#touchstarvedwriter

hunger

Life with Hannibal is easy.

He takes care of everything. The fridge is always stocked, rooms always cleaned. You find your laundry folded and tucked back in your drawers before you even realize the hamper has been emptied. If there’s anything you have a particular craving for, you need only say the word—and sometimes not even that. He’s scarily perceptive, after all. Sometimes it feels as though he recognizes your needs before you do.

*****************

Life with Hannibal is organized. Planned. You have a schedule—rise at eight, breakfast at nine. Typically you’ll squeeze in a run in between, get some use out of the glossy treadmill in the spare room that doubles as a gym. You run for twenty, thirty minutes—just long enough to break a sweat, long enough for your heart to settle into a quick, steady pace, long enough for the rush of blood in your ears to block out any unsavory thoughts.

When you get out of the shower to dry off your hair, often times you’ll find an outfit laid out for you on the bed, prechosen.

Planned.

Easy.

*****************

Life with Hannibal is safe. You’re so precious to him, after all. He trusts you, he assures you; it’s the others he fears. The outside world. If someone were to pick the locks, force their way in, how would you defend yourself? What if something were to happen?

So it’s only natural that he triple check the locks on his way out for the day, that he toss a quick glance up to the security cameras in the corner of each room. It’s only been a week since he allowed you down from the second floor, given you free reign of the place. It’s new to both of you, this level of freedom—of course he’s nervous! The locks, the cameras, they’re just basic security measures. You remind yourself of that, any time you feel the discontent bubble up in your throat; this is for you, all for you. You’re secure here. You’re safe.

(Even if you don’t always feel that way.)

*****************

Life with Hannibal is boring luxurious. You have all the free time in the world. After all, you don’t have to work. Why would you? He takes care of everything. You’re expected excited to better yourself, become more educated. He brings you books to read, literature and philosophy and medicine. You discuss the texts over dinner (prepared by him, of course—you’re still not allowed in the kitchen. It’s too dangerous, sweetheart—knives, open flames. Yes, he’ll teach you to cook. Eventually. One of these days. There’s no rush. You have all the time in the world, right?). You’re receiving a world-class education without the price tag; how lucky is that? How fortunate. If only your (former) friends and family could see you now.

He doesn’t always come home to you with a smile. There’s a disconcerting subtlety to his anger; a curl of the lip, a tension in his shoulders, his jaw, his hands. You’ve learned to tread more carefully on those days. Complain less. Dote more. He’s never hurt you. He would never hurt you; he tells you that every day. You tell yourself that every day. Perhaps there is some truth to it; after all, he’s never so much as raised his voice to you before. But on those days, on the days where he walks in quiet and pulls away from your embrace, you can feel the way he looks at you across the dinner table. Something like hunger in his eyes. Not lust, hunger. It’s a primal, animalistic thing, and it terrifies you.

indulgence

You’ve been here for what feels like days and days and days.  

Your chest heaves beneath Crowley’s hands - it’s a weak attempt to escape, but your body doesn’t seem to register that. He indulges in the feeling of you - the warmth of your skin, the softness; running his fingers down stretch marks, tracing connections between freckles. One hand slips up to your neck, applying the slightest bit of pressure, and you moan in spite of yourself.

“Oh, angel .” You can hear every inch of toothy grin come out in his inflection. “I think she liked that.”

“Yes, she did, didn’t you, darling? I would just love to see her in a collar...”

“Something lacy,” he agrees, and he tightens his hold on your neck - just slightly, just for a moment, and you whimper. “Next time, maybe.”

Your vision is still hazy, your breathing not quite returned to normal, and yet your heart spikes yet again at the feeling of his mouth on your jaw. You let out a soft noise, your lips parting slightly and your head dropping to the side, at just the right angle for him to kiss you. Hot, open-mouthed; his tongue coaxes yours into a dance, his hands insistent yet gentle on either side of your face. You lose yourself again in the taste of him, in the taste of yourself on his lips, only resurfacing from the fog to protest when a deft hand begins to tease again at your clit.

You buck your hips up - half out of pleasure, half out of the desire to escape. But one of them notices, at least; someone crosses your hips with a forearm, pinning them to the bed. You can do nothing but arch your back and whine as a finger runs down across your entrance.

“Very nearly ready, I should think.” Aziraphale sounds much too pleased with himself. In your blissed-out, overstimulated state, you feel him press into you, slowly enough for you to feel inch by inch of finger slide in. Just one, but it still stretches ; gentle and well-manicured; curling a few inches in to hit that spot, to cause you to buck and moan and edge even closer towards the tipping point. He adds another finger. You clench around it inadvertently, prompting a reverent sigh.

Crowley still has your head cradled against his shoulder. One hand sketches nonsense patterns across your waist, the other sweeping your hair off your forehead as he leans in to murmur, “Color, sweetheart?”

“Mm.” You meet his gaze, let the sight of golden, shining irises ground you enough to mumble back a response. “Gr— oh.” Aziraphale curls his fingers, crooking them up against you, inside you, and angles his thumb back up to play with your clit. You have to force yourself to turn the senseless noises you want to make into something resembling words. “Green, green, I promise.”

