Archive of Our Own

Will rounds the desk a couple of times, circling Hannibal like prey as he sits and writes notes, letters, recipes… Behind them both, a cleansing fire rages. On every circle, Will feels the burning hot heat of it against his thighs through his clothes. He passes slowly to really feel the the intensity of it build, then steps away when it becomes almost too much.

On his final rotation he stops, picks up an inkwell and sets it back down in an unfamiliar home. Hannibal looks at him, amused, before setting it back in its place, eyes entirely on Will as he does so. The atmosphere feels charged around them, crackling with anticipation, like they can both sense something is coming but neither know what it is.

Will can still feel heat burning inside him but he doesn’t think it’s from the fire anymore. It’s a raging, writhing feeling of anger and confusion and desperation for something he cannot want and yet cannot control. Something he craves with such vicious intensity that it drives him here every night, possessed with the desire to be within Hannibal’s company and the sole bearer of his attentions.

He perches on Hannibal’s desk next to where he sits and writes, eyes drifting away from the fire, over Hannibal’s waist-coated shoulders and up the slope of his neck, lingering on his jugular. He fantasises, briefly, about touching that place, pressing his fingers in and not stopping until he draws blood, ending his life with his hands like he always said he would. He’s been wondering lately what it might be like to do it with his teeth.

“What’s on your mind, Will?” Hannibal asks then, as is his habit. He knows what Will is thinking about. He can always tell when his thoughts darken and he strays down this particularly well-worn pathway.

Will says nothing, because he can’t even quantify it. He feels troubled by what has been and what is yet to come. What could be and what absolutely couldn’t. What he wants, despite everything. He lets his eyes drift higher to meet Hannibal’s, trying to read his expression and his thoughts in tandem, trying to make sense of the look in his eyes that so acutely matches his own. It’s unnerving yet comforting. At least he’s not alone.

Will knows that a disruption is coming, a disruption that he himself put into motion without installing brakes. He didn’t think he would need them, but he was so, so wrong. With every passing day he battles with inexplicable regrets, feeling sick with himself. And now he’s here. Once again. It feels like the calm before the storm.

With immense gentleness, Hannibal rests a large palm on Will’s thigh, and Will can’t help but wonder if he’s being sized up. Whether at any moment, Hannibal might plunge a knife into his flesh to check the depth of the fat, just like Mason’s father might. So far, Hannibal’s hand is still, just a heavy, heated paperweight holding him exactly where he is. Then his fingers move, just barely brushing against the inseam of Will’s pants.

Will drops his gaze and watches it happen, watches his thighs open imperceptibly and very much against his will and better judgement. His mouth suddenly feels dry and his skin feels hot. It feels like they’re at the precipice of a threshold; a point of no return unlike any other.

Will licks his lips and tries to concentrate on the feeling in his chest, trying to work it out and make sense of it. He shouldn’t be here, but he can’t keep from coming back, over and over. In front of his eyes, Hannibal’s fingers graze higher, following the stitching millimetre by millimetre, like a leopard stalking an antelope, moving at the rate of a snail with the nimble precision of a viper.

He stops, a whisper away from his target, and yet Will continues to sit unmoving, eyes on Hannibal’s hand as it awaits his permission, permission that he doesn’t feel he can give. He watches Hannibal’s impatience build, fingers pressing in and dimpling the fabric of his chinos and it takes every ounce of inner strength he possesses not to gasp. 

He wants to say yes. He wants to settle a hand over Hannibal’s and push it higher. He wants to seize this opportunity whilst he has it, listen to the longing in his chest, take what he so badly wants for his own. But instead he just stares, eyes trailing over the veins in the back of Hannibal’s hand, evidence that life swells beneath. Thrives, in fact, as heat pools in Will’s thigh.

And then it’s gone, it’s over, and Will keens at the loss, eyes suddenly darting to Hannibal’s, searching for the reason he’s stopped touching him. His stomach lurches more than he thought it would and he suddenly feels wretched, another feeling he can’t discern or understand, another sensation he would rather forget.

“You seem tense,” Hannibal muses, he’s returned to his writing, thumb at the corner of his page to hold it in place and Will has never more deeply envied an inanimate object, “Are you anxious?”

Will swallows, assembling an appropriate answer that best describes the churning in his chest, the maelstrom of discontent that bubbles up inside him whenever he thinks about what tomorrow could bring, “I feel like a rabbit. Circling an island that’s steadily flooding. Frantic. Desperate. Waiting to drown.”

Hannibal considers this statement, “You realise rabbits can swim, Will.”

Will looks at him, eyes roving his face, the blade-like sharpness of his cheekbones, “When threatened.”

“When threatened,” Hannibal repeats, setting down his pen, “I think most animals could be coerced into a habitat that isn’t their own when they feel fear. Even humans.”

“I’m not afraid,” Will says. He hadn’t really meant to say it, it just comes out of him, quiet like a prayer, like a promise. 

There’s a long, deafening silence where the only sound that fills the room is the crackle of the fireplace, casting both of them in a deep blood orange. Distantly Will registers the sliding groan of a drawer as paperwork is tidied away; definitive proof that Hannibal’s attention has now shifted, bestowing it entirely on Will.

