enneagrams | open post ✧✧

[ there are dozens of places that klaus might consider home, but none of them truly feel like he can stay very long. he left the life of the core planets behind the moment that he could break free from his father's short, tight leash and hasn't quite turned back since. he's wandered many a dusty cantina, rim planet pubs, dead end places that only grifters linger overlong.

he's looking to catch a ride today - doesn't matter where, doesn't matter how long the trip is, but he can't stay here. he doesn't even know the name of the place, but he's seen the holo with his face on it - a man wanted for pickpocketing, but that seems a shallow offense to have his holo beamed across every port in half the fucking galaxy.

he'll disregard the fact that maybe, just maybe, he got a little too drunk at the last place and weird things started to happen. weird things always happen when he can't get his hands on spice or something stronger to ward off the countless dreams and visions he has sometimes.

seeing ghosts is just so much fun.

he'd seen the woman in one of the booths dock - the ship was nothing to balk at, but older. a little rough around the edges, but it flies. and of all the empty-headed morons in this place, well. she seems like a good first bet. ]

It's so good to see you again, doll. [ he's not met her before, but he makes a huge display of settling down in her booth, wide brimmed hat tipped back on his head enough that curls fall in his face. ] Really, it's been ages.

[ Hannah makes a face, somewhere between confusion and a scowl. she gets it: she's kind of a big deal. people know her. but it doesn't mean they can just come up and sit next to her and call her doll ]

You look like hell.

[ there. that feels even. she smiles, taking a few minutes to size him up. obviously not a bounty hunter, seems like a weirdo but not a local one. and though he showed up uninvited she suspects he's mostly harmless. whatever. it's not like she has anything more pressing to do right now and maybe she'll make some money off him or at least get a few free drinks. ]

What do you want?

Why thank you. A woman after my own heart.

[ he sighs dramatically, folding his hands over his chest like he's truly touched by such a scathing remark. he must look pretty bad - but when he catches his reflection in one of the displays behind the little booth? well.

it's another day ending in y. ]

And a straight shooter! Buckle up buttercup, I have an offer you can't refuse. Or, well. A proposition. A wager. You see, I saw that mighty nice ride you came in on today. Need a co-pilot?

[ she's unimpressed, obviously. that's not really his fault but it's the truth. the compliment (?) of the Falcon doesn't soften her but it also keeps her from getting any crankier. ]

I have a co-pilot so I'll pass on that proposition.

[ Chewie's visiting family and she suspects if he was present this conversation might not even be happening. people always seem less interesting in bullshitting her when the Wookie is around. ]

Somebody kick you outta your last ship? I do take passengers. For a fee.

And where's your co-pilot? Not doing a very good job co-piloting now, is he?

[ he snorts a little and when one of the droids makes the rounds, he orders something in another language, rolling his eyes at the way the droid takes a moment to process it. yes, he might have told the little bot to put it on her tab - the very least he can get a drink out if this, right? ]

No. Let's just say I made a graceful exit all on my own, shall we? But a fee - pray tell, good lady traveler, what is your price?

while pink might be a good color for me
you really should stop leaving your panties behind
my roommate may think they’re for him 😉

Edited 2024-12-18 16:35 (UTC)

Soooooo what I'm hearing is you don't like my lovingly curated gifts? My little treasures left to brighten your day and hearten your soul? My scalloped-edged lacy pink Quadling-Country-exclusive-limited-edition Pretty Princess Pink Party Panties? 😔😔😔

Edited (autocorrect 😠) 2024-12-18 18:11 (UTC)

oh i never said that at all.
i enjoy them thoroughly. deeply.
the reminder of you makes my heart sing.

[ he's not talking about his heart. ]

but i'd much prefer to come find them on you and enjoy them that way.
to keep the memory alive and all, of course.

