VENUX

REQUEST GUIDELINES!

immediate no's: rape, underage smut, non-con situations, requests for celebrities

Unless your request includes any of the above, you're in the clear. If you have any questions or are unsure if your request fits the guidelines, leave me a question and I'll get to it as soon as I can. No exceptions. For example: if you suggest a fic with a gender neutral reader who gets saved by the love interest from certain non-con actions, that's allowed.

MASTERLIST!

“So am I,” she replied sweetly, peeling off her gloves with a snap and tossing them into the biohazard bin. “You’re describing missing someone while loudly insisting it’s not missing someone.”

“I’m describing a void in the ambient noise,” you countered. “It’s not the same thing. He was just always there. Smiling. Breathing dramatically. Quoting Latin out of nowhere. Now he’s not. It’s peaceful, but also quiet. Too quiet. Like when a horror movie stops playing music right before the jump scare.”

“Uh huh. So, you just miss his voice, his attention, his intense eye contact that makes everyone else squirm—”

“No!”

“—and maybe, deep down, you’re also wondering what that mouth can do when it’s not talking about Baroque composers.”

“Bev!”

“What? You’re a scientist and I'm hypothesizing. And based on the way you’ve been looking repeteadly at empty hallways lately, I’d say my hypothesis is gaining evidence.”

"You're impossible."

"And you're in denial." She crossed her arms, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Face it, you like him. Even if it’s not the ‘I wanna marry you and have babies’ kind yet, but it’s definitely the ‘I wanna jump your bones and see if your personality’s just a front for a disappointing dick size’ kind.”

You nearly choked on air. “Bev! What the actual fuck!?”

“What?” she said, completely unbothered and already scribbling notes on the autopsy report. “I’m following the scientific method. Question, observation, hypothesis. Though you seem determined to skip the experimental phase.”

You threw your gloves into the bin with unnecessary force. “You’re a menace to professionalism.”

“And you’re blushing,” she shot back instantly. “Oh my god, you are. Look at you. The mere suggestion of Hannibal’s dick size and you’re redder than a CSI crime photo.”

“Because you’re being disgusting.” you snapped, but even you could hear the faint crack in your voice.

“Maybe, but at least I’m not the one clearly crushing on the devil in Prada.” She leaned against the counter and eyed you.

“Tell you what, lover boy. Drinks tonight. Me, Jimmy, and Brian. You come unwind, have fun, and get your mind off your void in the ambient noise.”

You hesitated. Bev knew that socializing wasn’t your favorite thing, yet the idea of sitting alone at home also felt too quiet. “Fine, but if Jimmy starts another conspiracy about the Ripper being an alien, I’m leaving.”

LATER THAT NIGHT

You hadn't meant to drink this much. Somewhere around shot number four, or was it five?, the room had developed a pleasant spin, and your tongue had become an independent entity with its own agenda.

"So," Beverly drawled, sliding another drink your way. "Still not missing him?"

"I am perfectly fine without him. Perfectly." You picked up the glass, missed, knocked it over, and watched with fascination as the liquid spread across the table. "Oops."

"Okay, you're done." Brian said, reaching for your wrist.

"I am not done!" You pulled your arm back, overbalanced, and nearly toppled off your stool. "I am...I am perfectly fine. I am a professional. FBI. Quantico. Badges and guns and...and..."

"Hannibal's paisley ties?" Beverly supplied, her eyes gleaming with the particular light of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

"Yes!" You slammed your hand on the table, "Paisley! Who wears paisley? It's a crime! Against fashion! Against nature! Against my...my..."

"Your what?" Jimmy asked, leaning in.

"Against my sanity! He walks around looking like that. Smelling like that. Being like that. And he expects me to just...just...work? Just do my job? I can't do my job when he's doing...that!"

"Doing what?" Beverly asked, her phone suddenly in her hand.

"That!" You gestured vaguely at the air, your coordination failing spectacularly. "The suits. The voice. The hands. The hands, Bev. Have you seen his hands? They're huge. They're surgeon hands. They're 'I know exactly how to touch you' hands. They're 'I'm going to deliver your orgasm' hands—"

"Oh my god." Brian whispered.

"—and the mouth! That mouth! Always talking. Always saying things. Smart things. Sexy things. Latin things. Fucking Latin, Bev! Who speaks Latin? Psychopaths! Hot psychopaths! And the way he looks at you. Like he's hungry. Like he wants to eat you. And I think—I think—I might want to be eaten. Not literally. Well, maybe literally. I don't know. I'm confused. He's confusing. He's tall and he's broad and his dick is definitely huge—"

You stood up abruptly, needing to make your point, and immediately found the floor tilting at a forty-five degree angle. You grabbed for the table, missed, and would have face planted if Beverly hadn't caught you.

"Easy there." she said, but she was laughing. They were all laughing.

"I am not drunk," you announced to the bar at large. "I am enlightened. I have seen the truth. Hannibal Lecter is a sex god dressed like a European professor and I want him to ruin me. I want him to ruin me thoroughly. With his hands. And his mouth. And his enormous dick—"

"Alright, Romeo," Beverly interrupted, already hauling you toward the exit with surprising strength. "Time to go."

