#1kwrite

Remember us? We’re baaaack.

NEW WRITING TIMES, EST:

Monday/Wednesday - 9pm

Tuesday/Thursday - 8pm

Saturday/Sunday - 3pm

NEW EDITING TIME, EST:

Friday 8pm

He sits down in his boxers and t-shirt and watches the waves. Hannibal knows better than to come and fetch him. Will imagines Hannibal’s grown as used to his morning ritual as his own, waking up alone and padding into the kitchen to make breakfast. There’s always tattie scones and link sausages whenever Will finally returns, though Hannibal has eaten without him, already in his armchair next to the warming stove reading poetry. At some point, a cup of French press coffee will show up next to Will’s hand.

Every day is comfortably the same, as regular as the tide that licks along the Kildonan shore. Except, that is, for today.

Will’s fixing Hannibal with the stare and the slink he reserves for prey, all sinuous, all sin. He doesn’t stop when he reaches Hannibal’s chair, just grasps the back of the chair and straddles him.

Hannibal’s mouth goes dry. “What are you doing, Will?” 

Will chuckles and says, drawing out every letter, voice pitched slightly higher, “Daddy.”