OH! Oh, well that's just lovely to hear. You ARE such a deliciositous singer, dearest~ I can quite imagine your heart is just as splendid at it. I'd love to see a demonstration sometime. I could give you some notes~ Hmmm, well. I suppose it'd only be practical for you to return them to me, then, hm? That's just good manners, especially considering I'm lounging here all by myself and without anyyyyyy panties on at all. Unless you'd rather spend the time with your panty-snooping roommate, hm?

I think a demonstration is perfectly in order.
Who can deny you have a good eye, ear, and the right lips to sing me so many pretty notes.

But how would you like me to return them?
I considered bringing them to you in my teeth like a bit, but my roommate might find that too exciting.

Shall I tie them up in a box with a bow? In a bag? Should I wear them?

Maybe we could ever sing a little duet? What a treat that would be for everyone in a ten-mile radius. As long as you've been practicing your projection, of course, my darling~ No, no, mustn't involve [um um ummmmm what's his name] your charming roommate. What's that cute funny little nickname I gave him, again? [Galinda has never called him anything but "Fiyero's roommate", including to his face.]

Pink is hardly your color, Fiyero-dearest. If you're going to wear my lingerie, I must insist that you wear the ones I picked out ESPECIALLY for you to steal. The little lacy blue ones, remember?

[ there are a dozen ways they end up like this, but this time it started on the way to a class on ozian law and politics - particularly a section on his own world, the politicking his father had been involved in. but it's politics - something he knows enough about for a lifetime, and something he's sure that glinda might not be to keen on, either. but there's the temptation to make her skip a class, and they've just rounded an empty corridor when he crowds her up against one of the walls with an easy grin. ]

I have an idea, my sweetness.

[ most students have made it to classrooms by now, but they are always so fashionably late when they have courses together. he noses in close, grinning mouth nipping at the tip of her nose all the while one hand dares to slide along her thigh, rucking up her skirt. ]

A very wicked idea. One that will make everyone whisper behind their fans and text books. If we don't show up for class, they will have to guess at the many fantastical places we could be. And you and I could do some other fantastical things instead.

Oh dear. [That's the best Galinda can muster, face flushed, hair messy, her skin seeming to hum with the sort of giddy delighted desire that steals her logic and her reason. She forgets to toss her hair around this boy, forgets how to arch her eyebrows and sway her hips and tease and tease, because she -- wants, she wants his hands up under her clothes, she wants his sharp, giddy grin teasing at her mouth, she wants and wants and can never quite get enough.

But for the moment she leans back, pats her hair into place, squeaks soft and shuddery when Fiyero teases her, when his palm slips up her thigh. There's a bubbling giggle in her throat, and it takes all Galinda has to keep a whisper.] That is a very scandalocious idea, Fiyero Tigelaar. What will people think? They might start to whisper all sorts of things.

[She has to stand on tiptoe to play with the loose collar of his uniform, always a touch rakish, toeing the line of indecent. She's seen students walk into walls from staring at the exposed hollow of Fiyero's throat, the same hollow she ducks down and kisses, leaving a perfect pink lipstick mark.] ...what other fantastical things did you have in mind?

[ fiyero will always, always take pride in mussing up everything about glinda's perfectly complete image. from the little strand of hair pulled loose, the wrinkle he's creating in her skirt letting his hand squeeze her thigh beneath it, the way she forgets to toss her hair and bat her eyes.

he's always been something of a disruption and this type tends to be his favorite. a little escapism, a little fun, a pretty girl with a pretty mouth... ]

What will people think? [ he tips his head like he's going to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth but misses, kissing her jaw softly instead. ]

What do you think they'll whisper? How perfect we look together like this - you unkempt and flustered, me utterly rakish and unforgiving? Use your imagination, Glinda - they'll whisper and say whatever they want. We can tell them anything and they'll be none the wiser.

[ he brings his forehead to rest against hers so that anyone who could see them in the hall might think they're having a sweet moment. it's a good thing they can't see the way his hand creeps, palm teasing between her thighs, palming the soft fabric of her panties. ] What do you think?

