Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4414871.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter
  Character:
      Will_Graham, Hannibal_Lecter
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Disturbing_Themes, Unhealthy_Relationships, Discussions_of_Incest
      and_Rape, Parent/Child_Incest, Loss_of_Parent(s), Past_Child_Abuse,
      Season/Series_01, Manipulative_Hannibal, Come_Shot, Come_Marking, Someone
      Help_Will_Graham, Dubious_Consent, Implied/Referenced_Rape/Non-con,
      Implied/Referenced_Child_Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, (kind_of), Blood, Biting
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-24 Words: 12954
****** Hour to Hour, Note to Note ******
by iddy_syncratic
Summary
     Will braces himself for Hannibal’s inevitable questions - because for
     all that Will knows or thinks of Hannibal, he knows Hannibal is
     anything but oblivious, and Will is being obvious. He takes a slow
     breath in, waiting, but Hannibal says nothing. Instead, he brings his
     hand up, gently tracing Will’s cheek before stilling, cradling Will’s
     face and Will fights to not lean into it because fuck, he hates
     Hannibal right now, for not doing this the way he wants it done, for
     not getting it over with, but Will hates himself way, way more.
Notes
     WARNINGS: This story has disturbing themes. There is no rape or
     incest or underage shown in the story, but all of them are talked
     about and discussed, so if any of those things bother you, don't read
     on.
     Also, this is a super embarrassing story that I referred to in my
     head as 'Will has mommy/daddy issues and Hannibal tries to fuck them
     out of him' while writing it, so I'm just... kinda... sorry that it's
     ended up being 13,000 words but hope someone else likes this mess of
     a fic.
     This is the first time I've posted fic in years, and only like the
     third fic I've ever posted, and it's not beta'd at all or anything,
     so I'd appreciate any feedback, if anyone's kind enough to give it.
     (As long as it's anything but 'you are a horrible person this fic is
     horrible', thanks.)
Will’s been fucking Hannibal for four and a half weeks when he finds out his
mother’s died.
He probably wouldn’t have ever told Hannibal, wouldn’t have told anyone, but he
gets the phone call that alerts him to her death while he’s in Hannibal’s
kitchen, watching him prepare dinner for the two of them, and Will’s not quick
enough to keep the surprise and shock out of his voice when he realizes what
the lawyer is telling him.
He hangs up after just a few surreal moments and knows he will turn around to
find Hannibal staring at him. Hannibal has warned him before about how rude he
finds it, Will answering a phone call while with a friend - or a psychiatrist
or a fuck buddy, Hannibal hadn’t spell out his role in the situation exactly -
which only meant that Will now got the tiniest bit of perverse pleasure when
Jack called him when he was with Hannibal. This pleasure lasted for the few
seconds before Jack explained the details of his call, always another crime
scene, another dead body that needed Will’s attention right away.
Will had been certain this was the same, Jack calling on some local police
station’s number, and so he is utterly unprepared when a bored sounding voice
asks him to confirm if William Jesse Graham is his full name and if he is the
son of Laurie Eaves. He turns away from Hannibal to confirm both, but remains
sitting on the kitchen stool where he’d been watching Hannibal chop ginger for
their dinner.
The ginger root sits half-chopped in front of Hannibal when Will hangs up,
turning back around to face him, and Hannibal is not bothering to hide his
curious stare. Before Will can decide what to tell him, what to explain,
Hannibal speaks, his voice even. “Your mother has died.”
“Yes,” Will says on an exhale, deciding letting Hannibal control this is
easiest.
Hannibal tilts his head slightly, placing his knife carefully on the cutting
board in front of him. He doesn’t speak for another few seconds. “I thought you
said your mother died when you were young? That you never knew her?”
“I said I didn’t know her,” Will says defensively, his voice near to a mumble.
“I didn’t say she died.” Hannibal doesn’t answer right away, and so Will
continues rather than letting it all drag out longer than he has to. “She left
when I was six - just turned six. I don’t remember anything about her, just… a
few images.” He thinks about a yellow dress he knows she had, the flash of
swimming beside her in the stream that’d been near the house they all lived in,
some fleeting picture of the three of them - Will, mother, and father - all
around a dinner table. Will turns his gaze from the knife in front of Hannibal
to his eyes. “I told you the idea of family is alien to me, and it is. Just as
much as the idea of Laurie Eaves as my mother is.”
“But now she’s died,” Hannibal states, and Will really, really wishes he’d just
gone home tonight, where only his dogs could have eavesdropped on any phone
calls.
“She’s died and I’m in her will. I assume she’s left me a teddy bear or a
baseball bat, since she’d only remember me as a toddler.” Will can’t keep the
note of bitterness out of his voice, and he winces internally. He doesn’t want
to do this in front of anyone, least of all Hannibal. He’s not sure which
upsets him more, his psychiatrist seeing what must be a fucking feast of future
appointment topics, his friend seeing him looking so weak, or his maybe… more
than a friend seeing…. any of this.
As if he can tell Will is more upset about Hannibal observing him than he is
about the woman’s death - and he can, Will is sure of it - Hannibal picks up
the knife again, turning his attention back to the ginger. “And so what happens
with her will?” he asks, not lifting his head but pointedly ignoring Will’s
additional comment. Will is grateful.
“I - I’m not sure,” Will answers, but his mind is already miles away, back in
Wolf Trap with his dogs, thinking about this phone call and what it means. He
stands without looking at Hannibal and is heading towards the hallway before
he’s sure he fully means to. “I have to go,” he manages, watching Hannibal put
down the knife again out of the corner of his eyes. “I - I have to go sort this
out, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” He grabs his jacket from a chair in the
hall, hurries to the front door without giving time for Hannibal to try to stop
him - and Will doesn’t look back to see if he did.
—
After reading some emails and receiving another phone call, Will has come to
the frustrating realization that the easiest way to get this all done - the
fastest way to get this all finished - will involve a trip to see his mother’s
lawyer in person, in his office in Savanna, Georgia. He’d rather forget the
whole thing, ignore whatever his mother left for him, but apparently even that
involves signing all sorts of papers, and Will’s not above admitting that
there’s a part of him that wants to go, that wants to see what the woman who
gave birth to him did for the last 30 years, other than ignore his existence.
He makes a call to Jack that thankfully goes directly to voice mail, and leaves
a message explaining that he’ll be gone a few days for a family emergency. He
knows the message will be more confusing to Jack than enlightening, since Will
has always given the impression that he doesn’t have any family that isn’t
canine, but Will adds this to the pile of explaining he knows he’ll have to do
in a few days’ time anyway, when he’s back from his impromptu trip and sees
Hannibal - and now Jack - again.
A quick email to Alana takes care of his dogs and, hopefully, his classes, and
so Will is resigned to booking his flights - traveling to Georgia tomorrow,
Tuesday, to return by Thursday evening. He doesn’t want to spend any more time
on this than he has to.