Hannibal finally looks up at him and holds his gaze, both of his palms flat on his desk now, anchoring him. His sleeves are rolled up neatly, exposing his forearms to the oiled sheesham of his desk and Will finds himself looking at them, wondering if that was Hannibal’s intention; to entice Will into looking at him.

If he closes his eyes he could tempt his mind to wander, he just isn’t quite sure what direction it might take. He might find himself thinking about the lives Hannibal has stolen with the strength and force in those arms, but thinking about that might only lead him back to even darker thoughts. Thoughts he’s only recently allowed himself to entertain. Thoughts where Hannibal turns his force to Will and tears hungrily into his clothes, pins Will down and shows him what it truly is to be the central focus of Hannibal Lecter.

He has to ask himself why he’s entertaining these thoughts now, why after so long he’s finally submitting to his most contemptuous desires. Is it because this could be his very last chance? His one opportunity to experience true affinity; deep and unyielding?

Will looks down at his thighs, at the space where Hannibal touched him. His heart is beating fiercely, unsure what it wants, unsure what it should take. Every moment they seem to edge nearer to a cataclysmic crescendo, and every moment Will feels an intense wave of fight or flight washing over him, pouring into his lungs and rendering him breathless. He wants to escape and yet he wants to surrender. The heavy weight of the unknown renders him immobile, effectively making his choice.

The creak of a floorboard catches Will’s attention and pulls him away from the smothering weight of his indecision. Hannibal is standing now, looming over him as he steps between Will’s thighs. Will’s pulse immediately skyrockets, eyes flickering as Hannibal slowly runs his thumbs over the collar of his shirt, pulling gently at the material before he undoes a single button close to his throat.

“And when they catch you, they will kill you,” Hannibal recites slowly, eyes burning into Will’s. Eyes Will has always somehow found sanctuary in despite his grievances with eye contact.

He recognises the quote, wetting his lips to return it, “But first they must catch you.”

It sums things up nicely. The ever-present threat of being caught, the adrenaline and anxiety of possibility, the intensity of freedom at risk, but freedom all the same.

“Do you feel caught?” Hannibal asks him, skilled fingers depriving another button of its buttonhole, exposing another inch of Will’s chest to his gaze.

“I feel more sacrificial,” Will says slowly, and there’s a distant part of his subconscious that is quite horrified by what he’s allowing Hannibal to do to him. He should feel vulnerable, or discomforted, but instead he just feels an unnerving sense of calm. Like he’s exactly where he‘s meant to be.

With great care, another button is undone.

“A sacrifice,” Hannibal begins, voice low, “Is an offering of a life as an act of propitiation. Or worship.”

Will looks up at him with hooded eyes, shivering involuntarily as Hannibal’s fingers brush against his chest. He’s starting to breathe a little heavier now as anticipation builds, heat flaring low in his stomach.

He says nothing, just sits up a little straighter as Hannibal watches him, fingertips trailing up over his sternum to his collarbones. He traces a single finger from one side to the other, then back to the middle, lingering at the base of Will’s throat.

“Do you mean to worship me, Will?” he asks. He’s so close that Will can see his pupils dilating the longer they maintain eye contact. 

“Perhaps you mean to worship me,” Will says, bold but quiet, feeling himself leaning into Hannibal’s touch as his fingers resume their journey, mapping out his exposed chest before he undoes another button, leaving Will’s shirt gaping obscenely between them.

“Would that make me the sacrifice?” Hannibal asks, slipping his hand into Will’s shirt. It’s warm and soft as it glides over his ribs, fingers tracing each one in turn, pressing in.

“Possibly,” Will admits, even though the conversation is now lost on him. All he can think about is the reverent way he is being handled; the confident motions of practised fingers against his touch-starved skin.

“What do you want, Will?” Hannibal asks next, his touches now featherlight and delicate, like tracings in charcoal on his skin.

Will’s throat feels thick and tight. He can’t bring himself to say it because saying it would be admitting it. Part of him has no idea how he got here and another part can see it all in vivid technicolour. He’s here because he chooses to be. Because he wants to be. But that doesn’t make it any less dangerous. Any less of a mistake. He wants to finally submit to the feeling inside him that grows more desperate every day before it’s too late. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen in their futures when the trigger is finally pulled, and that makes him selfish for the now. It makes him reckless.

When he really considers the question he imagines a variety of scenarios that range from mundane to obscene. Sometimes he thinks what he really, truly wants is to dig his nails under Hannibal’s skin and flay him alive, feel the power in ending his life and ending his own interminable plight. He imagines being covered with his blood and finally free; his own saviour, ascension of his own design.

But the part after this moment is greyed and dull. Blurred and unpleasant. Killing Hannibal would be a temporary thrill that cannot be undone, and when Will imagines a life without him it feels desperately lonely. 

What he also wants, simultaneously, is to be the very centre-point of Hannibal’s world; his obsession. He wants to be the primary focus of his thoughts from the moment he wakes to the moment he sleeps. 

He wonders how close he is to that already being Hannibal’s reality. Whether he takes up much space in the palace of his mind, how often he roams the halls and disturbs the peace there. It’s a different kind of power but not all that dissimilar to murder. Somehow, it appeals to him even more than extinguishing Hannibal’s light with his bare hands.

