Dusty Bun And The Vomit Ploy

He's so hot and for what

Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter —covered in blood

NCT

Johnny Seo:

The Sun: You felt a certain connection when it came to Johnny Seo that you didn't feel with anyone else. After a night at Mark's place, he decides to take you hiking. What chaos will ensue on your "nature hike?"

(Romance/Fluff/Chaos)

Headcannon #1: Cute things you and Johnny do!!! Just a little drabble because I love me some Johnny Suh ( ˘ ³˘)♥

(Romance/Fluff)

Yuta Nakamoto:

Fight Club: (Part One) Based off the 1999 film Fight Club; Yuta is trying his hardest to fit in amongst the guys within the club and slowly starts to realize what type of person Johnny is. He'd always fought for fun, but Yuta is beginning to think he'll have to fight for you.

Fight Club: (Part Two)

(Romance/NSFW/Angst)

Hendery:

Coffee?: Just a short imagine featuring a very loveable Hendery and a very loveable reader! Coffee definitely does start conversation!

Got Something of Mine, Harrington?

Billy Hargrove X Reader x Steve Harrington

You decide to take Steve up on his offer to hang out in hopes that you can rekindle the part of you that still believed in love. What happens when your ex decides to show up and claim you're his?

⚠️ Warnings: mentions of blood, swearing, possessive behavior, toxic relationships, insecurity, past trauma, sexual innuendos, and angst ⚠️

(This is a choose your own adventure type layout, so whether you're rooting for Steve or Billy, you'll be able to read what joining their side would ensue)

It was only supposed to be a fun night with Steve. He had asked you to hang at his place once he saw that you had finally broken up with that shitty boyfriend of yours, trying to provide you with comfort and a good time. Steve was handsome, sure. But he had made his move a bit too fast after things had gone south with Billy. His charming smile and light touches had drawn you into all that he had to offer and who could say no to how sweet he had been? Exchanged glances from opposite ends of the room and notes passed back and forth, it was only a matter of time before Steve waltzed into your life and tried to sweep you off your feet. You only wished the circumstances could've been different.

Steve lived in the upper end of Hawkins; the richer and snobbier folks in town who listened to baseball games on the radio and held monthly barbeques. The houses were all lined up in a nice row with a patch of grass in between them with white picket fences and gardens that belonged on the front pages of magazines. Steve's house was further down the cul-de-sac and was the only one that had a lawn so big that a fence would look obnoxious around it. A bright blue house with white shudders and a white door to match, it looked picturesque and almost fake as though it were made out of clay. Apparently, the Harringtons had big hair and even bigger egos.

Knocking on his front door, you nervously tap your shoes against each other as you wait for him to open it and let you in. You took a couple glances around the perimeter of his house, still not fully used to being out on your own. Your dress was slightly provocative, but it was one of your favorites. Your ex had refused you the right to show it off to anyone other than him, one of the many bullets on the long list of his red flags chalked up in your mind. You had never been able to wear it out before, so this would be the first time anyone had seen it. The thought of Steve complimenting you on it filled your stomach with butterflies- dating again was going to be fun.

"Hey! There you are!" Steve opened up the door and smiled. The warm yellow light streamed down from the foyer and onto the front steps you were standing on. Almost immediately, the night felt more inviting and friendly as you basked in it, taking note of how wonderfully it shone onto the pavement below. Only when Steve shifted towards the frame to lean against it did you notice how he looked tonight. He was wearing a nice black button up with dark jeans. His hair had been tossed into a perfect spiral and you could smell the fresh products he'd used to style it. He looked really nice. A happy feeling took root in the pit of your stomach and encouraged you to follow him inside.

"Hey!" You said, throwing the enthusiasm back at him. As he led you towards the kitchen, you noticed just how nice the interior of the Harrington household was. It totally matched the modern exterior as there were abstract looking paintings hanging everywhere and the walls were painted grey. His floors were freshly cleaned too, sparkling tiles that refracted the light throughout the room. The entryway connected to the very yellow kitchen that was decorated with floral paraphernalia. Stepping further you noticed a picture of Steve hanging on the wall from middle school and you suppressed a laugh at how ridiculous it looked.

"Oh no! I forgot to take that down." Steve laughed and covered up the picture with his hands, giving you a dorky apologetic look. You laughed too, finding his impulsive embarrassment to be cute.

"It's okay, I think little Steve would be pleased to know that his hair gets better once he hits highschool." You said, earning another laugh from the boy in front of you. He pushed his hands into his pockets and a wave of expensive and good-smelling cologne filled your senses. If you had any doubts about being out tonight, they were gone now as you realized the awkwardness was mutual.

"May I set your jacket down somewhere?" He asked, reaching for the leather that rested upon your shoulders. You smiled, shrugging the heavier fabric off and allowing for him to grab it.

"Woah." He said, taking in the dress you were wearing.

Instant panic filled your vision as you realized you probably went overboard with the outfit. He was dressed so casually yet so elegant that you forgot that you went straight for something a little more formal than what one would wear drinking a couple of beers and sitting by the edge of a backyard pool. "Oh! Sorry, I know it's a lot I just haven't done this in a while and I got excit-"

"-Its perfect." He said, looking at you from top to bottom and then back to your eyes as the corner of his mouth turned up in a suggestive but polite way.

There was an unusual but comfortable silence for a moment before he cleared his throat and motioned his head towards the back. "The pool is behind the house. If you still wanted to go swimming."

You held out your hand for Steve to take and gave him a quick nod. "Absolutely."

