Michael Fassbender on the set of Slow West

Did he really come here just to scorn her; to bathe her in his impotent jealousy? Thomas Shelby may have come up in the world, but that doesn’t afford him the right to blame her for the situation they now find themselves in. She doesn’t belong in his world, that’s what she’s been told, over and over again and yet, why does her own feel so incomplete without him?

“Would you prefer it if I didn’t care?” She enquires, noticing the obvious bitterness in his tone; is Tommy expressing wishful thinking or the thought that he tortures himself with most?

She glances towards the ceiling as he gestures to the bedroom above, a tense sigh escaping her as she hears his question. “Why would you ask me that?” She glares indignantly - does he realise how painful it is to see him here; how painful it is not to be enveloped in his arms, how painful it has been all this time?

She can taste him on the cigarette she stole; a flavour synonymous with sin - he shouldn’t be here, surely he knows how dangerous this is; the atmosphere in this kitchen is one akin to a tinderbox. The flame and the fuel shouldn’t together dance here, can’t dare touch – the resultant fire would bring both their houses down.  

Inching closer, her response is taunting in its tone, defiant in the face of his obvious accusation.

“Is that what you want Thomas, to paint me as the villain? What would you have me tell you? How he heaves on top of me every night, concerned only with his own satisfaction, or that he is a delicate lover whose mouth worships between my legs for hours?” Her hands fall firmly to her hips. “What difference does it make…tell me, what difference does it make to any of this?”

It wasn’t hard to find her. Not hard to find out the exact time frame where he could enter that damn house because it wasn’t guarded. What really was the hard thing for Tommy Shelby was staying away from there. So many weeks he had tried. Months where he lost himself in daydreams, staring into the pure abyss while chain smoking and hiding behind his trembling hand. There was so much rage, so much disappointment, so much pain inside of him but the worst about it was the sadness. Tommy could never deal well with emotions and rather decided to numb it away with alcohol or drugs, but the aching in his chest for losing Adelia could never be stopped. It was a constant thought in his mind: what if? Constant considerations about different paths he could take to find her once again and claim her as his own, but none of it ever worked. Even when he found himself buried deeply inside of someone else’s core, it was the thought about her that wouldn’t leave his mind and turnt him into an even more brutal nightmare for his enemies and lovers.

When Arthur told him they found her, Tommy tried to keep his cold facade. Tried not to react even if his brother probably noticed the twitch of his fingers, barely holding onto the cigarette burning between them. “It doesn’t matter” he said back then, but in reality it was all that ever mattered to him from that day on.

Now he was here. Not remembering how he even made it this far or when he broke in through that damn window. He didn’t notice the pain his hand should naturally signal him, all that was left was the burning urge to see her. Just feeling her one last time so he could be certain it was real. Maybe his hand wandered along the counter as he tried to keep himself stabilized. Maybe he left blood on these tiles and ash breaking from his cigarette. In the end everything stopped mattering when she entered, when she stared back into his eyes and left him behind in a frozen state that he didn’t even dare to move when she approached him so bravely.

She worded was what obvious: his intoxication, so Tommy decided it was only right to do the same. “You’re beautiful.” Was she really here? And why did her eyes glow so damn irresistibly whenever she took a drag from the stolen cigarette? “You don’t care about the tiles.” he murmured and out of provocation slipped his bloody hand along the counter to leave a trail. “You don’t care about anything of this, do you?” Especially not him. Not his heart. That was what he wanted to say, wasn’t it? It was so painful to approach her, but there was a magnetism about her he could never escape and that led him right in front of her, eyes wandering down her frame to notice the way she hold onto her nightgown with a smile.

“You don’t really care how I am, do you Delia?” It was tempting. Tempting to touch her right here. To explore the softness of her hair he missed and the taste of her lips on his starving ones. Tempting to leave his blood on her just for her husband to see it. Instead he just stared at his cigarette between her fingers and slowly slipped his hands back into his black coat to stand tall. “He’s upstairs.” he noted with a gesture of his head, a simple guess that didn’t even change a single bit about what he was feeling about her. “Meanwhile you stand here with an intoxicated bleeding man who broke into a window just to see you.” Ironic, wasn’t it? A former strong and intimidating man who needed to light himself another cigarette to keep his hands away from touching her.

