She/He 🏳️🌈🫡 Middle aged actress enthusiast. Goofy for The X Files & Hannibal.
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How about some middle-aged reflections on the early days of their (romantic/sexual) relationship?
They’re spreading mulch around the trees, tucking flowerbeds in for winter. The air is crisp and dry, sharpened by the pungent smell of the mulch.
“Got the Stanford alumni newsletter yesterday,” Scully says. “Guess who their new entomology professor is.”
He frowns back, puzzled. Her tone indicates that the answer is one he should get. Does he know any entomologists?
Mulder starts to shake his head. “I have no-“
He sees her face, the smirk she’s trying hide, and then he remembers. “Nooooo,” he says, drawing the word out with a laugh. “Bambi?”
“Bambi,” she confirms, grinning now. “Did you sleep with her? I honestly can’t remember.”
“No!” He’s a bit shocked that she thought this. He’d kind of wanted to though, he recalls. Little khaki shorts.
Scully rolls her eyes. “Oh, sorry to impugn your virtue.”
Mulder offers her a petulant look. “You make it sound like I was Wilt Chamberlain-ing my way through every case.”
She leans against the big sycamore, scoffs. “You’re mighty defensive there, Marty.”
He grins back. “Judge away. You weren’t putting out yet. Not to me, anyway.”
Scully laughs. “We were so young.”
“We were so young.”
She rolls her palms around the rake handle, her beautiful slim fingers with oval nails like the inside of a seashell. She’d been pretty back then, he thinks. Lovely. But now she’s ethereal, refined to some radiant essence.
“I think….hmm. I think some part of me really felt that if you and I followed the rules then everyone else had to as well, you know?” Her expression is a little wistful. A little sad.
He does know. “I like to think it made it that much sweeter in the end.”
“It did. I loved you so…so….purely. I remember when you made it to that Congressional hearing. I think I was done then. The rest was just waiting to happen.” She laughs, a little shy even now.
“You were like Beatrice,” he says to her, adoringly, in the honeyed light. “Come to lead me into Paradise.”
Scully drops the rake, walks over to take his hands in hers. “Is this heaven?” she asks, gazing up.
Mulder smiles back, squeezes her cool little fingers. The wind chimes on the deck ripple like harp strings. The sun makes a halo on her tawny head.
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Happy Birthday to one of my favorite writers!! I hope it was a good one. If you’re still doing drabbles my one word prompt to you is “funfetti” because that is synonymous with birthday imo 🥳
Thank you so much!
Between them, William sleeps fitfully, his scrawny colt-like leg poking out of the covers and twitching into Scully’s ankle. He is almost as tall as she is. Mulder had moved a nightlight into the bedroom when the boy had come in at 2 am, complaining of a sore throat. In the weak light, Scully can see a sheen of fever-sweat over his brow. It’s almost time for Ibuprofen.
He’d shown no tell-tale signs of impending illness earlier in the day, was full of the boundless energy of 9, and had spent the morning holed up with Mulder in the garage tinkering with the old lawnmower. He’d asked for a triple-decker PB&J for lunch and then begged Scully to help him make funfetti cupcakes even though he still had grease under his fingernails. He’d somehow convinced Mulder to let him eat four. If anything she’d have guessed an upset stomach, but here they are with what is likely strep.
From William’s other side Mulder sighs in his sleep, shifting on the narrow bit of mattress not taken over by his son. A moment later, Scully hears the same gentle sigh from William. Then it’s a sniff, then a cough, and then a feeble “Mom?”
“Shh, it’s okay.” She reaches out to feel his forehead, then the soft, taut skin of his back. The fever is still there, but low grade. “It’s time for Ibuprofen,” she says softly, unable to keep herself from sliding her hand up his back to finger the ducktail of hair at the base of his skull.
“Okay,” the boy says. He’s old enough to take pills but still prefers the cherry stuff.
“I’ll get it,” Mulder rumbles, and slides out of bed, coming back a minute later holding the little cup. He clicks on his bedside light then throws a tee shirt over the top of it when Will squints uncomfortably at the brightness.
In the hazy, muted light, the boy sits up and throws back the medicine.
“I have Little League tomorrow.”
Scully glances at the clock. 5:45. He has Little League today.
“I’ll call your coach,” she says, already cataloging the other things she needs to do: schedule an appointment with the pediatrician, call the school, see if Barr can take her 9:00 am autopsy.
“But we’re playing the Blue Jays,” the boy whines. “They need my bat.” His last word is cut off by a short burst of coughing.
