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prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years

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Don’t Look! [Part 3]

<- Part 2 | Part 4 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader

Once again, transformation AU by @we-are-all-just-a-bit-crazy, I’m just making a fic with it! (Going to try to wrap this series tomorrow; we’ll see if I can keep up the pace). Mutual pining + Chilton having trust issues.

2,160 words

The door opened a crack, and Dr. Chilton’s eyes appeared, searching up and down the hallway. Your pulse quickened. Finally, you were going to get answers—some logical explanation for what you’d seen last night. At least you could show him support this time instead of leaving him trembling in the dark.

He seemed to be human again. You found yourself checking and rechecking the texture of his skin for lingering signs of spikes and swirling darkness. A chill ran down your spine at his proximity, like it did when you saw a spider. You wished it wouldn’t. You didn’t want to be afraid of spiders. You didn’t want to be afraid of him.

Finding the coast clear, Chilton opened the door another few inches and stepped out wearing your grey hoodie and sweatpants. His hair was a mess, the hood pulled down to hide it.

“I cannot be seen this way. If you need me, I shall be at home. You have my personal number. Please call Nightengale Restorations and have them fix the office. Tell them I will pay a fifteen percent bonus for having it done this week,” he prattled in his professional tone as if this were just another workplace matter. He walked away, a slight hitch to his swift gait, but turned after three steps and met your eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

***

There was no confrontation after that. Dr. Chilton resumed work the next day, and things simply went back to normal. That is to say: awkward silences, reading novels into every word, and the simmering tension of pretending everything was normal when, in fact, nothing had been resolved.

Questions burned in your eyes, but fear restrained your tongue. The answers would only make you more afraid, and so Chilton did not volunteer them.

You didn’t run away, but you didn’t ask, either. Chilton was satisfied that you were just as in denial as he was.

The daily routine went on exactly as it used to: you would arrive at 7:30 am, knock at his office door, hand him a coffee, and take the file of paperwork he wanted done that day. Only there was hesitation in your knock, and you waited for him to say, “Enter,” instead of sauntering in like you owned the place. He had you put the coffee down on his desk so you would not risk brushing his fingertips as you sometimes did. When you took the file, you stared at him like he might bite.

“That will be all,” he said, dismissing you before your stoic mask faltered and you showed your true disgust.

***

Chilton’s skin crawled beneath his suit from his arms to his feet, and his scar throbbed for the first time in weeks. Having Abel Gideon back under his care was disconcerting, but a necessary part of Will Graham’s therapy—or rather, another clue in the case Graham was building against Hannibal Lecter.

He was skeptical at first. Graham was a lunatic—a sociopathic manipulator. Delusional. Yet, even a sociopath could not fabricate such elaborate lies with that much sodium amytal running through his veins.

The nightmares would be worth it when he was the man famous for bringing down the Chesapeake Ripper.

“Hey.”

Chilton looked up, eyes rimmed with red from hours of staring at a computer screen, working late yet again. You held up a bag of takeout, a weak smile on your lips.

“Need a break?” you offered, moving to sit across from him at his desk. Everything in the office was tidied up—you had cleaned most of it yourself the day Chilton went home in your sweatpants. The damage wasn’t as bad as it looked. Most of the furniture was simply overturned, not broken. Only the antique in-wall shelving waited for professional repair.

“No. Thank you,” he said, waving away the food. His lips thinned wanly. “You may help yourself if you like.”

He was equally surprised and suspicious when you stayed, unpacking the container of vegetarian pesto tortellini. He watched hungrily as you lanced one with a plastic fork and brought it to your lips. His stomach growled.

“Are you alright?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, straightening defensively in his seat.

“With Gideon here. That must be difficult.”

“I manage.”

You chewed another pasta in silence. Finally, he couldn’t help it and grabbed the second fork, stealing a tortellini off your platter. It was rich and flavorful—a bit heavy on the salt, but obviously from a fine restaurant. He held the bite in his mouth. No strange aftertastes. He did not feel woozy after swallowing. There was always a chance you were willing to drug yourself to get to him if you had an accomplice waiting to spirit him away to some secret facility.

“All right,” he snapped, chair shooting back toward the wall as he stood. “What are you after?”

You gave a startled “Mmph?” around a mouthful of pesto.

“What is the catch? A price for your silence? Why are you here, bribing me with dinner?”

“I… I’m not—what? I was worried about you.”

“Unlikely, considering the circumstances. Tell me what you want.” His eyes locked onto you, cold and piercing.

“Fine!” you broke. “I want you to forgive me!”

“For what?” he sneered, half believing your words were a veiled threat.

“I’m sorry, OK? Please—what can I do to make up for it? I tried giving you space, but now you look at me like I’m going to kick you, or”—your eyes widened at the plate of food he only touched after you ate some—“poison you! I swear I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” he asked in an entirely softer tone. He sat back down, hunching forward across the desk to search your face.

Your head hung low, and you murmured quietly, “I know I didn’t handle it well. I should have left when you asked. Now I understand… you didn’t want anybody to see that. I invaded your privacy. And then I freaked out!” Your voice broke. “And I’ve been trying to… to make up for it. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but—dammit, I’m pushing you again! Sorry.”

The urge to hug you overwhelmed him. If there wasn’t a deliberately massive table in between you—meant to keep others at a distance—he would have hugged you.

“Are you not afraid?” For once, the broadness of his desk seemed obtrusive.

“I could never be afraid of you.”

Your arm crossed the divide, reaching for his hand. It touched, warm and easy, and gave a sympathetic squeeze that set his blood racing. Then it retracted, and his skin ached for the lost contact.

“I just got scared because I didn’t understand what was happening. I still don’t. Maybe I am still afraid, a little. But not because—! Please, just… tell me what that was. What happened to you?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. Eyes narrowing, he answered cagily, “First, what do you think you saw? Light can play tricks on the eye, especially after long hours in a morbid environment, possible exposure to hypnotic drugs… Let us be sure we are on the same page.”

“Are you seriously going to gaslight me now that we’re finally talking? I’m not an idiot. You still owe me those pants back!”

While he floundered for words, your eyes squeezed shut, and a hissing laugh burst from your nose. A red flush crept up his neck, under his shirt collar. It was inappropriate to laugh in this situation, but perhaps that was why it was so contagious—it had been too long since he’d seen you laugh, and even longer since he’d done so himself.

“Those cheap, scratchy, torture devices? Consider it a favor that I tossed them,” he quipped. (Forget the fact that he had been sleeping with his face buried in them for the past week and simply did not wish to return them before wringing them for every drop of your scent.)

“And yet you wore them, which means I saved your ass. Checkmate, doctor.”

“Please. It is barely a Vienna Gambit.”

Laughter felt foreign in his throat. It was soft, and only lasted a brief second, but it was cleansing. You smiled at him, rolling your eyes, and his soul lifted.

“Very well,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Ask your questions.”

Your eyes darted to the windows. Another late night. Stars appeared (the handful not blotted out by Baltimore’s light pollution). You chewed your bottom lip.

“Are you going to transform again?”

“Only on the night of the new moon, when twilight gives way to the black of night. No need to worry.”

“Just once a month, then? Werewolf rules?”

He shot an offended glare, though you weren’t wrong. “Sometimes two, near the aphelion. And during an eclipse. It… hates sunlight. Even the reflection of the sun. It wants to be in darkness.” The thought disturbed him—the way the beast called him to the shadows. He always fought it to stay indoors, locking himself away from any nocturnal roving. It frightened him what might happen if he gave in. The coppery taste of blood haunted his dreams.

“Then… would you transform if you went spelunking? You know, in a cave? Or a submarine?”

“I have not tried. A darkened room is not enough. I would not tempt it.”

You swallowed and thought. Your lips twitched, building to the important question: “Is it still you in there?”

“Yes. More impulsive—I would never have smashed the decor—but I am still there.” It brings my true self to the surface, he thought, but withheld this. A slimy, dangerous, unlovable wretch. He looked at you, sitting across from him in front of a container of food you brought to share, and wondered what you were doing there after seeing it. How could you bear to be near him?

“But you’re not going to… eat me or something?” You were embarrassed to ask, and he gave you a fittingly scathing glare.

“No. I would not eat you.” He stabbed a tortellini and popped it in his mouth.

“Then I want to see it.”

He choked.

“I want to get a better look. To wrap my head around it. Besides, it seemed painful—next time I could bring you a hot towel, or… a cold pack, or… I don’t know, some tea? An ibuprofen?”

“There is no next time. You were never supposed to see that in the first place.”

“Please? If it’s going to happen again in two weeks, I want to be there. Prepared this time.”

“This is not a zoo. I am not some freak show to be gawked at! What happened to you being sorry?”

“I just want to get to know you,” you answered, and your voice sounded so small his heart reeled. You snapped your head up, “I mean—I want to be there for you. You shouldn’t be alone.”

He scoffed, defensive again. “Why? Because I might do something dangerous? I am more than capable of controlling myself.”

“Because you deserve to be comforted when you’re in pain.”

Your words struck him like a nuclear bomb of basic human decency. Deserved? Comfort?

“Does anyone else know? Does anyone… take care of you when you change?”

Only his family knew, and they certainly did not take care of him. Bringing him that bag of clothing in the morning was the first time anyone had done something thoughtful for him—helped him with his condition. Even if you had run away at first, you wanted to be supportive. To know his dark side.

Why?

Was it possible? Did you feel the same way about him as he did about you? His hand still felt warm from where you had briefly touched it.

He had to admit, it was nice having someone be there for him. Even a small gesture like old, loose-fitting sweatpants in a bag made a world of difference. Or dinner at his desk. He imagined you pressing a steamed towel to his forehead, and he did not hate the idea—doting on him like a spa therapist, taking the edge off the pain as his hair fell out and skin split open. Or watching him become hideous. Vomiting at the sight of him. Losing all interest you might have had. Realizing it was a mistake to be there.

“Thank you for dinner,” he announced in curt, clipped syllables. “That will be all.”

“Frederick…” Your voice was low, personal. Pleading. He did not like how personal it was. How you were giving him everything he wanted, like you were baiting a trap.

“Fascinating as this must be for you, I still have work to do. Your shift ended an hour ago. Go home.”

“OK. Right. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You didn’t see him trembling as you left, clutching his hand over his fluttering heart.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Taglist: @beccabarba / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @madamsnape921 / @astrangegirlsmind / @neely1177 / @onerestein / @dreamlover31 / @isvvc-pvscvl / @shroomiehomie / @storiesofsvu / @welcometothemxdhouse / @feedthemadness-sweetie / @law-nerd105 / @amelia-song-pond / @michael-rooker / @xecq / @madpanda75 / @alwaysachorusgirl / @bananas-pajamas / @leanor-min / @mad-girl-without-a-box / @katierpblogg / @worldofvixen

#Frederick Chilton x reader #Frederick Chilton #Hannibal AU #my writing

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darling-i-read-it · 3 years

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💐💐💐Hi Maya! (This has to be said!) I have and will always cherish your stories (request or any of your amazing pieces)...which were first around Ewan which I had gone hunting for and it ....led me to you & your immense talent! It only continued to grow and expand when you went on to you wrote for Benoit Blanc...JD or Will Graham...and everything that was before and after! 💐💐💐

May I please have a head cannon where Reader is a writer...she will scribble on napkins..scraps of paper..wherever and whenever she is struck with an idea. Her only other love equal to writing is these five guys!

Roman Sionis, Dan Torrance, Michael Corleone, Jareth & Will Graham

(you writing Jerry from Fright Night...I sent you PM about the character!)

Hey! Glad you were able to send the request! I don’t write for Roman, Dan or Michael anymore but I had to make an exception for you cause I wasn’t sure when I’d be back regularly. But for everyone else lol, don’t request for Roman, Dan or Michael bhahaha. Enjoy and thank you for supporting me for so long!

- writing isn’t really his thing and he doesn’t see the love in it at first

- he doesn’t read books lmao

- but when he sees how happy it makes you he’ll try to understand it better

- he likes the little ideas you leave around because sometimes they really are gorgeous pieces

- and the ideas you have, the imagination

- he really is in awe of it

- childlike wonder sometimes, crazy out of the world excitement when you’re excited

- he may very well be a dick sometimes but you know he loves you

- he probably won’t read a lot of your stuff but he will be happy for you and sometimes that’s enough

- Dan loves it from the getgo

- he even wants to help you with ideas

- he’s had a wacky life and that helps fuel the inspiration sometimes

- he’ll let you use his life for ideas and thats something he would only do if he loved you a lot

- he reads and proofreads for you

- you can leave things you want him to see on his nightstand and he’ll bring it to read at a slow day at work

- he’ll leave notes of encouragement in the margins

- is honest about his reviews but kind about it (never wants to hurt you. ever.)

- if you want to pursue it he will 100% be behind you

- in his line of work, anything you wanna pursue you are welcome to

- he has the money and the means

- so if you wanna be a writer, you will be a writer

- he’s so busy, it’s hard to catch him to get him to read anything you’ve written but he tries to make time

- if you publish anything, any bad reviewers are...well let’s say they miss their kneecaps

- he is always going to be behind you and your endeavors

- just don’t write bout the family, k?

