Summary: You and the rest of the original cast are hanging out at Daveed’s apartment for a little cast party when somehow, Oak gets the dumbest idea to play seven minutes in heaven, and now you’re stuck in a closet with Groff and Daveed doesn’t like that very much and basically iT GETS WILD K
A/N: Okay, so I’m ALMOST finished with part two of Broadway, but of course, I ended up getting writers block right in the middle of writing it and now I can’t seem to think of any good ideas for it and then this fic happened. Requests are open and I’ll try to get Broadway out sometime this week! Love you guys :)
Warnings: Um the usual ,,, cursing and love confessions whooP
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” You mutter as you take off your most precious possession, a diamond necklace your mother had given to you when you were younger, and put it into the beanie that Oak was holding out to you with a smug expression.
“Relax, Y/n/n,” Groff teases as he puts his watch into the beanie, using your childhood nickname that you despised. “Yeah,” Daveed snickered, sitting on the other side of you. “It’ll be fun.” You scoffed, blowing your hair out of your eyes as you turned to face Daveed and Groff with an incredulous expression. “Yeah, for you guys.” You huffed, crossing your arms and trying to ignore the blush that decided to make an appearance on your features when Daveed slung an arm across your shoulders.
Of course, that blush didn’t go unnoticed to Pippa and Lin, who simply looked at each other and smirked, before turning away and facing you two again.
Eventually, everyone had put an item into the basket and now Jazzy was drawing an item from the beanie, and when she finally pulled it out, everyone groaned when she pulled out Anthony’s bracelet, “no fun,” Renee complained, shaking her head before laughing a bit at the irony of Jasmine pulling out her boyfriend’s item.
“Whatever, let’s go,” Anthony laughed, leading Jasmine to the closet. “Don’t be too loud, you two! We’re still here!” Lin whooped, snickering a bit when you leaned across to smack him gently on the shoulder.
Seven minutes later, both Jasmine and Anthony walked out, Anthony with a smug expression and Jasmine with her cheeks tinted pink and disheveled hair. Oak whistled, winking playfully at the two.
“Alright, Groffsauce, it’s your turn.” Oak called out, handing the beanie to Groff so he could draw something from the beanie. He then pulled out your necklace, which made him immediately stand up and bow in your direction, using his fake British accent he used every night, “M’lady,” he teased, holding out his hand for you to take.
Of course, you didn’t notice Daveed tensing up when you took his hand and allowed him to lead you to the closet. “Don’t go crazy!” Anthony laughed, high fiving Lin and Oak, whereas Daveed just crossed his arms and muttered bitter words under his breath, which made everyone turn their attention to him and laugh.
“What? You don’t like it that your girlfriend is in the closet with Groff right now?” Lin cooed teasingly, pinching Daveed’s cheeks which made him groan and slap Lin’s hands away. “Shut up, she’s not my girlfriend,” he pouted, and it was obvious that he was upset.
“This is a stupid game anyway.” Daveed muttered, running a hand through his wild hair. “Chill out, D.” Renee rolled her eyes, “you’re acting like a child. You know they don’t like each other romantically and nothing’s gonna happen.” Daveed sighed, he knew it was true, but there was still this lingering feeling in him that wouldn’t go away.
After the seven minutes were up, you and Groff walked out, Groff sporting lipstick on his cheeks and forehead, which made everyone whistle playfully. “I’m never cleaning my face again, my love.” Groff sighed playfully, pretending to swoon as he took your hand and batted his eyes. You both sat down and you cupped his face, “I’ll love you forever, my dear.” You pretended, trying not to crack.
Daveed couldn’t take that and immediately stood up, muttering something about grabbing a drink and storming off, his fists clenched.
You frowned, removing your hand from Groff’s and looking at everyone, “what happened?” You wandered, making everyone shrug, yet you knew that from the expressions they all had, they knew. But you didn’t push and only sighed, getting up to go find the man and ask him what was wrong.
