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delimeful · 3 years

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to taste your beating heart (4)

warnings: nightmares, flashbacks, mind control/thrall mention, mental breakdown, blood mention, impalement/staking, upsetting thoughts, panic, ptsd responses

A plastic-sounding click, like someone pressing a button.

Anx took a breath, staring intently at the person bustling around across from him.

Patton was making tea like someone vying for a professional butler position: setting saucers and cups in front of each of them, managing the teapot with a steady hand, motions smooth and automatic.

“Sorry, I’m just so used to setting up refreshments for guests,” he chuckled nervously. “My sister always insists on tea when she comes by, so—“

Logan shifted next to him, impatient and more than a little irritated after every one of his inquiries had been deflected or outright ignored. Patton had invited them in, though, and he was currently their best lead on one of the most vicious cases they’d ever dealt with.

Even if he seemed utterly incapable of answering any of their actual questions.

That wasn't saying he wasn't willing to talk at all. Roman was chattering with him, their most sociable member easily drawn into discussion and more than willing to natter on in the hopes that Patton would let some vital information slip.

Anx wasn’t the only one who noted the way their host set an extra saucer and cup out, but when he met Logan’s gaze, the hunter only rolled his eyes, more than content to dismiss it as another element of the stranger’s apparent airheaded personality.

Patton was still speaking, discussing the many alleged merits of ignoring allergies for the sake of fulfilling experiences. Roman, who was lactose intolerant, was nodding along wholeheartedly. Logan, who was the one to deal with Roman’s post-dairy consumption whining, looked a lot less agreeable.

His own attention remained pinned on Patton’s movements rather than his words. There was a pattern there, a careful turn of the cup so the handle was facing the right side, lift the teapot from the warmer, and pour. One by one, he went around the table.

Anx was the only one watching when the man finally fumbled. After pouring each of their cups with surprising grace, he reached that final, fifth teacup. He twisted the handle so it was right-aligned, lifted the teapot, poured— and then reached for what looked like a cream pitcher.

A beat late, Patton’s hands suddenly swerved to the side, and he pulled them back as though he’d been burned. His voice didn’t even falter.

Anx reached across the table lightning-quick and seized the pitcher, knocking a few of the porcelain jars over and effectively cutting through the conversion as he did. Roman was asking something, but Patton only stared at him, something both fearful and grateful in his gaze.

Anx pulled the lid off, and the thick smell of blood hit him, like iron and rust.

“Your sister, you said?” Logan asked, and Patton bit his lip hard enough to bleed.

Click.

He was in a different room of the same tiny apartment, though it took him a moment to recognize the interior.

Put bluntly, it looked as though a miniature hurricane had torn through it.

The wallpaper was shredded and splattered. The cute decorative furniture had been thrown askew at best, smashed to bits at worst. Everything was in disarray, the valuable and mundane targeted indiscriminately. An entire life torn to pieces.

In the eye of the storm, Patton stood, hands fisted in his hair and eyes bloodshot.

They’d known the backlash of the bond breaking would be hard on Patton, but they hadn’t been prepared for this. It was entirely possible that they had never run into a thrall this strong, one maintained for so long, in their entire hunting career.

Most aggressive thralls would attack relentlessly to defend their master from harm. Seeing as they’d been the ones to kill his “sister”, if Patton was going to vent his ire on anyone, it would be them. Roman stepped forwards carefully regardless, knowing that they owed it to him to at least try to help him recover. “Patton?”

“I should have helped her,” he replied tonelessly, voice half-ruined from screaming. He picked up a broken chunk of a table leg, and they all went tense, but all he did was slam it against the wall.

“I should have saved her!” he cried, punctuating every word with a swing. “Where is she, where is she, what did I do to her?”

“A better question would be: what did she do to you?” Logan asked, ignoring the sharp look Anx sent his way. They’d all been unsettled at the way the vamp had talked about Patton, like someone possessive over a favored plaything, but that didn’t mean they should be bringing it up now.

