Somehow I could lose myself in the ocean the same way I could lose myself in a good book. Maybe it was because both involved suspension–a suspension of weight, a suspension of disbelief–a willingness to surrender to something greater than oneself.
“stevie…it’s time to-” yawn. “-sleep.” tony murmured, already half into sleep.
“give me 2 more minutes.” steve’s eyes never really leaving the book. he did snuggle closer to the arc reactor for better lighting.
“the arc reactor is not your reading lamp.”
“shh, yes it is. sleep, baby.” steve whispered, flipping the page.
tony did drift off and he didn’t know when he woke back up again but when he did, steve was still up. almost at the end of the book. the clock blinked 1:39 angrily at him.
“alright, steve.” said tony, snatching the book out of steve’s grip, putting a bookmark on it and tossing it to the love seat at the edge of their room. a whine escaped steve which was muffled by a soft kiss. “it’s time to sleep.”
seeing no way out of this one, steve spooned his boyfriend and was left to wonder what would happen to jane eyre later. trying to sleep, he breathed in the smell of tony (who was already off again), watching the reactor dim and brighten.
For a cannibalistic serial killer,
Hannibal Lecter was actually fairly predictable. He woke up before the sun
every morning, ran three miles, performed a calisthenics workout that Will
still didn’t fully understand, showered, and started the day. Every evening,
Hannibal would prepare dinner, read by the fire with a glass of wine, and take
a bath that lasted well over an hour.
After, Hannibal would wander out
onto their shared balcony in a fluffy robe, hair falling over his eyes and strong solid chest peeking beneath the v of his robe - looking like a present to be
unwrapped. Hannibal would knock lightly on Will’s door, framed in the moonlight, like a
vampire seeking a vein, and Will would all but run to the balcony to fling open the
door and welcome him inside. Sitting on Will’s bed, Hannibal would run his hand
through Will’s curls, draw the empath to nestle into the robe, and softly discuss plans for the next day. Occasionally,
Hannibal would murmur into Will’s ear, some little piece of news or
observation, nothing of consequence. But the tone, oh the tone. It made Will’s whole
body feel as though it were vibrating.
That was usually when Will broke,
forfeiting the game by mouthing at the doctor’s neck, or drawing his hands up the plush swell
of Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal would cage his hands, and kiss Will’s fingers
fondly, always managing to catch the tip of a digit in a small nip. Practically
panting and with a tent in his boxers, Will would watch helplessly as the
doctor wished him a good evening and pressed a chaste kiss to Will’s curls.
Hannibal always held Will’s hands until he moved from the bed, quelling any
attempt to grab or grapple at him. The cannibal then egressed into the shadows
like the product of some fever dream that visited Will all those years ago in
Will would be up for hours after that.
Horny, pissed, and too keyed up to sleep. He would burn his energy off by
planning elaborate seductions, composing and burning love notes (just in case
Hannibal checked his trash), and studying the Lithuanian phrase book he had
special ordered five months ago from the bookshop in town.
getting obnoxious, frankly; though he could now say “blue balls” in
English, Spanish, and Lithuanian. He just wanted a good night’s sleep, in a
nice bed, with Hannibal on top of him. Was that really so much to ask?
Tired of the
nightly tease, Will decided that he could make a tableau of his own to impress
his hesitant cannibal. Will knew the best time to strike was during Hannibal’s
evening ablutions. So he gathered every candle in the house and waited.