Chapter 1: Lube
Will felt the latch give with a satisfying click, dropping the lock pick and pushing the door open with his uninjured shoulder. Hannibal limped in behind him, carrying the black leather satchel he’d insisted on grabbing in the chaos of their escape.
“Fuck,” he sighed, letting his head fall back against the closed door. Blood and dirty water dripped from his clothes. “I told you the ambassador’s husband was a bad idea.”
“I may have miscalculated.” Hannibal said, unknotting his wine-colored tie and laying it neatly over a chair. His blood-stained tuxedo jacket followed, along with his waistcoat.
“May have.” Will rolled his eyes before shoving himself up with a grunt and trudging toward the bathroom, dropping clothes along the way. Each step was slow and stiff and filled with silent reproach for the man to whose star he’d foolishly hitched his wagon. He decided to blame that thought on the blood loss and Emerson. Mostly blood loss. The chill air of the abandoned cottage nipped at his skin.
Warm arms wrapped around his chest, stopping him. Hannibal nuzzled the back of his neck.
“Allow me to help you.” he murmured.
He let Hannibal guide him into the shower, carefully rinsing his wounds. His head lolled against Hannibal’s shoulder as he worked shampoo into his curls, fingers massaging his scalp. His cock gave an interested twitch despite his irritation. Hannibal kissed him chastely behind the ear before turning off the water.
Hannibal ran a soft cotton towel over Will’s limbs, patting his hair dry. Will allowed his mind to wander to the sundered corpse of the Chilean ambassador’s husband, the clean cuts severing his limbs from his body. It was more dignity than the man had deserved, being worked into their design. It would have been beautiful.
Will settled on the edge of the bathroom counter as Hannibal opened his bag, sorting through envelopes of money and fake ID, a box of organic protein bars, and finally his med kit. He hissed when Hannibal began disinfecting a knife wound on his forearm. Hannibal licked his lips at the sight. Glaring, Will set his mouth in a firm line and kept his reactions to a minimum.
A small eternity later, they were both clean, dry, and bandaged. Hannibal brought the bag with them to the bedroom. Will fell onto the mattress with an audible thunk.
“Thanks for the thing with that guard.” Will said grudgingly. “It was…kind of arousing, actually.” He closed his eyes, remembering the way Hannibal had flipped the man over his shoulder, snapping his wrist for daring to touch Will.
“Does that mean you forgive me?” Hannibal asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“No.” Will said. “But you can make it up to me.”
Hannibal slid gracefully onto the bed despite his injuries, licking and sucking a trail up Will’s thighs to his stiffening cock. Will sighed and relaxed against the pillows, spreading his legs and letting Hannibal get to work. As irritating as the man could be, he gave a five-star blow job.
His eyes flew open when a slick finger teased his hole.
“Where the fuck did you get lube?” he demanded.
Hannibal continued his ministrations, eyes flicking to the open bag beside them.
“What the actual fuck?” Will sat up, cock sliding out of Hannibal’s mouth with a wet sound. He shivered as the cool air hit his damp skin. “That’s your idea of an emergency kit? Food, cash, bandages—and organic lube?”
“I am willing to do without a great many things.” Hannibal said seriously. “Your touch is not one of them.”
Will couldn’t help it: he burst out into laughter, stuffing a fist against his mouth to control the sound. His ribs ached, probably bruised from the fight, but he didn’t stop. Hannibal’s face twitched into something that may have been a pout, which only made him laugh harder.
Finally, he tugged at Hannibal’s hand.
“Get up here, you sap.” he said. “And bring the lube.”
Chapter 2: Meetcute (Marlana)
Late to class, Alana runs into the woman of her dreams—more literally than she would prefer.
Alana was not having a good day. She was a full seven minutes late to class, and while Dr. Lecter didn’t take roll, he got this aggrieved look on his face that communicated genteel disappoint more thoroughly than a lecture. Swearing under her breath, she glanced down at her watch again, hoping against hope that she’d misread the time.
Which is why she completely missed the woman turning the corner. They collided hard, but the woman must have been stronger than she looked, because she caught Alana in her arms.
“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry—”
“You don’t have to apologize, baby. I missed you, too.”
Alana blinked, on the verge of correcting the woman’s mistake before she saw her mouth, Please.
She looked over the woman’s shoulder to see a guy whose wardrobe and aggrieved expression screamed spoiled frat boy, and it clicked. Smiling, she drew the woman closer, dropping a kiss on her cheek. She smelled like fresh cherries, and it made Alana’s mouth water.
“Who’s your fiend?” Alana asked playfully.