Hannibal calls while Will is typing in his credit card information, but he
ignores it. After he’s received the confirmation of his tickets by email a few
minutes later, he sends a text to Hannibal, trying to pretend he isn’t affected
by a pang of guilt for not calling and explaining himself better.
Sorry for running out on you, I’m fine, I just hate dealing with lawyers and
all of this. I have to go see this guy in person, in Savanna Georgia so I’ll be
gone until Thursday. I probably won’t make my appointment that night.
Will sends the text, but doesn’t put his phone down. Whatever he has with
Hannibal is still new, and Will’s unsure what tone their communications should
take.
Sorry about dinner, he types a second later. He’s just sent it when his phone
vibrates with a series of messages from Hannibal.
I’ll mark the cancellation.
Sorry to hear about the death, though possibly more sorry you’ll have to deal
with lawyers.
Do not worry about dinner, there will be others.
Please, Will, do not hesitate to call me if I can be of any help. Perhaps we
could move your usual appointment to Friday? Or reschedule our dinner for then?
Will chews at his lip, waiting for a few seconds after the last message to make
sure Hannibal is finished. He rereads the texts, feeling like a teenager, but
noting that all of them sounded completely professional yet friendly. No one
looking at Will’s phone would know that he’d been fucking Hannibal into the
mattress almost daily for weeks now.
Dinner on Friday sounds good, Will replies after a long moment. He’s just hit
send when he worries Hannibal will think his forwardness is rude, so he quickly
sends a follow-up: If you don’t mind cooking for me yet again, of course.
He’s just placed his phone beside his computer and stood up, determined to get
packed and ready and put his phone - and Hannibal - out of his mind, when a
buzz alerts him to Hannibal’s rapid response.
For you? Never.
Please know that you can call me at any time, if you think talking would be of
help.
I look forward to dinner on Friday. And perhaps some mimosas with breakfast on
Saturday?
Will can’t help the grin on his face after reading the last message, but
doesn’t reply, turning his attention to packing and preparing for the trip he
has to survive before he can think about meals and nights with Hannibal.
—
Will doesn’t call Hannibal. He doesn’t want to talk.
On Friday morning, he sends a quick message but doesn’t look to see if he gets
a reply.
I’m still out of state. Sorry about dinner. And breakfast.
—
It’s the following Tuesday afternoon, almost exactly a full week after his
initial flight to Georgia, that Will makes it back to Dulles Airport, pays the
extravagant parking fee, and drives back to Wolf Trap. Greeting his dogs is the
first time Will remembers smiling in more than a week.
He knows there are messages - voice and text - from Hannibal and Jack, but he
hasn’t had the energy to check his phone in days. He’d sent an email to Jack
before the weekend, explaining that he wouldn’t be back at work as soon as he’d
planned, at the same time that he’d made sure Alana didn’t mind feeding his
dogs for a few extra days. He doesn’t intend on dealing with however many angry
messages Jack has left him until at least tomorrow.
He hasn’t spoken to Hannibal all week, besides his quick text on Friday, and
Will can tell he’s fucking this up, maybe fucking something goodup, but he
pours himself a few fingers of whiskey and knocks them back instead of looking
at the messages. He refills his glass twice more before taking a long shower,
then curls up with the dogs and a blanket on the floor beside his bed, more
whiskey beside him. He falls asleep after finishing his glass.
—
The dogs wake him up a few hours later, three of them, whimpering and pawing at
him. Will’s covered in sweat and shaking. He shushes the dogs, but judging by
how upset they are, he can only imagine the sounds he must have been making. He
can’t remember the details of any nightmares, but his head hurts and he feels
nauseous enough that he decides against trying to eat anything.
His phone is on the bed, laying where he threw it when he first got home, and
he hears it ringing twice - once when he feeds the dogs and again while he’s
outside with them, sitting on his steps and throwing an old tennis ball to
whichever one of them can get to it first.
He knows it’s Hannibal because Jack would be calling more often if there was a
case, and Alana always emails at least ten times before she ever calls. He
doesn’t answer.
This is the longest he’s gone without speaking to Hannibal since… since they’d
met, and certainly since they’d become friends. Become… god, Will can’t even
begin to know what he should call them. He still feels like ‘friend’ is an
alien title to him, the thought of sharing something beyond that with anyone,
especially with Hannibal, is frightening.
He knows, however, that he needs it to end, whatever it is.
Will isn’t good at this. He isn’t good at being sociable in general, he usually
doesn’t even like it, but it’s worse when sociable becomes physical. Hannibal
had initiated this, of course, had leaned over his kitchen counter one night
after a dinner, dessert, and possibly too much wine and kissed him - and Will
had liked that. He hadn’t been with anyone in years, hadn’t been with a guy in
even longer, and Will couldn’t believe that someone like Hannibal - someone so…
refined, so impressive, someone with his shit together, to say the least -
would ever want to kiss him, Will Graham, human disaster. Even that first
night, though, Will had shied away when the kiss got heavier. His sexual
history was dismal, dire, and Will didn’t want Hannibal to be yet another
person who Will had fucked and immediately alienated.
It’d only taken one more dinner, however, just a few days later. Will couldn’t
resist the invitation, and this time they didn’t even make it to dessert until
Will was pushing Hannibal against the wall, slipping down to his knees and
taking him in his mouth. When Hannibal had finished and tried to reciprocate,
Will had stopped him, followed him upstairs to bed and fucked him instead.
The only reason it had even lasted as long as it had, that Will hadn’t fucked
it up yet, was that he barely let Hannibal touch him. This was what he did,
because that was always the final straw, what aways fucked it up, and Will
knows it’s only a matter of time until Hannibal gets frustrated. Hannibal will
get sick of Will’s games and either end it there, or - worse - insist on trying
something else in bed, something that doesn’t involve Will sucking his cock or
fucking him from behind, and Will can’t do it. Won’t do it.
Will pours another glass of whiskey and tries not to think about it. Any of it.
Because what had been done that weekend was done and that finished it all off,
didn’t it? It’s no longer a slow countdown to the inevitable moment that
Hannibal doesn’t want to deal with Will anymore, when his idiosyncrasies and
tics become more annoying and distasteful than interesting. Now it’s just a
matter of when Will informs Hannibal of his fuck up, and this was easier. This
was neater.
Will hadn’t slept much while traveling, even less than normal, and his nap on
the floor earlier hadn’t done much to make him less tired, only made him kind
of generally sore. He feels hot, almost feverish thanks to the whiskey and no
food, and the headache he’s had for weeks is back. He takes an aspirin, even
though he knows he shouldn’t while drinking, and sends a short email to Alana
thanking her and informing her that he’s home, before crawling into bed.
Before he does, however, he moves his phone into the kitchen, placing it on the
counter without looking at it. He ignores the part of him that says he’s
sabotaging himself because - Jesus, hadn’t he already made sure that happened?
