#-who he left in hannibal's arms when he got carried through the snow. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

meteora-writes · 4 years

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We Could Be Perfect One Last Night ch.3

Fandom: Hannibal Pairing: Will Graham x Hannibal Lecter Warnings: Blood, Mild Gore?, Violence, Angst, Drama, Sharing a bed Chapter: 3. Solve The Mystery (Of Laceration Gravity) Description: Hannibal has to give Will a few stitches once they make it somewhere safe. Jack and the others watch the video they find on Dolarhyde’s camera. Authors Notes: So the chapter title was what I almost named the fic. This chapter contains canon violence. Read on AO3

~~~~~Read Ch.1 or Ch.2~~~~~

Will takes the drive slowly at first. Getting a feel for the old motorcycle and how it moves like an extension of his body. Figuring out when to slow it down or give it more gas, shift his weight in such a way that lets him keep control without tipping over. And he has to account for Hannibal being on there as well, be mindful of how much lean to put into a turn and how to steer so as not to make the ride uncomfortable for either of them. A wrong move could send them both tumbling, and that’s the last thing either of them needs. It helps him to think of it more in terms of a boat than a bike in that respect.

He’s also trying hard to be mindful of their surroundings. Scanning along the sides of the dirt road for any lights peaking through the woods from a possible search party. Any signs of cars coming their way in the distance. It’s a fairly bright night thanks to the nearly full moon. That with the headlight of the motorcycle makes it easy enough to do so without worrying he’ll miss something as they follow the dirt road that cuts through the trees and make their way back towards civilization.

Hannibal is a solid presence against his back. Body molded to Will’s with his arms snugly around Will’s waist. It keeps him grounded. Able to breathe and focus despite the pain and slight disorientation that still clings to his frayed senses.

After what feels like forever they see the highway ahead. Will kills the headlights and engine, then slowly rolls up to the edge of the treeline to get a look in either direction. The road is clear, and he takes off his helmet before turning to Hannibal, who lets his hold on Will slip for now as he mirrors Will’s actions.

“Which way?” Will asks as he looks to the road again. He remembers the way they came to get to Hannibal’s home in the daytime. But he has no idea which direction that is from here or if they’re even on the same side of the bay anymore, given that the bluff Hannibal’s home sits on wasn’t surrounded by dense trees or a close to sea level as this area is. And he figures Hannibal must know the area well enough to know where they should go from here.

“To the right,” Hannibal says as he follows Will’s gaze and studies the empty stretch of highway before them. “I have a few secrets yet the FBI was never able to uncover, despite their best efforts. We should follow the highway north towards Elkton. There is a cabin on a remote road there we should be able to rest in undisturbed.”

“Just how many homes do you own?” Will can’t help but ask a touch incredulously. He isn’t really that surprised that Hannibal has multiple homes. Not after seeing the life he’s lived. Or the castle he grew up in. It just seems strange to have so many only a few hours drive apart.

“Several, but this particular one is not one of my own. It belongs to a former patient. It was left to him many years ago by his grandfather. Despite his disinterest in nature, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it. So he pays a caretaker to maintain the property for him. Assuming he keeps them on the same schedule, it should be vacant for another month before someone is due to come for the spring cleaning,” Hannibal explains before he puts his helmet back on. He keeps the visor up as he leans in and wraps his arms around Will’s waist once again. “Shall we?”

Shaking his head, Will puts his helmet back on before getting the engine started once again.

They pass FBI vehicles about half an hour later. A line of them going with lights and sirens blazing driving down the opposite side of the highway at full speed. No doubt headed to Hannibal’s seaside home. Both men feel a spike of anxiety at the sight of them, Will feeling it much stronger than Hannibal of course.

He half expects at least one to cut across the median and chase them down. It’s a ridiculous fear. The stretch of highway they’re currently traveling on is actually quite busy for the time of night, and there are maybe a half dozen cars driving on their side along with them when the agents pass by.

Will can feel Hannibal relax against him the farther they get from the bay and those agents. It’s strange. That he can be so at ease given everything that has transpired in just a few short hours. But then again Hannibal has always been one that takes in the chaos around him and instinctively goes with it like it’s something as normal as making a little extra food when you hear another guest will be joining for dinner. It’s one of the things Will finds fascinating about him.

It’s close to dawn by the time they reach the private road leading to their salvation. The moon has long since disappeared behind dark menacing clouds that roll with the increasing wind of an oncoming storm. It makes Will feel all the more grateful to be getting off of the roads now. He feels ready to pass out again. And the sky looks like it’s ready to open up and pour buckets of freezing rain and possibly even snow.

The cabin is small. So much so that Will would almost argue that it was a shed and not really a cabin. It’s a single room. There’s a kitchenette tucked in the back left corner, a queen-size bed taking up the back right. There’s a worn leather couch to the right of the door. A wooden table at the center of the room with two matching chairs. And a dresser and fireplace to the left.

“Cozy…” Will mutters jokingly as they enter. It’s cold inside. Not as much so as outside, but still below fifty degrees at least from the feel of it. He rubs his hands together. Trying to warm them. He got a pair of cheap gloves when they had stopped at a gas station along the way in an attempt to save his fingers some potential frostbite. It was one of those little locally owned ones that don’t have shit for security cameras or pay you any mind so long as you don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself.

Hannibal had gassed up the bike while Will purchased what he could without drawing too much attention. In the end, they left with some cans of soup, a first aid kit, painkillers, ramen noodle cups, bread, peanut butter, half a dozen bottles of water and juice. He even snagged a few packets of disposable cutlery from the deli area when he grabbed a few sandwiches last minute. It made them look like they’re just getting an early start to road trip so they could beat the storm. This is exactly what Will said from behind the anonymity of his helmet when the old man behind the counter commented on them being out so late when there’s a storm coming.

“I admit, it is not what I had expected,” Hannibal confesses as he steps into the cabin behind Will and closes the door. He carries a duffle bag in with him. They had taken it from the beach house. Their bloodied clothes and towels stuffed inside along with some more clean ones and the supplies Will had purchased at the rest stop. “My apologies.”

“It’s fine. It’s someplace safe and out of the elements, that’s what’s most important,” Will notes as he makes his way over to the fireplace to check if they have what they’ll need to get it lit and warming the place up.

While Will works on getting a fire lit, Hannibal takes the time to set their belongings out on the table and inspect what supplies Will acquired for them. “How is the wound in your mouth?”

Will blinks over his shoulder at the older man before hesitantly taking the bloody roll of cotton from his mouth. The taste of blood is still strong. But he can’t tell if that’s because of the blood trapped in the gauze, or because he’s still bleeding. His whole mouth feels wrong and he can’t distinguish saliva from blood right now. “I’m not sure,” he admits, carefully swallowing to try and get rid of the taste without possibly dislodging any clots that might have formed in his wounds. “I feel like I survived an appointment with the dentist from hell.”

“How fitting then, that our Dragon was formerly known as the Tooth Fairy,” Hannibal jokes lightly with a tired small in Will’s direction as he continues to lay their supplies out on the table.

Will can’t help but snort a laugh in response and give a lopsided smile of his own. Because he lined himself up for that one. “Why do you keep calling him ours?” Will asks as he gets a bundle of kindling he threw together haphazardly lit and set under a few logs.

Hannibal beckons him over to take a seat at the table then.“Does that bother you?” he questions as he pulls a small flashlight from the duffle bag and places a hand on Will’s uninjured cheek. He uses it to gently guide him to tilt his head back and open his mouth so he can get a look at his injuries.

“No… It just seems… Odd, I suppose,” Will concedes before doing as Hannibal wants. It’s hard to have his mouth open so wide. The way it pulls the stitches in his cheek is uncomfortable on top of the still-present pain. The gash in the roof of his mouth appears to have stopped bleeding but his tongue still oozes a bit. Not surprising given how profusely tongue injuries will bleed.

Hannibal tuts at the sight and lets Will close his mouth before turning away to inspect the contents of their first aid kit. It has a set of angled tweezers. That with the needle and thread he took should allow him to at stitch the few places that really need it. “He was brought down by our joint efforts. He came to kill us both and we left him a bloody mosaic of our own design. In a way, does that not make him ours?”

A small part of him wants to argue with Hannibal’s reasoning. But he can’t deny the truth there. It’s twisted. But beautiful. Art made of torn flesh and moon-black blood. The memory of it sends a shiver down his spine and he has to close his eyes a moment. “I suppose you’re right.”

Hannibal’s small smile grows when he sees Will’s reaction. “Your wounds will require a few stitches in order to heal properly. In both your tongue as well as the roof of your mouth. Do you think you can stay still for me while I do that?”

Blinking open slightly worried blue eyes, Will nods and looks around the cabin. “Maybe I should lay down for that.” He can admit he isn’t a fan of getting stitches. And the idea of getting them in his mouth with no kind of anesthesia or real pain medication to take the edge off is a tad unsettling. With the current state of his nerves, he’s likely to pass out or have an anxiety attack in the middle.

“Of course,” Hannibal agrees. He takes a step back from where he stands in front of Will and gestures for him to go lay down by the window where the light is a bit better.

The couch is comfortable. Soft under Will’s back as he lays down so his legs are up on one arm and his head is against one of the cushions. He finds himself rubbing his fingers against the worn leather. Forcing himself to focus on the feel of it and not his building anxiety at what’s to come next.

“Try to stay calm. Breathe only through your nose if you can. And if you need me to stop a moment raise your hand to let me know,” Hannibal instructs in a surprisingly gentle voice. He can see how close to the edge Will is. It’s understandable given everything he’s been through. And having to suffer through something like this when you just want to curl up and sink into unconsciousness has to be incredibly daunting.

“Raise my hand, right, got it,” Will repeats with a small nod before tilting his head back and closing his eyes tight.

Unable to help himself, Hannibal reaches out and runs his fingers through Will’s hair. The action earns him a surprised look from wide blue eyes. “It will be over quickly. Four stitches in total and then you can rest,” he does his best to be reassuring to him as he runs his fingers through Will’s hair again, this time letting his nails gently scratch at his scalp in an attempt to further calm him.

It works, and the tension evident in Will’s entire body is lessens just a little. It’s better than Hannibal had been hoping for, and he takes another moment to comfort Will like this before getting the supplies ready.

While he waits, Will goes back to focusing on the feel of leather beneath his fingertips. Tries to draw comfort from the phantom feel of Hannibal’s fingers combing through his hair.

The first stitch is actually the easiest. Each after feels like it’s taking longer to complete. He hates it. It only takes about two minutes. But they feel like they stretch on forever as Will holds his eyes closed tight and breathes through his nose against the pull of nylon thread and sharp metal going through his flesh.

When Hannibal places some new gauze in his mouth and says they’re finished Will opens his eyes to find tears collecting at the corners of them to run down his cheeks. He blinks them away, letting himself take a shaky breath through his mouth before he sits up to see Hannibal cleaning up after himself.

“Thanks,” Will says weakly. He feels exhausted. Shaky. Ready to pass out.

“Get some rest, Will. I’ll put away our things and make sure we have enough firewood to get us through the storm.” The look he gives Will as he speaks is one of understanding. No pity. No judgment. Just the understanding that Will doesn’t handle things the same as most other people do and that sometimes it gets to be a bit too much.

“You should get some rest too,” Will counters as he shucks off the leather jacket he’d been wearing while being mindful not to pull the stitches in his shoulder.

“I intend to. I won’t be long, I simply want to make sure we’re well prepared,” Hannibal says with a glance past Will to the window behind him. The storm is almost upon them. Wind howling angrily and making the trees outside sway and groan. There was a pile of wood beside the cabin that was covered partially with a blue tarp, but who knows how dry any of it is. There are two other pieces left by the fireplace, and that won’t last them if this storm lasts more than a few hours.

“Alright, just… Be careful. It’s getting really bad out there,” Will finally says after a beat of silence passes between them.

“Of course,” he agrees with a nod before setting their first aid kit aside and reaches for his jacket, which he had taken off before getting Will stitched up. “You should take the bed. It’s likely to be more comfortable than that sofa.”

Will snorts at that and shakes his head slowly. “You should take the bed. You were shot in the back. If anyone deserves a real bed to sleep in it’s you,” he counters with a tilt of his head and narrowing of his eyes in challenge.

Hannibal tilts his own head in turn, eyes narrowing slightly at Will in much the same manner. “I do not suppose there is any argument I could make right now that would persuade you to take the bed, is there?”

“Probably not.” They both are injured, yes. But Hannibal was shot in the back. He remembers trying to sleep on his own after being stabbed as a cop and it was uncomfortable at best. Trying to sleep on something like a couch with a bullet wound can’t feel any better.

“Then might I suggest a compromise? We share the bed? It is big enough for two. And I would argue that the added warmth would do us both some good right now,” Hannibal suggests, words carefully chosen. He can see the gears turning in Will’s head. Know’s he’s considering the fact that they both could have frozen to death hours mere ago and then rode a motorcycle through the night in freezing temperatures. They’re both cold and both still susceptible to hypothermia.

“Fine…” Will agrees after a long beat of silent deliberation.

Hannibal feels himself relaxing at Will’s agreement, and with that, he zips up his jacket with a nod. “Get to bed, Will. I won’t be long,”

Will watches him step outside, door slamming closed behind him from the strength of the howling wind. He forces himself to stand, wincing at the way his head throbs with the changes in pressure the simple movement causes. He feels like he has a migraine but with the pain amplified times ten thanks to the crack in the roof of his mouth the knife no doubt caused as it broke through.

He grabs the bottle of Ibuprofen he had bought at the store and dumps four of the little blue gel caps into his hand before downing them with a few swallows of water from one of the bottles Hannibal had set out.

All of their supplies, with the exception of the first aid kit, are arranged as if Hannibal had been taking stock of them. It’s oddly reassuring seeing everything together like that. But also a little worrying that they have maybe a week’s worth of food if they don’t eat 3 times a day every day.

Pushing the thought aside, Will makes his way over to the bed where he sits on the edge with a tired, somewhat pained groan. It’s a fight to get his shoes off, the laces giving him a little grief where the dried sea salt in them has made them stiff and unwilling to move.

By the time Hannibal comes back inside Will is under the thick blanket that covers the bed. He faces the wall, curled up in such a way that makes him look much smaller than his 5’10” stature. He’s asleep by the time Hannibal finally climbs in beside him under the blanket, and he subconsciously rolls over and curls close to him. Seeking warmth and comfort that Hannibal is happy to provide even if he thinks Will is likely to be embarrassed by it when he wakes later.

He can’t seem to be bothered by the thought, though. Too bone-tired and pained to do much more than scoot a little closer and let himself doze off to the crackle of the fire and the steady breathing of the other man beside him. Even in pain, it’s the most comfortable and content he thinks he’s been while falling to sleep in possibly his entire life.

