Archive of Our Own

Will licks his dry, chapped lips and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. The cool metal of his wedding ring feels wonderful against his hot skin, and he holds back a pleased sigh. He stares down at the still corpse beneath his feet, the blood soaking into the soles of his shoes. Licks his lips again, and finally lets out that sigh.

There are indents in his baseball bat after many uses, and a bloodstain around the handle that Hannibal can never get out no matter how hard he tries. It’s a point of complaint that Will hears from him a lot, but it’s not like Will minds. It makes it more familiar to him.

Will remembers once, where Hannibal said that they were two sides of the same coin—Hannibal’s kills are calm, collected, and professional. Will lets a primal urge come over him, kills with his bare hands and leaves it messy. The Cuban media compared him to a rabid animal, and Freddie Lounds had a field day with that bit of information.

He moves around the body, and his plastic suit crinkles with every step he takes. Luckily he’s gotten used to sneaking around; the victim didn’t hear a sound. Well—maybe he shouldn’t use the word victim. He hates it. Maybe he’s been reading too many articles lately, since he likes looking at some of the latest crimes in the paper to keep his skills fresh. (Hannibal also enjoys reading articles regarding their kills with this self-satisfied smile on his face, the bastard.)

This man was not a victim; he was a domestic abuser, accused of hitting his kids as well and threatening them with death if they tried to leave. Was acquitted of all crimes. He was a pig.

Some might say he’s a monster—the media might try telling that tale once the court records are dug up by the French equivalent of Tattlecrime, but Will doesn’t think so. Monsters are people like him and Hannibal, people who embrace their darkness. This man was consumed by it—and not in the way Hannibal considers a good thing.

Will would spit on him, but he didn’t want to leave evidence. He sighs again and takes out his knives to get his trophies—Hannibal’s having a dinner party in a week.

Hannibal wanted to throw a party celebrating he and Will’s one year anniversary (it would be two if you take the fall into consideration, but he doesn’t need his acquaintances to know that).  They had bickered about it for months, with Hannibal needing to fuel his desire for theatrics, and Will’s general introversion and absolutely not wanting to move again, we got here two months ago Hannibal, for God’s sake. 

“My dear Will,” he had purred, in a way that he knows makes Will go weak in the knees, “do not concern yourself with that. Leave it all to me.” He pressed a kiss against Will’s forehead, right where his headaches are always the worst, and smiles as the brunet melts in his arms. “If the situation comes to that, we will deal with it when the time comes.”

Bastard, Will thought, moaning as Hannibal pressed his tongue against him and dug his fingernails into the creamy skin of his thighs, holding him in a way that one would say I have you, I got you.

So Hannibal was successful in winning him over, albeit reluctantly and in that manipulative way that Will is far too aware of. But that’s neither here nor there, as Will doesn’t really care about that aspect anymore (because they’ve evaded the law enough times already, what’s one more?), but more so the fact that there’s so much shit they have to do.

Hannibal lets him pick the pigs to hunt, as he often does when Will pulls the old-fashioned puppy dog eyes and fluttering eyelashes trick on him (“Cunning, manipulative boy,” he would often groan hours later into Will’s ear when he’s balls deep inside him), so it leaves him with a lot of work to do. But it beats doing Hannibal’s job, which is choosing what guests to invite, what recipes to use, calling in extra help around the kitchen, and—jeez, maybe he shouldn’t be complaining.

Will sits at his desk overlooking the Paris skyline, pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes. This part is always a pain in the ass. While he prides himself on his pretty-good-but-probably-not-really good memory that allows him to remember the important details of people, like do you deserve to die, or what crimes have you committed, or what is your address, it’s not that great when it comes to names and faces—he leaves that part to Hannibal and his otherworldly prodigy/savant brain that can somehow memorize license plates with a single glance.

Despite that, he’s better at sneaking than Hannibal, who always has to carry himself like an overweight King of goddamn England. He picks someone who he thinks would be worth his time and follows them home, then goes from there. Later he has to look through his phone notes and write down what information he’d gotten for Hannibal to look over, because he hates scowling down at Will’s three-inches-smaller-than-his-tablet phone screen like the old man he is.