He grinned at you and allowed you to lead him outside the kitchen door towards the inground pool. Night had fallen not too long ago and the stars shimmered down on the water below them, the lights from the inside of it reflected the small waves all over the deck. It was pretty and calming and you couldn't help but run your hand through it a couple of times, testing out the temperature. It was fairly warm considering how the night had started to cool down.

"I'm going to grab a couple beers. Would you like one?" Your date asks, smiling down at what you were preoccupied with. You looked back up at him and noticed how pleased he was with your sudden infatuation with the water grazing your fingertips. His eyes were bright and happy and his posture was awkward but confident and you were unsure how those adjectives could exist at the same time for the same human.

"Yes, please." You said, going back to the water and waving your hand around. Once Steve had left, you decided to take off your dress and shoes since your swimsuit was underneath. You had chosen a red bikini for this particular occasion, grinning at the mischievous idea now that Steve had confirmed your dress wasn't too revealing. You decided to wait with your feet in the pool and allowed yourself to take a deep breath and enjoy the silence of Hawkins. The crickets chirping and the cicadas were the only thing to be heard for miles and it was perfect. You could get used to this.

Except you wouldn't be able to. You tried so hard to let things go and to do what's best for you only for that plan to backfire every time you put your mental health first. It was impossible to let yourself go and enjoy just one night free of anxiety and intrusive thoughts. You knew from the moment you heard the Camaro pull up to the front of the house that everything would be ruined; of course you couldn't have started a relationship with anyone new when Billy still believed you belonged to him.

Jumping up and sprinting towards the door, you run inside to see Steve standing with two beers. "Uh is everything okay?" He asked, staring at you with concern. He seemed shocked to see you run in only for him to become somewhat lost when he looked at what it was you were wearing. "Damn...uh...okay we can go there." He said, not taking the cue from you that your rush to the kitchen was because you wanted to warn him what- or rather who- was coming. Your eyes widened in fear and you looked to the front door which was abruptly opened by the devil himself.

Swinging on its hinges and hitting the wall with a forceful hit, the front door was thrown back so harshly that if there was any confusion about who was visiting so late at night it was gone now. Dark red button up with a similar leather jacket to the one you came in with and black jeans, he looked just as terrifying and handsome as you remembered. A cigarette was placed between his lips and an earring shone from his left ear. He smiled that horrible shit-eating grin as he leaned against the doorframe and took a drag of his cigarette before stomping it out on Steve's pretty floor tiles. "Got something of mine, Harrington?" He asked in his gruff and raspy voice that was all too familiar to you.

You looked at Steve in fear and saw that his eyebrows had furrowed and his jaw clenched. He set down the beers on the island before crossing his arms and looking to you and then to Billy. "What the hell's going on here?" He asked, moving to your side; his stance instantly became defensive.

Billy, however, stood calm as ever as if he didn't just barge into a classmate's house at almost midnight. His hair had been slicked back on the sides into the mullet he usually wore it in and his sunglasses were among the mess of golden curly locks as they sat atop his head. He checked you out and whistled before turning to your date with a disgusted look. "Getting naked for another man, baby?" He asked, taking notice of the suimsuit you had on. Your blood boiled. It wasn't fair for him to do this. Not after how he had treated you by forcing you to go to parties of people you hated just so you could sit on his arm and look pretty. Not after he had denied your attempts at trying to love him via physical affection and only wanting you when he felt like it. Not after you had seen just how horribly he treated the kids Steve loved so dearly.

Standing next to Steve, you felt him pull you behind him as he moved to stand in front of you. He rolled up the sleeves to his shirt and looked Billy dead in the eyes. "Got a problem with that Hargrove?" He asked. The minute the words left his mouth you knew he was dead. Not only that, but he had just paid the bill for his coffin and nailed it shut.

Billy laughed and placed his hands in his jeans. "Yeah, I've got a fucking problem with that."

It was as if a switch had been flipped and Billy's confident and fake friendly demeanor changed as he charged towards Steve, pushing his chest forcefully offering to fight over you. Steve pushed back and spit down at the floor.

"Guys. Stop. Billy, you broke up with me a week ago. Fuck off." You said, now becoming more confident and standing in front of Steve to try and save him from your ex.

"So? That was last week. I say you're mine this week." He smiled and shoved you to the ground, pushing you into the picture of Steve. The glass frame shattered and you tried to brace your fall with your hands. This turned into being the worst course of action possible and you were left with deep open gashes along your arms and hands.

"Look what you fucking did to my girl, Harrington." Billy said, walking over to the island and taking a swig of one of the beers. Steve shoved himself into the intruder, punching his face with all of his might and a crack resounded throughout the echoey hallways of the Harrington residence. Billy recoiled slightly, putting his hands up as a trickle of blood ran down from his now broken nose.

"Looks like you've got some fire in you after all, King Steve." Billy said with another fake smile before throwing Steve to the ground and stomping on his hand. You heard his fingers crunch under Billy's boots and he winced in pain, yelling out a curse word before forcing himself back up, clutching his bruised fingers and staring daggers into Billy's eyes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Steve angrily shouted and grabbed a decorative plate out of one of the cabinets in the kitchen, holding it ready at his side to chuck at Billy's head if he needed to.

"What's wrong with me is the fact that you're trying to fuck my girlfriend." He said, moving in towards Steve and wiping his blood on the back of his arm. He put on his tough guy persona with a stance that would instantly turn away even the best of fighters.

"I. Am. Not. Your. Girlfriend." You said, standing up. In the time that Steve and Billy had been arguing, you had enough time to evaluate that your wounds weren't horrible. You had a couple cuts on your feet to match the ones on your hands and arms but other than that, you were fine. You would tell Billy off even with detrimental wounds if it meant saving Steve.

