#then are you surprised he and Hannibal are vibing??

[definitionofacritter]

Consider this an official request for someone of the Dorym Nation to write fanfic about Dorian showing his affection for Orym through gift giving. Make it as fluffy or angsty or kinky as you want. I will consume it with a voracity previously unknown to mankind.

[fatalism-and-villainy]

Half-formed thought here, but. Usually in my mind I assume that the topic of Abigail goes almost completely unspoken between Will and Hannibal post-canon, but... man. What if they were even more unhinged about it than that. Like, what if they displayed a massive portrait of her on the mantlepiece or something, as a symbol of Will getting Hannibalpilled and buying into the idea that her death was a sad but inevitable consequence of the force of nature that is Hannibal. And then everyone who visited the house assumed she was just a beloved relative of one of them or something, without knowing anything about the details of how she died (or even that she was dead). And whatever murder buddies/protégés/frenemies/pseudo-children/sexy little thirds/[whatever unholy combination of those things] Will and Hannibal acquired would piece together some very idealized understanding of her as the Perfect Dead Sister-Daughter that they could never measure up to, whose ghostly presence hangs over them... and then coming to the very macabre discovery that Hannibal was the one who killed her! I think that'd be neat.

[yams-77]

The Shadow Stalker

Surprise! Here's my contribution to @acotargiftexchange . A gift for the wonderful @hieragalbatorixdottir . I've so enjoyed talking and getting to know you over the last several months. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1: December

Summary:

A notorious killer is stalking the city of Prythian, killing from the shadows. After six months on the case, FBI Profiler Detective Eris Archeron still has no leads...Until he enters a seedy bar on the edge of the Forest House district and meets a man who will change his life forever.

Notes:

This fic is inspired by Hannibal, my giftee's favorite TV show. There will be depictions of gore and violence consistent with the show. Admittedly, I've only seen about five episodes but I hope I got the vibe and dynamic right.

Read Now on AO3

Words: 7,113 Chapter: 1/8 Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence Primary Relationship: Eris/Azriel Secondary Relationships: Eris/Nesta, Eris & Nesta Additional Tags: Alternative Universe - FBI, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, ethical non-monogamy, Marriage of Convenience, Explicit Sexual Content, Detective Eris, Killer Azriel, Dark Romance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Read Now on AO3

Excerpt:

Cold wind battered Eris Archeron’s face as he surveyed the vicinity. It was a desolate area. There was nothing he could see for miles other than snowy hills, frosted fields, and lifeless trees. The sky above him was cloudy and gray, setting the tone for the grisly scene before him. Blood stained the white hilltop. There was no sign of tire tracks or footprints, other than those of the snowmobiler who’d called and the police who had responded. No clear, visible hints of the person who did this remained; not that Eris expected any from his killer.

Thanks to @suebswrites @iftheshoef1tz @born-to-riot and Niv for Beta and Edits!

Thanks to @acourtofladydeath for the medical consult!

Thanks to @vanthh for lending me her Canva skills

Taglist (let me know if you want on or off)

@hieragalbatorixdottir @born-to-riot @chunkypossum @secret-third-thing @acourtofladydeath @brunetterebel010 @iftheshoef1tz @suebswrites @alittlegirlwaitinginagarden @essjaywrites @vanthh @korrinamoe @hunt-athie-athalar @jules-writes-stories @poisonivy206

[charliedawn]

I see that you've been into posting some remmick content, I was wondering if you could make a post about him meeting the Slashers and Hannibal family?

(I did the slashers only here. I’ll make a Hannibal version later. Also, WARNING: heavy swearing involved, especially in the Remmick meeting Bo part.)

Freddy Krueger

Freddy would find him funny. I think they would actually vibe since they both love music and being absolute creeps. They would understand each other. But Freddy is Freddy and wouldn’t pass a chance to make fun of the vampire.

“What is this, Dracula’s broke ass cousin? Count Guinness?”

And when Remmick explains where he comes from and who he is exactly, Freddy would tease him relentlessly. “Oh, great, another bloodsucker with a tragic past and an accent. Lemme guess—brooding, tortured, hates what he is?”

Remmick *shoots back with a wide grin* : “No. I rather enjoy what I am. Don’t ye?”

That shuts Freddy up for a moment. Then he smirks again. “Ok. Ya got me.”

They eye each other like two rival devils. Different hells, same fire. But when Remmick’s eyes flash and the lights flicker, Freddy shuts up real quick. He doesn’t like being reminded that he’s not the scariest thing in the room anymore.

Also I’m not saying they did it.

I have no proof they did it.

But…put two weirdos in a room and you might be surprised by what happens behind closed doors. 😀

Jason Voorhees

Jason stands the moment he senses Remmick. There’s no immediate aggression, but his grip on the machete tightens. Jason’s instincts don’t like things that should be dead walking around with fangs. But Remmick doesn’t challenge him—he meets his gaze, nods once, as if to say, You’re a relic. So am I. And for Jason, that’s enough to keep his blade lowered…for now.

Remmick *chuckles* : “And ye must be the silent type. I like ye already. No judgment in those dead eyes.”

Remmick would be amused by Jason—maybe even try to provoke him by offering to share a victim. When Jason doesn’t engage, the vampire might press. But he’d quickly learn: Jason does not like vampires feeding on innocents near him. He’d lash out the moment Remmick crossed a line.

“A’right, a’right, big fella! Message received. No nibblin’ on the nurses anymore.”

They might come to a silent agreement—not friends, but not enemies either, so long as boundaries are kept.

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms would observe him silently from the shadows—maybe behind the walls, watching how Remmick interacts with his doll. Remmick would be amused and know immediately which one is the real Brahms. Perks of being a vampire who can detect heartbeats. “You’re not porcelain, are ye? Nah…yer the shadow in the walls. The voice behind the glass. Clever lad.”

Remmick would tread carefully. He respects madness when it’s rooted in pain, and Brahms—despite his chilling behavior—is a product of isolation, trauma, and obsession. The vampire wouldn’t mock him outright. He’d speak to him like an old friend, perhaps even as an equal in monstrosity.

“They locked ye away, and now they fear what they made. I know that story.”

Brahms might grow fond of Remmick, clinging to his presence in a sort of odd friendship. Whether Remmick would use that to manipulate him…well, that depends on his mood.

Michael Myers

Silent. Watching. A statue in the hallway’s shadows. Remmick’s eyes flick towards him, sensing the inhuman energy and he grins. “Ah. The silent one. Ye I like. Ye killed yer family, right?”

Michael tilts his head. That means danger. Remmick doesn’t flinch. He’s met many monsters in his centuries. “We should talk sometimes. Or not talk. I imagine yer quite good at that.”

Yeah. They don’t like each other all that much.

Michael would love nothing more than to cut Remmick’s throat and dump it in a garbage disposal outside. Unfortunately, he promised Ghostface (Eddie) to keep him safe. So yes. He doesn’t like him—but is forced to accept his annoying presence.

The Penny Brothers

The first time Remmick sees them, they’re sitting in the middle of the hallway like a painting that moves when you’re not looking. Pennywise—rigid posture, colorful suit pristine and awful—tilts his head in slow, deliberate observation. His brother, Penny, lounges beside him, white-and-grey costume wrinkled, laughing softly to himself while balancing a spoon on his nose.

Remmick stops at the end of the hall, arms folded, boots creaking on the linoleum. “…Christ. The circus really has come to Hell.”

Penny *giggles* : “Ooooh, he’s Irish! I love the Irish. All that famine and guilt—delicious.”

Penny cackles—high and feral. But Pennywise doesn’t say anything. He knows who he has in front of him. He knows better than to provoke another elder being. “You are old. Much older than you look. And yet you cling to that weary and dreadful existence like it hasn’t already rotten—like a fool.”

Remmick steps closer, gaze narrowing. “And you’re the type that feeds on children and dresses like a fever dream. We all have our poisons.”

Penny *claps his hands enthusiastically* : “Let’s eat him, brother!”

Pennywise *shakes his head negatively* : “No.”

Penny pouts like a kicked puppy, but doesn’t insist.

Pennywise turns back towards Remmick: “You’ve tasted too much death to be sweet anymore. You’d burn on the tongue, vampire.”

Remmick chuckles bitterly. “What a shame…”

The three stare at one another—immortality, decay, and madness all simmering just beneath the skin. Then Penny crawls forward like a puppet with its strings cut and peers up at Remmick with wide, childlike wonder. But Remmick knew better. That thing was far from innocent. It ate the innocent. It preyed on them.

“What’s it like? The hunger that never goes away?”

Remmick hesitates at the question. What is it like? He huffs. “…Nothin’. Tastes like nothin’.”

Penny *smirks and claps his hands together excitedly* : “Then we are not strangers. We are kin!”

Remmick doesn’t respond. But when he turns to leave, Penny reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a black balloon. He hands it to the vampire like a parting gift. “For you. You’ll know where to find us when you want to play.”

Remmick takes it. Doesn’t thank him. Just walks off, balloon in hand, already half-deflated.

Norman Bates

Remmick, being intuitive and centuries old, would pick up on Norman’s fractured psyche almost immediately. He’d probably find it fascinating—maybe even toy with it a bit.  Remmick’s attention turns to Norman and he smiles. “Ye…yer the interestin’ one.”

Norman shifts, nervous. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m just—I’m normal. I’m Norman.”

Remmick’s voice drops to a whisper. “Tell Mother I said hello.”

Norman freezes. His eyes widen. “How…how do you know about her?”

Remmick giggles. “I know many things, boy. We all have someone whisperin’ in our heads. Yers just happens to be wearin’ a dress.”

There’s tension. And strange fascination. Remmick sees Norman like a puzzle box. Norman feels seen—and terrified by it. If Mother is present in his mind, she would hate Remmick instantly. She’d call him the Devil. She’d scream at Norman to run, to kill, to do something. But Norman? Norman likes him—a little bit.

Five Hargreeves

Now this is a meeting of titans. A time-traveling assassin with a superiority complex and a centuries-old vampire who’s bored of nearly everything? Sparks. Five would immediately demand to know what Remmick is, where he came from, and if he’s some kind of temporal anomaly or apocalyptic trigger. Remmick would smirk and not answer on purpose.

Five *threatens* : “If you’re here to break time, I will put a bullet right between your eyes.”

Remmick *shrugs and smirks* : “Now now, Five. Am just here for the whiskey. And maybe yer neck, if ye keep bein’ so rude, lil’ lad.”

Remmick and Five would often clash though—both sharp-witted, both sarcastic, and both old souls trapped in odd bodies.

“You look twelve.”

“And you’re dead.”

Five wouldn’t trust him for a second, and Remmick would be delighted. The two would verbally spar for hours, a game of high-speed, high-intellect chess laced with death threats and dry humor. Remmick would respect Five immensely. It’s not easy to find someone who can keep up with his wit and doesn’t flinch at the mention of murder.

They’d never be friends, but they might become strange allies—just long enough to kill a shared enemy.

Five *mutters* : “God, I need a drink.”

Remmick pulls out a flask from his boot. “Say no more.”

Patrick Bateman

Remmick would take one look at Patrick’s expensive suit, sleek hair, and cologne-slick ego and grin like he just spotted a snack trying to pretend it’s a predator. “You look like a man who sharpens his smile every morning. Tell me, do you bleed arrogance, or is that just cologne?”

Patrick would look him up and down disdainfully. “I spend $800 a week on facials. I own 200 ties. I refuse to share space with…that.”

Remmick *snickers* : “Oh, I’ve shared space with kings, monsters, popes, and worse. Ye? Yer just a lil’ lad in a suit playin’ wolf.”

Patrick’s eye twitches. He adjusts his tie, trying to regain composure but Remmick’s disheveled, confident grin is throwing him off. The tension is almost comical—like a finely tailored Gucci suit facing off with a decades-old coat that’s seen more blood than there is ink in Wall Street.

Pinhead

Pinhead studies him. This creature—unkempt, unholy, and yet not afraid—stands like a man who’s lost everything too many times to be threatened. Pinhead is pain with purpose. Remmick is pain without reason. Both ancient. Both beyond redemption.

And both, somehow, still curious.

Pinhead : “Another wanderer. Mortal, undead, drunk on petty sin. You reek of indulgence.”

Remmick *grins* : “Guilty, your unholiness. I collect vices like priests collect confessions.”

Pinhead’s eyes narrow. He’s deciding whether Remmick’s soul is worth harvesting—or too rotten to bother with.

Pinhead : “You do not belong in this church, creature. You wear sin like perfume—but you do not truly understand it.”

Remmick, without flinching, walks halfway up towards the Cenobite.

Remmick *smiles lazily* : “Oh, but I do. I’ve sinned in every way that matters. And a few that don’t. You collect suffering. I just pass it around.”

Pinhead steps down, chains rattling faintly behind him. His presence is heavy—divine and terrible. “Your pleasures are mundane. Carnal. Brief.”

Remmick *chuckles* : “And yours are what? Eternal? Heard that song before. Of so-called ‘eternal’ pleasures. Lil’ warning. Never ends well for the preachers.”

There’s tension, heavy and electric. A god of pain and a devil of the road, circling each other with centuries between them. But Pinhead does not strike. Not yet. Perhaps he sees in Remmick not a rival…but a distant cousin. A creature who chose chaos instead of structure. Blood without ritual. Pain without chains.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent freezes the second Remmick steps into his wax-scented safe haven (his bedroom). The vampire smells like earth, blood, and something old. He’s messy—clothes worn, hair unkempt, boots tracking dirt across Vincent’s sacred floor. Vincent grabs a knife in warning. But Remmick doesn’t flinch. He looks at the wax statues, then at Vincent’s mask—and nods, like someone who understands. Someone who’s spent lifetimes peeling back layers of skin, metaphorical or otherwise.

Remmick : “I see what you’re tryin’ to keep alive here. The faces, the memory of ‘em. That’s art. That’s grief dressed up real pretty.”

Vincent doesn’t speak, but his blade lowers a hair. There’s no smile—but there’s recognition. Maybe even respect. Remmick sees him not as a monster, but a craftsman. And that? That earns Vincent’s silence instead of his wrath.

Arthur Fleck

Arthur squints when Remmick enters the room he’d in, boots muddy and shirt open at the throat.

Arthur *grins* : “You look like a poem that got left in the rain.”

Remmick raises a brow, glancing him up and down. “Yeah? Well, ye look like the fella who wrote it.”

Arthur laughs too hard, too long. But then stops. The way Remmick doesn’t flinch from the laugh, doesn’t mock it—that unnerves him. Remmick sits beside him, flask in hand, and tilts it towards Arthur wordlessly.

Arthur takes a swig before admitting. “People don’t usually sit next to me.”

Remmick smiles and huffs a humourless laugh. “What a coincidence. They don’t usually sit next to me either.”

Arthur glances at him sideways. “Tell me, vampire. You who has walked this Earth time and time again, but is still alone. Do you think we monsters are jokes, or tragedies?”

Remmick huffs a laugh. “Same thing. Depends on the person who tells the joke, me friend.”

For once, Arthur says nothing. Just sits there and smiles. Right…Depends on the storyteller.

Bo Sinclair

Bo: “Bitch.”

Remmick: “Cunt.”

*Proceed with a heavy make out session*

The flirty version: because Author wanted to. This is fan service. For me. I am the fan. I serviced myself. There is a not flirty version after this one.

Bo’s leaning against the frame of the hallway door, arms crossed, chewing a toothpick like it’s a personal vendetta. Grease under his fingernails, top half of his overalls halfway unbuttoned, boots caked in red clay. When Remmick walks past—dirt-streaked, collar wrinkled, eyes dark with too many decades—Bo lets out a sharp whistle.

Bo *grins* : “Well, look what the bog dragged in. Ain’t ya just the saddest lil’ leprechaun I’ve ever seen.”

Remmick stops. Turns slowly. Eyes scan Bo head to toe like he’s measuring a coffin. Then he grins widely. “Right back at ye, Southern belle. Ye look like ye ain’t got yer beauty sleep yet. Better get to it if ye want to be the prettiest lil’ princess in the land.”

Bo scoffs, pushes off the doorframe, sauntering closer. “Ya got a real smart mouth for somebody who looks like he sleeps in graveyards.”

Remmick *smiles* : “And yev got a very nice face—try not to get it bashed in by runnin’ yer tongue too much, lad. Actually? Try talkin’ less and smilin’ more. That’d save ye a lotta pain.”

They circle each other, loose and cocky. Bo narrows his eyes, half-impressed. “Ain’t nobody told ya how we do things ‘round here?”

Remmick *smirks* : “What? Gonna teach me, pretty boy.”

Bo chuckles and clicks his tongue around the toothpick. “Who ye callin’ pretty boy, garden gnome?”

Remmick *grins and looks him up and down* : “What? I thought the nickname would fit with the obvious Mommy and Daddy issues I can smell comin’ out of ye in waves.”

Bo steps forward. Real close. Real personal. He smells of engine oil and tobacco. Remmick doesn’t budge.

“Ya always this mouthy?” Bo asks as he tilts his head.

Remmick *still smirking* : “Only with men who wear tight fit overalls and sound like they spent their whole life chasin’ trouble.”

Bo raises an eyebrow and represses a smirk. “…Ya hittin’ on me, clover?”

Remmick *smirks* : “Only if yer lucky. Wanna see what’s at the end of this rainbow?” (Remmick is internally screaming…Never went that far in the flirting process in a few hundred years. He doesn’t know what to do next.)

Bo blinks once. Then twice. And that smirk? That lazy, cocky, shit-eating smirk curls so wide it might fall off his face. He leans in, real slow, like a wolf that just found something limping in the woods.

“Rainbow, huh…? Oh, I do love rainbows. Especially the kinda ones that talk shit with a funny accent and shake like a wet kitten soon as shit gets a lil’ real.” Bo smirks. “Didn’t think ya were the type who liked gettin’ caught with his tongue tied, bloodsucker.”