Then he has to look at Hannibal’s notes written in his flowery doctor handwriting that always takes him twenty fucking minutes to read. He could ask him what it says, but he can’t be bothered to suck up his pride to do so because Hannibal always smirks at him and reads it out with a voice that’s practically reeking of a bloated ego. Asshole.

The sun is beginning to set, and the rays of light reflect onto his wedding ring. This party is less about their fall anniversary, but their mostly-unofficial wedding anniversary. Will hasn’t taken his ring off since the day where Hannibal kissed him softly and slipped it onto his fingers—not even to kill. Hannibal seems to prefer it covered in blood anyways, based on the time the first splash got on it and he ate Will out right there next to the cooling corpse. Then Will had to spend the next two hours washing said blood out of his hair, but he kept it on regardless.

They couldn’t actually make their marriage official in the eyes of the law, since they’re wanted criminals and all, plus the fact that he’s not sure gay and transgender marriage is legal in a majority of the countries they’ll have to flee to eventually. Despite that, he wears his ring proudly and corrects people when they say wife instead of husband. If they have anything unsavory to say, Will makes sure to follow them home.

Hannibal has brought up getting themselves caught for a period just to make their marriage legal and then breaking out of prison. Will objected to this, rightfully so, because he knows that Hannibal wants to get caught in Baltimore just to piss Jack off (he's definitely not ready to deal with that trainwreck of a conversation), and he doesn’t have the same prison breaking skills Hannibal does.

(“It’s easy, darling, just grab anything the orderlies drop and be prepared to use your teeth, if need be.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna need some practice first—don’t look at me like that, you asshole.” )

Tattlecrime has been latching onto a picture of him as a blond and a half-shaved haircut oddly reminiscent of nineteen-nineties Justin Timberlake for the past six months, so he’s most likely fine, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel anxious. Luckily falling into Hannibal’s arms at night helps quell that worry.

Will’s not a morning person, that much is obvious, from the days where Jack would barge into his house at six in the morning and he would be forced to walk outside in just a shirt and underwear, to him snapping if you’re going to lecture me this early before I get any coffee I swear to God Hannibal I will break your fucking fingers when Hannibal wakes him up a minute before eight. He would always smile with a fond look in his eye when Will would threaten him with bodily harm. It makes Will flush up to his ears when he thinks about it later in the day; he probably thinks it’s some kind of flirting, the weirdo.

He and Hannibal have made it a point in taking their annoyances out on their hunts rather than each other, which makes their relationship more stable than most which many would not expect from two damn serial killers. If Hannibal complains about Will’s preference for instant coffee rather than his overpriced mocha beans imported from fucking Brazil like the bitch he is, Will makes sure that his next hunt has said imported beans shoved up their ass like some kind of fucked up enema.

(“Coffee again, Will?” Hannibal asks as Will trots out of the bedroom into the dining room. He has that permanent half-smile/half-smirk on his face as he gazes at Will with pure adoration.

Will plops onto his chair, scratching his head and grumbling. “Shove it up your ass,” he mumbles, lifting his coffee cup that Hannibal sets out for him every morning up to his mouth.

“It seems you beat me to it, darling,” Hannibal laughs, pressing his lips to Will’s temple as he grumpily murmurs out a love you.)

Regardless of that fact, Hannibal wakes him up earlier than normal for the day of the party and Will can’t bitch like usual because Hannibal will actually get mad at him. He gets a cup of coffee, a warm breakfast (vegetarian, since Hannibal’s saving all the meat for later), and a kiss on the cheek. Will props a hand under his chin and observes Hannibal in his element, jumping from appliance to appliance in an apron with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. A perfect house husband, Will thinks, desperately trying to distract himself from the bulging veins in Hannibal’s arms because he absolutely does not have time for a quickie.

Will goes to the door, bag of supplies (which he dubs the murder suitcase) in hand, and Hannibal sends him off with a peck on the lips that narrowly avoids turning into a full blown make out. It reminds Will of those old-timey sitcoms, where the husband would yell out honey, I’m home with a briefcase in tow—except in Will’s case, it would be a bag with organs stuffed inside a mini-cooler. The wife would come and kiss the husband on the cheek, then ask how his day was. He imagines Hannibal kissing him softly and then asking how the hunt went with a bloody knife in one hand and a kidney in the other. The image almost makes him laugh.

