What I imagine them bitches be doing with their new found power of shared mind palace in season four.
The fire cracks again—soft, like a breath catching in the throat of the room. Orange light drags itself across the walls, bending over bookshelves, pooling in the corners. The room holds no sound beyond the low hiss of wood giving in to flame.
Will’s socked foot taps the air once, then stops. His calf slides a little closer to the edge of the couch. One hand lies open on his stomach, fingers flexing, then falling still again. The other arm hangs behind his head, elbow pointed out like a crooked wing. His gaze, lifted and still, latches to Hannibal’s across the firelight.
Across the low breath of flame and shadow, Hannibal does not speak, does not blink, does not move except for the shallow pull of his chest beneath his shirt and the slight, precise adjustment of his wine glass as he lifts it—not to drink yet, but to consider drinking, to let the idea of the wine touch his mouth before the liquid does. His ankle rests over his opposite knee, foot hanging, toe flexing once before settling again.
Will watches the way the glass touches Hannibal’s lip and lingers. Watches the faint press of skin against glass. Watches the way the swallow rolls beneath the skin of his throat, just one shift, just enough tension to make the bone beneath the jaw stand out for a moment longer than it should, like it’s rising to the surface of him.
Hannibal raises an eyebrow. Just slightly. The corners of his mouth don’t move. He lowers the glass. Doesn’t look away.
Will blinks once, slow. His breathing changes—not louder, not faster, just deeper. A breath that pulls his shirt tight across his chest, then settles.
The flicker between them isn’t spoken, but it passes, flicks like a switch thrown between gazes.
The room does not change—but they are not there anymore.
Inside, the air is thicker, warmer. Not hotter—thicker, like fabric hanging between each movement. The floor beneath Will’s feet is no longer wood but a stretch of handwoven silk, black trimmed in gold. Candles light the space like sentinels. No ceiling light, no furniture, just them, just space, endless and still, drawn out by a low, trembling violin that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, “Erbarme dich” curling around the edges of their hearing like it’s growing up from the rug itself.
Will stands barefoot, shoulders loose, not hunched but sunken, his eyes low until they aren’t. Hannibal walks toward him, unhurried. Each step sinks slightly into the rug, each heel pressing a temporary print into the fabric before disappearing again. When he lifts a hand, the movement is not sudden. His fingers uncurl like they’ve been coaxed. He touches Will’s jaw with the back of his knuckles—not with reverence, not with certainty either, but with a kind of study, like he’s still not sure whether this is touch or memory.
His thumb grazes Will’s jaw, traces the bone to just below the ear. Will’s eyes flutter, a slow, stuttering close, then open again. He doesn't move. His shoulders remain angled toward the floor, neck exposed.
Hannibal’s lips are close, closer, then brushing—not a kiss yet, not really. Just the warmth of breath where it meets skin. Will’s lashes dip, not fully closed, only lowered. A flicker. An eclipse.
In the real room, Will’s hand shifts on his stomach, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric. His lips part. The fire catches the sweat beginning to gather at his temple, turning it gold.
Hannibal’s fingers on the armrest clench, then ease. His head tilts just slightly, like he’s listening to something the fire hasn’t said yet.
Inside, their lips meet—not with hunger, but with inevitability. A kiss that starts in silence and remains there, only breath exchanged, only the soft press of mouth to mouth, then parting, then pressing again. Will leans into it. His hand rises, rests against Hannibal’s chest, not moving, just feeling the shape of his breath under muscle, under bone.
Hannibal’s eyes trace down the column of Will’s throat. He bends, presses his mouth to the pulse there, feels it jump beneath skin. Will’s hand comes up, not to stop him—to rest lightly against Hannibal’s shoulder, fingers splayed, unmoving.
Will’s tongue meets his like it belongs there. Their breath grows shallow between touches.
In the chair, Hannibal leans forward. Elbows to knees. Glass abandoned on the side table. His hands are clasped, knuckles pale. His brow furrows. His gaze doesn’t move.
