17 Works by first_hate
Listing Works
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Hannibal takes a bite of a cupcake and gets powdered sugar on her upper lip, Alana stretches to wipe it off but Will is faster. Hannibal thanks her softly and Will smiles, it gives Alana pause. Will doesn’t smile, generally, Alana had to wear her down for months to see a corner of her mouth lift and Will did it sarcastically.
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The closer he gets to the still, silent man, the more details of his appearance he notices. First, the man is naked, Will shudders in his jacket and moves faster; second, the man’s skin is pale and unblemished, no wounds, no bruises and no dirt. He might not be dead then, hopefully, just sleeping in a bog nude for some reason. If that’s true, Will may be able to save him, he has to get to him faster. His boots begin to sink, it’s more and more difficult to fight the suction, but he’s so close now that he sees the third thing, that the man is absolutely beautiful. Will’s stuck to his knees, he puts his stick on the ground for support and jerks his leg to free himself, several more lunges and he’ll be right beside him.
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The bright overhead light reflects off the white tile floor and blares into his weary eyes. He’s hungry, and thirsty, and his muscles ache. Hannibal can’t find a comfortable position on the squeaky chair so he stands up and walks in circles around the hall. When he passes the vending machine for the third time, he gives up and buys a can of soda, the thought of another subpar coffee makes his stomach turn. The sugary drink is refreshing only for a minute, then he feels a slight tremor run down his body, his head spins and he lowers himself in the chair again, leans his head on the wall and closes his eyes.
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Will is smoking in front of her fireplace and staring at the flames unblinkingly, unseeingly, lost in thought. There are words swirling in her mind and she can’t catch a single one and focus on it, they all are a swarming elusive blob. She knows a lot of words, she loves many and hates many of them, she isn’t sure how to choose. Her lower lip is throbbing faintly and she worries it with her tongue or her teeth to make it bleed again. Her hand, the one that’s not holding a cigarette, keeps coming closer to her crotch and she pushes it under her ass not to get distracted.
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Nor the bed that is haunted with a blanket of thirst by first_hate
Fandoms: Hannibal (TV)
14 Nov 2025
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Hannibal’s nails are always painted. Last week they were wine red just like Will’s are right now, but Hannibal’s were not blood. That day. Hannibal’s nails are also short, Will imagines it’s easier to kill like that, her hands are beautiful and soft-looking, musician’s hands, people say; they don’t know how strong they are and what they are capable of. Will does. She examines Hannibal’s tableaus at work and then examines her fingers, intertwined and resting on her knee, at her office. Will feels awe, she feels longing. She wants to find out if Hannibal’s hands can be gentle.
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“Hannibal Lecter,” he finally says and extends his hand, he prays the man shakes it.
He eyes it suspiciously for a second, like he didn’t expect the gesture, but grasps it firmly. His hand is warm and rough, littered with tiny cuts and white scars.
“Will Graham,” he introduces himself. “Wow, your hand is cold.” Hannibal didn’t notice. “Sorry, that was rude, uh, are you lost though? Are you alright?” Will asks again, he is yet to let go off Hannibal’s hand and Hannibal sure as fuck is not going to let go first.
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Вселенная спит, положив на лапу с клещами звёзд огромное ухо by first_hate
Fandoms: Hannibal (TV)
25 Oct 2025
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He trailed inside the house behind Hannibal like he was spellbound, escaping the icy wind, he allowed Hannibal to take his drenched jacket off his bony shoulders. They ate, they laughed, they talked about something but Will can’t recall what it was, he was paying more attention to how consonants rolled off Hannibal’s tongue.
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With lots of trees and lots of grass and lots of, lots of chocolate cake by first_hate
Fandoms: Hannibal (TV)
22 Oct 2025
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Hannibal’s hair is greying, Will started finding silvery spider webs in his curls. They are going to become old and grumpy together, lose their agility and grace, their joints will grow stiff and useless and all they will be able to do is beat the rude into a pulp with their walking canes, hissing in pain. Will can’t wait.
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Hannibal lifts a hand off his lap and starts reaching towards Will like he is going to pat his knee affectionately but stops abruptly and puts it back. Will wishes he touched him, even after everything those hands put him through.
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Hannibal comes closer to Will. He is sweating, his pale face is wet with perspiration, making his hair stick to his temples. As he comes nearer, Hannibal can see that his long lashes are clamped together, even darker now from crying, there are dried up tear tracks on his cheeks which Hannibal longs to lick and taste the salt of his skin. He stops a step away from Will and Will sways closer, leaning his head on Hannibal’s thigh. He is scorching even through all the layers of clothing Hannibal has on. Hannibal forgets to breathe.
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It is cold, Will is coughing up blood and salt water and Hannibal is not better off. It takes herculean effort to swim to the shore, Will’s shoulder is screaming, his face is pulsing and throbbing and he can’t even imagine how Hannibal is not wailing in agony from the bullet wound in his abdomen. As soon as they crawl out of the ocean onto the wet sand, Will reaches for Hannibal’s hand again. They will run away together, finally, Will is ready, he wants it.
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Will spares less of his attention to the photos of crime scenes and focuses instead on the way Hannibal holds them in his hands, how he tilts his head to the side, exposing more skin of his neck. His expression is neutral and all his movements are measured, but this head tilt seems real and unchecked. Will waits for the next time he does it.
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Their time comes to an end, Will stands up from the chair, does a full body stretch with his hands above his head. He’s so close that Hannibal sees the individual hairs on his lower abdomen when Will’s shirt rucks up a fraction. This is hell.
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Hannibal is gliding through water contributing to the heat in Will’s belly. He is strong and agile, his muscles shift beneath tan skin. When he swims on his back, little droplets of water on Hannibal’s chest shine in the sun, blinding Will, burning his retinas. He doesn’t look away.
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“What about terms of endearment?”
“About what?” Will finally whips his head to the doctor and finds him observing Will with what feels like too much attention.
“Does anyone call you a special cute name to express their affection to you?”
Hearing Hannibal pronounce the word cute makes Will…experience some emotion.
“Uh, I’m not sure. Beverly calls me Graham Cracker sometimes, it’s mostly annoying.” Will searches his brain for something more, there seems to be something more. “Oh, and you called me dear Will once, it was jarring.”
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“Hannibal?”
His voice is garbled from the wound in his cheek and weak from disuse, it’s the first word he said in five days since their fall, the first time he came to from drug-induced sleep Hannibal put him into.
“Yes, Will,” he doesn’t sound much better, who else is he going to talk to if Will is not here to respond?
“Alive…”
With that, Will’s out again. His reply was so faded that Hannibal didn’t have time to decipher whether it was a question or a statement, if Will is happy that they are or dissatisfied with it. Could it be a suffering sigh of disappointment?
Hannibal’s stomach hurts and it has nothing to do with the wounds on his own body. There is a lot to think about.
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At the sound of Hannibal’s soft deep voice Will lifts his head a fraction, focuses for a second on the good doctor’s long legs, clad in expensive slacks and crossed at the knee, continues his gaze up his torso, to the broad shoulders and the neatly styled blonde hair, fixes his eyes there admiring how it catches the light of the office. And that’s the root of the problem, he thinks.