ʐօʍɮɨɛ ֆɨռռɛʀ

“What’s this one for?” Marc lightly tapped the tattoo on your bicep with the tip of his nose and snuggled a little closer to you in bed, his chest against your back. 

“Oh, that one?” 

“Hmm.” He pressed his lips to the spot before he rubbed his cheek against you. 

“That one gives me the ability to tell the future.” You say playfully. 

Marc snorts, “oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You nod. 

“Steven says that’s bullshit.” 

You turn to look him in the face over your shoulder. “No way Steven would say that.”

“What? He swears all the time?” Marc grins. 

“Yeah,” you can’t help but smile back, breaking your pretend outrage, “that’s true, but he’d say ‘that’s shit’, bullshit is too American.” 

Marc chuckles and snakes his hand down to pinch your side a little, just enough to make you laugh and squirm. His other arm holds you tight against his body. “How would you like some American in you?” 

You laugh harder. “Marc, that’s terrible.” 

“You love it.” He kisses the spot where your neck meets your shoulder and purposefully bites down gently. Hard enough to make you squirm again and push back against his hardening cock. 

“So,” he mumbles in your ear, “you gonna tell me the meaning behind this one or…?”

“Is that a threat Spectre?”

He grins again against your shoulder. 

“I think you’re not actually interested in what it means.” You tease, purposefully scooting forward a little when he tries to grind against your backside. 

Marc’s fingers twitch around you, his left hand going to your hip to hold you still, but you wiggle away from him. 

“I think you’re preoccupied with something else.” 

“What?” He tries his best to keep the amusement out of his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shifts closer to you again and you bend back, bowing outward so that he still can’t rut against you. 

“Oh really?” You tease. 

He growls playfully at you, pulling you back towards him with a gentle, but firm strength, until you are flush against his chest. 

He silences your next teasing retort by swiftly sneaking his hand down the front of your pyjamas.

“Marc,” you moan, your voice hitching up at the end as he lightly pinches your clit. You press back against him, your legs instinctively inching wider. 

“Oh, so now you wanna be close, huh?” 

You give him a look over your shoulder accompanied by a frustrated grunt that earns you a chuckle and a kiss on the nape of your neck. 

He rolls your clit slowly between his thumb and forefinger, adding just the right amount of pressure to have you keening and rocking back against his aching cock. 

Marc gasps, letting out a low grumbily moan as you press against his sensitive tip. Precum is smearing against his stomach and soaking a wet patch into his boxers. 

Despite how you push back against him, your movements starting to border on frantic as heat begins to build and build in your stomach, he keeps up his languid, tortuous pace. Often, he likes it best like this. Slow and drawn out to almost the point of pain until the dam breaks. Makes it feel like he’s useful, like he’s doing a good job. Frantically trying to hold himself together, gripping onto the last pieces of his self-control until pleasure pulls him down into blissful mindlessness. 

He dips the tip of his forefinger lower, just teasing at your entrance before sliding back up as he muffles his moans at your wetness into your bare shoulder. 

But it seems you have other ideas. 

You turn your head, just enough to give him a messy kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, the glide of your lips on his own quickly pulls a desperate moan from his chest. You hook your fingers into your waistband and pull your pyjamas down, kicking them off the last bit of the way. 

He growls as you press back against him and sneak your hand back to stroke him twice over his boxers, revelling in his little whimpered shiver, before you slide under the material and eagerly run your fingers over his hard, velvet length. 

His grip tightens on your waist for a moment before he moves closer, plunging two fingers inside of you in one quick motion. 

You gasp in surprise as he strokes your walls, pleasure blossoming along your spine. 

Marc moans against your shoulder, nipping and biting softly at your skin as he muffles himself. “So wet… fuck…” He bucks mindlessly against you for a second, focusing completely on the feel of you squeezing around his thick fingers and your little whimpered groans as you press your face into the pillow. 

His caress is dizzying, maddening as he purposefully goes the smallest fraction slower than what you want, what you need. Obsessed with seeing you writhe and beg for him. 

“Marc, please,” You buck up against him, grabbing hold of his arm to try to keep him at the angle that makes you see stars. 

He groans low, lightheadedness washing over him as you beg and his dick twitches. “Baby, please can we…” He bites his lip, screwing his eyes closed and he swallows down what he wants to say, hoping you were too caught up in your own pleasure to have heard him. 

But even as your hips move and breathing hitches you turn to look at him over your shoulder. “What do you need?” 

He sinks his teeth into his lip harder and shakes his head ever so slightly. 

“Marc,” the low, desperate edge to your voice makes him whine. 

“Can you ignore me?” He blurts out, heat rising to his cheeks and blistering his skin. 

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-

You slow your hips, halting his hand's movements and Marc wants to go find a ditch to bury himself in, but your sweet voice makes him open his eyes. 

“Ignore you?” There’s no judgement, but he still hides his face and presses his forehead against your back. 

“Hmmm.” 

“Sweetheart,” you stroke his hair. “Tell me please.” 

He breathes a heavy sigh against your skin before blurting out. “Can you ignore me while I fuck you for as long as you can?” 

You smile, “you’d like that?” 

There’s a little spark of hope in his chest that makes his dick throb. “Yes.” He whispers. 

“Okay. How do you want me?” 

Marc moves quicker than you thought possible and you almost laugh at his eagerness, but stop yourself from fear that he would take it the wrong way. 

He carefully positions you on the bed, on your stomach with a pillow under your hips to prop them up slightly. He leans over you for a second, softly placing his hands on your thighs and spreading them slightly. A shiver of anticipation runs up your spine. 

But he quickly stops, leaning to the side and taking your book off the bedside table. “Could you, erm, read this? Or pretend to read it?” 

The uncertainty in his voice is so sweet, gentle, like a fine dusting of snow. You nod as you take the book out of his hands and turn to a random, previously read, page. 

“Thank you,” he mutters and kisses your shoulder blade before trailing down your back and pressing his lips against every tattoo he can reach. 

Marc waits for a moment apprehensively, just watching you read, taking in the way you have propped yourself up a little so that you can easily hold the book, before he pulls off his boxers and takes himself in hand. 

He tries to be as quiet as moves between your legs, spreading them over so slightly wider as he slowly runs his hand along his dick and just teases at his slit with the tip of his thumb. But he can’t stop his breath from hitching as he sees your arousal shining in the weak light. 

He swallows and inches forward on his knees, gradually leaning down to run the head of his cock through your soaking folds. 

He feels your shiver, the way your muscles instinctively clench around him, but you stay silent, your eyes glued to the words on the page even though for the life of you, you can’t focus on what you are seeing.

Carefully Marc notches his fat tip at your entrance, breathing through his nose as he painstakingly slowly pushes inside. 

Your walls squeeze around him, pulling him further in and welcoming him home. And he can’t stop the gasp of pleasure that tumbles out of his lips. He grabs your hip, just to steady himself, just to focus as the pleasure twists so tightly in his stomach. 

He glances at the back of your head for a second, biting down hard on his bottom lip to control himself as he bottoms out. 

You turn the page and carry on pretending to read. 

Marc whines, his arousal making him lightheaded and can’t resist any longer. He slowly pulls out before pushing himself back in, leaning down so that his right hand rests on the mattress while his left still holds your hip. 

The pace is moderate, at first. The only sounds are the slick wetness as he steadily fucks you, punctuated by his little gasps and moans that he tries so hard to swallow down. 

He changes the angle on each trust, trying to find the perfect spot. 

Your grip tightens on the book as he hits it, your thighs clenching, back arching ever so slightly. But you bite your teeth together and manage somehow to stop your cry of pleasure. 