"I haven't finished!" you protested, your legs refusing to cooperate in any meaningful way. You stumbled, caught yourself on the doorframe, and nearly took a plant down with you. "I have more to say! About his shoulders! About his eyes! About the way he smells—"

"Yes, yes, very interesting," Beverly muttered, dragging you into the parking lot. The cold air hit you like a physical blow, and you swayed, your stomach doing an unpleasant somersault.

"I don't feel good."

"You're going to feel worse tomorrow," she said, but her voice was gentler now. She was typing on her phone with one hand while holding you upright with the other. "Your ride's coming."

"I can't drive," you said, horrified. "I can't drive. I'll die. I'll kill someone. I'll—"

"You're not driving. He is."

A Bentley pulled into the parking lot and stopped inches from the curb. The passenger window rolled down and Hannibal looked out, his face composed. He took in the sight of you—leaning heavily against Beverly, your hair a mess, your shirt untucked, your eyes probably bloodshot—and his expression didn't change, but something in the set of his jaw softened.

"Good evening, Beverly," he said, his voice carrying that cultured warmth that made your stomach flip even through the nausea. "You mentioned there was an emergency?"

"Just getting him home safe," She replied, already opening the passenger door. "He's had...quite a bit. Been saying very interesting things. Very detailed things. About you, mostly."

"I gathered," Hannibal said dryly. He got out of the car, moving around it with that predatory grace that made you dizzy for entirely new reasons, and came to your side. "Can you walk?"

"I can walk." you insisted, pushing off from Beverly. However, when you took one step, your knees buckled.

Hannibal caught you before you hit the pavement, his arms strong and steady around your waist. You leaned into him, your face pressed against his shoulder, and made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper.

"Up we go."

His voice was low, his breath warm against your ear. He guided you to the car, one hand firm on your back, the other supporting your elbow. You collapsed into the passenger seat, your head falling back against the headrest, the world spinning violently.

"Seatbelt."

You fumbled for it, your fingers refusing to cooperate, missing the latch three times before you gave up with a frustrated whine.

Hannibal leaned across you—his chest pressing against yours, his face inches from yours—and fastened it himself. You could feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his body, the way his hand brushed your hip as he pulled the strap tight.

"Where do you live?" he asked, settling back into the driver's seat.

You tried to tell him. You really did, but the address came out as a slurred mumble. "Third floor," you managed. "Walk up. No elevator. Stairs. Many stairs."

Hannibal drove in silence for a moment, the car smooth and steady, the motion doing strange things to your equilibrium. "I'm going to be sick."

"No, you're not. Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

You tried, but your stomach was doing gymnastics and your head was pounding and the car felt like it was floating. "You're mad at me." you slurred, your head lolling against the window.

"I'm not mad at you."

"You're disappointed. I'm drunk. I'm embarrassing. I said things. Beverly told you. I know she told you."

"She told me you had strong opinions about my wardrobe." his voice was carefully neutral.

"I said you were hot," you corrected, the words tumbling out without permission. "I said you were a sex god. I said I wanted you to ruin me. With your hands. Your huge hands. Your capable hands. I said I wanted you to eat me. Not literally. Well, maybe. I don't know. I'm confused. You're confusing. You look at me like you want to devour me and I think I might want to be devoured—"

"You're rambling." he interrupted gently.

"I'm honest," you insisted, turning your head to look at him. The movement made the car spin, and you groaned, closing your eyes. "I'm too drunk. I'm going to throw up. I'm going to throw up on your expensive leather. I'm going to—"

"You're not going to throw up," he said, though you heard the concern beneath the certainty. "We're almost there."

"This isn't the way to my apartment." you mumbled, cracking one eye open to peer at the passing streets.

"No," he agreed. "It's the way to my house."

"I can't go to your house. I can't. I'll do something stupid. I'll say something stupid. I'll—"

"You'll sleep," he finished. "And you'll drink water. And in the morning, you'll feel terrible, and I'll make you breakfast, and we'll discuss what happens next."

"I know what happens next," your voice dropped to a whisper. "I know what I want to happen next. I want you to touch me. I want you to use those hands. I want you to be as meticulous with me as you are with everything else. I want you to diagram me. I want—"

"You're drunk," he said, and this time there was an edge to his voice. A restraint. "Very drunk. You may feel differently when you're sober."

"I won't," you insisted, but your words were slurring worse now, your tongue heavy, your eyelids drooping. "I won't feel different. I've wanted you for months. Since the parking lot. Since before the parking lot. I just...I was scared. You're scary. You're terrifying. You're beautiful and terrifying and I want you to ruin me anyway."

He didn't answer. The car turned, climbed, stopped. You heard him get out, heard your door open, and felt his hands on you again. Under your knees and behind your back, lifting you easily.

You made a sound, wrapping your arms around his neck, your face buried in his collar. He carried you up steps—his steps, his house, you were in his house—and the world tilted and spun and you didn't care because he was holding you and he smelled perfect and you were safe, somehow, impossibly safe in the arms of a man you should fear.

"Bed," he said, his voice rumbling against your ear. "You need sleep."

"Don't leave," you mumbled, your fingers clutching at his jacket. "Don't leave me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry I'm drunk. I'm sorry I said everything. Just don't leave."

He laid you down on soft sheets—his sheets, his bed, you realized through the fog—and you immediately rolled toward him, seeking his warmth.

"Stay," you begged, your voice breaking, tears suddenly pricking your eyes. The alcohol had stripped away every defense, every pretense, leaving you raw and vulnerable and desperate.

