surelynotsid

[surelynotsid]

a merthur drabble;

Arthur barged into the throne room on the verge of losing his mind. He was clouded by emotion, irrational, and erratic. The panic and pure fury gripping him tightly by the throat, restricting the oxygen to his lungs, the blood to his head. 

He wasn't clear headed, or unbiased. He was leading dangerously with his heart as it lodged itself in his throat. He was choking on it, this foolish love that devoured him whole, a love certainly not fit for a king. But Arthur was no king, not like this. Bound to the mercy of his heart's deepest desires.

He was willing to send armies out on endless searches to scour the earth and beyond. He was too comfortable in sacrificing his kingdom for his servant. Though Merlin had never just been a servant. And Arthur had never just been a king. A king is rational and selfless. He makes the hard decisions and always does the best for his kingdom. A king sacrifices one man for the safety of his people, not the other way around.

But heavens, he could not breathe, he could not sleep, the color had been stripped from his world, and the endless darkness was suffocating. He was going mad. And his wife, oh his lovely wife who had been nothing but patient with him as he fell apart every morning he woke without Merlin to greet him with something sharp on his tongue and the usual mischief in his eyes. She was gentle with his fragile shell, with soft words of comfort murmured in his ear, a gentle caress against his cheek, warm fingers carding through his hair.

His wife, his lovely wife.

Arthur was a poor king, but he was an unfathomable husband. The term felt like bile in his throat, it made him gag. He did not deserve Guinevere, not in this life or the next. He could never be the husband she deserved, but still, he fell to one knee in a desperate plea to do what was right for his kingdom. To be a husband. To be a king.

He never quite succeeded in either area.

He was a king not worthy, with a kingdom he would dispose of for a glance upon pink lips, high cheekbones, eyes of Llyn-y-forwyn lake. Oh, his eyes, Arthur yearned to drown beneath them. To be locked in their sight, to be the object within the mischievous gaze. What he would give, what he would do, all things sacred and beautiful be damned. He would give everything; do anything.

It's only in the fleeting moments when his body is too tired, eyes too heavy where he slips into a dream that offers little relief. A small glance. A ghost of a touch. Never enough. For he wakes, desperate and yearning, his heart heavy in his chest.

And as he stares into the dull brown eyes of his lovely wife, he can't help but think about everything she is not. Or rather whom she is not.

He is certain he loves her or has a feeling of love for her, but a cruel thing is desire. Oh, and it lies within the crevices of another's skin, one he wishes to touch, to explore. To know deeply and more intimately than his own mind. He was a fool under desire's wicked hands. It was an unruly flame, and he was choking on the smoke. But he was too far gone and damn the angels that tried to save the pyromaniac fool he was.

He barged through the doors demanding attention, and maybe it was because he was king. Or perhaps the sick sadistic and voyeuristic tendency for humans to watch as one goes mad made them all look.

Look at your king, watch him fall to his knees and weep for his servant. Watch him unravel, as he falls apart. Watch as he brings everyone down with him.

The order was on the tip of his tongue crafted to perfection, go- but there was Gaius, and he was turning around, and Arthur's breath hitched in his throat. The constant worry and fear of the worst that had been clouding his eyes for days had ceased. He was calm, relieved, and smiled knowingly as he stepped aside.

And Arthur fell apart at the mere sight of him. Merlin. 

He didn't know he was a starved man before he feasted his gaze upon the very cause of his hunger.

Seeing wasn't enough; he needed to touch him. To press his palm to his chest to feel him, to feel his heartbeat. But there were too many prying eyes, and Arthur felt small and scrutinized. He felt as though he was under a microscope. Everyone was watching him, their king, waiting for his reaction.

Arthur wanted to run and hide and he wanted to take Merlin with him. He wanted to be alone with him. Just the two of them, where he could touch Merlin and not be questioned about his intentions. Where he could stare at him for as long as he pleased. Where he wasn’t a king and he could just exist with this feeling.

"You're ok," he breathed out, because he had been staring for too long, getting trapped beneath the surface of the lake in his eyes. He welcomed the drowning sensation with open arms as the feeling of death clouded his head. To die at his hands, Arthur thinks that's how he would like to go.

Merlin gave a small quirk of his lips and a shrug of his shoulders, "I always am."

And Arthur missed a lot more than just the sight of him.

They didn't have any time. Merlin was whisked away, and Arthur had duties that called for a king. But he was hopeless and his mind wandered to the blue eyed servant who occupied every space in his brain. It wasn't enough to know he was home and safe, Arthur needed to be with him. He needed to feel him alive. 