"What was that?" Billy asked, putting a hand behind his ear and pretending as though he couldn't hear what it was you were trying to tell him. So, you told him again.

"I said that I'm not your fucking girlfriend."

Nodding and pursing his lips, he grabs Steve by the collar and throws a punch to his stomach which sends him hurtling to the floor. He grabbed at his abdomen in pain before picking up the plate and chucking it at your ex. It hit him square in the head and you saw a gash starting to form above his eye. Blood dripped down from said gash, travelling down his temple and working its way towards his neck.

"Whoo!" He said, feeling the rush of adrenaline that came with fighting for you. When he had broken up with you -although he would never admit it- it was because he felt as though he wasn't good enough for you. Every word his father had told him had started to take root in his mind and swayed his decisions over whom he felt he was worthy of. But oh, he loved you so much. He wanted the best for you but he never knew how to express it. He wanted more nights like the one where he first opened up to you while the two of you were in his bed, staring up at the posters on the ceiling. He wanted to hold your hands again and remind you of all the reasons he saw you to be the most beautiful human being. It wasn't fair that you had to put up with him, he knew. But there was no way on earth he would ever let you end up with a guy like Harrington.

"Billy, Stop!" You yelled, trying to grab onto his arm only to be shoved out of the way once more. Steve had gotten another plate and threw it, this time missing Billy and sending it hurtling towards the wall behind the two of you. The ceramic shattered and joined the mess of the picture frame.

"I'll stop if you agree to come with me." Billy said, holding Steve by the shirt again with his head facing towards you. He couldn't lose you again. Not this time. Even with all of the thoughts that had driven him away from continuing to be with you, he knew that you were his only solace. And he knew he needed that back more than anything else.

...

(At this point in the story, there are two alternate endings, one where you side with Steve and one where you side with Billy.)

...

Choice one: Billy

You glanced towards Steve with the best apologetic look you could muster. It wasn't his fault that he had ended up in this situation and he had tried his best to defend you. It wasn't fair to him for this fight to continue so you did the best thing you could do to avoid the situation from getting more out of hand. Even if it meant Steve would hate you.

"Okay." You said, agreeing to your now boyfriend again.

"That's what I like to hear." He said, removing his hands from Steve and sauntering towards you, harshly grabbed your arms so he could see how badly you were hurt. He did a once-over before he took off his shirt and wrapped it around the arm that was bleeding heavier than the other one. Then, without a word he snaked his arm around your waist and led you out the front door towards his car that was parked haphazardly out front.

You turned your head slightly to see if Steve would follow you but he didn't. Part of you was thankful that he didn't since it would only lead to another unnecessary fight. The other part of you wished he would.

"Don't look back at him." Billy said, tone firm but less harsh as before. "You're mine."

Everything felt like it was crumbling around you. The night you spent with Steve and the relationship you were thrown back into was enough to get your heart racing even faster than before. You could feel some sort of anxiety attack take over every other emotion of yours as you tried your best to push it down and not to show Billy. His shirt was still wrapped around your cut and you could feel some of the blood start to soak through the fabric, trying to keep your mind on the sensation and not the events of tonight.

Getting into the car, you take your usual place in the passenger seat, eyes downwards. You let everything play through your head over and over until it was just too much and you could feel tears threatening to spill out over your cheeks.

"Hey." You heard your boyfriend say, placing his hand on your thigh when he saw that you were crying. His entire demeanor changed once again and it was starting to play tricks on your mind as you didn't know what side of him was real and what was for show. He was always like this.

"Hm?" Was all you were able to respond with, shoulders slumped.

"I love you. You know that, right? I wouldn't let you end up with some shitty playboy like him." He said, running his hand alongside your face and collecting your tears as he went. He was being so gentle now, you wondered if you had made up the entirety of your date.

"He-He's not like that."

Revving his engine, Billy puts one hand on the wheel and places the other around the back of your seat.

"Sure." Is all he says as he pulls out of the driveway and down the road to his house where he knows he'll be able to watch you. Just as you were about to turn the corner to leave the cul-de-sac, you caught a glimpse of Steve Harrington- former King of Hawkins High -standing outside on his front doorstep with a beer in one hand and an ice pack in the other.

Oh how you wished you could've stayed with him.

...

Choice Two: Steve

"In your fucking dreams, Hargrove." You said confidently, grabbing a knife off the counter and pointing it towards him in a threatening manner. "I'll slit your throat if you touch him again."

Billy grinned and let Steve fall to the floor as the boy clutched his stomach in pain. Walking towards you, he smiled with an antagonizing gaze. "Oh yeah? Is that a promise, girly?"

"Call me that one more time and I'll run you over in that shitty Camaro of yours." Not knowing where this spunk was hidden within you all this time, you held up the blade to your ex boyfriend in a menacing way, looking towards Steve who was still wounded on the floor. 

"Damn!" Billy said, leaning against the wall and watching your date on the ground taking his deep breaths to alleviate some of the pain. "You're feisty today."

"You fucking ruined my date. What did you expect? A kiss on the lips and full compliance?"

He glared down at you with such intensity you thought he was going to kill you. You'd only ever seen that look once and that was when he had the fight with his dad in front of you. That day you had seen what Billy truly lived through and that memory alone was what allowed you to keep persevering through your relationship, convincing yourself that anything he did to wrong you was because he didn't know any better. Because he had gone through so much pain. Crawling over to Steve, you lift him up off the ground ever so slightly as you pull him into your lap to assess the damage. He wasn’t in horrible shape, but he definitely couldn’t take another hit to the abdomen and still feel well enough to attend classes the next day. 

