#that held up until BALTIMORE

[heavyhitterheaux]

Black, Purple, and Blue

AN: fluffy goodness 😘💕

Synopsis: The amount of times your husband gets hit during the Ravens game quickly has you concerned, but he tries to reassure you that there is nothing to worry about

Pairing: Husband!Joe Burrow x Wife!Reader

Requested by: a beautiful anon 😍

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

Hit after hit after hit

You watched your husband get pummeled to the ground multiple times against the Ravens from the comfort of your bed at your home in Cincinnati and it seemed as if there was no end in sight. Multiple people had asked if you wanted to watch the game with them, but you quickly decided against it. You would rather be at home by yourself and not be at some random bar hearing people drunk off their asses talking about your husband if he were to lose.

A fight almost ensued between you and another fan during Joe’s second season with the Bengals and from that point on, you knew it wasn’t even worth your time. You knew Joe was an amazing quarterback and his stats proved it despite what people may say about him.

The game was not moving in the direction that you originally thought, but despite this you still held onto hope since the score was so close.

Joe had confessed to you earlier in the week how anxious and nervous he was for this game and it was to be expected. They were playing in Baltimore on their turf, but seeing how the Ravens caused them an upset at home, it would only be right if the Bengals did the same thing.

Joe was always focused during the season, but it went to a different level when he was playing any team within the same division as the Bengals were.

When the Ravens had gotten the ball back, the camera suddenly cut to the Bengals sideline and you could see Joe wincing in pain as he was holding the left side of his body, Silently cursing to yourself before letting out a sigh, the wheels in your head began to turn and immediately thought the worst.

This time last year as he was playing the Ravens, he sustained his wrist injury that put him out for the rest of the season and the last thing you wanted was for him to go through that all over again. You saw the way it bothered him deep down, even though he thought he was being good at putting up a front for you.

Being married for a total of four years, you could see right through his bullshit and could immediately tell when something was off with him.

You took a sip of your strawberry flavored Truly as you saw Joe throw to Ja’Marr and end up with a touchdown and quickly placed it back down on the table in order to celebrate.

But now, it was time for your nerves to be turned up to another level because you saw them wanting to go for a two point conversion.

“You cannot be fucking serious right now.” You quietly said out loud, even though there was no one in the room but you.

During the play, someone on the Ravens defense had pulled Joe’s face mask and you were yelling at the television seeing as how they never even called it.

Suddenly, your phone rang next to you and you debated on whether you should answer it until you saw that it was your cousin Yalisa. Clicking accept, the first thing you heard was her yelling.

“Y/N! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON IN THIS GAME?! DO YOU SEE HOW MANY CALLS THEY MISSED?! And not them beating your husband like he stole something.”

“I’m so over this, I don’t even know anymore. It seems like they are personally working against them. Did you see him grab Joe’s face mask?”

“Yes! And that’s why I called you! Are the refs blind?!”

“Um, the only names I’ve heard all night are Joe and Ja’marr. It doesn’t seem like anyone else showed up to play today.”

“See? That’s why Joe is as ripped as he is now because he’s carrying this team on his fucking back!”

“And he keeps wincing, so I’m concerned because he has yet to seek medical attention. He just keeps going back in and I can tell that something is wrong with him.” You quietly said and tried to take a deep breath to help ground you from the uneasy feeling that was creeping in.

“I guess he sees it as he has to go back in because who the fuck else is going to? They are seriously pissing me off. Is this the week that Zac gets fired?” She asked and you immediately stifled a laugh.

“As much as I would like that to become a reality, a lot more things need to change beside that one.”

It was one in the morning when your phone rang alerting you that you had a facetime call from your husband and you immediately answered.

The two of you stared at each other as you noticed Joe was laying down. In order to get more comfortable, he adjusted himself and you once again saw him wince. But before you could say anything about it, you heard his voice.

“I didn’t wake you up did I?” He asked and you simply shook your head no.

“No, and you know I always wait for you to call me before I go to sleep. I have to hear your voice one way or another.”

“And hearing your voice has to be my favorite thing in the world. I just can’t wait until tomorrow when I actually get to hold you.”

“I can’t wait for that either and I am going to fix all your favorite comfort foods and we’ll eat ourselves into a food coma to get through this.” You replied as you brought the comforter higher up your body since you were getting cold.

“While watching rom coms of course.”

“A man that knows a way to my heart.” You told him and he gave you a small smile.

It was quiet for a few seconds and then you spoke up again.

“Baby?”

“Yes?”

“I saw you wincing during the game. I don’t like when you wince.”

“I’m okay, really. It’s not a big deal.”

“Joey, don’t give me that. You got hit multiple times. If something happened then…”

“I promise that I’m okay, just a little sore. I already took the motrin that you slipped in my bag for me earlier.”

“Well someone has to do it seeing as you always forget.”

“True, and I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Stop! Stop being so cute when you’re so far away and I can’t kiss you until you get back, it’s not fair.” You whined and Joe let out a small laugh.

“You can have all the kisses you want once you see me. Promise.”

“Joey? How are you and do not under any circumstances bullshit me right now because I will be on the first flight to Baltimore if you do.”

The deep sigh he let out before giving you a verbal answer was telling.

“Frustrated.”

“Go on.”

“It seems like there is a disconnect somewhere and I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Cough your coach Zac Taylor cough.”

“Well, that and there is something else. Just haven’t quite figured it out yet.”

“Can I be honest? You are amazing in your own right and even though I know that you already know this, Joey the last thing I ever want to happen is for you to in lack of better words waste your career for an organization that doesn’t quite seem like they value or care about you. Like, my husband is the shit and I’m not being biased. You are one of the best, if not the best, okay now I’m being biased. But, you’re amazing and I just want so much better for you. Do you know how much it hurts to see you so upset every week that you lose knowing that you show up every time for your team and give 100% while others don’t?”

—

Hearing the front door open from you and Joe’s shared office as you were working on your laptop, you immediately hopped up and ran to the foyer to greet him.

As soon as he spotted you, his bag was thrown to the side as he opened up his arms to embrace you as he placed several kisses on your lips.

When you did bring him in for a hug, once again you saw him wince.

“Joseph….”

“No, stop. I’m fine.”

“Hmm, pull up your shirt.”

“Damn, you want me to fuck you already? I was thinking…” Joe started to say, but you cut him off.

“No! Well yes, but not yet! Lift it.”

“But…”

“NOW.”

Once he did, you saw a black, purple, and blue bruise in the area where his ribs were on the left side and immediately gasped.

“BABY!”

“I’m fine, just a little bruised. I don’t want you to worry yourself.” He told you as he put his shirt back down and grabbed your hand as he kissed the back of it.

“A LITTLE bruise? It literally takes up a very good portion of your torso. And how can I not worry? My husband is a professional football player. Worrying is ingrained in my brain now. It got ingrained when I met you at LSU so stop.”

“Would it make you feel better that I got checked out before we got on our flight to come back home because it was bothering me when I woke up?”

“Yes. Kind of. But still!"

“And I’m fine. I promise like I said, and you're so cute when you worry about me."

"Not cute, I get flustered and pray nothing bad happens to you."

Crossing your arms, you nodded your head as Joe uncrossed them and leaned down to kiss you.

"Nothing is going to happen, and I'm going to need you to relax for me. Now that we got that out of the way, I’m also going to need my wife to lose her clothes.”

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

Secretly Mine

Summary: Spencer and Reader have been seeing each other for a while without the team's knowledge

Category: Fluff

Couple: Spencer/BAU Fem!Reader

Content warnings: None

Word count: 1.5k

Eight months have passed since your arrival at the BAU. You’re an integral part of the team. Hotch has been sure to let you know. You’ve stood out with your eye for detail at certain crime scenes, outshining even some of the team’s more seasoned members. Luckily, the academy’s rumors about the Quantico team’s bond have rang true time and time again, so competition and jealousy never became an issue. It only made them respect you and even open up to you.

One person who has particularly opened up to you is the genius of the group, Spencer Reid. The secret you learned: he’s a gentle kisser. Almost childishly chaste, but nothing seemed more fitting for his personality. What was surprising was the setting of your first kiss.

New York City police invited the team to investigate the terrorist cell killing random people across the city. Their attacks grew more volatile by the time you all arrived, placing bombs on government vehicles. One of these bombs hurt Hotch, and SSA Joyner did not survive the same blast. The results could have been worse, considering.

Your team faced the problem of uncertainty regarding who (if anyone) had been injured at that moment. Spencer was with Rossi at the police station while the rest of you were on the ground. That damn terrorist organization interfered with signals and transmissions all the time, and this was no different. You, by your luck, were the most difficult to get in contact with, despite being safe at Federal Plaza. You met with the team when it was safe to do so and all targeted areas were cleared. Most of you sighed in relief. Garcia even held your face, as if to make sure you were real, alive and, breathing.

Spencer held your face too, but not in the same way. You both took refuge by the water cooler, surprisingly where no one was present in a once-crowded New York City police station. You talked about what happened, Hotch’s current condition, and how long to expect these nerves to last. Your nerves didn’t settle, though, when Spencer’s knuckles brushed your cheek as he said, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

You didn’t blame these nerves, though, when you leaned into the touch, looking up at him with a smile. “I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

Spencer was cute, obviously, but workplace relationships are highly unprofessional and even a liability, if the case they just survived wasn’t enough proof of that. You’d think (well, you knew actually) Spencer of all people would know this. He knows everything. When you had a case in Baltimore involving the Ravens, he told you their name came from Edgar Allan Poe’s most famous poem. Then he explained the detailed theories surrounding his untimely death. Spencer believes it has something to do with cooping, whatever that means, you dared not to ask. There’s nothing he doesn’t consider.

So, Spencer must have considered all the odds of professional behavior in that moment by the water cooler since his lips delicately brushed yours. It was barely a kiss at first, until he leaned in for another, to where you could feel the warmth of his mouth and felt that he could do with some lip exfoliant. The last part you didn’t care about because it was practically over before it began. Neither of you said anything about it. Instead, you stayed there for a while, not touching or talking. Then Morgan told the team to pack up and get ready to go home.

Throughout the past month, you and Spencer have shared many kissing sessions. Not at work, though, because you both still have some sense. Kissing Spencer, though, tends to not leave you with much sense. His gentleness is not a front. His touches are tender and he’s never pushed you beyond your limits. It’s a good thing then that he’s a gentleman, so he earned kisses through dinners, movies, and day trips. It was something to look forward to in between grueling cases.

And it wasn’t even off work when Spencer would bring joy to you. There was a case recently in North Carolina that shook you more than you cared to admit. You didn’t want to mention what specifically, as it’s something you haven’t spoken about in a long time, but the team picked up on it quickly. They checked on you and even asked if you needed to sit out. You powered through and came to a satisfactory (for lack of a better word) conclusion. Afterward, Spencer invited you to ice cream. It was a welcoming change of scenery, despite the ice cream place being called Jack the Dipper. It was hilariously fitting, so it really wasn’t an issue. Spencer didn’t ask about what happened or what made you feel so disturbed. Throughout the night, he just made sure to ask if you were okay.

You haven’t been okay for a while. Not because of that case, but because it’s been three months now and you are still running around with Spencer without the team’s knowledge. The team might feel cheated (and Hotch might be pissed) because they are not aware of this information, but the uneasiness of all this was starting to settle in. The fear, the worry that this might just be all for nothing. Outside of the office, he shows that he cares. He knows things about you that you haven't revealed in some time. And apparently he has done the same. Bruises from harsh kisses around your bodies linger under work clothes from a weekend in, and the team has been none the wiser. And you’re not sure if you’re as okay with it as you thought you were.

The team went out to the bar on a Thursday, celebrating a government holiday the night before (i.e. a three-day weekend). The team took shots, bet money, threw darts, and Emily ended up with the most by closing. You would’ve coughed up more cash throughout the night if you were confident in your bets.

Spencer barely looked at you. Didn’t brush your hand or even stand near you for too long, like you had the plague or whatever Poe died from. It didn’t help the feeling in your core, and neither did the walk home. Morgan drove Garcia home, Hotch with Rossi, and J.J. with Emily. And of course, Spencer with you. When J.J. drove away after boasting about avoiding a ticket on an expired meter, Spencer didn’t hesitate to reach for your hand. It was nice, and as the weather grew colder, it was a welcomed warmth. But how could it not feel at least a little sour?

His apartment wasn’t far from here, so you walked. Your hands were laced the entire time, but he didn’t breathe a word and you couldn’t tell if that should make you feel better or worse.

It wasn’t until you climbed the steps to his door that he asked, “Are you staying the night?”

You swallowed. Unlike Emily, Garcia, and Rossi, you were on the side of tipsy rather than in dire need of a toilet to bury your head into. “Sure.” You said. “If you want me to.”

“Yeah,” He said, fiddling with his key and lock. “Of course I want you to.”

He finally opens the door and turns on the living room light. You barely had time to put your purse down before his lips were on yours. They were still chapped like the first time, except you could forgive that because of the growing cold outside. His hands hold your waist, they creep to your back. You couldn’t help but lean in, away from the door he pressed you into. It was when Spencer moaned in your mouth that you broke away. Catching your breath, you try putting together a sentence. But breathing is difficult right now for both of you. Spencer’s eyes are lazy and his breath still lingers with a scent of the mint gum he spit out when he showed up to the bar.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you think it’s the start to an actual apology. “I was trying to stay patient.” He kisses you again, softly. And you kiss him back still. He moans again. “I want you.”

You swallow again. Your throat is so dry. “Spencer, I—”

“I want to tell them.” He interrupts.

You blink, it quickens as you take in the words. “What?”

His hands cup your face. He brushes the messy bangs from your forehead. “I want to tell them. About this. About us. I just…” He trails off. That is not something you’re used to seeing. “I want more time with you.”

As Spencer’s words sank in, you felt a mix of apprehension and longing, wondering just what could go wrong. A lot, in fact. But you have to believe he’s being honest. Why wouldn’t he be?

And with a soft smile, you reached for his hand and met his gaze. “I want that too,” you said, feeling the weight of it finally being lifted off your chest. “I’ve wanted that for a while.”

“I know. And I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you about it earlier. I was being selfish.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“But I would. Because it’s true. But that changes now.” The look on his face, the fully sober look on his face. He’s all in. “I will tell them you’re my girlfriend.”

[multifandomficsx]

Nowhere to Hide -- Chapter 8

Summary: The days trudge on and on the fourth day a heat wave washes over Baltimore that pushes you and Hotch over the edge. MINORS DNI!!!!

Content warnings: Strong language, Smut, PinV, oral (giving and receiving), use protection (I mean it)

W.C: 6.5k

Nowhere to Hide Masterlist

CHAPTER 8

That promise kept as the morning sun rose. The first night you have actually gotten some sleep. 

Tomorrow came. And the next day. And the next. The only contact was updates from the team, that they had no updates. 

The unsub seemed to disappear off the face of the earth, doing exactly what you expected. You were out of sight and he was trying to find you. 

There’s no need to perform for someone when they’re not watching you. 

Day one was fine, you managed to distract yourself with the dusty books hidden on the shelves.

Day two, cabin fever starts to rear its ugly head. You could have thrown punches at Hotch when he told you to relax. Rage swirled but also a feeling that pulsed in a similar way. 

Day three, Paranoia hit. You practically sat catatonic at the window all day, until Hotch pulled you away, forcing you to take a break.

You wake on the fourth day to the thick weight of heat clinging to your skin.

The air inside the cabin that is playing the role of a safe house is suffocating, heavy and unmoving, like a held breath. Sweat beads at your hairline, runs in slow rivulets down your neck, and the thin sheet twisted around your legs feels more like a trap than a cover. In the haze of waking, you faintly remember the weather report from yesterday, a heat wave signaling the end of spring into summer. 

You blink up at the wooden beams above you, the ceiling fan still and useless, a limp accusation of power that ran out sometime before dawn. The hum of the small generator that powers the basics—lights, fridge, phone charger—is absent, and that means the fans are gone too.

The silence is too complete.

You swing your legs off the bed and instantly regret it. The floor is warm underfoot, like it’s been baking in the sun even though every curtain in the place is drawn tight. The shadows inside the cabin are long and dim, and when you open your bedroom door, the hallway smells faintly of sweat and wood.

Hotch is already up. Of course he is.

He’s sitting at the small kitchen table, stripped down to a dark gray T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up, collar damp. There’s a glass of water in front of him, sweating almost as much as the two of you. His gun is within reach. His eyes flick to you immediately—sharp, assessing. Concerned, maybe, though he masks it well.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter than usual.

You nod, though it feels like your brain is swimming in molasses. “It’s hot.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile exactly, more like a grimace shaped into something gentler. “Yeah.”

You both know what the easy answer would be. Open the windows. Let in the breeze, if there is one. But the thought makes your stomach tighten.

You glance toward the front door, where every lock is thrown and the thick curtain remains pinned shut. Beyond it, somewhere in the stretch of forest that surrounds this isolated cabin, someone is waiting. Watching. Hunting.

You don’t know what they look like. Not for sure. But you remember the package left at the precinct. The pictures. The notes. And then the way Hotch’s face looked when he read them—carefully blank, like he was trying not to let you see how bad it really was.

So no, you’re not opening a window. No matter how much the heat presses in, thick and unrelenting.

Hotch pushes the glass toward you without a word.

You sit across from him and take it, drink deeply. The water is lukewarm but still welcome. Your skin itches, sticky with sweat, and your shirt clings to your back. You wonder if there’s anything left in the cabin that isn’t drenched in heat. Including him.

He doesn’t look comfortable either. His hair is slightly damp, and he’s trying not to touch the table with his forearms. You can feel the tension radiating off him—not just from the heat, but from the pressure of stillness, from the watchfulness that’s becoming harder and harder to maintain after days without movement.

“How long do you think we’ll have to stay here?” you ask, softly.

Hotch looks toward the window, not pulling the curtain back, just… listening. Like maybe he can hear the answer in the windless branches outside.

“Until we know it’s safe,” he says.

You nod, and neither of you says the obvious: that might be a while.

The power flickers once, a cruel tease, then dies again. You close your eyes.

And when you open them, Hotch is watching you—not with pity, but with a quiet kind of steadiness. His voice is lower when he speaks again.

