most perfect nose in all creation


I bet Cas woke Dean up today with warm tender kisses from head to toe, and revered his sleep-warmed skin with ‘I love yous’ in every language, before he pressed against his hunter’s muscled back as his strong arms cinched tightly around Dean’s thick waist. And as he nosed his ‘Freckles’ sensitive neck and the shell of his ear, he whispered “Happy birthday, Dean. Of all my Father’s creations, you are the most precious to me, the most beautiful, the most important, the most perfect. Thank you for being born. Also, I got you some pie.’

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Floral Memoranda

Based on this Prompt Post.

Summary: Person A owns a flower shop and person B comes storming in one day, slaps 20 bucks on the counter and says “How do I passive-aggressively say fuck you in flower?”

Notes: I tweaked some things. That post also has an example of the first bouquet(a photo).

Hannibal’s day was going well. Or as well as his days usually went when dealing with annoying people who couldn’t help but be rude. Still, this day had seemed more serene than many others because no one had come in yet.

Hannibal was able to simply relax with a cup of tea and a good book.

Of course it was around lunch that his peaceful day turned on its heads. Or rather, he finally had a customer.

A man, dressed in a horrid brown jacket, and scuffed denim trousers, burst into the shop, looking furious. He had the shadow of a beard growing, making him appear much older than his young face implied.

His hair was dark, with curls that flopped in every direction. His eyes were a unique shade of blue that Hannibal wasn’t used to seeing in people. Overall, the man was stunning in physical appeal. His attitude left a lot to be desired though.

The man stormed up to the counter and slapped a fifty dollar bill down. His breathing was ragged and he looked ready to spit fire.

“How do I passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower?” the man demanded.

Hannibal was caught for a moment, almost annoyed. But this strange man’s words had brought up many questions. What exactly happened to make him so angry? And why did he feel the need to purchase flowers in order to tell someone off?

Hannibal couldn’t deny his sudden interest, and decided to pardon the man’s foul language in favor of learning more.

Placing his cup on the matching saucer, Hannibal stepped around the counter and crooked a finger, to have the man follow. He smirked when the man flushed suddenly, but looked away and trudged after him.

“For the message of your desire, one would need a rather unique bouquet.”

Hannibal’s fingers trailed over the lavender colored plant he had in mind. “Foxglove,” he told the man. “It stands for ‘insincerity’. It would be a lovely plant flanking the others.”

Hannibal was already taking two stalks. 

“Next we have Meadowsweet. It would work nicely as the centerpiece of this particular creation. It stands for uselessness. All the other plants would be simply leading up to this revelation.”

The man accepted the stalk of white, staring at it in contemplation.

Unable to stop his smirk, Hannibal lead him further into the attached greenhouse, waving his arm toward a nearby display of carnations. “This will be our next flower. Carnations have a unique petal design which make them perfect for anything. Yellow is the one we want.”

“Why yellow?” the man asked, nose wrinkled in disgust. Yellow wasn’t the most pleasing of colors, but Hannibal refrained from saying anything.

“Yellow carnations stand for ‘disappointment’. As if you are saying, ‘you have disappointed me’.”

“I like it.”

Hannibal laid only one bloom in the crook of his arm with the Foxglove. The largest, yellow bloom he had.

“Next, we’ll be using some Orange Lilies. They symbolize ‘hatred’, in the most basic of terminology.”


He chose the two best Orange Lilies he could find. Their petals were vibrant and there would be no missing them.

“Finally, geraniums. A few at least, to place at random.”

“What do they stand for?” the man asked.

Hannibal smirked. “’Stupidity’.”

He was slightly charmed when the man laughed. His laugh was low and smooth, and caressed Hannibal’s ears nicely.

“I think the proper color for the ribbon would be black. It is often associated with death and I’m certain you’d like the point made obvious. This relationship is over and there is no possible way to rekindle it.”

“Damn straight.”

Oddly enough, the man’s gruff attitude was adorable. As if he was trying so hard to seem threatening, and was just coming across as cute to Hannibal.

Hannibal took his findings along, leading the man back to the main part of the shop. “I’ll fix these up for you.”

“Good luck. These colors look horrible together.”

He spared an amused smile. Some people would never understand the subtle beauty even within the ugliness of life. But that was okay.

Hannibal wrapped black tissue paper around the carefully prepared bundled and finished the work with an elaborate, black ribbon tied to keep the flowers in place.

“That will be thirty-seven fifty, Mr….”

“Graham. Will Graham,” the man answered, pushing the fifty across the counter.

“It’s been a pleasure, Will. I’m Hannibal Lecter.”

The man shook his hand quickly, eyes avoidant and flush ever present.

How charming.

“Thanks again,” Will said, lifting the bouquet carefully in one hand and his change in the other.

Hannibal stared at the man’s shapely rump as he walked out the door, slightly sad to see him leaving.

The rest of his day was boring.