"Please. Just until I fall asleep. I don't want to be alone. I hate being alone. I hate the quiet. I hate that you stopped coming around. I hate that I made you stop. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I want you back. I want you here. I want—"

"Hush," he murmured, and you felt the bed dip as he sat beside you. His hand stroked your hair and you leaned into the touch like a starving man. "I'm here. Sleep now. We'll talk in the morning."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

You clutched his hand, holding it against your chest, your fingers wrapped around his wrist. "You're going to make me pay for this." you whispered, your eyes already closing, exhaustion and alcohol pulling you under.

"Yes," he agreed, his voice soft, almost tender. "But not tonight. Tonight, you rest. And tomorrow..."

His fingers tightened around yours, possessive and certain. "Tomorrow, we begin."

You were asleep before you could ask what that meant, your grip on his hand loosening as you drifted off, your breathing evening out, your face finally peaceful.

In the dark, Hannibal watched you, his thumb tracing patterns against your palm, mapping the lines there like he was reading your future.

He had waited. He had been patient. He had respected your boundaries. But now you were in his bed, having begged him to stay, having confessed your desires in slurred, desperate whispers while clinging to him like he was your only anchor in a storm.

The hunt was over. Now came the keeping.

Hannibal leaned down, his lips brushing your forehead, your cheek, and the corner of your mouth. Barely there, ghost touches that you wouldn't remember, but that he would savor.

"Sweet dreams." he murmured, settling into the chair beside the bed, his hand still in yours, his eyes never leaving your face.

So you didn't tell him.

"You're evil," Tony said, not looking up from his tablet. You were both in the common room kitchen. You making coffee, him pretending to work while actually watching the security feed of the east hallway on a secondary screen. "You're both evil and I'm entertained."

"Don't know what you're talking about." you said, pouring creamer.

"Camera twelve, thirty seconds ago. Bucky just pulled you into the supply closet by your belt loops. You were in there for four minutes and came out with your shirt buttoned wrong."

You looked down. Damn. "We're organizing supplies."

"Uh-huh. And I'm organizing Pepper's schedule. Which I actually am, because I'm a functional adult who doesn't need to hide in closets—"

The door burst open. Steve strode in, fresh from the gym, towel around his neck, looking unfairly wholesome. "Hey! Have you guys seen Bucky? I wanted to go over some mission parameters, but he's not answering his comm."

Tony's eyes flicked to you. You took a long sip of coffee.

"Last I saw, he was heading toward the east wing." you said, which was technically true. Four minutes ago. Before the supply closet.

"Thanks, Y/N," Steve clapped your shoulder with that heavy, well meaning hand. "You're the best."

He left. Tony stared at you.

"East wing," Tony repeated. "You sent Captain America on a scavenger hunt while your boyfriend hides his...supplies."

"He'll find him eventually. Probably in the armory. Bucky's probably cleaning his guns."

"Is that what we're calling it now?"

You flipped him off.

The problem with living in a building full of super spies and geniuses was that privacy was theoretical. The problem with dating Bucky Barnes was that he had seventy years of repressed libido and absolutely no chill.

"Steve's in the gym," Bucky breathed against your neck, walking you backward into your bedroom. "Forty five minute routine. I timed it."

"You timed my brother's workout?"

"For us," Bucky said, like this was romantic. And honestly? It kind of was. His hands were already under your shirt, warm and calloused, the metal one trailing cool against your spine. "Forty minutes. I can make you come twice. Three times if you're loud."

"I'm never loud." you lied.

Bucky grinned, wicked and sharp. "Challenge accepted."

You were forty minutes into proving exactly how loud you could be—Bucky's mouth on your throat, your legs wrapped around his waist, the bed hitting the wall in a rhythm that was definitely going to leave marks—when the knock came.

"Hey! You in there?" Steve's voice, muffled but present.

You both froze. Bucky was still inside you, breathing hard, eyes wide.

"Shit." you mouthed.

"Didn't know he finished early." Bucky mouthed back.

The knock came again. "I wanted to see if you wanted to get dinner! Just us, like old times. I feel like I haven't seen you all week."

Because you'd been avoiding him. Because every time you sat down for a meal, Bucky would look at you across the table with that look, and you'd have to excuse yourself to jerk off in the bathroom like a teenager.

"Yeah!" you called out, your voice cracking only slightly. "Just—just a minute! I'm changing!"

"Okay! I'll wait!"

Bucky's forehead dropped to your shoulder. He was shaking, you realized, with laughter or desperation. You couldn't tell.

"We have to be quiet." you whispered.

"He's right outside the door."

"I know."

Bucky pulled back slightly, just enough to roll his hips. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood. "Don't." He did it again. The metal hand clamped over your mouth, stifling the moan you couldn't hold back.

"Everything okay in there?" Steve called.

"Fine!" you managed, voice muffled by Bucky's palm. "Just stubbed my toe!"

"Oh! You want me to get you some ice?"

"No!" you yelped as Bucky thrust again, watching your face with dark amusement. "I'm good! Just give me five minutes!"

"Okay! Take your time!"

You heard him settle against the door. Actually settle. Like he was going to stand guard.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. Still?

You nodded frantically. Still.

