I WILL GIVE YOU THREE PROMPTS B/C I LOVE YOU LIKE THAT:

Dr. Bashir and Garak -- make it as shippy as you'd like~
Prompt: time

Eleven and River Song
Prompt: rain

Sanctuary George and Hannibal
Prompt: light

With the power flickering in and out in the Quarantine, the only light and heat anyone had been treated to in Brighton that week had been from the sun.

Right now the chilly, barely-there rays were striking someone who couldn't care less, except for his ability to see; he calmly strode along through a previously-raided grocery store, looking for anything that hadn't been spoiled or stolen by this point. He wore a jacket, but it was slung so casually around him, the zipper undone, that it was almost strange considering the temperature. The Change had taken care of his need for warmth, leaving him with a body temperature that he'd currently measured at its chilliest during a purposeful (experimental) ice bath - at 33 degrees fahrenheit.

The light was also hitting someone else, though, a slim wraith of a man that was huddled into his leather jacket as if it had any real hope of holding in heat. The sun certainly wasn't helping much, even if it was slightly warmer than at night...

The first man noticed the newcomer, considered his taller but frailer-looking frame, and realised he recognised him, just a whispered echo in his Memory Palace. A black-and-white scene of a man in one of the beds at the hospital he worked at played in his head, and he recalled the smirk the man had made when making a sarcastic comment about his health to the nurse. What was his name?

He had no idea, but he was so terribly bored.

He walked over with his grocery basket half-filled hanging from one of his hands (just because he wasn't paying for the food didn't mean he had to be beastly about obtaining it, after all), and smiled with an expression he still had trouble making reach his eyes. "Hello."

The other man didn't start - he'd noticed him coming - but he squinted, nearly scowled, and it sure as hell wasn't because the sun was too strong. "'Ello there." His voice was surprisingly deep considering how little room there seemed to be in his chest cavity, but any severity of it was taken away with his nasally accent. He looked for a moment as though he wasn't sure if he wanted to remark on the fact that the man currently raiding a grocery store was using a basket to practically shop there, but decided he just really wasn't in the mood for people.

The first man moved in his way, however, still smiling the expression that gave his infrequency at human socialization away. "Is your...new ability that you don't need to eat, or am I putting you off from exploring this store? I assure you, you're welcome inside." The second man had stopped, not looking amused, but he hadn't bothered brushing past him yet. The first man took this as a sign that he was bored as well, that underneath the pouty lip was someone who had found himself seperated from his family in this post-radiation Quarantine.

He was alone as well. Delicious. "My name is Hannibal," he offered, nodding before turning casually back to the grocer's store, shfiting his basket in his grip to better continue gathering small bags of questionable sustenance off the shelves.

The other blinked, not sure what to make of this strange man who smiled in a way that was somehow just enough to be unsettling. Or perhaps it was the strange color of rust that he'd noticed stained his shirt under his jacket... Well, it wasn't as if getting jumped in the streets was particularly rare now, was it? Bitter and feeling some measure of solidarity with this other lone male, even if just from the theory that both of them were having a tough time and that this particular street drifter wasn't attacking him, he followed.

"I recognise your face from the hospital here in Brighton, but I'm afraid I don't remember ever learning your name. I suspect I never directly interacted with you." The second man looked up, taken aback, but the steely eyes that had been so intent on him before were simply perusing a shelf, practically ignoring him.

"...'s George. You're a bit of a queer one, aren't you?"

Hannibal smiled quietly to himself, bending down to shuffle some debris away and uncover where he knew the baskets were located. "I've had similar remarks made." Handing one over to his new acquaintance, he deliberately placed a few of the items from his own cart in there. "I had taken the last of the unspoiled apples, but I'd hate to keep such a staple to myself." George was feeling a mixture of overwhelmed at this man's strange way of making his kindnesses seem underhanded, and a sort of desperate want to find out more and prove that he had no reason to fear the stranger before him. How long had it been since someone had started a conversation with him and not tried to break his nose for his clothes immediately afterwards?

"I'm capable of 'shopping' for meself, mate, but...thanks." George shifted a bit with his gifted food before striding off, looking around to distract himself. He wasn't sure if he should be stand-offish or try to be polite and it was just making his headache worse.