Remmick’s still grinning, but if he was still alive his ears would definitely be red. His voice cracks just slightly on the next word, which he covers with a too-wide smile.

“Ah, well…thought I’d try somethin’ new. Mix things up. Experimentation’s good for the soul, or so I’ve heard.”

Bo laughs. Loud, deep, and rude. Bo leans in—inches from his face now. Toothpick twitching at the corner of his mouth. He reaches up and gives Remmick’s collar a small tug, not enough to hurt—just enough to make the vampire stiffen.

“Careful, sweetheart. Ya flirt like a man who’s never been kissed and dunno know if he wants to be.”

Remmick bares his teeth—half smile, half threat. “And ye talk like a man who’s compensatin’ for the fact he’s never been loved.”

The air crackles. Bo’s smile falters. Remmick realizes he said something he shouldn’t have. And then Bo takes a step back, flicking his toothpick to the floor and crushing it beneath his heel. “Well. Guess we’re both tragic lil’ sons of bitches, huh?”

He turns and walks away, whistling a low, mocking tune. Remmick stays still. Eyes narrowed. Lips pressed tight. He then scoffs and walks away. “Feckin’ bastard.”

They don’t fight after that. They don’t kiss either. But later that night, Bo leaves a beer with some blood in it on the windowsill of Remmick’s room. And Remmick drinks it. The next morning, someone’s taken Bo’s toothpick stash and replaced them with carved little sticks that smell like peat smoke and mint.

Neither of them says a word about it. They won’t talk about it again.

The not flirty one:

Bo’s working on something under the stairs, wrench in hand, sweat staining the back of his neck. It’s quiet except for the occasional clang of metal and the low grumble of country radio playing through a dusty old speaker. Then comes the sound of worn boots on the tile. Remmick rounds the corner like a bad memory, dragging the smell of cold rain and smoke behind him. “Ye fix things with that wrench, or just hit ‘em ‘til they cry?”

Bo doesn’t look up. “Why don’t ya go crawl back into whatever coffin you slithered out of, eh?”

Remmick *clicks his tongue* : “I was walking past and heard something whinin’. Thought it was a stray dog. Turns out it was just you.”

Bo *rises slowly* : “Ya talkin’ real brave for someone who basically begged us to enter our home.”

Remmick steps forward. “Yeah? And guess what? It worked. Am in, ain’t I?”

They stand eye to eye—tense, bristling. No heat. Just that cold disgust that settles between two predators who know they’ll never see each other as anything but vermin.

Bo’s knuckles go white around the wrench.

Remmick’s jaw ticks once, twice.

Then…

“Say one more thing, bloodsucker.”

Remmick *smirks* : “Fix yer damn radio. It’s flatter than yer accent.”

Bo lunges. The wrench swings, but Remmick’s already stepped back, not even flinching. Security’s fast, dragging them apart before anything truly violent happens.

A few moments later:

Remmick enters the garage. The stench of gasoline, motor oil, and arrogance hits him like a wall. Bo’s crouched under the hood of a half-gutted car, sleeves rolled up, jaw set like he’s chewing on a grudge.

He doesn’t even look up when he speaks. “Fuck off.”

Remmick stops at the doorway and looks around with a mocking grin. “If I wanted the smell of piss and desperation, I’d have walked into a slaughterhouse.”

Bo stands up slowly. Wipes his hands on a rag. The look he gives Remmick is pure venom.“Y’know, I’ve dealt with my fair share of freaks. Cannibal clowns, killers, criminal masterminds, even one that thought he was a dog. But ya? Truth is, ya look like a hitchhiker who never made it past the first bar fight. Or a wet kitten on the side of the road beggin’ to be picked up.”

Remmick chuckles. “At least I didn’t play god with hot glue and dead wax figures. Ye preserved people like fruit, Sinclair. But yer the one that’s rotten.”

Bo snaps. “Keep talkin’, bloodsucker. See how long those teeth stay in your skull.”

Remmick *his fingers growing* : “Try it. I haven’t had Southern blood in years. Might be nice to taste somethin’ stupid again.”

They fought. They kissed. (Oops. Not the flirty version. 🤣)

Ghostface Eddie Munson

Eddie kicks open the door wearing the Ghostface robe like it’s a rock star cape, his combat boots scuffed and prideful. The mask is up, hanging on the side of his head. He stops cold when he sees Remmick lounging on the couch, muddy boots on the table.

He hops over the back of the couch to sit next to Remmick like they’ve known each other for years.

They trade quips for a while, Eddie animated and twitchy, Remmick calm and sardonic. But then Eddie watches him more closely, notices the weariness in the vampire’s eyes, the way his hands shake a little when he thinks no one’s looking.

Eddie : “Hey, man. You okay?”

Remmick *shrugs* : “I’ve buried more years than you’ve had birthdays. Just remembered that today is my wife’s death anniversary.”

Eddie *winces* : “Damn. That sucks.”

Remmick huffs a humourless laugh. Eddie doesn’t press. He just sits there…lost in thought.

Remmick then asks: “Ye ever stabbed someone just to see if you still felt somethin’, lil’ lad?”

Eddie *nods* : “…Yeah. Kinda wish I hadn’t.”

They stay silent after that…until Eddie suddenly has an idea and grins at him.

“I’ve got an idea to cheer you up. Come on.”

Remmick hesitates for a second before following the young man. They end up in the boy’s bedroom. Eddie’s Ghostface robe is tied around his waist like an apron, and he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed with his beloved electric guitar in hand. Remmick watches, half-interested, boots kicked off and long fingers wrapped around a mug of something he’s pretending isn’t blood-thinned whiskey.

Eddie *grins* : “Alright, grandpa, first lesson. Now here—hold this.”

He shoves the guitar into Remmick’s lap. The vampire stares at it like someone just handed him a chainsaw dressed in chrome. Eddie positions Remmick’s fingers on the frets.

Eddie : “Okay, now hit this—muted strumming. Like you’re angry, but cool about it.”

Remmick tries. It’s awful. Tinny and off-tempo. Eddie doubles over in laughter.

Eddie : “You play like a cryptkeeper with arthritis!”

Remmick *deadpan* : “And you dress like a funeral curtain.”

They both burst out laughing.

But Remmick eventually keeps trying. Eddie helps and tells him how to handle the guitar. And after a while, he gets it. It is definitely more complicated than the banjo—but he still manages to learn. Step by step.

Eddie *smiles* : “Hey! Here we go. You’re getting the hang of it.”

Remmick can’t help but smile too. He forgot how it felt to…learn something new.

…

The next day, Eddie walks in to find Remmick seated by the window with an old, warped banjo on his knee. Remmick strums once—soft and eerie.

Remmick: “Your turn.”

Eddie: “…What the hell is that?”

Remmick: “This, me loud lil’ blade boy, is a banjo. And yer ‘bout to learn how to play it.”

Eddie takes it skeptically. Remmick places his hands carefully.

Remmick: “It’s a wee bit different from the guitar, but am sure ye’ll learn to master it soon enough.”

Eddie listens as Remmick starts teaching him. By the end of the hour, he’s strumming clumsily and humming too loud, but it works. They don’t talk about it again—but they leave their instruments in the same corner. Banjo leaned against the amp. Guitar resting on the dusty old chair. And sometimes, late at night, one of them picks up the other’s instrument and plays. Remmick might not have succeeded in making his family or communicating with his ancestors. But he did succeed in passing down a legacy with his music. And maybe…that was enough.

[hexbimbo]

Dbd HC’s | Random Killer Headcanons.

Killers 🔪🩸

Evan MacMillian

Grew up in Cali, Wisconsin, or Oregon. Pick your choice.

Would’ve been an industrial pioneer. If shit worked out, he could’ve been the DBD version of Jimmy Carter.

Took care of baby animals until his Dad found out.

Max Thompson Jr

Best friends with Philip. They just drink and admire buildings.

“Yuuuuup. My old man built a two story backin’ with all the fixings. The chimneys made outta re-enforced galvanized square steel.”

Pig meat is his favorite meat. Pork chops, bacon, collard greens cooked in the grease.

Philip Oromo

Head over heels for Sally.

These two the iconic elderly couple that sit on the porch all day holding hands.

He loves lemonade.

Doesn’t see the appeal of cologne. Prefers natural, soap scent.

Sally Smithson

Wanted two or three kids with her husband.

Probably would follow trad wife TikTok’s .

Knows really weird cleaning tips.

“A snails slime is a really good glue alternative!”

Michael Myers

Sometimes I get autism vibes and sometimes I don’t?

Has to wear a jumpsuit or his skin feels loose.

Gets lost in his own head, enjoys spacing out

Loves eating with plastic utensils, not that the hospital staff would give him metal forks or knifes anyway.

Lisa Sherwood

Would’ve been a Mikaela Reid if she wasn’t kidnapped.

Only killer who lives in the killer shack. Curls up in the warmth of the basement.

Snacks on snail shells around the swap.

Herman Carter

Loves and Hates Freud.

Low key kinda believes homosexuality and being trans can be cured :/

Weirdly, not from like a bigot perspective? More like a psycho brain doctor who wants to experiment on the brain to expand his research perspective.

gives gay man vibes tbh tho hates everyone equally.

Anna

Doesn’t understand human interaction. Can’t fathom romance, libido, or platonic attraction outside of a child-parent bond.

Studied animals. If she could read and write like Momma, she’d write texts on texts on the animal kingdom.

Enjoys the hunt but also respects.2 nature. Never kills to much of one population (unless a nuisance).

Bubba Sawyer

Like, a hillbilly version of Hannibal Lectors cooking hobby. Sloppy, rough home-cooking.

Makes his own sausages with the perfect amount of seasoning.

Gets nervous without his family. Never went out without a family member. Feels too exposed with out someone to rely on.

Freddy Krueger

Kinda just there. Killers are always surprised to see him about. “Oh damn. You’re still here???”

Likes music from the 70s and 80s. LIVES for Johnny cash.

No, he does not enjoy Ring of Fire anymore.

Amanda Young

When she was a junkie, she was a MEAN junkie. Always jonesing out on a street corner or picking fights with her boyfriend.

Red is her favorite color.

The jigsaw puppet brings her strange comfort. Takes good care of designing them, setting them up, and painting them.

Jeffery Hawk

Every time of addict and nearly every type of mental disorder under the belt. Eating, personality, anxiety, depression.

Has not touched a vegetable since he was a teenager.

Def would yell at a fast food worker for putting cheese on his burger.

Rin Yamaoka

She would’ve fucking won life

If she lived her full life, she would’ve broken her family’s curse.

Probably would’ve won a championship, got a doctorate, and become a prime minister.

Frank, Julie, Susie, Joey

Either the most supportive or prejudiced people you’ll ever meet.

I can seem them thinking you’re “radical” if you happen to be queer but that they would bully you for shits and giggles

All bisexual ( except Susie is canon Lesbian I think???I don’t read the comics)

I can’t listen to Sweater Weather without picturing them.

Adiris

Eats the same stuff everyday.

The most loyal and most rewarded killer though she almost always turns down the gifts.

Wants to look like pre-plague self again but relents.

Believes the plague was a sign from her god.

Danny Johnson

Devious. Says the most out of pocket things.

His camera is his most prized possession. Break it, you die. Touch it, You die. Breath on it? Believe or not, you die.

Can’t stand when people talk to him longer than 5 minutes. Doesn’t know why. He just has a hard time paying attention.

Demogorgon

Branches? Nibbled. Hair? Nibbled.

Can’t explain it, won’t explain it. Loves squids.

Lurks in swamp water with Lisa.

Kazan Yamaoka

Best Worst Dad goes too-!

Fr though, was probably a mid dad. Super protective of his blood but didn’t really give a shit about them yknow?

Carried his son to a doctor when he broke him and sent money to the family while on his travels but was never really there.

Was very excited to have a baby though! Most time he spent at home was during his wife’s pregnancy and postpartum.

Caleb Quinn

Had dreams of returning to Ireland when he grew up. Everything seemed so simplistic then.

Made little toys for children as a young adult from nuts and bolts.

Devout Catholic. Prays every night before bed, rests on the Sabbath. Being in the relm has definitely jaded his faith but he’s slowly picking it back up.

Pyramid Head

Given the honor of patrolling the forests for rogue survivors.

Has had survivors smack the booty. #bakeryjustuce✊

Can’t sit still. Always needs to be moving forward. Never backward. Always.

Talbot Grimes

Was really handsome before the blight.

Avid Reader. Gets lost in academia.

Was addicted to opium. Thinks he kicked the habit but would still smoke for “health benefits”

Charlotte and Victor Deshayes

They only speak French ( unfortunately 🤢🤮)

I mentioned Charlotte is a hoarder but Victor does his best to reason with her. Does she really need that coffee tin? She has three already at home.

Victor loves to run and climb. All those years fused with Charlotte made him long for some independence, though he knows Charlotte would be upset hearing that.

Ji-Woon Hak

Probably had an only fans before his career took off.

Def makes thirst traps.

Walks around his home naked (or in boxers during the winter.) Nothing sexual, just likes to air it out a little.

Nemesis T-Type

What’s there to be said

Likes stomping

Likes stompy boots

Hates STARS 🤢🤮😤

Elliot Spencer

Eats oatmeal with no water or milk.

Idk the lore

Probably a tattoo artist who does experimental piercings.

“That brings me pain. But I like the pain. That hurts! But…I like the hurt which-

Painted his nails black before it was hip.

Carmina Mora

Pecks her food.

Enjoys flapping her arms for sensory input.

Uses her ink hands as paint. Anytime not spent on trails is paint time.

Sadako Yamamura

Grunge aesthetic overload ⚠️⚠️⚠️

Bookworm ( reads smut like the morning paper.)

Had really beautiful hair before the fall.

Dredge

Wish it had legs. To run. Closer. Faster. Nearer.

Licks liquids like a cat.

Everyone was sad when Maurice went missing. Eventually, the Entity had to return Maurice because it was affecting literally everyone emotionally. Shrines were made. Truces were drawn up.

Albert Wesker

Autism comfort character. Sue me.

“I understood the sarcasm, Chris. I just didn’t think it was funny.”

Was confused growing up why his larger vocabulary was looked weird or teased by other kids. Don’t all children use the word “ailment” or “peer”?

Burn king. Drops the sickest burns of all time. Never holds back. You, yo momma, and yo sister are done for.

Tarhos Kovács

A good butcher. Knows how to divide and roast many types of meats.

Discipline is key. Conditioned to never take a days rest or sleep more than necessary.

Has panic attacks if required rest or bed ridden. Vittario stumbled into his tent one night and was calmly (screamed) at to exit his quarters.

Makes a mean flower crown.

Adrianna Imai

Tried really hard to make her own manga or manga company. Probably didn’t take off because it was too “corporate-y”

Hates bugs. Will be happy the day they go extinct.

Travels to Japan all the time for vacations and business ventures.

HUX-A7-13 and Xenomorph

A romance has begun.

Enemies to friends to slow burn lovers to enemies back to lovers and-

HUX was so ashamed- how could he develop humanoid feelings for something of organic nature?! Even with its…claws and…hatred for humans…ERROR❤️❤️❤️

Tries to court Xeno the best it can but it doesn’t quite get English or gestures.

“I have procured two human spinal fluids for your consumption. Does this please you?”

Xeno frustrated that the pink metal thing is always near. You’d think nearly tearing it apart the first 10 times would make it go away!

Charles Lee Ray

Him and his wife are in paradise.

Lowkey living it up. They’ve got a home, food, and all the murders to their hearts content.

Tiff loves to bake and cook in her spare time.

Once asked to be returned to his human form. Was denied.

Unknown

Has the best drip.

Major troll. You’ll be pissing on the outskirts of the survivor camp and hear…CRACK 🦴 somewhere in the bushes.

Collects skins. Try’s (and fails) to fit into skins of smaller animals.

Vecna

So mad he’s here lol

Entity nerfed him to hell.

Hates the smell mead and fun.

[scifibabee]

hey fam, welcome to the September round up of all my favorite fics i read this month!!

as a reminder: the ingredients for a five star rating typically (but not always!!) include some combination of a.) believable characterizations of both Hannibal and Will, b.) compelling plot and/or character arcs, and c.) high quality smut.

that being said, my judgment of the aforementioned ingredients is powered almost exclusively by vibes and as such, is incredibly subjective.

you can find past recs below:

February March April May June July August

and if you have any recs of your own for me, PLEASE SHARE.

without further ado, let's go!

Marriage of Inconvenience by FragileTeacup

Word Count: 3563 Summary: When Will Graham hears that Hannibal Lecter has been threatened with deportation, he's far more dismayed than he ever thought he would be. But a flippant suggestion from Brian Zeller gives him an idea...

GREEN CARD FAKE MARRIAGE YES PLEASE.

Nakama by FragileTeacup

Word Count: 55656 Summary: Hannibal Lecter is handsome, clever, rich, Omegan... and quite oblivious to the fact that he is hopelessly in love with his brusque Alpha mentor, Will. Will Graham has always looked out for Hannibal, occasionally despairing of his young protégé's spoiled nature but valuing his companionship just the same. They are the best of friends. But when Hannibal finds himself in the grip of a late first heat, both men are forced to confront feelings which neither are prepared for... Nakama, a Regency A/B/O romance based on Emma by Jane Austen. Featuring beautiful art by the wonderful beatricenius!

I really enjoyed reading this, but also I love omega Hannibal and the angst in this was just *chefs kiss*

Peaches and Cream by The_Gemini_Dragon

Word Count: 5757 Summary: Hannibal picks up one of the jars, turning it over in his hands. He hasn't expected Will to can his own food. He pops the lid open, and knows immediately what it is. A sharp, sweet scent reaches his nose, as well as a whiff of alcohol.He dips his fingers into the jar and brings the peach slice to his mouth.

