wintersday (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wintersday) wrote2022-07-31 08:36 pm
wintersday) wrote2022-07-31 08:36 pm
Fic: Reclamation
Title: Reclamation
Fandom: Hannibal
Major Characters/Pairings: Will/Hannibal
Wordcount: 200 words
Rating: Teen
POV: Third person
Summary: You’re not real,” he says. “You’re dead. I drowned you.”
Notes: Originally written as a giftfic for ungefug on AO3
Content notes: Canon-typical cannibalism.
Will wakes in unquiet near-darkness, knowing he’s not alone. He’s monitored at all hours by machines charting his vitals – heart rate, oxygen saturation – but none of them can detect the shadow whose weight is creasing the hospital sheets. That ghost turns its antlered head toward him – a fraught, ponderous motion. Will’s stomach lurches like a boat unmoored: a feeling like fear, like hunger, like desire.
“You’re not real,” he says. “You’re dead. I drowned you.”
“And you drowned with me,” Hannibal says. “We’ve altered each other. Blood can’t be unmixed from water.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ve become you.”
But when Hannibal bends to caress his face, Will turns toward that open palm, kisses that blood-hot skin. It seems to him that mist is seeping through the door, making an island of his bed. In the depths of fever, he saw things no one else could; he’s wondered whether none of them were real. This feels real, but so did the rest of it. He wants it. He should have known he couldn’t both escape and live.
Two choices, then. Simple. Not easy. He can surrender himself, or he can change.
Hannibal’s flesh tears between his teeth as he bites down.
Fandom: Hannibal
Major Characters/Pairings: Will/Hannibal
Wordcount: 200 words
Rating: Teen
POV: Third person
Summary: You’re not real,” he says. “You’re dead. I drowned you.”
Notes: Originally written as a giftfic for ungefug on AO3
Content notes: Canon-typical cannibalism.
Will wakes in unquiet near-darkness, knowing he’s not alone. He’s monitored at all hours by machines charting his vitals – heart rate, oxygen saturation – but none of them can detect the shadow whose weight is creasing the hospital sheets. That ghost turns its antlered head toward him – a fraught, ponderous motion. Will’s stomach lurches like a boat unmoored: a feeling like fear, like hunger, like desire.
“You’re not real,” he says. “You’re dead. I drowned you.”
“And you drowned with me,” Hannibal says. “We’ve altered each other. Blood can’t be unmixed from water.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ve become you.”
But when Hannibal bends to caress his face, Will turns toward that open palm, kisses that blood-hot skin. It seems to him that mist is seeping through the door, making an island of his bed. In the depths of fever, he saw things no one else could; he’s wondered whether none of them were real. This feels real, but so did the rest of it. He wants it. He should have known he couldn’t both escape and live.
Two choices, then. Simple. Not easy. He can surrender himself, or he can change.
Hannibal’s flesh tears between his teeth as he bites down.