—
Mercifully, Will manages to sleep through the entire night, and when he wakes
up he pretends it’s a normal day off. He feeds the dogs, checks his email (Jack
hasn’t yet gotten to the point where his subjects come in all capital letters,
which is a good sign), and takes a long walk, partly to clear his mind and
partly to tire the dogs out.
The dogs are lounging in their beds, or asleep beside them, and Will is working
on a powerpoint for a lecture he hasn’t thought about in a week - already onto
his second glass of whiskey - when there’s a knock on the door.
Will knows it’s Hannibal - of course he does, because he has enough self-
awareness to admit that if he’d actually wanted to continue avoiding Hannibal,
he wouldn’t have let Alana know he was back. He takes a fortifying sip from his
glass before standing up and walking to the door. He already feels like a jerk.
“Will,” Hannibal says, looking him over when the door is opened. “So you are
home.” His face is unreadable, and Will can’t tell from his tone if he’s
already angry with him or if that is yet to come. “Has something happened to
your phone?”
Will shakes his head, stepping aside so Hannibal can come in. He watches
Hannibal’s face as he notes Will’s whiskey glass, beside his open laptop where
Will was working. He doesn’t say anything, but Will knows the bottle next to
them makes it clear that this is not Will’s first glass of the day, despite it
just turning five o’clock.
“No,” he says finally, answering Hannibal. “Sorry, I haven’t been checking my
phone since I got back.”
Will wasn’t expecting how glad he is to see Hannibal, how he wants nothing more
than to lean into him and let Hannibal kiss him. Even with all the confusion of
the past few weeks, and with Hannibal’s frustrating ability to understand too
much of Will at times and not enough at others, he’s become Will’s anchor, his
oar, and there’s a large part of Will that hates himself for ruining the one
good thing he has, even though he knows it was only a matter of time anyway.
Will watches Hannibal greet the dogs, all of whom have awakened at the sound
and smell of him and are happy to see the friend who usually brings them
treats. For the first time, Will wonders if Hannibal feels at all unsure about
their status, like he does constantly. Hannibal always gives the impression of
complete control, of having everything settled and in the places he likes,
while Will always feels like he’s only just managing to keep his head above
water - but maybe Will has been giving him to much credit.
“Are you feeling alright, Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will realizes he was
staring at him. He jerks his head away, back to the dogs. “You look flushed,”
Hannibal continues, sounding entirely like his usual self, as if Will hadn’t
just basically disappeared for a week. “Are you feeling ill?”
“Yeah - I mean, no, I’m not feeling sick, I’m okay. Just the usual headache.”
Will grimaces and takes a step back. He picks up his whiskey and finishes
what’s left, then hates himself for being so obvious. “Do you want a drink?” he
asks into his glass.
“Sure. I’m finished with my appointments until tomorrow afternoon, and a drink
sounds lovely.”
Will turns to grab a glass from the kitchen and the dogs follow him, thinking
they’re going to get some food. When he returns to the main room - the dogs
still following optimistically - Hannibal is studying Will’s fishing lures, his
back to him. Will turns to the side table where his laptop and drink are
sitting, and pours a few fingers of whiskey into Hannibal’s glass. When he
looks up, Hannibal’s turned back, watching him.
Will doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t have any idea what to say, and so he
doesn’t think. He puts Hannibal’ s full glass down next to his empty one and
moves, stepping towards Hannibal and reaching for him, at the same time that
Hannibal takes a step closer to him.
Their lips meet and Will melts into it, stepping closer still until he’s
pressed fully against Hannibal. He opens his mouth when Hannibal drags his
tongue across his bottom lip, and Will would really rather keep doing this than
what he knows is going to happen.
It’s only a minute later, though, that Hannibal pulls back slightly. Will
doesn’t open his eyes, instead resting his head on Hannibal’s shoulder and
keeping pressed against him.
“I thought you’d spent your time away thinking better of all this,” Hannibal
says, bringing a hand to rest on Will’s hip. Will both hates and loves that
Hannibal can act so possessively towards him, so physically affectionate,
naturally, without thinking. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
Instead of answering, because Will isn’t stupid, he raises his head, kissing
Hannibal again. Will’s tempted to just keep going like this, ignoring
everything and letting whatever’s between them continue. But he knows it’s all
a matter of time, because he’s not stupid, and he isn’t willing to let Hannibal
know everything. He’d rather stop all of this first, ruin all of this instead
of ruining everything.
And so when Hannibal shifts slightly and Will can feel his growing erection
against his leg, he slips a hand between them, not breaking the kiss. He
reaches for Hannibal’s belt, knowing that he’ll stop him.
Will’s not surprised, because he never is, when Hannibal pulls away, dislodging
Will’s hand but keeping his own gentle hold on Will’s hip. He watches Will for
a moment, but Will keeps his gaze locked on Hannibal’s shoulder.
Will braces himself for Hannibal’s inevitable questions - because for all that
Will knows or thinks of Hannibal, he knows Hannibal is anything but oblivious,
and Will is being obvious. He takes a slow breath in, waiting, but Hannibal
says nothing. Instead, he brings his hand up, gently tracing Will’s cheek
before stilling, cradling Will’s face and Will fights to not lean into it
because fuck, he hates Hannibal right now, for not doing this the way he wants
it done, for not getting it over with, but Will hates himself way, way more.
When it becomes obvious Hannibal is content with the silence, Will breaks it.
“Would you say we’re in a relationship?” he asks, without stepping back from
Hannibal’s hands or looking up from his shoulder.
“We’re in several relationship,” Hannibal answers, his thumb rubbing gently
along the underside of Will’s chin. “We’re friends. We’re occasionally co-
workers, since I’ve been consulting with the FBI. We’re —“
“You know what I mean,” Will interrupts, his voice only a mumble.
“I am enjoying our time together,” Hannibal says, after a second, every word
unhurried and measured. “I’m enjoying you. I’d like to continue, however you
want to call it, and I hoped you would too.” His hands don’t move, but he uses
the one on Will’s jawline to bring his face up slightly, trying to make eye
contact. Will allows the movement but doesn’t meet his stare. “I’m a little
worried after this week,” Hannibal admits. “But yes. I would like to say we’re
in a relationship.”
And this is the answer Will wanted, of course - it’s the answer he would have
liked a week ago, truthfully, but it’s the answer he wanted now because he was
only asking for one reason. He wants Hannibal to hate him and this is the
easiest way he knows to make that happen.
Will still doesn’t meet his gaze. He looks back at Hannibal’s shoulder,
concentrating on the pattern of his jacket, but speaks clearly. “I cheated on
you.”
The hand that’s still resting on his face, still holding his jaw, jerks every
so slightly. Will feels the motion and knows it was small enough that anyone
else, anyone watching, wouldn’t have seen it. When there is silence, still, for
a few seconds, Will can’t keep his eyes from flicking to Hannibal’s face,
quickly, before concentrating back on his shoulder.