~~~~~

Jack paces the room as he waits for the techs to get the footage from Dolarhydes camera set up to be watched on a projector in the crime lab back at FBI headquarters. It had recorded something. The entire small reel of film used up well before they arrived on the scene.

“Sir, it’s ready,” one tech says as they finish setting the projector up.

“Start it,” Jack says with a nod, one hand coming up to rub at his chin anxiously. He watches the screen on the opposite wall from his place at the back of the room. There are half a dozen other agents with him all seated in wait, plus Zeller and Price who of course wanted to know what happened.

The film starts with a close-up shot of Hannibal, laying on the blood-stained carpet as he holds his right side. His sweater and hand are stained with shining wet blood from an unseen wound, and he’s visibly breathing heavily. He speaks to someone behind the camera after a moment, but there’s no audio.

“Why isn’t there any sound?” Jack asks in annoyance with a glance to the two techs that had set things up.

“There is none, sir, the filming was done with an older type of film used for silent movies,” one tech informs him with a look of concern to his partner.

“Then get me someone that can read lips, now!” Jack orders without another look to the tech, his eyes glued to the screen.

Hannibal glances up and to the right of the screen, looking at someone, most likely Will since Dolarhyde is likely behind the camera. His expression is serious. He looks towards the camera again a moment later, expression shifting to one of almost concern before he looks up to the right one more. The camera shakes and Hannibal grimaces as if he’s just seen something clearly unpleasant.

The camera shakes again and after a long moment of Hannibal looking to the left of the screen, he suddenly is rolling out of frame in the opposite direction. Something, likey his foot, connects with the tripod, and the camera spins and falls to the floor. It’s now facing sideways out the shattered bay window. It gets a view of Francis Dolarhyde grabbing Will Graham by the shoulders from behind where he kneels on the ground near the center of the courtyard.

The image is a touch out of focus, but Will is clear enough to make out and it’s obvious from the look of him that he is covered in blood. There’s something sticking out of his cheek, and it’s only when Will grabs hold of it that Jack realizes it’s a knife. He was stabbed in the face. Possibly what Hannibal reacted to behind the camera before knocking it over.