“(Y/N). Move away from him please. You’re only making things more difficult.” Billy said, leaning down to your level and staring you directly in the eyes. Things were different this time. His usual puppy dog gaze wasn’t enough to get you to fold and bend under his will, giving into whatever he so desired. The times when you would hold his face in between your hands and whisper sweet nothings into his ear even after he had treated you with a disrespect you didn’t think to be possible. The last time you would ever see this side of him again would be tonight. 

In a firm but stern voice you glare at him with the same unshakable intensity. 

“No.”

And with that, Billy nodded and placed his hands in his jean pockets, getting up and straightening himself out. He looked sad in a way, seeing you on the floor with Harrington whom he’d hated so much until this moment. Billy didn’t lose easily, but he trusted you. If you decided this guy was enough to satisfy you in the ways he never could, he would finally leave you be.

“I loved you, (Y/N).” 

You felt frozen in time, not able to say anything else to the man before you. He was just a stranger who held a lot of memories, someone whom you would always share stories with but someone whom you would forget as the days dragged on. You wanted so badly to reach out for his arm and to urge him to stay, to allow him to come waltzing back into your life. But you knew you deserved better. You knew he deserved better. 

“Thank you.” You said, as you heard Steve’s door slam shut for the last time that night. Then, you attended to Steve’s wounds as you wondered what would’ve happened had you rekindled the relationship you had with Billy. 

And you knew deep down that you made the right choice. 

hii! would you continue p3 of the moonjo fic?? if that then im sorry if i wasted for you to answer this 😭

Hey hey!

I've only written two Moon-Jo fics, "You're My Salvation" and "Atonement" which are two separate ones! I'd be more than willing to write you one specifically to what you'd like if you send me an ask with a description!

Nothing to apologize for lovely!

💛🦐

May I request an imagine with Steve/Eddie where they visit girlfriend (reader) and see that shes using there shirt/jacket as a pillow case?🥺

this is the sweetest idea ever and i thought steve would find it so cute thank you for requesting! 1k fem reader :3

Steve hasn't seen you in four days and six hours when he knocks your door, incompatible schedules solely to blame. He's sick as a dog on your stoop waiting for you to answer, a bouquet of flowers hidden behind his back. 

You open the door and he watches with an aching chest as your lips turn up into a beaming smile. "Steve!" you say, almost tripping over the threshold in your rush to get arms around him. 

He chuckles and hugs you back with one arm holding the flowers away from you, the closeness of your body an instant relief. He takes in all your smells and softness, your shampoo and body lotion, the heady scent of perfume as he pushes his nose into the space behind your ear. 

You make a small breathless sound as he squeezes you and try to squeeze him tighter, an evil giggle bubbling out of you as your arms become a vice. 

"Ouch," he pretends, patting your back. "Alright, enough with the squeezing, popeye." 

"You started it," you say cheerily. 

He pulls you away from his neck. "Lemme look at you." 

You oblige, chin jutting up, eyes half lidded as you pose for him. He eats up the details of your pretty face hungrily, wondering if it's possible for someone to get more attractive in a hundred and two hours. It's definitely likely. 

"You're still pretty?" he asks. "I thought we agreed you were gonna stop." 

"I didn't agree to anything of the sort. What's behind your back?" you ask, practically glowing. 

He presents the flowers gladly, his arm aching from being all pretzeled up. You gasp loudly though he knew you'd felt them during your aggressive hugging. 

"These are for me?" you ask, taking them into your hands. 

"Nah, my other girlfriend." 

You glare at him for about two seconds and then you're smiling so hard he thinks your cheeks must ache with it, grabbing for his hand to pull him inside.

"I've missed your sarcasm," you say, and it's a discredit to Steve that he has no clue if you're being sincere or otherwise. 

You pull him straight to the kitchen and pull a vase down from atop one of the cabinets. 

"We're gonna be late for the movie," Steve says. 

"Sorry, I just have to get these in water. Actually, I'm rescinding my apology. It's your fault for buying flowers." 

"And I never will again," he threatens with little heat and even less honesty. 

"Uh-huh," you say, arranging the flowers nicely in the small glass vase. "Oh, I don't have my purse." 

"I'll get it." 

"Would you?" you ask, relieved, fully focused on the bouquet, moving flowers around to make them look best. 

He's fast up the stairs and into your bedroom, a familiar place that smells like all his best memories. Your sheets are rumpled and there are clothes everywhere, perfumes and deodorants and skincare strewn over your vanity. Steve doesn't know where to look, eyes panning over the room twice before he spots your discarded purse on the floor by the side of your bed. 

He bends down to grab it and his eyes zero in on your pillow. He reaches out, rubs his hand over material that he knows well. 

You've tucked your pillow inside one of his t-shirts. He feels glued in place, feet refusing to move as he takes it in, as he imagines your sleeping face pressed against it. 

He feels an incredible and heart aching rush of affection for you, and then an overwhelming swell of joy. He's loved. He's very, very loved. He thinks of your hair tie on his wrist even now, how his eyes dart to it over and over and over while he's working and how he refuses to take it off, even though each reminder of you is a melancholy stab to the chest when he can't see you. 

Your footsteps up the stairs. "Did you find it? I finished all the flowers. Thank you, Steve, really, they're so beautiful, I-" 

You're cut off by his arms around you again, your feet lifting off of the ground as he pulls you up and in, his arms under yours, his hands gripping your shoulders likely too tight. You cup his head with your forearms. 