[Perfect together, she’d cooed at him the day they met, the day she felt how easily she fit in his arms, the day she’d seen the way he compelled everyone around him with that smile, that voice, that searing heat of his unwavering regard. Fiyero had a way of making anyone he talked to feel they were the only person in Oz, the only one who mattered. Glinda was, of course, too magnanimous to ever be jealous of that.

And yet. And yet here, crowded up against the wall, kissing her jaw, making her eyes flutter and her teeth notch into one full, perfectly-glossed lower lip – the idea of walking into class, flustered and flushed, and feeling the envious stares, the longing sighs, because everyone knows who made her that way… Selfishitude flares up under Glinda’s perfectly-buttoned dress, makes her breath hitch, right as Fiyero’s broad palm settles warm and familiar over the pink silk between her legs.

The classroom gets no more than a dismissive sniff, and Glinda rocking forward (subtly, carefully, sneakily rocking her hips against Fiyero’s hand, teasing him with the drag of satiny fabric, with the sensation of luxury panties, luxury girl, luxury wetness waiting to be coaxed free, to drip like rainfall into his palm) to kiss the corner of that smirking mouth.]

I think that the rose garden looks lovely this time of day. [Back in control, back smug and smiling and sweet, scrunching her nose and twirling neatly out of Fiyero’s grasp, her skirt flipping up as she does so, as his hands slip from her body.] But do you know, I’ve never really taken the time to appreciate them at this hour. [Glinda feigns a thoughtful “mmm”, hips swaying as she starts towards the entirely-vacated, mostly-private gardens, pausing to toss her head, glance back at Fiyero with soft-lidded eyes.] Care to join me?

[ fiyero will always feel a flare of pride (among other things) when galinda gives into her body and her whims, when she's fully bamboozled and for a moment caught off guard. everything about her is practiced and perfect, a thing that fiyero knows well and wears like a second skin himself, but to see her miss half a step is a thrill.

so her hips shift and he can feel all the promise of warmth and silk and everything waiting beneath for only a fraction of a second before, as galinda is wont to do, she falls back into time with her own machinations. it's wildly flustering but he lets her go like the ease of a summer wind, laughing softly as she twirls away from his wanting body, his greedy hands.

she is an escape, an outlet, a path to follow and oh he follows, grinning doggishly. ]

Oh? I don't think I've seen the rose gardens at all. I believe my tour guide must have missed it. Ah, I think we got caught up in, oh. What was it called again?

[ he falls into place beside her, offering his arm for her to take and leaning in close to her ear to finish his statement. ]

The book room? Yes. I think that's where we got caught up, indeed.

[Galinda sashays away, sparkling and fluttering, and Fiyero steps easily into her wake, the two of them pulling focus no matter what, a pair of dancing comets, his magnetism improving hers and vice-versa. It's -- easy, simple, safe, and Galinda knows how to play up the teasing, confident girl she'd been when they'd met. But: something had shifted after the Ozdust, something that had a new light in Fiyero's eyes whenever he looked at her or Elphaba.

She wants to ask about it, wants to see if maybe -- maybe she'd done something good, she'd shown him a part of her that was usually harder to find, she'd been changed, somehow. For the better. But she also wants to slip into the giddy, hazy, heated place Fiyero's touch always sends her to, a place where she knows every step, and he tries to make her forget one. He's so good at it, too, offering his arm like a gentleman, then ducking in to murmur against her ear.

There's a shiver, a huff, one perfectly-manicured hand coming up to swat at Fiyero's chest.] I know what a library is, the word just -- escapafied me for a moment. I was distracted. You were very distracting, you know.