What followed was the most intense, silent sex of your life. Bucky's hand still covered your mouth, his eyes locked on yours. Every time you made a noise, he'd pause, shake his head minutely, and wait for Steve to shift his weight outside before moving again.

It was torture. It was exquisite.

When you came, it was with Bucky's name silent on your lips, your back arching off the bed, his hand keeping you quiet as your body shook. He followed a moment later, burying his face in your neck, his own release silent and shuddering.

You lay there, panting, listening to your brother hum the Star-Spangled Banner on the other side of the door.

"I hate you." you whispered to Bucky.

"I know," he whispered back, kissing your jaw. "Worth it?"

You couldn't even answer. You were too busy trying to remember how to walk.

Five minutes later, you opened the door. Steve beamed at you, then looked past you to where Bucky was sitting on your bed, fully clothed, cleaning his knife.

"Oh! Hey, Buck! Didn't know you were here."

"Just stopped by to borrow a book." Bucky said smoothly, not looking up.

"What book?"

Bucky paused. Looked at you. You looked at the ceiling.

"...The Great Gatsby." Bucky said.

"You hate The Great Gatsby," Steve said. "You said it was 'a book about a stalker with money.'"

"Trying to broaden my horizons."

Steve studied him for a long moment. You held your breath. Then he smiled, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. "That's great, pal. Self-improvement. I like it. You guys ready for dinner?"

"Starving." you said, and Bucky coughed into his fist.

The Avengers knew.

Of course they knew.

Natasha had figured it out in week one, because she was Natasha. She'd found you in the gym at 3 AM, Bucky's jacket around your shoulders, his hickey on your collarbone, and she'd just nodded once and said, "About time. He's less murder-y when he's getting laid."

She'd kept the secret without being asked. Natasha understood secrets. She understood that some things needed to stay small and safe before they were ready for the light.

Clint knew because he'd walked in on you in the vents. You'd been hiding from Steve, Bucky had been hiding with you, and things had gotten handsy. Clint had backed out slowly, given you a thumbs up, and later left a box of condoms on your pillow with a note: 

For the greater good. Also, vents have cameras. You're welcome.

Tony knew because Tony knew everything, and he was enjoying the show too much to spoil it.

Thor knew because he was Thor, and while he didn't fully understand Midgardian courtship rituals, he understood that "secret love is the most passionate love" and had taken to giving you knowing winks that made you want to die.

Bruce knew because he had excellent hearing and the Hulk had apparently developed opinions about your relationship that he communicated through meaningful grunts.

And Steve—Steve knew that you and Bucky were close. Closer than close. Best friends, he'd say proudly, watching you two train together, watching Bucky teach you knife throws, watching you bring Bucky coffee exactly how he liked it (black, two sugars, in the red mug because the blue one had a chip).

"He's going to kill us when he finds out." Bucky said one day while holding you in your bed.

"He's not going to find out."

"He's Captain America, doll. He's going to walk in on us eventually, or Tony's going to get drunk and spill it, or—"

"Or," you said, looking up at him, "we keep being careful. We keep it ours. Just a little longer."

Bucky looked tired, but he was smiling. "You really want to keep sneaking around? The supply closets? The quickies in the armory? That time in the quinjet while he was flying it?"

"That was risky," you admitted. "But also hot."

“Put me down!”

“No.”

“I can run.”

“That’s exactly the problem, bud. Also you're five and don't remember shit, so it's either me holding you or putting one of those baby leashes on you."

"Let me go!" the kid shrieked, and you winced as the sound drilled directly into your frontal lobe. Your headache, which had been a dull throb, upgraded itself to jackhammer status.

"Jason," you croaked, leaning against the doorframe because standing upright seemed like too much effort, "what exactly am I looking at?"

Jason grinned at you, the sadist. "Morning, sunshine. You look like hell."

"I feel like hell. Answer the question."

"This," Jason said, giving the kid a slight jiggle that made him squeak with indignation, "is Dick. Joker's new party favor. Age regression gas. Cute, right?"

The kid stopped struggling long enough to look at you before his eyes widened. Then, somehow, he became a liquid. That was the only explanation for how he slipped out of Jason's grip, dropped to the floor, and shot across the room like a missile before Jason could even curse.

You had approximately half a second to brace yourself before thirty five pounds of hyperactive child collided with your legs.

"You're here!" he shouted, wrapping his arms around your knees with enough force to nearly topple you. "You came!"

You looked down at the dark head pressed against your stomach. Then you looked up at Jason, who was staring with an expression of profound betrayal.

"He's been trying to escape for two hours," Jason said slowly. "Two hours. I had to tackle him off the chandelier. Twice. He bit Tim. He doesn't even know who I am, but he bites like a feral raccoon."

"I didn't bite him hard." the kid mumbled against your hoodie.

You swayed, lightheaded from the cold medicine and the sudden impact. "Get him off me."

"Nope." Jason pulled out his phone and started typing. "Bruce said you're on babysitting duty."

"I'm sick."

"And I'm needed in the field. Zucco made a move, Barbara and Cass are already tracking. Tim's analyzing the gas components. Bruce is being Bruce somewhere." Jason pocketed his phone and headed for the door, pausing only to pat your shoulder with mock sympathy. "Good luck. Try not to die."

"Jason—"

"Oh, and he only answers to 'Dick' now. Don't call him Richard, he cries. Don't ask me how I know."