You found him, pouring some vodka into a shot glass and chugging it immediately, slamming the small glass cup onto the marble counter. “D?” You wandered, moving towards him and gently placing your hand on his bicep, frowning up at him. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head, rolling his eyes and muttered something, though you couldn’t understand.
This went on for a few more minutes before you got annoyed, pulling away from Daveed and glaring him. “Daveed, look at me right now.” He groaned, setting the glass he was ready to drink down and looked at you with a stone cold expression.
“What’s up with you? You were fine before me and Groff went into the closet.” You ranted slightly, “and now- now you’re acting like a child! And I don’t know how to help you!” You threw your hands in the air to make it a bit more dramatic, narrowing your eyes at him.
“God, it’s nothing, Y/n. Just leave it alone.” He growled, shaking his head.
“But it is something.” You argued back, stepping a bit closer to him which made him narrow his eyes as he took a shaky breath.
“Fine, you really want to know?” He cracked, making you nod your head. “I-I, I love you,” he laughed, no humor lacing his voice as he spoke. “This is so cheesy and stupid but when I saw Groff pull your stupid necklace out of that stupid beanie, it was the worst feeling in the world.” He continued. “And I know you would never date him and he doesn’t like you romantically but it’s still an awful feeling-”
“Daveed, shut up.”
He stopped, looking down at you with a hurt expression when you pulled his face down to meet yours, pressing your lips to his.
It took a few moments for him to reciprocate but he finally did, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you up onto the counter, kissing you as if he stopped, you’d be gone.
You both eventually, and reluctantly, pulled away to catch your breath, smiling breathlessly at each other.
When you both went back, hand in hand, you were greeted with this scene~
“Who the hell put a deck of cards in the beanie?” Oak groaned, frowning at the deck in his hands which made Lin sheepishly raise his hand.
“What? Did you seriously think we would make out? Nuh uh. We’re gonna play Go Fish for the next seven minutes.”
the signs as things i've said while playing mario kart
waluigi i'm going to murder you
i probably would've won if i didn't suck at driving
no, luigi deserves better than this. luigi deserves a monster truck
all of the spectators watching this are probably thinking "man, princess peach is dumb as hell"
(to my cat) BELLA. NOT NOW. I'M PLAYING MARIO KART. I NEED TO BE IN THE ZONE
WARIO WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR DAMAGE
i don't mean to question the mario universe or anything but why are we letting babies drive. it seems a little unethical
the first time i failed peach. but now i've done something unforgivable. i've failed luigi. i can never show my face in this world again
and it was on that day that i finally learned, that there is no god. only mario
all of these dirty banana peels on the road are hazardous to both drivers and pedestrians. if we don't clean this up sooner somebody's going to die. and i'm gonna blame that turtle thing that throws shells down at me from the sky
i'm a shooting star in the skies of hell
it's okay, i gave up on my dreams a long time ago
Why did you have to go there, Pixelberry? Why? Haven’t we had enough of this idiotic trope that says men who are hypermasculine and extremely homophobic are usually gay/bisexual themselves? Please. I’m literally begging you not to use his sexuality as a tool to drive some bullshit redemption arc for the demonstrably abusive douchebag. Hell, in this chapter ALONE, there are two instances of him attempting to gaslight his victims. First with Chelsea…
…And then again immediately after his advances toward Zig.
No. Stop playing to this stereotype because all you’re doing is harming the LGBT community. Seriously, you guys have done so well in your representation of your LGBT characters, especially with your recent introduction of Andy as your first transgender character. Please don’t fuck it up now.
