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drabbls · 2 years

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Everything In Between

The air hung with the aftershocks of the day’s events, and, denying the forward arrow of time, it seemed to hang with the aftershocks of the night’s events yet to unfold. It was heavy. Suffocating. Like a hot Louisiana summer, Will wanted nothing more than to wash it all down with a cold glass of sun tea and retreat into solitude for a day. It seemed so long ago that he could spend a day on the river in Wolf Trap, nothing but the water, its trout, and his fly. He knew nostalgia was a waste. The heart grows fonder with time only because it forgets. Nevertheless, this bluff house, the threat of the Dragon looming over them… It was thrilling, though it chased him to the secluded corner of his house, his dogs, and the deluded beginnings of this narrative.

His mind was quieted as he followed the convict before him. Stepping over the threshold of the master bedroom was like dipping one’s head beneath water, muffling the grievances of the world and focusing his mind on the banal beating of his heart against his breast. He’d never known about this home of Hannibal’s. It was like trying to fit a corner jigsaw piece into that unnerving final gap of the puzzle. He didn’t have the time to navigate it, didn’t have the mental space to take any of it in. His attention was fully locked on Hannibal, and he found himself reminded of those deadly moments leading up to their last moments in Hannibal’s Baltimore home. Caught between himself, Hannibal, and a man that was neither ally nor enemy. Jack was a friend, Dolarhyde wasn’t, and yet Will’s only perception of either in those final moments was their unfortunate position between two forces of nature. He wondered if this time would be different. He wondered what exactly he hoped would happen.

The pale jumpsuit sloughed from Hannibal’s shoulders, and Will didn’t recall ever being asked to follow him into the bedroom. Averting his eyes, he licked his lips and half-turned toward the door. He didn’t recall being asked to wait in the foyer, either. His attention pulled back to the man shamelessly undressing just a few paces away.

The silvery flesh forming a circle, a seal, on Hannibal’s back was the first thing that caught Will’s attention. It was the Verger brand. He recalled the incident, though he’d not been there to bear witness to it. He’d not smelled the burning of Hannibal’s flesh, nor felt the cold resilience of his gaze as he bore the pain. Will imagined he hadn’t reacted beyond a flinch. He had always struggled to imagine Hannibal beneath any sort of suffering outside of that which Will had delivered him. This fact would say something about him, would lay Will’s psyche bare, if he were to dwell on it. He never did.

He stepped forward. Although the fall of his stride was silent against the carpeted floor, he recognized tension pulling taut along the line of Hannibal’s back. He didn’t know for certain of what he anticipated; Will knew just as well the uncertainty that they presented one another. Hannibal could press cold steel through his belly one moment and caress the back of his head in the next.

Will didn’t wield any weapons as he reached out to Hannibal’s warm, exposed flesh. Calloused fingertips met raised, sensitive scar tissue with a hesitance that brimmed with need. The desire to touch the scar itched beneath Will’s nails. It felt like the electricity that hung in the air before a lightning strike: stinking of ozone and tickling along his nerves.

When his uncertain touch found its certainty and traced the arc of the brand, Hannibal’s tense anticipation faltered. Will felt his shoulders bow and snapped his gaze to the man’s profile, though he only caught it in time for Hannibal to face forward again. It wasn’t often Hannibal had to hide his expressions. It was even rarer for him to hide them from Will.

“The surname Verger comes from the French, verger, meaning orchard,” Hannibal’s lilting voice provided, cutting through the silence despite the soft timber he always seemed to take, regardless of the situation. It vibrated against the vertebrae beneath Will’s palm as he covered the name burned into Hannibal’s flesh. Hannibal’s lungs stuttered over an exhale, and Will’s chest swelled with satisfaction.

“For a man like Mason to carry a name that evokes such thoughts of purity and prosperity is irony at its finest,” he continued as though Will’s hand wasn’t now traveling further down his back. It pleased Will, the way Hannibal’s skin seemed to betray him as it turned to gooseflesh beneath his touch. He twisted his lower lip up in a misshaped smile and pressed his middle and ring finger into the supple flesh above Hannibal’s pelvis. Hannibal turned beneath the pressure. His face revealed nothing to Will.

“As a teen, Saint Augustine desired the fruit of his neighbor’s orchard,” Will spoke slowly as he raised his hand from Hannibal’s side. He touched his fingers to the valley of the scar high on Hannibal’s cheek, still raised and angry despite the years. He saw the pulse of Hannibal’s throat as he swallowed, though Hannibal remained silent and impossibly still. “He and his friends stole armfuls of the pears, only to throw them to the pigs,” Will continued, then flicked his impassive gaze away from the scar, laterally to meet Hannibal’s maroon eyes, “I think that suits Mason just fine.”

Previously pliant as a puppet, Hannibal came to life. Will’s hand cuffed Hannibal’s wrist when he reached for him, and for a moment Will relived that moment years ago in Hannibal’s kitchen—blood and tile and the blurred boundaries of psychological and physical pain. What would have become of them that night had he caught Hannibal’s hand then? Could they have turned on one another as Jack and Hannibal had? Could they have spared hearts, guts, and throats?