Will swings his arm back, impaling the knife in Dolarhyde’s leg, making him throw his head back and shout before grabbing hold of it himself, and in one quick motion, removing it only to bury the blade deep in Will’s right shoulder.

Hannibal reappears on the screen then. Now minus his coat, giving a clear view of the back of his blood-stained sweater. Making it clear he was shot clean through the abdomen, which fits with the gun, spent shell, bloodied coat with a single bullet hole, and the bullet they pulled from the wall of the home.

He moves quickly despite his obvious injuries. Launching himself onto Dolarhyde’s back just as the other man had pulled Will back towards him once more. Hannibal appears to wrap around him in an attempted grapple, only to be flipped off the man’s back to land on his own to roll across the courtyard and out of frame.

Dolarhyde stalks after him a moment later, leaving Will on his hands and knees with blood pouring from his face and mouth.

Will is visibly shaking, and as Dolarhyde walks away he pulls the knife from his shoulder. He forces himself to his feet just as Dolarhyde pulls Hannibal back into the frame.

Dolarhyde holds Hannibal by the throat, with Hannibal struggling to grab him back in the same manner. He can’t appear to get a grip, though, and despite them being roughly the same height Dolarhyde appears to be pulling Hannibal off his feet.

Staggering, Will moves, lurching forward to stab Dolarhyde once in the lower back, making him drop Hannibal. Will manages to stab him once more in the side just below the ribs before he’s backhanded across the face and sent tumbling to the ground once more.

Dolarhyde turns once Will is out of the way, kicking a prone but quickly recovering Hannibal in the chest to make him roll back just out of the frame once again while Will struggles to regain his senses from being hit.

Hannibal appears in frame partially as Dolarhyde turns his back, swinging a hatchet to catch the Dragon in the leg, making him cry out. Will lunges forward then, stabbing him once in the opposite leg before he loses his balance falls back to the ground. Hannibal swings the hatchet once more, catching Dolarhyde in the leg again and causing him to stumble to his hands and knees a moment. He forces himself up again a beat later and staggers to the center of the courtyard. Hannibal taking a few steps closer as Will scrambles to get a few feet away.

Hannibal appears to be holding his own considering his injuries, able to stay on his feet for the most part where Will’s strength appears to be waning quickly and keeping him mostly on his hands and knees.

Dolarhyde manages to get to his feet without even swaying before turning to face Hannibal once more.

Hannibal appears to look past him to Will, making Dolarhyde turn away to look as well. When Dolarhyde turns in Will’s direction Hannibal pounces, wrapping around him much as he had before in a grapple that he this time is able to maintain. One hand goes to grip Dolarhydes’s hair and pulls his head back for Hannibal to lean in as Will lunges forward with the knife.

They’re turned away from the camera. But everyone already knows what must come next. Will drags the knife across Dolarhyde’s stomach, gutting him as Hannibal rips his throat out with his teeth.

A second later Hannibal and Will both fall away as Dolarhyde stands another moment, blood spurting from his wounds as he sways then collapses to his knees.

Will and Hannibal back away from him. Hannibal forcing himself to stand as Will pulls himself up to an almost sitting position with the help of a small bench on the far edge of the courtyard.

A moment later Dolarhyde collapses and falls back. Dead in a pool of his own blood.

Will holds up a blood-soaked hand a moment later, looking at it as he says something with a look over to Hannibal, who is barely staying on his feet now. He sways and staggers to keep standing. When Will reaches his bloodied hand out in his direction, Hannibal steps forward without hesitation and takes it. Helping him to his feet.

They’re close, but standing at an angle so Hannibal’s face isn’t in view of the camera. Not that it would matter with how far away they stand now. The camera wasn’t focused to be filming anyone so far away, as they’ve stumbled closer to the cliff’s edge and father from the house by now.

They’re both shaking, swaying dangerously. Likely ready to collapse. Will, whos head had been tilted down as if looking at the ground, lifts his gaze to meet Hannibal’s, and then they’re both moving closer. It’s hard to tell with how out of focus they appear, but it looks like they’re holding one another, with one of Will’s hands gripping Hannibal’s shoulder visibly while Hannibal wraps an arm around Will’s waist to pull him in close. Then Will’s hand moves and his arm wraps around Hannibal’s neck making it clear they’re in an embrace. It’s an intimate scene, to say the least. Clearly not just the two of them seeking support anymore.

The sight of it fills Jack with anger. At himself for trusting the man. And at Will for so obviously lying to him about his ability to handle this objectively.

There’s an audible gasp from more than one of the other agents in the room as they watch the two turn so that now Will is back to the camera for the briefest moment before they fall together off the edge of the cliff.

“Murder-suicide?”

“Wait, were Graham and Lecter lovers?”

“Did he push them off the edge?”

“There’s no way they survived that fall!”

“The closest beach is over half a mile away! There’s no way they swam that far in those temperatures!”

“Not with that amount of blood loss they didn’t! They both have to be dead by now.”

“ENOUGH!” Jack bellows, effectively silencing the chattering agents. He looks around the still darkened room, eyeing each and every one of them. “Keep your speculations professional here, people. I want additional divers out there now. As well as addition coast guard and our own boats. I want them found, now. And somebody give Molly Graham an update. She deserves to be told in person what’s happened to her husband.”

“Sir, the storm is already hitting the coast pretty hard and it’s only going to get worse. I’m not sure it’ll safe for anyone to be out there much longer.” The tech from earlier is the one to speak, concern on his face mirrored by those around him.

“Then get more people combing the nearby beaches and woods while there’s still visibility! Search summer homes and along the highway too while you’re at it! I don’t care what the weather is doing, I want them found now!” Jack shouts angrily before storming out of the lab to go back to his office. He has a lot to think on and several calls to make.

Read Chapter 4

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannibal x will #will x hannibal #hannibal lecter x will graham #will graham x hannibal lecter #blood #gore #sharing a bed #there was only one bed #angst #stitches #hannigram #murder husbands #we could be perfect one last night

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punchyline · 4 years

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Catfight || Discord

Summary: Punchline crashes the party and a fight ensues. Trigger Warnings: Abuse mentions, violence, death, blood, Joker Written By: @harleenqueenzel, @antidyingantihero, @ofpowerfulmortal, @poisoned-kisses

Harley: Harley pressed a kiss to her adopted son's cheek, and scratched Bruce behind the ear. She felt eyes on her, turning her head to see a woman wearing clown makeup. Oh great. "Hey, Mike..." she said, looking away. "Is that clown still watching me?" she asked, feeling anxious.

Mike: Mike's smile turned genuine. Harley always made him feel better. He glanced behind her, looking at the clown. "Kind of. Who is she." he said as he looked back at the bar. "You want me to get her out of here?"

Harley: Harley let out a soft sigh. "I have no idea. But she looks like she works fer my ex," she commented, turning to look at the woman again. Her presence was making her uncomfortable. And if Pam saw her, she'd probably end up strangling her. "I'm not sure. Do I give her a chance first, or d'ya think I should go straight ta the throwin' her out?"

Punchline: "William." She mused, scrunching up her nose and giving him a cheeky smile. "I like that. I think that's what I'll call you." She decided and he wasn't about to change her mind. She liked the sound of it, the way it shaped on her tongue. She had another sip of her drink. She may be playing with him, but she was loyal to the Clown Prince of Gotham.

Mike straightened up. "Joker? If you didn't invite her get her the hell out of here. I can do it if you want Ma'" he answered. No one was going to make her uncomfortable.

Harley: Harley bit down on her lower lip, nodding as she ran her fingers through Bruce's fur. She didn't want Mike to get hurt -- not that he could, really. "Could ya go an' ask her what her business here is or somethin' like that? If she starts bein' aggressive, I'll come over an' help. I've got a gun concealed beneath this dress," she shrugged.

Mike: "Of course." he said standing up and kissing Harley's head. He went over to the woman, not carrying about interrupting her conversation. "What's your business here?" he asked serious. "Because I know you weren't invited."

Billy: Billy crinkled his nose, he was not used to having someone calling him by William. He felt as if he was in trouble when people did it and remind him too much about his mom, which hurt him. Even if he was extremely young when she left him at the park, he still remembered that she called him by his full name all the time, "I don't have a choice, do I?"

Punchline: "It's cute. You don't like it?" She asked Billy. She glanced Harley's way just then, catching the kiss. Half of Gotham hated her... but the other half. It praised her for leaving him. Idolized her for it. "I heard it was open for all." Punchline replied, taking a few steps from Billy towards the boy. "Did Pumpkin over there ask you to talk to me?" She said, glancing over towards Harley with an icy stare. "I'm here to paint eggs."