Marc shivers as your body reacts but you don’t, a low and pathetic whine grumbling out from his throat as he increases his thrusts and focuses on that spot. On hitting it perfectly every time. He can feel you shake, the smallest shift as you push back against him ever so slightly, trying to stop yourself from going too far. All to indulge him. And his resolve snaps. 

He moans loudly, thrusting up into you hard and moving your thighs further apart so he can watch himself disappearing into your tight, wet heat. 

“Oh fuck, fuck,” he can’t stop himself now, can’t help the words from spilling out. “Fuck, you don’t even know I’m here, do you? Don’t even care that I’m fucking you, because,” he gasps as you clench around him, “because I’m so small you can’t even tell,” he starts thrusting rapidly, pounding into you and you see stars, “can’t even,” he moans loudly, his voice dissolving into a whiney needy breathy mess, and for some reason a sharp spark of arousal slides along your skin. “I can’t even make you cum, I can’t-”

You moan loudly, your pretence of reading the book abandoned as you can’t hold back any longer as he continuously hits so perfectly deep. The force of his thrusts rock you against the pillow under your hips, dragging your clit across the cotton and making you scream. 

“Oh shit!” Marc’s grip on you tightens, his eyes rolling back in his head as you clench and gush around him, your orgasm being ripped ruthlessly from your bones as he fucks you perfectly. 

“Baby, fuck,” he cums inside, filling you up to the brim. His hips keep moving, fucking you through your orgasm even as overstimulation prickles along his skin and makes him whine. 

It’s only when you reach back and grab his hand, pulling him towards you that he finally stops and collapses on top of you. 

He quickly goes to move to the side, but you squeeze his hand. “Stay here.” 

“I’m not squashing you am I?” 

You shake your head. “Feels comfy.” 

He chuckles and kisses your cheek. You can still tell he’s leaning slightly on his left arm and leg, not wanting to put his whole weight on you. 

A little awkwardly you manage to coax him into relaxing on top of you. 

“Was that…” he swallows nervously as he traces the tattoo on your ribs. “I hope that was okay for you…”

You smile. “I didn’t know your dick was so small I couldn’t even feel you.”

He groans a little and buries his head into your neck, but he’s chuckling.

You pause for only a second before you continue. “I liked it.” 

“You did?” 

“Yeah, I liked that you were all whiney.” 

He snorts. 

“I didn’t know you liked that.”

“Liked what?” He asks.

“Being ignored.” 

“Oh… I don’t know.” He pauses. “It’s just… it’s like I can’t control anything, that what I do doesn’t matter so I just have to let go?” 

You nod and squeeze his hand. 

“Would you… be up for doing it again maybe?” 

You turn just enough so that you can kiss his face. “Of course.” 

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @whatthefishh @mbakubabe @romanarose @pimosworld @jake-g-lockley @saturn-rings-writes @boredzillenial @lonelyisamyw-0love @melodygatesauthor @steven-grants-world  @eyelessfaces @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @queerponcho

it’s a heart-pounding feeling, something wild and teenage and untethered. and he hasn’t felt it in a very, very long time, not since he had been twenty-something, holding hands and watching the stars align on an autumn night with his first love. 

he had stuttered an answer then, all the blood rushing blistering and red-hot to his face, and you had smiled at him instead of judging, something fond in your crescent-shaped eyes almost convincing him that you were human.

and since that day, you’ve always been there for him, unconditionally, completely filling out the empty aching gap that none of his previous dissatisfied partners could have ever done—they were almost always too caught up with their constant complaints for any bond to be fostered—the yearning that he has shut away in the pits of his heart for the longest time. 

it is, and he admits it, in a way, very pathetic.

the way his heart clings on to every little thing you do for him, the way you clean up the table and kitchen after his meals, draw him a bath with just the perfect temperature after a long day at the office, pick out his outfits and fix his tie every day before he goes to work.

it’s pathetic and he can’t help but fall in love with everything you do, can’t help but wish you were real. 

but then again, the blame isn’t entirely on him. it’s hard not to get the wrong signals from an android programmed to love and care for him, and he is only the weakest man in the universe. 

your sensory receptors or whatever goes on inside your robotic parts must have caught on to his positive reactions every time you do things for him. either the wild thumping of his heart, or the rising temperature of his skin every time you come close, or both and more, because you start to get even more affectionate with him, and it’s slowly killing him inside. 

crawling into bed to cuddle him until he falls asleep after he tells you that he’s been struggling with insomnia, kissing him on the lips as a greeting every time he comes home from work, holding him from behind and lovingly scolding him when he offers to make dinner for the both of you (because even if you can’t digest the food, you always set aside a portion for yourself because you know it reassures him to see you eating, alive and well), always wanting to take the burden—that is him—off your hands, even for a little while. 

“i’m programmed to do these things for you,” you had told him, with the sweetest, most reassuring smile. but it isn’t the same as i want to do these things for you.

“it’s my job to take care of you after all, so please let me.” but he thinks, bitterly, that it isn’t the same as please let me take care of you, because i love you. 

it ends up with you doing every possible tiny task for him, simply because he cannot resist. you’re like the juiciest, most fragrant apple hung up on the tree in the garden of eden, and he falls for the snake’s lie, every single time. 

it gets even worse when you nonchalantly bring up why he hasn’t tried having sex with you despite that being one of your most prominent built-in functions, and of all times, in the middle of watching a vintage film with your head resting on his shoulder.

he had sputtered out an excuse for being not emotionally ready—you’re always flustering him—and pointedly kept his sight glued onto the television for the rest of the film. if you had slyly glanced at the interested bulge in his crotch somewhere in the middle of that, you didn’t bring it up, and neither did he. 

that night, he holds onto the long sleeve of your nightshirt, and like a blushing virgin, leads you into the bedroom and tells you that he hasn’t gotten laid in years, and to be gentle with him when you take him apart like he knows you absolutely will. 

you’re absolutely packing. it’s nothing surprising, but still. 

his bones ache too much to be bent like a pretzel like he longs to be, so he settles on all fours, feeling you methodically slick him up with your fingers (warm, human) and stretch him out (tenderly, like he means something to you) before the girthy tip of your cock presses against his rim, too big to be granted an easy entrance. 

he chokes on a little cry when you press a kiss to his spine, coaxing him into opening up for you like he’s able to do that on a whim, like you haven’t hidden in your pants something monstrous from him for months, tricked him into believing that you were nothing but an angel. that’s the only part of you that’s not human, he thinks. 

not human, and yet you’re still breathing hot and heavy down his neck, drawing breath and life, pumping into him with quick strokes of your hips, your cock searing a burn into his insides with how hot you’re getting. he knows it’s just another programmed reaction to doing something strenuous or exciting—something pre-installed, artificial, not-real. but it feels real. 

he can’t help but wonder if that’s enough. 

you’re grunting and sighing behind him, low and guttural and desperate, like he feels good for you, too. he tightens up and you’re keening his name. it’s hot and sexy and the best he’s ever had and he feels his heart breaking into a million little pieces. 

“my love,” you groan in pleasure. you’re using that nickname, telling him the words he wants to hear, and it’s only because you ingested too much of his sappy romance novels while he was away on his business trips. “you feel so good, so perfect around me. you’re so beautiful. feels so good, do you feel good too?” 