- also, sidenote, everyone in the family has copies of your books, signed

- and they make people buy them

- it’s a great system

- Jareth has done some writing in the past

- I mean, there’s a whole fantasy book about him!

- headcanon that you wrote that book perhaps? anyway

- he loves it

- he also loves when you write about the creatures in the labyrinth because you both spend so much time with random creatures

- he lovessss when you add him in

- literally cannot get enough of your heart in it

- he adores that you put yourself down on the paper and he thinks that’s so raw and beautiful and perfect

- literally will make every creature hear your stories

- yes, even the creepy head tossing pink ones that I don’t remember the name of

- if you can love him and love writing, it’s his dream

- he loves the little ideas that you leave everywhere

- sometimes he’ll find discarded ones and read what you wrote and just be amazed

- he truly thinks your talent in words is amazing

- he’ll read anything and everything you write

- he’s in your corner about it all

- even if you wanna write a book about Hannibal, he thinks it would be good

- better you than Chilton anyway, at least your account will be accurate

- oh man if you wrote him a poem or something about him and read it to him he would just melt

- he’ll sit with you while you write and do random stuff and just watch as you churn out ideas

- he’s truly just always watching and being amazed at you

#Jareth x reader #will graham x reader #will graham imagines #Jareth imagines

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elenarinya · 3 years

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another ted talk

so, putting aside the m/m or m/f differences, lgbt movements, confirming that Loki is bi and so on...

let’s just say that from the writing point of view this potential love story between Loki and Sylvie is weird af

i saw some declarations that this is in fact a way to show that Loki has to accept, forgive and love himself. and i’m gonna stop you right there, because the whole episode 3 established that Sylvie isn’t Loki. it was emphasized in so many ways. and episode 4 continues to show major differences between Loki and Sylvie as independent and unique personalities. she was just a child when she was taken to the TVA. her life was 90% different from Loki’s. the whole shit she went through defined her as a completely different person. she herself doesn’t associate herself with a Loki, because she is not Loki anymore. she evolved from a female child version of Loki to what she is today. she is Sylvie.

so “Loki falling in love with Sylvie” does not equal “Loki falling with love with himself” at all.

do you think that, following the same logic, he will fall in love with any other variants of himself? especially those he encounters in the post-credit scene?

i don’t think so.

now, let’s go to the second point.

I can accept (and honestly I wasn’t even waiting for that) that Disney nor Marvel under Disney’s thumb will give us some canon homosexual relationship. I think we all are accepting this at some point (they are pussies, yes, and it will not change in the nearest future).

but it doesn’t mean that a show must absolutely have a heterosexual romance in order to be good. we have plenty of examples of them. Person of Interest. Good Omens (although I didn’t like the tv show adaptation, it is a good example). Hannibal (it had some heterosexual stuff, but it was waaaaaay later in the show). Merlin (same as Hannibal, and even then, it wasn’t forced, it was something natural). Gods, even Sherlock!

The whole ep.3 was about

1. Sylvie wants to kill Loki for messing with her plan 2. they have to work together to survive in the apocalypse 3. they bond over their Loki-similarities 4. they prepare to meet their certain death

Yes. All of this is a great way of bonding. It was a very good episode. And yes, nearly death experience can push people to do crazy stuff in the last minutes. But notice that it wasn’t the case. Loki talked to her AFTER the battle in the TVA, when they were supposedly safe. It just makes no sense.

And then again.

First of all Loki needs friends. He just recently lost all of his family and friends that he could have in Asgard. This needs to be compensated.

Loki needs people who would understand him. He needs family because his own family is far away and probably are disappointed in him. He needs Mobius who will tell him that he’s not a villain and that he can be someone good. He needs Sylvie to talk to him about their mother, about mischief, about their feelings in general, cause Sylvie was like him and she can understand him and he can understand her in return.

Later we can go and look for some love interests. But later. There is no need to rush things. I get it, you only have 6 episodes, but still. Go to my second point about good shows without forced relationships. And honestly, we survived pretty good with the first 3 episodes of Loki (each one of them was extremely highly rated). And in those 3 episodes we only had a nice good bromance with Mobius and nice sibling bonding with Sylvie. Why just not continue in that way? Why you need to drastically change established relationships so quickly?

Maybe I’m jumping to the conclusions to early. I still will wait for the last episodes to see what this will be about and how they will explore this new twisted relationship, as Mobius put it. Maybe they will say that “Hey, Loki was just confused, cause he was stressed, and Sylvie herself isn’t into him”. Maybe.

Just maybe.

#loki spoilers #loki tv series #loki #sylvie #mobius #lokius

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calvinandhobbes · 4 years

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speaking of beverly katz it genuinely hurts my feelings that she's the like first and only person to treat will like a fellow human person and not want to use him or pity him or be afraid of him like as a fellow weird cr*zy person seeing her treat him with kindness means a lot to me 🥺 (this is specifically abt s1 Autistic Traits Encephalitis will bc after that he turns into a shit & deserves being pushed off a train etc)

EXACTLY!!!!!!! she was constantly checking in and reassuring him. the scene in coquilles where she asks him how he is. she isn’t pitying him, she’s checking in as a friend and the fact that she assures him that she will be open with him back puts them on level ground. she’s emphasizing that friends look out for each other, that it is reciprocal and that she will be there for him.

also the scene in buffet froid when will chooses to call bev when he loses time -- not hannibal or alana or jack. and i’m so certain it was because of the reassurance i talked about above. alana, jack, and hannibal are interested in will’s mind and what it can do, but bev is solely interested in will’s WELL BEING.

she isn’t calling will crazy here, but taking him at his word. and the fact that she restrains herself from letting on whatever pity rises up in her shows how much she understands will and how he needs to be comforted/treated.

i could go on literally forever but if we kept it limited to season 1 like you said, the other scene in buffet froid where bev is checking will for evidence that he killed dr. sutcliffe gets me...

bev KNOWS that will doesn’t feel clean before he even says it. this type of reassurance is limited to bev in the show, because BEVERLY KATZ IS THE BEST, KINDEST, AND MOST SELFLESS CHARACTER ON THE ENTIRE SHOW PERIOD END OF DISCUSSION

#anon #ask #anon im so sorry i used your ask to pop off #but bev..... fucking BEV #MY NUMBER ONE GIRL #beverly Katz

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definitely-not-an-alb · 3 years

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fanfic tropes! identity porn, friends to enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, coffeeshop au (don't have to answer them all, pick what you like). hope work went by quickly :)

Ahhh! Thank you, anon!

Identity Porn

How likely am I to write it: Identity porn isn’t really a narrative kink for me, so I wouldn’t go out of my way to put it into anything, if it didn't come up naturally. Or if it would be funny.

What characters/ships/fandoms would I write it for: I don’t really have a lot of fandom I could do identity porn for, too, so that's the next problem I have. RoL doesn't go for it much, and neither do TMA or Witcher or SGA. In the MCU/marvel comics I'm kind of only invested in Characters that just superhero under their legal name, zero fucks given in all canons I'm aware of, so oops there. Hannibal, maybe? Hannibal might work. Altho I prefere season 2 era, with everyone vague degrees of aware of each other's bs and scheming like petty murder divas.

Friends to enemies to lovers

How likely am I to write it: Very unlikely. I think the only thing with this dynamic I like is Hannibal, as in, both Hannigram and Clannibal and Clannigram, but I don't think I'd really seek it out in fic or write it. I don't even know why, I should be into The Drama Of It All, but I'm just not.

What characters/ships/fandoms would I write it for: Like I said, Hannigram/Clannibal/Clannigram, if it's something that retells an arc. I don't really do Ironstrange, but enemies to lovers or friends to enemies to lovers might be the only way I would, probably. They just don't get along in canon, and I DO NOT UNDERSTAND why people ship it so much. Also why is their Doc always ooc. Enough moaning, I'll stop, I'll stop. Have fun ya'll, but stop the goddamn cross/mass-tagging. There shouldn't be that much Ironstrange in the gen tag, ya hear me?

hurt/comfort

How likely am I to write it: VERY LIKELY. Hmmmmmm give me that good hurt/comfort.

What characters/ships/fandoms would I write it for: Basically everything, lol. All my faves are idiots who need to be shipped with therapy and tortured with hugs. The Bev & Thomas fic is very hurt comfort-y, as is the Nonromantic-Soulmates WIP. Yes I know I never finish anything, shhhh. There's also an unfinished Strangewong fic in my drafts that's technically sick!fic (I MEAN ... what else lmao) and involves cuddling and soup and being sad about Endgame, so. Which, btw, is THE ONLY reason I will ever acknowledge that dumbassery masquerading as plot. To mine it for FRIDGE HORROR *evil laughter*. And then hand out soup.

coffeeshop au

How likely am I to write it: Relatively unlikely? I don't really do fluff without plot (and I'm down with emotions as plot or snapshots that reveal something halway and sideways), and incidentally the only version of this trope I ever started would need a Graphic Violence tag lol. (If it wasn't LANGUISHING IN MY DRAFTS.) So I think I might be doing this trope wrong. Also doesn't help that I have experience manning a beer-counter / drink station, so I fall hard in the camp of 'that's an awful place for cute/fluffy shenanigans, have ya'll ever worked customer service lol'-camp. I see the appeal, but I also ... don't.

What characters/ships/fandoms would I write it for: Like I said, the only one I ever started was low-key a joke, because I don't do the trope and the fandom didn't have (and still doesn't have) one, and also because, you know. Graphic violence.

Have the first four or so paragraphs of the very unfinished RoL Demi-Monde Coffeeshop ... pre-canon canon divergence. Is there even a tag for that kinda thing? Anyways. I think the best part about this is getting to write a snotty totally-an-adult!!!-Peter who has zero respect for anything and thinks Thomas is the most ridiculous person he ever met. No graphic violence yet, only canon-typical ableist language.

There’s a lot of reasons people hate working in customer service; The bad pay, the atrocious hours, the customers, the service.

I did about two year of it, first on-and-off positions in some retail shops around where I grew up, punctuated by getting dragged along to my mother’s cleaning gigs, and then later, about a year in a not-actually-fancy Coffee House near Russell Square. And I figured afterwards my stint in customer service and retail had, at the very least, taught my younger self some much needed humility and compassion.

I’m kidding, of course. It just confirmed the suspicions I held towards my fellow humans. Especially the kind that start magic duels in public.

Now, I worked in a Coffee House, not a coffeshop, which meant Management got to price everything even more ridiculous then the rest of the world, we played wannabe-jazz elevator music instead of pop and our clientele wasn’t weird and crazy but more slightly bizarre and very deranged.

Like that one vaguely East-European guy who thought combining windowpane and paisley was a grand idea and who we – that’s the staff – did certainly not call Dracula, or the posh black lady who came to pick up her coffee before heading into the City every morning, except for that one time when, I swear on my dad’s record collection, she was wearing a diving suit under her costume, and of course Mister Stranger-Danger, who was the reason younger cousins didn’t get to do their homework behind the counter any more.

Of course we got your everyday stroll-by white girls and hipsters, but our regulars where, as far as I could tell, decidedly posh, but mostly not yet fully upper class, and also completely batshit looney, is what I’m saying. No offence to actual crazy people, because they certainly don’t dress that badly.

That’s why I didn’t even bat an eyelash when one day someone walked into the shop who was either a time-travelling noir-spy or a runaway extra from Downton Abbey.

He was a white guy, in that inexplicable past-40 age range where I can’t tell their age for the life of me, with a side sweep that must have been held in place with actual pomade, and dressed in one of those sleek looking, old suits with the broad, deep lapels and incredible narrow waists. To round off the impression that he’d come over, lean homoerotically close and tell me the name of the Kraut’s informant any moment now, he’d draped a Burberry over his arm and lugged an actual, honest to god walking cane around the city. It seemed impractical to me, but who am I to judge people’s fashion choices; I’m only the barista.

He also had that stiff demeanour about him, which I’d taken as a sign of something shifty going on anywhere else. Here, in seven out of ten cases, and even more with posh dudes, it meant that he longed to order something utterly ridiculous, with a long name, six ingredient and maybe some speculoos dust uptop, but didn’t have the courage too. Honestly, the way grown men start acting once there’s pumpkin spice on the menu is hilarious – you’d think we’re selling sex toys under the table.

#ask games #Ask game #anon #rivers of london #since there's you know actual fic in here

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victorineb · 4 years

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Bloodletting

An omegaverse fic for @hannigram-a-b-o-library‘s Reverse Bang, featuring vampires, reunited lovers, and lots and lots of blood. Huge thanks to @idontfindyouthatinteresting for the inspirational artwork and idea, and to @desperatelyseekingcannibals for coming onboard as co-writer to save my hopelessly blocked self. All the love to both you guys 💖💖💖

---

“So you want me to tell you the story of my life?” Will asks, silhouetted by hazy golden light from the large windows of Hannibal’s office, an edge of red staining him where the sun filters through the drapes.

