September, 1983. Will is a miserable graduate student studying forensic psychology. Unable to afford an apartment, he lives with his meddling thesis advisor (Chilton) and does housework instead of paying rent. As his sanity deteriorates, the Ripper, the Tooth Fairy, and his own dark history begin to blur. Meanwhile, Alanaâs new suitor, an overly friendly surgical resident, refuses to leave him aloneâŚ
(1980s AU. Dark!Will figures out that the Shrike copycat is the Chesapeake Ripper. Surgeon!Hannibal plans to kill him. All the serial killers are obsessed with Will. References to obscure Greek mythology abound.)
Spoilers:
This fic goes out to anyone who wanted Will to kill Freddie Lounds/Mason Verger, and anyone who wanted a dinner scene where a brain gets eaten. mwah <3
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I know drabbles are supposed to only be 100 words but I couldnât help it, I had to write more
     âI want you, and I know you want me too.â
     Whatever Geralt had been expecting when Gaunter sat beside him in the tavern, it wasnât this. He freezes mid-drink, not entirely sure that he heard properly.Â
     âWhat do you mean?â he finally asks. â...Do you need a proxy to chase after one of your victims again or something?â
     âDonât play coy, Geralt. You know exactly what I mean.â
     The manâs thigh presses against his, and a thrill of desire runs up Geraltâs leg and into his throat. He drinks, then looks sideways, meeting Gaunterâs sparkling gaze. The desire begins to claw its way into his stomach. Looking away, he takes another gulp of his beer.
     âIsnât a gentleman supposed to treat one to dinner before making advances?â he mutters into his tankard. Gaunter chuckles, the sound so close to Geraltâs ear that it sends goosebumps racing across his skin.
     âOh Geralt,â Gaunter murmurs. âI never would have thought that I might enjoy playing someone elseâs game nearly as much as I enjoy playing my own. Then you came along, and here we are.âÂ
     He raises a hand, deftly catching the barkeepâs attention despite the typical nightly chaos in the tavern.
     âTwo helpings of your best fare, if you please!â he calls. The woman nods and heads over to the fire where a big pot is simmering. Geralt stares after her, slightly incredulous, then turns slightly to meet Gaunterâs eyes again. The usual friendly good humor in those eyes is now mixed with something else, something that makes the witcher swallow hard, butterflies fluttering to life in his stomach.Â
     Suddenly the room falls silent. Geralt looks around, startled by the abrupt change. The tavern patrons are frozen in place, glassy eyes unblinking, spoons lifted halfway to mouths. He knows he has seen this before.
     âWhy?â he asks Gaunter. The man smiles sweetly, his mouth curling up at the corners in an endearing yet infuriating way.Â
     âBecause I would like to sample an appetizer before our meal arrives,â Gaunter replies, leaning closer. âAnd I like to savor things uninterrupted.â
     In spite of himself, Geralt chuckles.Â
     âAlright Gaunter, you win,â he says, âThough Iâm sure youâve heard that before.â
     Gaunter slides a hand around Geraltâs waist and pulls him closer. Throwing caution to the winds, Geralt leans down, closing the distance between them, and kisses him gently. For a long, delicious moment, there is silence but for the sound of their combined breath.
     âAh,â Gaunter finally sighs against Geraltâs mouth, then draws back and cups his cheek in one warm, soft hand. âOf course Iâve heard that before,â he murmurs, leaning in to kiss the witcher once more, âbut it sounds the sweetest coming from your lips, my dear Geralt.âÂ
crying and throwing up thinking about you writing this
Brownham
Mamihlapinatapei
Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.
Itâs late winter when Will comes home from the hospital, still hobbling with a cane from his gut wound.Â
Matthew is sitting on his front steps, playing fetch with Willâs dogs. They pant with excitement around him, eyes trained on the slobbery old tennis ball until they notice Willâs arrival and rush to his side. They jump for attention, but bending down would set his stitches on fire.
He plays absently with the tips of Winstonâs ears. âOut on good behavior?âÂ
âYup,â Matthew says, glancing guiltily at Willâs cane. Heâs not dressed for the weather, wearing only a light jacket and track pants, but he isnât shivering. âThey put me on mood stabilizers.â
âYou feel more stable?â
âNot really, but Iâm good at fooling the nurses.â
Will isnât feeling particularly stable either. Thereâs a cavern in his chest where his heart used to beat, darkness heaving and coiling within. âWhat will you do now?â
âNot sure. Iâll probably go back to drifting. Pick up some work at a prison out of state.âÂ
The thought of Matthew going under cover as that lisping dullard again doesnât sit right with Will, but he shakes the feeling off. Not his business.
Matthew helps him up the porch steps, a steady hand at the small of his back, careful not to let him slip on the black ice. Willâs instinct tells him to push him away, but the support is⌠surprisingly nice.
It takes a while for Will to open the storm door. The lock always sticks when itâs cold, and he only has one hand to fumble with the key.
âHere, I got it,â Matthew offers. He deftly unlocks the door and holds it open. The living room beyond is dark and dusty.