To his immense pleasure, Will Graham was back a week later, stomping into the shop and walking right up to the counter to slam another fifty down.

“How do you say ‘I like you’, in flower?”

Hannibal could feel the growing annoyance of jealousy building suddenly. He was also tempted to do the rude thing and lie by giving the man the wrong flowers, but Hannibal had more class than that. Surely he would be able to outdo anyone who may have caught Will Graham’s interest?

“Come,” the man ordered, voice suave and borderline erotic. As expected, Will Graham blushed. It was a lovely shade of pink on his skin. He could probably force other shades of pink as well, in the future.

“Gardenias are lovely, and actually mean ‘you are lovely’ or ‘secretly in love with you’.”

Hannibal chose several of his best blooms, and moved on toward another section of the wall. “White Violets mean, ‘let us chance happiness’. A subtle desire for more than what is already there. Simple, yet beautiful.”

Will eyed the growing bouquet intensely. As if they held all the answers. Hannibal had to squash the small niggling of distaste. He was more responsible than this!

“Finally, I think you would benefit from a scarlet Zinnia being your centerpiece. They stand for ‘constancy’ and promise loyalty in all things. A touching message.”

Hannibal arranged the blossoms accordingly, smiling to himself. It was a lovely collection, and he was envious of the receiver. Still, another beautiful work of art made by his hands. He was proud of it.

“I suggest a white ribbon to show purity of intention.”

He even used white tissue paper.

“Nineteen seventy-five, please?”

Will handed over the necessary payment and accepted his order with care. Hannibal gave his change over, and was ready to watch the man leave again, when Will Graham suddenly held out the bouquet Hannibal had just made and asked, “Would you like to go for coffee?”

Hannibal’s surprise morphed into satisfaction, and he accepted the gift with a smile, unable to stop himself from scenting the blooms. Lovely, just as he had made them.

And Will Graham was asking him out on a date. Not someone else. Hannibal.

“I’d love to,” the man smiled, already reaching for his keys. “I know a lovely shop a few blocks away.”

Will sputtered as Hannibal moved to put his newly acquired bouquet into a vase of water. Said vase was displayed proudly on the counter, so that everyone may see the flowers.

“Shall we?” Hannibal asked.


This was a beautiful beginning. Hannibal could tell.

{Check out my Hannigram fics on AO3.}

Undercover Baking

Fluffiness, ya’ll. Fluffiness abounds. And a tinge of crackiness. Happy Friday, may all your weekends be fantastic!

Sherlock crouched in front of the oven and scowled. Inside was supposed to be the most perfect cake in all of creation. Rich chocolate with just the right combination of lightness and moistness. Yanking open the door, he retrieved the pan and dropped it unceremoniously onto the stovetop.

The edges of his cake were already burned and the middle was still a gooey puddle. And all he had to show for his efforts in this catastrophe was frizzy hair covered in flour, a messy apron, and a severe loss of pride.

‘Oh, my.' 

His nose twitched as the scent of cinnamon and chocolate wafted over him. 

'Would you like to try again, Mr Scott?’ The elderly woman teaching this ridiculous class laid her wrinkled hand on Sherlock’s arm in an attempt to placate him. 

He bit his lip to keep from snapping at her and adopted a forced chagrined expression, turning to look at her. 'I’m not sure another attempt would show any improvement, Mrs Foster.’

'Maybe Miss Souris would care to assist you.’

Sherlock turned to face the station behind him and didn’t even try to hide his displeasure. Piping intricate flowers along the edge of her perfectly round, perfectly frosted, and no doubt perfectly delicious, vanilla cake, Molly glanced up and smiled sweetly at him. 

'I’d be happy to in just a mo’.’ With a flourish, she finished the last flower and reached for another piping bag. To Sherlock’s growing surprise, she expertly dabbed yellow accents at the tips of the flower petals, spinning the cake stand with her free hand. 

'There!’ She declared it finished and stepped back. The rest of the class had abandoned their own projects to watch her work and applauded, several of the women crowding around and examining Molly’s creation with oohs and aahs while the undercover pathologist blushed prettily under their praise.
Sherlock looked back at his own pitiful attempt and, if possible, his scowl deepened. 

'Ready to go?' 

He nearly jumped in surprise. So lost in his sulk, he hadn’t noticed Molly approaching him. She stood right next to him and was pretending to examine his cake (if it could even be called that), all while speaking out of the corner of her mouth. 

'Sherlock?’ She whispered. 'Do you have enough evidence yet?’

Of course he did. He’d had it the moment they’d sat down for the class introductions. Mrs Foster, sweet old lady that she appeared to be, was embezzling from the school. He’d snatched her phone and forwarded the incriminating emails to Lestrade before they’d even broken an egg.
But he’d wanted to show off a bit. He was a graduate Chemist and baking was essentially edible Chemistry. 