“Did he fuck you before you noticed my coming?”

The question, aimed directly back at him, earns a small smile from Lecter in response. There is indignancy in Will’s cadence; a palpable bitterness that Hannibal suspects exudes from Will Graham’s very flesh.

Subtly swirling shapes swimming at the periphery of Hannibal’s vision, that at moments feel almost imperceptible, are enough to allow Lecter to finally, if not barely realise he has likely been drugged. He is not yet willing to share this epiphany with Will however, better to wait; better to allow the moment to reveal itself to him and in doing so, reveal Will.

Remaining silent, Hannibal listens carefully to Will; captivated. Hannibal understands Will’s compulsion for control; the desire to gain mastery over himself and others. Hannibal understands it because Hannibal unleased it. Never has Will Graham been so dangerous, so unpredictable; so aware. He can only hope Will does not squander this new gift of awareness in the pursuit of instincts arguably more base.

Lecter watches as Will forcibly contorts himself to appear relaxed, though his person suit is in need of better tailoring; it is badly frayed at the edges, allowing clear glimpses of the erratic energy concealed beneath.

“I do not feel discomposed, and neither, I suspect, do you Will.” Gently brushing some barely visible, likely imagined lint from his lap, Lecter licks his lips as he attempts to identify the particular concoction Will has chosen for him tonight. The taste is unpleasant and unrecognisable.

“In fact, I believe you are entirely composed. I advise you keep that composure, that way, the fun you refer to, will likely last longer.”

Despite his animal repertoire of instinct, reflex, and neural electroreception gradually building his situational risk assessment to what would soon be high alert, Hannibal’s top-down control was still intact. His mind was carrying on as if nothing was wrong, and Will certainly had his attention. He felt a silent pride build within him as he watched the doctor sitting there, still oblivious to the fact that he was detained at all. Or if he wasn’t, he was handling his situation in a very effortless way. Will didn’t think this was the case. Hannibal  had tells. If he knew even half of what Will was up to, he would have reacted. A minute twitch in that sharp jaw, a glint of pride to match Will’s own in those icy eyes. For a moment Will’s self-control lapsed, and the burgeoning compulsion to indulge this newfound taste for power over Lecter took over.

‘How do you feel, Dr. Lecter?’ Will’s eyebrows rose, that testing expression that sometimes slipped through his manners usually when Jack was pushing his buttons. The statement was a little too ambiguous to sit well with Will’s design. He wasn’t keeping his cards as close to his chest as he should be. But - hell, why shouldn’t he play with Dr. Lecter, after all the time and effort the man had put in to do the same to him? He frowned. ‘You seem a little discomposed,’ he challenged, then more casually: ‘It’s not like you.’ His words streaked off like a tracer bullet into a dark sky, and he knew he must watch every little reaction of what happened next if he wanted to keep control of the situation. He drew in breath and placed the blood-stained scarf behind him on the desk he was leaning on. ‘I hope this isn’t an indication of you wrestling with yourself over whether to breach patient confidentiality? Isn’t it more… fun,’ (careful, the note of bitterness crept in) ‘having me out of the hospital?’ If Will had tells, he was probably showing them - though it was a blind spot that he didn’t know what they were. No doubt Hannibal did. He made a note to try to appear more relaxed - less like he had the pulsing fever of revenge coursing through his veins - and unclenched his hands on the desk, sloped his shoulders and attempted to relax his stomach muscles.

Comfort…it is a novel choice of word; not one Will has used before. Still, it is undeniably fitting; there is no greater comfort than truly knowing oneself. Will’s assuredness is pleasing, the simplicity of his answer has rendered it all the more authentic. Hannibal has been intimate with Alana, but it was not true intimacy - it was an act of subversion, nothing like the sanctifying intimacy he and Will share.