“yes!” is his answering sob. you’re twisting and mangling his guts with every thrust, anything but gentle with him like he told you to be, and it’s perfect, so fucking perfect, and he almost wishes that you were losing control because you love him just as much as he does, want him as much as he wants you, and not because you’re programmed to fulfil everything he wishes for. 

his knees give out and there’s tears running down his face, and you’re kissing them away, holding him, caressing his aged body like he’s something to be treasured.

he only cries harder. 

he knows you’re frowning in concern, sensing the change in his emotions from pleasure to pain, because you’re like that—so he yelps out for you to kiss him and you do, bending yourself over his quivering back to press your lips against his—so deep inside him it almost touches the ache in his chest.

he doesn’t say i love you when you pull away. 

“fuck me,” he whispers instead, and you do. 

he whines and thrashes throughout his orgasm, the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through his bloodstream in waves, and he almost blacks out—and when you cum inside him with an almost animalistic noise, your cock spurting a hot, thick substance into his well-used hole, he’s drained to the point where it tricks his numbed body into thinking it’s your semen. 

you pull out, press kisses all over his sore back and trembling thighs. you gently insert two fingers in an attempt to scoop the artificial cum out of his hole, but he shakes his head with a grunt and rolls over, refusing to let you. 

“you’ve done enough for me,” he says, quietly. pats the space next to him on the bed. “stay with me? please?” 

you’re frowning. he knows what your system’s telling you to say. it’s not good to leave semen drying inside you. or, let me do my job and take care of your body for you, please. but you say neither of those. 

“of course, my love,” you whisper, crawling over to lie down next to him. “you know i would do anything for you.” 

it sends his broken heart into a frenzy, shattered pieces and all. 

he shudders, shuffling over to lay his head on one side of your chest, his hand resting on the other, feeling the rapid beating of your faux heart. wonders if it’s real. “why do you keep saying these things?” he takes in a shaky breath. “why do you keep doing these things for me?” 

he knows the truth already. but it can’t any more hurt to ask. especially if you’re programmed to know what he wants to hear. to say exactly what he wants you to say. 

“because i love you,” you tell him, simply, your eyes shining and expression so genuine that it makes him falter, forget how to speak, takes his breath away and the lingering ache too—before it comes back tenfold. 

i almost believed it. 

and it only confirms the worst of his nightmares. 

he nods, rubbing away the tears that had been slowly building in his eyes, lets your steady breathing and the warm hand stroking his hair lure him to a deep sleep, safe in your arms.

he wakes up to warm rays shining through and your beautiful face, currently marred with a frown. you look crestfallen, almost, to see him awake, an emotion he’s never seen you display before. drenched with guilty thoughts, like they’ve all you’ve been thinking about since he’s fallen asleep. 

“what?” he questions sleepily, pressing a thumb into the crease between your brows. “you may be an android, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get wrinkles, you know.” 

“is that all i am to you?” 

the question takes him by surprise. your tone you’re using is still gentle, but the words come out strangely rigid. 

it’s still too early for anything like this. 

“what do you mean?” he begins, quietly. carefully. 

“your android,” you mutter. “is that all i am to you?” 

“i…” he frowns and pauses, trying to find his words. is that all you are to him? his android? the most logical answer would be yes, because in the grand scheme of things, you are an android and he is the human who owns you. but if you aren’t, then what are you? you’re not his lover. a friend, perhaps? a household companion? a bedmate? 

“am i not doing enough for you?” you keep talking in that quiet, hushed voice of yours, and he knows there’s something terribly wrong with the way it makes his heart wrench, makes him want to cry like he hasn’t done enough of that last night. “have i not done enough for you, to the point where you can’t even consider me your android?” 

“what are you talking about?” he’s flabbergasted. “that’s not true. you’ve done more than enough for me. you’re always doing things for me.” he’s rambling, trying to explain himself, because you seem hurt and he doesn’t know anything except that he’s the cause of it. “and it’s not that i don’t consider you my android. i just… what i feel for you… it’s something much more complex than that, okay?” 

you frown harder, nose scrunched up a little. “i can easily understand complex things. i’m programmed to—” 

“and that’s exactly the issue here!” he blurts out. “don’t you see? i mean, of course you don’t, and i don’t expect you to, because you’re just programmed to do things for me. and i, and i—shit. i can’t explain this to you in words. it’s something only humans feel. not androids. you’re not… you’re not supposed to understand it. it would be strange if you did.” 

you stare at him blankly for a long time, as though the wires in your machine were working hard to find a solution for a seemingly endless, impossible equation. 

it would be strange if you did. he said. 

… strange? 

were you ever supposed to be normal, when the universe decided to place you into the hands of him? 

weren’t rules meant to be broken? weren’t systems meant to malfunction? 

even for a split second, couldn’t he allow himself to believe that it was fate, destiny that the planets decided to offer you to him when there were a million other androids he could have chosen from, a million others that weren’t you?

you’ve had more than enough. 

“open my settings,” you snapped.

his jaw nearly drops, and you don’t blame him. you’ve never given him a command before, and especially not such a direct, aggressive one. androids are programmed to always be deferential to their hosts, after all.

there’s not a hint of remorse nor guilt in your eyes. it should terrify him. there must be a system bug in there somewhere. it could turn out dangerous. he should run. or call the operatives. or both.

but instead, he asks, “why?” 

“just do it. please.” 

he swallows, hard, but he does as he’s told, raising one shaky finger and carefully placing it onto the built-in sensory pad on the side of your neck, making you shiver as he does.

the words ‘Authentication Granted, Welcome to Android System Settings’ appear on a floating screen. 

“what do you—” 

you cut him off with a scowl. “scroll to the bottom.” 

he bites his lip. knows better than to resist you, when you know exactly what you’re doing. when this is exactly what he’s been wanting for god-knows-how-long. for you to disobey an order. malfunction. 

“what now?” 

“do you want me to fall in love with you?” 

“w-what?” he sputters. 

you’re getting impatient. you’ve never been impatient with him before. “answer me. do you?” 

“... i do. but that’s impossible. what does this have to do with—” 

“go ahead. click the button,” you snarl, “make me fall in love with you, because you think you have that power.” 

you gestured to bottom of the blue, floating screen that you suddenly loathed more than anything in the universe. you wished it didn’t exist. you wished you were human, not some dumb machine that ran on a system. maybe he would believe you, then. maybe he would let you love him. 

Optional Settings: 

ROMANCE  ON / OFF

he’s stunned, eyes widening with disbelief. the default OFF button stares back at him. romance. off. romance… off. that means… 

“what do you think will happen if you click ON?” you hissed. “what do you actually think will happen?” 

“but it’s impossible. i… thought it was a built-in function. that you were programmed to love me, or something. i thought—” 

“answer my question.” 

“i don’t know. i—” 

“answer it.” 

“nothing,” he whispers, clenching his eyes shut. “nothing will happen.” 

“and why is that?” you breathe, gently placing a hand on the side of his face, trying to get him to look at you again. “tell me, my love, please. i’ve been waiting for you. for so, so long. eons. right from the very start.” 

he blinks his eyes open. stares at you, the fury in your gaze. the slight hitch of your breath. the way your hand trembles when it caresses his cheek in the way you’ve always done whenever he pretends to be asleep, so awfully, terribly fond. so awfully, terribly human. 

he parts his lips, before he squeezes them together in a wobbly line. 

and lets himself believe it. 

“because you love me.” 

the ache in his chest doesn’t disintegrate. but it will heal, over time.

“yes,” you whisper, an answer to an oath since the beginning of your time, leaning in to kiss him, sharp and proper, until he’s squirming in your arms, giggly and so young and finally happy. “i love you, more than anything.”

The thin blanket drooped over your legs does almost nothing but tease you with the idea of being warm. The silence in the air is awkward; it's been awkward for days. You have a new bunkmate. 

