IM IN THE BUILDING AGAIN

author’s notes: this chapter's kind of a whirlwind. but i think it’s fun. a lot of twisty-turny discussions and philosophical debates, which i really wish we could’ve seen more of in death note.

Warnings: mentions of genocide & eugenics (Hitler), imprisonment and the carceral system, murder and morality.

Light Yagami has a girlfriend. 

You’re pretty surprised to learn this—and even more surprised when you learn he’ll bring her to headquarters. You ask L why he’s even bothering to let her in, and he gives you a non-answer about testing. You’re immediately suspicious, especially considering your recent admission that the detective has less than a week left to live. Why is he still entertaining this charade?

Well. Unfortunately, despite Light’s eccentric and unusual behavior, he hasn’t left behind any concrete evidence that would implicate him. That’s why the Kira murders are so troublesome—the killer doesn’t have to be anywhere near the scene. You suppose it makes sense, then, that L is introducing a new piece to the board. With this girlfriend’s presence, more information will be revealed. At least, you’re guessing that’s how he sees it. 

“I thought Light was gay,” you eventually just blurt out, the chain rattling a bit as you lean over the back of the couch to talk to the detective. 

L raises an eyebrow, his eyes still on his computer screen. His hands pause over the keys. “Oh?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I mean, no hate if he’s bi or pan or whatever. I just figured he had something in there.” 

“Something,” L repeats. You swear he sounds amused. 

“What?” you say helplessly. “You know I’m right.” It’s far from a hateful observation, and you’d never go so far as to speculate on someone’s sexuality to their face. Besides, you’re also queer, so that helps.

L’s back is turned, so you can’t see him stifling an amused smile. “It is very likely that Light is… bi or pan or whatever,” he admits, parroting your words back at you. You roll your eyes in exasperation, before leaning forward a bit more and resting your arms on the back of the couch. 

“So… he has a girlfriend,” you remark. Honestly, the more shocking part is that he has a partner at all. From what you can tell, he’s a pretty busy guy. And he doesn’t seem particularly… in tune with his feelings, to put it kindly. You can’t see Light doing lovey-dovey stuff like that. And while each relationship looks different,  most of them require at least some basis of acts of intimacy—whether physical, emotional, social. It’s hard to even connect Light with the idea of intimacy. 

“Not just any girlfriend,” L corrects you, momentarily spinning in his chair so he can make eye contact with you as he continues. “Misa Amane.” 

“Misa Amane?” you repeat with a frown. The name sounds kind of familiar, for some reason.

“She’s a model and actress,” L recites, turning back to his computer screens. He searches her name on a browser and pulls up a photo of her. She’s gorgeous, long blond hair and sparkling brown eyes. You think you’ve occasionally seen her in commercials and advertisements around the city. 

“How do you think they met?” you question. Sure, Light’s a good-looking guy, but he’s not exactly famous himself. It’s difficult to imagine just how Light and Misa crossed paths. If Misa is as popular as L’s claiming, she probably doesn’t walk the streets of Tokyo freely. So how on Earth did they even meet in the first place? 

“That’s exactly what I’m wondering,” L agrees. “It is suspicious.” 

“That’s why you’re letting her into headquarters, then,” you ascertain. 

“One of many reasons,” L answers vaguely, steepling his fingers and crossing one leg over the other. His posture is oddly reminiscent of a cartoon supervillain. You can tell it feels unnatural for him, because he tries it for a few moments before huffing and returning to his typical perched pose. 

“Okay, fine, keep your secrets,” you huff in amusement. 

“Misa Misa has been vocal about her idolization of Kira,” he continues, tapping his finger against his lips. 

“Oh,” you remark. You don’t really follow her, so you weren’t aware of that. It makes sense now, though—and it would neatly explain how and why she met Light. “Misa Misa?” you then ask. 

“Misa Misa,” he confirms with a stoic nod. “That’s what the masses call her.” 

“The masses,” you repeat, resisting the urge to smile. “Wait. Are you a fan, then?” you question. From what you’ve seen, L doesn’t keep in contact with pop culture unless absolutely necessary. 

L scowls. “I’m not a fan.”

“Liar,” you remark. “You’re blushing,” you tease. 

“I am not,” the detective responds. 

And L’s right. He isn’t really blushing. But his reaction gave it away anyway. He’s almost pouting now. 

“It’s okay; I won’t tell anyone,” you reassure him playfully. 

“Shut up,” he huffs. 

The world-famous detective L is a fan of Misa Amane. Who knew? 

“You wanted to meet her in person, huh?” you ask.

“Be,” he emphasizes, “quiet.” 

You roll your eyes, unable to hide another laugh. That’s so cute.

L must sense you’re absolutely unconvinced, because he turns in his chair again to face you and level you with a stern look. “I do not deviate from cases for personal pleasure,” he asserts stonily, almost seeming offended. “This is merely an opportune coincidence.” 

“Riiiiiight,” you drawl. You’re fully teasing him at this point. He still doesn’t seem to recognize that you are, so you clarify, “I’m just teasing, dude. I know.” 

L considers you for a long moment before nodding jerkily. He lets out a hmph and spins back around in his chair, navigating the computer screen and browser with frightening speed. You watch him do this for a bit, before falling back onto the couch to rest and wait for Light’s arrival. 

L Lawliet, a fan of Misa Amane and her… unique… music. Who could’ve guessed? 

You pay him another glance, and that’s when the reality of the situation asserts itself again. The numbers above his head glow and spin, reversing themselves to face you. 

05:11:22:58

That’s right. He only has five days left to live. 

Is that why he’s so insistent on having Misa visit? L never allows visitors. Your throat burns uncomfortably as you come to a realization: 

Maybe L wants to meet one of his favorite artists before he dies. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. You kind of want to cry now. Instead you turn your attention to your fingernails, picking at them in a futile attempt to distract yourself from the heartbreaking thought. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t really work. 

Misa Amane enters headquarters like a bull in a china shop. 

That is to say, she’s a rare burst of energy in the solemn air that clings to the space. She looks around with wide eyes, as if she’s never seen a workplace before. Her arm is tight around Light’s, as she drags him along like a dog on a leash. Light doesn’t look the least bit pleased that she’s here, judging from the flat expression on his face. He may think he’s good at hiding his emotions, but his shoulders are drawn in a tight line and his eyebrows are furrowed. 

“Hello, Light,” L says cordially. His head swivels, his chair spinning a bit. “Hello, Misa Misa.” 

“That’s me!” Misa responds brightly. She’s wearing a black lacy ensemble with platform boots and silver jewelry. It’s a pretty cool outfit, you can’t lie. “You must be Ryuzaki! So good to meet you.” She reaches out and grabs his hand, shaking it energetically. L blinks owlishly, going along with the gesture before pulling a leg in front of him protectively. He wipes his hand on his jeans when she isn’t looking, and you can already hear his rant on germs.

“And you!” Misa continues, turning to address you. “I’ve heard so much about you!” 

“Really?” you blink in surprise. You wouldn’t think that Light ever talks about you. “That’s—” you break off, eventually deciding to just introduce yourself anyway. She shakes your hand just as eagerly, a wave of nauseating perfume hitting you as she leans closer. You instinctively shift your weight back on the heels of your sneakers. 

“Whoaaaa!” Misa exclaims, eye contact intense and unblinking as she studies you. “Your eyes are so cool! They’re like rubies.” 

“Uh… thanks,” you respond, a bit flustered and confused. You’re almost never complimented on your eyes. They’ve always been a reason for people to ostracize you, treat you differently. Not… look at you like how Misa is regarding you now. 

“They are like rubies,” L agrees, breaking through your thoughts. He’s staring now too. You fidget a bit, not accustomed to the attention. “Accurate assessment.” 

“Yes, we all have eyes, very fascinating,” Light says flatly. Clearly he doesn’t appreciate when someone else is the center of attention. 

L looks amused. “Jealous, Light?” he asks. 

“No,” Light states. 

An awkward silence descends across the space, as Misa’s attention is momentarily occupied with looking around. You can see L studying her and Light, and you try to look at them the way he would: 

Misa’s hand on the crook of Light’s arm. The easy smile on her lips, in juxtaposition with the frighteningly blank expression on Light’s face. Misa’s demeanor is friendly and charming; Light’s is closed-off and very far from loving. 

Misa leans into Light, resting her head on his shoulder. Her hand finds his chest. “I like meeting your friends,” she hums. 

“Yes,” Light agrees. His eyes find you. You’re the first to look away. “...Friends,” he agrees. There’s something off in his voice. You can’t quite puzzle it out. 

“And how do you two know each other?” Misa asks L and you. She’s very politely ignoring the chain binding your wrists together.  

You turn to L with an amused look, curious to see how he’ll rationalize this. What he comes up with is… just about the last thing you expect. 

“We’re boyfriends,” L replies with complete certainty. 

“What,” Light and you say at the same time. You stare at L in complete disbelief.  

“What now?” you ask weakly. 

“We’re dating,” L asserts, eyes locking onto yours. Play along, he seems to be saying silently. You resist the urge to scowl, instead just keeping quiet. You don’t know where this is going anymore. L is always several steps ahead of everyone else—that’s nothing new. 

“You two are dating,” Light repeats, eyes narrowed. “Since… when?” He looks irritated, his grip on Misa’s shoulder tensing. 

“Aw, how cute!” Misa says brightly, either unaware or uncaring of the tension in the air. She clasps her hands. 

“We share a room, eat meals together, and spend free time together. You know my interests and I know yours,” L recites, his eyes on you. He has completely ignored Light’s question. “We’re dating,” he declares with surprising certainty. 

“Is the chain… a BDSM thing?” Misa asks delicately. She doesn’t look judgmental, which almost makes the whole thing infinitely worse. 

“No!” you object immediately. “It’s not a BDSM thing.” 

“Yes, it is,” L responds. Damn it, he’s just doing this for his own fun now. He’s trying to provoke you, and it’s working. Because, seriously, what the fuck is he thinking? He always does things for a reason. So what is the purpose of this whole charade? To antagonize Light, somehow? 