“Murder Husbands.” Hannibal replies with a wry smile, anticipating the particular memory Will is likely recalling. Hannibal does not feel it necessary to correct the notion, in fact he is rather comfortable with it; comforted by it even. Love is the basis of all friendship and from that basis, in the rarest instances, it can bloom entirely beyond the confines of Earth’s garden. Over the past few months, they have grown together; have cultivated strong vines that have become so intricately entwined they are now wholly inseparable.

Standing up from his seat at the table, Hannibal moves to open a bottle of red wine. Pouring two glasses, he lightly places his own down before bringing the other up towards Will, resting the frail rim on his lips, gently coaxing him to taste, maintaining constant eye contact.

“Tell me Will, what do see for our future, the middle before the doomed end you so prophetically foretold?”

It stung to have Alana brought up. The ideas of what could been if she wasn't so...afraid. Will knows it's different with Hannibal, knows that he could walk without sight and Hannibal would lead the way. However, these feelings are soon overpowered by the actual realization that Hannibal has thought about him in a much more romantic light. There is a moment of hesitation on Will's confirmation but that's because he's still trying to take in the fact that Hannibal is so open to accommodating everything he wants.

“Yes,” It’s a simple answer, “I was never truly this intimate with Alana, I never sought her out for comfort as much as I have you.”

His feelings were confusing for the longest time, for a while his thoughts about Hannibal were full of resentment but those slowly faded away. Now he sits across from the older man, slowly working himself up to being completely vulnerable and raw.

“I’m sure a lot of other people have seen us as lovers before I…realized my feelings,” Cut to Freddie Lounds’ articles that almost read like gay erotica between the two…

“Yes. Please.” Hannibal responds, moving to stand. In truth he is surprised by this nurse’s obvious ease, this cell is unlike any of the others in this facility, the items have been particularly procured; curated entirely for him, as if he were some unfathomably exotic passerine; the obvious jewel in Chilton’s menagerie.

His entrapment is of no concern - entrapment these days has become a love language for Hannibal. Regardless, the opportunity to make alliances with those that through influence, could afford him ascendancy over currently unreachable external elements is one he knows he shouldn't pass up.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. What is your name?” Lecter asks softly, slowly tilting his head to give her access to the head wound he sustained at the Verger farm.

Hopefully this position would work out. Laura had so far been in a hospital which was a disaster, she received an offer from a Catholic hospital but that contradicted with her values, and the clinic she spent one week in was a horrifying dictatorship of a dysfunctional doctor couple. Oddly enough when she got a short tour of the hospital it seemed quiet considering the inhabitants of it. Dr. Chilton was tolerable and respectful towards his employees, he seemed to value his patient although in a very odd way, like it was a museum to him.

There was of course a warning; the gruesome death of a nurse by the hand of a killer within the hospital itself. It did not shake Laura’s interest though, being a healthcare professional came with its hazards.

She’d met a few other patients before him. One had a couple bruises from having a fight, one had gotten sick. The last one of her round was the one Dr. Chilton had been all excited about. Clearly he was a special case given his living arrangements and all the warnings and cautions she was given.

No matter, he was still just a human. “Dr. Lecter.” She gave a nod in response and a polite smile as she approached him confidently, trusting the guards and the patient so her safety did not concern her. Setting down the tray with the thing she needed Laura put on gloves and gave his head a look, “Do you want lidocaine on the wound?” The local anaesthetic wasn’t needed but treating the wound could case an hour or two of pain.

A referral from Dr Chilton is rarely refused, not because Lecter holds the man in high esteem you understand, but rather, conversely, because he regards Fredrick Chilton with a distinct absence of esteem. Chilton’s patients often possess a pleasing malleability that means they can be more easily placed into particular plans; a complicated web of predicted causes and inevitable events. By accepting her into his care, Mayven could eventually become a golden thread in Hannibal’s ever-evolving tapestry, aiding in its Desposyni design.

Her case notes demonstrate a propensity for violence and an unstable personality, though it seems Doctor Chilton has failed to make an absolute diagnosis. Still, from what Hannibal can gather, her crime was merely an act of love; restitution for a broken heart.