That's why that night, as the moon sits in the sky and time crawls slowly into the early hours of the morning, he lies awake.

Guinevere is next to him, sleeping peacefully with a light arm tossed over his chest. Arthur is heaving beneath the weight. He is suffocating on her naturally sweet scent, and he is close to tears. He has to see, has to feel, knowing wasn't enough. His heartbeat is unsteady in his chest, and he knows it is only Merlin who can calm it. 

Arthur moves Gwen's arm off him. It is not her touch he needs, and he despises himself for even daring to think that. But he can't hide from the truth. Not when it's so loud, so demanding, so punishing, a bright contrast against the darkness of the night. Not when it rips him apart, wields his heart like a compass, and directs him to his true north. He knows who lies at the destination. 

Slipping out of the covers, swinging his legs free, he winces when his bare feet come in contact with the chilling floor. He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand down his face. He feels split open, raw, and hurting, and it only gets worse when he hears his name being uttered softly from behind him. 

"Arthur?" A gentle hand is pressed against his shoulder blade, and he tenses, the touch making his skin crawl. He shrugs out of her reach, standing up. "Are you ok?" she asks tenderly, and Arthur feels sick.

He stares at his feet, unable to meet her eyes, " 'm thirsty," he mumbles. 

He hears the rustle of the duvet, "I'll come with," she says. And she is just trying to be there for him like she has been trying the past few weeks. But she is not who he needs, and he is a terrible husband.

"It's just water," he whispers, glancing back over his shoulder, just in time to watch his wife's heart break in her eyes.

She averts her gaze, running her fingers through the soft fur on the blanket. It wasn't just water. They both know this, but neither of them will acknowledge it. They are married. They once held hands and made a promise. So long as the sun rises and falls, they will eternally be one together. They shall stand side by side, forever united under said sacred oath that is marriage. And she will bear the heir, and they will grow old together just as they vowed.

But Arthur's heart will always beat to the rhythm of another's laughter. And it's a damning thing, and he'll break both their hearts in the process. But truth is demanding, and they can't hide from it with matching rings on their fingers that signify nothing more than their eternal misery.  

Gwen looks up at him through carefully guarded eyes. She smiles softly, "Right. . . just," she says with a knowing nod of her head. Just, it's a surrogate, really, a word to fill in the empty space. There are many words left unspoken between them. A bandaid for a bullet wound; just.

And perhaps Arthur should say something to comfort her, an apology, or an acknowledgment, or gratitude. But he is truly a poor husband and wordlessly turns around and makes his way out of their room and heads in the opposite direction of the kitchens.

The castle feels different at night. Feels smaller, compressed with all the secrets uttered to the moon. He blacks out on the walk. It is muscle memory. Arthur knows how to get to him. The path is etched into his brain. He needn't be present. His feet know the way, for he has walked the same halls a million times before.

He hadn't even realized he reached his destination and was knocking until a delirious Gaius was opening the door cladded in his nightgown. His eyes are barely open as he looks up at his intruder.

"Arthur?" he grumbles, "it's the middle of the night!"

Arthur let out a breath nodding his head, "is he-"

"Sleeping," Gaius cuts in shortly, "like i was, like you should be," he says with a pointed stare.

Arthur's heart stutters in his chest, "I need-please Gaius, I need to know he's ok," Arthur pleads, the vulnerability and desperation in his voice clearly shocking Gaius.

The old man considers him for a moment before slowly nodding and stepping aside. Arthur almost cries out in relief as he stumbles forward. "Thank you," he murmurs gratefully.

Gaius just grunts, before padding back over to his room.

Arthur instantly makes a beeline towards Merlin's room. The door creaks softly as he pushes it open. 

Merlin is lying on his back fast asleep, and Arthur can see the rise and fall of his chest. He sits on the edge of his bed, and Merlin stirs but stays in his slumber. 

Arthur sucks in a harsh breath as Merlin lays there, motionless, moonlight dancing across his face, kissing his fair skin the way Arthur yearns to do so. He reaches out a trembling hand, pressing his palm to the exposed part of Merlin's chest. His skin is warm to the touch, and Arthur can feel the steady heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest. He shudders, allowing peace to finally wash over him, allowing his pulse to ground him. He is okay. His own heart falls into the same steady rhythm, his wild mind finally calming and his eyes fluttering shut as he absorbs the warmth radiating off of Merlin. Warm, his mind tells him; alive.

