StagLostInTheStorm
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- Hannibal (TV) (6)
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Summary
Horse innards spilled out onto the floor of the barn. The stench, metallic and humid, forced its way up one's nose. An infestation of the senses. Certainly, it was for Clark Ingram. Coated in the warm, thick blood, his rage boiled and spilled over. He leapt, hammer in hand, to chase after Peter Bernardone, grunting like an animal.
When he turned, wild in his fury, he took pause at the sight of another man. Dr Lecter's voice cut through the madness. Civilised and calm, he said, "Mr Ingram, might want to crawl back in there if you know what's good for you."
The very last scene in Su-zakana but if it was written, and Will was a little more horny about it.
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Will wanted him to talk. Hannibal adored long rants, anecdotes, rambling on in that deep, smooth cadence Will desperately needed. All he had to do was prompt him correctly. His thigh muscles fluttered with arousal but he held off from properly touching himself until he'd guaranteed maximum satisfaction. From across the room, by the fireplace, Winston gave him a judgemental look and a huff before laying down with the other dogs. Needless to say, the whole ordeal had Will feeling like a pathetic loser.
Set sometime in season 2, Will calls Hannibal with the secret goal of getting off on the sound of his voice.
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He'd lost a lot of blood, he'd fallen off a cliff. His mind was playing tricks on him. Surely it must've been. Blinking, shaking his head, deep breaths. None of it brought him back to where he should've been and the man beside him grew more and more distressed. Fair enough. What should you do when an older, bloodier version of yourself magically appears out of thin air?
Will, only mere seconds post-fall, travels back in time and has to live with his season one self. Specifically set between Fromage and Trou Normand if you want to get particular about it.
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Moonlight peaked through the window, mostly obscured by rain clouds gradually thickening and condensing for their tremendous downpour. It was well into the night, pitch black, cold and damp. Outside and in Will's little bedroom. Although, Will didn't feel cold. His body was sweltering under the covers and he couldn't see an end to his suffering in sight. His wrist and forearm ached from the strain, his cock throbbed pointlessly. No matter how much he scissored, stroked and stabbed at his overstimulated prostate, he just couldn't finish. If he could reach, he would try fisting himself but he wasn't sure that would work either.
There was a thread that had been tied up over and over again and pulled taut in his gut. All Will wanted was for it to unravel, to be released from the constant agony. Instead, he was woefully stuck twisting the thread more every night.
An omegaverse au where omegas can only climax with a knot (organic or store-bought is fine) inside them.
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"What's this?" Hannibal held up one particular photo but it wasn't the picture itself that he was referring to. Smudged words were scribbled across the glossy cover, Will's handwriting in thick black pen.
"Oh uh, sometimes I write notes on the photos when I'm using them. You know, write my thoughts down quickly before they disappear again. It's not permanent, you just need a spray and it wipes off," Will rambled on, "It's only whiteboard pen and plus these aren't the only copies we have so even if it did stain—"
Will uses a whiteboard marker to annotate Ripper crime scene photos, Hannibal fucks him with it.