“I fucked someone else,” Will says harshly, wanting it all spelled out when
Hannibal doesn’t move, doesn’t reply quickly enough.
“Did you now,” Hannibal finally says - he doesn’t ask, it’s not a question. His
voice is smooth, low, as though they’re talking about if Will slept on the
flight, how his hotel was, anything else.
“Sorry,” Will adds, his voice still harsh and wholly unrepentant. He hasn’t
gotten the response he expected, and he wants it. “I slept with someone else. I
know you hate when I speak coarsely.” His tone is mocking, but he is still
concentrated solely on Hannibal’s shoulder, unable to face him. Hannibal hasn’t
moved either of his hands, the one on his face or the one still holding gently
onto Will’s hip.
“Who?” There is still no anger in Hannibal’s voice. The question seems genuine,
if anything, and the only thing that surprises Will more than his continued
soft, smooth tone is that Hannibal rubs his thumb along Will’s cheek as he asks
it.
“Why?” Will finally looks up, meets Hannibal’s gaze. Beyond that, he doesn’t
move. “You know every bit of white trash in small-town Louisiana, you’re gonna
know the guy?”
“Louisiana?” A cold wave goes through Will as he realizes his mistake. “I
thought your mother’s estate was being settled in Georgia.”
Will drops his eyes, staring at the wall behind Hannibal. He releases a breath
in what’s almost a laugh. “Part of my inheritance was a car. Most of my
inheritance was a car. I… I took a road trip.”
“To Louisiana?” Despite his focus elsewhere, Will can feel Hannibal studying
him. He’s close enough to feel his breath against his lips and Will may not
have been in many relationships, still doesn’t know if that’s really what
they’ve been doing but - fuck, Will’s not a fucking idiot, okay, he knows this
isn’t how this goes, that this isn’t what’s supposed to be happening. He wants
to take a step back, wants to remove himself from where Hannibal has him
tangled, but he doesn’t. He can’t, it’s all he can do to keep himself still, to
keep from shaking against Hannibal’s hands.
“I told you I fucked someone else, and this is what you focus on? Where I was?
Where I drove a shitty car? That’s what you care about?”
“I care,” Hannibal says, still sound unruffled and damn him, damn him, “that
you’re still letting me hold you while you tell me all about this… fucking.”
And that breaks it, that’s what allows Will to jerk his head away, dislodging
Hannibal’s connection. He takes a step back, feels Hannibal’s hold on his hip
drop. He looks down at their legs, now almost three feet apart, and says
nothing.
“So you drove - what, nine hours? - in your inherited car?” Hannibal asks, his
only reaction to Will’s movement.
“Eight,” Will can’t help but mutter.
“And where is this car now?”
Will swallows, feels his hands shake despite his best efforts. “….crashed it,”
he tries to say, choking on the first word. “I crashed it,” he repeats, more
insistent and steady.
Will’s gaze is still on the floor, but he swears he can see Hannibal’s eyebrows
raise as they do when he’s gotten new information he considers interesting,
worthy of his time, and Will clenches his jaw, annoyed that he’d told Hannibal
that much. This was supposed to be done by now, or at least at a much angrier
point by now, and none of this is what Will is supposed to be saying. He raises
his head, once again meeting Hannibal straight on, and tries to get control of
the conversation back.
“I didn’t want it,” he says, as if it’s that simple. It is, he thinks. “I
didn’t want it and it was mine and I crashed it.”
“And was this before or after you cheated on me?” Hannibal sounds almost…
amused and that’s not right at all. Will tries to take a deep breath but only
manages a half one, and worse he knows Hannibal can hear and see his suffering,
how hard he’s trying.
“I was away for a week without talking to you, I come back without letting you
know, and I’m telling you that I fucked another man. No, actually, that I let
him fuck me.” Will watches Hannibal, willing his hands and voice steady while
he tries to make it all clearer. “I let him fuck me,” he repeats. “I let him
come in me. I didn’t use protection, and I let him come in me. I haven’t even
let you fuck me, and I’m telling you I let someone else do it.” He breathes
quickly, two breaths as deep as he can get them, and feels his hands opening
and closing into tight fists at his sides.
“Did you go to the funeral?”
Anger pulses through Will. “Why?” he snaps, angry at himself for losing his
temper when Hannibal is so damn calm. “This is not a therapy session, Doctor
Lecter, you don’t get to direct this conversation.”
“Will,” Hannibal says, and his voice is calm and even in comparison to Will’s.
Hannibal takes a step closer as Will watches, stopping when he is still another
step from him. “Do you want me to go?” He pauses expectantly for a few seconds
and Will knows what he should be saying, but doesn’t answer quickly enough. “I
can leave now,” Hannibal continues, “or we can finish talking and I can go
then.”
Will bites at his lip and still doesn’t answer. Hannibal’s tone and slow
movement had worked, had calmed him down slightly, and Will knows that’s why
Hannibal had spoken and moved at all. Still, though, he really doesn’t want
Hannibal to leave - but he also does, more than anything. He takes another step
back, two, until his legs are against the bed behind him, but stays standing.
“I didn’t go to the funeral,” he says eventually, avoiding Hannibal’s other
questions entirely. Will bites his lip again until he can taste blood and he
concentrates on that as he continues. “It was over when I got there… she died a
few weeks ago, from cancer, it just took this long to settle everything, I
guess.”
“In Georgia,” Hannibal clarifies, not asking.
“Yes.”
“And she left you a car.”
“A car and some money - not much.” Will exhales a laugh, soaked in bitterness.
There’s a long pause before he says, softer, “And a note.”
Hannibal doesn’t take what Will thinks of as obvious bait, but continues
repeating what Will knows he already knows. “And instead of coming back, once
you had the car and the money and the note, you drove to Louisiana and cheated
on me?”
Spelled out like that, spoken so clearly, it’s so obvious, all of it is so
clearly a ploy, the same as a teenager cutting lines into their arms so someone
will notice, and Will feels cheap and stupid. “I went to see my dad,” he
confesses quietly, and Will isn’t sure if he does it because he is that
teenager and wants Hannibal to know, to notice, or because he thinks that makes
it less cheap, somehow, all of it. Will is very aware that he is off-script,
that he doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore, and he sinks down onto the bed
behind him, his head on his hands and arms on his knees.
“Were you hurt?” Hannibal asks, and - Jesus, he still sounds like he cares,
like he’s concerned. Will whips his head up, certain that he knows, that
Hannibal’s asking - but when Will studies his face for a second, he’s assured
that Hannibal’s only asking about the crash, about the stupid car, and Will
lowers his head again, not sure if the rush of adrenaline he feels is related
to relief or disappointment.
“No,” Will answers, his head in his hands again. “It wasn’t… uh, it wasn’t much
of a crash.”
