Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This time of year, the evenings are draped in fog. Will sits on his porch with an empty tumbler beside him, his pack snoozing quietly in the cool air. His hands work without intervening thought, whittling the small piece of pine into nothing in particular. He finds he cannot focus anywhere but the middle distance; his vision is wrapped up instead in memories, of borrowed experiences, of imagined happenings.

See?

He doesn’t linger on that moment, when he snuffed out Hobbs’ life with nine eager bullets. To do so would be akin to admitting that what he felt was the wrong side of guilty. It is inappropriate. Better to wade in the lives of others than to accept these thoughts as his own.

The blade of his pocket knife slices easily through the softwood. The texture is all wrong. The wood doesn’t provide that initial tentative resistance, the ensuing buttery slide the way flesh and muscles can. It is dusty, does not nourish him the way the blood might.

But then it is there, all the same. The Merlot stain over the edge of the wood block. He doesn’t feel the nick, not at first, but the slickness on him thumb catches his attention, draws him back to the present.

He doesn’t examine the wood closely to determine if it was an imperfection that caused his hand to slip. It is set aside: insignificant. Will brings his injured thumb up to his lips, sucks with growing focus, tongues along the flap of skin. He pulls the blood away from under the flesh, nurses on it long enough that when he pulls away the skin about the wound is a sickly white before the sluggish red seeps back to fill the space.

See?

The memory of the taste of it, it is all illusion. It should be enough.

Still, his blade is cutting through the skin on his hand before he admits that it isn’t - couldn’t possibly be enough. It is remarkable, the way the blood delays against the edges of the laceration, hesitating for just a moment the way his knife does not.

Then it comes on, thinned by his steady whiskey diet. It obscures the edge of the blade, but still Will directs it carefully. There is a brightness to the pain. It sparks at the knife's point. Demands focus.

The corner he has carved is a small thing, relatively speaking. On the top of his left hand, it is an axis, an origin. Right thumb along the blunt side of the knife, he slides the blade under the edge, pushes. Carves.

The flesh comes off smooth. It falls limply over the knife-edge. Such a small thing, yet the lacerating burn radiates over all of Will’s hand, runs up his arm, settles as tension at the base of his neck.

It’s only lukewarm against his lips, the cool air has robbed it of its heat too quickly. It feels, for a moment, like a dead man’s kiss. Pliable. An unwilling offering.

It slips over his teeth, sits delicate against his tongue. He chews, chews, keeps it with him against his palate. His eyes close as he swallows.

See.

Chapter Text

Hannibal had been unconscious for nearly 22 hours, his lower body long tangled in the thin hotel blanket. They’d both stayed up for the first two days, sped on by too many plans and too little trust between them. Their wounds had been dealt with, first in a cursory manner at a highway rest stop, then more carefully in the bath of the hotel room in which they convalesced.

With no cliffs to tumble over, Hannibal had given in first. In truth, he slipped into unconsciousness nearly effortlessly the moment he laid himself under the plain duvet, his body demanding his surrender in order to start to heal.

At first, the ache Will felt hearing Hannibal’s shallow breathing distracted him too fully to allow for sleep. When he did manage, it was with a familiar restlessness that even near-death could not steal away from him. He was bone tired, but it was no use.

He lay there for the first few hours, in the bed across from Hannibal, doing little more than waiting. His mind was a rush of too many thoughts; it was impossible for any one thing to settle long enough to process. He felt the contrast of its racing against the post-adrenaline weariness of his body.

Room service didn’t wake Hannibal, which was worrisome enough for Will to venture over to press the back of his hand over his clammy forehead. There would be a fever, he expected, once Hannibal’s body worked past the shock of it all.

Apart from the fleeting touch, he felt compelled to keep his distance, caught up as he still was with the need for violence. The memory of it sang through his sore muscles, demanding further sacrifice. And so, he stayed on his side of the room.

The hours were lost first to memories, and then to glimpses of what next, how now. As evening crept into the small hotel room again, Will felt the space between their beds grew wider. The temperature of the room dipped; his skin pebbled stubbornly to trap the escaping heat. From his distance, Hannibal was a forbidden inferno.

As time marched on, Hannibal began to stir more frequently, but still would not wake. His face distorted, now and again, with pain that mirrored in Will as more emotional than physical. Certainly the throb of flesh stitching itself back right would be there, but even in sleep, it failed to manifest across his features.

Despite his reservations, Will lost himself in the study of the display. He leaned forward on the edge of his own bed to catch a clearer view in the weak light, until suddenly, they were laying together on Hannibal’s bed, faces inches apart. His shoulder screamed under his weight, but it was a penitence that he didn’t adjust himself from.

Under the thin skin of his eyelids, Hannibal’s eyes darted back and forth, evidence of a deep consolidation taking place. Will breathed in the smell of clean skin mixed with the sweet heat he associated with past infections. His eyes skipped over the turbulent features in front of him, unsure of what he was looking for.

Delicately, as though he might wake with the slightest disturbance, Will touched his fingers against the slight wrinkles that spread from the corner of Hannibal’s eye. From the touch, an extrasensory shiver: a claiming of intimacy. He moved his hand cautiously to cup Hannibal’s cheek, and felt the subtle shift of the jaw below his palm.

Hannibal’s lack of reaction emboldened Will, stirring in him a craving that has been held back only by the small distance between their beds. His hand traveled down, over the light stubble on Hannibal’s jaw and throat, across the wide span of his bare shoulder. His breath hitched in his throat when his fingers combed softly through the silver hair along his chest. His eyes stayed locked onto the features in front of him, searching for any indication that his wandering hand might trigger Hannibal’s awakening. It felt as much like a breach of privacy as it did a claim of his ownership over what had always been his.

Hannibal moaned, softly, once, when Will dug his fingers sharply - briefly - into the firm chest muscles beneath the hair. It was a fleeting thing, but still it stayed Will from dragging his nails across and down, around the now-stained dressing covering Hannibal’s side. He didn’t let go, though. He wasn’t sure he could.

The first kiss was chaste, a promise more than an act in itself. Will felt the greediness building up in him, and the second time, he pressed his lips harder, then slipped his tongue over Hannibal’s own to catch a taste. His hand clenched over the toned muscles of Hannibal’s arm, just barely resisting the need to claw in.

Will forced himself to gentle his tongue, and pulled back just a fraction. His breath came to him in starts, the air too thin to satisfy the aching need lodged firmly under his ribs. When his nails dug harder into the meat of Hannibal’s arm - possessively - Hannibal’s eyes stopped their dashing movements. He inhaled once deeply; Will found he couldn’t breathe at all. Still, he didn’t let go. Hannibal’s eyes opened, bleary. Blinking, a shared curiosity blossomed between them.

Hannibal’s features, so long worried in sleep, softened as he continued to stare at his bedfellow. Like knowing he can control the tides, Will savored the quiet sense of power it gave him. The thought of it caused his lips to curl in a desirous smile.

Hannibal’s tongue slipped out, slowly tasting Will against his lips. They were close enough that Will caught the quick anticipatory contraction before Hannibal’s pupils blew wide; how his top lip twitched, however briefly, before he could contain the reaction.

A violent thrumming echoed in Will’s chest. Accompanying it, a voice: Mine, all this, ours. Finally, his resistance crumbled.

A flash of pain radiated through this shoulder when he dived forward, answered in kind by Hannibal’s low grunt as he rolled, the exit wound pressed firm against the mattress. Will’s grip upon his arm unyielding; half moons bloomed under his nails, seeped slow upon the pale olive skin.

Then he was on top of Hannibal, his teeth deep in the flesh of Hannibal’s shoulder, and it felt exactly right. It was all he could do not to tear. In his mouth, a taste thick of copper pennies. He clamped down harder, sucked, gnawed. Covetous. Mine.

Hannibal’s hand moved tentatively along Will’s side, then it grasped at the hair at the back of his skull. A surging terror struck Will then, of being pushed away, denied a connection he still wasn’t sure he was admitting fully to himself. But then - Hannibal pulled him in. Urged his mouth closer, harder. Demanding this claim.

Chapter Text

“Be still,” Hannibal commands, petting down Freddie’s sweaty curls, “just a little longer now.”

She’s been here for days, waiting. Undoubtedly spurred on from lack of food, she’s worked herself into a heavy exhaustion from fighting against the ropes that hold her against the chair. The knots have provided no give though the searing pain where they cut into her ankles, wrists, torso, have dulled to a persistent burn.

Will has been as complicit in her captivity as Hannibal, but still she cannot help but watch him, desperate, hoping catching his gaze - reflecting in him that spark of life that still lingers there - might trigger something humane still slumbering deep in him.

It hasn’t worked yet.

She follows his movements around her sparsely furnished condo, feels a sort of sickly revulsion whenever his fingers dance along the edge of her things. They are meaningless to her, except for when he touches them, as though his dominion could extend to the mid-range decor that surrounds the three of them.

Hannibal follows her gaze, ever willing when it leads to Will. Dimly, she wonders how he can still look at him that way, after so long. With such uncloistered delight, tickled by the sheer presence of him in his life.

Will circles the room, his hands work deftly with a string he has looped between his fingers. The figures in the lines shift rapidly, a harmony of mathematics as the string loops over fingers and across itself again and again. It’s clear, he’s had some practice at this.

As Will rounds on them, Hannibal turns to accept him into a greedy embrace. Where there was once hesitancy, denial, admonishment, there is now tongues wrapped around tongues, bodies aching to slam hard against one another. She can appreciate, with a cool detachment that sets off a distant alarm, how uncommon it is to have found this sort of sustained longing.

From his waistcoat pocket, Hannibal produces a suturing needle and offers it to Will, “I believe it’s your turn, yes?”

Will chuckles, but shakes his head and hands over the mess of string instead, “Have you forgotten the Italian journalist already?”

Amusement dances behind Hannibal’s eyes, a silent replay of events she’s only witnessed the aftermath of. To her credit, she doesn’t outwardly shudder.

Will peels himself from Hannibal’s chest, then moves to take his position behind the chair. She gasps, albeit quietly, when his hands pull her hair back, gently, to collect at the base of her neck.

“If it is any consolation, we saved you till nearly last.”

Hannibal smirks at Will’s reassurance, then refocuses himself to quickly thread the needle.

“I should hope so,” Freddie manages, her voice quiet but steady, “I had Jack running circles around you for nearly two years, after all.”

Will’s breath is hot against her ear when he replies, “Murder Husbands Honeymoon in Cuba. Yes, that was a welcome reprieve for a time.”

Hannibal drags a stool close to where she is secured, then sits. “Indulge me, Ms. Lounds: did you have us tracked for the duration, or was this a more recent development?”

Freddie swallows, her tongue dry in her mouth. “I - Yes, I knew.”

Hannibal’s eyebrow lifts simultaneous with the quick tug against her hair where Will is still running his fingers through it.

“Then the tail - you wanted to smoke us out.” Will doesn’t ask, his understanding of the pieces sliding effortlessly into place. Freddie nods, all the same. “You must have seen this coming, then? One way or another.”

“You may not have always seen eye to eye with Will, Ms. Lounds,” he pauses when Will snorts, tugging harder on her curls, “but I admit that I will miss your stories now and again.”

Freddie tries to stay quiet, but cannot stop the tears from spilling over. She blinks them away indignantly. Hannibal looks up over her head at Will and nods, once. Will answers by drawing her head back into a tight hug against his chest. His hand grips firm against her jaw, the other wrapped around her forehead. Like this, her teeth are clamped together, and they grind against each other when Will adjusts the positioning of his grip.

There’s no use in holding back anymore: Freddie knows as sure as anything that there will be no more tomorrows. Still, their calmness reflects back on her. Though she cannot steady her breathing, only a quiet whimper escapes her.

Hannibal holds the curved needle between gloved fingers, leans in and begins. The tip of the needle is sharp, gratefully, but when it has pushed through her lower lip to let the string follow, she can’t help squirm against Will’s hold. The feel of the rough fibers pull through the flesh, and on the second piercing it snags. Hannibal tuts softly, pulls more firmly, and Freddie tries to resist the impulse to open her mouth to scream.

He makes short work of sewing her shut, hands deftly working the needle in through the lower lip and out over the top with a single motion. Freddie can taste the blood, though it is mild. There are beads of it against her upper lip, the rest soaked up in the coarse fibers of the string.

Her tears are flowing in earnest now. When Hannibal finishes, Will keeps her head steady for a moment longer, then squeezes her tightly before he pushes her away. The tail of the string has been left long, and Will picks it up between fingers, tugging once. She hates him, knows she’ll only grow to hate him more.

“What’s your wager, then?” he says, letting the string fall through his fingers and turning casually to Hannibal.

“Oh, at least four.” he replies, a smile spreading over his face as he regards her.

Hannibal stands, then places a gloved hand on Will’s cheek. A stray smear of blood rubs off against his cheekbone. Will nuzzles into the embrace, eyes half-lidded.

“She may be stubborn,” Will considers, “but she’d only be the second to make it past two.”

Freddie, of course, cannot ask what they are referring to, if more or less is better, if somehow, this might be done quickly. She keeps her lips pressed tightly together, mindful of the little slack of the string crossed back and forth over her mouth. Her tongue works within the confines of her mouth, mimics the way it would roll if she could only speak.

“Is that your bet, then? Two?” Hannibal asks, and he leans in to bite softly against Will’s jaw.

Will hums, nods, “Same rewards as last time?”

“The next one is your choice, of course.” Hannibal steps aside then, to retrieve the the small boning knife and passes it over to Will.

“Right then. First your mouth, now your fingers. Then maybe, depending on how things go, your tongue.”

At the sharp stab of the blade above her knuckle, Freddie’s mouth tries to open to let out the gasp. The throbbing tug of the thread stops her quickly enough, though she whimpers as Will works to remove the meat off the first proximal bone.

The need to scream will surely overcome her stoicism, ripping stitches clean through her lips. Her mind floods with the shoots from the Italian they’d found some weeks back - the torn, swollen mess left behind. But the pain is building quickly. She muffles her agony behind her lips when he snaps the bone away from the knuckle. The scream stays locked in, her throat thick with it. He gives her a satisfied look, though below it, she thinks he may be mildly impressed.

Fuck Will Graham, she thinks, as he begins on the second finger. She’ll be damned if she doesn’t make it to three before she gives in.

Chapter Text

They never made it into the house. Hannibal held the intention, but didn’t resist when Will folded himself onto the cold patio bricks and tugged gently on his intertwined hand. The bullet had gone clear through, it’d be some time until he’d need to see to it - if it hadn’t nicked anything important. His mind was dizzy, his body so willing to lay down. He winced as he bent, tucked himself beside Will.

On Will’s other side, the pool of Dolarhyde’s blood spread against his arm. Hannibal regarded how his fingers first twitched against the wetness on the stone, only to settle, fingers splayed in the mess. They both lay still for a time.

Above them, the stars were clear. The cold March air burned against his fevered skin. Will relinquished himself to the evening and closed his eyes, etching the placement of each constellation relative to themselves forever into his mind. Hannibal watched Will.

His shirt, now a canvas of collective blood, camouflaged the locations and severity of his injuries. His face was painted with it. When he breathed, Hannibal caught sight of the occasional frothy bubble emerge from along the gash on Will’s cheek.

When Hannibal’s finger skirted the edges of the gash, Will jolted, his breath sucked up in a gasp. His gaze fell questioningly on Hannibal, then he wrapped his own hand around Hannibal’s and brought it, slowly, towards his mouth instead.

He let Will guide his hand, enraptured, focusing on the way his tongue darted across its pad to clean his finger of blood. Will’s eyes stayed on Hannibal, his tongue moving more confidently as he sucked in more of his finger.

Curiosity gripped Hannibal. He hooked his finger to brush across the inside of the gash. The hiss Will made at the touch made his stomach lurch. Will flinched, then sucked harder on the intrusion in his mouth as though he could guide it away from the wound with his tongue.

With his middle finger, Hannibal traced the soft cupid’s bow of Will’s lips, committing the tactile sensation to the visual memories he had already drawn upon for years. Will opened wider, accepting the second digit.

Where once his body had begun to calm, Will’s chest now rose high before sinking low again, as though he might inhale the scent of the night and lock it in his lungs for later. His fingers loosened their grasp on Hannibal’s hand and fell to rest along his wrist, just above his pulse point.

Hannibal pushed his fingers in deeper, then pulled them out until Will’s teeth gripped them in a plea to keep him near. He heard a soft, choked whine; unsure of its origin. He bent his fingers as he slid them back in, pulling from Will a sort of agonized moan. Hannibal teased against the inner edges of the wound.

His body fiercely protested as he leaned forward, his muscles swollen stiff around his wound. His lips poised above Will’s cheek, he paused to let the pain wash over him. Slowly, he laid it just below the edge of the gash, savoring Will’s shaky breath. His tongue traced the edge where Dolarhyde’s blade has stabbed clean through; his fingers pushed lightly against the ripped inside of Will’s mouth. Will’s ensuing shudder sent a shiver racing down his spine. Where his fingers applied pressure, the gash bulged, felt a fresh surge of blood trickle over. Hannibal teased the tender insides with his tongue; below the flavor of the blood he could taste the tang of the parted flesh.

Will was shaking quietly now, though his hand stayed light on Hannibal’s wrist. He nudged Will’s cheek with his nose, breathing in his sweet smell - of shampoo, of blood, of pine forests and rich red wine.

“Brilliant boy,” he breathed.

Then he plunged his tongue directly into and through the gash, felt the tip of it with his own fingers that massaged either side of the slit. Will cried out in earnest then. He didn’t move away from the assault. A sob wracked Will’s body as his tongue wiggled between the skin, wrapping slightly along the smooth inside of his mouth.

The corners of the gash pulled to give entrance as Hannibal thrust in deeper, purposeful. He straightened his fingers and immediately, Will sucked them greedily, nursing them as though to comfort himself against the pain.

Distantly, Hannibal wondered how far Will would let him take this. The thought made him ravenous; he pushed his mouth harder against the ruined cheek, letting out a satisfied groan. Will’s grip tightened around Hannibal’s wrist, his next move uncertain. Finally, he pulled Hannibal away. With great effort, he acquiesced, parting just enough to memorize the delicious agony warping Will’s features. Their eyes locked. Exhausted, Will smiled.

Chapter Text

“In my dream, you always come up to me from behind. Wrap your arms around me, like you did just now.”

Hannibal lifts his chin to rest on Will’s shoulder and makes a considering noise, “Before I kill you?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it a mercy, to not see face-to-face?”

“For who?”

Hannibal rests his lips against the edge of Will’s ear, worries it slightly between his teeth before answering, “Hmm, when I kill you, do you think I will deserve your mercy?”

Will shifts in his arms, turning himself onto his back and looks more closely at the honey-rimmed eyes observing him. “You held me, in my dream. You would, wouldn’t you?”

“I would press myself flat against your back. You’d feel my heartbeat against your spine.”

Hannibal’s hand shifts down Will’s stomach, away from the taught friction of his smile, to rest teasingly against his growing erection. Will gasps, quietly, then closes his eyes.

“When it happens, you will do it slowly?”

Hannibal’s hand scoops lower, grips his balls firmly enough to make him wince, then buck up slightly into the sensation.

Will continues, “In my dream, you don’t stay. You make it last, but you leave.”

He feels Hannibal’s tongue, rough against his perk nipple. Feels the sting as it’s caught between sharp teeth. His hand is moving, slowly, so slowly, stroking along Will’s cock. He’s hard now, feels a delicate warmth grow in his belly.

“I would want to relish in it. Sink into you. I would do it slow. I would stay.”

His hand speeds up a fraction, his own erection presses firm against Will’s side. A grimace passes over Will’s face when he adjusts his grip to be a little too tight. Their breathing comes faster.

“Ahh.. fuck. When I dream it, you pull my guts out like magician’s silks.”

Hannibal bucks into Will’s side a fraction, sucks hard against his chest.

“Eventually, you lay me down. You take my ki- ah, Hannibal it’s too tight -” he squirms, though his declaration only spurs Hannibal to shift his position, tug hard on his balls with the other hand.

A cruel smile, “I take your what, Will?”

Will’s voice quivers, but he continues, “My kidney. You lay me down and you rip it out of me. You - Jesus, Hannibal - you use your..”

“Teeth?” he questions, and Will moans loudly in response. Hannibal lowers his mouth to swallow his cock. He can’t help himself, the heat of his mouth is just right; he thrusts himself down Hannibal’s throat, grabs him by the back of his head and fucks into him relentlessly.

His stomach tenses, the scar tissue ripples as it shifts, and he comes into Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal stays to collect the offering, then lazily climbs back up so that he hovers over Will, caging in his heaving chest between his arms.

Will leans up to meet his mouth, then recoils at the impact of his still-warm come spit onto his face, into his eye. He’s still shaking from his orgasm. Something in his brain fizzles with the incongruity of feeling so humiliated in the wake of being so satisfied.

Hannibal places his hand firm along Will’s jaw. He face softens, and he draws his tongue up and over Will’s release.

“Sweet William, you are so beautiful when I hurt you,” he whispers, directly to his mouth. “Soon enough, it won’t be a dream. I’ll make you suffer, make you beg for it. And then…”

“And then.”

“... I’ll eat you up. I love you so.”

Chapter Text

The hood left him completely blind, and with a dulled sense of smell. Where his head would normally swell with the rich bouquet of odors coming from the lavish gardens, he could only appreciate the crispness of the early autumn air. Sounds were muffled, though available if he directed his focus. It left him awash with tactile sensation, seizing his brain’s resources to concentrate fully on the way his naked body felt in the cool night air. A light breeze caught across is body; Hannibal felt his vestigial reflex respond, imagined the individual hairs along his arms, his upper thighs, rise up and away from his prickled skin. His shoulders ached, the ties too tight to allow him the mobility to adjust his positioning against the fence.

He was excruciatingly hard.

The space in the gardens that he’d been chained to was open, uncovered, though relatively unfrequented. At this early morning hour, and at some distance from any of the entrances, the space tantalized him with its feigned privacy. He wasn't alone though, and that served to make the long waits between events agonizingly more delightful.

Once in a long while, he would hear them approach, and his cock would twitch in anticipation. He’d listen for their footfalls, the casual chatter if there was a small group. Usually, there’d be a slight pause, about 20 yards out. The lighting was poor in this section of the gardens, but the moon was plenty full.

At this point, if they were paying attention, some of the late-night patrons would turn quickly on their heels and retreat back the way they had come. A tease.

If they kept on, however, he'd have to hold his breath, contain the urge to strain himself against the bonds. He’d wait to hear their sharp intake of breath, or the curious obscenity that would slip out from between their lips. His chest would tense, just a little.

Most didn’t come closer; they'd stay glued to the distant weaving path and follow it, hurriedly, away from the figure spread against the iron fencing off near the garden’s outskirts. Sometimes, when they felt they were safely out of the way, he’d hear the couples pick up a strained and excited dialogue as they hastened on.

No matter. He only needed one.

It'd been easily approaching two hours when one man - his heavy, steady steps giving him away as slightly taller, more meaty specimen than average - approached and paused predictably a dozen or so yards out. When Hannibal heard his trail lead off the gravel walkway, he allowed himself to squirm - just slightly - with wanting. He could hear the man’s loafers slide, then sink into the lush yard. A bead of pre-come leaked from his slit, cooling rapidly against his skin.

It wasn’t more than two or three yards that separated them when he heard the man stop again. At this distance, there would be no mistaking the display presented for him. He relished in the thought of how the stranger would drag his eyes along his body. First, to the hood, trying uselessly to look past the leather, through the small breathing holes. To the heavy lock that secured it tight around his neck. To the thick thatch of silver hair along his torso, along his firm skin, smooth except for a sparse collection of old scars. This close, they’d be able to read the crude Sharpie notes, scrawled repeatedly over his stomach, on his thighs:

USE ME.

On cue, the man let out a low, pleased chuckle. Under the hood, Hannibal smiled.

Gotcha.

The man’s voice was gruff, slurred from drink. Hannibal didn’t need to know the language to understand the intention behind the words. He tensed his thighs, shifted his shoulders as best he could, tilted his head down.

Submitted.

The sound of the man's footsteps resumed, closing the remaining distance to where Hannibal stood: spread, bound, and at the stranger’s mercy. For Hannibal, his focus fell onto the sound of the man, shuffling closer, sliding his jacket off his shoulders, it landing with a flop on the soft grass. He felt hot breath against his shoulder: greedy, insistent.