Hannibal watched the man walk confidently away from him, noting the slight edges of uncertainty in the lines of his fingers where he gripped the basket's handle too hard, in the way his head turned determinedly in every direction that didn't carry the man he knew was behind him. This George wasn't dangerous so far, and it was safe to say that he was alone. If he wasn't, he would be more defensive and desperate to get food - to feed a child or a wife - and if he was naturally just greedy and violent he wouldn't have even bothered to initially stop to hear Hannibal speak.

He might not need warmth anymore, but a little light at the end of a tunnel couldn't hurt, could it? Hannibal silently ghosted after George in the store, lingering at the edges and watching him, memorising his body language until the other man was unnerved enough by the eyes on him to just sigh and invite Hannibal to continue 'shopping' with him openly.

And if George invited Hannibal to follow him around as he looked for an abandoned hotel to crash in for the night, who could fault him for wanting this little spot of interest and light, considering how many days he'd spent alone, bored and cold?

For sanctuaryofchange_rp

Oh, I see. Too busy to acknowledge that I wrote one of those prompts. ;)

STOP BEING SO MEAN I'M SORRY I HAVEN'T COMMENTED OKAY. ;__________;

You know I adore this ficlet you wrote! I love Hannibal's creepisms and George's constant E____E-ing at him. ♥

lol It just weirds me out to see no response here on the journal, is all ♥ And maybe I like knowing I make you happy. ;;

I love writing Hannibal to be creepy, oh god. ;________; I miss writing him way too much.

Also you didn't prompt me for what I'm writing right now, but...I can't help it. I miss Hannibal and there's a character you have that I want to experiment with...~

Landa’s breath hadn’t returned to him yet, still heaving in and out of his lungs with a force that he tried to gather back to normal. His forehead was damp and lined occasionally with strands of dirty blond hair, and he resented not being able to fix his appearance – it made it easier to maintain an air of complete control if one looked in control.

Large hands flexed behind his back, their paths away from one another blocked by heavy, stiff rope that that insufferable panther across the room from him had managed to force onto him during their scuffle. The fact that he had felt the need to bring rope either said that he was expecting some sort of interrogation…or that he liked to play with his food. Landa smirked a bit to himself as that wording crossed his mind, his usual demeanor beginning to return along with even breathing.

“I hope you don’t get chilly very easily, Herr Landa. Unfortunately there’s no power in this section of the city...” Hannibal’s voice trailed off and Landa let himself rest against the wall he’d been thrown against, careful not to crush the arms that were twisted rather unkindly behind his back. “…As I’m sure you’re quite aware of but couldn’t care quite less about, as you live outside the Quarantine.” The cannibal smiled at him, a Cheshire cat grin lined with small white teeth that Landa reminded himself had bitten human flesh more than once. He forced himself to continue giving a calm, vaguely pleasant look as he waited for Hannibal to finish trying to fill him with dread. “One can’t fault you for that, though. The temptation to be a slut to higher-ups in order to maintain a comfortable status quo in life is a strong one, after all.”

The man was sitting in a chair in the dust-speckled room, lounging back and trying to give off an air of power. Someone more foolish than Landa might have been unable to see past the fact that Hannibal’s appearance, while meticulously maintained, still had a presence of one that was homeless – his haircut was slightly uneven when seen from the back, for one. Apparently two mirrors at a time were hard to come by. The room itself was lived-in, but not by an office worker anymore; and whole piles of folders and CDs and invoices were stacked around the edges of the room to gather dust and remind anyone passing through it that this was an abandoned warehouse. Still, underestimating the sociopath in front of him wouldn’t be smart, and Landa decided that the best thing was probably to first determine…how angry, how personal this actually was. If Hannibal was simply capturing him for say, that long-haired fellow he always was seen with, then he would be in an easier spot than if he had been caught for a more individual sort of amusement.
“Your concern is appreciated, Lecter, but I fear it’s not necessary!” Landa began brightly, smiling so wide it bordered on a snarl. “After all, I’m sure your friends will be along promptly to give whatever demands they were planning on having for me once their pet snake was done with the capture.”