Harley: Harley watched as Mike approached the woman, and she heard her say 'pumpkin'. Her stomach churned and she started to walk towards Punchline, Bruce next to her, watching her closely. He'd attack if he had to. She stayed a few steps away, but was close enough to help Mike if he needed her.

Mike: "Well that was a misprint, you see it's open to everyone who don't work for a that piece of shit clown" he answered back. "I don't care what you came to do. The only thing you're going to do now is leave, and I'd rather not make a scene but I will."

Billy: Billy knew from the start that going to a villain part was a bad idea, now he was more sure, he didn't know what to do, he wasn't turned into Shazam, he had no powers, "Okay, now, let's not fight, we don't want things to end badly," he knew if they fought, more than one person could get hurt.

Punchline: Punchline eyed Harley as she came a little closer. This was who she was here for. Not her odd little bodyguard, not William. she was here for Harley Quinn. She wanted to see her. To know what she was dealing with. "I don't work for him." She corrected. She sort of did but she wanted to make it feel more intimate. More special. "We're partners." She took out her knife from her boot pocket and in one swift, cruel movement sliced open Mike's neck. Feeling the blood splatter on her face before she turned to Harley and Billy. "Oops... my bad."

Harley: Harley ran forward as soon as the woman pulled out a knife, but she was too late. She grabbed the woman by her ponytail, slamming her head against the top of the bar a couple of times. "Get the fuck outta my mansion," she hissed into her ear. She knew that Mike would wake up soon, but that didn't mean this bitch could come into her home and pull an attempted murder. "Don't make me pull out my gun, honey. I won't miss if I do."

Punchline: Punchline felt the woman tug her by her hair and smash her head against the table, not fighting against it. When she was done, she let out a small chuckle. Glancing up at her face from where she was holding her. "You liked him, didn't you? The little brat?" She whispered back. "Shoot me, dollface. I'm sure Pudding would just love that." She replied with a hiss before using her leg to kick Harley off of her. Immediately jumping on her so she could pin her to the floor. Pulling her face in close to the other woman's. "That's what you called him, wasn't it?" She said, ignoring the shouting all around her. All that mattered was Harley.

Harley: Harley slammed her head against the table again when the other asked about Mike. "Who I do an' don't like doesn't concern ya, toots. But I can tell ya one thing... I definitely don't like you." The use of the nickname she had for Joker caught her off-guard, and suddenly she was being kicked backwards. Her body pushed forward as the woman pinned her to the floor, and she headbutted her in the nose. "Yeah, 'cause that's what he was. My Puddin'. Jealousy is an ugly colour on you, sweetie!" she yelled, using all of her slightly enhanced strength to flip them over, now on top of Joker's new toy, her fingers wrapped tightly around her wrists as she pinned her down. "Tell me what ya want. Is it me? 'Cause I ain't goin' anywhere with you."

Punchline: Punchline's teeth grind together and her eyes bore into the other woman's. Anger clear on her face. She reached down to grab at Harley's neck and choke her when she felt the woman smash her head into her nose and she gasped. Blood dripping from her nose onto her snow white skin. She was as pale as he was and they'd never have that intimate connection because Harley blew up the Chemical Plant. "Say that again and I'll rip your tongue from your mouth." She snarled before Harley managed to get her down on the ground with her now straddling Punchline. "Oh... honey... I just wanted to meet you." She said before rearing up herself and smashing her own head against Harley's.

Harley: Harley could feel the woman's blood dripping onto her. It was disgusting, and she wanted to throw herself into a bath filled with sanitizer. "Rip my tongue from my mouth? Nice threat, Hannah Montana. I was with him fer years, d'ya really think a lil' threat like that is gonna scare me?" she growled. She stared down at the other, her grip on her growing tighter as she didn't get the answer she wanted. Before she could say anything in response, she was being headbutted. Their fighting styles were too similar. Had Joker trained her to fight like this? Her lip throbbed, and she felt blood dripping down her chin. "You fuckin' psycho," she screamed, letting go of one of her wrists to grab her gun from beneath her dress. "I'm gonna paint these walls with yer brains. It'll be the most beautiful thing anyone's ever seen," she warned. "I'll make sure ta invite Mistah J ta look at my new work of art. He loves it when I go feral."

Punchline: Punchline let out a deep chuckle and struggled to break free of the blonde's grip. "Hannah Montana? You're the one with the awful blonde weave." She retorted. She smacked their heads together and when she pulled back down, Harley was pulling for a gun and her wrist was freed. She could have easily grabbed a knife. She had two after all but... it was more fun to do something else. She grabbed a hold of the other's neck and forced her face closer to her own. Reaching her head back up and with her teeth biting down into her shoulder. "How's that for feral?" She spit out the blood to the side of them before moving her legs to wrap around Harley's waist and keep her still on top of her. "Go ahead, shoot me. Impress him. That is why you're doing this right. Because that's what you just said... and here I thought you were over him. My Prince."

Harley: Harley was ready to kill her. "Awful blonde weave? At least I ain't tryin' ta channel Ariana Grande with that high ponytail. Or is it just a cheap facelift?" she asked, a smirk on her face. Feeling a hand on her throat, she tried to stay as calm as possible. This was fine, she was into it. But when this stranger was doing it... It was a little scary. Her other hand reached up, grabbing the other woman's and trying to prize it away from her neck. A hiss left her lips as teeth sunk into her shoulder, and she pressed the barrel of the gun against the other's forehead. "Ya need ta keep those teeth where I can see 'em, Hannibal." As she listened to the other speak, she shook her head, feeling herself start to panic. It had taken her years to get to where she was today -- happily married, adopted kids... "He ain't yer nothin'. You think you mean somethin' ta a guy like him? Yer nothin' but a toy that he can mess with. That's why yer here now, right? He pitted you against me. Pathetic," she spat, lowering her gun and pressing a hand to the bleeding bite mark on her shoulder. "An' if ya ever bite me again, I'll pull yer fuckin' teeth out with pliers," she threatened, before sinking her own into the woman's arm. If she was going to have a scar on her shoulder, the other woman was getting one too. Fair was fair. She didn't stop, not until she was satisfied that she was causing pain. Pulling back, she grinned.

Punchline: She felt herself smile when Harley held the barrel of the gun pressed against her forehead. Tilting her head slightly back, Harley's blood bloomed at the edges of her lips and slowly dripped their way down her cheeks, like it was drawing a smile on the woman's face. She let out another chuckle at Harley's words and watched as she reacted to what she said. "You know... you kinda taste like he does." She commented, her voice low and her eyes wide. She was trying to make her jealous. Sure... Harley had been there for much longer then she had but she was his new thing now. She was there for him when Harley wasn't. She didn't run away, she took it. The bad, the good, the really ugly. Because she loved him. Harley didn't. Harley didn't know what that felt like and yet Joker never shut up about her. She was the one there everyday by his side and she kept having to hear him yammer on about how she used to call him Puddin'. How she used to smile better. Fuck that, she'd be smiling no longer. Not when Punchline had her way. "He loves me!" Punchline screamed at her when she tried to tell her that he didn't. "I'm no toy! I'm his right hand woman. He respects me. He cares for me. He didn't care for you!" She lied with a growl. Then Harley moved down and bit her back and she used her one free hand to grab at the back of her neck, at her baby hairs. Trying to force her off. When she finally was, Punchline glared ad her and used the way her legs were positioned as a way to force Harley down to the side. She then rolled them so she was on top and got up to her feet placing her foot on Harley's chest to keep her there.

Harley: Harley felt repulsed when she said that she tasted like Joker. They were nothing alike. Not anymore, at least. "Look, I'm inta some kinky stuff myself.... but that? That's just fucked up." She stared into the woman's eyes, seeing nothing but anger. Her own eyes used to be like that whenever she looked in a mirror. It was what being with a man like him did to you -- it gave you a hunger for violence and pain that you could never satiate. Eventually, his new plaything would see the light. After years of pain and abuse, mental torture. Harley didn't want that for her, even if she hated her right now and wanted to kill her. She was a puppet, just like she had been. But there was no way to make her see that. Being under his spell lasted for years. "He loves ya? Are ya sure about that? Does he love ya when he's leavin' bruises? Does he love ya when he's sendin' you out ta get hurt so he doesn't," she said, her voice low and angry. It was making her remember things she'd rather forget. This was supposed to be a fun night with her family and friends, and now it was a nightmare. "He doesn't care fer anybody!" she screamed back. "Nobody but himself!" The pain of the woman pulling her hair didn't really bother her. She'd been through so much worse, so she didn't even flinch. Once again, she was being put on her back, and she choked out a breath as the other put a foot on her chest. Reaching up, she dug her nails into her leg. "Did he teach ya this? Make yer victim feel small?" she asked, laughing as she lay there, looking up at the stranger. "Do ya feel powerful now? Like yer in charge? 'Cause you'll never be in charge of me. I'm in charge of me. Now get yer foot off me, an' go back ta kissin' his. This is yer last chance."