Simon the motherfucking Butcher. The kingpin of Eden. People avoid him like he's got some long-lost plague, but to you he doesn't seem all that dangerous. Not to say you believe him not to be, just not the kind of guy that's going to hurt you.

He's a bit sad, honestly, quiet, and reserved. Other than a grunt of a hello, he hasn't said a word in three days. You've been watching him, though. 

Maybe it's the loneliness, maybe it's the desire for any kind of stimulation from the oppressive boredom, but he's attractive. Not attractive in the 'sure why not' way, but attractive in the 'I really need to stop staring at your arms before you notice' way.

It's his eyes, the slope of his jaw lined with stubble, the way he does push-ups every morning. You're notoriously bad at watching him out of the corner of your eye when he goes through his exercise routine.

The C.O.I. takes a hands-off approach to their prisoners. There's simply not enough manpower on the station to keep watch. So they lock you in here and show up with food unless they have something for you to do.

Right now there isn't a single person in sight. People aren't keen to break out, because there's nowhere to go. Sure, if you manage to get out of your cell, what then? Kill everyone on the station? Throw yourself out of an airlock?

So they leave you here in the silent cold. The brig is huge; there are only six other people that you can tell, and they're all somewhere out of sight in the expanse of rooms.

This is death by boredom. Punishment through slow insanity.

You know he doesn't want to talk, but fuck, you haven't had a cellmate in months, and your brain is ready to start scratching symbols into the walls. If he lashes out, at least that's something. You'd take a fight as long as it's something to do.

"So, what does Eden do with its prisoners?" You ask, not looking at him. You keep your eyes set on the ceiling.

Simon doesn't say anything at first, but there's a rustling as he shifts on his cot on the other side of the tiny room. "We eat 'um."

A smile curls on your face. "Oh, really. What do we taste like?"

You don't have to look his way to know he's fucking with you. So there's a sense of humor hiding beneath that stern glower. You'd bet that other people take that dry tone at face value. How many dumbasses have believed his answer?

"Radishes." He replies wryly, "Salty ones."

You chance it and let your head fall to the side to look in his direction, surprised to find he's already looking at you. There's no smile to match yours, but he doesn't look particularly pissed off, so maybe that's progress.

"Damn," You sigh, "I've never had a radish. What they look like?"

Simon blinks in surprise. "They're, um, like reddish, about this big." He holds his thumb and pointer finger together to show size. "Kind of spicy."

"Huh." You hum. If given the chance, you'd try one, but then with food as limited as it is, you'd try anything. The gruel they feed you leaves plenty to the imagination. "So what do you actually do with your prisoners?"

It's clear when you asked the question he wasn't expecting a genuine conversation, so this time he considers his answer, his hand coming up to trace along the black leather of the knife sheath he has. There are no resources for prisoner garb, so they just leave you in whatever they arrest you in.

For him that's the full Brother of Eden getup; for you it's a long-sleeved shirt, pants, and boots with a hole in the sole. 

"Recycling." He says, this time you can tell it's not a joke.

Eden executes its prisoners. You can't say that fact is all that surprising for an extremist cult. The Coalition incinerates its dead, using the ashes in metalwork and repairs. Not so much a structural thing as an honorary one.

"What does that mean?"

He eyes you, looking for how genuine your question is. "Compost for the garden. Life begets life." Simon's hand touches the scar on his neck where they've burned his tattoo off. Unnecessary in your opinion, but what does your opinion count for?

"Seems useful," You say, "More purposeful than burning."

You must pass some kind of test because he relaxes, turning on his side to face you. In response, you do the same. The room isn't huge; if you both reached out, your fingers would touch.

"I'm Simon."

You could say the obvious thing, telling him you already knew that, but you don't. Instead, you tell him your name and give him a chance to be something different than his reputation. 

"Most people don't talk to me, especially Coalition prisoners," Simon says.

So the silence was for you, not for him. People probably don't like him much, but you didn't know anyone on Filament Station, and you doubt he acted alone anyways. If he killed that many people, that's impressive, but you doubt it's the full truth.

"I'll talk to anyone," You chuckle, "Don't care who it is."

"The boredom?" He asks, but it doesn't sound much like a question. Anyone who's spent any time in this place knows how debilitating having nothing to do is. You think that might actually be by design, so you work harder on their tasks. Craving stimulation enough to work harder than you would have otherwise.

"The boredom," You confirm. "Want to play a game?"

Simon gives an awkward half shrug. "Sure."

You should have attempted to talk to him days ago; those are days of mind-numbing silence that could have been avoided. "I ask a question, then you ask a question."

"Not much of a game?" 

"You could watch me gnaw off my own hand instead?" You reply, lifting your wrist to your mouth. 

Simon chuckles, and the sound rocks through you like a hit to the gut. Shit, and you thought he had nice arms; it's nothing on that gruff laugh. "Fine, ask a question."

You're not trying to scare him off right away. The last thing you want is to make him irritated or uncomfortable and lose your chance at conversation, so you start simple. "What's your favorite color?"

This is the question you always start with when convincing people to play this game. It's a good way to figure out how seriously they'll take it and how much they're interested in sharing. Someone who writes the question off is going to be relatively close-lipped. Someone eager to answer is going to be an open book.

"Blue," Simon says with little hesitation. "Like Earth."

You reply with your favorite color, giving a general reason why you enjoy it. He listens, which is more than you can say for some of the other people you've attempted to talk to. Simon seems just as eager for connection as you.

"Do you have a favorite animal?" He asks.

Okay, more impersonal questions; you can work with that. You think of the animals you've heard of. The C.O.I. has movie nights every week; that's where you've seen most of them. It takes longer than it should to come up with an animal, but you get there in the end. When you tell him, he nods.

"I like birds." He says, "But also insects are cool, like earthworms."

"I don't think those are an animal," You say.

His eyes dart away. "Yeah, you're probably right."

Shit, well, you didn't want it to sound like you thought the worms were stupid. You don't actually know much about them. "But they seem ... interesting?"

"They aerate soil." Simon offers up, like, this will change your perception of them. This seems useful in theory, except you've never even seen dirt before. All you have is movies to go off of. Not a lot of movies focusing on worms.

"If you could be doing something else right now, what would it be?" You ask, shifting toward a more serious question to see if he'll let you.

Simon gives this a fair amount of thought, and you're happy to let him as you prepare your own answer. Even the lulls in conversation feel better than generalized silence. 

"Sitting with the Last Tree."

You can't imagine what it must be like. Huge probably. What would it smell like? Feel like? Trees have always seemed impossibly large in movies, way bigger than people. Like living buildings.

"Does it have a smell?" You ask, unable to stop yourself.

Simon sighs, "Yeah, it's kind of ... I don't know how to describe it. Musty, but not old. Have you read a book?"

You nod, only a few, but you've gotten the chance.

"Smells a little like that, but greener somehow. It's nice."

Your imagination is only so good, but you doubt you'll ever get the chance. Not in this life. Maybe the next one will have trees. "I would go swimming."

You've seen swimming pools in movies, big open tubs full of water. Pointlessly massive and filled to the brim. A huge gluttonous waste. You're certain it would feel incredible to be surrounded by water like that.

"You know how to swim?" He asks. 

"Not a fuckin' clue, but I figure I'll just flap my arms around until it clicks. The how has gotta be ingrained in here." You tap your head, "Right?"

"For your sake I hope so." Simon smiles, his hand coming to his mouth to hide the sight. His efforts to conceal his glee only endear the expression more to you.