“I’m very… possessive,” the detective adds. “And I have separation anxiety.” As if to punctuate his point, he runs a hand along the chain and gets rid of the slack. The two of you are practically pressed against each other now, shoulder to shoulder. 

You glare at L. Okay, that was unnecessary, you try to communicate to him silently. Judging from the slight quirk to his lips, he comprehends this message and chooses to ignore it. He’s having way too much fun with this, you think. 

“Oh my God, wait!” Misa exclaims, somehow even more energetic than before. She’s practically bouncing up and down now. “We should go on a double date! I’ve been wanting to try that new bakery down the street…!”

Light’s silent. You’re sure you’re grimacing, despite your best efforts to look unaffected. And L? He’s… smiling. 

“Let’s do it,” L responds. 

Your jaw nearly drops. Both Light and you are staring at him incredulously. Who is this guy, and what has he done with L Lawliet? 

“What are you doing?” you huff, glancing out the window and watching as Light and Misa leave the building. You turn back to L. He claimed he had some things to wrap up, so the two of you are going to meet Light and Misa at the bakery. He must’ve expected you to be suspicious. And rightfully so—you aren’t even dating!

“I had to see something,” L says, turning in his chair, “and I was right.” 

“Okay, care to share with the class?” you huff. “Because I gotta say, if this is how you treat your boyfriends, I’m not impressed.” You shake your wrist to rattle the chain for emphasis. 

L gives you an exasperated look. There’s something almost like fondness gleaming in his eyes. You convince yourself it’s a trick of the light. 

“I was trying to provoke Light,” he reveals, getting to his feet and walking over to the window, “and it worked. He got very irritated. He was blinking more quickly, his fingers twitched at his sides, and he was breathing harder.” 

“I really hope you know what you’re doing,” you sigh, watching as Misa and Light head toward a black SUV with tinted windows. Misa appears to have a few bodyguards. You watch as Light holds the door for her, before getting in after her. The movement is smooth, fluid. Rehearsed. Fake.

“I always know what I’m doing,” L frowns, as if the very thought of you having doubts is insulting. 

“Well, for your sake, I hope you get what you need quickly,” you say, “because your countdown isn’t getting any longer.” You turn and pay a glance at the number above his head.

L hums absentmindedly. It seems like his thoughts are elsewhere. 

“I’m amazed they believed you,” you then say with amusement. 

“Is the thought of us dating really so outlandish?” he asks, tilting his head owlishly. 

“I mean, yeah,” you reply. “Hello?” You shake the chain for emphasis. 

“I have separation anxiety,” L maintains with a fake pout, biting his thumbnail.

“Uh huh,” you say dryly. A sigh. “Well, we should get going, or they’re going to think we’re conspiring.” Even if that’s exactly what you’re doing. 

The ensuing ride to the bakery is uneventful, quiet. L and small talk don’t exactly get along well, which is honestly more than okay with you. You just watch the passing pedestrians and buildings. When you arrive at the bakery, Misa waves at you both from a corner booth. 

The bakery is a charming place, with natural wooden walls and brick accents. Ivy crawls down the edges of the ceiling, and the seating area is accented with deep greens and dark greys. The pastries at the front counter look mouthwatering. L and you linger awkwardly in the front area, studying the display cases. 

“What are you going to get?” you ask him. 

“Hm,” L says, leaning in to look at the pastries. He’s comically close to the display, his nose nearly smudging the glass. “Strawberry shortcake.” A pause. “Lemon shortbread… Cinnamon roll. Chocolate croissant. Raspberry danish—”

“You’re getting all of that?” you say disbelievingly. “How do you not have health issues? I’ve only ever seen you eat sugar.” 

“I’m built differently,” L responds without a trace of sarcasm. 

“You did not just say that,” you laugh. “Oh my God, you do use the Internet outside your work—”

He’s already turning his back on you to return to the booth. You sigh, glancing over the display case one more time. The tables do have print-out menus, but it’s helpful to have a visual of everything they offer. This place seems like a strange fusion of a bakery and a sit-down restaurant, because you have to order at your table. 

You head over to Misa and Light, finding L waiting for you. You take the hint and sit down first, moving over so L can sit on the outside. A waitress approaches and gets your drink orders, before asking about food. 

L rattles off his order with ease. “Strawberry shortcake, lemon shortbread, cinnamon roll, chocolate croissant, and a raspberry danish.” After a raised eyebrow from you, he adds, “Please.” 

“Sure,” the waitress responds with a nod. 

“And whatever he wants,” L finishes, pointing to you next to him. You blink and then order, before giving him a sidelong look. 

“We could’ve paid separately,” you suggest. 

L shrugs. “I have more money than I know what to do with,” he admits. 

“I’d be careful how loudly you say that,” you huff. “But thanks.” 

Light watches this interaction before ordering his own pastry, offering to pay for Misa’s too. She’s quick to deny the offer, citing her modeling career. This seems to irritate him, though it’s hard to tell. The waitress walks off and returns with your drinks, before you’re left to wait for your pastries. 

“So, how’d you guys meet?” Misa questions L and you, swirling the straw in her raspberry milk tea. 

“He got called in for an interrogation,” L responds truthfully. 

“Really?” she asks, looking to you for confirmation.

“Yeah,” you answer. “That happens pretty often, because of my eyes. Light’s dad has known me by name for a few years now,” you huff in amusement. You’re still getting perceived by the public as demonic and creepy-looking, even in your adulthood. It’s funny how something as simple and uncontrollable as eye color… can make a person’s life so much more difficult. You’re not so deluded as to think that being demonized for your eye color is anywhere close to the systemic issues plaguing society, but still. It seems like the world still has a long way to go. 

If Kira were using his powers a bit more thoughtfully, maybe the other criminals—the ones who hide behind fake politician smiles and suits—would be eliminated too. Though that seems like wishful thinking, at this point. 

“Funny!” Misa says, drawing you out of your thoughts. L sends you a curious look, evidently wondering what had you so preoccupied. Light is looking down at the table, and Misa is practically vibrating in her seat. Light gives her an unreadable look. He’s uncharacteristically quiet. 

“So, this Kira thing’s really heating up, huh?” Misa adds. Not a very smooth change in topic. 

“Yes,” L responds blankly. “It is.”

“What do you guys think of him?” she questions.

She’s about as subtle as a brick to the face. You glance sidelong at L, suspecting that he’s more interested in the conversation now. But he probably can’t show it, otherwise it’ll tip Light off. Speaking of Light… He’s been so incredibly tense from the moment the four of you sat down. You think it’s because of Misa. When it’s just the three of you, Light’s fine. When his own girlfriend is in the mix, he’s suddenly uncomfortable. 

Very strange. 

“I mean, he’s kinda got a point,” Misa continues, tapping her chin and puffing her cheeks. She’s like a caricature of an adult, you realize. She looks like one—is definitely dressed maturely—but she kind of acts like a child. You wouldn’t be surprised if she’s thrown tantrums before. She looks the type. And from what you’ve heard, Misa can be a bit of a diva when it comes to her photoshoots and dressing rooms and things. She has more money than she knows what to do with, and that’s evident in the way she scanned the menu with reckless abandon and then ordered a sample of nearly everything. 

“Kira, you mean?” you ask, just to make sure. 

“Yeah,” Misa nods, a worrying lovestruck expression on her face as she clasps her hands and daydreams. “He’s… kind of everything to me.” 

You stare down at your own drink, struggling to keep your composure. “Uh… why’s that?” you ask bluntly. “Well,” Misa answers. “He delivered justice to the guy who murdered my parents.” 

L hones in on this. “Your parents were killed?” he questions. 

“Yeah,” she responds, a sad look on her face. The energy from before fades for a second. “In a robbery. Wrong place, wrong time.” 

L and you stare at her in disbelief. Light places a hand on her shoulder reassuringly. 

You’re the first one to break away from your shock. “That’s— I’m sorry,” you say awkwardly. You’ve never been great at expressing condolences. L is also out of his element, as he repeats your statement to her. Fortunately, Misa doesn’t seem to mind, thanking you both. 

The table’s quiet again. Light didn’t express sympathy. 

“But anyway,” Misa says with a shake of her head. “Kira kills criminals. He wants to create a better world,” she recites with a nod. 

“Yeah, so did Hitler, and look how that turned out,” you blurt out. Everyone’s heads swivel toward you. “What? It’s true,” you say defensively. Truthfully, you hadn’t meant to utter that aloud. Oh well. 

“Is Kira’s purpose really so single-minded?” Light muses, finally speaking up after his uncharacteristic silence. “To me, it seems like he’s trying to reform our justice system.” 

“Sure, our justice system’s corrupt and so is our government,” you acquiesce. “Doesn’t mean we can go around killing whoever we want. That’s not reform, that’s just murder.” The slightest of nods from L, imperceptible to everyone else.

“I’d argue Kira is only killing the ones who deserve it,” Light says carefully. 

“The ones who deserve it in his eyes,” you emphasize. “Plus, I mean. If you think about it, incarceration is a much worse fate than death.”

“Yes, but correctional facilities require extensive resources to maintain,” Light frowns. “Resources that would be best allocated elsewhere.” 

“I don’t know about that,” you frown. “Yeah, prisons require a lot of funding, but they’re also historically underfunded. So then, in reality, most prisons dump money into infrastructure, security, and staffing, not rehabilitation or reintegration services. And they’re still lacking a lot of basic human necessities.” 

“Does everyone deserve those necessities, though?” Light muses. 

“Yes,” you respond. 

“Even hardened criminals?” he challenges you. “Even those who would otherwise rot in a cell?”

“Well, yeah,” you frown. “Those rights should be guaranteed. Whether certain people deserve them or not is another question.” 

“Convenient,” Light huffs. You glare at him. “Isn’t Kira just doing what the justice system can’t?” 

“No,” you scoff incredulously. His stance is so incredibly misguided. “Not at all! Kira is a single anonymous person. He decides to kill whoever he wants.”

You’re starting to pick up steam now. “Criminality is defined by the law,” you tick off on your fingers, “culpability is decided by jurors and the sentence is decided by a judge. Can that be unjust sometimes? Absolutely. But giving one person the power and authority to kill people at his whim isn’t justice either. It’s further away from it, if anything.” 