Punchline: Punchline: She hated her. Everything she said, she hated it. He didn't love her? Then how did she explain the good moments? Those days then he was good to her. When they'd dance together for no good reason. To no music. He'd say he just felt like dancing with her, when she asked him. How did Harley explain the times when they were alone and he'd actually let her kiss him? She felt Joker's love. She wasn't delusional or stupid. She knew it was there and the angry outbursts. That meant nothing. "Yes, he loves me then, too." She argued. Harley was screaming at her and Punchline just glared at her, watching her with a stone-cold face. She held the woman down and slowly pushed her weight against her leaning down to get a bit closer to Harley. "Maybe he did." She said. "He taught you it too, didn't he?" She said, her voice getting quieter. "I'm leaving, and not because you told me to. I could end you right now if I want." she said, taking the knife from her other boot and gesturing it towards her. "But I'd like to do it in front of him." She decided. "So he knows you're gone." She gave her one last kick before removing her foot from the other. Just noticing now the wave of dizziness in her head. She shook it, trying to get it back to normal. Taking a few steps away from her.

Pamela: Pamela had just walked into the ballroom as a woman, covered in blood, kicked Harley as she stood above her. She had been out and told Harley that she would be late to their party. She hadn't told her that she had began the process of creating more children. She would need a bette lab for that. Pamela quickly glanced around the room, noticing the blood all over their new ballroom. The shock of the scene wore off and rage bubbled up in her chest instead. The woman was thankful for the vines that grew on the outside of the house, because now she willed them to burst in through the windows. "Get the fuck away from my wife, you sad excuse for a clown! Who the fuck do you think you are? Did that bastard clown send you?" She screamed as she power-walked towards the woman, arms raised. Pamela didn't wait for an answer and she willed the vines to wrap the woman up tightly, squeezing her enough to hurt. She ran over to Harley and dropped to her knees. "Oh darling, flower, are you alright?" she asked, panicked now, searching Harley for lie-threatening wounds.

Punchline: When the green woman burst in, Punchline frowned. She was on her way out but now she had to deal with the woman that Harley married. She didn't intend to fight Harley at all during this party. She just wanted to watch her, but ah, well. When in Rome. The vines shot from the windows and came right towards her. She could get out of this but Poison Ivy would just wrap her up with what remains of the vines she would cut. Oh- She was rushing over to Harley now thinking that she had detained the problem. Focused on her wife. Her love. Oh, how week it was. Knife in hand she poked it through the vines. (They were pretty tough due to Spring but not actually that bad). Ignoring the pain from the squeezing in one jerk of a movement she sliced all the way through the plants and was able to release herself. Jumping down nimbly before quickly using the chance to leap out the broken window and out of the party. Hows that for an exit?

#discord #c: harley #c: billy #c: mike #c: pamela

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red-earth-rising · 7 years

Text

Skin-deep

A short time post-fall, Will sees the Verger brand for the first time. What is his reaction? But equally, what are Hannibal’s feelings towards the brand on his skin, and having Will see it? Slight mentions of gore and opiates

It was barely noon, and it had not been a great day. Will reached for the bedside table and swore at the sharp ache. Judging from the sharpness of the pain and the clarity of his thoughts, Will concluded that Hannibal had decided to wane him off the opiates. Will swore again, to the empty room. He couldn’t decide which one he minded more, the pain or the clarity.

Hannibal chose that very moment to slowly limb his way by the open door. Will swore once more, begrudgingly, and Hannibal slowed down to flash him a cordial smile.

Lunch time was just as miserable as Will could expect. The smell and sight of food made his stomach clench, and even though he could rationalise that the thick, smooth broth was helping him heal, Will could not convince himself to swallow down more than a few spoonfuls.

Hannibal took pity on him after a few long minutes of scowling, and replaced the plate in front of him with a thick slice of bread.

Will let his forehead fall on the table, with a soul-deep sigh. He stared at the bread, as if the carb-loaded slice was singularly responsible for the sequence of events that led him mangled to bits, stashed away in a luxurious hunting cabin close to Vermont. With Hannibal.

“Just kill me”, he groaned to Hannibal.

“Would be far too easy, I am afraid”, came the reply. Will lifted his head - and immediately regretted it; the lilting tone was a touch clipped.

“Taking the both of us off the good stuff, at the same time?” A pause, “dare I question the wisdom of this decision?”

“Correct, it leaves us both somewhat incapacitated”, the words coming tight but perfectly enunciated, “but since we’ll need to move soon, this seemed to be the safest option”.

Will groaned “How soon is soon?” He could barely handle the weight of his clothes against his back at his current state - long days of interstate driving was entirely out of question.

“Not to worry Will, I shall not plan for anything you cannot handle”.

A pause, and Will had to swallow down something inky and slimy and bitter.

“You didn’t meant this”, he said instead.

“No, I did not.”

A standstill.

Will let his head rest on the cool wood of the table once again.

Hannibal moved around him, clearing up the table and stacking dishes. A few moments later, he came to a stop behind Will. He touched a cool hand on the back of his neck and run fingers through hair, tentative.

“You probably don’t want my medical opinion right now, but if I might advice you as a friend - your shoulder would not appreciate you falling asleep on the table, Will”.

Will cussed something vague. He took Hannibal’s offered arm and then -

“How are you going to change your wound’s dressing?”

Hannibal paused mid-step, and if anything, Hannibal reacting so blatantly to being caught out told Will all he needed to know about his physical state.

“Ok”, a hand against his eyes, coaxing himself, pressing against the spikes of static and pain, ”So here is what we will do. We’ll clean and dress your wound and then sleep this fucking hell off”. A pause, and Will had to force his eyes open to stare Hannibal down, until he nodded.

“Good, bathroom.”

Hannibal took them to their shared bathroom and unfolded a little parcel of creams and bandages and tiny crooked scissors. He placed them on the closed toilet lid, and stilled. Will sighed.

“Just…” Will made some abstract hand movements that pained him so he stopped, but not before catching an amused glimpse in Hannibal’s eyes, “just get your shirt off and talk me through it.”

If he wasn’t already as annoyed as he could physical afford being, Will would sneer at Hannibal’s stalwarting.

But then something in Hannibal deflated, and hunching next to the bathtub he begun undoing his buttons.

“I am putting you in a sweater” Will threatened as he washed his hands with anticeptic, “without even an undershirt”.

His joke landed flat, unexpectedly flat, and he turned to glare at Hannibal and he froze.

Hannibal was sat on the bathtub’s edge, facing the wall. His back was exposed apart from a sagging coil of bandages and - Will blinked fast - a puckered, knotted expanse of scar tissue covering the best part of his upper back.

Will made himself look. “May I?”

Hannibal nodded stiffly.

Will traced the large V in the very center, the few letters he could read around the edges, the stocky likeness of a boar-head on the top. Gently, he picked and pulled and prodded at the skin. And then he leaned in and kissed the left corner, where the skin had knotted upon itself, making the pattern indecipherable.

He stayed there for a few breathes, and then he whispered “Talk me through it”.

And Hannibal guided him through the wound-care steps in a clipped and clinical voice.

Once the last bandage was secured in place, Hannibal stopped talking. It seemed to Will that he was content to sit on the edge of the bathtub facing the wall until the earth was consumed by the sun.

“Right. I am going to bring you a sweater”, Will declared. He was already perusing their spartan closet, a few feet’s walk away, when he thought of asking “Any preferences?”

The response came a moment later, “Soft”.

Will brought back a cadmium red misshapen thing, more blanket than cloth. He helped Hannibal into it. And then didn’t quite let go, until they were both half-leaning against the bathtub, Hannibal’s hands resting at his sides, Will’s buried in the red thick sweater.

“I hate this”, he breathed, eyes closed, voice tired.

“You will always be the person who took a bone-saw to my skull - and that’s after the encephalitis only just failed to boil the insides”. Will let fingers tighten and loosen on the fabric, causing little fireworks of pain to erupt behind his eyelids. He made himself look at Hannibal, but he was focused on Will’s hands.