Opening the door, the Psychiatrist observes her listlessness and the darkened skin underneath her eyes that betrays a particular kind of exhaustion; the kind that suggests she has not been taking good care of herself. That, it seems, will be the first thing they will need to correct – her longevity of life remains entirely in his hands now and thus he will not have her dictate it herself through acts of self-neglect.

 “Please, come inside Mayven.”

Leading her inside his office, Hannibal offers his new patient a seat and gently positions himself in the chair opposite her. Picking up her case notes, he keeps them closed on his lap.

“My name is Dr Hannibal Lecter. You have been referred to me by Dr Chilton, Mayven. He has given me your case notes, but before we begin, I would be interested to hear your understanding of why you find yourself here today.”

she   thought,   in   some   twisted   way,   that   having   a   mental   breakdown   would   be   more…   inspired.   but   it   left   a   bitter   taste   in   her   mouth,   similar   to   the   coating   of   the   pills   they   were   forcing   her   to   swallow.   she   hated   them.   hated   the   way   they   made   her   feel   —   numb   and   unable   to   express   herself.   painting,   what   used   to   be   as   easy   as   breathing,   was   now   more   of   a   task.   everything,   now,   was   so   mechanical.   wake   up,   shower,   eat,   sleep,   repeat.  

but   that’s   the   price   of   losing   your   head,   stabbing   your   boyfriend,   and   completely   wigging   out   while   being   arrested.   not   one   of   her   finer   moments   —   but   he   would   be   fine.   he   was   always   fine.   she   would   pay   the   price   of   him   pushing   her   too   far   and   he   would   get   to   go   on   living   his   life   like   nothing   happened.   life   was   so   unfair.

she   sat   in   the   waiting   room,   a   single   finger   sliding   under   the   ripped   seam   of   the   denim   over   her   knee,   mindlessly   sliding   over   her   skin   left   and   right.   therapy   —   such   a   waste   of   time.   it   never   helped   her   in   the   past.   what   would   be   so   different   about   this   place?   this   doctor?   eyes   scanned   the   room,   not   a   dust   particle   in   sight,   no   crooked   picture   frame   —   sterile.   and   then   the   door   swung   open   and   there   stood   the   older   man   she   was   there   to   see,   his   suit   neat   and   smoothed,   posture   straight   and   uniform.   he's   so   fancy   —   she   thinks   to   herself   before   standing   up   to   shake   his   hand.     

‘   hi   —   ’         she   says   simply.

/ @mettleborn

She sees what he wants her to see.

Despite mention of a veil, Hannibal feels assured the trainees' observations remain harmless, after all, if Eloise le Roux thought she could peer behind that veil for so much as a single section, she would hopefully possess the intelligence not to mention so.

“Another one of Jack’s bright sparks.” Lecter replies warmly, impressed by her boldness; it may have strayed a little into the territory of potential offence, but he is willing to forgive her eagerness to impress. She reminds him of Miriam Lass, the last ‘bright spark’ that fell into Lecter’s orbit; that particular trajectory resulting in her capture and containment for the last year. When the time is right; when Miriam’s incubation is complete, she will rise from the proverbial grave to assist Hannibal in smiting an old enemy. By that point Chilton will taste bitter from pain and distress, but will be a meal Lecter will slowly savour none-the-less. He will simply pair the meat with something appropriately sweet.

“I venture you will find that most Psychiatrists are plagued by unquenchable curiosity, Eloise, it is our nature, though I assure you, the only thing that lurks is hunger, so please…” He gestures lightly towards her Mikasa bone china plate. “…your veal is getting cold.” Hannibal prompts her to begin her lavishly prepared dinner, by beginning to enjoy his own. This particular calf has not travelled by veal crate but rather found her way into Hannibal’s cold storage through ignorance and complacency alone.

Glancing up at the trainee, Jack’s budding profiler, still blushing with youth and expectation, he smiles.

“Tell me, why did you join the FBI Eloise?”

