I think there's a great chance the existence of mirrors/reflective surfaces silently fucks Rocky up.
Like, Grace is in the bathroom, shaving, the curtain pulled to the side and suddenly he stops and says "stop touching my stuff". Rocky, frozen, somewhere behind him, can't fathom how Grace sensed that. He was so quiet. The razor is so loud. Grace's still facing away from him. What the fuck.
Grace repairing some panel or other and asks for a tool. Without even turning around, he says "no, not that one, the one to its left". Rocky's like are you shitting me. I know for a fact your hearing is ass. You can only see in one direction and I'm not in it!! What?!
Streamer Simon headcanons because I know you all love it (I do too)
- Simon 100% loves all the fanart of him and he will make streams where he reacts to it.
- before Grace shows his face on camera for the first time, people make fanart of what they think he looks like and him and Simon scroll looking through them all in bed and they panic at one fanart because holy shit that’s actually so close to what Grace looks like it’s a little scary. Grace assumes that it’s one of his students who created it (it wasn’t.)
- The day Grace finally reveals his face in camera in a video he does with Simon, that artist freaks the fuck out and goes viral because “WHAT DO YOU MEAN I WAS CLOSE?!”
- Simon 1000% reads fanfiction about himself because in chat one day, someone asks him if he’s seen the fanfiction people have written about him and his husband. It started off as a joke to see if they got Grace accurate but some of the stuff he reads actually has him sobbing because it’s so sweet but also “yes that is 100% something you do, Star! Don’t deny it!”
- Simon jokes that his husband is taller than him one stream and his chat 100% types “isn’t everybody though?” Simon swears he can hear Grace laugh from the other room.
- Grace in this AU does have an account he uses to watch Simon stream on and when he comments in the chat (his username is The_Papa_Star_27) everyone goes crazy. Especially when Simon reads the flirty chats Grace sends his way and Simon goes absolutely feral.
- sometimes grace mods his streams for Simon when he’s not busy doing paperwork, if not, someone else does it.
- Simon one day whilst streaming, hears Grace coming into the house and says “chat hang on a second.” And he rushes to go see Grace who’s holding a makeup bag and Grace tells him shyly and a little nervously that he wanted to try some lipstick. He puts it on and Simon volunteers happily for him to test it out on him. Needless to say, Simon strolls back into his streaming room with lipstick marks all over his face with a dazed look and saying “my husband brought this lipstick. It works.”
- speaking of, in my mind Grace AND Simon test out makeup for fun because fuck gender ok?!
- Simon has been banned from rage games. Don’t ask.
hello! could i request a hannibal x male reader whose love language is physical touch, but he's too anxious to initiate anything with hannibal because he's been called clingy in previous relationships? thank you and keep up the great work <3
PLEASE, IF I DETESTED YOUR TOUCH, YOU WOULD'VE BEEN SERVED AS DINNER ALREADY
Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader
authors note: I changed the reader to be gender neutral as nothing in the fic really implies a specific gender. Also, I had many ideas of how this could be angsty and heart wrenching but ultimately decided on just fluff and Hannibal comforting us because we need sweetness in our life.
The silence in Hannibal’s study was a comfortable thing, usually. Currently, you were curled in one of the plush leather armchairs, a book open but unread in your lap. Your gaze kept drifting to Hannibal, sat at his desk, meticulously sketching what looked like a human heart.
Your hands ached to touch him. Physical contact was your native tongue, but with Hannibal, you were mute.
The ghost of your ex’s voice echoed in your mind. “God, you’re so clingy. Can’t you just be normal for five minutes?” And after that, you learned your lesson. You’d learned to keep your hands to yourself, to starve the need for contact until it became a dull, manageable ache. You thought you had it under control, but then you met Hannibal. A man whose touch, when he deigned to offer it, was a deliberate, searing brand that left you aching days later.
You shifted in your chair, the leather creaking softly. Hannibal’s pen stilled yet he didn’t look up. “Restless, my dear?”
“No,” you lied, “Just stretching.”
A noncommittal hum was his only reply. He resumed his sketching. You watched the elegant sweep of his wrist, the way his fingers held the pen. You imagined what it would feel like to go to him, to rest your hands on his shoulders, to press a kiss to the side of his neck. The fantasy was so vivid it was painful.
Don’t be needy. Don’t be that guy. He’ll see right through it. He’ll find you pathetic.
You forced your attention back to your book, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. You hugged your arms around yourself, a poor substitute for the real thing.
A few minutes later, the scratching of his pen stopped again. This time, you heard the soft click of it being placed on the desk. You risked a glance up. Hannibal was turned in his chair, watching you. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, dark and perceptive, seemed to see straight through your flimsy defenses.
“You’ve been quiet this evening.”
“Just tired.” you mumbled, looking down at your book again.
“Is that all?”
He knew. Of course, he knew. It was both terrifying and strangely comforting.
You took a shaky breath and decided on a sliver of truth. “I’m just in my head a bit.”
He rose from his chair and moved to the liquor cart, pouring two glasses of what you knew was a very expensive brandy. He walked back, not to his desk, but to your chair. He held one out to you.
Your fingers brushed as you took the glass. The contact was electric, a jolt that went straight to your heart. You snatched your hand back as if burned, cradling the glass with both hands to still their trembling.
Hannibal noticed, but didn't say anything, settling on the ottoman in front of your chair.
“Your entire demeanor is a plea for something you are actively refusing to ask for,” his voice soft but firm. It wasn’t an accusation; it was a diagnosis. “It’s a fascinating paradox. You broadcast a need for proximity with your stillness, your posture, the way your eyes follow me, yet you recoil from the slightest touch.”
Your throat felt tight. “I don’t—”
“You do. Tell me, what do you fear will happen if you were to act on these impulses?”
You couldn’t answer. To admit it out loud would be to admit a weakness. A flaw.
Hannibal set his own glass aside and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Someone, in your past, taught you that your affection was a burden. That your desire for contact was excessive. ‘Clingy,’ is the word you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
You could only manage a weak, jerky nod.
“A foolish, crude word used by those who are incapable of appreciating the depth of what is being offered. To be ‘clingy’ is to seek connection. To desire reassurance. To express a bond that transcends language. It is not a flaw. It is a language.”
He reached out, slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. His fingers gently traced the line of your jaw.
“Your love language is physical touch,” Hannibal continued, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “It is as valid and as beautiful as any symphony, any work of art. To deny it is to deny a fundamental part of yourself. And I,” he paused, his gaze holding yours, “have no interest in a diluted version of you. I want the whole, unedited composition.”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until it escaped in a ragged sob.
“Shh," his other hand came up to cup the back of your neck. “There is no need for that. There is only a need for honesty. With me and with yourself.”
The dam broke. All the months of suppressed need, of carefully constructed distance, came crashing down. You surged forward, your hands flying to his chest, fisting in the soft fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t graceful or seductive. It was desperate, clumsy, and real.
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. You felt his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him in a secure embrace. One hand moved in slow, soothing circles on your back, the other held the back of your head. After a long moment, you pulled back just enough to look at him. Hannibal's eyes were soft, filled with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like adoration.
simon asking grace how he could possibly bear to be friends/partners/whatever with him when he's so horribly mutated and hopelessly asexual grace just says "i love your body because it gave me you!!! it lets me hold you!!! it lets me poke you and touch you and not be alone" and simon just starts ugly crying
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