“And you will always be the person who carried me through miles of snow while charred pieces of skin rubbed off him and onto the stolen jacket on his back, then proceeded to bathe, bandage, dress and tuck me in without stopping to care for said wound. The person who leaned back on my armchair, letting the puss run into his coat and congeal, to watch me sleep. And the same person who obediently got up and walked to his arrest, epidermis still flayed raw.”

Hannibal was still looking down.

“The skin, sticking to my clothes and tearing off, was not what flayed me raw that day“.

“I know“.

“I love you“.

“You are fucking exhausting, Hannibal”.

Will let his forehead rest against the sweater. His head was full of angry bees, and he was done trying to hold it up for the day, maybe for the week.

Hannibal moved marginally, raising a hand to cup Will’s head closer to him. “We should sleep then”.

Will nodded. He was vaguely aware that to an outsider it would look as though he was nuzzling Hannibal’s chest. And then the warm body against him started moving, and he let Hannibal steer him towards a bed for some well-deserved hours of oblivion.

#Hannibal #hannibal season 4 #hannibal fanfiction

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oh-goodness-loki · 7 years

Text

All I Ask of You

Chapter 8/12

Hannibal x Will

Summary: After the shock of seeing Hannibal again, Will goes to visit his father's grave to think. There, he meets Hannibal once again. Will they finally get to talk things through?

Notes: Thanks to @fantasticimpaladoctor for helping me with this chapter and for being such a great encouragement!

Masterlist On AO3

Will wakes up that next morning with a heavy heart. He gets up and quietly gets dressed, trying not to awaken Alana who was sleeping on the other bed in the room. She had been worried about him, thinking he’d be traumatized at the return of the Phantom. He protested that he was fine and didn’t need a babysitter, but Alana was persistent. So eventually Will gave in, letting her stay, he just wished Hannibal was there to comfort him instead.

He closed the door slowly and walked down to the stables. The man in charge of the horses was always awake this early in the morning in case people wanted to get places early. He nodded in greeting to Will who was currently putting up his hood.

“Where to, sir?” The man asked as Will gave him a small bag of coins.

“The cemetery.” Will said quietly as he went to find some fresh flowers to put on his father’s grave.

The man was preparing the carriage when a shadowed figure came up from behind him and hit on the head. Hannibal dragged him into an empty stable and finished readying the carriage just in time as Will climbed onto it.

“My father’s grave, please.”

Alana woke with a start. She glanced to her right and noticed that Will wasn’t in his bed and his cloak gone. She leaped out of bed and fastened trousers and a blouse over her sleep garments. She grabbed her pistol as she headed down the stairs and looked out of a window in time to see Will being driven away in a carriage. She ran down to the stables and asked the man, who had just woken back up from getting hit.

“Where are they going?”

“The cemetery, something about a father’s grave,” he said groggily. Alana leaped onto a horse and made her way onto the street in pursuit.

Will looks forlornly at the scenery as it passes. In sleep he sang to me. In dreams he came. That voice which calls to me and speaks my name.

When they arrive at the cemetery, he climbs out of the carriage without a word and was so far into his own mind he never noticed the carriage pulling away. The first few steps were the hardest, knowing where they would end. The cold, snow covered headstone with his father’s name carefully carved into it.

“Young Will thought of everything and nothing. His father promised him he’d send him the Angel of Music. His father promised him...his father promised him.”

♪You were once my one companion, you were all that mattered. You were once a friend and father, then my world was shattered.♪ Snow was falling in the early January air as he walked on slowly. Tears forming as he remembered all the times he and his father shared before life took him from him.

♪Wishing you were somehow here again. Wishing you were somehow near. Sometimes it seems if I just dreamed, somehow you would be here!♪ His father was one of the few people in his life he felt truly comfortable around and having him gone always hurt, no matter how much time had passed. Will tries to remember his father’s voice as he would tell him stories of his mother, but just like the loss of his mother, his father’s voice is fading. Like whispers in the wind.

♪Wishing I could hear your voice again, knowing that I never would. Dreaming of you won’t help me to do all that you dreamed I could.♪ His father had known of Will’s passion for singing and encouraged it when everyone else tried to lead him on a different path.

♪Passing bells and sculpted angels, cold and monumental. Seem for you the wrong companions, you were warm and gentle.♪ Will never liked cemeteries, they never truly showed who his father really was. Too much sadness and he always left feeling cold even if it was warm out.

♪Too many years fighting back tears, why can’t the past just die! Wishing you were somehow here again, knowing we must say goodbye. Try to forgive, teach me to live, give me the strength to try!♪ For the first few years after his father’s death, he dealt with a lot of anger at the fact that his father had the audacity to leave him when he needed him most. It took a long time to get over it and move on.

♪No more memories no more silent tears, no more gazing across the wasted years. Help me say goodbye...help me say goodbye…♪ Even after all these years, Will knows that he’s still holding on to the fact that his father is no longer with him and it resulted in him wasting so much time. He sat down at the entrance of the mausoleum that held his father’s remains, thoughts going everywhere and nowhere. He doesn’t want to ever forget his father, but now with his Angel gone, he feels more alone than ever. The pain is too much to bear, he knows his father would want him happy, but he wasn’t sure he could.

♪Wandering child, so lost, so helpless. Yearning for my guidance.♪ Will looked up, wondering where the voice was coming from.

♪Angel or father, friend of Phantom. Who is it there, staring?♪ In his disoriented mind, Will was unsure whether he was hearing the voice of his father or Hannibal.

♪Have you forgotten your Angel?♪

♪Angel, oh speak, what endless longings echoing this whisper.♪ Will sighed in relief, maybe now he’d be able to explain the fiasco of last night. Finally having a moment alone with his Angel.

♪Too long you’ve lingered in winter, far from my fathering gaze♪

♪Wildly my mind beats against you♪ Even with the knowledge that he loves Hannibal, his logical mind kept telling him it was wiser to stay with Alana.

♪You resist but the (my) soul obeys!♪

♪Angel of Music, you (I) denied me (you) turning from true beauty. Angel of Music, your (my) protector. Come to your (me) strange Angel.♪

♪I am you Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music♪ Will stood up, eager to get to see his Angel again.

“No, Will, wait!” Alana comes charging into the cemetery and slides of the horse and pulls out a pistol.

“Alana!” Will was surprised, but soon became frustrated. Why must you always do this? I need to talk to Hannibal and you’re making this very difficult.

“Will, this man, this thing is not your father.” I know it’s not my father! I’m not a stupid boy!

Hannibal jumps off the roof of the mausoleum and looks ready to attack Alana, but she points her pistol at him, forcing him to stop. Will wasn’t sure if she would actually pull the trigger, but he didn’t stop himself as he went in front of Hannibal.

“No, Alana. Not like this.” He played the unsure victim and Alana predictably believed him. She held out her hand and Will could do nothing else but grab it as she led him to the horse, with the pistol still aimed at Hannibal.

Will got on the horse after helping Alana onto it. He turned to look at Hannibal once more wishing they could somehow find a way to talk and not get interrupted, but alas, there was nothing he could think of with Alana right there. Will wants nothing to do but jump down from the horse and rush into Hannibal’s arms and explain everything. Will’s sad eyes locked with his, hoping that he will understand and still not leave him.

“Will, we need to go, now.” Will nods, he urges the horse into motion, as he and Alana make their way out of the cemetery. Away from the only person in Will’s life that mattered after his father passed away. Away from his companion, his true protector. His Angel of music.

Throughout this, Hannibal glares at Alana imagining all the different ways he could kill her. He watched as Alana rode off with his Will, not hers, his.

“William…” Hannibal’s voice carried over the wind, reaching softly to listening ears of his Will, wishing these obstacles would stop from them being together. So he watched as Will’s figure faded out, plan already thought out on how to get back at those who are keeping Will from him.

Hope you enjoyed!

#all i ask of you #my fic #hannibal #will graham #hannigram #hannigram au #phantom of the opera au #alana bloom

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zacharybosch · 7 years

Photo

i promised a sequel, and here it is. lighter on the bootblacking this time, but heavier on the angst. you're welcome.

i'd like to extend endless gratitude and thanks to @hannibatchsmuse for sharing their knowledge and expertise, without which this fic would not have happened

read below, or on ao3!

are you busy tonight?

Not with anything urgent. Why?

good

It was too late really to be driving out to Baltimore, and a forecast of heavy snow made any long journeys inadvisable. Will was in the habit of doing inadvisable things lately.