"This is nice," you murmur, rubbing your cheek against his temple. He takes a handful of deep breaths.

When he sets you down he doesn't let you go – he chases you, your back bending as he tries to pull you impossibly closer. 

You're quiet for a little while, the two of you standing and hugging, breathing in the other. Then, "Steve? Is everything okay?" 

He pulls away, hands on either side of your throat to hold you still, knowing what he's gonna ask will have you averting your eyes. 

"You're using my shirt as a pillow case?" he asks. 

Like he'd assume your eyes widen and then close almost all the way. You turn your face from him. "Uh, maybe?" 

"Y/N," he says. 

"I know it was only a few days but I missed you so much, and it smelled like you, and I was supposed to take it off, I swear I was going to…" you ramble. 

Steve takes your warmed cheek into his hand. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. There needs to be a word, he thinks, to describe this feeling. To want to give her anything she asks for. 

He drops his forehead gently into yours, his eyes closing, indulging in you. He doesn't need to see to know where your mouth is and after some racing thoughts about your general loveliness he pushes into it firmly with his own. You return his kiss, your gloss sticky lips parting eagerly as you bring your hand to his chest, your palm over his heart. 

He leans in hard for one desperate second, exhaling what feels like a year's worth of tension against your skin before pulling back. 

"I missed you," he says, head bobbing vehemently for emphasis.

"I missed you more," you say, hand roving up his collar, fingertips brushing lightly over his neck. 

"Not likely," Steve says, moving in for another quick kiss. 

"Were you sleeping with my clothes?" you ask him pointedly.

"Not your shirt," he says in a smug tone, joking, anything to make you laugh or embarrassed or both. 

There's something about the press of your lips when he teases you that drives him crazy. You burst into scandalised laughter like he'd hoped. Steve feels even more love sick than he had earlier.

he is such a tease!

through gritted teeth

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary:

The man says he’s your husband.  He’s polite, charming, intelligent. He seems a little pretentious, but he appears to know you rather well and the thinly-veiled devotion in his eyes dispels most of your remaining doubts.  It certainly helps that the man is rather well-dressed—and attractive, a traitorous voice in the back of your mind whispers.  Unfortunately, you have no idea who he is. 

word count: 3.8k | ao3 version

You wake up to fluorescent lighting burning into your eyes, pulling tears down your cheeks as you blink stars from your vision. Your entire body aches with exhaustion and you can feel a headache brewing already. Groaning, you try to push yourself up to a sitting position. There’s an IV attached to your arm and, upon closer inspection, you seem to be in some sort of hospital room. White walls line the space, and there’s nothing much of note in your immediate vicinity. You blink a few more times past your absurdly dry eyes and continue inspecting the room, until your eyes catch on the chair to the right side of your bed. 

There’s a man sitting at your bedside with his eyes closed. He stirs within a few moments, as if he can sense you staring at him. Relief is written all over his face as he leans forward and clasps your hand with a small smile on his face. You can’t stop yourself from instinctively flinching at the contact and he notices, removing his hand at once. 

“Do you remember who I am?” He asks. His words are carefully constructed, strung together with eloquence and remnants of what sounds like an accent from a European country. You blink at him once, twice. It takes a moment for you to process the question, and another to contemplate the answer. The man doesn’t look familiar. Indeed, he looks like a stranger. 

When you tell him as much, a sad smile works its way onto his face. It seems he expected your answer. He begins to explain the circumstances surrounding your visit here, which you are immensely grateful for. You know next to nothing as you sit in this hospital bed, and, try as you might, you can’t remember anything save for your name. 

Apparently, you’ve suffered a serious head injury that left you with a spontaneous case of amnesia. Fortunately, your memories will likely return to you in due time. Somehow, these two revelations aren’t the most shocking of statements from the stranger. What the man reveals next shakes you to your core: he’s your husband. 

Upon closer examination, you find that the man is charming, polite… He’s rather attractive, too, with fine-combed hair and sparkling brown eyes with flecks of amber. His face looks as if it was sculpted by Michelangelo himself—sweeping lines, sharp edges, soft curves. The man is intelligent and [perhaps as a result] a little pretentious. From his attire, you can only assume that he makes a lot of money and has rather particular tastes. You could see someone like this going to the opera regularly. 

But there’s something else about this man—something lurking beneath the surface. You can’t puzzle out what it is. There’s something sinister concealed in those reddish-brown eyes, an unspoken violence in the man’s careful poise. And you think you catch him intently scrutinizing you—as if you’re under a microscope.  

You soon learn that the man’s name is Hannibal Lecter. He’s a psychiatrist who used to be a surgeon. He’s in his 40s. He has refined tastes—and even goes to the opera on occasion, yes. He is fascinating, intriguing beyond measure. He discusses heavily philosophical topics with ease. He is slippery, only giving you the information he wants to give you. He has a very controlled image. The dishes he cooks you are extravagant and lavish, with ingredients you’ve never even heard of. (The meat in them is always some sort of organ, and it turns your stomach every time.)

In the wake of your injury, you’re unsure of almost everything. But you know one thing for certain: Hannibal is not your husband. And you’re convinced that he’s dangerous. You don’t trust him—can’t trust his carefully crafted words, his home-cooked meals, his polite smiles. It’s all a farce. 

It would be all too easy to ask your next visitor about this well-dressed, enigmatic man. Unfortunately, you don’t get any other visitors. In fact, your next visitor is Hannibal again… And again. And again. It gets to the point where your nurse gives up on having him sign in when he visits. At first, she had been rather strict in enforcing the rules; she seems to have caught onto something that you still haven’t grasped, because she now collects herself with an entirely different—almost heightened—awareness. 