“This your version of a Rorschach test, Doctor? What do you want me to say, a moth? Two dragon heads?” The young blonde mused, head tilted with her chin resting in her palm. It was merely dinner set up a mutual friend as she worked closely with Jack Crawford in Behavioral Science. An odd match, Eloise pondered as her gaze arch along the lavish textures draped throughout the household. Each statement piece of meticulous in nature, somewhere between bastion and disinfected. One might equate it the fashion of a scientist—or a mortician. Someone far out of her fucking league.

This must be a little test, maybe even set up by Jack. That’s what all this must’ve been. A fucking test. “Well, you have quite an attuned taste, I would say. Someone discerning—visceral. You have an unapologetic visage. Someone who walks without hesitation but remains acutely calculated. I see someone who possesses insatiable curiosity but hides behind a veil.“ She sees a cunning man, with spectacular charm and sophistication, but there’s something else. “I see someone…something that lurks.” It’s a brave statement, even brazen, which is never far from her lips but often leads to more trouble than help. But that’s what he would want, wouldn’t it? Jack and Dr. Lecter? An analytical observation of challenging measured. Someone deemed untraceable?

Did she want to outsmart him? No, she wanted to impress him.

Me trying to arrange and rearrange all my social and adulting commitments so I can actually get some time to write this weekend. Meanwhile my muses running amok in the background, frustrated and eager to be let loose.

VIGGO MORTENSEN as NIKOLAI LUZIN 2007. Eastern Promises

It has occurred to Igor many times now that what Mayven has wanted all along has been his attention, the issue he supposes is that there are times when he is simply unable to give her it. As such he has attempted to give her everything she would need to thrive in his frequent absence - all the securities she is seemingly now rejecting as if they are an offence to her. Was he not clear when they began this that they would not be exclusive, that he could not give himself to her in such a way?

“It is not just ‘stuff’ Mayven, it is security. The doorman who brings you coffee who you know as Ben, for example, is not your admirer, his name is Benedikt Ivanov and he is on my payroll. His only job Mayven is to protect you, not the fucking building.”

With that small revelation, Igor determines it is time to share a little more with Mayven so she can better understand his situation. If she is going to end it with him right now, here, tonight, then she will do so with open eyes - it’s time she understood the true gravity of the situation she has involved herself in. After exchanging a few tense words with Nicholai, the Wolf, under much duress, returns with three men in handcuffs and instructs each to take position on their knees in the middle of Igor’s office. From the state of them it is clear all three have been badly beaten.

“This one constructed a nail bomb that killed three men, one woman and two children in Yemen last week. Two of these men were my distributers.” Igor points dispassionately towards the next. “Three days ago, this man slaughtered four families in the Cuban jungle, two of those families worked for my distributers. This one…” As Igor approaches the squirrely looking man in the ripped, blood-stained suit, he spits directly into his face. “This one informed on Bratva to the CIA.”

Stepping back, the Pakhan checks his watch. “The meeting tomorrow is to determine the fate of these three men. But since you so urgently need my time, let me clear my schedule for you.”

Pulling his gun out of his chest holster, the Pakhan immediately and dispassionately executes the CIA informant, splattering his blood and brain matter all over the carpet and the rear wall. The sound of the gun is so loud it has everyone's ears ringing. Taking aim at the next, as the accountant’s body slumps heavily to the floor, Nicholai immediately intervenes, panicked that Igor is making Mayven an accessory to murder - you don’t make crazy American pussy an accessory.

“No Igor.” He states calmly, knowing how to deal with Bortsov when he is in this kind of destructive temper. He can only assume Mayven is breaking up with Igor and the Pakhan isn't taking it well. Carefully, quietly, he removes the gun from Igor’s grip and without being asked, takes the two men back to their shared cell. The body however, continues to lie where it fell – serving as a stark warning for the consequences of betrayal - of talking about his business. Lighting a cigarette, the Pakhan finally turns his attention back towards Mayven.

“You understand, da?”

she   should   have   known   he   would   hang   that   over   her   head   in   some   way.   every   piece   of   art   supplies   bought,   the   roach   free   apartment,   the   paid   for   bills.   she   was   taken   care   of   in   that   regard,   but   maybe   that   just   goes   to   prove:   money   doesn’t   always   buy   happiness.   she   shouldn’t   have   let   him   buy   her   this   way,   she   should   have   kept   surviving.   it’s   what   she   did   after   all   —   survive.