Skidding along the I-95, he thought back over the events that led him to this point. After Randall Tier’s death and the first bootblacking incident, their time spent together had increased. Dinner at Hannibal’s house several nights a week, and always after his Wednesday evening appointment. Rough touches, sometimes, in front of the fire with brandy, or in the car on an excursion for the Bureau. An aching desire to be tender, overridden by harsher need to consume Hannibal while he still could.

Because Will would have to give Hannibal up. He knew this, and a large part of him wanted it, but his traitorous heart remained beating all the while. Freddie was dealt with, and they eye-fucked over the dinner that was made of her, and the next time Will went to Hannibal’s house there was a new addition to his marble-floored entrance lobby.

Olive-green leather and light wood, perched on a small dais. A considerable sign of restraint on Hannibal’s part given his usual taste in interior decor. Passed off to other guests as a decorative antique, Will saw the bootblacking chair sitting innocently against the wall and felt his heart hammer in his chest.

After that, Will had got it into his head that a line absolutely had to be drawn. Plausible deniability up until now, but the chair was a physical manifestation of activities he could barely admit to himself that he’d been partaking of. The only way to make sure nothing untoward ever happened again was to remove temptation completely: throw out his boots, along with all his other leather things that had been languishing in a box in the spare bedroom.

It was difficult, though. The image of Hannibal’s fingers working boot laces through eyelets, the sound of his lips as he spat on the buffing cloth, trailed Will like cobwebs during the day. At night, they played bright and vivid in his mind. The fact that Hannibal had heavily implied that the bootblacking chair had been placed in his lobby for Will’s use didn’t help. At all.

So he decided he would haul out all the old junk that was lying around his house. Save the leather box for last; by that point he would have thrown away so much useless crap he’d kept for vaguely sentimental reasons, that getting rid of one more box of feelings would be easy.

He’d forgotten he even still had the collar. A relic from a period in his life that felt like someone else’s, he’d used it only a handful of times and it was the same predictable story as always: he enjoyed it, loved it, and then shunned it fiercely. He had no idea where the leash had gone, but that didn’t matter; there was enough old rope lying around in the barn and Will knew his way around several sturdy knots. The rope would be rough and unforgiving, and Will’s hands trembled as he sat in his car at the end of Hannibal’s street. The collar was stuffed in a bag on the passenger seat.

Will wondered how he ever managed to convince himself that he would actually throw it all away. Of course he would end up back here. Of course he would make it worse. He was playing right into Hannibal’s hand, and the worst thing of all was that it was entirely intentional.

Parking at the far end of the street was one last ditch attempt to forestall the inevitable. The long walk to Hannibal’s front door might give Will a chance to come to his senses, he’d told himself, knowing full well it would do nothing of the sort. The only thing the dark night and biting wind did was make him hurry, fingers coiled against the cold in leather gloves as the bag and its contents thumped rhythmically against his thigh.

The red-framed front door loomed up all too soon.

“Hello, Will. Please, come in.”

Will grunted in reply, shouldered his way inside and went straight for the chair.

“I see. I must say, I’m surprised.”

“No you’re not. Shut up.”

“Rude tonight, Will.”

“You’ll deal with it.” Will held out the bag, thought better of it, then held it out again. “I have something for you.”

Hannibal walked over and took the bag, eyes flooding with… something, as he opened the handles and drew out the collar. He held Will in hard eye contact.

“Looking to work out some issues?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You assume I’m even interested in such activities.”

“Aren’t you?”

Will wasn’t as surprised as he might have been when Hannibal broke eye contact. He’d been doing it a lot lately. “I am.”

“Then put it on.”

***

It had become almost unbearably hot in the room. Will, still in his overcoat and gloves, felt the first slow slide of sweat down his spine as Hannibal finished massaging Huberd’s Shoe Grease into one boot and moved on to the other. He’d opted for bare hands over a cloth this time, and the push and slide of fingers over leather was hypnotic. Hannibal had been speaking for a few minutes, Will realised, but about what he had no idea. All he could hear was the clink of the rings on the collar, the faint creak of rope where it was coiled about his leather gloves, and Hannibal’s sharp intake of breath as Will suddenly yanked the rope tight and pulled him between his thighs.

“Why are you talking? You keep on talking. I don’t want to listen to you.”

Hannibal was taken aback, just a little. He hid it quickly, and well, but Will saw. “I was just--”

“No. Stop it. Be quiet.” Will shoved two gloved fingers into Hannibal’s mouth, thumb and ring finger gripping his jaw. “Now carry on.”

The angle was awkward, crushed up in between Will’s legs, but Hannibal resumed his task as best he could. Will was intimately familiar with the particular brand of grease currently spread dark and messy over Hannibal’s hands; it was plant-based, and body-safe. He’d get it on the floor later, on the arms of the chair, all over his beautiful cream-coloured shirt. And then some.

Will let his fingers move and curl, push in and out, drag over Hannibal’s lips. He smeared saliva over Hannibal’s chin, down his neck, onto the collar. Eventually, Hannibal’s silence was worse than the constant low cadence of his voice.

Will removed his hand completely and gripped the arm of the chair. He let the rope in his other hand fall slack. “You can speak again if you want.”

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot in here.”

“Allow me.” Hannibal moved to shed some of Will’s layers, starting with the leather gloves.

“No... Leave those on.”

“As you like.” Hannibal skimmed his fingers once over the soft leather, then began popping the buttons on Will’s overcoat. He moved silently, and betrayed nothing. Will let Hannibal move his body as he needed, each touch burning more painfully than the last and paying no mind to the spreading pattern of dark grease fingerprints. Hannibal trailed his hands over the placket of Will’s shirt, managed to slip two buttons from their holes and leave a fingerprint like a burning brand on his chest before Will grabbed his wrist in an iron grip and moved it firmly away.

Hannibal let the ghost of a smile play about his mouth, and bent back to Will’s boots.

***

“You wore those boots on purpose, didn’t you, Will? So I would use the Huberd’s. You wanted this to happen.”

Infuriating how calm and collected Hannibal could sound when on his elbows and knees on a hard marble floor, ass up and bare and presented. Uncomfortable as it was to admit, Will knew that he had done it on purpose, and Hannibal had anticipated it. Intentional and inevitable.

“Maybe I did. But you had the tools ready and waiting. You wanted it too.” Will smeared more of the shoe grease over his gloved hands, continued kneading the meat of Hannibal’s thigh with one hand while the other moved to rub slick circles around his hole. “You want it.”

“Yes.” A hairline crack in composure.

“Say it like you mean it, Hannibal.”

“Yes.”

Will hated Hannibal in that moment. That he could so freely give himself over whenever he chose, that he could take what he wanted and revel in it, with little regard for consequence. What was consequence to a man such as Hannibal? He had a contingency plan in place for everyone; there was no doubt in Will’s mind that Hannibal had a quick knife and a clean exit ready for him if the need arose. He would regret it, for sure, but he would do it all the same.

He was free, in all the ways that Will was not, and the envy burned fierce in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re mine, tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“You want this and you’re mine.”

“I want this and I’m yours, Will, I’m yours.”

Will pulled one glove off with his teeth, and fumbled at his zipper with shaking fingers. Hannibal wanted him, wanted to be taken and marked and owned, and Will wanted to give it to him. He wanted to fuck until he couldn’t feel, until the roaring in his head was smothered by chemical floods and firing neurons and anything, anything at all to make him forget who he was and what he was doing and the man he was doing it with.

As he took his cock in hand, Will found himself wishing that he was still sick, that the person he was right now was the product of a dissociative state and he’d have no memory of it in the morning. He certainly felt sick, sick from the knowledge that Hannibal was obsessed with him, that he liked being the object of obsession even as it repulsed him. Sick from knowing that when Hannibal said he was Will’s, he meant it truthfully, and Will loved it.

If he fucked Hannibal now, there would be no shred of decency left within him. Not because he was lying with a murderer, taking pleasure in the company of one so morally corrupt; in the grand scheme of things, it meant little to him. What kept Will awake at night was knowing that he had Hannibal’s heart in the palm of his hand and he was slowly closing his fist to crush it.

The fact that he even felt bad about deceiving Hannibal in the first place told him all he needed to know about the state of his moral compass. Redemption was a light fading into the distance even as he ran toward it.

Will’s chest heaved as he held his cock against the cleft of Hannibal’s ass, great gasping breaths as he jerked himself roughly, gripping Hannibal’s hip hard enough to bruise. It would be so easy, a strong push and the long slow slide, engulfing heat and the ripple of muscle. Beneath him, Hannibal found himself wanting. He wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t say please, but he telegraphed it in the cant of his hips and the flex of his thighs. Will would deny him in this, just as he had denied him before and would deny him again.

