Archive of Our Own

The sun shines down on the beauty of Modena, and on Will Graham.

A mild start to the summer, and the streets are pleasantly busy to reflect it. Amicable Italian chatter floats past. Constant. Peaceful. Will watches with contentment on the patio of a small panetteria, cup of bold espresso (double, after Hannibal roused him at a godawful hour this morning) and a plate with the last few bites of a cornetto in front of him. He soaks in the light, skin already starting to show a little of the tan he tends to get around this time of year. It feels good on his face. On his arms where the linen fabric of his shirt is rolled up to his elbows.

The adventure today is his alone. It’s rare that Will ventures all the way into Modena proper by himself. Even the smaller city can sometimes get overwhelming to someone as historically jumpy as him. He usually prefers to stay in the comfort of routine and privacy their home provides.

Hannibal, meanwhile, is off on the other side of town somewhere. Running errands. Chatting up the locals and procuring groceries for later. Not unusual. Hannibal is always the social one, reveling in the opportunity to live and breathe as if he’s been here all his life. He needs it as much as Will needs the solitude sometimes.

Still, the thought of confining himself to the villa on this particular morning made Will want to gut something. Possibly himself. It also made him irrationally bitter towards Hannibal—for how easy it is for the other to walk about so freely and frequently. His narcissism filling him with an airy confidence and self-assuredness to walk around in broad daylight while Will still occasionally has nightmares about getting caught. Still sweats when out in public too long. Has to resist the urge to look over his shoulder.

It’s not fair to get angry at Hannibal for that—he never tried to keep Will tethered to him. Never tried to prevent him from walking right out the door. Gives him plenty of space to do something independently whenever he needs it.

Will actually had run away, once. Or started to. It had been a particularly bad day. One where he fidgeted too much and chewed the inside of his cheek. Picked at his skin until it bled. Shrunk into himself and became snippy. Hannibal hadn’t managed to say just the right thing to assuage him that time. The second Hannibal left the villa, Will threw things into a bag and bolted.

He didn’t want to run. Not really. Never truly considered leaving Hannibal. He just wanted to see if he could.

He got as far as Bologna Centrale. Bought a ticket with Hannibal’s money (because, again, he wasn’t really trying to be discreet). The train pulled up. Will didn’t get on it. He went back to Modena. To home.

Hannibal met him at the door that evening. Took the ticket from where Will had it crushed in a too-tight hand. Glanced briefly at the location. “Verona,” he said. “Feeling star-crossed, Will?” Then, he took Will’s face in his hands. Kissed him sweetly. On the mouth, the scar on his cheek from Dolarhyde, the scar on his forehead from himself. Led him inside where two steaming plates of coniglio brasato waited on the dining room table. As if nothing happened at all. As if he knew Will would find his way back home.

Will was practically attached to Hannibal’s hip for the rest of the night. A reward for Hannibal’s faith in him. An assurance to himself that Hannibal would always wait for him. That Will is something—perhaps the only thing in Hannibal’s mind—worth waiting for.

Will licks his lip distractedly at the memory, the taste of smooth Italian espresso lingering on his tongue like a deliciously bitter kiss.

The scenery around him is warm and vibrant. But Will’s eyes are fond and focused on memories. Hannibal’s touch in the dead of night and the early morning. His voice as he talks to Will while he’s still groggy and unfiltered. His chuckle. His genuine laugh. The smell of him post-sex, with Will’s head on his thigh and Hannibal’s hand in his hair.

Perhaps it’s because he’s distracted that the image blindsides him so much.

Men in suits. Men with guns. FBI emblazoned on their sleeves and backs. A flash of movement around corners and an imagined gun cocking at his head.

Caught.

Done. Dead. Over.

And yet, Will’s first thought isn’t of himself. It’s of Hannibal.

Did they find him? Did they kill him? Is he dead, and Will left alone in the aftermath of his becoming?

Will snaps to alertness. The imagined scenario dissolving before his eyes. The sun is still shining. The people around him are still chattering. No agents or officers or private investigators or anyone around paying any attention to Will, let alone near enough to impose a threat.

Fuck.

It had been months since the last time. Will naively hoped he had overcome it. The paranoia-induced hallucinations.

It used to happen a lot more, especially in the early years after their faked deaths. Seeing shadows. Will had always seen things like that—visions, people that weren’t there. Ghosts of past cases and people long dead. It was only after the fall that the hauntings took the shape of men in masks and bulletproof vests. Every glint in the sun became a badge. Every corner became a hiding spot for S.W.A.T teams lying in wait. Will wasn’t just scared for himself anymore—but for him and Hannibal together. As a unit.

Once, while they were out on an evening stroll, a vendor told Hannibal he looked familiar. Will was about ready to drag Hannibal back to their villa, force him to pack up their belongings, and disappear into the night. Turns out Hannibal had taught the man’s nephew how to play the harpsichord. Will’s nails dug into the skin of Hannibal’s hand hard enough to draw blood while the two had politely chatted. And practically yanked Hannibal along behind him the very second he felt he could do so without being too rude. Nothing more ever came of it.

As the years slipped slowly by, the paranoia faded. Never once was their mostly-peaceful life disturbed. Not even threatened. Will—with Hannibal’s assurances and assistance—gradually relaxed. Most days he wasn’t even thinking about the FBI. Or Interpol. Or getting caught.

They lived in their villa. They woke up next to each other. They occasionally killed together. They ate. They fucked. They made pleasantries with their neighbors when they went into town. They had a good life.

Nothing was going to jeopardize it. They were okay. Hannibal would be back in time to prepare dinner.

Will feels the tingle of his scar from Dolarhyde. Phantom pain. The real thing doesn’t carry nearly as strong sensation anymore unless it was under Hannibal’s fingertips.

The images come again, unbidden. Hannibal, arms full of groceries. On his way back home. Turning down the wrong street at the wrong time. Hired guns and an under-the-table deal. Get rid of the thorn in Interpol’s side. Good riddance. The deed is done and Dr. Hannibal Lecter is left to bleed out in a Modena alley while his husband waits for him to come home without knowing why he never does.

Home. He needed to be home. Right fucking now.

Because once the initial fear fades, it’s replaced with conviction.

If—for whatever reason after all this time—they were found. If anyone ever got close to Hannibal. Will would kill them. He knows it as intrinsically as the imprint of Hannibal’s touch underneath his skin. As deeply within the recesses of himself that only Hannibal ever dared to uncover.

He sees it, in his mind’s eye. Sees blood. Sees the pride in Hannibal’s eyes for having such a well-trained guard dog.

Will would kill anyone who so much as looked at Hannibal for a second too long. Will’s more than earned the right to. He’s owed that particular grace. Yes, Will himself has gotten off to the thought of hurting Hannibal. Killing him, even. More times than is probably healthy for a relationship like theirs.

But that is a pleasure reserved for him and him alone. No one else is allowed to draw his blood or sounds of pain or the essence of life except for him.

And thoughts like that are not palatable for public consumption.

The metal chair grates against the patio as Will stands too quickly, drawing looks. Just brief ones—drawn by the noise and then forgotten within moments as they return to their activities. Yet Will feels each one like a physical touch. His face tingles again. Will fights the urge to snap his teeth at nothing, followed immediately by an urge to gag, the taste of coffee lingering in his throat turned nauseating.

His feet move on muscle memory, winding through the streets and ignoring the main paths so he can wear whatever expression on his face without judgment. A hundred, a thousand, an infinite amount of thoughts and memories revolving around need and yearning and sex and devotion and anger and viscera and rot and depravity and—

“Signore—” a man taking him for a tourist (probably because of the glazed, off-kilter look in his eye) tries to get his attention. Will snaps something unequivocally rude in Italian and storms on, ignoring the slew of answering insults hurled at his back. Hannibal would disapprove. Frown at Will for his unnecessary barbs. Drawing attention to himself for the purpose of making enemies rather than the charismatic maneuvers required to make friends. And that just makes Will think of Hannibal still off in some undisclosed part of town somewhere. Chatting up the sommelier. Politely complimenting the signori at the tailor’s and the cafe. Thriving without Will to hinder him socially.

He increases his pace. Feet tamping temperamentally towards their villa.

It’s not safe for either of them to be in public when Will is like this. And while Will swears sometimes Hannibal is more in-tune with his thoughts than Will himself, he doubts that’s a sentiment that translates across long distances like some sort of telepathic distress line between the two of them. Neither of them have cellphones anymore—no use for them. Which means that Will is preparing himself to deal with this…mood…alone.

He follows the path up the hill to their modest villa. Each step taking him further from the main thoroughfares and into the countryside. It only takes another few minutes of Will’s feet on flagstones before he reaches the gate to home.