The firm grasp of the man’s hand around his cock made him shudder. He sucked in a breath. When the hand didn’t move, Hannibal tilted his hips forward, encouraging him on. That was enough.

As he was stroked, the stranger pressed his own growing erection roughly against Hannibal’s thigh, rubbed himself with increasing abandon as he got caught up in the indecency of what was happening. The rhythm of the man’s hand on him was wrong: sloppy, uncaring. He ached from it, all the same.

The man against him was losing control fast; his other hand unbuckled his belt when rutting became insufficient. Hannibal knew that, engrossed in such an obscene offering, the man would not hear the soft padding of bare feet coming towards them from the treeline.

This was his favourite part.

Hannibal bucked into the stranger’s hand, let a huff escape into the near-suffocating heat inside the hood.

There was never any struggle. Maybe a muffled surprised cry, maybe a tap dance of feet, or a desperate flailing of hands reaching back to latch onto the attacker. Maybe, though it was always a quick, useless sort of fuss. Then it’d be over.

Hannibal groaned, loudly, as the first hot spurt hit him, splashing across his upper chest, onto his stomach. The sudden loss of the man’s fist around his cock left him on edge, rocking himself into the empty space. As the warmth of the spilled blood coated his torso, his head filled with the bubbling gurgles, choked broken breathes of the stranger as he succumbed to his injury.

Hannibal wished he could see the lights dim, then go out. The reminder of this denial compelled from him another moan.

The body slumped, then fell as a mass by his feet. Hannibal wiggled his toes to touch him, the warm, wet skin, the edge of the man’s soaked button-down. He arched his back, stretched his leg, trying to put more of himself in contact with the sacrifice, but to no avail. His desperation was showing.

“Darling, I’m here.” Will’s voice sounded sated, satisfied.

Hannibal felt a firm hand once again wrap around his length, though this time the twist of the wrist, the blood-slick slide of his palm along his shaft were carefully practiced, familiar movements. Hannibal gripped back his delight, clenched his abs tight to hold onto the dizzying euphoria. Finally, he threw his head back and let go.

Chapter Text

“Tighter! Fuck - please, just -”

Hannibal dropped the rope, placed his palm flat upon Will’s spine, his other firm on his breastbone. The pressure against his chest did little to calm his shaking. Hannibal tugged on the jute running across his chest, and the coarse fibers rubbed against his sides. The sensation stole his thoughts away - if only for a moment - from the spinning panic inside his mind.

“Shhh, love. Almost. Breathe.”

Will nodded, terror still alight behind his eyes. “I’m sorry - I just. I can’t - Please, I just need this.”

Hannibal nodded, picked up the discarded rope and continued his work. The jute ran rough through between his skin and the knots. Will whined, trying desperately to hold back the panic licking nauseatingly at his throat.

“This was -” he shut his eyes tight, breathing once - twice - three times, “- a bad idea. I’m not sure this is going to-”

Will stopped the moment he felt his feet lose contact with the floor. Frantic, he looked over to Hannibal, who was drawing the rope tight, securing it.

“There’s nothing left for you to do, Will. Breathe. Close your eyes, and breathe.”

A quiet sound, the faraway trickle of a narrow stream, toppling over pebbles. The consuming buzz of the forest, secretly alive. It was there, for a moment, before the surging panic snuffed it from his mind. He could get it back. Breathe.

In the ropes, his body’s shaking caused him to softly sway.

The lick of the flogger against his right shoulder made him twist, bringing Hannibal just into view. He contorted his neck, locking eyes with him. At the small curve of his lips, the tempo of his heart calmed several beats. A hint of babbling water, in the distance.

Hannibal moved forward, wrapped more rope around his bound arms, secured first one and then the other to opposing beams to keep him from spinning. He moved towards Will, now immobile, upright and bared before his partner. Hannibal gripped the knot that rested over his sternum, pulling him a fraction closer.

“Yes?”

Will was already sweating. His mind’s anxiety was gradually being replaced with anticipation, though its physical effects still rampaged through his autonomic system. He was cold, shivery; his toes felt tingly, though he knew it wasn’t from the ropes.

He nodded, a small thing, keeping his eyes locked on Hannibal, “Please,” he whispered, allowing his desperation to show across his features.

Hannibal leaned forward, his lips just barely grazing Will’s smooth chest. He knelt to retrieve the flogger, played the subtle leather strips across Will’s thighs, up across his chest. Then he stepped back, extended his arm and let down the first brutal whip against his pecs.

He felt the pain deep, a promise of sensation that would rob his mind of its ability to overreact, to run and run and never stop thinking. Will let out a shuddering sigh. A birdsong whispered across his temple.

Again.

Again.

Hannibal varied the rhythm of the strikes, their location. Let Will’s thighs brighten first under his assault. Then his chest. His ass. As he worked, Will could feel himself slipping, his body tensing no long against itself but in eager welcome for the next blow. He felt lighter, wrapped tight in the ropes. A promise of weightlessness. Floating, the stream’s current holding him up.

When Hannibal let loose a long series of hard, rapid whips against his upper back, Will allowed himself a sob, a needy sound that pulled from him the unraveled knot that had previously wound tight in his chest.

“Good, mylimasis. You’re nearly there,” he let out, pausing for a moment to quiet his breathing. Will felt the warm smoothness of Hannibal’s hands run over the fevered heat of his back. He knew Hannibal was memorizing the ruddy colour of his flesh, the prickles of red streaked long by the individual leather strips. Around the ropes, the tickle of fish, a casual bump and nibble.

“More,” Will gasped.

“Of course. Feel me,” he said, wrapping his arm along Will’s torso, “this is real. Hold on to it. Remember.”

He picked up the flogger and began again.

Chapter Text

Theirs was the last appointment, dusk long come and descended into a quiet navy winter night. He stood, admiring the soft blanket of snow that covered his front walkway and bushes. He’d purposely left himself a buffer between the appointments with Will and his other clients: he relished the dedicated time where he could unleash himself into the possibilities that their timelines might reveal. Imagine which futures he may be able to tilt, carefully corner into submission.

Will’s car was parked out front, though he wasn’t due for another half hour. He thought he could see a figure in the driver’s seat, but the steady snow created a visual static that made it difficult to see past.

He considered messaging him, suggesting he come in from the cold if he were merely waiting in his car. He watched the car for a moment longer before grabbing his coat and making towards the door.

Will was there, Hannibal confirmed, as he rounded the vehicle towards the driver’s side. He made no move to indicate he’d recognized - or even seen - Hannibal approach. With his hand on the handle, Hannibal paused, looking closely at Will’s vacant expression. His eyes were front-facing, but unfocused. Hannibal wondered, momentarily, if he was drugged.

He opened the door slowly, as if to avoid startling a sleeping dragon. He realized then that he was - sleeping, at least. With the door open, Hannibal saw the slow rise and fall of his chest. Interesting.

“Will?” he asked, not quite quiet enough for the everyday noises of the street to carry the words away.

Will didn’t respond, as he expected, though his voice seemed to trigger in him some sort of somnambulistic impulse. A fascinating thing, watching the body move on pure autopilot. Will pulled the keys from the ignition, and Hannibal stepped aside in time as he clambered out of the car. A curious twinge hit in his chest, slight, a suggestion of a yet untested interest. Interesting, indeed.

A small smirk tugged along the corners of his mouth as he watched Will move insensibly towards Dr. Lecter’s office. After a beat, Hannibal closed Will’s car and followed.

Inside, he studied him from the doorway of his office as Will walked past his usual chair and headed instead to stand in front of the fire. He waited for what followed, but Will only swayed minutely, the red-orange heat licking across his face.

“Will,” he tried again, though his voice remained quiet.

Hannibal moved closer; he now hovered close behind him. He breathed in his scent, deeply, uncensored. There was a fever, low-grade, a sweetness that Hannibal had always associated with Will but which nevertheless felt foreign, undesired. And beyond that, cold, dogs, cologne, then a natural scent that held no equivalent to compare it to. A chemosensory signature that normally he'd have to steady himself against lest he reveal his affectation.

He must have fallen asleep in his car, arrived early and resolved for a quick cat nap. He must not have expected this, surely. Hannibal wished, for a moment, that he had.

His hand hovered over Will’s shoulder momentarily before settling gently down. He steps closer, his chest brushing just a fraction across Will’s button down. His other fingers rested, one by one, onto the jut of his hip, then he pulled Will in, pressing out the air that had kept them apart.

In his mind, a dozen possibilities, each more debauched than the last. His cock swells as each are inspected, holds himself close against the curve of Will’s ass.

“Will…” he breathed, his head dipped, his lips just shy of the delicate skin behind his ear. Loose curls tickled, teased, against his cheek.

One more breath. One more.

Then he stepped back and moved towards his own chair. In his mind, another forking path that they might take, one that leaves him more satisfied - if only in the short term - than that which he has chosen. Then, clearing his throat, he speaks up for the first time since spotting the car.

“Will,” the sudden bark of his voice, much louder than he'd prefer, jolts Will from his torpor, “if you would kindly take your seat.”

Will looks around, dazed. His hands run through his hair, push up his glasses to rub the sleep from his eyes. Once he recognizes the location, he turns to find Hannibal where he’s expected, “So - sorry Dr. Lecter. What were we saying?”

Chapter Text

The cut is sloppier than he should have allowed himself. Even laid out, strapped down to the dining table, there is far too much available rotation to render this a clean procedure.

But then again, how much does that matter, anymore?

The line of the bone saw runs across the forehead, back past the ears before making a 90 degree turn and joining along the dorsal plane. It is excessive, Hannibal recognizes. He’d let his forgiveness whir through him, spill out via the sharp teeth of the circular blade.

The skin folds away easily, partially obscures Will’s eyes; he doesn’t react. Then he is lifting off his skull flap, more careful than he has any need to be. There would be no pain to be registered, not beyond that already caused by the saw. That Will is registering much of anything through his sedation is debatable.

The thought pangs in his chest, a sort of grief over a lost opportunity.

The sight of it - the throbbing, pink, vulnerable sight of it. A tender, bloody yolk, braced against the confines of a cracked shell.

It affects him to stillness. Hovering, skull fragment still in hand, the sight of Will Graham, at his most biologically naked, rips tears from his eyes.

Taking a more precise blade, he slices through meninges, peels back the thin covers that leak clear cerebrospinal fluid out over the pulsing mass. It makes everything slick. In his mind, his hands lurch forward, pet ridges and dig into natural grooves, pry lobes apart, tear at the thick band of nerve tract that keeps Will’s two halves united.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare fall in with such reckless abandon. Will is to be savored, this subdued, supple thing. He catches the subtle move of his lips, forming silent words, strung together as nothing more than nonsense.

His hands are bare, the thinnest gloves would be too intrusive, serve as glass walls, keep him cleanly apart - separate, other - from Will. Conjoined, inseparable Will.

He had a plan, however unfledged it had been. With Bedelia, he felt it plainly, a full stop to a twisting, delicious but run-on sentence. Something circling around a truth, too stubbornly enamored with its own existence to come to its final point. In front of the Primavera, he felt prose spin, dance, twist untamed into music. The promise of a full orchestra, a decades long opera. At that moment, he would have happily devoted himself to its composition for the rest of his days.

But now. There was an end in sight. A necessity. Theirs was a story that had led to this moment, inescapably.

Will’s shoulder twitches, involuntarily, when a heavy tear falls across jutted cheekbone to land along the stripe of motor cortex. A connection, near immediate, separated by only tens of milliseconds. That which Will pulls out of Hannibal returned back, to knock along motor maps and trigger a cascade of neurons from brain to spine to muscles. An emotional shiver, shared between them.

He imagines the closing of their loop, the sensory feedback compared against expectation, the responding blossom of recognition, devotion, consumption that might grow rampant from the tear's seed.

With it, a sparking sense of completion he wasn’t aware he’d needed after he’d forcibly cut it out that night in his kitchen.

He leans in, mesmerized by the thump thump thumping of Will Graham. There’s a distinct scent beyond blood and salty fluids and the remnant sweet tang of bone dust. This, this smell is of him.

With the end of the scalpel’s handle, he hovers over the gyri, recalls what each section would house of this man, this inevitable man. Just behind where his tears had hit, the regions that what would have screamed out as his knife ripped through his stomach, or registered Hannibal’s firm grip on his failing body as he helped him return here after Chiyoh had hit her mark. Just in front, the maps and associative areas that make up Will’s movements, his mannerisms. How his hands trace over inanimate objects; how he worries his fingers when he thinks, or twitches with unrestrained understanding. Beyond that, undeniable Will: decision making, planning, empathy, problem solving. A host of higher cognitive functions that separate Will from the rest of the herd. A masterpiece, this tiny, defenseless thing.

The metal’s edge makes contact with the near quivering mass, rests atop a well defined bulge in the motor cortex, his restraint holding just enough to avoid damage. He exerts a pressure, just a breathe. It is a singular delight, to watch the way his hand twitches, confused, uncoordinated. A hair over, he presses again and he relishes in how Will’s fingers flutter. A private dance, choreographed and performed only for Hannibal.

Suddenly, he knows that this cannot be their end. Not yet.

And yet…

Scalpel clattering to the floor, Hannibal approaches further, mouth an inch from the long cavernous fissure separating the two hemispheres. His tongue trembles behind his teeth, the smell overpowering. When he moves, he is light, careful. Devoted. Under the thousands of receptors, a dizzying taste of blood mixing with a salty metallic wash of cerebrospinal fluid. He follows the sharp edge of his skull with his tongue, laps softly, oh so softly, over Will Graham, over his sense of self, his moral compass, his self-imposed antisocial demeanor. His body vibrates as he resists the urge to sink his teeth in, consume.

Not yet. Not now.

Under him, Will mumbles, dry mouthed and drugged, “Wendigo.”

Chapter Text

“Hannibal… Could you - I'm cold, can you bring that blanket up?”

“Of course, Sweet William. Is this alright?”

“Yeah. Thank you. Will you stay? For a bit, at least?”

“For a time, I can.”

“It itches.”

“Where?”

“My arms.”

“Mylimasis, your arms are gone.”

“My leg then.”

“Which one?”

“The one we ate.”

“You are surrounded by phantom limbs. A mere distraction. Your mind is unwilling to accept your body's new reality.”

“I know. It’s just - I can feel them all the time. They itch and throb. And.. it’s almost like I can feel you breathing, under my arm.”

“You are embracing me?”

“... yeah.”

“You are glorious, Will.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Surprised? Maybe not. Pleased. This has been a smoother transition than I had first anticipated.”

“You didn’t plan for the catharsis.”

“No.”

“I don’t think I could have, either. I didn’t think... I didn't know I could feel whole.”

“When did it happen, Will? When did you feel complete?”

“The roast. The one with the thyme and honey. That was the first time I felt it."

“By consuming yourself, you found sustenance in your own existence.”

“You have shared me. I am more than just myself.”

“I am you. I have you in me.”

“Yes. But… will it last? It never has, before. I get these glimpses. You make me full, but I’m… it might never be enough.”

“Will you live with that? If it is always temporary - would you suffer that insatiable emptiness?”

“That isn’t my choice.”

“It could be.”

“Hannibal - that’s - that’s not how this works.”

“This?”

“You won’t stop. We both know you can’t. After my other leg, you won’t be able to take anything as inconsequential. Don't talk to me as though I'll die of old age.”

“You consider your independence - your freedom - inconsequential?”

“I lost my independence long before you took my arms.”

“I could stop. I might, if you asked it of me.”

“Hann- Don’t. Don't make me do that.”

“If you asked, I might. We might travel. Find fulfillment in the world beyond ourselves.”

“Travel? You can't be serious.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“It isn’t. Don’t dangle carrots. I can’t run after them.”

“Or we could move, at the least. Somewhere in Tuscany, by the coast? Perhaps a seaside villa outside of Marseille?”

“You’d keep me, the way I am? Take me and take care of me?”

“Our bed might face out to the water. We'd keep the french doors open, to feel the breeze. Would you like that?”

“I - I think this is a fever dream."

"You are quite well, Will. Your body has adjusted beautifully. You will be fit for travel soon, with enough rest."

"You're serious."

"How lovely you would be with some colour. And I might find inspiration for my drawings. Restore the vaults of my mind."

"I - I don't know. Christ, Hannibal."

"It doesn't appeal to you?"

"No - it's not. I think.. I might like it. Yes. It might be ok.”

“Ok?”

“It’s… an adjustment. I never expected to leave this house.”

“But you could.”

“Yeah. Yes.”

"Would you ask it of me?"

"Hannibal. Fuck - I don't know. Could we? Can we move? Will you take me with you?"

“Someday, mylimasis. Perhaps. For now, come here. Let me massage your calf, I know how stiff you get laying here all day.”

“...you want me tender.”

“It's best to keep our options open, yes?”

Chapter Text

“You want to hurt me?” Hannibal breathes, crowded close to Will’s side, words hot against his cheek.

He nods, restrained, but Hannibal reads the hopefulness that bends his eyebrows and makes his lids rest heavy over his eyes.

“What is it that you want tonight, Will?”

He doesn’t make to move; keeps his hands flat over the tight muscles of his thighs. His chin lifts up a fraction, but he keeps his eyes down, focused intently on the joins of the hardwood.

His voice is quiet, but no less sure for it: “I want your blood.”

Hannibal circles round, relishes in the small shiver that his fingers elicit as he runs them through his overgrown mop. His soft cock hangs before his eyes. He cants his hips knowingly, “Not my cock?”

A low growl traps inside his throat. He keeps his eyes looking past and through the temptation in front of him. It wouldn’t do.

Slowly, he shakes his head but answers. “Sir, I will take anything you are willing to give me. But I want your blood.”

Hannibal reaches down to cup at his balls, pulls and massages them before him. His limp cock twitches, starting to fill, inches from his face. “You will need to earn in then.”

The word punch into him, robbing the air from his lungs. He shudders at the possibilities that blossom in his mind’s eye. On his knees, he shifts a fraction, trying to settle the blood lust growing inside him.

“You want pleasure, sir?” he cannot contain the smile that pulls at his lips. It has been too long. He tries to keep his hope bottled, careful not to let too much spill else he be denied, “Should I fuck you?”

Hannibal’s hand slips to work along his growing erection. He hums, moving closer so he might suffocate Will against his cock. He pulls Will in, makes him breathe the heady scent of him. His heart pounding, he rubs his lips hard against the base of Hannibal’s cock, tongue darting out to steal a taste.

Hannibal tuts when his lips drop sloppy open mouthed kisses around the shaft. His hand returns to his hair, tugging gently to direct him away.

“You may fuck me. Tonight, you will make me come with your tongue, or maybe your cock. It has been some time, hasn’t it boy? Tonight, you can bury yourself deep in me - I know you want to fill me up with your seed.”

Will moans, the very idea of being allowed to come for the first time in days makes his cock twitch: a tantalizing prospect. “Ah, but you misunderstand. You will want to fill me. You may not.”

His pulse is a rushing river just under his skin, his cheeks are burning. A deep well of disappointment plunges in his gut, though he squirms under the order. “You will not come tonight, Will. But If you can satisfy me,” Hannibal continues, running his hand lovingly along his jaw, “then I will give you my blood.”

He jerkily nods, makes to get up - eager as he is to prove himself before Hannibal - but freezes when he remembers himself. His eyes dart to meet Hannibal’s, relieved to see amusement creasing around the edges.

Hannibal slaps Will’s cheek with the side of his cock, “You may get up, boy. Your tongue first. Show me you deserve to fuck me.”

“Yes, sir.”

As he watches Hannibal move to the bed, lay himself across its edge, he presses his thighs together - whether to push back the pleasure settling there or to trap his balls and spur it further, he cannot say. Ever obedient, his hands stay at his sides. His cock is a deep pink, long abused and longer neglected as per the whims of his master.

“Begin.”

Will moves quickly, drawn to the perk fullness presented before him. Each hand kneads into a cheek, his fingers digging in - a craving to draw blood, to make Hannibal growl with displeasure. He checks himself, pushes away with his clawed hands to reveal the tender pucker between. God, he hasn’t been allowed to fuck Hannibal in weeks. The need to show him how good he can be surges from toes to tongue.

The heat of him is exquisite, an intimacy he’s learned few have been granted the privilege of indulging. He circles around the edges, then lays his tongue flat, warm and quivering against the opening. As he teases against the tight entrance, pride swells in his chest when he feels Hannibal shift back, as though he were as hungry for it as Will. He knows it can’t be true - where he’s been left wanting, Hannibal has used every opportunity to demand of him his own pleasure.

“Fuck me with your tongue, boy. Slow first, work me open.”

He is keen to comply, his tongue teasing just inside the tight rim of Hannibal’s asshole. He circles his tongue around the opening, pushes in more with every lap. Hannibal has cleaned himself, this much is clear, but there remains a base taste - something purely of the other man - that Will has found himself growing fond of the more this is demanded of him. He thinks, at times, that he might begin to crave it would it ever be denied him. He doesn’t want to find out.

For a time, Will buries himself deep into Hannibal’s ass, spurred on by the low rumbles of appreciation that he lets out, and the near involuntary thrusts he makes back onto his face. His own hands have snaked around to dig crescent marks against the stretched skin along Hannibal’s hips. He imagines clawing back layers of flesh, chunks getting stuck beneath his short fingernails. It is enough for him to suffocate himself in Hannibal’s ass.

Hannibal’s breathing is faster now, a need apparent with every suck of oxygen into his lungs. He is shifting his ass against Will’s face, seemingly unsatisfied despite Will thrusting his tongue deep, again and again, his teeth scraping against delicate skin.

“Enough. Your tongue is a wonder, Will. Such fine work you do.” The words buzz around his head. He stops his hand at his inner thigh when he realizes it had shifted seemingly on its own to relieve his building discomfort.

“Thank you, sir,” he manages, hesitant to do anything more than is required of him lest he push Hannibal’s good mood too far and be denied his promised reward. But Jesus, does he want to shove his cock inside that whimpering asshole, tear a throaty growl from Hannibal as the altogether too-dry friction rubs his insides raw. To have it demanded of him. The thought alone makes him whine, and he nuzzles his face against his ass.

“Do you have something to ask me?” Ever observant, frustratingly so. Hannibal is not one to let Will’s proclivities remain unvoiced. To know exactly what he wants, what he can then deny or grant on his whim. Will whines again, more brazenly this time.

“Sir, please. I want to fuck you.”

Hannibal hums in consideration, “Yes, get the lube and prepare me.”

Will can’t resist it, the image overwhelming his senses. “Would you - did we have to?”

Hannibal’s ass flexes with the suggestion, but he is pleased when he is not immediately scolded for questioning an order. Hesitantly, he toes the line of his obedience and spits a thick gob of saliva directly onto his pink hole, then lunges his tongue in for another taste.

He can feel the shudder run through him, knows Hannibal gains no delight from his sadism apart from providing what Will so desperately craves. It makes it all the more enticing when it is offered to him - ordered for him to take - to know he is inflicting a pain that doesn’t mix so easily with his pleasure.

“Alright, boy. I will give you this. You can take me, tear me, but know that the consequences will be dire if you cannot restrain yourself. I won’t have your filthy seed in me.”

Will is shaking, a cruel need vibrating through his body. As Hannibal moves onto the bed, onto his knees, he rubs his hands along Hannibal’s ass, digging nails in further than he dared before. He bites his lip as thin red lines streak across his flesh.

When he is repositioned, he finally - finally - takes himself in hand to test the remaining resistance. The promise of fucking in bucks his hips and he lets the tip of his cock push past the tight, clammy ring of muscle.

“Behave, boy.” It is a growl: low, demanding. Immediately he sees the next week - cock locked away in a cage, prohibited once again from any satisfaction - if he indulges himself too much.

He pulls out, collects spit in his mouth and lets it drip down to run across his hole. He sucks sloppily on his thumb, wetting it until it is dripping, and then pushes into Hannibal roughly. Hannibal’s body tightens with the discomfort but he allows for the intrusion. A spark ignites in his belly as he shoves his thumb in before letting the tight muscle push it back out.

“Fuck me.” he says, and the words at once sound like an order and a resignation.

With a thin sheen of spit covering Hannibal’s ass, he once again aligns his cock, but this time doesn’t hesitate when he pushes, full force, into Hannibal until he bottoms out with a hiss. Below him, Hannibal makes the sweetest sound of restrained displeasure, and Will relishes the way his ass grips and spasms hard against his cock.

