brandy snifters

Headcanon Wednesday: Multispecies Drinking Vessels

Or: So Why Does Everyone Drink Out Of Those Tube Things?

Everyone knows that certain drinks are just made for certain drinking vessels. Under most circumstances Kaidan’s Canadian lager would be served in the bottle or, for preference, in a pint glass; Kasumi’s pink martini in a martini glass; Chakwas’ stiff morning tea in a mug—and her brandy in a snifter. This is no less true for nonhumans: Liara drinks shaline—the mildly stimulant beverage she developed a taste for while studying at the university of Serrice—from its traditional wide shallow bowl, and tiru, a sweet liqueur, from a narrow flower-shaped cup. And for preference Grunt drinks his ryncol from a ladle-shaped vessel traditionally made from the polished shoulderplate of the chitinous urmox (although, since the urmox is nearly extinct, most modern ryncol cups are made from plastics). (The fact that the ladle-cup’s design makes it impossible either to set it down or to pass it around without spilling means that a serving of ryncol must be tossed back in a single huge gulp… which, as anyone will tell you, is the only way to drink ryncol anyway.)

But if you go to a multispecies bar, pub, cafe, restaurant, or other watering hole, you’re unlikely to see this variety of drinkware. Instead, whether you buy water or beer or tea or a margarita or shaline or tiru or ryncol or something else entirely, it’ll probably come to you in the same container: a long, narrow, transparent cylinder, capped on both ends. This is true on multispecies settlements such as the Citadel, Omega, and Ilium, as well as in the business and tourist districts of single-species homeworlds and colonies—basically, anywhere that might have any appreciable multispecies traffic. In all these places, chances are good that your drink, whatever it is, will be served to you in a tube.

Why?

The short answer: because turians don’t have lips.

The longer answer:

Until turians joined the Citadel Council in the 700s CE, asari glassware tended to dominate multispecies eating places. Asari were culturally extremely inflential—still are, as far as that goes—and, more to the point, there was no reason their drinking vessels couldn’t be used by other species. Salarians have mouths compatible with asari glasses and bowls, as do batarians, quarians, and krogans; elcor can drink from asari drinkware as well with the simple addition of a straw. While there are culturally-specific bowls and glasses, anyone with lips can use an asari glass if that’s all that’s available, and so, due to the cultural influence of Citadel culture, asari drinkware became the default.

But then turians joined the Citadel races—and, in fairly short order thanks to the Krogan Rebellions, joined the Council. And turians don’t have lips; moreover, their facial plates don’t even close completely at the back. While their mandibles shield their teeth from view, they don’t actually create a watertight seal. If a turian attempts to drink out of the cups or bowls used by other species, the liquid will tend to spill out between their teeth—wasting the drink and making a giant mess. (A turian drinking very carefully indeed can drink out of a standard human, asari, or salarian glass or bowl… but who going to the bar for a pint is drinking that carefully?)

On their own homeworld, turians developed two types of drinking vessels. The most formal is a wide, deep bowl, almost a basin, in which a turian submerges their mouth deeply enough to be able to drink without worrying about spillage at the sides. (Since turian plates are water-resistant, a turian doesn’t have to worry about the drink staining their faces.) This is mostly used in ritual occasions and banquets. The more convenient daily-use turian drinking vessel is a narrow tube, which can be pushed back far enough in the mouth that liquid can’t splash out the edges or between their teeth. (Because the turian equivalents of trachea and esopahgus are more separated than in, say, humans, the risk of choking from drinking in this fashion are very low.) Most turian drinks, both mass-produced and drunk casually in homes and workplaces, are served in these long, narrow tubes. Commercial drinks are sold pre-packaged in the same tubes, capped and sealed on both ends.

During the Krogan Rebellions, turians swiftly (and with the enthusiastic blessing of asari and salarians) took over Citadel military and police forces; since turians can’t drink standard asari or salarian drinking bottles or other vessels, but asari and salarians can drink out of turian drink tubes, the standard water ration was quickly switched to mass-produced drink tubes for convenience.