[ there are a thousand ways to make your mark in a school and fiyero's happens to be getting expelled. which means he's trying out a new school that his father insists on. one that he's bored at already, one that he's already found the heart of its drama and plucked it to life - nudging upperclassmen to throw parties, for sororities to open their doors after hours, for the sneaking of liquor into dorm rooms.

but oddly, fiyero's grades are exceptional. well, except for one of his communications classes - one that requires great detail and chronicling and organization. they require group projects, too, which is even worse. group projects means he has to work with some semblance of responsibility all the while trying to look like a slacker. it's very difficult, very annoying.

he's just arrived for his third session with a pink-haired boy named koby and they're tucked in one of the library study rooms in the far back some time after dinner. the library has quieted down, thankfully, and it's given them the freedom to roam and find more sources for their cataloguing project.

fiyero, true to form, is leaning high on the table, elbow propped, chin in his hand, sitting impossibly close to koby to watch him work. ]

You do realized that chewing on your lips like that gives a guy the wrong impression, right? [ a winning, sparkling grin. ] Someone's going to walk right up and kiss you one of these days, or ask you out to get a taste of them on their own.

[ and whoops - is that fiyero being too forward when he reaches to brush a thumb across his bottom lip? sure is. ] See?

[On this one (1) thing the two can agree: group projects are terrible. Koby's gotten as far as he has, scholarships and grants and dozens of essays and hundreds of hours of late-night studying to keep his grades up, because university was his ticket out, his escape, the one he thought about every night, the one he tethered all his hopes to -- all of it was done alone. He writes his essays alone, he eats alone, he walks to and from class alone. He's very, very good at being alone.

Fiyero Tigelaar is rarely alone. Even in his carefully-formed bubble of loneliness, Koby can see that much. The other student moves through life in a shining, warm, lively crowd, everyone clamoring and crowding to get closer, closer, closer to him. To the grinning, careless, effortless way Fiyero exists, bright and blazing as a comet across the sky. The flash of his smile, the loose curl that drops forward onto his forehead, the intent, unflinching depth of his eyes, the way his uniform fits perfectly...

...just because Koby thinks he's annoying and unserious doesn't mean he's blind. Fiyero is adored and he is charming and he is very very close right now, and his thumb is grazing across Koby's lower lip and making him jolt backwards, chair legs scraping across the floor.]

What are you -- [It comes out in a squawk, and Koby immediately clamps his mouth shut, blushing pink to the tips of his ears. He clears his throat, shoves his glasses up his nose, avoids eye contact.] T-Teasing me isn't going to g-get you out of helping with this project, you know. S-So you might as well...s-stop it.

[ they've been at this game for the better part of a month now and their project is nearly complete. in fact he's been withholding his portion for a number of reasons. one: he's too curious about the sweet face and plush-lipped koby with all his brains and all his heart and all his loneliness. (fiyero will one day recognize the same feeling in himself, but that's for later). two: letting koby see the project is done (and done well, thank you) would mean these little library meetups following dinner would go to the wayside.

koby jolts backward and he laughs, not budging from his own place, simply watching the way koby goes pink and flustered. ]

I have done my fair share of helping, actually. I think I carried your books for you last week, didn't I?

[ how easy to play the mindless, goofy mutt. once koby has settled he scoots his chair up a little closer, drops his hand on the book the other boy has been reading. ]

Those lips and now that blush? [ a reach for koby's cheek this time, dampened thumb from koby's lip sweeping over his cheek bone then away. fiyero sighs a little, sitting back in his chair, lazing and legs spread out in mock despair. ]

You're incredibly brilliant but you really should embrace your other assets. A shame to let all the fun go to waste.

[Fiyero laughs, and it makes something throb in Koby's chest, something he hates, because it whispers to him just how simple it would be to laugh along. That maybe he could relax into the silly, carefree, careless warmth that exudes effortlessly from Fiyero, like a corona around the sun, like the scent of poppies in a field, pollen on the air, sleepy and hazy. Koby could let himself fall headfirst into the crooked curl of that smile and forget about everything else and then --

What? And then the project would end and the requirement that they spend any time together would be released, and the crowd of shinier, happier, more fun people would swallow Fiyero back up again. Koby's heard them in the halls, in class, whining about papers and finals and deadlines, whispering about parties he's never been invited to and never will be. It's a different world, one he doesn't belong in. He knows that. He's fine with it.

