slowmoon
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Jack moves his gaze over Will's face. As he considers what he sees there his good humour drops away, and he becomes pensive. When he speaks his voice is low: a hard murmur.
“I think I see you now, Will. I was too turned around in what I wanted to see, before, but now I’m through to the other side. And it’s much clearer here.”
"And what is it that you think you see?"
"A liar,” Jack says, “of the finest calibre.”
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He’s reading The Count of Monte Cristo on their iPad when the notification banner informs him that Freddie Lounds has posted a listicle ranking all of the Chesapeake Ripper’s kills. He throws it overboard and turns instead towards Hannibal, always appearing. Climbing aboard with paper bags cradled gently in his arms, carrying fresh fruit, fresh herbs, fresh wine. Nothing but the best— no, nothing but the very best.
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Steve’s voice begins to fade, and Eddie feels his chance slipping away with a surge of adrenaline-fueled panic. He begins to thrash in earnest, pushing upwards furiously, shoving his elbows out and shimmying like his goddamn life depends on it. He’s coughing up dirt, crawling upwards for what seems like a century — he didn’t even dig this deep —
His clawing hands hit something viscous and slimy and he quite nearly recoils before he has a fleeting memory and realizes that — yes — this is what he wants — this is it. With another nauseating rush of adrenaline he peels away the blubbery layer of mucus-like film and reaches outwards. He grabs a fistfull of grass and pulls, dragging himself into the open air.
“Wait—” he manages to cough as he twists and shimmies some more. The figure of a man just a dozen feet away stops. “Harrington,” Eddie finishes, and the figure turns.
(in which Eddie returns from the underworld and Steve gives all that he’s got)
Series
- Part 1 of more than blood
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ripples in a brook, open book by slowmoon
Fandoms: IT - Stephen King, IT (Movies - Muschietti)
07 Sep 2020
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After a brief respite in the morning, the wind had picked up again an hour or so ago. Richie has been waiting to see if the sandwich board outside would blow over or not -- the most entertaining part of his day so far, until Eddie showed up.
“You just missed Kennedy,” Richie says. “They had the Toper on all morning, so it's nice and toasty in here.”
He leans over the counter and presses the back of his fingers to Eddie’s rosy pink cheek, expecting him to pull away, possibly to swat at him like when they were kids. Instead Eddie accepts the touch, humming a little.
“Toasty,” he confirms, moving Richie’s hand to his other cheek for a moment before dropping it.
Richie pulls back and picks up the stamp again, just to keep it moving. In his stomach there is a familiar swirling sensation which passes through resolutely ignored. -
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There are only six fortune cookies. Six little slips of paper. Guess Stanley Could Not Cut It.
As Bev slides the last piece into place the message sinks in and it cuts like a knife. Barely remembering who in the ever-loving fuck Stanley even is, Richie feels his heart turn to lead and sink down into his shoes. The feeling reminds him of the day he found out that his dad died, and the insanity of grieving a stranger so intensely makes him feel untethered. Crazed.
A deadlights fic.
Recent series
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- Words:
- 103,459
- Works:
- 1
- Bookmarks:
- 13
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Will Graham is not like either of them. Will Graham is an anomaly to the trend. The psychiatrist in her demands to know why, wants to find out where this came from, how it started, why Will of all people was the one to turn Hannibal’s head. Will’s relationship with empathy makes him special, and Hannibal has always had a penchant for society’s more specialised individuals, but besides that she cannot understand what the catalyst is; how Will has managed to so acutely snare Hannibal’s affections so powerfully that she can see it written all over his face as she looks at him.
She understands well enough what Will’s interest in Hannibal might look like. Hannibal is unique, too. Ostentatious yet often inconspicuous. Warm yet terribly, achingly cold. Alluring yet terrifying, this one she knows particularly well because she has always been drawn to Hannibal, despite a lingering sickness in her stomach that reminds her that she’s in danger; balanced on a knife edge at all times. It’s understandable that Will would want to delve into this world, as she has, but she can’t understand what makes Hannibal want to delve into Will’s.
~
OR: Bedelia becomes obsessed with Hannibal’s obsession with Will Graham.
Bookmarked by slowmoon
11 Oct 2025
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Post-fall they spend a month in India.
Bookmarked by slowmoon
28 Sep 2025
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There’s a moment where there’s no answer. Where Will scrolls up to look at the image again. At the way Hannibal’s hand is spread out across the pages of his book. His touch gentle, but the lines of his bones still violent in their rest. "Tell me what you find beautiful, Will."
Bookmarked by slowmoon
27 Sep 2025
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In Dori City, Gon and Killua train and prepare and wait for the East Gorteau invasion. One gray afternoon, somebody falls from the high Gothic tower in the city square. These two things don’t seem connected—at first.
Gon is without his Nen for 30 days, but he insists on investigating the death—it might have something to do with the Ants, right Killua? Killua agrees, because ever since the other team members brought Kite back out of NGL, it seems like the only thing that will put some life back in Gon’s eyes.
But every day, a growing dread is creeping over him, a sinking feeling he can’t shake: something is going wrong. The looming invasion, the death, the way Gon has been acting lately…it feels like they’re all circling around and around something terrible at the center that Killua can’t put a name to.
Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.
Bookmarked by slowmoon
24 Sep 2025
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This is easiest if he thinks of himself as the bait, so that’s what he does. He has to maintain that air of strange, inexplicable intimacy between himself and Hannibal, so he does. It’s personal, and it’s the most impersonal thing in the world.
Will lifts his chin, and their eyes connect. When he crosses his arms, his fingers drum against his own shirtsleeves.
He asks, “Have you ever slept with any of your patients?”
Bookmarked by slowmoon
16 Sep 2025