‘   then   stop   —   ’         she   finally   says,   letting   out   a   shaky   breath.            ‘   take   the   apartment   back.   i’ll   move   back   to   my   old   building.   i’ll   get   by.   like   i   always   have.   ’       if   she   was   going   to   put   him   behind   her,   if   that’s   what   was   happening,   then   she   needed   all   of   him   gone.   

‘   did   it   ever   occur   to   you   that   maybe   all   i   wanted   was   you   and   not   the   stuff   you   can   provide   for   me?   ’         she   shakes   her   head,   she   almost   laughs   to   herself   and   how   ridiculous   she   sounds,   swaying   in   the   middle   of   his   office   in   her   pjs,   messy   hair   and   all.   well   she   did   promise   him   she   was   never   going   to   be   boring.   

‘   or   maybe   you   actually   think   so   little   of   me   —   ’

Credit @rylanmakes

“Will, we could get the required papers and transport your dogs. I am under no illusion that should you leave them here, wherever you go, you will simply amass more.” Whether Will knows it or not, this is a huge concession for Hannibal; a compromise he has determined to accept after much deliberation. It may take some time to arrange but Lecter remains assured that it would not be too difficult to ensure. Hannibal would not tear Will Graham from the only true family he’s ever had.

Lecter is about to enquire about Alana and Jack, to ask if these are bonds Will would be willing to break more easily. However, the notion soon becomes lost amid a wave of warm surprise when Hannibal hears Will’s question, spoken with an unabashed eagerness. It is not so much a question as it is an assertion – even now it seems Will still looks to Hannibal for grounding; looks to him for validation of the feelings he suspects they share. In truth, there are times when Will is looking at him that Hannibal wonders if Will is imagining himself in Lecter’s place, trying to reconstruct those feelings; that barely spoken love, in order that he may understand it better.

“I believe there have been moments within our friendship that have held the distinct quality required to be considered romantic.” He answers; a convoluted way of answering yes. Still a concern lingers, does Will fully understand what he is committing himself to or are they merely making conversation.

“Do you see us as lovers Will or, like your kiss with Alana, is this simply a clutch for balance?”

It sounds too good to be true. It's enough of a wordless agreement for Will to be sure that Hannibal understands. They could have a whole new life where he doesn't have to think, he just has to live and have a partner in life. He could watch the good doctor cook breakfast and pour his coffee. His fidgeting is over, his eyes are now looking deep into Hannibal's as he dearly wished he could just agree. He could sit close to Hannibal and point out nice cabins near a good creek that he wanted to live in but that's not reality.

The reality is that there's so much more to Hannibal than he ever realized, there's commitments he has to certain people and most importantly he has his pack at home.

"If we were to leave, I would need at least a little time to make sure all my dogs have comfortable and loving places to live," Will speaks up as he warms up to the idea, "If I am going to run off and cut ties with everyone I need to make sure my group of strays aren't alone."

He didn't need Alana, he didn't need Jack or any of the students he was already letting down by constantly being dragged from class by Jack Crawford, but he truly couldn't just walk away from his home front. From the family he saved and picked out all by himself no matter how exciting it sounded to be by Hannibal's side some where in Europe.

"Also, you do think this as a romance?" Will sounds almost excited, "You don't think of this as romantic, you see us as lovers, don't you?" His eyes soon squinting as he fights back the fainted smirk.

Igor’s expression darkens as he hears the clear insinuation; the words she has perfectly planted – a distasteful combination of vulnerability of victimhood.

“Next victim…” He repeats the words coldly, shaking his head. There are many things he will stand for from Mayven, indeed he has tried to be patient, but he won’t have her twisting the truth to make it sound as if he has brutalised her. Igor knows what it is to be unapologetically brutal.