The other man’s face didn’t darken at likening him to an animal – in fact if anything, he seemed to perk up at the comparison, some measure of preening pride flashing out of his grey eyes. “Actually, I’m running rather ahead of schedule – and I wouldn’t now try to bring up that you’re an important member of the military and they’ll come looking for you if you don’t show back up there. One of my friends has already taken care of finding someone to mimic your voice and call your headquarters for you. I don’t think they’ll begin to get worried for quite some time now.” Landa was now a bit uncomfortable with the gleam in the man’s eyes, in the way shadows gathered under them and even the scar sliced up Hannibal’s face were all serving to make him look just unhinged enough to actually be a threat. How was looking like he had needed to spend the better part of the day just getting himself to look presentable making him look intimidating?

But Landa knew about puffing oneself up to appear more appreciable in size and importance, and he didn’t doubt that this was something Hannibal had also perfected…in his own, subtlety-lacking way. “So, you’ve got me here… But you can’t keep me indefinitely without arousing suspicion, which I’m sure you realize. As frustrating as it must be for you that you can’t go all the way with me, of course.” He was safe from murder, unless this man wanted a full raid on his hands, a complete swamping of his territory in military personnel who then would have a righteous cause to fight the Changed ‘menace’. “Fear is a great motivator, and you must know that or you wouldn’t keep trying to make me feel helpless. Imagine what the backlash would be from a cold-blooded kidnapping and murder! I shudder to think of it,” he said, Landa’s voice practically dripping with glee rather than horror. He had won, of course. This pathetic man in front of him didn’t really have a political advantage, no matter what he decided to do from here.

Hannibal’s gaze had hardened but remained still, and Landa hated him for his impassivity when he should be looking shameful of his lack of planning. “I hope I haven’t spoiled your fun too much! When were your friends going to be arriving, again? I can’t wait to meet them.” Suddenly Landa had just enough time to register that he had figured out, inadvertently, that Hannibal had a very short fuse indeed, before his head rocked back into the wall. He wasn’t quite sure if the other man had used his own head to strike his, or if he’d been punched, only that he was fairly sure he was now bleeding above his left eye.

Pain flooded his vision for a moment and his eyes squeezed close, something warm spilling over one of the lids and pooling in small pockets before slowly trickling down again. When he’d recovered enough to see again (though one half of his vision was now tinged in literal red; he blinked constantly to clear it) Hannibal wasn’t breathing in his face or even puffing about in front of him to look frightening. No, he was sitting back in his chair, nonchalantly going through papers that he no doubt had never even seen before a few moments ago. Landa watched his hands, steady, begin sketching something on the sheets and he noted a few smears of blood on his knuckles.

Hannibal looked up at him then, saw his gaze and brought his hand up to his mouth. “Sorry.” Landa didn’t avert his eyes until after the small pink tongue was done licking his blood off its knuckles, not wanting to let on that it turned his stomach slightly to watch.

What was going on? The likelihood of his captor having a change of heart was low, but it was also, hopefully, low that he was simply toying with him before killing him. Landa was confident in that at least; why else would the taunting on the subject have upset the uptight cannibal so much?
Landa quietly tugged at the ropes on his hands, not used to the feeling of being restrained. He wasn’t about to demand to be untied, and he certainly wasn’t about to beg for it, but there was something about it that was just curious. He blinked more droplets of scarlet out of his vision, the world dyed red for a few angry-looking moments before he could see properly. The ridge above his eye throbbed with his heart, and so did his wrists from his initial struggle when Hannibal had first tackled him to the floor as he’d entered the room. He realized he could see a few spattered drops of blood – no doubt his – on the way over to the straight-backed chair that Hannibal lounged in like a king. A leader of homeless scavengers, at best, and Landa chuckled to himself.

Grey eyes peered over from his sketching. “Yes, Landa?”

“I’m just finding it funny that you thought this was a good idea. You realize even such innocent¬-seeming injuries as the one you just gifted me with are going to arouse suspicion when I get back, don’t you?”

Hannibal gave him a Mona Lisa smile in return, small and full of a secret that he didn’t look near sharing. He seemed to fixate on his drawing then, glancing at Landa himself a few times and it suddenly occurred to the older man that he should probably be interested in what Hannibal was sketching. Was he meant to ask what he was doing? Was that what Hannibal was waiting for? As much as he loved conversation and a good banter, Landa was even about to appease the idea – but Hannibal beat him to it.