“I’m not saying I have all the answers,” Light replies. The remark comes off as flippant, but his eyes are gleaming. He’s enjoying this discussion, you realize. His hands are folded on the table. He hasn’t so much as acknowledged Misa’s existence since you started this discussion.

“You did imply it, however,” L voices, breaking his temporary silence. He’s picking at the threads at the bottom of his jeans. How he’s still barefoot in the middle of Tokyo, you aren’t sure. It’s kind of gross, so you decide not to think about it. “Do you think Kira is just, Light?”

“I don’t think that question has a black-and-white answer,” Light responds delicately. 

L mutters something like ‘diplomatic of you’ under his breath.

“Well!” Misa says, finally seeming to find her voice again. “I think he’s pretty cool, personally!”

Of course you do, you think to yourself darkly. Because Kira’s not going after celebrities or rich people. None of this affects you. 

Misa stiffens. Out of the corner of your eye, you see L raise an eyebrow ever so slightly. Light is still staring. And that’s when you realize you just spoke those thoughts aloud. 

You exhale in a punched-out breath. “Sorry,” you say to Misa quickly. “That was rude. Let’s talk about something else.” Or you’re going to start debating wealth inequalities in front of one of the richest people in the country. 

The waitress comes back with your orders, successfully breaking through the tension. 

“Any big projects coming up, Misa Misa?” L asks, tucking into his strawberry shortcake. Misa is kind enough to answer the question, and soon the tense air from before dissipates.

Light’s gaze, however, doesn’t waver. He keeps staring at you. It’s getting to the point where even Misa notices, and she jabs him in the shoulder to get him to snap out of it.

By the time everyone’s done eating, it’s clear that all four of you are tired of this outing. L is the first to get up, shoving his hands in his pockets and then leveling you with an expectant look. You turn to Misa. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Misa,” you say with a somewhat strained smile. You can’t really get a good read on the woman, despite spending nearly an hour sitting in her company. She’s confusing, her moods seeming a bit volatile. Not to mention, she isn’t… really… Well. She seems like a bit of an airhead. 

“Nice to meet you guys too,” she says, hand tightening around Light’s bicep as she tugs him to his feet. 

“Goodbye, Misa Misa,” L says solemnly. She shoots him a friendly wave before practically dragging Light after her. 

This leaves L and you standing at the table for a bit, before the detective is walking back to the car waiting for you. You follow after him, the ensuing car ride entirely silent. It’s as if neither of you are quite comfortable speaking on your observations, not until you’re behind closed doors. Even stepping into headquarters doesn’t feel like enough, and L eventually leads the way to the bedroom you’ve been sharing. 

You don’t hesitate to walk over and flop onto the bed, rubbing your hands over your face. “That was a train wreck,” you groan once he closes the door. 

“On the contrary,” L remarks, moving to perch on the edge of the bed, “I found it useful.”

“Did you really?” you huff, flipping around and staring up at the ceiling. “You don’t have to lie just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not lying,” the detective frowns. “And it only confirmed my suspicions.”

“Oh?” you turn to glance at him. 

“Light’s role in the relationship is not the boyfriend,” L explains. “The way he regards Misa Misa… It’s nothing close to the love you would expect from a romantic relationship.”

You could tell that much. You nod in agreement, wondering what the detective is really thinking. It’s pretty commendable that he can be so committed to a case that’s just going to result in his death. You don’t think you’d be nearly as calm as him, if the roles were reversed. You definitely wouldn’t want to be wasting time on a fake double date with your top suspect and your favorite artist. 

“Thank you for debating with Light,” L continues with a nod. “That was quite valuable.”

“Oh, uh… sure,” you respond. Sure, you suspected that L wouldn’t be able to engage Light in intense debate without drawing attention to it. Light’s too wary of him. But you didn’t think you were being particularly helpful either. 

“He maintained a neutral stance throughout,” L recalls. “Too careful. Plus, someone on the task force would normally be in direct opposition to Kira. Light didn’t choose that route. Perhaps because he knew he couldn’t pretend well enough.”

You take a slow breath. “I feel kinda bad for snapping at Misa,” you then admit, staring up at the ceiling with a frown. Even if she was frustrating, you didn’t mean to be outwardly rude.

“She can handle it,” L says dismissively. “Besides. Your statement was objectively correct.”

You sigh, recognizing it as his attempt at reassurance. “Thanks.”

“That was so rude!” Misa huffs, her grip on Light’s arm just short of piercing his skin as they head up the steps to Light’s apartment building. 

“I know,” Light says absentmindedly.

“‘None of this affects you,’” she repeats in a mocking tone. “He was looking at me like I’m an idiot. I’m not an idiot!”

“Uh-huh,” Light responds dryly, not even listening anymore. 

“I’m serious— hey!” Misa exclaims, turning into his path and waving a hand in front of his face. “Are you even listening?!”

“Yes,” he answers, lying through his teeth. 

“I know you’re not,” she pouts. “Jerk.” 

“If you want to make yourself useful…” Light says dismissively, unlocking the door to his apartment and begrudgingly letting Misa enter first. Once she enters, he’s quick to close the door. “...then get those Shinigami Eyes.” 

“You’re the worst boyfriend ever,” Misa huffs loudly. She starts pacing. “You’re supposed to defend my honor, not just… just… let me get attacked like that!”

“He was hardly attacking you,” Light remarks. 

“Easy for you to say,” she snaps. “You were looking at him with stars in your eyes! You’ve never looked at me like that,” Misa whines petulantly. 

Because you’ve never been able to keep up with me, intellectually or otherwise, he thinks to himself. I’ve never once had a conversation with you about anything even remotely useful.

Light just sighs instead of speaking on these thoughts. Misa keeps complaining for a few minutes, until he starts petting her hair and she calms down. He continues the repetitive motion as she leans into his chest. Light’s eyes are on the empty wall ahead as he wonders, for the millionth time, if this whole charade with Misa will really be beneficial. 

Only time will tell, he supposes.

©2026, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don’t steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

this turned out longer than i expected! originally this was supposed to end somewhere else, but now i have *that* in the next chapter... so basically, next chapter may be shorter than these past few. ig we’ll see!

thanks for reading, as always! <3

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Shelley

She’d actually be so nervous about bringing up sex for the first few months of your relationship, if you want anything to happen you’re going to be the one that initiates.

She’ll get carried away easily, she really doesn’t know her own strength, which will be really apparent when her strap is deep inside of you and your ass feels like it’s bruising up.

Actually prefers to watch you suck on her strap rather than getting eaten out, it gives her such a rush of heat throughout her entire body as she watches you take her strap all the way down. Doesn’t matter if it’s a strap where she can get some friction or not, the noises you’re making and the way you’re looking at her will make her cum.

Doesn’t matter how much you weigh, doesn’t matter how muscular you are, she will be manhandling you. It turns her on so much when you let out a little sound of surprise as she picks you up and throws you over her shoulder, giving your ass a smack, “You’re comin’ with me, hot stuff.”

She wants to see you cum just from her fingers, no matter if you’re AMAB or AFAB, she’s committed to make you a moaning, drooling mess just from her fingering you. Will talk you through it too, saying things like, “look at you, so close already, just from my fingers”, and, “say it, say that you love this, c’mon.”

When she starts to grope your ass or thighs, not letting go as you’re making out that’s when you know the strap is coming out, and she’s going to fuck your brains out ‘till you pass out, she has insane stamina. Loves to make you moan her own name as she’s fucking into you, her hips stuttering as you cum, crying out her name as she feels herself get even wetter if that was possible. After that one lick to her clit, and she’s cumming on the spot, at least let her cum on your tongue so it won’t be that embarrassing for her.

This woman will sit down and as you get on her lap, you just can’t help your hips as you start to hump her thigh. She’s very turned on by this and discovers that watching you hump her thigh and making yourself cum on her thigh is something she’ll have wet dreams about for months. Moan her name and tell her how good she feels, then she’ll combust on the spot, hugging you by your waist, bringing you flush against her chest as she starts to hump against you too. That’s when she starts to be a whiny mess.

She absolutely gets off on your voice when you’re so close to her ear, and you’re breathlessly moaning her name. Your voice gets her so turned on, so much that she can’t stop the way her body shivers when you moan her name as she’s thrusting into you.

Wants to make you scream so bad, wants the whole house to hear just how good she’s ruining you, how good she’s making you hers as her grip on your thighs tightens, and she starts snapping her hips down into you, her strap reaching even deeper into you. Will not stop fucking you until you at least cry out her name loudly.

Gets so rough when she’s fucking you, she just can’t control herself when you look like a mess like that. Her hand won’t leave your throat as she makes you arch your back into her, using said hand on your throat as an anchor while she’s fucking into you like a woman that wants to make you a dumb, drooling mess on her strap (she does).

Smell really gets her too. Especially after either a good shower, bath or an intense workout session, she just loves any smell that stands out, and it feels like you’re wrapped all around her. Her senses clouded by how good you smell, how hot you look as she’s fingering you, her nose always finds its way to your neck as she gets to smell you and leave a bruising hickey that won’t heal for at least three days. 

Look, for aftercare, she’s stiff. She’s inexperienced, although she fucks really good, she needs a few instructions as to what to do and what you need, but she’s excellent at following orders so she makes up for it. She can get a little awkward after sex, just cuddle up to her and she’ll relax.

Skips/xxXShadowlord420Xxx

This freak will most certainly initiate after like two weeks of being together, if not that, he will pounce when you say want to fuck. He becomes insatiable real quick.

Likes role-play, especially if you take it seriously, might stutter when you’re looking at him like you’re going to eat him up, but he’s trying his best to turn you on as much as you do him.

He says a lot of, “you’re mine”, “mine” and, “only mine” as you’re having sex, especially if he’s close to cumming. He’s possessive, he not only lets you know that with his words, but also by how bruising his grip is on your body. He holds you like you’re going to disappear.

Although he adores you, he loves to have sex in the dark. The suspense of you not knowing where he’s going to touch you next, the small noises you make when he peppers kisses on your thighs out of nowhere when you two first had sex, never leaves his mind.