Hannibal accepts his silence for the answer that it is, nodding as he pushes Will’s shirt gently off and down his shoulders. 

“There exists religions, Will,” Hannibal begins slowly, voice rougher than Will has ever heard it, “That believe lust is the root of all evil… And is worse than murder.”

Will closes his eyes, exhaling slow and quiet as Hannibal traces his fingers up the length of his sternum, tentatively measuring him up. Will shivers despite the warmth of the room, wetting his lips.

“If that were true… And you were given the opportunity… Would you still pray at my altar? Rejoice in your evil roots?”

Will remains silent because it’s too complex a question to warrant a simple yes or no answer. He thinks about it in the darkness behind his eyelids, though. The secret place where Hannibal can’t find him. Not all of the time, at least. He can tell Hannibal is assessing his silence, weighing up its meaning. Drawing conclusions that he files away in the safe in his mind that has Will’s name on it.

“Or would you see fit to take my life instead? Like you’ve always said?” He asks him, a little breathlessly.

“Yes,” Will replies, though his voice trembles when he says it, “I would…” 

The waver in his voice gives him away to the both of them. He will always answer yes, but his conviction has waned over time. He truly doesn’t know what he would do if he were presented the opportunity to end this for good. He’s so deeply entranced by the serene pull of being seen for who he is. The truth is that Hannibal has made a home under his skin next to his pulse point and he knows it. It makes Will feel vulnerable and exposed, but he resists the urge to curl in on himself and hide from the force of his regrettable feelings.

“Do you have sex with men, Will?” Hannibal asks him in that probing and confronting way that he does, getting right to the point of things. Will opens his eyes and Hannibal is a little closer to him now. His hands are at his waist, slowly edging towards his belt buckle. Will realises he is being interviewed, in a sense. Or perhaps it’s just a continuation of their therapy: Hannibal asking him probing questions and Will learning more about himself than he ever realised was possible.

“Not traditionally,” Will answers, not letting his answer or Hannibal’s question intimidate him. He has always been inclined to be honest, here is no exception.

“What does tradition mean to you?”

“That would depend on the context,” Will says quietly, eyes dropping to watch Hannibal’s hands as they pull at the leather of his belt. The jingle of metal as he does so cuts through the atmosphere, so real and vivid Will can almost feel it on the air. It’s poignant in its purpose; it means that Will has surrendered.

“Tradition can mean many things,” Hannibal says, looking at Will carefully, “It could be a custom, or a habit. Something you have a long-standing participation of, or commitment to. Or maybe it’s a belief that you keep.”

“In most cases I would think tradition is a kind of peer pressure from people who are dead,” Will says bluntly.

Hannibal hums at this, turning that concept over in his mind as he drops Will’s undone belt, a single fingertip slipping into the waistband of his pants to feel the stitching behind the top button, “And how would you relate that pressure to you and I?”

“Oh you and me,” Will pauses there, letting that statement hang between them, “Are pretty non-traditional as standard.”

“And yet there is still a commitment,” Hannibal muses, leaning in infinitesimally closer and slowly lowering Will’s zipper, tooth by tooth.

He pauses there when it’s done, thumb holding the zipper down as if it’s liable to spring back up again of its own volition and put a stop to this. He looks down at his hands, where Will is still looking, this obscene picture of what’s about to happen between them. He’s millimetres from Will’s mouth, breathing steadily, and the sensation of it against his lips is almost comforting.

Then he steps back.

“Get up,” he says, instructional but somehow soothing. It’s almost pleasant to be led, “And turn around. With your back to me.”

Will looks up at Hannibal, scanning his face and letting his eyes travel lower, just about as far as the buttons of his waistcoat before he starts to look back up. There’s a part of him too afraid to look lower. It’s explicitly clear where this is going and what they both want, but somehow any evidence of it makes Will nervous. It’s as if they’ve both reached the same level of total insanity but in totally different ways.

Slowly, he stands and turns, fingers brushing Hannibal’s desk as he leans against it with his thighs. Initially he feels alone and cold, but then he senses the heat of Hannibal behind him and starts to relax. The ghost of his breath waterfalls across his shoulders and down between his shoulder blades, deep breaths in and measured breaths out, inhaling his scent, maybe even his essence.

Hannibal stands very still close behind him, a hand slowly trailing around his exposed middle and rising to his throat, fingers pressing in. It’s not enough to be uncomfortable, but it’s enough to remind Will of the vulnerable position he’s put himself in, completely at Hannibal’s mercy. It sends a perverted chill through him, the danger of it, but it’s laced with the underlying confidence that for now, in this moment, he is truly safe beneath Hannibal’s hands.

Hannibal traces his nose along Will’s shoulders, from one end to the other, then back again to the base of Will’s throat. He truly does inhale him then, unashamedly, dropping both hands to his waist as if holding him still, willing him to submit to it.

“Does my aftershave still offend you?” Will asks quietly, genuinely curious as he tilts his head to one side. It’s been a point of contention so often that he almost feels self-conscious of it.

“I must admit I’ve begun to take a liking to it,” Hannibal says, trailing his lips up his neck so that his voice is clear in Will’s ear, “It’s overpowering but it’s what I’ve come to associate with you. And beneath it there’s a truer element of you that lingers nevertheless.”