The door shut.

You were alone. In Wayne Manor. With a cold. And a child.

The child in question looked up at you with those devastating blue eyes, still clinging to your legs like you were the last life raft on the Titanic. "Are you my boyfriend?"

Your brain short circuited. "What?"

"Jason said my boyfriend was coming to get me. Are you him? You're pretty."

"I'm—" You coughed, a horrible, wracking thing that made your ribs ache. "I'm your boyfriend, yes. But I'm also dying, so if you could maybe...not touch me..."

Dick's face fell. Then, impossibly, he tightened his grip. "You're sick?"

"Plague level sick."

"I'll take care of you!"

"You really don't have to—"

But he was already dragging you toward the couch, his small hands wrapped around your fingers, pulling with surprising strength. "Sit! Sit! I'll get you a blanket!"

You sat, mostly because resisting required energy you didn't have. Dick scampered off, returning moments later with not one but three blankets, a throw pillow he apparently considered medically necessary, and Alfred's tea tray, which he dragged across the floor with determination and zero regard for the scratches he was leaving on the hardwood.

"Here!" He dumped the blankets on you, then climbed up onto the couch and sat directly next to you, pressed against your side from hip to shoulder. "Better?"

You were now approximately ninety percent blanket and ten percent regret. "I can't breathe."

"That's because you're sick," he said solemnly, as if he'd cracked the code. "I read about it in a book."

"You can't read. You're five."

"I can so read. I can read letters and numbers. Up to twenty!" He paused, considering. "Maybe fifteen. Twenty is hard."

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the couch. Maybe if you pretended to sleep, he'd go away. Maybe—

A small hand patted your cheek. "Don't die."

"I'm not dying."

"Your eyes are closed like dead people."

"I'm resting."

"Oh." He was quiet for approximately three seconds. Then: "Can I rest with you?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"I'll be quiet."

"Jason said you climbed a chandelier."

"That was before. I'm calm now."

You cracked one eye open to look at him. He was staring at you with an expression of such hopeful adoration that you felt your resolve crumbling like wet paper. "Fine, but you stay on your side. And if you kick me, I'm selling you to the circus."

Dick's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Really? A circus?"

"That was a joke. Don't get excited about the circus, you hate the circus, you have trauma about the—" You stopped, rubbing your temples. "Never mind. Just sit there. Quietly. For five minutes. Can you do that?"

He nodded solemnly, pressing a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.

You closed your eyes again.

For thirty blessed seconds, there was silence. Just the sound of your own congested breathing and the distant hum of the Manor's heating system. You started to drift, your feverish brain sliding toward something resembling rest.

Then you felt it.

A small hand, creeping under the blanket to find yours.

You jerked your eyes open. Dick was pressed against your side, when had he moved?, with his head on your shoulder. "I said your side." you croaked.

"This is my side," he whispered. "You're warm. You're not supposed to be warm when you're sick, but you are. I like it."

"I'm feverish. That's not a good thing."

"I still like it." He snuggled closer, and you could feel his small heartbeat against your arm, rabbit fast and trusting. "Don't go away, okay?"

Something in your chest did that traitorous softening thing again. You hated it. You were miserable, congested, possibly hallucinating, and now you were feeling emotions.

"I'm not going anywhere," you muttered, because it was easier than arguing. "I'm too tired to move."

"Good," Dick said, satisfied. Then, after a moment: "Can I have juice?"

You stared at the ceiling. "There's a kitchen. It's that way. You can get it yourself."

"I'm not supposed to go alone. Jason said so. He said if I go alone, I'll 'get into trouble and probably explode something.'"

"Jason is dramatic."

"He said you'd get it for me. Because you love me."

"I—" You coughed again, a horrible wet sound that made Dick's eyes go wide with concern.

"You're too sick. I'll get it!" He scrambled off the couch before you could stop him, hitting the floor at a run. "Don't move! I'll be right back!"

"Dick, wait—"

But he was gone, small feet thundering down the hallway toward the kitchen. Somewhere in the distance, you heard a crash. Then a giggle. Then running water.

Your phone buzzed. A text from Bruce: 

How is he?

You typed back: 

He asked if I was his boyfriend and then told me he'd take care of me. He's currently destroying your kitchen to get juice.

Bruce: 

He was affectionate when he was younger.

You: 

Well, that hasn't changed. I'm currently sick, can't breathe and have a massive headache. Yet that somehow translates to me being his personal heating pad.

Bruce: 

You're doing well. Alfred will bring soup later.

You: 

I'm not doing well. I'm literally dying. Tell Tim to work faster on the antidote.

Bruce: 

He says it'll take at least 24 hours.

You dropped the phone on your chest and groaned.

Twenty four hours. You had twenty-four hours of this. Of being clung to, climbed on and used as furniture by a child who had the energy of a caffeinated squirrel and the emotional attachment issues of a barnacle.

Dick thundered back into the room, holding a juice box high like a trophy. There was a smear of something purple on his cheek. Possibly jam. Possibly something worse.

"I got it!" he announced, climbing back onto the couch and immediately reclaiming his spot against your side. He held the juice box out to you. "You have the first sip. Because you're sick."

You looked at the juice box. Then at his hopeful face. Then at the purple smear. "I don't want juice."

"But you have to drink!" He shook the box insistently. "Liquids! For healing!"