“Herr Landa…what do you think of this?” Hannibal was smiling still, the expression really beginning to wear thin on Landa, as he approached and knelt in front of him.

It was an image of himself, bent over and looking haggard and bruised, what appeared to be blood dripping dark down half his face. In shades of grey Landa saw what Hannibal saw – or at least, what he chose to represent on the paper. Landa really refused to believe his eyes held that much dread in them. “I think you’re quite the talented little artist. Maybe someday you’ll be able to sell paintings for more than just a can of soup or a jacket.” The look in Hannibal’s eyes was immediately stormy and Landa expected to get hit, felt his body tense with the expectation and his gaze falter somewhat – but it didn’t come for a few moments. He was simply stared down and soon, Landa returned the intensity of the look, frowning in both hatred of the man in front of him and confusion over what sort of game they were playing now.

George’s personal snake leaned forward, eyes averted for a moment somewhere lower on Landa’s body and he suddenly had an idea that seemed almost too strange to be true – or perhaps it was the beginnings of real fear that blocked the thought from taking itself seriously. “Should I attach those ropes somewhere…or will you just stay put, if I go back and sit in my chair, now? Since you’d like to just wait for my friends to show up.” Hannibal had been ‘looking’ through his body to where his restrained hands were hanging then, at his lower back. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d held and shrugged, a smile on his lips.

“I think I can behave and sit here, if that’s the deal we have.”

Hannibal’s expression was nearly patronizing as he agreed, “It’s a deal.” And he rose and went back to his chair as though nothing had happened, though he did begin sketching anew on another sheet of paper, pencil madly scratching away. He didn’t look up for references anymore and Landa wasn’t sure if that was because he’d simply memorized his facial features, or that he was truly done drawing him. Perhaps he had had all the fun he thought he could in this situation and was bored; Landa wouldn’t have been surprised.

Though now that he knew he had to stay put until someone (or likely, an entire group) arrived… Landa shifted again against the wall, trying to lean comfortably and only succeeding in different levels of crushing his arms with his own bodyweight. A nail in the wall caught at the rough texture on the rope and it caused the material to tug at Landa’s wrists, biting into them, and the pain made his heartbeat rise again, pounding in the wound on his head.

…And then Landa’s attention was shifted entirely from his hands, because he suddenly realized he was getting hard. Not painfully so, not even enough that it would probably be visible in his reasonably-loose dress pants from his position on the floor, but he felt himself grow incrementally warmer between his legs. He froze for a moment, his back stiffening, before deciding it had to be the adrenaline from fighting and being tied up. If he relaxed, wouldn’t it go away?

Besides, that made a good show for his captor, as well – Landa forced himself to lean against the wall despite the protest from his hands, and let his eyes shut. He managed to focus on his breathing until the pain in his wrists suddenly seemed to travel right to his cock, and Landa’s eyes opened with a start. Where was this coming from? He certainly wasn’t in the room with anything that should be turning him on – he had never thought of another man that way and as effeminate as Hannibal was, he was far from being an exception to that rule. He subconsciously tugged at his restraints again, feeling the strangely powerful grip they had despite being just rope, and some sort of thrill seemed to make his breath catch in his throat.

“Something amiss?” Landa could feel some of his anger from their (rather brutal) wrestling match earlier returning as he looked up to see Hannibal still engrossed in his doodling, as if he hadn’t just been watching him to see him jump.

Landa was silent for a moment, hatred boiling through his veins, the rush from the sudden heat of his emotions not helping his slight problem. He was used to being in charge and taunting from above; this new position of being the captive had him unbalanced. It was...exotic and strange and somehow, was holding far too much of his interest in its grasp. “When I get back to Brighton’s military headquarters,” he began, a twisted grin having a hard time fighting for dominance with just pure anger, “I am going to make sure they mark down exactly who you are; and believe me, the description of you will be impeccable. And you won’t be able to set foot near the border of the Quarantine until I get re-posted elsewhere in Europe.” He was nearly snarling, his frustration fueled by feeling impotent against his current situation – so why was the pressure in his groin suddenly growing?