It’s the perfect compromise. Will can pretend they’re miles from civilization if he so chooses, but it’s still close enough for Hannibal to access his creature comforts in the city. It’s a pretty thing. All warm stone and trailing ivy and flowers in decorative pots that both of them tend to together. Two stories (not including the basement) with a balcony for sunset-watching and a spacious walled yard in the back for their garden. Even the too-hot summers are tolerable when it’s like this. The only thing that would make it better is a pack of dogs running around—though Will is certain any day now that Hannibal will cave and let Will bring home a pooch (or two, or five, because they know it won’t stop at one).

It’s theirs. It’s been home for over three years, after they finished their initial period of nomadic living and sightseeing.

Will can’t appreciate any of it right now. Fresh off the imagined scenario of men surrounding him, taking him away from Hannibal. Or worse—taking Hannibal away from him.

Will can’t go back to life without him. Not now. The very second he starts thinking about this place as their forever, it’ll get taken away.

It always does.

The front door closes behind him.

Familiar. Safe.

Alone.

The moment he crosses the threshold, Will feels the violent itch fade out. The fear and uncertainty come back. With it comes the fog of submission—a reflex need for escapism in a way he can choose. He stubbornly resists succumbing to it, though he’s not entirely sure why. There’s no one here to judge. He’s still not aware with any certainty what emotion—or slew of them—is currently tearing through him. This urge to claw at himself until he sees blood or break something precious of Hannibal’s or scream until his throat is raw.

If Hannibal were here, he would know. Would help Will pick apart the walls of his mental labyrinth to reach the golden prize of clarity at the center.

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Will wants to be near Hannibal. Especially when he feels like this—off-kilter and unmoored. Hannibal is an anchor for him. Always has been.

Fuck.

Will misses him bad. Which is stupid—considering he saw his husband that morning and it’s only been a few hours since their separation. Fucking pathetic. Will kicks his shoes off angrily and huffs, trying to make himself pissed again because even though it’s equally as irrational, it’s easier to feel angry right now instead of needy.

The villa is full of their presence—but Hannibal’s is more readily apparent to the eye. The tasteful arrangement of furniture. The carefully vetted decor rife with imagery of their beginnings. The overcoat hanging in the closet. The shoes neatly tucked by the door. A few silhouette sketches of Will hung with the utmost reverence and care.

But there is no place where Hannibal’s echoes are more apparent than their sprawling kitchen. He sees Hannibal in the meticulous arrangement of cookware. The beautiful window overlooking the Modena countryside. Will can practically smell spices and hear sizzling and rhythmic chopping as Hannibal talks to Will about a new exhibit they should go see, or a restaurant they should try. His small hums to let Will know he’s listening even when his eyes are elsewhere.

Will trails his hand along the cold marble. A beat of silence.

Will’s knees touch the floor. Softly. Supplication to someone who isn’t there. What the fuck is he even doing?

Hannibal would tell him it’s okay. That he can let go. He doesn’t always need to be strong when Hannibal’s around. Hannibal would ensure he’s taken care of—whether he’s physically there or not.

The thought brings a low whine from Will’s chest. Sharp and too-loud in the quietness of the kitchen. He straightens his posture. Hands palm-up and resting on his knees. Just like they’ve practiced.

‘Good boy,’ his mind supplies. He tests the words on his tongue, whispering them into the stillness of the empty villa. They feel hollow in his voice. He can’t quite convince himself that they’re true.

Will’s mind flicks briefly to the basement. Taking the paddle to himself or locking himself up. Laying on his back on the cold basement floor and waiting for Hannibal to find him. Wouldn’t be the first time he had done something self-destructive. Punished himself for the intensity of his feelings.

It would be easier to be a dog. Not having to worry about anything except for getting fed, getting sleep, and getting loved.

Will feels his mind go hazy. Unable to resist the temptation to just let go of human worries for a little. The baser parts of his brain yearn for comfort in familiar smells and objects. Before he knows it, he’s crawling on all fours through the kitchen and into the laundry room. It doesn’t even occur to him that he can stand up and walk. He follows the urge, going right up to the hamper and pawing at it until it tips over, spilling its contents across the floor.

He roots around for a moment, finding the item with the strongest smell—a pair of Hannibal’s underwear. Will moans pitifully against the fabric, deep in the headspace already. After another moment of contemplation (his brain isn’t the sharpest right now) Will takes a rumpled shirt, too. And a pillowcase that still smells faintly of Hannibal’s skin and the hair products he uses.

He carefully gathers them all up in his mouth—again not processing the ability to pick them up with his hands—and makes his way back through the villa.

Down on the floor offers new perspective for a puppy. Eyes half-glazed with memories infused into every corner of their home.

The kitchen window overlooking the garden. Tending to their plants on a sunny morning. Sweat dripping down bare torso. Flicking soil at Hannibal until he was getting kissed breathless in their flower bed.

The foyer. Stumbling in after a late dinner out on the town, wine-drunk and handsy. Barely getting their shoes and coats off before making each other moan in the entryway.

The couch in the living room. The first time Hannibal had fallen asleep on Will, and how afraid Will had been to wake him. Carefully draping a blanket over them both and watching the slope of high cheekbones and the curve of long lashes well into the night.

Will whimpers. Small and alone. He doesn’t want to get taken away from his owner.

He crawls up the stairs to the second floor, whining in frustration when the fabric trailing from his mouth catches underneath his paws, making the ascent clumsy and slow.

Thoughts turn filthier the closer Will gets to their bedroom. Every step becomes a memory of whispered words and echoing sounds of gratification. Broken furniture and rampant sex. Hands shoved down pants, fingers in mouths. Bites. Bruises. A relentless pursuit of carnal pleasure that only grew with each late night and lazy morning.

Will’s puppy-dog eyes take in the metal bed frame he was handcuffed to while Hannibal hiked his hips up and fucked into him just on the side of too-hard. The armchair in the corner where Will insisted he suck Hannibal until he couldn’t get it up anymore. The balcony where they made love soft and sweet in nothing but bathrobes as the sun set behind them.

All these and more go through his mind. But instead of indulging in any of the urges they bring, Will seeks out the comfort of his crate.

Hannibal—caring, thoughtful, perfect Hannibal—had bought it for Will’s first birthday in their villa. Unprompted. Without any indication on Will’s part that he was even interested in something like that. Will had been embarrassed, torn between not wanting to offend Hannibal by outright refusing the gesture and snapping that he wasn’t a helpless baby.

Hannibal acquiesced to placing the large dog kennel in the back of their expansive closet—half-hidden behind the chest of drawers containing their “bedroom equipment”. He spent so long meticulously setting it up. Will had never really considered Hannibal to be the “handyman” type. That role usually went to Will. But seeing how Hannibal’s brows furrowed in concentration, insisting he do this for Will, and laboring over what bed should go in there and what comfort items should be tastefully arranged…

It was endearing. Will felt guilt-tripped enough to give it a fair try.

He remembered sitting in front of it stubbornly on an afternoon not unlike this one. Hannibal was out on an errand, because no way in hell was he about to do this for the first time in front of him.

Mumbling curses under his breath, Will crawled into the crate less-than-gracefully, sitting there and feeling foolish. This was stupid, he could barely even stretch out all the way. What was the point? To get comfy he had to curl up with his head on the pillow and hug the childish puppy plushie and…

Oh.

Oh, that was kind of nice, actually.

The next thing Will knew, he was waking up to Hannibal petting his hair and looking at him with such adoration that any embarrasment Will might have felt melted away with the sweetest of touches.

The incorporation of pet play into their sexual scene was gradual, but once it was there, it felt as natural as the scratch of pen on paper, or the sunlight filtering in through the windows in the morning. The memory of the ‘bad-dog’ incident in the basement sends a thrumming ache in Will’s tummy.

Will clambers into the crate. He gathers Hannibal’s clothes to his face. Drapes the shirt over himself. Holds his pillow and closes his eyes and sinks into the feeling of being surrounded by the smell of home. His mind quiets for a little.

He lets himself accept what he needs.

He takes a puppy nap.

When Will awakes, his head is much clearer.

The itch beneath his skin still lingers.

He has no idea how much time has passed. The sun’s angle through the windows has changed drastically, so it’s been at least several hours.

“Hannibal?” Will’s voice is raspy from sleep, calling out into the bedroom with a disgusting amount of vulnerability. The villa is quiet. Still not home yet.

God, what is wrong with him today? Can he not go a single day without Hannibal’s presence?

Hannibal would love that. He’d get that self-satisfied, insufferably smug look. Would say something obnoxious. Coo at him.

“Of course, Will, it’s only natural for you to miss your Master…”

There’s a traitorous feeling of warmth. Starting low in Will’s belly and spreading persistently outwards until his legs tingle and his fingers twitch. Shit. That was a bad line of thought to pursue. But it’s already done. The voice in Will’s head infected with Hannibal’s cadence like it was destined to all along.

“Go ahead, pretty thing. Good puppies deserve rewards.”

Will crawls out of his kennel. He goes searching in the neatly organized drawers. Hannibal has never said he couldn’t. Will is allowed to look. He just always wondered what the point of looking was without Hannibal. What’s the point of getting himself off if Hannibal isn’t involved in some way?