“A classmate.” The woman shot her a smile that made Alana’s heart pound in her chest. “He was just leaving.”
The guy looked as if he wanted to argue, but seeing Alana’s arms draped around his would-be date, he skulked away with a sigh.
To Alana’s surprise, the woman held onto her even when he was out of sight. She looked down to see a pair of green eyes studying her curiously.
“I’m Margot,” she said with a smirk. Her lip gloss was tinted cherry red, and Alana wondered if it tasted like cherries, too.
“Alana,” she managed.
“Can I get you a coffee? To say thanks.”
Alana nodded, trying to force her eyes away from her ripe red lips.
Slowly, Margot leaned up, brushing her lips against Alana’s cheek. Alana couldn’t breathe.
“I have an excellent espresso maker,” she murmured. “At my place.”
Chapter 3: spun from gold
Pragnificent asked for “Alana discussing the ax that’s hanging over her head re Hannibal being loose, and Margot doing something to reassure/comfort/distract her.” I took it in a slightly different direction. TW: mentions of child death
You died in my kitchen, Alana, when you chose to be brave. Every moment since is borrowed. Your wife, your child—they belong to me. You made a bargain for Will’s life, and then I spun you gold. (TW: child death)
Alana has always loved Morgan’s hair, dark as her own but with Margot’s silky texture. He was born with a fall of soft down, and she spent many hours running her fingers through it. Morgan Verger would never want for anything, she promised herself. No powdered milk and hand-me-down shirts for her son. No bed bugs in his mattress or cockroaches skittering down the wall at night.
In her dreams, his hair is matted with blood, his small skull caved in the back. His eyes stare lifelessly into space like a doll’s, only they won’t close again, even if she tilts him back in her arms. In her dreams, she is too shattered to scream.
She finds his mother in their bed, hair fanned across the pillow. She could almost be asleep, but the Egyptian cotton sheets are stained red. With shaking fingers, she reaches to pull back the sheet, but a firm grip on her elbow stops her, pulls her back against a hard chest. Warm lips brush her ear.
“I spun you gold, Dr. Bloom,” he whispers. “And what was spun, I can unravel.”
She wakes from these dreams with tears on her face, trembling silently in the dark. Somehow Margot always seems to sense what she needs. She pulls Alana into her arms, stroking her hair until the shaking subsides.
“Let him come,” Margot says. “We’ll be ready.”
And for that moment, Alana believes her.
Chapter 4: Breakfast in bed
@mrsgurgle requested: “How about Hannibal & breakfast in bed?”
I'm still taking prompts for Hannibal, Gotham, Dishonored, Far Cry 5, or any other fandom I'm familiar with.
Setting the scene is simple for Hannibal, who knows his desires exactly: a bed on a spring morning piles with soft blankets, with a shock of brown curls peeking from the top. He knows the sheets to be Egyptian cotton of the highest thread count possible, hand picked for the way they glowed against his lover’s skin.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, setting down the tray before crawling into the warm nest Will has made. Will curls against his side instinctively, still half asleep, before the smell of coffee rouses him. Hannibal holds the mugs to his lips, brushing a wayward curl out of his face as the sleep clears from Will’s eyes.
“Mornin’,” Will manages, laying his head against Hannibal’s shoulder. “Is that for me?”
Hannibal reaches for the tray, piled high with meats, cheese, pastries, and fruit. “I’m afraid not. You could make your own, if you wish.”
Will snorts and grabs a leek and prosciutto tart, stuffing it directly into his mouth.
“What am I to do with you?” Hannibal chides, brushing a stray crumb from Will’s beard.
The look in Will’s eyes shifts from playful to predatory as he leans closer, tongue darting out to wet his lips.
“The question is,” Will says, “what am I to do with you?”
“Whatever you wish,” Hannibal says without hesitation. “Always.”
When Will closes the distance between them, his mouth tastes of coffee and buttered pastries, of the endless possibilities that lie between them. Will tastes of Hannibal’s own defeat, and that taste is warm and sweet as blood.
“Soup’s on, cannibal.”
Hannibal opens his eyes to the sight of a blank white wall. When he turns his head, a security guard is watching him with contempt through the glass. There is no need for Hannibal to respond, or to change his expression: after a long moment, the guard grows uncomfortable and leaves, no doubt fantasizing of some future humiliation to be visited on Hannibal’s person.
He brings the food to his cot and eats mechanically, ignoring the runny eggs and cold black coffee. These things are immaterial. Nonetheless, he wonders what sort of breakfast Will Graham is having in Virginia.
Nothing to match what Hannibal could make himself. That thought, at least, grants satisfaction.