i know there's a typo

Summary: During Digestivo. Hannibal prepares himself & an unconscious Will for their final conversation. 

Hannibal carried him inside. Chiyoh offered to help. He was tired, after all. Frozen and bloodied, hair mopped to the side of his face, shoulders tense and stiff from having been tied back. But he refused, a silent shake of his head and Chiyoh backed away. Walked to the field, rifle in hand. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate her. How, wordlessly, she knew. This was something he must do alone.

Will lay slumped in the backseat, arms limp on the floor. Dead weight. Hannibal felt the same strain he had the night before when he carried him, though he no longer had adrenaline fueling his body. He brought Will, slow, up the steps, across the porch, over the threshold, reveling in every second of pain the twinge in his back sent lighting up his spine.

Hannibal laid Will down delicate onto his bed. Careful not to wake him with too much movement. Fearing he might break.

He’d need some time to think. Prepare. More time than Will’s body was unconsciously willing to give, so he gave two gentle flicks to the syringe, a steady gentle pressure on the plunger, and Will’s sleep took on a far more tranquil rhythm. He drifted deeper. Hannibal, finally, exhaled.

He took a step back, took a moment. Contemplated the door. It stood open behind him, winter chill seeping in through the gap. And then there was the car. Chiyoh. The ease with which he could disappear. It was, he knew, the most practical option. He could make his way to the coast and set sail, heading someplace quiet and obscure, somewhere Will would surely never find him. He’d have to leave quickly in order to get far enough. He’d have to leave now. Hannibal’s eyes, resting on the doorknob, flicked back to the bed. To Will’s pillow flattened curls, the iron streaks of dried blood along his jawline.

He shut the door quietly, though he knew Will was sedated. Nodded to Chiyoh through the window and set to work. 

He took care of himself first, Will’s shower rattling to life, blood peeling off him here and there, ripping off soaking bandages. Ignoring, as best he could, the cold and awful weight inside his chest. The feeling of his lungs filling with water. Water stinging sharp against the brand on his back, the burn raw, white hot pain in every corner of his body.

Deep, drying breaths. Hannibal redressed himself, his wounds. Turned his attention to Will. He undressed him as slowly as time would allow, fingers gliding over skin with each gentle tug of fabric. Placed a cloth over what Will would not want him to see, wrestling down the urge to look. He’d never looked before and he wouldn’t now, Will was worth more than that. Although.

Hannibal sat up straight and felt, all around him, a tension. An uncomfortable air of finality. A penultimate afternoon. He looked back down at Will.

This could very well be his last chance to look. Admire.

Still, he didn’t. He did allow himself one thing, though, face in the crook of Will’s neck. A deep, slow inhale. Committing the scent to memory, locking it in its own room near the center of his mind, before he began with the water.

There were parts of Will still caked in blood from days prior, places Mason’s men hadn’t taken care of. Patches of rough blood stuck to the skin on his chest, stomach, spilt from where Hannibal had opened his head. He couldn’t deny the bizarre amusement he felt cleaning up the fallout from something he had inflicted, though of course, with Will, it wasn’t the first time. His eyes narrowed as his musings led him to the terrible realization that this would, in fact, be the last time. 

Dabbing gently with warm water, watching close as beads of it rolled across Will’s hips, dripping off his waist. Hannibal changed the bandages on Will’s shoulder. Cleaned the wound across his forehead. Slow and somehow far too quick. He took his deliberate time pressing Will dry with a towel, dressed him up again in warm and comfortable clothes. Smoothing the hair across his forehead, resting his fingers against Will’s face.

He knew this would be the last time. Of course he knew. The last time his hands would grip his face. The last time he’d lay him down onto a bed. Hannibal closed his eyes and lived, for only a fraction of a second, in a world where the opposite was true. Where these actions were the first of many times.

…It was still possible. A tiny sliver of possibility rested inside Will, the chance that his journey sparked a deeper understanding of the truth of him, the truth of Hannibal. How those truths fit together.

But then there was the truth of the bullet wound in Will’s shoulder. The ugly scar across his head. The reality of their situation sat thick at the back of Hannibal’s throat, cold in his stomach.

This was the last time.

So, he cleaned up. Discarded old bandages, positioned Will comfortably, carried a chair to his bedside. Hannibal flipped to a new page in his journal, pausing to open the levy, let icy dread flood through his veins and into his pen. Worked, diligent, at solving the problem that teacups and time had laid out before him.

I personally can’t see Sans being a “father” for Frisk, more like a brother/best friend. I mean he’s so laid back, I’m sure some of the things he would let Frisk get away with would tick Toriel off. So I can’t see him being more than a bro or best bud, just like Papyrus.

Do you ever become self-aware about how you act with your friends like, they’re super cool and you, you are a potato, I mean, potatoes are cool but it’s better to be a French fry

2

I am the Dragon and you call me insane? You are privy to a great becoming, but you recognize nothing. To me, you are a slug in the sun. You are an ant in the afterbirth. It is your nature to do one thing correctly. Before me, you rightly tremble. But, fear is not what you owe me. You owe me awe.

8

Carmilla. Bad Blood style.

in the middle of a panic attack, the blood so violently rushing through your ears and filling your head with noise tricks you into thinking you’re trapped in a hurricane. it feels like there’s no escape. all you can hear is the storm raging inside, and it feels like you’re drowning beneath waves that feed off your fears. you can’t understand why everyone around you seems so calm while you struggle to even stay above water. your lungs close up, flooding with violent anxieties that make it impossible to breathe.

i’ve always thought it was interesting that the first ten seconds of the judge so perfectly capture the roar of a panic attack.

February 2, 2016 [x]

4

▧ Nightcrawler: Boston Screening (October 2014)  | JAKE GYLLENHAAL

but imagine an episode were they’re all invited to a make out party and someone calls up “lucas!” and riley gives one step ahead when they call “maya!” maya wide eyed looks at riley who is with her head down. Maya goes up to her and says “nothing’s gonna happen. I promise”. Lucas and Maya go the closet and stand there when Lucas says “soo” and maya says “well, ranger rick, I promised Riley nothing was going t-” and suddenly she feels a pair of lips against hers. Her first kiss, she didn’t kiss back, she didn’t know what to do. When Lucas saw that, he broke the kiss saying “M-maya I-I’m sorr-” he gets interrupted by a hand pulling him by the shirt and a pair of lips pressing against his. He puts his hand on her waist while she puts hers around his neck, lips moving in sync and nothing else going through their minds than they just wanted more and more of each other.