Drunk Hannibal really scratches an itch in my brain, especially when it leads to excellent sex :))))

Time Reversed by teacupsandtime

Word Count: 25,474 Summary: Hannibal and Will traverse an unexpected intimate development.

Heads up, this is mpreg. But it was very sweet and tender and made me very happy!

Depraved by sourweather

Word Count: 5891 Summary: Will was raised to think that certain things were wrong. Dirty, shameful. Even years later, there are certain lines that he can't seem to cross.For example, he's never been able to handle the idea of anything going in his ass.

y'all wanted to know what some of my most re-read fics are, this is certainly one of them LOL

shame by YouAreMyDesign

Word Count: 3240 Summary: Hannibal smiles, and goes to the contacts in Will's phone. Under the name 'Daddy', his phone has apparently grouped two phone numbers. The first is Hannibal's cell. The second has a Louisiana area code.

*fans self* hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha obsessed.

spider by YouAreMyDesign

Word Count: 3991 Summary: Hannibal likes his kills clean. Will likes them messy.

beware the tags, heavy on the "dead dove do not eat" but wow this was beyond enjoyable! felt very in character for them!

Sweet Tooth by HigherMagic

Word Count: 81017 Summary: He has prepared for this, of course. No self-respecting Omega of his stature and skill would deign to let themselves be taken by surprise. Although, again, he has not expected his final heat to approach for some time, it is one of those occurrences people prepare for like Doomsday. He has plans, and bags packed, and knows what he will need to do, to make sure he makes it through the ordeal with minimal discomfort. The first step will be to hunt, to stock his fridge and his stores so he will not go hungry. The second step will be to find a suitable companion.

another one that i've reread several times, whoops.

Look, Mother! The Sheep Have Devoured the Wolves! by HigherMagic

Word Count: 102934 Summary: Hannibal and Bedelia are married, but unable to have children. At Margot's insistence, Hannibal agrees to meet the Omega that was a surrogate for her and Alana. Will is rough-edged, unrefined, and everything Hannibal shouldn't desire. This arrangement promises to be clean, and simple. Of course, nothing concerning Will Graham is ever simple.

THIS WAS SO GOOD. not gonna lie, almost didn't pick it up because of Hannibal being married to Bedelia, but it works!!!

Love in the time of cannibals by ToxicWitchling

Word Count: 69658 Summary: Franklyn has noticed Dr Lecter's favoritism with another patient. It started small; frequent appointments, hushed conversations and light touches. However, Franklyn draws the line at the recent extravagant gifts the Doctor seems to be bestowing on a scruffy fisherman from Wolf Trap. He realizes he may be more interested in the good Doctor than he first knew and begins to find out as much as possible about this Will Graham, if not to stop him toying with the Doctor's affections, then to learn where the attractions lies and steal it for himself.AKA. Franklyn notices Will is a sugar baby before Will does, gets jealous, and wants that lifestyle.

amazing. loved. love.

act on it by acheforhim

Word Count: 9142 Summary: “I work a lot. Don’t really have the time to find an alpha who won’t look down on me for…” “For wanting to be an omega?” “Basically, yeah.” — Will is lonely and his long-distance fuckbuddy encourages him to pursue Hannibal.

AHHH THIS WAS SO FUCKING HOT WHAT THE HELL. I HAD TO TAKE A BREAK TO MAKE SURE I WAS BREATHING.

An Ounce of Wit by Winddrag0n

Word Count: 69420 Summary: “It’s heavier than I expected. Anyways, here.” She walks in front of Will, and in her hands she is holding a long, furry snake. It’s white on the bottom, the top a dirty grey, with dark, blurry rosettes sprinkled along its length. “Where did you get that?” Will asks quietly, his brain rejecting the fact that it feels like a part of him.“It’s attached to your ass, dude. You have a fucking tail.”--AKA a modern magical AU where the entire point is to turn Will Graham into a catboy.

I didn't expect to like catboy Will Graham and then I read this and it was actually really well done!

Wildfire by Winddrag0n

Word Count: 4266 Summary: “I’m so sick of this,” Will bites out. “All your bullshit. Whatever this stupid fucking game we’re playing is.” He approaches Hannibal, palms open, showing he is unarmed. “You manipulate me for the better part of a year, send me to prison, and when I finally embrace this ‘inner darkness’ you’re always on about, you know what happens?” He jabs a finger out, pressing it harshly into Hannibal’s chest. “You don’t even have the fucking decency to die.” Will finds himself at a rave, and emerges a person with far less patience than before.

yeah, i have no words. so fucking good.

Still With Me by Winddrag0n

Word Count: 4271 Summary: There is, inexplicably, a coat check, which Will uses. He does not pocket the ticket, simply leaves it on a stool near the door, knowing Hannibal will grab it for him. While Hannibal is fast and assured in his movements, this is Will’s territory, and he easily slips a safe distance away with plenty of time to see Hannibal’s entrance. He catches the man in question putting the paper safely away with a small shake of his head, and then he’s looking up, taking in the room around him. A shiver runs down Will’s spine, because he did not realize Hannibal would actually make an effort to blend in. His hair holds no treatment, falling softly across his forehead, and he is dressed in dark grey slacks with a matching black button-up, undone partway down his chest. Most of all, in his eyes, where Will had expected to see some form of rejection, he only sees curiosity.Will turns away, towards the main floor. This point of this was to let go, not dwell on things, and he closes his eyes and lets it happen. Will makes a habit of going out to clubs, and one night Hannibal follows.

hey if you enjoyed my public sex prompt for kinktober, this might be a fun one!

3y3s by Winddrag0n

Word Count: 4866 Summary: Pain, bright and wide across his face as Will feels his head jerk to the side. It’s only when he turns back, sees the cold look in Hannibal’s eyes as he pulls his hand back, that he realizes Hannibal has just slapped him. “I will not apologize,” he says, words clipped. “You were out of line.”“Good,” Will grins, an electric energy shooting through his veins, “because I’m not going to apologize for this either.” He lunges forward, uses fists where the other man had used his open hand, and punches Hannibal square in the jaw. Trouble in paradise.

fighting as sex and sex as fighting?? *drools*

let's hate what our love makes us do by hannigramized

Word Count: 22250 Summary: Hannibal Lecter's patient, Franklyn Froideveaux, has been making unwanted advances towards Hannibal. Hannibal enlists the help of Will Graham to get Franklyn to back off. And because he may be kind of in love with Will. Takes place during Season 1, mostly Episodes Sorbet&Fromage

Fake dating is the best kind of dating! I love when they're oblivious and don't realize that they're actually in love.

Single All the Way by venus_in_bloom

Word Count: 34740 Summary: Will Graham has everything; a successful career, a loving father, a stable job. All he is missing is someone to share it with. When his dad insists he brings someone special, all thoughts go to his friend and weekly dinner companion Hannibal Lecter. A plan is hatched when Hannibal proposes that Will introduces him as his partner. Can visiting his roots help Will and Hannibal to finally take the leap and lay some roots of their own? Can Will resist the elusive doctor’s charms? Does he really want to? Inspired by the Netflix movie, Single All the Way!

Fluffy, cozy holiday fic that was actually perfect.

aaaaaand that's a wrap for September!!! have fun babes <3

[typinggently]

I was thinking to myself "I wonder whether Theo would try to babytrap Boris" - because, you know. He's very possessive and jealous, a move like that wouldn't be that surprising. Considering we know that Boris might have children of his own (if we choose to believe him) that he gives MAYBE a vague fuck about (not enough to know their names though), he'd have to let himself be babytrapped, of course. However, I truly don't think Theo likes children all that much, either? He doesn't come across as the type. If we add his general discomfort around (most) women to that, I think that even if he suddenly found himself presented with a recently orphaned young girl, his mind wouldn't jump to the Lestat/Hannibal conclusion of "wow, perfect set up to guilt trip my gorgeous dark-haired boyfriend into staying in this toxic relationship!"

Anyhow, I was thinking about this for a while before I realised that Theo literally did that. With Popchik. It's the first thing he does when they meet again. And I'm still not entirely sure why - he's clearly still wary around Boris, yet he packs him up and brings him to meet their senior citizen dog. I'm tempted to think that this is a moment in the book where Theo-the-narrator is blurring things a little, or not letting himself admit how he felt, seeing Boris again. The feelings he has for Boris are always somewhat bittersweet, which seems to impact the narration at times. That (him at the time genuinely being happy to see Boris, despite not wanting to admit it to himself at the time OR looking back) would explain him insisting on doing something that he knows would make Boris very happy. However, I do think his vibes must've been off all night because Boris clearly thinks he's going to get axe murdered. But no. Popchik babytrap.

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Forgive These Bones I'm Hiding (Part 2 of 2)

Pairing: Serial Killer Marcus Pike x f!Reader (Reader is a police officer with the nickname “Cricket”)

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 13.8k

Warnings: This is a Spoooooooky fic for Halloween season. Please heed the warnings; this is not darkfic, per se, but it explores dark themes and contains elements of suspense and horror. The following subjects are mentioned in the context of cases that the reader deals with. I do not go into explicit detail about any of these themes and any violence is implied rather than seen, but please heed the warnings for: child abuse, domestic abuse, alcoholism, drunk driving, implied sexual assault, suicide, drug use, drug overdoses. Whew. Okay, for the story itself, please be warned that there is: derogatory language (someone calls reader a “bitch”), murders, body horror (corpses!), Marcus Pike being a bit unsettling, Very Enthusiastic Pussy Eating, unprotected PIV sex (this is fiction! use protection and also maybe don't fuck a serial killer!)

Summary: When five paintings are stolen from their frames, an unusual crime for your small-town precinct in Hannibal, Missouri, it's easy for you to project your insecurities about being a female police officer in a tiny, Midwest town onto the handsome FBI Agent from Washington who arrives to help with the case. But as your disposition--and the solid walls you've built around yourself--begin to soften, you quickly find you have bigger problems than the charming man you can't help but develop feelings for. One by one, bodies are starting to pile up. Bodies that all seem to share one connection… You.

Additional A/N: OKAY, so things definitely pick up in this chapter! Please heed the warnings, as Cricket’s past cases feature in a big way. There are more corpses, more unsettling!Marcus, and, of course, more MURDER. Thank you to @littlebirdsbookshelf for being an amazingly supportive human, beta reader, and crime consultant! Thanks for making sure my self-indulgent fanfiction always has its roots in reality!! They can’t fuck if I can’t make it make sense first. PLEASE check out our Playlist for all the spoopy Midwest Gothic vibes. The title of this fic itself comes from Family Tree by Ethel Cain, which is of course on the song list!

Masterlist | Part 1

The next morning starts with a headache.

"Wha'th'fuuuuck," you croak. You’re so disoriented that it takes you a few moments to realize your alarm is going off. 

You fumble for it, surprised to find it on the charger. You don't remember plugging it in. For that matter, you don't really remember getting home last night. Did… Did Marcus…?

Confusion and dread cut through the hangover, and you switch on the lamp as you sit up in bed. 

You're still in your clothes from last night, but your boots are untied and placed neatly on the floor next to the foot of the bed. 

You look around your bedroom, looking for more clues as to how you got here. There's a glass of water on your nightstand, and upon further inspection, two ibuprofen next to it.

You rifle around beside it looking for a note, but you come up empty-handed. It doesn't really matter; you can pretty much guess what happened: You got so wasted that Marcus Pike had to help you get home. He took off your boots, but clearly didn't feel comfortable taking off the rest of your clothes. He made sure your phone was on the charger and even went so far as to anticipate your need for water and pain medicine in the morning. 

Something still feels off, though. Just call it a gut feeling, an instinct, some vestigial part of your hindbrain that's telling you something.

Maybe you forgot your purse…?

But no, when you finally drag yourself out of bed to check the entryway, your purse is there, hanging on its usual hook. 

Shaking your head (probably a mistake, going by the ache that shoots through it when you do), you chalk up the odd feeling to the hangover. You don't remember the last time you had that much to drink, after all. 

You feel slightly better after taking a shower and downing another glass of water, but your stomach still roils and your head still hurts as you throw on your uniform. You're thankful for the dark sunglasses that come with it when you step outside your house. 

Fuck. Why did you drink so much?

You pull into the station about thirty minutes late, which isn't that bad, considering how many glasses of whiskey you had. How many, exactly? You lost count after three, but you know there were more. You were upset about Bobby and unsure of whether you even made a difference in this town and… wait, did you cry last night? In front of Marcus? An image flashes through your mind: Your head buried in the crook of his neck. A wet patch on his white dress shirt from your tears.

Oh, fuck. 

The man in question gives you one of those characteristic grins when you enter, still wearing your sunglasses. 

"Moving a little slow today, are we?" Marcus asks playfully. 

"Jesus fuck," you murmur, collapsing into your chair with a sigh. "I guess so."

"I've never seen a woman put away that much whiskey," he comments with a wink in your direction.

"And you never will again," you groan. "I'm swearing off the stuff for life."

"I don't blame you."

"Jesus, I don't even remember what happened last night. I woke up this morning with no memory of how I got there."

Marcus laughs. "You don't?"

"I barely remember what the hell we talked about. Oh, God–was I an ass? Would you tell me if I made an ass of myself?"

"You didn't make an ass of yourself," Marcus promises.

"I feel like I got all maudlin about the job," you say, frowning.

"You did, a bit."

"Sorry if the evening was a sob-fest."

"I think you're allowed to be upset after finding Bobby Pearson like that."

Cold dread shoots down your spine. Heart in your throat, you stare at Marcus open-mouthed.  

"Did… Did I tell you that last night?"

"Didn't need to." He holds up a copy of the Hannibal Courier-Post with a grim expression. Oh. Right. There it is, right on the front page, accompanied by a picture of you deep in conversation with the Coroner. 

You shake your head, laughing slightly. "Jesus, guess I really am out of it this morning."

"You up for a ride?" Marcus suddenly asks.

"Huh?"

"To the St. Louis field office," he explains. "I texted you yesterday about forensics, remember?"

"Shit, that's right! I'm–I'm sorry–"

"Don't be. There was a lot going on," Marcus insists. "But they've got some stuff for us to look over. Wanna go for a little drive?"

"Only if it's you who's doing the driving," you say. 

"Done."

"And if we stop for coffee."

"You drive a hard bargain, but I accept."

An hour later, with a latte in your hand and your head tipped against the cool glass of the passenger-side window, the fog of your hangover begins to clear and you start to feel much better. The sun glints off of the pavement of State Road 61 as Marcus speeds along in the left lane on the way down to the city. Everyone steers clear of what’s obviously an unmarked police car, and like all officers before him, Marcus takes full advantage. The tall grass next to the road blurs as you stare out over endless fields, dotted with the occasional farmhouse. The day is crisp; one of those beautiful fall days where the temperature stays low even though there’s not a cloud in the sky. If you squint your eyes, you can pretend you’re flying.

At the Field Office, Marcus breezes through security with his badge and his characteristic toothy grin. After you’re presented with a visitor’s badge, the two of you walk down the stairs to the basement, and down a dimly lit hall until you reach a door that reads “Forensics - Art Crimes.”

"Basement, really?" you ask, wrinkling your nose.

"Windows are bad for the degradation of paint," Marcus points out. Then, with a grin, he adds, "Plus, they always give Intelligence the prime real estate."

When he opens the door, your face brightens. Unlike any forensics department you've been in previously, this one is full of… well, art. You aren't sure why that surprises you, but Marcus chuckles as you gaze, open-mouthed, at the selection.

"It's like our own little secret museum, huh?" he says, eyes twinkling.

"Okay, I think I get why you like your job now," you say quietly as you examine what looks like an ancient Greek vase on one of the tables. 

"Is that…"

"Fake," one of the lab workers says with a shrug. "Art museum still purchased it for two mil, though. Oops, right?"

"Oh. Is most of this stuff fake, then?" you ask.

"Nah. This one's a genuine Picasso that was recovered from the black market," the woman says, waving her hand at a colorful painting leaning against the wall. "We're in the middle of returning it to the rightful owners."

"Holy shit," you breathe. 

"New to art crimes?" the woman asks.

"Not a lot of paintings to steal in Hannibal," you say with a smirk.

"Ah, so you're Rockwell.”

“No, I’m–oh. Haha, I get it.”

“Damon’s been taking the lead on that one. His office is there in the back; he’s expecting you two.”

Marcus greets Damon like an old friend while you stand by his side doing your best to look ‘official.’ Something about being here–in the FBI building–makes you feel like a country-bumpkin of a cop. Maybe it's just the ever-present chip on your shoulder (Okay, it’s definitely that.), but the moment makes you feel like you need to fight to take up more space, puffing out your chest and straightening your spine. And when Damon offers his hand for you to shake, you grasp it more firmly than strictly necessary, something you’ve learned over the years is an effective tool to assert yourself as a female officer.

“So you’re the lead detective on the case?” Damon asks as you shake his hand.

“Yessir.”

“Fantastic. Well, I hate to bring you all the way down here to deliver bad news, but running the prints didn’t give us any matches.”

Your heart sinks. 

"But," the agent emphasizes, "your team did excellent work canvassing the area around the museum for CCTV footage, and we got some hits at one am at a few different places. Compiled it in a presentation for ya, if you wanna take a look."

At your eagerness nod, Damon turns his second monitor around to face you.

"So, first hit is at Main Street Bed and Breakfast," he explains as a grainy, black and white, blurry photo appears on the screen. Hard to ID, but it looks like we've got got male, maybe six foot, two-thirty, on foot heading away from the museum, which would be just across the street over here–" he points at the corner of the screen. 

"Then the same individual shows up walking past Java Jive–" another grainy photo, not much clearer than the first, " –and then he turns down the alleyway behind the Dutch Country General Store, and gets into a white Pontiac Grand Am."