They’d finally gotten Patton’s full attention, as he turned to them with angry tears in his eyes. “She did everything for me! And I— I gave her away, I betrayed her…”

“She was hurting people,” Anx cut in, voice firm but not unkind. For all that he’d been through, Patton didn’t deserve unkind.

“I could have fixed it, I thought I was— I was getting through to her,” he pleaded, his voice unsteady and unconvincing even to himself. He dropped the wood, pressing bleeding knuckles against his face to stem the tears.

“It’s not your fault, Patton, okay?” Roman tried, stepping closer until he could reach out and set his hand on a trembling shoulder. Patton only seemed to bow further with the weight of his grief.

“Giving her up was supposed to kill me,” he said softly, the frenzy gone from him. “How am I supposed to live without her?”

“The same way everyone else does,” Roman pulled him in for a hug, his own eyes wetter than they’d been before. “One day at a time.”

Click.

The living room of the house— their house.

Perhaps more importantly, the smell of something burning.

Anx had always been twitchy about things like this-- a thousand potential disasters in mind for every little inconvenience-- so he bolted off the arm of the couch the moment the scent registered.

When he got to the kitchen, he heard the rattle of an active microwave, saw Patton standing and staring blankly at the display as the inside of the microwave clouded up with smoke.

Cringing at the thought of the smoke alarm going off, he turned on the overhead fan and pulled the window up before finally yanking the microwave door open.

A plastic takeout container was halfway to a melted puddle, mixing with whatever leftovers had formerly resided there. He slid on a pair of duck-themed oven mitts and grabbed the most solid-looking parts, quickly lifting and carrying the mess to the balcony where it could cool down without making their house smell like burnt plastic.

When he returned, Patton was still in that same spot, frowning slightly as though just realizing that something might be a little off. Like someone had pressed pause while the world fast-forwarded around him, Patton had described it once.

Anx flitted about for a moment, putting the mitts back and cleaning the leftover residue, and then finally faced his friend with a wry half-smile. Patton’s eyes snapped to him, as though just realizing he was there.

“Hey, Pat.” He reached out and set his hand against Patton’s back, watching as the touch helped ground him slightly. “Can you go sit at the table? I’ll bring us both something to eat.”

Without a word, Patton turned and walked to their little dining table.

Cooking was admittedly harder when he ducked away to check on the other room every few moments, but he managed alright, only singeing the eggs slightly where Roman would have incinerated them.

He set the table for them both, and sat across from Patton, who was motionless and quiet in his chair.

“Can we eat together?” Anx asked, offering Patton a fork so there was a physical prompt as well as a verbal one.

It took a moment, but Patton gripped the fork easily and started to work through the motions of eating, mirroring Anx. Whenever he faltered or seemed to forget what he was in the middle of, Anx would nudge his attention back on track.

Once they were finished, he gathered up his dishes and asked Patton to grab his, carrying them back to the kitchen together.

Patton paused for a moment at the sink, mouth twitching into a frown as he stared at his glass and the lingering layer of orange juice at the bottom.

“Does anyone want tea?” he asked suddenly, a well-practiced line in a cheery tone. “I’m very good at tea service, you know.”

Anx swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m good, Pat,” he declined instead of pointing out that they didn’t have any tea in the house.

Patton seemed to get a little hazier, his face going sad and then quickly lax again. Anx took the glass from him and offered him a hand to hold instead, squeezing his palm comfortingly when he accepted.

“I need help out in the garden today. Do you think you could lend a hand or two?”

He dipped his head in a nod, and as they made their way to the back door, Anx shot a text off to the group chat.

> nightmare on edge street: out in the garden with pat. bad day protocol, stat

When they came back in hours later, dirt under their nail beds and probably a little sunburned, Roman and Logan had already combined their talents to set up an elaborately decorated but still structurally sound blanket fort spanning the entirety of the living room.

Patton’s face twitched into a tremulous little smile as the others waved them over, and Anx felt him squeeze their joined hands gratefully.

