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For #TWOTLDay, I’m boosting my post-fall series, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. It’s in 3 main parts (The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, The Divine Image, and A Poison Tree), with time stamps in between. It starts Mature, gets Explicit, and there just might be puppy gifting along the way… 😁
This beautiful art from Part 1 is by @arkarti. 🫀
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brain broke. all i wanna do is read hannibal fanfiction,, its all ive done for months - send help
in the garden 😌
Challenge prompt gone wrong
@bluecaliessi's Amuse_Bouche proverb challenge has been out for a couple of weeks now. And of course my brain decided to wait until the afternoon of the last day to get some inspiration. Not to mention blowing the word limit thoroughly out of the water. It was supposed to be up to 500 words - ::eyes the 800 I got:: Nope, it's never going to shrink by nearly half. So here it is anyway, written in a couple of hours, un-beta'd so I could at least conform to the deadline, if not the rules! Post-TWOTL angsty Hannigram. A Little of What You Fancy. He closes his eyes and tips his head back against the curved wood of the chair. Relaxes into the hands manipulating his body, his arm slack within a firm grip. “Your spinatus muscles are tight.” Fingers press deeper around the ridge of his scapula, working in concert either side of the bone. “Have you been doing your exercises?” He takes in another breath, full and slow, lets it seep out, the tension leeching away with the ebbing air. “Every day.” Delicious, rhythmic movements probing above his collarbone, warmth seeping through the thin polycotton blend of his T-shirt. “Don’t overdo it, Will. The muscles and fascia have been repeatedly traumatised, and they haven’t healed well in the past.” A transition, a pause, the fingers sinking harder, the brief pain of a knot surging high. He inhales sharp, a moment so heavy it’s almost a burden, and then it crests and melts away in a wash of relief, and Will’s close to laughing, the humour parched in his words. “It might heal better if people would stop stabbing and shooting me.” Too much, he knows, even before the hands cease their work. A single second, frozen, the weight of time dragging like pins over his skin, and then there’s movement again. Movement with no words, no response to his flippancy, only the touch, silent, methodical and entirely professional. There’s no honest conversation at these times, no human interaction or connection. There’s only necessity. Necessity and the flood of endorphins, the heightening swell of his senses. The fingers moving lower, beyond the cloth and onto his exposed arm, the brush of them dry and slightly rough as they exhaustively explore his musculature. The flow of breath from a figure leaning close, the rich scent of apples and onions sliced only minutes before, and the hands, always the hands, the touch, the absence of boundaries. Careful, delicate, firm, testing, glorious hands, beautiful and vital, and then gone. His eyes are closed and he still sees the change, the influx of light as the shadow pulls away. When he sucks in enough air to open his eyes, Hannibal has already withdrawn, leaving Will to stare at the neat wave of his hair edging over the sharp collar of his shirt. Follow the pressed line of his sleeve down to his hands, to the long fingers and thick veins that moments ago kissed electricity over his skin. “Hannibal.” Hannibal stops and turns back, meeting his eyes. “Yes, Will?” His face is still and shuttered, his hands curled tense by his thighs. It’s Will who drops his head, breaks the gaze. “Nothing.” He’s not watching any more, only hearing the tap of feet on boards and the creak of leather as Hannibal sinks into the armchair across the room. When Will was a kid, his dad would pretend not to see when he sneaked a cookie out of the jar, a trail of crumbs scattered across the kitchen. Later, he’d wink at him and say, “A little of what you fancy does you good.” A little never did cut it for Will. It only ever whet his appetite, left him eyeing the jar from across the room with the sweetness lingering on his tongue, wanting more of the vanilla-chocolate flavour bursting out when he crushed down with his teeth. Hannibal’s hands rest on the arms of the chair, fingers spread; a twitch, the lightest tap against the hide before they fall into calm. Will scrunches his eyes shut to stop himself looking. If he looks, he’ll want to take, and if he takes, he’ll destroy. He doesn’t need empathy to understand. Hannibal doesn’t trust him, can’t trust him, always that cool layer of frosting sprinkled over the cookie. The dusting of doubt, that maybe one day Will’s going to reject him, might move to kill him. Only ever one cookie, the rest of the jar forbidden, out of reach. The ache through the muscles wrapped around his shoulder is nothing to the ache suffused between his ribs. “We’ll work more on your range of motion, tomorrow.” Hannibal’s voice, accented and rich, snaps his attention across the room. “We should begin exercises with the tension band.” Will’s muscles twitch within his thigh, within his chest, air forced from his lungs. Tomorrow. There’ll be another cookie tomorrow. Hannibal will keep working on Will, and Will’s going to keep working on Hannibal, keep working until the day he can finally shatter the glass and feast on everything inside. They’ll get there. He knows they will. He tips his head back once more, slides into the saturated pigments of his mind, lets the fingers press into his skin once more. Lets them glide and spread over the contours of his body. They’ll get there, because otherwise it’s all been for nothing.
He’d look at it every time he washed his hands, every time he brushed his teeth. The reflection in the mirror above the sink was always there, waiting. Like a shadow of himself, it wouldn’t leave him. He could never escape.
So many times before had Will seen his reflection – broken, with pieces missing, somewhat distorted.
He leant over the sink, took a deep breath and fought the fever. The nights were the worst. At nights, he grew cold and shivered, which made him avoid Hannibal at any cost.
It was the fifth night in a row.
Will’d wake up after midnight, walked to the bathroom and stayed there until he felt tired enough to get back to sleep. He was aware Hannibal knew all about his little ritual; yet, none of them ever uttered a word.