“Good girl. So clever, coming so beautifully, so many times...taking everything we’ve given you.” Aziraphale is practically cooing, rubbing your lower abdomen with his free hand in a way that you assume is meant to calm you, but only fuels the fire. “Such a pretty, brave little thing.”

He slows down the pace of his fingers, nearly to a stop, and you panic. “No, no, no… ”

“No?’

“Don’t stop,” you whine. They laugh almost in harmony, the sound wine-dark and sweet.

“Oh, but I want to keep you like this.” He bends down and bites your thigh, hard, up near where his fingers are still deep inside you. You gasp, too worn out for a proper cry. “Really, darling, if you’re hoping for us to take mercy on you, you shouldn’t look quite so tempting.”

“He’s right. The noises alone...” As Crowley speaks, Aziraphale’s tongue find purchase just above his fingers, and any hopes you had of coherency are gone. Crowley arches his neck to kiss you again, swallowing your moans, and doesn’t pull back until you’ve absolutely melted into his touch. You catch a glimpse of a smirk through your half-lowered lids. “Delicious.”

“Very.” Aziraphale is being unnecessarily cruel—his fingers just short of satisfying, coupled with slow, spaced-out licks to your clit until your legs are shaking. If asked, you’re not entirely sure you would be able to remember your own name.

“That’s it, let go. Relax.” You feel Crowley’s thumb brush your cheek. When he presses it against your lip, you take that same thumb into your mouth, sucking lazily, and you’re surprised by the wetness, by the taste of salt. You don’t know when you started crying, but you don’t know how to make it stop, either. “Careful, angel.”

Aziraphale raises his head. “Is it too much?”

You let your head loll back and forth. Overstimulated as you are, you think you might die if Aziraphale were to stop.

“Oh darling, look at you.” He’s pleased, you know he’s pleased. He takes in the sight of you, spread-out and whimpering in Crowley’s lap, your cheeks shiny with tears. But even now, he takes the time to tease, to torment. “Perhaps we ought to call it a night, then…”

“N-” You let out a great, shuddering breath, and your hands reach —one up to Crowley, the other down to Aziraphale, fingers intertwined with yours on either end. “ButIwant ..”

“Hm?”

“Yeah, sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t quite catch that.”

Bastards, both of them. But fuck it, you’re desperate.

“Need you. Please…” You squeeze their hands, drag your exhausted eyes open just long enough to meet the blue and gold, pleading so hard in your mind that you’re sure they can feel the want.

It is slow, at first. Teasing, like before, with Crowley helping Aziraphale to bring up one leg, hook it up over Aziraphale’s shoulder as he rocks into you with short, shallow thrusts. He enters you a bit more deeply each time, just slightly, so that by the time he’s fully seated within you, you’re nearly arching your hips up off the bed to meet his.

“Is this it, darling?” You hear his voice above your head and know he’s looking at you, they both are, but you’re too fucked-out to care. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Needed, angel.” Crowley’s hands are everywhere, ghosting over your nipples, splayed out along your sides, his lips on your neck, your temples, your mouth. “Keep going, make her beg for it.”

“She truly was just made for this, hm?” He begins to thrust harder, eliciting sharp little noises from you with every one. “Such a responsive body, such an eager, lovely little toy. I rather think she’s earned a reward, don’t you?”

“Thought we were saving the collar for next time.” It’s meant as a witty comment, you know. But the shift in tone, the way he slips from crow to growl at the end, betrays his desire, and you find yourself clenching around Aziraphale, who moans in response.

“Yes, that’s it,” he pants. “Come for us, darling. Come for us now, come on.” And you can’t help but obey, all the tension released from your body in one heart-stoppingly glorious rush.

When you come to, you’re curled up across both of their laps, clothed in pajamas and with a glass of water held to your lips. You sip slowly, and one of them makes a sound of approval.

jamais vu

If someone had told you a year ago that you’d end up head-over-heels for a grumpy, sardonic, secretly-soft literal-demon with the fashion sense of a washed-up rock star…

Well. Let’s just say that even now, waking up in said demon’s bed, you still have trouble believing it. Any of it.

You roll over with a yawn, flinging one arm out in search of him. But your hand only lands on the mattress. No skin, no warmth of another body next to you.

“Crowley?” You pull the sheet over the gooseflesh on your arms, your toes curling as you pad out of the room.

You find him in the...you hesitate to call it a living room; it’s about as homey as a prison office, after all, with a thick grey slab of desk, a weirdly ornate chair, and a sketch of the Mona Lisa. (But, hey, at least it has a TV.)

He was there, anyways, slouched in the chair-throne thing, fully clothed with his cheek in his hand.

“There you are.” You bent down to bury your face in his shoulder, then resurfaced to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Morning. I was thinking we could go to that little cafe down the street for breakfast, the one with the raspberry croissants? Maybe meet up with Aziraphale? Or we could always grab something to go, if you’re not in a sitting moos, whichever works.”

No response.

“Hello?” You frowned, hoisting yourself up onto the desk to face him. “Earth to Crowley.”