Click.

The sequence rewound, restarted. Ran him through it over and over, the same scenes-- the same memories. Patton pouring tea with a determined, terrified glint to his eye. Patton’s mind struggling under the stress of the snapped bond. Patton working through a difficult day with the help of friends.

The scenery grew brighter and brighter with every repetition, like saturation turned all the way up on a screen, until they were as painful as sunlight on his bare skin. He tried to close his eyes, to move away, to change something, anything, but his body wasn’t his own.

Look at him, it seemed to demand, keeping him frozen in a sensory hell. Pay attention. Look what you did. Understand how you hurt him.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Clunk.

Silence. The memories vanished, leaving him floating in an impossible, endless black space. Between one blink and the next, he was eye-to-eye with a mirror image, something about it just slightly off.

He didn’t notice the stake in its hand until it was too late.

---

Anx jerked upright, hands jumping to his chest as the phantom sensation of wood between his ribs faded. His breath stuttered painfully, as though he expected to feel ichor welling up in his mouth any minute.

Staking a vampire was an archaic hunter method. It was difficult to manage, it was messy, and it was the slowest and most painful way possible to kill a vampire. He knew this, though he wasn’t sure which life was providing the facts.

Regardless of memories, he couldn’t know how it felt to actually be staked. He’d been injured before, with a coven as temperamental as his, but nothing like that. Nothing even close to that. It was just a bad dream, an imagined pain.

There was a subtle shifting nearby, and his head snapped up, eyes bright and teeth bared. If those assholes thought he was in the mood to have his space invaded--

“Easy, Count Chocula.” Across the room, the sword-wielder-- Roman, that was his name-- settled back into the armchair by the door, watching him with narrowed eyes. “I was simply noticing your… abrupt awakening?”

Right. Because he wasn’t settled into one of the tiny, dark rooms reserved for the newly-turned and those who couldn’t shake off the urge to sleep. He was captured by weird hunters, who trapped him in their weird house, and asked weird invasive leading questions about his weird night terrors.

He was also tucked into a bed, for some reason.

The comforter had already slipped down halfway due to his sudden jolt into wakefulness, and he wasted no time in kicking free of the sheets. The room was surprisingly dark in both theme and lighting, with deep purple walls and heavy spiderweb-patterned curtains blocking out any potential sunlight.

There was also a warding circle of ash carefully smudged in a perimeter around the bed, the burning containment runes strong enough to make him want to sneeze even from this distance. The diameter of the circle was wide enough that he could theoretically keep away from any stabbings if he pissed Roman off enough, but add even one more hunter to the mix and it would take virtually no effort to pincer him.

Nothing he could do about the new cage for now, with the hunter staring at him expectantly from his sentry position. He sent a poisonous glare back and hissed, still crouched on the bed like an exceptionally angry gargoyle.

Roman pressed an offended hand to his chest, but was cut off by an inordinately cheerful knock at the door. His expression flickered to a sort of bitter resignation, and he shot Anx a much more serious warning look before unlocking and cracking the door open.

“Hey, Pat! I thought you were taking a nap?” he asked with impressively feigned lightness to his voice.

“I was, I just— Is he awake?” Another too-familiar voice replied, sounded distracted. “I felt…”

“Yeah, Padre,” Roman admitted after a strained pause. “He’s up. You remember your key?”

“Of course!” Patton said, and neither of them elaborated on what the hell that was supposed to mean. Roman stepped aside, and Patton beelined to the bed like a compass needle to true north.

He stopped just short of the circle, like a determined enough— or cornered enough— vamp couldn’t reach out and drag him in. “Anx! I’ve been so worried about you! You took quite a tumble, are you feeling alright?”

Anx stared at him. The words were bright, but there was a thread of something fervent and barely-controlled in them, something frenetic in the way he shifted from foot to foot. It sent a pervasive feeling of wrongness down his spine, like looking at an old photograph and realizing that something you remembered from it was entirely absent.