“Will.”
The name was a soft, light as a feather sound – a melody flowing through the air straight to Will’s ears. Finally, Hannibal decided to join Will in this nightmarish habit of his. His steps were barely audible and stopped abruptly when Hannibal’s feet were placed right behind Will’s.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall…”
Will offered a half-smile. His eyes were focused on the scars on his face – the ones on the forehead and his right cheek.
“I feel like the mirror broke and the pieces of glass have been cutting my skin ever since.”
“When did the mirror break?”
Hannibal’s face behind him was no longer shrouded in mist. It was as clear as ever, with all the wrinkles – the signs of time passing. Despite only a faint light illuminating the room, Will could see Hannibal’s reflection in the mirror as well. It appeared somewhat different: no longer of a man who ran away but of a man who ran towards.
Will felt two hands spread over his shoulders. Like wings, they were the extensions of his body, of his soul.
“I’ve never felt more whole,” Will avoided the answer to Hannibal’s question, aware that the man would be insistent.
“Since when?”
The voice was a whisper now, yet loud and clear, uttered so close to Will’s ear. There was another kind of fever threatening to take over Will’s mind.
“These scars are supposed to be here. They are meant to be seen,” Will continued, despite it getting more and more difficult to concentrate, with Hannibal’s body the closest it had ever been. The mental intimacy was finally allowed to transfer onto the physical plane.
“You’re not just your scars,” Hannibal assured. His hands roamed Will’s shoulder blades.
“I know.”
The realisation took him a while. One would argue it took him too long. Years, if not whole ages, of confusion. And finally, with all the brave, self-conscious satisfaction, Will was ready to say, “I know who I am.”
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Thanks to @hannibalficwriters call for Season Four Self Recs, I’m freshening up a “classic” fic with a new photoset! The fic is a bit of quick angst set right after TWOTL called Different People In The Dark.
1. What does the piece mean to you?
This was one of the first pieces I wrote set post-TWOTL and it was really an attempt for me to start processing what a post-cliff life would look like for Will and Hannibal, especially immediately after.
2. What was your favorite line in your piece/what was your favourite comment that you’ve received on the work?
I liked this bit:
"No. No no no," Will moaned. There were so many strands of meaning in it. Hannibal could appreciate it like a piece of music. Melody of sorrow, harmony of longing, and the strong rhythm of Will's beating heart keeping time, fiercely refusing to stop.
My favorite comment is always when someone quotes a line they especially liked.
3. What are you most looking forward to in Season 4?
Just to have new material! I can’t wait to see the plans Bryan has for these two and the entire gang.
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Final chapter, whelp! Thanks for all the support and hope you all like it!
Sequel to Waiting for Winter and tags are for the entire thing.
Thanks to @wraithsonwingsposts for beta and @fragile-teacup @thisismydesignhannibal for encouragement/requests to be tagged <3
Rating: Explicit Pairing: Hannibal/Will Tags: Post-fall, cabin fic, pining, eventual RST, withholding!Will, domestic, amnesia, angst and feels, declarations of love, first time, rough sex, outdoor sex Summary: Now fully recovered, Hannibal and Will continue to hide out in Will’s cabin. As winter passes, they start to plan for their escape. But Hannibal is still waiting for Will to make his final choices, and is growing increasingly impatient.
*
They walked back to the cabin together. Hannibal barely noticed the landscape change from lake to woods to the clearing where the cabin stood. The sun, the wind, even the earth beneath their feet was insubstantial. There was only Will - the flush which stubbornly remained across his cheeks, the bites and bruises at his neck, and the occasional touch of his fingers on the back of Hannibal’s hand. They had said nothing since they left the tree; only stared at each other, wordless, and walked on.
Bramble was waiting in her bed. Her tail thumped happily against the floor when they went inside. Hardly half an hour had passed since Will had ordered her home. He smiled and petted her, filled her bowl with food, then tugged off his clothes and climbed into bed. Hannibal followed automatically.
Later, he had a shadowy recollection of repeating I love you, I love you into Will’s mouth, and of Will’s continual reply: I know, I know.
After that, they slept tangled around each other, like animals trying to keep warm.
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Whispered at His Bedside While Holding His Hand: “I tried to conjure you...”
With complete accuracy I could replay every conversation, every look we shared. Down to every ion that drifted between us. I could recall the precise scent of you, the exact angle of your mouth every time you smiled at me. I tried to conjure you but I could not conjure you into places you had never been, or magic into existence conversations we had never had.
I tried, more times than I care to admit, but every time only a lifeless thing visited me, static, cold, like a doll made of clay. Because you are entirely unpredictable, every time, including the angles of your smile. Especially those. To recreate you would have been to create you, and as I believe we've established more than once, I cannot make you what you are not already. I can change your awareness of yourself, but you remain yourself, and even in my imagination that is a self which does not do my bidding.
So for three years you did not visit me even in my palace.
I flung all the doors open, inviting you to come. I stocked the streams I knew you favor, dappled the leaves as they would look in the seasons you prefer. You didn't come. The static thing came, looking past me with dead eyes. I would have dug entire rivers from the earth using my hands, shook the clouds to fill them with rain, if it would have lured some spirited facsimile of you instead of the doll self.
If you leave me now, do you understand I will take this meager room and even sparer bed and install them in my palace? I will keep you there in the last room I will ever build. I will bring philosophers and composers to see you. Bach will compose me something that reminds me of you. Mischa and Abigail will visit you with me. Do you understand?
I can conjure them all. I cannot conjure you.
-end-