Will smirks before he can help it, letting himself drift back until he’s leaning against Hannibal’s chest, “And what do I smell like?”

“You smell delicious,” Hannibal says, the obvious choice, until he elaborates, “There’s a hint of rainwater, no doubt passed on from your collar when you came in from the rain. The salt of your sweat because you always stand too closely to the fire. To that end there’s a hint of smoke and heat, but beneath all of it…” 

He trails off to silence, instead taking hold of the waistband of Will’s pants, thumbs hooking into his underwear beneath in order to push everything down, inch by unbearable inch until he reaches his thighs, revealing him to the heat of the room. Will exhales an uneasy breath, achingly hard and yearning to be touched. He grinds his teeth, refusing to do it unless Hannibal does it first. 

“I’ll have to prepare you,” Hannibal says, matter-of-fact into Will’s ear. 

Will swallows a very dry swallow, closing his eyes as he rests the back of his head against Hannibal’s shoulder. It tracks that Hannibal would say it that way. Like he’s a feast, the components of which laid out on his counter, waiting to be assembled, stewed, skewered, devoured.

“Like a steak?” Will asks, feeling somewhat delirious, inexplicably amused in the face of all this, “Like veal? Like a—“

“Like a man,” Hannibal says, cutting him off firmly, a hand drifting to one of Will’s freshly exposed cheeks, just touching with fingertips, tracing over it. 

Will inhales sharply at the touch, suddenly very conscious of their differing stages of undress as the buttons of Hannibal’s waistcoat brush against his spine. He is so desperate to know what he’s thinking about right now. He feels partway between being worshipped and being sized up. Perhaps he’s thinking about how he intends to butcher him, or how he might pair him with wine. It’s almost romantic.

With one hand still at his throat, Hannibal raises the other to trace Will’s mouth with the pads of his fingers, so unassumingly soft and gentle that it makes Will want to die. His lips open like flower petals, piecing together what he’s expected to do as he tentatively laps at Hannibal’s fingertips with the tip of his tongue, drawing back as soon as he’s done it to examine the taste. It’s subtle, like parchment and salt, and his mouth waters shamelessly. He leans back a little harder, wondering if he could experience a heart beating against his back if he tried hard enough to feel it.

With great care and measured movements, Hannibal slides his fingers into Will’s expectant mouth, sweeping over his tongue to gather his saliva. It feels intimate and purposeful as Will’s heart kicks up a gear, thudding impatiently and anxiously against his ribs like the fall of a hammer, trying to break through.

He wants to hold onto something so he lifts an arm to thread his fingers into Hannibal’s hair behind him, pulling just the right side of too hard. It makes Hannibal step in closer, his clothed front to Will’s naked back, thighs pressing into Will’s and trapping him where he is, breathing steadily next to his ear as Will pants into the quiet of the room.

“Have you done this before, Will?” Hannibal asks him, and Will feels the semi-sharp graze of teeth over his pulse point. He removes his fingers so that Will can respond, but the steadiness of his reply is threatened when he feels wetness probe experimentally between his cheeks.

“Have you?” He grits out, likely giving his answer away with his avoidance. 

Hannibal’s hand drops from his throat, fingers ghosting down the centre of his chest to his stomach, then around to his flank, sinking in hard. He holds on tightly, like he’s afraid to let go, as if all of this will fall apart if he does.

“Of course,” he replies, casual and calm, barely even reacting when Will pulls tighter, wedging himself a little firmer between Hannibal and his desk. He’s never felt so secure.

“Of course,” Will repeats, because he should have known that, “You’re indiscriminate…”

“To a point,” Hannibal says, fingers slowly sinking inside in a way that makes Will reluctantly exhale a sound, his feet inching apart to accommodate the intrusion, “I like beautiful things. That extends to people.”

“You like beautiful people?” Will asks, his disbelief staining his words with bitterness.

“You can do better than that, Will, you’re hardly even trying,” Hannibal growls in his ear, making Will shiver as he arches back onto his fingers, chasing the steady thrum of sensation that he’s being teased with.

Will knows the real answer but he thinks about it anyway, rotating Hannibal in his mind as he often does, pulling him together there with everything he’s ever learned or discerned about him. The finished product is like art; a thousand awful memories bleeding together to create something beautiful. 

“You like beautiful minds,” he says, not a question, a firm belief. Something he has known since the beginning. A preference they’ve both shared since the start. 

“That’s better,” Hannibal whispers, and a sick and deranged part of Will’s psyche preens at the praise.

He slowly becomes aware of the fact that Hannibal is breathing faster now, resting the thumb of his free hand on Will’s pulse in his neck as his fingers splay out over his adams apple, manually tipping his head back against him even further. With the new space he’s afforded, he bites at Will’s skin, along his shoulder and up his throat, not enough to break the skin, more like he’s checking him for tenderness. He leaves behind petal marks that mar Will’s body pink and make him gasp, hips starting to slowly rock, finding an agonising rhythm against Hannibal’s fingers.

But just as he finds it, Hannibal withdraws, slowly pulling out as he presses a ghost of a kiss into the very top of Will’s spine, lingering there and breathing him in.

