idle afternoons

Ololiúqui

Written for #HannibaLibre ♥ A little exploration of domestic murder husbands in Cuba.

[Also on AO3]


The house was a lovely thing, all yellow stucco and red roof tiles, set just outside of Havana. Hannibal had bought it on a whim many years ago; deciding that Cuba’s lack of extradition treaties and the beauty of the landscaping alone made for a worthy investment. When he’d purchased the house it had been winter, and Hannibal been able to see between the leafy trees and barren flower stems to catch a glimpse of the beach that was mere meters away. Now, in height of summer, with all of the flowers in full bloom, it gave the effect of being in a private world created for just the two of them.

Will had taken a liking to reclining on a lounge chair in the backyard in the afternoons, idling in the warm weather while Hannibal cleaned up after lunch or began preparations for dinner. Hannibal stood in the back doorway and watched as Will stretched, all golden brown glistening skin in the sunshine. Will had changed so much- both of them had since arriving in Cuba- but the freedom of their life had allowed Will to blossom like one of the many morning glories that grew up the side of the house.

He’d been hesitant at first, of course. Hannibal had given him access to a bank account and told him to do exactly as he pleased, curious as to what Will would do with the money.

Slowly but surely, the house had begun to fill up with little things that Will brought back from town and added to what Hannibal already owned. Will’s ill-fitted flannels gave way to linen shirts; repairing boat motors to tinkering with broken down classic cars they found around the island. Even Hannibal’s opera music had been edged out in favor of CDs Will picked up from street performers when they went out in the evenings.

It was a collection Hannibal hoped to never stop adding to. A culmination of a full and fully shared life.

Happiness, Hannibal thought, was a very good look on them both.

“Enjoying yourself?” Hannibal asked as he wandered across the yard. The lounge chair creaked as he sat down next to Will and ran a hand over his thigh; unable to help but touch him whenever possible.

“Immensely.” Will smiled, eyes squinted against the sunlight. “And you?”

“Right now, or in general?”

“Either. Both.”

Hannibal gently nudged Will so that he would edge over and make room for the both of them on the lounge chair. Draping an arm across Will’s stomach, he curled up next to him; heedless of the way Will’s sweat-damp skin stuck to his clothes.

“I don’t believe I have ever been so fully entertained in my life,” Hannibal said. “You come into your own more and more every day. I doubt I could ever tire of waking up and wondering what new changes I might encounter in you.”

Will closed his eyes, idly running his fingers over Hannibal’s forearm. “I haven’t changed that much,” he protested.

“You have. You make choices with an ease and confidence you didn’t have before.”

“Do I?”

“Mhmm.” Hannibal pressed a kiss to Will’s shoulder. His hand drifted down, fingers following the trail of hair from below Will’s navel to the top of a pair of dangerously tiny, low slung shorts Will had brought home after his morning grocery trip.

“For example, the Will Graham I met so many years ago would never have felt so at ease with himself as to make a display of lying about in such scandalous attire,” Hannibal said as he toyed with the bow at Will’s waistband.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Will asked with a grin. “Making a display of myself?”

“Yes. And do you know what happens to boys who make such displays of themselves?”

Will pretended to consider the question. “Well, I’m not entirely sure considering I’m pushing forty and thus long past boyhood…”

Hannibal pinched the soft skin of his side in playful reproach. “I see your desire to be contrary still has yet to change.”

“No. And you love me for it.”
“Yes,” Hannibal said. He lifted his hand to Will’s face, thumb brushing over the thin, white scar on his cheek before pulling him in for a kiss. “I very much do.”

Will grasped at the collar of Hannibal’s shirt, using it to pull him in closer until Hannibal was nearly lying on top of him. He sucked at Hannibal’s lower lip with just enough teeth to make Hannibal’s stomach swoop and his toes curl, and then pulled away. “I could have you right here on his lounge chair and no one in the world would ever know,” Will murmured against his mouth.

“Perhaps I’d want them to know.”

“Of course you would.” Will rolled his eyes affectionately and indulged Hannibal in a series of slow, lingering kisses before speaking again. “I was thinking we could go out to dinner tonight. There’s a car I was wanting to look at, could make a good project for me.”

Hannibal nodded. “Of course. And what would you like to do until then?”

“Well, there’s a few things I could think of,” Will said, eyes bright with mischief, and flipped Hannibal onto his back so he could straddle his lap.

There was much to be done before going out. Hannibal needed to iron his shirt, and there was laundry waiting to be put into the dryer. But for now he let himself be kissed senseless. Nestled amongst the morning glories and the sound of the crashing waves, they whiled away the afternoon tangled in each other’s arms. In a world for just the two of them.

[03: 3rd gym] view

There’s a game they play that was born of idle weekend afternoons when the four of them are slightly tipsy and sleepy from talking and catching up. Tsukishima’s head is thrown back while Kuroo’s resting lazily in his lap. At the foot of the couch are Bokuto and Akaashi.

“Let’s play, draw the thing,” Kuroo suggests. Bokuto jumps up enthusiastically as though he’s been waiting for someone to say it.