He blinked, as though startling awake, and then finally brought his eyes up to meet yours. Just for a moment before he looked away again, and brought up a hand to snap. With a start, you realized you were, quite suddenly, fully clothed yourself.

“I think you should go.”

That stung a bit, you weren’t going to lie, but you couldn’t fault him for needing space. Lord knows he’d given you a wide enough berth on the few occasions you’d asked.

“Okay?” You patted your back pocket; sure enough, he’d miracled your keys and phone there, as well. “Cool. Thanks. I mean, sorry, I just...I’ll head out. Are you okay? Do you want me, is there anything I can do? If you just need some alone time, though, I totally—”

“For good.” Another half-glance up, and then he directs his gaze straight ahead. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

You don’t -

You can’t -

How are you supposed to respond to that?

“Just like that?” you ask quietly. The hem of your shirt between your fingers, twisting and twisting and twisting at the fabric until it’s stretched out for good. It doesn’t help, doesn’t ground you at all. Not after the complete curveball he just threw at you, and especially not for what he says next:

“Wha - come on, sweetheart. Surely you didn’t think you’d keep my interest forever?”

The tears come without warning then, sharp and sudden and threatening to spill over. “No.” You look up, blinking them back with a chuckle. “No, of course not.”

You hate yourself. Just a little.

Just for not putting up a fight.

Because it makes sense. It hurts, but he’s right, he is right —he’s been on Earth for, what, five thousand years? Six?

The fact that you’ve held his attention for this long should be miracle enough.

And yet—you recall last night. His lips, tenderly pressing against every inch of you. His hands in your hair, on your waist, his fingers intertwined with yours as he pressed into you. His eyes alight, wild with mischief and desire, and so adoring you could have cried. And you stop at the door, one hand against the frame, because this isn’t right, this isn’t Crowley, this doesn’t make any sense.

Six thousand years be damned; you know love when you feel it.

You turn around slowly. He doesn’t move. “I’m not leaving.”

“(Y/N) - ” he starts, but you shake your head.

“Not until you tell me why. Tell me honestly why.” You walk back to the chair, back to him . Touch your knees to the ground, your cheek to his thigh. His hand slips into your hair, reluctant but wanting, and you meet it with your own and squeeze. “Please.”

You look up and see the mask beginning to crumble. A softening of the eyes. A trembling of the lower lip (that he’d never admit to).

But he still refuses to meet your gaze.

“For fuck’s sake, at least look at me.”

He does. And his eyes are watery as yours, and he breaks. Draws you into his arm, onto his lap, cradled against his chest as your lips meet. You pour everything you have into the kiss, all the doubts, the hurt, the wanting, and the love, the love, the love , until even an occult being could sense the strength of your emotions.

Finally, you both calm. You curl up, face buried in his shoulder.

“Turns out I’m in Hell’s bad books at the moment,” he finally murmurs into your hair.

You laugh, nervous. “What, like they have any other kind?”

“I’m serious, (Y/N),” he snaps. You sober up immediately. “I’m not safe here, which means you’re not safe. Which means you need to leave.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“(Y/N) - ”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Then you’ll get yourself killed.”

“You can’t force me.” You find his hand and slide yours into it. “There’s nowhere for me to go.”

“Your old flatmate lives twenty minutes from here, I can just m - ”

“That’s not what I mean!” You close your eyes, frustrated. “There’s nowhere for me. There’s nobody else.”

He hears the heartbreak in your voice. He does, you know he does, he has to, but he shakes his head all the same. “Can’t risk losing you.”

You pull back. “All this means is that you lose me sooner!”

“No. Er, I mean—yes, I can’t…we can’t…” He gives up after a few seconds of stuttering. Clasps your hands between both of his, like he’s making a promise. “But I can keep watching over you. I’ll still be there to...to make th—”

“So I lose you, then,” you snapped. “I’m supposed to just go about my life knowing that you can see me, and I can’t see you, and I’ll never see you again.” You shake your head this time, rather vehemently. “You can’t expect me to do that. You can’t .”

“I don’t.”

“So?” You lean back and take him in - sharp cheekbones, aching eyes, resignation written into every wrinkle. “What now?”

He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Crowley - ”

“Shh.” He silences you with a hand on either side of your face, his thumbs running feather-light up and down your cheeks. “‘Love you.”

“I love you, too.” You place your hands over his as he brings you in for another kiss - short, this time. Sweet. Followed by another, equally tender kiss to your forehead. “I really do.”

He smiles sadly. “I know.”

He snaps before you even realize he’s tugged his hand out from under yours, and everything goes black.

********************************

If someone had told you a year ago that you’d end up head-over-heels for a grumpy, sardonic, secretly-soft literal-demon with the fashion sense of a washed-up rock star…

Well. Of course you wouldn’t have believed them. But you might have taken the story with faint amusement, and more than a little wistful laughter.

You roll over with a yawn, flinging one arm out in search of a pillow, a blanket, something. But your hand only lands on the mattress. No pillow, no blanket. Certainly no warmth of another body next to you.

The ground, however, is surprisingly toasty beneath your feet. You make quick work of dressing all the same. Head down the street to that cafe you like to breakfast at alone, the one with the raspberry croissants.