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"Takes their organs away because, in his mind, they don't deserve them."
Both succinct and accurate, Hannibal understood the Ripper just as Will did. It was nice, hearing someone confirm the profile he'd built up without all the preamble and justifications. The pictures were spread out on the desk, theatrical, grotesque and he looked at them and saw. Like Will does with every single crime scene he's had the misfortune of visiting. It looked different when Hannibal did it though, there was no aftertaste of guilt written on his face. He could understand a killer and walk away from it unscathed. Will envied that, he wanted that experience.
Maybe it was his envy that made him speak the way he did, maybe a part of him resented Hannibal for his stability. A small, sour part of Will didn't want to give him the satisfaction of being right and he said, "In some way," tentative and quiet. Hannibal was too distracted by the photos to see his subconscious nodding, a physical manifestation of a strange rush of excitement.
"What's this?" Hannibal held up one particular photo but it wasn't the picture itself that he was referring to. Smudged words were scribbled across the glossy cover, Will's handwriting in thick black pen.
"Oh uh, sometimes I write notes on the photos when I'm using them. You know, write my thoughts down quickly before they disappear again. It's not permanent, you just need a spray and it wipes off," Will rambled on, "It's only whiteboard pen and plus these aren't the only copies we have so even if it did stain—"
"You don't have to justify your process to me, Will," Hannibal reassured him, "If it catches the killer then what does it matter? I doubt Jack would mind." He set the picture down again, finding the aforementioned pen hidden amongst the mess of Will's desk.
"Ha yeah well, I don't think it's doing us much good in this case. Doesn't matter how much I write down or how long I stare at old crime scene photos, the Ripper remains ever elusive. Jack's probably going to have a stress-induced heart attack before we make any useful progress."
The beginnings of a headache throbbed under Will's cool hand. No matter what he did, he couldn't relieve the constant feeling of something dull pushing at his skull, trying to dig it's way out of his mind. The cold of his hand was jarring and the pressure of even his own palm overwhelmed his senses. Still, no amount of painkillers seemed to really do him any good either and he didn't want to overuse them.
The hurt in Will's head had been so loud he didn't hear Hannibal stepping closer, didn't notice him at all until a bigger hand was pushing his out the way and feeling Will's forehead. He was colder and the touch of a friend naturally gave Will a sense of comfort. He leaned into it, closing his eyes and ignoring Hannibal's concerned face. The chill was soothing and Will briefly wondered how nice it would be to have his hands running all over him. Because of the fever, he told himself, because this is relaxing. His pulse ran faster under his skin. He held his own fidgeting hands in front of himself.
Two thumbs pressed above both his ears as Hannibal tsked at him and began rubbing hard circles that had Will taking calming breaths. Hannibal's hands rested along his jawline and neck, fingers scratching slightly in Will's hair. The attention had his heart racing and he wasn't sure why. A nervous sweat bloomed over his skin and there was no chance Hannibal couldn't feel it. The lecture hall was silent and Will was terrified he might squeak like some wounded animal and ruin the small moment of peace they'd garnered.
For a second, he was certain he must've done something and not realised. Hannibal went completely still, not so much as breathing anymore. His fingers started to pull back, gliding along Will's neck and Will was certain his body would topple over without the support. But then Hannibal's fingers stopped over his pulse with just a little pressure. Will tilted his head up. He wouldn't be able to hide away from the vulnerability so he gave into it.
"You're burning up, Will and your heart rate is worryingly fast." Will felt Hannibal's breath on his face as he spoke. He opened his eyes and Hannibal was watching him with a new and yet familiar look, the one that said he not-so-secretly thought something was wrong with Will. He'd take offence but he knew it was coming from a place of care and friendship and that Hannibal was just doing his job. Of course, Will had been burning up already but his heart rate was entirely unrelated, the shame of which only had it going faster.
Hannibal's hands settled gently around his neck, handling Will into forced eye contact. The intensity of his stare made Will want to look away but doing so felt like acknowledging there was something wrong. Hannibal was imploring him to take his symptoms seriously and daring Will to deny he was ill.
"I'm fine, must've just caught a cold or something."
"If this is a cold, your symptoms at the very least warrant a day or two in bed to sleep." His fingers spread, pinky stroking just under Will's collar and if he'd somehow missed it before, he definitely knew Will was sweating now.
"Well, evil doesn't sleep and that includes serial killers so." Will shrugged, trying his best not to flinch away from the tickling sensation of someone else's hands. Actually, he didn't want to give any indication that he paid them any mind because he didn't want Hannibal to stop.