“You should undress. I’ll be back in a moment,” he says quietly, momentarily resting his chin on Will’s shoulder.

They share a moment of stillness save for their heightened breathing and Will feels dizzy with intent. On an impulse he slowly turns his head, searching for a kiss, just one kiss, just once. As his nose gently brushes against Hannibal’s cheek, Hannibal turns to meet him as if maybe he’s searching for his mouth in return. He’s gifted a soft exhale against his lips before Hannibal pulls back entirely.

He runs a hand through his displaced hair to smooth it out as he exits the room with a steadiness of gait that suggests all they’ve been doing in here is having a casual discussion. It makes Will ache from head to toe as he watches him go, staring at the door as it closes behind him, willing him to come back.

After a moment alone with himself he takes a few frenzied breaths, giving in to his body’s impulse to shake as he rests his palms onto Hannibal’s desk, hunching over it for a second just to breathe. As much as he wants this, desperately wants this, aches for it, there’s also a confronting and powerful part of him that wants to get out and stop this before it goes too far.

One could argue it already has gone too far, Will thinks, taking in the state of himself; pants around his thighs, peppered with sweat, achingly hard. It’s the latter that distracts and unnerves him the most, but it’s also the thing that has him doing as he’s told, slowly divesting himself of his clothes in pursuit of finally being touched by someone who truly knows him. Someone who has lived inside his head, ruined him entirely. He needs it. It feels wrong, so wrong, but he can’t deny that it also feels so incredibly right.

As he undresses to total nakedness, he allows himself to imagine how this is going to play out; spread out to be devoured on this desk. He wonders if this will be his rebirth. The death of Will Graham to make way for something new. Something worse. His fingers brush against wood, memorising the texture. He’s collecting sensory memories, cataloguing as much of this experience as he can. He’s barefoot on hardwood now, naked and wanting, exposed as his lust gnaws at his frayed edges.

When he’s alone for longer than he expects, he sits himself down in Hannibal’s desk chair, putting himself temporarily into Hannibal’s head as he sits here, one leg draping over the other. He realises this is the first time he’s sat in this particular seat, and suddenly it feels wrong to be here, too close. He’s about to get up when Hannibal returns, quietly slipping back into the room completely naked. 

Will glimpses the delicately carved planes of his chest then swallows tightly and averts his eyes on instinct, like he isn’t allowed to look, like he shouldn’t. Of all the crimes they’ve both committed, watching Hannibal cross the room in nothing but his skin feels like the most sinful one of all.

“Up,” Hannibal says when he reaches him, nodding his head in the direction of his desk in order to make clear where he’d prefer Will to be, “Out of your throne.”

“Your throne,” Will corrects, standing slowly and perching on the edge of the desk, just like he did moments earlier when he was still dressed. Or was it hours earlier? He’s lost track of time. “Though… If I had to choose one in this room, it probably wouldn’t be this one.”

He looks over at the two chairs sat opposite each other, face to face. The places they’ve both taken so many times to talk.

“Perhaps not,” Hannibal says, following Will’s gaze for a moment before returning to him again, eyes sharper than they were before. He places a small bottle of lubricant he’d been carrying on the desk next to where Will sits and they both stare at it for a moment like it’s volatile and likely to incinerate them both if disturbed. It’s purposeful and loaded with intent. Utterly paralysing.

He’s glad that when things begin to feel a little too real, Hannibal takes charge and pulls him back into the moment. He grabs hold of Will’s hips and shoves him back a little more onto his desk, crowding in between his thighs. Will heaves in a breath, the first touch of bare skin against bare skin sends a shockwave up his inner-thighs to the deepest places within him, forcing a sound to break free of his throat when he exhales.

He licks his lips, feeling suddenly small beneath Hannibal’s advances. On a whim he leans in closer until they’re chest to chest, trailing his nose up the column of his neck. He’s excited to learn that Hannibal smells sharp, like peppercorns and mint, woodsmoke mixed with iron, an undertone of vanilla. It’s both comforting and unsettling. Will presses his nose to the spot where the scent is the strongest; the slope of Hannibal’s throat where it meets his shoulder. He wants to taste the acrid flavour of it on his tongue, sample the bitter tang of perfume in his mouth, sink his teeth in and tear away skin.

It feels safe to be tucked away here, unassuming and hidden, but it’s not how Hannibal functions and Will knows that. He isn’t secret, he is present, and he expects that of Will, too. Hannibal guides him down onto his back, following him part of the way but letting him go the rest alone, putting himself on display. 

Will rolls his shoulders out as the cool of the wood seeps into his spine, arching a little, suddenly wanting to be appealing, to look good enough to consume whole. It’s a deranged desire but he knows what drives Hannibal and as their eyes meet he hopes he looks sufficiently edible. 

As he looks up at the man he’s about to give himself to, his stomach churns with conflicting emotions. It feels like a dream crossed with a nightmare, but his want somehow overrides all of it, lifting his eyebrows imperceptibly in an effort to silently lure Hannibal in. An unspoken question. Do you like what you see?

It occurs to Will then that they haven’t spoken in a little while because there’s nothing more to say. Actions speak louder than words and right now Hannibal is reciting quiet poetry, hands gliding over Will’s chest, sweeping down his sides and up the outsides of his thighs. Then he moves to firmly take hold of Will’s hips and pull him closer to the edge of the desk where he’s more accessible for the taking. 