"He puts something in the backseat," you exclaim, pointing at the blurry shape.

"Mmhmm, something skinny and long," Damon says.

"...Like five rolled-up canvases," you offer, raising your eyebrows.

"It's not a lot to go on, but this is the only individual we saw out walking that night that didn't originate from any of the establishments we analyzed."

You watch the series of images, squinting as if it will help with the pixelation. The license plate, of course, is completely illegible as the car drives away.

"We've got people analyzing the plate, but best they can do is determine that the first letter is either a 'C' or an 'O.'"

"Better than nothing," you concede.

"Obviously, a Grand Am is gonna be a pretty common car in the area, but it's somewhere to start. We'll start pulling state records, and we'll be in touch if we–"

The loud ringing of your work phone interrupts Damon, and you wince apologetically as you pull it out and see 'SGT HUBBARD' on the caller ID.

"Hullo," you chirp amiably.

"Hey," Hubbard says on the other end. "We've got a body."

You straighten with a sharp intake of breath. Two deaths in Hannibal in less than a week? You don't think you've ever seen anything like it. Frowning, you duck out of Damon’s office and walk several paces away.

“I’m in St. Louis for the Rockwell case, but I’m finishing up,” you tell him. “I can be there in an hour and a half.”

“See that it’s quicker.”

You roll your eyes, mutter a “Yessir,” and end the call.

“Pike,” you bark, causing Marcus to look up with those pretty, soulful eyes of his. “We gotta go. There’s a case back in Hannibal that needs my attention.”

“Yes ma’am.” He gives you that wide, toothy smile again, and you remember how last night it had felt… unnerving to you. Like there was something lurking behind that earnest grin that no one else knew about. You shake your head. Jesus, you had way too much to drink last night. Get a grip, Cricket.

Lights on and sirens blaring, you zip past farms and woodlands. The official GPS time says one hour and forty-nine minutes, but you can do way better than that. Other vehicles automatically part for you, leaving them all behind in a blur of red and blue. Tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration and hands on ten-and-two, you think this might be the best part of the job. The part where you’re flying. 

You drop Marcus off at the Station with your apologies and race to the address Hubbard gave you.

The coroner’s office and a local news van are already there when you arrive, and the Sergeant looks disapprovingly in your direction, as if you could have shortened the drive from St. Louis through sheer force of will. 

“What is it?”

“Harold Dalton, 54. Apparent suicide.”

“What? What the hell is in the water that–”

“Hush. Keep your voice down. Right now, we’re waiting on State Police to come help with this one–there was a firearm involved.”

“He shot himself?”

Hubbard’s mouth is a thin line as he nods grimly. “Not a pretty sight.”

“Dalton…” you murmur to yourself. “Why do I know that name?”

“He’s got some priors,” Hubbard says. “Possession, some assault charges that were dropped, and–”

“Child neglect,” you whisper, as the realization hits you. “Oliver Dalton.”

“Shit, yeah,” the Sergeant says, realizing the connection at the same time. “God, how many years ago was–”

“Five,” you answer automatically. 

“That would make Oliver…”

“Sixteen.”

“Mm,” Hubbard grunts. “Ever check in on him?”

“He’s bounced around from home to home,” you answer, trying to keep the emotion and bitterness out of your voice. “Doesn’t last in one place for very long.”

“It’s a fucked up thing for a kid to go through,” Hubbard mumbles. “Can’t imagine he’s all that well-adjusted.”

The two of you stand in silence on the run-down, rotting porch. What a fucking shithole, you fume, scraping a piece of flaking paint with the toe of your boot. In the distance, you can hear the faint sound of sirens coming closer.

“Know we’re not supposed to say it,” the Sergeant finally says, as the State Police car pulls into the gravel driveway, “but good fucking riddance.”

Dalton. Now that the connection has been made, you can’t believe you didn’t remember immediately. You suppose you have tried your best to put his name–and several others–in a tidy little box in the corner of your mind. It’s easier that way.

Except… Why does it feel as though you were just thinking about him? As soon as you hear it, the pang of familiarity rushes through you, but you can't put your finger on why…

Hubbard is shaking hands with the two state cops that just arrived when your phone pings. You pull it out and glance at the thumbnail. 

“Hope everything’s okay! Talk to you later.”

It’s from Marcus. Something prickles across the back of your neck, and you slide your phone back into your pocket without responding.

“Officers,” you greet the newcomers, forcing a cordial smile and sticking out your hand to shake.

It was just the cold breeze making your hair stand on end. That’s all. 

“Sorry I had to dump you at the station like that this morning.” You tap out the message on your phone as soon as you get back into your squad car.

“It happens, don’t worry I know how it is.”

After a few minutes, Marcus begins typing again. 

“Want to meet up for a drink?”

“Fuck, no. You have any idea how shitty I felt this morning?"

"Noted. How about dinner, then? And some water?"

You pause. Drinks are one thing. But dinner? That could be considered "date" territory if you think about it too much.

You must be silent for too long, because your phone pings again.

“Had something I wanted to ask you about the CCTV sweep.”

It’s an obvious effort to sweeten the deal and get you to say yes, and you know it. You should tell Marcus you’ll discuss it tomorrow at work, pick up some fast food on the way home, and eat it in front of Jeopardy!–alone. 

Instead, you find yourself typing, “Dinner sounds good. Water sounds better. Where were you thinking?”

Marcus begins typing almost immediately. “How’s the Mark Twain Dinette?”

You snort to yourself. “Just as bad as you’re thinking. But Finn’s Food and Spirits is surprisingly edible if you’re looking for local eats.”

“Edible, huh? That’s not really a ringing endorsement, but I try not to go to chain restaurants when I’m traveling, so… let’s do it! :)”

It isn’t until you get into the shower that the reality hits you of how strange it is to be washing off the remains of two very similar cases in as many days. Not just two consecutive deaths–but two suicides, in a town of barely fifteen thousand people. 

And you knew them both. 

What you find most jarring, however, is the difference in your own mood between the two days. Yesterday, the weight of Bobby’s death felt as though it was dragging your body down. Today, though, there’s a weight off your shoulders. A burden you didn’t even realize you were carrying, suddenly gone. Hubbard had said it well, earlier–said what you’ve been thinking the entire day since. 

Good riddance.

You arrive a few minutes before Marcus, so you go in to grab a booth for the two of you–sitting where you can see the door, as you always prefer to do. Being a police officer has left you with some funny habits; it’s actually pretty nice to be able to talk to another person in law enforcement, for once. It isn’t like you go out much with Hubbard, who is both your supervisor and over twenty years your senior. Evan strictly works nights, so you don’t see much of him, either. You’re acquaintances with some of the officers in surrounding towns, but you don’t have much patience for their “I’m a cop” bravado–or even worse, the “Thin Blue Line” stickers on their car windows. 

Marcus seems different, though. Sure, he’s got an air of confidence around him, but you can tell it’s not an act at all. And yet, despite that confidence, there’s a softness to him: something in the upturn of his eyebrows, in the way his lips part when you speak, the way he seems enraptured by your every word–

When the man consuming your thoughts enters, you jump slightly, afraid, for just a moment, that he could read your mind. His expression brightens the moment he sees you, eagerness written all over his face, and you shake yourself.

This is why you can’t let him in.

“Everything go alright today?” Marcus asks amiably as he slides into the booth opposite you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, shaking your head. “Nothing big.”

The lie sits heavy on your chest. He’ll find out tomorrow–along with the rest of Hannibal–when the day’s Courier-Post arrives at the station. It’s just that you don’t want to talk about it, not tonight. 

“Yeah,” you say again. “So what was the thing with CCTV?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Marcus says, taking his eyes off the menu for a moment and giving you a discerning look. “Why don’t we just save work stuff for tomorrow, huh? C’mon, take a break–what’s good here?”

You shrug. “The catfish is usually fresh-caught from the river, if that’s your sort of thing.”

“Is it your thing?” he asks, a glint in his eye.

“I make it a point not to eat anything that was recently pulled from the river.”

Marcus hums in response, scanning the menu again. When the waitress comes by to take your orders, he gets the catfish.

“Country-fried steak,” you say, handing her your menu. 

Silence falls at the table; without reading material or decisions about food to be made, you aren’t sure how to talk to the man opposite you. He intrigues you; he attracts you… he also scares you, just a little. Is it possible to be too disarming? Too earnest? If so, Marcus certainly is, and something about his sincerity… puts you off.

Fuck, when you think about it that way, maybe you’re just an asshole.

“So the CCTV question was just a pretense to lure me here,” you say, raising one eyebrow in challenge.

Marcus holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “I plead the fifth. But I–listen, the truth is, Cricket–I can call you that, right? You, uh, you never gave me your first name.” When you don’t offer an answer, he forges ahead. “I’ve been told I’m forward, and that’s probably accurate, but the truth is, I think you’re one hell of a good looking woman, and I’d love to get to know you better.”

Your stomach flips over at his words. As much as you’d hate to admit it, you’re not immune to flattery, and certainly not coming from such a beautiful man in his own right. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“I find it easy to talk to you,” Marcus continues. “I’m on the road a lot, and it can be… lonely. You don’t know how much of a relief it is to have someone to talk to who gets it, who’s been there, you know?”

You nod thoughtfully, tracing the rim of your water glass. “I do get it. I–I’ve been alone for quite some time, too, and there are few people in Hannibal that I can really sit down and just talk to. I–I guess what I’m saying is, it’s a relief for me, too.”

Marcus reaches slowly across the table and, in a barely-there caress, runs his index finger across the back of your other hand. 

“I–” you say hastily, pulling your hand back and settling it in your lap, instead. “I want to be clear that I’m not in the stage of my life where I’m looking for anything temporary.”

“Me neither,” Marcus says, his eyes burning intensely into yours.

“Anything between us, is, by very nature, temporary,” you point out. “I live here in Hannibal. You’re going back to Washington upon completion of this case. I’m not against seeking mutual relief from loneliness, but I’m just… I’m not sure if I know you well enough to go down that road.”

Marcus’s eyes are full of understanding and acceptance. He draws his hand back and sits back against the booth with a small, wry smile.

“So, what’d’you wanna know?” he drawls, letting the Texan accent slip out in full force.

So… you talk. And talk. 

And talk. 

Your plates have long-since been empty and the ice in your water glass has melted, dripping condensation onto the checkered tablecloth–and you feel as though you’ve been given a glimpse past the toothy smile and confident demeanor, into a deeper, hidden vulnerability underneath. 

“...She–She broke up with you via text message?” you ask, dumbfounded at Marcus’s most recent admission.

“God, when you put it that way, it sounds… way worse than it was, but yeah,” he chuckles. “But honestly, when I look back, the writing was on the wall. I was rushing, she was dragging her feet. There… there wasn’t a future there.”

“Do you do that a lot? Rush, that is?” 

Marcus hums loudly as he seemingly deliberates his answer. “Mmm, I don’t like to see it as rushing.”

“How do you see it?”

“I’m a man who knows what he wants,” he says simply, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours.

It makes you shiver slightly.

“Has that made me hasty, on occasion? Impulsive? Sure. But I don’t see the point in hiding what I am only to be disappointed later. Eventually, I’ll find who matches me beat for beat. Someone who has the same ambitions, the same drive. The same passions.”

His eyes bore into you again, and you swallow. 

“You are forward,” you comment, somewhat breathlessly.

“I know what I want,” Marcus says again–quieter, this time.

“I wish I had that degree of certainty,” you whisper, laughing shakily.

“I think you do. In here,” he says, placing a palm over his heart. “But you second-guess it in favor of what’s up here.” He taps his index finger against his temple. 

“I happen to think humanity in general should obey their brains a little bit more, speaking from experience.”

Marcus laughs loudly, breaking the intense mood that had settled over the table. “I don’t think you’re wrong. But when it stands between you and your desires? Sad,” he comments, pouting his lip slightly.

“Some desires should remain just that–desires, nothing more.” Your voice wavers.

“I respect that,” he says lightly. Signaling to the waitress with a wide, friendly smile, he asks for the check. “But you don’t strike me as a person who indulges most of her desires. You put everything else first, don’t you?”

“Not always,” you object, bristling slightly at the blatant call-out. 

“I’m sure,” he grins as he scribbles a signature on the receipt. “Well, Cricket, I hope I’m wrong. I hope you chase the things you want, that you indulge in the little things that bring you joy, that you live your life not being afraid to say ‘I’m doing this for me.’ After all, I’m seeing such a fleeting moment of your life, aren’t I? A blink of an eye in the scheme of things. You and I are merely ships passing in the night, never to be seen or heard from again.” He stands. “Have a good night, Cricket.” 

And with that, Marcus gives you one last fond smile and disappears through the front doors, leaving you stunned–frozen to your seat as you absorb his speech.

You wake up confused for the second morning in a row.

Bright and loud. Why is it so bright and loud?

This time, the confusion resolves itself quickly as your brain comes back online and you realize that your work phone is ringing again. 

The old-fashioned alarm clock across the room reads 5:23 AM.

“Hullo?” you croak.

“You’re not going to fucking believe this.”

At the sound of the Sergeant’s voice, you switch on your bedside lamp and blink rapidly in the harsh light. 

“What is it?” you ask, trying to sound more awake than you actually are.

"Maisie Fletcher called the station around four saying her husband never made it home from the Waterhole. Evans drove the road from town to their house about a mile south just to take her statement, and found solid evidence of fresh skid marks leading into the river.”

Your heart sinks. The river. 

“Any sign of a vehicle?” you ask, already suspecting you know the answer.

“No.”

You take a deep inhale through your nose and let it out slowly through your mouth. Pulling a body from the Mississippi is miserable, unpleasant drudgery. First, you’ll spend hours directing boat patrols back and forth in a cross-hatch pattern for miles south of the suspected entry point. Then, once you finally find the vehicle, the work to exhume it from the water begins. The fire department will need to be coordinated with, and, depending on the depth of the car, a SCUBA team or a crane. 

“Fletcher…” you repeat, frowning. “Isn’t that–” 

“The domestic disturbance couple, that’s right,” Hubbard confirms. 

You snort. ‘Couple’ is a strong word, in your opinion. The husband, Gavin Fletcher, was single-handedly responsible for half a dozen trips out to their house along the river over the years, but every time you’d asked Maisie–with increasing urgency in your tone–if she’d like to press charges, she had declined. And every time, you’d leave the house with a lead balloon in your stomach. 

You always worried it was a matter of time before the “domestic disturbances” turned ugly. Or worse… fatal. 

And now… he’s in the Mississippi. Maybe. Possibly.

Is it bad if you find yourself hoping he’s at the bottom of the river?

Yes. Yes, it is. 

“Understood,” you sigh into the phone. “Let me throw on my uniform and I’ll meet Evans down at the bank.”

After a long day of standing on the banks of the Mississippi, watching patrol boats pass back and forth in slow, deliberate lines while drizzle slowly seeps its way down into the innermost reaches of your clothing, a vehicle turns up around six pm. You watch as the fire department uses the Jaws of Life to pry open the driver-side door, sending a cascade of muddy water onto the ground. 

It’s difficult to recognize the former person being pulled from the wreckage–even after less than twenty-four hours of being submerged, water can do a fucking number on a body–but a search of the wallet in the back pocket of its jeans confirms the identity of the swollen, bloated corpse that used to belong to Gavin Fletcher. 

Predictably, the task of notifying Maisie Fletcher is handed down to you. 

Your mouth is a thin, tight-lipped line as you drive down the gravel driveway that you wish wasn’t so familiar. You barely have to knock before Maisie is at the door and falling to her knees in a display of grief that you simply can’t find yourself to feel. Try as you might, you can’t force anything–any emotion other than ‘numbness’ onto your face as you deliver the news as gently as you possibly can. 

Maisie, still weeping, agrees to meet you at the morgue tomorrow to officially ID her late husband, and as she shakily rises to her feet, you can’t help but note the not-quite-healed-over bruise on her temple. 

You need a fucking drink. 

Thirty minutes later finds you at the Waterhole nursing a cold beer and an even-colder mood in your still-damp uniform. 

Palmer, ever the charmer, leans into your personal space with all the enthusiasm of someone attempting to disarm a bomb, and mutters, sotto-voce, “You smell like a goddamn fishmonger, Cricket.”

At your deadpan glare, he backs away, hands in the air, and makes a show of cleaning cocktail glasses instead.

You don’t much feel like talking. 

For one–yeah, the lingering smell of river brine–with the barest hint of ‘bloated corpse’ underneath–doesn’t put you in a sociable mood.

But what’s really bothering you is all of those old “domestic disputes” hovering in the forefront of your mind ever since Hubbard said the name ‘Fletcher’ at 5:30 this morning. God, you had all-but-begged her to press charges; in hindsight, you probably sounded insane. And each time, you took her refusal personally–as if it were happening to you, not to her. You’ve worked hard over the years to put that hurt, that anger away in a tiny little box in the corner of your mind, but the death of Gavin Fletcher seems to have released it all over again.

He’s dead, you point out to yourself. There’s no point in resurrecting your demons.

“Back at it, I see?" a slightly amused voice calls out from your periphery, and you close your eyes in exasperation.

You can't do this dance now.

"Marcus," you say with a resolute sigh. 

"Fancy seeing you here," he grins, and slides onto the barstool next to yours. "I'll have the same," he says to Palmer, who nods.

Seated next to you, you can tell exactly when the odor of your uniform hits his nose. He pauses, beer bottle halfway to his lips, and cocks his head in a way that would be comical, had you been in a better mood. His eyebrows pinch together, causing a little crease to appear between them, as he looks at you. 

"Did you�� get dumped in the river earlier?"

You sigh again. "Not exactly. Had a car go into the river last night. Had crews searching all day, and finally found it this evening."

Marcus lets out a low whistle. "Roads must have been slick last night with all the rain," he points out.