"I assure you, they do when it's necessary. I'm sure some are even fond of sleeping in on occasion," Hannibal joked and Will couldn't help but laugh a little back. The fun died quickly however when Hannibal moved to hold Will by the shoulders. Will stayed still even as Hannibal's eyes flickered from one shoulder to the other and squeezed. But on the inside, Will felt weak and needy. "Even through your shirt, you feel hot and you're sweating." He reached round with one arm to feel between Will's shoulder blades, consequently pulling Will closer to him.
Their chests almost touched and the desire to step closer intruded on Will's thoughts. He wasn't sure what Hannibal was doing anymore, comforting him? As far as Will was aware, there were no bodily issues to be found on his back, or maybe there were, he wasn't a doctor. Nevertheless, their proximity messed with Will's thoughts. He needed a step back, a breather. His clothes felt constricting and his head still ached. Hannibal's hand was on his back, the other on his shoulder. The collar of his shirt was choking even with the top button undone. Sweat rolled down his nape, the skin tickled and itched.
Two hands held him in place. His collar choked. Sweat stained his skin. Hands, clothes, sweat, his head was pounding. He couldn't feel his skin, the room shook and buzzed. Was Hannibal still holding him? Could he breath? He tugged at his shirt 'til the next button popped free. Air scraped at the damp of his chest.
"Will, you're alright. Take slow deep breaths for me." Hannibal wasn't holding him. His hand splayed over Will's chest, moving with the rise and fall of it. The hall went still and quiet again.
Thank God for Hannibal's hand being in the way, Will was certain if it hadn't been his heart would've bashed its way out of his ribcage. He even checked to see if it was visibly pumping and instead found that his exposed skin was covered in red scratches that he vaguely remembered being the cause of. Hannibal had a hold of the opened button of Will's shirt. Will hadn't undone it, Hannibal had seen him trying to and did it for him. He wasn't sure what to do with that. He felt conflicted. On the one hand, he liked Hannibal in his space. When he didn't over think it, the intimacy calmed him down. On the other hand, he didn't think there should be any 'intimacy' for him to like and he doubted Hannibal enjoyed it as much as he did. Or not in the same way at least. Will was not calm right now and was definitely overthinking this.
Hannibal lowered his voice to a whisper, "Tell me what you're thinking, tell me how I can help."
Will shook his head.
"Would you prefer if I gave you some space?"
Against his more logical thoughts, Will shook his head again. The space between them was tempting him to step closer. Hannibal was a paragon of stability, Will wanted to leech off of it and steal as much as he could. It would be selfish but Hannibal would let him.
Behind his eyes, he saw it. The leech, suck, suck, sucking away. The fresh flow of blood draining into his empty, gaping maw. He would latch on, engorge himself and still ask for more, 'give, give,' and perhaps Hannibal would. He would hold Will's fat, weak, wriggling body close and let him take his fill and more. The blood would heat his belly, heat like the one he felt now pulsing in his gut.
Will came to when he felt something cold and wet tracing on his chest. His pen for his photos, following down the dip between his pecs, leaving a thin black line until it hit his next button. Hannibal popped it open, and continued his trail 'til he hit the end of Will's chest.
"What are you doing?" Will asked, sounding scandalised but also holding his shirt open wider for Hannibal's access.
"Grounding you, is it working?" Hannibal replied with a sly smile.
There was a moment when Will didn't answer. He was holding his shirt wide enough for Hannibal to see his pecs were lined by two pale scars, a topic that hadn't really come up in any of their conversations. Hannibal observed them without judgement before following along on one side. Not drawing over the scar itself but rather decorating it with swooping curves hanging like bunting.
"Grounding me by drawing on my chest with a marker? It's certainly a strange tactic." Will's shirt eventually pulled taut and Hannibal couldn't reach the skin he needed. He looked to Will for permission before undoing a third button. Once he'd finished on one side, he began on the other.
"And yet it seems to be successful. Don't question my methods, Will."
So he didn't, instead, Will watched the patterns Hannibal drew. They weren't particularly fantastic, the damp of Will's skin kept the ink from really following instruction. Hannibal also trailed after where he drew with his other hand, smudging where the ink wouldn't dry. But it felt nice and they returned to that sense of peace Will had enjoyed earlier. Most of Will's belly was exposed already and Hannibal started drawing swirls down his ribs and abdomen. Pretty, swirling patterns that synchronised on each side down until Will's belly button.
Without being asked, Will untucked his shirt and undid the last of his buttons. Hannibal drew two straight lines of a triangle around his happy trail, expanding out over his stomach with wavy lines running parallel to them. The sensation tickled and when Hannibal's fingers followed lower and lower over the places he'd marked, Will felt his breathing pick up again and hoped Hannibal didn't notice the way his nipples perked up.