Will swallows his gasp, finally allowing himself to look as Hannibal empties lube into his hand, smearing it up the length of himself just once, just enough for it to catch the light of the fire behind them that’s no doubt burning into his back. Will can hear his blood rushing in his ears at the sight of him, edged with gold, the evidence that this is mutually wanted leaking onto his fingers.

Will can see it all unfolding between his thighs. Gazing down the length of his naked body he feels almost captivated by the way he’s spread out and contorted, heels on the very edge of the desk as Hannibal prepares them both for what’s to come, wet fingers sliding back in. The juxtaposition is jarring, a mix of clinical preparedness and want-driven impulses.

Will’s breathing harder now, exhaling shaky breaths as Hannibal withdraws his fingers and steps in closer, lining up. Before he can help it Will closes his thighs around him, trailing a knee gently up Hannibal’s side, over his ribs, endlessly and sickeningly thrilled by the secret parts of him he can now see so clearly. He’s gratified when Hannibal takes hold of them and wraps them around his waist, the blunt, insistent push of his cock starting to tease at Will’s most intimate place.

Hannibal looks down at him, famished, mouth slightly open, asking without asking, and Will simply nods, one single jerk of his head, permission granted. 

It feels prudent to submit and allow for the invasion, welcome it, just has he always has when Hannibal pursues him. Will rests his hands either side of his head, palms up and pliant and hands himself over. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, exhaling a sigh like relief as it finally begins. In an impermanent existence of constant change, it’s freeing to allow for one prolonged moment of insistent connection. Like a light turning on after years of dark.

As it happens, the burning stretch, the first impeccable approach, Will finds himself gasping deep, like it’s his first lungful of air, shuddering against the insistent push of it. It makes his eyes roll in his head, his toes curl, and it feels like it won’t ever stop until Hannibal’s pelvis is flush against him and he’s panting above him. Will can feel it against his chin, can see him even with his eyes closed.

Hannibal leans in closer and traces Will’s lips with his own, unmoving until they both adjust and begin to breathe in harmony; deep breath in, deep breath out. Will wets his lips and disrupts their rhythm, accidentally affording himself his first taste of Hannibal’s mouth. Then he pulls back out of reach, breathing hard breaths that gust over Will’s chest, making him shiver.

“Horripilation,” Hannibal says, so breathlessly that Will hardly recognises his voice, “A sympathetic nervous system reaction caused by stimulating emotions.”

Will swallows. Hannibal still hasn’t moved. He’s all the way inside him as he makes his observations, one hand curling around the edge of the desk above Will’s hand, the other tracing the gooseflesh that he’s awakened down Will’s chest. His delicate touches only worsen the reaction as Will lifts himself into it, exhaling a quiet moan of desperation.

“What are you—“

“It can be caused by fear, shock, anxiety, inspiration,” he says, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment as he takes a breath, “Sexual desire. Love.”

Will’s chest rises and falls a little faster with the pace of his breathing, physically unable to tear himself away from Hannibal’s eyes, watching as they flicker and dilate.

“Which is it?” Hannibal asks him, tracing his thumb over Will’s rib, just beneath his chest, chasing the last of his dimpled skin as it disappears beneath him.

All of them, Will thinks, it’s all of them. He’s never felt so richly moved by anything or anyone. He’s never experienced this kind of love before. He knew it could be all encompassing and all consuming but he had never truly believed it until this moment, spread out beneath Hannibal’s body and impaled on his cock.

He licks his lips, finally dragging his eyes along to Hannibal’s shoulders, lifting one eyebrow at what he sees there. Tentatively, he lifts his hand to touch it with his fingers, feel the texture of it as it spreads down over Hannibal’s chest, his body tense under its wake.

“Which is it for you?” He asks quietly, pressing his hand into Hannibal’s skin over his heart, feeling it beating a fierce rhythm against his palm. He almost feels as though he could reach inside, curl his fingers around it. Protect it or crush it. Another sign of life that he’s always known was there but that surprises him all the same.

Hannibal pierces him with his gaze, licking his lips before he takes Will’s hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his trembling palm, still beating in time with Hannibal’s heart. Will feels his eyes sting and burn, his throat aching and closing up, but before he can do anything to will it away, Hannibal is pulling back and thrusting back in, hard, just once, jolting Will up the desk. When he closes his eyes tight with surprise and pleasure, a single tear escapes and trickles down his face.

“Fuck,” he breathes, squeezing his thighs into Hannibal’s ribs. 

It was exquisite and all too brief and Will is shaking when Hannibal leans over him to catch his tear with his tongue.

“I don’t think you could ever seek to understand the things I would do with you, Will,” he breathes against Will’s cheek.

“I—“ Will begins, groaning as he spasms around Hannibal’s length inside him, “I anticipate you would be very creative…”

Hannibal smiles, brushing Will’s curls out of his eyes and laying a gentle kiss to his eyelids before they finally begin to move with each other.