And yet -- there's a touch over the flaring blush on his cheek, and Koby can't help but wear every, every emotion on his sleeve, on his face, vivid as the rising sun, eyes flicking up to catch Fiyero's for a moment before he clears his throat and pushes his glasses up.] I seem to remember that you grabbed my books off my desk before class had actually been dismissed, then pretended not to hear me telling you that you didn't need to carry them, all the way to the next class.

[But he sets down his pen, gives Fiyero the full focus of his intent, unflinching gaze.] This project is important. It's important to me and, because despite everything you haven't missed a single study session, I think it might be important to you. So, let's make a deal -- you finish summarizing this, [here, he taps at the printed-out article that's been sitting untouched in front of Fiyero for the better part of an hour] and then I'll listen to whatever it is you have to say about "fun". Okay?

[ fiyero listens, simply listens, to koby as he admonishes him. in fact he just grins in the face of the fact that koby rebuked his offer to carry his books, waggling his eyebrows and rolling his eyes playfully. it's much easier to let koby ramble like this, to let him get all worked up when he as to admit it - fiyero has shown up.

and whether or not koby knows it? fiyero has done his work, if only because it seems important to koby and it would be rude otherwise. he was kicked out of schools for his conduct, not for his work! and so as koby comes back down from his lecture, setting his pen aside and pointing at the article, well -

the very moment koby begins to form the word "okay", fiyero leans across the space and kisses him. he keeps one hand planted on the edge of his own chair set between his spread thighs and the other on the table. the kiss of course will be as needy and messy as koby will allow before any sort of protest happens. but fiyero isn't a total cad. he leans back a little with a self-satisfied smirk. ]

You really shouldn't lecture me before you've done all of your research, you know. Do come by this defensiveness naturally?

[ because just as he finishes the kiss he leans back, reaches into his bag and plops a stack of paper before him. summaries, conjectures, all with cited sources and formatted neatly. ]

Figured you were a paper sort of guy. I have it on a thumb drive, too, if that's better.

[The okay is more of a pause, because Koby is more than ready to launch into another lecture, this one about Fiyero’s infuriating grin and the faux-innocent look on his face and the way he sprawls in his chair like he hasn’t a care in the world and the way his hair flops into his face and – well, more things along those lines, but it all stutters to a screeching halt because suddenly those grinning lips are pressed to his own and it’s earnest and messy and sweet in a way that shoots right down Koby’s spine and makes him shiver visibly when Fiyero pulls away. Toes curling, face flushing, pulse racing, he stares for a long, long, wide-eyed moment, lips still parted slightly as Fiyero liltingly teases him, effortless, infuriating.

And then there’s a heavy stack of paper on the desk between them, and Koby blinks at that instead, because maybe that’ll make a little more sense than the most beautiful, desirable, effortlessly charming guy in school having just kissed him. It doesn’t, because it’s paper, and paper can’t account for itself. But it’s well-researched and properly documented paper – he can see that from a glance. It’s not the kind of paper a careless, thoughtless person would gather together.

Slowly, Koby reaches out, lifting the top couple pages and glancing over the citations and sources, then letting them slip back into place. He opens his mouth to – thank Fiyero or berate him further or something, but what comes out instead is soft and shy and unsure:] You – kissed me.

[Another blink, a hard swallow, then Koby’s looking up, meeting Fiyero’s eyes, without the slightest hint of defensiveness, without anything but vulnerability.] Why?

I did. Excellent obersvation.

[ fiyero smiles winningly, watching the question in koby's face morph and change. he feels compelled to kiss him again - to feel the pouty mouth against his own. he tilts his head and leans a little more into koby's space. ]

Because I wanted to. Wanted to for a good while, actually, but it was the perfect way to stop that little rant of yours. Oh ye of little faith.

[ he grins, the hand from the table falling then to rest atop koby's thigh. ]

Can I kiss you again? Or will you hit me with my own research?

[a little huff, ostensibly annoyed, but koby’s tongue is pressed against the curve of his lower lip, and he can taste fiyero when he tugs it back, when he swallows, when he breathes in. he’s close and they’re in public, and koby’s eyes flick around quick, awkward, shy.]