Will was forced to leave early because Hannibal was just slightly low on meat (and by slightly, he means at least three organs from two fucking people) and he had to do some hunting last minute. It’s not that hard—he chose easy targets this time around, lives alone, no neighbors, that kind—moreso annoying. He already took care of the abusive father, he just needs one more.

He heads to the next pig’s mansion—a loan shark. He keeps his backdoor unlocked, like a self-assured idiot, so Will slips in easily. The blood on his plastic suit has long since dried, so it doesn’t leave any footprints. His baseball bat is light in his hand after many uses. The loan shark is passed out on his kitchen table, surrounded by empty wine bottles. Will sneers; Hannibal would probably be close to cardiac arrest seeing such wonderful wine wasted.

Will steps behind the pig, heart beating wildly in his chest. He’s sweating, but in a good way, not like the night sweats where he wakes up to memories from years ago. He raises the bat over his head, and smashes.

He’s been doing this long enough to know exactly where and how hard to hit to make it lethal, and the loan shark is gone in seconds, spine and nerve endings snapped. What’s left of his head cracks against the linoleum, brain matter and blood seeping in the soles of Will’s covered shoes. Will grins and hits him again—not for good measure, but fun—and his skull ruptures another time, making a sickening sound that thrills him down to the bone.

Will’s sweating much more now, bloody and panting heavily. It makes him think of his first few kills with Hannibal by his side, where the other man would breathe hard down his neck, cock throbbing against his wet thigh. The moment Will would make the final blow, Hannibal would pounce on him, rubbing warm blood against his cunt and his own cock, pushing inside him with one deep thrust.

God, he’s horny just thinking about it. He got distracted. Fuck.

Will shakes his head and grabs a knife, quickly making a Y incision into the loan shark’s chest down to his stomach. He’s familiar enough with this process that he can drift off while doing so, as Hannibal had shown him a long time ago where to cut.

He finishes up in what’s probably record time, with both of the loan shark’s kidneys, his heart, and some small intestine, and takes his tools but leaves the body for some unfortunate soul to find. His job here is done, now it’s Hannibal’s turn.

After packing everything up in his car, Will lets himself relax. He leans against his door and lights up a cigarette, a habit that Hannibal can’t complain about because that would make him a hypocrite. Hannibal can smoke every once in a while, but God forbid Will smokes cigarettes and weed on occasion.

He exhales, his breath visible in the cold winter air. He balances his cigarette between his lips, hands tucked into his pockets. There’s quite a few people milling about, some walking to work, some stuck in their own cars, others yelling through the phone. It’s so monotonous and simple that Will finds himself watching them.

Usually around this time, someone would come to haunt him. He doesn’t see Garret Jacob Hobbs in his peripheral vision anymore. Sometimes he sees Abigail, sometimes Beverly. Occasionally Bedelia will appear, wine glass in hand and having more leg than what he left her with, throwing his subconscious fears and mistakes back in his face.

Will sees a father balancing a toddler on his hip, the little girl’s eyes wide and happy as she inaudibly laughs. Will frowns, thinking back to a conversation he had with Hannibal a few days ago.

("Do you…” Will trailed off, already feeling awkward, He didn’t even know why he was bringing this up; it was something running around inside his mind as he brushed his teeth and he planned for it to stay that way.

Hannibal looked up from his book, raising an eyebrow at Will’s stressed posture. It’s not a judgmental look, which Will appreciates. He gestures for him to continue.

“Do you want to start a family?” He asks, words coming out in a rush. “With me.”

Hannibal pauses, eyes widening minutely that no one except for Will would be able to notice. He takes him time bookmarking and closing a book, normally something he would find endearing, but all it does is make Will feel more nervous.

“My dear,” he finally says, voice soft. “Come here.”

 Will obeys almost robotically, sitting beside Hannibal’s stretched out legs. He feels like folding in on himself, but leans into Hannibal’s hand as it rubs his stubbled cheek.

“I was waiting for you to ask,” he continues. “Of course, that’s all I had wished for, Will.”

Will’s heart feels so, so warm that it’s bursting. “Would you want a surrogate or do you want me to…” Will starts, then pauses. “Because I, y’know—” He doesn’t know why he feels so awkward.

“Whatever you are most comfortable with, Will,” Hannibal says, pressing a kiss against his temple. “I will be overjoyed with whatever you can give me, for something of our own.”)