You’re having increasingly conflicting feelings, especially when you consider the fact that Hannibal hasn’t actually exhibited any behavior that justifies your wariness and suspicion. If anything, he’s been the perfect supporter—the perfect husband—throughout your recovery. You want to believe your gut sense, want to believe the whispers in the back of your mind that tell you to exercise caution. But, at the same time, who’s to say they can be believed? You still have almost no recollection of who you are. Why are you questioning the only person who has bothered to show up for you throughout your recovery? 

Days pass in the blink of an eye; before you know it, Hannibal is walking in one morning with the declaration that you’ve been officially discharged from the hospital. Despite your misgivings, you head to the bathroom to change into some normal clothes before putting on the pair of shoes near the door. Your heart is racing as Hannibal’s gaze refuses to leave your form. Why can’t your mind rest? Why can’t your thoughts be silent, for once? Why are you so damn suspicious of every minute kindness? 

The walk out of the hospital and through the parking lot is painfully silent. You can’t resist sneaking glances at Hannibal, waiting for his mask to crack and fall. It never does. He catches you looking and sends you a smile, which discourages you from looking again. You let your eyes roam about the shiny cars in the parking lot as the warm afternoon sunlight greets your skin. You missed the fresh air. 

“Where are you taking me?” You finally ask, as you continue to follow behind the man.

“Home,” Hannibal remarks. He pointedly does not say your home or even our home. Your heart is racing in your chest. His back is turned, leaving you to imagine the expression on his face.  

It isn’t until you’re secured in the front seat and Hannibal’s driving out of the parking lot that you summon the courage to utter the question that has been plaguing your mind. “Are you really my husband?”

“Hm?” It’s clear he heard you; he’s giving you a chance to retract the remark. You know you should take it, but… you want to know what’s going on. You need to find an answer for the seemingly irrational fear drumming in your chest and rushing in your ears. 

“You say you’re my husband,” You repeat yourself, gaining a bit more confidence. “But I don’t think you are.” For an awful moment, there’s nothing but silence. The car zips along the road. You feel your hand trembling at your side—hopefully the only visible sign of your distress. You clench your shaking hand into a fist and try to remain calm. Panicking won’t do you any good. 

“Do you remember how we first met?” Hannibal asks instead. You stare at him in disbelief, surprised by how he completely ignores your accusation. There is an utter lack of emotion on his face. Seconds later, you remember his question and shake your head. “You’re an FBI agent,” Hannibal reveals. “I was called in to perform your psychiatric evaluation.”

Great. Just great. Out of all things, you had to be an FBI agent. The thought of forgetting your work—forgetting all the victims left to die in muddied puddles of crimson, forgetting all the killers with mocking smiles and cruelty written in the lines of their faces—is sincerely troubling.  

And Hannibal is a psychiatrist. That seems to fit—you can see him in a needlessly extravagant office, surrounded by books and expensive elegancies. You have to shake your head to get rid of the weirdly vivid imagery that your thoughts produce. “Are you… my psychiatrist, then?” You ask. 

“If you wish,” he replies with a mirthful smile. That answer doesn’t satisfy your curiosity—not in the slightest. 

“Were you my psychiatrist?” You press. You get the feeling that you need to be asking the right questions in order to get the answers you want. The man across from you is adept at picking apart people’s words, flipping them around and twisting their intended meaning. Your wording will be immensely important. 

“I was your psychiatrist, for a time,” Hannibal acquiesces. From that statement, you get the sense that he really was your psychiatrist, until something evidently happened. You ask him as much, but you seem to go too far, because he regards you with an amused glance. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“And you’re not giving me any answers,” you feel the need to respond. You have simultaneous suspicions that honesty is dangerous in front of Hannibal, and that he values honesty above sugar-coated words. Your eyebrows furrow. “You haven’t exactly been forthcoming with information.”

“Is that so?” Hannibal is providing more questions in lieu of answers. He’s definitely hiding something. Sensing that you won’t get anything more from him, you fall silent and settle for staring at him out of the corner of your eye. His gaze is locked on the road ahead.  Despite the time you’ve spent together, talking about your past, you still aren’t totally convinced that you’re married to Hannibal. Is there a way you could test him—test his knowledge of you? Surely there’s something you can ask him to determine if he truly knows you or not. 

It comes to you a moment later. “What’s my favorite color?” You ask, before you can think better of it. The man doesn’t react at first, instead staring straight ahead. Just before you can repeat the question, he answers. 

“I can’t imagine you have a favorite color,” Hannibal responds. “You once told me the very notion was foolish.”

Okay, he’s sort of correct there. But that was an easy question. You sort through the few memories you have, looking for something you can ask him. “What’s my middle name?” That’s an answer that you just barely know yourself—a memory came back to you a mere few minutes ago, of you and your childhood friend talking about middle names and nicknames and other unimportant things. 

Hannibal answers the question correctly again. The two of you must’ve been friends, at the very least. You continue to search your mind for something you can ask him. 

Five minutes and several questions later, you’re starting to doubt your own conviction. Hannibal answers every single question correctly, providing you with information you don’t remember but know deep-down to be true. It’s unnerving and disturbing to think that you could’ve forgotten this man so easily. He seems… utterly unforgettable, in every sense of the word. Furthermore, he’s your husband—perhaps you shouldn’t be doubting him so easily. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, before you can quite contemplate your next words. Hannibal’s eyes are locked on the road, but you know he’s listening. “I don’t mean to doubt you, I just- I don’t know what to do. I don’t remember anything, obviously, and… I feel so lost.” You choke out, your throat burning. You bury your head in your hands for a selfish moment, hoping for some solace and clarity. 