You – did? I’m. [a swallow, hard enough to be audible, meeting fiyero’s gaze again.] Why did you want to? You’re – you and I’m. Me. [there’s no self-deprecation in the question or the statement, just genuine bewilderment.

Then, eyes narrowing a little, brow furrowing, glasses slipping down again, just a touch:] Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not going to hit you.

You're you and I'm me. That's why I wanted to.

[ fiyero scoots his chair a little closer, their knees knocking, his fingers sliding a little higher on the other boy's thigh. he reaches with his free hand to push koby's glasses up, letting his fingers brush against koby's plush mouth before they fall back to the chair. ]

If you're not going to hit me, then let me kiss you again. The work's all done - we'll have plenty of time to finish the project.

[ and he leans in slowly to take another kiss, if koby will allow it. ]

New York City reeks of car fumes and sewer in a way that makes Will's nose burn. He hated it when he was mortal and he hates it even more now that his senses have all been dialed up a few notches. It doesn't have any of the old-world smell that Italy did, and it's the farthest he's been from his maker since he was turned - but it's for the better. Staying tucked close to Louis' side will never get him closer to Hannibal Lecter.

So he follows the trail - murmurings of the man, and sometimes he reaches out with his mind in search of his thoughts. It's not easy hunting down the thoughts of a mortal monster in the same way it's easy to seek out the mind of other vampires. (Will has done a lot of listening in - eaves dropping where he shouldn't be, letting his mind play and wander with the new and terrifying gifts he's been given).

But here they are - New York. New York where he last tracked Hannibal. New York where there's rumor of a reporter. The same reporter that Louis skirted around, the one who wrote the very same book Will picked up and opened at the home of his maker. (Wrapped in plastic - he should have asked, first, but it had been out on the table in the little en suite sitting room).

"You're Daniel Molloy," quiet, a voice from the other side of Daniel's kitchen. Maybe the older vampire felt him or heard him or smelled him coming. It's hard to say - but it doesn't exactly look like Will cares. "I've read your book."

"I'm always happy to meet a fan. Even when they break into my apartment. A little bit Glenn Close in the late 80s, but I'm into that. It's the commitment, you know? Gets me hard."

Not a startle in sight, the so-identified Daniel Molloy swans in through his front door, and chats as he closes it behind him and slips off his entirely for-show scarf. An old man, changing weather, he should look after himself. But he could fling himself into the freezing sea and be cozy. A wonderful, unnatural state to be in.

Speaking of unnatural states.

So like, what are you doing here, kiddo.

Out of habit, he tosses his keys into a little trinket bowl on a ledge by the door. No phone. Anyone with anything important to say can call his assistant. He looks at him, the younger vampire whose shape in the blood he's sensed before a dozen times, but whose measure he's never had the chance to get.

"Of course you're some gorgeous doe-eyed white guy. Will, right?"

Edited (tpyo) 2025-05-26 06:21 (UTC)

“The editing could use some work.”

Never mind the copy he read much to Louis’ chagrin was an advance. An advance meant for the subject of the book itself, not for other eyes. But Will tore into it when he couldn’t sleep the first of many nights as a vampire. He’s still not a good sleeper - something that must come with age. Surely.

He wants to rebut the fact that he’s a fan, but he can’t. Not really. Although he’s not here for Daniel because of his admiration for his work, he is certainly here for Daniel and his work. It’s close enough that Will won’t argue.

“Did my maker tell you I was coming? I know you spoke often.”

Louis seemed to loosen up when Daniel rang - something of an old life slipping back into his bones in a way that made Will’s mind whir. Just like his mind whirs now, standing with a hip against Daniel’s kitchen counter. He has to resist approaching him for the very crude, simple desire to see if Hannibal’s scent lingered anywhere on the other vampire.