Fingers pressed to Will’s hand and, gently guiding, they drew it from their grip on Hannibal’s wrist. Will knew from the warmth against his lips that his breath washed across them as they took to opening the buttons on his shirt, beginning at his collar. There was no level of undress that could leave him feeling more exposed than he already did when they shared a room.

Hannibal had always been a creature that existed between. The music in the rest, the static in the darkness, the proximity of a denied touch. Precision guided his fingers down the starched fabric of Will’s shirt; although they didn’t once brush his skin, they embedded themselves beneath his ribs. Will kept his calculating eyes on Hannibal’s face. When the last button of his shirt released its hold beneath Hannibal’s thumb, Will’s tongue peeked between his lips, his brows dipping together to expose his confusion. He knew Hannibal wanted no part of alleviating this, knew that the man before him was more interested in watching Will tread water until his head dipped below the tide than he was in tossing him a rope. Instead, Hannibal lifted his hand and brushed aside Will’s hair, his fingers tracing the raised bone-saw scar with intention. Will’s lips parted in a silent sigh before he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

The next time Hannibal touched him was when he guided Will’s shirt off his shoulders. Hannibal’s thumbs pressed against the raised scars on either of his shoulders; Chiyoh and Jack. The firm pressure drew a hiss of breath from his lungs, and Will opened his eyes to fix Hannibal with a hard stare. The eyes that met him in return held an intensity that eased as he lessened the force against the scars.

“Hannibal—,” he cautioned as Hannibal lowered himself to his knees before Will. It felt odd to have a man with whom he’d quite literally fought tooth-and-nail to remain equal kneel before him. It felt like a trick. The fingers that fit against his side should have been cold, bruising. They should have hurt as they had moments before against his damaged shoulders. Instead, they were soft and warm; like the caramel on a candied apple, they offered up their own sense of sweet nostalgia, unique in that he’d never tasted anything quite like it. Will found himself leaning into Hannibal’s steadying hands as he watched him draw nearer.

Taking its turn, Hannibal’s hot breath bathed Will’s exposed torso moments before Will felt his nose press against the scar tissue cutting across his abdomen. His hand felt weak against Hannibal’s hair, though he couldn’t recall resting it there. He curled his fingers in the soft strands and gave a firm tug. Looking down, he felt a thrill rip through him at the way the forced angle cast Hannibal’s jaw in sharp relief. He watched as Hannibal’s lips parted before forming a knowing smile. For once, he didn’t say a word. Will found that all the more inciting.

Will released Hannibal’s hair in order to take his hands and withdraw them from his sides. He cuffed Hannibal’s wrists, his thumbs pressing firmly to the lines he knew were sensitive. Though they’d not been inflicted by his own hand, he knew the difference between the vicarious and the firsthand was thin. Hannibal flinched, but Will doubted it was due to the physical pressure. Hannibal pressed back up to his feet in one fluid motion that forced Will to shift his weight back.

“Can you imagine the feeling of the blade as it slips through my skin?” He said as he let the weight of his wrists rest in Will’s hand, his palms up and his wrists exposed. “Was it enough?”

Will released Hannibal and stepped back. His hands dropped to fasten his buttons again, and he shouldered his thoughts aside, pleasantly operating without any conscious will as he did. He felt Hannibal’s dark eyes on him even as the other pulled open a drawer on the dresser to continue with the task at hand. They remained in silence as Will adjusted his sleeves and collar in jerky movements and stalked back toward the door to the bedroom. He muttered along the way, “It will never be enough.”

#hannigram #drabbls #ficlet #nbc hannibal #send me prompts!#everything in between

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musewrangler · 1 year

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👀 - A piece of lore you’ve been waiting for an excuse to share

Oho thank you so much Brieval!!

Yes indeed. So.

I decided that there is a much more nuanced smuggling culture in Star Wars than we've been given to date. Of course you will always have your opportunists and they are the more dominant types to be found in a galaxy at war. The spicers, the slavers, the pirates----they will seize the main chance and they don't care who they hurt on both sides of any conflict.

But what if there were just a few more principled types out there? What if there were the types of smugglers with good hearts---much like our friend Solo. The ones willing to steal and run goods in certain areas, but draw the line at others.

I have written a character [who has been seen before a little bit in my work] who is at the center of such an enterprise. What he does is completely unlawful according to most standards in the galaxy. And he has no problem turning a profit with his work. But he's in charge of a massive organization that takes jobs---somewhat like Din does, but not bringing in bounties---to smuggle things like medical supplies or food and sometimes weapons depending on the situation. He doesn't get involved with slavers because he knows how awful that is. He allows spice running because that's where the big money is and it allows him and all the independent operatives who work for him to actually turn a profit and then also buy the things that are needed for other jobs.

This character and his smuggling operation are also looking at opportunities. Make no mistake---he likes earning credits, coin and jewels. But he's helped to found a guild of smugglers who all hate the Empire, but have no desire to go fight for the Rebellion.

As usual, I like to see more than black and white shades in the Star Wars universe and so this smuggler culture is one I look forward to sharing with you all.

Thanks again for asking! :D

#star wars #star wars original trilogy #wip #wip ask #writing #lore #world building #smuggling #Empire #Rebellion #Everything in between #fanfic #wishfulthinking1979

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