Anx didn’t— couldn’t know enough about Patton to recognize when he was acting off, but every piece slotted neatly into place anyways, dragging him to a conclusion he didn’t intend to realize; Patton was pretending, ignoring the parts of him that felt bad to reassure the rest of them. After everything he'd already gone through, he was bearing the stress of being thralled without a word.

He could feel the thrall tether pulled taut between them, already mentally frayed from both the time passed since feeding and the pain that had ricocheted through him at his last order. Looking at Patton like this, it was bizarrely easy to loosen his grip and let that last thread connecting them fall apart.

Patton’s shoulders eased, all of him sagging slightly like a puppet with strings cut. And wasn’t that just an uncomfortably accurate metaphor.

In the next moment, the hunter was stepping neatly over the line of ash and into the circle, arms lifted. Roman shouted something, but his alarmed words were meaningless noise against the roar of anticipatory fear that overcame Anx.

Get away, his instincts screamed, but his body remained stuck, stalled by a resentful whisper in the back of his mind: Doesn’t he deserve to get a few hits in though? Look at what you did to him.

A sudden touch made him curl in on himself, but the arms that folded around him were careful, even gentle. His head jerked up, and sure enough, Patton was hugging him. He froze, struck dumb.

Over Patton’s shoulder, Roman was stopped a few feet away, hand outstretched as though he’d planned to yank Patton back out of the danger zone. Anx met his stare, eyes round as quarters.

“I did not tell him to do this,” he blurted, and Patton’s chest vibrated with a little sniffly chuckle. The human was so warm.

At the door, Logan appeared, glasses slightly askew. “Patton? I heard—“

He paused, taking in the room. His expression grew more and more unimpressed. “... I see. Exactly what happened while I was away?”

#sanders sides #ts virgil #ts patton #ts logan #ts roman #vampire au #ttybh #to taste your beating heart #couldnt find a good stopping point T-T #Hope you guys enjoy!#writing #my writing #pov is confusing at the start but i hope it makes sense

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rose-ellis · 4 years

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They Will Rise Again

I think I may start posting some of my writing on Tumblr. Here is a little piece (~1500 words) that I wrote for a fiction workshop last fall. I sort of had a gender neutral Crowley and fem Aziraphale in mind when I wrote this, but the general story itself has nothing to do with Good Omens. I didn’t have a solid idea when I started it so I kind of just put down whatever came to mind, but I actually like how it turned out.

I love getting feedback, so let me know what you think!

Title: They Will Rise Again

Type: Angst/Fluff? (I honestly have no idea)