“Yes, sir. Please. Let me hear it.” Will groans, then starts up at a steady, hard pace. “Fuck - thank you, sir! Thank you.”

Under him, Hannibal is wriggling to find a more comfortable position for this assault. Will wishes he’d had the foresight to reposition them so he might be able to delight in seeing the furrow of Hannibal’s brow as he allows Will to fuck into him with such unsatisfactory prep. The saliva provides some slide - Hannibal won’t tear, he doesn’t imagine - but the sting and burn of it must be sensational. He tilts his head back as he forces himself to push in hard, grabs Hannibal’s hips to shove him bodily against his own.

Slowly, exquisitely slowly, the hot wired tension of Hannibal’s body starts to recede, his desire to strike out against the assault fought back in order to oblige Will his cravings. When he’s grown accustomed, he demands, “Get me hard again.”

Pulling one of Will’s hands gripped against his hip to wrap around his half-flaccid cock, they work him together at a companionable rhythm to the thrust of Will’s hips. The tightness - the resistance and the friction - he barely remembers how good this felt. His body is on fire, the epicenter a pit low in his groin. If he keeps it up, he will burst.

“Ah - Fuuucck! Hannibal! Sir!” Will groans, loud and frustrated as he pulls himself away to catch his breath.

He curves himself around Hannibal’s frame, lays his weight upon his back, and thrusts in with short, shallow bursts. It’s all he can manage; he doesn’t dare stop. He tries to focus on the slide of his hand along Hannibal’s considerable girth, twists his wrist as he tugs.

“Sir, please! Come! I can’t - I want it -”

“Hold back, boy. If you want to mark me, you will not.”

Will whines into Hannibal’s back but continues to service him, stopping only when the sensation pulls his breathe out of him in puffs and sucks his stomach tight. The feeling is torturous. It is magnificent.

A wave of relief crashes over him as he begins to feel Hannibal’s tell-tale signs of his approaching orgasm. He steadies his pace, just the way he likes it, and with an agonizing whimper, gently pushes his own cock deep into Hannibal’s ass, rocking tight against him.

He is electric, knowing what is coming, if only he can hold himself back a moment or two longer. He tries to divert his thoughts away from it - the slow slide of dark crimson blood, the metallic taste as it covers his tongue - but it is a near useless exercise. He all but stops his hips from moving and concentrates only on making Hannibal come.

When he does, the spasm around his cock is nearly overwhelming. He pulls out, just enough to grip himself at the base, breathing hard through Hannibal’s small convulsions. When it’s over, he pulls out and keens from the relief. His cock is throbbing, a dark red at the head, but despite the discomfort, he swells with pride at seeing the mess of his efforts splattered below Hannibal, a thin line of come still leaking from his spent cock.

“Mmmm, boy, you’ve done exceptionally well.” He pants, swimming in a post-orgasmic haze. Hannibal shifts to the side as he flops, loose-limbed onto the bed, avoiding the bulk of his leavings.

He admires over Hannibal, the strong breathes he is still gasping as he comes down, the satisfaction that registers behind his half-lidded eyes. He’s done that, for him, to him. He hopes, desperately, that it is enough.

He is so turned on, he doesn’t even notice the way his hips are making minute thrusts into the air. Blood-soaked images dance around his mind. He doesn’t dare touch himself, but the need - the thirst - is astonishing.

He hovers over Hannibal, gasping, waiting.

“Get your tools, Will. You depraved, debauched thing. You’ve earned your blood.”

The permission is nearly enough to shatter him. His legs are shaky as he gets up to retrieve his supplies from the bedroom dresser. From the bed, Hannibal repositions himself, arms behind his head to observe Will move about their room.

When he returns, the pain of his erection has subsided somewhat, though his heart is racing in expectation. Beside Hannibal, he places the box of hypodermic needles, the wipes, the scalpel - each with the delicate veneration they deserve. He takes a moment to pull on the black gloves, then waits, obedient, for instruction.

“You may begin with the needles. No more than 20. Above the waist.” Hannibal is still blissed out, a small smirk forming around the edges of his lips as he undoubtedly basks in the wanton need of his lover. This, he has told Will time and time again, is the reason he allows the pain. To pull from him a licentious desire, then dangle it in front of him until he deems appropriate. He doesn’t mind that Hannibal’s pain tolerance is unusually high; he lets the sensation through for Will.

Will considers his canvas in front of him, then takes a wipe to rub down Hannibal’s upper chest. The first blue-hubbed needle goes in smoothly, just below his clavicle. There is no blood - this will only serve to whet his appetite. With every needle, he savors the slight resistance that the flesh provides against the sharp point, then the silky slide as it moves under the skin before exiting again. He rubs himself, almost unaware, against the edge of the bed as he works.

When it is done, Hannibal is still holding onto the sedated expression; he admires Will more than his handiwork. With his gloved finger, he presses down on the furthest needle. One by one, he drags his finger along his collarbones, between the needle’s head and the hub. He watches each prick of skin, urging the blood to push past the gleaming metal. Nothing more than a pinkening of the skin, a fine bead escaping at the odd prick.

“Sir, please. It isn’t enough.”

“The scalpel then. Leave the needles in. Along my side. Follow my ribs. You are to stop immediately when I say.”

His breath comes out in a shudder, and he grinds harder against the bed before lifting himself up onto the mattress to straddle Hannibal’s supine form. Their eyes meet for a moment, a need to ensure that his actions are permitted, before he refocuses his attention on his smooth olive skin.

His grip upon the blade is delicate, he knows its sharp edge needs little pressure in order to slice into skin as though it were butter. He inhales sharply at the first sight of red, the first small noise that Hannibal allows himself for Will. It is the colour of ecstasy. He needs it, more.

“Stop.” Hannibal’s command stays his hand, though not without a loud groan from him. The slice is only a couple of inches, the blood only tripping over the wound’s edge to trickle lazily down his side. This is not enough, Hannibal must know this.

“Clean it up. I won’t have the sheets stained.”

“Fuck, yes. Yes, sir.” he manages, before leaning to lap his tongue along the cut, suck madly against it until Hannibal grimaces - genuinely winces - at the pain he is able to draw. Will’s cock leaks onto Hannibal’s torso, he presses himself desperately into the warm body below.

“Another. Two more.” he breathes, then adds, “Do not leave a mess.”

For a time, he forgets his place, is entranced by the slow way the blood spills from the cuts, the comforting warmth of it against his lips. Every so often, Hannibal lets loose a low moan, somewhere between pain and sufferance. The noises buzz and echo; he feels unmoored, ecstatic. Time moves like honey, his attentions consumed by the parts in his lover’s skin, the taste of it.

“Enough. You are done.” Along Hannibal’s side is one short line above two longer slices that curve along the edge of his ribs. They bleed lightly, though he has sucked upon them enough to ebb the flow, leaving purpling marks along their trails.

He plants his lips softly, one more time along the gaping edge of the freshest cut before straightening himself to smile down at Hannibal. His cock is aching, his hips nudging it against Hannibal’s body. Still, a warm satisfaction blooms through him. He leans down to touch his red stained lips to Hannibal’s. “Thank you, sir.”

Chapter Text

In the corner of the room, a cage: large enough to curl up in, or wait on all fours, tail sticking out through the bars at the back. With his hands in mitts, Anthony prefers this position, occasionally shimmying his ass against the bars so as to knock just so against the puppy tail plug. It was about all the stimulation he could manage, locked up in the cage - he’d been there for nearly an hour and had exhausted all other options.

He would love to hump into his mittened paws, to be sure, but the cage wasn’t tall enough to allow him to sit upright. The angles were frustratingly wrong, never enough space to spread his legs wide in order to grant his paws better access to his lazily weeping cock. Near the beginning, he’d managed to flip onto his back, kick up one leg to brace himself against the bars, the other bent under him so he could rub - maddeningly ineffectively - against the leather mitts. When his owner had noticed him, he’d been jabbed with the shock probe and scolded for his bad behaviour. So mostly, he stayed on his hands and knees, and waited.

They wanted him to suffer through it. Or maybe, to settle in and enjoy the show.

The bed was only a few feet from the cage, its frame low so as to give Anthony a good line of sight. He arched his ass against the bars, pushing just so against the wide base of his tail. If he could shift just a little - there - it almost just managed to tap against his prostate. Fucking finally.

Beyond his cage, the show had only reached act two, and he mentally applauded the men for their stamina. He hoped to god they would save something for him: a reward for obediently watching over as they lost themselves in each other.

Every so often, when the display was particularly impressive, Anthony would let out a whimper or whine, quietly at first and then louder and with greater abandon as time dragged on. Currently, Hannibal was wrist deep into Will’s tight ass, their position coincidentally just right so that he could watch the slick slide of Hannibal’s strong hand as it twisted and plunged back in. He was relentless, yes, but lovingly gentle - he’d been feeding Will his fingers for the last twenty-five minutes and Will was untamed in vocalizing his appreciation of his handling. Anthony tried to rub the plug more persistently onto just the right places in his ass, but he was beginning to realize that this was yet another lesson in utter torment.

He’d just about given up trying to handle himself, when Will spoke, voice overwhelmed with desire, “Let him out. I want you both. I need you both to fuck me.”

He didn’t need to play up his needy noises in response; his mind was singularly focused on the sweet reward in front of him. Hannibal lavished kisses against Will’s flank and slowly pulled his hand out. Looking over to the cage, he smiled at their pet, “Would you like that, boy? Can you be good for your master?”

Hannibal grabbed at both cheeks of Will’s ass and pushed them apart, revealing the delicious gap between. Anthony keened at the sight, his cock letting out a fresh ribbon of precome to dribble down his thigh. He pawed at the locked gate of the cage and waited, restless.

He watched, hungrily, as Hannibal moved across the space. Close now - the smell of sex and musk invading his mind - Hannibal’s heavy cock was nearly eye level with their waiting pet. Before he made a move for the lock, he fed it through the bars and allowed Anthony to lap hungrily at it. Before long, Will made an impatient noise from the bed, drawing both of their attention again. Hannibal leaned down, retrieved the key just to the side of the cage - maddeningly within his reach, if his hands has been of any use - and opened the gate. A low, satisfied groan escaped from Anthony’s lips before he crawled out.

He took the pet’s chin in his hand, stroking against his jaw fondly, “You’ve been such a good boy, Anthony. Come show us how well you can behave out of your cage.”

Anthony pushed his lips against Hannibal’s palm adoringly and let out of sweet moan.

Chapter Text

A string tying together Hannibal's life experiences, if not dipped in blood, is one that winds alluringly around smooth, hard muscles and provides a hedonistic pleasure that demands always more, more, more. There is a trouble, a persistent underlying worry, whether this thing - this next depravity - might finally be the one that tells him he has gone too far. The dull, black-and-white anhedonia of his activities becoming everyday humdrum. Of pushing so far past moral, sexual, ethical boundaries that eventually the stretching becomes counterproductive and the boundaries adjust to the constant force against them to accommodate a new tedium.

Each kill, each night with Will, each decadent meal: nearly all manage to lodge his heart into his throat and make his eyes water with the beauty he is able to pull out of his life. All the same, there are those occasions, however fleeting, where the normal indulgences don't seem to cut as beautifully deep into his cravings as they once did. It happens, only every so often, but enough that he feels the nag of inevitable monotony.

Somewhat unexpectedly, this is how he found himself entertaining, and then agreeing, and then waiting to engage in a particularly mundane take on ‘spicing things up’. Perhaps when you reach the extremities of depravity, he thinks, vanilla kinks become attractive for their relative novelty.

The park is officially closed and unofficially mostly deserted at this time of night. It is the exact level of risk a perfectly traditional couple (thank you very much), ten years in and looking to reignite a dying spark, convince themselves is exactly what they need. He stands inside the well-used public bathroom and is surprised to register a subtle spark of baited interest that leaves a welcome electric after-burn along his inner thighs.

He is nearly through the agreed upon 15 minutes head start; he's had enough time to work past, maybe even work in the grime and banality of the public space. That doesn't mean he hasn't wiped down the gash that guts through the wall, but he may be starting to understand the appeal.

The sound of the door banging against the wall quickens his pulse. His footsteps are slow, measured. Probing. It feels natural for him to hold his breath. Waiting to be lured.

Beside him, the bathroom stall door swings, then shuts, locks. It’s too quiet; anticipation ripples through the air and registers in his ears as a growing crescendo. Through the hole, he catches glimpses of the other man - comfortable khaki slacks, worn leather belt. His hand rests against the flimsy plywood wall between them, covering Sharpie’d obscenities with his palm.

At first, it is a finger that tests the edges of the hole, worn smooth by years of misuse. He lets out a shaky exhale at the sight, and resists the urge to crash through the door and call the whole thing off. Surely it would be more agreeable to leave this place - to the trees, even - and fuck with a level of abandon that this barrier will surely prevent.

Instead, he bends down and takes the finger into his mouth. Teasing at first, nipping lightly against the pad. Soon, he is working three in his mouth like their intended substitute, running his tongue along their length, sucking and slurping and wishing for nothing more than to pull a shameless moan from the man on the other side.

He has been so singularly focused on his task before him that he has managed to stop being distracted by the floor’s grit that rubs against the fine fabric on the knees of his pants. He notices, distantly, that he is fully hard, kneeling worshipful in front of a filthy glory hole. A wonderful, albeit unexpected, realization.

When the fingers recede, it is his own wanton groan that reverberates off the walls. The sound of a buckle, then a zipper elicit a Pavlovian response in his arousal; he may as well be drooling. He watches, eager, mouth waiting inches from the space.

He didn’t expect the sight of it, framed against crude drawings and scribbled phone numbers, would do much for him - it is, after all, as familiar to him by now as his own. Yet, as he looks down, takes a first ginger swipe across the head with his tongue, his hand shifts against his own cock and moves to unbuckle his belt.

“You’re such a dirty fucking whore, aren’t you? I bet you jack yourself off, waiting in this disgusting bathroom for any asshole to suck off.” Will’s voice is thick, noticeably malevolent. Hannibal grabs at his cock and begins to stroke.

At first, Will stays still, pushing himself flat against the tight opening, his balls half crushed against the edge. He lets him do the work, moving his mouth along its length, mouthing sloppy kisses as he goes. He alternates between bumping it against the back of his throat, allowing himself to make the filthy choking noises he knows Will savors, and flicking teasingly against his slit, his other hand tight around the base.

Eventually, though, Will begins to take over. Slowly at first, his hips grinding against the rough wall, until he is sliding his cock slowly, tauntingly, in and out of the hole, in and out of Hannibal’s waiting mouth.

“Yes, just like that. Put your worthless mouth against the hole and let yourself be useful.” he grunts, finally - finally - picking up his speed to fuck into Hannibal’s waiting throat.

His hand is working his own cock at a fervorous pace. It is a welcome insight, that something so seemingly trite - a play at strangers fucking in a park - might affect him to this degree. Interesting, he considers, briefly filing away other little scenes they’d skipped over in their original enthusiasm to take, give, consume all of each other.

When he comes, it is with Will’s cock shoved far down his throat - he doesn’t dare move himself back from the wall’s access point - and his hips thrusting hard into his fist. The splatter gets lost in the mess on the wall.

Will must feel the hum of his satisfied groan around his cock. Hannibal keeps himself steady, allows Will to thrust with increasing abandon. Eventually, he comes thickly down his throat, and Hannibal lets it choke him, his unrestrained gag reflex coaxing his release. “Mmm, swallow that down. Fucking filthy boy,’ he shudders, shoving himself flush against the wall hard enough that it creaks in displeasure.

When they separate, there is silence for some time, apart from each of their heavy breathing. The slide of the stall door’s lock breaks through the calm, followed my Will’s satisfied voice, “You can come out now.”

Hannibal wipes himself off as well as possible with the single ply roll, straightens up and leaves his respective stall to meet his husband. At the sight of Will’s pink face, adoration creases at the edges of his eyes. Will hums approvingly at him, holding his arms out to wrap him in an embrace.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Will asks, smiling between soft kisses.

“More than I expected.” Hannibal tilts his head to suck gently along the edge of his jaw. “It might be to our mutual benefit if we put some consideration into some of these more alluringly base re-enactments.”

“I’m willing to consider it.” Will replies with a nip, then withdraws.

“Though for now, let’s go home to shower.”

“Can’t stop thinking about where your mouth has been?”

Hannibal jabs defeatedly at the empty soap dispenser, then quickly turns the taps on and off again when they run copper-tinged water into the sink, “We will be stopping at the closest open pharmacy for sanitizer and mouthwash.”

Chapter Text

Time becomes its own mockery in moments of alarm - it bends and warps in defiance of any sense of control one might think they wield over such an amorphous concept. So it is during the week-long walk during which Hannibal drags him, bleeding and disoriented, back to his ornate Florentine residence.

He feels the pulse of the blood in his head, a throbbing countdown of agonizing blinks, seconds, minutes, hours. By the force of the initial spray - the fact that he hasn’t already bled out - he knows the bullet hasn’t hit the brachial artery, but goddamn does it hurt. The pain has taken home deep in the meat of his shoulder; he’s quite sure that’s where the bullet has lodged as well.

Then his consciousness becomes this fleeting thing, and time passes only through hazy snapshots: first at the door, then laid out on the settee, then a momentary but screaming sort of catharsis when Hannibal digs out the bullet.

He tries to grip on to it, slippery as it is in his fingers, but he cannot hope to hold it. Still, it must be hours, days even, before he finally loses consciousness, time collapsing into a blanketing darkness.

When he awakes, he feels groggy and foreign in his own body. There is a blurring to the pain, an analgesic dulling around the previously razor sharp stab at his shoulder. His pulse feels slow, artificially low, but this isn’t what concerns him. His attention instead is held taut to his chest; it balloons when pushed full and then deflates and collapses more until he is shockingly empty.

He must not be breathing.

Hannibal’s mouth forms a seal around his dry lips before another rush of stale air forces itself down his throat and to his lungs. It is intrusive, deeply intimate in a way that bullets or blades can never achieve. It is an assertive trespass that floods his alveoli with used oxygen; a sloughed off offering that may be adequate for his body but feels insulting to his mind.

Breathe.

BREATHE.

In this moment, it would be no easier for his body to follow this command than if he demanded of it any other fantastical thing. Fly. Soar. Escape.

Breathe.

The word echoes within his mind. His chest aches, a cracking ache that alights with every inhale Hannibal demands his lungs to make, and recedes fractionally as the breath is allowed passive escape. The rest of him hurts. His fucking shoulder, of course, and his back and hips where he hit the ground from the train, but with the drugs - he must surely have been given drugs - these feel incidental. Not life threatening. If only he could breathe.

Breathe, you useless son of a bitch.

To temporarily hold back the rush of an autonomic response: it is like a child repairing cracks in a sandcastle, the tide relentless as it closes in. Inevitably, no matter how convincing the ruse, the body will regain its control. He imagines himself a mere servant to his baser biological instincts: the very cells of his heart keeping pace of its beating, the recurrent feedback passing through his neurons to check and balance the barrage of sensations. It is a wonder to him that he might be so well aware of all of this, and yet be so painfully unable to kickstart his lungs back into that reflexive control.

Hannibal shows no signs of giving up on him, his lips locking over his mouth, exhaling, then retreating so that he might wait to feel for any sign of resurgence. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. But Hannibal's external mediation, he realizes with a growing sense of panic, cannot last forever. He cannot stay in this liminal space: either he starts to breathe again, or he will be allowed to suffocate on the floor.

Terror bubbles in him at the thought that when it inevitably happens, he will remain alert. That when Hannibal, finally exhausted and without hope, gives up on him and stops sharing his breath, he will be exceptionally clear-minded to experience what will happen next. His brain will scream for his body to react, though of course he knows what little good that will do. It is, afterall, already screaming to stop the artificial decompression and deflation of his lungs. To take back control.

If this is like an iron lung, the incessant pushing in and up of his chest with Hannibal’s air, then he thinks when it stops, it might feel like being trapped underwater. Snagged, stuck just below the surface. Or maybe, it might feel like being held down, choked out, overcome by an opponent you know you have no chance of matching. The air so close. So uselessly close.

He feels dizzy, thinks distantly that his body may be shaking, either with fear or shock or both. His heart, at first a weakened throb, must now be hammering. If he could move, it would be in a frenzy. The panic is all-encompassing. It consumes, wraps itself around death as a certainty, digs into the insistent flutter of his body’s pain. This is how he dies, he thinks. When Hannibal stops, this will be his end.

Trapped inside his quivering cage, he focuses entirely on the peculiar whoosh of forced air through his throat to his lungs before time reverses and it leaks out again, diffuse and weak.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Chapter Text

It has been some time - decades, perhaps - since he had experienced such ruthlessly vivid nightmares. He should have known better to suspect he'd escaped their clutch after several weeks of restful sleep following his hospital discharge. The scars that ran jagged along his inner wrist were a nasty raw pink, but they were nevertheless healed up before his first dream dug its claws in. Now they waited for him, each night, to rip him from unconsciousness and leave him bleary eyed and increasingly groggy.

It didn’t matter how they began: the scenery and the circumstances always changed, but the rope inevitably found it way around his neck. He'd died in the recreation center under Matthew’s cocky gaze, and from a tree along the banks of Maryland’s Patapsco River, and hanged from the upper loft of his office. He’d been thrown down the well where he’d kept Miriam, only to die over a cliff in southern Greece the following night. Nearly two dozen deaths, his dream journal documented. He had filled more pages in the last month than he had the entire year previous.

Predictably, he was sleeping less than before. Even when he managed to find a fitful rest after an episode, he would inevitably wake after three or four hours as though he’d had a full night. Wide eyed, he’d lay in bed distracted by the intensity of the memories of his repeated death.

In the evening hours, he’d more frequently found himself in front of his fireplace, fingers idly running along the smooth silk of his rope. He’d crafted at least a half dozen tableaus made from impolite acquaintances, now transformed in death and strung up in a spider web of his creation. Every one of them choked until they foamed about the mouth. He’d spent too much time thinking through these scenes not to act on them eventually, though he also knew with certainty that the fantasies would do little to satisfy the creeping urge his dreams had conjured.

Tonight, while considering a wine to accompany dinner, he'd found himself once again preoccupied with the previous evening’s rendition. The scene that night had been in Paris, upon the Pont Mirabeau in the city’s 15th arrondissement. He'd been naked, as was so often the case, and had felt the evening air tickle the coarse hairs on his chest. His bare feet had gripped at the stained stone along the edge of the bridge, and for a moment, he had leaned back against the cold metal of the green-yellow guard rail, taking in the view. Straight ahead, a nearly unobstructed Tour Eiffel, alight and majestic against the dark velvet sky. The beauty lodged deep in his gut.

His fingers had toyed with the rough noose before he’d purposefully pulled it tight, then tighter again, until he had felt the prickly beginnings of hypoxia. Before his vision tunneled, he had unceremoniously stepped off the edge, to swing between two of the bridge’s patinated statues.

Until last night, his dreams would continue on, shifting perspectives so that he was forced to watch the indignity of his death like a specter just out of reach. Before he would wake gasping, he'd have to note the way the blood bubbled thickly when his jaws clenched tight through his tongue; how he'd thrash uncontrollably and hopelessly claw at the taut rope. He could be trapped there for minutes after he swung before the dream burst.

But Paris had been different. When the rope had reached its full length, he'd felt the sudden snap of pressure on his carotid body and had expected the jarring whoosh and shift from first to third person as he lost consciousness and waited to watch himself suffocate. Instead, he'd remained where he was, swinging and choking and staring at his view of the Seine snaking through the sleeping city. Unlike previous nights, there had been no instinctual terror. Hung suspended over the water, what remained with him instead was a bone-deep need: an urgent longing that fizzed in his head and shot straight through his body to his cock.

When he’d awoke, he had ached so fiercely that he’d barely stretched himself out before shoving the thick dildo deep in his ass, spasming around it as he came harder than he’d done in years.

It had taken the edge off, but the same urge had been slowly building again throughout the day. Now, his eyes kept finding their way to the hidden basement door. In a moment of decisiveness, he replaced the bottle he’d been considering and knelt down to enter.

In his underground sanctuary, he immediately felt the last vestiges of his person suit pull away. Here was his violent, massive reliquary, tucked full of half finished pieces, curing meats, precisely stored instruments. He'd moved towards his ropes, grabbed a length, and then undressed.