Will finished with a groan, let fall from red-bitten lips quickly clamped shut. His spend was splattered on the small of Hannibal’s back, dripping down between his cheeks and catching in the soft dusting of hair. With gloved fingers --not skin on skin, if he touched Hannibal now he would never leave-- Will shoved in, wiped his cum to mark Hannibal inside, where no-one could see his shame.

This would be the last time, he knew.

Hannibal had spoken before of his memory palace. Will imagined it as a grand and terrible estate, housing buildings both foreboding and beautiful. Each moment of his life tucked away in some room or another, nothing forgotten, although some memories purposefully kept under lock and key. All preserved perfect in amber, ready to replay at whim.

Will’s mind was no such palace. The stream was a recent invention; before Hannibal, his mind had been a rickety old New Orleans shotgun house, the one they’d lived in the longest before his dad moved them out of state. Floorboards worn with age stretching out endlessly, strewn with polaroid photographs. Some captioned with a name, a place, a date. Others left blank, or scribbled over. Every picture crisp and sharp.

As he walked down the steps of Hannibal’s front porch and out into the night, he snapped a photo in his mind and let it flutter to the floor with the others.

Baltimore 2014.

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal fic #my fic

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hallofmybeginnings · 7 years

Text

First Lines

Tagged by the utterly talented @awritersrejections (I demand to know why I wasn’t immediately informed you were working on a new Hannigram fan fic! xoxoxo)

I’m not sure I have enough to do this... but let’s give it a whirl. I think I did first paragraphs? Well. Let’s proceed.

* * *

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (or however many you have altogether). See if there are any patterns. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors. Bonus: if you mostly do academic/non-narrative writing, then feel free to include the first lines of essays/articles if you want! :D

Patterns: Uh........ I think we can all agree I have a problem (or rather my pattern is) with description, scenery, starting off with a place rather than a person.

1. Transcendent Suffering

Will leaned back into sinking leather of a chair, limbs stretching out awkwardly, staring absently at a faint grease stain on his jeans. The sound of Hannibal’s voice swam around him, even, smooth, filling the darkest corners of his mind with a light heat.

2. Echoes Beneath

If one were to ask the religiously devote what they might see upon their death, it is a near certainty they would all give the same mundane response. (What else can be expected of chatty lambs after all?) A bright light. Or even the absurd notion of heaven epitomized by pearly gates. They may say winged beings of the angelic or hellfire of beasts. A stranger notion of morality still to hold promise or threat to coerce human beings to pretend they are not what they say. Though God must have his amusements. But you and I can agree, there are far more terrifying monsters here with us on Earth than there will ever be in fantasy.

3. TS: The Last Time You Said You Had Something to Show Me

“H-hannibal…” White knuckles clenched tighter to a wheel. “Y-you’re going to fucking nnn—“ Arms locked into position in a rattle of chains, shaking as dust trailed behind in the rearview mirror. “—fuck, fuck! Hannibal!” A dress shoe stomped down an accelerator, low moan drowned out by a grinding engine. “For god sake, you’re going to get us fucking killed!”

4. The Red Sweater

Trudging up the long flights of stairs, Nigel continued to curse under his breath and thought about all the things he wanted to do when he managed to reach their summit. The first was to write management a scrawling note about why a brownstone in a neighborhood as filthy rich as this had yet to install a goddamn elevator. The second was to collapse. He had already decided about one flight ago if he couldn’t find his keys, he was going to just curl up on the welcome mat decorated in constellations outside the front door and pass out until Adam came home from the office. It wouldn’t be the first time he had come home from work and made himself into a human piece of furniture to decorate the hallway. He figured the dark circles under his eyes and battered knuckles healing on his right hand would put off most. If that didn't work, the proverbial sign that read fuck off stamped on his forehead would give people enough pause to even think of trying to approach, let alone wake him. Some of the best sleep he had gotten was in stairwells and on stoops.

5. Brief Interactions with Strangers

Wisps of cotton clouds floated idly across a bright blue sky, carried on a light warm afternoon breeze. Light filtered over almond colored awnings striped with chocolate lines, rustling gently in the wind. Grey blue shimmering pools of water gazed back, mirrored behind white lettering stamped on a glass window: Savoy. Sebastian pushed unruly wisps of hair from his face, combing it back with long stroking fingers. Two figures rounded a corner, approaching with steady, even strides, in a swirl of color and small shapes in its glass reflection.

6. Witness to Your Destruction (W.I.P.)

“Come on, Q, you have to give me something…” Terse mumbling grit against a starched white collar.

There was no arguing the view was impeccable. Hundreds of feet up, the city below was a landscape of shadow cast in a glow of azure blue and orange flame. Black mountain ranges rose up from the horizon. James imagined he would be able to take in the entirety of its splendor if he was not dangling from the side of a telecom tower. The still quiet would have been tranquil if someone wasn’t shooting at him. He might have even found inner peace. If his left hand wasn’t slipping as he rummaged through pockets of a tuxedo jacket for any kind of weapon that infuriating mop of curls and glasses had droned on about returning in one piece. Two gunshots pinged off a tower near his head. He didn’t specify the agent had to return in one piece. Just the equipment.

Static buzzed and then chirped inquisitively. “Do you often talk to me out loud when I’m not around, 007?”

* * *

On to things I haven’t looked at in a hellishly long time. :cough: YEARS. :cough: Also known some stuff I started at one point in college and pre-college days?

7. Bloodlines: Dark Ascension (novella)

PERIL LURKED in glittering eyes with thorough and calculated sweeps, scanning the shadows along a darkening horizon. Sabin lifted a goblet to his lips, savoring the bitter liquor slipping down his throat before it began to burn deep inside. He banished a dark smile tugging at the corners of his mouth without hesitation. Victory was nearly at hand. Battlefields of blood and bitter tears of his brothers had long waited this night, carefully plotting the perfect revenge.

8. Unholy Words

STUMBLING through blinding cold, heavy boots pounded against slick stones that drowned out heavy breathing. The young woman glanced fearfully over her shoulder, once, then twice. Yelling and pounding against the ground reached her ears, the sounds nearing closer. Clutching her throbbing side, she tried to fight against the numbing cold sweeping through her shredded blouse and silk skirt. She blinked fiercely, forcing stinging snow from her unseeing eyes and focused on steady breathing to keep her moving.

9. Untitled

A sharp breath inhaled centuries of collecting dust and wilted red roses. An intoxicating scent created with the passing of years wafting in the air on the eve of every awakening. It was a lingering familiarity of when time held sweet simplicity and warmth. Eyes fluttered open to find the surrounding darkness, a constant companion of desolation and eternal solitude. Raging hunger ripped through the partially conscious mind before dragging it from slumber and throwing it into a cold need refusing to be ignored. Sluggishly, a dark shadow wrestled from comfort and placed searching palms against cool marble stone with a heavy sigh.

10. Untitled

Dante glanced up from his cards, dark eyes smoldering with irritation, a fine brow arched questioningly at the other man. He reached absently behind him as a glass of wine was handed over, soft giggling interrupting the silence. Glancing back, his eyes traveled up a sky blue satin gown to a small waist then lingered on breasts swelling above a tight corset trimmed with matching lace and ribbon.

11. Untitled

buried beneath concrete

heart beats rise

from cracks in sidewalks

to caress lonesome souls

who dream of falling

but never do.

12. Untitled: Creative Writing Course Biography Exercise

“What do you mean this isn’t chicken?”

The Chinese lovers exchanged a curious glance in a silent reply to my question, eyes shining with secretive smiles. Zhu handed the stick, now picked clean of its meat, to her boyfriend Zhang, who immediately replaced it with another saucy piece. Around us the cars honked loudly, speeding down the alleys and adjacent streets, threatening to hit any pedestrian who dare step in their path. My two friends looked at each other again as I watched them, continuing to chew curiously.

Pursing my lips, I stared at the meat from an angle, head titled in consideration. Tasted like chicken to me. Zhu smiled at me brightly as I took another big bite. She patted my head fondly, and began to say, “Well, it’s actually…”

(It was snake. Not to leave you on a cliff hanger. And it was delicious.)

.......................

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got, guys. I’m sure there’s more on this dinosaur of a computer somewhere? Now to tag these two beautiful and majestic writers: @hannigrammatic and @slashyrogue

#writing #and other things

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