“We’ll get through this. One day at a time.”

It’s not a promise he can guarantee, but somehow it still helps. Maybe because he means it. Maybe because, right now, he’s the only thing that makes the heat bearable.

You exhale slowly, take another sip of water, and wait for the next hour to pass.

The phone vibrates on the table between you. Once, then again.

Hotch picks it up instantly. His brows draw together as he reads, then he tilts the screen so you can see.

Garcia: No update yet. Still checking security cameras. I'll keep you posted the second anything moves. Stay low. Stay safe. Miss you both.

You stare at the message longer than you need to. Not because it says anything useful, it doesn’t, but because it says something real. That the outside world still exists. That someone is still looking for answers.

Hotch sets the phone back down. “She’s working nonstop,” he says quietly.

“I know.” You glance toward the curtain-covered window again. The light behind the fabric is brighter now, hotter. The kind of sunlight that feels personal. Like it’s aiming for you.

The day creeps forward with agonizing slowness. Every hour is heavier than the last. The cabin, insulated and sealed for your protection, is quickly becoming an oven. The walls seem to pulse with warmth. Even the shadows are hot.

You peel off your shirt around midday, replacing it with a tank top that feels barely better. The sweat has nowhere to go—it just lingers on your skin, a constant, clinging reminder that you’re trapped.

Hotch eventually takes off his T-shirt, folding it over the back of a chair. He doesn’t comment on it, just moves with the quiet practicality he always has. Still, it’s jarring. You’ve seen him in only suits so seeing him like this, bare-armed, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths, is enough to make the room feel even warmer. 

He moves to his designated bedroom and grabs a new t-shirt. 

You sit in opposite corners of the small living room now, each trying to claim a patch of air that isn’t soaked in body heat. The silence stretches long. The occasional buzz of an insect outside, a creak in the cabin’s old frame, the drip of sweat down your back.

At one point, you shift your legs and feel the cushion beneath you squish, damp from the back of your thighs. You grimace. “This is unbearable.”

Hotch’s mouth twitches again, that half-not-there thing he does when he’s at the edge of discomfort. “It’s the safest place we’ve got.”

You know he’s right. You also know that if someone really wanted to find you, all they’d have to do is follow the stillness. The one cabin without open windows. The one place where nothing stirs in the wind.

“They’ll find something, right?” you ask. You’re not sure if you’re asking about Garcia, the team, or fate in general.

Hotch’s voice is low. “They will. They don’t stop.”

You nod, but the certainty doesn’t land this time. Not fully. Not with how long this has gone on. Not with the heat pressing into your temples, your collarbone, your spine.

You stand and go to refill your water again, avoiding his gaze. The coolest part of the cabin is the kitchen floor, and you lean against the counter, your hand resting on the coldest patch of metal you can find—an old drawer handle, slightly rusted.

Then, another sound.

Not the phone. Not a creak.

Outside.

You freeze. Hotch is already moving—silent, fluid. He grabs his gun from the table and crosses the room, pressing himself against the wall beside the window.

You don’t breathe. You don’t move.

Nothing.

Maybe it was an animal. A branch. Heat-induced paranoia.

Or maybe not.

Hotch lifts two fingers—stay—and inches toward the door, peering through the edge of the curtain without disturbing it.

He stands like that for a long time.

Finally, he lowers the gun slightly and steps back. “I don’t see anything,” he says. “But stay sharp.”

The silence afterward is louder than before. Tighter.

You swallow past the dryness in your throat, your body buzzing with leftover adrenaline and heat. You wipe the sweat from your temples, but it comes right back. The cabin hasn’t cooled. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You think you see heat shimmer near the ceiling.

“Maybe they’re trying to smoke us out,” you say before you can stop yourself. You’re half-joking, half-not.

Hotch gives you a look, unreadable. “They’d be smarter than that.”

The implication that your stalker might be exactly that smart is not reassuring.

You sit again, closer to him this time. Not touching. Just near. There’s nothing else you can do but wait. And sweat. And hope the next vibration on the phone is something more than no update yet.

You last half an hour before cracking.

The bottle of bourbon in the cabinet is meant for emergencies��Hotch said it himself when he stashed it there on day one. Which was a lie, you cracked it open on day one.  “In case we’re here longer than we want to be.” You’re well past that point. 

You don’t ask. You just retrieve it, twist the cap off with slippery fingers, and pour an inch or two into a glass. No ice, of course. The freezer’s a silent, empty box now. The liquor burns its way down your throat, and you savor the sting, a sharp, clean distraction.

Hotch doesn’t comment, but you feel his eyes on you.

“Want one?” you offer, voice a little too light.

He shakes his head once. “Not while we’re not in the clear.”

Of course. You knew he’d say that. You nod and take another sip, turning towards the window in the kitchen, trying to occupy yourself. 

Your tank top clung to the curve of your spine. A single drop of sweat traced a slow path down your neck. 

Behind you, the floor creaked.

You didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. Standing at the juncture between the front door and the window next to it. Just watching, but it wasn’t outside he was watching. 

You’d felt it for days now, his eyes. The weight of them. The way the atmosphere shifted when he looked at you, like gravity had chosen sides. You swallowed, your fingers tightening around your glass. Still, you didn’t move.

You could feel it, the heat of his stare sliding over your shoulder blades, lingering. You felt small beneath it. Exposed. There's nowhere to hide. Not in a way that scared you, something that made your breath go shallow and your throat dry. 

You take another sip.

It doesn’t help much. The heat is still oppressive, still absolute. But the bourbon fuzzes the edges of your panic, dulls the constant flinch in your shoulders. You stretch out a little farther on the couch, letting your head fall back, neck exposed to whatever air might still be moving—though there’s none, really. Just damp, heavy stillness.

You try not to stare. You fail. It’s your turn.

He looks drenched. Sweat soaks the waistband of his jeans, darkening the denim around his hips. His neck glistens in the dim light, the t-shirt sticking to the lines of his torso taut, sharp, streaked with sweat. Even his forearms—strong, steady, scarred—are slick, his veins more pronounced than usual.

He rolls his shoulders like they’re aching. His jaw is tense. Tighter than before.

You wonder if it’s the heat, the tension, or something else entirely.

“Do you ever relax?” you ask, your voice a little huskier than you meant it to be.

Hotch glances at you. The corner of his mouth twitches, not a smile. Not quite. “Not really.”

You smirk, finishing the rest of your glass. The burn hits you again, but this time, you welcome it. Anything to stop you from thinking about how close you are to losing it. How the walls feel like they’re closing in, not from fear now, but from need. From heat. From him.

You set your glass down, slower than you need to. “I think we’re past the point of pretending this isn’t hell.”

Hotch turns to face you fully now. His face is flushed—whether from the heat or something else, you can’t tell. There’s a drop of sweat clinging to his temple, sliding past his jaw. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“We’re still breathing,” he says. “Still alive.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, eyes dragging over him. “But for how long?”

The silence that follows hums between you, electric.

You don’t break eye contact. Neither does he.

And you wonder—just for a second—if the heat might not be the most dangerous thing in this cabin.

You don’t speak again for a while.

The bourbon hums low in your blood, not enough to dull your senses, just enough to make everything feel a little too vivid. The way the air barely moves between you. The slow drip of sweat crawling down your spine. The way Hotch’s chest rises and falls with measured control—as if he’s keeping something in check that you can’t name.

You rise and refill your glass. 

This time, when you drink, your eyes linger on him a little longer. You wonder if he notices. You think maybe he does.

“Do you want a glass now?” You ask, your words drawn out and a little slurred.

He hasn’t moved from the wall. He’s positioned like a sentry, one shoulder braced against the wood, watching the sliver of curtain that shields the door. His whole body is tense. Not the kind born from fear—this is something different. Contained. Restrained. Deliberate.

You study the line of his jaw, the vein in his neck, the way his fingers flex slightly where they rest near his holstered weapon.

You know how dangerous he is. That’s never scared you. In fact, right now, it’s grounding.

But you also know that this kind of stillness, that controlled burn he always carries, doesn’t last forever.

Hotch’s eyes flick to you, unreadable. “Probably.”

Your stomach flips. You sip again and make him his drink.

Hotch nods in a thank you type gesture. “Get comfortable.” He says taking a sharp swig of his drink, finishing it in one go. Something about that was insanely hot to you, watching him swallow. 

You avert your eyes and look around the sweltering cabin, where every breath feels like it sticks to your lungs. “Comfortable isn't really on the table.”

Hotch’s mouth curves, faintly, like he’s about to tell a joke. “Exactly.” 

You walk to a chair but find yourself too restless to sit. The liquor has made you bold, or reckless, or maybe just tired of pretending that this is normal. You cross the room slowly, feeling every inch of sweat-slick skin under your tank top and shorts. You stop just a foot away from him, close enough to see the way his pupils have darkened slightly.

The silence stretches again—thicker now.

“Why aren’t you cracking?” you ask, tilting your head, frustrated. Bothered. “You’re just as hot. Just as trapped. Just as hunted.”

Hotch’s jaw tightens. He looks down at you, his voice quiet but firm. “Because I can’t afford to.”

You nod slowly. “Because of me.”

He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t need to.

The space between you feels charged. Unsteady.

You can smell him now—clean sweat and faded soap and something else, something warm and familiar that makes your heart beat faster in your chest.

You take another slow step forward. You’re almost close enough to touch him.

Hotch doesn’t move. Doesn’t retreat. But his hand flexes at his side again.

You wonder how long it’s been since he’s let himself want something.

You wonder if he wants it now.

The bourbon is warm in your veins. The heat is a living thing against your skin. And the only cool spot in this entire suffocating cabin is the one you haven’t dared reach for yet—him.

You meet his eyes and say, “You’re sweating through your jeans.”

Hotch’s breath hitches, just a little. Barely enough to catch. But you see it.

The tension doesn’t break. It tightens.

And suddenly, the question isn’t if it will snap—it’s when.

The air between you feels like static. Alive. Ready to catch.

You’re so close now that you can see the way a drop of sweat slides down from Hotch’s temple, tracing the line of his jaw. It hangs at the edge of his chin for a heartbeat before falling, disappearing against his collarbone.

He still hasn’t stepped back. Hasn’t said a word.

Neither have you.

You lift your glass slowly, not to drink, but just to do something with your hands. It hovers near your mouth. You’re not even sure what you’re thinking anymore. You just know that your nerves are shot and your heart is pounding and the heat is pressing against your skin like a demand.

“I can’t tell if this is cabin fever,” you say, voice soft, “or if it’s just you.”

Hotch exhales—sharp, almost like a laugh, except there’s nothing light in it. His gaze finally drops—down your face, your throat, the line of your collarbone where your tank top sticks to your skin.

“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” he murmurs.

“Trying,” you echo. “So you are thinking about it.”

His jaw works once. Then he nods. Barely. “I’m human.”

You swallow, hard. The silence stretches again, a fragile thread strung tight between the two of you.

You lower your glass. “So am I.”

You see it happen before it does.

His restraint wavers—not enough to make him move, but enough to see it. The way his body shifts toward you instinctively. The way his fingers twitch at his side, like they’re aching to reach out.

And maybe it’s the heat. Or the bourbon. Or maybe it’s just the fact that you’ve both been locked in this place for too long, breathing the same stifling air, afraid to open a door, afraid to want anything.

But you step in closer.

Close enough that your chest nearly brushes his. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him like it wants to brand you.

“You don’t have to hold it together for everyone,” you say, voice just above a whisper. “Not all the time.”

His breath is shallow now. Controlled, but barely. His hand lifts slowly—just a few inches—and then curls into a fist like he’s stopping himself at the last second.

“I don’t want to cross a line,” he says tightly.

You don’t look away. “What if I do?”

Something cracks then. You can feel it.

He steps into you, fast—his hand at your waist, warm and firm, but not rough. His other palm finds the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, leaving behind the heat of his skin and the weight of everything he’s been holding back. His mouth doesn’t meet yours yet—but it’s close. So close.

“This doesn’t leave the cabin,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours. “You say stop, I stop. No questions.”

You nod once, and it’s the only permission he needs.

The kiss hits hard—more pressure than finesse, more desperation than form. His mouth is warm, insistent, and you feel his body finally relax against yours as he lets go of every ounce of careful distance he’s kept for days. 

You gasp against his mouth as his hands move, not rough, but purposeful, grounding. His skin is hot against yours, and you can taste the heat, the bourbon, the weight of everything neither of you could say out loud until now.

Outside, the sun is still burning. The stalker is still out there. The world is still dangerous.

But at this moment, inside this too-hot cabin, the danger isn’t out there.

It’s here.

And you’ve finally stepped into it.

Aaron looks at you, really looks at you, eyes roaming over your legs and your hips and your chest and your mouth, all the places he hadn’t allowed himself to notice until now. The distance between you closes much more easily, much more quickly, this time. “Never thought we’d do this,” he murmurs, and then corrects himself, “Never thought you’d want me to.” Your laugh is soft. Disbelieving. You meet his eyes and lean up towards him, “That’s because you’re stupid. You really haven’t noticed?”, and the words dissolve into his mouth as you kiss him– or maybe he kisses you, or maybe a little of both. It doesn’t matter, anyway, and you don’t care. 

He pulls away and rests his forehead on yours. There’s something about the way you glow in the warm dim lighting of this sweltering house that has him entranced. The words come out as a whisper. “ Of course I have.” He frames your face with his hands and slants his mouth over yours and deepens the kiss, his tongue parting your lips and pushing in and scraping over your teeth, across the roof of your mouth– You taste exactly how he imagined, exactly how he thought you would, sweet like chapstick and strawberries and whiskey and so fucking perfect that for a moment he’s left wondering if this is even real.

 Aaron’s hand moves down from your face to the curve of your waist, fingers digging in, and he’s urging you closer until your body is pressed up so close to his that you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, the rapid rise-and-fall of his breathing as he keeps kissing you. Your hand wraps around the back of his neck and your teeth scrape over his bottom lip, half-smiling against his mouth when he makes a sound almost like a grunt and kneads your hips, yanking you closer, causing a yelp to escape your lips. He moves one hand up under your sweat damp tank top, skin burning, finally able to touch. Your skin is soft and warm under his calloused hands and when he drags his thumb across your nipple through the sheer fabric of your bra you make a noise akin to a sigh, or maybe a moan, shallow and soft. It’s still not good enough. You want him to touch you everywhere.

Hotch’s hand finds the small of your back and pulls you in until your bodies are flush. Your skin meets his—fever-warm and damp with sweat, the slide of heat-on-heat that makes you gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound like he’s starved for it.

You clutch at his shoulders, his back, fingers sliding against slick skin as he backs you toward the wall. Each step is slow, deliberate—measured only in how close he can bring you, how much he can feel.

The wood behind you is warm. His chest is warmer.

When his mouth leaves yours, it travels down—along your jaw, the side of your neck. You tilt your head without thinking, giving him space, your breath catching as his lips graze sweat-damp skin and linger just under your ear. The heat there has nothing to do with the weather. It’s the tension finally snapping loose.

You can feel him trying to stay in control. His breathing is tight. His movements precise.

But then your hands slip down his chest, tracing the heat-glossed muscles through his damp shirt, and he groans—quiet, deep, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

“Tell me if this is too much,” he mutters, voice rough against your throat.

“It’s not enough,” you whisper back.

That does it.

Aaron yanks your tank top off, fabric clinging stubbornly to your skin. His hands fumbles with the clasp of your bra for a moment before discarding that, too. You’re beautiful, and he had known that, but it’s not the same– not when it’s like this, when he can so easily reach out and touch, and maybe he stares for a second or more than a second– Which causes you to shrink into yourself a little.

“Say something. Please…” You half whisper, half whine out, desperate for him to touch you in ways no one has in a while. “You’re beautiful” he whispers, a little more frantic than intended, and almost immediately his mouth descends over the soft column of your throat and then down to your collarbones, your breasts, kissing and biting every inch of skin he can reach with a sort of reverence he hadn’t known he was capable of. You lean into the feeling of his mouth, gasps out his name in a breathless, needy way that hits him hard, makes his cock ache in the rough confines of his jeans as he sucks a bruise into your skin where your shoulder meets your neck– half because he wants to and half because it’s proof that this is real. In the back of his mind, he thinks of all the ways he could talk himself out of this, all the countless reasons why he shouldn’t let this get any worse or any more permanent, but he finds that he doesn’t care. You kiss him and you tug him closer, a low groan vibrating somewhere in his throat at how effortlessly your body fits against his. You're the one who pulls him towards the bed. “Come on, Aaron,” you say, and it’s probably supposed to sound teasing, sarcastic, defiant, even, but mostly it just sounds breathless. There’s a bruise blossoming on your neck and your mouth is swollen and red, and Aaron stops and stares. “Fuck,” he bites out, the noise low and unsurprisingly aggressive. He hears the rustle of the comforter against the mattress as you move onto it, and he follows the sound, and then easily pushes your legs apart at the edge of the bed to take the space between them. You grab the fabric of his sweat drenched shirt and you drag him down into another kiss, the movement of your mouth against his mirroring the slow, languid roll of your hips against the mattress trying to find any kind of friction for the heat pooling below the surface. “Take your clothes off, I wanna see you” you mutter into his mouth, half demanding, he bites your bottom lip just hard enough to make you gasp against him, relishing in how you react to him, honest and real in a way he hadn’t expected.

He complies with your demand, taking off the shirt that he mentality cursed at himself for still wearing despite how hot it had gotten. 

Your shorts are off too before he even has time to think about what he’s doing, and then your underwear too, in a messy, haphazard pile of clothing on the floor, and he’s looking at you and you’re staring right back, his shoulders, biceps, the lines that disappear into his jeans. Your mouth parted as you wondered what was waiting for you right below-

His breathing is ragged. Your pulse is thundering. The air is thick with something that feels like static electricity, sharp and heavy, like in the moments before a storm. His eyes rake up your body almost of their own volition, taking in the swell of your breasts and the curve of your stomach and then trailing down, down– “Aaron,” you mutter, squirming under the heat of his gaze, and any hint of defiance is gone at this point, replaced by pent-up, repressed longing, and it suddenly clicks that this entire fucking thing had never been one-sided. It had never just been you, he had watched and waited and wanted you too, and– “(Y/N),” he rasps, not sure if he had even meant to say it out loud, and then he’s fumbling with the zipper on his jeans, and closing the space between you with a newfound desperation.