The insistent throb that had grown more needy all evening had swelled then, filling his cock and making it jut out against the tender curve of his stomach. His flesh had prickled from the basement’s cold, though a neediness burned hot in his belly.

He had surveyed the space. The bars and hooks he’d installed for hanging meats were too well reinforced; he had no intention of testing whether the out-of-body experiences from his dreams would manifest in his last dying moments. On a second pass, he caught sight of a rusted, near-broken hook, discarded in a small bin of similar rubbish. That’d do.

Tying the rope was a simple thing, though he delighted in it longer than necessary as the first touch of its woven length had sent sparks to his cock. As he worked, his mind flashed to Will: a vision in blood and rope, strung up in his sanctum, pleading desperately for more. A possible future. Something worth staying alive for, if he could convince Will of the same.

While making a second loop to slip over the hook, he looked carefully over his work. A tug on the excess rope would tighten the noose and keep it taught even when he let go. Examining the old hook, he noticed that the crack was longer than he first thought. Still, it would hold a good deal of his weight before it cracked. A poor safety switch, should he not be able to get his feet under him, but that felt unimportant compared to the base urgency he felt. It wouldn't hold long, he suspected, but it would likely be plenty long enough with the way his arousal had built in him. As a precaution, he placed a sharp blade on an outcropping of the furnace, well within arm’s reach. He hung the hook over a thick pipe.

This was a lesson in control, he knew. Drawing forth his nightmares, recreating them into something from which he would pull pleasure instead of panic. He wondered if once would be enough to return to him a decent night’s sleep. He considered whether having Will strung through his noose might be better still. His stomach flipped. Another time. Hopefully.

His mind had buzzed until the weight of the loosened rope slid over his head and grounded him. He skimmed his fingers along its edge where it fell over the ridge of his collarbone. His other hand slipped down his chest, and his nails dug into flesh. He worried one nipple before he pulled at it, then twisted more relentlessly. His body gave a small shudder at the sensation.

His hand moved further down to grip his cock. Soft at first, the idea of riding along the edge of consciousness, already had him hard and weeping. He started with a delicate pressure then, something that would counter the way the rope would soon tug mercilessly against his neck.

He extended his leg out, snagged the corner of a small wooden box and dragged it over with his foot. It’d be a small drop, just enough to absorb the rope’s give and - hopefully - leave him dangling just above the floor. He may not share Will’s talent for recreating another’s experiences in such brilliant technicolour, but his imagination was formidable. With it, and the daily reminder from his dreams, the picture of how he’d hang became crisp in his mind’s eye. He groaned then, low, trapped largely in the back of his throat.

With the excess rope wrapped around his left hand, he pulled so the loop lost its slack and fit snug around his neck. He could swallow easily, his breathing more affected by his arousal than the tightening grip across his windpipe. His hand worked more steadily along his cock.

The pressure around his neck was a comfort, a lover squeezing to give an edge to an orgasmic high. It was enough to make his body elongate and his head to tilt up at the join, but not enough to damage. A pleasant tickle raced up the sides of his face, licked across his upper lip. He tugged harshly at the rope again.

It tightened further, pressed in and forced him to reposition himself onto his toes. There had been a tell-tale creak of metal warping, but the hook held his weight. No dream or past partner had come close to filling him with the wild enthusiasm that swelled in his body then. Before, it had always been too safe. Too sterile. Matthew might have been the closest he’d come to feeling the hum of exhilaration that now surged in and through his lungs.

At the thought of Will’s proxy, he used his toe to push at the crate he’d been standing upon. It slid along the smooth concrete, and he lurched as he is dropped only an inch or two further down. Nevertheless, his feet barely skimmed against the ground; he dangled, with no manner by which to relieve the astounding dig of the rope across his neck.

He let out a gutted moan, and kept at his frenzied movement across his leaking cock. The pressure was extraordinary; he didn’t dare try to shift lest he press against his vagus nerve and make himself go under before he could experience release.

As the hypoxia began in earnest, his face grew hot and tight; filled with used blood, it sang for better circulation. His need for release was torturous, though he still trusted that he’d fall at any moment. The metal hook creaked again in displeasure. Time undulated as he hanged; while he'd felt it stretch over minutes, it likely never surpassed 30 seconds.

He could still breath, barely. He sucked in air haggardly. His vision shook, then blurred dark along the edges. A bright pain radiated from the steady crush of the rope, it climbed up and into his head, which throbbed and ached and jesus, he nearly finished then.

Loud as a gunshot, the hook cracked. He’d dropped the couple inches, landed on his feet and had jerked his cock hard. The break had been enough to lessen the pressure considerably. Blood rushed through his arteries again and he thrummed, intoxicated by the returning sensation. His cock ached, his chest heaved, his muscles contracted. He came as his vision returned, the basement blurry and unnaturally bright. The force of it hollowed his chest, buckled his knees.

He'd loosened the rope, slipped it off and let it drop to the floor. He had felt his heartbeat slam past the bruised tissue. A heavy serenity had washed over him then; he felt at once invigorated and used up. Perhaps, he’d rest well tonight.

Chapter Text

“Beautiful, darling. Take it.” Nigel stroked Jack’s cheek appreciatively, meeting his gaze. He was reeling from the thorough lapping that this boy was giving his cock, at once arrogant and with a need to prove himself. He was growing fond of him. He growled and thrust his hips further into Jack’s face.

From behind him, a clinking of glasses. The other one - the quieter, grumpy one - Will, was handing over a drink to what must have been his doppelgänger. A leaner, more gregarious version, but fuck they all looked the same. Nigel didn’t want to ponder over that too much, none seemed to know each other, and all came willingly. He stroked at Jack’s shorter hair and committed to enjoying the evening.

“Pass one over here,” he said, reaching back to accept a glass. Adam slinked over, pressing himself to Nigel’s back and began nipping at the tender skin behind his ear. He smiled at the feeling of a hot tongue running along his tattoo.

“Let’s take this atrocious shirt off, yes?” Adam murmured in his ear, then wrapped his arms around Nigel to begin on the buttons.

Nigel tilted his head back, turning to sloppily tongue along Adam’s mouth. He lazily fucked into Jack’s face, appreciating the way his tongue curled and flicked along his length.

Jack pulled off for a moment, replacing his tongue with his fist that continued to slowly pump. He eyed Will, who had removed his shirt and was idly rubbing himself through his slacks as he sipped his drink and watched, a small smirk playing along his lips. “Are you participating or observing?” Jack asked, his tongue slipping out to run over his already-swollen lips.

Will’s head tilted slightly, and he admired each man in turn. He downed the rest of the drink before moving towards the group. Standing nearly as tall as Nigel, his fingers traced the exposed flesh along the shirt’s opening, moving to tweak at a perk nipple. Nigel groaned again, kissed harder into Adam’s mouth. With his other hand, Will carded his fingers through the shorter but familiar curl of Jack’s hair. He hummed, then turned his attention towards Will, unfastening his worn belt and slipping out his cock, “Mmmm, that’s better.”

Will smiled, a distant sort of half-worried thing, but tightened his grip on Jack’s hair regardless. “An interesting turn, from grabbing a drink alone.” he mused, then leaned down to suck fiercely on Nigel’s pinkened nipple.

Adam laughed quietly into Nigel’s nape, pressing eager kisses along its length, “I dare say this is better?” he asked, then reached out to run a hand along Will’s muscled back.

Nigel, Jack, and Will made their own noises of agreement at that. “Few better ways I can think of than being the center of three gorgeous men’s attention,” Nigel said, gripping his cock and urging it into Jack’s already full mouth. He chuckled softly at the obscene noise Jack made, as he wrapped his tongue around Nigel and then began to suck at both his and Will’s cockheads.

Behind Nigel, Adam’s hands were groping, becoming more covetous of his ass. Trapped between Jack’s sure tongue in front and Adam pressed behind, Nigel rocked his hips insistently until Adam’s soft hand ran up along his back and pushed him down onto his hands and knees on the bed. When he fell, Nigel let his glass tumble, heard it thud against the worn hotel carpet and roll out of reach. Jack shifted out of the way, and concentrated his attentions more fully on Will, while Adam immediately bent down to bury his face against the cleft of Nigel’s ass.

“Fuck, like that gorgeous,” he moaned, turning his head to watch the other two beside him, “Boys, don’t let your attention wander. I intend to have you all.”

Behind him, Adam’s tongue pressed against his tight pucker in response, and he revelled in the way his loud moan vibrated against his skin. His hips arched back, pushing his ass further into Adam’s mouth.

He watched Will pull his slick cock from Jack to slide his slacks and boxers the rest of the way down his strong thighs. When they were off, he positioned himself where Nigel bent on hands and knees. His cock was wet, inches from Nigel’s lips.

“And I intend to have you take it,” Will murmured before shoving his cock roughly down his throat. Nigel gagged once, adjusted his position, and then directed his focus entirely on taking all of Will down his throat.

For a moment, Jack watched, a satisfied smile playing against his lips. Then, he moved to join Adam behind Nigel, running his nails roughly along the familiar back. Adam hummed, moving away from Nigel’s hole for a moment to suck a hungry bruise against Jack’s splotchy neck. Of the four of them, he and Jack were the closest in age, appearance, frame. The idea of fucking his twin, while not a fantasy he’d much explored, gave him a certain sort of twisted pleasure. Or maybe, they might both be able to work something out. He pawed at Jack’s neglected cock and smiled when the man moaned at the attention.

“Help me fuck him?” Adam breathlessly whispered into the curve of Jack’s ear. Jack bucked into his hand in response.

“Lube’s in the bathroom,” Nigel said into Will’s cock, insistently pushing his waiting ass up higher in anticipation. He growled when Will grabbed roughly at his hair, pulling him back over him, and fucking in deeper.

Jack returned quickly with lube and a floppy but long double dildo, “You leave this out for me to find?” he asked, slapping Nigel’s cheek playfully with the toy.

“Couldn’t presume I’d find as many willing playthings as I have,” he mumbled, mouth half full with Will, then reached back to pull open his one ass cheek in invitation.

Will couldn’t be sure whose fingers pushed into Nigel then, but he was pleased to feel the moan around his cock, and the way Nigel worked him more deliberately in response, “What a cock whore. I was hoping you would be.”

“Three gorgeous boys? How else did you think the fucking night would go?”

Will hummed and turned around, bringing his ass close to Nigel’s waiting tongue, “You remind me of someone.” he said, resting his arms on the bed frame, spreading his knees and leaning into his face.

“I can be whoever you’d fucking like, darling,” he replied, roughly running his tongue from Will’s balls to his hole, then working the tight muscle to loosen.

“Hmm, yes, like that.” Will said, pushing back into Nigel’s face. He’s quite sure there are three or four fingers working open Nigel’s ass now, and it’s making him pant. A grimy mirror hung above the bed (of course there was) allowed Will to watch the younger boys pushing finger after finger into Nigel’s lubed ass while Nigel sucked marks greedily onto his own. He must be feeling loose now, judging by the slide of fingers - two, more often four or five from both Jack and Adam - smoothly sawing in and out of his ass.

“Your fingers, Nigel. Fuck me open.” Will demanded, keeping his position.

Nigel reached back towards Adam and Jack and motioned for the lube. He gave Jack a loving tap and squeeze on his hand to show his appreciation, “You boys make a good team.”

Behind him, he heard a chuckle fall out of one mouth and into the other, and for a time he is left without any stimulation on his ass. He focuses instead on positioning himself to slick up his fingers and press - first two, then quickly three - into Will’s slit of a hole. “Hmmm, you stretch easy. You must love getting fucked by big cocks like mine.” Nigel catches in the mirror how Will bites his lip, “This person I remind you of - he’s hung too, huh?”

Will closes his eyes, as if he conjured a memory in his mind and lets out a small smirk, “I think you should be plenty adequate.” he replies, then adds, “but put another in before you start fucking me, it feels good.”

Will’s gruff is endlessly charming to Nigel. He lays kisses and nips along Will’s ass, and pushes roughly in with a fourth finger, quickly working them down to the knuckles. From there, it is a matter of curving his fingers in on themselves and enjoying the slick sloppy slide as he pushes in and out of Will’s open hole. In front of him, Will is making small appreciative noises, his hips rocking in time with Nigel’s fingers.

As he fucks into Will, he feels a slimy thing press against his hole, then unceremoniously shove in. He grunts loudly, arching his back, but keeps himself relaxed to let the dildo push in. “You’ll need something more than that to test me, boys.” Nigel laughs and then grimaces slightly when Adam takes the toy and pushes it further still, nearly up to the other end.

“A lovely sight, this,” Adam says, using both hands to move the long toy in and out of Nigel’s open hole. Nigel rests his head on Will’s ass, matches the movement of his fucking into Will with that which is being done to him. He curves his fingers every so often and that pulls delicious noises from the man, who seems to be growing impatient with having three cocks around and none servicing him.

“Gorgeous, I’m going to fuck you. Lay on your stomach, shimmy down. I’ll pound you into the mattress.” Nigel removes his fingers but digs his nails firmly into the flesh of Will’s ass to lay claim.

“No, I have a better idea.” Jack says and lays down beside Nigel in the middle of the bed. His hand is on his cock, stroking at it in a patient, controlled way. “Nigel, come over here and get on my cock. Adam, up here - let me taste you.”

A devious smile washes over Nigel’s features, and he goes without hesitation to straddle the boys hips. The dildo is still lodged in his ass - he ruts their cocks into each other as the toy shifts inside him, and he starts using the most delicious profanity, “You gorgeous cocksure diva. Think you can satisfy me with your cock?” In emphases, Nigel wraps his hand around Jack’s length and gives it a few short strokes.

Jack reaches back for the lube, takes himself from Nigel’s strong hand, and moves himself down so that he can tease its head against Nigel’s perineum. “Hmm, I want you to take me and it both,” he whines, the idea causing his cock to let out a slow dribble of precome.

Will adjust himself as well, his cock crushing along Jack’s lips, “Yes, I think we’d all like to see that, Nigel.” For emphasis, he shoves his cock down Jack’s willing throat and fucks with a fierce need.

Adam hums, then reaches under Nigel to take Jack’s weeping cock. Nigel cants his hips back, and lets Adam position the other boy against his hole. With the dildo deep in, it is a crush, and Nigel groans, practically rawrs when Jack’s cockhead pops in past the first ring of muscle. A whole body shiver overcomes him. He smiles brightly, despite the many drinks he’d consumed over the evening, and laughs a full throated thing, smitten with these boys.

He motions for Adam to come round and as Nigel slowly adjusts to the burn at his ass, he focuses on devouring Adam’s mouth. He rests his hands lightly across Adam’s neck, drawing out a guttural, needy groan. He pulls away with the smirk, “Want my hands around your throat, boy?”

Adam closes his eyes, and smiles while barely containing a shudder. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” He lunges towards Nigel, pushing him down further onto Jack’s cock; in retaliation, Nigel adjusts his grip to press along the sides of Adam’s neck, just below the jaw. They both moan into each others mouths at the new sensations.

Under him, Jack is trying to avoid bucking up too much, but his heavy panting and the way he is going down on Will are plain signs of his desires. Will, for his part, is doing well to satisfy his cockhungry lover: he has braced himself over Jack’s face and is thrusting hard into his throat. When Jack moves his hands up to dig his nails against the backs of Will’s thighs, he lets out a sudden, gasping sound and comes down Jack’s throat, making him sputter with the sheer amount. When he pulls out, there’s come leaking across Jack’s lips, down his chin. Will gives a satisfied smile and tugs Adam away from Nigel’s choking hold to bring the problem to his attention. Adam notices, leans in to give Will a gentle understanding kiss, then moves down to lick eagerly over Jack’s abused lips and mouth, tasting Will’s salty release.

Before Will can move off Jack, Nigel reaches forward to pull the man back firm against him. This way, his cock is trapped between his stomach and Will’s muscled back, sweaty and slick. He makes a pleased noise at the nape of Will’s neck, then leans forward, still rocking against Jack’s cock and the dildo. Will twists himself to meet Nigel’s waiting mouth. Their kisses are sloppy, sated on Will’s end, but still enthusiastic.

“Lean down gorgeous, let me fuck your ass raw.” he rubs soothingly against WIll’s firm arms, traces circles on his back, kisses against his deltoids, and keeps up his slow fuck onto the boy below him.

Will kisses Adam, then Jack, and then he feels Nigel shift behind him and fuck, that’s good. He immediately sits up again, starts a steady bounce to let Nigel’s cock sink deeper into his ass. “Mmm, fuck Nigel. I could get used to this.” he mumbles, head back, eyes closed.

“Your lover don’t know how to fuck you right, when you’re all overcome and quivering?” Nigel croons into Will’s neck, which makes Will let out a quiet laugh.

“You sound exactly like him - a more crass version, maybe. Mm - yeah, fuck, right there, deep right there,” he says, tilting his hips so Nigel drags along his sensitive prostate with every stroke. “Nah, he does just fine- ah, yes! Fuck! - I travel a lot for work.”

“Well darling, you look me up whenever you're in the area and need taking care of,” Nigel purrs, lifting his hips up again and again to drive home his point. Will groans, practually growls and pushes himself back onto his cock; the sensation cascades to make both Nigel and Jack cry out.

At the head of the bed, Adam removes himself from Jack's mouth, though he leaves his fingers in his place, fucking gently in and out of his wet lips. His eyes are focused on Will and Nigel, the delicious way they are rocking, shifting on top of Jack who is so lost in sensation that he does little else than whimper and pump up whenever he can. Adam trails his fingers from Jack's mouth, across his stomach and he wraps his wet hand around Will's soft cock which causes the older man to tremble and slap his hand away.

“Go fuck him if you want to participate,” he says, amused, and leans over to kiss and lick over Nigel's crooked fangs.

“A tantalizing prospect.” Adam agrees, though he still moves slowly around, making sure to twist and pull nipples, or drag his sure hands through another man's hair. Nigel makes a small pleased sound when Adam rubs his hands along his back, skirting around the massive scar that snakes his side. By this point, Nigel has taken full control over his movements; the long dildo has worked itself half out from the frictive slide of Jack's cock against it. It’s an easy thing for Adam to slide it all the way out, let it flop onto the carpet below.

“Gorgeous, if you’re going to go fucking around back there, then kindly get in and fuck me.” Nigel grumbles, wiggling his ass to adjust and get Jack’s cock to better lodge into his now gaping hole.

“Fuck, Nigel, just -- Jesus...” Will hisses as Nigel inadvertently smashes his cock over and over into Will’s overworked prostate. Nigel laughs though, and doubles his efforts, gripping against Will’s hips and fucking him hard until Will shudders, keens, and come sputters lazily from his limp dick. Jack gasps and bucks up hard when the warm fluid falls along his smooth chest.

“Ah, beautiful love. Absolutely perfect.” Nigel soothes, slowing his thrusts but not letting Will go, savoring the way his asshole spasms around his rigid cock.

Will kisses Nigel once, twice, lazy and nearly spent. “Alright, fuck off. Give me a break.” he says, and begins to crawl up over Jack.

Nigel puts his hand against his back to stop him. “No, I’d have you here. Jack, show me how good you can be and clean Will up.”

“Mmm, absolutely.” he licks his lips and wraps his arms along Will’s ass to pull him closer.

“You’re an absolute asshole, Nigel,” Will says, though he allows the younger man to lap lightly along his sensitive, spent cock.

“Gorgeous, I just want you taken care of.” he smiles, that cunning, devilish smile, before he pushes himself all the way down onto Jack’s cock and starts rocking more fervently. “Adam, darling, you’ve watched plenty. Get over here.”

“Happy to oblige.” he says, crawling back onto the bed and running his hand along Nigel’s damp skin before pushing him forward. Jack is still sliding into Nigel’s ass, though less deep than before. Adam slicks his fingers, and easily pushes two in beside Jack. Nigel makes an approving noise and slows his rocking to allow Adam more control.

“Hmmm, delightful. Your ass is fantastic,” Adam hums, slipping a third, and then soon a fourth finger in beside Jack’s slowly pistoning cock. When they both slip out the next time, Adam wraps his hand around Jack properly, then guides them both slowly into Nigel’s hole. Nigel lets out an anguished noise but pushes back slightly all the same.

Will has now shifted, Jack lapping delicately at his used asshole while he watches Adam and Nigel’s reflections in the mirror. Nigel’s face is a mix of tension and ecstacy; it reminds him so much of Hannibal, if Hannibal had traded psychiatry for drug running and three piece suits for garb even Will found a bit below his tastes. That fucking smile though. He gets off the bed, gives Jack some soft, sloppy kisses, and moves to get a more direct view.

His breath comes in fast when he sees the intrusion; he can’t help but move to slide a finger along the taut pucker. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Nigel hisses, though Will is beginning to understand that he might prefer it if he dared. All the same, he moves his hand away and slaps Nigel hard on the ass.

“I’m just here to watch,” Will says, placing kisses and small bites along Adam’s shoulders. He grabs at his messy curls and tugs, eliciting a pleased whine. “Go ahead and fuck him, Adam. Jack’s not going to be able to last out much longer.” In response, Jack makes a sobbing sort of laugh at the other end of the bed. By this point, Nigel has shifted some of his attention away from the hand and cock fucking into him, and is sucking red and purpling bruises onto Jack’s tight, heaving chest. Nigel may be the one filled up, but Jack is clearly the one being used.

Adam is careful removing his hand, and wipes the slick off on the ugly duvet before taking both himself and Jack in hand. Nigel shimmies up a little and cants his hips down, so that both cockheads can press against the loosened role. Slowly, but with little resistance at this point, they slide in together. Even Will makes an enthusiastic moan at the sight of Adam and Jack pushing deep into Nigel’s ass.

Nigel doesn’t wait this time, he is too close to his own climax and instead works immediately with Adam to set a brutal pace. Jack is left, again, nearly helpless - pinned down under Nigel, the pressure against his cock giving him little ability to control his own pleasure. Judging from the look on his face - his eyes tight and mouth open and panting - this is exactly how he would have it.

Will picks up the dildo from the carpet, squirts lube along the unused head, and moves behind Adam. He makes a small protest but immediately arches into him when Will rubs the warm toy against his own hole. He doesn’t both penetrating - keeps it just far enough away that Adam can torment himself against it every time he pulls away from the pleasure he’s getting from Nigel in front. Will may be spent, but he still relishes in the sight of these three men about to topple over together.

Jack comes first, a quiet, almost embarrassed admission, though both Adam and Nigel gasp, pleased, at the sensation of him covering them in his come. When Jack slips out, Adam makes a ravenous noise, pushes and hold Nigel down to rut into him with proper abandon.

“I love greedy come bins like you, Nigel. I could use you all night.” he whispers into Nigel’s ear as he thrusts. Nigel moans, grabs his cock and is coming hard against a shaking Jack, who hasn’t bothered to move himself from under Nigel.

“Fuck, darling. Fuck me.” he almost shouts, and Adam obliges, rutting into Nigel’s oversensitive, loose ass for several more minutes until finally, he thrusts hard enough to push Nigel flat against Jack and comes moaning his name.

When he pulls out, flopping on the bed beside the two men, their mixed come leaks readily from Nigel’s used hole. Will hums at the sight, then leans down and kisses against Nigel’s red cheek before scooping up some of the come and pushing it back inside. “Wouldn’t want to waste it.” he whispers, more to himself than anyone else.

The bed isn’t nearly big enough for four grown men, but they manage to curl up around each other well enough to drift. Each of them sleeps better than they have in months.

Chapter Text

“Hannibal. What the fuck is in our freezer?”

Hannibal turned off the tap and made a show of drying his hands. He walked casually over to embrace him from behind, letting his chin rest on Will’s shoulder. “They’re yeux en sucette.”

“They’re frozen eyeball lollipops, Hannibal.”

“Yes, yeux en sucette. The corneas have been removed, and they’ve been injected with a lemon, mustard, and rosemary olive oil, then placed atop des majeurs et des annulaires.”

“Goddamn it, calling it some pretentious French name doesn’t change the fact that you skewered, what - six? six?! - eyeballs and stuck them on finger bones.”

Hannibal rubbed lightly against Will’s stomach, then nipped playfully against his jaw, “I only mean to be prepared. You did agree to let me remove that bothersome tooth for you.”

“These are for me?!” Will grabbed at Hannibal’s arms and untangled himself from the other man. “You expect me to eat these?”