But Hannibal is involved. Even now. The ghost of his inflection breathing along Will’s neck. A phantom hand guiding his attention to what Hannibal thinks he should use to take care of himself in his absence.

“A lovely boy like you deserves to make yourself cum.”

Will shudders, heat licking up his spine.

Collar first. Will pulls open the top drawers, searching through the neat displays of far too many collars than any one Will Graham could ever need. Will hasn’t even seen a good percentage of them. Sneaky purchases to feed Hannibal’s need to dote on and control. He browses over delicate craftsmanship and fine leatherwork.

None of them satisfy the urge. None of them give him the feeling of being owned he craves. Pretty colors and flowery sentiments don’t change the fact that Hannibal is out gallivanting about Modena like Will isn’t actively losing his mind over how lazy they’ve become about covering their tracks. Will slams the drawer shut with a huff.

He tells Hannibal’s voice in his head to fuck off.

“So crass today, darling. Perhaps something gentle to soothe your troubled mind?”

Will seethes at the thought. He will absolutely not be doing that. Which drawer had the sadomasochistic stuff again? All the real intense equipment is in the basement, but Will could have sworn Hannibal kept a set of genital clamps or an electric wand up here somewhere.

His hand pulls open a large bottom drawer, eyes met with silicone. Nothing too phallic—Will’s not allowed to get any ideas about replacing Hannibal—but plenty of plugs. No not this one. He pulls open the drawer next to it and freezes.

…Dog toys…?

A rope tug. Squeaky plushes. A goddamn tennis ball.

Will pulls a cartoonish white bone from the drawer. It, like the rest, doesn’t seem to have a particular sexual purpose. Just…something to play with. Hating himself for it, Will puts it in his mouth experimentally. His back teeth close around it, tongue already starting to salivate. Comfortable. Instinctual. He keeps searching, hands feeling along a crinkly stuffed duck and brightly-colored braided rope and is that a puppy teething ring?

Will feels another swell of his emotion in his throat, wordless whines muffled by the bone in his mouth. His hips undulate against nothing.

Hannibal’s voice floats back into his psyche unbidden. Every new discovery accompanied by an “I love you, Will. I know you. I want to make you happy. This is all for you. It’s only ever been for you.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Will clumsily climbs to his feet, bone still kept snugly between his teeth, and practically runs over to their bed. He frantically undoes his belt, grabbing Hannibal’s pillow and hugging it to his face, nuzzling against it and breathing in with sharp, desperate sniffs. He wraps a hand around his cock and squeezes. The smell isn’t not nearly as strong as he would like.

He remembers the dirty laundry. Will scrambles back to his crate and drags his stolen goods out back into the bedroom, throwing everything down in a messy pile along with the pillow.

It’s then that he looks up and realizes he’s in front of their mirror. And what a sight he makes.

Skin flushed, hair messy from sleep. Spit dripping down his chin around the bone in his mouth. Pants unzipped and hard cock poking out, the tip already leaking like the whiny little puppy he is.

Will sinks down onto the pillow, body thrumming with need. The first movement of his dick against the fabric makes his eyes flutter and head tip back.

He does it again. Thrusts harder. Faster. Until he’s panting and watching himself hump Hannibal’s pillow in the mirror.

He squeezes the pillow together, rutting into the divot like he used to back in his younger days long before he ever met Hannibal. Back then he would get himself off to the image of women with soft curves and kind eyes. The ones he had to be careful not to get too rough with. The ones who would look at him with pity—like he was some project only they could fix. Like if only he had more of a woman’s touch, the darkness behind his eyes and the scars on his knuckles would fade into obscurity just like that.

That’s not what Will envisions now, as he slips a drool-slick hand behind himself to press in as he continues to hump.

Now the pillow becomes rough hands and lean muscle. Accompanied by words with an unmistakable Eastern European tinge—about how beautiful Will is in his desperation. Urging him to go harder. Take what he deserves. Draw blood. Everyone else might flee from the intensity of Will’s devotion. But not him. Never him. Crawl. Crawl over shards of bone and broken glass for a chance at getting the attention you seem to so desperately need you fucking mangy dog—

“Oh…Will…”

It’s breathed in an adoring voice. Understanding and pitying all at once.

Hannibal.

Will’s eyes snap open, his head hung between his shoulders. Hannibal is home. He didn’t hear him at the front door, or depositing his bags in the kitchen. Or climbing the stairs. Too occupied by the howling in his head. Wil’s fingers are buried in the ripped seams of the pillow. Feathers spilling out onto the carpet like some obnoxiously obvious metaphor. Will’s leash on his control has slipped without his handler to tug it firmly back into place.

He wants to whine for help. Beg Hannibal to take care of him. To soothe his worries and play protector. Ask Hannibal where he was and if he’s okay and he’s worried the bad men are gonna come and take him away from Will.

He feels the sounds bubble up. High and reedy and pathetic around the bone in his mouth.

It comes out as a snarl.

Will looks up and meets Hannibal’s eyes in the mirror. Torment and frustration meets indulgence and love. And in that moment he knows exactly how this will play out. Hannibal will move slow. Talk in a soothing voice. Crouch down to Will’s level to appear nonthreatening. Approach him like he would a volatile stray. Run his hand slow up Will’s spine. Trailing a heavy hand over each vertebrae until he can slip his fingers into Will’s hair. Hold him. Ground him. Hannibal’s mouth would follow. Soft kisses and sweet nothings. Getting Will to lower his hackles until Hannibal could embrace him fully without retaliation. Stay there for as long as Will needed.

Will doesn’t want it. He can’t right now. That level of understanding too much to bear.

He is angry at Hannibal, Will realizes.

Angry at him for making Will like this. Encouraging this kind of codependence. For lulling them both into this delusion. Angry at him for making Will care about him—more than he has about anyone. His whole life, Will has wanted to care, and got stung every time he cared too much. Hannibal makes Will want to care. And he does. With such intensity it rips him apart every morning and sews him back together every night.

Today, when he thought they were caught. When he thought of Hannibal getting taken away from him. That kind of fear. That level of rage.

Will needs to make Hannibal hurt for it.

Hannibal is too busy making himself soft in the doorway. Calculating the particular slope of his brow. The perfect set of his mouth and angle of his shoulders to convey stability. Support.

An act. An attempt at projecting sincerity for Will’s sake—but an act nonetheless. Will rips it out at the root. The bone falls from his mouth.

Hannibal doesn’t have the time to blink as Will is up and across the room, yanking him in by the tie and kissing the breath out of him. Will tugs at the clothes, needing to tear them off and get to skin. Hot and rough and too much all at once.

And even though Hannibal’s instincts are still sharp despite being in his 50s now, he still falters in the face of Will’s aggression—because what are you supposed to do when your mostly-naked husband launches himself at you with ambiguous intentions that could either end up in a fistfight or some pretty intense sex?

Hannibal stumbles briefly on the backstep and Will shoves him against the doorframe. Hard.

“Done parading about for the day?” Will snarls, teeth catching on Hannibal’s parted lips. He doesn’t let Hannibal respond, shoving his tongue right back into his mouth as Hannibal’s hands hover uncertainly just shy of touching him. They part again in a gasp of breath. “Or do you wanna call Interpol directly and give them an invite to the gala?”

Irrational. Unwarranted. And Will can’t stop himself from making it worse.

“Why do you insist on being out in public so much?” Will hisses, smacking at Hannibal’s chest one moment and licking up the side of his neck the next. “Can you keep your ego in check for two fucking seconds instead of risking everything to pretend like this is normal? It’s not fucking normal, Hannibal!”

“What happened, Will?” Hannibal asks, cupping Will’s face and giving him nothing but concern.

Will should know better. Hannibal would never engage him in a screaming match. And Will could never properly articulate that raised voices and violence are what he needs to drown it all out. God, the emotional whiplash is all too much. Will doesn’t know if he’s reacting to fear or anger or love but Will can’t fucking bear another second of this sweet understanding. Can’t comprehend how Hannibal isn’t ever afraid. Doesn’t ever feel like they’re living on borrowed time.

Will doesn’t feel like he can protect Hannibal. Instead, he projects it onto the fear that Hannibal can’t protect him.

Will shoves Hannibal away. “You’re too fucking weak.” He growls.

Hannibal reaches for him. “Darling—”

“You’re supposed to be my owner,” Will hisses. “Mine. You swore to take care of me. If you don’t take good care of a dog, it runs away.”

Too far.

And Will can’t stop.

The words are hurtful and they serve their intended purpose. Hannibal stills, tie loose and top buttons ripped. A deep breath. A long moment to pick the course of action he thinks will placate Will the most.

“I see,” Hannibal says carefully. Gently. Said with concentrated composure. “It’s clear you are responding to a triggering event, Will. I would suggest we take a moment to talk about it. Alternatively, you may run if you wish. But you know what happens if you do.”