Warnings: None

Word count: 1480

~~~~~

There are several things that one can do in the English countryside that the streets of London simply do not allow. Breathing, for example – rather important, that one. Another is sitting in near-complete silence in the middle of the day.

A young woman of some twenty years sat alone in a small cottage in the north of Oxfordshire, taking advantage of both of those simple pleasures. The town in which she resided is not important; very few apart from the locals would recognise the name. Surrounded by sprawling fields of wheat and corn, it was the sort of place that was easily passed through without sparing it a glance, and so unremarkable that those who did take note usually forgot about it soon after leaving the town limits.

This meant that apart from the cattle and chickens belonging to the family next door, and the occasional yelling from Mrs. Simmons across the way when she forgot to turn on her hearing aids, there was very little outside the cottage to disturb the peaceful quiet that usually settled over the property.

This was not to suggest that there was never trouble in the village. Those who move from the city to the country should not be (yet invariably are) surprised to learn that people, regardless of where they live, are human. And quite often, humans are assholes.

That morning, however, had passed with no apparent trouble as far as the young woman was aware. The sun had risen as it is wont to do, and the birds that had nested in the eaves (despite many efforts to relocate them) had sung their tune to their hearts’ content. Breakfast had been made and eaten, and the woman now lounged in the kitchen, where the only sounds to be heard were the rumbling of the electric kettle and the rustling of paper as she flipped through the weekly news.

It had become a Saturday ritual – get up late, read the paper, drink tea, stay inside, and pray that no visitors came. So far, everything had gone to plan. She was still dressed in her pyjamas from the night before with no intention to change out of them. Tight, frizzy curls protruded every which way from where her dark hair was piled messily atop her head.

She hummed to herself as an article caught her attention. The legs of her round-framed glasses were just slightly too long, causing the specs to slowly slip down the arch of her pointed nose. Every few moments she would nudge them back into place, her eyes never pausing as they roamed across the pages. She was so engrossed in the words that she hardly noticed the way that her lips moved silently as she read – a habit that she adamantly denied having, even after catching herself on more than one occasion. She sighed in content.

The peaceful atmosphere was suddenly broken a moment later when the outside door was violently flung open. It swung back on its hinges until it collided with the wall, banging loudly upon impact. Another dent was added to the ever-growing collection left behind by the doorknob. The young woman had given up trying to fix them long ago, knowing that more would appear soon after.

Just inside the door there stood a rather striking individual. They were tall – so much so that they had needed to stoop to enter the cottage. Their slender figure, clad in all black, only emphasized this further. A deadly looking scowl hung on their lips and they muttered complaints and vague threats under their breath.

It was hardly the first time that the figure had burst in, impassioned by some unknown source. So regular an occurrence was this that the young woman did not even flinch at the noise. Her eyes never strayed from the print before her, nor did she acknowledge the slew of words that would have made poor old Mrs. Simmons want to turn off her hearing aids for good. She simply turned the page of her newspaper, continuing to read the article on the other side as she waited for the explanation that would inevitably come.

Despite their sudden appearance and apparent eagerness, they took their time to close the door and saunter over to the table. There was such a swing to their gait that it led most to believe that they had either been seriously injured or had become well acquainted with the contents of the liquor cabinet. Both were incorrect, but only one person had ever been brave enough to ask.

The woman rose from her seat as the kettle shut itself off, intending to fix herself some tea. Instinctively, she reached into the cupboard to retrieve a second cup. Her companion slipped by her on their way to the table, dropped the post from the box on the counter, then dramatically threw themselves down onto a chair.

“If I ever get my hands on those bastards, I’ll tear their heads clean off their bodies,” they seethed, white-knuckled as they slammed their fists onto the wooden surface. Their dark eyes blazed with untamed rage.

“That’s called murder, dear,” the woman reminded them patiently, pouring hot water into the pair cups. “Quite frowned upon, I’m afraid. Tea?”