Will pauses at the threshold, his dogs milling around at his feet.
Matthew has that fresh-out-of-jail look: pale, jittery, hair grown out over his forehead and ears. Heâs rumpled and scarred and could use a bath. Itâs kind of cute in an ugly sort of wayâWillâs worst weakness when it comes to strays.
The obsession is still there. His eyes are too wide, too fixed on Will, like theyâre trying to absorb him entirely. But Willâs used to obsession, knows how to handle it. Hell, he has a bit of it himself these days. And itâs not like he has much left to lose.Â
He rolls his tongue across his teeth before asking, âDo you know anything about boats?â
***
It takes several months to repair the Nola, but it wouldâve taken much longer without Matthewâs help. He does all the heavy lifting for the first few weeks, hefting engine parts and sailcloth, operating the boom at Willâs direction.
âThis is just like Castaway,â Matthew says as he watches Will rewire the bilge pump. âYouâre Tom Hanks, and Iâm the volleyball.â
Will wants to say that volleyballs donât talk half as much as Matthew does, but the truth is he appreciates hearing a voice coming from outside his head.
Sick of the draft, Matthew takes care of the shattered living room window (âWhat the hell kind of mutant stag crashed through here anyway?â). In the evenings, he runs the dogs around the backyard until theyâre too tired to jump all over Will. Once, when Will slips off the deck and lies face-up in the snow, paralyzed with gut pain, Matthew runs to him, carries him indoors, and frantically checks his stomach for tearing. Will isnât allowed outside the house for three days after that.
Matthew cooks when Will doesnât see the point of eating. Ham sandwiches, boiled hot dogs, and Kraft mac and cheese in cartoon shapes (âThe extra crevices trap the sauce betterâ) are a welcome change from what heâs used to being served. Will doesnât complain when his pancakes are burnt or when they have instant ramen for the fifth time in a row. Heâs just happy to be completely sure of what heâs eating.
Mostly itâs nice to have someone else making noise around the house. The clatter of kitchen cabinets and the rat-tat-tat of video game gunfire keeps Will from getting lost in Hannibalâs kitchen, where he lies bleeding out on the floor, hands scrabbling uselessly at Abigailâs hemorrhaging carotid, distant footsteps echoing down the hall before the front door slams shut.
Matthewâs constant attention reminds Will that heâs not a ghost, especially in the middle of the night, when life is most like a dream.
Sometimes he comes down from the upstairs bedroom for a glass of water and finds Will staring out the newly-fixed window.
âAre the shadow people creeping around again?â he asks, peering over Willâs shoulder. For him, thereâs nothing out there besides the gnarled hickory leaning over the driveway.
Will knows Hannibal isnât really there, standing knee-deep in the snow, scarf snapping in the wind. The real Hannibal is done chasing. He wants Will to find him instead.
He glances back. Matthewâs shirtlessâlike alwaysâexcept for the bathrobe he found buried at the back of Willâs closet when he first moved in. This close, he can feel the heat emanating from Matthewâs chest. Heâs like a fucking furnace.
Heâs tempted to reach out on a chilly night like this, if only to feel something, anything. He wants Matthew to press him against the mattress and make him forget. But Willâs teeth are growing sharper by the day, and his hands remember snapping Randall Tierâs neck mere inches from the bed. If he lets himself get too close, if Hannibal appears, sitting in the armchair by the fire, watching themâŚ
Matthew places a warm hand on his shoulder. Sniffs subtly, checking for whiskey on Willâs breath, but he hasnât had any tonight. âCome on, letâs get you back into bed.âÂ
Will wants to protest whenever Matthew plays the orderlyâthis isnât a nursing home, and Will isnât his patient, for Christâs sakeâbut he canât find the energy. He lets Matthew guide him under his covers and swallows a pill with the water held up to his lips.
Matthew sits on the floor, head resting on his arms crossed on the mattress. He studies Will, unblinking. No one has ever cared this much about Will without asking for anything in return. Itâs an awful feeling. He doesnât deserve it.
Right before Will drifts off to sleep, he feels gentle fingers brush through his hair.
***
Come June, Willâs all healed up and the boat is hooked up to a truck, gleaming with a fresh coat of paint, ready for launch in the nearest marina. He does the final checks in the early morning, when he knows Matthew is still asleep. Once heâs sure she has no leaks or loose wires, he hops off the stern and pulls out the keys.
Matthew is leaning against the truck door, blocking his way. âThought youâd sneak off on your own, did you?â
Will squints at the empty green field and over the trees, toward the sun rising in the east. âListen,â he says awkwardly, shifting on his feet. âThanks for all the help.â
A muscle in Matthewâs jaw twitches. âItâd be easier sailing with a second hand. We could sleep in shifts.â
Will doesnât trust himself alone on the open sea with Matthew, not for the full month itâll take to cross the Atlantic. Already, he struggles with perception. People are flatter, washed out, like watercolor illustrations in a childrenâs storybook. He looks at Matthew and sees raw material. He sees meat.