“It’s still spring ball, bud,” Mulder says gently. “You guys aren’t going to miss the playoffs if you miss one game.”
“They'll lose without me,” he says sullenly.
The boy is probably right, but arguing the statistical probability of a win or loss of the Farr’s Corner U-10 Tigers without William Mulder’s bat is not something she’s willing to get into before 6:00 am.
“You need to try to get some more sleep,” she says.
The boy settles back into the pillows unhappily.
Mulder turns off the light and pulls on the tee shirt that was covering it and Scully thinks about the bulb-warmed fabric sliding over his skin.
He comes around to her side of the bed and squeezes her elbow with a smile and then shuffles down the dusty hallway toward the kitchen.
Beside her, William turns over and sighs into her arm, his body going gradually limp with sleep. The clock beside her flicks another minute higher, then another.
She smells the warm tang of coffee and the boy beside her shifts and the sky turns the barest pink and the Earth spins, spins, spins.
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Remnants
Everything that’s left of her broken dreams is standing at the counter, returning her smile.
Rated: PG
Length: 1k
Notes: Post-episode for Per Manum
Originally posted on AO3 1/6/2016
~*~
The apartment is shrouded in gray when she returns, the last of her hopes printed on an appointment summary in her coat pocket. Upon seeing her face, he wishes he’d thought to turn on a light, so she wouldn’t have to come home to more darkness, his slumbering form on the couch not enough to fill this newfound emptiness.
“It didn’t take, did it?”
Disappointment shines in her eyes. Forehead to forehead, he waits until her breathing is calm to offer something more substantial than a promise, but the warmth of her skin under his fingers disarms him, gives him pause.
His hands cradle her face as their lips touch for only the second time, her arms wind around his neck like an anchor, pulling him down into her sorrowful sea.
~*~
Dr. Parenti’s delivery was kind, but she felt the news like a gunshot. It’s worse than Emily, this intangible loss. Failure hasn’t washed away the image of a young girl with auburn hair and almond eyes, or a boy with a shy, quirked smile.
She loves them, the ghosts of her unborn children and all they represented: The intimacy of family life, ringing laughter and a mantle lined with photographs.
A child’s cry cutting through the night, hushed lullabies and the love-drunk smell of a downy newborn head.
Saturday morning cartoons followed by pancakes and bacon, spilled milk and syrup-sticky fingers.
The stillness of reality plays a harsh contrast to her imagination as she listens to the silence of what could have been.
~*~
He wants to punch a hole through her pristine apartment wall. He wants to hunt down the faceless men who did this to her and kill them with his bare hands, until he’s bloody and sore and near death himself. He wants to run, to put miles and years between them, until his bad luck can’t touch her any more.
Sometimes he wishes he’d never followed when she tried to resign from the Bureau, that he wasn’t so chickenshit as to ask her to stay after paying the price for her loyalty several times over.
He’d signed away his rights, but the thing that makes his face burn and his stomach clench with shame, is that he’d wanted this for himself as much as her. Selfish bastard, he thinks. Still a chickenshit.
So he steels himself, grits his teeth and holds her until she pulls away. He takes her hand, leads her to the couch, offers to make tea.
He’ll stay, because he doesn’t have the courage to let her go.
He’ll stay, because he doesn't have the right to mourn what was never his to lose.
~*~
Mulder is opening cupboards, running water. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, he washes the dishes and waits for the kettle, then swipes at his forehead, leaving a trail of suds across one cheek. The sight brings an unexpected smile to her lips.
Her heart sinks with the enormity of her grief and the weight of too many unspoken words. Everything that’s left of her broken dreams is standing at the counter, returning her smile.
He settles on the opposite end of the couch, letting the mug warm his hands. She stares into hers for a few minutes before taking a slow sip, closing her eyes. When she opens them, she’s looking at him with an expression he’s seen only once before in real life, and too many times to count in recent fantasy.
“I love you.”
He blinks. His mouth must hang open, because she’s smiling at him now, a sad, tired smile.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she murmurs, hiding what’s left of her pride in her cup.
~*~
“What would you have done?” she asks. If it had worked, she doesn’t have to say.
“I’d have asked you on a date.”
She pauses to steady her cup on the coffee table, the tea sloshing in her startled hands. “A date?”
“You know—nice clothes, awkward conversation, an expensive wine list, at one of those places that mixes the salad dressing while you watch.”
“Really.”
“Really,” he returns, ducking his head.