"Yeah, exactly," you agree. "Honestly, it's probably worth it to put a feature on hydroplaning in the local paper after the news comes out. Not enough people take it seriously."

"Occupants?"

"Just the one. Male, forties. I can't release any names until tomorrow, though."

"I know," Marcus says, smiling fondly. "So after a day in the rain and the Mississippi mud, you're so ready for a beer that you don't even change out of the wet uniform, huh?"

"Fishmonger," Palmer grunts from the other side of the bar.

"I wasn't going to say it, but…"

"If you two are gonna gang up on a woman drinking, I'll damn well go home and do it alone," you grumble.

"Nonsense," Marcus grins. "If I bought the second round, would that convince you to stay?"

"One," you say, holding up your finger. "You have me for one more drink. Then I'm going home and getting into a hot bath."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawls, a glint in his eye when you mention the bath. "Guess I'll have to get my fill in the span of two beers."

You drain your first bottle and set it down challengingly. 

"...One beer," he amends.

"It's just as well," you tell him. "I'm less than pleasant company tonight."

"Impossible," Marcus promises. "Your company becomes more and more entrancing to me the more I'm graced with it."

"I guess if you can't handle me at my 'smelling like rotten fish,' then…"

"Don't make me beg to 'handle' it."

"Marcus!" You bark out a surprised laugh in spite of yourself. 

"Ha! There it is," he crows triumphantly. 

"Are you trying to cheer me up or piss me off?"

"You looked like you could use the former. Seems as though you already have enough of the latter."

You can't help but chuckle again. Damn him that it's working.

"Is it so wrong to desire the company of a beautiful woman who smells like the bottom of a river?"

"Leaving," you sputter through your stifled laughter, although you make no move to get off of your stool.

"You wound me."

"I'm not the one habitually insulting your smell.”

“If I smelled like that, I’d hope someone would ask why,” Marcus points out with a teasing grin.

"I guess if I had known I'd be doing… this, I would have gone home and showered first."

"Doing… what?" Marcus asks, a flirtatious glint in his expression.

"This. This… dance, this back and forth." You gesture between the two of you.

"This… dance?" he repeats teasingly. "Cricket, if you wanted to dance, all you had to do was say so."

"Do you ever stop?" you laugh, rolling your eyes.

"Of course I do," Marcus answers, sounding affronted. "I'd never push someone if I didn't think my feelings were returned."

You close your eyes and exhale shakily. "You know I do… I do feel the same way, Marcus. And it isn't like I haven't thought about what you said last night–in fact, I've thought of it a lot. But I keep coming back to the fact that I just… I don't want to just scratch an inch. I'm looking for…" 

"Connection?"

"Yes," you say emphatically. "Exactly. Not to be melodramatic, but I'm just too damn old for anything else."

"I feel the same way," Marcus murmurs.

"If you feel the same way, how the hell do you reconcile the fact that we're from two different parts of the country?" 

"I don't know," he says softly. "But I know I can't ignore what I feel for you–the connection I feel between us. I know that's real, don't you?"

You drain the last of your beer and set it down on the counter. 

"Guess that's my time," Marcus chuckles resignedly.

"Walk me to my car," you say quietly. 

Marcus nods, throwing some cash onto the counter and extending his hand to you. "Shall we?"

Not taking your eyes off of his, you gently slip your palm into his own. He walks you to your car, one hand resting perfectly at the small of your back and making the skin there tingle slightly.

“I won’t ask to kiss you,” he announces as you open your door. “But from one passing ship to another, I’ll just say that you look so goddamn beautiful right now under the streetlights.”

You turn carefully around. Marcus’s expression is open and earnest. His lips are parted, his eyebrows upturned as he watches you. He’s made his desires clear, and you… you simply want to bask in that all-consuming attention of his for just a few moments. 

Slowly, achingly slowly, you bring your palm up to lay against his sternum. Your eyes meet–a question in his, an answer in yours. 

Just as unhurriedly, Marcus steps closer. He gently cups your chin in one of his large hands as he tilts his head just slightly and lowers it to meet you. 

His lips are soft when they slowly brush against your mouth. The kiss is sensual, full of longing and barely restrained passion lurking just under the surface. His lips are parted, but he makes no attempt to deepen the kiss; you never feel the careful slip of his tongue into your mouth or the sting of teeth. Despite this, it might be the most sexually charged kiss you’ve ever received. A wave of pure want surges down your spine and into the base of your core and your grip on his shirt tightens to steady yourself as a small, involuntary noise escapes from deep in your chest.

You expect things to escalate from there. You wait for your back to hit the side of your car, to feel the weight of Marcus’s body against you as he pins you against the door. You wait for his hand to grip your hip, his fingertips to dig into the back of your neck as he takes control.

Instead, he pulls back–breathing shakily as he does–and rests his forehead against yours.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have done that,” you laugh breathlessly, thinking of how the hell you were supposed to to work with him now.

“Maybe not,” Marcus chuckles back. “But I don’t regret it. I can’t.”

The orange light from a nearby lamp casts half of his face in shadow, making his features stand out in dark relief: the bow of his upper lip, the angle of his cheekbone, the strength in his brow, the line of his nose… 

He’s the one who looks beautiful, you think. Out loud, you say something else. 

Just one word.

Your name. 

Marcus’s lips part in surprise, eyebrows turning upward as he realizes the gift you’ve given him. He could have used it all along, of course, had probably seen it in the city directory before he’d even met you. 

But he waited for your consent, instead.

And oh, how sweet it sounds when it falls from his lips for the first time like this, his mouth just inches from yours.

“I can’t believe I let you kiss me smelling like this,” you joke, trying to dispel the heavy cloud of tension.

He laughs quietly, and murmurs your name again, his thumb brushing delicately back and forth against your cheekbone. “Go home,” he whispers. “Take that bath. It’s late.”

You nod, swallowing thickly. “See you tomorrow.”

Marcus steps back, giving you a fond, warm smile. “Sure will.”

Christ, what have you done?

The thought doesn’t hit you until the wee hours of the morning, when you bolt upright in bed before your alarm and realize that you’re going to have to continue working alongside Marcus for the foreseeable future. 

You don’t know him, not really; you don’t know how he’ll act in a professional setting after a very unprofessional moment between the two of you. He brings out a softness in you that you don’t recognize, a deep yearning at the very core of you that had been shoved down and suppressed for years. Vulnerability is punished in your line of work, especially as a woman, and you’ve gotten so well-practiced at stamping out any trait that could be perceived as weakness that you, unknowingly, eradicated it from your personal life as well.

How long has it been since you’ve let someone in?

How long have you denied yourself the comfort of another’s touch?

Damn him.

He’s brought all of these feelings to the surface, and now you have to worry about not only his reaction to seeing you at work today, but yours as well. 

Will you be able to hide the way your body seems to gravitate toward him? Can you keep your face from betraying you? 

Will he be able to remain aloof and businesslike, or will the mask drop–showing everyone the hunger in his eyes? 

You shudder slightly. Please, let the day go smoothly. 

As it turns out, all your nerves were misplaced. There’s no awkward reunion, no shy smiles or stilted small talk. 

“They ID’ed the guy!” Marcus exclaims loudly as you walk into the bullpen. 

The outburst from the typically softspoken man surprises you so much that you nearly drop your coffee.

“What?” 

“Your Norman Rockwell thief! His name is Reuben Porter, and he lives in Moberly.”

A slow smile spreads across your face. “No way.”

Marcus grins back, dimple on full display. “Fancy a drive to the field office today?”

“Hell yes. Gotta be sooner than later, though,” you add, thinking of Maisie Fletcher. “I’ve got a meeting at three.”

“Yes ma’am,” he smirks. “Shouldn’t take too long. They’ll share all of their files, and you and your precinct can be the ones to make the arrest.”

“Wait… you’re not doing that?”

“Told you it was still your case,” he points out. “Yeah, before you know it, I’ll be out of your hair and on a plane back to D.C.”

“What a relief,” you joke, but the words hardly have any bite to them. Back to D.C.? Part of you wants to have your fill of him first; that kiss last night only left you craving more. All you can think about is his lips on yours, and wonder about the feel of his body as it pins you to the bed. 

“I’m sure it is.” 

Marcus’s voice deepens, his tone tinged with amusement, and you fight the urge to avert your eyes like a schoolgirl. 

“Shall we, then?” you say lightly, raising your eyebrows and tilting your chin upward.

“You’re driving, this time,” he says with a boyish smile.

The car is where the tension finally returns. The air feels dense, each lull in polite conversation pregnant with what goes unmentioned and unacknowledged. To your surprise, you find yourself itching to address the elephant in the squad car, even after what feels like hours of giving yourself pep talks before work, promising yourself you wouldn’t be the one to slip.

“When… when is your flight?” you ask instead.

“Tomorrow.”

“...Oh.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Marcus says seriously.

You blanch. “You do?”

“Mmhmm. ‘Good Riddance,’ right? Mister Big City Agent, finally getting out of your way so you can arrest the jerk who had the audacity to defile the Mark Twain Museum.”

You bark out a surprised laugh. “I can’t tell if you’re making fun of Hannibal or not.”

Marcus makes a show of appearing offended. “I would never poke fun at the birthplace of Samuel Clemens.” Sobering, he adds, “I hope you know by now that I care very deeply about every art case.”

You can’t help but beam at him. Taking a leap of faith, you respond. “And I hope you know by now that I’m not hoping the door hits you on the way out.”

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. 

“‘Course.”

Marcus slowly reaches his hand over to you and drags just the tip of one finger from your wrist and down your hand to the end of your pinkie finger in a barely-there caress. 

You let out a shaky exhale as the squad car pulls into the lot of the St. Louis field office.

Damon greets you and Marcus cheerfully as you enter the Art Crimes Department. He shakes your hand, offering his congratulations, as you follow him back to his office.

“Here you go,” he says, handing you a singular flash drive. “The final identification reports identifying Reuben Porter as the thief, and all related case notes.”

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Oh,” you say, turning the flash drive over in your hand. “Why not just email it?” 

“File’s too big,” Damon shrugs.

“Got some stuff for you, too,” Marcus adds, pulling out his field notebook and a manila folder and handing them to you. “My notes, and my formal report of my involvement in the case.”

“Thank you,” you say, looking at Damon, and then at Marcus. “For your expertise and your support. I’ll–”

You’re interrupted by the loud ringing of your work cell. Grimacing, you give the agents an apologetic smile and duck out of Damon’s office.

“Yeah,” you say impatiently into the phone.

“Hey,” Hubbard replies, sounding, for once, incredibly hesitant.

“...What’s going on?”

“Can you go on a call?”

"I'm at the St. Louis field office with Pike," you tell him. "You'll have to call Evan in."

"Evan is already here," the Sergeant says, making you frown in confusion. 

"He is? Then why–"

"We’ve got a body, but Cricket? …It's Johansson."

You don't realize your legs have given out until you feel the cold chair underneath you. Your breath comes in short pants after hearing That Name. That fucking name.

"Jakub," Hubbard continues, as if you needed to be told.

"H-How?"

"Looks like an overdose, but the autopsy will have to confirm it, obviously."

You feel as though you're floating above yourself. That fucking case. You hadn’t been on the force long; it was the first time the system had failed you. Failed her. 

"I just thought you should know," the Sergeant is saying. "If you need to take a few days–"

"I don't," you interrupt. "Thanks for telling me. You still need me to come?"

"Nah," Hubbard says. "Have fun in St. Louis."

"Yeah," you hear yourself saying over the blood rushing in your ears. "Thanks." You robotically set the phone down on the table, eyes unseeing as you process the conversation. 

A warm palm lands on your shoulder, and you exhale shakily. "S-Sorry, just give me a minute."

"Are you okay?" Marcus's voice is full of concern.

"Yeah, it's um… just a name I haven't heard in a while, is all."

But that’s not true… is it? The name is fresh in your brain, feels familiar when you silently form the shape of it with your mouth. Jakub Johansson. You’ve tried your best to put him–and all the other cases that keep you up at night–in the past, but ghost after ghost keeps turning up this week, in more ways than one. 

“Do we need to get back to Hannibal?” Marcus asks.

“Nah. No. They’ve got it handled, they were just–it was one of mine, so… informing me, I guess.”

“One of your… what?”

“Sorry. Just an old case. Someone connected with it, anyways.”

“Everything alright?”

“They’re dead,” you deadpan. And even as you say the words out loud, a weight you didn’t realize you had been carrying seems to lift from your shoulders. Finally unparalyzed, you turn and look at Marcus. His gaze is burning, his eyes searching your face with unrelenting intensity. 

“Do you need to take a moment?” he asks softly, plush lips barely moving and his wild eyes never once leaving you.

Suddenly, the windowless Art Crimes Department feels stifling, like there’s not enough air. You can’t speak; you can’t breathe. Instead, you nod as you quickly rise from your chair and all-but-bolt from the room, walking quickly down the hall and up the stairs until you reach the lobby, then rushing out of the main entrance. It’s only then that you feel as though you can suck in a deep, ragged breath of crisp autumn air.  

You’ve carried this case with you for almost seven years. Seven years of feeling like you were the one who failed–not the system. You. You could have collected more evidence, you could have fought harder, you could have–no. You pace the sidewalk, repeating the statements the Force’s therapist gave you all those years ago. You did everything you could do. You helped a woman in need and brought a bad man to justice. His light sentence is not your fault. 

And now he’s dead.

Why doesn’t this feel like relief?

That feeling, the one you've been having all week, returns. That feeling of wrongness, like you’re forgetting something important. 

“Hey.” A soft voice cuts through your thoughts.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” you murmur, not turning to acknowledge Marcus. “What the fuck is happening this week? Pearson, Dalton, Fletcher, J-Johannson… I’ve seen more dead bodies in one week than I’ve seen in a fucking lifetime.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Marcus points out, “not a dead body.”

“The case with Johansson, it… it fucked me up for a while,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “I had to take time off, I was appointed a therapist to speak to, I–” 

“The details must have been really upsetting to you,” he says gently, laying his hand on your forearm.

“I had panic attacks,” you whisper, feeling the leftover shame wash over you. “We’re supposed to keep our own emotions out of the job, and I… I failed–”

“That’s not a failure–” Marcus starts, but you interrupt quickly.

“I failed her,” you grit out through clenched teeth, spinning to face him head-on. “I thought I was doing everything I could, but it wasn’t enough.”

The soft sound of your name causes a sob to catch in your throat.

“Listen to me,” Marcus says softly. “You did everything you could, I know you did. You’re a caring, capable, brilliant cop, and you did everything in your power. And besides, the universe has a way of making things right, doesn’t it? He came to justice in the end.”

You snort. “He fucking overdosed in his own home, and his victim was left with a lifetime of trauma. If that’s justice, the universe has a funny sense of humor.”

You deflate with a sigh. Checking your watch, you give Marcus a humorless smile. “We’ve gotta go, anyway. I need to be back to meet with the wife of a drowned man at the morgue.”

Maisie Fletcher’s demeanor is far more stony than it had been the day before. Head held high and lips pursed, she strides confidently into the observation room and watches expressionlessly as the sheet is peeled back to reveal Gavin Fletcher.

“That’s him,” she confirms with no emotion in her voice.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say, because it’s what you’re supposed to do.

Maisie snorts, the first time her facial features have changed since she walked in. “Really? Knowing what you know about him? You might be the only other person who knows the truth about what he really is.”

When you don’t answer, she speaks again.

“This might be the best thing that's ever happened to me." The words are whispered, barely audible even in the cryptlike silence of the morgue.

You nod at the mortician, Milo, who you remember from a few grades below you in school. He nods back and carefully replaces the sheet.

You escort Maisie back out to her car with a heavy heart and brooding thoughts.

"What are you going to do?" you ask quietly.

"I'm leaving town. Soon as I can. I–I never meant to stay here, but…"

"It's hard to leave," you murmur. "The town, mean," you correct quickly. "It sucks you in. Believe me, I know."

"You could go, too," Maisie points out. "Every town needs cops."

"And leave all this?" you joke. "I'm good. Really. Just been a week for the record books."

As Maisie drives off, you turn and see that Milo is watching you from the front entrance.

"There a problem?" you call out.

"Nah, just wanted a second opinion on something. You busy?"

You shake your head, walking back into the morgue behind the mortician.

"Lot of new tenants this week," Milo says. He pauses, looking over at you as if waiting for your laugh. You manage a weak one, but it seems to satisfy him. He stops in front of one of the metal drawers and turns toward you. "This one, the one they found yesterday? The autopsy hasn't been completed yet, but I wanted to run something by you to see if you agree with my analysis."

You shrug, holding your arms out in a gesture for him to continue. He grabs the handle and pulls, revealing the pale, stiff corpse of Jakub Johansson. You suppress a flinch.

"It doesn't take an autopsy to conclude that the overdose killed him," the mortician says. "We've got all the classic signs of a fatal dose of Fentanyl. Should be cut-and-dry."

You pause, a small frown on your features. “If it’s cut-and-dry, why am I sensing a ‘but’ there?”

“Well, the overdose is cut-and-dry. No one walks away from that many drugs in their system, but… well, it looks like he got into a fight or something right before.”

“A fight?”

Milo sweeps the sheet back from the corpse’s arm. “Here. See, there’s the puncture from the needle, but look–” he gestures at the upper arm, where, through the discoloration of the already-decomposing skin, you can clearly see five purple marks. 

“Someone grabbed him,” you say quietly. 

“Mmhm. And here.” He points to the forearm, where a larger bruise runs horizontally across the skin. 

Staring at the marks, the image starts to crystalize in your mind. “It looks like… like someone grabbed his upper arm, and held his forearm in place with their knee, or something.”

“That’s exactly what it looks like,” Milo nods grimly. 

“He was held down,” you murmur, barely audible in the silent room. “He was held down and given a fatal dose.”

“The injuries were perimortem,” the mortician adds. “They would have been sustained just before he overdosed.”