“Not all of it,” comes Freddie’s reply. He can tell she’s smirking without having to look. “Just start from when you met Hannibal Lecter. You are clearly very close. Is that usual for a psychiatrist and his patient?”

Will doesn’t respond, merely lifts an eyebrow at her, at which she smirks.

Will huffs and turns back to the window, a smile playing across his lips. As if she even knows what she’s asking. He has to admit that his only reason for agreeing to this interview is for his own amusement. It is always a pleasure to watch Freddie’s misplaced confidence that she has the upper hand. But he hadn’t expected her to go straight for the throat.

“Whatever you wish to tell me,” she encourages.

“I see,” Will prevaricates.

He turns to look at her. She’s made herself comfortable in her chair, dictaphone in hand and note pad on lap. Intending to capture absolutely everything.

She doesn’t have to attempt discretion this time round. Not like the last time she’d been in this office, with her cover story and polite persona, thinking she could easily dupe some fussy shrink into giving up the goods on Will and the Stammets case. As Hannibal had told him after - unethical, even for a tabloid journalist.

Though, in truth, Hannibal’s irritation came mostly from the spanner she’d thrown into their plans. For she had seen the painting, carelessly left poking out of its packing box. That had piqued her interest all the more, turning her from a mere nuisance into a potential threat, and she had hounded Will until he had, so she believed, given up and granted her demand for an interview.

An interview, and some answers as to why Hannibal Lecter owned a clearly timeworn painting of himself together with an unstable FBI profiler who had only recently become his patient.

And so now she sits once again in Hannibal’s office, having been graciously allowed the space for their tête à tête, the cat that got the cream after all.

“Do you mind?” she asks, holding up the recording device and tipping it towards him as if asking for consent. As if she wouldn’t use it anyway, regardless of his agreement.

“You’d need a lot of tape for my story,” Will replies, drily, ignoring her question.

“It’s all digital these days, Mr Graham.” Freddie smiles that snake-like smile of hers, truly believing that she’s the predator in the room. “So, let’s get started.”

Will strolls slowly over and takes the chair opposite her. Hannibal’s chair, usually.

“Where should we start?” she asks, pleasant and patient and completely false. “Perhaps you could tell me a little about yourself.”

“All right then, since you asked. I’m a vampire,” Will says, cocking his head and waiting for her reaction, holding her gaze. It’s clear that she’s trying desperately not to roll her eyes.

“Funny,” she replies with a raised brow. But as his expression remains unchanged, hers sobers and she asks, “You mean this literally, I take it?”

“Absolutely.”

Freddie glares at him.

“Mr Graham, I appreciate your leaning into the crazy angle but if you’re going to waste my time-”

Will sucks in an unneeded breath and lets out a sigh. “You want to know how I met Hannibal.”

“Please,” she replies, firmly.

“How I met him this time, anyway,” Will clarifies and her eyes narrow again.

She settles in to listen to him anyway.

---

Will Graham is something of a legend amongst the students of the FBI Academy, known by all as brilliant, demanding, and intense. Rumour has it that if you have the temerity to ask a spontaneous question during one of his lectures he will eviscerate you with nothing more than a few cutting words and a scowl. And his ruthlessness with a red pen is enough to strike fear into even the most confident and diligent of students — the papers they receive back bear a striking resemblance to the crime scenes he lectures on, stained with red in cruel, ruthless slashes. All this perhaps explains why the halls of the Academy are currently clearing at an exaggerated rate, as students fling themselves out of the path of Professor Graham as he storms down the hallways towards his office. Or perhaps it’s just the look on his face that suggests he might finally have flipped, the way certain cruel rumours say he inevitably would, one day.

It is the unhappy fate of one student to have chosen this moment to visit Professor Graham’s office, a foolish thing in any case, as Will has no office hours scheduled for this day. He is loitering just outside Will’s door, leaning against the wall with his phone in hand, completely unaware of the unhinged professor stalking towards him until they are inches from each other. In fact, the student – name of Miller, Will thinks – only becomes aware of his professor’s presence by his scent, that weird, unsettling mix of alpha and omega that means no one ever knows what designation Graham is, or likes to be in close quarters with him for too long. Miller can never understand why the Professor doesn’t wear scent blockers; at least then he might avoid the hisses of freak that follow everywhere he goes.

Then again, Will Graham is exactly the kind of stubborn asshole who’d enjoy making people feel uncomfortable.

Miller looks up into the blue eyes of his professor and squeaks, an embarrassing noise that he immediately attempts to cover up with a cough.

“What?” Professor Graham growls, actually growls, a rumble of irritation that would rival any alpha in rut.

The boy squeaks again and stares, petrified, at his teacher.

“Intelligent commentary as usual, Miller.”

The kid flees and Will watches him skid down the corridor without a backward glance. He sighs, and scrubs a hand down his face. He’ll make it up to Miller somehow, give him easy credit for something. Will stares into nothingness for a moment longer and then slides into his office and closes the door firmly behind him. That little performance should have ensured no one will bother him for the rest of the day. Possibly the week. Will leans back against the door and finally allows the smile he has been holding back to burst onto his face.

The bone arena of my skull, he thinks, rolling his eyes. His beautiful boy has not changed, then, still as pretentious and as annoyingly brilliant as ever.

Hannibal Lecter.

Will’s grin broadens. His fangs ache.

---

Later, he stands in the middle of a field, regarding Hannibal’s field kabuki, and wonders if he should feel offended. Patronised, at least. Apparently Hannibal believes that Will needs some help to see the Shrike and has gifted him some perspective.

Really, Will has no idea how to feel. Hannibal’s art has always been beautiful and this is no exception – shows, in fact, that his boy has progressed far beyond even the skill he had developed under Will’s watchful eye (and doesn’t that come with a dull ache, the knowledge that Hannibal did not spend the years apart pining, but continued to pursue his pleasures with the singular focus that Will had never liked directed at anything but himself). But it also suggests that Hannibal has not learned the lessons Will had hoped he would. Asked him to.

That is… disappointing, in a way Will finds unmooring, forcing him to step away from the scene, pretending overwhelm and upset in order to placate Jack. Childishly, he snaps out some retort about Jack preferring Dr Lecter’s opinions to his own and storms off, shaking his head at the daddy issues he thought he’d long shaken off. Hannibal’s getting to him, as he always knows how. He takes one last backwards look at the tableau, sees the tenderness in it, not for the girl, but for him. Its black tines curve upwards to the sky and the points meet and melt into the sparkling sunlight.

It is a beautiful gift.

---

Will smells him before he knocks. Scent-blockers do nothing to mask him, not from Will. He suspects he could freeze Hannibal in ice, or seal him in plastic and still he would find that scent, maddening and delicious. Still, he makes the good doctor wait, taking his time to slide out of the motel bed and stretch his muscles into wakefulness, before flinging open the door. The sunlight blinds him for a second, his eyes still sensitive to it even after all these years, and then there is Hannibal, smile on his face, food inevitably in hand.

“Good morning, Will,” he says, and the bastard has the gall to sound amused. He always did enjoy unsettling Will. “May I come in?”

Will raises an eyebrow. “You need to ask?”

“It’s only polite. You know how I abhor rudeness.”

Will hums, unimpressed. “Where’s Crawford. You didn’t eat him, did you?”

Hannibal smiles, close-mouthed, no teeth. “Agent Crawford is deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today.”

Will sighs, lets his shoulders sag, turns away into the darkness. Hannibal takes this as the invitation it’s meant to be, stepping over the threshold, closing the door gently behind him. The second he does, Will is on him, shoving him against the wall, one hand around his throat, lifting, lifting until his arm is at full stretch. Hannibal’s feet dangle above the floor. He appears wholly unconcerned, looking down at Will with a serene expression and adoration lighting his eyes.

“I told you to stay put until you were summoned,” Will growls.

“And so I did, until I was.”

Will flexes his hand around Hannibal’s neck, feeling it ripple under his grip. “All right, what loophole has your clever little brain come up with this time?”

Hannibal grins, delighted by Will’s disdain. “You did not specify that it must be you who called. Jack Crawford summoned me to help the noble ranks of the FBI, I could not find it in myself to refuse. That he specifically wished me to support a gifted yet troubled profiler by the name of Will Graham was a mere technicality, albeit a happy one.” Hannibal slides his arm up and over Will’s and rests his hand on Will’s cheek. “And it was truly happy, Will.”

It’s an old trick and one Will is hard-pressed to resist. Soft words and soft touches, Hannibal’s always known how to wriggle under his skin.

He tries not to let Hannibal see the effect it still has on him but there’s no hiding the fact that his grip loosens a little. Nor that the smile it pulls from Hannibal makes Will want to kill him, or kiss him. He’s never quite sure.

“I ought to put my teeth in your neck right now,” Will snaps, trying to wind up his anger once more.

Hannibal, though, knows exactly the wrong – or right – response, smiling down at Will as he tells him, “I have missed your mark on me. I wept the day the last one faded.”

Will’s nose twitches for a moment, taking in Hannibal’s scent and finding little of his own evident there. Every instinct tells him to do just as his alpha suggests, but he doesn’t wish to give the petulant child the satisfaction.

“I don’t find you deserving.”

“You will.”

Will lets it go. Hannibal’s right, after all; this was never intended to be a permanent separation, just a few years to remind his boy of his priorities. And he’s been planning their reunion proper since the moment he caught Hannibal’s scent in the halls of the BAU.

Truth be told, he’s been planning it – in the abstract at least – ever since the first Ripper murder dropped, years ago. But he isn’t going to let Hannibal know that, not yet. And he certainly isn’t going to reward his bad behaviour without making him work for it first.

“All right, you can stay. Show me what you brought for breakfast.”

Will drops Hannibal unceremoniously on his feet and Hannibal reaches down to collect the bag he brought with him, unflustered, unfazed, as though nothing had just happened. Will watches as the alpha delicately removes the containers of food he has brought, setting them on the table like the offering they are.

When Hannibal takes a seat, Will does so too. He deigns to offer Hannibal nothing but a cool gaze as this old, familiar scene plays out like it has so many other times.

“Hardly a suitable offering,” Hannibal demurs as Will’s mouth twitches. “Or sufficient.”

The momentary glance between them then is an acknowledgement. Hannibal is aware that Will hasn’t fed in quite some time. A fine shiver passes over Will at the memories of them feasting together, before, in circumstances quite different from this. He feels his control slip ever so slightly at the thought of what Hannibal might have brought, his eyes following his alpha’s elegant hands closely as they set out their meal.

“A little protein scramble; eggs and sausage,” comes the familiar refrain.

“Used up all your creativity on unnecessary theatrics, none left over for the leftovers?” Will asks, forking his share onto a plate, deliberately uncouth, and trying not to drool at the scent. It isn’t exactly his preferred source of nourishment – nor Hannibal’s, to be sure – but Hannibal can do things with even such plain fare that just the memory of his kitchen has, on occasion, caused Will to kick himself for leaving.

“I elevated those parts of her that were worthy of it; the rest I did with what I could.”

“And here I thought you were just catering to my plebeian tastes,” Will says, looking up from under his lashes with a sneer.

“I do not recall your tastes ever being less than exquisite. Save perhaps that time in Constantinople.”

“Matthew,” Will says on a sigh, momentarily submerged in their shared memories. “He had such potential, a shame he had no control over himself.”

“I never liked him,” Hannibal sniffs, flicking out his napkin and setting it on his lap.

“You never liked any of the strays I brought home,” Will counters. “I wonder where he is now.”

“I should have killed him,” Hannibal glowers, and Will can’t help the swell in his chest at the reaction, even as Hannibal settles back into eating as though nothing has been said. Perhaps Will should have let Hannibal kill Matthew, but there is something pleasing still about having denied him. He has to admit to enjoying Hannibal’s still-piquant jealousy over that particular event.

It’s not the time to bask though, so Will decides to move on from this teasing and clears his throat.

“I give lectures on you, you know.” He watches Hannibal’s pupils dilate and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, thought you’d like that.”

“I will not deny that I always enjoyed being the focus of your attention. And I think that it would not be inaccurate to say that the opposite was true as well.”

“Yeah, well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Your distraction.”

“My disobedience.”

“Stop. It was never that. Don’t make me out to be some cruel master,” Will snaps, unimpressed by Hannibal’s attempt to play the victim.

“Are you not? You may have preferred to dress us up as equals but the control was always and ultimately yours.”

“Really, alpha?” Will hisses.

“Really, sire.” Hannibal touches a hand to his throat, smooth, unmarred skin a lie and an insult to them both. Will longs to remedy it. He had always been so diligent about maintenance in the past. Instead, he takes another bite of his food, just to watch the way Hannibal watches him.

It seems clear to Will that despite his intentions, there is no avoiding this conversation. Even if he hadn’t intended to have it here and now. Hannibal is here. Now.

Will swallows his bite and places down his fork with a deliberate click, a movement that Hannibal notes with a raised brow but doesn’t comment on.

“I was three hundred years old when I met you.” Will knows Hannibal doesn’t need reminding. Their meeting is seared into both their minds. Will, an omega of thirty when he had been sired, had been selective for those three hundred years in regards to who he would sire himself. They had been few, and mostly for the sake of power orstrategy, rather than any great desire to keep them with him.