Shit my sister has said to me out of anger (she's a cancer)
*angry whisper* I will slit your throat in your sleep do I sound like I'm fucking around
(on my taking a long shower) if you don't hurry up I'll shove your head so far down the damn toilet you'll be able to see Poseidon
if you don't shut the fuck up I'll rip the breaks out your goddamn car
I don't give two flying fucks about your emotions stop being a little bitch
I'm the goddamn Queen of this house and I'll beat you to hell if you don't shut the fuck up
why am I the only one who does anything in this goddamn house I'm going to murder every single one of you
(driving 45 minutes for family matter without my parents) your music taste fucking sucks so suck it the fuck up and let me play my goddamn songs fucking shit
literally I will murder you with this fucking fork then call the cops my fucking self if you don't change it to the movie I wanna watch
we should go hiking next week that way when I fucking stab you repeatedly no one would fucking hear how annoying your fucking voice is
you see that big ass book over there that you never finished reading? I'm gonna beat you so hard with it then drown you in acid if you don't give me the fucking charger
the next goddamn time you come home high wearing one of my shirts I'm going to scare you so fucking hard that you have a bad trip then shove food down your throat so you choke on your own goddamn spit
do you hear that? Silence? That's what it's suppose to fucking sound like so if you don't shut the fuck up I will suffocate you with this pillow then string your body up in the living room for the cops to find with my goddamn name on it. Get off the fucking phone and go to bed
What I mean:
What in the name of Khaleesi and her dragons was with season 5 of Game of Thrones? Like what the fuck was that shit? And where do I even begin??? What in God's name did they do to Stannis and his arc? Did they just throw up their arms and go "fuck it, who cares!" as though there weren't people who've read and loved the books? And why are they simplifying Mellisandre into (excuse my phrasing) an evil slut? In the book, she comes off as a "what must be done for the Lord of Light and for our survival" kind of person but in the show it's just "Hey Jon, here're my titties for the 500th time and now I'm off to kill Stannis' daughter, k thanx bye". And don't even get me started on that bullshit. Like, Mellisandre would NEVER even suggest that kind of shit in the books. Shireen's more likely to be killed by a fucking Other/White Walker than Mellisandre. But, hey, we've got a cheap shock value to maintain so who gives a shit about characterization? And speaking of cheap shock value, why did y'all kill Ser Barristan? Like what did that even accomplish??? Who's supposed to lead Dany's armies as Mireen faces siege? Or did you even think about that? And Jesus Christ, why did they have to fuck over the Martell storyline so badly? Why did they completely leave out Arianne and Quintin (especially Arianne)? Why did they leave out Daddy Martell's boss status at playing the poltical game??? Like what the fuck are Elleria Sand and the Sand Snakes fucking doing? AND WHY THE FUCK IS JAIME IN DORNE??? Like, what is that? Where were the Greyjoys? Where's Asha/Yara? Where's Victarion? Is Baelon even still alive or did you just go "eh" and call it a day with them? And don't even get me started on that travesty of a plotline with Sansa. Not only is it offensive and cheapening sexual assault (for the third fucking time, mind you), but it's fucking repetitive as hell. Like, Sansa spent three seasons being tormented by Joeffry, she escapes, she seems to be learning the political game a bit and... then she's sent to another psychopath who takes pleasure in tormenting her. Thank you, D & D, for creating Joeffry 2.0. We really appreciate the lack of creativity and the sheer repetition of plotline and the regression of character development. And by appreciate, I mean "fucking despise and really wish someone else were writing this show". Also, HOW HARD IS IT TO CREATE A FAKE FUCKING ARYA?!? LIKE THERE'S SO MUCH YOU COULD'VE DONE WITH THAT SHIT. Seriously, that is complete bullshit and the fans are far too intelligent to be given this garbage. And also, what the fuck happened to Petyr Baelish's political savvy? Did it go on a fucking lunch break? Like, we established this guy as the man who could destroy entire families and dynasties and kill people without ever having to dirty his hands. This is the guy who orchestraed Joeffry's murder. This is the guy who started the war with the Starks. This is the guy who has successfully played the double agent for Lord knows how long. And you just turn around and have him sell his literal queen (chess metaphor) to the fucking Boltons and you tell Cercei you have Sansa. Like what the fuck is this shit because it certainly isn't Song of Ice and Fire. Fucking Christ I'm done with this shit.