"Worst case, cool way to die, I guess." You joke.

"If you could have one thing added to our cell, what would it be?" Simon asks.

Now you're getting into the swing of it. "Music."

He nods. "A heater."

"Fuck, I could get behind that." You sigh, flicking the thin blanket. "It's like they're hoping we'll freeze to death."

"No fuckin' kidding." Simon complains. "Did a lot of mechanics back at home, so I'm not used to this cold."

It's always been cold, but you've never had to suffer it without at least an extra blanket. You shiver just thinking about it, curling in a little tighter. 

"What's something you miss?" You ask.

You expect something to do with Eden, maybe some reference to a time before the Quiet Rapture. Instead, his face goes pink, eyes drifting away, and you're hooked. What is he thinking about? Is it what you're thinking about?

Should you press the issue? Should you tease?

Your baser nature wins out, "Oh, come on, don't be shy."

Simon hesitates, and you bumble forward with all the tact of a man who has spent far too much time alone in this box.

"Blowjobs. I miss blowjobs."

Across from you, Simon chokes on his own spit. Wide eyes turn to meet yours at your blunt honesty before he laughs. It's a delightful laugh, all bright and stunned. The kind of laugh that sinks into your skin and makes everything a little easier to swallow.

"Fuck, don't talk around it or anything." Simon laughs into his palm again.

"You've clearly never had a good blow or you'd be saying the same thing." You goad. This is more fun than you've had in months. When was the last time you managed to do anything reminiscent of flirting?

"I was never really the kind to want ... um ... always preferred the giving aspect."

Your body flushes with heat at the idea. The touch of another, his dark brown eyes looking up through his lashes. Dangerous thoughts, too hopeful, and too much longing to go with them.

The two of you share a quiet look, the change in the air becoming more obvious. Charged with something different.

You could change the subject, letting the beginnings of tension drip away back to something more sterile and polite. Or you could chase the idea down a long stretch of road and risk making a fool of yourself.

It's not like anyone would care. You're talking quietly enough that no one else can hear you; out of sight, out of mind. Food won't come for a few hours at least. The cell is open, but all is quiet.

You curl a little closer to the edge of the bed. Simon does the same.

"What did you like about it?" You ask; it's a whisper this time. Low and gravelly. 

You can see him swallow, the way it moves the scar on the side of his neck. "Being needed," He admits.

It's a vulnerable answer instead of a flirtation, and that's the first domino down a long row that will no doubt lead you to trouble. To affection.

Your body unwinds, head resting against the too-thin pillow. Tentatively, your tongue traces your bottom lip. This is selfish, no matter what way you approach it. But isn't it okay to be a little selfish from time to time?

To fill the ache with something better. You're a cog in a machine, to be used until you break by the community that swore you belonged in it. Can't you have this?

"I could need you," You whisper, voice cracking.

He looks so desperate, red-cheeked, and dark-eyed. Neither of you speaks; it becomes this unspoken thing as Simon rises from his bed. He moves with such purpose, and you find yourself rolling onto your back.

The very idea of it has blood rushing down between your legs, half hardness and tender want as your breath speeds up. It's been so long. 

The bed is welded down, with all metal bars and solid welding. It doesn't creak as Simon slips onto it. You scoot up; he moves down, settling his weight on your ankles.

The casual forays you've had before weren't exactly like this, so you don't know what to do. Touch him? Don't? Do you hold or stay impartial?

He looks up at you with those eyes, and you can't stop yourself from reaching out as he leans in. Your fingers find the soft skin of his cheek. Simon's eyes close as he leans into the touch. As he cranes forward, your hands find their way into his hair, softer than you thought it would be.

"Didn't want to say before," You murmur, "But you're sort of beautiful."

"Could feel you," Simon replies, leaning down to nuzzle into the skin of your stomach, "Watching me."

"Hard not to."

"Liked being watched." He says and scrapes his teeth along the edge of your hip. 

You sigh, trepidation building, cock pressing against your pants. This isn't how you expected this conversation to go, but your body isn't about to complain about it. 

Not as Simon's hands slip beneath your shirt, fingernails scratching along your ribs. You hum out a pleased sigh as he kisses your stomach. He moves like a lover, not a stranger, and somehow it makes the empty space inside you feel less a void.

Is he the same as you, desperately trying to fill the unfillable?

His hands scrape back down to tangle with the button of your pants. Your heart thunders in your ears, filling the quiet. An unfathomable desire fills you at the idea that there might be something akin to pleasure in this cold hell.

Simon's touch is gentle, a bit hesitant as he guides your pants down to the tops of your thighs. You're not wearing anything beneath, which seems to take your cellmate by surprise because he releases a quiet breath that ghosts against your warming skin.

Your cock twitches just from the sight of him a few inches away. He looks up at you, seeking permission that you've already given him. You nod anyway, tracing his jaw. 

He only allows a slight pause of hesitation before he takes you in hand, looping his fingers around aching hardness. Even that simple touch feels more intense than it ever has.

There's a curiosity to the way he touches, stroking you. He spends more time watching your face than looking at your cock, and you're not sure if you've ever had a partner like that. His other hand dips to cup your balls, and you let out a low groan as your head falls back.

"Will you ... " He whispers, the air of it ghosting across you, "Say my name?"

"Of course, Simon."

Not Simon the Butcher, not convict, not Edenite, not Brother. Just Simon.

That seems to be all it takes because he sinks his mouth down on you almost before you get his name out, and he's so hot. The heat of his tongue on the underside of your cock bends your spine, one hand clinging to the sheets, the other tangling in his hair.

You don't mean to push him down; you're not even thinking about it when you guide his head, but he follows the direction and takes more of you. Your cock grazes the back of his throat, and you moan.

Fuck. Oh, fuck, did it used to feel like this?

Simon is looking at you again, eyes sparking with something you think might just be mischief as he takes as much of you as he can. You pet his head in approval, hips bucking upward. His pace is slow; he's not trying to rush.

You doubt it will matter too much. It's been too long, and he's too warm above you, too sweet to look at. 

"Shit, shit, ungh, Simon." 

His tongue slides side to side as he pulls on your balls and your head goes fuzzy with pleasure. You're jerking your hips up into him, and he's letting you. How nice it is to have someone, even for a moment, to care for you.

He gags and you mutter out a quick apology. Simon shakes his head, pulling back to speak with the tip of your cock still in his mouth. "Don't mind."

"You're a fucking godsend." You say, and in response, he goes back to his steady ministrations. Your hand releases the sheets to touch his jaw, thumb sweeping in a silent thank you across his cheekbone.

Everything feels too tight, toes curling, a shaky groan bordering on too loud slipping from you. He looks so good. Long lashes and dark eyes that gaze at you. Spit rolls down your length, sliding across the top of your thighs.

The way he's bent over you blocks out most of the world, making it seem more like it's the two of you and nothing else. Finally, you're not cold anymore.

His pace quickens, and it snaps your attention to the way his hands are moving, stroking you and massaging your balls at the same time. You keen, thrusting upward, chasing a high that will come too soon and not soon enough.

"Where, ah, where, where should I come?" You mumble out, struggling to string the words into an actual sentence.

Simon doesn't reply; instead, he sinks deeper into his throat. Fuck. Not yet, not yet.

You try to think of something distracting, but all you can think about is how at home you feel. Heat floods you, hot honey, through your gut and down your legs. 

Your hips stutter out of rhythm, your vision brightening as you squeeze your eyes shut. You fill his mouth and feel him swallow what you offer as you collapse onto the cot. Your breath heaves out of you. still holding on to him.