For fan fiction reasons, I’m going to say his shadow form can interact with you physically. With those long and slender fingers, get ready for the best fingering and/or the best hand job of your life. His tongue would also be freakishly long;

For AMAB, he will not suck you off rather his tongue will be wrapped around your cock stroking you non-stop, the tip of his tongue never leaves the tip of your dick, he’s going to milk you ‘till you’re shooting blanks, until you’re crying and whining your name. The way your voice cracks spurs him on more though…

For AFAB, get ready to feel that tongue in places you didn’t even know were reachable before. His tongue just adds to your wetness, the way his tongue thrusts inside you, you’d think this creature was starving for pussy before meeting you.

For his human-ish form, he loves to watch you bounce on his dick from behind as he’s groping your ass and biting down on your shoulder like he’s claiming you in a way.

If you want to make this man cum so hard he forgets his handle and his own name, tie him up, take his dick in your hands, and while you’re sucking on the tip make sure your hands are busy with his balls. He’ll start to actually cry from the sheer pleasure of it all, he’s going to try to stop himself, but it’s just too much, and he can’t stop his hips from thrusting up as he’s cumming down your throat.

His favorite thing to do, especially when you’re having sex in the dark, is to use the shadows as like a second touch. Instead of just his hands and dick, you’re going to feel five pairs of hands all over your body; some playing with your nipples others teasing your sex, and a pair of them opening your mouth up for you to take another shadow in your mouth which feels exactly like Skips’ dick. Same length, thickness, and same in how much it throbs inside your mouth when you moan around it.

This man loves a good edging session. Especially if you’re on the receiving end, if you tell him you're close suddenly all the shadow hands disappear, and he stops his hips; “if you cum right now, I won’t stop until you cum at least 6 times,” it’s up to you whether that’s a threat, a good time or both.

Whichever gender you identify and present yourself as, if you both have makeup on, especially generally ‘edgy’ makeup, he’s not going to stop fucking your mouth ‘till he sees the lipstick prints on his dick. He also won’t stop fucking you until all of that eyeliner and or mascara is running down your face, you look ruined, and he very much gets off on that.

Anyway, his aftercare is nice! He knows the basics like bring water, clean you up, cuddle; although he is very cold, it helps to ground you back to reality after that most likely hours of sex you two had. Peppers kisses all over your body and calls you his gorgeous penumbra.

Dirk/Clarence

As Dirk, cannot hide the freak that he is, he loves you he loves sex, and he wants you, but Clarence has more decorum about the whole thing.

Remember how Scandelabra says that your clothes have been unusually tighter around your nether regions when you and Clarence got together? Yeah, especially after you just masturbated. This man wants all the juices coming out of you, even Tyrell can’t compete with him in this department, that one minute of you getting up to clean yourself up, and you still have some sort of bottoms on? They will be unusually tighter.

Dirk likes it rough and fast, while Clarence enjoys a slow, passionate love making.

Pull on Dirk's hair as roughly as you can, dig your nails into his scalp, and tell how fucking useless he would be if it wasn’t for his dick as you’re riding him. He will moan and start to beg you to ride him harder, fuck yourself on his dick so good, he can only cum if he’s inside you and only you.

Ride Dirk’s face/fuck his mouth and call him an impatient whore when he cums just from the sensation of your sex in his mouth. Make sure your cum is inside his mouth or down his throat, he’ll make sure to make you suck on his tongue as you’re making out to taste yourself from his tongue.

Bite Dirk’s neck as hard as you can, claw at his back when he’s pounding into you, pull on his hair and bite his bottom lip so hard it starts to bleed, he likes it rough.

Now, for Clarence, he still likes it rough but in a slower way. He’ll press down on your shoulders while fucking you from the back still, but now his thrusts will reach deeper, you’ll get to feel so full because he’s going slow, because he’s letting his dick throb inside you as you moan his name; it’s different but still him.

He gets turned on by corny pickup lines now, if you’re awkwardly trying to turn him on romantically, he’s getting you on all fours and making sure you can’t sit properly for a few days. When you just do your best to show your love, it gets his dick so hard that the only way he can ever get it down is by thrusting it down your throat.

Both versions of him love to watch you touch yourself as he strokes his dick. He’ll match your pace with his own strokes, he won’t ever cum before you do, he’ll tell you to suck on the tip then to “open up,” as he thrusts his dick inside to cum and fill you up properly.

Loves a strip tease, the way your clothes—by extension, him—feel against your skin as you take them off slowly feels like heaven. Drags his cock over your inner thighs, teases your hole by grinding his tip on the entrance but not fully putting it in, it’s his way to tease you back.

A good make out session is the number one way to get him as hard as he possibly can get, get on his lap and tease his half hard dick from under his clothes, and you’ll feel pre-cum leak in no time.

Both versions of him are good at aftercare, although his body is on the thinner side his body is impossibly soft and comfortable as he wraps his arms around you, he’ll kiss your eyelids and tells you how much he loves you as he sees you slowly falling asleep. Overall very good, just remind him to bring water.

Curt & Rod

They usually prefer to have sex with you one on one, but they won’t say no to a threesome every now and then, they find each other attractive too! Plus, now there’s the benefit of fucking you so it won’t get awkward.

Curt loves foreplay, how he feels for the rest of your activities is dependent on it. It's not hard to please him either, you can just sit there and look gorgeous, just be sure to whimper his name as he’s sucking on your bottom lip and his hands are already teasing your clothed sex.

He gets off on you being in control, using his dick for your own pleasure as he just takes it. Pull him close by wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he’s already fucking into you, tell him to go faster, deeper or both, and he’ll do so, snapping his down in the way you told him to, whining every time you tighten around him; leaking pre-cum inside you.

Give him a good blowjob, take him all the way down, massage his thighs, stroke him while you’re sucking on the tip, and he’ll give you the best head of your life. He goes slow, his tongue never in a hurry, pressing down hard, sucking deep- as if he’s really trying to taste every bit of you. His eyes will never break contact with yours while he’s going down on you, too, he gets off on your expressions.

His preferred pace when he’s fucking you is slow, deep, and hard. He loves how you throw your head back with a whine of his name as his tip brushes against that sweet spot inside you again and again. When you let him cum inside, and it overflows from your hole, dripping down to the sheets? It turns him on so much that his pace picks up out of nowhere.

Adores the way you moan his name, he gets so horny just from that, even if he wasn’t close before now he’s cumming on the spot with an embarrassed whine. Whether you exploit that or not is your choice.

For Rod, let him take control and he’s got you.

He thrusts deep and fast, loves to watch your ass bounce off of his hips as he’s thrusting inside you so good, you can feel almost every vein of his dick inside, he gets so deep, he’s also really good at finding the spot that makes you cry out his name while arching your back into him.

Loves giving head more than receiving, the way your thighs clamp up when you’re so close, when you’re so spent that your voice becomes hoarse, the way you can’t help but thrust your hips up when his tongue presses down on your tip/clit, then to suck on it, he just loves it all. Gets off on seeing how much he affects you. 

He’ll look at you like you hung the moon and the stars in the sky while he’s pounding into you, so close to bruising your ass with the pace he’s going at while telling you how gorgeous you look all fucked out like that.

Really tuned in to your emotions, if you for some reason cam’T say what makes you uncomfortable, he’ll notice it anyway and shift to a position that’s comfortable for both of you or adjust his pace.

Gets off on watching your facial expressions, whether that’s when he’s deep inside you, when he’s giving you head or you’re just making out, his dick will always leak pre-cum when he sees how wet your lips are, your half lidded eyes and the way you’re looking at him gets him so worked up.

They love to fuck you at the same time. Rod’s chest pressing up on your back as the back of your knee slung over Curt’s shoulder while he’s holding you up from your thighs and Rod is holding you up with his hands groping your ass, both of their cocks in one of your holes. Rod’s peppering kisses on your nape, Curt’s giving you hickeys as they both settle down to a slow but deep pace while they thrust into you at the same time, all of you whimpering and moaning breathlessly as the tight fit makes the friction inside you and the friction of their dicks grinding against each other overstimulating in the best way possible.

They will kiss above you as Rod’s fucking you and Curt’s dick is in your mouth, just to get themselves even deeper inside you and see how it feels to kiss each other when you're so tight around them with your mouth and your hole.

You're sucking off Curt, sucking on his tip and stroking the rest while on your knees on the bed, Curt’s eating you out/stroking you at the same time. After you both cum, Curt will hold your head/jaw gently to guide you as you suck off Curt next.

They definitely get into a competition over who can make you cum the fastest or make you moan the louder.

Curt making out with you, playing with your sex, his fingers never leaving it while Rod’s fucking you from behind.

Rod, holding you by the hips and guiding you as you fuck into Curt—with strap for AFABs— leaving a trail of kisses and nibbling on your earlobe as Curt’s a whining mess below you, “Look, he’s all cute ‘n obedient for you, work those hips and make him cum, and I’ll fuck you just how you want it, baby.”

You were subtle. Silent. Thoughtful — much like your art. You arrived at his door every week under the gentle guise of asking to paint him, brushes wrapped neatly, canvas in tow, soft-spoken words tucked behind your lips.

You always asked politely.

“Would you mind sitting for me again, Dr. Lecter?”

And Hannibal always agreed.

He indulged you. Not because he particularly enjoyed being painted — though he did admire the classical control in your strokes — but because he enjoyed you.

You were different. Quiet without being simple. You didn’t chatter like most, didn’t fill the air with needless noise. You let silence exist between words, like space between stars. And in that silence, he watched the way your fingers twitched when you looked at him too long, how your eyes lingered on the line of his throat, his hands, the corner of his mouth.

You weren’t just painting him.

You were studying him.

Desiring him.

And tonight, Hannibal would test how far that desire went.

⸻

“You’ve grown bold,” Hannibal said, eyes steady as he settled into his high-backed chair. “Three portraits in as many weeks.”

You sat across from him, sketchbook in your lap, thumb pressed anxiously against the paper’s edge. Your voice came soft, hesitant. “You’re… an interesting subject.”

“Interesting.” He tasted the word as though it were wine.

“I mean—visually. There’s a certain… tension in your face. Stillness in the body, but something always beneath.”