“You’d ask your newly impregnated, platonic friend and colleague on an honest-to-goodness date.”
His smile is embarrassed enough to be convincing. “Yeah. I, uh…I thought…if I could give you…give you that…”
He stops, frowns. Her throat is tight when she finally breaks the silence. “Give me what?”
The tea goes cold before he can answer.
~*~
He wakes with a sore neck and Scully’s nose pressed into his hip, a throw tangled around her shoulders. The Late Late Show plays in the background, casting muted shadows on the walls.
She stirs when he stretches, blinking up at him from beneath sleep-addled lashes, as if seeing him for the first time. He wonders if this is what it’s like to hold a newborn; heart filled to bursting with terrifying awe.
“Mulder?”
“I’m here,” he murmurs, stroking the hair from her temple. “Sorry I woke you.”
“Mmph,” she says, her breath warming his abdomen through his t-shirt. “S’OK. I should get up, anyway.”
He nods in agreement, drawing his thumb gently along the plane of her cheek, but neither of them move for a long time.
~*~
She emerges from the bathroom just as he’s finished washing the mugs. Bare feet peek out from oversized silk pajamas, and she surprises herself, wrapping her arms around his waist before she can lose her nerve.
“I’ll stay, if you want,” he murmurs, and she loves him for offering so she doesn’t have to ask.
She loves him for so many reasons. Someday she’ll count the ways, line them up, and tuck them away; programmed, categorized, and easily referenced.
“I’d like that,” she says instead, words muffled by the thrum of his heart.
~*~
She fits perfectly in the circle of his arms, the way he always imagined she would. He times his breathing to the rise and fall of her chest and whispers a blessing into her hair.
“I wanted more for you, Scully.”
Her arms tighten around him, but she doesn't answer.
He holds what little hope is shared between them, and prays that it's enough.
~*~
cc @today-in-fic
#screaming crying throwing up#the x-files#mulder x scully#fanfic#txf#dana scully#fox mulder#the x files
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Self love is not always easy. It can be challenging and not fun at the time, but your future self will thank you!
Chibird store | Positive pin club | Instagram
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Bedannibal + text posts
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Bedannibal Headcannons
(For the two people that wanted it lol)
1. Hannibal makes a point to celebrate Bedelias birthday even if she doesn't want to. But he won't tell her when his own birthday is. It's probably on some document somewhere, but Bedelia can not find it for the life of her, and she's very annoyed about it.
2. Most of the framed art in Bedelias home is Hannibals work.
3. If Hannibal does something to upset Bedelia, he doesn't apologize verbally. When he realized she's upset, he instead cooks one of her favorite meals.
4. Banter is their most common form of communication.
5. They do not have a set 'date night'. They just go out whenever they feel like it. Which ends up being at least twice a week.
6. Hannibal has a secret file folder hidden in his desk that's just full of drawings he's done of Bedelia from over the years.
7. Whenever Bedelia buys a new perfume, if Hannibal doesn't like it, he either gets rid of it, or hides it on her, so she's forced to keep using the ones he likes.
8. Bedelia hates long car rides, so Hannibal often goes with her and volunteers to drive.
9. Bedelia sometimes leaves him buisness cards on his kitchen counter. Though it's rare and she only does so in extreme cases of 'rudeness'.
10. Both Bedelia and Hannibal prefer to show eachother how they feel, rather than tell.
11. Bedelias bathwater is the temperature of the sun, while Hannibals showers are maybe lukewarm at best. He doesn't understand how she can handle water so hot and not turn into soup, and she wonders why he won't get in the tub with her.
12. They're both early risers, although Bedelia usually is the first one awake, she just tends to stay in bed until Hannibal is also awake.
13. Hannibal orders/makes gourmet chocolates in all of Bedelias favorite flavors during her period.
14. They each have a spare outfit or two at the others home for when they stay the night.
15. Hannibal taught Bedelia how to ballroom dance in her living room at 2am while they both heavily indulged in wine.
16. Whenever Bedelias Psychiatric works got published, she would sign a copy and have it hand delivered to Hannibals office. More than a few may or may not have lipstick marks on the front page.
17. They shared quite a few hotel rooms together while attending Psychiatric conventions/talks.
18. Hannibal has a small touch up make up kit in his glovebox for Bedelia.
19. Bedelia only owns one pair of shoes that isn't a heel of some type, and it's a pair of ballet flats Hannibal gave her.
20. When Bedelia first tried to refer Hannibal to another psychiatrist, he did the equivalent of the "It's funny how you think death will get you out of this relationship". Meme.