Merlin stirs beneath his palm and Arthur watches silently as his eyes flutter open, his eyebrows drawing together in a disorientated state. He blinks, his eyes still drowsy with sleep, "Arthur?" Merlin mumbles, mindlessly reaching for him, and for the first time in weeks a small smile graces Arthurs lips.

A response catches in his throat, all words dying on his tongue because Merlin is there, alive. His bony frame, pale skin, blue eyes and he sits up. He is there, and Arthur is there and the earth starts turning once again.

"Merlin," he croaks because there are no intruding eyes, no one to see their king cry.

"I am ok," Merlin reassures, placing his hand over Arthurs, where it still sits firmly against his chest.

Arthur blinks, ducking his head down. Merlin's hand is warm against his own, rough, and callus with years of work worn into them. Arthur twists his own hand to hold Merlins. He runs his thumb down slender fingers, and around the bumps of bony knuckles before pressing his lips to them.

Merlin shifts, and the small bed groans in protest. He pulls his hand from Arthur to pat the empty spot, a silent invitation in which Arthur doesn't hesitate to accept. He lays down, the mattress is warm from Merlin's body, and Arthur is reminded once again that he is alive.

It's a tight fit, but their bodies mold together with ease. Pieces slot together perfectly like they are made for each other, like the gods took extra care, making sure they aligned flawlessly.

It's silent between them, just steady breathing and the white noise of the world still spinning. 

There are many things Arthur wants to tell him, and he does with time. After all, they have the whole night. So whispers are exchanged, along with soft touches, and it's skin on skin as they melt into one another. It's impossible to know where one begins and the other ends. It's all so sweet reserved for the night, and it is a shame this love doesn't get to grace the light of day. But Arthur doesn't spare that a second thought when he finally gets a taste of pink lips.

They fall deeper into one another, their souls intertwined and the stars bear witness as they become just another secret for the moon to hold.

#merlin #arthur pendragon #merthur #bbc merlin #emer #gaius #magic #merlin and arthur #gwenivere #gwen and arthur #king arthur #boyfriend

[surelynotsid]

a hannigram drabble; slight nsfw

"How have you been, Will?" Hannibal asks him with a cock of his head.

Will's hands feel clammy as he stares at the man sitting in the chair before him. He has one leg draped over the other with a careless class. He's sitting there, his fingers resting against his temple, propping his head up.

Will twists his fingers together. He's not nervous. He never is when it comes to Hannibal. He knows Hannibal like he is a reflection of himself. They are one in the same.

Will is not nervous, no, he's agitated; annoyed. Hannibal is sitting there so unbothered and that bothers him.

Will knows him. He can crawl around in his mind like they are connected somehow. Invisible tendrils snaking from his mind to Wills. Will knows who he is and what he's done.

What annoys him though is that their connection runs both ways. Where he knows Hannibal like he's his favourite poem that he's memorised every word to. That he recites everyday, that he worships and obsesses over. His tongue snaking around each familiar word, his heart Iurching in his chest at the suspense though he already knows the way it ends. He's read it a million times and will read it a million times more.

He knows Hannibal, just as Hannibal knows him. So it annoys him that Hannibal knows that he knows, and that he also knows he's not going to do anything about it. Which was true. He was his favourite poem after all and Will is not ready to stop reading it, not ready to stop obsessing over it. He has not yet tired from the words. Not when he knows it so well. Not when it's a reflection of everything he's afraid to be, or terrified he's becoming. Not when he may be the only one on this god forsaken planet that knows him.

Despite that fact, it still bothers him.

"Fine," is his clipped response as Hannibal still sits there smugly because he knows.

"Have you been taking your meds?" he asks.

Will shakes his head, "they make me feel. . . detached," he admitted. He doesn't feel himself when he's on them. He feels tethered and his mind gets foggy. He doesn't like It when that happens. He feels the connection to Hannibal weakening, and he hates not knowing him.

Hannibal sighs, "they are there to help," he says a little exasperated.

"Well it doesn't feel like it," Will snaps.

"They are to keep you balanced, collected, not to mention to help you sleep," Hannibal lectures, although there's a small smile hidden between his words. He lectures because he's the doctor and he's very committed to his role even if Will knows. It's a game.

Hannibal knows Will and so he knows what the pills were doing to his mind. He likes that he's off them, but that contradicts his role as the doctor.

"Have you been sleeping?" Hannibal asks eventually.

"Sometimes," Will answers honestly. He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers twitching, "you’re always there though," he adds.