Unfortunately, his ability to achieve perfection in all he tried his hand at apparently did not extend to culinary arts. And the cherry on top of this fiasco was that instead of being impressed by his inate baking skills, Molly easily showed him up while he floundered pathetically.

Not that he wasn’t impressed (and more than a little turned on) by her confident prowess in baking. But the case was not turning out how he had anticipated.

He’d been trying to work up the courage to ask Molly out for weeks. But the words would never come. He’d eventually resorted to asking her to accompany him on cases. They’d gone on seven in the past two weeks and John was beginning to get suspicious as to why Sherlock was leaving him alone all of a sudden. 

What Sherlock hadn’t expected this time was to discover that, despite his Chemistry background, he apparently couldn’t bake at all. And that Molly had managed to hide a secret talent from him for years.

'Where did you learn to do this?’ He blurted out.

Molly blinked and busied herself rearranging the ingredients on his station. 'I practiced. My schedule doesn’t allow me much of a social life. Baking became a bit of an obsession to cope with the harder days.’

He hummed in understanding. 'Maybe you could… teach me sometime.’

Her hands stilled and she looked at him in question. 'Like right now?’

'I don’t think this is the right place, considering the Met should be here to arrest Mrs Foster within the next seven minutes.’ They shared an amused smile. ‘But tonight?' 

She nodded. 'As long as we do it at my place. I have a feeling we may accidentally introduce some unfortunate chemicals if we did it at Baker Street, no matter how well you say you cleaned.’

He chuckled. 'Fair enough,’ he agreed as he unknotted his apron and tossed it to the floor. Molly opened her mouth to tell him to pick it up, but he cut her off. He wasn’t going to put this off a moment longer. 'Since you have the rest of the day off anyway, would you like to join me for coffee?’

His tone had been casual, but his heart was racing. Molly’s eyes widened in surprise and a becoming blush stained her cheeks. Her mouth opened and shut several times as she tried to speak. 'Join you? As in…a…?’

'A date? Yes.' 

Seven seconds of agonizing silence passed while Molly stared at him in shock. He was beginning to worry that she didn’t seem to be breathing when her surprise suddenly gave way to a beaming smile that lit up her face. 'I’d love to.’

Relief swept over him. He grinned as she eagerly jerked her apron over her head and tossed it toward the laundry bin. 

'Shall we?’ He held out his hand to her. She pulled her lips back to hold in her smile and dimples appeared in her cheeks as she slipped her hand into his. 

'Afterwards, back to mine for a baking lesson?’ She smirked up at him.  'I think your culinary skills are in desperate need of immediate assistance.’

He mock pouted, but preened when Molly squeezed his hand to pacify him.

'Don’t worry, we’ll start simple. Some scones or biscuits, maybe? We can always have John taste test them so we don’t have to.’ She smirked cheekily.

A wicked grin formed on his face and he snatched her beautiful creation, stand and all, in one hand and pulled her along behind him with the other. ‘You’re positively devious, Doctor Hooper.’

Molly turned back to the confused class and waved just as Sherlock pulled her out the door and out of sight.

Four Hours Later

'How did you like the biscuits?' 

Molly opened her eyes and giggled at seeing Sherlock upside down standing in the doorway. 'Best I’ve ever had, though next time we should try actually baking them.' 

Rolling over, she rested her chin on her arms and bit her lip as she stared at her boyfriend. Boyfriend! He sauntered over to her and dropped onto the bed. The sheets were wrapped around her haphazardly and the way he looked at her made her feel like a Greek goddess lounging about indulgently.

She turned onto her side, propping her head up. 'Never thought eating uncooked dough could be so sexy.’

He leaned down and began nibbling along her bare clavicle. 'Who could resist watching you lick it off your fingers like that? God, Molly.’

She gasped when his nibbles trailed toward her sensitive neck. 'So, what have you been up to for the past few minutes?’

'Just had to put something in the post,’ he mumbled and stretched out on top of her, pushing her into the mattress and kissing her senseless.

Any questions she’d had flew out the window as he successfully unraveled her from the tangled sheets.

Across London

'A package for you, sir.’

Mycroft glanced over to the door, his feet pounding the treadmill and sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. Anthea walked over to him holding a white box and a chagrined look on her face.

Slowing to a stop, Mycroft hopped off and grabbed a towel to dab at his face and neck. He eyed the box and immediately deduced what it contained and the bastard who’d sent it.

Anthea handed it over to him and quickly left the room before the bubble of laughter she’d been holding back burst.

His chest heaving from the exertion of running, Mycroft braced himself and flipped open the lid.

'Damn you, Sherlock.' 

Written in bright red edible gel in the shaky, yet unmistakable handwriting of his younger, pest of a brother across the surface of a delectable looking cake were the words To Mikey-Wikey XOXOXO in the middle of a sloppy heart.

He trailed his finger through the thick, perfectly creamy frosting and licked it off with a delightful moan, closing his eyes.

'Damn you.’