“Empty promises,” Will spits. “Weak,” he repeats, but it comes out thin and choked.

Hannibal cocks his head, examining his speech patterns. And, evidently, comes to a conclusion.

“Try it,” Hannibal offers.

Will turns and bolts, half-dressed and with absolutely no plan for what happens when he takes more than two steps out of the bedroom. Feet thump on carpet, Will running full-sprint towards the stairs.

He doesn’t make it very far.

Because, again, he doesn’t really want to run away.

He just wants to know Hannibal won’t ever let him.

It’s a small mercy that the upstairs is carpeted. Because when Hannibal knocks his legs out from under him at the top of the landing, Will goes down hard. Will grabs for the curve of the top stair and Hannibal yanks him back by his foot, making Will hiss from the sting of rugburn on his abdomen where his shirt rucked up.

Hannibal gets a firmer hold around Will’s ankle and drags him back down the hallway. Will goes limp, the fight in him abruptly overcome by that crushing feeling of helplessness he’s been struggling with all day.

“The only one who ever hurts me with words is you,” Hannibal says quietly, as if he isn’t hauling a nearly 200 pound-man by the leg behind him like it’s nothing. “I let you, because I love you.”

“You don’t ‘let me’. You can’t shut off your affection for me any more than I can for you,” Will replies, eyes watching the ceiling trail by slowly overhead. “That’s the problem.”

Hannibal doesn’t respond, so Will tries again. “I worry that it’ll end with all of this being taken away. It feels like we’re too domesticated.”

Hannibal pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Do you feel domesticated, right now, Will?”

“Yes,” Will whispers eyes still up towards the ceiling. “Like the second a threat shows up, I’ll just roll over and bare my belly.”

Hannibal lowers Will’s leg to the floor. He steps over Will, one foot on either side of him, gently inserting himself into Will’s field of vision as he had with his life. Until he becomes all Will knows. All he sees. All he can think about.

“Perhaps you need a reminder of your capabilities, as well as mine.”

“Oh, don’t fucking patronize me,” Will growls.

“Not patronizing. Observing.”

“And what else are you so astutely observing about me, Dr. Lecter?” It’s vindictive and rude and makes shame curl in his belly. He can’t make himself stop.

Hannibal crouches over him. Choosing not to acknowledge Will’s tone.

“You use your words as weapons, yes—but also as a shield,” Hannibal reaches to run the back of his hand down Will’s bearded face. The scar tingles deliciously. “Your fear misplaces itself as first lust, then vitriol,” Hannibal tilts his head in that uncanny way again, voice infuriatingly clinical. “You want me to show I can physically hurt you. Though for what reason is a mystery to me. You already know I can. Perhaps the inverse is also true—do you desire to know you can injure me in return? Will that prove that we are more than a match for any who would still come after us?”

“No,” Will sneers. “Because you’ll let me hurt you just to appease me.”

Hannibal’s voice has a touch of humor. “But dearest, I believe you just said I don’t ‘let you’ do anything.”

“Hannibal,” Will warns.

“Will.”

But Will is past the point of listening. He needs to show, Hannibal. Open his eyes to the very real fear behind Will’s actions. Remind them that this life of theirs comes with sacrifices.

He lifts his legs up and kicks Hannibal in the chest. Hard. Hard enough to send him sprawling backwards so Will can drop his weight on top of him and fight with bare knuckles and bruising promises.

Hannibal has yet to lift a finger in retaliation. That needs to change. Drastic times, after all.

Will lunges. Gets his mouth around the juncture of Hannibal’s shoulder. He can’t hold back—he’s too single-minded. He’ll tear into Hannibal. Make him feel even a sliver of the depth in which he’s imprinted himself in every part of Will. Goad him into meeting violence with violence.

Hannibal moves just in time. Yanks Will to the side so the savage bite misses a major vein.

Blood floods Will’s mouth. Coats his teeth.

He waits for Hannibal to strike back. For the blow to land. Needs the hit just as soon as he’d flinch from it.

Bad dog. Bad dog. Bad dog…

“Good boy…” Hannibal soothes, cradling Will to him and petting his hair. Achingly sweet. Will sinks his teeth in deeper, eliciting a near inaudible wince.

“That’s it, darling. Indulge in your need.”

Will pulls back and spits the blood into Hannibal’s face as an added insult, grabbing at his face a moment later and getting nose to nose.

“A mutt who bites its owner needs to be put down.” He growls.

“An owner who has mistreated his pup deserves to be bitten,” Hannibal responds, not rising to the bait in the slightest, even as his shoulder oozes blood into the crisp fabric of one of his favorite shirts.

Will could hit him for how composed he’s being. It feels like a personal slight against him for being so obviously the opposite.

“You…you—”

“Take your clothes off, Will.”

Will’s mind responds to the command without meaning to. He yanks his shirt off even as he continues to berate the man beneath him. “You’re so goddamn infuriating when you’re like this, you know that?

Hannibal calmly unbuckles his belt.

“Always with the ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude. Well you’re not invincible, Hannibal. You’re not.” Will angrily tugs at the button and nearly rips the zipper from the force with which he pulls Hannibal’s pants open. Hannibal reaches down to help guide him into position and Will smacks his hands away.

“Did you work yourself open before I got home, darling?”

“I’m getting real tired of—no, I didn’t—I’m getting real tired of waiting around for you to come home day in and day out without knowing if this will finally be the day your ego catches up to you for good.”

“It would appear that today I’ve foiled them again.”

“This isn’t a fucking joke!” Will’s breathing picks up even more in his agitated state. He spits crudely on two of his fingers before reaching under himself to prepare for Hannibal. Sinks them past his rim with a choked-off snarl.

“Of course not.”

“Asshole.” Will lifts himself up and positions Hannibal’s cockhead where he wants it. Hannibal—the smug piece of shit—looks like there’s nowehere else in the entire world he’d rather be than being ridden on their hallway floor while his husband yells at him. It just fuels Will’s frustration even more. “And quit getting off on this you sick fuck.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.” Hannibal tries to sneakily return his hands to Will’s muscular thighs and Will angrily fends them off with a warning glare and another sharp smack.

The sensation of Hannibal sliding deep into Will, nestling deliciously inside of him, has them both pausing the argument to moan. Will reaches under the ruined shirt to rest his hands on Hannibal’s chest, digging nails into the meat there. Hannibal’s own fingers rub soothingly up and down Will’s forearms. Lost in the initial pleasure as he is, it takes a moment for Will to realize Hannibal is touching him again and he yanks his arms out of reach with a snarl.

It’s then that Will notices how close they are to the top stair. The cruelest parts of him can’t resist.

“Back,” Will orders.

“Will?” Hannibal tries to sit up and Will angrily pushes him right back down.

“Scoot. Back,” Will repeats, lifting himself off Hannibal’s cock but keeping himself braced over the other man. Hannibal frowns at the loss but complies, using his elbows to inch backwards. Eyes on Will the whole time as he keeps pace, crawling above Hannibal’s body until he’s gone far enough to satisfy him. “Enough.” He rewards the obedience by sinking back down onto Hannibal. He grabs onto bloody fabric and rocks his hips.

Hannibal’s muted groan is like an aphrodisiac. Will pants and huffs as he finds his rhythm, legs flexing with the effort.

Will puts his hands around Hannibal’s throat. Not to cut off his breathing, but to feel the pulse beneath the skin. A reminder of the life within him. Hannibal’s eyes go half-lidded, tipping his head back so more of his neck is bare for Will’s touch. It hangs over the edge of the stairs.

Will rides him harder. He can feel Hannibal trying to meet him—even now still trying to indulge in Will’s pursuit of pleasure. It makes another biting slew of insults bubble out of his throat before he can swallow them back.

“Are you gonna let anyone push you around, Dr. Lecter?” Will sneers. “Are you that weak now?”

“Only for you,” Hannibal replies. Patient. Understanding.

Will hates it. “No. Not for me. Not for anyone ” Will seethes.

“Will—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Will slaps Hannibal across the face, jerking his head to the side. It stays there while Will continues his tirade. “How are we supposed to live here if you won’t fucking fight back!? Enough with the romantic bullshit and show me you’ll protect me like I’ve protected you!”

Hannibal’s eyes find Will’s again. Positively enamored. “You’re absolutely gorgeous right now, Will.”

“Goddamnit, Hannibal! Hit. Me. Back!” Will screams.

“No.”

“Hit me!”

Hannibal bucks Will off in one quick movement. Will braces himself for an impact, eyes squeezing shut on reflex. It doesn’t come, and he opens his eyes to see Hannibal disappearing into the bedroom.

Is he running away? Will sees red, immediately pushing himself to his feet and giving chase.