He practically picks you up and moves you further onto the bed, him following suit, crawling on top of you. You lean up and meet him halfway, and the kiss is frantic and messy and perfect. His weight pins you down to the bed and your desire is all-consuming, white-hot in the pit of your stomach as he rocks up against you, the friction making you both groan. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s wanted something this badly, and the feeling of your bare skin is like a fucking drug. His hand slips down your stomach, moves in between your thighs. His fingers are slick against your skin and when he finally touches you were you need it, you choke out a soft, trembling moan, and he realizes distantly that he’s so fucking hard it hurts– “More, please,” you whisper, a little desperately, rocking your hips up into his hand, looking for friction, and his breath just falters, the arm supporting his weight on the bed is trembling and he can’t think of anything he wants more in this moment than you.

“You’ll get it, be patient, pretty girl,” he groans, pressing a finger inside of you and curling it up, and your answering moan is needy and helpless and when he starts to fuck you with his fingers you melt underneath him in the best way– “Stop fucking– teasing,” you say, trying to sound irritated but failing miserably as your voice wavers and dissolves into a moan. Aaron exhales shakily. He stops touching you. A pathetic whine escapes your lips at the loss of touch. But then he moves, not depriving you for long as his mouth makes contact with your messy cunt. You suck in a labored breath as his tongue circles your clit. 

You try to call out to him but the words escape your lips. You’re reduced to a trembling mess as your hands find their grip in his hair. He eats like a man starved, sucking and licking on the most sensitive parts like it was his last meal on earth. His fingers found their way back inside you and it’s all too much. 

Your hips stutter and buck, his other arm drapes itself across the top of you holding you in place, making you take everything he gives you. 

“Aaron, I- Im gonna… fuck-” 

“ Then cum.” He says, the vibrations of his words on you send you over the edge, your back arches off the mattress in a way that’s almost painful and you finish.

You’re both aware of it, he knows, his cock pressed up against the inside of your thigh, hot and hard and insistent inside of his jeans. Then you rock your hips up against him and he groans, the sound frantic, desperate, dragging you into a kiss–

Your hands travel down his back to where his jeans meet his hips and start pushing them down. He immediately stands, you follow him to sit on the edge of the bed. You find your way back to the jeans and the briefs beneath them. Taking them off slowly, taking your time. 

His cock springs free and fuck it’s bigger than you thought. Your hand wraps around and pumps slowly. Hotch sucks in a breath through gritted teeth as his head rolls back ever so slightly. 

His hand grips the back of your hair as you lean forward, licking a stripe up from the base to the tip. His eyes meet yours, staring up at him through your lashes. 

You open your mouth and take in the tip. You hum and relax your jaw as he guides you further down his shaft. He fills your throat as you place a hand on his thigh for support. He lets you take the lead on this, just gentle pressure on the back of your head as you bobbed and swirled your tongue. 

The suffocating cabin filled with little gagging noises as his cock hit the back of your throat. Aaron groans out a curse as you pick up your pace. Your gaze remains set on him, watching his eyes shut and reopen to make sure he doesn’t miss anything. His breath grows ragged and uneven. He’s close.

“Damn sweetheart, that's enough.” He practically begs and you peel yourself away from him. 

He pushes you back onto the bed, him following suit on top of you. His lips back on you leaving no time for you to catch your breath. 

“ You’ve been driving me insane,” He mutters between kisses. “It’s unfair what you’ve been doing to me.”

A moan escapes you upon hearing his words. Or was it him lining his cock up at your folds. 

He runs it up and down, the tip hitting your clit on every pass through. 

“Aaron-” A meek attempt to push him.

“Ask for it.” He says his thumb drawing lazy circles around your clit.

Your body pulses at the new contact, lost for words, fumbling at forming a sentence. 

“ Ask for it.” He says again, stronger in his statement.

“Aaron… please, I need it. I need you.” You manage you get out in gasps.

He thrusts into you in one fluid motion. “Ah– fuck,” he groans, against your open, waiting mouth, eyes closed and face tense and the muscles in his arms and upper back strung taut, tense with the effort of holding himself still. There’s a moment of silence– a moment of stillness– that’s strangely intimate, warm and familiar and right, his breathing unsteady against your neck as he struggles to hold on to the quickly-fading remains of his self-control. Aaron moves slowly. Your answering moan is soft and the warmth of your combined body heat is heady and suffocating–sweat beads on his forehead and your breath ghosts hot across his collarbones as he moves and as you roll your hips up to meet him. His forehead is pressed against yours, noses bumping, as he kisses you, open-mouthed and messy, catching your gasp and his answering groan as you tighten around him, hot and wet and perfect. The way you drag your palms down his chest and across the wide expanse of his shoulders is desperate, almost like your looking for something to hold on to as he thrusts in a little harder, watches, seemingly entranced, as his cock moves, in down to the base until your hips are pressed together and then back again. “ Aaron ,” you moan, biting on his lip, making his rhythm stutter, and make his hips snap forward hard, and whatever he was going to say in response is replaced with a desperate, needy growl at the way you moan with the rock of his body. 

A shiver trembles down your spine, liquid and involuntary, and he can feel the way your muscles tighten around his cock, can hear the creaking of the bedsprings and the sharp sounds of his own breathing and nothing else really seems to matter except what’s happening right then. 

You don’t care about anything except the way his body feels against yours or the way he seems to fill you up perfectly. He snaps his hips forwards and you tremble, he watches your mouth part for a gasp and how you never stop looking at him, not even for a second. “I– fuck, fuck, I’m–” you gasp, tripping over the words, a little desperate and a lot frantic as you grind up against him, one hand tangled in his hair and the other somewhere on the expanse of his shoulder, reaching for purchase, something to hold on to– He’s acutely aware of your body pressed up against his own, slick with sweat and incredibly fucking warm, your face buried in his shoulder and your breath hot against his skin and your body soft and pliant and perfect underneath him. Everything about this is driving the both of you fucking crazy, that it’s hard to focus, that everything else is a colorless, meaningless blur in the background and all you  can see is each other, back arching and muscles tensing and calling out each others name. You tremble and tighten around him and finally reach the second release building in you. The moan you release is wonderfully helpless and whatever remaining scraps of decorum he had left just fucking dissolve. His thrusts become erratic, his rhythm falters and he realizes, distantly, that he’s not going to last much longer as you rock against him until he can barely think straight. “(Y/N),” he mutters, and chokes out a curse, buries his face in your shoulder and relishes in it, in the closeness and the shared body heat and the feeling of being here, with you, like this, until his body falters and his weight comes down onto his forearms and his orgasm is wrenched through him like a fucking revelation. And then it’s over. He doesn’t move for a long moment. You don't make him. Nothing seems to matter anymore except the warmth of where your bodies are still joined, the sound of your combined breathing, and the ache of the emotions you had unleashed on one another. It’s a brief moment of peace for you, and you think he must feel the same. “You can get off of me now,” You complain, softly. Breathlessly. Your normal personality shining back through. Aaron huffs out a laugh, deep and warm, and moves away. He hesitates, only for a second, before pulling you to his bare chest with his hand curled over your hip. The silence isn’t as suffocating as you expected. It’s almost– comfortable. “Dumbass,” you say. There’s an honest sort of affection in your voice, as you throw an arm over his chest and bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Shut up,” he mumbles, sleepy and sated and not really meaning it at all.

There was no more room for doubt, no room for distance anymore. Just two people, finally giving in to what has been brewing for almost two weeks. 

And in the heat of the safe house, you knew: nothing could remain the same that next morning.

[hotel-casifornia]

i like to think there are true crime episodes in the world of supernatural that are just dedicated to dean winchester

because like okay

he gets arrested in jericho california one/two days after halloween in 2005 and escapes custody before they really charge him for anything then he disappears

then a few months later in december of 2005 he shows up in st louis where hes pinned for the murders of two women and then the attempted murder of another, BUT hes found dead in this same womans house and then theres nothing about him for months

THEN in 2006 he gets arrested in baltimore and is charged for trespassing, grave robbery, grave desecration, murder, impersonation, identity theft etc etc and also arrested at this time is his younger brother sam who isnt charged with anything (as a side note here his brother went to stanford and was studying law, he was on track to be a lawyer a year before this) then overnight while an officer is transferring dean to st louis he escapes and that same officer is found dead on the scene by his partner - around this time sam also escapes custody

and so then they disappear for a while and later he shows up again, in milwaukee where a bank heist is going down and hes supposedly held hostage, then after the original perpetrator of the heist is shot and killed dean takes over running the heist, at that point fbi is called in and they storm the building, they find three or so dead bodies and no dean or sam and find the two escaped by impersonating people in the fbi’s swat team and dumping them in a closet having taken their clothes to blend in and get out of the building

and so they disappear again for a while until a few months later they get arrested again and are actually convicted and sent to folsom prison. they spend definitely under a week in this prison and then escape and once more disappear

then in 2008 theyre arrested again in monument colorado and its planned that theyre to be transferred to a maximum security prison in nevada but before they can be transported they supposedly die when the helicopter thats supposed to transport them explodes, a day later though the sheriffs office where they were kept is destroyed and everyone in it dies

AND THEN. there is dead silence on them for YEARS. they become myth after this, some super weird criminals who go down in infamy in online forums and chatrooms and dean winchester is known as the guy who can never stay dead.

and then. dean and sam get arrested again. a decade later. yeah theyre alive still. who wouldve guessed. what are they arrested for this time? TRYING TO KILL THE PRESIDENT.

[ososphobia]

the art of the hunt.

pairing: hannibal lecter x reader

summary: hunting a human with hannibal!! and more..

word count: 1k

content warning: graphic violence, cannibalism, psychological manipulation, stalking, knife play/blood play, sensory overlap.

[12:17AM, PATAPSCO STATE PARK - BALTIMORE]

The forest exhaled around them—damp earth, decaying leaves, the faintest whisper of panic clinging to the air like cologne. Hannibal didn’t need to glance at his watch to know the time; the moon’s position told him everything. His gloved fingers flexed around the handle of his knife, the bone grip worn smooth from years of use.

Beside him, you adjusted your stance, quieter now than you'd been on your hunt. Progress. Hannibal’s lips curled.

"Our Mr. Vogelsong is late," he murmured, tilting his head to catch the distant crunch of leaves under clumsy footsteps. "Rude, but predictable. He always takes the long route home after his Thursday night poker games." A pause. "Losing puts him in a temper. His wife’s restraining order mentions broken wine glasses. Teeth."

The wind shifted, carrying the sour tang of sweat and nicotine. Your breath hitched—not with nerves, but recognition. Hannibal’s smile sharpened.

"You remember the rules?"

A beat. Then: "No hesitation. No wasted movement. Make it…"

"Beautiful," Hannibal finished, handing you the knife with the reverence of a priest offering communion. The blade caught the moonlight, winking. "Shall we teach him manners?"

[1:43AM, PATAPSCO STATE PARK - BALTIMORE]

The corpse sprawled between you both like a broken marionette, its strings cut by your precise strokes. Hannibal observed the tableau—arterial spray fanning across frost-kissed ferns, the gaping maw of the throat wound, the way your chest heaved with something beyond exertion.

"Lovely work," he praised, stepping over a pooling rivulet of blood to cup your jaw. His thumb smeared crimson across your bottom lip. "Your technique has improved. The third rib is always the sweetest leverage point, isn’t it?"

Your pupils swallowed their irises, your knife hand steady now, certain. Hannibal’s pulse gave a traitorous throb.

With practiced ease, he knelt beside the body, parting flesh and ribs with his own blade and hands until the heart lay exposed, glistening in its cradle of bone. He lifted it, tendrils of connective tissue clinging like cobwebs.

"A token," he said, placing the organ in your palm. Your fingers curled instinctively, staining red. "Not as precious as yours, of course, but… sentimental."

When he kissed you, the taste of copper bloomed between your lips. You bit back—hard enough to draw blood—and Hannibal laughed against your mouth.

"Next Thursday," he breathed, "we’ll hunt someone with better taste in wine."

The heart pulsed its last beats against your palm, warm and slippery with blood. Hannibal watched, enthralled, as your fingers instinctively tightened around the organ - your calloused grip leaving imprints in the soft muscle. His own breath came just slightly quicker now, the only outward sign of his arousal.

"Still warm," he murmured, pressing close enough that his coat sleeves soaked up the blood on your arms. "Can you feel him fading?" His lips ghosted over your temple. "The precise moment when a soul becomes just…meat."

The forest held its breath around them. Even the cicadas had gone silent.

Your free hand found his waistcoat, twisting in the fabric, pulling him in until the brass buttons pressed cold through your bloodstained shirt. Hannibal made a pleased sound in his throat - half chuckle, half growl - and captured your mouth again, less a kiss than a claiming.

When he finally pulled back, a thin strand of crimson connected your lips. His tongue darted out to catch it, eyes never leaving yours.

"We should get you cleaned up," he said mildly, as if commenting on the weather rather than the fact they were both drenched in another man's lifeblood. "I'm preparing osso buco tomorrow. The veal will be perfectly paired with…" His gaze flicked meaningfully to the heart in your hand. "A reduction."

His arm slid around your waist as he guided you back toward the tree line, stepping over Vogelsong's vacant chest cavity with the casual grace of a man strolling through his own dining room. The knife in his other hand still dripped onto the fallen leaves.

"Tell me," he purred, nose buried in your hair, inhaling the scent of sweat and iron, "was it good for you?"

The night swallowed your retreating figures, leaving only crimson footprints and the hollow-eyed corpse to mark your passing. Somewhere in the distance, an owl cried - but by then, you guys were already laughing.

[2:30AM, HANNIBAL'S TOWNHOUSE - BALTIMORE]

The steam from the shower still curled around the bathroom door when Hannibal guided you onto the tufted stool in front of his vanity. The marble countertop gleamed under soft candlelight, scattered with bone-handled brushes and imported French oils. His hands, always steady, always precise, worked the plush towel through your damp hair with the same care he might give to patting dry a 1947 Château Cheval Blanc.

"You missed a spot," he murmured, thumb swiping behind your ear where a single streak of pink-tinged water still clung. His silk robe gaped slightly with the motion, revealing the fresh scratches down his chest - four parallel lines, still raised and angry. Evidence.

The scent of bergamot and blood orange mixed unsettlingly with the faint copper still lingering in the steam. Hannibal inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, as he reached for the comb.

"Your technique tonight was… inspired," he said, dragging the teeth through tangled strands. A sharp tug when he hit a knot. "Though I noticed you hesitated when he begged. Three seconds precisely." Another tug, softer this time. "We'll have to rectify that."

Outside, Baltimore slept. Inside, the refrigerator hummed cheerfully.

Hannibal set down the comb, his palms sliding to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to catch your reflection in the mirror. The candlelight pooled in your pupils, in the healing bite mark on your lower lip. His thumbs pressed into the hinges of your jaw - not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the flutter of their pulse.

"Beautiful," he breathed, watching your throat work as you swallowed. His smile showed teeth. "Shall we see how long we can keep you looking like this?"

The robe's belt came undone with a single practiced tug. The towel joined it on the marble floor. Somewhere downstairs, a clock chimed three times.

They'd missed the news.

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hey,

Could you write an NBC Hannibal One-shot, where fem!reader was a surgeon like him, who worked along side him for a couple of weeks and later meets him after he nearly got crucified in Baltimore. After Hannibal get‘s released from the hospital, they start to get to know each other.Maybe in the end there is some fluff and smut (if you are comfortable)

Hannibal X Reader: Stitches and sweet kisses

Warnings: wounds, brief mentions of death, smut, fluff, penetration (p in v), mentions of oral, pet names, soft sex, rough sex, sub x dom (if you squint), praise kink, breeding kink, female reader, no use of y/n, female anatomy.

Word count: 2,7K

You were used to odd patients. It was a common occurrence in your line of work but you never expected this. He has been rushed in by an FBI officer and immediately taken to a room. He didn’t need any drastic surgery. His wounds were not extreme but he had lost a lot of blood and was having a hard time breathing. You should have handed him over to another doctor but the moment you laid eyes on him you’d recognized.

You only worked with him a week but you’d never forget him. You’d been one of the surgeons in the room when he lost his first patient. A little girl, no older than six. She had a tumor that needed to be removed but there had been complications during surgery. You couldn’t save her. Everyone took the loss hard but it seemed to have hit Hannibal the hardest. A day after the incident you saw him walk into the main office with his resignation. You never saw him again. 

Until today that is.

There were holes in his palms and a large purple bruise around his neck that told you that there had been a rope around it. Your curiosity peaked the more you worked on healing him. He looked awfully vulnerable like this. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity. Once you’d fixed him up as best you could and put on some medication for his pain you made your way to the FBI agent outside his door. You expected they wouldn’t tell you what you wanted to know but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“What happened to him?”

“Someone tried to kill him. Jack Crawford was the one who found him. They say the guy had him positioned like Christ on the cross. I mean what kind of sick fuck does that?”

You turned back to look at Hannibal through the small glass of the door. He was out cold due to his medication but his face held a deep sadness in it.

“What kind of sick bastard indeed.”

The days passed quickly. Whenever you weren't working on healing people or helping around the hospital you found yourself hanging around Hannibal's room. You’d go in to check on his vitals but you’d soon find yourself pulling a chair next to him, your eyes traveling over his face as he slept. He was always unconscious when you were around but you couldn’t help but talk to him. As weird as it sounds it felt easy to be around him. He was the small break in the chaos of your life.

One day when you’d been taking his vitals his eyes fluttered open. You watched him look at you, his eyes traveling around the room before falling back on your face. You gave him a small smile, continuing your work. He watched you take his pressure and jot some things down on his clipboard.

“I bet you don’t remember me.”

“I never forget a face.”

“Some memory you must have.”

“It normally doesn't fail me. Though I do have a hard time with names. I can't seem to recall yours.”

You introduced yourself to him with a smile. 

“Ah yes, how could I forget.”