“Don’t apologize, dear,” Hannibal says. You hate how the remark sends a shiver down your spine. Damn it, why can’t you just be comfortable? This man is practically a dream, so why are you trying to ruin it? Can’t you just accept that, sometimes, you deserve to have nice things?! Hannibal continues, unknowing of your internal dilemma. “You’re going through a lot right now. I’m just happy to be here with you.” 

You feel ashamed, knowing that you’ve been holding yourself back despite the fact that Hannibal has shown you nothing but compassion and affection. “I’m… happy you’re here, too,” you say. Guilt prickling in your chest, you impulsively reach out and clasp his free hand resting on the console. Somehow, this surprises your husband, because he stiffens for a second before reciprocating, gripping your hand reassuringly. 

“We will get through this,” he promises. You push aside your doubts and decide to believe him.

Maybe things really will be alright. Maybe, you’ll get your memories back sooner rather than later, and you’ll be able to look back on these moments—riddled with doubt, insecurity, wariness—and laugh. You take a deep breath and look out the window, watching the passing trees blur together. 

Your hand slips from Hannibal’s and you look at your nails, picking at your cuticles. Your hands are somewhat indicative of the life you led—the one you don’t remember living—with a few scars stretching down your wrist and climbing up your forearm. You look down at the healed wound and frown, trying to remember how you got the scar. 

Suddenly, you get a flicker of a memory. It’s faint and fast, but it’s a reminder of the past nonetheless. You squint ahead, trying to focus on keeping the flashback in your mind for long enough to dissect it. You remember… blood. A corpse, perhaps? Yes, a corpse. A woman’s corpse, hoisted and impaled on antlers. You remember… staring at that corpse for so long that you had to be physically led away from the scene, albeit with a gnawing feeling in your gut that something just wasn’t right. You remember… walking into an office, only to be met with Hannibal’s curious gaze. That must’ve been the first time you met the psychiatrist. You put a hand to your temple and try desperately to concentrate. 

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Hannibal says, effectively throwing your focus. You blink and chance a glance at him. He’s still looking at the road, yet you can’t shake the perplexing conviction that he’s been watching you. What’s more, you can’t shake the feeling that his interjection was purposeful—that he meant to throw you off and break your concentration. 

“I- just remembered something,” you choke out, feeling a bolt of pain slide down your scalp to the back of your neck. You bring a hand to the nape of your neck and press, hissing as your fingers glide over sore muscles. “Something important.”

“Congratulations,” Hannibal hums, immune to your internal panic. You don’t know exactly what this man did, but he must’ve done something. Your subconscious is convinced that he is incredibly dangerous, and you feel inclined to trust your gut. 

Another flashback arrives, apropos of nothing. You remember sitting across from Hannibal in a finely-decorated room, lined with bookshelves and artifacts. You remember averting your eyes as you speak, desperate to avoid the roaring flames racing up your skin with every additional moment of prolonged eye contact. You remember… a twisted grin on Hannibal’s face. You remember… the intensity to his gaze as he studied you when he thought you weren’t looking. 

Unsettled, you shake your head and try to refocus on the passing scenery again. To your surprise, you think you recognize where you are. Hannibal must be taking you home. You take a deep breath. You just have to survive this car ride—then you can figure things out from there. You have all the time in the world to muse on the nature of your injury and the nature of your “husband,” once you’re safely contained within four walls. Right now, though, you need to be wary. You need to have your wits about you, you need to watch for any sudden movements, you need to be ready-

“We’re here,” Hannibal announces, promptly throwing your thought process to a halt. You blink and look ahead, only to find a nondescript home with beige siding and a somewhat weathered front door. Vaguely, you remember pulling your car into this driveway, remember unpacking boxes from your trunk. Yes, this is your house. Hannibal is much quicker on the uptake, as he gets out of the car and walks around the vehicle. You don’t realize that he’s opening the passenger door for you until you feel him staring at you expectantly. You thank him and get to your feet, a sudden bout of dizziness sending you wobbling. Hannibal is there in a moment, steadying you with a hand on your forearm. You pretend not to notice his hand on the small of your back as you walk up the path to the front porch. When you’re finally situated in front of the entrance, you realize that you have no idea where your keys could be. 

“Left pocket of your jacket,” Hannibal murmurs, as if reading your mind. You nearly choke on a breath. 

“Thanks,” you respond a bit breathlessly. When you finally manage to unlock the front door and swing it open, you turn back to face him. “Well, thank you for the ride.”

“Of course,” Hannibal responds easily. There’s a regretful smile rising on his face. Everything around you fades to obscurity. “I’m afraid this is goodbye.” That remark sounds strangely ominous. Your heart is in your throat. 

“Thank you for keeping me company,” you feel the need to say, regardless of your suspicions about the man. He was the only one to visit you. You don’t want to think about how you would feel if you spent your entire hospital visit without a single familiar face. “...Bye.” Suddenly, there’s a hand on your cheek. Hannibal’s hand cradles your jaw, his thumb gently roving along your skin. He regards you for a moment, his eyes sparkling, before kissing you on the cheek and leaving. You watch him return to his car and drive away, apprehension and adrenaline coursing through you. Somehow, you get the feeling that you’ll never see Hannibal again. 