When the turians became the third Council race, use of turian drinking tubes spread even farther. Being a Council race confers a certain status, and increasing numbers of places will try to accommodate species with that status. Bars and restaurants willing to keep multiple specialized types of drinkware for various species and types of drinks added turian drinking tubes to their inventories. Bars and restaurants that didn’t want to bother slowly began to outright replace their existing drinkware with the tubes. After all, other species could easily drink out of those tubes, and it was the only thing that turians could reliably drink out of, so the most efficient thing was to serve everything in the tubes. Over time, the turian drinking tubes became more and more common. By the present time, they are ubiquitous: unless a bar is the kind of place to keep dozens of kinds of glasses for each possible drink, chances are good you’ll get your drink in a tube.

(Matriarch Aethyta can wax eloquent on this topic if you ask her. She still keeps a small stock of specialized glassware for asari tiru and iaen, salarian din’dha and mel, batarian kha, and krogan ryncol… but she only uses them if someone asks, which almost never happens; otherwise she uses the tubes. Hell, somewhere in the back of her cabinet is the thin, elegant blown-glass flute used for quarian xaenor, and god knows no quarian could drink from that glass now even if they wanted to, what with the face mask and all. But she had a quarian friend back in the day, and she can’t quite bring herself to throw it out. She pours everything into the standard tubes now, unless asked, but she won’t pretend that there isn’t something lost.)

Prepackaged commercial beverages now generally come bottled directly in the tubes, stored in heating or cooling units to keep each tube at the exact proper serving temperature. Barristas brewing fresh shaline, tea, or coffee will pour it into a tube unless asked otherwise—and bartenders serving a cocktail will shake it up right in the tube in which they intend to serve it. Asari sip the tubes; salarians use their long tongues to slurp out the content; young krogans with something to prove crunch the whole thing up (the biodegradable shell might cause them mild digestive discomfort but won’t hurt them). Quarian sterilizers and suit intakes are standardized to accommodate the common sizes of turian drink tubes. Humans new to the galactic scene teach themselves to sip a drink tube as if it were natural, and feel very cosmopolitan when they manage. And turians—who invented the tubes by necessity—knock the drinks back with practiced ease.

It is too early in the day to be presented with text which has no understanding of the possessive apostrophe, thinks that sentence length bullet points don’t need full stops, and is scattered with abbreviations our visitors won’t understand out of context.

It it too early to chuck a snifter of brandy in my coffee?

Originally posted by toqaahmed

A Favor

Camille wasn’t that familiar with the Raen woman that approached his table, but he at least knew her peripherally. They resided within the same company, and occasionally ate lunch at the same time. They were night and day; Camille in his black overcoat and hat and the woman in next to nothing. She could be mistaken for a dancer, if one missed the toning in her musculature.

She sat down across from him and set her brandy snifter on the table, but didn’t let go of it. “Hey. Camille. It’s Camille, right?” Her voice was smooth and sultry, like coffee with the faintest hint of sweet cream. She was little, but Camille wasn’t fooled. He’d seen her kill a man with two fingers.

“Yes. And I know you. What brings you to me with such a serious expression?”

“I’m on a case. One I think you’ll be mighty interested in.” Her eyes met his, and she pursed her lips. “Dangerous, though.”

Camille sighed. “Of course it is. Go on then.”

“Got some people you know of and have danced with in the past. Need to look into them to see exactly how dirty they are.” She fixed Camille with a knowing gaze and he understood immediately.

“Very dirty. But I suppose you need proof,” he muttered, leaning forward. “I can already tell you I’m in. I just have a few questions…”

Sleepwalker, Dream Talker || Hannigram

Late evening had drawn in over Baltimore, Hannibal Lecter had settled himself for the night in front of the fire in his living room with one of his old leather bound books. Having dined alone and washed the dishes by hand, the good doctor had sat down in his wing backed chair with a snifter of brandy and one of his expensively branded cigarettes - a rare treat he still allowed himself from time to time when he was sure not to be caught in the act. Dressed immaculately but more relaxed or the time of day, doctor Lecter wore black slacks, a teal blue button down shirt and a grey waistcoat - earlier in the day he had removed his suit jacket and silk tie and folded them over the back of the chair opposite him.