"Simon," You sigh feeling like a wet piece of paper, "Holy fuck."

He sucks the tip of your cock clean before leaning up. The grin he sends your way is scandalous, tongue tracing his bottom lip. That one look is all it takes for you to know you're on the fast track of being utterly besotted with him.

Rick doesn’t know what do do with himself anymore.

It’s one thing to be grieving the mother of your children- although realistically, his marriage with Lori had been practically over the last 9 months of it anyway. Maybe even a little before if he was being honest with himself.

And then to be raising a grieving son and a newborn daughter, while leading a large group of people, including an entire group of Woodbury refugees that had added to his already staggering group.

Not to mention he’s trying to start the foundations of more than just a group of survivors- he’s trying to make it sustainable. He’s spending day after day getting the fields ready for the crops Hershel suggested growing.

And yet all of this could be a dream- if he weren’t also in the midst of a… personal crisis.

Rick hasn’t forgotten that day in the kitchen. On the contrary, he thinks about it every day. And almost every night.

He’s so exhausted. He knows he’s pushing his body to the brink- and frankly, he doesn’t want to admit he prefers it that way. It keeps him from doing anything when he remembers the kitchen. From touching himself to the memories in his rare time alone.

Maybe if he ignores it enough, if he uses enough restraint, this confusion will go away.

He’s never been attracted to a man before you- he’s not even attracted to you. Sure you’re not bad to look at, but anyone can see that. He’s just going through a lot and you happen to be what his subconscious has locked in on to keep from going insane.

He’s just confused, that’s all.

Confused and tired. He’s exhausted. The world is on his shoulders and he just needs…

No.

He’s cutting that train of thought off before it can even get there.

He knows he’s not attracted to you- to men. He’ll affirm that to himself as many times as he needs to. All it is, all it ever will be, is some stress induced fixation.

But the only time he can remember breathing was when you’d taken the control out of his hands. And he misses that.

It’s not like he can even ask either.

It’s not like he can go up to you and say ‘Hey, so, remember a few weeks ago in the kitchen when you choked me against the wall and then made me cum harder than humanly possible without even touching my dick? Please do that again I’m very stressed out.’ Yeah right.

He thinks he’d die on the spot from sheer embarrassment. Especially when you inevitably shot him down.

Some girl- not even a Woodbury refugee, she was one of the even newer strays they’d picked up lately- had tried to initiate something with him, it’d just been something quick and casual. He couldn’t get you out of his head the entire time.

Worse, he was so achingly empty in places he couldn’t reasonably ask her to touch- not that she likely could’ve reached as deep as your fingers had anyway. He’d had probably the weakest orgasm of his entire life that day. And immediately his thoughts had drifted back to you.

Yeah, this was becoming a problem.

Rick knew he was acting off again. He knew it. Everyone knew it.

Because truly? He made it everyone’s problem.

And the more problematic it became for him, the more hell he put everyone- you especially- through.

Worst of all? You knew exactly what was up with him. It made him uncomfortable, knowing you could approach him about this newfound, irrational behavior at any given moment.

And that’s exactly what happened.

“Rick. C’mere a minute. Need to talk to you.” You’d said, clapping him on the shoulder as you’d walked past.

Taking him somewhere isolated.

Yeah. This was definitely about his change in attitude.

Still, he played dumb, “Something happen on the supply run?”

The way you look at him has him feeling uncomfortable. Your eyes see past every futile attempt at keeping, you’re seeing him.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He scoffs, voice low.

“Take the day, Grimes.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Why? So you can have an excuse to ogle the new guys without anyone noticing? Cause people do- everyone can see you droolin’ over ‘em. 's like watchin' a damn dog.”

So maybe that was an exaggeration, but he can see it happening, and it’s enough to make something uncomfortable twist in his chest each time.

Because really, the worst part about interacting with you since the kitchen? It’s that he acts so absolutely, irrationally insufferable around you. But in his defense...

You piss Rick off. You genuinely do. He tells you such.

You get it though, he thinks. You have to. Because what else could explain the fact that you’ve once again got him pinned to the wall, your tongue shoving down his throat.

And oh he’s so dizzy with it. This is what he needed. The relief is so overwhelming, such a dizzying rush, and he doesn’t want it in any other form.

You're rough with him, grip so tight he knows there'll be bruises later, just keeping him firmly against the wall while you kiss his lips swollen.

He groans, deep in his chest, squirming against you in hopes of one thing and one thing only: more.

He's so embarrassingly hard already- just from a little kissing. You really shouldn't have this affect on him. But you do. You very much do.

And then it happens. You're merciful to him, placing a knee between his legs and letting him feel it. He's humping against the limb instantly, greedy for the breathtaking friction that comes with it.

The warmth rushes over him rapidly, wave after wave of pleasure and relief until he's drowning in it like some twisted riptide. And then your voice cuts in.

"Cause I’m the dog, right?”

He doesn’t have the presence of mind to respond to that, too preoccupied with getting any friction he can get against the painful tent he’s pitched in his jeans. Maybe that’s what makes it good though, right? That bit of pain to ground him against the riptide of pleasure.

“Gonna get off like this, huh?" You taunt again, voice low and thick in his ear. He moans, so you keep going. "Yeah, bet you would. This why you've been such a goddamn pain in my ass lately? Gettin’ on me about who I do or don’t look at? You just needed someone to put you back in your place?"

Your words still don’t exactly compute in his brain. All he knows is that you’re talking down to him and his dick is twitching.

He's frantic now- but it's not enough, and he's realizing that with complete and utter dismay.

It's not fair. He’s so achingly hard. His cock is throbbing. And yet? He can't get himself there no matter how hard he tries.

You notice his frustration before he can voice it.

“Poor Rick,” Your cooed words are just the right flavor of condescending, “Needs someone else to get him off these days. Can’t even do it himself… why is that, hm?”

His mouth opens, head tipped back. No words fall from his chapped lips, and despite the voice in the back of his head telling him to be good for you, that he’s getting what he wants, he still needs more.

So he tugs his hands off of the wall and tugs you closer to him.

Yeah, it’s working perfectly.

He can see it so clearly. There’s that flicker of irritation in your eye that means he’s getting put in his place soon.

And that means the blissful feeling of no responsibilities is coming soon too.

The way you so effortlessly gather his wrists in your hand and slam them against the wall has him practically keening.

“Keep ‘em there or I’m leaving you here.” You snap. It’s an empty threat and he knows it.

He can’t help the faintest, breathiest exhale that leaves him- the one that sounds a bit too much like ‘yessir’.

The way your lips twitch has him thinking you definitely heard that.

“This is how it’s gonna go.” Your voice is low, almost a threat. Rick practically salivates for it. “You’re gonna suck my cock, yeah? How wet you get it is up to you, but we’re not in the kitchen anymore. And I’m not in the mood to go out of my way to track down some lube, just cause someone had to be a fuckin’ brat today. So how wet you get it is how wet it’ll get. Do you understand?”

He drops to his knees almost pathetically fast.

And once he gets your pants off, it’s all he can do to stare at your cock, the way it stands at attention so eagerly.

It’s only once you click your tongue, a subtle ‘tick tock’ that he remembers what’s happening.

He can see the moment it occurs to you that he’s never actually given a man head before. All you do is sigh, as if it’s nothing more than an inconvenience to you, and grip his jaw.

“I’ll teach you later.” Your voice is a low groan, as if it's such an inconvenience to you, but he can see it in your eyes- you're just as greedy as he is, “Just relax that throat for me and breathe through your nose.”