“Good,” Hannibal says, breathing out as if he had been worried. “Still,” he
continues after a moment. “Quite a dramatic rejection of the first gift your
mother has given you in years.” Will recognizes Hannibal’s tone as the one he
has during their appointments, his psychiatrist voice, and Will can’t even
bring himself to resent it. He feels like that teenager again, still unsure of
what he’s doing.
“I…” Will is still realizing how this all sounds, how articulating all of this
out loud makes it all so fucking obvious, and so, without thinking further,
Will throws it all out at Hannibal. Let him see what a fucking cliché Will
really is when he’s not trying, when he’s honest. “I drove it into a tree. The
tree outside my father’s house - his trailer,” he amends with another breath of
air that could be a bitter laugh.
“I see,” Hannibal says and that is so the typical psychiatrist phase that Will
is suddenly worried he’s mocking him. Will looks up and meets Hannibal’s eyes
again, but doesn’t see any humor there.
“I’m so easy to psychoanalyze, huh?” Will says, bringing a hand up to the back
of his neck to rub at the dull pain he can feel rising there, hurting his
already aching head. “So cliché, right?”
“Not at all.” Hannibal moves closer. “May I?” he asks, motioning to the bed
beside Will. He nods, his jaw tight and Hannibal sits behind him - close, but
not so close that they’re touching. “Although I should admit I find it easier
to psychoanalyze this than to go deeper into what you first told me, for fear
of further upsetting you."
“Upsetting me,” Will repeats, incredulously. He closes his eyes, screws them up
tightly, biting at his bottom lip again. He can’t understand - part of him
wants to apologize, but he doesn’t because that’s not why this is all
happeningand Will remembers what it is he’s doing again, what he’s meant to be
doing, and why. “I - he,” Will starts. He stops, keeping his eyes tightly
closed and reaches to unbutton his shirt. It’s an old flannel button down, even
older than the ones he usually wears, and he’s sure Hannibal has not failed to
notice this. He undoes a button, than two more. His eyes are still closed - he
doesn’t want to see what he knows Hannibal is about to.
Will pulls the top of the shirt aside to reveal his right shoulder, and tries
to keep his breathing steady.
He has three bruises, all deep purples and yellows and blue - one on the near
side of his clavicle, towards his neck, one down an inch or so below it, and
the last, the worst one, closer to his nipple. The skin is bruised in a way
that makes the origin obvious - there is no question what they are, how he got
them. If Will were a corpse, if Will was working on his own crime scene, he
wouldn’t need any special abilities to picture what had gone on. The bruises
are clearly bites, suck marks, fucking hickies, and they scream of someone
deriving sexual pleasure.
“Does this make it easier to discuss?” Will says and he can’t control the
bitter tone to his voice. “Make it harder to ignore, or - or to talk around, at
least?”
Will keeps his shirt pushed aside, his body tilted toward Hannibal, though his
eyes are on the wall behind him. He feels the heat of Hannibal’s gaze on his
chest, and he imagines his stare moving from one bruise to another to the last.
“These are not from the crash,” Hannibal states the obvious, and again his
voice is almost light and Will doesn’t understand because how is he still here.
“No,” Will says on an exhale, shaking his head sightly. He lets his hand fall,
his shirt covering some of the marks again but no longer hiding them entirely
“Then who did this to you?” Hannibal’s voice is gentle and so are his movements
as he brings a hand up to push the shirt aside again, laying his fingers gently
on the bruise nearest Will’s neck.
Will sneaks a furtive glance at Hannibal’s face, still not meeting his eyes.
“You say that like this was done to me,” he says, jerking away from Hannibal’s
hand. “This was consensual.” He yanks his body back to face forward, removing
Hannibal’s hold on him again. “I did this - I cheated on you, I was a part of
this,” he says firmly.
“Were you?” Will can feel Hannibal’s gaze on him again, this time studying his
face, and Will stares resolutely ahead. “Did you leave marks like this too? Or
just… him?” he asks, as if he’s actually curious.
And suddenly Will feels like he’s been plunged into a pool of ice water, a
shock of coldness touching all his insides all at once, and he’s not sure what
does it - his question, or his pause before ‘him’, or what - but Will hates
Hannibal because he knows, he must fucking know, and Will fucking hates him. He
exhales, his breath catching, and tries to to stand up, shaking, but Hannibal
moves quickly and places a gentle hand on his biceps - not keeping him there,
just touching - and Will stops.
“You know,” he says after a moment, his voice shuddering. They’ve switched
roles now and Will is the one asking a question he already know the answer to.
His voice is dull and sounds like it could rip his throat, when he says, “You
know and you want to hear me say it.”
Hannibal watches him and says nothing, denies nothing.
Will pulls his arm away but remains sitting, still just a few inches from
Hannibal on the bed. He takes a shaky breath in and once again tries to still
his hands and body, to stop their shaking.
“I’m not a child,” he says at last. “What I - what we - I,” he pauses, closes
his eyes for a long second. “I’m an adult and whatever I do is my own
decision.” He opens his eyes, looking straight ahead but not moving.
Hannibal is still silent, though Will knows he is watching him intently.
He’s lost whatever fight he had to stay still, and now his entire frame is
shaking, nearly enough that Will is scared he'll move the whole bed. He bites
his lip, hard, before speaking, trying and failing to keep his voice steady.
“It’s not - I went to him,” he says emphatically because this did not happen to
him and if Hannibal knows nothing, he has to know that.
“To your father,” Hannibal says quietly. Will freezes, but his body continues
shaking as if he has no control over it. He can’t answer. When he tries to open
his mouth, his body won’t respond.
“You went to see your father,” Hannibal continues after a moment, when there’s
still silence, and he sounds so normal, like they’re talking about anything
else, like this isn’t Will’s worst fucking nightmare.
Will jerks his head down in the semblance of a nod, even though it’s clear that
Hannibal doesn’t need his confirmation, that Hannibal already knows what
they’ve been talking about, who Will was with, and that he’s known since this
started, and fuck, suddenly Will is not just scared, not just ashamed - he is
angry.
“And this is how you cheated on me?” Hannibal asks, but Will can only faintly
hear him, can only concentrate on the sound of blood rushing through his ears.
Will isn’t sure if his eyes close, but he thinks it’s a minute later when he
feels Hannibal’s hands on his face, taking his chin and grasping it gently,
moving him so that Will has to face him. Will tries to concentrate but his
vision is blotchy, with growing clouds of white static on the edges.
“Will,” Hannibal is saying, with the tone of someone repeating himself. “Will,
are you with me?”
Will meets his eyes and his hearing and vision struggle to clear, the loud
sound of blood in his ears the last to fade away. He nods after a minute or
two, another jerky movement, and Hannibal drops his hands again.