Flicking the ash of his cigarette into the crystal ashtray upon the side table next to his chair, Hannibal took a sip of his drink and adjusted his position before turning the page in his book, continuing his reading; he had set himself the very attainable goal of 300 pages before retiring to bed for the night, with no need for his usual nightly activities (the freezer had been fully restocked just the week before) Hannibal had no need to do anything but enjoy his quiet life at home.

Me, yesterday: *is low class buffoon*
Me, today after reading a single book: *Runs hand along a mahogany bookshelf* Ah yes… *Gazes around my study, gently puffing on a pipe* Many classical scholars agree with me that Bella’s journey from human to vampire- *Gingerly swirls chocolate milk around the rim of my brandy snifter* mirrors the Orpheus’ descent down to the underworld and back out. Truly, the masters never cease to amaze us.

Fic: Untitled 1/1

I probably don’t know tastyrepulsorboots well enough to blame this on her, do I? But she was talking about polyamorous soulmates and what a jerk Howard is and then this happened so you guys can draw your own conclusions.

(It’s totally your fault, I hope you like it)

Title: Untitled Soulmate Fic
Pairings: Peggy/Steve/Bucky, Tony/Steve/Bucky, unrequited Howard/Steve, Howard/Maria
Summary: Howard Stark never had a soulmate. Not one he would ever accept. 
Warnings: internalized homophobia (NOT STEVE), class discrimination, imperfect soulmates

Thank you to ylixia and kahn-on-tumblr for beta reading! 

*****

Howard Stark was born with a man’s name etched into his skin. It’s a bold, sloppy cursive, more a scrawl than a proper signature, but it is undeniably a man’s name on the inside of his right ankle.

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6

Skyfall cocktails part II

“M”

Plymouth Gin, a drink as English as the Union Jack and bulldogs, is not for the fainthearted. But mixed with lime juice and dry vermouth it becomes an elegant cocktail.

1. Pour the ingredients into a mixing glass with several ice cubes.

2. Stir well.

3. Strain into a chilled old-fashioned glass filled with ice.

4. Garnish with the maraschino cherry.

“Mallory”

A very simple in preparation but exquisitely aristocratic cocktail.

1. Build the ingredients into a brandy snifter.

2. Stir and serve.

“Tanner”

An unsophisticated but  truly relaxing cocktail after a stressful week.

1. Pour the Guinness into a pint glass or beer mug.

2. Top with the cola.

“Q”

A vegan variation of the eggnog, perfect for people who don’t have time to drink except for the holiday season.

The ingredients for 10 servings (in case of spending holidays at work in Q-department):

21 oz extra-firm silken tofu

2 cups soymilk

2/3 cup turbinado sugar, light brown sugar, or sucanat (or use ½ cup honey or 1 cup alternate liquid sweetener)

¼ tsp salt

1 cup cold water

1 cup rum

4 ½ tsp vanilla extract

20 ice cubes

Nutmeg

1. Place the crumbled tofu and soymilk in a blender with the sugar and salt.

2. Blend until very smooth.

3. Scrape this into a large bowl or pitcher, and whisk in the water, rum and vanilla.

4. Mix well, cover, and refrigerate until serving time.

5. To serve, blend half of the mixture in the blender with 10 of the ice cubes until frothy.

6. Repeat with the other half.

7. Serve in glasses with nutmeg sprinkled on top.

The first part of Skyfall cocktails recipes (which is more fun since the agents are the main party people ;) ) is here:

http://migraine-sky.tumblr.com/post/92730075450/bond-a-true-classics-always-ready-to-be#notes

Reasons Why San Francisco Is the Worst

2014 is slowly turning into the “Year of San Francisco.” The East Coast media in America has anointed SF as the new hub for innovation, conspicuous consumption, and comically absurd rentsNew York Magazine parachuted a bunch of reporters into the Bay Areato figure out how to steal their douchebags back. The article asked “Is San Francisco New York?” No, it’s much worse. The existential crisis around San Francisco’s ascension to the heights of assholery stands in stark contrast to the fact that it is damn near unlivable for most normal people.