A smile curled his lips — slow, feline. “You see beneath the surface. That makes you dangerous, artist.”

Your eyes dropped. His voice always made you feel like prey: warm, pinned, exposed.

“I wonder,” Hannibal continued, “if you’re brave enough to paint more than just the surface.”

You looked up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

He uncrossed his legs deliberately, leaned forward just slightly, voice dipping low.

“I propose something different. For your next piece… perhaps a nude portrait. Of me.”

The room stilled.

You blinked, mouth slightly open, breath catching somewhere between ribs. Your pencil slipped against the page, leaving a faint, accidental line.

Hannibal’s gaze was unwavering. He saw the pulse leap in your throat. Saw how your fingers flexed, how your legs pressed together without thinking.

“It’s important,” he added, “for an artist to be unafraid of the human form. To be… intimate with it.”

You swallowed. “That’s… I… I’ve never done a nude before.”

He tilted his head, predatory interest dancing in his eyes. “All the better, then. I would be your first.”

He let the pause hang, deliberate. Suggestive.

Your voice was a whisper, raw with nervous energy. “You’re not… joking?”

“Never,” he said smoothly. “I think you’d like it. Watching. Studying every line, every muscle, every shadow that light casts on skin. The truth of the body. Wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Hannibal stood, slowly, and walked to your side. He looked down at your open sketchbook, at the dozen drawings of him you thought you’d hidden — his eyes, his hands, his profile in charcoal.

“You already undress me with your eyes,” he said, gently brushing a smudge of graphite from your cheek. “Why not do it properly?”

Your breath hitched.

Your mouth was dry. “If you’re… comfortable.” You said body slightly frozen. You sat there, heart pounding, sketchbook trembling in your lap.

comfortable.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, smile playing across his lips. “Are you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Hannibal peeled off his shirt with a quiet grace, his movements deliberate — the kind that made it clear he was fully aware you were watching. His chest was lean, defined but elegant. Like a sculpture. Something carved, not grown. There was power there, coiled and patient.

He unbuckled his belt. Slid his trousers down. Then his briefs. He stood nude in front of you, unashamed, as if this was nothing more than another evening — as if your pulse wasn’t hammering behind your ribs. Your eyes roamed — helpless, greedy. The way the light fell on the angles of his collarbone, the subtle V of his hips, the long, quiet strength in his legs. You caught yourself staring too long between his thighs.

He noticed.

“Study me,” he said softly, stepping onto the lounge, reclining like a Roman god preparing to be immortalized. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

You nodded, dazed. Sat on your stool like a student at an altar. You picked up your brush.

But your hand trembled. You felt like you couldn’t even breathe while Hannibal just stared at you like you were prey. And then finally you started to paint.

The painting was complete — but you hadn’t looked at it in over an hour. Your eyes were locked on Hannibal instead, the brush long forgotten in your hand. He was still nude, still seated — but no longer as your subject. He had become something else entirely: a predator at rest, watching his prey tremble closer to the moment of surrender.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But the silence wasn’t empty.

It was expectant.

And then, like a wire snapping under tension, he stood and crossed the space between you in slow, deliberate steps.

You froze. Heart hammering. Heat flooding your chest, your throat.

He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t have to.

One hand reached out and caught your wrist — the one still holding the paintbrush. He plucked it from your fingers and set it gently aside. Then he brought your hand to his chest. Warm skin. Slow, steady breath.

“You create such beauty with your hands,” he said, his voice low, intimate, like it belonged behind a locked door. “Allow them something more honest.”

Your fingertips trembled against his skin. He leaned down — closer, so close — and for the first time, you realized you weren’t afraid of him.

You were enthralled.

“May I?” he asked.

You nodded.

He smiled like a man who’d already known the answer.

Hannibal’s hands were practiced. Intelligent. Sensual in the way only a master of detail could be — he touched you like you were already undone, like your body was clay warming in his palms. He cupped you through your pants, slowly, deliberately — watching your reaction, not rushing it. You gasped at the contact, hips twitching forward instinctively.

You weren’t used to being touched like this. Seen like this.

You were quiet — but your body betrayed you. You leaned into his hand, breath shaky, your eyes flickering to his as if pleading for something unspoken.

He obliged.

With a slow, skilled precision, Hannibal undid the buttons of your trousers and slid them down. You kicked them away without thinking. Your underwear followed — soft fabric peeled away by fingers that knew exactly how to tempt, how to tease.

And then you were fully exposed.

He hummed softly, pleased.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, stroking you gently now — long, languid motions that made your thighs tense and your breath catch. “Isn’t it curious, how much we hide from the world… and yet how easily we give it away when someone looks at us properly?”

You whimpered as his thumb circled the head of your cock, his other hand resting against your lower abdomen, anchoring you in place.

Every movement was calculated. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just deliberate, like he was memorizing how you responded to each stroke — your soft gasps, the way your legs trembled, the way your lips parted but no words came.

“You’ve wanted this,” he whispered into your ear. “Haven’t you, artist?” You nodded — desperate, flushed. “Yes.” “Say it.” “I wanted you.” He smiled against your neck. “Good boy.”

The praise shattered something in you. Your hand gripped his shoulder, needing something to hold onto. Hannibal’s hand moved faster now, his fingers tight and slick with your arousal, stroking you expertly. You couldn’t even look at him — the pleasure was too intense, your body betraying how deeply you’d needed this.

“You may come for me,” he murmured, voice velvet-dark.

And you did — with a stifled cry against his collarbone, your body shaking as you spilled into his hand. You felt him watching you the entire time — his eyes on your face, your mouth, your chest heaving as you rode the aftershocks.

He didn’t let go of you until you were fully spent, breathless in his arms.

Only then did he raise his hand — sticky with your release — and bring it to his mouth. And taste it. Deliberately.

“You’re a masterpiece,” Hannibal said softly. “And every artist deserves to be touched by his own creation.”

You were subtle. Silent. Thoughtful — much like your art. You arrived at his door every week under the gentle guise of asking to paint him, brushes wrapped neatly, canvas in tow, soft-spoken words tucked behind your lips.

You always asked politely.

“Would you mind sitting for me again, Dr. Lecter?”

And Hannibal always agreed.

He indulged you. Not because he particularly enjoyed being painted — though he did admire the classical control in your strokes — but because he enjoyed you.

You were different. Quiet without being simple. You didn’t chatter like most, didn’t fill the air with needless noise. You let silence exist between words, like space between stars. And in that silence, he watched the way your fingers twitched when you looked at him too long, how your eyes lingered on the line of his throat, his hands, the corner of his mouth.

You weren’t just painting him.

You were studying him.

Desiring him.

And tonight, Hannibal would test how far that desire went.

⸻

“You’ve grown bold,” Hannibal said, eyes steady as he settled into his high-backed chair. “Three portraits in as many weeks.”

You sat across from him, sketchbook in your lap, thumb pressed anxiously against the paper’s edge. Your voice came soft, hesitant. “You’re… an interesting subject.”

“Interesting.” He tasted the word as though it were wine.

“I mean—visually. There’s a certain… tension in your face. Stillness in the body, but something always beneath.”

A smile curled his lips — slow, feline. “You see beneath the surface. That makes you dangerous, artist.”

Your eyes dropped. His voice always made you feel like prey: warm, pinned, exposed.

“I wonder,” Hannibal continued, “if you’re brave enough to paint more than just the surface.”

You looked up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

He uncrossed his legs deliberately, leaned forward just slightly, voice dipping low.

“I propose something different. For your next piece… perhaps a nude portrait. Of me.”

The room stilled.

You blinked, mouth slightly open, breath catching somewhere between ribs. Your pencil slipped against the page, leaving a faint, accidental line.

Hannibal’s gaze was unwavering. He saw the pulse leap in your throat. Saw how your fingers flexed, how your legs pressed together without thinking.

“It’s important,” he added, “for an artist to be unafraid of the human form. To be… intimate with it.”

You swallowed. “That’s… I… I’ve never done a nude before.”

He tilted his head, predatory interest dancing in his eyes. “All the better, then. I would be your first.”

He let the pause hang, deliberate. Suggestive.

Your voice was a whisper, raw with nervous energy. “You’re not… joking?”

“Never,” he said smoothly. “I think you’d like it. Watching. Studying every line, every muscle, every shadow that light casts on skin. The truth of the body. Wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Hannibal stood, slowly, and walked to your side. He looked down at your open sketchbook, at the dozen drawings of him you thought you’d hidden — his eyes, his hands, his profile in charcoal.

“You already undress me with your eyes,” he said, gently brushing a smudge of graphite from your cheek. “Why not do it properly?”

Your breath hitched.

Your mouth was dry. “If you’re… comfortable.” You said body slightly frozen. You sat there, heart pounding, sketchbook trembling in your lap.

comfortable.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, smile playing across his lips. “Are you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Hannibal peeled off his shirt with a quiet grace, his movements deliberate — the kind that made it clear he was fully aware you were watching. His chest was lean, defined but elegant. Like a sculpture. Something carved, not grown. There was power there, coiled and patient.

He unbuckled his belt. Slid his trousers down. Then his briefs. He stood nude in front of you, unashamed, as if this was nothing more than another evening — as if your pulse wasn’t hammering behind your ribs. Your eyes roamed — helpless, greedy. The way the light fell on the angles of his collarbone, the subtle V of his hips, the long, quiet strength in his legs. You caught yourself staring too long between his thighs.

He noticed.

“Study me,” he said softly, stepping onto the lounge, reclining like a Roman god preparing to be immortalized. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

You nodded, dazed. Sat on your stool like a student at an altar. You picked up your brush.

But your hand trembled. You felt like you couldn’t even breathe while Hannibal just stared at you like you were prey. And then finally you started to paint.

The painting was complete — but you hadn’t looked at it in over an hour. Your eyes were locked on Hannibal instead, the brush long forgotten in your hand. He was still nude, still seated — but no longer as your subject. He had become something else entirely: a predator at rest, watching his prey tremble closer to the moment of surrender.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But the silence wasn’t empty.

It was expectant.

And then, like a wire snapping under tension, he stood and crossed the space between you in slow, deliberate steps.