“To suck on, perhaps. The cold temperature should help with residual inflammation. I’ll admit that I haven’t tried this particular recipe, but you haven’t complained about my cooking before. The oil should complement the mild meaty flavor of the eye, I’d think.”

Will looked up at Hannibal with an unimpressed glare, “I complain about your cooking all the time.”

“I believe you complain about my means of procurement.” He hooked his fingers through Will’s belt loops to drag him in closer again. After a moment’s hesitation, Will allowed himself to be drawn in. “I don’t recall you having ever extended those complaints to the dishes themselves.”

Hannibal leaned in and brushed his lips against the sore side of Will’s jaw. His tooth had been throbbing for days now; Hannibal had been especially enthusiastic about offering his services. He couldn’t keep putting it off. Will sighed, tilting his head back to give him better access to his neck and collar instead. “You are an insufferably ostentatious asshole.”

He could feel Hannibal’s smile against his skin, “I take it you’ll try them, then?”

Chapter Text

“I must have truly lost my mind to agree to this,” Will’s voice is gravelly from the whiskey. Beside him, his tumbler is empty. An inadvisable (albeit necessary, he argued) indulgence before surgery.

Hannibal’s head tilts, though his eyes don’t leave the sharp objects laid out in front of him. They’re sanitized, lined across the counter carefully, lovingly. The rest of the cabin is a bit disorganized, but salvageable and well stocked. It’ll do for the time.

“I dare say that it shows an enlightened leap in your thinking, Will.”

“What? That I’ve realized it’s useless to fight the inevitable?”

Hannibal considers, “In a sense.”

Will shifts his position on the kitchen island, messing the towels that have been so attentively laid out below him. Propped on his elbows, he has a better view down Hannibal’s makeshift operating stage.

“Would you really not do this if I didn’t consent?” he asks doubtfully.

“It is a question I have asked myself, though it seems a moot point now. You have.”

Will sighs, “Yes. Fuck - yes, I have.”

“You’ll feel a pinch,” his bedside manner takes over, practical, methodical, “the local anesthetic will not be sufficient to numb the area entirely, but it will take a great deal of the edge off.”

The first slide of the needle into his calf barely registers, his mind is too wrapped up in its own conflictions, the absurdity of the way their fates and choices have intertwined to lead them to this moment, him laid out in the kitchen of a home they broke into days before, Hannibal scrubbed up and barely stoppering his exuberant cheer.

“How much are you going to take?” he asks, jabbing curiously at his calf as the sensation in his lower leg dulls so that his digging fingernails register as little more than a pressure.

“You’ll be able to walk and run, with time. We are safe enough here for the length of your recovery. A tear as substantial as the one you’ve endured is rare. Fortunately, the surgery for it is relatively straightforward, even with this minor deviation. I trust you’ll manage rehab well.”

Will huffs at Hannibal’s phrasing and feels a now-familiar sense of dissociation closing in on him as he considers who next he will be eating. In an effort to redirect his thoughts, he instead tries to picture Hannibal guiding him through daily strengthening exercises, helping him hobble around the small cabin. His mind gets stuck on an image of a doting Hannibal, aside his bed, delicately changing the bandages over his incisions and doling out pain medication. But his traitorous stomach makes a knowing rumble, and his thoughts snap back to considering his meager offering.

“It will be tough - sinewy.”

Hannibal nods, then brushes his fingers against his calf. “Best suited to a stew, I think. Cooked slow, just below a simmer.”

Will nods, trying hard to remain present. If he agreed to this, then he owes it to himself to stay to see the harvest through.

“Tell me where you start feeling sensation again,” Hannibal requests, poking the tines of a fork sharply into the shaved flesh, then moving slowly up the length of his calf.

Just below the knee, Will winces slightly, “There. Is that enough?”

“It will be, yes. I will begin shortly. If you’d lay semi-prone, that would be best.”

Once in position, Hannibal moves with practiced confidence. The blade is sharp, parts skin and the thin layer of fat easily to reveal the muscle below. Will imagines more than watches the twitch of the muscle bands as they dance involuntarily. He doesn’t feel pain, per se, but the memory of pain. He takes steadying breathes, but doesn’t avert his gaze.

Hannibal moves quickly, forgoing casual banter and focusing intently on the procedure. It is a curious thing, watching him at once work on repairing the muscle tear while simultaneously procuring their dinner.

When it’s over - Will is thankful that the anesthetic has yet to recede - he stares absently at the visibly misshaped curvature of his calf. This is what love is, he thinks to himself, gingerly pointing and flexing his toes. He watches as Hannibal moves towards the same sink where he will soon scrub and clean the vegetables. There’s a queer comfort in that thought.

Once clean, he returns to Will with a smile that spreads uninhibited across the whole of his face. “My love, let’s get you to the bedroom.” he muses, touching the thin skin below Will’s eye with a look reserved for worship. Will makes a small noise before nuzzling his face to the soft pads of Hannibal’s fingers, then slowly, he allows himself to be helped up and led to rest.

Chapter Text

The first kills after Dolarhyde are cursory, uncharacteristically dull and borne out of necessity. Not meant to sate the hunger unleashed between them, only tickle at its edges, remind them of something unfulfilled. Once they placed enough time between themselves and their injuries and their repercussions, Will realizes, somewhat alarmed, that he cannot bring to mind the face of the last man he killed. Forgetting is an unfamiliar feeling for him, though not an altogether unwelcome one.

Tonight, there is time to savor, if he will let them. The body in front of them is quickly cooling, exposed and cracked open, rib by rib. Hannibal intends to let them marinate in it, though Will finds that he grows more impatient for every three cuts Hannibal makes when he could have made just one. His body feels magnetic, pulled to rub himself across the exposed insides of the man whose misfortune was brought on by marginally improper social etiquette and Hannibal feeling particularly bloodthirsty.

To refrain from ruining the meat - fingers itching to probe and dig and know - Will had first shoved his hands deep in his pockets, waited several feet away as Hannibal worked. Now, he has slowly moved closer, has wrapped himself around Hannibal as a counterforce to delay his need to connect, understand, learn every messy curve and jut of the man before him. Hannibal steadily keeps his position between them, allowing Will to gently rut his growing attention against his ass. Will distracts his fingers by running them up and down Hannibal’s sides, undoing buttons and sliding his hand to drag nails through the thatch of his chest hair.

Hannibal doesn’t have the same reaction to killing as he’s discovered in Will, though he has an arguably stronger response to Will himself, and he considers the idea of fusing these two passions not nearly as unappealing as he might once have. Still, he’s not hard. He’s too focused on harvesting the plump kidneys, the ruddy reddish-brown liver to react in the same way that Will is, but it doesn’t mean he cannot appreciate the affections that are lavished upon him. With the second kidney cut away, hastily wrapped and placed on ice, he encourages Will’s tongue with a slight bend sideways of his neck.

“Are you done?” Will asked, breathless, though Hannibal knows he knows: his eyes haven’t strayed for a second since he began his work. He’s made sure to perform the harvest slowly, curious to test the strength of Will’s resolve when they have finally been given the proper space and time to appreciate a slaughter. Except where it counts, he has been deliberately sloppy in his butchering because this is the way Will prefers it. Raw, visceral, undone. The whole of the chest and abdomen have been exposed, breastplate and ribs removed or broken to present the complete slippery, smelly mess before them.

Hannibal twists between Will’s arms to face him, reaching one bloodied gloved hand to rest against his stubbled cheek. He relishes the way it makes Will’s breath hitch, his eyes flutter shut before he can stop himself. “I’d like to take some of the leg, but that can wait.”

Will licks against the pout of his upper lip. Hannibal’s mouth parts in response, and he imagines the taste of blood mixed between them when they kiss.

“Why do you wear these?” Will asks, nuzzling into Hannibal’s wet palm.

“You’d rather feel it without the barrier between you? An organic invasion into an organic space?” Hannibal asks, moving to rest his gloved thumb against the edge of Will’s lip. Will licks, sucks, nips at the stretched boundary between them.

“Can I?” he asks, his attention shifting away from Hannibal and to the mess of gore behind.

Hannibal’s other hand slides over, between Will’s legs, ruining his slacks with blood. Will groans, sucks harder on his thumb and thrusts himself into his hand. “I would like nothing more.”

He steps aside to allow the pull of the body to draw Will in. When Hannibal’s gloves are off, he moves around to watch them more intently. It is clear that, to Will, he stands before a puzzle. A play thing. How he would if he could slither into Will’s mind, take up a spot along the wall and witness the convolution of Will and Other, empath and predator and victim, each layered onto another, each setting roots in the foundations of the rest.

His fingers hover, considering, moving and retreating from different points along the chest. Finally, Will sneaks a quick look up at Hannibal with a sort of apologetic half-smile, then climbs the table to straddle the body at the hips. Hannibal lets out a satisfied sound, and moves in to run his hand soothingly along Will’s shaking back.

“What would you have, Will? I would give you everything.” Hannibal shifts to tug up the hem of Will’s henley, slips it over and off his head and smooths the fevered skin along his back.

Will’s caress is cautious, ridiculously so, as it runs along the cracked edges of the man’s ribs. He is memorizing the angles, the small trickle of marrow that leaks, lazy, out of the break. His words come out barely louder than a whisper, “The heart. I want the heart.”

“Then rip it out and take it for your own.”

Will makes a small sound at that, then his nails are digging through lung tissue, gorging out spongy bits to make a hollowed clearing around the turgid muscle. In Hannibal’s mind, a flash of his own Valentine to Will: how much more impressive it had been compared to this overworked fist-sized mass that lays before them now.

Will’s hands curve around to cradle the heart; Hannibal smiles when his thumb pets against its apex. Then he is pulling, twisting, greedily claiming the organ for himself. It is always an impressive thing, to watch the fragile elasticity of the human body under strain. The arteries stress and stretch until they don’t, each snapping as Will rips past their tensile strengths. He is breathing hard, a wildness dancing in his eyes. After a time, only the aorta keeps the mass tethered, stretched unshapely but intact. It’s a small thing for Hannibal to intervene with his scissors to snip the last remaining bind.

Will holds the heart against his own, as though through his skin, the dead cells might pick up on the thump thump thump of his living organ and restart their own rhythm. His hands slide across its thick and fatty surface, until his finger slips along the edge of the aorta’s edge. He trembles as he breaches into the firm hose.

“Love,” Hannibal says, and he hears his voice affected, accent think. “Show me.”

Will looks up, as though snapped from a daydream. His chest is covered red; when the heart twists in his groping, residual blood weeps from the various venous and arterial tears. “I always thought they should be bigger, for the amount they can ache,” he says, lifting the organ away from his chest slightly to allow Hannibal’s gaze to cast over it.

“You have a need for balance, between the girth of one’s emotions and their physical embodiment,” Hannibal muses, then places his hands gently on either side of Will’s hips.

Will pivots his hips and begins to grind down against the exposed intestines, though once he catches himself he immediately stills.

Hannibal smiles warmly at this, lets Will feel his lack of judgment by unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly. Will’s moan comes out more like a sob when Hannibal takes him in hand, stroking along the rigid length. “How can I show you that every bit of you astonishes me?”

He closes his eyes at that, and Hannibal steals a look at the way his fingers have started to push in and out of the aortic tear, how he absently teases himself by pinching the thin walls of the artery between his thumb and index finger, then pushes past the valve and hooks gently into the ventricle itself. When he notices what he’s doing, Will stops himself again, though he allows himself to lift up and into Hannibal’s hand.

“This… it’s a lot,” he admits, but looks over to meet Hannibal’s devoted stare and melts a fraction from it. “It is a dangerous thing to be granted everything that you want,” his lips slide from between his tongue, his breath catches as Hannibal’s hand works faster against him, twisting slightly near the head.

“We are dangerous men,” Hannibal reflects, and Will laughs that shaky, overwhelmed sound that prickles the hairs at the nap of Hannibal’s neck. “I would take everything that I can from you, if you’d let me.”

Will’s head tilts at that, his fingers returning to fuck indelicately into the openings of the man’s ruined heart. His other hand massages the base, as though he might make it pulse again by sheer force of will.

His hands are gloved in blood and small bits of gore that have come apart with his more energetic movements. Will’s breathing has never quite quieted since ripping into the man, it comes out in haggard puffs as he bucks up, fucking into Hannibal’s fist with increasing need.

Hannibal is a careful study, knows how to bring Will to the edge and have him hang there, has let him balance for small eternities before letting him fall. He doesn’t intend to prolong this much longer - there is meat yet to be carved, after all - but he steadies his hand all the same when Will’s thighs begin to shiver and he sucks in a wanton breath.

Will, sweet, deliciously bloody Will. His Will. He looks over at him, a flash of guilt streaks across his features, though Hannibal delights that it is replaced with a venomous frustration soon after. For a fleeting moment, he begins to bring the heart down closer, barely grazes it against the head of his cock before he catches himself and secures it tight to his stomach.

At that, Hannibal grips into his curls, drags his head down and over, and seals Will’s lips with his own. Will nips, bites harder, barely able to cage his feral beast much more. This is the creature he has waited so patiently to reveal to Will, waited to birth again in viscera and violence. He imagines pulling Will off the body entirely, making him focus his energies on him, fuck him brutally against the hard tile of their apartment. His own cock aches, now that he is no longer distracted by the harvest. His lips grow needier at the thought; Will is quick to match his want.

But no, not now. This is Will, so nearly uninhibited. He cannot be so selfish. He needs to show him how beautiful this can be. With great effort, Hannibal parts. He takes one of Will’s hands to replace his own on his cock, growls approvingly as it paints the length in streaks of crimson. Will luxuriates in the slick feel, keeps his eyes locked on Hannibal as if to say: Make me do it. More.

Hannibal’s grin shows his crooked smile; light bounces off the shine in his eyes, reveals his exuberance. He grasps the heart by the widest part, and little by little, moves it down. The organ rubs down his torso, brushes against his cock, and settles between his legs, against the body’s guts.

“He is yours,” Hannibal whispers, still smiling, and tilts the heart to offer the sheared arteries and veins at its crown. Where Will has worked his fingers against the aorta, the walls of the artery have given way somewhat, but each opening is still no more than a tease, an inch or two wide at best.

Will’s hand slows. He is shaking, not just in his legs, or his hands. His whole body vibrates when he rubs the bottom of his head teasingly against the rubbery hoses. The sound that escapes his lips is lewd, absolutely shameless. Hannibal’s own breath comes out in a hiss against his teeth.

It takes very little. As he rubs himself against the surface of the heart, Hannibal watches as Will approaches the edge of the precipice. When his stomach muscles clutch, Hannibal shoves the heart over the tip of Will’s cock and holds it there. Will lets out a debauched moan when he comes. He keeps the tip covered, catches all of his release into the organ, waits for Will to stroke through and past the orgasmic high until he is practically twitching from the stimulation. A masochistic drive forces him to pump further until he finally shudders, jolts back from his own hand to get away. He laughs, an unselfconscious twinkling sound, that makes Hannibal’s own heart jump.

They both look down at the devastated muscle, the globs of pinkish white come that coat the inside of the clipped aortic arch and past the ravaged remnants of its valve. Will’s eyes flash at his undoing, his gaze snaps to look searchingly at Hannibal - for judgement? repulsion? acceptance?

“Shhh,” Hannibal says, and runs a dirty hand through Will’s damp curls, then presses against Will’s hand so that he might bring the heart up away from his cock. For a moment, there is only uncertainty reading across Will’s features, but as Hannibal leans down, places his lips delicately against the supple hole, he stops breathing altogether. Eyes on Will, Hannibal’s tongue darts out, tasting come and blood and life and fate and God. Finally, Will smiles.

Chapter Text

There’s a note, taped to the bathroom mirror:

Shave everything

Below it, a fresh razor, expensive shaving cream, a thick, lightly scented lotion for after.

When Will exits the bathroom, towel still in hand, soaking up the last drops along his smooth skin, he notices the box on the bed. He swears it hadn’t been there before.

The silk ribbon is a deep green, the box a night blue. It stands out, stark against the sterile white of their bedsheets. He tosses the towel on a nearby chair. Naked, he moves to the bed to open it.

Inside, another note:

I’ll be back by 8:00

He glances at the clock on the bedside. Only 20 minutes. A small shiver runs through him.

The tissue crackles as he peels the sticker off the edges, pulls it back to reveal the gift. It’s nude, impossibly delicate. It will disappear against his skin. He loves it.

Panties, garter belt, thigh highs, a delicate gold chain that will wrap twice, loosely, about his neck.

His skin is preposterously smooth, the buttery feel of a fresh, clean shave. Like rushing water over undulating muscle. He imagines Hannibal’s hands, those fucking delicious hands, running along his calf, up his thigh, to between his legs. His cock stirs.

He slips the panties on first, already straining against the sheer tulle fabric. His hands pass over his backside, follow the opaque edging of the briefs up over the curve of his ass and around. His fingers stop shy of where he’s stuffed his cock, the gentle tug against the briefs edge slides the fabric over his sensitive head.

The garter next, a matching delicate net tulle, nearly invisible except for its understated scallop. Will’s hands fall along his firm chest, snake down and over the belt at his wait, defining it ever so slightly, a flicker of nostalgia from when he was younger, more dainty, a more slight thing to handle. Not anymore. They’ve become true predators, broad shouldered, lean, explosive. He loves that, too.

He sits on the edge of the bed, runs his fingers over the champagne stockings. He’s careful with them, they are so thin they feel like little more than wisps of silky cloud through his fingers. He bunches them slowly, pulls the reinforced toe and heel over his pointed toe, gently tugs and works the thin nylon up his leg. The other. His hands wander, he cannot stop himself.

When they clip to the belt, they tug at the hem just so, a suggestion of strain, an indication of their fragility.

Finally, the necklace. It flows like water, a lavish trickle of gold. When it’s wrapped, clasped, he runs the pads of his fingers against it - feels the edge of the metal grow warm against his skin.

A glance at the clock. Ten minutes.

Ten minutes, until Hannibal will be back. Until he will slip in the door, eyes alight, skin smelling of cold. He’ll need to touch him, before he can take his overcoat off. He will move through the rooms like music wafting through steam, will touch Will’s shoulders with his cold hands, and they’ll warm as his glides them over the muscles of his stomach. Will will stand there, a gift, back straight, heart beating, cock twitching. He will look at Hannibal, a smile barely bubbling to the surface, and he will thank him. Show him his thanks. Use tongue and fingers and cock to cover him in gratitude.

Chapter Text

Hannibal sat at the head of the table, turned round to look at his two in the kitchen. In front of him, Anthony had been splayed out before the counter, the ropes around his arms secured to hooks lodged deep into the low arch of the stonework; his legs spread by the long bar between his feet. He had been blindfolded; Hannibal knew he took pleasure in the unpredictable.

“You may begin,” his words rang through the room, powerful without needing to be loud.

Will smiled to Hannibal, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He ducked himself behind Anthony to get at his equipment already laid out on the counter.

Anthony shivered at the sound of latex stretching, its hem smacking against Will’s wrist. His eyebrow peaked up from the blindfold, “You two have been plotting.”

“Would you want it any other way?” Will smiled, then slapped at Anthony’s cock, making him yelp.

He shook his head, breathing coming a bit harder for the first show of abuse, “I’ve quite enjoyed your combined imaginations in the past.”

Will slapped him again, then grabbed at his crotch, massaging through and past the sting. His other hand joined in, bringing an alcohol swab across the head of Anthony’s cock, down the base, and rubbing ungently along his scrotum. He squirmed as the alcohol cooled on contact, his cock jumping.

“Bring me your options.”

Will picked up a small dish and moved to where Hannibal sat. He relished in the contrast between them: he and Anthony naked, shivering in the cool air, while Hannibal remained fully dressed, no evidence of any baser emotion threatening to overcome him. Poised as he was, legs crossed, wine glass in hand, his control over his men wafted off of him, thick and heady.

Occasionally, in scenes such as this, Will would slip inside Hannibal's mind - only for a moment, never so long to linger. Under the mask, he found a thrumming desire, an overwhelming compassion for his boys that he directed to no others. He adored what he found there: he could let himself go completely under his command.

“Present them properly, boy.”

Immediately, Will dropped to his knees, lowered his head, and lifted the dish for Hannibal's consideration.

“This one, I think,” he said, holding up a larger though slim ring, “Connect them. Nothing more tonight.”

A small snag of disappointment wrung through Will at that; he didn't catch himself fast enough. Hannibal's hand was quick, his grip firm along Will's jaw as he dragged his face up so their eyes met, “Are you unhappy with my choice, boy?”

Will let out a shaky breath, “No, sir. Thank you.”

Hannibal pulled Will up by his jaw until their noses touched, “You are exquisite, boy. Show my slave the flavor of your debauchery, make him beg, and I will fuck you both until you are wide and sloppy and gaping for me.”

Their lips met then, a brief touch, before Hannibal let go of Will's jaw: sign enough that he was continue.

“I will, sir. I'll make him scream for you.”

Anthony waited, half hard and shivering. Will placed his gloved hand against his smooth chest, let it drag down, friction skipping the trail to his cock, “You’re too hard for me, Anthony. Too eager.”

“It is an unfortunate side effect of your attention, Will,” he chuckled, tilting his head up uselessly to try to catch sight of the man before him.

Will smiled, replaced the dish on the counter, then braced Anthony with a firm grip against his hip. His other hand swung, delivering a brutal punch directly above his navel. The sound that choked out of Anthony was as intoxicating as any drug. He barely waited for him to try to straighten up before he brought his fist in again, aiming well past the point of contact.

Anthony coughed, air hurled out with the second blow. From behind Will, Hannibal spoke, “You forget yourself, Anthony.”

He sputtered, trying quickly to regain his voice. A thin line of spit trickled from his smiling lips, “Thank you, Will. Thank you, sir,” he managed, directing his gratitude to Hannibal, “may I have some more?”

Will focused his attentions to Anthony’s cock next, intent on lessening its fill before he moved on. His slaps were gentle at first, more taps against the head and balls, but he would make Anthony shout in surprise with the occasional hard smack, making his cock grow soft and flop about his stomach and thighs. Every time, Anthony muttered his thanks.

“Excellent, boy. Both of you, truly excellent,” Hannibal observed, now poised at the entrance to the small kitchen where Anthony was trapped, “You may move on.”

Will gave one last quick, hard tap to the top of Anthony’s cock, smiling at the frustrated moan it elicited.

“Thank you.” Anthony replied, teeth gritted.

Will grabbed his forceps and a long hollow needle. He’d wanted this particular piercing for Anthony for ages: it complemented his previous work so well. He hoped that soon, he’d be able to stretch him well past the meager ring sir has chosen for him tonight. The idea of him weighed down, a constant reminder of Will’s work, sent a small thrill through him.

“Deep breath,” Will said, lovingly, then pulled the skin connecting Anthony’s scrotum and the underside of his cock with his fingers, locking it between his forceps, “Three, two,”

The needle slid through the tender skin. Anthony groaned, steadied the small involuntary buck of his hips into the needle. The ring itself was relatively unobtrusive, would heal well if Anthony continued to be denied Will’s ass as has been typical these days. Will resented that a touch.

Before he locked the ring in place, he slid a small chain through the metal. Anthony let out a gasping breath when Will’s hands moved to grasp the head of his cock, “You’ve made me a bit gun shy, I’m afraid.” he whispered, though his hips did buck up this time.

“Only some incentive, to stay as calm as you are for sir.” Will spoke, more to Anthony’s cock than to the man himself. His finger teased against Anthony’s slit, then slid the heavy cock ring back and forth through the opening. Anthony sighed heavily in response.

With his tweezers, he removed the ball of the cock ring, then slipped the other end of the short chain onto the ring. As he returned the ball, he kissed Anthony’s cock once, lightly, “Here we go. It’ll throb terribly if you get too excited.”

When only his breathing pierced the quiet of the loft, Hannibal cleared his throat. It was enough of a reminder. Head resting against his shoulder, Anthony quietly thanked Will again.

“Would you test your handiwork, boy?” Hannibal asked, amusement playing about his features. His interest in Will’s interest was becoming clear, a thick bulge straining under his slim slacks.

Will leaned his head in against Anthony’s hipbone and breathed in his musk. Without even touching, it was easy to see the tremulous pulse of his cock, still flaccid but with a suggestion that this was achieved with some difficulty.

“You want to get hard for him, don’t you Anthony?” Will spoke, pulling back his foreskin to swipe his tongue full over the head, “I’m hard for sir. Do you wish you could be too?”