Scrolling through photos of Our Lord of the Cheekbones for @wrathofthestag’s birthday (as you do), I was inspired by the life ruiner’s h&m photoshoot from days of yore (2007), as seen below. So I wrote a little fic.
Meme bestie, sister wife, fellow member of Team Hannibal, this one’s for you. Happy birthday!
It’s The Little Things
They were on the couch, when it started, Will with his head settled on Hannibal’s lap, eyes closed, while Hannibal skimmed the day’s headlines, relaying any stories that he thought Will might enjoy. A year after their plummet from the cliff, the world was seemingly descending into chaos and no journalist worth their salt was interested in the possible survival of the “murder husbands.” Save Freddie Lounds, but Hannibal had always assumed she would require additional seasoning.
Will tipped his head to the side, opened one eye, and asked, in a sleepy murmur, “What’s your favourite colour?”
Hannibal felt his brows draw down in concern. Was Will perhaps running a fever, the effects of which had diminished his IQ far enough to draw such inanity?
He laid a hand on Will’s brow, causing the younger man to snort and squirm out from underneath it, admonishing, “I’m not sick, Hannibal, just curious.”
“My dear, Will, you are well acquainted with the depths of my own curiosity with regards to your person, but I am reasonably certain we have not yet so exhausted each other’s complexities as to be reduced to favourite colours.” He moved his hand up into Will’s hair and began gently stroking the curls.
“We’re a couple. On certain documents, we’re a married couple. Come on, Hannibal, I know your theories on Dante’s circles of hell, your opinions on why God allows suffering, your preference for the best way to skin a man.” Grinning, he raised himself up slightly to demand a kiss, which Hannibal duly bestowed. “I just thought it might be interesting to learn a few of your more prosaic details, add them to the ‘cannibals I love’ file.”
“Cannibals, plural?” Hannibal raised a brow.
Will settled himself back down and smirked. “Purely an administrative oversight. I assure you, you’re the only cannibal in my life.”
“As you are in mine.”
Will rolled his eyes, long past being uncomfortable with the label. “C’mon, answer my dumb question.”
Hannibal considered a paean to the blue of Will’s eyes when he was angered, or the pink of his lips after kissing Hannibal all afternoon. Instead, he chose to pander to Will’s sudden need for mundanity and plucked a colour at random: “Purple.”
“Hmm. Royalty. Figures.”
“I am an aristo-”
“Yes, yes, Count Doctor Hannibal ‘The Cannibal’ Lecter VIII, I know. Even if I wasn’t a sodding FBI agent and a respected academic, perfectly capable of doing my own research, you think I would have missed that particular issue of TattleCrime?”
“And yours, Professor Graham?”
Hannibal sighed. It seemed Will had decided to be purposefully obtuse today. “Your favourite colour, Will?”
“Oh. Um, maybe red?”
Hannibal took a moment to consider the way Will looked, bathed in that particular colour. “Yes, I can see the appeal,” he said, the lascivious smirk clearly evident in his tone, given that Will’s response was to drag him down into another kiss and, quite soon after, up into their bed.
And that, Hannibal reflected, should have been that: a forgettable exchange in a life filled with many more interesting things. Such as the noises Will made when Hannibal ran his tongue across his scars. Or the fact that Hannibal found it impossible to slip Will’s knots (not that he wanted to, given what Will did to him while he was tied up). Or the light in Will’s eyes that told Hannibal someone was going to die at their hands very, very soon.
Instead, the thought of prosaic details festered. Hannibal had never been a man for the prosaic. He lived for the high-flown, the complex, the inspired. Yet he found that he wanted the domestic, everyday side of this life with Will every bit as much as he wanted the sharp-edged, blood-soaked side of it. And then he had remembered that he had known one other person’s favourite colour, because children often knew such things.
Yellow. Like sunshine, and flowers. Or like our hair, Hannibal.
And suddenly, he couldn’t help himself.