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I don't really blame you for being dead
///
but you can't have your sweater back.
—richard siken
hey. hey guess what. more siken. i experienced extreme amounts of pain making this, so hopefully you will too.
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::presses call button:: “Nurse!! I’m thinking about Bedelia gently cleaning and suturing Hannibal’s wounds again!!”
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another pregnant fic request! Bedelia is heavily pregnant. She's super clingy to Hannibal (in her own way) and then some days she just despises him. And Hannibal's just super confused but of course, he understands what's up (hormones!)
parents bedannibal parents bedannibal parents bedannibal im so normal
—
Bedelia props herself up against the pillows, huffing uncomfortably. Hannibal has been awake since seven or so, and it’s coming on nine and Bedelia has no intentions of getting out of bed for at least another hour.
He’s clattering in the kitchen, and it sets her jaw on edge. She isn’t usually quick to anger, but she’s uncomfortable and hormonal, and all but ready to snap. She makes a conscious effort not to snap at him — his intentions are always good. But he’s making it royally difficult.
She closes her eyes, exhaling slowly and resting her hand on the swell of her stomach. Bedelia falls into a light sleep, before she wakes to a dip in the bed. She opens one eye, and meets Hannibal’s attentive gaze.
“Good morning,” he says, leaning in to kiss her. She turns her cheek slightly.
“Mm. Not until I’ve brushed my teeth.”
Hannibal doesn’t react, but simply kisses her forehead and sits back.
“How do you feel?”
Bedelia huffs, her hand resting at the base of her belly. Just gone eight months pregnant. She’s hardly overjoyed. Naturally, she’s anticipating motherhood. She’s thrilled, really. She never thought much of being a mother until she fell pregnant, and she didn’t have it in her to pass on the opportunity. Her own mother was neglectful and cold, and she saw this as an opportunity to be better.
Still, she’s always been slight, and this has taken an immense toll on her body. With the backache, and the soreness. Her hormones scattered, and the weight gain, and the preparations. It’s driving her insane.
“I’m fine. Tired,” she says, closing her eyes and exhaling.
“Understandable,” Hannibal says gently, his thumb caressing her shoulder. “How is the back pain? Any nausea? It’s perfectly normal to feel run down.”
“I’m fine, Hannibal,” she snaps, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I understand what’s normal, because I’m the one carrying a child. I do not need to be coddled. I’m pregnant, not an invalid.”
She’s a live wire at this point. The pregnancy has been hard enough with her age, and she’s never liked to be fussed over. She’s made it this far alone, and she has no intention of being pandered to now.
Hannibal chooses not to argue with her. She assumes it’s because he’s attuned to her moods by now, but she partly wishes he’d argue back for once.
“I understand that, Bedelia,” he says, not an ounce of anger in his voice. “Your body is creating a new life. You are far from an invalid. But you know that I worry about you. I don’t want you to keep things from me, now or at any other point.”
“Yes, and I told you, I’m perfectly fine.”
Hannibal purses his lips, and he lifts his chin slightly. He stands, pushing back her hair and pressing a kiss to her hairline. Bedelia bites her tongue.
“I’ll be in my study, should you need anything.”
As he turns to leave, Bedelia exhales and reaches for his hand. She doesn’t look at him — she’s too stubborn for that.
“Mm. Stay a minute. My back is…acting up,” she says, and while her back is always aching these days, that was simply an excuse to keep him around.
Hannibal settles onto the bed beside her, and she shifts herself closer to him. His chin rests atop her head, his hand settling on her swollen stomach.
“I don’t mean to be short with you, darling,” she admits with a sigh, clearing her throat and resting her hand over his. “I’m…agitated. More so than usual.”
Hannibal nestles his nose in her hair, closing his eyes.
“You have nothing to apologise for,” he says, his free hand thumbing at the hair at the nape of her neck. “A little while longer, and things will balance out.”
“Mm,” she hums in concurrence, resting her head against his shoulder. “I feel enormous. I can’t stand it.”
“I’d prefer not to argue with you,” he starts. “But that, I cannot agree with. You’ve never looked so beautiful.”
“You’re obliged to say that. I might very well break down if you don’t.”
“You know as well as I do that I rarely say things I don’t mean.”
“Stop talking,” she mumbles, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you.”
Hannibal holds her that bit closer.
“And I you.”
