been unlucky enough to witness the altercation. Hannibal’s calm, cool voice cut through the air—firm, yet oddly soothing. “(Y/N). Enough.”

But Lange, spitting blood from a split lip, couldn’t let it go. “They’re both messed up in the head,” he snarled, glaring at you. “They deserve—” You lost all sense of caution. With a furious snarl, you shoved Lange so hard he stumbled into the table, sending files and coffee cups flying. He tried swinging at you, but you easily dodged, landing a swift, punishing blow to his ribs.

Will’s arms locked around your torso, hauling you backward. “(Y/N), stop!” he ordered, breath tight.

Still seething, you struggled for a second, your gaze locked on Lange’s crumpled form. Hannibal stepped in front of Lange, effectively blocking him from view, placing himself between you both. For a heartbeat, you saw a flash of something like approval in Hannibal’s eyes—gone in an instant, replaced by measured concern.

A tense hush fell over the break room. Lange groaned, pressing a hand to his side, shooting you a hateful glare. Will released you slowly, scanning your face for any sign of lingering rage. “Hey,” he whispered, “breathe.”

You inhaled shakily, your fury still smoldering beneath the surface. “He insulted you,” you spat, voice hoarse. You glared over Will’s shoulder toward Lange. “Both of you. He had no right.”

Hannibal stepped forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. You could feel the gentle pressure, calming like a steady pulse. “That’s quite enough for tonight,” he said in that refined, even tone. Then, turning a cold gaze on Lange, he added softly, “You would do well to keep further opinions to yourself.”

Lange, nursing his bruised jaw, spat out an obscenity but didn’t press his luck. One look at Will, still standing protectively in front of you, made him think twice. He shoved a chair aside and stumbled out of the room, muttering threats about filing a report.

The ride back to Hannibal’s home was drowned in thick, static tension. You sat in the back seat, staring out the window with your jaw tight, chest still heaving from residual anger. Will occupied the passenger seat, arms folded, gaze flicking every so often to the rearview mirror where Hannibal’s impassive face reflected back. No one spoke a word. The hum of the engine and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement were the only sounds.

By the time the car pulled up to the stately brick home, the air felt electric. Hannibal parked with his usual precision, and you exited wordlessly, your lovers flanking you on either side. You stepped into the foyer, your breath still shallow from the surge of adrenaline. Hannibal immediately ushered you toward the kitchen with gentle but insistent pressure on your lower back.

“Sit,” he instructed, voice low and calm in that familiar, cultured way. “Let me see your hands.”

Will leaned against the marble island, arms crossed, watching as Hannibal carefully took hold of your bruised knuckles. You winced when he turned on the faucet, letting cool water run across torn skin. For a moment, Hannibal focused solely on rinsing away dried blood. Once satisfied, he turned off the tap and reached for antiseptic and gauze. His eyebrows knit in that slight, discerning frown he wore when studying a patient—or a lover, in need of care.

“You truly did a number on him,” Will commented quietly, pushing off the counter. He walked over, eyes flicking between your injured hands and your tense expression. “Not that he didn’t deserve it.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath, finally speaking for the first time since leaving the FBI. “He insulted you,” you said, voice hoarse with lingering fury. “I could’ve handled the things he said about me. But about you two? I couldn’t just stand there.”

Will’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “We’re not exactly fragile, you know. We didn’t need you to defend us.”

Hannibal cast Will a knowing glance but addressed you. “However, that does not mean we didn’t appreciate it,” he said, carefully affixing the final piece of gauze. His eyes flicked up to yours, a subtle heat behind them. “Or find it intriguing.”

“Hot, actually,” Will added, stepping closer. The corners of his mouth lifted in a hint of a grin that bordered on playful. “Watching you lose your temper like that…seeing you go from silent to lethal in a heartbeat. I can’t pretend it wasn’t a little—” he cleared his throat, “arousing.”

You felt your face flush at Will’s admission. His candor took some of the edge off your anger, replacing it with a wave of self-conscious heat. Hannibal’s expression betrayed no surprise—if anything, a knowing gleam lit his dark eyes. He folded your freshly bandaged hand into both of his, pressing a light kiss to your wrist.

“That flash of violence,” he said quietly, “while I don’t endorse needless brutality, I do find it befitting of you. That anger in your eyes, the way you allowed for it to consume you was beautiful."

You swallowed hard, letting your gaze flick from Hannibal to Will. “But I— I nearly lost control.”

Will’s voice dropped lower, tinged with empathy and something else. “He had it coming. Besides, we would've stopped you before it really became a problem."

Despite the swirling emotions—anger, relief, lingering adrenaline—warmth spread through your chest. You exhaled the breath you’d been holding. The raw edges of your temper began to soften, replaced by a comforting sense of belonging. “Next time,” you said, voice low, “I’ll try to give you a little warning before I snap.”

Will’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Sure,” he teased. “Even if it’s just a look—anything to let us know you’re about to unleash hell, so we can pull up a chair and enjoy.”

A gentle chuckle rumbled in Hannibal’s chest. He raised your bandaged hand to his lips again, pressing a second kiss to the gauze, an oddly chivalrous gesture. “If there is a next time,” he said, his dark eyes glinting with sincerity, “we’ll be right at your side. Not because we need the defense but because we relish your fervor.”

That final declaration, spoken in Hannibal’s cultured tone, cradled in Will’s soft laugh, was enough to steal the last vestiges of your anger. You let yourself sink into the moment—the quiet acceptance, the shared heat, and the unwavering knowledge that, here, you were safe to be exactly as you were.

[artemisia-nova]

happy michael day to all who celebrate!

[aceofheartsssss]

🎃 HAPPY HALLOWEEN, SIMPS! 🎃

I’d put more but then I’d never stop, also I’m lazy af-

[tinybrooms]

He’s just a baby 🤍

[glittercorpsps]

Jason wishes you a TERRIFIC friday!

[slashthrashandcrash]

she didn't wanna suffer alone 💔 she needed a bestie to sync up with