Her partner grumbled in response and a moment later, a dainty porcelain cup and saucer were placed before them on the table. Their long, boney fingers tried clumsily to pick it up by the small handle, nearly spilling it in the process. Upon successfully lifting it to their lips, they found that the correct amount of sugar (two heaping spoons) and a splash of milk – not one drop more – had been added.

“You think they cared about it being bloody frowned upon?” They shook their head. “Murderers – beasts, the lot of them. Didn’t even hesitate, ripping them apart and throwing their heads in the mud.”

As she settled back into her seat, the woman’s gaze wandered to the nearby vase. In seconds, realization dawned over her. “I understand that you’re upset, darling, but don’t you think you’re being tad bit dramatic? It’s probably just the children, after all.”

Her companion narrowed their eyes at the accusation. “That’s hardly an excuse – they’re hellions, I tell you! Savages!” Impassioned, their hand came down onto the table once more, their cup roughly clanking onto its saucer.

“You’ve gotten yourself all in a tizz. Now, calm down and finish your tea.” When they tried to protest, the woman pointed a stern finger in their direction. “And if you break one more of my teacups, those ‘hellions’ will be the least of your worries.”

“Yes dear.” The cup was gingerly returned to its saucer.

Unbeknownst to them, their conversation had not been private. A delivery man, new to the job, had chosen a rather unfortunate time to drop off a package. He stood outside their door, slack jawed as he tried to process what he had heard. As far as he could tell, there had been multiple murders in the town – committed by children, no less – and someone inside the cottage was more concerned about their teacup than the fact that people’s heads had been ripped off and thrown in the mud.

He quickly retreated to his lorry, his eyes darting mistrustfully to the two young boys who skated past on the opposite side of the laneway. The package was still clutched in his hands. Some other unlucky sod could be the one to deliver it.

The couple inside the cottage was unaware of the vehicle as it sped away. They sat in silence as they continued to sip their tea. The woman observed as the tension slowly retreated from her companion’s shoulders, leaving them to sag dejectedly. A pout had replaced the scowl on their lips, and sorrow had drowned out the last embers of rage that had burned in their eyes.

Reaching across the table, she rested her hand atop her partner’s, holding it carefully as she caressed it with her thumb. “I know you loved them, darling,” she said, “I did too.”

“It’s not just that.” They slouched forward to rest their chin on their crossed arms.

“Then what is it?”

“They were for you,” her lover replied, a sad smile passing over their face. “And those little bastards just threw them aside like they were nothing.”

“Are they still out there?” She received a curious nod in reply. “Then we shall lay them to rest.”

That Saturday, they left their cottage, hand in hand, to approach their flower garden. Dozens of sunflowers had been uprooted, their stems torn to pieces and their heads discarded in the mud along the side of the lane. Tenderly, they cleaned up the site of the massacre, evened out the soil, and buried the dead. Soon enough, they would rise again.

#writing #one-shot #imagine #short fic #fluff #angst #I don't know how to tag this #good omens inspired #good omens #genderneurtral!Crowley #fem!Aziraphale

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super-queer-hannibal-obsession · 7 years

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A Soft Crescendo

Many months ago I wrote something for the Hannibal Big Bang, and I promised @fragile-teacup I would write some more for it. I don’t know if she even remembers that, but I have worked on it some over the months. I decided to post chapter 2 today, and I hope she and everyone enjoys! Thanks Alex for being the nagging voice in the back of my head to keep writing this and also thank you for all the beautiful prose you write!

(Artwork was created by @hannahthemighty for the fic during the bang.)

Notes: Hannibal and Will hide out in Mexico. This chapter follows some snapshots of their life together as Will struggles to come to terms with their relationship and with himself. They live together in a dance of unbearable intimacy and excruciating distance. Some hurt/comfort and some smut to be found here.

Will pulled the sweaty shirt over his head and threw it on the floor. His whole body was covered in a light sheen of sweat. The small, cheap motel they were in had a broken air conditioner and the rising temperatures left the third-floor room hot and muggy. The walls were yellow and heavily spackled, the paint peeling and slightly greying. There was a watercolor painting of a woman in a red sundress walking down a deserted street with her son. Other than that the room was sparse with no decoration. Will tried to rest on the bed. Hannibal had removed the bedding provided and used his own clean, new sheets. Will flipped through the channels. They were all in Spanish, and he could only understand half of it. Grabbing the bottle of tequila, he took a couple of swigs. It took the edge off of the swollen waiting.

He walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror at his face, skinnier than it had been in a while. He rubbed his thumbs over the bags under his eyes and sighed deeply. The shower let out a high-pitched scream when he turned it on; it was old and the water pressure low. But, the cold water was a relief, and he sighed deeply as the drops caressed his skin. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to relax. The city was hot and busy, and he was feeling restless with nowhere to go and little to do. He didn’t know where Hannibal was exactly, but he had a vague idea. They had been here for six months and had come to an agreement. Hannibal could kill once a month as long as it was someone who had done something terrible enough to deserve it. Will had no way of knowing if he was following through, however.

The feel of a hand against his shoulder startled him, and he yelped softly, beginning to look around for something to defend himself before quickly realizing that it was Hannibal.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Will said catching his breath. “I didn’t hear you to come in.”

“You need to be more careful, Will. What if it hadn’t been me?” Hannibal half-chided.

Will reached for his towel, but Hannibal reached out and grabbed Will’s forearm. “Don’t.”

Will noted the excitement in Hannibal’s eyes. He must have achieved his goal.

Hannibal unbuttoned the loose, white shirt he was wearing and placed it neatly on a hanger in the closet.

“Hurry up,” Will called, rubbing soap over his chest while he waited.

“Shhh,” Hannibal replied, his voice was dangerous and low.

Will could tell he was in for a treat.

Hannibal removed his pants and briefs just as carefully. Will could tell he was gathering himself, focusing on steadying his breath.

Will would let him have his way, let him be rough, would join in eagerly.

“I wish you had been there, Will.” He lamented as he pushed open the curtain and let himself inside the small shower, placing both his hands on Will’s hips. The energy was tense, but slow and building, not near the crescendo it would be later.

Will stared at the mess of hair on Hannibal’s chest and the slow, deep rise and fall of his breath.

“I’m here now.” Will said, voice already breathy.

The shower wasn’t ideal for sex. But the stifling heat still made it the best option.

“I suppose that will have to do,” Hannibal said, pushing Will against the wall and grinding their hips together. Their cocks slid against each other, pressing into each other’s stomachs. Will was feeling a little heady from the tequila. All he could think of was Hannibal’s hands, on his hips, on his sides, on his shoulders, as he caressed Will’s body roughly.

Their kisses were rougher than normal, Hannibal bit him hard, and Will gasped a bit in pain, pressing his hand up to his lip, blood oozing onto his fingertips.

“I would say sorry, but you look so delightful in your own blood,” Hannibal sucked the wound, licking Will’s blood. It had a distinct flavor; Hannibal had always told Will he would recognize it easily.

“Don’t be sorry.” Will turned around, placing his hands on the chipped tile, presenting himself submissively and without shame.

Hannibal’s fingers opened him up roughly but attentively. Will’s forehead pressed against the wall, his lips parted as he moaned, droplets of water from his hair falling down his face.

“Do it now.” Will begged.

With a groan and a push, Hannibal moved his length inside of him. It ached a bit. Hannibal was impatient. So was Will. Their bodies moved in a fast, erratic rhythm. This was when it all made sense to Will. All the questions and frustrations fell away like the water running off their bodies, swirling down the drain, as their flesh and breath became one.

*****

“I want to go fishing,” Will said out loud to the room. Hannibal was lying beside him on the bed, and Will was attempting to read a book of classical poetry Hannibal had left around. He was having trouble focusing, however. “The weather here reminds me a bit of summers in New Orleans. While I prefer our last home, I was thinking I could find some things to do around here. Feel more myself again.” He was trying to figure out his own thoughts, figure out a way to break out of the monotony, but he didn’t mind hearing Hannibal’s insights either.

“We could easily find you the supplies you need, Will. I could help you find a spot. We will need a house or somewhere more permanent to settle for a time, anyway. I can’t take much more of these dirty, loud hovels,” Hannibal replied, pressing a soothing hand to Will’s forearm. The space between them seemed to be growing wider each day. Will’s confused feelings manifesting in an unwillingness to engage. They talked less than normal. Will rarely let Hannibal touch him But, in this moment, he let Hannibal ease him into an embrace.

“Things will feel more normal soon, Will.” He promised.