“Which season do you prefer?” (Fall, I think. Cooler weather, the dogs can play in the leaves, plenty of fishing…)
“Would you prefer a vacation at the beach or in the mountains?” (Mountains, I guess. Does it matter? Hard to vacation when you’re in hidin’, darlin’.)
“What is your favourite flavour of ice cream?” (Why, have you made some, let me at it.)
“What is your favourite musical instrument?” (Not. Harpsichord.)
“Do you prefer sunrise, or sunset?” (I don't… really have a preference, what the hell is going on with you?)
This last was accompanied by an expression of pure bafflement from Will as he stood in the doorway of their en suite, mouth still ringed with foam from breaking off brushing his teeth to stare at his partner. Hannibal regarded him from their bed, where he was reclining, already dressed for bed in a pair of royal blue, silk sleep pants. He generally slept topless, now, at Will’s request – for a man previously certain of his heterosexuality, Will certainly used every opportunity he could for close contact with Hannibal’s chest hair.
“You said that, as a couple, we should know such things about each other. I am attempting to oblige. I wouldn’t want you to think I was not interested in every aspect of your being, Will.” Hannibal was mildly annoyed at Will’s obliviousness. Apparently his efforts had gone not only unappreciated but entirely unnoticed. Hannibal imagined that, were he capable of such things, he would be pouting right now.
“You’re pouting.” Will rolled his eyes and pointed his toothbrush at Hannibal. “Stay put. I need to rinse. Don’t. Move.”
“I am not one of your pack, William.”
There was a muttering from the bathroom that Hannibal suspected contained the words, would be a damn sight easier if you were. Hannibal heard the water stop and then Will stomped back into the room, past the bed and over to his set of drawers. He yanked the bottom one open and dug into the back of it, pulling out a slim, gift-wrapped, be-ribboned box, which he flung onto Hannibal’s stomach.
“That,” he said, gesturing at it and ignoring Hannibal’s protests, “is supposed to be for you, in two days time.”
“Two days…” Hannibal narrowed his eyes.
“Remember when I mentioned that I did my own research? Your birthday wasn’t exactly hard to find.”
“Yes, you are a giant, insecure baby who ruined his own birthday surprise. Open the box.”
“Shut up and open it.” Will’s expression was so similar to the one of amused murderousness he wore just before a kill that Hannibal decided it was best to comply. Carefully, he slipped off the ribbon and divested the box of its black and gold shell. Inside, nestled in tissue, lay a fine knit, cashmere, v-neck sweater in a deep shade of violet.
“Purple?” Hannibal asked, turning a soft smile to Will.
“A mundane, domestic, boring, ordinary, purple fucking sweater for the love of my fucking life. Both sides of it. Happy birthday, almost.” The murderousness had now been overcome by the amusement.
Hannibal could do nothing but grab the front of Will’s t-shirt, replace the box in his lap with the empath and kiss the grin off his beautiful face.
“I’m sorry,” Hannibal gasped as they finally broke for air, “I’m so sorry I ruined the surprise. It just… it occurred to me that perhaps people who love each other should know such details and—”
Will placed a finger to his lips, stopping the uncharacteristic flow of apologies. “Shh. Don’t worry. Your big present is still to come.”
Two days later, Will gifted Hannibal with a beautiful set of Japanese patterned steel knives, and a man who had called them “godless faggots” to test them out on. Hannibal tried to ask the man his favourite colour but, as “please, for the love of Christ, don’t kill me,” wasn’t deemed an appropriate answer, he cut out the man’s tongue (the knives were, indeed, excellent quality) and painted him Will’s favourite colour instead.
This was the first scripted movie of the year that genuinely ‘wowed’ me. I honestly cannot recall a more exciting and enthralling opening thirty minutes to a movie than this. It’s one part Scott Pilgrim, one part Battle Royale, one part Goonies, and one part Outrage. Quite simply, it’s brilliant, manic, and a lot of fun.