Will’s cherry has long since burnt out, and he stomps on it with his boot. He sees a flash of bright blonde hair in the corner of his vision, and he gets into his car before it can say anything he doesn’t want to hear.

The party is much more lively than Will had expected, but it’s not like it’s surprising. Leave it to Hannibal to cozy up with the Parisian higher class in such a short amount of time. Will feels a bit out of place, since this isn’t really his thing, but the sleek material of his suit and Hannibal’s presence beside him makes him feel steady.

His hand lays across Will’s shoulder, in a way that isn’t overwhelming but grounding, and is almost possessive. The hand and the way Hannibal gushes about him to anyone in earshot seems to say this is mine, look what I won, you can’t have him. Will knows that it also says I will kill you if you go near him.

Will grabs his hand and links their fingers together. Hannibal pauses and looks down at him, smiling so wide it seems almost unnatural. Will smiles back and gives him his best bedroom eyes possible, and oh, it definitely works. Hannibal’s eyes darken and that smile turns sharp, and God, tonight might be the night they make that family.

Someone laughs merrily, a Mr. Something-or-Other (Will’s French is much more rusty than Hannibal’s, despite growing up with a French-speaking father and just falling out of practice). “To Pierre and Christophe!” He shouts, raising his champagne glass in a toast.

The rest of the guests cheer as Will and Hannibal raise their own, staring at each other in a way that is far from innocent. I’ll devour you, my dear.

Will is impatient for all the guests to leave, wet boxers chafing against his thighs, so the moment the door closes with a final thud, he’s on Hannibal like a rabbit. He grabs the lapels of his tuxedo, mumbling around his lips, “I swear to God Hannibal if you don’t take me to bed—”

Hannibal laughs, a sound that makes Will leak an embarrassing amount. “Of course, darling,” he purrs, dragging Will to the master bedroom. The bedspread is black silk, something fancy Hannibal insisted on, but Will doesn’t care about how ruined it’s going to be after this.

He falls onto his back, Hannibal looming above him. Their mouths press against each other desperately, and Hannibal bites his lower lip softly, making him gasp. He uses this opportunity to shove his tongue in Will’s mouth, bracing his elbow beside his head for balance. Will lets out something that sounds like a mewl, and it’s definitely something that Hannibal enjoys if the throb of his cock is anything to go by.

Will breaks the kiss, panting heavily with a sleek line of spit connecting their lips. “Off,” he says, tugging at Hannibal’s clothes. “Take this shit off.”

Hannibal’s breaths are rough and deep, making heat pool at the bottom of Will’s stomach and rub his thighs together. He obeys, taking off his jacket and pants in a way that is too slow for Will’s liking. Before he can unbutton his shirt, Will pulls him back into a crushing kiss, thumbing at said buttons. It’s hard with this angle, but he doesn’t rip them off entirely because it would make Hannibal upset.

As the last button unfastens, Will desperately pushes his shirt off his shoulders. He can’t stop touching Hannibal—rubbing his hands down his muscled arms, kissing the nearest bit of skin, grinding down onto his cock so he lets out those guttural moans that Will loves, it’s almost intoxicating.

“Patience, Will,” Hannibal murmurs once he breaks their kiss. “We have all night.”

Normally Will would growl at patience, but the way Hannibal’s accent curls around the word all makes him subconsciously grind once against his cock. Hannibal lets out a breathy sigh, smirking. “Cunning boy,” he mouths across Will’s neck, barely restraining himself from ripping his clothes apart at the seams. “So tempting, you’ll be my downfall.”

I already am, Will thinks, groaning as Hannibal’s long fingers trace his nipple. He lost a lot of feeling in them after surgery, but Hannibal somehow makes him able to feel everything. Will snarls, easily flipping them over so Hannibal is laying on his back. “No foreplay,” he gasps, pulling down Hannibal’s boxers and salivating once his cock juts free. “I need you so fucking bad.”

Hannibal looks good like this, all debauched and messy. His fingers meld around Will’s hips, gripping him so tightly that will likely leave bruises. His chest heaves, letting out a shaky breath as Will pries his folds apart with his fingers. He grasps Hannibal’s cock with a shaking hand, not out of fear but from pure desperation, and presses the fat head by his hole.