Hannibal continued to look at you as you moved around the room. A small frown made its way to his face as he began to remember when he’d last seen you. He would never forget that day no matter how hard he tried. His heart rate spiked a bit at the memory causing you to look at him in concerne.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Remembering is all.”

You seemed to understand what he meant immediately, your own face twisting to match the sadness he felt inside. He didn’t remember much about you but he knew you were a good doctor. He’d walked past you on the day after the surgery and had noticed the tears in your eyes. You’d felt the loss of the girl just as much as he had. But unlike him you’d continued your work.

“How do you do it?”

“Sorry?”

“How do you keep working after…”

He couldn’t even bear to say it.

“It wasn’t easy. I took a month off. Started going to therapy before finally feeling ready to come back.”

You tugged up a chair, taking a seat next to him. Hannibal turned to look at you, his eyes focused on your face. 

“I’ve lost a lot of people but I've saved a lot too. I guess that's just how it is, you know? Do what you can and try your best to keep going. Therapy helps a lot. I still go every week, it helps to talk to someone about your shit you know?”

Hannibal let out a small laugh causing you to look up at him with curiosity.

“Did I say something funny?”

“No it’s just that…well…i’m a psychiatrist.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I became one after I stopped being a surgeon.”

“How is it? I bet it must be hard.”

“It is. Some days are easier than others. But it’s like you said, I help people. That feels good.”

You move closer to his bed, your hand moving to grab his. Hannibal watches you tug his hand into yours. You look down at the bandages that cover his palm, slowly beginning to remove them. He observes the way you trace your finger over his stitches gently.

“You’re healing really well. I’ll probably be able to remove these in a couple days. How does your neck feel?”

The purple had faded but you could still see small marks where the rope had sunk into his skin.

“Is it still tender?”

You leaned over his body, your fingers moving across his throat. Hannibal lifted his head, giving you better access. From this angle he could see very little detail of your face. His breath seemed to give out for a moment, his mind entirely focused on your proximity to him. You turned your focus over to his face, your eyes meeting him. There was a deep gentleness in the way you gazed at him, it made him feel exposed. But not in a bad way. 

“You okay?”

“Yes. I apologize. I’m distracted.”

“It’s alright. I have to go but if you need anything just tell them to call me okay?”

“Alright. Thank you.”

A couple of days later Hannibal was finally released. You’d walked into his room expecting it to be empty but instead you found him standing near the window. You walked over to him, stopping beside him. He turned to look at you, observing as you watched the world outside for a moment before turning to face him.

“I must tell you that as much as I love your company we aren’t a hotel.”

Hannibal smiled at you, causing you to mirror his expression.

“I’m glad to leave this room. I couldn’t take the white walls anymore. Though I must admit I'm sad I will not be seeing you everyday.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. You enjoyed your time with Hannibal immensely but you’d always thought that when he was healed your daily chats would come to a bitter end. Never in your wildest imagination would you have thought that he’d want to continue your contact outside of the hospital. 

“Would you join me for dinner? It’s been awhile since i’ve had a proper meal and i would love your company.” 

“I’d be delighted to. What restaurant did you have in mind?”

“Actually I was thinking I could do the cooking. It’s one of my passions you see. I’ve missed it just as I've missed having some real food.”

“You’re full of surprises aren’t you Dr Lecter?”

“You can’t even begin to imagine.”

He had been right about that. After your dinner you and Hannibal continued to keep in touch. With time your relationship grew into a friendship and soon enough you found yourself falling for the doctor. He wasn’t anything like you’d imagined him to be. He had a seemingly unlimited amount of knowledge that he was always eager to share with you. He’d have you over for dinner whenever he could, always enjoying the company and your fascination for his cooking. He’d come to your apartment from time to time, it had become a place where he could have a break from the hard days. You were always more than welcoming to him. And then one day he found himself sitting on your couch one evening, nursing a bottle of wine as the two of you listened to music. 

You were sprawled out on the couch, your legs resting on Hannibals. The only sound that could be heard was  of the music that played from your radio and your voice humming along to the tune. Hannibal took in the sight of you. Your eyes were closed, lips moving to form the lyrics of the song. He couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to share a home with you. His feeling for you should have startled him, after all he’d only known you for a little while. But there was this sort of connection he seemed to share with you. He often wondered why of all the possible doctors that could have attended him that day at the hospital you had been the one to heal him. Perhaps it was a way of some greater force telling him you were the missing piece he’d been searching for. 

Your eyes opened slowly at the feeling of Hannibal's hand on your thigh. You gave him a lazy smile, shifting your body up.

“What is it?”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“You.”

Your eyes widened, heart hammering inside your chest at Hannibal's blatant confession. Perhaps it was the wine you’d been drinking or maybe it was the adoring way Hannibal was gazing at you but in a flash you crawled over to him placing a soft kiss to his lips. It was a slow kiss, tender and full of emotion. Hannibal cupped your cheek keeping your lips attached to his until he felt like he couldn't’ breath. You break the kiss, panting for air. A giggle escapes your lips as you look at Hannibal watching the corners of his eyes wrinkle as he smiles.

“You’re so beautiful. Did you know?”

You flushed at Hannibal's words, head moving to look down at your legs. Hannibal placed his finger under your chin forcing you to look into his eyes. You gaze up at him through your eyelashes, a blush littering your cheeks.

“No need to be shy, pretty girl. It’s just me.”

You didn’t know what had come over him but this Hannibal wasn’t one you were used to seeing. He seemed much less put together than usual. There was almost a homey quality to him. You lifted your body off the couch. Hannibal watched you stand his eyes gazing up at you curiously. You placed your hand out to him. He looked at your open palm for a moment before giving you his hand. You tugged him off the couch pulling him towards the hall.

“Where are you taking me dove?”

You turned to look at him with a sly grin, legs never stopping their movements.

“To my bedroom. Obviously.”

Hannibal was used to seeing you in a specific sort of light. Whenever you two would go out together you were always soft spoken and quiet, often opting to listen to him talk rather than initiating conversation. In the bedroom however you turned into a whole different person. 

Your pussy fluttered around his dick as he moved into you. Your head fell back on the pillow with a moan.

“Fuck you feel so good Hannibal.”

He moved slowly, trying his hardest to be as gentle as possible. He knew your body was starting to become sensitive after all the hours he’d put into teasing you. He’d made you cum on his tongue and fingers twice before allowing you to take him in your mouth. And after fucking your throat in such a rough pace that he'd managed to make tears well up in your eyes he wanted to show you he could be gentle too. Your legs wrapped around his waist, the heels of your feet digging into the skin of his ass.

“Hannibal deeper please i-ah ugh- want to feel you.”

“Shh dove, take it slow. Can’t have you tiring yourself out.”

Hannibal leaned down, his teeth finding the shell of your ear. You whimpered as he nibbled at the skin. Your fingers clawed at his bare back trying your hardest to make him move closer into you. You were insatiable for him. Completely at his mercy and he knew it. It's why he was taking things slow. Whispering sweet nothings to you and telling you how much of a good girl you were being to him. Every time he praised you he felt your pussy grip onto him like a vice. He enjoyed the feeling just as much as he enjoyed seeing you cum. But there were limits. And you were about to discover Hannibals.

In truth you didn't expect your words to affect him so much. It was more something that turned you on then something you thought he’d enjoy but the moment the words left your lips you knew you’d hit a nerve.

In the best way possible.

He was moving at a glacial pace and you just couldn't take it any longer. You grabbed his face pulling him into a rough kiss. You tugged at his bottom lip a smirk appearing on your features as he gazed at you in hunger.

“Want you to fill me up Hannibal. Want you to put a baby in me.”

That had been the tip of the iceberg. In a flash Hannibal had flipped you around his hand shoving your face into the pillow as he lined himself up with your entrance again. Your body jerked forward as he began to thrust into you. He was going so harshly you couldn’t help but grip at the sheets. Hannibal had, all of a sudden, become more vocal than he had been the entire night. 

“Feel so fucking good dear.”

His groans and grunts followed your screams of pleasure and pretty soon you were feeling your orgasm sneak up on you. Hannibal seemed to feel your need to cum his hand moving to grip at the flesh of your hips in an even harsher manner. He tugged you closer to his body, holding you still for a moment. He took in the feeling of your walls pulsating against him, his eyes closing.

“Hannibal please!”

How could he deny such a sweet thing like you? He couldn’t. So he started moving again, his free hand itching towards your clit. He maneuvered you in a way his tip could hit your g-spot perfectly and in a matter of seconds you were cumming around him. He continued to fuck into your body even as you sagged into the bed. You felt him twitch inside you before he came with a grunt of your name. 

After a while Hannibal pulled out of you, throwing his body next to yours. You lifted your head off the pillow to look at him observing his chest rise and fall rapidly as he tried to regain his breath. You shifted your body so that you were lying on your side, your legs angled in Hannibal's direction. He turned to look at you, giving you a smile before tugging you closer to him. He buried his noise in your hair taking in your scent. The two of you fell into easy slumber, both completely spent.

The next morning you woke up to a sweet smell. You rose for your bed tugging on a robe before making your way to the kitchen. You smiled as you caught sight of Hannibal. He was wearing your apron but his ass was completely on display for you. You walked over to him, giving him a sharp smack on the ass. He jumped at the action, turning to look at you. You simply grinned up at him.

“You cheeky thing.”

“You know you love it.”

He did in fact love it.

Actually, he loved everything about you.

“Whatcha making?”

“Pancakes.”

“Yum. How can I help?”

“Grab the eggs from the fridge for me.”

“Okay.”

The two of you moved in perfect union as if things had always been like this. And perhaps they always would be.

[shegatsby]

Hello

Could I request something with Professor Hannibal where reader is a perfectionist (like Nina in Black Swan the idea as inspired by that movie)and she stresses a lot even though she is the best student in class and loves to hear praise from Hannibal. I have a just an overview perhaps you could add something like her essay was really good.

I hope you consider the idea ♥️

A/N: Thank you so much for the request. Sorry for any typos, English isn't my first language. Enjoy.

She was running to the lecture after her pilates class in the morning. She loved being active in this life so she had pilates and yoga lessons in the mornings and then she was running to the college of Baltimore, Maryland. This time she was going to be late because she chatted with one of the trainers as she was getting ready in the locker room. She always brought her clothes with her so after her work out she would take a shower, get dressed more formally. She liked being fashionable and always looking put together, she was a bit perfections which made her life a bit hard at times but she thrived on success.

Her high heeled boots made a strong sound on the corridors of the halls, she was marching to his office.. Professor Hannibal Lecter… today he mailed all of his students saying that he graded the essay they had sent and he would like to have private discussion with them, it wasn’t mandatory because it was close to Christmas time and most of the students wanted to visit families, she wasn’t in good terms with her family so she decided to stay with her roommate. She had rented a place after her first year and thankfully she found a nice roommate who became like a sister to her over the years. It was her 3rd year and she kept getting good grades, until today. The essay she had sent was perfect in her opinion but she got B…

She read the essay over and over again, it was on criminal psychology, more specifically on serial killers.

When she reached to his office’s door she noticed how nervous she was. She took a deep breath and exhaled and then knocked on the door and heard his name, ‘’Come in.’’ his demanding voice was heard. She had never felt like this with any of her professors before…

She walked in, Hannibal knew it was her because none of his students wore high heels,, he could smell her perfume when she waited outside of his door, it drove him crazy. He growled when he smelled her scent, vanilla and something sweet, it made his mouth water. Hannibal Lecter was aware of his animalistic instincts ever since he was a young boy. He knew that he was different from others, he considered himself a higher human, like the German’s Übermensch idea and he knew how to control himself. Like a ballet he had total control of his body but after meeting her…. He had a little bit of difficulty controlling his body and mind at the same time. She entered with a kind smile, which made it hard for him to adjust his pants.

‘’Hello Professor.’’ She greeted him, he stood up to meet her, he didn’t do that to the other students, with two steps he was in front of her, he took the hand she extended and held it in his hands, her hands were cold, the top of her nose was pink, she looked adorable.

‘’Please, come in.’’

She sat on the couch, he closed the door and stood still for a second, he looked at his desk and then the empty spot next to her on the couch and decided to sit next to her. ‘’I knew you would come to talk about your essay.’’ He began, she was taking her coat, she had a long black dress, a golden necklace adorned her neck, her make-up was simple yet elegant.

‘’Can we overlook my essay in detail, because I would like to see the parts where I lost points.’’ He was aware how driven she was, it was a good quality to have but sometimes she burnt herself out.  He brought his laptop to show her the places.

‘’Do not fret Y/N, I know you have been studying very hard and you’ll pass all of your lessons. You’re a smart girl.’’

He loved to give her praises because she blushed red, even though she deserved all of the praises and everything the world had to offer…

‘’Thank you so much prof-‘’ he placed his hand on her knee gently, ‘’Please Y/N, we talked about this before. In private call me Hannibal. I insist.’’ This conversation opened up few months ago and she agreed to it.

‘’Hannibal, thank you so much.. I just want to achieve everything I set my mind to and getting a B made me realize that I should work harder.’’ She confessed, shrugging her shoulders. ‘’You are already doing the hard work Y/N. You’re a strong woman with an amazing mind. I know for a fact that,’’ he patted her knee gently, ‘’you’re going to get whatever you wish and desire.’’

His encouraging words made her heart flutter in hope, hope for a better future and deep down, she would like for him to have  a spot in her future. His maroon eyes were soft whenever he looked at her, he could feel it. There was a connection begging to go deeper, ‘’Thank you so much for your time Hannibal. Next time I’m going to ace the essay.’’ She smiled and got to her feet, she was about to leave when he held her arm, it was firmer than expected. ‘’If you have time,’’ he began his sentence, she turned to him, feeling his hand on her arm made her feel some sort of comfort, ‘’I would love to have you over for dinner. Tonight.’’ This sudden offer made her blush, she was aware of his dinner parties, he was famous for it and he often invited other profs and colleagues. ‘’Yes, I would gladly come.’’ She responded, trying hard to hide her excitement. ‘’Let me close the office and  then we can leave.’’

Hannibal was thrilled, he was going to have her all for himself tonight.

Thank you for reading. :)

[poisonsage808]

Stolen Heart

warnings: kidnapping, swearing, injuries, vomit, panic attack

There’s a balance to having a heart in the Special Victims Unit, the same way a hammer can fix; it can damage just as badly. Working for the NYPD as long as he had, John thought he’d had a handle on his own… until he found himself in a dangerous situation because of it. 

“Munch,“ Cragen called not even half a step into the precinct, “My office. Immediately.”

Looking back, something should’ve tipped him off right then. Paranoid as he may be, he knew being called into the captain’s office wasn’t inherently a bad thing. However because he went way back with Cragen, he knew warning signs. The captain looked almost guilty, his eyes dropped to the floor the minute they met. 

“You piss off dad?” Finn teased.

He turned halfway, shrugging his arms out innocently, “I just walked through the door, I haven’t had time yet.”

The moment he faced the doorway, his smile and shoulders dropped. John knew he wasn’t in trouble but he also couldn’t shake his bones of the heavy weight of impending doom.

He closed the door just as Don was about to tell him to. 

“John, this is Agent Brienne Samson from the A.I.B.”

He forced his stiff limbs to offer a halfassed wave to the agent in the corner of the room. The auburn haired, raven looking woman nodded in greeting, smiling just as fake as he was. 

“Have I done something to put me under investigation by the great Internal Affairs Bureau?” He asked Cragen specifically so he could slip an excusable dose of sarcasm into the question.

“No, John. You should sit down.”

“I’ve known you a long time, Don.” He held up a finger to cut him off, waving his hand around accusingly as he paced the room cautiously. He was a detective, he knew how to get answers. “Did you know you never call me John unless you’re feeling particularly sentimental? Cut the mawkish crap and talk to me like a man, tergiversation gives me indigestion.” 

“Detective,” Agent Samson’s dry voice was filled with urgency, “Now's not the time.”

“No? Then when? ‘Cause now’s looking an awful lot like a character assassination only neither of you will pull the trigger. I know Lee Harvey Oswald didn’t act alone–”

“Munch, I need you to trust me.” Cragen huffed as he collected himself, brows furrowing in sincerity, “Shut the hell up and sit down for this.”

They held each other’s glare for too long, both waiting to see who would crack first. As well as John knew Don, Don knew John. Eventually, with much reluctance, John plopped into a chair before the captain’s desk. Arms crossed, his head lolled to the side dramatically. He looked every bit of an impatient, petulant child while he waited for the irksome mystery to be revealed.

Cragen then nodded to Samson who walked over and slapped a file down on the wood.

“Do you remember putting away a Saul Carter?”

He didn’t keep track of perps he put away anymore, he stored names of the victims he saved nowadays. There were two mug shots about twenty years apart, one was in black and white.  The man in the first photo was smiling almost victoriously, the second he wasn’t and his eyes were notably darker.

John did remember this freak. 

“Back in Baltimore, 1996. I busted him for robbery during a homicide investigation. He broke out of booking and murdered two families in the same neighborhood. He sent me love letters ‘till I retired, then nothin’.” He shrugged, “Thought he died.”

Just as Cragen opened his mouth, Samson interrupted, “Anything else you can remember?”

A beat of suspicion. Cragen sighed in defeat as soon as he saw the gears turning in John’s head. Questioning someone, gathering all the details you could before the panic sets in. He’d done it plenty of times himself.

His attention shot to his captain, “What’s this about, Captain.”

Cragen hesitated and that minuscule detail had the already ringing alarm bell shrieking in his ears. 

His soul left his body when heard your name. John had to hear it though, or he would’ve never believed it. His stomach lurched and white dots began obscuring his vision. Up and out of the chair, he began pacing, eerily quiet and terrifyingly calm. One foot in front of the other, he was only half hearing the information he was being told.

“He hasn’t done anything yet. He called twenty minutes ago—“

John completely stopped listening there, his body jerking to a halt. 

“Twenty minutes? Twenty?” That just couldn’t be right. Twenty minutes ago he had dropped you off at work like he always did, got out of the car to open your door and walked you up to the building. He had told you he loved you, said goodbye, then you pulled him back for a quick peck on the lips. “That’s— No. No! Twenty minutes ago I was there, Don! He’s lying. If they were in danger, I’d know.”