And then there had been Hannibal. A beautiful young nobleman bent on vengeance for his murdered family. They had encountered each other as Hannibal’s search brought him to the final murderer, by then a vampire of Will’s acquaintance.

Will is still unsure, all these centuries later, justwhy he agreed to help the young upstart, other than Hannibal being Hannibal and refusing to take no for an answer. He’s only a little clearer onhow he wound up allowing the alpha to seduce him so thoroughly. Will might have been irritated by the human, albeitgrudgingly impressed by his prowess as a killer and his passion for revenge, but Hannibal was beautiful and wild and utterly self-possessed. It tickled Will’s ego to let him attempt a courtship. He just hadn’t expected it to work.

“We had centuries together, Hannibal. And then you got distracted.” Will spits the word, imbuing it with the betrayal that still burns in his veins.

Hannibal’s eyes narrow for a moment, and Will knows what he’s thinking despite his tense silence. That it wasn’t his decision to separate them. That perhaps if Will had expressed his displeasure instead of exiling Hannibal without discussion, they could have worked things out. That they didn’t have to spend so many years estranged, alone, suffering heats and ruts that would always synchronise regardless of their distance, all for the sake of unfounded jealousy and petty resentment.

The thought makes Will wince, and his glare at Hannibal makes clear that he doesn’t want to hear anything from his mouth on that subject. And so Will brings them back to the point, Hannibal – amazingly, uncharacteristically – taking his scolding without riposte.

“We had a good thing in Florence, and then you got so caught up in playing cat and mouse with Pazzi that you lost focus. You, and your ego, were distracted to the point of endangerment.” Will tries not to growl the words; his ire will do no good.

Hannibal’s jaw clenches at the truth.

“And so you have tortured me with the denial of your presence for decades,” he grits out, finally.

“I wanted you to learn your lesson. I said I would let you return when I was ready to deal with you.”

“Are you ready now, Will?”

“Does it matter?” Will asks, with a poison-sweet smile. “You’ve forced my hand.” He picks up his fork and resumes eating the remnants of Hannibal’s gesture.

Hannibal’s smile returns, despite Will’s harsh words. Pleasure at being back in Will’s company, and being allowed to feed him in this way, apparently outweigh any fears of imminent rejection. In truth it’s enough to inflame Will’s desire for his alpha anew, that feeling of being the only thing in existence that matters. Not that he’s about to allow said alpha to see that. Will swallows and looks at Hannibal with a stern expression.

“What do you want, Hannibal?”

“Only the pleasure of your company,” comes the reply, all pleasant and proper and precision- engineered to piss Will off.

“You’ll spend another thirty years without it if you don’t cut the crap.”

If anything, Hannibal’s smile only broadens at this and Will unexpectedly finds himself hoping for his lips to part, to allow him a glimpse of fang. “Impossible boy,” Will says and it has the desired effect, Hannibal’s lips skinning back to reveal the points of his teeth. Will sighs, and aches for them in his neck, and says nothing.

Instead, Hannibal fills the silence with exactly what Will had expected. “I have but one request.”

“Of course you do.”

“Come to my table, allow me to make you dinner, permit me one conversation. I could live a very long time on one conversation.”

“You can live a very long time regardless.”

“Without you, it is mere existence.”

Will stops, his fork halfway to his mouth, and raises his eyebrows at Hannibal. “That was excessive, even for you.”

“Perhaps. The truth often is.”

Will hums and there is a lull before Hannibal rejoins.

“You know, Will, Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup, the finest china. Only used for special guests.”

Will’s chuckle is genuine and lightens his chest. As does Hannibal’s clear appreciation at having triggered that amusement. Will sits back in his chair with a sigh, smile still lingering. He missed this. Missed having an equal.

“How do you see me?” Will can’t help asking.

“My beginning and my end. My everything.”

Will’s chest aches and he bites back the words that try to claw out of his mouth, the admission he feels the same, that he’s been lost for so long, that Hannibal is the missing part of his soul (assuming he still has one). Instead, Will hums again before replying, cool and apparently unaffected.

“One dinner.” He forks the last of his food into his mouth and speaks as he chews. “To prove yourself to me again.”

Hannibal smiles and nods his agreement.

---

Later, sitting in front of the Hobbs’ front door, Will steals a glance at Hannibal and rolls his eyes.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks, not quite conjuring the detached disinterest he’s aiming for.

Hannibal, who might as well be purring with delight, takes a moment to consider, his eyes roving the homestead before them, denying Will the whole of his attention. It needles, just as it’s supposed to, bright little points of irritation biting their way out from under Will’s skin.

Will huffs, a release of pressure. “I got a criminology degree, you know. A good one, too, could have gone for the doctorate but…” He shrugs, one-shouldered and easy.

“Been there, done that?” Hannibal inquires. Will shoots him a smile, small but fond, acquiescent. “I did know,” Hannibal continues, returning to Will’s earlier remark. “I have even read your monograph. You were always fascinated by the creepy crawlies.”

“Says the man obsessed with cochlear gardens.” Will watches Hannibal let him have that and then, in for a penny, asks, “What did you think of it?”

“Your writing has improved greatly since I last read any of it. You have mastered your old weakness for the run-on sentence.”

“Damned with faint praise,” Will says, waiting Hannibal’s teasing out.

“You know what an imago is?”

“A flying insect.”

Hannibal smiles, soft lines by his mouth that will never grow any harsher. He knows Will knows that is not the answer he was looking for but he will indulge his sire’s intransigence. “An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.”

“An ideal.”

“The concept of an ideal. Reading your book brought me as close to my ideal as I have been these last several decades. Still, it was only a concept, trapped and pinned to the page with its colour fading and its lifeblood drained.”

“Remind me never to ask you for a blurb on anything I publish,” Will says, burying himself under humour while the creak of his voice betrays him. “We should go,” he adds, unprepared to deal with the extent of Hannibal’s wanting him, even as he recognises the same urge building anew inside himself.

“Indeed,” Hannibal answers but neither of them move. “Was there something else?”

“What were you up to in that office?” Will asks, needing some kind of forewarning. He knows Hannibal did something, his antics with the box files deliberately obvious. And his alpha always did have a troublesome habit of setting things in motion out of idle curiosity. Just to see what would happen.

“I suppose we will find that out together,” Hannibal says, infuriatingly.

Will briefly considers punching him in the but he does have a job to do. He exits the car, stalking off towards the house and leaving Hannibal to follow or not as he may. The sound of the passenger door opening and closing provides the answer to that and Will doesn’t bother to look back, instead steeling himself to deal with Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ no-doubt polite but unconvincing front-door deflections.

Or not.

Will’s head snaps towards the door, beyond which he can hear the sounds of struggle, sense the outflowing of blood. He makes to sprint for the house but manages only a couple of steps before the front door is opening and the shadow of a man is pushing a bloodied, struggling woman into the light. The door slams and Will catches the woman – presumably Mrs Hobbs – in his arms. She is bleeding, bleeding, bleeding and Will’s vision is red, his eyes large and greedy as he goes to his knees under the deadweight of departing life. He pulls in a great breath of copper and fear and feels a fang slice his lip, shudders at the spark of pain, an echo of the agony beneath him. He can taste that pain as he tongues his lip, as he gazes into the woman’s shuttering eyes and he wants more of it. It’s been so long, he’s left it so long…

“Will.”

Hannibal. He shifts the woman so Hannibal can have access too. A life extinguishing in his arms and Hannibal at his side. This is right, this is how it always should be, this is-

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice is hushed, gentle but insistent. He places a finger beneath Will’s chin and lifts it until Will’s eyes are forced to lift and look at him. “You have a job to do, mustn’t forget.”

“Don’t you want to…” Will begins, hazy through the cloud of hunger that has enfolded him. He blinks. He knows Hannibal is right, and yet the instinct is almost too strong to resist. Why is it so hard to resist? Will whines, pained and overwhelmed.

“My love,” Hannibal says, stroking Will’s hair with such easy familiarity that Will cannot help but lean into it. “I have wanted nothing more for so many years but I think you wouldn’t thank me for it when the FBI arrives.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Will hisses.

Hannibal pauses at that, regards Will thoughtfully. “Have you been waiting for me to come and rescue you all this time, sire? From undeserving masters who use you like a dog in the endless pursuit of justice and you with no reason to leave? You who has razed cities to the ground, drained kings of their lifeforce, been a god of blood and terror, have you been hiding, waiting, craving for a reason to live again?”

Will whines again and does not deny it.

“Will.” Hannibal says it on a breath and his hand tightens in Will’s hair. “We have been foolish, haven’t we?”

Will can only nod.

Hannibal is right. He should have swallowed his stupid fucking pride and told Hannibal to stay. Should have kept him by his side at all times, through all ages, ‘til the end of everything. Should have circled the world with him, well-fed and well-loved, and then done it a thousand, thousand more times. Instead, he is shivering and famished on the doorstep of some dismal human killer, wracked with hunger of every imaginable kind, punished by his self-pitying refusal to feed more regularly.And now, despite his great age, the mere presence of his alpha is causing primal instincts to surface. He can feel it rising in Hannibal too,the instinct to come back together, to renew their bond;it’s almost strong enough for Will to beg for them to leave now, to be away from this farce of an existence, no note, no explanation.

Hannibal’s presence there is cause both for his weakness and his strength, as he pulls himself together as best he can.

Hannibal looks down at the body in his arms and for a moment Will’s unbeating heart gives a phantom spark. He can already taste her blood in Hannibal’s mouth. But then Hannibal moves away and takes the body with him, freeing Will from its weight.

“Go and play the hero,” Hannibal tells him, nodding at the front door, “and afterwards we will begin again.”

---

Somehow, Will finds himself inside the Hobbs’ front door, bracing himself against the hallway as he gropes for any trace of composure. He has his gun up, his eyes darting to the sides to check for activity, but he knows where he’s going. The stench of fear and panic is sharp in his nostrils and he follows it like the bloodhound rumour would paint him as.

Into the kitchen, then, ducking into the doorway and the sudden feeling of steel through his heart. He staggers, more from shock than pain, and grabs the door jamb for support, slicking it red. The knife is warm inside him, painted with another’s blood, and uncomfortable as Will’s body attempts to reject it. He looks up, into cold blue eyes that sparkle with triumph and then dull into confusion and fear as Will grasps the knife’s hilt and slides it from his body with a little groan of relief.

“Do you see?” he asks the bewildered Garret Jacob Hobbs, letting the blade fall from his shaking fingertips to clatter on the ground, the sound cacophonous in the stricken silence of the kitchen. Even the child lying on the floor has grown quiet, her life leaving her in great gouts; like mother like daughter.

“Monster,” Hobbs rasps, poised between fight and flight.

“Takes one to know one,” Will hisses, then lifts his gun and puts every bullet he has into the pathetic creature before him.

Hobbs is shoved back into the corner by the of Will’s shots and drops to the floor in a ragged heap, wet noises bubbling up from his throat. Will doesn’t pay him any further attention – he will die in that corner unwatched and unheard – instead folding to his knees beside the girl exsanguinating on the floor. Her breath is shallow but still there and Will clasps his hand around her neck, thinking to stem the flow despite the likely uselessness of the gesture. Her father used the same move on her as he did on her mother – uninspired – a deep cut to the neck, opening the carotid so her blood would be pushed out, fast and forceful, her young, healthy heart speeding her death along. An attempt at mercy, Will supposes, but a pointless one. She will still die in pain and confusion, life snatched from her by a man who should have lived to protect her.

“So easy to take a life, so hard to save one,” Hannibal remarks from the doorway. Will lifts his head, shaking, overwhelmed, suffused with blood and death and desperation. He’s covered in it, not an inch of him spared, and he looks up at Hannibal through glass blooming with crimson. Hannibal looks back at him and, without another word, crouches at the girl’s other side and gently replaces Will’s hand with his own.

“This won’t save her,” he murmurs, as Will’s knees finally give out from him and he slumps into a heap, still trembling and panting for air he doesn’t need. Even now, human instinct is still buried inside him, the urge for survival seeking out every last route, even the pointless ones.

Will shudders as he looks at the girl. A mere child.

A child. And his body burns.

“Hannibal, fuck, can you smell it?”

“Yes,” comes the reply, Hannibal not looking up from his examination of the damage to the girl’s throat, “you are in heat.”

“The blood, the fucking… there’s so much of it and…” Will trails off, whining.

“And your alpha is here,” Hannibal finishes for him, clinical and matter-of-fact, belying the need Will knows he is feeling.

Will is panting, sweating.

He should have fed. He shouldn’t have let Hannibal so close. He shouldn’t have agreed to help Jack. So many recriminations litter his path to this point, and none of them matter now.

Not with the girl bleeding out before them, and his whole body screaming for Hannibal to take him and knot him for the first time in decades, not when Will can barely focus on anything beyond the three of them.

“What?” Will looks up, tries to focus, realising Hannibal had said something.

“I asked if you want me to save her, Will?”

Will blinks, looks down at the girl, blinks again.