The end is nigh for a city that used to be a magnet for the counter-culture. San Francisco was strangled, so we decided to go over the numerous causes of death.

External image

Photo via Flickr User Jay Galvin

Everyone Worth a Damn Is Moving to Oakland

San Francisco used to be that place you moved to if you were too weird for LA, but too lazy for New York. It was a perfect city to ply your trade as a quirky motherfucker with a penchant for “edgy performance art” and whimsical scarves. That was just dandy. We liked that.

Around every corner, there could be an anarchist bookshop or a dude covered in glitter, wearing a Spongebob t-shirt, and sporting a raging hard-on. Where did that San Francisco go? Across the fucking bridge, that’s where.

Oakland is cheaper than San Francisco (but not by much), it’s close to Berkeley’s cultural gravity, and it’s just a BART trip away from what’s left of SF’s relevance. It’s also an industrial wasteland full of crime and Raider fans. You might ask yourself, What happened to San Francisco’s iconoclastic spirit…? Well, in two simple words:

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Photo via Flickr User Tech Cocktail

Tech Bros

There’s always been a bourgeois element to San Francisco that we all just ignored. The landed gentry of Nob Hill, Pac Heights, and Sea Cliff have always been there. They have owned their home for years, love wearing fleece sweaters, own nothing but real wood furniture, and are the type of people who tool around McCovey Cove in their yachts during Giants games. They are from a different planet and don’t mingle with the plebs. They have their world of brandy snifters, champagne flutes, cheese tastings, and obscure European automobiles. They honestly don’t care what you think.

The tech bro, on the other hand, seeks to engage in city life. They go to the same bars you do. They eat at the same restaurants. They badly want to be accepted as “cool,” while also having more money than you and getting chauffeured to work in a free corporate bus. Their insistence on trying to infiltrate the real San Francisco has pretty much killed the real San Francisco. Dolores Park, once a safe haven for burnouts to drink 40s and smoke weed at 2:30 PM on a Tuesday, is now the world’s biggest networking event for dudes who wear khakis to the gym.

In New York, Wall Street people know they’re pricks. In Los Angeles, Hollywood people are too stupid to know they’re pricks. In San Francisco, tech bros think they’re saving the world with their crackpot schemes aka “start-ups.” They’re the fucking worst.

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Have Yourself A Normandy Li'l Christmas, by potionsmaster

Rating: T for language


A/N: for @shepard-pls on tumblr.  ^__^  Prompt was Christmas on the SR1, everybody’s there and of course there’s a mistletoe! (humans are weird).  Also, bonus: y'all get to see my second crack ship, lol. Wish they weren’t such a rare pair, but then again they wouldn’t be a crack ship if they were.

~*~*~*~

“Whatcha doin’, Chief?”

Kaidan saw Ashley messing with a pile of rifle barrels, various heat sinks, and an assortment of stocks on the work bench next to their lockers. She sighed in frustration.  

“I was trying to make a Christmas tree out of them.”

He blinked at her for a few moments and closed the door to his locker with a metallic clunk.

“Ooo-kay…why?”

She knocked the pile over and leaned against the table, crossing her arms under her chest.

“I was trying to explain Christmas and human holidays to Liara the other night.  Thought it might be fun to have a tree and a small party down here if we can get it approved.  I managed to find a cheesy, plastic mistletoe last time we were docked at the Citadel, too.”

He rolled his eyes at that.  

“You can’t be serious…

She hip-checked him, eyes sparkling, then turned back to the bench.

“Well, bah-humbug to you, too, LT.  It is December, y'know.”

Kaidan furrowed his brow at that, pulling up the calendar on his omni-tool. Sure enough, it was December 21, 2183.  He marveled at how Earth’s reckoning of days and time went by the wayside while in space.  