“This isn’t,” Will takes a breath, shame burning at him as he tries to speak
again. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be going,” he admits, feeling weak as
soon as he says it, the fury he’d felt a few minutes ago already fading,
turning into shame, into… fuck, Will is just tired.
Hannibal is still watching him and he tilts his head. “No?”
“Stop it,” Will’s voice is firmer, anger rising in him again. “You know. You
knew. Stop. Stop doing this.”
Will watches a brief look of confusion pass across Hannibal’s face, and he
might have been convinced, but he’s spent weeks watching Hannibal, studying him
while Hannibal examined him, and he knows that Hannibal doesn’t let anything
show that isn’t orchestrated and what he wants others to see.
Will never wanted him to know this, didn’t want anyone to know it, but Will is
speaking, suddenly, before he realizes it, is already several words in before
his brain catches up, and by then it’s too late. “My mom left me a note and she
- she left when I was six - she abandoned us, couldn’t be fucked to stay with
me and my dad, and I never knew, I mean - I could do the math, but wasn’t sure,
I,” Will gasps, his lungs all at once empty of oxygen, and too late Hannibal
places a warm hand on his arm, a gesture of comfort, and opens his mouth to
stop him, but Will doesn’t want that, not anymore. “No,” he says, shaking
Hannibal off before more words are spewing from his mouth, falling like he
can’t control them. “She left and - it was an apology,” he says, as if the word
burns his tongue. “The note, and - and the shitty car.” Will laughs, but it
sounds more like he’s in pain than amused.
He falls into himself, curling protectively around his stomach, hunching his
shoulders and leaning over his knees. He doesn’t stop talking, though his voice
is already less forceful than it was a minute before. “I was six,” he repeats,
his voice getting duller, softer. “I was six when he started - when he,” he
stops, tries to take another breath but can’t get enough air and he’s still
shaking and his face is wet with sweat and fuck, Will just wants this over,
wants this out.
Struggling to take another breath, he sits up straighter and looks at Hannibal,
whose face is a blank mask, a nonjudgemental stare that Will recognizes from
therapy. Will is still shaking, working hard to even stay upright, but he
speaks with new force. “I was six when my dad moles - when he raped me, fucked
me.” He takes a quick breath that sounds more like a series of gasps. “I was
six when he started and my mom was twenty-two and she knew, she fucking knew.”
His hands come up to cover his face, and Will barely recognizes them, his own
hands seeming like they don’t belong to him. “And so, so she,” his voice has
been raising in pitch and suddenly it’s all Will can do to not collapse, to
breath, to keep from vomiting. He can’t finish.
Will feels Hannibal’s arms envelope him, feels him pulls him over gently until
Will gives in and goes limp, leaning against Hannibal’s chest. He’s so tired
that his entire body feels impossibly heavy and he couldn’t move, couldn’t
resist Hannibal if he wanted to - and he doesn’t. He is still struggling to
breathe but drops one hand from his face to get a hold of Hannibal’s jacket and
he grabs it, pulls at it. He feels Hannibal lean forward, lean against the back
of Will’s neck, and he can feel his lips move as he whispers to him softly,
“Shh. Will, shh.”
“No,” Will says, or tries, but he’s not sure he’s getting any sound out. He
stays close to Hannibal, stays limp, and lets himself fall deeper against him.
It is a full minute later, maybe longer, until Will can speak again, can take
enough air into his lungs that he can be heard.
“I was six and my mom knew and so - and so she left.” He feels the burn of
whiskey and acid, all that’s in his stomach, in his throat, and he closes his
mouth tightly, fighting to keep from vomiting. His eyes follow shut a moment
later, and he closes them tightly, clenching his teeth as he feels Hannibal’s
hand on his head, his fingers running through his hair.
Will isn’t sure how long it is before he can hear Hannibal again, can
understand his quiet litany of Will’s name and almost meaningless words. “Will,
shh, Will, my dear Will.” Will clutches at Hannibal’s jacket more tightly,
pressing into him, his eyes still closed. He takes another stuttering breath
and listens to Hannibal’s deep voice and rhythmic accent.
When he thinks he can talk again, can open his mouth without being sick, he
keeps going, speaking quickly and struggling to make sense. “I thought that he
- there are studies that show there are higher rates of - of - that kids, boys,
raised by a father alone are more likely to - that the, the… affection can be
turned onto the child,” he’s stuttering and repeating himself, but he knows
this and he’s spent years learning it so he could properly understand and
compartmentalize what happened to him, and he needs Hannibal to know that.
“But…” he laughs, almost, feeling sick again. “I guess I should have spent more
time looking at the studies about spouses leaving because their husbands
started fucking their kid, huh?”
“Will, shh.” Hannibal’s hands are carding through his hair and Will tries to
concentrate on that, on that and breathing.
But he can’t, he can’t stop talking. He’s crying in earnest now, and a rush of
self-loathing courses through him even as he keeps going. “She gave me a
fucking car! A fucking… like that would matter, like that’s an apology. That
and a couple thousand for - and what did I do?” Will’s voice takes on a new
edge. “I used what she gave me to run back to daddy,” he says the word like it
contains venom, like it could physically burn him. “I used the money to stock
up on whiskey on the way to make sure I would have the liquid courage I needed
when I got there.”
Will laughs, still crying, still leaning into Hannibal’s embrace. “Which I
didn’t. I was…” He trails off and when he speaks again the laughter is gone
from his tone, though his voice is still thick with tears. “I was going to kill
him,” he says rushed but softer. “He’s a drunk, I would have made it look like
an accident and no one would have ever though to question it, no one would have
cared.”
He pauses, expecting Hannibal to have some response to this. He’s just
confessed to planning an actual murder and this is everything Will’s told
Hannibal he’s scared of, everything all the people who whisper about Will at
crime scenes have expected for years, and Will’s pretty sure that Hannibal has
to say something here, has to make some comment about mentioning this to Jack
or something, but Hannibal is still quiet and Will is grateful.
After a few breaths, Will keep going, still unable to stop himself - after
years of guarding this so carefully from everyone, he can’t stop from talking,
explaining now. “I didn’t though - I mean, I couldn’t. But… he was drunk,
already, when I got there - much more than me - and he was talking and god,”
Will’s voice breaks and he struggles to keep going. “He loves me, he fucking
loves me, can you believe it? He still does, or he thinks he does, he talked
about how he’s been following my career and I could - I could feel it, I could
feel how much he loves me and it’s sick, it’s really… it’s sick.” Tears close
his throat and Will can’t talk anymore. He sits and shakes and cries in
Hannibal’s hold and tries to breath.
“It’s been fifteen goddamn years since he saw me,” he manages out, struggling
to speak at all. “And he started fucking me when I was a little kid because his
wife wouldn’t blow him anymore but I - he loves me, and - I…” he can’t breath,
can’t get another word out, as his voice dissolves into tears and gasping
breaths.