Hannibal's lips twitch slightly, "how so?" he asks as if he doesn't already know.

It's a game, and Hannibal always seems to coax Will into playing.

"In my dreams," Will replies, swallowing, "you haunt my dreams. It's sinful. I do things—we do things that would put the devil's sins to shame."

HannibaI looks all too pleased with himself as he shifts in his seat. "Do you ever dream about killing me, Will?" he asks and when Will nods he looks oddly proud.

"How would you do it?" he asked, seemingly curious, biting back the sadistic grin itching to break out.

Will shifted on the couch, his eyelids fluttering as he looked over at Hannibal. He flattened his palms against his thighs, an attempt to ground himself; to control himself. He swiped his tongue over his lips, and watched as Hannibal's eyes flickered down catching the movement. It's hot and he can't quite organise his thoughts, not enough to answer.

"Would you use a gun?" he asked.

Will immediately shook his head, "no," he murmured breathless, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

Hannibal's widened in amusement, "no?" he repeated. "Too merciful?" he guessed.

Will swallowed thickly, "too … distant," he said, his voice hoarse.

"Distant?" Hannibal questioned feigning confusion as If he didn't understand. He knew what Will meant, but it was a game, and he wanted Will to play. To explain it.

"I wanna…" he trailed off trying to find the perfect way to explain it, but his mind was scattered and his breathing was shallow. "I want to feel it. I want to feel you,” he admitted, his heart lurching in his chest at the mere thought.

Hannibal smirked from where he sat, “so your hands then," he said, quirking a brow.

Will looked down at his lap where hadn't realised he had begun fiddling with his fingers again. He blinked, looking back up at the man in front of him. He nodded, “y-yes with my hands," he stuttered breathlessly.

Of course with his hands. He wants to wrap them around his neck. To watch the life slip from his eyes, to feel it.

"Will," his low sultry voice pulls him from his fantasy. Will snaps his head up, his pupils blown, lips parted, cheeks flushed. "What else do you dream about?"

Will clamped his eyes shut, heat crawling up his spine snaking up his neck dusting the tips of his ears. "You know," he mumbled.

"Tell me, Will," Hannibal demanded.

Play the game, Will.

He opened his eyes meeting Hannibal's forceful gaze, heavy with hunger like he's ready to devour Will whole.

"Sometimes—" Will inhales sharply, pressing his thighs together, "sometimes you take to my body with a knife like an artist takes to his canvas with a brush," he mumbles hastily, shame woven into his words. Shame that stems from the fact he likes those dreams the most. The ones where Hannibal is all over him, suffocating him. Where he drags a blade across his skin making him squirm and writhe beneath him. Breathy gasps escaping his lips when Hannibal presses the blade down strong enough to draw blood, which Hannibal will then lean down to drag his tongue over the wound, tasting his blood, tasting him.

Will usually wakes up with a gasp, his shirt sticking to him like a second skin, his pants painfully tight. Shame keeps its watch as he snakes a hand down to palm himself taking pleasure from such sadistic torture.

"Why are you here, Will?" Hannibal asks the one question that crossed their minds the moment Will showed up at his office. He gets to his feet disappearing behind his desk. Will watches him silently as he tugs open the bottom drawer pulling out a bottle of bourbon. He pours a little into a crystal glass before taking a gulp.

Will watches the action intently, watching the column of his throat bobbing as he swallows. His lips wrapping around the rim of the glass. His thick fingers holding it to his mouth. There's nothing inherently sexual about it, but Will squirms nonetheless.

"I know who you are," he responded eventually.

Hannibal's lips twitch from behind his glass as he takes another sip. He rests against the corner of his desk placing his drink carefully on a coaster. He drags his gaze to meet Wills from across the room. He doesn't look surprised, he knew and Will knew that too.

"Is that so?" he murmurs softly.

"Mhm," Will hums.

"You're not afraid," he acknowledges.

"I know you," Will whispers like that explains everything.

Hannibal pushes himself off his desk. Will's heart rose in his throat with every step. Hannibal stopped right in front of him and Will gulped, moving his gaze to his hands not being able to meet his eyes.

Hannibal reached out, grasping Will's chin, directing his face. A shudder ripples through him at the contact as his lips part slightly.

Hannibal looks at him intrigued, amused. He moves his thumb up tugging on Will's bottom lip.

Will stares up at him through hooded eyes, glazed over with a shameful sort of desperation.