"Where did you learn that?"

"TV."

You took the juice box, mostly to make him stop shaking it. Apple juice. Room temperature. You took a sip and handed it back. Dick beamed like you'd given him the moon, put the straw in his mouth, and drank while maintaining eye contact. It was unsettling.

"You're staring."

"You're very pretty." he replied, around the straw.

"I'm aware. I'm also highly contagious so you might get sick."

"I don't care." He finished the juice box in one long slurp, then tucked himself against your side again, one small hand finding yours under the blankets. "I'm staying here. Forever."

"Twenty four hours," you muttered. "Just twenty-four hours. Then you're an adult again and we can find you something else to amuse yourself with."

Dick didn't answer. He was already falling asleep, worn out from his earlier escape attempts and kitchen raid. You looked down at his dark head, at the way his fingers were curled trustingly in yours, and sighed.

"Fine," you whispered, adjusting the blanket to cover him better. "Forever. But only because you're cute and I'm too tired to argue."

Dick smiled in his sleep, smug even unconscious, and held on tighter.

Your phone buzzed again. Jason: 

He asleep yet?

You: 

Finally.

Jason: 

Told you he likes you. Even as a kid, he knows who his favorite is.

You: 

He's using me as a mattress.

Jason: 

Like I said. Favorite.

You didn't answer. You were too busy trying not to sneeze on your boyfriend's head and wondering exactly how much soup Alfred was bringing, because you were going to need approximately a gallon of it to survive the next day.

Twenty four hours.

You could do twenty four hours.

Louis, meanwhile, thought the entire situation was a horrible idea from the start. “You’ve become attached.”

“And?”

“And they are a child.”

“Fifteen.” Lestat waved a dismissive hand. “Practically grown compared to Claudia.”

That sentence alone told Louis everything he needed to know. Because Claudia already existed. Already suffered. Already raged nightly against the prison of her eternal girlhood. The very idea of adding another child to their fractured little family made Louis feel ill.

But then you got sick.

Deadly sick.

The kind that hollowed your cheeks and left you shivering beneath blankets in a cramped apartment while adults whispered outside your room about funeral costs. Louis remembered the desperation in Lestat’s voice when he burst through the door carrying your half-conscious body.

“I’m not letting them die.”

“We cannot do this again.”

“They will die!”

“And what happens after?” Louis had demanded. “What happens when they realize what eternity actually is?”

Lestat looked down at your feverish face and answered quietly: “Then they will hate me for it later.”

And that was that.

You woke starving.

Violently, agonizingly starving.

Everything burned. Your throat. Your chest. Your veins. The sounds of the city outside came crashing into you all at once until you thought your skull would split apart from it. Heartbeats thundered through the walls. Human voices sounded painfully loud. You could smell sweat, perfume, alcohol, and...

Blood.

“What did you do to me?” you rasped.

Lestat smiled faintly. “Saved your life.”

“No,” Louis corrected softly. “He changed it.”

The panic came later.

After the feeding. After the blood. After you saw your own face unchanged in the mirror despite the fact you had technically died.

You were still fifteen. You would always be fifteen.

The realization settled over the room like something rotten.

Claudia stared at you for a very long time the first night you met her. She looked small sitting in the velvet chair, curls neat, with the skirt of her dress looking picturesque surrounding her. “You made another one?”

Lestat sounded almost defensive. “Circumstances were different.”

“They’re older.” Claudia’s eyes dragged slowly over you. “You made them older.”

And there it was. The resentment. Immediate and ugly. Because fifteen was not adulthood, not truly, but to Claudia it may as well have been freedom itself. You stood taller than her. People listened when you spoke. Humans viewed you as a teenager instead of a helpless little girl. You occupied an in between space Claudia could never reach.

The difference only became more obvious as nights passed.

Louis spoke to you differently than he spoke to Claudia. He explained things instead of sheltering you from them. He trusted you with uncomfortable truths about vampire laws, about other vampires, about the danger your existence alone posed.

Lestat treated you like a companion in ways that drove Claudia insane. He brought you to theaters, bars and midnight walks through the city because you could pass beside him more naturally. People saw an eccentric man with his adolescent child or younger sibling. Claudia attracted attention immediately.

The fights between you and Claudia became legendary in the household.

Claudia accusing you of secretly enjoying being older. You snapping back that fifteen was hardly grown. Claudia screaming that at least you had almost made it there.

That was the real wound beneath all her anger. She never got the chance to grow up at all.

And despite everything, despite the jealousy and bitterness and vicious arguments, the two of you slowly became inseparable. Because nobody else understood what it meant to exist like this.

Too young. Too trapped. Too aware of eternity already stretching endlessly before you.

You and Claudia hunted together often after that.

Lestat encouraged it enthusiastically. He delighted in how dangerous the two of you looked side by side. Claudia appeared sweet and harmless while you looked old enough to lower suspicion but young enough to disarm people. Humans rarely realized the danger until far too late.

Claudia hunted precisely. You hunted cleverly. And Lestat applauded both equally while Louis looked increasingly concerned by how well you adapted to being monsters.

Still, the family settled into something almost functional eventually.

Messy, violent, and loving in its own strange way.

Sometimes, late at night after hunts, Claudia would sit beside you by the window and ask quiet questions she never let the others hear.

“Do humans still look at you and see a kid?”