The book, their book. Rapidly climbing every best seller list on the planet despite the lack of fanfare upon release. Drawing fascination, disbelief, quiet smug amusement, ire. He's well-aware that he's being hunted, that the ghoul hovering over his shoulder is the only thing keeping him from being jumped and left imprisoned on a tarmac somewhere waiting to fry with the dawn— but some vampires are really entertained, too. Lifetimes of only watching, and now, their hands are starting to itch with curious restlessness.

And Louis' midlife crisis baby read the early draft. What a world, what a world.

"Your maker," and man, this is his first ever encounter with a vampire younger in death than he is, fucking wild, "probably shouldn't have made you — or anyone, nothing personal — for the sake of his mental health. We talk about a lot."

Maybe Will. Maybe not. Their business.

He studies the other man. A sheen of mania, an intensity that doesn't seem entirely the product of having been reborn as a fucking demon. Daniel moves closer in, at ease, and his eyes glint briefly as the light changes; deep orange beneath his lenses, though they're good about making him look as seaglass green-blue as ever, from most angles.

"You were a Fed?"

"Do human medications and therapies work on vampires? Louis displays symptoms of untreated depression, for one. Maybe schizophrenia." A beat, then: "He has a temper."

Will watches Daniel closely, but doesn't meet his eyes. More like he's looking at the center of the man's forehead or his chest. He catches the glint of those eyes though and he glances away again, toward a window looking out onto the street. His own eyes almost glow with how blue they are - far closer to the vampire Lestat's than Louis' own green.

"I taught in the Academy. Criminal profiling." Will glances back at Daniel now, meeting his eyes. "I consulted on a few cases. It's why I wanted to find you. There's one case that's still unsolved."

In a manner of speaking, anyway. Hannibal Lecter, the curator of dark and terrible things, slipping quietly under the radar and walking freely in the light of the sun now where Will cannot follow him. He wonders if Hannibal knows what he's become.

Yeah, this guy had better hope medications work on vampires. Looks like he needs fucking lithium. Daniel regards him, watches the way his gaze does that odd, purposeful wander; something he's seen before. Wanting to take everything in, but terminally uncomfortable with eye contact. A profiler who's still working a case despite having died, maybe insane? Oh, Louis. What the fuck did you do.

"I wonder who that could be."

A joke. Probably the loon he did a prep interview with a few days ago, who spent the entire session sounding very polite, but thinking very rudely. Mostly about how bad the elderly taste, dried out, overworked, unappetizing old meat, with precontaminated innards from leaky guts and sloughing grey matter and crumbling spines. Not the first serial killer, or cannibal, Daniel's interviewed. Just the first one whose mind he could read the whole time.

"Hey." He stops, tilts his head. Ungracefully making an effort to force eye contact. "Are you okay? I mean that in a 'have you come to terms with being dead' way, but I'm accepting of all other ways, if you want to talk about whatever."

There’s a flicker across Daniel’s mind that tells him that indeed, Hannibal Lecter was in New York. That he’d almost caught him, nipping at the heels of his carefully polished shoes. Everything about Hannibal is always so dressed up, tidy and expertly curated to avoid suspicion. He’s grateful, for once, that Jack understands now even there’s very little about Jack he can respect now anyway.

It’s easy for his mind to wander, searching for the murmurings of Hannibal’s mind. It’s difficult, he even hides his mind well in the crowds.

Will comes back to himself when Daniel searches for eye contact, forcing him to look up with unnatural eyes, meeting the amber of another vampire. Louis told him who made Daniel and how it happened. Louis’ temper, Armand’s bitterness.

“Hannibal Lecter. Do you know where he intends to go next?”

Not the answer to Daniel’s question. Will hasn’t had time ti think about being dead and not. To dig into the fact that even when he kills the man, he’ll come out of it alive in spite of it all.

open post ✧✧

Solo stuff

well this is gonna be a wild ride

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@ glinda

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@ lithes

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@ koby - college au

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a million years later

kisses this!!!!!!!!!

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i'm so sorry for how unhinged this is going to be

uwu

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