“She could be ours. We could be her fathers.” Hannibal’s words sound encouraging though his tone is matter of fact. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? A family? Let me give it to you Will. Let me make this future for us.”

Will winces and clasps his abdomen as a sharp pain strikes. His nostrils are filled with the scent of his would-be daughter’s blood. Could-be daughter. She’s choking on it, her eyes almost unseeing as her life continues draining inexorably from her.

An almost hysterical chuckle breaks from Will’s lips.

“Will she be your Claudia?”

Hannibal’s smile is soft, amused. “And which of us do you see as the scoundrel Lestat?”

Will finds a smile of his own, somehow. “Both. Neither. Can we just be ourselves?”

Hannibal looks like he would very much like to reach over and touch Will but he keeps his hands tight around the girl’s throat. “We certainly can try. But the point still stands. Do you want her, Will?”

“Yes,” the word escapes him like a cry.

Will seizes with longing and arousal as Hannibal’s fangs reveal themselves. He watches as he takes the near lifeless body into his arms and sinks his teeth into her, as Will sank his own into Hannibal so many centuries ago.

The girl convulses slightly as the last of this life flows from her and puts up no resistance as Hannibal nicks his wrist with a fang and streams a little of his blood down her throat. Will considers doing the same but it’s not necessary – Hannibal is his and she is Hannibal’s, the connection will flow through them all, it’s inescapable.

She will be nothing more than a husk now. At least, for a little while. Her new life will come with time and they will find her when it does. Hannibal will be drawn to her essence when she revives and will take her from whatever morgue or grave she has been stowed in.

And then they will be a family.

The thought sends another sharp pain through Will, his womb contracting with need.

“Hannibal.”

The alpha looks up and lets the girl slip from his arms, back into the pool of her own blood.

Will’s body cries out to be taken. So it is damn near excruciating when Hannibal simply raises a brow and tuts.

“You really should take better care of yourself, Will. Had you eaten as you should…”

Hannibal trails off when he hears Will’s desperate snarl.

“Hannibal,” Will growls.

Hannibal flinches, succumbing to the effect of his sire’s heat on him, helpless no matter how righteous he tries to seem.

Jolting into movement, Hannibal pulls Will to him and lifts him in his arms, getting to his feet in one smooth motion as though Will weighs nothing. The scent of Hannibal’s oncoming rut serves only to make Will’s womb clench all the harder, for his slick to run all the freer.

They are dripping with blood.

The little they had been flecked with from Mrs Hobbs, and the splatter on Will from shooting Garrett Jacob Hobbs, was nothing compared to the blood of their daughter. The Hobbs’ daughter once, but now – and forevermore – Will and Hannibal’s.

Will cries out as his body shakes through a painful tremor, instincts driving him to create new life inside him like a good omega, regardless of those organs having been rendered defunct and useless since the day and hour he was made.

“Breed me…” Will growls, trying not to whimper.

To which Hannibal sucks in a sharp breath and replies, “Claim me.”

Will trembles, and grins.

Trailing thick globules of blood, Hannibal carries Will from the kitchen, and towards the stairs. At that, Will can’t help a smirk. With backup doubtless on the way, Will can’t argue with the desire for privacy but Hannibal could have easily removed them to another room on the ground floor of the house. Instead, of course, Hannibal carries him to a bedroom and lays him gently on the soft blankets like a new bride.

Such a careful, caring action, deliciously at odds with the animalistic glean in Hannibal’s eyes that shows exactly how close the alpha is to descending into his rut.

And indeed, any restraint is gone in moments as Hannibal begins to tear at Will’s blood- soaked shirt. When it is shredded enough to fall apart, Hannibal crawls over Will like the predator he is, and lowers his mouth to Will’s right nipple.

Blood has soaked through to skin and Hannibal whines his pleasure as Will’s body contorts with need.

He needs to be naked, he needs Hannibal inside him.

But there is something else in this. Something in Hannibal sucking the blood from his chest, the girl’s blood. Their daughter.

The sight of it solidifies something within Will, a familial bond between the three of them. This will join them together irrevocably. Irredeemably. This is the promise of their future. The promise that he will never separate them again.

“Alpha…” Will gasps and wriggles and finally Hannibal pulls back.

His eyes are wide and feral, pupils dilated,

the expression Hannibal only wears when he’s killing or fucking. No, more than that, the one he only ever wears when he’s with Will, with his mate.

Will trembles at the sight. Has he ever understood what it means to be in love before this moment? How could he have? How could he have felt this and ever pushed Hannibal away?

“Mine,” Hannibal growls, moving back, ripping Will’s pants from him and throwing them away. They hit the wall next to the bed with a wet thunk, leaving a bloody impact stain.

Will tries to reach for Hannibal’s clothes, but it’s too late for that now.

He’s hazy, unfocused on anything but Hannibal’s scent.

But this is nothing compared to Hannibal’s loss of control. His rut is completely upon him now, vicious and unyielding until he knots his mate.

Hannibal pushes Will’s hands away. With motions quicker than even Will can follow, he reaches out and grabs Will’s throat, pulling him close enough to nose at the healed mating scar.

Oh, how Will hates that they heal this way.

It’s not a new regret, he has felt it every time they’ve renewed their claim on each other, but it’s all the more profound this time for how long it has been, how completely time has eradicated the proof of their bond.

Will whimpers as Hannibal pulls back and uses his grip to manipulate Will onto his front. He collapses to the bed when Hannibal releases him, but drags himself quickly onto all fours as he knows he must. As instinct drives him to in order to receive his alpha’s seed.

The sound behind him is unmistakable, Hannibal ripping open his exquisitely- tailored pants with no attempt to otherwise undo them.

“Stay,” he growls, an order and a plea, his hand now gripping the back of Will’s neck, forcing him down as he slides in tight against Will’s ass.

It’s only when the tip of Hannibal’s cock presses against his entrance that Will is aware of exactly how wet he is. Even for a heat, the slide is almost frictionless as Hannibal slips into him for the first time in decades, burying himself to the hilt.

The alpha pauses for a moment, shaking.

And Will wonders what is to come. They have never been so long between matings and now Hannibal has given him a child. Will shudders. Whatever is next, he wants it all.

There is some pain as Hannibal’s grip tightens on his neck, but it’s quickly soothed by the comfort of the alpha blanketing over his back, only the tattered remains of their clothes between them. He fucks Will hard. Harder than Will can remember.

And even with that, it is loving.

Hannibal’s grip loosens and he strokes over Will’s faded mating mark, before leaning in to nuzzle at it. Graze it with his fangs.

“Please, Hannibal.”

“Mine,” Hannibal grunts again and then sinks in his teeth.

Will comes.

He’s not sure if it lasts moments or days as his body drags Hannibal closer, further inside himself. He can feel the press of Hannibal’s knot against him but, beyond that, everything is dreamlike.

He is lost. There is nothing else but Hannibal’s body sliding in and out of his own.

It might last hours, Will can’t tell. He drifts in sensation, basks in their closeness, wishes that eternity could be nothing but this. But then Hannibal cries out as he pushes his knot into Will, and Will’s body locks around it, triggering another climax, this time for both of them.

Hannibal’s teeth are in his neck again, biting deeper.

Deeper.

“Enough, Hannibal,” Will commands in that voice that he so rarely wishes to use. The voice of a master over that which it has sired.

Still Hannibal grips, his tongue moving over flesh a moment longer, and Will wonders for a moment if it will be necessary to use force to settle his alpha. Hannibal’s remarkable discipline does not always extend to his indulgence in Will and they have sometimes come to blows before Hannibal’s control re-establishes itself. Will tenses slightly, in readiness for a fight but then Hannibal is pulling back, releasing. Collapsing.

Hannibal falls to his side and takes Will with him, his hips still pumping.

Both addled with pleasure and relief, Hannibal continues to fill Will with every drop of his seed, until they both black out from the exertion of their continued climaxes.

If time hadn’t lost meaning before, it has now.

Will has no idea how long has passed since they tied.

It’s still light out, but Will can’t be sure if they are even on the same day.

The initial haze of his heat has lifted, sated for now by the mating bite. Still, he will not be truly satisfied until he’s returned it.

Hannibal murmurs and then is awake.

He growls and Will shushes him gently.

He growls again, pushes up against Will and Will pulls away, seed spilling from him in the wake of Hannibal’s softened cock. This only brings another snarl from the rutting alpha, at which Will turns and snaps his fangs.

“Damn greedy boy. Insatiable boy. Behave and I’ll give you what you want.”

Hannibal proves his point by humping his now hard- again cock against Will’s thigh.

As quick as Hannibal had been before, Will pushes the alpha to his back and sinks down on his twitching member.

Hannibal’s growling fades into a howl and he almost doubles over, baring his teeth and snapping at Will.

Will chuckles, and smooths Hannibal’s hair back from his sweat -damp face.

“Oh, Hannibal. Always so beautiful in your rut. I have missed this.”

Hannibal’s lip twitches, his fangs exposed, when Will leans down into a biting kiss. He doesn’t know if the blood he tastes is his own or Hannibal’s as they catch fangs in each other's lips. He doesn’t care to know.

Will begins to rock gently, working Hannibal’s knot up. It swells quickly, and Will is glad that their bodies are reacting with such speed given that they won’t be alone for long. In fact he’s surprised they haven’t already been happened upon. Perhaps it’s a sign that not much time has passed at all.

“Remember this time, dear boy,” Will whispers, hovering above Hannibal’s lips before sliding his mouth down to Hannibal’s neck. “Remember it like the first time. Like every time.”

When Hannibal whimpers, Will sinks in his teeth.

And that’s all the alpha needs to howl once more and resume his impossible task of impregnating his omega. His sire.

Will sighs and lets Hannibal ravish him.

Lets him work through his rut.

For now, at least.

They have so much time ahead of them now.

---

“Will!” Jack’s voice is quickly followed by a heavy rapping on the bedroom door.

Will shakes his head, pulling himself from the muggy feeling of a heat temporarily sated by knots and bites. He’d passed out after their last round, straddling Hannibal’s hips, still securely knotted despite having collapsed face first onto the alpha’s chest.

He blinks and turns his head to the door, raises a brow.

“What do you intend to do?” Hannibal asks, casually curious, on his back with his arms crossed above his head. His knot pulses with his words.

Will squirms pleasantly at the sensation but keeps looking in the direction of the disturbance a moment more. Then he turns his head slowly, a sweet smile just for Hannibal bursting across his face.

“I intend to do nothing more than see just how you get us out of this mess. And you will get us out, Hannibal, because immediately after you do, I am taking you to my home, sating your rut, and then never letting you out of my sight again.”

Hannibal grins and calls out, in a professional tone that feels foreign in this intimate setting.

“Jack, this is Hannibal. I respectfully ask that you don’t come in.”

“Doctor Lecter? What the hell is-”

“I will write a full report for you, but suffice to say, Will was unexpectedly overcome. The adrenaline and shock of the experience, of the deaths downstairs, has driven his body into heat. A perfectly natural, if rare, side effect for an omega in these circumstances.”

Jack murmurs something on the other side of the door that neither of them can quite make out. Likely something about how he understands how delicate omegas can be.

Will raises a brow at Hannibal. Follows it with a scowl.

Before either of them can say anything further, Jack replies again.

“I will have this room restricted until you are ready to leave.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

They can hear retreating footsteps and Will bites back a growl.

“I would be mad at you for pulling that misogynistic bullshit with my boss, if I thought for one moment you believed it. Or that I’d have to work with him much longer. I’m surprised you didn’t just invite him in for us to feast upon.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to be so indiscreet. Though it’s not too late-”

“No,” Will growls.

Hannibal hums his agreement, then rocks his hips slightly and makes Will sigh at the feel of his knot still locked firmly within him.

“I will endeavour not to do anything rash. We’ll have to wait until we can steal Abigail away from the morgue. Once she’s fully recovered, we will start anew elsewhere.”

“Not Florence,” Will grumbles, clenching around Hannibal’s knot hard enough to make the alpha draw a sharp breath.

“No, not Florence,” Hannibal agrees, mouthing at the renewed mating mark on Will’s neck.

Will smiles, a happiness descending on him that he has missed all these years. Except now it holds the promise of so much more, all just waiting for the moment Abigail wakes in her bed to see her new fathers sitting beside her, each holding one of her hands. Ready to begin their life as a family.

---

“And here we are now,” Will ends, his hands spreading with a flourish.

“That’s it?” Freddie frowns, angry. “You really expect me to buy that?”

Will shrugs. “Up to you, Freddie. The evidence is all there, you just have to interpret it.”

She glares at him, clearly trying to decide just what kind of crazy he really is. Will thinks she’s this close to storming out of the room, off to write an exposé of his bizarre fantasies, when her eyes alight on his chest, which hasn’t risen for a breath for several minutes now. Her gaze widens into a full-blown stare and Will allows himself a smirk as he sees the wheels turning in her mind.