“God, yes!” he panted, twisting against his restraints. He screamed in earnest then, a quick, lost noise, when Will tugged against the short chain running from base to tip of his soft cock.

“You’ll rip it out,” Will sighed, lifted his cock up and tugged again at the chain, this time with his teeth, “He won’t fuck you if you’re damaged.”

“You’ll both be left wanting.” Hannibal corrected, moving forward to rub gentle circles against Will’s back, “It would be a terrible waste of a night.”

Anthony felt the shake of Will’s breath against his cock, thought furiously of anything but. His cock was swelling though, just a touch. Enough for the little slack in the chain to grow taut. “Goddammit” he spilled, a quick, tortured whine.

Hannibal looked his boy over, considerate. “Some time alone will do him good, I think.” Anthony shook his head at that, a whimper leaving his lips before he could stop it.

“You’re too much a temptation, boy.” Hannibal’s hand moved up, resting softly along the back of Will’s nape.

Will hummed at the compliment, shifted his attention away from Anthony and towards Hannibal. “May I touch you, sir?” he asked, his fingers stopping inches from the outline of his cock.

“Please,” Anthony whispered. A bead of blood bloomed from the new piercing as it was pulled further by the chain.

“We’ll have mercy on the boy for a time. You’ve both done so well for me,” Hannibal praised, then took Will’s hand in his own and rubbed it hard over his cock, “Just a little longer, boys. Show me you can hold out. Then you’ll both have your rewards.”

The three of them smiled, each coloured by a different undertone: desperation, anticipation, satisfaction.

Chapter Text

“Hannibal, it’s fine. It’s the airport, not Charleston.” Will huffs, stuffing his toiletries into the already full suitcase.

Hannibal glares at Will through the mirror, a do you think this time will be the time I sacrifice style for speed look, but selects a tie anyway. “The flight isn’t until 5, Will, we’ll be fine.”

Will stops dead, nearly losing his grip on the sparkly pink backpack he’d been stuffing toys and books into, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Hannibal simply stares.

“ This is the day you forget our schedule?” he nearly shouts, dropping the backpack to hastily take over packing Hannibal’s half-finished suitcase, “It’s four p.m., Hannibal. FOUR! I sent you the confirmation email last week.”

“I’m certain you’re mistaken, Will.” he says, placing his hand over Will’s to stop him from throwing clothes haphazardly into his luggage.

“Jesus Chr - you’re arguing? Of course you’re arguing. We don’t have time for this!” Will jerks his hand from under Hannibal’s, pulls out his phone and shoves it at him, “The flight’s at FOUR! Now move!”

Hannibal looks blankly at the boarding tickets on the screen. His eyes widen a fraction before he throws the phone on the duvet and shouts, “Lina! Egle! Come on! We’ve got to leave now! ”

Will allows himself a half-disappointed, half-self-satisfied smirk before picking up his suitcase and heading for the stairs, “I’ll get the snacks, you get your shit together and get them downstairs!” he doesn’t wait for a reply before he yells down the hall, “What are you guys laughing at?! Stop playing, get your suitcases, and hustle!”

Five minutes later, Hannibal meets Will at the front door. “Where are they?” Will asks, winded, his arms full of luggage to take out to the car.

“I thought they were with you? They weren’t in their rooms, I assumed..” Hannibal trails off when he hears the girls’ giggles on the staircase.

“Daddy! Papa! Look at us!” the delighted voice of a small child travels through the main floor.

Immediately Hannibal sighs, “Please tell Papa you’re ready to go!” he calls, already knowing the answer.

Lina emerges first into the hallway, “We found dress up clothes!”

Will drops the luggage. Hannibal gapes.

“I’m a diver!” Lina exclaims, holding up the black rubber gas mask so she can see through the heavily blackened goggles. A ventilation hose flops down her front, nearly tripping her as she walks towards them. She’s nearly lost amidst the folds of the full-body latex suit, a garment that would normally cling across every inch of Hannibal now overwhelming her small frame. She laughs at her parents’ reactions, sound muffled behind the mask, “I’m going on an underwater exposishun!”

“It’s expedition, honey.” Hannibal whispers, unable to stop himself, his words barely audible through the hand that has crept up to cover his mouth.

Egle scuffles into the hallway soon after, as amused as her younger sister. She wears an oversized brown leather puppy mask, ears flopping low on her forehead, muzzled snout protruding comically out in front of her face. Around her neck is one of Will’s thinner collars, a leash still clipped to its D-ring. Her hands are consumed by the rich leather mitts; she shuffles her feet along the floor lest her feet lose their grip in the oversized booties.

“I’m a puppy, like Winston!" she says, then holds up a suede flogger by the hand loop, "Can you help me put my tail on, Daddy?”

The moment stretches out for minutes, it seems, neither man able to form a coherent response. Finally, Will’s face crinkles about the edges before he doubles over in laughter. Hannibal, for his part, is considerably less amused. His voice carefully even, he asks “Eggie, sweetheart, how did you get into that room?”

Egle furrows her brows behind the puppy mask, a passable imitation of Will’s disappointed look he’d flashed Hannibal not 10 minutes prior, “It wasn’t locked! Lina said she found another playroom! You didn’t tell us you had dress up clothes, too, Papa!”

Hannibal’s grip on Will’s shaking shoulder is heavy, as though he’s bracing himself against the other man for support, “We- we have to go now, girls. Please, take - take those things off and get your bags.”

Lina flops down onto the floor and begins her best backstroke across the hallway tile. “Just a couple minutes, Daddy! You can dress up, too! I’ll be the diver and you can be the princess! There was a fancy dress in the closet, Eggie saw!”

Will composes himself enough to straighten up and collect the dropped luggage. He shakes his head and turns towards the front door, “You’re the one that forgot to lock the damn door, you deal with it,” he says, walking out to continue packing up the car.

Chapter Text

Several days later, Will notices his tail in the cloudy Florence streets. He picks up his pace, but Anthony doesn’t lose the respectable distance between them. He expects it, then, when Anthony follows him shortly after he enters the cloistered market.

“Due bottiglie di Batard-Montrachet e li tartufi bianchi, per favore,” he recites, his accent still atrocious. He’s given the proprietor consistent enough business, however, that the man only smiles pityingly at him before turning to prepare his order.

“Florentines say Vera dal, with its wealth of cheeses and truffles, smells like the feet of God.” Anthony stands six inches closer than is publicly polite. Will doesn’t have to turn to know he’s smiling, that same cocksure grin that he flashed over dinner previously.

“Hello, Anthony,” he replies, without meeting his gaze. The owner hands him his bag, and he pays and nods in thanks. When he turns to leave, he makes sure to match Anthony’s stare. “Goodbye, Anthony.”

It’s less than a hundred feet before Anthony has matched Will’s quick pace, “I asked one of the scholars at the Palazzo to point me in the direction of Dr. Fell. He pointed directly at your husband.” When Will doesn’t respond, he continues, “Mr. Jakov? Where are Roman and Lydia?”

Will stops, scanning the sparse surroundings, then looks pointedly at Anthony over the rim of his glasses. “I don’t know,” he admits.

“Does your husband know?”

Will laughs, a short, nervous sound. “He’s not my husband. He is something entirely Other.”

“The man is curating an exposition of Atrocious Torture Instruments” Anthony smiles again, though his eyebrows curve slightly up with concern.

Will regards him for a time, considering his next words. His quiet pose crumbles between them, and he lets out a shaky breathe, “However you think you’re going to manipulate this situation to your advantage, think again. Unless you believe you are beyond harm, go to the police.”

“You want to be caught,” he says, understanding.

Will’s free hand reaches out to Anthony’s arm, but hesitates before it makes contact and falls limp at his side. “Will you help me?”

—

Will throws his coat over one of the chairs near the fire, then swivels when he hears the twist of their apartment’s door. He checks any outward reaction when Hannibal holds it opens for Anthony. To his credit, Anthony does the same, sliding past him and into the heart of the apartment.

Hannibal’s eyes glint; he closes the door behind him, then palms the solid phrenology head on his way over to where Will and Anthony now stand. It makes a sickly crack against Anthony’s skull, and he falls, a crimson halo forming around him.

Will wipes a stray spray of blood from his cheek, looks from Anthony to Hannibal, brow arched. “A bit impulsive?”

“Did you know what would happen when you asked him to help you?” He asks, unfolding a silk handkerchief to clean the marks from the head’s Perception and Morals lobes.

Will shrugs, leans down to brush the matted blood from Anthony’s pained face, and meets his unseeing eyes. “I was curious.”

“Is this what you expected?”

He pauses to consider and then smiles warmly down at Anthony, who seems now to focus on him, silently pleading. “Yes.”

There is satisfaction in watching the transformation take place across Anthony’s features as realization sets in—a slide show of terror, hope, uncertainty, shock, then back to terror. Will rubs his thumb against his cheekbone lovingly, then stands.

“Shall I hang your coat?”

—

“If you wanted to keep him, it would have been wise to divulge your plans.”

“You didn’t give me much opportunity to open a dialogue.”

Both men’s heads turn at the sound of Anthony’s gurgled intake that trips into a coughing fit. “You didn’t kill him.”

“I told you I wouldn’t.”

Will is beside Anthony first. He rests his hand carefully against his bloodstained hair. He looks him over, pressing gently around the wound, but retreats when Anthony winces and then balks at his touch.

“None of this is your fault,” Will says softly, rubbing his hands together in a mimicry of anxiety, uncertainty.

Anthony’s head lulls punch drunk on his shoulders several times before he manages to steady himself. It’s a long time after before he manages to speak, “No, I was under the distinct impression this was your fault, Mr. Fell. Yours, and the kind doctor's.”

“Fate and circumstance have brought us all exactly where we are intended to be,” Hannibal offers, taking the seat on Anthony’s other side and moving him less delicately to examine the uneven dilation of his pupils. “What have you gotten yourself into, Mr. Dimmond?”

—

When Anthony comes to again, he’s changed and propped up in a bed half-swallowed with overstuffed pillows. His face contorts as his head is engulfed by lightning strikes of bright pain. When he moves to press his hand against its epicenter, it is stopped some inches off the bed.

“This isn’t the sort of party I had in mind,” he groans, testing his restraints for give and finding none.

“All things in their due time, Anthony,” Will says, a sad half-smile pulling at his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m beginning to think I may have miscalculated your innocence...”

“Will.”

“Will. Finally, introductions,” he tries to examine Will, uncover motivations hidden under pretense.

“We see what is provided for us to see,” Will considers, then moves to pick up a tray that lays across the bed. He lifts the gilded lid to reveal a meager meal.

“Oysters, acorns, and marsala.” A sudden pang of horror crumples his features before he is able to recover himself.

“Hannibal—or Boris, or Dr. Fell, however you know him, prepared your meal before he left for the day.” He picks up the starched linen napkin and moves to tuck it under the tailored collar of his silk pajamas.

Anthony jerks, thrashes, nearly upends the tray onto the bright white bed sheets. Will withdraws, a look of mild disappointment pressing his lips together.

“Ancient Romans would feed their animals oysters, acorns, marsala. To improve their flavor,” Anthony manages.

Will indicates his attention with a lift of his brow. “Yes well, Hannibal has a sophisticated palette.”

They stare at each other for a time before Will picks up the shellfish fork to spear a piece for his bound guest.

“You’re quite mad if you think I’ll be an accomplice for my own feast.”

Will sighs, though his eyes crease with amusement. “I told him as much. Nevertheless, I promised him I’d try,” he says, and moves a small bell from the bedside table to rest beside Anthony’s limp hand. “I’ll come if you change your mind.”

He moves the tray off the bed, opens the curtains to let the light stream through, and leaves him alone.

—

For the next several days, the offerings vary little, the surroundings not at all. Anthony’s bindings are extended so that he may turn awkwardly in the bed, or negotiate moving the bedpan when needed. The light didn’t warp through the windows in the manner of regular, single-paned glass, but on the second day he screams himself hoarse all the same. Not a note from the everyday Italian street-life below them manages to slide through; he’s certain that no sound escapes the apartment. The window serves only as a reminder of what is no longer available to him.

On the third night, after his screaming has ceased, after he’s given in to pitiful sobs, then turned a corner to find quiet resoluteness waiting for him, Hannibal enters. It’s the first time since he brought Anthony up to the apartment. He looks good, dressed down in a casual sweater and slacks. As immediate as is the thought, so too is the overwhelming hate he feels for having thought it.

“Will has told me you've been refusing my food. Should I be offended that my work is not up to your tastes?” He asks, idly walking along the edge of the bedroom, as though he were taking stock of the room’s ornate treasures.

“A delectable feast does not a starved animal make,” he says, and he wants it to come out with its usual cockiness, but he just sounds resigned. Mentions of food makes his stomach gurgle so loudly that he doesn’t have to guess whether Hannibal has heard it from across the room.

Hannibal looks him over, assessing more than observing, “I have done plenty with less. Your refusal to eat will serve no greater good than to stoke a petty fire in you. Even that will die out, soon enough, if not given fuel.”

“How long will you give him?” Will asks from the room’s entrance, leaning against the door jam.

Hannibal considers, still looking Anthony over in a way one might do when deciding upon the preferred cut of meat. “A few more days, I believe.” His eyes flick up to meet Anthony’s own, “You were lean to begin with. Extended starvation will bring out a sour flavor that I have grown less fond of with age.”

Anthony looks sternly at Hannibal, to Will, then back to Hannibal, “I can wait.”

—

It’s several more days of oysters, acorns, marsala. He drinks the offered water, but throws the food across the room. Quickly, Will stops leaving the tray within arm’s reach. It sits on a table at the end of the bed, in his line of sight, until it spoils.

By the fifth day, Anthony’s pangs have subsided almost entirely; the food is barely a distraction. He feels alert, clear-headed, and consequently, abysmally bored. By the end of the fifth evening, he grabs at the small bell and shakes it with disgust.

The sight of Will at the door brings with it a renewed indignation; he hurls the dainty thing towards his face, which misses by miles. Will chuckles, then seats himself by the foot of the bed.

“You stink,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“My apologies that I may be inconveniencing you,” Anthony spits, but calms by degrees in the ensuing quiet. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“You will be again.”

“It doesn’t matter. I won’t eat. Why are you waiting? If you’re going to kill me, if he’s going to kill me, what is this?”

Will considers, touching the soft bonds that secure Anthony’s ankle to the end of the bed. The bed sheets are a tangled mess, and his limbs stick out amidst the piles. “The exposition keeps him rather preoccupied.”

The answer hits Anthony hard in the gut, “He hasn’t…been able to fit me into his schedule?”

“I’ll admit, I enjoy the way you speak poetry in your sleep,” Will adds, his head moving up to look directly at Anthony. “You look more at ease when when you sleep.”

Will lets his hand move off the ankle bond, slide over the wrinkled, silken pajamas, then dip under to touch Anthony’s trembling leg. When he tries to jerk his leg away from the touch, Will bites his lip, but lets go.

—

They unshackle him after a week or so. He holds close an ember of hope that they will kill him quickly. He’s wandered through Hannibal’s curated contraptions; he knows the man has studied extensively the art of doing anything but—but still.

He’s dizzy again, unsteady on his feet after being bedridden for so long. Hannibal’s hold around his chest is gentle, leading. They return to the dining room, which has transformed into a makeshift operating theater. Anthony despises the way the cool metal and sickly pale green sheets clash against the rich, carved woods, the hundreds of years of collective history hidden in the baubles and books that decorate the space.

“If you would,” Hannibal says, gesturing towards the dining table, now wrapped in drape sheets.

From here, he can see the door. Maybe ten meters. Hannibal has dropped his hold along Anthony’s ribs, is busying himself among a tray of objects that glint bright against the wheeled-in surgical lights.

His feet move before his mind decides, a surge of adrenaline pushes him through the dining room and past the fireplace. He gets to the door, feels the heavy patterned detail of the round knob.

It doesn’t turn.

The panic barely bubbles to his chest before firm hands are on him, a sharp prick plunged deep into the muscle of his neck.

—

Time doesn’t behave. It has a glorious ethereal quality to it, an undulating property like tides, or tentacles, or breathe. Anthony wakes first on the dining table, and the pain is excruciating. Will notices the harsh whimpers first, and moves quickly towards a small machine. He’s out again before he manages to scream.

Some time later—it must be—he’s returned to the bed. Sheets still stale, wrinkled, now covered with flecks of vomit that he doesn’t think were there before they took him. The duvet is pulled over his legs, the pillows around him warping their shapes, though knowing this, something still looks off. He’s freezing, despite the covers. His eyes are too heavy; he’s out again before the thought takes hold.

There are needles all through his leg when we wakes. His head is stuffed and groggy, nausea has seeped past his stomach and into his chest, his throat, a sickly ache in his groin. He prefers it to the hunger.

He lets out a parched, choked groan, and then Hannibal is by his side, offering water through a glass straw. “You’re recovering well, Mr. Dimmond.”

When Anthony doesn’t respond, Hannibal replaces the glass and moves to carefully fold down the duvet. The prickling pain all down his leg intensifies as the fabric shifts across the skin. His toes twitch and wiggle, but he cannot seem to move it.

Time stops then, of course. It is an imaginary thing. When Hannibal turns down the blankets to reveal a bloodied stump from where his pains begin and radiate down his invisible leg, time simply ceases to exist.

—

The next few days—week?—blur together; there is nothing to break up the maddening banality and pain. After the surgery, they stop offering him food, which Anthony supposes is a kindness in its own way. Occasionally, the smell of something otherworldly will waft in through his open door from the kitchen, and his gut will clutch in agony at the suggestion of sustenance. The way his mouth floods with saliva at the smells contrasts his parched tongue and lips. The moisture hurts.

Yes, it’s better that they don’t bring it in, anymore.

At first, he dreams. Wicked, vibrant dreams where he has both legs and sufficient strength and when they come to change him—because in his dreams, he isn’t covered in his own grime and blood and sick—he slips his bony wrists through his bonds and grabs hold of Hannibal. Or Will. It doesn’t fucking matter.

The point is that he grabs him, and his nails dig in. Lock, secure. Then it’s their blood on his lips, hot and wet. Delicious. He devours them raw, doesn’t consider any other way; the hunger is so demanding. When he’s so full up that the skin across his stomach is painfully stretched, he removes the rest of his restraints and leaves. The feeling of the warm afternoon sun on his skin is like heaven.

When he wakes, his stomach aches anew: chewing, decaying. A terminal kind of pain.

Eventually, even the dreams stop.

—

He wakes to find Will in his bed—not in bed with him, because Will does not possess the specific brand of insanity required to slip under the filthy, stinking sheets—but leaning against the headboard, tracing the pronounced ridge of his collarbone with careful disinterest.

“You’re awake,” he says.

Anthony takes a slow, raspy breath and mutters, “Debatable.”

“Mm, and just in time for dinner. Are you hungry?”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. Will’s hand trails down his ribs, into the dip of his abdomen, down his sinewy thigh. He shifts lower and rolls down the duvet to expose what’s left of Anthony’s calf.

“Listen carefully,” Will says.

Anthony’s head lolls to the side, and then pain explodes through his phantom limb. Will, gripping his stump with nails like a hawk’s talons, watching with black, empty eyes.

“Listen,” he says.

“I’m...listening.”

“Thank you.” The pain recedes, and Will has irises again, of course. “I don’t care whether or not you believe me, but I don’t like to play with my food. This is cruel and unusual.”

And you’re just along for the ride?

It’s not worth the energy to speak his retort aloud.

“I don’t want you to die of starvation. I’d much rather watch him kill you—so let me tell you about Hannibal Lecter. If you want something from him, you need to ask politely. He thrives on flattery. If you don’t get what you want, feed his god complex, and try again.”

He shifts up the bed to meet Anthony’s tired gaze.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

—

Will catches him by the waist as he’s plating their main course, brushes his stubble against Hannibal’s smooth cheek, and murmurs, “I did something for you. Just wait.”

There’s no need to bind Anthony to the chair. Even with both legs intact, he wouldn’t have the strength to stand—he barely has the strength to sit upright, and when he slumps forward, Will nudges him closer to the table so the mahogany will support his weight.

Anthony’s eyes are hooded. His mouth is slack; he lacks the volition or motivation to keep it closed on his own.

Hannibal is careful to ignore him while they eat, focused instead on Will’s lips, the way they caress the fork at the end of each bite, his glowing vitality made all the more obvious in contrast. Will watches him in turn, both of them keenly aware of the ghostly presence at the head of their table.

Then, to Hannibal’s utter delight, the specter takes form.

“Please,” Anthony croaks. “You win. Please, can I have some?”

“I’m afraid I’ve only made enough for two,” Hannibal says. “Unless—Will, could you spare a bite for our guest?”

Will’s lips quirk. He spears the last chunk of flesh on his fork, considers it. “I was looking forward to this.”

“Don’t be impolite. He asked nicely.”

He shrugs, and then pops the morsel into his mouth.

“William.”

Will makes a small sound in his throat, halfway between a laugh and a groan. He doesn’t swallow. He pushes his chair out from the table, leans down to grip Anthony’s hair in one hand, and forces their mouths together.

For a moment, the two of them are locked in this mockery of a kiss. Hannibal sets down his wine and shifts forward for a better view. They’re beautiful together: his prodigy and prey, a distorted mirror between the two of them.

When Will pulls away, his mouth is empty and Anthony’s eyes have slipped shut in ecstasy. He chews slowly.

“Thank you,” he says once he swallows. “Water?”

It trickles down his chin when Will raises the glass to his lips. He’s shaking, sweating, doesn’t have the energy to maintain his own body temperature.

“M-more? Please?”

Anthony braces himself on the edge of the table. The effort of digestion nearly has him seizing, and he must know he’s going to die tonight, but Hannibal has no qualms offering him a final meal. Truly, his transgressions are not unforgivable. He’s done more for the two of them than he knows—he’s the first victim they’ve been able to savor together. Their communion.

Hannibal rounds the table with his plate, pulls up a chair. He portions off a bite and wraps his arm around Anthony’s shoulder, steadying him as Will hovers.

“The rest of you is useless,” Hannibal says. “I hope you take some pleasure in that.”

Anthony shakes his head.

“No? That’s a shame. Had you chosen to cooperate, we might have killed you quickly.”

“I should have...known better,” Anthony says. He’s not paying attention; his eyes are drawn irresistibly to the fork.

Hannibal kisses his temple. “It’s quite alright,” he says—and the scent of Anthony’s skin is so sweet that he can’t help tasting his lips as well. Dry and cracked; copper, iron.

“Are you finished eating?” Will snaps.

“I’m sorry, are we boring you?” there is no malice in Hannibal’s voice. “I suppose I’m full.”

“Great.”

Will upends his plate, which shatters on impact, smears the food across the floor with his heel, and wrenches Anthony’s chair out from under him. He collapses to the ground with a broken groan.

“You can finish it.”

Hannibal chuckles in mild disbelief, watching Anthony struggle to lick his own meat from the hardwood. “Jealous, Will?”

“Eager,” he says, and kicks Anthony in the ribs, because of course he’s jealous.

—

They strip the bed. Though the mattress is already ruined, it can’t hurt to lay a tarp. The stench pervades the space even after the sheets are thrown into the bathroom.

Anthony hasn’t moved from his pile by the dresser where Hannibal has tossed him. He’s retching lightly. The small amount of meat he’s managed to ingest has violently kickstarted his stomach’s churning again.

There’s little need for them to haul Anthony up onto the bed together, light as he’s become, but they do it anyway, a cooperation they’ve developed since leaving the States. Anthony groans weakly and curls into a ball in the middle of the tarp.

Hannibal places a soothing hand over his forehead. “I had hoped the three of us could have spent your last days together differently. All the same, it would be a shame to leave this avenue unexplored.” His words are addressed to Will now, who simply huffs.

A shudder runs through Anthony as Hannibal’s hands move over his torso, slipping the fine ivory buttons through the dirtied silk. Hannibal hisses as his hand slides under the fabric, fingers bumping along his pronounced ribs.

“Observe or participate,” Hannibal says, looking over at Will at the end of the bed.

“What?” He asks, his eyes locked on the bony frame of their captive.

“Are you, in this very moment, observing or participating?”

There is a pause between them, until something shifts inside Will and he responds by sliding his sweater over his head. Hannibal cannot resist a slight smirk. He removes Anthony’s shirt entirely, while Will slips the grimy bottoms off his legs, fabric tugging where the blood has caked into the material at his stump.