Bridge to Alenko.”

He closed his omni-tool and held in a sigh.  The gun parts clacked and clattered as Ash struggled to put them in conical shape again. Kaidan ignored her muttering about using the ammo magazines as possible branches.

“Acknowledged. What do you need, Joker?”

The commander’s looking for you on crew deck.  Something about a mission debriefing.

“Tell him I’ll be there momentarily.  Alenko out.”

Ashley gave him a sidelong look.  

“Say….he suuuure likes to debrief you a lot.”

He felt the heat rise around his collar and tips of his ears and hoped she didn’t notice.  He hoped that he had kept his infatuation with their CO pretty well under wraps, but Ash seemed to have a sixth sense for teasing him.  

“Whatever you say, Chief.  If Pressly actually stepped up to being XO, he wouldn’t need my help so much.”

He started to make his way back to the elevator.

“Can you ask him if we can have a holiday party?  Pretty please, with polonium rounds on top?  He never says ‘no’ to you!”

She smirked at the wordless nod as the lieutenant disappeared in the lift.

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there are two popular sports played at the Magical Institute of Mexico Eternal, circa 100 PA; one legitimate, one illicit.

the first, known usually as “industrial sandbags”, is essentially a descendant of soccer, American football, and similar games, with the goal being to pass a “ball” through a central section on the opposing team’s home line. the main distinctions are IS makes no restrictions on what methods may be used to interact with the ball, and that the ball is a polypropylene or burlap sandbag weighing between 50 and 200 pounds (depending on game, rules, and physical alterations made to the ball during play). magic is encouraged and practically required to score a point, but players often cultivate a muscular build as a side effect of the sport’s frequent brawls and heavy lifting.

the second, officially condemned by school authorities but de facto accepted, goes by several names: tipsy smashers, drunkard’s duel, goons, but most often referred to mock-formally as mensur, after a German university fencing tradition to which it bears almost no resemblance. the sport caught on after an unknown student, reverently referred to by adherents as “Slizzard” or sometimes “Slizzard the Wizard”, created a spell which transforms a touched beverage into a weapon, usually but not always a bladed melee weapon. referred to as a sacramental blade, the qualities of the weapon vary wildly depending on beverage, serving size, container, and mental state of its wielder. in all cases, the weapon causes no injury when it contacts a human being–instead, any part of the weapon which contacts a player is magically ingested. conventionally the game is played as essentially a drinking contest, where the goal is to strike one’s opponent while avoiding being struck until a player forfeits or is incapacitated. the game carries a fair amount of prestige among students, and is occasionally used to extrajudicially resolve conflicts between students.

popular weapons include a short blade made from a can or bottle of beer or cider, longer blades made from bottles or boxes of wine, or from forties (affectionately referred to as bastard swords, regardless of actual form, for their low cost and relative efficacy) and, more rarely, light weapons made from a glass of wine or flute of champagne. daggers and dirks made from cocktails or snifters of brandy are not unheard of, and one legendary duel saw a senior student wielding an elegant two-handed blade made from a bottle of celebratory champagne lose to a junior carrying a rapier made of rosé accompanied by a dagger of sherry in the off-hand.

I’m only anticipating attachment. 

When I made this set of Will and whisky moments, I didn’t include this scene because I assumed they were drinking brandy, because it’s Hannibal’s office and I like to joke that Will gets irritated because Hannibal never gives him what he actually wants to drink. 

Then I noticed they’re drinking out of rocks glasses. Hannibal serves brandy in snifters. It’s almost certainly whisky.

Which gives this scene that already kills me with feels another layer of feel. Because for once, Hannibal is serving Will what will wants to drink. 

Then I remember Hannibal is also deciding to warn Mason about Margot being pregnant with Will’s child because Will is already anticipating being a good father and not telling an obviously stricken Will that Abigail is actually alive and well back at the house. 

Serving Will whisky for once is NOT ENOUGH HANNIBAL.