The beginnings of guilt sprouted in Will's mind. Hannibal was being kind, yes, he was getting very up close and personal about it but while this was strange, it wasn't sexual. Unfortunately, Will's body seemed to disagree. The throbbing in his head was now very much overshadowed by the throbbing between his legs. He took a second to be glad Hannibal wouldn't be able to see the physical evidence.
Pure concentration lined Hannibal's features, his lips were pursed and when Will started to sway a little, he held him steady. He looked professional, like this was just a part of his job. That stung, even as the clinical-ness of it all strangely turned Will on.
Little dots and squiggly lines were splattered over the rest of his empty skin until Hannibal seemed satisfied. The black lid clicked back on the pen and he gave Will a quick smile which Will shakily returned. He flipped the pen in his hand, holding it by the cap before tapping the end against Will's belt. The clack against the buckle reverberated through Will's entire body.
Finality ran from that tap, and the haunting idea that Hannibal might pull away from him rang like a death knell in Will. The clash of sound in his brain stirred a panic that would not be quelled by inaction. In slow motion, Hannibal's touch slipped away from Will's skin, along with all the stability it brought. The desperate need for contact brought out something reckless in Will, something that didn't think.
Will's hands trembled as he grabbed at his belt, pulling it open while refusing to meet Hannibal's eyes. He clenched around nothing and his dick throbbed harder with anxiety. Tears welled up as he realised the humiliation of what he was doing. But it felt good, the dizzy, nauseating embarrassment paired well with the deep, throbbing need he had.
Hannibal didn't say anything and Will didn't wait for him to, he unzipped his fly and pulled his trousers down just enough to expose his pubic hair and upper thighs. In the silence, Will's heart beat, his dick throbbed and his head ached all to the same booming rhythm while he waited for Hannibal to do something. The pen lid would've broken through the sound, the pop of it coming off for more doodles along Will's thighs, but it never happened.
Not one to shy away from rejection when it faced him, Will looked up and studied Hannibal's expression, preparing for the revulsion. It was as if he was appraising an art piece for the first time. The value of which Will couldn't be sure but would accept all the same. He could only hold on to the fact that Hannibal hadn't pushed him away in shock or disgust yet.
Will didn't want to speak and hoped Hannibal wouldn't either. A decision must've been made because Hannibal looked back up in what Will was sure was pity. Not what he wanted but better than what could've been.
A sharp arousal sparked through Will's groin. Grey plastic brushed through dark brown, wiry hair, ignoring his thighs all together. The pen hit the end of the zipper, hiding the straining little cock twitching below. The push down of the pen was a question and Will answered, pulling his khaki's down a little more. Hannibal's nostrils flared as Will exposed his most intimate parts.
The cold air brushed against the damp between Will's legs, his hole wetter than he was used to but he also wasn't used to this kind of attention. What any sane psychiatrist might do at this point would be to put the pen down and walk away, leave Will to his strange exhibitionism and perhaps cancel any forthcoming appointments. Hannibal may not have been as sane as Will first thought. The pen tapped against the tip of his tdick and slid slowly down the underside. Hannibal's hand was right there, touching Will through the plastic. The space between their skin shook.
Then a void between his legs, a hand to his back, a soft voice in his ear.
"Turn around, Will. Put your hands on the desk and keep your head down, there's a good boy."
Was he one of his dogs? Will listened so well. If he was, his tail was wagging fast despite the sweat on his palms and the shake of his legs. Hannibal would see it and see Will's mind at once. How horrifying to be read so easily. How horrifying to be a well-trained dog.
It had been years since Will had been penetrated, he occasionally dipped his fingers down there for lubrication but beyond that it wasn't particularly pleasurable for him. Still, the now warm, solid pen pressing against his wet slit from behind encouraged a heavy pulsing inside.
Crime scene photos with Will's messy annotations swam in his vision, each display had its time in the limelight. The blood, the gore, the pain in his skull, the heat and desire all warred in him and when Will felt himself give way for the object, it was as if everything spilt out of him. All the conflict fell out and away. All the things he saw and felt and heard united in the single goal of his pleasure. He shut his eyes away from the bodies but still they sprung up behind his eyes and whispered to him. Do you see? Is it beautiful? Does it make you feel good? No, no, no, no, no, no—
Hannibal pulled away. "I won't make you do this, don't pretend you're enjoying it if you're not," he said.
"What? No, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Did you think I couldn't hear you begging?"
Oh.
"No, I wasn't, that, that wasn't about you. I didn't even realise I was speaking."