Hannibal leans forward to lay tender, careful kisses along the edge of Anthony’s unshaven jaw and comb hands through his greasy hair. Anthony whimpers a weak protest into Hannibal’s ear. He feels the weight shift on the bed when Will climbs on, and then there are two sets of hands roaming over his thin frame.

Will’s lips are fire hot against his skin, nipping and licking and tasting his body. Despite the food, Anthony is near unconsciousness, close enough that too quickly, the human contact begins to feel more soothing than invasive. It disgusts him, the low-boil want to be handled gently by his captors.

Perhaps, like being denied food, this too is a mercy. It’s better to die clinging to ecstasy's fading shadow than to die alone, restrained, his heart struggling through each beat.

Hannibal is on him them, weight sitting uncomfortably on the jut of his hip bones. “It’s a waste. You’ve made yourself such a waste,” he muses, running hands up and down Anthony’s sides.

“You say that like you wanted to honor him,” Will murmurs into Anthony’s chest, addressing himself to Hannibal. There’s comfort in being spoken about as though he’s not in the room. He’s dead already. They view him that way, so he’s allowed to give up.

“He saw me,” Hannibal smirks. “He was quicker than you.”

A growl. Will grips Anthony’s wrist in both hands and twists. Though his back is to Hannibal, the high pitched whine leaking from between Anthony’s teeth is unmistakable—as is the crunching, splintering sound that follows, the sob, the retching.

He barely feels the pain, trapped as he is between his body and theirs. His wrist is shattered, and none of them grieve it more than they grieved the broken plate.

“Good for him,” Will says. He shifts over Anthony’s chest, in front of Hannibal. They know that his full weight will crush him, so he doesn’t settle, yet. He bends backward to kiss Hannibal violently.

Anthony is slipping into a disembodied clarity. Part of him senses, and part of him watches. From the outside, it’s painfully clear what he’s become: a surrogate. They can’t—or won’t—kill each other, but they can kill him.

Two slick, broad fingers breach him. He opens easily, having lost all muscle tone. They’re still kissing when Hannibal’s thick cock follows, but the first brutal thrust knocks Will forward and away. His mouth is immediately on Anthony’s: biting, penetrating. What is there to do but weakly kiss back, find some comfort in these last moments of intimacy?

The air is thick with the organic stench of blood, sweat and bile; with mumbled obscenities and Will’s lavender shampoo. It occurs to Anthony that this is the first time he’s felt truly warm in weeks.

Will breaks the kiss, and of course Anthony sees it coming: the weapon of his execution.

He’s allowed to laugh at the absurdity, now, but all that comes out is a pathetic wheeze against Will’s shiny pink cockhead, so he abandons laughter and instead croaks, “Get it over with.”

“How did I tell you to get what you want?” Will asks. There is no opportunity to respond—Will hooks his thumbs in Anthony’s mouth to protect himself, though he has no intention of biting.

Are his lips bleeding? Is he missing part of his tongue? It’s impossible to tell through the haze of exquisite hunger and aching pleasure. Every thrust hits his prostate. Hannibal’s size makes it nearly impossible to miss, and if he had the resources to maintain an erection, Anthony might have come by now.

“Join us,” Hannibal croons. Will throws his head back against his shoulder and allows the undulation of Hannibal’s body to drive him forward, into Anthony’s bloody mouth.

This is how he dies, starving but full to the brim.

At nearly the same moment, Will squeezes his broken wrist and Hannibal grips his stump. Pain cuts through the haze. He chokes, poised on the edge: musk and weight, each breath and insurmountable obstacle, and he is so impossibly, blissfully warm.

He chokes around Will, a simple, quiet plea, “Please.”

“I can’t hold off,” Will says, alarmed.

“Do it, then.”

“I can’t. I’m afraid I’ll—”

“Kill him? Isn’t that the point?”

Again, Anthony tries to speak against the intrusion, “Kill me, please.”

“N-no, I—”

He’ll never find out what the point was. Hannibal braces one hand on Will’s lower back and the other behind Anthony’s skull and forces them together until Will’s cock is buried deep in his throat.

“Yes,” Hannibal gasps. “Yes, perfect.”

Anthony has stopped moving. Will groans and collapses down onto his chest, feeling ribs crack under his weight. He yanks Anthony’s empty head forward and holds him there through wave after wave of pleasure. Hannibal follows. He’s been holding off, but now allows himself to fall forward, gripping Anthony’s biceps, crushing Will against the corpse.

They lie like that until Will starts squirming, and then a moment longer. Hannibal relishes his building disgust and, just for the fun of it, guides Will and Anthony into a final kiss.

Chapter Text

“What do you expect to do with it?” Will asks, on edge. They’ve spent ten minutes longer here than he’d deemed safe.

Hannibal doesn’t answer; he’s worked the Swiss Army Knife through most of the muscle, only the trachea’s cartilage still holding the man’s head to his body. It’s an extraordinarily messy job, especially considering the tool.

Will risks a look through the window again, his chest tight. No one. Still. They should be here by now. “Seriously, we need to leave.”

“Almost…” Hannibal trails off, then there is a loud thump as the head finally separates and the body falls back to the floor. “Ok, we can go.”

Will tosses Hannibal a bag barely larger than the head, then makes for the back door. He holds the screen open with his gloved hand, mildly annoyed with the mess that he’s tracked through the house. Even if they managed to avoid leaving any hair or other trace evidence behind, two sets of bloody footprints in their sizes will be enough for local police to connect their last kill, if not with their identities.

By the time they’re back at the safe house, Will is seething. They haven’t talked since they left the scene. He’s not sure what he would say that wouldn’t make things worse. He’s not sure he’s ready for that. Inside, he strips his soiled clothes at the front door.

“I’m going to shower,” he says, suddenly weary.

The blast of hot water revives him somewhat; he stands motionless under the spray until he loses track of time completely. The water is only just lukewarm once he snaps to enough to clean himself off.

It’s a well-rehearsed routine at this point, going over all the little spots - under nails, in the creases of the ears, a the nape of the neck - where people often miss that speck of evidence that eventually leads to a conviction. He is methodical about it, starting from head and working down, then going back up again. Once he’s finished, the water has completely cooled.

The bathroom of the small house leads immediately out to the hall, which leads immediately to the kitchen. Will sees Hannibal, bloody and naked except for his trunks, standing over the sink. It takes him a moment to realize he’s washing and prepping his keepsake head, which makes Will’s anger boil up anew. Instead of turning left into the kitchen, he goes right, further back into the house to the bedroom.

We’ve stayed here plenty long , he reminds himself, slipping into fresh boxers and an undershirt. What did you expect? This place is no more suitable a home than any other.

Not when Hannibal keeps fucking it up, at least.

He lingers in the bedroom until he hears the shower start up again. Too chickenshit to deal with him. He needs a drink.

When Hannibal emerges from the bathroom, he doesn’t mention the lack of hot water. Towel wrapped around his waist, he finds Will sitting in the small lounge. There aren’t very many places to go, here. Usually, that doesn’t feel like a bad thing , Will thinks.

“I had a particular dish in mind,” Hannibal says by way of explanation.

Will finishes his glass, pours another from the cheap bottle of whiskey beside him, and considers this. It rings hollow; he must know that. Finally, Will asks, “Do you know how to live safely?”

Hannibal seats himself in the adjacent chair. His head tilts in attention. “Do you think we’re altogether different, in that respect?”

“I want to. I want to find somewhere safe - with you. I think I could be good at it. But you -”

“This is everything I wanted for us, Will.” The way he says it sounds off, a bit rote.  

“You can’t accept the idea of being comfortable, together. You wreak little havocs whenever things start to feel too familiar.” Will’s eyes are distant, shining. “You knew there’d be an alarm.”

Hannibal doesn’t address his accusation directly. He continues, as though their conversation hadn’t swerved. “The dish requires the meat to be quite fresh; it’s a simple preparation and -” Will raises his hand and Hannibal cuts himself off, somewhat disquieted.

“I don’t care about your meal planning, Hannibal. No - I don’t. I’m more concerned with your inclination to do shit like this whenever the most inopportune time presents itself.” Will pauses, looking searchingly to Hannibal. His next words are quiet, “Do you miss your isolation so much? Do you want to be caught?”

To anyone else, Hannibal’s reaction would be too subtle to catch, but Will doesn’t need much. His words have struck and stung. A gross mischaracterization of his intentions. Good , he thinks, maybe now he’ll admit the truth of this. All this pushing. Baiting.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his gaze is caught in the middle distance, looking for some elaboration of the intentions he’s been denying himself. When he finally does speak, he sounds uncertain. An extraordinary thing for a man like Hannibal. “I have no desire to go back, Will. I suppose - I have been reckless.”

Will huffs, shakes his head to correct him, “Someone should have found us tonight. Before that, we could hear the fucking sirens and you set to work on removing part of the guy’s liver? Before that, on the boat.”

“Will, I - “

“Before that,” Will continues, “in Barcelona. And Milan. I thought this was going to get better. I thought - I thought you’d work this out by now.”

Silence.

“So did I.” Hannibal’s whispered admission is as good as a waving white flag on the battlefield.

Will rubs at the callused skin that still lingers from where his wedding ring once sat. He thought it would be gone by now, too. Say something , he chides himself, but words don’t feel like they’d be sufficient enough to convey the complexity of what he is feeling.

“I want you,” Hannibal says, a near plea.

“You want to want me,” Will corrects, staring at him. In Hannibal’s eyes, he sees hurt, and remorse, and longing, and at the edges, acceptance.

Hannibal closes his eyes then, lets his hand run through his wet hair. “I still want so much of this...”

“But it isn’t enough.” Will finishes his thought.

They sit quietly for a long time.

“I could not have predicted this.” Hannibal offers, a weak thing, his tears dropping over wet lashes.

Will is lost for a time in his own head, unable to return Hannibal’s desperate gaze. His shoulders move minutely in an suggestion of a shrug. “You could never predict me. Nor yourself with me, it seems.”

“Will, this is- ” For once, Hannibal’s words fail him.

Will rubs his own wet cheek and stands. “I’ll pack tonight,” he sighs, and leaves.

Chapter Text

“This is - something you’re into?” Will asked, inspecting the thick cut of ginger.

“Is it something you’d consider?” Hannibal countered.

Will looked skeptical, but when Hannibal approached, he accepted his lips on his own without hesitation. His hands moved everywhere over his thin t-shirt, then tucked his hands under the fabric, tweaking at Will’s nipples. This was a raw energy unusual for him, and it uncovered the same in Will. The insistence of their hands, the covetousness of their lips built upon themselves until Hannibal was clawing at Will’s buckle, ravenous.

Finally, Will forced a space between them. “Alright. Should I - slice the ginger? Skin it? Listen, you’ll need to walk me through this,” Will said, breathing heavy, face perplexed.

“Peel, yes. Why don’t you go upstairs and I’ll join you in a moment?” Hannibal said, moving back to gather his composure. He flashed a private smile to Will, then undid the buttons of his cuffs to roll up his sleeves.

---

“Mm, baby, do you still want to?” Will mumbled into Hannibal’s mouth, unable to fully separate any part of himself from the naked body beneath him.

Hannibal nodded, his lip darting out from between his parted lips. His hand massaged at WIll’s balls, fingers rubbing delicately at the skin underneath. Will was lost for a moment in the sensation, seemingly torn between ending what felt so good and starting what Hannibal so clearly had been craving.

With a degree of reluctance, he rolled over to grab the peeled ginger. Hannibal had taken some care to shape it so that it now closely resembled a small plug. Even to Will, the smell was nearly overpowering in its intensity; he wondered whether this added to the appeal for Hannibal.

“Baby, you want to fuck yourself on this for me? I wanna make it hurt, I want to make you love it,” he whispered against Hannibal’s ear.

Hannibal groaned in response, dug his fingers into Will’s flanks with a renewed fervor. He flushed from the way Hannibal’s hot breath and teeth felt against his neck. Giving this to him would be magnificent, he knew, but god did his mouth feel so good. If he could just fuck his face instead. He laughed, more to himself, for the impatience he felt. Will’s lips met Hannibal’s once more, a peck, two, before he moved himself lower onto the bed.

“Alright, legs up - that’s right. Fuck, you look so good, spread out for me like this.” Will kissed the top of Hannibal’s pink cock, then licked a stripe from its tip, down and over his balls, to the tight pucker behind. He hummed his approval at the way the muscle spasmed under his tongue, relaxing by degrees as he lapped at it.

“Put it in, Will,” Hannibal said. His hand worked his cock distractedly, ass tilted to present for Will.

“So eager, Hannibal. I love to see you desperate for it. I’m going to fuck you with that plug. You’re going to take it so well for me, aren’t you?” Will punctuated his words with quick kisses and sucks against his ass.

Hannibal squirmed impatiently under Will’s mouth. “Yes, I’ll show you how good you can make me feel, love.”

Will made a low purr of satisfaction, then moved his lips up Hannibal’s leg, tasting the clean skin of his inner thigh. He held the nub of ginger by it’s unpeeled base, but still he could already feel the sting of the root where it had knocked against a paper-cut he had on his finger. He magnified the feeling 50 fold, imagining how extraordinarily beautiful Hannibal’s pain would be. The thought of shoving the plug hard into Hannibal nearly overtook him, but he steadied himself and began slow.

The curved tip of the root pressed against his hole and immediately, Hannibal’s lips twitched up in a grin. “You like that baby? You’re so turned on for this, aren’t you?”

“Slowly,” he said, though the cant of his hips up shouted More, now, push .

When the first inch of the plug was in, Hannibal let out a pleasurable hiss. Will smiled, kissed soothingly along the back of his leg. “You’re doing so well for me. Tell me what it feels like. Be good for me and talk me through this. I want to hear you,” Will said.

“It’s - an icy burn, not unpleasant. Intense. It’ll just get more intense,” he said, and craned his neck up to try to see Will’s progress. Will pushed in another inch or so, which in turn threw Hannibal’s head back in pleasure.

“Mm, almost at the widest bit now. You’re ass is gorgeous, speared like this.” Will couldn’t focus on Hannibal’s face; his attention was captured by the novelty of the plug. The wet shine it had, freshly peeled as it was, the way the pressure of Hannibal’s ass would squeeze out a bubble of oils when he shifted.

With a final push, Will watched as the final thinner section of the peeled root was pulled into Hannibal’s ass, leaving only a small, wider unpeeled base where he’d held.

“There you are, darling. Taking it all. So good.” Will was babbling, clearly overcome at the small noises that were escaping from Hannibal as the sensation grew. “Squeeze on it for me, Hannibal. Yes, fuck.”

“I feel it, radiating through me. Kindling for the start of an inferno. It’s -” Hannibal stopped to pant, and ground himself more against the plug.

Will rubbed his cock against the back of Hannibal’s pulled up thighs and groaned. “Your ass is gorgeous - the rim is so red, it must hurt so much, baby. Does it hurt?” Will asked, finally pulling his eyes away to look at Hannibal. His brows were furrowed, teeth clenched, the beginnings of sweat starting to bead against his hairline. The sight was delicious.

“ Yes ,” Hannibal groaned, squirming more urgently. “Fuck me with it, Will. Hurt me. More.”

Will pushed against Hannibal’s ankles so he practically folded over onto himself, his ass obscenely presented before him. Like this, Will could rut against the back of Hannibal’s ass. God, how sweet it would be to fuck him properly, fill him, then plug him with the ginger root. Reduce him to begging for relief, desperate for a reprieve.

In a moment of distraction, Will accidentally rubbed his cock against the edge of the plug. Nearly immediately, he felt the start of the sting, an acute burn that made him hiss and pull back. “Fuck! Hannibal - Jesus.” He laughed, then moved his hands moved soothingly against Hannibal’s ass and back of his thighs. “You’re taking it so well for me. I love to see you suffer, make you hurt.”

“ Will - ” Hannibal’s breathing was labored.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you. I’ll fuck you good, make it hurt, then make you come,” Will breathed through clenched teeth.

He grabbed hold of the plug and pulled back against Hannibal’s abused rim. The root popped out with some resistance, making both men moan in unison. Slowly, Will began to move the plug, pushing in just to the widest girth before removing it entirely to rub against the surface. Hannibal had given up on speaking, focusing entirely on the rough slide. His other hand worked himself awkwardly, bent as he was.

When Hannibal’s hips started bucking against the plug, Will finally declared mercy. “Your ass is ruined, Hannibal. You’ve done so well for me. God, be good and come for me now, baby. Can you do that?” he asked, making sure to pump his own cock with the hand that wasn’t seeped in oils.

Hannibal exhaled loudly, a sort of whimper of mixed relief and disappointment. He let his hips fall some so that he could work himself more effectively, and was soon writhing at the edge of release. “Thank you, Will,” he breathed, eyes shut tight against the sweat that had started to edge its way over his brow. With a shuddering sigh, he came, covering his stomach.

Will whined his approval, then wiped up the mess with his fingers. With a wicked grim, he smeared the come over Hannibal’s raw hole, pushing a single finger tip in to rub it over the inside. “That’s it, just a bit more. It stings, but it’ll get better soon. You did so well, so well, for me.”

Will nuzzled against Hannibal’s propped up legs, jerking himself hard until he came across Hannibal’s ass, immediately mixing the leavings together. Hannibal allowed himself a small whimper, then tugged Will down so their mouths could meet once more.

Chapter Text

Click through to read today's prompt fill. Vampire Hannibal fic! As always, check the tags.

Chapter Text

“You shouldn’t have left him there,” Will said, storming in to begin to pace the foyer.

“Not your type? I thought he was quite striking,” replied Hannibal, closing the door behind him.

“I don’t even know where to start. What were you thinking?” Will’s voice was panicked, volume rising with each phrase. When Hannibal looked at him, eyes slightly wide, he stopped himself and shoved his hands into the tangled mess of his hair.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Hannibal asked, arm outstretched to guide Will into the heart of the home. He stood there for a moment, mouth agape, but let himself be led.

In the kitchen, drink in one hand, Will tapped a rapid beat against the edge of the counter with the other. He looked accusingly at Hannibal when he spoke, “What the fuck were you thinking, Hannibal?”

“Was I so far off?” Hannibal replied, busying himself with his own glass.

“What made you think? Christ, and in my bed?!” Will started to continue, his thoughts a jumble, leaving him sputtering angrily to himself. Eventually, he slammed his drink down, the glass making an echoing crack against the marble. “You left a dead body in my bed, Hannibal,” Will whispered, accusingly.

“Are you planning on denying your proclivities?” Hannibal looked over at Will, disappointment apparent in the tight pull of his lips. “Surely we’re past these sorts of polite white lies, Will?”

"White lies?! I -" Will couldn’t finish. No one had ever accused him of something so wildly profane. No one would ever dare. There was nothing, nothing that would suggest - nothing that might give him away. He let out an exhausted breath, and leaned his forearms against the counter, his head dropping between his outstretched arms.

When he spoke again it was so quiet, Hannibal found himself bending forward to catch each word, “There’s a lot of reasons I don’t like psychiatrists, Hannibal.”

Hannibal rounded the kitchen island towards Will’s defeated form. He let his hip brush against Will’s own as he settled beside him. He looked down at Will, voice steady and gentle, “I know this because I know you, Will, not because I am your psychiatrist.”

“You know me because you are my psychiatrist,” Will corrected, looking down at his drink.

Hannibal placed his glass on the table and moved in to wrap himself around Will, his hands running up his sides and pulling at him to stand tall and press against him. At first he thought Will might push away, thought perhaps he had miscalculated again but then he felt the tension leave his body. He leaned his back further into Hannibal’s body, his head tilting slightly to let Hannibal rest his chin on his shoulder.

“You know that isn’t true,” Hannibal mused, and his hands roamed over Will’s front. He aimed to touch Will everywhere, to reminder him of his presence in his life.

Will sighed, “I know.”

“I love you, Will,” Hannibal said softly.

“I know that, too.”

Hannibal pulled away enough to tug him around so that they were face to face. The palm of his hand pressed against his chest, rubbing his devotion into the taut muscles beneath. “Will you share yourself with me?” Hannibal asked, lips laying kisses against the thin skin of Will’s closed eyelids.

He could smell the self-loathing, a sour odor that licked at the back of his throat. It’d been too impetuous a move, he knew. He should have been more careful. Hannibal began again, “I’m sorry, love. I only want you to know yourself.”

Will pulled away just enough to look Hannibal in the eyes. The pain he saw focused there was ancient, burdensome, unrepentant. “This isn’t something I ever thought another person would accept. Isn’t something I thought I might be able to accept,” he admitted, and his eyes darted between Hannibal’s own, seeking.

“I’d have you every way, Will. Let me help,” he said, then leaned and pressed his lips softly atop Will’s cheekbone.

It was nearly midnight when they pulled up to Will’s home in Wolftrap. As soon as he stepped from the car he could hear the whining complaints of his pack, unused to being locked in the upstairs bedroom.

“I couldn’t let them out,” he explained, not moving away from beside the car.

“They’ll settle, Will.” Hannibal extended his hand in offering, and squeezed it reassuringly. “Remember, you are safe. Unjudged.”

Will’s hand trembled in Hannibal’s grasp, but his chin dipped slightly in a nod. Together, they walked towards the house.

Chapter Text

His vice was for letting go; for being made to let go. Everyday, he funneled his energy inward to keep himself separated from the rest. To lose his focus - to get too distracted by a phrase or a bruise or a smile - meant that suddenly he would be waist deep in the muck of someone else's mind. He couldn't abide it, the way he and they would blur. So he focused, and stayed himself, and that was mostly fine.

But sometimes, everything got to be too much. He’d drink then. Of course, the alcohol only dulled his inhibitions, but it also made him care less about holding the line. He might devour accents and relate other's misadventures as if they were his own, but after five or six drinks, it didn’t bother him quite as much that he couldn't untangle himself from everyone else.

Still, to slough off his control and give it over to the mercy or malice of another: that was a rare, and lusted-after gift. Alcohol could only do so much. He needed the opportunity to give up, to be forcibly held down and put under.

When he realized his drink was dosed, a small thrill tickled the base of his skull. He hid his smile around his glass, finishing it off in a few quick swigs. Begin timer: Now.

He had the perpetrator narrowed down to two, though he would readily admit (if anyone would ask) that he was only including the boy to add a suggestion of mystery to his evening. He’d been attractive enough, if a touch dim. They'd talked for the better part of 15 minutes before he'd realized he was only talking to his reflection: the same tones, same inclinations, insecurities, intentions, all absorbed by the young man before him, turned a half degree and thrown carelessly back at its source. Maybe not dim. Maybe just hopeful. Regardless, it wasn’t him, really. He wasn't the type.

No, it was the other one. The one he'd caught sight of as soon as he'd walked in. Regardless of how carefully shabby his chosen outfit, or how expertly he mimicked the existential exhaustion that slumped down the shoulders of half of the bar’s patrons - it was simply impossible for him not to notice the 30-something in the corner. Will suspected that man’s failing would inevitably be his command over a room. When he would need to be discrete, he would never be able to hide well enough in plain sight. He could clearly picture it, ten, maybe twenty years from now if he was lucky, finally brought to his knees in a mass of people that he couldn’t quite bring himself down enough to emulate. It was a funny feeling, the way Will felt disappointed when he slipped, for a moment, into the man. Not angry, not scared. Inconvenienced. He think he liked him already.

So it was him then. It wouldn’t take long, he wagered, with his size and the amount of booze in his blood already. He pushed the empty glass towards the bartender and somewhat clumsily moved himself through the crowd to the toilets. When he allowed himself a last look over at the table where the man had been, it was already occupied by another group. Fucking slippery, that one. He liked that, too.

He noticed the drug's effects first as a general weariness, subtle enough that he might have attributed it to overstimulation from being around the crowd and their persistent, noisy thoughts for so long. This wasn’t his scene, but he’d needed something after today. Work was difficult for him, at times. Not the work itself - the day to day bordered on blessedly banal. But once in a while, there'd be a case - it didn’t matter what - where he’d slip, just for a second. Then all it would take was one revealing picture, one probing question during an interview, and he would flood. The invading otherness would come on so suddenly, he could easily forget the right now and choke on the briny overflow of the other's past. It overwhelmed him when it hit, left him floundering against the crashing assault. So sometimes, he needed a fucking drink to make him not care that so many strangers could stomp around in his mind.