“How long before?”

“No way to be precise, but…” he clicks his tongue, “...no more than an hour or two.”

You thank Milo in a daze, heading back out of the morgue with rapidly swirling thoughts. You can no longer ignore the facts: All the people who have died this week, with the exception of Bobby Pearson, were on your list of ‘Cases that Haunt your Dreams.’ That list… subconscious, but so vivid that you may as well have it written down on a piece of posterboard and hung opposite your living room couch. They were the cases that kept you up at night, the reason you… 

… the reason… you…

…drink… to… forget.

The phrase seems to set off a chain reaction in your mind. You hear it again and again, but not in your own voice…

In the voice of someone else. 

“They say there’s only two kinds of people,” Marcus says. “Those who drink to remember, and those who drink to forget.”

You remember his soulful eyes, the understanding in his expression as he acknowledged that he knew exactly which of those people you were.

“I drink to remember.”

“The living, and the dead.”

The dead.

Images flash rapidly in your brain. Him telling you the work matters. Urging you to tell him the names. Pouring you another drink. You, crying against his dress shirt. Him pleading with you to let it all go, the burdens you carried.

The names…

Nothing makes sense, anymore.

Well, actually, everything makes sense, it’s just that you don’t want it to. 

Everything that’s happened over the past week is leading you to one conclusion–and you simply aren’t ready to face it. Not yet. 

You can’t face it… but you can’t let it go, either. It would be against everything you thought you stood for. So rather than go home and drown your suspicions in more whiskey, you go back to the station.

Not bothering to turn on the lights, you sit down at your desk and power on your computer. The blue light is harsh in the dim bullpen as you open the FBI’s website and search for the Art Crimes department. You glance at the directory–Supervisory Special Agent Marcus Pike at the very top, of course–then navigate over to the department’s news page and scan the recent case headlines. 

Wilton Man Admits Operating Fraud Scheme

Palm Beach Art Dealer Sentenced to Federal Prison for Laundering Money From Art Fraud Scheme.

Lips pursed, you open up a second tab and search for ‘Wilton.’ It’s a small town in Connecticut–and you find the town’s local newspaper easily. You click back to the FBI page, look at the date the man was arrested, and look through the newspaper archives on and before the same day. 

No major headlines stand out, but when you read the obituaries for the week, goosebumps begin to rise at the back of your neck. Elliott Bradford, 42. Overdose. Mark Hampton, 38. Suicide. 

Those kinds of deaths are common everywhere, you try to tell yourself. But, pulling up yet another tab, you search for the first name. Immediately, article after article appears in the results. Heart in your throat, you click on the first. 

Sex Offender Elliott Bradford Implicated in Trafficking Ring. The news is from over a decade ago–but the details are enough to turn your stomach. He’d been sentenced to ten years in prison, which means he would have just been released… last year. Mere months before Marcus would have been there for work. 

When you search for Mark Hampton, you find a similar story. Marjorie Hampton Files Suit Against Husband Mark Citing Repeated Abuse. And just a few years later, he’s dead, too.

A little voice in the back of your head tells you to stop digging, but you can’t seem to quit. You repeat the search with Palm Beach, and find that again, the obituaries are filled with accidental deaths and suicides from the town’s most violent men. 

Minneapolis. North Hollywood. Palmdale. You’ve gone as far back as 2016, and every town has the same pattern: Marcus Pike arrives for a case, and days later, known abusers start turning up dead. 

Every. 

Single. 

One.

It’s nearly two in the morning when you finally force yourself to stop. Your mind is swirling with names, dates, and heinous crimes. And all of them died within weeks of the town being visited by a certain FBI Art Crimes Detective. There’s still a part of you that can’t believe your conclusions are real–that the sweet, kind man you can’t deny your feelings for any longer is actually a killer. Which is why, hands trembling, you do the one thing you definitely should not do at this moment.

You text Marcus Pike.

“I need to talk to you.”

You regret it almost immediately. Part of you hopes that he’s asleep. He has to be, right? It’s two AM. Shaking your head and inwardly chastising yourself, you slip your phone into your pocket and start shutting down the computer. 

When you get up to leave, however, your phone pings.

“Where and when?”

"I–I need to talk to you,” you blurt out the moment the hotel room door opens, but the sight before you almost makes you swallow the last few words.

Marcus is shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sleep pants low around his hips. You can’t help but stare at the sight, taking in his broad shoulders, the light musculature of his arms, his slender waist and the soft skin on his stomach. A light trail of hair disappears below the waistband of his pants, and you swallow thickly as you drag your eyes back up to his face.

"So you said," Marcus says quietly. If he’s amused at your obvious staring, he doesn’t show it.

"You–what're you doing up so late?"

"Never did sleep much," he says with a crooked grin. One of his eyebrows raises as he looks you up and down. "Why are you up and at my door at this time of night?"

"Losing my fucking mind," you murmur shakily.

He steps forward, reaching his hand up to tenderly cup your cheek. Your eyes flutter closed as your body instinctively responds to his touch.

"Marcus," you whisper. 

"And why does that bring you to me?" he asks, his voice deepening. His thumb traces back and forth across your cheekbone.

To confront you, you want to say. To make you tell me I'm not crazy. That I figured out your secret.

Instead, you reach out and touch one trembling hand to his sternum, indulging in your desire to touch that expanse of golden skin. 

You open your eyes to find him watching you with a hooded, coal-black gaze. His eyes flick down to your hand on his chest, then back up to your face.

The moment feels like the drawing back of a bowstring. It seems to linger, seconds stretching out longer and longer until the inevitable moment where everything snaps.

Suddenly, Marcus is pulling you forward, shutting the door, and pressing you back against it in one swift, fluid motion. 

His entire body molds to you–hips, hands, lips–with far more ferocity and less restraint than the night before. You feel the sting of his teeth, the grip of his fingertips as he takes from you.

You aren't exactly idle, either; your hands map the planes of his chest, hips canting up to grind against the hard length you can feel there. When he pushes right back, you groan loudly and dig your fingernails involuntarily into the meat of his upper back, and he hisses.

"Sor–"

"Again," he growls, so you scratch harder.

A low, feral sound escapes from deep in his chest he breaks away from your lips and kisses a frenzied path down your neck.

"This was always going to happen," Marcus rasps into your skin. "You, and me. Can't you feel it?"

"Feel–?" you gasp, arching your back at the little nip of teeth at your shoulder. What you feel, right now at least, is the hard, thick length of his cock pressing insistently against your stomach, and it empties your mind of all other thoughts. 

"Feel the electricity between us. The connection," Marcus clarifies between kisses back up your neck until he gently nibbles your jaw. 

"Mmhmm," you whimper. Your knees almost buckle.

"Tell me," he orders. 

"I feel it."

You reach down and grasp his erection through his clothes as if to punctuate your meaning, and Marcus’s knees do buckle slightly as he sags against you with a broken groan.

"Every fucking night," he growls, "I pictured how you would look spread out on this bed. You'll forgive me for indulging that, now."

"Tell me," you parrot coquettishly, staring up at him coyly from behind your lashes.

Another low sound emanates from deep within Marcus's chest at your command. Spinning you around so fast you nearly lose your sense of direction, he pulls you further into the room and deposits you on the bed before crawling over you. 

"Tell you, huh? Tell you what? How I would close my eyes and think about the sounds you'd make for me? Or about how I'd get so worked up imagining the way you'd taste, the way you'd look coming undone beneath me that I'd have to fist my cock just for a little relief?"

"I wanna see that," you say lazily, licking your lips and making a show of pulling your shirt over your head. 

"Next time," Marcus promises darkly. “Next time I'll do it just like this, with you staring up at me, watching me fuck myself for you. But I don't think I can go one more night without being inside you."

"Please," you whisper, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

"Yeah?"

"Fucking… yes, Marcus, shit–"

He chuckles, straight, white teeth showing as he grins and starts to unbutton your pants. You let him draw them down your hips, along with your underwear, your breath getting shakier as you see the hungry look in his eyes. It makes you feel powerful, the way just the sight of your bare center seems to affect him. 

When your pants reach your ankles, he yanks them off the rest of the way and casts them aside in the corner of the room. His gaze is almost predatory, but you get the feeling you are the one who has him under your thumb at the moment. Giving him a sly, crooked smile, you spread your legs wide.

Marcus pitches forward onto his elbows, dropping down onto the bed as if deep in prayer, but everything about the man in this moment is sinful. With his mouth inches from your pussy, he breathes in, closing his eyes and shuddering visibly. When he opens then again, they're deep obsidian. They don't move from your face as he lowers his mouth to you.

You aren't sure who moans louder at the first generous lick of his tongue into your pussy. Rather than start at your clit, he dives in; thrusting the wet, warm muscle as deep into your cunt as he can while his nose presses deliciously against you. 

He devours you greedily, licking up into you as if he could pull pleasure out of your channel with just his tongue. He seems to be getting almost as much satisfaction out of doing it; his eyes are closed as if savoring you, low, muffled moans from deep in his throat punctuate every lap into your pussy, and every so often, his hips thrust slightly against the bed as though he can't help but seek a little relief.

His hands scrabble at your hips, yanking you closer as soon as he can find purchase, and you throw your head back on the pillow as he buries himself even deeper than before.

Christ, how is he even breathing?

His nose rubs back and forth against your clit, and you can feel your orgasm starting to build. Growing bolder, you rock your hips subtly against Marcus's face, and by the loud groan that escapes him when he feels you do it, he enjoys it.

He pulls at your hips again, wordlessly commanding you to continue. 

"Fuck," you murmur. "Marcus, your mouth–"

You slowly grind on him, gyrating your hips as you chase the sensations that feel best for you. It causes everything to pull up tight, and before you even realize what's happening, you're falling apart on his tongue.

"Have to have you," Marcus pants in your ear, having surged up to cover you with his body even as you were still trembling with aftershocks. "Tell me I can have you."

"Yeah," you agree. "Fuck, take it. It's yours." Make me forget.

"Condom?" 

"Clean. You?"

"Clean. You–You sure? Tell me now, because I don't think I can wait any longer."

"Please," you whisper, reaching up to gently wipe away some of the slick above his upper lip with an amused smile. He looks wrecked already–the only time you've seen him with a hair out of place–and it's incredibly endearing. 

You don't have time to dwell on that thought, because with a broken sound, he sheathes himself within you. 

The noise that escapes you is involuntary–an instinctual, guttural reaction from somewhere deep in your subconscious brain. You can feel Marcus everywhere at once, pressing against nerves deep inside of you, nerves you didn't even realize you had. 

Anyone would be forgiven for expecting sex with this clean-shaven, softspoken man to be just as gentle and sweet as the man himself. You would have thought the same thing, except for one feature of his that always made you feel as though something darker was lurking underneath: that smile. Wide, toothy, eager; the rows of straight, white teeth; the boyish little dimple it exposes.

It's his eyes when he smiles like that that have always made you wonder what he's hiding; what demons are being concealed behind pearly whites and laugh lines.

But you think the way Marcus fucks might expose far more than anything else about him. 

The fire that dances in his eyes has certainly hinted at a deeper passion, but you've yet to experience anything like the way it feels to be on the receiving end of this much intensity. 

He's unrelenting in his pursuit of pleasure; fervent and raw and so very physical. He doesn't shy away from the messiness of sex; he licks an escaped tear as you reach your second peak, he spits on your clit and rubs it in with his fingers, and when he finally pulls out and finishes on your chest, he immediately covers you with his mouth and sucks himself off of your nipples.

You'd also be forgiven in thinking Marcus was done with you. That, given the late hour and the vigorous, explosive way he had fucked you, he'd collapse on the bed with a tired, sated sigh.

Instead, he pulls at your hip and guides you to turn over on your stomach. You're about to open your mouth and question his motives when you feel his hot, wet tongue press against your other hole.

You squeal involuntarily, burying your face in the pillows as you surrender to the onslaught of Marcus’s attentions. In this, just as in every other way he's already had you tonight, he's incredibly vocal. He straightens his tongue and pushes it inside, and moans loudly as he feels you give way for him.

"Good girl, so fuckin' good, gonna make me hard again, aren't you? Mewling so prettily into the sheets like that while I take you apart. You like that, don't you? Filthy fucking girl, huh? Good. I am, too–told you we were made to do this."

Marcus is merciless, giving you his tongue, fingers, tongue again, over and over and over in your pussy and your ass until you come undone again with a wail. 

You're boneless and pliable as he hauls your trembling body up onto your knees and enters you again, this time from behind. 

He's equal parts brutal and reassuring: ample, generous praise spills from his lips with every rough punch of his cock. 

You're so overwrought with pleasure, you can't even speak. Marcus is destroying you in every delicious way, and you aren't sure how you're supposed to come back from this. How you're supposed to confront him after he's made you feel things you didn't even know how could feel.

His lower hands are pressing down on your lower back, intensifying the arch in your spine and causing his cock to hit the perfect spot inside you.

"Gonna–" you gasp.

"I know," Marcus answers. "Together, this time. With me, yeah? I'm so close, but I'm waiting on you. Cum for me, let me feel it baby."

You sob into the pillows as he fucks you through your orgasm, your walls aching and ultrasensitive from the relentless onslaught of his cock. 

You're only barely aware of him pulling out and letting you collapse forward onto the bed. You aren't sure why it surprises you–perhaps just the intensity of the moment before–but you aren't expecting the warm, gentle arms encircling you as Marcus follows you down and wraps you up, pulling you into his chest. 

You're still panting, trying to catch your breath and regain equilibrium as you hear his voice behind you. It's not rough and rasping like before, but soft and soothing as he croons into your ear.

"So good for me, so perfect. Took me so well, look so good in my bed. Incredible.”

Giddy and overwhelmed, you start to laugh breathlessly.

Marcus chuckles too, nuzzling the spot behind your ear with his nose with a satisfied hum. His fingers start to trace a path up and down your stomach, and you sigh bonelessly and settle against him.

"This… this wasn't what I came here for," you murmur after a few moments.

"No?" Marcus nips playfully at your jawline just below your ear.

"No, I… I…"

The teasing kisses continue, causing sparks to shoot up and down your spine.

"Marcus," you sigh, as you feel another little nibble on your neck. "Marcus. Stop."

Slowly, cautiously, he pulls back. You turn in his arms, frowning slightly.

"I came here… Jesus, this sounds–I need you to convince me I'm just being jumpy. That I've been spooked, scared of my own shadow…"

“You’re under a lot of stress,” Marcus says gently. “You’ve had a hard week.”

You scoff. “Hard week? I’ve had hard weeks. This week was devastating. I’ve seen more deaths in one week than in almost my entire time on the force, and–” you swallow and look up, meeting his dark eyes, “–they’re all connected to me.”

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. “They were bad men, and they all had their vices…”

“Every single one,” you forge ahead, “was connected to a case assigned to me. But that’s not the only connection, is it?”

Marcus cocks his head to the side, not dissimilar to a confused puppy. “What do you mean?”

“They were all connected to cases that keep me up at night. Cases that didn’t end in justice. Cases that I confessed… to you.”

Confusion melts away into an easy, casual smile. Marcus chuckles softly. “I thought you said you didn’t remember anything we talked about that night.”

“Details might be blurry, but it’s the only thing that makes sense,” you say, laying back to stare at the ceiling. “I was upset over Bobby. I was disillusioned with the job. You were all too eager to lend an ear, to let me drown my sorrows and whisper the names of the men whose faces I’ll never forget. I cried on your shoulder, Marcus. And you… you took those names, and—”

“Are you saying you’re accusing me of being some kind of one-man vigilante justice machine?” Marcus asks, beginning to laugh outright. “Cricket, do you have any idea how that sounds?”

“It sounds crazy," you say, turning toward him again. "So convince me otherwise. Tell me I've lost my fucking marbles on this one."

"I think it would be natural for anyone to look for some kind of reason behind a string of deaths of people they know," he offers gently. "And these men, they've… they've affected you more than most–let's not mince words, you were traumatized by these cases. It's only natural that you would look for answ–"

"Answers?" you interrupt. "My job is to find answers, you should know that. I've been researching you on your own website, what do you have to say about that? I know where you've been for other cases."

Marcus chuckles, although it seems… deeper, this time. "That's publicly available information on the government's own servers. I'm not sure what your point is."

"I also looked up all the newspapers from the times you would have been there," you say. "And just like in Hannibal, there's a rash of suicides and accidental deaths, and all of the victims? They all had rap sheets miles long."

"Cricket," Marcus intones softly. "I know you're desperately trying to find connections here, but you have to realize these all sound like huge coincidences–"

"You got sloppy," you accuse, picking up steam and confidence as you continue to talk through it. "Did you know that? Johansson's death was no accident. He was held down and given a fatal dose. It was rough; whoever did it wanted it to hurt–"

"Stop." Marcus cuts you off, his voice harsher than you've ever heard it. "You're grasping at straws. You're under a ton of stress, and you've concocted a wild fantasy to cope. It's a good story, but that's all it is. The things you're accusing me of, the person you've made me out to be… it's not rational, and it's dangerous. I'm an agent with the US Government, and you're throwing around some pretty serious allegations."

"I know what I've seen…" you murmur, shaking your head.

"You haven't seen anything," Marcus insists. "I'm not sure what your game is here. You come to my hotel room in the middle of the night saying you want to talk, you come onto me, we have sex… and now you're telling me you think I'm, what? A serial killer?"

"I–I think I should leave," you say quietly, getting up from the bed and padding over to pick up your uniform–where your gun is still holstered in your belt. You grab the pile of clothes and retreat to the bathroom to breathe and regroup. You splash cold water on your face, trying to ignore the fact that your hands are trembling slightly. 

Get it together. 

The pull you've felt for the man all week doesn't matter. Put it aside. Do the job. 

You take a few more deep breaths, then pull on your clothes. With a set jaw, you unholster your gun and slowly open the bathroom door.