“You… you…” she stammers, before pulling herself together. Will always has admired her gumption. “You smell wrong, nobody could ever tell what you were until Lecter claimed you. And – wait, he did claim you, everybody saw the mark…”

She trails off as Will, smiling indulgently, lowers his shirt collar to reveal the smooth, unmarred flesh he’d allowed to regenerate (much to Hannibal’s heated protests) just for this moment.

Freddie’s pen drops to her lap and rolls off somewhere into the office, forgotten, as she raises a hand to her mouth. She leans forward, on the edge of her seat, as she scans the patch of skin which she had posted pictures of, bloodied and torn, just mere days previously. She looks as if she wants to touch; maybe she would have, if her attention hadn’t just been gripped by something new.

She peers into the darkening room and finally registers the boxes, the packing that has already begun in readiness for a new life, elsewhere. Her eyes snap to his, suddenly frantic. “That’s not the end. It can’t end there. Or, tell me something else, tell me about before, before meeting him this time.”

Will can’t help but smirk at how quickly her smug entitlement has melted into eagerness.

That, and the fact that she believes it all and yet apparently has developed no concerns for her safety.

He smiles at her, almost kind if not for the momentary flash of points behind his lips.

“For you, there is no more to tell. No more stories, Ms Lounds.”

“There has to be more… What people wouldn’t give to have your life! What I wouldn’t give!” Her eyes glow with the burning desire he has seen so many times before, so predictable in this type of human. Only one had ever surprised him… but then, Hannibal hadn’t really ever been human,not even as the young Lithuanian man who had looked into Will’s eyes and told him the bite could wait until he was ready.

“You agreed to this interview for a reason, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” she presses.

Will smirks.

“And what reason would that be?”

“To make me one of you. Another companion. You can see we are all alike, that I was meant to-”

Will cuts her off. “Ms Lounds, I can assure you, we are nothing alike.”

He laughs, a cruel chuckle, watching as she stands from her chair, places her hands on her hips, every bit the entitled brat.

“I’m not leaving here until-”

Will moves so swiftly from his chair to hers that he knows he is nothing more than a blur to her. And the fear in her eyes confirms it.

She shrieks as he looms over her, taking hold of her shoulders with a crushing grip as he growls at her.

“Is that what you want? To be one of the immortals?” he growls, enjoying the fear that grows in her eyes, replacing the passion of moments before. He leans in close and whispers, breath cool against her ear, “You’ll never be more than food to us.” And there it is, the difference between him and Hannibal, and the likes of Freddie Lounds. Her eagerness has been replaced by terror that marks her as fodder, not friend.

Freddie screams and, with a grin, Will lets her go.

He watches her run but he doesn’t need to follow.

He can hear as she comes to a sudden halt just beyond the door. And then he hears Hannibal croon words dripping with charm… and other, deadlier things.

“Ms Lounds, we’ve been remiss. I believe it’s about time my sire and I had you for dinner.”

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katzirra · 3 years

Text

Waiting for the place to give me my file list from my hand drive recovery. Made an omelet with asparagus and bacon, and gave the boys a tiny bit for being good this morning and letting me sleep in past 8:06...

Hannibal woke me up with very loudly aggressively loving face rubs which is new, and has been demanding attention all morning by soft paw grabbing and holding my hand while cooking, also new. Usually he's very independent and wants nothing to do with us.

Still concerned with his audible breathing when he's SLIGHTLY distressed, for a cat with obvious anxiety, and when he's picked up or sitting/laying weird. It's very noticeable, and I'm wondering if it has to do with his nasal bridge being a tad flat.

Trying to manifest a good mood. I'm having a big existential crisis about being alive.

Which, I'll just throw that under a cut and pair it with an apology. 🤙✨

I feel like I have no purpose or meaning. Having a lot of those "why bother/what's the point" moments about a lot of things which...the depth of those feelings isn't just apathetic like most people experience? For me it's very much a red flag, so that's been fun. Usually it's doing something as simple as doing something nice for myself, thinking why bother, and having to ARGUE with myself why it matters. Like...having to validate EVERYTHING I do these days is exhausting. Honestly, it's been a low simmer scary JUST KEEP SWIMMING the last few months. But everything I feel is too much to talk to anyone about, and it doesn't HELP me to. It's me. It's my brain. It's scary and I don't like looking the beast directly in the face when people want me to open up. My demon, my problem, trust me when I say I'm trying and that I'm sincere when I say sorry I'm not all here or present.

I'm, like torn between wanting to message my friend first to talk about shit, but I'm also refusing because I was hurt and the comment about shit being too much to read just resonates in my brain yelling "you're not worth their time and effort, you dumb bitch!" because my brain has a FIELD day with that shit. Its.... Kicking a dead horse, repeating myself anyway probably. It hasn't seemed to stick after the last year of me apologizing monthly because I'm just a shit friend who is too busy working and trying to not kill myself. Suicide ideation is a thing, and it SUCKS when it's as invasive as it is for intruding thoughts. But I'll keep apologizing because I feel guilty for not being good enough. Present enough. Engaging enough. Because maybe that time it'll stick??

They'll probably be better off without me making them feel bad because I don't put in enough effort I guess? Which also just hurts because I know online I'm standoffish these days, so I put the extra effort into being a good host I thought and I hoped that mattered. I just feel like no matter what I'm doomed to disappoint them? So I don't mean they'd be better off in a dismissive way, it's a legit...way I think. Like I'm obviously causing distress, and yelling at me won't fix it because it makes me recoil emotionally. So maybe I'm just a bad friend in reality and it is what it is. I'm sorry so many people have fucked me up about inter personal relationships?? I don't know what to do this time because that stupid fight cut me very deep in core values in myself.

It...Fucked me up. And whether that's important to them or not, or whether it has an repercussive weight, whatever. We've both been hurt by people, and been there as much as we'd let eachother. I've tried to be crazy supportive in the last bout of shit they went through. Because I love a bitch, and they matter immensely to me, and I know I suffered alone through a LOT of things like that and know it sucks. I offered my home, attention and time any time I could give it.. Being told i don't give as much as them set weird on my heart in light of that. It hurt.

Idk...And maybe I'm just some dramatic bitch or whatever I guess. Doesn't matter. I matter, my feelings matter. I'm mentally ill and I fucking bust my ass to deal with it, AND be a loving and supportive fixture in people's lives. I suck, sure. But I'm ALWAYS there for people.

I mention I'm depressed or angry at life, sure, but the layers of distress aren't...on display? It's my shit to deal with, if I bring it up, it's for benefit of people knowing why I'm withdrawn usually. I don't talk about myself much anymore because everything is too much and I just start venting. And people don't care that deeply about how fucked up my head is. Or I over share too much. Or yeah, it's a lot to read and I start babbling because the cork is off and I HURT inside just being alive anymore. I don't feel like I'm living my life for me these days. I don't feel alive. I feel stagnant. I'm biding time for SOMETHING to happen??

Yet I'm constantly apologizing to people for not being able to do basic shit, that I'm upfront about being difficult for some dumb reason. I'm always having to explain myself to people. I am in this bubble so often of feeling like I was made wrong, a mistake, missing something important.

Or that I'm a bad person. I'm too open, too closed, withdrawn, outgoing - I can never seem to get the ratio right. And its the kind of discussion I feel leans into self pity and attention grabbing but it's...something I internally struggle with every week and keep to myself.

Oh Kat, get a psychiatrist - I dont know that it would help, honestly. I know 90% of my thoughts and fears are irrational, and pointless. But I know they have valid backing in trauma that I have mostly dealt with, and am unlearning. But I also know I see through people, can identify those markers, and understand outcomes way too easy and that ALSO makes people mad. So. What the fuck is a shrink gonna do for me? My depression is a background white noise to this stuff, and it's honestly just bullshit I deal with. I'm not keen on medication, I'm sure it would help quiet my brain, but I've been dealing with this shit almost 20 years now, ita just the added drama and bullshit from people that exacerbates the emotional brain rash, for lack of a better phrasing. My issues are all behavioral and some depression and anxiety in the mix that I manage.

For all I'm told people understand ahit wrong with me, it sure is something I repeatedly get bitched at over, honestly. And I partially get it, I also find it frustrating. But I've been battling depression since I was 12/13 and learning to stop thinking certain things only since 21, and that's the harder part. I'm not the person people think I am, I wish I was anymore. That bitch died in 2011/2012. That fissure in my foundation fucked me UP. The shaking I had one or two years ago, didn't help.

To be transparently honest the whole shitstorm two weeks ago really hit some raw nerves I'm trying to deal with, and not doing well. Because the more times that nerve is hit the more I don't feel like a valuable person and that I'm wasting people's time. But the reason I'm yelled at is that I am a valuable person, and they want more of my time in a way?? I don't know what people want from me.

Waves hand dismissively - they're being sweethearts by the back door for now.

I'm in a weird place emotionally and mentally. I don't feel alive. I don't feel real. I don't feel valid or... I don't know. Nothing I say or so actually matters in my own life or experiences. I can be an amazing person with communication and intention but it doesn't matter if the other person doesn't care, it's like arguing online.

You can have a valid discussion and someone can just say "you're a fucking moron, I'm not listening to this" and you can't do anything.

I just wasted two hours organizing my thoughts qnd emotions into a post that I'll delete in a week. What a great use of my time. I'm juat exhausted.

I turn 31 tomorrow and is rather be dead lmao. I'm so tired of the weight of being alive and aware of the world and people around me. About being considerate and kind to everyone and it's never god damn enough. I bleed myself dry emotionally for everyone and run my mental battery into the ground qnd it's never enough. It's never going to BE enough. I don't want mental.break downs and emotional roller-coasters. I want friends that understand I'm scatterbrained and severely damaged and abused and I'm TRYING. I'm sorry it's never good enough.

I'm so fucking tired these days. I just want to disappear. I want to have an actual breakdown and cry

I haven't actually cried in years. I.... Mm. I feel like.im a shell. I'm so tired. I'm trying AO hard to be a good person and functional and I'm just constantly having more dished and I'm just...what is my purpose qnd point these days. I can't even make people happy.

Tomorrow I'll turn 31. It'll be like any other day. 👍✨

#kat life #ignore me

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a-trash-donation-bin · 4 years

Text

How I feel about the l i v e

Okay well, there was some mess to it but honesty when does something not go wrong when it comes to what you want to see on television?

This will be three parts!

• Heterosexual✨fluid✨

• Asexuality

• S4 Manipulation

(1/3)

Okay, let’s begin with not so straight not so gay Will Graham. Now, I for one am familiar with this troupe of kinda gay kinda not. I do understand where Bryan is coming from because the base character of Will from the books is straight. So he wants to stay true to that while also moving with the chemistry the actors had and give into the gayness that was S3

But this is 2020 and the characters are nothing like the ones from the books. I think it would completely understandable to have Will change and develop. Is there that “gay only for one person” yes, but in that case I for one want to directly hear “Will romantically loves Hannibal even if he primarily is with women” dodging it with “heterosexual fluidity” is so ehh. I get not making Will bi wish they would we need bi rep but I just need something else.

(2/3)

Making Will and Hannibal asexual only with each other...no. Honestly you can headcannon ace Will and ace Hannibal all you want. It’s a vibe. But it contradicts them both having sex with women. You could say Hannibal’s was for manipulating Alana but Will had sex with Margot to have sex.

It’s just an odd choice to make them only asexual with each other. If you want to say Will is demisexual it doesn’t explain him having sex with Margot. Maybe demiromantic? Honestly, you don’t have to show a sex scene, I wouldn’t even want a normal sex scene. More kaleidoscope sex scenes for me. But yeah, don’t make them ace to not make them gay.

(3/3)

Okay now, onto the manipulation. Stupid. I feel it’s so ehh. We gotta move on from all this. I get that it’s in Hannibal’s nature to manipulate but I kinda wanna expand on this and see more.

As for Hannibal not wanting to take advantage of Will for sex, great, love that. Saying that Will is going crazy in S4 alright. But what’s going on with happy Will in S5? Like, none of these characters are ever really happy. I hope it means that after Will’s high on killing Hannibal helps him fit in better with his emotions and they kill more responsibily.

Also, as for their happy ever after. Do I want that? Hell yeah. This whole world is magical and different than ours so who’s to say that two killers can’t have a happy ever after?

If they don’t get a happy ever after and if Will tries to be “normal” again I don’t wanna see it lmao. I don’t wanna say I hope it just stays with the S3 gay as hell ending but I’m scared it’s gonna get ruined.

These are my thoughts, if you have anything to say that’s related let me know! If you disagree that’s cool! This is just how I feel about it lol

#hannibal #hannigram #S4 hannibal #bryan fuller #will gram #hannibal lecter

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thelastyetfabolousmidwestmadman · 4 years

Text

Detective Conan Deconstruction/Plot Twists/Subversion's

Howdy!

I've been thinking a lot because I haven't slept or been made sensible enough to see reality through rational means of comprehension.

For a black and white series of tales such as Gosho Aoyama's DCMKverse I can sure think of a multitude of ways to turn it grey. So many dark, bloody possibilities, such a endless plethora of grief, angst, and schadenfreude, of voided bowels and lost innocence, so many terrifying ideas yet so little time...