“Sometimes.”

"Nonsense." He waved his hand dismissively, nearly knocking over the bowl of peanuts. "I am Romanian. We are built different. My grandmother drank plum brandy for breakfast until she was ninety four."

"Your grandmother was also five feet tall and had the density of a neutron star. You, my friend, are currently listing to port."

The bartender, a tired-looking woman named Cheryl who had already seen too much tonight, set down another shot of tequila. Nigel picked it up, threw it back, and immediately made a face.

"Okay," he said, voice slightly strangled. "That one was different. That one had personality."

"That's the alcohol hitting your bloodstream, Nigel."

"I love you."

You blinked. "Uh. What?"

"Not you. The tequila." He paused. "Also you. But mostly right now, the tequila."

Before you could fully process that concerning little aside, the bar's karaoke machine crackled to life. Some guy in a polo shirt was murdering "Wonderwall" in the corner, and Nigel's head snapped toward the sound with the predatory focus of a hawk spotting a field mouse.

"Nigel, I really don't think—"

But he was already gone, weaving through the tables with the singular purpose of a man on a mission from God or at least from the bottom of a bottle. You buried your face in your hands as he approached the karaoke host, pulled out what appeared to be a fifty dollar bill, and said something that made the host's eyes go wide.

The opening notes of "I Will Always Love You" started playing.

"Oh no."

Nigel grabbed the microphone with both hands like he was trying to strangle it, stared directly at you across the bar, and began to sing.

He was not good. That was the charitable assessment. He was singing with the passion of a thousand dying suns and the pitch of a cement mixer full of gravel. But what he lacked in tonal accuracy, he made up for in sheer, terrifying commitment.

"AND I-I-I-I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU!" he bellowed, pointing at you with the intensity of a man declaring war. The entire bar had gone silent. "I CAN'T NOT LOVE YOU! IT IS BIOLOGICALLY IMPOSSIBLE! LIKE A SHARK NOT SWIMMING! LIKE A WOLF NOT HOWLING! LIKE ME NOT STABBING PEOPLE WHO LOOK AT YOU WRONG!"

"Oh my god." you muttered, sliding down in your seat.

He hit the high note, or attempted to, and somewhere in the back room, a wine glass probably exploded. But Nigel didn't care. Nigel was in his truth era.

"YOU ARE THE LIGHT OF MY LIFE!" he continued, clutching his chest. "THE BEANS TO MY RICE! THE KNIFE TO MY...OTHER KNIFE! WHEN I THINK ABOUT YOU, I FEEL THINGS! MANY THINGS! SOME OF THEM ARE ILLEGAL IN SEVERAL COUNTRIES!"

You were going to die here. You were going to die of embarrassment in a dive bar called The Rusty Anchor, and your tombstone would read "Here lies Y/N, killed by a Romanian man's karaoke confession."

Nigel had dropped to his knees now, still holding the microphone, still staring at you with those intense, slightly unfocused eyes. "I WOULD MOVE MOUNTAINS FOR YOU! I HAVE MOVED MOUNTAINS FOR YOU! THAT GUY IN BRATISLAVA? THAT WAS A MOUNTAIN! I MOVED HIM! INTO A RIVER!"

"Please stop telling people about Bratislava!" you hissed.

The song was building to its climax. Nigel stood up, stumbled, caught himself on the speaker, and raised one hand toward the ceiling like he was reaching for the divine. "AND I-I-I-I!" He took a deep breath. The entire bar held theirs. "WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUUUU!"

The last note hung in the air, distorted by cheap speakers and cheaper alcohol.

Silence.

Then, from somewhere in the back, a single person started clapping. Then another. Then the whole bar was applauding, because apparently drunk people appreciated performance art, and what Nigel lacked in talent, he made up for in sheer audacity.

Nigel took a bow, nearly head butted the microphone stand, and then began making his way back to the table.

"So, what did you think?"

You stared at him. At this ridiculous, terrifying, completely unhinged man who had just declared his undying love via Whitney Houston in front of thirty strangers. You thought about the bodies he probably had buried somewhere. You thought about the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. You thought about the fact that he was currently resting his head on your shoulder and humming the chorus to himself.

"I think that you're never drinking tequila again."

"Incorrect," he mumbled. "I am drinking tequila forever. Tequila is my truth serum. My love potion. My—are you going to kiss me or not? Because I sang the whole song, my knees hurt and I think I might vomit."

"You want me to kiss you while you're drunk and potentially about to vomit?"

"I want you to kiss me because I am drunk and potentially about to vomit. It is romantic. Like Romeo and Juliet. But with less poison and more karaoke."

Childhood Friends

synopsis: You couldn't remember your childhood, so with a plan to return to your old home in Haddonfield for clues, you never expected yourself to be tied to the boogeyman himself, Michael Myers.

Unkillable

Tonight was unbearable. Will was telling a story about a case, his voice low and raspy, and Hannibal was listening with that intense, predatory focus he reserved only for Will.

And for you.

That was the worst part. They looked at you with such want, such reverence. It felt like a mockery.

“Are you alright?” Will turned to you, his story trailing off. He was always watching, always sensing the tremors in the earth before the quake. You couldn’t answer. The words were lodged in your throat like a bitter pill.

No, I’m not alright. I feel like a freak. I feel like a joke you two are playing on the world.