“Detective, we've already confirmed that he’s not lying.” Samson was irritatingly placating, hands out in surrender as if he was a ticking time bomb, as if he was the one with a gun. “We already have video footage and statements from multiple witnesses.”

“Let me see.”

“I don’t advise that. You’re not privy to any information right now. You’re being told as a courtesy, but I’m here to remind you; you’re a liability. You and your fellow detectives cause a mountain of paperwork for my department every time a situation becomes even slightly personal.”

“I’m not asking you.” John breathed out, taking his glare to his captain. His eyes softened, doing the begging his mouth couldn’t. 

Cragen has a good head on his shoulders, but an even better heart. He knows in a situation like this how impossible it is to turn off that detective switch. Despite that, and knowing what he should and shouldn’t be revealing, he gestures behind his desk anyways. 

“Captain Cragen!“ Samson calls out sternly.

“I’m having him confirm the identity of the suspect.” 

John is beside him in two great sweeps of his long legs, watching the blurry video with a hand over his mouth.

The timestamp is engraved in his brain, 6:30, exactly when he brought you to work. John memorizes the way you smile when he says he loves you and how giddy you are snatching his tie, pulling him back for a kiss. You’re at his height for a change, standing on the steps of the building entrance.

“You leave, he goes in.” 

Suddenly, out of the camera’s view, a hooded figure rushes up those same steps the second he drives away. He can see blasts from a gun going off reflecting in the window, then Carter walking out very closely behind you. There’s almost a relief that he can’t see your face, that he can’t see how scared you must be.

“He shot two people, they’re both in the hospital. We followed the street cams all the way to the subway, then we lost him.”

“We? Who’s—“ John cuts himself off, his eyes jumping to the open blinds on the door. “You can’t.”

Samson quirked a brow at his response, judging him like she had any right to. “That is not up to you, detective.” 

“I know what you’re feeling right now—“

“With all due respect, captain, I highly fucking doubt that.”

“—but Benson and Stabler are your best options, Munch! Would you rather some strangers handle this!?”

“Yes!” Munch slams his hands down on the desk, wishing it would sting but he can’t feel it, “If something… If I lose… I wouldn’t move on, Cap. I wouldn’t let this go and I might hate them for it. Please, you can’t do this.”

Cragen’s hand is a heavy weight on his shoulder that does little to ground him. Before he can bestow any wisdom, Samson is interrupting with logic.

“Like it or not, Detective Munch, thanks to you this,” she points to the computer, “is now a case for the SVU and will be treated as if it was any other.”

His fingers curled into tight fists that trembled against the wood as her venomous words seeped into his skin and made him feel filthy with guilt.

“Thanks to–” He scoffs, shaking his head and sneering, “Thanks to me? Are you blaming me for this!? You think I wanted someone to–”

“Agent Samson, that’s enough! Let me have a word with my detective in private.”

Cragen leaves no room to protest, he bullies her out of the room and shuts the door swiftly behind her. Whipping around, he shoves a finger in John’s direction with an expression he can’t read in his current state, but it almost looks as if he’s holding up a mirror. 

“Now you listen to me and you listen good; nothing is gonna happen. But you need to sit tight while they do their jobs. The I.A.B. preemptively,” the word is filled with venom, “sent her to confiscate your badge and gun for the time being and I’ve been ordered to confine you. So, you are to stay in this building until I leave— and I am not leaving until we get them back. Are we understood?”

John swallowed thickly, he didn't trust his voice. 

He nods. 

~

The worst part was always the unknown. He hated mysteries. He hated secrets. He hated cliffhangers. He hated open endings. He /hated the unknown. Sitting there, stewing in the dark made him sick to his stomach with the need for violence. He wanted to hit something, do something, feel something. But all he could do was wait. 

“Munch!”

He thought he knew, it’s the living victims that rip your guts out, that’s what he said. Those were only guts, though, as painful as it was, it didn’t compare to someone reaching into his chest and clawing out the very thing he needed to exist. Without his heart, he felt like a very different man.

“Man, stop!” Finn pleaded, and Finn was never one to sound so desperate. 

He tried focusing on what he knew; he knew this whole fucking situation like the back of his hand, only now he was knee deep on the other side of it, and sinking fast. He was temporarily suspended— that much was clear— and worse, he was treated like any loved one in a missing persons case. 

Fin grabbed his shoulder and forced him to a crashing stop, “Just hold up!” 

His fists trembled at his sides, his breathing erratic.

“Contrary to everyone’s belief, I’m not trying to get myself fired or killed. I’m just goin’ to the bathroom. I don’t need a babysitter for that, do I?”

“Cut the crap, Munch. Say what you wanna say, I can take it.” 

Logically, he knew none of his friends deserved his wrath. 

Rage didn’t follow logic, though. John could count on one hand all the times he felt like this and he was disgusted by it every time. Fin’s intentions, no matter how kind hearted they were, couldn’t get through to him. He’d say something he would later regret.

He pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head.

“Just leave me alone.” 

“I can’t do that, man. You’re my partner. I don’t care what I.A.B. says about you not bein’ able to keep your cool,” Fin slapped a hand on John’s chest and he heard crinkling between the man’s palm and his shirt, “I always got your back.” 

He tapped Fin’s hand gratefully, using his thumb to slip the paper out and into his pocket. 

“I’m around… if you feel like talkin’.” 

“Noted… Thanks, Fin.”

Hiding in the bathroom stall like he was back in highschool, he damn near ripped the paper trying to peel it open. Benson and Stabler tracked you and Carter to Baltimore. That was a three hour bus ride. If he had anything in his stomach it would’ve gone straight into the porcelain bowl, he was nauseas all over again. 

Now he had to deal with the knowledge he swore he wanted. Bitterly dropping the paper into the toilet and flushing it away, he almost wished he didn’t read it. He didn’t deserve to cry but the tears fell anyway. His back hit the stall door and he sank to his knees, hiding his face in his hands like when he was a boy. The guilt was eating him alive from the inside out and the only thing that stopped him from letting it happen was the unknown. 

You were alive, but were you ok?

~

“He’s going to goad you for a reaction,” Huang explained tentatively, though he was more than aware John knew that already, “Saul Carter has exhibited signs of obsession, but he’s manic and impulsive. Tell him everything he wants to hear but don’t allow him to know he’s gotten to you.” 

“Any advice on how to do that.” John asked dryly.

The piss poor excuse of a rejected abomination that took you reached out again, wanted a friendly chat with him. When Samson initially denied the idea, Fin and Cragen shared a look that said they wanted to toss her out the window. Beautiful, silver bullet tongue Casey and her overpriced Harvard Law degree managed to convince the agent otherwise. She promised Huang would coach John on what to say, (what not to say) what to do, (what not to do) and sit in on the call.

Huang gave him a reassuring, albeit hesitant, smile, “You do it all the time. Say what you need to and nothing more. If he gives you an opening to reveal his location; take it.” 

The phone rings. 

“That’s him.” Cragen states, nodding to him, “Take it.”

Moving too fast to hide how jittery his hands are, he picks up the phone and hits the speaker button.

“You wanted me, you got me.” He greets in monotone. 

“Detective Munch.” The way he said it had his hackles raised. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this. I gotta say, I’m a little disappointed. I was sure you’d be lookin’ for me when I busted out but I guess I’m not as special as sweetheart here. You knew when they went missing but not me, huh?”

Huang must’ve seen his eye twitch because he mouths ‘no reaction’. There’s movement on the other end. Managing to relax his white knuckle grip on the phone, he pushes his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t keep up with Baltimore’s local news or I would’ve been hot on your trail.” 

Though John tried to play into the criminal’s desire for attention, Carter seemed… upset to hear this. He groaned and hit the phone against something a couple times. Huang’s eyes were narrowed at the phone, like he was trying to solve a puzzle without the picture. 

“Not gonna ask how they are? Don’t you care?”

John sneered, baring his teeth to the man who couldn’t see it. Every spare second he has, morning, noon and night, you’re all he thinks about. At the end of every day, when he’s holding you in his arms, he prays for every night to end like that. Does he care? How could he not. Eyes wide and all knowing, Huang shook his head.

“Of course I do.” He said through grit teeth.

Wincing at the sound of crazed laughter, he knew what was going on now. Carter didn’t want his attention, he just wanted to inflict pain. 

“You wanna say hi? Got ‘em a lil’ tied up at the moment but,”

There was a audible rip, a muffled whimper, then, 

 “John?” 

All at once everyone in the room takes a breath upon hearing your voice and steals the air, leaving none for him. You sound disoriented, his name a plea from your lips and it’s torture for him not to come when summoned. Still, he can feel the cavity in his chest aching with hope just from hearing your voice again.

“I’m here.” He keeps his tone flat but tries, for you, to sound softer, “I’m right here. Are you ok?”

“I’m—” 

The sound of a slap had his head spinning. He saw Fin wince and glare at the wall, and Huang tried to keep pity from his eyes as he warily looked at John.  

“You don’t get answers, detective. Since you’re too good to come and finish what you started and get them yourself, remember?” 

John’s eyes flit to Huang who rolls his wrist in agreement.

“Give me an address and I’ll be there, Carter. We can end this, you and I.”

“Ah, what the hell, you can come get me for old time’s sake. You got a pen? I’ll tell you where to go but,” his empty laugh is nails on a chalkboard, “I think we’ll have a repeat of last time.”

Huang is scribbling down the address while Fin rushes out of the room, dialing on his phone. The thunderous bang sends his chair flying backwards as he jumps to his feet. It’s horribly abrupt, everyone’s eyes go wide with horror and they’re betrayed by their duties to continue on as you screech in pain. He’s the only one whose world crashes to a stop and threatens to implode.

“Get that address to Stabler and Benson now. Where the hell did Tutuola go—“

There’s ringing in his ears like he was right next to the barrel, but it’s just the dead phone line. His trembling hand drops the receiver as if it’s a smoking gun and he hadn’t meant to pull the trigger. 

”John!” Cragen bellows, chasing after him. 

He didn’t know he was moving but he couldn’t stop. Not now. The end was near and he couldn’t outrun it if he stopped. 

“John!” 

That was Fin this time, it was hard to hear him over the heavy hand he had on the horn. Pulling his car up on the sidewalk, his partner reached over and shoved the passenger door open. 

He didn’t need instructions for what that meant. 

~

Two hours and twenty four minutes of agony rounded up to a fateful three. The drive was tense and mostly silent. He didn’t have a phone to answer, stupidly leaving it behind with his confiscated badge and gun, but Fin’s was blowing up every twenty minutes. He got an earful from Cragen, warnings from Novak and Huang, more scoldings from Cragen before he stopped answering them. Fin did him a hell of a favor by biting his tongue when John asked if he could go any faster, like it would make Baltimore any closer than it was eight miles ago.

He had to know. 

His mind was infected with a disease ridden double edged sword and the cure was knowledge. 

It was a cruel gamble and his chips were down, but his hand was forced to play. Obviously if you were alive nothing else mattered, no question would ever leave his tongue dry this way ever again– he thirsted to know you were alive. He could fix everything he fucked up if he only could see you were alive, everything would be ok if you were alive. 

Isn’t this exactly why he wanted to remain in limbo? The moment he begins to be hopeful, planning to take time off to take care of you, deal out his apologies, already mentally filling out paperwork for the inevitable desk duty he’d receive– the sword dug into his brain and threatened to kill him with the image of your dead body. What would any of it matter if you weren’t there? Colors would die, tastes would be ash, smells and songs would be burnt rubber from car crashes. The mortal globe he stood on would crumble to nothingness and leave him a shell of a man… but he would be a coward if he didn’t see it through to the bitter end.

Either way, he had to know. 

~

He shouldered through the barricades of double doors, ran too fast in the stretching hallways and rushed right into a woman he almost didn’t recognise amongst the river of blurry faces. Unsure of what he knew and what his intentions were, Olivia held her hands out to catch him, possibly pacify him.

“Munch, just–”

“I can’t wait anymore, Olivia.” He shook his head.

His sincerity didn’t shock her, he’d been honest with her before, the fear lingering in his voice did. She closed her lips, brows pulling together but he couldn’t read her expression. Turning him around, she ushered him to room 217. Leaning besides the door with his arms crossed was Eliot, who straightened upon seeing Munch. Olivia opened the door for him, reassuring him where they’d be if he needed them then promptly closed him in the dark room.

How many times had he been in a hospital before this? For interrogations, for friends, for himself. Nothing could prepare him for a moment like this. His hand trembled as it closed around the curtain but he didn’t hesitate to pull it back.

His legs buckled and threatened to betray him.

You were alive.

The sight shouldn’t have been comforting but it was. Your left shoulder was bandaged for a gunshot wound, arm hung in a blue sling. There was a stitched up gash at your hairline and your lip was busted. He counted seven bruises that he could see and didn’t doubt there was more under that thin hospital blanket. But you were alive. You’d just gone through hell and you sounded indisputably relieved to see the man that put you there, so much so you smiled weakly at him.

“John!”

Tears welled up in his eyes. He never thought he’d hear your voice again, that he’d have to cling to the memory of your agonizing scream. Relief flooded through him and brought him to his knees beside your bed. Gingerly, he took your hand in his own that couldn’t stop shaking. John kissed your knuckles, blotched with red and purple.

“God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve never let this happen, I’m so sorry.”

He repeated the words until they came out a broken sob.

You stole your hand out of his grip and rested it on his cheek so tenderly his heart ached. Patiently you let him weep at your side but smothered his tears with your thumb and a stern look, like you couldn’t stand them. Pulling your hand back, he followed as you guided his face to yours and blessed him with a soft kiss.

“John,” you hissed sweetly against his lips, “this wasn’t your fault.”

He shook his head, stumbling over the script he had written in his mind all day, “I–”

“Don’t punish yourself for this, I hear you’re in enough trouble. This isn’t on you, ok?”

Against his will he swallowed his guilt down deep for another day. He’d do anything you asked. You smiled again when you saw him sober from his shame, just as satisfied as he was for the moment. John’s hand crept to the nape of your neck as he climbed up and leaned over the bed to hug you. Immediately melting into his warmth, you held onto him as best you could with one arm. 

Sniffling despite feeling safer than ever, you whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too. I’m so relieved you’re ok, sweetheart.. I was goin’ crazy.” The sigh that left him was brutal, taking out all the weight and anxiety he’d been holding in all day. Placing a kiss to your head, he could smell the sterilized antibacterial wipes mixed in with your shampoo. He was grateful for both, it was better than the alternative. “I love you so much.”

[mizutsugi]

I have a hc that Will bites/chews his lips and that Hannibal reopens the wounds when they kiss so he can taste his blood…. im going feral i need a fic of this plspls…

bittersweet ♱ (hannigraham)

↳request!

↳word count: 1,297

↳cw: blood (lotsss of blood), biting

↳:a/n: OHHH MY GOD you. are actually. so. fucking. brilliant. i love your mind and i love love love this request tysm, i literally saw it in my inbox and started kicking my feet and giggling tehehehehe… i hope i did your idea justice! <3

Will had a lot of nasty habits, and his job with the FBI only made them worse. When he was thinking and working on building his design, he’d pick at the beds of his nails, chew on the inside of his cheeks and worst of them all, bite his lips. Analyzing the same crime scene photos over and over again, the clock tick, tick, tick-ing in the later hours of the night while his eyes scanned the glossy photos… his teeth would pull on his lips, slightly biting into the flesh as he worked. Sometimes, when he was so lost in his recreation of the crimes, or so frustrated with a case, he’d forget his own limits and bite until a wound opened, blood pooling at the impact.

It was no different during the Simmons case. Jack had him and the team at a crime scene in a remote part of a hiking trail in Maryland, mulling over the mutilated corpse of a man. Everyone had stepped out of the scene to let Will, quote, “do his thing”. He closed his eyes and tried to envision himself as the killer, immediately seeing himself on the hiking trail, slowly following a man- white, in his late 20s, hiking alone- like a predator stalking its prey. He saw himself dressed in all black jogging clothes, keeping a steady pace behind, waiting for the perfect opportunity. A window opened in a particularly heavily wooded section of the trail, where he knew no one would see a thing. He began to run behind the man, who had headphones in, before pulling a blade out of his pocket and sleuthing behind the man before skillfully slicing his throat in one quick, deadly move. Blood began to spray out of the open artery, the man falling to the ground before he could even turn to see his killer. He died clutching his neck, attempting to stop what was inevitable. But why were his eyes missing…

Will snapped out his trance, feeling something hot dripping down his chin. He had opened another wound on his lip. He wiped the blood on the sleeve of his jacket and sighed before walking out of the crime scene to regroup with the others. 

-

It was around 8:30 pm when Will arrived at Hannibal’s home, rapping on the door of the grand Baltimore home he found himself too frequently on the doorstep of. Hannibal answered the door after a few moments, smiling fondly as Will walked through his foyer. Will pulled at the heels of his shoes and left them by the entryway, hanging up his winter jacket, leaving him in a dark grey flannel and cargo pants. 

“How is dear Jack?” Hannibal asked, leading Will into his kitchen.

“He’s Jack. I don’t know.” Will stated boredly. He wanted to leave work behind him, as if that was something that was at all possible for him. Hannibal pulled out a nice red wine with an antique label out of his wine rack, uncorking the bottle before pouring the liquid into two stemmed wine glasses he had already had set out on his kitchen island. 

“How are you, then, Will?” Hannibal asked, eyes flicking up to meet Will’s as he topped off the second glass. Though Will avoided eye contact whenever possible, he never seemed to have an issue looking into Hannibal’s. It’s something Hannibal never took for granted, maintaining the belief that eye contact was the polite thing to do when having a conversation with someone- even if one struggled with it. 

“You know better than to ask that.” Will chuckled, accepting the wine glass as Hannibal held it out to him. The room was filled with soft classical music from a distant record player and the rich scent of a hearty roast- one that was slowly cooking in the oven. The boy was impossible sometimes. 

“Yes, I suppose I do.” Hannibal smiled, accompanying Will as he leaned against the marble countertops of the island, watching the dark liquid in his glass spin and spin as he twirled the glass by its stem in his fingers. Hannibal was in a black vest and dark dress shirt, sleeves rolled up midway to his arms to undoubtedly keep them clean as he cooked. 