Hannibal moves his thumb forcing it between Will's lips and into his mouth. Will doesn't know why, he doesn't know what possesses him to do but he sucks around his thumb. And the pleased smile that forms on Hannibal's lip makes him keen.

"What are you doing here, Will?" he whispered, because Will hadn't answered, not really.

Will swallows, looking away. He shifted, "i told you—"

"Come now, Will," Hannibal scoffed lightly, snaking his hand down to settle comfortably around the column of Will's throat. "You know," he mocked, "yes, but what are you going to do with your knowledge?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"I," Will cuts himself off harshly. Hannibal squeezes gently at his neck, and an undignified noise falls from Will's lips. He arches into Hannibal's hold, "I—Jack won't believe me," Will stammers.

Hannibal's eyes gleam, "no he won't."

Will swallows, "I can prove it," he murmurs.

Hannibal cocks his head almost mockingly, "can you?"

Will nods, his lips part but he doesn't speak.

Hannibal's eyes rake down the length of him. "You have a beautiful mind, Will, I'll give you that. But with understanding chaos, comes chaos itself, and you Will, you're thriving in it. You can't prove anything, because in order to do so you will have to accept you're exactly like me. Twin flames Will. The very thing that makes me burn is inside you too," Hannibals says, his voice low and Will's stomach flips.

He shoves his hands between his thighs, "I'm not like you," he whispers unconvincingly.

Hannibal quirks a brow at him, "would you ever hurt anyone, Will?"

Will shakes his head hastily, "no," he spits, lurching out of his seat standing against the length of him. It's fast, and defensive to hide his own shame.

"That was quick," Hannibal comments, staring down at him, a bemused glint in his eyes .

"I wouldn't," Will tries again, holding some strength to his voice, his eyes flickering around Hannibals face .

Hannibal looks down at him, his expression darkening. "What about me?" he asks simply.

Will falters and Hannibal notices a sinister smirk tugging at his lips.

"You just told me you wanted to kill me, Will and how you want to feel it when you do. Sounds to me like you're perfectly capable of hurting someone," he says, his tongue wrapping around each word sensually. He's spitting lava, the words falling and singeing Will's skin.

It's so fucking hot, Will cant breathe. He can feel the heat radiating from Hannibal's body and Will wants to devour him. He's starving for it.

“I-I—that's different—you—you’re,” Will can't seem to string together a coherent thought, and Hannibal only watches him struggle, amused. Hannibal's gaze suddenly darkens and Will can see the horns poking through his head, and the scarlet glint in his eyes.

"You're hard," he comments, cupping him through his trousers.

Will's head tips back, a groan torn from his lips at the sudden contact as he ruts his hips into the awaiting palm eagerly welcoming the pleasure. "Please-" he whines, rocking his hip forward.

“Tell me Will,” Hannibal says through daring eyes.

Will’s too far gone, he doesn't understand, “w-what?” he stutters. His mind is a mess. Threads from one thought to another, a line down the middle separating desire with something darker, something more sinister. He’s trying to keep himself on the right side, but he’s not entirely sure which one is right when they are both so wrong. The lesser evil perhaps? But that doesn't change the fact that it’s still evil in nature. Will was at a crossroads, how was he supposed to choose between two evils? What did it say about him? The line was blurring, it was thinning, and shit, he had a foot on either side.

“Tell me who you are, Will,” Hannibal said darkly. And fuck, Will was staring into the dark abys of the devils eyes, and he saw his own reflection amoungst the chaos. “Tell me we’re the same, tell me you’re just as sane, just as insane as me. Tell me your hands are capable of the very thing mine have done. Tell me you wouldn't love the red staining your skin. Tell me we are the same; two halves of a whole. Alike,” he whispered, his lips against Will's ear.

The words were spinning in his head. Same. We. Capable. We. Me. You. Red. We. Skin. Skin. Skin. Alike. Alike.

A Like.

A L ike

A L I ke

A L I K E.

And Will was drowning in him. Hannibal was grinning above him watching as Will burned at his hand. Every inch of his skin was on fire, he was suffocating on the smoke. But Will wanted more. He wanted Hannibal to burn alongside him, their ashes mixing in the chaos, in the fire, in the desire. Because that was it was, desire. Will wanted to kill him, wanted to devour him, wanted to kiss him. All things that contradict one another, because he couldn't have it all.

A choice had to be made.

Which desire was strongest?

#hannibal #will graham #doctor lecter #hannigram #murder husbands #hannibal will #drabble #eat your young #im starvin #darling #hozier