“…you mean find another woman, procure an apartment for her, sponsor her art, give her full access to my credit…is this the victimhood you speak of Mayven?” The Pakhan’s tone is chastising and he is forced to cross the room away from her to pour himself a drink, one he quickly shoots back before immediately serving himself another. When he turns back towards her, his expression is one that is clearly conflicted. Is he really the one to blame here or are her unrealistic expectations the true culprit?

“You know what I am, you know what I do...

...you cannot knowingly climb into bed with the devil Mayven and then complain when he is unsaintly.”

for   a   brief   moment   she   thinks   about   turning   around   and   fleeing   on   foot,   back   to   her   quiet   apartment,   back   to   denial.   but   she   had   to   see   this   through,   whatever   this   was.   he   had   to   hear   her   out   and   she   needed   him   to   finally   put   her   out   of   misery.   she   had   spent   too   many   hours   crying   over   a   man   who   she   was   sure   wouldn’t   bat   an   eye   if   she   disappeared   and   it   was   truly…   pathetic.   but   he   made   her   feel   special   and   then   he   took   it   away,   then   he   made   her   feel   special   again—   then   just   like   that   he   was   gone   again   and   sending   her   to   voicemail.   

she   lets   out   a   pffft   at   nicholais   comment.   mayven   talking   less?   it   was   unheard   of.   but   she   followed   him,   sitting   down   in   a   matte   leather   chair   while   crossing   her   arms   in   a   defensive   way   as   she   sank   into   the   chair.   she   wasn’t   made   up   as   she   usually   was.   just   her   pajama   bottoms   and   an   old   t-shirt   stained   with   splatters   of   dried   up   paint.   

igor   enters   the   room   and   she’s   filled   with   a   sudden   feeling   of   regret   and   anxiety.   this   was   stupid.   she   looks   up   at   him   from   her   seat   and   shrugs   a   little   at   his   question.            ‘   whatever   game   you’ve   been   playing   with   me.   ’         she   finally   says.           

‘   what   was   the   goal   igor?   you   meet   a   nice   vulnerable   girl   in   the   city   off   her   meds   and   think   —   hmmm   yes   she   seems   like   the   perfect   next   victim   —   ’         she   spoke   in   a   poor   mock   of   a   russian   accent,   trying to   sound   igor-ish.            ‘   does   this   make   you   feel   good?   to   see   me   upset   for   you?   does   this   get   you   off   or   something?   ’

“𝙄  𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀  𝙔𝙊𝙐”  𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙈𝙋𝙏𝙎.  (N.𝙎𝙁.𝙒 𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙄𝙊𝙉.

@etxrnaleclipse sent: [  RAIN  ]: sender reveals their love for the receiver while they’re both standing outside in the pouring rain. (Nigel to Sam!)

At this time of year storms are not usual, but this is one for the history books. The town of Redwood has been plunged into darkness and the roads in and out of town are blocked by fallen trees. High winds continue to cause havoc and now the creek has flooded. Sam’s pulled a 36-hour shift and has just finished housing families displaced by the flood inside the recreation centre, where they’ll be safer. Help from neighbouring forces is expected in the morning. Sam can’t drive to his cabin tonight, the roads are still blocked and so he is forced to walk, keen to make it home and ensure his dog Seamus is safe.

The rain is heavy and persistent and by the time Sam finally reaches the A frame cabin, deep within the forest, he has mud caked up to his knees and is soaked through to his skin. As a bolt of lightning crackles through the sky overhead it ominously illuminates the shadow of a figure standing in his driveway. Instinctively Samuel pulls out his gun, though as he draws closer and recognises that familiar face, he quickly slips it back into his holster with a shiver.

“Nigel.” He breathes, brow furrowing with confusion; why is he here? “Are you…is everything okay?”

Silence sits between them awkwardly, the air heavy with static and a strange sense of anticipation, one that only dissipates when Nigel pulls Sam tightly into his embrace and tells him how worried he was, causing the Sheriff to release a deeply yearning sigh in response. Will it always be like this? Will he always weaken at the knees in the presence of a man who by all rights Sam should have forgotten a long time ago? Closing his eyes Sam allows himself to melt into Nigel’s embrace, unbothered by the storm and the fact they are both now dripping wet. The words Sam wants to speak are caught in his throat, desperate to push forth despite the potential consequences; he doesn't want Nigel to leave.