“Shh,” Hannibal is still saying, still holding him and speaking into his neck,
petting his hair.
“M’sorry,” Will gasps, unsure if Hannibal can even understand him.
“No, shh. Try to take a deep breath, Will.”
Will tries, and then tries again, and when he can finally breath again, he
still can’t stop and it’s just another reason to hate himself. “I could kill
him - I wanted to fucking kill him. I thought he - he should be the one - and,
and he got close enough and I thought it would - but - he, he held me and he
kissed me and… M’sorry,” he says, for everything he’s saying, that he’s still
talking at all, that he can’t stop fucking sobbing into Hannibal’s jacket.
Hannibal doesn’t let Will go, but adjusts them both until they can lay back on
the bed, slipping off his shoes and keeping Will against his chest. Will
doesn’t fight, but he knows he should warn Hannibal - Will’s never stayed over
after they’ve had sex and Will should tell him about his nightmares and how he
sweats and, fuck, Hannibal’s still fully dressed, and if Will isn’t going to
get back up he needs to take the dogs out - but Hannibal is still running his
fingers through Will’s hair and Will closes his eyes and tries to stop crying,
tries to take deep breaths.
They lay like that for - Will doesn’t know how long. He keeps his eyes closed
but doesn’t fall asleep, concentrating on breathing until he slowly relaxes and
he sinks further into Hannibal, until he can feel his heart rate steadying,
returning slowly to his normal rhythm.
“This is his shirt,” Will says after what feels like an hour of silence, the
only noise the comforting sighs and soft snuffles of his dogs, asleep on the
floor below them. His voice sounds hoarse from talking, from crying. “Sick,
huh? I’m wearing his fucking shirt.”
Hannibal doesn’t say anything for a moment and Will would wander if he’d fallen
asleep except Hannibal is still moving his hand, still softly carding through
Will’s hair. Will wonders if he’s losing time, if time is really moving as
slowly as he’s taking it in, if this is his new way of losing cognizance.
Hannibal speaks a second later, at the same time lightly grasping Will’s
shoulders and helping him to sit up on his bed. “Let’s get this off you, then.”
Will follows Hannibal’s hands without meaning to, without the energy to fight
back or to want to. He raises a hand to clumsily undo one of the remaining
buttons, but his sluggish movement isn’t fast enough. Hannibal lets go of one
of his shoulders, keeping his hold on the other one to make sure Will stays
upright, and grabs his shirt. With a fast motion, he jerks the fabric and rips
the remaining buttons open. Will turns his eyes towards Hannibal, but otherwise
doesn’t react.
“Destroying it, like you did your mother’s car, would be a suitable rejection.
What do you think, Will?” Hannibal speaks almost clinically, as if they were
sitting across from each other in his office. He helps Will get the shirt off
one shoulder, his other hand still mostly holding Will up. “Something dramatic,
to match the rejection of the car, perhaps?”
Will makes a noise that could be an attempt at a laugh or just a forceful
exhalation, as Hannibal switches hands and helps him out of the remaining
sleeve, until the shirt is laying around Will’s waist where he’s sat on the
bed. Hannibal shifts him immediately, pulling Will on top of him at the same
time as he stretches out fully, so that Will is forced to move one leg over
him, straddling Hannibal. Will has enough energy now to not need Hannibal’s
hands to keep him upright, but still feels light-headed.
“And these,” Hannibal continues once Will is placed where he wants him, turning
his attention to the marks across Will’s chest. “What should we do about
these?”
Will is still, watching him, silent. He’s very aware not only of how the marks
appear - god, you can see fucking teethmarks on the worst one - but also of his
sweaty hair curled all over the place, his swollen eyes, his red cheeks. He can
read several ways this could be going and he’s not sure which one he wants
most. Or least.
Hannibal brings his hand up, gently tracing over the bruises. Despite being a
few days old, the marks are still dark, deeply bruised, and Will knows that
Hannibal sees violence in them. “He likes,” he starts without thinking, caring,
somehow, that he not see them that way. “He didn’t see me for years. He… wanted
to make a mark, something I can’t ignore so easily when I leave him again - uh,
I mean - when - when I came back,” Will stumbles over his words in the same way
he can fall from headspace to headspace, even in his own memory. He
concentrates on watching Hannibal’s lips, instead of meeting his eyes and
seeing the disappointment or disgust he expects to be there.
“And you could feel this?” Hannibal asks, his hands moving onto the last mark,
the only one that broke the skin, though only slightly. “You could feel him
doing it and it being done, when he bit down?”
Will knows what he’s saying, what he’s asking, and he nods for a long moment,
slowly. “Yes,” he breaths, understanding he’s admitting to more than just those
marks.
Hannibal considers this, his hands still on Will’s chest. “Should we be done
with these too?” he asks after a moment, and this time Will’s nod is quicker,
almost immediate. Hannibal doesn’t wait to meet his eye before he leans forward
and up, bringing his head, his mouth to Will’s chest at the same time that his
hands move to either side of Will’s hips, preempting any movement Will might
want to make.
He doesn’t start gently, as Will half-expects. Instead, Hannibal takes the skin
over Will’s collarbone and bites down, holding the skin between his teeth and
sucking, hard. Will throws his head back, trying not to pull away. He is sure
there will be blood - it hurts like there should be blood - but when he looks
down a second later, when Hannibal has moved on and is tonguing at the second
mark, the skin is red and angry-looking but unbroken. Will watches this time,
unmoving, as Hannibal bites down, equally hard, over the second mark, just
below the first.
Will is very aware of a growing heaviness between his legs, his cock growing
harder as Hannibal sucks on the skin, the light layer of muscle beneath it. He
feels more blood rush to his cock as Hannibal releases him and moves downward
slightly, to the last bruise. Will only has a second to think this is sick, I’m
really sick to get off on this before Hannibal bites down there too, harder
than he had before, and Will can’t prevent the shudder that passes through him,
the breathy noise he makes.
This time Hannibal does break the skin, Will can feel it, can feel the moment
when his skin breaks and Hannibal’s teeth sink deeper in. Will looks down,
watching a tiny drop of red crawl down his skin from where Hannibal’s mouth is
still on his chest, sucking his own mark into Will’s skin, and Will is suddenly
rock hard, his cock tenting out his loose sweat pants obscenely. When he sees
Hannibal’s tongue flick out, licking at the blood he’s caused, Will presses
down, grinding his hips and cock into Hannibal.
Hannibal doesn’t acknowledge Will’s obvious arousal, though Will can feel
Hannibal’s growing thickness beneath him and knows he’s not immune to it. “His
aim was to mark you as his.” Hannibal speaks without moving away from Will, his
words slightly muffled against Will’s skin, his mouth shining with Will’s
blood. He moves across to the other marks, biting gently at both.
Will is struggling to stay still, grunting slightly as he tries not to think
about how hard he is already, what this is doing to him, and how he can feel
Hannibal growing hard against him.