Will rounds the corner. “Are you fucking kidding m—”

Hannibal shoves the toy bone in his mouth hard enough to make him choke. He hoists Will up and slams him against the wall, pinning him there. While Will reels from the unexpected action, Hannibal pushes himself back inside. The angle is deep and perfect, making his lower belly feel hot and the baser part of his brain purr in satisfaction. Will drools around the toy, eyes fixed on Hannibal’s as he begins to slowly thrust. Then faster. Then slower again. Gauging Will’s reaction like some sort of sick clinical experiment. Any further words Will might have hurled in an effort to harm are lost to the familiar pleasure of warm bodies and stimulating touches.

Hannibal’s smile tells him that was the goal from the beginning. “There,” he coos. “Much better, right? Feel good, sweet boy?”

Another series of deep, rolling movements. Fucking Will against the wall like he’s nothing more than a silly puppy who needed correction. Eyes fluttering and soft moans. Against his best efforts, it does feel good. Feels perfect, actually. Will nods reluctantly. Hannibal kisses the bone in his mouth instead of his lips. A wordless declaration of victory.

Hannibal turns on his heel and carries Will over to the bed, speaking in soft, indulgent tones all the while. Pulling every single string to get Will’s guard down.

“Pretty head of yours gets all worked up sometimes, hmm?”

“That’s alright. You’re okay now.”

“My perfect, intelligent boy.”

“Your handler is here now, puppy.”

Will is lain down on silky sheets and soft blankets with utmost care, Hannibal still between his legs. Gentle hands lift Will’s legs to open him up further. Gentle fingers pressing the bone deeper between his teeth to pacify him. Slow thrusts again as Hannibal makes love to Will’s pliant body. Believing he can fix whatever Will is upset about with flowery words and copious amounts of sex.

And he’s mostly right.

But not completely.

Hannibal ducks his head to kiss along Will’s neck. Doting presses of his mouth along every curve and hollow. Will reaches up behind the pillowcase, fisting hands in the sheets.

Hannibal hums, his mouth ghosts along stubble. He reaches the corner of Will’s lips. Licks along the toy bone.

And freezes.

Hannibal lifts his head slowly to meet Will’s gaze.

Will has a scalpel pressed under Hannibal’s jaw. Grabbed from its concealed position behind the mattress. All the grace of an angel and the ferocity of man. Enough conviction in his eyes to convey that—if properly motivated—Will could absolutely finish the job.

Hannibal’s face is always flawless in its composure. A mask woven to reflect the chosen emotion. And yet the minute twitch of surprise might as well be a neon sign to Will who has learned to read the nuances of his lover’s microexpressions. He had genuinely caught Hannibal off guard.

And Hannibal looks more in love than he has any right to be considering the bead of red emerging from the shallow incision on his neck.

“Clever boy.” Hannibal’s eyes are twinkling like Will is his star pupil. “See? It’s still in you.”

Will takes the bone from his mouth and throws it somewhere in the bedroom. The other hand keeps the scalpel steady. “On your back,” he whispers. All sense of submission gone.

Hannibal raises his hands in surrender, sitting back on his ankles before gently lowering himself to his elbows. Will drags the scalpel lightly up along Hannibal’s leg, over his crotch and up the abdomen to Hannibal’s neck, splitting him in half and laying himself bare for Will in their minds’ eye.

He crawls over Hannibal, sitting himself on top of him once more. They’re both silent for a long, tense moment.

Hannibal’s brow twitches. His lips curve in a shameless display of delight. “If it would give you euphoria, Will, I have always been a proponent of bleeding under your touch.”

“It wouldn’t,” Will growls. At Hannibal’s knowing expression he amends the statement. “Not right now, it wouldn’t.”

“What would?” Hannibal asks. “Anything, darling. I’ll give it all to you if it would make you feel good.”

Will takes a moment to think. Hannibal can never assure him with 100% certainty that they won’t ever be found and imprisoned or worse. Neither can he assure Will with 100% certainty that he’ll stop butchering people to bring home for elaborate meals.

Nor does Will want him to. He’s as much a part of that ritual now as Hannibal.

Instead, what would make Will feel better is something grounding. Tangible. Real. He needs to feel in control again. And he needs to subjugate Hannibal to do it.

“Sit up, against the headboard,” Will says softly, keeping the point of the scalpel hovering over Hannibal’s jugular as he complies. “Pants off all the way.”

Hannibal’s eyes are dark with obsession as he slides the fabric down toned, muscular legs dusted with light-colored hair. He goes to fold but pauses at the insistent click of Will’s tongue. “No—toss them aside.”

A twitch of a disapproving eyebrow is all the resistance shown before the clothes land in a bloody heap on the ground. They’re sharing breaths. Hannibal nude beneath Will’s presence and Will who might as well be from how Hannibal looks at him. Like he could practically taste the salt of sweat on skin and the texture of goosebumps beneath his tongue.

“Touch yourself,” Will orders, nodding towards Hannibal’s impressive cock resting heavy against the crease of his leg. It’s still slick from being inside Will. The phantom ache of it deep inside of him makes Will’s stomach clench.

“For my pleasure? Or for yours?” Hannibal inquires mildly.

Will leans in closer, relishing in how Hannibal instinctively tilts his mouth up to seek his kiss. “Do what you do best, Dr. Lecter,” he murmurs, their mouths hot and wet and yearning for each other. Will doesn’t give in. He’s still angry. The command comes out with a derisive sneer. “Put on a show.”

He pulls back. Hannibal’s expression tells him that the denial of Will’s mouth won’t be forgotten. Will can’t be bothered to care.

Will sits back against the footboard. Their legs intermingled. Mirroring. A sick perversion of those therapy sessions from a lifetime ago. Will rests the scalpel flat against his own thigh. Keeping it in view as a warning.

Hannibal’s gaze flicks down to it once. With great amusement, he lifts a delicate hand to trail fingers from the base of his shaft to the head of his cock. Catching a bead of arousal emanating from his slit and rubbing a slow circle counterclockwise to smear it artfully. Ever the entertainer.

Will licks his lips.

Satisfied that he has Will’s attention, Hannibal continues to perform.

A loose curl of fingers just underneath the tip. Slow, twisting motions so Will can see every slide of skin and every glisten of wetness. Then, Hannibal leans forward and blows cool air over his own cock.

Will’s hand is on himself before he can register that response is exactly what Hannibal wanted. His own fist is tight and squeezing. His dick throbs with need.

Hannibal mirrors him. Then begins pumping languidly at what feel’s like snail’s pace.

Will’s feels like a fucking teenager—compelled to get a hand around himself and jerk quick and hard to completion at the barest hint of suggestion. He forces himself to match the slow, methodical pace Hannibal has set.

Their hands slick in time with each other, loud in the otherwise silent bedroom. Will’s never been the best at having discipline. Especially not compared to the textbook definition of composure that is Hannibal Lecter. It’s only a matter of time before Will falters.

His face screws up as his hand stills on his cock. Mentally warding off the impending orgasm. He releases the vice grip with a shudder, cock twitching in protest. He swallows hard before he allows his position to slump. Legs spreading a little more as his fingers travel downwards to rub against his hole instead.

“Greedy,” Hannibal’s voice interjects in what was otherwise a pleasant experience for Will.

Will’s eyes open and he glares at Hannibal—who is still stroking at the same pace in an annoying display of control. “Says you,” he grits out. “You look starving over there, Dr. Lecter.”

“No matter how much I devour,” Hannibal releases his cock, letting it bob enticingly under it’s own weight, “when it comes to you, it is never enough.”

Will hooks an arm under a leg and spreads himself open. Dark, wiry hair and powerful muscles like a siren’s song. Undeniably masculine even now. “Then eat me,” he demands. A god to his devout worshipper.

“In what way?” Hannibal purrs, all hunger as he prowls across their mattress. Hot breath skating up a thigh with rapture. Too much teasing and not enough action for Will’s liking.

Will grabs Hannibal by the hair with a harsh fist and shoves him down where he wants him. Hannibal takes to the command eagerly, hot tongue delving into Will. Kissing him, laving at all the skin he can reach. Pulling Will against him until there’s no feasible way that Hannibal can properly breathe. Will lets himself groan in pleasure, feeling himself worked up to the brink untouched. Just the juxtaposition between the man who had to teach Will the particulars of the different kinds of forks and the one slurping like an animal against his rim has Will laughing through moans. He can feel the promise of teeth in Hannibal’s smile. Feels his jaw working under threat of getting stabbed with his own scalpel. Neither of them can get enough.

As tempting as it is to cum just like this, Will knows he’ll enjoy it more if he waits. Makes Hannibal wait, more specifically.

“Get inside me,” Will grits out. Hannibal doesn’t seem very inclined to listen. He’s still licking and sucking away at Will’s hole like he’ll never get the chance to again. Will clamps his thighs around Hannibal’s head. Crushes them together until Hannibal gets the message, forcing Will’s legs apart and rising from the depths with a reproachful look.

“Are you seriously upset that I asked you to stop eating my ass so you could fuck me?” Will says incredulously. Hannibal opens his mouth, a lengthy response evident on the tip of his tongue. Will flaps an annoyed hand. “That was rhetorical, Hannibal. Your cock. In me. Now.”