*****

A few months later, they settled into a place along the coast. The small, but cozy villa overlooked the ocean, beautiful in the brilliant setting sun. An explosion of yellows, oranges, and soft reds that contrasted with the almost too blue of the water. There were barely any waves; the night was gentle and warm, full of tension, heavy with lazy expectation. The hot, stillness was interrupted by a bottle thrown from the villa balcony, shattering into pieces on a rock below.

“Fuck,” Will cursed to the hot wind. He worried momentarily about sea turtles or birds getting hurt by the glass and vowed to clean up the mess as soon as he was sober enough to figure out how to walk down to the beach.

After a moment of deliberation, he decided he would be able to manage and walked tipsily towards the steps. It took a good amount of time, and a lot of clinging to the old, metal railing, but he made his way to the white sand and walked to the edge of the water.

Will slipped off his sandals and pressed his feet hard into the sand and water, focusing on the irritation of the sand against his skin and the soft rhythm of the waves. If he could have, he would have screamed to the empty, glittering, black sky. But he was never one to be able to express such extreme outbursts of emotion, even when he wanted to.

“What are you doing out here?” Hannibal’s voice, only a few paces back, startled him and he whirled around.

“Fuck, don’t sneak up on me like that. I thought you were in bed,” Will turned away from him, his energy cool and body language stiff.

“I thought I heard something outside, and I looked and you were gone. So, I followed you here,” Hannibal’s eyes searched over Will’s form and came to stand next to him, pressing a hand to his shoulder, but Will shrugged him off.

“Don’t,” Will admonished softly, but with a hard edge. He wasn’t in the mood for games, for world play, for exhausting metaphors. His head hurt, his mind hurt, his heart hurt.

“Please,” Hannibal’s voice was so soft, so pleading, so tender, it softened Will’s stance for a moment, and he turned slightly toward him.

Will began to reach for Hannibal’s hand but instead thought better of it and turned away from Hannibal again.

“It’s been so long since I’ve really touched you, held you…” Will rarely heard Hannibal speak like this. It was romantic, apologetic, and Will was surprised at how well this manipulation was working.

“Don’t. Just don’t. I can’t. Even if I wanted to, I just can’t right now. It’s too much,” Will could hear himself rambling, his words slurring. All he knew was his defenses were starting to fall with the liquor clouding his reasoning and Hannibal so close with his words so sweet.

“You don’t have to make a permanent decision right now, Will. It doesn’t have to be written in blood and stone…” Hannibal’s voice faltered momentarily. “Come to bed. We can talk about death, aesthetics, and morality tomorrow.”

Will’s resistance was crumbling down rapidly, Hannibal could always rip the walls down, walls that were fortified against all others, with a few words or glances.

“I don’t know…” But his voice and stance were softer now, and he slowly pressed the back of his head against Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal’s arms wrapped around his waist and rocked him gently, almost in tandem with the waves.

“Please stay,” Hannibal’s words were near pleading now. “I’ve never been terrified of anything as much as I am of losing you…all of the things that gave life meaning: poetry, art, music, philosophy will be grey and dull without you to share them with. Now that I know how much richer it is to partake with you.” Hannibal breathed against Will’s neck, nuzzling the softness of his curls and taking comfort in his scent and closeness.

Will brushed a hand quickly to his cheek to brush off a tear. “All right,” Will sighed, his hands resting atop Hannibal’s, leaning into Hannibal’s embrace. “Let’s go to bed. I’ve…I’ve missed sharing a bed with you.” Will admitted. This conversation was too intimate, too honest, it almost hurt how hyper-aware and attuned they were to each other in this moment. And the alcohol was making him far too open, far too sappy…

With Hannibal’s help returning inside was a lot easier, he kept a tight hold around Will’s waist, almost as if he was scared if he let Will go for even a moment that he would slip away.

Will slipped off his shoes and shirt and climbed into the soft, white sheets. Hannibal crawled beside him and brought Will close against his chest, stroking his face and over his arms in repetitive, calming motions.

Hannibal kissed Will’s lips gently, attempted to push the kiss further but Will pulled away. “It’s nice to feel you again, Will. To have you back in my arms.”

“For now., You have me back for now. There are conditions. There are things to be worked out.”

“I promise we will.”

“But not tonight, please.” Will pleaded. His voice was low and tired. He pressed his face into Hannibal’s chest.

“No, not tonight.” Hannibal kissed his head softly.

You can read the first chapter or leave a comment on this chapter on AO3.

#hannibal #hannigram #season 4 #murder husbands #fannibal #my writing #hannibal fan fic #angst #smut #will graham #hannibal lecter

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