Tsukishima groans. “Drawings from last time are still on the fridge and I hate having to explain them to anyone who comes over.”

His protests didn’t matter. A moment later Bokuto brings a piece of paper and a pen for every single one of them.

“The thing this time is,” Bokuto says, his leg on the coffee table as if he’s announcing something important. “Your favorite view.”

Tsukishima groans. Again. But he gets to drawing without complains. He draws pretty good, he’s second only to Akaashi. But when the world is slightly spinning, it’s hard to keep a steady hand. Less than 5 minutes later, Bokuto’s announced that the time is up.

“Me first!” Bokuto exclaims. He turns his paper to them and Tsukishima squints at it in order to decipher the messy scrawls.

“Is that me tossing to you…naked?” Akaashi suggests. How he manages to read Bokuto’s drawings is a mystery.

“I saw it in a dream once,” Bokuto says.

“Nice,” Kuroo adds.

Akaashi shows them his drawing, his expression blank of emotions.

“That is for sure Bokuto’s hair blocking the TV,” Kuroo says.

“Correct.”

“Aw, you didn’t tell me I did that,” Bokuto sinks next to Akaashi and touches his knee.

“Because I like it when you fall asleep on me like that.”

Just as they’re about to kiss, Kuroo interrupts them. “Now, my masterpiece.”

The three of them peer at Kuroo’s minimalist drawing.

“Is that…?” Akaashi trails off.

“A pillow,” suggests Tsukishima at the same time Bokuto says “Tsukishima’s butt.”

Kuroo grins. “Same thing. Correct!”

Tsukishima covers his face with his palm and feels embarrassed, not because of Kuroo’s drawing but because he took his drawing the most seriously (again).

“Your turn, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima presses his paper to his chest, but only manages to keep up his act for a few seconds before Kuroo, Bokuto and Akaashi’s curious eyes win him over. Whatever, the last drawing they put on the fridge is much worse than this one.

He allows them to see his drawing. He’s put quite some effort into it for the little time he’s had. He drew a messy sketch of Kuroo asleep by the window, his chemistry textbook under him, sun stroking the gentle smile on his face. Ever since the first time Tsukishima’s seen him like that, it stayed burned in his mind.

Tsukki,” Kuroo murmurs, his hand coming to lightly brush Tsukishima’s fringe out of his face. “I’m suddenly very sober and very in love with you.”

“Me too,” Bokuto adds, Akaashi nodding right after him.

Tsukishima doesn’t mind replacing the last drawing on the fridge with this one.

howdareyoucallmenymphadora  asked:

After he discovers the sketch book pages are missing, imagine Steve storming up to Fury and demanding to know where the rest of the pages are.

Also: “As an add on to the GUT WRENCHING fill from the last one. Natasha goes to shield and tries to get Steves pictures back but is stopped by fury. So she pulls out her secret weapon, captain America fan boy number one: Coulson.”


It takes about a week, but when Steve is allowed to stew in his anger, he can be pretty stubborn. This time, Natasha quietly hopes it all bubbles over and he confronts someone.

Her wish comes true on an idle Thursday afternoon and Steve walks by her in his suit. “Where are you going, gramps?”

“To talk to Fury,” he said, nothing but steel determination in his voice. Natasha is on her feet and following him instantly. “Great, I’m coming with you.” Steve doesn’t question it, because Nat can be just as stubborn. Besides, he could use someone else on his side.

At SHIELD, Fury sees them right away, but he doesn’t say anything when he sees Steve’s face.

“Where are they?”

“Where are who, Rogers?”

“Bucky and Peggy,” he answers, and then realizes what the conversations sound like. “The drawings of them from my book. I was told SHIELD censored them.”

“Ah.” Understanding dawns on Fury, and he nods slowly. “They were disposed of.”

Only Natasha sees Steve’s hands ball into fists.

“I don’t believe that,” he says. “I want them back.”

“No,” Fury responds, his voice too even for either of their tastes.

“Nick-”

“Natasha, don’t.”

This time, it’s only three days before Natasha goes back to SHIELD, alone. The office she bursts into is not Nick Fury’s, but that of Phil Coulson’s. She barely has to paint the portrait of Steve’s face at the Smithsonian, and it’s less than two hours before she’s standing in front of Steve again, very gently laying old, yellowing paper into his hands.

It is, to date, the only time she’s ever seen Steve cry.

What’s in a Name?

“How come you don’t have a nickname for me?”

Iris’s curious tone shakes Barry out of his sleepy trance. The duo was sprawled together onto their shared bed, clad in sweats, or in Iris’s case, pajamas, in the midst of what was supposed to be an idle afternoon nap. Evidently, Iris hadn’t been napping at all.

“What?” Barry rubs his eyes groggily, squinting at the midday sunlight creeping through the blinds.

“A nickname, Barry. I just realized that you don’t have any nicknames for me.”

He keeps his eyes shut for another brief moment, not quite yet ready to come back to reality, before opening them to consider her words.

“Oh. Huh. I guess I don’t,” he contemplates, bringing a hand behind his head.

“That’s not fair,” she pouts, propping herself up on one elbow to face him. “I want one. You get to be Bear.”

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