Your doorbell rings about an hour later. You look through your peephole, only to find a somewhat intimidating man with his hands shoved in his pockets. You have to focus on quelling the foolish spike of hope that had risen in your chest when the doorbell rang, and the subsequent disappointment at the unfamiliar figure you found. You take a second glance at the stranger, only to find that he looks somewhat familiar. This vague familiarity convinces you to crack your front door open slightly and ask him, “Who are you?”

The man pulls something out of his pocket. “Jack Crawford, FBI,” he answers, showing you his identification card. You stare at him for another moment. “Your boss.” Crawford supplies, when you can’t seem to get the words out. After a few seconds of awkward silence, you decide to invite him inside. 

Before long, the two of you are settled in your living room. The tension that first appeared when you opened your front door has yet to fade. You’re not sure why this man has yet to crop up in your memories—he has a rather powerful aura of authority, not to mention the fact that he’s apparently your superior. You decide not to beat yourself up about it. Your memories will come back in due time; until then, you’ll make do with what little you have.

Crawford—Jack, he tells you to call him—clasps his hands over his knees and levels you with an unreadable gaze. “I need to ask you something,” Jack says, rifling through his other pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it slowly, before revealing it to you. “Do you remember this man? Hannibal Lecter?” Jack explains, immune to your growing dread. You feel sick to your stomach as your eyes flit across the black-and-white photograph of the same man who watched over you vigilantly as you recovered, who claimed to be your husband and kissed you on the cheek mere moments ago. “He’s the Chesapeake Ripper—the serial killer who has been evading capture.” 

“I-” You stammer, bringing a hand to your temple. Your headache from earlier is returning and your head is spinning from this sudden disclosure. You almost don’t want to believe Jack, but you get the feeling that he’d have no reason to lie to you. If anything, lying would just make his job harder. You take a shuddering breath in, trying to come to terms with the fact that you just narrowly escaped a serial killer’s grasp. 

“It’s alright,” Jack tries to reassure you, evidently sensing that you’re growing a bit panicked. 

“No, I-” You’re choking on the words. Recent memories are mixing with old, creating a convoluted and murky timeline of events. It’s hard to sort through everything, to find the truths hidden amongst the lies. You’re not sure how long it takes for you to collect your composure and organize your thoughts into a relatively coherent statement. “I saw him. He… visited me in the hospital. He drove me home.” 

“What?” Jack asks, utter disbelief written all over his face. You don’t remember your boss very well, but you get the feeling he isn’t usually so expressive. The look on his face would be comical, in a different situation. “What did he say to you?” He implores.

“He said a lot of things… Nothing very important.” You try to recall what you can, but your memories are quickly slipping through your fingertips in granules of sparkling sand. You press a hand to your temple, your headache growing worse as you try to recall what happened. “I tried asking him questions about me, to throw him off, but he knew all the answers.” 

Somehow, Jack doesn’t seem surprised by the notion. “You two were… close, before,” your boss evidently settles for saying. There’s a certain suspicion in his voice, as if he suspects you may have been more than “close” with Hannibal. You’re feeling too discombobulated to rise to the bait or bother calling him out on the obvious verbal trap. 

“He said ‘goodbye,’” you continue, eyebrows furrowing. Somehow, you get the sense that Hannibal isn’t the type to utter goodbyes. Moreover, a goodbye ushers in a sense of finality, as if you will truly never see him again. You pinch the bridge of your nose, pretending that your exchange with him on your doorstep isn’t replaying in your mind. He kissed me on the cheek, you don’t say to Jack. He said he was my husband. He watched over me in the hospital when no one else did. And it may have been fake, all of it… But that gleam of affection in his eyes didn’t look manufactured—it looked genuine.  

Jack looks troubled and somewhat restless. “You’re lucky you made it out alive.” He states. You don’t think you can quite believe his words. For whatever reason, Hannibal Lecter—the Chesapeake Ripper—is interested in you. Whether sick fascination or cloying obsession, you have to face the facts:  luck had nothing to do with it. The Ripper kept you alive because, inexplicably, he wants you alive. 

And that unnerves you. 

hannibal taglist, cause i think y'all would be down with reading this since it's also hannibal: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69 @flow33didontsmoke @mrgatotortuga @house-of-1000-corpses-fan

a dilf is not a dilf if he’s shitty to his children

💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛

Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now

Summary: Feeling spiteful and fed up with Jason’s torments, Eddie decides to get back at him using Y/n, Jason’s twin sister. But as you to grow closer and closer, Eddie finds himself catching feelings, but how will he tell you the truth?

Word count: 6k

Warnings: drugs, betrayal, angst, (happy ending though) Jason being a dick

Authors note: first time writing for stranger things! I’m really proud of this fic and I hope to write more for Stranger Things. Shout out to my dad for introducing me to The Smiths!

Requests are open!!!

The song the title is based on: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjPhzgxe3L0

Eddie was at his wits end. He was no stranger to Jason’s constant attacks and mockery, but they had started to reach his breaking point and he didn’t know what to do.

“Hey Eddie?” Dustin said, breaking his train of thought.

“Lucus, Mike, and I made sure to clear our schedules for the rest of the week to focus on Hellfire. You can count on us being there.”

The poor kids did everything in their power to try and impress him. It was almost endearing.

“Good. We will need all the members of the party for what I have planned.”

From across the room, he saw you, seated quietly across from your brother, head buried in a book as the rest of the dumb jocks joked around throwing paper airplanes.

It was a well known fact throughout the school that you were Jason Carver’s sister. Always beside him and Chrissy during game days, always cheering on the team, but always keeping a good arms length away from what the rest of your brother’s goonies had going on.

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