“Fuck,” Will groans, almost in unison with Hannibal’s. It takes everything in him not to take it to the hilt, he’s certainly wet enough to do so, but he takes it so slow it’s almost excruciating, just to see the furrow in Hannibal’s brow and the sweat beading on his forehead. He throws his head forward, almost touching Will’s stomach, and Will pushes him back so he can’t pump in. He huffs a laugh at his groan of displeasure.

“You minx,” he growls, lip curling. Will decides to give him a break, because he can’t stand this slow pace either, and speeds up. And oh God, is it good, the head of Hannibal’s cock pressing just right against his sweet spot. Will throws his head back and bounces, Hannibal’s hands growing tighter. The sounds of skin on skin and wet sliding echoes in the room.

Will moans, high pitched and guttural, leaning his head down to kiss Hannibal but turns into just breathing his air. He composes himself, grabbing Hannibal’s face and giving him a sloppy kiss. Hannibal is so deep inside him that he can feel the scratch of his pubic hair against his cock, a sensation that makes Will almost scream. He can feel himself getting close, heating pooling at the base of his stomach that makes his blood run wild.

“Will,” Hannibal pants, weakly raising his head up and pressing his forehead against Will’s own. He doesn’t need to say anything more—Will already knows.

“Inside,” is all Will says, close to a sob but not faltering, “cum inside me please, please, I need to feel you—”

Hannibal doesn’t need to hear anything else, as he grabs Will so tightly it makes him wail, back arching to push so deep inside and filling him up. Will rubs his cock, desperate to hit his own peak, and groans, low and deep, as he cums, Hannibal’s seed dripping out of him.

The wet sound of him slipping out and cum splashing against him is so erotic it makes his leg tremble even more. He’s too tired for another round—not right now. He collapses against Hannibal, looking up at his face he rests his head on Hannibal’s chest. He wonders how he managed to get here, to this moment—sex makes him feel so sentimental.

You never looked at me differently, despite everything, Will thinks. Broken or incomplete. Even after you learned—you learned about me, about how I look, about how I act, and you still look at me so fondly. Like I hung the stars in the sky. He remembers his childhood—where doctors would fall over themselves trying to diagnose him with whatever they could, post-traumatic stress disorder, Asperger’s syndrome, body dysmorphia, are you sure you aren’t faking? The looks of scorn in their eyes when he would insist his name was Will, and how his father would leave the clinic in a fuss with him when they would call him his daughter. Even back then, back in Quantico—where doctors and psychiatrists alike would contribute his empathy to the F on his birth certificate. Are you sure it isn’t just maternal instincts?

But not Hannibal. He took him into his office without a care, sat down in the chair adjacent to his and looked at him like a person, not as an experiment. Didn’t have to correct maternal to paternal when talking about Abigail. The teacup shall bring itself together.

Hannibal traces a finger around the scars on his chest, rests a hand on the small of his back. His heart beats wildly under Will’s ear, chest hair scratching softly at his face. He feels his eyes close, and lets out a silent laugh about how horrified his past self—the one from five years ago—would feel if he saw him right now.

Hannibal notices the slight shake of his shoulders, but it wasn’t like he didn’t expect that. “What is on your mind, Will?” He asks, in a voice that’s too dignified to sound post-coital.

He and Hannibal have had enough pillow talks for him to feel comfortable enough to speak. They’ve gone from angry rambling (Will) to philosophical discussions about the universe (Hannibal). It’s almost funny. “Nothing important,” Will finally answers, shaking himself out of his thoughts. “Just about how past me would feel about this.” He laughs softly.

Hannibal responds with a laugh of his own, one that makes Will feel warm. “I’m sure he would be mortified.”

“Would you?”

A hum, one that makes his chest rumble underneath Will’s head. “No,” he replies, a finger moving up to wrap around a curl. “I was hoping for this from the very beginning.” Since I first met you.

Will makes a noise that falls between a purr and a mumble, sleepily going limp from Hannibal’s touch. The way you looked at me in Jack’s office all those years ago, he thinks—or he might say audibly, but he’s too drowsy to tell, you felt something there from the start, didn’t you?

His mind palace fades and filters into the Florence catacombs, and Will steps back into his past self’s place, one with a smile on his stomach and a new determination flowing through his veins. He looks up, meeting Hannibal’s glowing eyes in the dark.

Will you forgive me? I forgive you.