Will’s hips shift on the couch, legs parting just slightly. His shirt clings tighter to his skin now, sweat visible in the hollows near his collarbone. His teeth press into his bottom lip. He doesn’t blink.
Inside, Hannibal’s hands trace the outline of Will’s hips, fingertips gliding over fabric, pressing slightly at the hem of his shirt, then pausing, waiting for some unspoken yes.
The shirt lifts. It slides over Will’s skin like the fabric is reluctant to let go. Each inch reveals a new contour—the slope of his side, the dip between ribs, the faint line of muscle tightening as the air hits him. Hannibal folds the shirt. Places it beside the candles. His eyes don’t leave Will’s chest.
Will’s stomach tightens. Not from cold.
The shirt lands near the candles. Hannibal steps back to look.
Will steps forward to close the space again.
Hannibal’s fingers run up Will’s spine. Will’s hands frame Hannibal’s jaw. His thumbs rest just below his eyes. Their mouths meet again—deeper now, slower still. A kiss that opens with the softness of sleep and deepens with something older, something ritual.
In the real room, Hannibal’s jaw shifts. A muscle twitches beside his ear. His throat contracts again. One hand is still, resting on the edge of his chair. The other taps once, the faintest touch, against his own thigh.
Will shifts, hips adjusting. His legs open wider on the couch, one knee drawn up a little higher. His breathing has steadied into something tethered to a beat that isn’t the fire’s.
In the mind palace, Hannibal’s jacket slides down his arms, caught for a moment at the elbows, then drops. Will’s fingers move from button to button, knuckles brushing skin, fingers slipping inside to test heat.
Hannibal’s hands find Will’s waist, then his jaw, then his mouth again.
Will bends, presses a kiss beneath Hannibal’s collarbone, then another, just below his sternum. Hannibal’s hand finds the back of Will’s neck and holds it there—not forcefully, just enough to keep him close.
The violin from “Erbarme dich” climbs.
They sink to the rug in silence. Skin to skin.
Hannibal’s hand runs down Will’s spine, then up again, tracing heat. Will’s lips press to his shoulder, then to his throat, then to the hollow just beneath his collarbone, his breath fogging the skin there, his tongue dragging across bone.
Hannibal’s thumb circles Will’s hipbone. Will’s knee pushes lightly against the side of Hannibal’s leg. Their mouths never leave each other for long.
Their breath builds. Shorter now. Will’s head tips back. Hannibal follows. The candles stutter.
Will’s mouth opens but says nothing. His back arches just slightly, and his hands reach for something that isn’t there. Hannibal’s body trembles once, the shake barely visible in the lines of his arms. He exhales, his hands tighten. Their foreheads touch again. Eyes close.
Hannibal slides inside Will in this place of no friction, only sensation, where nothing prevents him from sinking deep with no preparation, sinking deep and deeper, without any limitation. Will’s mouth opens but says nothing. His back arched just slightly, and his hands reached for something that wasn’t there. Hannibal’s body trembled once, the shake barely visible in the lines of his arms. He exhaled, his hands tighten. Their foreheads touch again. Eyes closed.
Hannibal swells inside Will in this boundless place where the body is a mere illusion, where he could fuck into Will's soul, where Will is both fucked and fucking, where they blend and merge, swell and contract, swim in the rupture of separation.
In the living room, Will’s eyes glisten. His throat is red from heat. Hannibal is still leaning forward, but now his gaze has softened. His hands rest on his knees, fingers open.
Inside, Will’s back arches in silence, his breath caught at the height of sensation, Hannibal’s jaw tight, shoulders bowed forward, a tremble running through him so fine it barely disturbs the space they occupy.
Outside, Will blinks. Slow. There’s a single bead of sweat curving down the side of his neck. His arm curls tighter around himself. Hannibal’s breathing has shifted—shallower now, more open. He is no longer leaning forward. His spine rests against the back of the chair like he’s just returned to it.
I don’t see this edit make the rounds enough and it haunts me ON THE DAILY, so I’m giving it the attention it deserves. Come get your hot hot Annatariel mind palace unseen world “my king” goodness 🤤