Hannibal’s gaze was heavier, more analytical. “You seem troubled, my love. Your posture is rigid. You are holding yourself like a man awaiting a blow.”

The way he could dissect you with a single sentence, snapped something inside you.

“I’m fine,” you bit out, the words sharp and ugly. You pushed your chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Maybe I’m just not hungry for another one of your performances.”

“A performance?”

“Yes, a performance! This whole thing! The dinner, the wine, the… the art. It’s all a fucking stage, and you two are the stars, and I’m just… I’m the prop. The ugly little prop that doesn’t fit the aesthetic.”

You turned your venom on Will, who was now standing, his hands held up in a placating gesture. “And you! Don’t look at me like that. Like you understand. Like you can just see me. You can’t. You see what you want to see. You see a broken little bird you need to fix.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” You laughed, a harsh, broken sound. “What the hell would you two even want with me? Look at me!” You gestured wildly at your own body, your voice trembling with rage and shame.

“I’m not a real man. I’m a fucking patchwork doll. I’m nothing next to you. You’re both so…so complete. And I’m just a collection of parts that don’t match.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Your chest heaved, the angry outburst leaving you hollowed and shaking. You had said it. You had vomited all the poison onto their pristine floor.

Will looked utterly wrecked, his empathy a curse that forced him to feel every jagged edge of your pain as if it were his own. “That’s not how we see you. It’s never been how we see you.”

But you were already retreating, backing away from him as if he were a threat. “Don’t. Just...don’t.”

Hannibal moved then. He didn’t approach you with Will’s desperate caution. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, circling you like a shark. He stopped behind you, and you flinched when you felt his fingers gently brush the nape of your neck.

“You believe yourself to be an incomplete man,” he murmured, his voice a low hum against your ear. “A flawed creation.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears of shame and fury burning behind your lids.

“You see a patchwork doll,” Hannibal continued. “I see a mosaic. A work of art assembled from shattered pieces, each fracture a story, each irregular edge a testament to survival. It is the brokenness that makes you beautiful. It is the struggle that gives you your form.”

His breath was warm on your skin.

“Masculinity is not a monolith, my dear. It is not the brute strength of a bull or the tailored perfection of a statue. It is in the fight. It is in the fury you just unleashed. It is in the courage it takes to look in the mirror every day and wage war against the reflection. That is a strength neither Will nor I possess. We have never had to fight for ourselves in the way that you have.”

Will moved in front of you, his gaze soft and wet. He gently took your hands, his thumbs stroking over your knuckles.

“When I look at you, I don’t see…I don’t see what you think you’re lacking. I see the strongest person I’ve ever met. I see someone who's building himself from the ground up, every single day..”

You were trapped between them.

Will’s raw honesty in front and Hannibal’s worshipful possession at your back. The anger was gone, replaced by a wave of such overwhelming emotion it brought you to your knees. Literally. Your legs gave out, and you would have hit the floor if Hannibal’s arms hadn’t shot out to catch you, pulling you back against his chest.

A sob tore from your throat.

“Okay, very funny. You got me.” As he reached the edge of your bed, Stu's eyes landed on the orange prescription bottle in your hand. His grin vanished. A cold dread clawed its way up his throat. Stu grabbed your shoulder, and shook you. But your head simply lolled to the side, completely still.

“Hey. Hey, no. No, no, no, no.” Stu's voice was broken. “Come on, man. Don’t do this. This isn’t funny.”

His frantic gaze scanned the room, looking for the punchline, the hidden camera, anything that would end this nightmare. That’s when he saw it. A single piece of notebook paper, folded neatly and propped up against your lamp. His name was written on the front in your familiar, messy scrawl.

With a trembling hand, Stu snatched it. His fingers felt clumsy and useless as he unfolded it. The words inside were a blur at first, his vision swimming with panic and tears.

Stu, If you’re reading this, I guess I finally did it. Don’t be too mad, I know this is gonna fuck things up. I just got so tired. I’m sorry. You were always the best part of my days. Even when I was being a moron, you made it feel okay. I hope you can still laugh after this. I really hope you can. Tell Tatum she owes me twenty bucks. And tell Billy he’s an asshole. I think I loved you.

He crumpled the note in his fist, the paper digging into his palm.

The jokes. The reckless driving. The way you’d laugh after you’d nearly gotten into a fight. The dark humor about wanting to just disappear. Stu thought it was part of your charm, your edgy, fearless personality. He and the others had fed it, encouraged it, laughing right along with you. He never once stopped to wonder if the laughter was a shield. He never looked past the charming chaos to see the drowning man underneath.

“Fuck!” Stu screamed. He grabbed your phone line, his fingers fumbling, nearly dropping it twice. He dialed 911 with a desperation he’d never known, his other hand still gripping your cold, unmoving one.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I need help!” he sobbed. “My friend—he—he took a bunch of pills. He’s not breathing! Please, please, you have to hurry!”

He gave them your address, his voice cracking and breaking, until the operator assured him help was on the way. Dropping the phone, Stu fell to his knees beside your bed, his face pressed against your hand.

It was so cold.

“Please, please, wake up,” He pleaded, tears unabashedly rolling down his cheeks and to your hand. “You can’t leave me. You can’t. Please…just wake up and I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you for real. I love you. I’m so sorry I didn’t say it before. Just wake up.”