But it wore him down, the people. He wasn't sleeping anyway; it didn't take much. If he hadn't suddenly felt the liquid iron trickle down his spine to settle heavy in his limbs, he might have attributed his fatigue to the day and the people and the noise, and he would have headed home. It was something more though, he knew. He was just a touch too graceless, just a bit too uncoordinated to blame on just the drink and his insomnia. This was the man's design; that was just fine with Will.

He left the bar and staggered, hands clinging from door frame to window sill to brick wall, out and down the alley where he knew he'd be waiting. When his ankle turned, feet too stubbornly heavy to navigate the pot-holed ground, he knew he'd grab him as he fell.

His eyelids drooped, his vision was doubling, but he could still see well enough to know it was him. He was helpless, dosed and growing loopier for it, caught up in the arms of the stranger who held him like he weighed no more than a doll.

He smiled: a dazed, foggy sort of smile. “Will you stay long enough to fuck me again when I wake up?” he said, though it was a great effort to keep his words clear.

That caught him by surprise, he saw. His brow arched and he looked down at him with sort of vague amusement. “You know it was me,” he said. His accent was thick and unfamiliar, it purred and nuzzled deep into his brain.

Will nodded slowly. “I don't mind. Honest,” he said quietly while struggling to find his footing enough to stand. Everything felt too hard, not worth the effort. He should just close his eyes, trust the next few hours to someone else. This one seemed especially capable.

“You anticipate my motivations are sexual,” the man said, shifting Will in his grip so that he could drape his arm around his shoulder. He felt stronger than he had seemed, the layers of costume hiding sinewed muscle

“Hmm, they usually are,” Will responded, rubbing at his blurring eyes.

“And if they aren't? Are you as flippant with your life as you are with your body?”

The question gave Will pause, made him stand up a bit straighter, look a little closer at the man for something that he might have missed before. Sure, this was a bit careless of him. That was the point. But he’d never been wrong, before.

He wasn’t sure if it was the drug’s apathy that blunted his ability to slide into the other man’s mind, or if what looked over at him was just a shell. That’d be an interesting development, he thought, then weakly chastised himself for his own sloppiness. He squinted, as if the doubles of the man might align again with the renewed effort. There was something else, he thought. Something prowling below. Something he thought maybe he should have been more scared of sneaking a peak at.

“You won't hurt me, not really,” Will said, finally deciding. He reached a loose limb out to rest his hand indelicately against the warm skin of the man's neck. His thumb dragged over the jugular, up and down, mollifying. “You - I don't care much what you do, what you need from me when I'm out. Just stay a while after, too?” The way his last words fell from his lips sounded more desperate than he'd intended. But he was dizzy and nauseous and entirely too tired to care.

The man stared at Will. It was too dark in the alley, but Will thought he might have been smiling. “I find myself reconsidering my initial plans,” he said, at last. And then Will knew. He'd wake up. Sore, bloody, used, but alive. Maybe not alone.

“Is up t’you, I guess - I'm just… tired. Gonna resta bit.” Will shrugged, as well as he could with one arm slung over the man. His head lulled on his shoulders, the effort of staying upright was beginning to be too much. He let more of his weight rest against the other man, his feet tripping over each other, toes dragging more than walking.

“Very well, you rest. Perhaps a bit later, you'll tell me more of this self-destructive streak you seem to indulge,” the man said, not unkindly. Will only huffed a response before closing his eyes and surrendering to the comforting blankness that came with giving in.

Chapter Text

Will was nearly 15 minutes late when he rushed into the lecture hall, hands full and slightly sweaty. He wasn’t particularly punctual to begin with, but this was bad even for him. He looked more frazzled than usual, if possible. He didn’t even have his coffee.

“Dude totally got laid,” Cedric whispered to his buddy, who sat beside him near the back of the lecture hall.

Mitchell nearly did a double take at the assessment. “Graham?! No way. What the hell makes you think that?!”

Cedric motioned to their lecturer with his chin. He’d just dumped the stack of graded papers he’d come in with, a see of red on black on white now blanketing the floor. Several keen students at the front were already down trying to offer help. “He was wearing the same outfit for last night’s psych lecture. And that isn’t his bag.”

Cedric was right. Sure, he was more on edge and especially more annoyed than he had been the night before, but Graham was in fact wearing the same thing they’d seen him last night, only now it was looking decidedly more wrinkled. Even from the back of the hall, he could see that the buttery leather black laptop bag he’d thrown onto the table was worth more than his own Macbook. They watched as their prof haltingly accepted the offered help tidying the mess, then rubbed his hand over the back of his neck in some outward show of frustration.

Mitchell squinted. “Does Graham have a… hickey?” he asked, somewhat astonished. This man spent the better part of seven hours a week either lecturing them about which insects indicated which stage of decay, or describing - in exquisitely alarming detail - the inner workings of some of the most fucked up killers the FBI had brought in. That he might also have interests outside of the macabre topics he tested them on - that someone else might find him interesting in turn - well, that felt a little off.

Cedric had to cough to cover the laughter that spit out of him when he caught a glimpse. It was mostly covered by the collar of his button-up, but when he turned his head: there it was, ugly purple-red and plain as day.

“Alright, let’s get started. I’ve got to grab some of the files from the cloud; I left my - er - this is a loaner computer,” Will mumbled, then fell into the typical confused motions of trying to find the right adaptor for a new device.

After another five minutes of Will adjusting inputs to connect the device to the projector, and then another few minutes of him texting back and forth with someone to get the password for the laptop, he finally logged in successfully and then immediately went to retrieve his notes from the loaner bag.

The entire hall went dead silent, which perhaps was exactly the wrong thing to do, because it meant that Will didn’t notice for a moment what it was that he’d just projected in front of his forensic botany class. If you would have asked any student in the hall that night, they would have told you it was the longest six seconds they’d ever experienced.

Open on the desktop, full-screen, was a frame from what was clearly a home video featuring a very naked Professor Graham and some, admittedly fit and rather good-looking, older man. Cedric, in a failed effort not to commit his prof’s asshole to memory, tried to focus on anything else in the shot. Oh look, he thought to himself, noticing the pile of papers littering the bed, I guess he got through his homework before his extracurriculars last night. He didn’t know how he felt about the very real possibility that Professor Graham’s ass had rubbed all over his assignment. Conflicted. It was a nice ass, the still left no doubt about that. But still, he'd stayed up all night working on that.

When Will did notice, finally, what he’d thrown up for the class, he squeaked out a sort of sharp high-pitched noise that reminded Mitchell of the air being pulled out of a balloon. Then, he did exactly the worst next thing. In his panic, Will smashed at the keyboard, a flailing attempt to make it stop.

As if the still frame wasn’t revealing enough (and the angle left little to the imagination concerning the precise details about either of the men’s anatomy), Will’s button mashing only served to start the video playing. Okay, so maybe those next few seconds were the longest the hall of recruits had ever experienced.

Say what you will about the A/V at the FBI, but there was no denying that the hall’s speaker system was top-notch. As the stunned audience watched, mesmerized, while their professor got well and fully pounded into by the other man, the hall flooded with obscene squelching and slapping and panting noises to accompany the visuals. If anyone hadn’t been paying attention before, there was no way Professor Graham didn’t have their full and undivided focus now.

Cedric and Mitchell stared; the entire hall stared. It was the most horrific of car crashes, their necks were well and truly craned to examine every last detail. As he watched the man’s cock slide in and out and in and out and in and out of his prof’s ass, Cedric was absolutely positive that he wasn’t the only one resisting the urge to discreetly adjust himself.

When nothing stopped the onslaught of the video, Will grabbed the laptop and yanked it forcibly away from its connections. Immediately, the hall was thrown into a blessed, dark silence that stretched on and on and on.

Will brought his hands under his glasses to his eyes, rubbing furiously at them as though he could scrub the visuals from his retina. With one hand, he motioned pointedly towards the doors and yelled, “Class dismissed!”

Chapter Text

It started like every transition between them, at once a long time coming and yet in that moment, unpredicted. That they can still surprise in either’s actions is something that neither dwell on, lest that itself lose its sense of wonder. Better to ride the tides of trust building between them than drown themselves in second guesses.

He’s at the edge of the beach, the moonlight pulls weak shadows over the sand. Hannibal stands composed, watching the crest and break of each wave, reviewing events from the day previous, cataloguing the ones that were worth holding onto, letting loose those that were not.

The salty scent of the ocean nearly overwhelms the senses, but Will’s scent - confusion and self-loathing and remarkable, unflappable devotion - wafts over to Hannibal all the same. He allows Will the quiet entrance he is attempting, feigning at a privacy that feels altogether unnecessary between them since they fled.

Will stops beside him, and he can see that the occasional composure he's been able to muster these days has been altogether undone by the late hour. His shirt is untucked, sleeves pulled up, hair falling greasy over his eyes. Hannibal suspects his undoing may have also been helped along by the whiskey, or the hydrocodone he's taken to snacking on like candy.

Their fingers brush against each other, and Will’s hand twitches up and away far too dramatically for such a casual graze. He is hypervigilant in a way that Hannibal cannot deny is as assaulting as it would be if he’d walked over to him naked. Always on edge, these days.

Hannibal stays his eyes on the distant horizon. He waits.

Will’s breath is shaky and shallow, barely audible over the din of waves. For several minutes, they stand together, silent.

The sand beneath his feet shifts when Will suddenly sinks down onto the beach, a rattling sob escaping him as if forced from his lungs when he folds down into himself. Hannibal allows his focus to shift then, away from the endlessness of the ocean, to the man down on all fours, unable to catch his breath, teetering on the edge of something either cataclysmic or evanescent. Neither. Both.

He holds no sympathy for Will in this state, Hannibal acknowledges to himself. He is here only to bear witness to a man’s undoing, to watch as two halves fight control over one body. In the morning, he will continue his persuasion of one side over the other, but for now his role is a passive one. His role, he knows, is to be made into an offering at the altar of something in Will that once was. Something that needs no longer be. That must fiercely burn out, feverish within Will’s psyche.

From his vantage, he looks down upon Will with perfect love, but makes no move to help him. His flagellations will be provoked, or not at all. He will not force Will to acknowledge the impermanence of his own morality.

He returns his eyes back to the navy black waters, his back straight.

By the time Will collects himself off the sand to once again stand level with Hannibal, the wind has picked up. He turns to face the man head on, and allows Will to observe him. Will’s eyes are desperate in their need to find something in him that Hannibal is certain is not there. There’s a brief satisfaction when he notices how Will’s eyes linger too long over his lips. Whether because Will is imagining Hannibal’s words for him, or he is imagining something altogether more enticing, he will not permit himself to consider.

Will breaks his gaze by pressing the palms of his hands heavy into his eyes, steadying himself.

“Every day here with you feels like dying,” Will says finally, his eyes still closed when his hands finally drop limply to his side.

“Is this what drives you to stay?”

“Sometimes,” he says simply.

“Do you feel you deserve this cycle of death and rebirth that your staying condemns you to, Will?” Hannibal asks, turning his body fully towards WIll. Hannibal curls his toes into the sand.

“Don’t pretend to me that my condemnation is only my doing, Hannibal,” he spits, and Hannibal revels in the heady pulse of aggression that surges off of his tongue.

“You paint me as a God, but I have no use for your atonement. Your redemption is self-imposed.”

Will’s eyes shoot up to Hannibal’s, the muscles around them contracting, his gaze predatory. “You paint yourself as a God. You deal in unrelenting devotion.” he lets out another breath, and it steadies him. “That is your flavor of atonement. That, or savage sacrifice. Better if they are intertwined.”

The loathing in Will’s voice doesn’t speed Hannibal’s pulse, but the effect feels akin to the beating of his heart growing stronger, more certain. The loathing is a poor cover for something altogether more delectable.

“Your suffering pleases me only in so much as it will bring you closer to me, Will,” he says, then brings his hand to rest gently against the side of Will’s face.

The spark in Will’s eyes is aggressive; should be followed by him shoving Hannibal’s hand away with disgust. Instead, Will nestles his face into Hannibal’s palm, his mouth going slack as he rubs his stubbly chin into his caress. Hannibal cannot suppress a gratified smile when Will moves to bite at the muscle of his palm, holding him there for seconds that stretch and strain.

Will’s teeth let go of his hand, but he moves to grasp at the back of Hannibal’s neck, pushing them so that their faces are inches from one another. The heat from their bodies radiates out and back onto each other, and it is altogether too sweet, too good to last.

He is ready then, when he feels Will draw back suddenly. He welcomes the sudden sharp pain where Will smashes his forehead against the bridge of his nose, letting loose a waterfall of blood over his lips and chin. Physical pain is something Hannibal has learned to can sink away from, but tonight he chooses to live in it, marveling in the humanity of being able to hurt.

Hannibal looks at Will, assessing. Briefly, his tongue runs along his bottom lip, tasting of iron. The way his lips curl up slightly in a smirk is unintentional, uncalculated. Will’s eyes show his hurt when he sees Hannibal’s reaction.

Will keeps his left hand against the back of Hannibal’s neck, and delivers the punch straight to his mouth with his right. The blood from Hannibal’s split lip mixes with that from his broken nose, the sharp pain dulls and connects across his face, makes his head throb. Beyond the hurt, Hannibal notices the way in which his own pulse now picks up - just a bit - in a way that violence does not elicit from him in any other circumstance.

He smiles again, despite himself. “Is this your savage sacrifice then?”

Will’s breath is heavy beyond what is demanded of the physical exertion. It is an exhilaration that spurs him on. Perhaps an unanticipated frustration, to find Hannibal so eager to play the punching bag. His low, irked growl is answer enough for Hannibal.

This time, Will’s fist hits him solidly in the gut, winding Hannibal enough that he steps instinctively out of Will’s grasp on his neck and away to distance himself for a moment’s reprieve.

As he quiets his coughs, he observes Will in the twilight: the way his shoulders have squared; how his fists clench and unclench against his sides. The dilation of his pupils under his heavy lidded eyes; the heavy throb of his blood running just beneath the skin, against the sinewy lines of his neck. Hannibal envisions himself wrapping his hand around Will’s neck and squeezing until the steady beat of that pulse is calmed but not entirely stilled. He feels a pooling sense of comfort from imagining the slight crunch of the cartilage of Will’s ear as he rips it away from his head. Will would let him - would fight him, surely, but ultimately would acquiesce. It makes his breath hitch slightly on the intake.

He doesn’t initiate the blows though. Instead, he deflects. Responds. Will makes a move for his face again, and he ducks just enough to feel the breeze of it pass against his cheekbone. Then he grabs at Will’s forearm and elbow and twists, enough to throw him off balance so he is stumbling back.

The light from the moon is just enough that he can see Will’s eyes brighten at the deflection. He seems unbothered by the twinge of pain that must surely have shot through his bad shoulder. For a moment, he simply stares back at Hannibal.

When he comes again, he rushes at Hannibal. His anger makes him predictable and Hannibal steps swiftly left to allow his elbow to move diagonally up and connect with Will’s chin. His arm extends smoothly after contact, wrapping up and around Will’s back to push him down into his ascending knee.

Will is left once again on his hands and knees, a bloodier copy of his earlier overwrought form. Hannibal backs up. Waits. There is no pity in his gaze. He knows his dominance may be short-lived. He is not in control here. Neither of them are. He stretches his neck slowly, spine straightening, and feels the delicate cracks bubble from his upper spine.

“Is this how you show your compassion, Doctor?” Will says from his place on the sand, his voice is too loud, feigning confidence. He spits blood onto the sand. The sight of his reddened mouth elicits in Hannibal a flash of wanton desire to move beyond matching his violence. To let go of control and revel in the viscera of its aftermath.

He blinks back the urge.

“Am I witness to yours, Will?” he asks in turn, wiping blood absently from his slick mouth.

And just like that, Will’s chest caves, almost imperceptibly at first, and then fully until he is a shell of himself. If he had collapsed then, his bones gone limp, it might not have surprised Hannibal. Hannibal’s chest hurts. There, there is a pang of sympathy, after all.

“Although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness,” Hannibal quotes, taking a careful step towards Will, and then another. “This righteousness does not suit you. This is not the becoming I had in mind.”

Will stands, and rubs absently at his face, smearing his cheeks with red. He steps forward to meet Hannibal, and his movements are searching, devoid of their previous violence.

Will’s next touch is delicate - a tentative open palm pressed lightly on his chest. He lets his fingers trail against his stomach. His eyes follow the path of his hand, but they look past the flesh and Hannibal imagines his attention caught up in the tangle of his entrails like a living thing, strangled and unable to disengage. Will’s middle finger snags against his belt. Momentarily, he can convince himself that the aching pulls he feels is no more than the physical tug from the man in front of him.

And then it is, and he leans into the other man in a familiar way, as though there is no other choice but to relent. His curiosity for Will, the way in which this man would sooner die than admit corruption by Hannibal’s hand, will always make him lean in. He is addicted to it.

They share breath, pressed close to each other. He feels as much as sees the quake of Will’s uncertainty unleashed in his breathing, in the unrelenting pace of his heart.

The brush of Will’s bloodied lip against his own is the electricity of first loves and clumsy flirtations and unfettered adolescent infatuations. The shock of it is so maddeningly overwhelming; it rebukes boundaries and practicality and cognizant thought. He knows beyond doubt that it is a moment that exists only for them. Feels it as surely as the gravity that slowly sinks his bare feet into the sand.

But for some, love feels like brutality when it becomes this profound. There is no room in a fledgling heart for unremorseful fulfillment. It is too heavy, the muscles will give out. What is love but something that can be scratched out and gnawed at and pulled apart until it relents and goes still?

Will’s hand slides up his chest, to rest against his collarbone. It feels gentle, but the way his fingers twitch gives him away before he decides to dive in. Hannibal remarks, just briefly at the man’s speed, the way he could shift his grip so quickly, dig in tight under his jaw. The strength of it pull stars in the corners of his vision..

It is a show, of course. Will keeps his other hand looped around Hannibal’s waist, his eyes steadily bearing into Hannibal’s own. Reflexive survival instinct beats deep in his midbrain, but Hannibal knows it’s not necessary here. This is not the way they end. There is no separation anymore, only seemingly endless rehearsals for a show that will not come.

Still, the pressure against his airway is crushing and he gives up trying to draw in rasping breaths. He keeps his hand curled in Will’s hair, just at the base of his head. As his lips start to tingle, Hannibal moves to smooth a loose strand from Will’s face with his other hand.

Will’s sob shakes him, but he doesn’t let go. Hannibal lets Will topple them onto the sand, revels in the weight of the other man straddling his torso. Both hands are at his neck now, pushing hard into the cartilage of his windpipe. He is crying. They both might be.

In this moment, there are secrets shared between them that carry without breath, a language that communicates what matters most in the engulfing quiet of the evening. Will lets go just before he undoubtedly wants to. His expression speaks to Hannibal of a gut wrenching disgust that he feels for finding himself here, again. Then in a breath, it is gone, carried away on the ocean wind.

Hannibal is coughing, caught up in gasping breaths. There is nothing he can do for this version of Will. And so he will do nothing. He will wait. He will continue to wait.

“Are you done?” his voice is bruised and harsh, the sound plays like fire in his throat. He snarls, more to himself and his body’s persistence to signal its discomfort. He does not back away from the moment though. It feels important to stay with Will, precisely because of the way it hurts. Will makes no attempt to move off of him.

Their skin is still covered in goosebumps from the electricity of near kisses.

“You spend your years burning my life down around me. And now? What, you’ll allow me to take you down, too?” Will says, exhausted.

“Only by your hands, Will.”

It's a half-truth. At least, he hopes it is. There are no certainties with Will. Only probabilities. They are probably too intertwined for an ending as impersonal as the cocking of a gun. If they do not learn to live together, then their undoing will be familiar. If not by fists and teeth, then by consumption: finally overcome by this fever that’s been too long refused a proper release.

But what is love but devotion and destruction in equal measure? What good is getting everything you want if you cannot work equally hard to destroy it?

Hannibal watches him suck blood down his throat. Will gives up, for now. He stands, then walks away. For a long time after he has retreated into the quiet of the house, Hannibal lays there, sand shifting against his settling body.

Chapter Text

His voice flashes with desperate anger when he speaks, “You were supposed to leave.”

Will turns to face Hannibal. He is right there. Tired. Resolved.

“We couldn't leave without you,” he says, then takes a small breath. His chest deflates. Hannibal’s hand moves to Will’s face, to smooth the wet hair and simply to touch him. Close.

Will is looking at Hannibal, but he does not see. Pieces come together slowly, the world suddenly a jumble upon seeing Abigail alive. For a flickering moment, he allows himself to hope. He is too caught up searching in Hannibal’s eyes, imagining even the potential of tomorrow, to see the blade before its sharp tooth stabs in. It cuts in deep: past cloth, and flesh, and muscle.

He gasps more in shock at first, but as Hannibal pulls the blade across his stomach, the pain explodes. It is everything, all about him, everywhere.

He leans in.

He grabs Hannibal, holds himself about the blade.

Hannibal is all around him then, unyielding against his swelling agony. Distantly, he hears his blood splash against the wood floors. His hand has instinctively gripped to press against the site of the pain - pointing where his body is failing with his blooded fingers, gripping firm his insides that strain against the gash.

“Time did reverse,” Hannibal says, his hand cradling Will’s head to keep their bodies close. “The teacup that I shattered did come together. A place was made for Abigail in your world. Do you understand?”

Abigail. She stands feet from them, paralyzed. Aghast and entirely helpless. It is almost as though she is already dead, again.

Will shakes his head, his face contorted against the pain. Hannibal continues, “That place was made for all of us. Together.” Hannibal peels him away, holds him by the throat to look directly into his eyes. “I wanted to surprise you. And you… you wanted to surprise me.”

He feels Hannibal push away farther, but it is no good. “No- No!” Will gasps, and grasps at his arm to pull them together once more. Disgust registers over Hannibal’s features, but he holds on. Their faces stay inches from each other.

“I let you know me. See me,” he says, and Will catches the way his lip twitches as he speaks. “I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it.”

It is nearly everything Will can do to stay standing, holding back the inevitable shock from taking hold. His breathing is labored, every tremble of his body a threat to let slip his insides from over his hand. “Didn’t I?” he breathes, then repeats himself, louder, “Didn’t I?”

His hand claws at Hannibal’s arm,shifts jerkily down its length until Will’s fingers are raking at the meat of Hannibal’s palm. For a terrifying moment, he thinks that Hannibal might move away, or shove him forcibly back. He is as good as dead, then.

Then his hand is moving, and it is a lifetime until he feels the piercing torment of Hannibal’s fingers touch and then clutch over the edges of the incision. Will breathes through it, as best as he can; he whimpers when he pushes Hannibal’s hand harder onto the wound.

Where once Hannibal’s eyes held a stubborn, anguished determination, now there is only anguish. “See?” Will gasps, a pleading, pitiful sound.

Hannibal suddenly feels the force of his own injuries, and he digs his fingers into Will’s torso to steady himself against the dizziness that threatens to overtake him. Will screams properly this time, but doesn’t jerk back. They hold onto each other.

“Do you see me, Hannibal?” he asks, unguarded. He is back to searching Hannibal’s face for any sign that he understands.

The sting is overwhelming, it barely has enough focus for Will to register Hannibal’s touch. Until, that is, his fingers loosen and his guts shift, slide eagerly against the edge of his skin. He isn’t sure what stops them from spilling until he feels it - Hannibal’s fingers pushing in, against his intestines, under his skin.

Again, Will pleads, “Hannibal… do you see?”

Hannibal’s face barely moves but behind his eyes, he knows. He understands.

They collapse as one onto the floor, Hannibal’s hand wedged between the spread of Will’s shirt and skin. With the other, he guides Will’s head to rest against the cabinet.

“I - I want us. Together,” Will speaks his words through gritted teeth. He is shaking uncontrollably, suddenly exhausted. He needs to stay awake, just a little longer.

Hannibal’s hand moves, and it makes a sickening squelching noise as they separate. He blinks at Will for a moment, seemingly bewildered. Then his hand is pressing firm against his gut, this time over the fabric. There is no trepidation or repugnance in the touch. He holds the wound closed with a surgeon’s confidence.

His eyes look over Will, a sort of revelation of where they are. He looks directly at Will and he nods once. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

Will relinquishes himself to Hannibal’s design. The rest takes place in snapshots.