Anyway, to summarize the contents of all that verbal diarrhea, my mind has created a vast orchestra of sinister ideas that I can't put them all in one or more stories. Some of them I'll use later, some of them I will not. I guess my main inspiration for this stream of consciousness that shouts madly into the abyss of the World Wide Web, is the idea that some intrepid, curious wanderer may come across my inane rantings and be inspired to write their own atrocities.

Or maybe it will the stoke the wondrous imagination of a writer who is more of a sick fuck then I am, (:

There are five areas that can be twisted into something cruel. They contain the following:

Cases

Heists

Romance

Character Flaws

Black Organization

Get it on!

Case’s

Suspect Gets The Last Laugh- Killer is revealed but manages to poison the victim with Ricin or something more subtle allowing the target to die a couple days later. Simple enough.

More Then One Killer- The killer is caught! However a quick look back at the scene reveals he wasn’t alone and he ain’t spilling the beans.

Hannibal Lector Wannabe- A killer decides to fuck with our beloved Teen Detectives by playing a game of manipulation and horror while he threatens their loved ones into continuing.

Escaping Through Statute Of Limitations- When Our Teen Detectives decide to give their customary breaking speech,

Killer Gets Out Of It, Now After Detectives- The killer proves much too clever and sees through our casts tricks. Maybe he begin’s to notice Conan’s con and swears revenge out of his ego.

Loved Ones Hurt In The Crossfire- They were too quick for Conan’s soccer ball, Heiji’s sword, Kogoro’s Judo, or Division One’s reflexes. The bullets, blades, bludgeons. and Pelvic Thrusts couldn’t be avoided and the innocent were hurt before they could be saved.

It’s Too Much All At Once- When the cast see a suspect state his intention to kill himself, especially in the early episodes, the cast would dare them to do it, thinking it is a bluff. It isn’t.

All For Naught- Going down a dark rabbit hole isn’t worth it, if a killer turns out to have escaped or has been dead for a long time.

Big Troll- There was no murder or kidnapping, they just wanted to humiliate them.

Green Mistake- Not all detectives succeed at once. Sometimes they make mistakes... Okay just here me out here. I sincerely doubt that all those amateur detectives despite their talent have a perfect track record in solving cases or even not getting a innocent person hurt. Just look at Heiji’s, Kogoro’s, and Sera’s early (or in Kogoro’s case many) mistakes. It’s statistically impossible to get it right all the time.

Victim Is Worse- Conan and the gang successfully prevent a client from being murdered. The criminal screams at them, telling them how evil he was, and how this was mistake. When they learn of the clients sick actions, they understand why.

Romance

Waiting For Someone Who Is No Longer There- Lets think about the situation between Shinichi and Ran for a sec. if your like me you come to a unfortunate realization that was also in the OVA “Stranger In 10 Years.” Shinichi may never get back to the way he was. Maybe there is no antidote. What if he disappears in that time? And I don’t mean move on, I mean dies without anyone knowing. Ran now has to deal with both a missing Shinichi and a vanished Conan. Yet, throughout her whole life Ran holds out hope, waiting for them. Waiting for Shinichi to call. She refuses to fall in love with someone else and becomes obsessed with finding them... Until in her old age, she dies.

The Sleeping Sleuth Sleeps Around- Okay just listen to my reasoning here for a sec. I know many of you are probably sharpening their knives in the comments but let’s really think about this for a sec. This is the same Kogoro who smacked the butt of one of the Black Bunnies, and repeatedly motorboats whatever young woman he comes across. I doubt if Eri is okay with that. Plus, alcoholism and nymphomania is not a winning combination. He could easily make a mistake while in his delirium.

Shinichi’s Toxic Jealousy- Once again bear with me on this. I don’t think either Shinichi (or Kogoro for that matter) are evil. They have flaws just like any other person. However, Shinichi can be sort of a dick with it comes to how territorial he is with Ran. Just look at Eisuke. Unlike most of the perverts who are after her, Eisuke is a genuinely nice guy and Shinichi treats him like garbage. That got me thinking... Maybe Shinichi’s claims about wanting Ran to be happy aren’t entirely true. A part of him knows what he’s doing is wrong but a selfish side can’t. What if Shinichi’s jealousy starts to hurt Ran severely? Again it have to be written well so Shinichi doesn’t come off like a unrepentant dick but I think there’s something there.

Character Flaws

Hot Headedness Get You Or Others Killed- This idea concerns Heiji mostly. A rather temperamental fellow isn’t he? Always rushing into danger without thinking or having trouble with guile... Ain’t that a losing combination innit? I wonder how many criminals can take advantage of that eh? How easy it would be to trick Heiji to go into a trap if Kazuha is threatened, how simple it would be to switch a blunted blade with a sharpened one, how effortless it would be to get important information, how utterly painless it would be to manipulate him... Well I’ll leave you lovely sick bastards to come up with more.

Dysfunction Junction- Let’s talk about the Mouri’s. They’re... Not healthy to say the least. With Kogoro’s gambling/drinking/man-whoring problem barely touched upon, as well as his abuse of Conan along with Eri’s absenteeism I can say that’s a huge target for blackmailers, debt collectors, and Count Of Monte Crisco wannabes.

Conan The Gremlin- Y’know for such a seemingly innocent little boy, he sure gets into a lot of trouble don’t he? Murders keep happening around him like a curse, and that animal tranquilizer can’t be healthy for Sonoko and Kogoro... Plus people could find out who he truly is and... Well it would probably be really messy wouldn’t it?

Incompetence From The Police- In all seriousness, let’s think about this for a second. You have a overburdened police dealing with a intense rise in the murder rate, illicit narcotic consumption, and terrorism... But before we can get any further let’s talk about real life Japanese criminal procedure. In Japan you can be held for 21 days in a tiny dark cell without due process or access to a lawyer. Your are also being interrogated with the police officers using abusive tactics such as telling you how ashamed your family would be, something that can’t happen in a culture based on Confucian values. You confess but take it back only to find that you’re basically fucked since Japan has a 99% conviction rate regardless of innocence. If your a drug addict, you are literally considered nonhuman by the public at large and due to the Reaganite standards treatment isn’t a option. If your on death row, you are never told when your going to die and even if innocent is unlikely to get out. Stressed at the rising crime rate, the police refuse to investigate any suspicious death and just like in Osaka (yes this actually happened) will simply not add to the police statistics. If your a police officer what are you to do? Just a few years ago there was so little crime and now your stressed to the bone. You’re largely conservative and full of pride so you won’t admit that you must change tactics. This quick jump to conclusions and borderline incompetence can be seen in so many episodes of Detective Conan that’s it’s a wonder that more people haven’t been wrongfully convicted or got away with it... Or perhaps they have.

Black Organization

Government Corruption- Given how much sway the BO has, it got me thinking. What if everything wrong with the Japanese Government is because the BO IS the government. Something sorta akin to how the Russian Mob are basically government officials. So many possibilities other then the usual blackmail, assassinations, and bombings. Electoral fraud, jury tampering, manufacturing consent, subtle revisions of the law to encroach on democratic rights such as those the Third Way, and Neoconservatives did in the west. So many more subtle yet intriguing ways to go about this! Perhaps the BO serves as a lobbying for other more savory companies that proudly align with them such as legalizing gambling or deregulating protections.

Caught!- The BO discovers Conan’s true identity. Hell follows.

Heists

Heist Bombing- Some madman or maybe the MK organization decides to bomb the Kid Heist. Lots of people die, are traumatized and have to deal with the aftermath. I’ll leave the rest up to you guys.

Crazy Fans- Self explanatory until you really think about it. If Kaito Kid is real in this universe, how toxic is the fandom? How many of them have pedophilic undertones with the beloved Kid Killer? What if a stalker discovers Kaito’s real identity and goes psychotic? Riots could happen! So many possibilities! Doesn’t have to dark like in my sick mind, can be played for laughs.

One last thing, because of how long this took to write, a certain beloved detective’s birthday is here.

So HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHIN-CHAN!!!

#magic kaito #detective conan #kaito kuroba #shinchi kudo #conan edogawa #ran mouri #suzuki sonoko #Black Organization #Eri Kisaki #Eisuke Hondou #Sato Miwako #heiji x kazuha #heiji hattori #kazuha toyama #sera masumi

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k-s-morgan · 4 years

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I'm sorry if this has been explain before but why did Will bring out his knife in Italy? Was he going to stab hannibal? I thought he forgive him? Thank you I love your blog

Thank you!)) And this is one of the arcs that I feel is the most complex for understanding because they didn’t develop it properly. Nonetheless, I have my theory on it - I’d like to write a proper meta at some point, but for now, I’ll just share my view (copying/expanding it).

When Will comes looking for Hannibal in ‘Primavera’, after his pining and his confessions to Alana and Jack, he’s desperately in love, almost reverent about him. I believe that if they had met it catacombs, we might have had a more passionate reunion because Will seems ready to run away with Hannibal at that point, even if he doesn’t accept it 100% yet. Will mostly knows how Hannibal feels about him now, he understands that Hannibal killed Abigail to pay him back for breaking his heart, and that means Hannibal actually has one. Will touches the Valentine Hannibal left for him and watches it come alive under his fingers; he lies in that spot to feel physically closer to him; he taunts Pazzi and implies he’s on Hannibal’s side, then he says those words of forgiveness. But some part of Will still doubts Hannibal’s love, thinking it might be just a game for him, that Hannibal’s always playing (this is what he says to himself/Abigail in the church - he spends some moments in Primavera basically arguing with himself over it).

Then Will travels to Hannibal’s home, still reverent, hoping to find out more about him. And he meets Chiyoh. Here, I feel that his attitude starts to change. He sees himself in Chiyoh – as another project that was abandoned, left in a limbo. That’s why he keeps so stubbornly drawing attention to their similarities, even though Chiyoh denies it and finds Will more and more annoying. Here’s where Will starts voicing the idea of thinking about killing Hannibal again – he begins to doubt he’s important and special once more, he feels bitter and resentful.

When he sees Bedelia as Hannibal’s ‘wife’, alive and well, that resentment grows even stronger. To me, it feels like Bedelia is the last push – Will acts catty as hell in that scene, mocking her and being derisive. He probably decides then and there that it was definitely just a game to Hannibal, that the heartbreak Will thought he felt was not real – after all, Hannibal killed Abigail, gutted him, then seemingly easily replaced them with Bedelia and had fun time in France and Italy. Hence the half-hearted attempt to kill Hannibal, which led them to ‘brain-eating’ disaster and then to Muskrat Farm resolution. That’s why the “Is Hannibal in love with me?” is important - Will finally gets the final confirmation after years of self-doubt.

Whether Will would have killed Hannibal with that knife... I doubt it. It’d be a pretty crazy attempt since they are both moving, Hannibal has extremely fast reactions, and the angle is awkward. It feels more like Will wanted an excuse, something to tell himself, “Well, I tried”, when in reality, he just wanted to see what Hannibal would do, whether he would kill him, after all.

#hannibal #hannigram #will graham

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meteora-writes · 4 years

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We Could Be Perfect One Last Night ch.9