Lust’s Passionate Response

The hearth’s embers crackled and jumped, but its heat was not needed by the owner.  Regina Mills sat, cross-legged, on her sofa, gently swirling brandy in her snifter glass.  She was surprised to be drinking the cognac since she was already feeling very warm and unable to sleep.  Thoughts of Emma Swan were pervading her mind.

She thought of Robin’s parting words when they had mutually ended their relationship.  “I hope you and Emma figure things out, Regina.”  She had asked him sharply what he had meant by that and he had the audacity to pin her with a ridiculous look and tell her not to be so “clueless”! He had actually told her not to be clueless!  The man wore clueless everyday like a comfortable shirt.

Snorting into her brandy, she took a hearty sip and let the amber liquid slide down her throat and warm her belly.  As if she needed Mr.-I-wipe-my-ass-with-leaves-and-like-it to tell her that she found Emma Swan attractive.  Of course she found the woman attractive.  She had always found Emma Swan attractive.

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Fic: Zoetrope

Summary: X-Men AU. Belle is a new recruit at St. Melissa’s Academy, wanting to help the cause in these hard times, and Gold is a petty thief of a ‘professor’ with a penchant for his namesake.

Rating: Explicit/NC-17

Pairing: Rumbelle

Other: Explicit language/Explicit sexual content/13,000+ words

Author’s note: I know it’s been a long time, but here’s a brand spanking new X-AU and a little manip I whipped up to keep all you nerds going. God bless.



Belle was nervous.

Coming to Storybrooke, to St. Melissa’s Academy for Extraordinary Youth, had been out of determination rather than defiance, though her father saw it as anything but.

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HP Bedtime Aesthetics

McGonagall: Steaming hot showers that last like thirty minutes, tartan robes and silk nightgowns, a cup of tea spiked with Scotch. Knitted blankets piled thick like a nest, always sleeps perfectly in the middle and never moves. Hair always in a net to keep it out of her face at night, has a stuffed cat that she sleeps with.

Dumbledore: Two cups of overly sweet tea with lemon and honey, or a glass of mead when he’s in the mood. long warm showers that take forever and a day, partly to wash his hair and partly because the warmth feels like a warm hug. Fluffy brightly colored bathrobes and fleece pajamas with crazy designs on them, hair and beard pulled back into a braid for the night after he brushes it a certain amount of times (he’s particular about that). Loves the cool, leaves the windows cracked on windy nights to let the breeze in, cool satiny sheets and patchwork quilts. Never in the same position two nights in a row, terrible bed mate to have unless you want to be kicked in the forehead. On really bad nights Fawkes sings him to sleep. If he dreams about a funny thing he bursts into laughter in his sleep.

Snape: Dark green cotton sheets, lukewarm army style showers, towels his hair dry, sturdy night shirts and either a snifter of brandy or a cup of bitter coffee at the highest temperature possible. Usually sleeps without blankets because he doesn’t like to feel suffocated, sheets with a heating charm on them and blankets only during the winter. Falls asleep to piano music. Experiences nightmares like Dumbledore and so keeps a bottle of Dreamless Sleep handy because he’ll be damned if he gets out of this bed tonight. He tells nobody.

I know we all love this scene as I do too, but what i wouldn’t give to have a scene swap.  Howard reclining on a chaise lounge in a smoking jacket with a snifter of brandy, jazz playing in the background.  Probably set in a drawing room or a library.  He rings a little bell and Vince enters, topless and in ropes (or something chain-like but more fitting to such a scene?)  

anonymous asked:

Hi! Can I please prompt you for Hannigram, Mamihlapinatapei?

You may! Here’s another dip into the pond of S2-era angst. Enjoy!

-x-

Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

Moonlight paints wide stripes across the porch. The house behind it is still. Will stands under the night air, leaning against a beam with a glass of whiskey in hand. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to vent free the tension of the evening, the fine porcelain of his collarbone pale and almost silver. He exhales once, long, the mist of his breath pluming in the cold.