"Marcus Pike, you're–"

You freeze mid-sentence, staring at the now-empty room.

"...gone?"

Epilogue (1 year later)

“I know it’s not much, but–”

“It’s perfect,” you breathe, walking into the small office, carrying a paper box full of your belongings, all waiting for a home among the bookshelves and desk space.

“Sure,” the other agent laughs.

It might not have a window. It might not have much charm. But it has a door–a real door that closes and everything–and even more importantly, it bears your name on a plaque.

A real office.

Yours. 

“You’re coming to us from… Saint Paul?”

“Saint Louis,” you correct amicably. 

“Welcome to White Collar Crimes,” your new coworker says with a wan smile. “It’s like Organized Crime, except instead of bodies, you’re examining accounting spreadsheets.”

“Good,” you say emphatically. “I’ve had enough death for several lifetimes.”

The other agent makes a face. “What the fuck was going on in Saint Louis?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “You don’t wanna know.”

You set the box down, taking out some of your most prized possessions: A Mark Twain bobblehead, your Bachelor’s Degree in Criminology from the University of Missouri, and more recently, a certificate from Quantico labeling you as a Special Agent with the FBI.

It had taken most of the year to coordinate your exodus from the tiny town of Hannibal where you grew up. Sure, you could have simply gone to another city to be a cop, but the endless parade of speeding tickets, accidental overdoses, and orders to break up tent cities was wearing on you. Were you really making a difference where you were? 

No.

No.

You wanted to go after the real criminals. Those who swindled the vulnerable out of their hard-earned money. Those who gamed the stock market only to make a few million more than they already had. 

White collar crime.

“Well, welcome to D.C.,” the other agent says, his tone tongue-in-cheek, but your smile is genuine nonetheless. He leaves you to your task–setting up the tiny, cramped space that serves as your office. 

You unpack a box of your favorite pens, your stapler, a potted plant (fake) to add some greenery. Maybe when you get an office with a window, you can get some real plants, you think as you rearrange your notebooks on the small bookshelf beside your desk.

You glance down at the badge on your lapel and smile.

It had been a year since your strange run-in with the Art Crimes Agent that changed the course of your career. 

After Marcus Pike fled the scene of his own hotel room–leaving most of his belongings behind–you couldn’t find it in yourself to continue down the road of being a small-town police officer, handing out tickets and misdemeanors and investigating every tragic case that came across your desk. And they were all tragic, make no mistake. 

After a few months of being angry and indignant, you’d grown to respect Marcus Pike. You’d realized he was telling the truth all those months ago: he’d felt useless as an Agent, cutting through all the red tape and bureaucracy, and he’d simply taken matters into his own hands in the end.

He used his connections within law enforcement to gain access to the world’s undesirables: the violent, the unhinged, the maladapted, the unacclimated. 

The bad men who had gotten light sentences or slaps on the wrist when they should have been removed from polite society for the gain of humanity.

Compared to you–fighting through the red tape of Government at every turn–Marcus was unstoppable. You guess that’s why so many people like to read about comic book heroes who spend their time doling out vigilante justice. Fighting for prolonged sentences within the criminal justice system was one thing. Living by your own creed of law and order? That was another.

Marcus simply… went around the law.

Did the ends justify the means?

That was a question that kept you up for months on end–that still causes you to shoot up in bed, panting and sweating, fighting off the remnants of a nightmare.

Even now, you aren’t sure of the answer.

That, on top of the real job opportunities that the FBI awarded you, is what really brought you here.

Marcus Pike… is a murderer.

You’re here to keep an eye on him.

Putting aside your… more personal connections, the man is dangerous. After all, you have no way of substantiating that his moral code, the way he kills for his own perceived sense of good, will always match the general sense of human morality. Is Marcus the type of man who would take a personal slight and warp it into his own twisted sense of justice? Would ever kill to satisfy his own grievances? Would he ever simply kill for the sake of it? You have no way of knowing.

A soft tap on your office door interrupts your reverie.

“Got a briefing on the Waters case in five. I’m assuming you read the file I emailed over?” 

At your nod, the other agent continues. “It’s in conference room 2E63. Since this place is a bit of a labyrinth, thought we could walk there together.”

“Appreciate it,” you say cheerfully, snapping your laptop shut and grabbing your notebook. 

Time to work.

“Got any questions for me before the meeting?” your coworker asks as you navigate through the halls.

“Are other departments involved in this case?” you ask. “There’s the embezzling scheme, stock fraud, that’s obviously us. But what about some of the company’s other operations? The file mentioned something about illegal smuggling and money laundering, surely that’s–”

“Organized Crime, yup. We’ve got two representatives from that team, they’ve been heavily involved. It was recently discovered that some of the goods smuggled were uh, famous paintings or something? So we’ve recently added someone from—This is us, by the way.”

Your coworker opens the conference room door, and across the room, a familiar set of deep brown eyes flicks up in surprise.

“Anyway, yeah, we also recently added someone from Art Crimes to assist in the recovery of the, uh–” your coworker trails off, turning to the only other agent in the room that you happen to know, apparently hoping for him to complete the sentence.

He doesn’t. Agent Marcus Pike is still staring at you, lips parted, his face white as a sheet. Fear lurks in his wide eyes.

When he blinks, though, the mask suddenly drops back down over his expression, his agitation replaced with cool confidence.

“Cézanne,” he answers patiently. To you, he extends his hand. “I haven’t seen you around here,” he says carefully. 

To anyone listening, the words are straightforward, said by a stranger, but you catch the hidden, underlying message. I’ve seen you before, but in a different world. You are out of context. 

“Just started today,” you comment lightly before giving him your name, taking his hand, and shaking it firmly. Very firmly. Marcus blinks. You see a flash of that wild intensity that you know lurks beneath his unassuming exterior.

When he smiles, you take in the rows of perfectly straight, white teeth and his singular dimple. 

A warning. Or a promise.

“I look forward to working with you.”

[im-out-of-it]

season 2, episode 4 “day of wrath” aka we finally are rid of one of the most annoying characters

hiiiiii y’all and welcome back 🫶🏼 I don’t care much for this episode (I love some aspects) but for me, it feels like a whole thing “well Alec did this so clary should be allowed to be mean to him” and that’s a vibe I don’t fuck with. but I got my gifs ready, and my stupid thoughts are here to stay so let’s get into it (and let’s be clear, alec didn’t do anything wrong but I hate the way clary treats him. it feels like a whole thing of well he’s been rude to her since she arrived so she can have at it now) (and maybe others won’t agree but it felt like a whole thing of how clary can treat Alec and Izzy however she wants and it’s ok because she’s got trauma I guess) (and I’m just super protective of Alec Magnus Izzy Maia Simon and so on)

1. I’m already annoyed because we start with clary going to the city of bones to show jace her undying love she has for him (pretty sure siblings should be this intimate but whatever) (I don’t care if it’s misleading info, they think they’re related)

2. never thought jace would say another thing I like but seriously!!!!!! I hate show clace with every bone in my body but compared to the books? yeah it could’ve been a whole lot worse. Jace and clary think they are siblings AND STILL try to have a relationship that is full of abuse and toxicity. so at least the show didn’t do all that. oh no wonder CC hates it so much 🥰

3. those stitches on the silent brothers creep me the fuck out. anyone ever seen Hannibal? if anyone remembers season two, that’s all I can think about if their stitches came undone 😭 THAT WHOLE SEASON TRAUMATIZED ME LMAO

4. ok ok ok I’m done but I needed a break from all the clace shit im about to endure

5. I’m actually surprised jace is asking about Alec. I certainly don’t remember that

6. did clary really say he’s here because of her? I’m glad jace is saying she’s not what put him here. he chose to join valentine more than once and I’m getting real tired of everyone ignoring this. they watched him leave and still want to act surprised that he’s in this predicament. I’m actually proud of him trying to take accountability and that’s a lot coming from me because I fucking loathe him

7. HE TOLD YOUR ASS TO LEAVE SO LEAVE

8. “you’re my weakness” omg I just threw up 🤢 someone order me some tums

9. this is the first time I’ve actually seen jace try to hold himself accountable, you should try doing the same clary

10. because your life is worth saving Alexander 🥹

11. I think I’m getting better at this whole making a gif thing 👏🏼 no but seriously YOU ARE WORTH IT ALEC SO DONT FORGET IT

12. but also it’s so crazy that it’s only been probably a few days since they got together and Malec has had to deal with: the wedding that didn’t happen, Maryse being prejudiced against magnus, Alec telling everyone off, jace leaving and making it Alec’s problem, and then alec almost dying and magnus losing a love before it gets started. that’s a lot of shit to deal with in this early of a relationship

it doesn’t feel as though time hasn’t sped by because so much happens in season one. but it’s probably been a week or two. MAN ALEC AND MAGS NEED A VACAY

13. I’m happy that alec is thanking magnus. he literally wore himself out and still didn’t manage to save alec (I know some of the gifs kinda repeat themselves but I wanted to get all the facial expressions from Malec because they do it best)

14. yeah quit slacking and go on a date already (THEY HAVE BEEN RUDELY INTERRUPTED THRICE)

15. Alec is so cute when he stutters around magnus. they could be together for 5 years, 10 years, 20- and Alec would still be a stuttering mess

16. Magnus: oh I make him nervous how fun this is for me

17. I SWEAR IF MY AUTOCORRECT FAILS ME ONE MORE TIME WHEN I SPELL MAGNUS TO MY CATS NAME ILL- I mean, they’re pretty much the same. golden eyed demonic boys who I love with everything so whatever lmao

18. I think raj is upset

19. someone holds a grudge 😬

20. good riddance

21. I mean if I was part of the clave and found out some bitch was hiding the most important artifact for 18 years, I wouldn’t trust her either because what gave Jocelyn the idea that it was her responsibility to hide the most valuable artifact in the shadow world. look- I don’t trust the clave but I would put my fate in their hands instead of someone like Jocelyn who I could never trust)

22. getting rid of Jocelyn was one of the best things the show could have possibly done. she’s an inconvenience and never did once learn how to properly be a parent. what clary needed was a mother and not a friend. not someone to excuse her decisions and allow her to get away with whatever she wanted. she needed a shit ton of therapy and guidance. Jocelyn was always too terrified of parenting clary and worried more if her daughter hated her. she is a terrible mother and I’ll say it again SHE IS A TERRIBLE MOTHER 🎙️

23. I think one of the biggest reasons why clary is who she is because of Jocelyn. Jocelyn allowed clary to get away with whatever she did in fear of punishing clary or having her think that clary hated her. I’m sorry but in the show, I hardly saw Jocelyn actually be a mother. Clary even says in the first season how Jocelyn is her best friend. a mother should be a mother, not your friend. Jocelyn gif so much from clary so that trust is already broken and I don’t think clary respects Jocelyn. all the work she made Alec undergo for Jocelyn and it wasn’t that worth it in my most humble opinion

24. fuck we missed sending clary off to idris and I’ll always be resentful about that

25. Alec: no I don’t want you on my team but we need someone literally anyone would do

26. Isabelle is killing it in the fashion department like I don’t think she’s ever worn something that was awful and I’m so glad they gave Alec some good fashion sense. he’s not killing it the way Magnus does but it annoyed me how in the books Alec is wearing clothing that is torn as if he can’t dress himself and has to be in raggedy clothing. you can tell CC fucking hated and hates Alec

27. Alec: hurry the fuck up

28. Alec is not trying to die because of you again

29. I’m going to miss Alec being rude to clary or not wanting to deal with her because it’s valid

30. Clary tries for one second: omg Alec this is too hard. I’m used to getting things handed to me. Alec: it’s clapped patience so don’t push my fucking patience

31. it’s everyone’s dream for clary to leave so ya can’t blame Alec

32. Clary has been causing problems left to right so anyone would want to rid of her lmao

33. MY POOR RAPHAEL

34. I know I stated before that aldertree isn’t evil but this was pure evil. torturing Raphael is against the accords but aldertree doesn’t care. it’s a two in one victory for aldertree because he gets to torture a vampire for information while also getting revenge against Magnus. this has been my whole rant against shadowhunters- they do this- violating the accords and get away with it but downworlders don’t get the same sort of grace and treatment

35. I wanted to post these from the past

36. in each episode, I will post moments from season one or previous episodes I forgot or felt like I didn’t bitch about enough. so here’s two Alec moments that I love (am will include Matt interviews or just random stuff)

37. I love my man ALEC just telling people off. he’s so good at it

38. I’m so sad for Raphael because he’s not responsible for Camille but since he can’t find her and Simon isnt doing a good enough job, it’s on Raphael since he is clan leader to apparently pay for Camille’s crimes

39. I think getting rid of Camille and ragnor was a huge mistake. for someone of Camille’s caliber, I expected more of a fight when it came to Raphael taking power. they almost took all of Magnus’s past away and the only friend who gets to stay is Catarina. Alec has Izzy and jace isn’t worthy of being his friend but why does it feel that Magnus gets left without almost nothing but Alec? he’s hardly around any of the warlocks once he’s with Alec. and this isn’t anti anything, I just wish they gave Magnus more of a balance. there is so much content when it comes to Magnus, alec, and Malec that they could have used and done. it’s so much more interesting than CLACE and let’s be real- people watched for Malec, Maia and Simon Raphael Izzy but mainly malec, Magnus and Alec

and I’m stopping at 40 because I can remember that but I at least wanted to get the first part sent out

[touchstoneaf]

I just had the most INTENSE Hannigram dream... and i haven't even been watching the show of late (took a break for MH reasons). All i did was look at some gifs/picspam and meta on here, and... Hoooo-boyyy. That was the kinda dream that leads one to write it out in fic-form if only to cope with the visions.

Step one is sounding out the peeps, to see if ppl think it's worth writing down in longer format, so:

(Preface. Some of this is solely related to my brain freestyling, and doesn't always match show canon/character stuff. Fair warning.)

Will is having a dinner party at his place. He didn’t invite Hannibal on purpose, as a way to pull his metaphorical pigtails. (Obvs Will isn't really the 'throw a dinner party' type, but if he can by doing so tweak Hannibal's nose... He even deep-cleaned the dog-hair cuz he knows Hannibal will hear about it from Alana or whoever and show up anyway, because this is a courtship.) Anyway, Alana is there (partly because Will knows that she slept with Hannibal and that'll be even more tense/edgy). I dunno if Jack is there, but probably since it would make Hannibal's exclusion more pointed (I think Will's trying to get revenge on Hannibal for whatever weekly machination). Also, at one point Will's former foster parents materialize at the event (don’t ask. My brain invented that part, prolly cuz i work with foster youth).

Anyway, just as the first course is being served there is a v. precise knock at the door. We know who it is. Will goes to see, trying to pretend to be surprised/disdainful, but he's positively *thrumming* with anticipation as he opens the door. Of course it's Hannibal, bearing a gift/excuse. He hands it to Will; "Oh, i apologize, you have company."

"Yes, a dinner party."

(Alana looking up from the table, uncertain, prolly earlier she asked Will why Hannibal wasn't invited and was it because of her?)

Weighty silence. No invite. "Yes, well. I do hope it goes well." Hannibal turns to leave, visibly disappointed.

Will, aware of what he considers rude, and also that he would never be so crass as to gatecrash/invite himself: "Would you like to join us?" (SO much buried tension just under the surface. So much CHALLENGE. Will he take a pity invite? Make an excuse, say something about not wanting to interrupt? Or will he recognize this for what it really is?) (Authors note, this is the part of the dream where i started to sweat.)

Then... "I'd love to."

He enters, closing the door precisely behind him, allows Will to escort him to the empty (saved) chair to Will's right (Alana at his left is now facing Hannibal. The room swirls with unspoken tensions.)

Meal. Stilted, barbed, mannered conversation full of little prodding notes. Mostly just Hannigram. Alana tries to join in a couple of times in an attempt to alleviate the taut vibe, but quickly gives up. Hannibal addresses the foster parents (?), but only to shoot weighted comments at Will whilst asking re his childhood achievements. The FPs make a stab at civil convo, but are clearly bafflled. Everyone else focuses on their plates. There might as well not be anyone here but Hannigram, verbally fencing.

At some point, Hannibal rises, asks to use the facilities. Will follows to guide him, and is waiting in the hall as he exits. Will knows Hannibal won't lower himself to sidle past. The corridor is THICK as they face each other inches apart. Will is already panting like a slut even as he butches a little to bluff/pretend to keep the upper hand. Hannibal knows exactly what he is doing, and why, that this is flirting. The moment hangs on a knife edge.

(My alarm goes off. I wake up cursing and wrung out.)

Shall i write it & see where it goes, good ppl? (Sans rando foster parents, lol)

[ngkducks]

Look at the flicking lyrics

You could be much more than you seem

and

I can see it in your eyes It doesn't come as a surprise

Hannibal sees that Will is much more

For all this time I've been loving you Don't even know your name

Will, about the Ripper tableu-es ; he felt something towards the Ripper even before he knew who it was

I can love you more than they hate

Both towards each other

Doesn't matter who they will blame

We can beat them at their own game

The us vs the world vibes, the hot potato game with the blaming, THEM PLAYING WITH THE FBI LIKE A FIDDLE????

Like LITERALLY, please give a read to the full lyrics. It's them.

[sxaxmxx1]

Served on a plate, your heart awaits

Ronin X Reader (Killer Chat) Cannibal Reader AU

Trigger warning -> Cannibalism, gore, toxic relationship...If those are not for your eyes, skip it and I would love seeing you at different fic of mine.

Before we start, I'd appreciate a lot if you'd take a look there : my carrd and consider placing a request, or looking to my ko-fi. It is absolutely alright if not. I appreciate any and all kinds of support. Take the best care of yourself xx

Another thing (I'll stop yapping after this, pinky promise.) This fic idea has came to me while watching Hannibal, so the inspo is here a little, but mostly it's all from the head of mine. Have fun xx

Some people are thrown into the world, not knowing who they are supposed to be. What their destiny is and where their steps will carry them. You were one of those people. Lost as a child, unaware of where you belong. 