Hannibal stared back at him, his face impassive but sharp, before it rippled like a lake’s surface as he chuckled. “Landa, I believe you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“Oh?” He questioned hotly, fidgeting slightly to reposition his slightly-engorged cock inside his dress pants; it throbbed a bit uncomfortably. The sensation would usually have been enough to distract him from conversing, but paradoxically…the urgency it generated seemed to be encouraging him to keep talking, to stay engaged. To fight against this unjust capture, or…something. Landa was perhaps more unfocused than he realized. “How so?”
“You see… All of this is assuming you will want to tell your superiors what happened here. Or anyone, for that matter!” The man smiled draconically at him, the expression full of taunting secrecy that was begging to be shared.

“Is there any reason I shouldn’t?” Landa’s voice shook with disbelieving laughter, his voice a little too breathy. He was about to continue, to shove his utter confidence in himself in Hannibal’s smug, reptilian face; explain how he would destroy his life inside the Quarantine with what exactly Hannibal had done to break the law and seal his fate, when the man suddenly presented his drawing to him again – and it brought Landa to a dreadful halt.

A quick, rough sketch that nonetheless perfectly captured Landa’s own features, contorted into what looked like pain – and Landa would have assumed that was the case if the picture had cut off above his waist. Hannibal hadn’t spared any important details, however, and the bottom half of the drawing went on to show that the colonel was on his knees, his legs wantonly spread and his erection more than just ‘evident’ and more like ‘showcased’.

It wouldn’t have even been quite as – Landa refused to use the word ‘humiliating’ but had trouble thinking of something else – if the young man in front of him hadn’t been penciled in behind him, the lines rough and rushed as if they too felt the desperation suggested by the fact that Hannibal was taking him from behind. “What do you think?”

It was ridiculously lewd, and despite the skill in rendering it, Landa knew he should be disgusted, and some part of him was. His cock, however, responded as its partner in the picture, and pulsed almost angrily against the tan dress pants he was wearing.

“I was inspired by your apparent interest in being tied up,” Hannibal narrated, head tilting to the side and glancing at his own sketch, looking between it and Landa slowly. “I thought perhaps you might like help in finding something specific to fantasize about…?” The line had already been blurred between Landa’s anger and his libido, and now he both felt like strangling the brunette and ordering him to untie him so he could, if nothing else, go and relieve himself of this strange dilemma in private.

It was a blur of motion that Landa’s mind was almost too distracted to follow exactly, and then Hannibal was in front of him again, the papers scattering behind him with slight scratching sounds, fluttering and falling against the floor like leaves. “What is it?” Hannibal questioned, his voice low. It didn’t occur to Landa yet to think it strange that Hannibal was so close, his eyes heavily lidded; in fact his detective skills were so far removed from this sensation of thrill and desperate arousal that he didn’t even notice the way the other man’s pupils were blown. “Is it the knowledge that you can’t get out of those knots I’ve fitted your wrists with? That you’re helpless? That seems rather unlike you.

“Of course, perhaps it’s the exotic becoming erotic for you right now… And maybe you like pain. You joined the military, after all.”

Landa was nearly panting, ‘distracted’ no longer an appropriate word to describe him. “Are you just going to...to analyze me all night, Lecter?”

Edited 2011-12-12 02:31 am (UTC)

YOU'RE TEARING ME APART, KATHRYYYYN.

Oh god I need more. ;___________________;

;000000000000; I'm so flattered you like my itty-bitty dub-con porn so much.~ ♥

Hannibal’s full lips rather looked like a woman’s when he was so close that the rest of his features blurred. They were pursed in thought for the moment, and then they curled up wickedly. Landa’s attention forced itself to collect as he recognized the look, his groin and wrists both burning slightly from friction, but he didn’t have hands to block the blow with anyway. He didn’t manage to duck in time and instead slammed back into the wall, the pain real and annoying as it thrummed through his back and cheek, but the sudden surge in adrenaline and (perhaps) fear seemed to travel unheeded to his cock. He moaned but it was fairly clear even to himself that the sound that came from him was far more sensual than just a reaction to being struck.