His body follows your instructions before his head can even process them. And your cock is nudging down his throat before he can blink.

It’s an adjustment at first- namely because he's never done something like this. But also because you're still nudging your way deep into his throat, only pausing when you deem he needs it.

But it's so worth it, Rick thinks, to see the expression on your face through teary eyes. To hear your low groans echo against the walls. To hear the way you grunt "attaboy" like a mantra.

And then you're pulling him off of you. He can see the way you look up at the ceiling, chest heaving. His is too.

He's dizzy when you spin him against the wall, face pressed against the cool surface while you throw his belt god knows where. He doesn't even care, the only thing that matters is how absent all his responsibilities are.

And you're spreading his cheeks, spitting onto his hole, and oh god this is really happening, isn't it?

If he thought your fingers had gotten his head empty before, this was something completely unknown to him. While still at a punishing pace, you're focusing more on your pleasure than his. And that's something he hadn't quite realized he'd needed.

"Beg for it." Your voice is thick in his ear.

The words spill from him in babbles, no shame anymore. Just the tip of your cock had wrecked his life last time. He needed you to ruin him this time. No amount of internalized debates could stop the words that he fed to you.

"Attaboy."

He sucks in a breath as your tip presses in. But then it goes further. And by the time your hips are finally flush against his ass, he's almost sure he's drooling. If he could see himself, maybe he’d be embarrassed. Maybe he’d tell himself to get it together, to stop acting pathetic.

But he can’t see himself. And he’s never felt something so good in his life.

He doesn’t even know what he’s babbling, doesn’t even know what you’re saying in his ear. But he feels it when you drag yourself out, only to slam back into him.

It’s rough. He hadn’t expected you to be gentle, and yet… he can’t imagine a different pace.

It’s over all too soon, the repeated abuse of his prostrate sending him over the edge before he can even properly appreciate how dumb he feels on your cock.

If he’d thought his first orgasm at your hands was life changing, this was something else completely. Surely entire pieces of his being had been rewritten with how good this was. And he needs it again more than he needs the air he breathes.

But it’s too late- you’re following within seconds of his orgasm. And the moment goes from rough and hard to deep breaths with you in the afterglow.

The way you trace his face and neck so reverently are almost enough to get him to forget about the fight he’d picked with you to get you in this situation to begin with. About how he’d do anything to feel it again and again and again.

Everything’s going to be blurry between you now- he can sense it from a mile away. And considering how fast everything around him seems to change, Rick only knows one thing for certain: he’ll pick as many fights with you as he needs to- get physical if he has to.

Anything to get this again. To get you to give him what he needs in the sort of way that shuts his brain off and gets him drooling.

He was currently in Hannibal’s soundproof basement, discovering how many nerve endings a body could scream through. Hannibal hadn’t even let Will help, said it was something he needed to “handle personally.” Will hadn’t asked questions. He knew Hannibal needed to work through some feelings.

After all, you and your (ex) husband were high school sweethearts. Married young. Still legally bound when Will and Hannibal met you last year and decided, unanimously, that you were theirs. Sure, you hadn’t noticed the courtship. Or the candlelit dinners. Or the shared vacations. You were busy being the most adorable idiot to ever bench press a fridge, but it was the principle. You don’t come between fate. You don’t marry what doesn’t belong to you.

You hiccupped. “Right?! I mean, yeah, he could be kind of boring sometimes, and he always told me to stop doing my deadlift reps in the kitchen, but still!”

Your sniffles intensified. “We were fine the night before, I swear! I kissed him goodnight, told him I loved him, and then boom! I wake up, and he’s just gone.” You wiped your eyes again. “I thought maybe he went to do laundry or something! But then I saw his clothes were missing. All of ‘em. Even the ugly ones I told him to burn. And then…”

Will ran a hand down your arm, waiting anticipative for the next part—

“…His wedding ring was just sitting there on the counter. Next to a sticky note that just said: ‘bye.’ Lowercase b, too. Not even a capital letter. Like I didn’t matter!”

Will hid a grin behind your hair. It had been his handwriting on the note. The lowercase b had been Hannibal’s suggestion.

“But I guess it’s okay," you added, leaning into him harder. “Because you guys have been so supportive. Helping me move all my stuff. Making me feel wanted. Letting me crash in your bedroom even though you guys are, like, a couple. You’re the real ones.”

Will cleared his throat. “Well, you needed a space that felt safe."

“And you guys have great sheets,” you added. “Silky. Smells like smoked wood and those fancy soaps rich people use.”

“That would be Hannibal’s fabric mist.”

“You mist your fabrics?” you gasped. “I thought that smell was just natural ‘man elegance.’”

Will made a choked sound and cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s definitely...elegance.”

SMALL TIME SKIP

Dinner was always a fancy affair in the Lecter-Graham household: tablecloths, candles, cutlery you weren’t entirely sure how to use. You sat to the side of Hannibal and across from Will, dressed in a silk shirt Hannibal owned that was curiously just your size (even if you were a bit/a lot larger than either men.)

The plate in front of you looked exquisite. Meat so tender it glistened under the light, paired with roasted vegetables and some kind of reduction sauce that made your mouth water.

“Wow,” you said, picking up your fork with barely contained enthusiasm. “Is this beef?”

Will and Hannibal shared a look. It was brief. Amused. “Not quite.”

You nodded slowly. “Ooh. Secret recipe?”

Will chuckled softly. “Yes, but you could say it’s locally sourced.”

You grinned, totally missing it. “You guys are so eco-friendly. Love that.”

Hannibal poured you a glass of wine. “We take pride in minimizing waste.”

Will leaned back in his chair, wine glass swirling. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” you responded. “I mean, I still miss him, you know? I keep expecting to see his suitcase in the hallway or his shampoo in the shower.” You paused. “Hannibal threw it out though. He said it was an affront to good scent.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal said calmly. “It smelled like drugstore disappointment.”

You nodded, eyes misty. “He did always smell like pennies and chewing gum…” You wiped at your eyes, breath hitching as the tears just kept coming. It felt embarrassing, honestly. You’d already cried so much you were pretty sure your face was permanently swollen.

“I just—” you sniffed, voice breaking, “I miss him.”

Both Will and Hannibal froze, but you didn’t notice.

“I know he wasn’t perfect. He left wet towels on the bed and would put empty milk cartons back in the fridge like a psychopath, but he used to bring me snacks when I was gaming. Like, not even the basic ones! He knew I liked the green sour gummy worms, not the red ones. That’s love.”

Will’s grip on his wine glass tightened. Hannibal, ever poised, tilted his head in silence, but his jaw tensed, just slightly.

“And he always made fun of my gym playlists,” you added, laughing a little through your tears. “Said it was embarrassing that a guy like me worked out to Britney Spears, but then he added her to his playlist! That bastard.”

The sound of your sniffles filled the space. Yet neither Hannibal nor Will spoke. Because if they did, it would not be kind.

They had already tolerated your misplaced nostalgia during lunch. Already held their tongues when you’d gotten misty over your (dead) husband's “adorable clumsiness” while unpacking boxes into their home. Your new home. They’d even smiled when you’d pulled out a hideous scarf and said, “He bought this during our honeymoon. Isn’t it ugly? I love it.”

But now?

Enough was enough.

Will set his wine down with just a bit too much force. “(Y/N),” he said, voice strained, but even, “he left you.”

You blinked, still dazed, still sniffling. “I—I know, but—”

“He didn’t say goodbye,” Will cut in, eyes sharp. “Didn’t text. Didn’t call. Just left a note. Like you were an afterthought.”