“It smells good. What’s on the menu tonight?” Will asked.

“A garlic and herb roast tenderloin with a rosemary butter sauce.” Hannibal stated.

“Mm.” Will hummed, closing his eyes to take in the scent, already imaging the tender meat and herbs on his tongue. Hannibal took the opportunity to extend a hand to Will’s face, his calloused palm landing on the scruff on Will’s cheek. He didn’t hold him like a fragile teacup, but rather with a firm hand like something on the cutting board before he would draw the blade down to slice into it. Will opened his eyes, now revealing his exhaustion as they were barely able to stay open. Hannibal leaned in, pausing for a moment to take in Will’s scent- still that terribly cheap aftershave- before connecting his lip to Will’s in a manner that was all too familiar. 

Something was abnormal about their intimacy. When Hannibal kissed Will, it felt wrong to even call it a kiss. Will often felt like it was beyond that, just like how Will wouldn’t call what they had love… it was something beyond that, too. It was complete and mutual understanding. Maybe that’s what Will would call this- an understanding. He felt Hannibal softly pull at his lips with his teeth, feeling his hunger breaking beyond the kiss. He felt a slight sting in the action, and remembered just hours ago when he felt a similar pang when he was nervously chewing on himself. He then felt embarrassment, and wanted to pull away, realizing Hannibal had reopened the scar and was now bleeding into his mouth. 

Hannibal immediately tasted the hot iron on his tongue, and if his eyes were open his pupils would have been blown. He had tasted blood before, obviously, but something was different taking it straight from the wound and into his mouth. It felt primal, and it felt raw. It might have even felt impolite, like a monstrous vampire. But Hannibal knew with Will, it wasn’t monstrous. It was sharing, arguably the most respectable thing to do. Folie à deux. Will tried to break away, hands slowly lifting up to Hannibal’s chest to brace himself. Hannibal, however, couldn’t break away, and he kept sucking on the wound, pulling the crimson straight from the scar in a way that felt oddly… pleasant. Will’s hands fell back down to his sides, and Hannibal’s grip on him began to falter. He reluctantly pulled himself away from the other, still lightly holding his face, now with both his hands.

“Do you feel lightheaded?” He asked lowly, briefly remembering that they were both mortals and that he wanted to protect Will- even if he needed to satiate a hunger that was beyond his control. His eyes didn’t leave the open wound on the inside of Will’s bottom lip, watching as it slowly pooled with more blood. 

Will, feeling himself oddly missing the sickeningly sweet sensation already, shook his head no, lip slightly parted as he tried to regain his breath. Hannibal gave him a moment, and then returned to the boy’s lips, sucking again at the broken skin. Will slightly moaned into the sensation, feeling his hands reach again for Hannibal’s chest, but this time to grip the fabric of his shirt before his knees buckled. Hannibal kept sucking, savoring the new flavor of freshly drained blood. Just like with all the worst sides of Will, Hannibal never wanted him to stop his bad habits that he tried to keep tucked away. They were addictive.

↳a/n: this is my first time doing a request and i already know it's the best one. you ATE with this idea! anyways sorry it was sort of short-tbh, i saw it going a nsfw route but i just couldn't think of anything... like to me, will and hannibal don't have sex... mizumono/wrath of the lamb was their ultimate version of intimacy to me, if that makes sense. anyways thank you so so much for the request, i love love LOVED it!

[slut-arc]

A small drabble, based on my last reblog, by @evilrobotclown. “the reason will never arrested hannibal is because it would immediately get freaky. That is all”

Will finally captures Hannibal sometime in season 3, and quickly realizes that maybe it’s exactly what he’s wanted this whole time.

Idk where this came from, but maybe I’ll write a full story for it on my ao3 eventually.

Rated M, but not explicit?

~

“It appears you finally have me where you want me, Will.” Hannibal has the gall to sound vaguely amused, humor sparkling in his gaze, like the heady champagne they’d once sipped during their unofficial therapy sessions.

“Now what? You’re just going to stand there and take it?” Will asks, his voice biting and sharp. “After everything you’ve done to me - everything I’ve done to you - you’re just going to let me take your freedom from you, just like that?”

Hannibal leans against the wall, looking disgustingly relaxed - calm at the shoulders, lax at the jaw, suit buttoned all the way up to the uncharacteristically tender hollow of his neck - the fucking bastard.

“I believe it wise to allow an outlet for your rage. These things tend to boil contemtously when left untended.” The older man muses, tipping his head just slightly to the side with a disarming half-smile. “You have had me captured for far longer than just today, dearest Will.”

Something about those words have him grinding his teeth together, and he’s taking steps forward before he can even think about it.

How dare he make it so easy for Will? He’s dreamt of this moment for years, and now that it’s being handed to him on a silver platter, the very sight of the placid offering turns his stomach.

With a surprised huff of breath from the older man, Will bodily presses Hannibal’s front to the wall, the perfect white of his buttoned shirt dirtied by the stone wall that stays, unyielding, against the doctor’s front.

“Stay still.” Will spits out, pulling the handcuffs from his pocket that he’d borrowed accidentally from Jack. Crawford doesn’t need to know about this; he’d take this opportunity from Will - halt the crescendo of the symphony that has played non-stop for years inside the hollowed-out place in his brain that bares Hannibal’s initials.

“Where else would I go?” Hannibal’s voice is steady, and it takes him back to Baltimore, to those quiet nights spent in the older man’s library - solitary, yet together - unspoken words ringing in his ears like the bells of a church he’d tethered himself to like a sacrificial lamb.

He’s no lamb now.

“Shut up.” Will’s angry now - his jaw is as taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment. His forearm presses Hannibal’s cheek to the wall, held firmly against the back of his neck. With his other hand, he secures one of the cuffs to the man’s wrist.

For a fleeting moment, he thinks about attaching the other half to his own wrist and tethering them here, together forevermore, until they turn back to ash and dust.

The other clicks into place soon after, and the sight of it has Will baring his teeth in something reminiscent of a snarl. Breath leaves his nose in a harsh exhale, and his fingers glide up into the hair on the back of Hannibal’s head.

He’s struck with the sudden urge to bash his head into the wall - to splatter the stone with the brunette’s brain matter, so this ordinary wall can live with the legacy of the best worst man he’s ever known.

Gritting his teeth so hard his temple aches, he hears a phantom voice - just barely - one he hasn’t heard in so very long.

See? See?

“What will you do with me now, Will?” Hannibal’s voice is slightly hoarse with pain, and only then does Will realize that he’s been gripping the older man’s hair with an unyielding force.

“I’m going to-“ He gasps for air, as if he’d just run a hundred miles. “I’m going to turn you in.” His voice is a rumble next to Hannibal’s ear - a desperate rasp. He feels the other man shiver minutely as his warm breath washes over his flesh.

Once more, he isn’t quite sure who’s in control here; he’s never sure.

“You’re going to rot in jail, how you deserve to, after everything you’ve done to me.” He grunts, his front holding Hannibal to the wall.

With an excitement that blossoms in his chest, and a shame that threatens to tamp it out, he realizes that he isn’t physically unaffected by this situation - far from it, actually. Perhaps that’s why Hannibal’s voice sounds uneven - why he keeps shifting minutely against Will, wiggling closer rather than further away.

Interesting.

“You could do that, yes.” For once, the doctor sounds unsure of himself, and it makes Will’s lips curl into a sadistic grin. “Or-“

“-or what?” Will’s panting against his neck now, open-mouthed, like a beast ready to snap the neck of its prey. His hips nudge forward minutely, and he catalogues the way Hannibal’s whole body seems to jolt against him.

“Or, we could simply-“ A sharp inhale from Hannibal, and the wet click of a swallow. “-find another way to resolve this situation.”

“And how do you recommend we do that, doctor?” His teeth scrape against the soft spot just under Hannibal’s ear, finding it to be as temptingly vulnerable as he’d secretly dreamt for it to be.

“You’re quite good at using your imagination, Will. I’m sure you can figure something out.”

Grinning now, the younger man grips a handful of Hannibal’s hair and twists his neck back just enough so their heavy breath can mingle in the space between their mouths.

“Clever boy.” Will mocks, before finally closing the space between them.

Maybe this is what he needed all along.

[loveysloveclub]

evermore - jack hughes

in which, raven baltimore and jack hughes were meant to be high school sweethearts. but after jack was drafted, the two didn’t work out.

raven had finally did it. she had gotten the job she had wanted to get since she was thirteen. the only downside was that she had to move away from her family and all the memories she had created back home and move to the big city.

new york had always where she pictured herself living when she was older, and she had finally made it.

releasing a long sigh, raven dropped the final box she had to unpack onto the bed of the her new apartment. picking at the tape until she finally got it, she unwrapped the box. but, when she finally did, she wished she hadn’t.

sitting on top of a pile of old photographs was a photo of her and the only boy she had ever lived staring right back at her. the two were smiling into the camera, as they sat in the front seat of his car.

“jack, stop!” raven laughed as she pushed his head away from her neck. the two were sitting in an empty parking lot after their weekly ice cream date. she was trying to take a photo to remember the night, but jack had other plans.

the boy groaned before looking into the phone screen with a dead panned face. “smile, weirdo.” raven rolled her eyes.

“i saw that.” jack scolded, which brought a smile to his girlfriends face. “then smile.”

the boy sighed loudly before presenting a big smile. raven smiled in content before grabbing his face with her hand and bringing it closer with her face. after taking a few photos, jack grabbed the phone out of his girlfriends hand and threw it in the back seat.

“jack hughes.” she scolded, reaching over to the back seat to grab her phone again. raven released a squeal when jack grabbed her waist and threw her into the back seat, climbing in after her.

raven couldn’t help but smile sadly at the photo as she grabbed a small pile of photos and sat on the edge of her bed. going through them, the next one she stumbled upon was the day of his draft. she was sat next to him, in a long black dress that he said he lived in her. ellen had taken the photo, and quinn and luke had sat on either side of them making fun of how forced jacks smile looked.

he had always hated taking photos.

“jack, smile!” ellen scolded his middle child. raven nudged the boy in the stomach with her elbow, a smile still on her face. jack huffed before smoking forcefully.

quinn and luke snickered from either sides of the happy couple, poking fun at jack in the way that all brothers do.

”okay mom, that’s enough.” jack told his mum, grabbing his phone out of her hands and sliding it into his pocket. “no, no. quinn and luke, get in there.” ellen demanded the boys before taking out her own phone.

jack rolled his eyes as his two brothers squished into the photo. luke slyly wrapped his arm around his brothers girlfriend, producing a laugh from the girl. jack glared at his brother, hitting his arm away from raven.

a couple more photos were taken before ellen smiled in content and walked away whilst looking at the photographs. luke switched places with jack so neither of the boys were third wheeling on either side of the couple.

raven watched intently as jacks leg bounced up and down nervously. the girl reached over and grabbed his hand, placing a small kiss on the back of it before she held it in her own lap.

“are you okay?” she whispered to the boy, who squeezed her hand in affirmation. “you’re gonna do it jack, trust me on this one.”

jack smiled at raven as if she hung the moon and the stars before leaning across his seat and placing a kiss on her lips. raven smiled into the kiss and she placed her hand on the back of his neck.

gags erupted from beside her, causing the two to look over at the other hughes siblings. quinn gagged loudly whilst luke coughed.

jack rolled his eyes at his brothers bestie slumping in his seat.

raven had decided after two hours of reminiscing on her failed relationship that she had had enough, and opted to grabbing a cup of coffee.

what she hadn’t expected was both jack and luke hughes to be walking down the street, with cups of coffees of their own.

“shit.” raven cursed as she frantically looked around the almost empty street to find somewhere she could hide. inching backwards, she kept her eyes on the two boys to make sure they weren’t looking at her. that was, until, her foot gave out and she stumbled backwards into a bush.

“raven?” she could’ve died right then and there, causing when she looked up, she saw the two youngest hughes brothers looking down at her.

“heyyyy, guys. fancy seeing you here?” she squeaked out. luke laughed at the girl before jack bent down to pull her back up to her feet.

the three stood an awkward silence, before jack cleared his throat and glared at his brother. luke, getting the hint, rolled his eyes and gave raven a quick hug before walking back down the street.

raven watched the boy leave, a small smile on her face before redirecting her attention to her ex boyfriend, who was looking at her the way he always had. her heart flipped and her face heated.

“hi.” she spoke softly, smiling. “hey.”

her eyes fleeted down to her feet.

“did you wanna grab some coffee?” jack asked the girl. her eyebrows raised before scrunching in confusion. “what about the coffee you already have?”

jack looked down his coffee cup, scolding himself for getting one already. if he had known he would be running into the girl he hadn’t stopped thinking about since they called it off from long distance, he would have never gotten his daily latte form the coffee shop down the road.

looking around, he quickly threw the coffee cup in the closest bin before turning back to face raven. “what coffee?”

raven laughed loudly. “c’mon, you dork.”

[film-in-my-soul]

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Head in the Clouds | 3,682 | likearecord

Summary: Neil learns about the mile-high club. He can think of a use for that.

Night Practice | 3,769 | mostly_maudlin / @mostlymaudlin

Summary: There are cameras at the Court. This year, Andrew has been thinking about them.

Love Me Like That | 3,788 | moonix / @annawrites

Summary: In which Neil mouths off to some reporters and gets some sweet domestic love-making out of it.

in the heat | 3,874 | rwnjun / @rwnjun

Summary: Neil has a thing with his legs. Andrew figures it out.

The Only Thing That Makes Us Sweat | 4,070 | sambutwithbooks

Summary: They don't do it this way all the time.

But You Painted Me Golden | 4,361 | sambutwithbooks

Summary: The circumstances always have to be just right; an empty house, a stretch of time, and Andrew clearly in the mood to be taken care of.

unbeing dead isn't being alive | 4,380 | scribbleb_red

Summary: Andrew Minyard can’t die - he’s been killed a number of times. Once by Drake, once in the car with Tilda, he should have bled out after being stabbed by one of the men who bashed Nicky... he always wakes up though. Which is why he takes a bullet for Neil Josten, a perfect stranger (and Andrew really means ‘perfect’). Problem: instead of fleeing the scene after being saved, Neil sees a bullet push itself back out of Andrew’s skull. “You’re like me,” Neil says. And Andrew’s whole world shifts on its axis.

Together | 4,421 | AgentCoop / @iamagentcoop

Summary: Love was supposed to be tangible–a thing of expression, a moment of touch or tenderness, a softly spoken I love you. Andrew didn’t love anything–that was a word that didn’t exist in his vocabulary. Sometimes, though, he didn’t hate Neil. Dangerous.

so, if you're lonely (i’m just a shot away from you) | 4,569 | Talls / @tallsinspace

Summary: Neil’s been living on his own for a year or so now. He doesn’t remember the last time he slowed down, the last time he breathed evenly, the last time his heart beat steadily. His mother taught him how to skip town well enough that he’d be unbothered if it wasn't for a particularly tenacious bounty hunter: Andrew Minyard. He’s starting to wonder how bad it would really be if Andrew caught him.

Pigment | 5,099 | AgentCoop / @iamagentcoop

Summary: Andrew steps forward, and now Neil’s heart is beating hard against the cage of his chest because this is Andrew. This is what Andrew does. “You have paint on your face.” Andrew presses a thumb to Neil’s cheekbone. He’s still for a second, eyes fixed firmly on Neil’s eyes, then his thumb slowly brushes from cheek to ear. Neil swallows hard. He’s still holding the paintbrush and for a second, everything narrows down to the sound of Andrew’s breathing. Neil blinks. Then he reaches up and draws a line of brown across Andrew’s nose.

This Modern Love | 10,997 | Mystrana / @mystrana

Summary: Andrew's been bartending for a few years now. He's pretty good at reading people. So when Matt brings his roommate Neil out, Andrew's pretty sure he knows the score. Neil's scorching hot, but there's something dark in his eyes that Andrew recognizes. So Andrew keeps an eye on Neil. Chaos follows.

Pick up the phone | 12,485 | Acetober (allfortheBoyds)

Summary: “A truth for a truth,” The boy suggests. His voice is soft today, gentle and secretive. “No questions about my family,” Andrew demands. “You don’t ask about mine and I don’t ask about yours,” The boy agrees. “Deal,”

your guard's always up, learn to let it down | 13,046 | jingerhead / @jingerhead

Summary: The job had seemed simple enough: available at all times to escort Andrew Minyard wherever he needed to go, keep the paparazzi away, and to not let anyone touch him. Neil was good at his job, but anyone would start to crumble under the pressure of sleeping with their boss, especially when said boss is one of the most popular exy players in the league. Not to mention Neil’s past, which keeps threatening to consume him.

this room, our universe | 13,081 | moonix / @annawrites

Summary: Andrew is tired of being a thirty-three-year-old virgin. Neil offers to help out.

better safe than damned | 18,005 | nanatsuyu / @nanatsuyu

Summary: neil just wants a night of no-strings-attached, tentacle-aided stress relief. things get complicated when his roommate--who he's maybe a little bit in love with--gets home early and offers to stay and make sure the summons goes as intended. (it does not go as intended.)

Touching is Optional | 24,990 | Mystrana / @mystrana

Summary: Five times Andrew came untouched and one time he got a hand

If You Love Me, Come Clean | 34,936 | sundowne

Summary: Neil is an exchange student that intends on keeping to himself. The Foxes are quick to ruin his plans.

finger on the trigger/pedal to the floor | 38,327 | badacts / @badacts

Summary: Neil and Kevin, operatives for the highly secretive US body known only as ‘the Agency’, are very good at their jobs. Maybe Neil isn’t the patriot that Kevin is, but he can recognise the need for people like him, and, if nothing else, he is loyal. However, in the wake of an assassination attempt on the president foiled with the help of talented-but-civilian sniper Andrew Minyard, of the chipped shoulder and the uncanny knack for seeing right through people, Neil begins to question who it is giving him orders. However, asking questions is a dangerous game. If Neil isn’t careful, he’ll end up dead - or worse than.