You froze. Heart hammering. Heat flooding your chest, your throat.

He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t have to.

One hand reached out and caught your wrist — the one still holding the paintbrush. He plucked it from your fingers and set it gently aside. Then he brought your hand to his chest. Warm skin. Slow, steady breath.

“You create such beauty with your hands,” he said, his voice low, intimate, like it belonged behind a locked door. “Allow them something more honest.”

Your fingertips trembled against his skin. He leaned down — closer, so close — and for the first time, you realized you weren’t afraid of him.

You were enthralled.

“May I?” he asked.

You nodded.

He smiled like a man who’d already known the answer.

Hannibal’s hands were practiced. Intelligent. Sensual in the way only a master of detail could be — he touched you like you were already undone, like your body was clay warming in his palms. He cupped you through your pants, slowly, deliberately — watching your reaction, not rushing it. You gasped at the contact, hips twitching forward instinctively.

You weren’t used to being touched like this. Seen like this.

You were quiet — but your body betrayed you. You leaned into his hand, breath shaky, your eyes flickering to his as if pleading for something unspoken.

He obliged.

With a slow, skilled precision, Hannibal undid the buttons of your trousers and slid them down. You kicked them away without thinking. Your underwear followed — soft fabric peeled away by fingers that knew exactly how to tempt, how to tease.

And then you were fully exposed.

He hummed softly, pleased.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, stroking you gently now — long, languid motions that made your thighs tense and your breath catch. “Isn’t it curious, how much we hide from the world… and yet how easily we give it away when someone looks at us properly?”

You whimpered as his thumb circled the head of your cock, his other hand resting against your lower abdomen, anchoring you in place.

Every movement was calculated. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just deliberate, like he was memorizing how you responded to each stroke — your soft gasps, the way your legs trembled, the way your lips parted but no words came.

“You’ve wanted this,” he whispered into your ear. “Haven’t you, artist?” You nodded — desperate, flushed. “Yes.” “Say it.” “I wanted you.” He smiled against your neck. “Good boy.”

The praise shattered something in you. Your hand gripped his shoulder, needing something to hold onto. Hannibal’s hand moved faster now, his fingers tight and slick with your arousal, stroking you expertly. You couldn’t even look at him — the pleasure was too intense, your body betraying how deeply you’d needed this.

“You may come for me,” he murmured, voice velvet-dark.

And you did — with a stifled cry against his collarbone, your body shaking as you spilled into his hand. You felt him watching you the entire time — his eyes on your face, your mouth, your chest heaving as you rode the aftershocks.

He didn’t let go of you until you were fully spent, breathless in his arms.

Only then did he raise his hand — sticky with your release — and bring it to his mouth. And taste it. Deliberately.

“You’re a masterpiece,” Hannibal said softly. “And every artist deserves to be touched by his own creation.”

TIME SKIP

Two months.

Sixty-two days, if you count the ones where he dressed, ate, worked, and slept with your silhouette occupying all negative space. Hannibal hadn’t expected to feel panic at day three. Annoyance, perhaps. Mild concern at best, but by week five, he adjusted the dosage of his patience with the surgical precision of a chemist. By week eight, he admitted, in a corner of his mind he rarely visited without gloves, that he was irritated.

You did not come back. Instead, you committed a sin more egregious than absence. You replaced him.

A man. Average in every metric Hannibal considered sacred. The haircut of a man who trusted barbershop mirrors. Hands unremarkable. A laugh loud enough to be insecure. He touched your wrist in public. He kissed your cheek outside a café. He made you smile differently.

Softer. Unthreatening.

Hannibal watched from across the street, behind sunglasses he didn’t need. How dare you teach someone else your dialect of darkness? How dare you offer anyone the privilege of discovering your edges and not make them bleed out? This was not heartbreak. This was insult.

Hannibal decided to correct the misapprehension.

You woke in the dark, wrists bound with something that wasn’t rope. It was smoother, stitched. Leather cuffs. “Don’t move too fast,” Hannibal murmured above you. “I’d hate for you to faint through the good parts.”

Beyond him, your boyfriend, Daniel, was upright, gagged and strapped to a chair. You watched as Hannibal dragged an instrument tray closer.

“Let him go,” you said, because it was the expected script and because Daniel’s eyes begged you to say it.

“No," Hannibal leaned close to you, fingers brushing your throat in faux comfort. “I told you before, what you seek elsewhere will be lacking. I feel insulted that you forced me to prove it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“On the contrary. I do nothing I don’t wish to do.” He straightened, addressing your lover now with a detached courtesy. “I apologize for the theatrics. You were a placeholder in a story you did not understand.”

Your lover thrashed. Hannibal sighed at the noise.

You tested the restraints. Strong, but not impossible. However, you weren't looking to run. “Hannibal, please.”

He glanced back at you, and something flared in his eyes. Triumph. Ah, you’re pleading. Returning to the axis. How reassuring.

He chose a boning knife.

The first cut was clean, a red smile under the collarbone. Your lover screamed into the gag. Hannibal barely glanced at the blood beading. He was watching you. Monitoring dilated pupils, tracking the micro-spasms across your mouth.

You didn’t look away.

He carved a second line. No flourish, just function. He was delivering a message written in sinew and breath.

“You can’t keep doing this!” you expelled, voice cracking just enough. “You can’t—”

“Then stop making me,” he snapped, and the sharpened ice under his tone made the air brittle. “Stop testing the perimeter of a cage you built with me. You left. I allowed it. You replaced me. I did not.”

The knife sank again. Blood ran. Your lover’s head lolled, consciousness fraying.

“Hannibal.”

He turned, and you let it happen. The mask was thinning. This wasn’t about murder. Murder was nothing. This was about you. About being seen. About owning the only soul who looked at him and said: I know what you are and I am not repulsed.

“Please,” you breathed, not to stop him, but to tighten the coil.

He obliged.

One decisive thrust. Between ribs. A kiss to the heart.

Your lover convulsed, then slumped. The gag turned from muffler to stopper, holding in a last thread of sound that would never be heard.

Hannibal left the knife buried, head tilting, studying his work like a sommelier savoring a nose. Then he looked at you.

He's expecting it, you thought. Expecting the sob. Expecting the horror in your face. Expecting the collapse, the begging, the promise to come home if only he fixes this.

Instead, you smiled.

“Oh, Hannibal,” you murmured, voice warm from the inside out. “There you are.”

A blink. He recalibrated mid-breath. “What—”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t plan for your inevitability?” You lifted your hands and he allowed you the slack. Not enough to free yourself, but enough to reach his vest lapel.

“Did you think I’d be foolish enough to parade a man in front of you without considering the reaction? You’re not a dog, Hannibal. You’re a dragon. You don’t bark. You burn.”

His pupils blew wide. The knife still in Daniel’s chest was suddenly background noise to the realization blooming across his face. “You wanted this?”

“I needed to see if you would still do it,” you confessed, honest and glowing with it. “For me. Not for the game. Not for your palate. For me.”

You tugged him closer. He let you.

“I picked him because he said yes to everything. He wasn’t in love with me. He liked the adrenaline. It was useful.”

Hannibal’s thumb traced your bottom lip, smearing a fleck of blood you hadn’t realized had landed there. “You used him as bait.”

“We used each other. He got entertainment. I got a reminder.” You leaned in, breath ghosting over his mouth. “You took too long to come for me.”

A laugh shook from Hannibal’s chest. “You are insufferable.”

“You’re delighted.”

He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Not with the proof between you. A body cooling, a knife singing in metal silence, and your pulse racing under his fingertips not with fear, but with worship.

Hannibal unlocked your cuffs with a tenderness that nearly hurt. He caught both your hands in his, guiding them up his shirt front, over the steady thrum of his heart.

“I should punish you for manipulating me.”

“You already did.” Your eyes flicked to the chair. “And I adored it.”

The admission snapped something inside him you’d been teasing at since day one. He crushed his mouth to yours. You kissed back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders. When he pulled back, breath ragged, his eyes were glassed with something close to wonder.

“You are dangerous.”

the first time you met hannibal lecter was during your gallery's opening. you had cultivated your passion into the arts. you painted often, and with ample practice, your shading and strokes steady, you had been able to land a place in one of the the most renowned colleges in baltimore, and turn your passion and talents into something that helped you put food on the table, indulge in luxuries, and ultimately, open your own gallery.

but, when you started dating the infamous doctor lecter, the surgeon turned psychiatrist known best for his feasts that consisted of unethical meat paired with wines that had too many diacritics in their names, his extensive range of interests and knowledge, and most importantly, about his elegance, your coping mechanism was a secret you had tried to hide from him.

he'd noticed though. he was a silent observer. he never prodded or poked, but let one reveal themselves to him in their own pace, no matter how slow it be. but, his observative nature wasn't something he could simply turn off.

he'd notice how you slightly biting his delicate wine glasses during shared dinners. or how the forks hitting your teeth while you ate his culinary fusions didn't bother you. or how you some times bit the spoon while simply trying desserts. he wondered if it was the cold sensation of the metal that you liked.

but then, he saw you biting a pillow that was underneath your head, after you'd assumed he'd gone to sleep. it was the third time you had made love after seeing each other, and the first time after making things official.

it was then that he realized that you simply liked biting things. but, he never commented on it. he wanted you to confess your troubles to him, even if he knew what they were.

and you, ashamed and bashed, never knew how to approach the topic of your coping mechanism. but you'd noticed his hands. when he entangled his fingers with you during long walks at the park. or when they prepared meals for you, solely for you to taste and test. or when they held you down during sex. they were soft. calloused. scarred. big. and...spongy.

you liked that. it was the ideal texture to bite to self soothe. it was the same reason you bit your hand during moments of overstimulation and distress.

but, you believed it was for the best that your mechanism remained a secret. it was embarrassing. mostly, you believed so. the other part of you insisted that it was inelegant. however, fate was not going to play by your rules.

you were already having a bad day when hannibal found out. the morning had began with you stubbing your toe on your bed post, burning your toast, tripping over clothes that you had left strewn across the floor the night before. the cafe you went to, like a sacred routine was closed due to road construction. and you did not close out a deal with the client whose ass required a lot of kissing for them to be even interested in your business. by lunch, you were exhausted.

worn out, even. your nerves felt like they were ablaze, on fire, tethered on a fine line between explosion and calm. the former seemed more probable, considering the mental state you were in.

without much thought, your hand travelled into your mouth. your teeth sunk into the thick skin of your palm. the pain distracted you. but it was only for a short moment, as tears pricked behind your eyes before flowing down your face.

that was when the door to your cabin opened, and hannibal walked in, carrying a bag, your hand still in your mouth. but you couldn't stop. tears rolled down your cheeks endlessly, fat and hot, humiliating rather than soothing. hannibal placed the bag on your desk, and knelt down to face you, eye-level.