Hannibal doesn’t pout. But the expression twisting his face is a near thing as he lines himself up.

Drama queen.

And then…ecstasy.

The slow push of Hannibal into Will, making space for himself where there was none previously.

“Move your hips,” Will says, voice strained. Trying to keep up some semblance of authority. “Slow.”

Hannibal complies, watching Will with something akin to fascination. The calculated flex of muscles in the abdomen and the sinuous movement in and out have Will’s breaths coming faster. The soft gasps pitching up before he can get a handle on it. It feels good. They both know it.

“Harder,” Will orders, a hand on the back of Hannibal’s neck. He spreads his legs so Hannibal can drive into him a little more. “Oh…yes….yes, Hannibal…” Will loves it. Addicted to the feeling of getting fucked like this. Hannibal takes to every instruction beautifully.

Will feels release approach too quickly. That would put a damper on the rest of his plans. “Stop!”

Just in time. It’s hard enough mentally warding off the orgasm on its own—but of course Hannibal stills at just the right moment. All the way in. The sensation is like nothing else. Will’s hole clenches involuntarily, squeezing around Hannibal’s cock. He moans, rapidly blinking away tears of pleasure. Hannibal is completely motionless and Will still might cum anyways. Feeling him so deep and so big and it is incredibly unfair because Will is supposed to be the one calling the shots right now.

“Don’t—don’t move,” Will says, hand blindly feeling at Hannibal’s face until he covers his mouth with a sweaty palm. “Don’t fuckin’ say anything either. Just—oh, just stay there like that.”

Will’s head falls back as he closes his eyes and lets himself take. Laying there with Hannibal pressed up against the perfect spot. Clenching to send waves of deep-rooted sensation throughout his body.

He bends his knees and braces both of his feet on Hannibal’s chest, moaning as it opens himself up and Hannibal slides in the tiniest bit deeper. Will keens, grabbing Hannibal’s face tighter until the faintest trace of facial hair growing back after a morning shave stabs at his skin. Will’s grip on the scalpel loosens as he succumbs to the delirium of pleasure.

An audible sniff and hot breath against his palm. Will refocuses to see Hannibal with a faint flush on his face. Eyelids heavy as he gets off on the smell and taste of Will’s palm sweat. The smallest roll of Hannibal’s hips has his back arching and a breathless sound emerging unbidden from parted lips.

The scalpel slips again. A gentle hand at Will’s elbow to keep the sharp tool from falling somewhere unsavory. Will immediately reacts. “No!” he snarls, scalpel right back against Hannibal’s neck. “I told you not to move.” Hannibal swallows at the pain but keeps his neck bared obediently.

Will is overcome with the urge to make Hannibal see himself. See what Will makes him into.

“Back against the headboard,” Will directs, pulling off of Hannibal with no small amount of reluctance. “Just like before. Gonna ride the fuck outta you.”

Hannibal chuckles. “Sei tu dal ciel disceso, o in ciel so io con te?” he quotes. Il Trovatore.

Have you come down from heaven, or am I in heaven with you?

Complete drama queen.

Will could roll his eyes at the theatrics but settles for gesturing expectantly until Hannibal follows through. He watches his husband return to his original position at the head of the mattress. Hands folded politely in his lap as he waits for Will’s next instruction.

Will reaches over with deliberate slowness and places the scalpel on the bedside table. Hannibal’s eyes follow it in a way Will doesn’t like at all. He grabs Hannibal’s face again and turns it back to him. “Hey. Eyes on me, yeah?”

“Eyes on you.”

“Apologize.” Will says firmly.

While he might not have the hound’s nose that Hannibal does, Will is still pretty good at knowing when his husband is turned on. And right now, Hannibal is very turned on by Will’s push for dominance. It makes the next words all the more sincere:

“I’m so sorry, my love. I’ve neglected you. I’ve taken poor care of my precious pet.” Hannibal turns and drags his tongue from Will’s inner wrist all the way up to his shoulder, across collarbones. and up his throat to kiss at the skin there. “I’ve been a bad owner, hmm? How would my lovely puppy have me remedy this?”

Will shudders. “Fuck,” he whispers. Composes himself. “Look in the mirror,” he says. Hannibal’s eyes slide from his to over his shoulder. His tongue comes out to lick his lips as whatever he sees makes his body tense and his gaze go hungry.

“Watch yourself,” Will orders—not that it’s normally necessary to tell a narcissist that, but Hannibal can sometimes get distracted by Will’s presence. “Watch how I make you feel.”

Will places his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders and positions himself over his lap, making sure Hannibal is still looking where he’s supposed to. Hannibal’s hands slide up his back. He presses a kiss to Will’s shoulder, eyes fixed behind him.

Will sinks back down with a shuddering groan. He pants against Hannibal’s face, pressing an open mouth against a cheek just to watch Hannibal struggle with the temptation to look at Will instead of himself. Will sighs with contentment as he returns to that delicious sensation of easing up and down Hannibal’s hard shaft. One of his favorite angles. Oh so good.

A tightening of fingers against the muscles of his back makes Will grin. And that’s when he really chases it. Harder. Deeper. Louder.

Will rakes blunt nails down Hannibal’s back. His forearms. Claws at the base of his spine. Painting skin pink. Feels how Hannibal clutches him tighter with every tinge of pain. And still he keeps himself angled so Will can get the most pleasure.

Will slams himself down over and over, riding Hannibal for all he’s worth. His moans are loud an unabashed. Using the man below him like an overgrown sex toy. Taking what he needs and witholding what Hannibal wants. When he feels like he’s close, Will quickly pulls off. Tugging Hannibal into a better position—making his pelvis lie flat so Will can feel it better. He turns back around so he’s facing the mirror, too. Catches Hannibal’s eyes in the reflection. Grins. And sinks back down so they’re back to chest—both watching Hannibal’s cock disappear into Will once more.

Will starts the process again. Lifting himself up and moving sensually slow. Will can’t even be ashamed of how wrecked he looks—because he knows it just drives Hannibal even crazier. And there is almost nothing more intoxicating than watching his lover lose his composure because of Will’s teasing.

Hannibal’s hands come around to his hips. Will loves the feel of them splaying out on his abdomen. Feeling. Appreciating. Will leans back against Hannibal’s shoulder, directing his moans straight into Hannibal’s ear just to watch his reaction.

Hannibal groans. Soft, but a victory all the same.

“You gonna cum?” Will breathes, rolling his hips down in a way that has them both tensing with sensation.

Hannibal’s head turns minutely to look down at Will. Disobedient.

Will fists a hand in Hannibal’s hair and pulls his attention back up to the mirror. “Look at yourself,” Will repeats.

Hannibal keeps his eyes ahead as the moan rumbles out of his throat. Low and yearning.

“Yes.”

Will lifts off Hannibal completely and it’s the closest that perfect composure ever comes to cracking. Something dark flashes across his gaze. Something that says Hannibal will not be denied. But then it’s gone in a blink and Hannibal has the gall to sound victimized, “Will?”

“Lie down,” Will whispers, a single finger pointed in the center of his chest and the slightest push in the right direction. Hannibal sinks back against the pillows underneath the touch, reclining until he’s nearly completely horizontal.

Will turns and swings a leg over to straddle Hannibal’s chest.

Will reaches back to get a hand around Hannibal’s cock. He ruts his hips forward, his own dick dragging deliciously in the divot of Hannibal’s chest. Catching on the chest hair. Making it glisten with an obscene amount of spit and pre-cum.

“You’re not allowed to cum until I do. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Say it again.”

“Yes, puppy, I understand,” Hannibal’s expression is far too smug as the words make Will’s cock ache to release.

Will twists his hand harshly at the top of his dick. “Just for that,” he says, breathing harsh in Hannibal’s face. “You’re not getting sucked off tonight. You’ll have to use my hand only.”

“If that’s what you think is best,” Hannibal agrees. Impossible to rattle. If the roles were reversed, he’d have Will begging six ways to Sunday. Asshole.

Will keeps his hips undulating, reveling in Hannibal’s fixation on the leaking cockhead rubbing against him just out of reach.

Will tenses at the sudden feeling of dexterous fingers at his hole. He considers snapping at Hannibal not to touch him again, but the truth is—he wants to be touched. His free hand grabs at his ass, spreading himself so Hannibal can insert slicked up fingers inside him.

And oh, does he get rewarded for allowing it.

Hannibal’s capable digits massage insistently at Will’s prostate, rubbing with precision.

Will is not proud of the sound he makes. He forgoes jerking Hannibal off entirely, bracing himself against Hannibal’s shoulders and touching himself instead. Presses down to make Hannibal finger him harder. Loses himself until he’s riding Hannibal’s hand just like he was his cock.

“Ah….oh my god….” Will chokes out, pumping his length desperately. “…Oh, you’re…you’re gonna make me….”