Beside him sits Hannibal, elegantly serene in a rickety wooden chair. In one hand, he cups a snifter of brandy. The other is softly palming the outline of Will’s shadow spilled across the railing.

Will tilts his glass in a lazy circle, watching the liquid slosh and then settle. He cranes his head to look at the darkness inside.

“When I told you I prepared my dogs’ food, this was not what I meant.”

Hannibal sips and looks up. Will’s eyes jar him with the warmth tucked behind them.

“Also, I think I should ask you for my keys back.”

Hannibal nods. “You think you should. But you won’t.”

His fingers trace the shadow painting the bend of Will’s elbow. Will leans his head back as though the touch filters through to him.

“No,” Will replies, “I won’t.”

His eyes close for the briefest of seconds before he shakes his head and snaps them open.

“But we’re going to have to move Mason. I won’t have his blood warping my floorboards.”

“In good time, Will. Allow yourself a moment for a drink between friends.”

He gestures to Will’s glass, half empty after a second pour. Will runs the pad of his finger over the rim of the glass. Hannibal inclines his chin just slightly.

“Friends,” Will says, tasting the word. Hannibal watches him roll his tongue over the foreign consonants.

“Is the word so distasteful to you?”

Hannibal is stroking the shadow cast by Will’s waist, smoothing along the imagined line of his hip. Will watches the display, heavy-lidded.

“No,” Will says honestly, lifting his tumbler to take another drink, “just ill-fitting.”

He rests the swell of his lip against the glass. Hannibal’s mouth parts.

“How would you prefer we fit?” Hannibal asks.

Their eyes meet through the curve and swoop of the shadows, fix and hold. Will releases the veil from his gaze and his eyes blaze bright. For a moment too long, neither breathe.

Hannibal’s thumb dips in the darkness, over hidden places he has yet to touch. Will’s fingers slip in his grip on the glass and he makes a low sound in his throat; a quick thing, cut off with a swallow before it can take flight.

“My preferences have… evolved.” Will drains the rest of his glass, sets it down on the railing. His shadow disrupts and reforms. The bookmark of Hannibal’s fingers hold their place.

“You have shared everything else thus far,” Hannibal’s voice is barely above a whisper. He can hear the roar of Will’s blood in his veins. “Would you care to share the nature of this evolution?”

A cloud strays from its path, and for a moment they are bathed in moonlight. Hannibal’s eyes are naked with need. His hand is not on shadow anymore.

Will takes a step closer, licks his lips. His hand hovers trembling in a halo over Hannibal’s hair, the side of his face.

“Will,” Hannibal says, and it is the most honest thing he has spoken.

Another cloud passes and the moon is shrouded again, night spilling over both their features and hiding the parts both had tried to see.

From within the house, a dog whines. Will’s mouth curves in dismay and he steps away. The veil slips back over his eyes.

“You’ve made my dogs sick.”

Hannibal sighs, doesn’t hide the little shard of want that digs in. “I assure you, the fault was entirely Mason’s.”

“Mm.” Will flexes his fingers, unspent tension singing through them. His eyes are lost in the dark. Hannibal sets his half-empty glass next to Will’s and stands.

Will cocks an eyebrow. “That’s good brandy,” he protests.

“Yes,” Hannibal answers, “many good things require savouring over time.”

He reaches forward for the door, just barely touching the rise of Will’s knuckle with his pinky. Beneath him, Will shivers. Then the door opens beneath him and he is lost again, swallowed into the belly of the house.

“Come,” Will calls from the dark, “we have work to do.”

Truthful whateverday

So, I drink alcoholic beverages. Whew, glad I got that off my chest.

Here’s the thing though. I don’t movie drink. Like, have a beer with dinner or a snifter of brandy after dinner; I drink a whole bottle of wine or a six pack of beer or several cocktails because I intend to alter my reality. I like the alcohol buzz and have seldom suffered from massive regret due to actions on my part when intoxicated.

I like drinking. Sometimes on a random Wednesday. Sometimes pink champagne. Sometimes I internet.

Yeah. That’s the stuff.