'i'm assuming is it a self-soothing tactic, rather than hunger that makes you want to engage in biting your own hand.' he mused, his fingers slowly wrapping around your wrist as he pulled your hand from the cavern of your mouth. his thumb wiped the tears from your left cheek, arms coming around you to pull you into an embrace.

'y-yes,' you whispered through soft sobs. his hand soothed down your back. before he could say anything more, your teeth latched onto the flesh of his cheek. it wasn't hard, just sudden. canines sunk into his soft muscle, indentations marking upon his clean shaven skin.

'it's okay. why didn't you ever tell me before? i could've helped you,' he asked, pulling away, before you could bite him any harder.

'it's...it's just embarrassing okay? it's unconventional. it's not elegant—not for being your lover,' you said, wiping your tears, your breathing still erratic.

'nothing inelegant about something that soothes you, my lover.' before you could protest his logic, he offered you his hand. wrapping your lips around his palm, teeth sinking into the thick skin. your assumptions weren't far off. his hands were soft. calloused and scarred, yes, but soft. just the right amount of spongy.

just enough to soothe your frayed, tattered nerves. to come down from a phase of overstimulation that stimmed underneath your skin.

'does that feel good?' he asked, hand still, eyes searching. you nod, your hand wrapping around his wrist as holding him in place. your teeth latched tight into his skin, indentations marking his thick skin. he smiles, ecstatic at calming down his lover.

'come on now, lets have lunch before you chew through my hand befogging it for food,'

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟᶻ 𝗓

“I thought—” his words broke, then tumbled over each other. “I thought you would not return. That you would leave me. And I—” He pulled back just enough for you to see his eyes, glassy with both alcohol and something heavier. “I cannot abide that.”

You searched his face, surprised at the rawness there. “Hannibal, you’re drunk.”

A broken chuckle left him, soft and bitter. “Yes. Terribly human of me, isn’t it?” His hand cupped your jaw, trembling more than you’d ever seen. “But you must understand, space from you is unbearable. You are my tether. Without you, I unspool.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm and sweet with alcohol. “Forgive my foolishness. Do not—do not vanish from me again. My heart is not immune, no matter how I pretend.”

The sight was jarring. This man, usually a fortress of refinement, now laid bare in messy affection. His arms wrapped around you again, desperate, as if afraid you’d slip away.

"Not many young people your age attend these performances." 

His gaze is focused on you as he speaks, his eyes glow as if he’d just found something extraordinary. 

"Tell me, what is it about this music that draws you in?"

There’s a slight challenge in his voice, an invitation to share your passion with someone who, you sense, might truly understand. You hesitate only for a moment, then begin speaking, your voice steady and confident, as you always are when discussing music. You may be younger than the usual people who go to these sorts of events but that doesn't mean you don;t have the knowledge to understand the profoundness of the music.

“It’s the precision, the way each note is so deliberate and yet so expressive. Beethoven had to overcome so much adversity, and when I listen to his violin concerto, I hear his struggle, his triumph… it's like he poured everything into it.”

Dr. Lecter watches you intently, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of fascination and admiration. You can tell that he’s absorbing every word, every nuance of your explanation. There’s no mockery in his gaze, no condescension—only genuine curiosity, as though he’s meeting someone who shares his refined appreciation for the art.

“You have an impressive understanding of music. It’s rare to find someone who truly listens—not just to the melody, but to the meaning behind it. Most people simply hear sound, but you… you feel it.”

You feel your heartbeat a little faster, caught off guard by the compliment. Hannibal Lecter—who, you’re certain, could analyze any human with a level of depth few could match—is paying you such attention. And it's not just because you're sitting next to him in an opera house. It's because you’ve managed to stir something within him.

His eyes flicker momentarily to the stage, where the orchestra begins tuning their instruments, preparing for the performance. 

“Do you ever think, when listening to a piece like this, that music can be… a form of communication? A language, perhaps?”

You nod thoughtfully. 

“I’ve always thought of music as a language of the soul. Words can’t always capture what you’re feeling, but music can convey emotions too complex for speech.”

Lecter’s smile is subtle, but there’s a certain warmth behind it—a rare softness in the cold precision of his usual demeanor.

 "You have an eloquence in your understanding. I think that is what makes this concert special for you... You’re not merely hearing the music, you are living it."

For a moment, you feel as if time itself has stopped. The world around you fades into the background, leaving just the two of you, locked in a conversation about music and meaning—two souls who recognize the beauty in things that others may never notice.

As the lights dim and the orchestra begins to play, you settle back into your seat, but your thoughts are still with him. Dr. Lecter’s presence, his quiet fascination with you, lingers in the air, adding a layer of complexity to your evening that you didn’t expect.

l

What if Alastor experienced “Fawning Season” instincts? (Non-Canon but, let’s face it, Alastor would do this and is getting towards this level of protectiveness)

For explanation: Fawning Season is a time of year where deer—usually does, but, come on, we know how protective Alastor is—take their fawns and hide them to keep them hidden from predators

So, what happens when Alastor gets these instincts?

Well, if you think that his current level of protectiveness is bad, then…buckle up

The moment these instincts begin, Alastor starts to hover around Sprout more

Any paparazzi? Even though Sprout can deal with them, Alastor is scaring them all off before they get close

Husk can’t serve them mocktails (and Sprout has upgraded to cocktails) without Alastor investigating that everything is safe for Sprout

New guests? Alastor is glaring at them until they’re adequately scared to not get near Sprout

They’re “untrustworthy” around Sprout, too new

Sprout is somehow oblivious to it all

Everyone else? They’re noticing

Husk is rolling his eyes—he’s accepted that Alastor does actually care about Sprout, so he can allow that without worrying, and mostly, Husk thinks its ridiculous that some people haven’t caught on yet

Charlie is begging Alastor to stop threatening other Sinners, and Alastor is ignoring her

Sprout is the priority

Sprout is just going about their day, though

Now, that’s at the start of the “season”

The farther we get, the worse it gets

Alastor starts insisting Sprout come to the Radio Tower or his room while he plays music or cooks or does whatever Alastor does

Sprout is confused but is kind of fond of him so goes along with it (hey, his jambalaya is good)

And Alastor is NOT wanting them to leave

He’s making seven course meals trying to keep them in the room as long as possible

Sprout is beyond getting manipulated at this point (we hope, at least) and is like “I’m going to bed”

So, Alastor is walking them back to their room (following them home) to keep them safe

I think that, at this point, because Sprout is his fawn, their room is an extension of his in his head

The shadows are keeping an eye on them while Sprout is sleeping, always watching from danger

At the peak of Alastor’s fawning season:

He is literally picking them up with shadows and setting them down next to them

Sprout, however, is having none of it and using their vines to slap shadows away

They are independent, and they’re going out with their friends, Alastor can’t stop them

Alastor spends a lot of time grumbling under his breath about it, and he does not relax until Sprout is back

Now, what I’m sure you really want to hear: what if someone tried to harm Sprout?

Oh, boy

Alastor would not be happy

Not happy whatsoever

In fact, those Radio Demon instincts to tear people apart? Back in full force, worse than ever

Someone tries to harm Sprout, and instantly, before Sprout even summons their own magic, shadows have grabbed the person and dragged them into the darkness

Everyone just stares as Alastor, in his more demonic form, kind of just looms behind Sprout

And then, before anyone can say anything, Alastor scoops Sprout up with shadows and disappears with them

Sprout gets dumped in his Radio Tower while Alastor starts to animalistically make sure everything is safe and secure and that nothing can get towards his Sprout

No predators are getting his fawn while he’s around

l

What if Sprout had a depressive episode? (Requested by Loser_Baby151 on ao3) (Probably Canon)

If Sprout had a depressive episode, the Hotel would mobilize—but it would depend on who realized first

I think that Alastor is so old-fashioned that he wouldn’t really clock that something was going wrong?

So, most likely, it’s Husk and Angel Dust who notice first

Angel Dust for sure has experience with bad mental health episodes

He notices immediately when Sprout starts drawing back

Interceding immediately

He isn’t going to let them spiral

The moment Sprout is staring into space, getting quieter, and the flowers are drooping?

Angel Dust shows up at their room and is immediately making them soda, tea, or coffee—whatever they want

Snacks? He’s got it

He’s making sure Sprout is taken care of, and if that is getting food delivered while they lay on bed and stair at the ceiling, that’s what it would be

Depending on how you imagine Sprouts hair, he’d probably play with it or clean it—watering the plants, even, lol

Angel Dust is making sure they feel like a person until they have enough energy to do something for themself

He’s giving the support he would want

Husk is more of the quiet caretaker

He’s listening and paying attention to the small signs that Sprout needs something or wants something

He talks to them about anything other than their issues until they slowly start to open up, and then he’s listening

He’s sneaking them hot chocolate and snacks from the bar

After that starts happening, Charlie and Vaggi realize something’s wrong

Charlie tries to do the usual things to cheer Sprout up: games, music, bringing them to activities—this has probably ended up with someone trapped in vines by an overstimulated Sprout

Vaggi calms Charlie down from that, and Charlie actually then manages to do what actually needs to be done: talking to Sprout, talking out what’s going, what they’re thinking

Vaggi is good at making sure others don’t “see” Sprout suffering, which Sprout appreciates

They want privacy

So, what we all want to know, what happens when Alastor realizes something is wrong?

Well, he can’t show that he cares in front of people

That would be terrible for his image

But whenever people leave the room and Sprout is just on their own, quiet, dealing with clouds of dark thoughts?