It’s intense, agonisingly slow rolls of hips that glide deep and linger there, like they’re fucking in slow-motion. Will wonders if Hannibal’s head is filled with similar notions to his own, whether he feels consumed with a need to make this last and savour it, really drag it out just in case it’s the only time they get to do this. Tomorrow might end any number of ways which is why it’s imperative they do this now, before it’s too late.

The way they connect and disconnect then reconnect again is unbearably sensual, leaving Will gasping as his pleasure builds slowly. Each deep slide in sends sparks up his spine that flutter outwards over his shoulders and settle in the very pit of his stomach, crackling like a fire in his pelvis. Before he even realises it’s happening he’s begging.

“Please… Please…” barely even a whisper, a hand at Hannibal’s stomach, pushing up the centre of him, fingers digging into his collarbones, “Please…”

He’s begging for everything and nothing. He’s begging for his life, the one that once was and the one that could be; the one that’s waiting for him. He’s begging for more of this, more devastating slowness, more delicious friction, deeper and harder. He’s begging for this never to end, to never face tomorrow, for this to be all that there ever is; the two of them locked together in a room warmed by crepitating fire and unbearable, intolerable love. 

He’s also begging to be kissed, to taste Hannibal in his mouth, learn his flavour, explore the sharpness of his canines with his tongue. When he can’t beg and plead he moans, urging Hannibal in deeper, closer, arching against him with every roll of his hips.

Hannibal rests his palm against Will’s throat, thumb tracing his jaw, fingers teasing into his hair. It’s warm and inviting so Will leans into the touch, arching his neck and putting it on display to Hannibal’s mouth, who accepts the bait. As he cradles Will in his hand, he presses his lips to his skin and inhales, slowly, breathing Will in again, and Will feels he could melt right here. Melt into this desk, melt into Hannibal’s touch. Fade away to nothing. 

With Hannibal mouthing at his skin, so inexplicably and unexpectedly delicate that it makes Will’s toes curl, it’s all too tempting to turn his head, just a little, so that their lips touch. He threads his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, both hands, holding him close, pulling tight as he wills Hannibal to submit, panting into each others mouths until the agony of delay feels too great and the space between them is finally closed.

It’s searing hot, an immediate rush that bolts through Will and takes firm hold of insides, not letting go until he’s gasping between kisses. It’s surprisingly coordinated and controlled, luxuriously deep as Will allows himself to be plundered in every possible way, the intensity of it building until it somehow fades from a kiss into a biting of mouths and whines. Hannibal still moves on top of him, deep and hard but slow, too slow, coaxing the pressure in Will to steadily build until it becomes almost insurmountable. He feels close, too close, a precipice where he could be coerced into absolutely anything, so desperately near to his release that it makes him incredibly vulnerable, particularly beneath hands such as Hannibal’s.

He snakes a hand between them, aching to touch himself as they ferociously kiss in the light of the fire, locked together skin to skin. He’s thrilled to discover that Hannibal tastes of peppermint and dark chocolate; something rich and bitter and creamy about his mouth that Will can’t stop dipping his tongue into. It’s addictive. He thinks he’ll remember this single kiss for the rest of his life. He never wants to kiss anyone else unless it tastes like this. He never wants to kiss anyone else at all.

Hannibal takes him by the throat then, suddenly striking like a snake, but he doesn’t twist his fingers around his airway and choke him. Instead he pushes the heels of his palms into either side of Will’s neck like a vice, fingers brushing the nape of his neck with jarring care.

“If I cut off the blood supply to your brain, Will, it gives much the same effects as being asphyxiated… Except you can still breathe. You might feel light-headed, your head will spin, but your airway is untouched.” 

His voice is so threadbare that it makes Will whimper at the thought of being the cause of it. He abandons his efforts to touch himself in order to take hold of Hannibal’s wrists with both hands, squeezing tightly. He feels this faux-strangulation is layered; an indecent metaphor for their relationship. Hannibal intends to choke him without choking him, another tactic to keep him under his control. Under his spell. 

And yet Will loves it. He closes his eyes and lets it happen, yearns for the moment his head starts to spin like Hannibal told him that it would. The pressure on his neck is constant and insistent but somehow reassuring, heaving in panting breaths as Hannibal fucks him through it, his fingers soothing through his hair at the nape of his neck.

“And when it becomes too much, when your vision starts to blur…” he says above him, voice rough as his hips roll in their unendingly steady rhythm, “You’ll feel a sudden rush of blood to your head so immense that it generates euphoria.”

Will already feels euphoric, he isn’t sure how much more he can ascend but he nods as his head starts to spin, staring up at Hannibal open-mouthed and gasping, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

“Are you ready?” He asks, pressing in just a little harder. Will can hear his pulse throbbing in his ears, wondering if this is what dying feels like as he nods.

Hannibal lets go and Will does feel the immediate rush of it, moaning as life returns to him all at once. His face is cradled in Hannibal’s hands, thumbs carefully tracing the hard line of his jaw as he gasps through it, colour exploding behind his eyelids as neurones fire back to life. 

He opens his eyes as Hannibal slips the pad of his thumb between Will’s teeth, clearly enticed by his open mouth. Will bites down with a groan, arching off the desk as he lets his head drape off the edge, savouring the feeling of his blood pounding in his ears. He’s never felt more alive.