The Real Folk Blues | 42,365 | moonix / @annawrites

Summary: Captain David Wymack and the bounty hunter crew of the Bebop spaceship might be a little out of their depths chasing down the infamous hacker and notorious runaway Neil Wesninski, whose bounty exceeds even Kevin's wildest dreams. Worst of all, Andrew might actually enjoy it.

Hic Sunt Draconis | 48,994 | exactly13percent_OLD (hymbeaux) / @evanfixes

Summary: Andrew is just trying to keep Kevin alive when an elf jumps into the fray, flashing daggers and blue eyes. He hires the Foxes to help him catch a demon from his past, but it starts to feel less like he's the client and more like he's the protection. Andrew hates how entranced he is by the scarred rogue, with magic on his skin and a tongue as silvered as the city's statues. It's a good thing Andrew needs something to hold his interest. Neil is doing his best to meet the expectation, whether anyone asked for it or not.

Alcyone | 52,740 | exactly13percent_OLD (hymbeaux) / @evanfixes

Summary: "We are an impossibility in an impossible universe." - Ray Bradbury Charles - The Stars fall from the sky. They come to earth in bodies they barely understand, and they wander or run until they are found. Until someone like Andrew finds them. Neil is a Star, and he has no memory of how he fell or why. All he knows is that no one can be trusted, and no one can know what he is. Hiding is the only way to survive—but Andrew ruins that plan. He sees, and even if he doesn't know yet, he will figure it out. And Neil can't help wanting him to.

Shake My Tomb | 53,158 | exactly13percent_OLD (hymbeaux) / @evanfixes

Summary: Nathaniel Wesninski takes his father's life and his father's title at the age of twelve. He kills a man at thirteen. At eighteen, Kevin Day comes to him for help. The Butcher of Baltimore is a name that used to mean something. Under Nathaniel's direction, the Wesninski Family has become an entirely different beast. They are the shadow thrown by the fire of the Moriyamas. Nathaniel isn't one to interfere with something bigger and more dangerous than him, but Kevin's position means something to him. Kevin, and the strange family he brings with him. Maybe even Andrew, the one that challenges Nathaniel the most—and the one that Nathaniel finds himself drawn to. There's a lot at stake, though, and Nathaniel has nothing left to lose. Nothing but himself.

On the impossibility of reality | 56,831 | defractum / @defractum

Summary: “Inception,” says Ichirou Moriyama. ‘You’re crazy,’ Neil does not say, but it’s a close thing. “It can’t be done,” he says instead, after a too long pause.

A Different Matter | 59,314 | moonix / @annawrites & djhedy / @djhedy

Summary: After college, Neil is drifting and a bit lost. When Matt makes him move in with him and his housemates, Neil isn't sure what to expect. Finding a family, having casual sex, and then promptly ruining that by falling not-so-casually in love is not on his agenda, though.

Trigger | 62,506 | mostly_maudlin / @mostlymaudlin

Summary: After an upbringing lacking in mundanity, Neil just wants to live a “normal” life. He’s got a home, a circle of friends, a job — why not give casual sex a shot?

2024 Reclists · INBOX · Blog Updates

[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … February 3

Francis Douglas (R) with his brother Alfred

1867 – Francis Douglas, Viscount Drumlanrig (d.1894) was a Scottish nobleman and politician, the eldest son of the 9th Marquess of Queensberry.

He was educated at Harrow School and later served as a private secretary to the Liberal politician and Prime Minister Archibald Primrose, Lord Rosebery. Thanks to Rosebery's patronage, on 22 June 1893 he was raised to the Peerage of the United Kingdom as Baron Kelhead, of Kelhead in the County of Dumfries. This provided him with a seat in the House of Lords.

Drumlanrig's father served in Parliament from 1872 to 1880 as a representative peer, but in 1880 he refused, as an atheist, to take the religious oath of allegiance to the Queen. He was not allowed to take his seat and was never again chosen as representative peer by the Scottish nobles. His son's accession to Parliament as the 1st Baron Kelhead precipitated a bitter dispute between them and also between Queensberry and Lord Rosebery, who became Prime Minister in 1894.

In October 1894, eighteen months after his ennoblement, Drumlanrig died in what may have been a hunting accident or suicide. He was unmarried and his younger brother Lord Percy Douglas became heir to his father's titles.

It was speculated at the time, and evidence suggests that Drumlanrig may have had a homosexual relationship with Rosebery, and further, that Queensberry had threatened to expose the Prime Minister's supposed proclivities if his government did not vigorously prosecute Oscar Wilde in the affair stemming from Wilde's relationship with Francis Douglas's younger brother Lord Alfred Douglas. Rosebery was, by most accounts, happily married until the death of his wife in 1890, though gossip that Rosebery was homosexual or bisexual was indeed widespread. Queensberry believed that, as he phrased it to Lord Alfred in a letter, 'Snob Queers like Rosebery' had corrupted his sons, and held the Prime Minister indirectly responsible for Drumlanrig's death.

 Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas

1874 – Gertrude Stein was an American writer, poet and art collector who spent most of her life in France. (d.1946); Like the cubist paintings she knew so well, Gertrude Stein was multi-faceted, complicated and occasionally impenetrable. So much as been written about her it is difficult to know exactly what to make of this extraordinary woman, whose long and happy life with Alice B. Toklas she once summed up by writing,

"I love my love with a p because she is peculiar."

In her youth in Baltimore, Stein met Claribel Cone and Etta Cone, who held Saturday evening salons which she would later emulate in Paris. The Cones shared an appreciation for art and conversation about it, and modeled a domestic division of labor that Stein would replicate in her relationship with Alice B. Toklas.

In 1903, Stein moved to Paris, where she spent the rest of her life. From 1903 to 1914 she lived there with her brother Leo Stein, an art critic. It was during this period that she became well-known. Much of Gertrude Stein's fame derives from a private modern art gallery she assembled, from 1904 to 1913, with her brother. While living in Paris, Gertrude began writing for publication. Her earliest writings were mainly retellings of her college experiences. Her first critically acclaimed publication was Three Lives.

Stein met her life partner Alice B. Toklas on September 8, 1907, on Toklas' first day in Paris, at Sarah and Michael Stein's apartment. Soon they were traveling Europe together, and eventually living together. During the 1920s, the salon at 27 Rue de Fleurus, with walls covered by avant-garde paintings, attracted many of the great writers of the time, including Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, Thornton Wilder, and Sherwood Anderson. While she has been credited with inventing the term "Lost Generation" for some of these expatriate American writers, at least three versions of the story that led to the phrase are on record, two by Ernest Hemingway and one by Gertrude Stein.

Was she a genius, a fraud, a bitch, a saint, over-rated, under-rated or a little of each? What she was more than anything else was honest, scrupulously so, perhaps the most honest writer of her time. Her early fiction, Q.E.D. and Three Lives, offers us the first realistic portrait of Lesbianism in the English language that is not veiled in misty metaphor or drowned in sickly sentiment. The very act of creating these books required an heroic courage that is inconceivable today. What she risked in breaking new ground, in writing about a subject scarcely known, no less understood, was the creation of works destined to cause shock and be called "ugly." As she later wrote in her inimitable style, "...When you make a thing, it is so complicated making it that it is bound to be ugly, but those that do it after you they don't have to worry about making it and they can make it pretty, and so everyone can like it when the others make it."

Other books include Tender Buttons and The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas. Her essay "Miss Furr and Miss Skeene" is one of the first homosexual revelation stories to be published. The work evinces Stein's growing involvement with a homosexual community, though it is based on lesbian partners Maud Hunt Squire and Ethel Mars. The work contains the word "gay" over one hundred times, perhaps the first published use of the word "gay" in reference to same-sex relationships and those who have them, and, thus, uninformed readers missed the lesbian content.

Gertrude Stein was a first. We keep her memory with a g. Because she was so gay.

1927 – Kenneth Anger, American Underground Filmmaker, born (d.2023); One of America's first openly Gay filmmakers, and certainly the first whose work addressed homosexuality in an undisguised, self-implicating manner, Kenneth Anger occupies an important place in the history of experimental filmmaking. His role in rendering Gay culture visible within American cinema, commercial or otherwise, is impossible to overestimate.

In 1947, Anger gained instant notoriety with Fireworks, a homoerotic nightmare/reverie in which a muscle-bound sailor enjoys posing for the protagonist's (Anger's) delectation, but then, with four others, bashes the youth in a public restroom. Despite the horrific scenario, the ending suggests redemption with milky fluid spattering Anger's body, a sympathetic sailor's crotch spewing white sparks from a Roman candle, and Anger resurrected, wearing a flaming Christmas tree headdress.

Some early Anger works never made it to the controversial screening stage because negatives were confiscated and destroyed by self-policing labs to which he had sent film for processing. Conversely, other viewers were overly appreciative of Anger's eroticism, pirating and showing his films in nightclubs during an era when Gay porn was largely unavailable.

Similarly, the pervasiveness of iconic Gay imagery in Anger's work, such as the leather-clad bikers of Scorpio Rising (1963), often caused his films to be grossly oversimplified as depictions of homosexual "pathology," rather than understood as critiques of American mass culture, particularly as it was propagated by Hollywood movies and the rock-and-roll music that Anger used for his soundtracks in pioneering ways, critically anticipating the music-video genre.

In unfinished film projects such as Puce Moment (1949), with its close-up sequence of women's gowns, and Kustom Kar Kommandos (1965), in which a youth caresses a hot-rod with a powder puff, Anger inventories American culture's most fetishized objects, evoking a profoundly camp sensibility. Elsewhere, in Eaux d'artifice (1953), whatever Gay content does exist—Anger cites Ronald Firbank's novel Valmouth as inspiration and has likened the fountain imagery to sexual water-sports—is subordinate to the film's elegant visual abstractions.

Although Fireworks and Scorpio Rising had earned him a reputation as an underground Gay filmmaker, through the late 1960s and 1970s, Anger's films expressed less specifically Gay content. His longtime fascination with the writings of occultist Aleister Crowley, which had imparted a dark, ritualistic atmosphere to even his earliest films, propelled works such as Invocation of My Demon Brother (1969) and Lucifer Rising (1973). Collaborative projects with Mick Jagger and Led Zeppelin's Jimmy Page recalled Anger's earlier professional engagements with Jean Cocteau, Anaïs Nin, and other iconoclasts, but the results fell short of Anger's expectations and, indeed, abilities.

Through the 1980s, Anger became known to a broader public through the film adaptation of his lurid book Hollywood Babylon (1958), which chronicled scandals of the film industry. Hollywood Babylon is, in essence, a counter-accusation of indecency and intemperance against America's self-righteous film establishment, an institution that at mid-century was so fearful of scandal that only underground filmmakers risked depicting overtly sexual content and exploring radical cinematic forms.

1938 – Emile Griffith (d.2013) was a former boxer who was the first fighter from the U.S. Virgin Islands ever to become a world champion. He is perhaps best known for his controversial third fight with Benny Paret in 1962 for the welterweight world championship. Griffith later won the world middleweight title and claimed an early version of the junior middleweight world championship, a claim that has not been universally recognized although some consider Griffith a three-division champion fighter.

Griffith as a youth never dreamed of becoming a boxer and was discovered by accident. As a teen he was working at a hat factory on a steamy day when his boss the factory owner agreed to Griffith's request to work shirtless. When the owner, a former amateur boxer, noticed his frame he took Griffith to trainer Gil Clancy's gym. Griffith won the 1958 New York Golden Gloves 147 lb Open Championship. He turned professional in 1958.

The infamous Emile Griffith/Benny Paret fight, which was nationally televised by ABC, took place on March 24, 1962 at Madison Square Garden. In the sixth round Paret nearly knocked out Griffith with a multi punch combination but Griffith was saved by the bell. After the round his trainer Gil Clancy got into his face and told him "when you go inside I want you to keep punching until Paret holds you or the referee breaks you! But you keep punching until he does that!". In round 12 Griffith knocked Paret unconscious yet Paret stood, still propped up against the ropes while Griffith struck Paret repeatedly over the next several seconds before referee Ruby Goldstein stopped the fight. Paret never regained consciousness, and he died ten days later.

Sports Illustrated reported in its April 18, 2005, edition that Griffith's rage may have been fueled by an anti-gay slur directed at him by Paret during the weigh-in. Paret called his opponent a maricón, the Spanish equivalent of "faggot"; Griffith nearly went after him on the spot and had to be restrained. The media at the time either ignored the slur or used euphemisms such as "anti-man". The 2005 article pointed out that it would have been career suicide for an athlete or any other celebrity during the 1960s to admit that he was gay.

Griffith reportedly felt great guilt over Paret's death, and suffered nightmares about Paret for 40 years.

After retiring from boxing, Griffith worked as a corrections officer at the Secaucus, New Jersey Juvenile Detention Facility.

In 1992, Griffith was viciously beaten and almost killed on a New York City street, after leaving a gay bar near the Port Authority Bus Terminal. He was in the hospital for four months after the assault. It was not clear whether the violence was motivated by hatred of gays.

Griffith was quoted in Sports Illustrated as saying "I like men and women both. But I don't like that word: homosexual, gay or faggot. I don't know what I am. I love men and women the same, but if you ask me which is better... I like women."

Griffith died July 23, 2013, at a care facility in Hempstead, New York. In his final years, he required full-time care and suffered from dementia pugilistica. His adopted son, Luis Rodrigo Griffith, was his primary caregiver

1950 – Ron Woodroof (d.1992) was an American who created what would become known as the Dallas Buyers Club in March 1988. Contracting the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) in the 1980s, he created the group as part of his efforts to find and distribute drugs to treat HIV at a time when the disease was poorly understood.

He sued the United States Food and Drug Administration (FDA) over a ban on a drug he was using.

Woodroof was born in Dallas, Texas. His first marriage was to Mary Etta Pybus on June 28, 1969, in Dallas; and they had a daughter born in 1970. They divorced in 1972. On May 6, 1972, he married Rory S. Flynn in Dallas. They divorced in 1973. He then married Brenda Shari Robin on October, 1982, in Lubbock. They divorced on March 4, 1986, after he was diagnosed with HIV.

He had a mercurial personality. One reporter writes that "Woodroof took guns to his doctor’s office, prompting Dr. Steven Pounders to 'fire him as a patient.'" Woodroof later sent the doctor roses, and the doctor took him back.

Some of his friends told reporters he was gay or bisexual. Accounts differ on whether he made homophobic comments. Reporter and screenwriter Craig Borten has said Woodroof was "as racist and homophobic as they come" while friends reportedly claim the opposite.

Seven years following his diagnosis of HIV, Ron Woodroof died on September 12, 1992 from pneumonia brought on by AIDS. Woodroof's final years became the basis of the 2013 film Dallas Buyers Club. He was portrayed in the film by Matthew McConaughey, who was critically acclaimed for his performance and won many awards, including the Academy Award for Best Actor.

1956 – Nathan Lane, (né Joseph Lane) is an American actor of stage and screen. He is best known for his roles as Mendy in The Lisbon Traviata, Albert in The Birdcage, Max Bialystock in the musical The Producers, Ernie Smuntz in MouseHunt, Nathan Detroit in Guys and Dolls, Pseudolus in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, and his voice work in The Lion King and Stuart Little. In 2006, he received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and in 2008, he was inducted into the American Theatre Hall of Fame.

When he was 21 and told his mother he was Gay, her reply was: "I'd rather you were dead." Lane shot back: "I knew you'd understand".

His professional association with his close friend the playwright Terrence McNally includes roles in Lips Together, Teeth Apart, The Lisbon Traviata, Bad Habits, Love! Valor! Compassion!, and Dedication.

Lane, who came out publicly after the death of Matthew Shepard, jokingly describes himself as "one of those old-fashioned homosexuals, not one of the newfangled ones who are born joining parades." When he was asked once by a reporter whether he was Gay, rather than providing a blunt yes-or-no answer, he famously declared, "I'm 40, single and work a lot in the musical theater. You do the math."

He has been a long-time board member of and fundraiser for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights Aids, and he has been honored by The Human Rights Campaign, GLAAD, and The Trevor Project for his work in the Gay community. Lane resides in New York City with his long-time partner, producer Devlin Elliott. Nathan and Devlin married in November 2015.

1969 – Paul Babeu is the elected sheriff of Pinal County in the U.S. state of Arizona. First voted into office in 2008 by defeating the Democratic incumbent, Babeu became the first Republican Sheriff elected in the history of Pinal County. He has received national media attention for speaking out against illegal immigration, the unsecured U.S. border with Mexico, and Operation Fast and Furious gun smuggling facilitated by the United States Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.

In October 2011, Babeu announced the formation of an exploratory committee to run for U.S. Congress, but later decided against running. Babeu won reelection to a second term as sheriff on November 6, 2012.

In February 2012, Babeu was accused of threats of deportation by a Mexican man who described himself as a former boyfriend of Babeu. A spokesman for Babeu denied the allegation and described them as "sensationalist". The spokesman confirmed that Babeu would continue to run for U.S. Congress.

The day after the story broke, Babeu, then a surrogate for Mitt Romney's campaign, officially acknowledged his sexuality but denied the charges. Babeu claimed his sexual orientation was the only factual statement from the allegations. Later, in May, he told openly gay journalist Don Lemon he wants to provide a bridge between the GOP and LGBT communities. He later won reelection as Sheriff of Maricopa County Pinal County by a large margin.

1976 – Daniel Allen Cox is a Canadian author and screenwriter. Shuck, his debut novel about a New York City hustler, was a Lambda Literary Award and a ReLit Award finalist

Cox is a former Jehovah's Witness and model/actor in gay pornography. From 2008 to 2011, he wrote the column "Fingerprinted" for Capital Xtra! in Ottawa, Ontario. He is openly gay.

Krakow Melt, the second novel by Cox, about Polish pyromaniacs who fight homophobia, was released in 2010 and was excerpted in the US-based national gay and lesbian newsmagazine The Advocate. In 2011, Istanbul-based publisher Altikirkbes acquired Turkish-language rights to the novel for an underground literature imprint featuring Lydia Lunch. The novel was nominated for the ReLit Award, the Lambda Literary Award and the Ferro-Grumley Award for LGBT Fiction. Cox's third novel, Basement of Wolves, was released in 2012.