Will bites his lip hard enough to split skin. He feels blood well up and slide down his chin.

Hannibal’s fingers crook inside of him with a perfect amount of cruelty. His other hand traces reverently along the scar on Will’s abdomen. Will’s hand slicks faster over his painfully hard cock.

More…more…

“Hannibal!” Will pleads. Waits until those dark eyes meet his. Will knows what he needs.

“Hit me.”

Unlike his refusal in the hallway, this time Hannibal complies. His hand whips up and cracks across Will’s face. The one with the wedding band. The viciousness of it sends Will over the edge immediately.

Will cums all over high cheekbones and parted lips. Moaning and shaking like a leaf in the wind. Marking like a dog would their territory. He rubs his cock crudely against the planes of that perfect face. Lips curled and showing teeth as Hannibal takes it, letting Will smear the essence of himself against the divot of his chin. The bridge of his nose. The catch of a crooked tooth and rasp of a tongue. Hannibal kisses at his cock every time it’s close enough to reach.

A heartbeat later Will’s mouth collides messily with Hannibal’s, groaning at the hot slide of wet sensation permeating every touch and every movement. Will’s hands cup Hannibal’s face, wiping at it with his thumbs in a gesture that’s as close to an apology as he’ll get. Will pulls back, still sat on Hannibal’s chest. He tips his head toward the ceiling and exhales. Long and slow.

And with that, the howling in his mind finally quiets. It’s time for Hannibal to take the leash back. And his husband—who has always seen the parts of Will no one else has, who can read the tilts of his head and the set of his jaw as if they’re eloquent sentences—knows it won’t be given freely. Will needs a firm hand.

Honestly, Will should have known Hannibal wouldn’t take this attitude lying down for long. He sees the idle curiosity in Hannibal’s gaze a split moment before the moment of reversal happens.

Hannibal’s hand twitches toward the scalpel on the bedside table.

A bait. A stupidly obvious one, too. Will should have known better.

Instead, he reacts instantly. No rational thought. Only perceived threat and defense response. Before he can process, remember who he’s up against, Will’s hand shoots out to grab the scalpel. The next second, he’s pressing it against Hannibal’s jugular.

“Don’t,” Will gasps, easing up on the pressure as soon as realization hits. “I can’t.”

Not can’t hurt Hannibal. But can’t stop himself when he’s like this. Needs to be forced to stop. Needs that firm hand.

But Hannibal doesn’t seem remotely interested in giving it, looking utterly obsessed with the sight of Will poised to cut.

“Hannibal.” Will growls. “Don’t let me hurt you. Not like this.”

Hannibal hums. “I can put myself back together.”

“Hannibal.” Will’s hands shake. “I’m fucking serious.”

“As am I.”

Will blinks up at the ceiling, trying to compose himself. “Please. You were right. I can handle myself—I know that now. I need you to do the same.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to specify.”

Will’s hands shake with effort it takes to not sink the blade somewhere it will cause irreversible damage. “Pretend it’s not me. Pretend a man trailed you from the market. You made too conspicuous of a purchase. Raised a few flags in some detective’s monitoring system. Or worse, some bounty hunter with delusions of grandeur after you slighted the wrong person—”

“The hypothetical is hardly necessary—”

“And he breaks into our home,” Will continues louder, more insistent. “Catches you in a vulnerable moment. Pulls a weapon. Intends to take you away from me—”

Hannibal’s leg comes up too fast for Will to see, striking him hard in the side at the same moment his hand catches the wrist holding the scalpel with crushing force. By the time Will regains his breath Hannibal has flipped their positions, kneeling on his back, suffocating Will against the bedsheets, mere inches away from biting the metal footboard. The prick of pain at the base of his neck tells Will exactly where the scalpel is.

There can be no mistake about what that means.

“Dead,” Hannibal says evenly, as Will pants against the bedspread. He mimes a cut against the base of his skull. Flaying him open and severing nerves. Will’s never felt such relief. Hannibal is still capable. Still deadly. He won’t let anything happen to either of them.

That relief turns to something else as Hannibal doesn’t take the scalpel away.

“Hannibal…?” Will ventures, sounding entirely too vulnerable with the world’s most prolific serial killer pressed up against his back.

Silence.

“…Hannibal?” Will whispers again. The only sound in the room is his own breathing. The point of the scalpel against his skin. Warmed by the siren’s call of blood if only it sunk in just a millimeter more.

Hannibal’s head lowers to Will’s ear with deliberate slowness. Every second between them dragging out. His voice, when he speaks, is entirely devoid of affection. “See?”

Will forgot what that sounded like.

Forgot what it felt like to be just as afraid of Hannibal as he was infatuated with him.

“I’ve been doing what I have for nearly as long as you’ve been alive, beloved,” that frigid, uncannily neutral voice continues, sinking cold claws into Will’s intestines and twisting, “If it’s a reminder you need, I am more than happy to give it to you.”

Long, slender fingers underneath his chin, lifting Will’s gaze gently up. Until he can see himself in the mirror. Flushed. Aroused. Vulnerable. Hannibal hovers over him, like a viper poised to strike. All corded power and sinuous grace.

Watching Will. Always watching Will.

Not for the first time, Will wonders how many others have had an image similar to this as the last thing they ever see.

A flash of metal and the scalpel is in front of him, pressed against Will’s neck in an imitation of what was done to him earlier.

It feels a lot deadlier in the former surgeon’s hands.

“You wouldn’t make it past the threshold,” Hannibal says. Voice soft and full of promises beautiful in their violence. “You see, I love my husband very much. And it is my job to make sure he’s happy, healthy, and well-fed,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will whimpers.

“I take great care in what gets put on my table. Even a lowly swine such as you can have the privilege of becoming art fit to be consumed by his perfect body.”

Will watches the sensual drag of the blade as Hannibal brings it to the curve of his shoulder. “The muscle of the arms would make excellent prosciutto. It’s one of Will’s favorites—good for a light snack to whet the appetite while he waits for me to serve him something more robust.”

Will swallows hard, watching Hannibal’s twisted game with rapture. Will has long since made his peace with Hannibal’s culinary proclivities—such an intrinsic part of Hannibal that to reject it would be rejecting Hannibal himself. But it’s another thing entirely to hear the musings about how he would prepare him.

The scalpel moves thoughtfully downward. “Lots of options for these tendons. Nervetti seems appropriate. Cooked long and slow still on the bone,” an amused hum, “then peeled off and left to set. The garden my husband tends to provides all sorts of lovely complements—he is such a hard worker, you know.”

Will can only lay pinned. Eyes wide and pulse pounding. His stomach floods with the icy cold sensation of fear while his cock twitches traitorously between his legs.

The scalpel’s cold edge presses delicately against the left side of his lower back. “Kidneys would make perfect rognoncini trifolati. A dish that would pair exquisitely with the wine my darling Will prefers.” A warm hand brushing underneath to trace his tummy. “Torcinelli—stuffed lamb intestines. Poetic, no?” Hannibal’s nose nudges along Will’s sweaty hairline. “Especially when paired with the sweet smell this lamb is putting out at the moment.”

“Please…” Will whispers. Please continue? Please stop? Please do it? Cook him, use him to nourish Hannibal? No—nourish himself. Since this is all for him, according to Hannibal.

Hannibal ignores him.

“And now, to the real meat of it all…” Hannibal holds the handle of the scalpel between his teeth. A large hand comes down to squeeze at Will’s buttocks, then his thigh. Feeling. Appraising. Like he’s nothing more than livestock. Hannibal nods and gives a satisfied hum. He takes the scalpel and drags it lightly along the side of Will’s thigh, enough to cut a shallow red line up his leg. Will doesn’t dare move, his breathing ragged and his cock so hard that he’s seriously risking moving his hips to get friction against the bed even if it would cut him open deeper.

Hannibal stops at the swell of Will’s ass. “Ragù alla romagnola served with fresh tagliatelle as an homage to our chosen home,” Hannibal says decisively. “Or perhaps a ragù alla bolognese—Will has complimented both. Though I suppose…” Hannibal taps the flat of the blade against his skin, making Will jolt. “There is enough of you to go around.”

A full-body shudder wracks through Will.

“Yes,” Hannibal muses. “We can make something useful out of you yet.”

Will can’t help the startled cry as Hannibal abruptly seizes his throat. Frantic eyes begging for mercy where there is none. “But, if for some reason this particular pig manages to overcome me,” Hannibal whispers. Deadly soft and sickeningly sweet. “My dog will rip out its throat.”

Arousal punches white-hot through Will’s lower stomach. He moans, low and plaintive.

A smile sharp as the scalpel’s blade. Will can feel the edge of it. “You understand my beloved boy is very protective of his owner,” Hannibal muses. “Isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Will swallows, words clumsy around the promise of an orgasm that still lingers too close for comfort. “I am.”

“Good dog.”

Will keens. “I’d kill them,” he whispers, straining around the press of fingers against his windpipe. “For you. For us.”

