#hss2018

[mag1cal-star444]

Kitty Spalla is a scene kid, and Yasu is now emo, lol

[cottonflurry]

@homestuckss

Secret Santa Gift for @elenaditgoia! :}c

Hope this is ok!! Terezi is my favorite character so seeing as that was one of my options, I couldn’t help myself ehehe

[groeuf]

@homestuckss secret santa for @strawberrisunday !!

merry xmas happy new year

[hannisecretsanta2018]

SIGN UPS OPEN!

Sign-ups now open from November 25 to December 2! Fill out the form to be a part of the Secret Santa and reblog to spread the word :)

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfzhVf8iOG6a24LettLlQUFK9h5zgxmsej8QOBLBjQ2eoRCkA/viewform?usp=sf_link

[mischallany]

Hello @pshhanonymous , I’m your Secret Santa! :)))) This story is Christmas themed in a way that like, may or may not be awkward? I hope that’s alright. I also dunno if it’s savagely brutal haha but it’s angsty. Happy Holidays and especially Happy New Year! <3

@hannisecretsanta2018

Dear Will,

We have all found a new life, but our old lives hover in the shadows, like incipient madness…

This was the letter, the omen that Hannibal had bestowed upon Will. It was the first letter that Will burned. But it was not the first letter that Hannibal sent.

The first one had arrived in the December after Hannibal let himself be caught. It was snowing that day. It had been snowing the day he surrendered, too.

Will was surprised by the mail, since he hardly received anything anymore. Alana had been using her clout to protect him from the other psychiatrists, and the press when she could. She was still doing that, after all this time, after everything. But she did it coldly now.

When Will turned the letter over, he felt struck. His name was written out in pencil, with neat full cursive. There was no return address, but of course he knew who it was from. Some part of him had been expecting it. Some part of him had been wanting it.

But he didn’t know why Alana would allow this. And why now? Was this Hannibal’s first attempt at writing to him? Or the first attempt that Alana allowed through? Was she feeling overjoyous because of the holiday season? Was it pity? Cruelty? Had she wanted to see what he would do? Had he?

Will had had a chance, then. He could have burned the letter right then. Never opened it, never peeked. Let the fire eat it up, and good riddance. He had just met someone. Her name was Molly, and she had a son, and a dog, and she wanted to spend Christmas with him. The letter was a distraction.

He had taken the letter inside, and dropped it onto the table, like it was nothing. Later, he shoved it into his bedroom dresser, like it was a secret. Later, when he couldn’t sleep, he took the letter out, and took it to the fireplace, and traced his fingers against the curve of the letters of his own name, and he opened it, and read it, and read it again and again and again. He stopped when it was morning. He didn’t burn the letter.

The next day, another one arrived. And another, and another. It was like that for the week. Will took the letters in, and sat in front of his fireplace, and read the letters, and pondered feeding them into the flames, and then he tucked them all safely away into his bedroom dresser, middle drawer.

Sometimes, it felt pointless. Most of the letters maintained Hannibal’s air of superiority and arrogance. They maintained that ironclad control, and that mocking, but fondness too. The same respect and admiration he had always had for Will.

The letter that he had received on Christmas Day was different.

...When the dark cold of winter begins settling across the neighborhood and the nights become silent and dreadful, think of me, Will. Please.

Will had rejected Hannibal in order to cut him out, in order to stop thinking about him. It didn’t really work. It just made him lonely. Well, it probably made Hannibal lonely too.

For the next week, Will had revisited that letter, and brushed his fingers against that word Please so much it became smudged. He hadn’t received anymore letters.  

In January, he and Molly married, and she moved in. Some congratulatory cards and letters were sent to the household. There were no letters from Hannibal.

Next December, the letters began again. Still nonchalant, and cool, and in control. Even though he must have heard the news from Alana long ago. Even though Will had never responded to the letters.

Sometimes, in those December days, Will would lay awake at night, until he was sure that Molly was asleep. He would gently slip out of bed, right to the dresser, slide out the middle drawer, and draw out a stack of letters, all with his name inscribed on them in the familiar rounded cursive.

He was keeping his shame so daringly close to his wife. But he couldn’t bring himself to move the letters further away.

And he couldn’t bring himself to burn them.

He couldn’t bring himself to burn Hannibal’s letters. Even though there was a part of him that wanted to. Even though he knew that he should.

So instead, finally, he wrote. Starting that December, he began to write to Hannibal. Reponses, questions, thoughts... Conversations, like they used to have.

And if Hannibal wanted to maintain some air of control, and arrogance, and superiority, then so be it. He would too. In his letters, he tells Hannibal cruel things like If only you hadn’t… and sweet things like I would have chosen you..., and he tells him true things and false things. He tells him I am happy without you and I am glad that you are gone and I miss you.

And sometimes, just like Hannibal, he would beg PLEASE, or in shaky block letters, ask over and over again: why why why why why. Because he just couldn’t help himself. Because he couldn’t resist it. Because they were the same, after all.

From then on, he writes letters that he will never send. In Decembers, when the letters come again, he stands in front of his fireplace in the early mornings, rereading Hannibal’s words, retracing all of the dear’s and the please’s and the loves, and then he burns his own instead.

He knows that he is doing a disservice to them both like this. He is denying them each other. But he thinks that this is how it should be.

In Decembers, Will chips away at the pieces of himself that hurt the most, lays himself bare in words for eyes that will never see them, never read them, and then he burns them all away.

Was it months or years ago when Jack has asked him to cut out these parts of himself? He’s trying, but it doesn’t feel like healing, it feels like bleeding out. It feels like he’s crawling against glass to try and escape a monster that he doesn’t actually want to leave.

In Decembers, his resolve wavers like the fire flickers, but for days on end, he keeps going.

He reads:

Dear Will,

Dear Will,

Dear Will,

He writes:

Dear Hannibal,

Dear Hannibal,

Dear Hannibal,

And he watches as that man’s name gets fed into the fire, one letter at a time, and he watches as it burns away into nothing, until only ashes are left. Each time, he feels like a piece of himself burns away too. It’s never the parts that he wants to burn.

In Decembers, when the dark cold of winter has settled across the town, and the nights become silent and dreadful, Will sits and stares into the fire, and feeds it love, and he thinks about Hannibal.

[mag1cal-star444]

[mag1cal-star444]

[mag1cal-star444]

I have a headcanon that Claire used to live in France and would go to cafes every weekend.

Her favorite drink is coffee, and her favorite food is strawberry cheesecake.

She's a quiet and thoughtful girl who likes to daydream whenever she's bored.

☕🍓🍰