"Hm. This was meant to take you out of your head, Will. To ground you in the present moment. Something is troubling you." Hannibal ran his fingertips up and down Will's spine. "Whatever it is, don't let it consume you. Accept it, don't deny it but feel it. You're safe, Will, I'm right behind you."
Accept it. Feel Hannibal's strong hand on his back. See the beauty and quiet stillness after the violence. Accept how good it makes him feel. His eyes came open.
The pen slid into him slowly. Deep enough that Hannibal's thumb brushed between Will's labia. His cock ached and his hole clenched. The pull out was tight but left Will wanting to be stuffed full. It wasn't long before it went sliding back in again.
In, and out.
In, and out.
In, out. In, out, in, out.
Faster and faster until Will was panting. His hands tried to grip something but he had nothing to hold. His nails dragged. The desk was gone, he was tearing through flesh. Pink, blue, black and it bled red in the trails he left. The skin went cold and rigid while he felt hot and moldable. His legs fell apart until his trousers pulled taut round his thighs and his back arched. Drips of sweat and possibly tears landed in amongst the blood and innards below him. The bodies were writhing and mashing together, clumping into one mound of gooey organs and wet meat. Saliva spilled from his mouth and his stomach growled.
The pen did circles in Will, churning his insides. He honestly would not be able to take anything bigger but he still felt empty, hungry. His palms went flat on the desk. His arms strained and shook as he bent at the elbow, his back curving as he went down. Raspy breaths puffed out of him as he opened his stiff jaw, it clicked and twitched under his stubble. The rot was pungent, blocking off his nose. The sound he made was strange when he stuck his tongue out and traced it against the old, bloody bodies stirring his appetite. They tasted of polished wood and cleaning chemicals, as artificial and man-made as the thing pumping in and out of him but they both made Will shiver and moan.
Lying flat on his cheek, panting and licking what flesh he could reach, tasting the salt of his own sweat, Will was an oozing mess of fluids. He heard it being said in Hannibal's voice and his little dick begged for attention. With one slick hand, he reached down into the tight space between his boxers and thighs and took hold of himself.
He tugged hard, to the point of pain, twisted and squeezed it between his fingers a little. He kept tugging until the sweat on his hand dried, until the friction burned and flattened his hand over the entire area. His fingertips bumped up against Hannibal's hand and reminded Will he wasn't alone. Surely, he looked a mess and completely out of his mind but just like everything else, he let that thought float away and submerged himself in what felt good. Gently at first, he humped his hand, shifting it left and right until his cock throbbed in it nicely. The movement was small and quick but rough and the shock of it every time made him dizzy.
It overtook Will's mind. He couldn't hear his breathing, the strange sounds stumbling out his mouth, the squelching of his sopping wet hole. He couldn't see the room they were in, the clutter of his desk. Everything was the mind-numbing rutting in his hand and the taste of dead people on his tongue.
The release was astounding, he thought he might explode. Pop into a bloody mess on the floor and die. His veins were pulsing and he really believed it would happen. There was no panic, just acceptance as his eyes rolled back and his legs trembled.
His thighs felt wet like he'd pissed himself. That wouldn't be surprising. Corpses often relax their muscles, release their waste and Will was convinced he was dead.
Smooth silk ran between his legs, soaking up the mess he'd made. Will leaned heavily into the desk, struggling to keep his eyes open. Ah, not dead. And hopefully not piss.
"How're you feeling now then? Better?"
"Uhuh, yes," Will grumbled, nodding his head, one of the glossy pictures stuck to his cheek and moved with him.
Once Hannibal had cleaned him up, he gave Will a light pat on the butt and coaxed him into standing up. He still felt dizzy but gave himself a once over, his boxers looked fairly damp but mostly he was dry, he hadn't wet himself then, just squirted. He didn't think he was even capable, it had never happened before.
Spit and other fluids were splattered over his desk and he used his shirt sleeve to wipe as much of it up as he could before he realised he still hadn't dressed himself again. He didn't have to though, Hannibal had him stand still and put his clothes right for him, rubbed some drying spit from his chin and fixed his hair. Will spotted his whiteboard pen tucked safely away behind his redone handkerchief. Evidently, Hannibal wasn't worried about the smell. On the contrary, he seemed to love it.
They'd been stood side by side, knocking their hips together casually and examining more old murders when in came Jack and Beverly, walking with purpose.
"Will, there you are! And Doctor Lecter, what a surprise. We have a lead. Would you care to, uh, help us catch the Ripper?" Jack had never looked so excited.
He was asking Hannibal, which was good because Will didn't have the energy to say anything.
"How could I refuse?"