“Do you want to come inside?”

@wiinestories sent: [ 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 ] - sender and receiver are finally sharing a passionate kiss. [duncan and lorraine] (sorry I HAD to I need to read this sm given their latest interactions hahahah)

Together they lie in silence, their bodies broken from the battle; muscles tense and aching, feeling dehydrated and under nourished. The copper scent of blood remains thick all around them. In truth, Duncan can’t say he’s ever felt so completely used-up, the fact he has stayed conscious at all is frankly a miracle. The threat is close, he can sense it, but there is no wolf at the door; not yet, leaving just enough time for them to try and find sleep. They’ll need to leave in the morning, at this stage that is all Vizla remains certain of.

Rolling over onto his side with a pained groan, Duncan briefly studies Lorraine; he has always admired her strength and tenacious resolve – it is only now that he witnessing the cost of it – the toll it exerts on her. As she finally turns her head to look at him, a strange sensation begins to overcome him; an impulse that is as unexpected as it is urgent - the need to show her some softness amongst all this brutal violence. He is more than a weapon, more than a murderer, more than the man she vowed to see behind bars, yes; he can be more to her - if she’ll let him.

Easing forward slowly, Duncan’s expression making obvious he is seeking permission, he finally tilts his head to softly kiss her, touching Lorraine as if she was the most precious, fragile thing in the world. It would be a lie to say he hasn’t thought about this often, though usually he’s imagined claiming her mouth in the heat of battle, likely with her gun to his head. This, however, is very different – it is gentle and tender, an act of admiration and of comfort, though unmistakably laced with lust. This is reverence and Lorraine is deserving of it.

When Duncan finally opens his eyes, allowing the quenching kiss to break, the room feels different; as if the space between them has been transformed. The air is expectant, as if the silence is waiting to be broken and yet Duncan has no idea what to say. When he finally speaks, it is with a warm smile; “I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time.”

Send “🍻"  for the receiver to take care of an intoxicated sender!

@shelbysdevil sent: 🍻 (for Adelia)

The sound had been subtle at first; someone slowly shuffling past the London townhouse late at night, stumbling slightly against the entry gates. At first Adelia had chosen to ignore it; no sense waking her husband simply because the revelries outside refuse to stop at midnight. She had stayed in bed for several minutes before finally deciding to rise from it, the strange impulse spurred on by some nameless feeling blooming in the centre of her stomach – an intuition she hasn’t felt for a long time.

Tightly pulling her nightgown around her, Adelia quietly tip-toes down the stairs, moving silently towards the kitchen at the rear of the large property. It is the breeze she senses first, cool air travelling through a freshly broken window pane. It is the light of his cigarette that she notices next; caustic smoke mingling with the unmistakably soured scent of gin. She isn’t startled; Adelia would know Tommy anywhere; he carries an unmistakable presence; one with the quality of both safety and of threat.

Lighting some candles, Adelia is finally able to firmly set her sights upon Thomas Shelby; his eyes glitter in the dark, the reflection of the flame flickering in them as he stares directly at her. Even stationary there is a certain swagger about him tonight, one that suggests he’s heavily intoxicated. His hand looks cut from where he smashed the glass, not that he seems remotely concerned about the injury, presumably because he’s already numbed himself to it. How long it has been since they last saw each other she can’t say; Adelia no longer counts the days – it’s simply too painful.

Slowly moving towards him, Adelia gently plucks the half-smoked cigarette from his lips to claim it for herself, before taking a few firm paces back. “You’re drunk.” She states flatly, though clearly without judgement.

“You’re drunk and you’re dripping blood onto my imported Italian porcelain tiles Tommy.”

She offers him a playful smile; they both know Adelia doesn’t give a shit about these tiles, this kitchen, this house…her husband. All represent her trappings – her gilded cage. She misses the days when she could fly free, straight into Thomas’ arms.

“Is everything okay?”