For an extra layer of proof he touches himself, palming over his chest and down his stomach, and he realises how sensitive he feels now, like his body has been set alight with sensation. Hannibal must notice it because he swipes Will’s hand aside to do it himself, fingertips reverently exploring his body, dipping into every hard edge and soft curve of him. Will swears and whimpers at every touch, rocking his hips, chasing the sensation in his head and deep within him. His thighs burn and ache as they squeeze around Hannibal’s ribs, pulling him in closer, determined to keep him in motion for as long as physically possible. 

He wants to wind himself around him, feel as much as he’s being felt, so he does. He pulls Hannibal in until they’re chest to chest, their sweat mingling and easing the slide of it as Hannibal fucks into him a little faster. He wraps his arms around Hannibal’s back, fingers touching his shoulder blades and the muscles of his shoulders as they tense above him, just barely holding him up. He feels powerful yet lithe beneath his hands, like a dancer; but measured and concentrated like a murderer. It’s thrilling in a way that catapults Will right to the edge.

Just before it happens, the crescendo they’ve both been stalling, Hannibal cradles the back of Will’s head, tilting his head to one side. His lips brush against his neck, then Will feels the gentle scrape of his teeth before they sink into his skin at the shoulder. Hard. A love bite of devastating proportions, holding onto him with his teeth as he bucks his hips a final few times. The sharp pain coupled with his impending release is an assault on his senses that Will didn’t expect. He’s suddenly so close that it’s blinding, heels slipping on the desk in his effort to get closer, become more consumed.

When Hannibal pulls back with a gasp his lips are stained, teeth marbled red before he licks it away; his first sample of Will’s flesh. The bite mark will likely scar and it’s a realisation that fills Will with elation and horror. It drives him to touch the wound, pressing his fingers into it hard to prolong the dull, aching pain of it.

“Please,” he whispers, one last time, nails biting into the imprint of Hannibal’s teeth in his skin until his fingertips are bloodied.

“You never have to beg, Will. What’s mine is yours to take. Would you offer me the same courtesy?” Hannibal asks, taking careful hold of Will’s hand and sucking his fingers clean.

Will watches it happen, the ferocity of his impending release blurring the edges of his vision as his eyes water.

“Yes…” he breathes, pressing his fingertips into Hannibal’s tongue before he pulls them free. He means it.

Hannibal nods and Will catches something in his expression, something that could be pride or could be adoration. It passes too quickly for Will to decide, and he gasps as Hannibal suddenly takes hold of his weeping, neglected cock, derailing all of his thoughts in a single touch. Hannibal squeezes his fist up the length of him, thumbing circles into the head over and over and over until Will’s fingers grasp for purchase against the desk, arching desperately.

“You can let go now, Will,” Hannibal says, voice threadbare; sweat-drenched and panting as he holds Will in his hand and thrusts deep, spearing him one final time.

“Thank you,” Will breathes, not for the permission or even for the sex. 

He tips his head back and lets himself tumble head first over the edge of release, feeling the familiar plunge in his stomach as it happens, gasping and panting as he covers himself, jerking in Hannibal’s fist with every rapturous pulse of it. As the waves wash over him, cleansing his many sins, Hannibal covers his body with his own and follows, exhaling the most exquisite and the most controlled moan of pleasure Will has ever heard as he fills him up, spilling his release inside him with tight, short thrusts of his hips that feel like heaven.

Will’s head is still spinning, the final spasms of his release wracking his body and making him writhe. His head has been reduced to static that buzzes in his ears, drowning the world out until it slowly fades back in and he can hear words that he’s startled to learn are his own, trails of thought that pour out of him in his most vulnerable state, barely audible, not even a whisper.

“I wonder if you’ve ever been in love.”

He does wonder, he wonders all the time, he wonders what love looks like on Hannibal and he wonders if it looks like this. 

They breathe in tandem for a few moments, lips brushing together, tantalisingly close. Will wonders if Hannibal is considering his statement, but when he speaks the subject has changed.

“La petite mort,” he says, like an observation, already coming back to himself as Will sinks deeper into the abyss.

“The little death,” Will replies, covered in the evidence of his madness.

As Hannibal moves to get up, Will chases him before he can help himself. He doesn’t want this to be over yet because he’s afraid of what comes next. He’s afraid of tomorrow, the next hour, the next minute, so much so that he wants to hold on tightly to now, rewind the last few hours and do them again slower. 

They’re still panting hard, exhausted in the glow of the fire, and Will breathes in Hannibal’s exhales, feels them inside him, keeps doing it until he’s drunk on them.

“I can smell your fear, Will,” Hannibal says eventually, his voice a little rough as he cards his fingers through Will’s hair, “Perhaps we should explore that?”

“Perhaps,” Will says, eyes closing as he drifts forward and sinks his teeth into Hannibal’s lower lip, not enough to break the skin, but almost. One final taste. One final imposition.

Afterwards, they sit in the seats they’ve so often occupied, but this time they’re unclothed and the chairs are closer together then they’ve ever been. Hannibal drapes one leg over the other and Will sits exposed and open, fingers resting on the armrests, ready for an entirely new assault.

“So,” Hannibal says quietly, his voice carrying on the crackle from the hearth, “What’s on your mind, Will?”