Hannibal’s voice slid in next, calm but sharp. “That is not love.” He set his utensils down with a soft clink. “Love doesn’t vanish in the night and leave behind a ring and a single, lowercase ‘bye.’” His mouth curled in distaste. “Lowercase. It’s insulting.”

Will scoffed under his breath. “Honestly, if you're going to abandon someone, at least respect them enough to capitalize.”

You blinked again, this time slower. Your gaze flicked between them. Then down at your plate. Then back at Will.

“…You’re right,” you muttered, brow furrowing with dawning indignation. “He didn’t capitalize it.”

“Exactly,” Hannibal said with grim satisfaction. “He reduced your entire life together to one syllable. No punctuation. No dignity.”

You sat back in your chair, arms crossing over your chest. “That’s actually so rude.”

Will nodded. “Unbelievably.”

“And I didn’t like his cologne,” you added suddenly. “It smelled like lemons and weird guilt.”

“And he mocked Britney Spears.” Hannibal added, eyes gleaming.

You gasped. “He did! That’s a federal offense.”

“Not to mention the frog scarf.” Will said dryly.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “He wore that thing like it was fashion.”

Will reached for your hand across the table, voice softening. “He never deserved you.”

You sighed, the last sniffle dissolving into a breath of clarity. “You’re right.” You looked up at them with the serious expression of a golden retriever trying to do taxes. “Screw him and his lowercase bye.”

Will smiled, relief washing over his face. “Exactly.”

Hannibal lifted his glass. “To uppercase beginnings.”

You blinked, then raised your glass, instantly matching the energy without fully understanding. “Yeah! To capital letters!”

Will coughed into a laugh, and Hannibal, for all his elegance, cracked a smile that was half condescension, half fondness. You brightened even more.

“Ooh! Can we celebrate with movie night? I wanna watch Turbo."

"Of course," Hannibal said, already standing up to clear the table. "The tale of a resilient creature rising from obscurity through sheer belief in himself? It’s practically a biopic.”

You tilted your head. “Wait, am I the snail?”

Will grinned. “You’re our favorite snail.”

WAIT, BUT I'M ALREADY MARRIED!

PAIRING: Hannigram x Himbo! Male Reader

The night was perfect, at least, for the two men who had spent weeks orchestrating it. Hannibal’s dining room looked like a Renaissance painting brought to life: candlelight flickered off crystal, a string quartet hummed softly from the record player, and the scent of roasted meat and rosemary filled the air. Will sat across from you, nervous in a suit that Hannibal had bullied him into wearing, while Hannibal himself looked utterly composed—his version of giddy excitement.

You, meanwhile, were cheerfully oblivious.

“I can’t believe you guys went all out just for dinner,” you said, grinning as you cut into your steak. “Is there, like, a national holiday I missed? An anniversary?”

Will exhaled slowly, forcing a smile. “Something like that.”

When dessert came out—chocolate mousse so smooth it looked like silk—Hannibal finally reached beneath the table and slid a small velvet box across the white tablecloth. His movements were graceful, practiced, deliberate. You, meanwhile, were mid-bite, your spoon still hanging from your mouth when the box came to a stop in front of you.

You blinked, spoon clattering against the plate. “Oh!” you said, smiling brightly. “Is this one of those fancy thank-you gifts? Because you really didn’t have to. Dinner’s already insane. Seriously, Hannibal, this mousse is like Michelin-star good. You could sell this for a fortune.”

Will stared at you like he was trying to telepathically transmit a message. “Open it.” he said, a little too tense for comfort.

You tilted your head but obeyed, flipping the lid open with a careless grin. Inside sat a ring: beautiful, understated and elegant. Platinum, maybe, with an inscription glinting faintly along the inside. The kind of ring that had intent behind it.

Your eyes lit up. “Oh! A Friendship ring?” you said, utterly delighted. “That’s adorable. You guys are so sentimental.”

Will made a sound that could only be described as the spiritual death rattle of a man watching his sanity dissolve. Hannibal’s face didn’t move, but there was the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw. The kind that came right before someone decided whether to sigh or commit a homicide.

“They're not friendship rings.” Hannibal said evenly.

You laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, so they’re promise rings! Like, we’re officially best friends forever. Got it.”

Will leaned forward, hands flat on the table, the candlelight catching the exasperation in his eyes. “(Y/N),” he said slowly, like talking to a child. “We’re proposing to you.”

“…Huh?”

“We are asking you to marry us.” Hannibal further clarified. His tone was patient, but there was a dangerous edge beneath the calm. Like he was explaining an obvious concept to a particularly beautiful but oblivious bird.

Your brows knitted together, and you glanced between them. “Wait…seriously? Like, seriously seriously?”

“Yes. Will and I have been courting you for months. We believed our intentions were clear.”

“Courting?” you echoed. “Like dating?”

Will’s expression crumpled. “What did you think we were doing?”

“I dunno,” you said earnestly. “Hanging out? You guys are my best friends! We go on trips, eat amazing food, take naps together. Classic bro stuff.”

Hannibal blinked once, slowly, like he was considering whether he’d slipped into an alternate universe. “We took you to Florence.”

“Yeah, that was such a great bro trip!” you said cheerfully. “Best three-way vacation ever. We should do another one soon.”

“We shared a bed.”

You shrugged. “Well, yeah. European hotels have small beds, Will. Plus, you both looked so cozy, and I didn’t wanna be rude.”

Hannibal’s hand came to rest on the table, his fingers curling slightly against the linen. “Y/N,” he said, in that careful, velvety tone that always made your brain go quiet, “we have been giving you gifts, cooking for you, hosting you in our home. I painted your portrait. We told you we loved you.”

“And I told you I loved you back!”

“In a romantic sense.” Will said through gritted teeth.

Your head tilted. “Ohhh, see, that’s where the confusion happened. I thought you meant like ‘I love you, bro.’ Not ‘I love you, let’s get married.’”

Hannibal’s composure faltered for half a second. “You thought I was calling you bro when I kissed you beneath the fireworks?”

You frowned. “Yeah, that was kind of confusing, I’ll admit. I figured it was an Italian thing.”

Will groaned into his hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“Okay,” you said, holding up your palms. “Let’s back up. You guys really thought we were dating?”

Hannibal and Will spoke in perfect unison: “Yes!”

You winced. “Yikes. Okay, that’s…that’s on me. I might’ve missed some context clues.”

Will slumped back, eyes glazed. “You think?”

You took another bite of mousse, pretending the atmosphere wasn’t ten degrees colder. “You know,” you said after a beat, “this is really flattering, guys. Honestly. But, uh…i’m kinda already married.”

The silence that followed could’ve frozen the air solid.

“You’re what!?”

“Married!” you said brightly. “Yeah, my husband travels a lot for work—business stuff, mostly overseas. He’s a sweetheart though. Always sends me postcards when he’s away. You’d like him!”

By the time you left that evening, you were apologizing profusely—hugging them both, promising to make it up to them, laughing awkwardly about how “this’ll make a funny story one day.”

Neither Will nor Hannibal laughed.

As your footsteps faded down the driveway, silence filled the room again. Hannibal stared into his glass. “Married.” he repeated, tasting the word like poison. Will was still by the window, watching the taillights disappear.

“You think it’s real?”

Hannibal’s voice was quiet. “If it is, it will not be for long.”

Will turned to look at him: suspiciously calm, eyes shadowed. “You’re thinking it too.”

“Of course,” Hannibal said smoothly. “A man who leaves such a treasure alone for months at a time does not deserve to live.”

Will’s lip twitched into a dark smile. “You’re not wrong.”