Fandom: Hannibal Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Will Graham Warnings: Angst, Talk of Mental Illness, Talk of Hallucinations, Confessions, Extreme Fluff, First Kiss Chapter: 9. Never Be Afraid (Again) Description: While driving with Hannibal and Chiyoh, Will admits to something he never shared with anyone. Once they reach the house in New York, something changes between Will and Hannibal. Authors Notes: So I posted this days ago on ao3 and didn’t get a chance to set it up on here until just now. I apologize. I’m working on creating a twitch channel so once or twice a week people can watch me write, and this will likely be one of the things I work on there, so I promise delays in posting are worth it in the end. Read On AO3

~~~~~ Read Ch.1.Ch.2.Ch.3.Ch.4.Ch.5.Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8~~~~~

Will doesn’t know what to feel when he climbs into the backseat of the SUV Chiyoh brought to spirit them away. He’s grateful to be leaving for someplace less damp and confined. But a part of him feels like he’s leaving some part of himself behind as he watches the cabin shrink in the distance through the rear-view mirror.

It doesn’t help that he’s feeling mixed emotions from Chiyoh that he has to separate from his own. He can tell she’s happy to see Hannibal again. But there’s something else churning beneath the surface. An unease that he suspects has to do with old worries he might ask her to go back to a life of solitude somewhere for his own amusement. Given the life Hannibal has had for the past three years, he doesn’t see the man being so cruel as to ask her to seclude herself again.

And then there’s Hannibal, who masks so much of what he’s feeling. What he does give off is usually faint and easy to navigate. It’s nice, not having to sort out if he’s feeling his own emotions or someone else’s when it comes to being with Hannibal. Yes, Hannibal has a presence that draws out Will’s darker nature. Which he initially mistook as belonging to Hannibal and Hannibal alone. He knows better now. It’s not that Will was mirroring Hannibal when he wanted to kill or hurt him or others, it was Hannibal drawing his own suppressed feelings to the surface.

“Are there going to be any stops along the way?” Chiyoh asks once they’re on the highway. She’s behind the wheel, Hannibal riding in the front passenger seat beside her and Will in the seat behind him. It’s the first time she’s spoken in the ten minutes she’s been with them, aside from greeting them both upon her arrival. She believes Hannibal would have informed her in advance if they were picking up any… guests… But it doesn’t hurt to ask.

“Not today, no,” Hannibal says simply as he watches the trees pass by. “I believe Will and I both would benefit from a few more days to recover before we should attempt anything strenuous. And I would like to take some time to get the house ready for guests first.”

“Will you be needing my assistance then? Or am I free to go once you and Will are settled?” she asks carefully. She’ll help if asked, but she doesn’t want to kill anyone if she doesn’t have to. And she doesn’t want to bear witness to the things he intends to do to his enemies. She accepts Hannibal, loves him in her own way, but she won’t be a part of the things he does to those he deems to be less.

“Depending on how things go after we’ve dealt with Bedelia, having back up when we go after Jack might be a good idea,” Will suggests, earning a questioning glance back from the woman. “Hannibal filled me in on your aptitude with a sniper rifle. Thank you, by the way, for not aiming anywhere vital when you shot me back in Palermo.”

“Thank you for not giving me a reason to,” she counters with the faintest hint of a smile. Will can see it when he looks in the rear-view mirror. “I promised Hannibal once before that I would watch over him. If he needs me to, I will be there to keep watch while the two of you do what needs to be done to Agent Crawford.”

“Thank you, Chiyoh.” The warmth in Hannibal’s voice is as evident and clear as the smile on his face.

Will catches sight of it when he looks to the mirror on their side of the vehicle. It’s nice seeing Hannibal so open with his feelings towards others. It’s a stark contrast to how he acts when those he doesn’t consider to be family are present.

“I was able to locate and purchase a ship similar to the one you described,” Chiyoh notes with another glance in the rear-view mirror to Will. “It has sails, as well as a diesel engine. It was well cared for by the previous owner and should meet your needs. I was told it would be ready to sail by next week. I paid an additional sum to have them upgrade the navigational equipment and install a new engine.”

“That’s great.” Will can’t help being a little surprised that she found a boat like the one he wanted so quickly, given how specific he was about what it needed to have. Hannibal insisted on Will giving her exact details for what he would feel most comfortable sailing since he would be the one captaining and maintaining the vessel. He really needs to stop underestimating her. “Did you ask them to order spare engine parts?”

“I did. They said you would be more than prepared should anything happen while at sea,” Chiyoh assures. She sat with the people at the marina for several hours working out every aspect of the transaction and the services they would provide to get the ship seaworthy in a timely manner.

“That’s wonderful news. I look forward to seeing the ship when the time comes. What is the name of the vessel?” Hannibal asks, tone of voice never wavering from the openly pleased tone it caries. He never doubts in Chiyoh and her abilities to carry out a task with exceptional results.

“The Black Stag.” She’s about to explain that she already placed an order for most of the other supplies they would need now that the ship is taken care of, but she’s cut off abruptly by the sound of sudden, near-hysterical sounding laughing from the back seat.

Hannibal actually turns in his seat and peers over the back to get a look at Will. He’s doubled over, arms wrapped around himself as if his sides hurt from the action, laughing so hard it sounds like he’s on the verge of hyperventilating. “I take it there is something you find amusing about that name?”

“It’s…” Will manages to say in a wheeze before another loud laugh escapes him beyond his control. “It’s just that… When I… When I had encephalitis… That was what I saw… that made me realize something was wrong with me… A massive black stag.” His laughter starts to calm down as he explains, and he gasps in great lungfuls of air as he tries to calm himself from the manic reaction to hearing the name of the ship Chiyoh found them. It’s impossible. He doesn’t believe in God in any form of the traditional sense, but that name has him wondering if this is some kind of a sign from above.

Hannibal thinks back, remembering Will talking about antlers after killing Garret Jacob Hobbs, and then later mumbling about a stag when he would use the phototherapy lights to help him get inside Will’s mind and nurture the seeds of change sprouting inside of him. “God has quite a sense of humor. Tell me, Will, when you saw this stag, what was it the creature would do?”

“Usually? It would follow me. Or just stand off to the side watching. I saw it at the hospital, work, home,” Will explains as his breathing starts to go back to normal at last. “The real irony is that it still appears in my daydreams and nightmares sometimes. But its shape changes depending on where I am and who I’m with. It becomes humanoid. Takes your face but remains a monstrous black being with antlers and the twisted body of a man.” Will scrubs his face with both hands, trying to calm himself down just a bit more. He still feels the urge to laugh despite himself. It’s just too crazy.

“Like a wendigo?” Chiyoh asks out of the blue, surprising both Will and Hannibal.

“Yes, exactly like a wendigo!” Will exclaims as he finally sits up straight in his seat once again and runs a hand through his hair, brushing his bangs back from his forehead in the process. He blinks in confusion a moment later when he notices Hannibal still staring at him from over the edge of his seat with a look that Will can’t read. It takes a second for him to realize what Hannibal is looking at. He now has a clear view of the scar on Will’s forehead. He’s been letting his hair fall over his forehead for the past two weeks, unintentionally keeping the mark covered.

Will runs his hand over his forehead, fingertips skimming over the raised line of tissues as he averts his eyes from the other man’s. He can still remember the feeling of the saw despite the haze of the drugs Hannibal had given him. The way it sent vibrations throughout his skull and down into the rest of his body as it ripped its way into him. The horrible sound of it beginning to cut bone that still echos through his skull in his nightmares. “That actually makes a lot of sense now that I think about it…”

Hannibal hums at that, understanding what Will means. It started appearing to him when he had to hunt down a cannibal. The fact that it stuck around after clearly shows how that case affected Will. And then for it to take on the appearance of Hannibal? He’s not sure how he feels about that exactly, knowing the legends of the wendigo and their association with madness as well as cannibalism. Hannibal is far from mad. And he imagines if one were ever to become such a creature, he surely would have long ago.

The conversation is dropped there. None of them feels the desire to continue on or change the subject.

Will is grateful for the quiet after everything he just shared. He never even told Molly about the stag. She knew about his nightmares. How they would creep into his mind even when daydreaming or spacing out and leave him shaken at times. But he could never bring himself to try and explain it to her and she didn’t push.

He feels oddly hollow now. Not in a bad way. It’s more like the feeling of relief one gets from finally being able to tell the whole truth about something. He always felt he couldn’t talk about the stag. Like it was a sign of how deeply messed up he really is. And he was certain that he would be sent back to the mental hospital if he told anyone about it. Put on medications and told he’s crazy.

But Chiyoh and Hannibal aren’t like the other people he’s known in his life. They don’t seem to think he’s crazy. And they don’t look at him like he’s lost his mind for admitting to seeing this imaginary creature. Hannibal knows and understands how Will’s mind works. Almost better than Will does at times. He gets that he has the imagination of an overactive child but the dark impulses of a man.

It shouldn’t surprise Will that the other man would be accepting of this quirk as well as all of his others.

But it does surprise him. Leaves him feeling strange. In the end, he decides not to think too hard on it or the feeling, and ends up turning his head to watch the scenery go by through the dark tinted windows of the SUV. He falls asleep less than an hour later.

~~~~~

The house is about what Will had expected for one owned by Hannibal. It had the exterior aesthetic of a log cabin, with the modern interior of a luxurious modern house. All dark woods and sleek designs opposed to the softer outside. There are two floors and a basement, obviously. As well as a garage and a fenced area out behind that looks like it might be for a garden of sorts.

Hannibal walks into the house ahead of Will. He immediately hung his coat in the small closet next to the entrance before taking a few steps to enter the living room. It’s a bit dark. Some light filtering in around the curtains that weren’t closed properly the last time someone had been there. He doesn’t seem to notice though, as he immediately goes to the closest armchair and pulls a dusty sheet off of it, which he begins to fold meticulously.

“What can I do to help?” Will asks, standing in the doorway still. He’s looking around slowly. Taking in the few pieces of art he sees on the walls and the comfortable-looking furniture that Hannibal is beginning to uncover in the living room area.

Hannibal pauses in his folding to look across the room at Will. He seems to consider the question a moment before glancing towards the windows behind him. “Opening the windows would be a great help. It’s been quite some time since this place got a bit of fresh air.”

“Sure, I can do that,” Will agrees as he shrugs off his coat and hangs it in the closet beside Hannibal’s. The air does smell fairly stale. Musty almost. Full of dust. It makes his nose itch with the urge to sneeze that isn’t quite strong enough to actually come forth on it’s own.

Pulling the curtains open floods the room with light, making the dust motes floating in the air strikingly obvious. The fresh gust of cool air that comes in when Will opens the window only adds to the effect, making them swirl and dance in the open space.

Once all the windows in the living room are open, Will looks around and notices the doorway that leads to what he assumes is the dining area or kitchen. With a glance to Hannibal, who is still uncovering furniture, he heads that way to open more windows.

The kitchen is so strikingly similar to the one in Hannibal’s old house that Will actually freezes in the doorway upon seeing it. The only real differences that Will can see are that the fridge is on the opposite wall, and the counters are a different color of marble. It’s like stepping into an alternate reality for a moment. And he has flashes of himself and Hannibal there. Chatting over coffee. Watching him cook the two of them dinner… And then it shifts and twists back to the kitchen in Baltimore, to blood and Abigail and ungodly pain. And then finally to a bloody Hannibal walking away from the two of them...

Hannibal sees the way Will’s body locks up momentarily upon seeing the kitchen before he clearly forces himself to walk into the room in an unusually stiff manner. It makes a pang of something that feels dangerously like guilt hit him. He can imagine the things that have to be going through Will’s mind in that moment, and they’re far from pleasant he’s sure. He can only imagine what kinds of things might trigger Will to relive the more horrible moments of his past. Moments that Hannibal caused...

It takes about an hour to get things in order. They get all of the furniture uncovered, windows open, electricity and water turned back on. Chiyoh shows up with groceries just after they finish getting things in working order, and she helps them clean things up a bit before bidding them goodbye for now and heading off to wherever it is that she intends to stay, since she declined to stay with the two of them. She lets Hannibal know there is an SUV in the garage now that they should be travel in without issues. He thanks her, and with that, she’s gone.

They don’t talk much that evening, Will and Hannibal. It’s been a long day and they’re both tired. It isn’t until late that evening when Hannibal comments on going to sleep that it strikes them both that the house has multiple bedrooms. They don’t -have- to sleep together. But one look shared between them makes it clear that isn’t what either man wants.

So, Will sets aside the now empty glass of whiskey he had been sipping as they sat by the fire, and walks over to where Hannibal stands beside the stairs that lead up to the second floor. He reaches out slowly, as if afraid of being rebuked for the action, and gently takes Hannibal’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together.

His eyes are downcast, looking at their hands and pointedly not at Hannibal’s face. A mix of anxiety, embarrassment, and whiskey coloring and warming his cheeks. He feels ridiculous. Like a schoolboy with a crush. But he just doesn’t know how the hell to feel about the other man in that moment or what to make of Hannibal’s feelings towards him. He just knows he doesn’t want to be away from him if he doesn’t have to be...

Hannibal turns towards Will, making the other man’s breath hitch audibly as he draws closer. He raises the hand not currently being held, and uses a finger under Will’s chin to make him look up, worried blue meeting warm brown. “Stay with me, Will?”

Will seems to relax at the question, shoulders sagging just a little as he looks Hannibal in the eye and nods. Hannibal’s finger stays under his chin. Keeping his head tilted and eyes locked with the older man’s. He can see the longing in them. Feel it. It mixes with his own... And before he can overthink it, he leans in, tilts his head ever so slightly, and brings their lips together.

It’s soft. Brief. And Hannibal returns it readily. His every nerve singing with the pleasant shock of it. When they part Will has a questioning look in his eyes. Wanting to know if he read the moment wrong. If he’s just made a huge mistake. All Hannibal can bring himself to do in answer is gently slip his hand around to the back of Will’s neck and pull him into another soft kiss.

They stand there a long moment, Will hedging closer into Hannibal’s space as they give in to the desire that’s been building between them for some time. They finally part when Hannibal needs a breath, and he opens his eyes to find a small smile on Will’s lips. “Let’s go to bed?”

The question is innocent. No implication of wanting any more than what Will just shared with him. It’s late, and they’re both still healing. In more ways than one. He has no intention of rushing this. And Will seems to feel the same.

“Lead the way,” Will utters before stealing one last, quick kiss. Because he can. Because it feels like he is allowed to do that. And because it lets him know that what just happened was real and not some imagined moment in his overactive mind.

Hannibal does lead the way. And they take their time changing into nightclothes before slipping under the covers of the king-sized bed of the master bedroom. Even with the much larger sleeping space, the moment they are in it together Will gravitates towards him. Seeks him out and moves in close enough to feel Hannibal’s warmth and solid presence.

They fall asleep curled together much like they would back in the cabin. Only now, Will leans in and gives Hannibal one last kiss goodnight before they both drift off.

#hannigram #murder husbands #hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #will graham x hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x will graham #will x hannibal #hannibal x will #angst #fluff #first kiss #we could be perfect one last night #getting together #feelings

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