In a cover interview for Xtra!, the author revealed a collaboration with Bruce LaBruce on the screenplay for the director's film, Gerontophilia. Cox's script One Shut Night was named one of five finalists in the 2013 NYC PictureStart Film Festival short screenplay contest, with the announcement of a stage reading directed by Peter Kelley.

Tattoo This Madness In, his novella about LGBT Jehovah’s Witnesses who use Smurf tattoos to rebel against their faith, was nominated for a 2007 Expozine Alternative Press Award.

2014 – Don Franco (b.1923), a lifelong gay activist, died on this date. He was 90.

At approximately 1:30am on Saturday, Dec 9, 1978, Toronto police stormed the Barracks, a small bathhouse focusing on BDSM. They tore the place apart and arrested 26 men, including Franco. In response, Franco joined the newly formed Right to Privacy Committee and helped organize a series of public demonstrations, which resulted in the police getting fewer guilty pleas than they would have liked.  But that wasn’t the end of it. A police sergeant then took it upon himself to call various Toronto schools and give them the names of the six school teachers arrested in relation to the Barracks raid, including Franco’s. Franco enlisted the help of minister Brent Hawkes, who called for the sergeant to be disciplined. The teachers’ union also stood by Franco and the Toronto Board of Education chairperson, Fiona Nelson, issued a statement in support of Franco.

Still that wasn’t the end of it. Franco had a makeshift dungeon off the bedroom of his home and regularly advertised for partners in The Body Politic. A policeman, posing as a potential partner, responded to his ad, came over and arrested Franco during an initial conversation. Six more officers then burst in and confiscated several garbage bags full of Franco’s belongings. In a possible attempt to target Franco, they were trying to stretch the law concerning “common bawdyhouses” to include his apartment.

Franco was close to retirement and worried that a conviction might lead to losing his pension. He didn’t back down, and dozens of hearings later he was acquitted of the charge. He retired with full pension. His was an important early victory in the struggle for gay rights.

In a time when the fight for rights was savage, Franco was involved with just about every protest, group or movement. He was connected to varying degrees with AIDS Action Now, the Ontario Coalition for Gay Rights, the Campaign for Equal Families and the NDP, just to name a few. He got little credit for the work that he did and didn’t profit from his good deeds, but he is one of a select group of people who were involved in almost the entire history of the fight for gay rights in Canada.

His strength and passion seem to have pervaded other aspects of his life as well. He taught in high schools for approximately 40 years and was one of those rare teachers whose students, even years later, would come back to visit and thank for his contribution to their lives.

[theyellowapron]

adam and hoss

-Adam, you do me a favor? -Yeah, sure. What is it? (Bonanza, The Jury)

maurice sendak, life, death and children's lit with npr // bonanza, “journey remembered” // unknown // bonanza, “the phillip diedesheimer story” // tiktok comment from anxiousmaya_ // bonanza, “inger, my love” // mary oliver, i have just said // bonanza, “the tin badge” // the best day by taylor swift // bonanza, “the dark gate” // unknown // bonanza, “right is the fourth r” (x) // alice hoffman, practical magic // bonanza, “the hayburner” (x) // eden robinson // bonanza, “the first born” (x) // he ain’t heavy (he’s my brother) by the hollies // bonanza, “the gamble” (x) // brenna yovanoff, the replacement // bonanza, “the lady from baltimore” (x) // jandy nelson, i'll give you the sun

further thoughts and image descriptions below:

part of a series i hope to eventually do exploring the dynamics between all of the cartwrights.

canon explores this little, but i think adam was so excited to be a brother. i think there was so much love stored up inside of him that he didn’t know what to do with until hoss came along, and it was only when he looked at his baby brother that it all made sense; he’s meant to take care of hoss. everything they faced during those early years on their way west was made easier for adam, because he had hoss to love. his love for hoss is easy; they know each other’s thinking with a look, so much of their dynamic made up of quiet conversations and silent exchanges. adam’s love for hoss is without the tension that coincides with his love for joe, without the pressures that go alongside his love for their father. he may roll his eyes at hoss’ occasional silliness or gullibility, but when he sees hoss’ goodness and his gentle kindness, adam’s faith in humanity- perhaps even himself- is restored. to know that hoss trusts him is everything to him.

on the flip side, hoss recognizes how much adam does. he knows how much pride adam takes in being the oldest, the composed and capable brother. hoss is proud of him, too- and he doubts he’ll ever stop reaching for adam when he needs him- but he’s capable of taking on some of adam’s burdens, and he always sort of hopes adam will trust him in return. hoss is often considered the strong one, at least physically, but i think his strength is also seen in how he supports adam, by simply being there with him and reminding him to laugh. i think hoss understands the constant internal debate occurring within adam, always torn between his home and his family, and a tremendous desire to explore and discover the world. hoss seems to know that someday adam will leave again, and he’s okay with it; not only because he loves adam and wants him to be happy, even if it means letting him go, but because adam did his job- hoss grew up safe and became a good man.

i think both, though, tend to avoid talking about the fact that adam will someday leave, and hoss will always stay. it’s not because there’s feelings of guilt or resentment- they may have their misunderstandings or fights, but such emotions never exist, and are never needed, between them. when they do get to thinking about the inevitability of their eventual parting, it’s easier to talk about the past than the future, reminiscing about a shared bedroll under their wagon, or remembering how hoss was once shorter than adam.

adam’s desire to go back to that time- back when he held hoss’ hand when he took his first steps- nearly drowns him when he receives word of hoss’ death all those years later. it’s not possible that the little baby brother of his, who he held even before their father did, was gone. all he wants is to be hoss’ big brother again- is he still his big brother now, now that hoss is gone?

[image one:

text that reads “I had a brother who was my savior, made my childhood bearable.”

a picture of a young adam, holding baby hoss after witnessing the murder of their mama

a tumblr tag that reads “#i knew you by your name before it was yours”

a picture of adam and hoss as they excitedly consider an innovation in engineering and mining technology]

[image two:

a tiktok comment that reads “After I was born, I think all I did was wait for her. Two and a half years of waiting. I wasn't a full person until I was her big sister.”

a picture of adam offering a fond but small smile as hoss delights in his surprise birthday celebrations]

[image 3:

text that reads “I have just said something ridiculous to you and in response, your glorious laughter.” the line “your glorious laughter” is highlighted in yellow.

a picture of adam propping himself against hoss’ shoulder while hiding his laughter]

[image 4:

song lyrics that read “God smiles on my little brother, inside and out / He's better than I am.” the line “He's better than I am” is highlighted in blue.

a picture of them sitting on the front porch, hoss comforts and advises adam after the death of his childhood best friend

text that reads “I know unconditional love is real because my brother and I have it. And there's nothing like it. It's warm, gentle, and benign. I don't think I could ever live without it. I don't know how I can live with him and I don't know how I could ever live without him. But at least I know that unconditional love is real. Thanks to my brother.”

a picture of the middle of a viginia city street, where adam and hoss are exchanging amused glances]

[image 5:

text that reads “No one knows you like a person with whom you've shared childhood. No one will ever understand you in quite the same way.”

a picture of adam and hoss grinning while planning a big win in a horse race

text that reads “You can put your strength down. I'm sitting here with you at your kitchen table. You don't need to say anything.”

a picture of both sitting in front of a chuck wagon, hoss smiling while watching adam laugh]

[image 6:

song lyrics that read “His welfare is my concern / No burden is he to bear / We'll get there / For I know / He would not encumber me / He ain't heavy, he's my brother.” the lines “His welfare is my concern / No burden is he to bear” are highlighted in gray.

a picture of adam and hoss laying on the floor of their jail cell, both slumped against the wall. hoss leans into adam’s shoulder]

[image 7:

text that reads “I wanted to tell her that I loved her, and not in the complicated way I loved our parents, but in a simple way I never had to think about. I loved her like breathing.”

a picture of hoss patting adam on the chest, calming him down after an argument with joe

text that reads “This is what I want: I want to grab my brother's hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders. Things don't really turn out like you think.”]

[madamsnape921]

Dr. Daddy

Pairing: Frederick Chilton x female reader 

Warning: Sugar Daddy/baby

WC: 1847

Raúl Taglist: @beccabarba @alwaysachorusgirl @law-nerd105  @prurientpuddlejumper  @welcometothemxdhouse @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @lv7867 @word-scribbless 

@plaidbooks @storiesofsvu @navalcriminalimagines

You grew up in a small town, but after completing grad school you found yourself in Baltimore. You landed a 9-5 job in your field and stuck with it for seven years, until the monotony of your daily routine became too much to bear. Every morning, you dragged yourself out of bed, went to work, and returned to your dingy and empty apartment. Once in a while, you would go on a date that either ended disastrously or was unbearably dull.

Eventually, the day arrived when you could no longer tolerate the situation. You had already prepared a resignation letter, and it felt good to put your thoughts into words. The letter was printed out, signed, and handed in right away. With your head held high, you left the office and made your way home. But as soon as you changed into comfortable clothes, the full weight of reality hit you.

You slumped onto your couch as your thoughts raced. You had impulsively quit your job without a backup plan. Thankfully, you had enough money saved up to last you through the month and maybe even the next. But what were you going to do now? You grabbed your phone and started scrolling through job listings. The more you looked, the more nauseous you felt. The idea of going back to another 9-5 job made you cringe. What other options did you have? Maybe starting an OnlyFans account? No, that wasn't something you felt confident in doing. But perhaps you were on the right track with exploring alternative paths now.

Over the next few weeks, you devised a rough strategy. You had recently begun selling photos of your feet on the internet and were pleasantly surprised by how profitable it was. You may have benefited from the money, but the process didn't really matter to you. Thus, you continue to seek out a more efficient way to make a living.

After a few months of wandering aimlessly since quitting your job, you finally found a solution. You made the decision to become a sugar baby. After signing up on a reputable sugar website, you waited for potential matches. And then, like magic, there was a notification.

Dr. Daddy: Hello, I stumbled upon your profile and was immediately intrigued. Your confidence radiates, but there is also a softness to you that draws me in. Your eyes sparkle like precious jewels and your piercing gaze demands attention. I’m Frederick.  

SmutSlut: Hello, Frederick! My name is YN.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life was amazing! It had been almost a year since you first met Dr. Frederick Chilton. You spent most of your time attending social events as his "arm candy," and when you weren't out and about, you were having wild, passionate sex. It baffled you why Frederick didn't just pick someone to settle down with. After all, he was incredibly intelligent, undeniably attractive, and an exceptional lover. 

Your new apartment was incredibly luxurious, and you had never owned such an extravagant wardrobe before. Frederick had made it clear that he was the only sugar daddy you could have for the entirety of your relationship. He took care of all your expenses and spoils you with anything your heart desires. Everything seemed perfect, except for one small issue...you were starting to develop genuine feelings for him.

After much internal deliberation, you make the decision to confront Frederick about the issue. The worst that could happen is that he breaks things off, and you'll have to rebuild yourself and start anew. You send him a text message, mustering up the courage to address the situation head on.

YN: Frederick, I need to talk to you. 

Frederick: …

YN: It’s really important. 

Frederick: I can’t talk right now, YN. 

Well that was weird. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's been three weeks since you received the final text from Frederick, and your heart still aches. You've tried reaching out to him several times but have yet to receive a response.

Each passing day feels heavier as you struggle to comprehend Frederick's sudden disappearance from your life. The once vibrant and exhilarating world he introduced you to now feels dull and empty without his presence. You find yourself questioning every moment spent together, trying to decipher any hidden signs or warnings of his impending departure.

Despite your best efforts to move on, thoughts of Frederick consume your mind. His absence leaves a void that seems impossible to fill. Every knock on the door sends a jolt of hope through you, only to be met with disappointment when it's not him standing on the other side.

One evening, as you sit alone in the lavish apartment that once felt like a sanctuary but now feels like a gilded cage, a knock breaks the silence. Your heart races with anticipation as you make your way to the door, desperately hoping it's Frederick returning to explain his absence.

To your surprise, it's not Frederick standing there but a courier holding a small package. Confusion clouds your thoughts as you accept the package, thanking the courier absently before shutting the door behind you. Your hands tremble slightly as you tear open the package, revealing a sleek black box with an ornate letter 'F' embossed on the lid. Your heart pounds in your chest as you slowly lift the lid, revealing a stack of letters neatly arranged inside.

With trembling fingers, you pick up the first letter and unfold it. The elegant handwriting is unmistakably Frederick's, and your breath catches in your throat as you read his words. In the letter, Frederick explains that he had to leave suddenly due to unforeseen circumstances beyond his control. He expresses his regret for not being able to explain in person and admits that he never intended to hurt you.

Tears blur your vision as you read through the rest of the letters, each one detailing Frederick's feelings for you and his struggles with his own emotions. You realize that he had been grappling with his growing affection for you and had chosen to leave to spare both of you from potential heartache in the future. The weight of his words sinks in, and a mix of emotions swirl within you.

Despite the pain of his absence, you find a sense of closure in Frederick's letters. His vulnerability and honesty touch your heart, and you can't help but feel a bittersweet gratitude for the time you shared together. As you read the last letter, a gentle knock on the door startles you.

You set aside the letters and cautiously make your way to the door, unsure of what to expect. With a deep breath, you open it to find Frederick standing there, his expression a tumultuous blend of emotions.

"YN," he begins, his voice soft yet filled with intensity. "I had to come back. I couldn't bear being away from you any longer." His eyes search yours, seeking understanding and forgiveness.

For a moment, silence hangs heavy between you as you take in his presence once again. You struggle to keep your emotions in check as you realize he is using a cane, a new addition that sends waves of emotion through you as you process the change in his appearance.

"Frederick," you whisper, reaching out to touch his shoulder, "what's happened?"

He takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's been... not easy. There were complications, YN. Injuries. But I'm okay now." He forces a smile, but you can tell it's strained. "I missed you, more than I ever thought possible."

You feel a surge of relief and happiness amidst the confusion and worry, but also a mixture of sadness and fear for the unknown. "What does this mean?" you ask, unsure if you're ready to face the future together.

Frederick reaches up and cups your cheek, his fingers gentle yet firm. "It means," he says softly, "that I want to be with you, no matter what. I know we have a lot to discuss and figureout, but I'm willing to face it all with you. I just can't imagine being without you anymore."

His words send a wave of warmth through you, and you find yourself leaning into his touch. "I don't want to be without you either," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

As you stand there in each other's arms, you can't help but wonder what the future holds for you both. With Frederick back by your side, the world seems a little less dark and a little more full of promise. You know that whatever comes next, you'll face it together, hand in hand, ready to conquer any obstacle that stands in your way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frederick made his way to the couch and carefully set down his cane. He then unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, revealing a perfect erection that made your mouth water. As he leisurely stroked his cock, he gazed at you with an intense stare. "Come here and suck Daddy's cock, little girl," he commanded.

 You hesitated for a moment, then approached the couch, your eyes never leaving Frederick's. With trembling hands, you reached out and wrapped your fingers around his thick shaft. As you began to stroke him, your other hand made its way up his body, caressing his chest, and eventually finding its way to his nipple.

Frederick's eyes rolled back in pleasure as you gently pinched his nipple, causing him to moan softly. His hand threaded through your hair and guided your head towards his erection. With a mix of devotion and anticipation, you opened your mouth and took his dick inside, savoring the taste of his precum.

As you sucked and stroked, Frederick's breathing grew heavier, and he began to thrust his hips, guiding his cock deeper into your throat. You gagged slightly at first, but the more you tried, the more Frederick pushed, until you found yourself choking on his member, your throat constricting around his girth. Frederick's breaths shortened, and his grip on your hair tightened, both of you caught in this intense, primal dance.

You pulled back, gasping for air, and Frederick's eyes met yours, filled with hunger and approval. His cock twitched in your hand, glistening with your saliva and precum. With a lustful growl, he pulled you up onto his lap. Without any warning, he pushed your panties to the side and plunged his member inside of you. 

“You okay, angel,” Frederick asked, concerned for your well-being.

You gasped, trying to catch your breath. “Yes, Daddy,” you managed to breathe, your body responding to his every touch.

Frederick's fingers found their way to your clit, rubbing it roughly as he thrust into you. Your nerves were set ablaze, and you could feel the familiar tightness building within you. Frederick knew just what to do, and soon you were arching your back, moaning in ecstasy as you climaxed.

Frederick kept up his relentless pace, and just as you thought you couldn't bear it any longer, he groaned and tensed, filling you with his warm seed. You both collapsed onto the couch, your bodies still joined together, hearts pounding in sync.

[blindingliqhts]

imgonnagetyouback (taylor swift TTPD) is quite andreil to me

‘whether i’m gonna curse you out or take you back to my house, i haven’t decided yet’ and ‘whether i’m gonna flip you off or pull you into the closet, i haven’t decided yet’

that is so andrew with his reminding neil he hates him every time he kisses him, in desperate attempt not to let neil mean something to him (although he knows there’s no going back from falling that far…)

‘even if it’s handcuffed, i’m leaving here with you’

reminds me of the bit in the extra content about when neil was trying to learn how to unpick handcuffs when he’s got them on both wrists, then proceeds to get stuck until after dinner, when andrew refuses to let him out. and (as we know) neil cuffs himself to andrew the following day so that andrew won’t leave him behind again, and andrew doesn’t break himself free. did someone say romance??? (i think so.)

‘we broke all the pieces, but still wanna play the game’

reminds me of after baltimore, when neil points out that his and andrew’s game of truths seems to be over since he ended up having to give all his secrets up for free

‘told my friends i hate you, but i love you just the same’

pretty self explanatory i think, but it also makes me think of when neil finds out that andrew chose him over aaron, and nicky is surprised about it- hearing that andrew let aaron out of their deal because of neil goes against everything he’s assumed about andrew and neil’s relationship (since neither of them will say anything about it), and everything he knows about what andrew is like. and all of it comes down to the fact that andrew loves neil.

‘pick your poison, babe, i’m poison either way’

i’m not as confident with this one, but i thought maybe it could be likened to how whether andrew had chosen to pursue things with neil or not, it would be like poison. neil was the only thing to have caught and held his interest in years, so to let that slip by and do nothing about it could’ve been a waste. yet to have let neil in as he did was a risk beyond belief, considering how badly it went the last time he tried to hold onto someone.