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Would you consider a follow up to your Bedelia single mom PPD fic where maybe it’s 6 weeks after the baby was born and the baby smiles at her for the first time and her heart melts and she deals with all those emotions but realizes her and her daughter are gonna be ok?
ohhhh absolutely <3
—
Drizzle dashes against the window of Bedelia’s London apartment, the sky overcast and grey. She’s as settled as she can be, her expensive, chic furniture clashing with the baby clothes on the drying rack and the changing table in the corner.
It’s been a slow, agonising six weeks. Midnight feeds and total disconnect from the baby she carried for almost nine months. She’d went into labour early and alone, but no amount of complaining would change that fact.
She didn’t neglect her daughter, not in the slightest. She woke with her every time she cried, and cradled her close, but most days it felt as though she was somebody else’s child completely. Until she’d watch her, and her little face would change and look shockingly like her father’s.
Her sleep has been rough. Her nipples chapped and sore, her body and hormones entirely out of whack. Those were all problems she’d have to handle at another point in time.
The only thing her daughter will sleep to is Bach. How very predictable, she thinks. Hannibal would be delighted, but she reminds herself that he is no longer in the picture and never will be again.
The quiet music drifts through the room that seems just too big for a mother and child, and Bedelia finds herself on the brink of sleep before her daughter begins to squirm and fuss in her arms.
She shifts, suddenly alert, and rubs her daughter’s back soothingly. “It’s alright,” she murmurs, rocking her gently. “No tears, baby. It’s alright.”
The baby blinks curiously up at her mother, her toes wiggling and her long eyelashes batting up at her. Her whines and whimpers settle, and Bedelia holds out her finger. The baby wraps her own tiny pink hand around it, and a gummy, rosy-cheeked smile appears on her face.
Bedelia’s heart stops for the briefest of moments, and she swallows the suffocating burst of emotion.
“Ohhh, look at you,” she whispers, a choked up laugh escaping her. Suddenly everything seems to sharpen, and click into place.
Her daughter continues to beam at her mother. Innocent. She knows nothing but the warmth and protection of her mother, and Bedelia exhales sharply.
This is her daughter, despite trials and tribulations and unfortunate circumstances. This is her baby girl, and if she doesn’t protect her, nobody will. Her heart aches in her chest, and she leans down to press her lips to her daughter’s soft, tiny head.
“Beautiful thing,” she whispers, tears spilling down over her cheeks unwillingly. “My darling girl.”
Her daughter refuses to let go of her mother’s finger, and it’s clear to Bedelia that it is, and likely always will be, the two of them against the rest of the world. And she’s learning to accept that, as hard as it may be. She will survive, as she always has, and she will, in some way, be a good mother.
That’s what is left for her, and her heart aches less with every passing day.
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After watching the first episode of The Fall I was so aroused by Stella Gibson that my girlfriend and I had sex so hard I broke the bed frame
Gillian Anderson as Stella Gibson, ‘The Fall’ S2
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how to talk to short people
I'm chasing the vibe I attempted to portray here and here, so I guess all these paintings could be viewed as a series now
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Bedannibal, but protective Bedannibal(and Angsty). How so? Well, it's a tad bit uncomfortable but, I've always imagined Bedelia's past to be a bit "Lolita-esque". Why? Well, I took inspo by Gill having red hair in the X-files, and Bedelia's unknown past. How about this, they're in Florence, and one of the old men at the Galas, tells Bedelia she looks so much like a girl he once knew and "loved". Leading her to a panic attack, because that very man was a friend of her father's whom was..foul. Quite literally, foul towards her. And that's when Hannibal finds out through her and we have Protective and Angry Hannibal at hands. If it surpasses your comfort zone with writing it's okay, you don't have to write a thing. Have a good day💘
thank you so much for the ask! this is a HEAVY one but i wanted to explore this and tried to do so as delicately as possible. i hope i handled it appropriately, and if anyone has any issues do let me know.
please do mind the tags and the subject matter!
—
The room is bustling with people. Academics, high society, old money and new. Lively chatter echoes throughout the hall, and Bedelia, as always, is standing by Hannibal’s side with a champagne flute in hand.
He’s engaged in some deep, philosophical discussion with a man who seems to think he’s much greater than he is. Hannibal is surprisingly tolerant this evening. Perhaps the man doesn’t irk him as much as she assumes.
A hand brushes her lower back, and for a moment, she assumes it’s Hannibal. Upon turning to cast a look over her shoulder, she’s faced with nothing but the crowd.