âI only packed enough food for one.â
Matthew lets out a disbelieving laugh, voice thick with pain. âYou still think about him, donât you? All the time. After everything he did.â
It hurts to say it, but Will wonât lie. âYeah. Yeah, I do, butââ He scuffs a foot in the gravel. âStuff like that doesn't really go away, does it? Part of me probably will always think about him.â
Matthewâs face screws up, tilting to the side as he processes that. Will wants nothing more than to draw him into an embrace, but how cruel would that be, when he doesnât know if heâs ever coming back?
âIâm going to kill him, Matthew,â he murmurs. âIâll cut him out of me, one way or another, and then Iâll be myself again.â
Matthew nods, but he doesnât seem reassured. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a hunting knife and folds Willâs hand around it. The wooden handle has a pleasant heft.
He pulls Willâs head close to his, forcing him to look into his bright green eyes. Thereâs anger there, but fierce determination, too. âWhatever happens, Iâll be here when you get back. Me and the dogs. Remember that, okay?â
Will swallows. âOkay," he says, but it feels like a promise he can't keep.
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okok iâm so sorry for bothering you through here but like first of all YAY so happy to see someone also obsessed with hannigram in brazil lmao just love it so much and am glad other people like it too
when answering you i thought about feijoada too but was like nah itâs not Meaty enough but like i bet he would find some way to make feijoada way meatier jsjsksjskskksjsksk
but anyway iâm so sorry for asking but i kind of have to ask about you writing hannibal in brazil đ if itâs smth you donât feel like showing or never posted iâm very sorry for asking and feel free to not answer this!!! but if you would like to share know iâd love it so so so much
anyway you got me too excited about this topic skjsksksks thank you thank you thank you !!!!!!!!
It's not a bother at all, are you kidding, I could chat about novel references forever! I see you're Thomas Harris's arch nemesis and I'm Thomas Harris's #1 simp, so I guess that makes us mortal enemies, but I'm glad hannigram in Brazil can unite us. ^^
This might be wrong, but I read that feijoada was made with pig feet, snout, ears, etc (I think to make the broth?) back in the 16th century, and I got obsessed with the idea of Hannibal using the human analogs for those.
I never posted what I wrote anywhere bc it's kinda cringe and unedited lol. The premise was post-fall, Will needs facial reconstructive surgery for his stab wound, like how Hannibal got his sixth finger removed in Rio de Janeiro after he escaped prison. Here are some Brazil-related snippets!
A rewrite of the Marcus Hotel scene from Silence of the Lambs (except Will is actually getting plastic surgery haha):
The doors of the elegant Hotel Marco in Rio de Janeiro slid open and hit Hannibal with a gust of air conditioning. He wore comfortable white linen and a Panama hat. His hair was an ungodly shade of bottle blond. A neat surgical bandage covered his nose and cheeks.
Soft piano music drifted from the lounge. At the bar, Hannibal could see two people with bandages across their noses. A middle-aged couple crossed to the elevator, humming a Jobim tune. The woman wore a gauze patch over one eye.
âBoa tarde, Sr. Wyman,â the concierge greeted him as he passed the reception desk.
Hannibal nodded to him before joining the couple in the elevator.
He set his bag of groceries down in the kitchen of the penthouse suite. The suite seemed luxurious to him after his long confinement. He enjoyed running his hands over the cotton bed comforter and the stainless steel fridge. After sorting the groceries, he indulged in a long shower.
From the window, he could see across the street the premier clinic for craniofacial surgery in Brazil, where Will had recently undergone maxillary reconstruction and received a four molar dental bridge.Â
This was the one place in the world where Hannibal could walk around with a bandage on his face without exciting interest, and heâd taken advantage of that to make his first foray into the public since their flight to Rio. A short walk to the convenience store less than one block away. Voices laughing in Portuguese, and the buttery scent of street wagon empadas and brigadieros. Life pressing sweetly on him from all sides.
And later:
Will looked at the bacon fat heating on the stove. He spoke in hesitant Spanish, knowing Hannibal wouldnât respond to anything else. âWhat do we have here?â
After weeks of communicating using pen and paper, Will had made a reluctant return to speech, unfamiliar now to his damaged hard palate. Add to this the strain of learning a new languageârolled Rs were particularly painful for his stitched tongueâand he was perfectly happy to stare at Hannibal in silence for days on end. Each word Will spoke aloud, Hannibal knew, was a gift.
âFarofa for feijoada, a hearty black bean stew of regional significance. Iâve made it before, but this will be my first time using authentic Brazilian sausage.â Heâd been looking forward to it but was in danger of losing concentration with Will this close. He smelled of bloodâfrom the butcher most likelyâand forest underneath it. âYouâve been to Tijuca National Park again.â
âLots of tourists there,â Will said, as if in explanation.
(They're not staying in Brazil--that's why Will's learning Spanish instead of Portuguese)
Anyway, feel free to correct anything I got wrong! I've never been to Rio so I have literally no idea what I'm doing.