The shadows are moving

They’re rearranging blankets, keeping them cool when they’re too warm, blocking out the sunlight when Sprout just wants the darkness the curl up in

Alastor is watching and caring

Of course he is

That’s his fawn

l

What if Sprout died? (Requested by Craycracykitty on ao3) (Non-Canon)

Alright, gear up—I can’t do an actual little blurb because I will actual be gut-wrenchingly sad and with my current level of sickness we cannot do that to me <3

So bullet points it is

This is during the fight against Vox

He’s pulled out the canon—Lilith—to shoot at Alastor

To wipe the grin off his face

And the moment where Alastor is caught by Shock.wav and Sprout pulled him free in the original book?

The divine magic shoots straight through Sprout

No words, no cry, no nothing—Sprout is alive one moment and dead the next

Dead silence

Vox immediately starts laughing, celebrating because the Nature Demon is gone

Charlie and Vaggi are horrified, grieving—Charlie’s reliving Pentious’s death, hoping that Sprout was redeemed, and so angry that Vox’s power grab went this far

Husk? Doesn’t know until after. He’s still fighting Valentino

But when he finds out? Furious. Mourning. Not only has Angel Dust left but now he lost the kid he had grown fond of.

He spirals, going on a bender, and is basically useless for a long, long time

What else can he do?

He lost the kid

Angel Dust

When he finds out, his hopelessness? Even worse than the show

He cannot ever show his face at the hotel again

His time at the hotel, being hypnotized and controlled by Vox, led to Sprout dying

Their last memories were being tortured and fighting and getting hurt because of Angel Dust

His progress? Shattered

He’s grieving and angry and just wants to stop remembering them and everything they had as siblings

And to return to the moment Sprout falls, bleeding

Gone

Alastor loses it

The games he was playing with Vox?

No more, there is no more showmanship, and the broken staff? It doesn’t matter, Alastor is using all the power he has left to tear Vox apart

It is absolute carnage

Alastor has not had this much anger since he was a human

He is tearing Vox apart, grabbing blood, tearing limbs, trying to make Vox feel as much pain as possible

Because he took Alastor’s fawn away

If there is a real way to take Alastor’s grin away and its not magically sewn on—this does it

No smiling

Alastor has lost his fawn, and with it, any chance of goodness in his heart

In fact, there is no heart left

Alastor is back to being the Radio Demon, nothing more

He wants Hell to burn

No amount of screams or pain can equal his own

He wants every part of the world to feel the pain he is feeling

Hell and everyone else needs to suffer

He is an Overlord once more, reigning with terror over people

But when he’s alone?

He’s a mess

Nothing is right, his cooking doesn’t exist, he eats by tearing through people

He wears his suit sharp, but there is little other care about his appearance

His room is a mess, the bayou crumbling and decaying—he cannot look at the plants any more

The plants are dying in the Hotel

And Alastor can’t even touch them

He kills everything he touches

l

What if Sprout finds Cursed Cat Alastor? (Requested by Hitoshi Shinso on Quotev) (Non-Canon)

            “What the hell is that thing?” said Husk, staring at the…creature in (Y/N)’s hands.

            (Y/N) tilted their head. “I found it in the trash can. I thought it needed a home.”

            “I think the trash is its home,” said Husk, looking at the weird red creature with black ears and sharp teeth in a weirdly grinning maw.

            “Don’t say that, it’s going to live in my room,” said (Y/N), hugging the red thing. It somehow grinned wider, and Husk shivered. It was so weird, but it seemed to like (Y/N).

            “What are you keeping in your room?” said Angel Dust, walking up.

            “A rat,” said Husk. “Or a demonic cat. I can’t tell.”

            “It’s cute,” said (Y/N), holding up the red thing. It yipped strangely, voice buzzing like static.

            “I guess it’s sorta cute.” Angel Dust reached out to pet the creature. It instantly bit at Angel Dust, who shouted and jumped back. “What the hell!”

            “Hey, no! Bad Red!” said (Y/N), hugging the creature they had dubbed “Red” back. “No biting!”

            It settled in their arms, giant red eyes gleaming as it eyed Angel Dust and Husk. The pair shivered. It would eat them without question, even if it was happy in (Y/N)’s arms.

            “What seems to be the commotion today?” Alastor appeared from the shadows.

            “(Y/N) brought a pet back, and it’s trying to eat people,” said Husk.

            “Why isn’t it eating them?!” complained Angel Dust, gesturing to the way the creature’s eyes were closing and it was curling up in (Y/N)’s arms.

            “I don’t know, it likes me,” said (Y/N), smiling. “I’ve named it Red.”

            Alastor’s eye twitched at the weird creature curling up. It was grinning at him as if it had won something by being so adored by (Y/N). “That thing looks like a demonic raccoon. Send it back to where it came from. We can’t have trash in the hotel.” He reached out towards the thing.

            “Red” snapped at him, biting down on his hand, and Alastor drew his hand back. Alastor glared at the creature, who just grinned back.

            “Sorry, I’ll train Red,” said (Y/N), hugging him. “Apologize to Alastor, Red.” Red nuzzled (Y/N), only really “apologizing” to them. To Alastor, it just seemed smug. He detested it already.

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Overnight, the seams of heaven seemed to split and lavish upon the Earth a weighted quilt of downy snow. Not the kind that came down in morphing clumps, but the sort of snow that laid against the ground with an inconceivable politeness that belied its natural ability to bring the bustle of human activity to a complete and utter stop. 

It wasn’t as if you were actually going to leave the modest estate that comprised the Lecter-Graham household. Given your last escapade in the early throes of autumn that involved Will’s bicycle and a hastily packed backpack, both your fathers were keen on keeping a near omnipresent eye on your whereabouts. 

But now in the twenty-fifth hour of the largest snowstorm your corner of the world had ever seen, you remained transfixed by the gentle laying of snowflakes that frothed like a pearl ocean in the back yard. Winston watched with you, sitting comfortably by your side on the couch pushed snugly against a wall of floor to ceiling windows. Each huff of his breath produced a small burst of fog against the glass. 

“I think the whole world is gonna flood.” You murmured to both yourself and the polite company of Winston.

A sizable weight settled on the cushion to your left.

“It would not be so much of a flood. Rather an avalanche.”

Heat bristled at your neck as you fought the roiling instinct to snap your teeth at Hannibal whose gaze remained on the snow just outside the window.

“Apologies for my incorrect verbage…” Was all you could force out of your mouth while fantasizing about a justified retort. 

Those unsettling eyes came to rest upon your face. Hannibal could sense he had stoked the coals of your newfound anger, an anger that sparked the moment you became a member of his family. It was an intentional anger at first, an anger that amused Hannibal to a sweet extent. All he had to do was give you a look or offer a handful of words that he knew would make you feel all the more inept, helpless, and pitiful. But that ire was the only emotion Hannibal could draw from you. No expertly cooked meal, no thoughtfully conjured present, nor the rare gift of space could place him in your favor. He was aware you despised him and that culminated in your escape attempt that remained woefully short but still ever present in his mind. 

With Will you remained amicable. Perhaps that was more rooted in the fact he was not the one who knocked you unconscious and brought you to an eternal home. No, it was Hannibal who had seen to it to capture you and drag you back home to his husband like a cat with a bird plucked from suspension. 

Since your escape, you tended to spend any social time with Will Graham by making your bedroom more tolerable. All things celestial seemed to please you and by way of woodworking and craft, you and Will managed to turn your once stark bedroom into a sanctuary of whimsy and tranquility where fluttering stars, hung from your ceiling and stained glass windows split the distant sunlight into an infinite array of colors. 

“I meant no offense.” Hannibal spoke lightly after a deluge of silence. “It does appear as though the whole world will be consumed with this snow.”

Giving him a sidelong glance, you took into account this surprising act of diffusion.

He would say nothing for a few minutes before Will emerged from the atrium, his hands bearing signs of his work with potting soil. 

“How long has it been since Winston has been out?” Will asked both you and his husband while dusting his hands against his jeans.

A sigh brushed free past your lips. “I haven’t taken him out. Not alone.”

“Well why don’t we all go together?”

You had to stop yourself before you could overanalyze his offer. You had not the copious energy to seek out secondary or tertiary meanings. 

After bundling yourself up accordingly, you set to placing Winston in his downy winter coat, complete with a hood that protected his soft and tender ears. 

With the propulsion of a torpedo, Winston bounded into the snow that had so feverishly fallen. 

“Winston! Don’t go so fast!” You called while Will adjusted the lock to the sliding back door. 

“Don’t worry, kid. He’s just tired of being cooped up. I doubt he’ll go too far.” He assured you with a nod.

Certainly, you could commiserate with poor Winston. 

Stepping out into the open air, the snow in all its glory reached just below your waist. Bounding around with a frantic abandon, you could just make out the shuffle of movement that was Winston tunneling through the heaps of snowfall. 

Such joy permeated the yippy barks that punctuated the late morning air. 

Winston, a creature belonging to the family, his whole life predestined and bound to the good will of Will, and by association, Hannibal. You briefly wondered how he could tolerate such a life where all steps gone astray would be guided back home. With your mind fixated on the prospect of inevitably, all else faded away until–

THWACK!

A soft eruption of crystalline flakes struck and scattered against the back of your head. 

Whipping around, Will stood with half a smirk and another snowball in hand. 

His goading remained overwhelmingly lighthearted. “Well? Are you going to just stand there?”

“No. I don’t think I will.” 

Stooping low, you gathered two fistfuls of snow and worked the light flakes into a condensed ball before slinging it with all your might, not at Will, but the man standing behind him. Landing true, your snowball struck Hannibal Lecter square in the chest, leaving behind a smear of pristine white.

Only briefly startled, Will caught on quickly and joined in the mutual bombardment of Hannibal. In a flurry of perfectly crafted snowballs, the two of you flushed him back into the steadfast walls of the home that did little to spare him the laughter that trailed raucously behind him. 

His hands brushed along his wool coat with a hurried fervor, more as an act to dispel the embarrassment rather than the snow. 

This humiliation would not be forgotten, of course,  but Hannibal could not bring himself to envision any kind of retribution.