Hannibal was starting to feel like he'd overstayed his welcome in San Francisco. He'd completed his work here weeks ago – just another day of saving the world from vampires bent on biological warfare – and he was sure that there was more work for him to do somewhere else, but he couldn't bring himself to move on. Half a century of protecting human life instead of destroying it like the rest of his kind thrown away in a moment, to save a woman who only turned her back on him when she had what she wanted. That was about his luck, though. He felt like the blood of her victims stained his hands, and he didn't deserve to go back to work fighting against the very creatures he was now complicit in releasing on the world. Walking from his apartment to the bar down the street was the most he could will himself into doing anymore.
What got him thinking that he needed to find a new city in was the presence following him every time he left his apartment. It was always the same person, he could get a good enough read on the guy to tell that much, but anything beyond that was lost on him. He never saw the other man's face, never heard him, no matter how many ways he tried to get a glimpse of him. He was starting to think that it was all in his head, that the stress had finally got to him and was driving him insane.
He had a little too much to drink tonight – more than usual, to dull the throb of craving – and he didn't really care who, or what, followed him home. Some nights he welcomed it, some hunter who would come inside and drive a stake through his heart, and every night lately was one of those nights. So let them come, let them take what they wanted. He didn't care anymore. Leaning on the wall of his building, he fumbled for his keys out of his jacket and tried to catch he street behind him in the reflection of the door. There was no one there, but he could feel them, he could smell them... He shook his head and tugged open the door to the building, pausing only just long enough to square his shoulders and announce to whoever had fallen back in the shadows, "Whatever you want, come get it. I'm not going to stop you."
Hannibal pushed the door open and staggered inside, his boots thudding hard on the floor. He couldn't tell if he was still being followed or if the other man's scent was just stuck in back of throat, but he continued up the stairwell, down the hall, and keyed into his apartment. He didn't lock the door once inside, just tossed his keys on the table and his jacket over the back of the couch, tugging off his shirt on the way towards the bedroom. He thought he heard the door click shut again, but it could have been his imagination again as he dropped his boots to the floor at the end of his bed and tugged his belt out of his jeans.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he could see through the living room and into the kitchen on the other side, but there were blind spots even for him. Someone who knew his rather unique condition would be able to know how to stick to those blind spots, especially if they were following him for a while. He stood up briefly, thought he caught a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye, and shoved his jeans down to his ankles. A moment later, Hannibal stretched out on top of the covers in his boxers, tucking one arm under his head and letting the other settle on his stomach. Here he was, inviting whatever it was to come after him and nothing came. Maybe it was all in his head.
Hannibal rubbed a hand over his face, pushing his fingers through his hair then let his hand trail down his stomach again. Either it was all in his head or he was going to get some reaction out of whoever was there, he didn't really care which. His fingers dipped down under the waist of his boxers, nudging them off his hips as he pulled himself out. He wasn't so drunk that he couldn't jerk off, and if nothing else it would help him get to sleep. As his hand started sliding over his dick, he let his head lull to the side to watch out the bedroom door, waiting for any sign of movement at all.
The longer he waited, the harder he got, the more frustrated he got. Finally, he groaned to himself – because he was sure now there was no one else there – and turned his head to stare up at the ceiling instead. Hannibal pulled his knees up, feet settling on the bed so he could arch his hips up, his boxers sliding down over his ass and bunching around his thighs. He rolled his hips up, sliding his other hand down between his legs, the side of his hand curling around the base while he stroked. Maybe he was a little too drunk, because his body didn't seem to want to entirely agree with him, and it took a little more effort to get there than when he was sober.
He clenched his jaw, letting his mind wander to the last time he felt a pulse beat against his lips, just enough for the memory of that taste to fill his mouth, to tempt the hunger forward without letting it off its leash. The flush of heat along his body broke through whatever barrier one too many drinks had put up and Hannibal's hand started working faster. He stroked shallowly at the tip, just wanting to finish what he'd started so he could put it from his mind, while his other hand wandered, stroking, pressing, wherever would give him that little extra surge of feeling. What started as a dare, a taunt to someone who wasn't even there, didn't seem to matter past actually getting off anymore. The switch flipped, and his mind had honed in on one thing only. If there was someone there, someone who planned on shooting him in the head or whatever, now would be the time to do it because Hannibal didn't have much awareness of anything past his hand. There wasn't anyone there to kill him, of course, but that didn't mean there wasn't anyone there.
The man who'd been following him was more than willing to take Hannibal's invitation, following him into his building and up the stairs behind him. He slipped inside the apartment when Hannibal was tugging off his boots, skirting along the wall until he was just on the other side of Hannibal's bedroom door. He could hear everything, even though he couldn't see much, but he knew when Hannibal was close to finishing from the sound of groaning and the bed squeaking under him. So he shift to lean in the doorway, knowing it would be a while before Hannibal knew he was there.
And it did. Hannibal bit down on his lower lip, heels and shoulders digging into the mattress, as the tension in his gut surged forward and he came, cum streaking across his stomach, with a heavy growl. He threw his head back, eyes finally peeling open again. He caught the sudden new presence in the room out of the corner of his eye and scrambled to sit up, tugging his boxers back up to cover himself. Even in the blacked out apartment, he could clearly see the figure of a man leaning in his bedroom doorway, his arms folded across his chest and a wide smirk on his face. He looked like the kind of guy you wanted to punch in the face the moment you saw him.
"I thought vampires ejaculated glitter," he said, pushing off the doorframe and settling his hand on his hips.
Hannibal just stared blankly at him, trying to compose himself – though it wasn't entirely possible to be composed covered in his own cum – as he took stock of the intruder. "What?" he finally stuttered.
The other man grinned, "Twilight," he said, "it's gonna be big."