“Oh, who is this? Is my darling Will back with me now?”

Will nods. The pressure on his throat releases. Hannibal kisses the back of his neck—over where he held the scalpel earlier. Will reaches back for it. Hannibal gladly gives it to him. Will tosses it to the floor. A faint twitch downward of Hannibal’s mouth tells him he wasn’t a huge fan of the carelessness but any protest he might have vocalized evaporates when Will turns over and pulls his mouth to his own.

Saccharine touches and wandering, appreciative hands. It can only last so long before their libidos bounce back enough to go again.

“Fuck me,” Will begs. “Need you inside of me again. Just one more—please—” at the same time Hannibal asks “Can I make love to you?”

Flustered, almost childish laughter cut short by more kisses and then morphing to moans as their bodies frot deliciously against each other.

Will rolls over onto his belly once more, hiking his hips up in a wanton invitation. “Like this…” he breathes, staring ahead and watching the moment Hannibal’s eyes slide up from the curve of his ass and expanse of Will’s muscular back to Will’s face in the mirror.

Hannibal slowly positions himself behind Will, their eyes locked in the reflection all the while. He slides home and Will’s mind instantly goes hazy. Hannibal lowers himself so he’s pressed completely against Will. Back to chest. Touching in every way possible. His arms come underneath Will’s chin, bracketing him in with a parody of a hug.

Will’s hands curl around biceps. He rests his head against the crook of a strong arm and watches with nothing but adoration as Hannibal fucks into him sweetly from behind.

Their sounds increase as Hannibal picks up the pace. Will’s cock rubs against the sheets pooled underneath him, every movement of Hannibal’s causing a new brush of sensation.

Surprisingly, it’s Hannibal who breaks first. Panting against his face in a rare loss of composure. “I’m close…” that honeyed voice whispered directly into Will’s ear, accent stronger than normal.

Will’s eyes flutter and he arches up more. Offering himself for the taking. A muffled groan in his ear signals Hannibal’s impending orgasm, plastering himself to Will’s skin. Will watches the exact moment Hannibal’s eyes squeeze shut, his face pinching upward in a beautiful display of pleasure.

Will’s own release barrels through him at the sensual sight. His eyes roll back as he cums with Hannibal still riding out his bliss in uncoordinated thrusts. His teeth sink into the meat of Hannibal’s forearm to muffle the brunt of the sound. Hannibal will be showing the imprint of Will’s bites for days afterward. The knowledge makes his tummy tingle with something akin to butterflies.

How romantic.

Hannibal pulls out with a satisfied exhale, rolling onto his back next to Will. Will slumps against his side. An absolute picture of contentment.

Will should apologize for the snapped insults and lingering injuries on them both. But he wouldn’t mean a word of it, and Hannibal wouldn’t want him to. They know he needed this. Instead, his eyes catch on the glint of the scalpel on the floor. The rubber bone lies just beyond it. And that brings up a question that’s lingered in Will’s mind since he opened the drawer.

“The dog toys in the closet. Are those for my gratification our yours?”

Hannibal’s gaze flicks to the toy, then back to Will. Calculates. Assesses. “I thought you might like to engage in the dynamic more outside of the bedroom,” he says at long last. “I thought it might be comforting to you. Especially when you get…worried…in my absence.” A hand stroking gently up the length of Will’s spine. “Was I wrong to assume that? I thought you might refuse the idea on principle if I were to have asked, rather than having the option there if you want it.”

Perfect. Thoughtful. Understanding.

“No,” Will responds, winding his arms tighter around Hannibal’s neck. “You weren’t wrong. Thank you.” He lifts his head. “Thank you,” he repeats again, with eye contact. The gratitude is for so much more than just the purchases, and from the way Hannibal’s eyes soften around the edges with adoration that makes Will ache—he knows it.

Passage of time blurs with Will half-drifting to sleep against warm skin still slick with sweat. Eventually, however, Hannibal shifts.

Will groans, knowing what it means. Ever the ritualist, it probably was itching Hannibal that he couldn’t clean up right away. Hannibal murmurs a wordless apology, sliding out from underneath Will and dodging his grabby hands as he goes about tidying up their space.

Only when that task is done does Hannibal return to Will—now lying face-down in the middle of the bed.

“What would you like for dinner?”

“Chef Boyardee Spaghetti-O’s,” Will grumbles into the pillow.

Hannibal smooths Will’s hair back with an indulgent hum. “If it is pasta with a tomato-based sauce you’re craving, perhaps gramigna alla salsiccia will suffice?”

Will gives a long-suffering sigh. “You never let me have anything.”

“Quite the tyrant I tend to be,” Hannibal agrees. “Though I view you as an extension of myself in some ways, and is it so wrong to want our dinners together to be meaningful?”

Will snorts. “Now I’m imagining you eating Spaghetti-O’s.”

Hannibal pointedly doesn’t stoop to Will’s level by responding to that, instead lifting himself off the bed. “I’ll go make preparations. I can set up a spot for you in the nook and pour you a glass of this lovely Lambrusco I purchased this afternoon—although you are, of course, welcome to relax here instead. I do not wish to impose the idea that you must be around me at all times—”

“Hannibal,” Will interrupts, hopelessly endeared by the uncharacteristic rambling. Perhaps they both needed this.

Hannibal blinks, chastened. Will beckons with a finger. Hannibal returns to the bed.

Will sits up, cupping hands around Hannibal’s face. He presses a long, slow kiss to his mouth. “You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?”

Hannibal kisses him again. “As I for you, Will.”

“I love you,” Will murmurs.

Hannibal’s tongue moistens his lips, swallowing audibly. “And I, you, beloved.” It comes out hoarse. As it does every time Will is the one to utter it first. Like it’s a well-kept secret flowing from Will’s tongue.

Will cannot have that. He kisses Hannibal’s mouth harder. Insistent. “You take such good care of your puppy. You own me,” he repeats.

Hannibal’s hands come up over his, stroking along the backs of the knuckles. Gaze reverent and devoted—like Will is the one holding the metaphorical leash even if he doesn’t hold the physical one. “I do,” he whispers, with a much conviction as he said their wedding vows. “And it is a privilege I am grateful for every day.”

Will kisses his nose. “Dinner?” He lets Hannibal help him up as they redress, exchanging touches and soft kisses all the while. “What ill-mannered swine caught the attention of the esteemed Dr. Lecter to provide for tonight’s meal?”

Hannibal’s eyes glint with something wicked. Will resolves to treat his husband to a particularly sweet ‘dessert’ before the evening is up.

Will wakes in the middle of the night. Not to anything in particular. Just the machinations of a restless mind.

He looks down at Hannibal’s face, barely illuminated by the sliver of moonlight in through the curtains. Beautiful. Like a painting come to life. Will slips out of bed. A careful maneuver practiced so as not to disturb his light-sleeper of a husband.

Will watches him for another moment. The rise and fall of measured breathing. The arm half-stretched across the sheets. The contrast of his satin pajama set (because of course) against their bedding.

Will exits the bedroom, padding down the hallway and descending the stairs.

He checks the front door first, makes sure the lock and deadbolt are all engaged. One by one, he goes to every window, ensuring the same. Then it’s to the back door, a quick surveyance of the yard to make sure nothing is out of place. Returning to the beginning at the front door. Keeping a quick vigil over their doorstep. Eyeing the gate to make sure no one is out walking past it at this time of night.

Everything as it should be.

Will’s shoulders lose their tension. He returns to their bedroom. Though he usually runs hot, tonight there are goosebumps on his skin.

He thinks about Hannibal buying the kennel for him again. The dog toys. Indulging Will no matter how paranoid or combative he got. Perhaps he does need to be puppy more often. For both their sakes.

Mind made up, Will shucks the thin shirt and boxers he went to bed in. He opens a drawer quietly, retrieving the soft cotton of his favorite pajamas. Drawstring pants with pawprints on them. An absolutely obnoxious shirt with an Italian Greyhound driving across the Piazza Grande with off-center text reading ‘Furrari’. A god-awful piece of tourist trash Will kept because he found it funny and Hannibal didn’t.

Will returns to the bed where Hannibal sleeps. He lifts up the puffy comforter and slides back in. Puppy pajamas and all.

Hannibal rolls towards him, an arm reaching out to lay over Will. Hannibal presses his face into the side of Will’s. Deep, even breaths puffing hot against his neck.

Will wraps himself around Hannibal. Draws him in, wrapping his limbs around torso and shoulders. He presses a kiss to the crown of Hannibal’s head before resting his chin there, staring off at nothing through the window. Hannibal makes an unconscious noise in his sleep—just a small vocalization in his exhale, pressing his nose and mouth further against his husband’s neck.

Will curls himself tighter. Guarding Hannibal. Protecting him.

Hannibal is his owner. His. Will’s.

And if anyone comes too close, they’ll find out just how sharp his dog’s teeth are.