Then a light striked your eye. A rare one. In the middle of woods it was truly a surprise to see a light come through the big, dark window of a mansion carrying the same vibe. Everything was too quick for your child's mind to catch. It was like a bubble flying towards the sky, popping before it reached its goal. 

Noises were too loud. Weapons were too scary and soon enough, your legs took upon action and carried you far, far away from a place that was no longer a home. Just a cold mansion no longer filled with affection from your parents, but covered in the color of rotten apples. 

That night changed the world. It shaped your mind, you as a person whole. Cleared a path and opened doors to who you will be. You were no longer that person, lost, flowing slowly with the wind. You became one with the river of life.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. 

Clocks always repeat the same sound. No change. They are stuck in the repetitiveness of time, forever. Sometimes you wonder if they want to break out from the routine. From normality. Because you do. And you did. 

Sleepless nights used to bother you. A small worm found home inside the brain of yours and you took action to remove it. From that day, you could only laugh when someone asked about your motivation to do this job. Why are you so good at profiling those whose minds are curious? Because your own is that way. You just claim yourself to be much more…calculated. 

It was not so long ago that you found your favorite meal. The one that blessed taste buds like nothing else ever could. Cooked just the right way. Seasoned with passion, love and gentleness in which lamb jumps over a small river. 

A misery meal, one could call it. Stolen from those who no longer needed their delicious meat. Those no one will be looking for, because secretly they wanted them gone. Those who your work was based around. You saw into their minds even better when their light went out under your very own fingers. 

The rotten simply tastes better. And talking about rot…Ronin. He was the most rotten of all you ever met. Yet, he sparkled something much different than disgust in your chest. Interest. That was it at first. And over time it looped into something much more. Obsession even. It was simply so hard to grasp in between your fingertips why he wouldn’t leave your mind.

It was one of those consultations you had many times before. Most about him was written black on white paper, yet one could feel like he keeps it all hidden. His words were coming out as snakes, twirling around, moving too fast to be caught.

He leaned forwards. Over the table. His hands cuffed behind his back, wide grin spreading over his features. Ronin’s whisper was carried to your ears with a taste of spice. ‘’Would ’ya dance with the devil’s tongue, doctor?’’ 

The ocean drew you in. Consumed you whole and left you wanting much more. And so he gave you. His lips carried the sweetest of poisons and his presence filled every dark corner of your heart.

The next week Ronin was gone. His cell was empty, just like your very own heart. 

Every and each day you sat by the window. Staring into the garden covered by a thick blanket of snow. Wishing someone would cry bloody tears onto it. Someone whose neck was cut open by the Butcher himself. 

Your legs even carried you through the street of his. Shoes kicked into remains, organs, got covered by the same color you remember last from your childhood home. Yet, the portals of hell were opened nowhere. 

Slowly it began to taste sour. Your very own misery meal was no longer the same. The only bite that would possess satisfaction would be from Ronin’s very own body. To rip his ribcage open and take his heart in between your lips was your deepest wish. 

Just when the world started to form into one blur, a knock on the window cut through the silence of night. Upon opening it, a lovely, hateful, yet so needed face appeared. 

You didn’t want to talk. You wanted to grab him by his shoulders and throw you both down from the highest cliff around. To let waves wash away the sin of his hand coming around your waist, his laugh echoing in your ears like a sweet funeral melody. 

With a kiss and two and three, steps danced towards the kitchen. See, you made a decision. Ronin is no different than those who lay in those depths of your stomach. He was the devil playing games with your mind. Or perhaps a brain of one cannot accept such affection from someone of the same kind. 

Your fingers wrapped around his. No. This feels much colder, not like a human skin. It was the handle of a knife, one that always made a pleasant sound while cutting deep. And so it served its purpose once again. You stabbed one time, two times, three times. Count was lost very quickly. 

Digging as deep as one gets, you discovered all his remaining secrets, you took what was yours all along, what your morals wouldn’t allow you to have. You are better than this. You are better than them. Yet something was still different. 

The next morning a body of a wanted criminal was found. Missing a heart. Investigation was closed quickly. Everyone wants people like Ronin Beaufort gone. 

And you gained a new trophy, sealed in a glass, safely kept on shelf. 

Your first, very own human heart.

[noangeleither]

answer for @ambeauty about the bones and all au

honestly surprised that no one has written some type of cannibalism fic for this show like it’s right there…..

i love carmy and sydney’s meeting scene bc they just “click”. and i love how in BAA lee and maren just “click” bc they can sense each other bc they are both “eaters”.

like the idea of carmy and sydney first meeting in this AU. “i know who you are” becomes i know WHAT you are. bc i am that too.

the AU would follow most of the movie’s premise with some changes to fit into the theme of the Bear. I’m adding some familiar faces in the pivotal roles of the movie. Like i’m adding a lot of cooking elements and making the Sully character the NYC/EMP Chef who has kind of a hannibal vibe (never finished the show so if that’s not accurate i’m sorry) who’s obsessed with trying to mentor sydney who is naturally gifted at cooking. In the movie this character keeps track of the people he’s eaten by collecting their hair into one long rope. for this AU this character would “honour” the people he’s eaten by making them into great meals (😭) .

Sydney after an incident has to leave home and embarks of a journey to find her mother who is also a cannibal. She meets Carmy and they go together travelling across america and fall in love etc etc

this sneak peek is my version of the diner scene from the movie. idk why😭😭😭 but i liked the idea of regular food not tasting that great for cannibals especially when they haven’t eaten people in a while. they just met the night before.

[littleoddwriter]

choose violence 🔪❤️

1, 2, 16, 22

thanks for the ask! <3 oki, NBC Hannibal... let's go, fhsdgfsd-

the character everyone gets wrong

I wouldn't say eeeveryone, but... a lot of people get Will Graham wrong. like, he's an extremely complex character with many different aspects that aren't explored too deeply in the show at times (despite the show mostly being from his perspective); but there are enough leads to go off of to at least get the right idea when going deeper yourself. my main issue is that he's either taken at face value all the time, reduced to his season 1 encephalitis-riddled persona, or completely twinkified and innocent. all of which are plain wrong and annoying to see, I'm not gonna lie. you do you and all that, but it does get annoying after the third or so post from different people in a row, and seeing that slowly but surely becoming a popular fanon idea (especially among new fans). but I just scroll past or even block people because it doesn't actually matter and I can control what I see and react to. (also, it's not like I am an expert on Will either or understand him 100% and am right all the time. but seeing him completely misinterpreted and almost turned into a new character, a shell of his self and a caricature of who he is, that's what gets me.)

2. a compelling argument for why your fave would never top or bottom

Will Graham again, what a surprise. oki, so, personally, I do believe he's a vers/switch. but he especially strikes me as a power bottom a lot of times. he's generally dominant, but he likes to receive. he can be a brat and wants to be dominated sometimes, too, depending on the partner. but most of the time, he's dominant, in need of control, but wants to be worshipped/treated (in the way that he receives). gosh, uh... compelling argument. um. vibes, I guess. my brainworms said so. Will himself told me that. idk hdfdkjshfjksh

16. you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

"uwu innocent babygirl that has never done anything wrong and it's all the big bad Hannibal that manipulated and destroyed him" characterization of Will Graham. it's sometimes a funny meme, which I'll laugh at, too, buuut if it's taken seriously and people actually think that, um... nope. and I've seen that going around a lot. not to shame anyone, just an observation of the Twitter- and TikTokfication of Hannibal, yet again. I've pretty much only seen new fans, who come from those two platforms in particular, do that and be serious about it.

22. your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

honestly? the different relationships and dynamics in the show that aren't Hannigram. like, yes, people also focus quite a bit on Will and Hannibal's respective dynamics with Alana and Bedelia, but usually through the Hannigram-lens. same with Abigail. and it makes sense, duh, Alana, Bedelia and Abigail are extremely intertwined with Hannigram. so are most other characters and their dynamics. because that's the main focus of the show, basically. but I still think that other relationships and dynamics are vastly underrated and even overlooked. examples include Jack Crawford with literally anyone but Will or Hannibal. especially with Miriam Lass. or his literal wife, Bella. or Francis and Reba. Abel Gideon and Chilton. and so on. there are many interesting dynamics to explore. I understand the focus on Hannigram and Hannigram-adjacent ones, like, I'm guilty of that, too. so is the show itself. but, you know. that's just the thing that came to mind first.

[finalgirlminamurray]

the hunger and near dark were almost exact opposite vibes in terms of vampire movies so it was kind of wild to watch them in fairly quick succession. i liked them both. i think. they're different enough kinds of movies that i don't think i could say which i liked "better".

the hunger is gorgeous, really artsy and stylized and almost more of a vibe than a narrative. i can go back and forth on films like these. i definitely understand why it wasn't much of a success when it came out - this is not the kind of movie that explains much and it can be kind of slow. i found myself questioning exactly what was going on a lot, mostly in the vein of "wait who's a vampire and who isn't. how does this aging thing work. why is he suddenly rapidly aging in just one day but she hasn't at all. did they both become vampires at the same time?? when are these flashbacks--" i don't need every little thing spelled out to me when watching a movie but i could tell this was probably leaving out a lot from the book it was adapted from. i might like to read that at some point even if the author is one of those guys regularly publishing 100% true factual accounts of alien encounters and paranormal experiences that skeptic organizations have debunked.

anyway the movie itself is an interesting (i know i overuse that word) watch. for all the publicity around david bowie's role he's really not in it that much; his character basically ages into a mummy pretty fast and he gets locked away in a coffin about halfway through so the rest of the story can focus on the relationship between miriam and sarah, which was a pleasant surprise honestly. miriam is a great seductive villain and i did love sarah's arc. i read that the ending scene was a producer-mandated tacked-on epilogue meant to set up a possible sequel that never happened but once i figured out what was happening i actually liked it (although it doesn't make much sense when you think about earlier scenes; i guess vampire healing factor is strong enough to prevent bleeding out from a stab to the neck.) reminds me a bit of the ending of daughters of darkness (which i still need to see); the older vampire dies (or gets subjected to the same fate she's been inflicting on her lovers over the years) and the younger woman she turned goes off into her own eternal life to repeat the cycle.

susan sarandon apparently said that originally the script had miriam drugging sarah to get her into bed, but she convinced them to leave that out because a vampire played by catherine deneuve wouldn't need to drug anyone to convince them to sleep with her (true). i also like to think that was her way of pushing to make her character explicitly queer as well; she doesn't need to be in an altered state to willingly have sex with another woman.

it's too bad that tony scott never made anything like this again. guess it was a little too weird for people. bryan fuller has said that the look and feel of it was an influence on hannibal and i can definitely see that. i think scott ended up directing this because he'd been interested in adapting interview with the vampire, which also makes sense.

near dark, meanwhile, is a totally different vibe. this came out when vampires were really trending, it seems, in american popular film; it was the same year as the lost boys. that has a large amount of similarities in the plot and characters but it's still different enough that i can't really say which i prefer. near dark feels like the lost boys' grungier, scrappier older sibling, a little darker and edgier, but still with the same kind of appeal to outcast youths who might want to be part of a makeshift family of outlaws. there's even a very similar shot of the vampire gang standing at the top of a hill with mist rolling in and their silhouettes outlined in the moonlight that's on the back of the dvd case.

i think a good part of the film's appeal is the distinctiveness of its vampire characters and the history implied among them, since we get a little more to work with than the lost boys gives us. (but also: seriously, what IS it with vampire media making their vampire characters confederate soldiers. at least in this case it could be a detail meant to make the character in question more evil, but it's never used as anything other than a casually-mentioned detail about how old the guy is.) they do a good job feeling genuinely dangerous - the famous bar massacre scene is great, and it works because everyone they kill is basically a random bystander and not necessarily someone who deserved it. (okay, some of them are assholes, and the guys jesse and diamondback pick up were definitely good targets, but it's easy to feel caleb's dilemma here whenever he's confronted with an innocent victim.)

not at all surprised that the most popular character from this is severen. you've probably had to scroll past a number of x reader posts if you've been in the tag for this movie.

i don't think i've ever seen the idea of vampirism being curable by blood transfusion before. it seems like maybe a too-easy solution, but i decided i like the ending because it's not played as completely happy. mae says she's scared, because she's mortal again - who knows how long she's been living as a vampire? even if she was turned against her will, she didn't exactly get a say in being turned back, either. (also, i guess the idea of vampires exploding if they're in the sun too long was older than i thought lol.)

some people don't like the newer dvd cover for this movie because it "looks like twilight" or something. i think the emphasis on the coming-of-age romance is fine honestly, it's central enough to the story even if it's probably the least interesting part of it. also apparently a remake of this fell through because it was too similar to twilight (idk if this was referring to the script they came up with or just the concept of a teen/YA vampire romance?) anyway i guess we can thank twilight for that because i doubt a remake of this would work, especially not if it was set in any other era.

kathryn bigelow said she wanted to make a western but that was considered a dead genre at this point, so she decided to combine it with something else and made a vampire neo-western. i can imagine what it would have been like as a period piece with a regular human outlaw gang, but the vampire element really adds something. i'm glad i got this from my library system because it's never on any streaming sites. watch it if you can.

novampber is over but that doesn't mean vampires are. the release date of robert eggers' nosferatu is rapidly approaching and i WILL be seated.

[craetor]

What are your top 10 favorite media ever (can be anime/manga, tv series, books, movies, games, etc)? Why love them? Thanks ⭐

Hehe thanks for the ask! I'd be happy to comply!

I can't pick dude. If you just want me to ramble about media, I'll start by talking about some pieces that have positively surprised me.

• Spaceman

Tuned in for the hot spider from the instagram clips, stayed for the interesting social commentary. I'm sure it would help a fuck ton of cis men if they just watched it. I loved Hanuš even more than I expected. Turns out an emotionally wise & relatable alien is better than one that would gut me after all.

• Pop Team Epic (season 1 especially)

It's one of those out-of-pocket pieces of media that have a ridiculous production value and passion behind it. Like, genuine production value. It's like anything Studio Trigger has made. An old friend and I were obsessed with PTE during the pandemic and pretty much made it half our personality to like it and other media like it (e.g. Way of a House Husband, nyan neko sugar girls, Backstreet Girls (That was a solid 6/10. Good watch dude). I also have Cromartie High School on my watchlist we'll see how that goes)

Now onto some books & poetry

As some may know from reading my fics & following my Lawlight obsession, I'm a big fan of poetry. I enjoy Goete a lot. He's the only name I've consistently been satisfied by. Naturalism is just my tea, as is pretty plain to see in anything I create. I'm bad at reading due to ADHD but I get it done sometimes. Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy is insane. Paradise Lost is great. Can you tell I get my book recommendations from Wendigoon? Holes by Louis Sachar reminds me of kids at Wammy's House but also I like it because every plot point in it leads to a perfect circle and I never fail to be amazed by good writing like that.

My favorite music genre is anything that counts as goth music. Sometimes emo if MSI is emo (I know and I'm sorry. Guilty pleasure). Darkwave & Post-Punk are my go-to for over half the year, but I listen to anything if it captures a vibe well. Anything from Mitski & Penelope Scott to Depeche Mode, Twin Tribes, Vestron Vulture & Bragolin to Lady Gaga (empress of my childhood) to Odetari. Oddly enough, however, my favorite band is Glass Animals. Zaba is a masterpiece, but I love several songs from their other albums too (Hot Sugar, Pork Soda, Life Itself...)

I'm not a huge fan of irl shows but I have enjoyed all 6 seasons of Peaky Blinders for the second time last month and have seen Interview With The Vampire a couple months back. That one also left me extremely surprised with how good it was. I've been disappointed by 'queer' stories before. They were scrubbed of any realism and dumbed down to make them more palatable, which I just couldn't watch for the life of me. As you may know, IWTV is the complete opposite of that lol. I've also peeked into Hannibal a couple times. It was good but I don't have time like that.

Animated shows & manga that I enjoy are:

• Death Note ofc

• Kakegurui (I rewatch s1 & s2 every year. Last year twice, I think)

• [Naoki Urasawa's] Monster (animated by Madhouse♡ I've been considering rewatching that too...)

• Paradise Kiss (just hits different in summer. The outro is Do You Want To by Franz Ferdinand. Love that song)

• Madoka Magica (the themes are Crazy.)

• Chainsaw Man (as fucked as they are, Mappa's creative team absolutely devoured. The outros are all incredible)

• Buddy Daddies (>>>>Spy X Family)

• Dandadan is looking pretty good

• The Summer Hikaru Died manga (impressive pacing, stunning art work, stellar character writing👌)

• Over The Garden Wall🎃🍂🌲🖤

• Arcane (a masterclass in character writing)

Aaand • Gravity Falls because it's literally so good, not just as nostalgia

My favorite movies:

• ARRIVAL (man I have to rewatch that)

• every single Pirates of the Caribbean movie (how had I never seen them as a child? Kinda happy about it though. Now i got to enjoy it with my adult mind spoiler-free)

• Princess Mononoke (to the surprise of no one)

• Spirited Away

• Ponyo (the implied 'children can consent' part is iffy but it's magical. My first Ghibli movie)

• Shawshank Redemption

• Disney's Atlantis (yup. That's what I was super into as a child. Had those on cassette. Every Sunday... I'm convinced the whole experience of the misty town from the second movie has singlehandedly made me who I am today)

• Dou Kyu Sei

• Godzilla 2 (THE CGI???? Also I'm a monster enthusiast)

• Portrait of a Lady on Fire

• that fucking Czech Cinderella movie that's on TV every December

Thank you again for the ask, OP🙏🏻 I love sharing these things. Now my arm hurts