Bedelia takes a hearty sip of her champagne, happy enough to smile and offer intelligent insight when she’s spoken to. Hannibal lives for events such as these, but Bedelia is much more private, and intimate. Her deep emerald gown clings to her, and she’s noticed Hannibal’s almost hungry glances throughout the evening. She’ll be lucky if this dress makes it back to its hanger.
Midway through her swig of champagne, she feels a hand settle on her waist. It isn’t Hannibal’s, she knows that. Bedelia turns on her heel to be faced with a man in his seventies or eighties. Portly, and smelling of brandy and cigars. Her stomach churns.
“Forgive me for saying,” he says, clearly not sober or decorous. “But you bear a striking resemblance to a girl I loved once. Right down to the lips.”
Her throat tightens.
“I’m sorry, but I’m sure you’re mistaken,” she manages with a tight smile. She swallows the urge to bring up her dinner.
“Du Maurier, her name was. What a peach she was,” he says, his hand still groping at her waist. “Sweet little mouth, too. My god, she knew how to please a man. The sounds she’d make…”
At this, Hannibal turns his cheek ever so slightly. Not fast enough to raise suspicion, but enough to listen in. Bedelia grips the stem of her wine glass, and the feeling of his hand on her waist burns right down to her skin.
She shakes her head.
“I—no. Fell. Lydia Fell.”
She feels herself struggling for breath as she tries to spit out her words. Every nauseating feeling of hands groping and squeezing at her, every sleazy, vile comment rasped in her ear. Her stomach turns over, her hands beginning to lock up. And the shame, the sickness, the fear—
Hannibal is still talking. He’s on high alert, but he cannot afford to snap in a place like this. His eyes don’t move from the pompous academic from before, but he senses something isn’t quite right.
“Pity,” the man says. “I was hoping I might’ve found her for an encore.”
With that, his hand slips and grabs a deft handful of her rear.
She thinks she might vomit then and there.
“Excuse me,” she says, her voice small and soft. She kicks herself for that.
Bedelia leaves the hall as fast as her heels will allow, her hands beginning to lock up and her heart feeling as though it might just stop. The tears are inevitable, and they pour over her cheeks as she stumbles her way to somewhere, anywhere that isn’t that room. She holds herself up against the wall of a secluded corridor, her back pressed flush against it.
Her breaths come in short, ragged gasps, choking on every other inhale. She believes she may be dying, despite every rational thought telling her otherwise. Her chest heaves with sobs, nails scratching at the prim wallpaper beneath her fingers.
Her eyes close, as though squeezing them as tight as possible could rid her of every vile thing that ever happened to her. Her ears are ringing, and so she doesn’t notice the sound of footsteps on the floor.
She feels a hand on her arm, and she yanks it away, almost as if the touch alone had scalded her.
“Don’t fucking touch me—!”
“Bedelia.”
Hannibal. Of course. She doesn’t have the strength to fight against him, and he draws her into his arms. She hasn’t felt so small in decades. Her body is wracked with sobs as he cradles the back of her head, his lips pressed to her hairline.
“I need you to breathe. Slowly.”
She gasps against him, her legs weak beneath her.
“I was sixteen,” is all she can say, her voice hoarse and weak. “Sixteen.”
While she doesn’t see his face, she feels him tighten. Something in him shifts, and he holds her impossibly closer. She confirmed what she assumes he already suspected. Bedelia leans her weight against him, her legs giving out. He follows her to the floor, as undignified as it might be, and he holds her. He doesn’t let go for a moment.
“My darling, you have to breathe,” he whispers, his hand finding hers. His thumb rubs circles into her palms, feeling that they’re locked up and taut. “I’ve got you. You know that you’re safe with me, Bedelia. You will always be safe with me.”
Her sobs begin to quiet, until she’s left trembling in his arms. The nausea doesn’t leave, and the best she can do is draw her knees to her chest and grasp at sleeve of his jacket.
She’s in her forties, and she should be better equipped to handle this. She is a psychiatrist. She is a grown woman, and she should be well past the days of this bothering her, but she simply cannot stomach the churning feeling of shame.
Hannibal’s nose buries into her blonde hair, and his fingers run down over his arms.
“I’ll handle it,” is all he says, but it comes out as an oath. A vow. His voice is strained, and she almost hears his anger seep out of it.
If she were thinking rationally, she might protest. Tell him that he cannot be reckless, and they cannot afford to be messy.
She shakes her head.
“No,” she whispers hoarsely. “I’ll do it.”
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another steamy dom/sub bedannibal fic. go nuts.
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