“You like pain, Herr Landa, or just having the tables turned in general?” Hannibal’s voice seemed different, the distance too small, but Landa had already been struck several times and the worry over it had nearly died by now. He blinked and noted the dried blood in his eyelashes flicking by, and fidgeted both because his erection was nearly bursting out of his pants and it ached terribly, and because his hands were now crushed by his own body into the wall. His arms were beginning to tingle in their new position and he moved to shove Hannibal off of him.

“Didn’t realize you liked sexually harassing your prisoners,” Landa puffed, as if he could shame this proudly broken man in front of him. Of course not, and as Hannibal chuckled to himself and leaned forward to pin Landa against the wall more solidly, it suddenly occurred to Landa how strange this was. He actually stiffened then, something cold settling in his stomach; it felt strange when his skin was crawling with electric fire, his lower abdomen nothing but tightening, twitching muscles. “Lecter…” he panted, not quite realized he was speaking out loud.

Hannibal grinned then, feral and bewitching, his eyes nearly all pupil. Landa finally realized he could feel the man’s breath on his face – he hadn’t changed his breathing during their entire fight, nearly, and now he was huffing up against him as if he’d finally found something that could make his pulse climb. Landa felt less than satisfied with the knowledge of what it took to get Hannibal’s blood going.

“What are you—“ the rhetorical question died in his throat in a wordless shout that echoed faintly off the dusty walls. Hannibal had palmed him, his heavy erection pressed up against fingers that knew their way around one in the most intimate way possible – and as the other man teased him through his pants in a way that Landa had never been handled by a woman, he could see for a brief moment the appeal of this sort of thing. It was rough and almost too much and yet somehow, it was just enough to overcome the sensation in his aching wrists and arms and that made it all the more erotic.

The sound of a moan caught Landa by surprise, even if the noise itself caused a sympathetic twitch against his mercilessly tight pants. Hannibal’s eyes were open still, though only about halfway – and he looked like he had momentarily had to fight to keep them that way. His unreadable expression was now dotted with signs of his arousal, and Landa found himself somewhat entranced by the sight of the pale face suddenly flushed in the cheeks, his mouth parted just slightly to give away that he needed more oxygen than he really could get without panting.

And then suddenly Hannibal was lurching towards him, and Landa could scarcely breathe between the solid weight of another body and the way he was being squeezed. He gasped openly, his pants suffocating with his erection this pronounced – glancing down in the minimal space between him and Hannibal, he could see himself tenting out lewdly against the tan fabric. His head fell against the wall and his eyes closed for a moment, forgetting himself in his own spiraling arousal – and then his zipper was being tugged at, his button undone, and suddenly his protective instincts came back to life. “Get off!” he commanded, striking out with a booted foot and catching Hannibal’s left knee where he bent on the floor.

The man’s eyes didn’t even change, his expression still aroused and strangely open, as he struck out with an elbow and hit Landa in the ribs, winding him. “Good idea,” he hissed, and then Landa’s world flipped sideways as Hannibal launched both of them to the floor. Landa arched forward as much as he could to keep his head from striking the ground and instead yelped in pain as his arms bent cruelly behind his back. He lurched towards Hannibal, feeling utterly helpless and hopelessly aroused, but Hannibal seemed almost unaffected by any successful blows Landa managed to get in with his head, shoulders or even his knees, straddling Landa’s hips as he lay on his back. He began tugging his pants off and Landa stiffened, the reality hitting him just as the cold air did on his thighs, though that was as far as it got before he finally reacted, thrashing about wildly in a different sort of desperation. He felt like he wanted to use his lungs, wanted to yell something at his attacker, but nothing came to mind and Landa stayed silent as he struggled.

Hannibal actually rocked back for a moment once he’d gotten Landa’s pants below his knees, not that Landa was present enough to even be certain what part of his body had finally landed a hit that counted even in that monster’s special world of sensations.

I am dying of blue balls FINISH THIS WILL YOU? ;____________;


I love you. ;;;;;

lol god you make me giddy knowing you actually like my porn ;; <3

I love you too. Hence the fic. ;) Hopefully you don't mind me borrowing your Landa for some sexytimes.~