“But you’re not his, are you, Will?” Hannibal continues, before biting hard on
the middle bruise, breaking the skin again. He moves back slightly, so that he
and Will can watch blood well at the marks Hannibal’s teeth have left around,
on top of, his bruised skin. A drop soon breaks free, slowly falling down
Will’s chest, and Hannibal catches it with his tongue, licking it back up to
where another drop is threatening to do the same. Will can’t help his reaction,
pressing into Hannibal’s mouth, his tongue, and moaning.
“And if you wanted to be marked,” Hannibal says, as Will struggles to remember
to breath. “You only had to ask.” Hannibal gives no warning before his mouth is
back on the deepest bruise, the worst of all the marks, and this time when he
bites down he doesn’t let go, instead pulling away slightly - and Will can feel
the moment when his skin rips, when it’s no longer just teethmarks making him
bleed, but a real bite, a small section of skin bitten away entirely.
Will isn’t sure what happens next, he knows he’s not entirely aware of every
moment of time, but somehow Hannibal has moved his lips, taken his mouth away
from where Will’s bleeding freely, and he lifts Will up, flipping him over.
Will’s on his back now, his cock leaking, desperate for contact, and Will is
just opening his mouth to - he’s not sure, probably beg for Hannibal to touch
him - when Hannibal leans over him, pressing their hips together.
Hannibal is still fully dressed, still has his fucking jacket on, and Will has
never wanted to touch him as much as he wants to right now.
“I wanna suck you,” he forces out, grabbing the front of Hannibal’s jacket and
pulling him closer, feeling the hard line of his cock through his pants.
“No,” Hannibal says, his voice steady. “Let’s try something new this time,
shall we?”
“Please,” Will’s voice is strangled but god he wants it, wants to feel
Hannibal’s cock in his mouth so much. The bite on his chest is still bleeding
slightly, and Will wants to feel Hannibal come before it finishes, before it
starts to scab over and heal.
“I think you’ve made it quite clear that what you want is to be marked, dear
Will.” Hannibal says, grasping Will’s wrists and preventing him from pulling
Hannibal closer. “And those superficial wounds are not what I was intending.”
Hannibal lets go of his wrists, dislodging Will’s hold on his jacket, and
Hannibal’s hands are quickly on Will’s biceps, pressing him down into the bed
and preventing most movement. “You don’t like me to touch you,” he says, and
Will feels stupid for ever thinking that Hannibal wouldn’t have noticed.
Hannibal must read something of this on his face because he smiles slightly.
“Ah, didn’t think I’d picked up on that, did you?”
Will doesn’t answer. He thinks he should be protesting this, should be
struggling to get away and stop this, but instead he bucks up against Hannibal,
searching for friction. Hannibal cants his hips away from Will, shaking his
head. No.
“You’ve made it quite clear that you have to be in control in sexual
situations,” Hannibal continues and Will almost rolls his eyes at his
psychoanalysis, in this of all situations, but thinks that might stop Hannibal
and he would much rather get to the part where he gets totouch him than
distract him with anymore talk about psychotherapy or how much Will hates it.
Although he manages not to roll his eyes, Hannibal obviously picks up on Will’s
annoyance, and he sounds amused as he keeps speaking. “But let’s try something
new, shall we? If you don’t like to be touched, Will, then I won’t touch you.
But you won’t touch either. Not until I’m done.”
Before Will can properly understand take this in, Hannibal all but attacks his
mouth, still holding him down as he kisses him fiercely, biting at his lips and
forcing his tongue into Will’s mouth, who sucks on it greedily. Will moans into
the kiss when Hannibal lets one of his arms go, reaching down to - Will hears -
undo his own belt and fly.
Will thinks he might taste blood on his lips when Hannibal moves back onto his
heels, and Will can only image what he looks like, laid out in front of him and
already so desperate. “Take off your trousers,” Hannibal says, palming his
cock. He’s opened his fly and pulled his own pants down slightly, but he hasn’t
removed his expensive-looking black briefs, though Will can see the fabric is
darker where Hannibal has already leaked onto it. Will reaches to touch him,
but Hannibal blocks him, pushing his arm roughly away. “Get on your stomach,”
he says calmly, his voice making it obvious that he will not repeat himself
again, “and take off your clothes.”
And god this is fucked, Will knows this is - this is years of therapy and his
vision blurs even while he’s moving, rushing to do what Hannibal’s asked him, a
strangled laugh escaping as he realizes that it’s definitely more fucked up
that he’s doing - that, that this is happening with, technically, his fucking
psychiatrist. He sheds his pants and briefs and his cock springs free,
impossibly hard, the tip wet and swollen. He flips over, crawling onto his
stomach, and reaches down to take himself in hand. The relief is instant, but
he only pulls on himself once, twice before Hannibal rips his hands away.
“No, no,” he says, still sound amused, and Will looks back at him. “I said on
your stomach, Will - I did not say you could touch yourself.”
Will turns back, looking ahead, and hesitantly brings his hands up to rest by
his shoulders, feeling the place where Hannibal bit him rubbing against his
sheets. He presses his hips into the bed, struggling to find some relief, but
even while he’s feeling more and more desperate to touch, to be touched, he can
appreciate that through all of this, he’s all there, that he’s not struggling
to stay present. It’s only because he recognizes this that he doesn’t panic
when, a moment later, Hannibal uses his knee to nudge Will’s legs apart. He
grabs Will’s ass with both hands, kneading his cheeks, and then spreading them
and holding them apart, open. Will takes a deep breath as he feels Hannibal’s
fingers probing at him, finding his hole and stopping there, against it.
Hannibal’s fingers are dry, maybe wet with spit or just sweat, and he traces
over Will’s hole only once, twice, before he’s pulling away. “Do you have any
kind of lubricant or -” he starts, but Will doesn’t let him finish.
“No.” Will looks over his shoulder, back at Hannibal. “You keep talking about
marking me, then mark me. Nothing else, just you.”
It’s exactly what Hannibal wanted to hear, and Will can’t pretend he didn’t
know this. He turns around again and he feels Hannibal’s fingers back on him,
rubbing against his hole, still mostly dry. They’re removed again, quickly, and
Will can hear Hannibal spitting onto his hand - even that sounding fucking
classy when he’s doing it - before they’re back, with a bit of moisture,
teasing Will until he drops his forehead to the bed and makes a pitiful sound.
“Are you - please,” he manages, his voice barely there, but Hannibal hears him
and takes it as the invitation it is. He pushes a finger into him, slowly, and
Will closes his eyes, expelling a loud breath into the mattress. The first
finger is barely in when Hannibal is pulling out and forcing a second one
alongside it, stretching him, and it hurts, stings. Will is almost glad, the
pain bringing him back from the edge of orgasm.
With the notable exception of just a few days ago, Will hasn’t done this - this
part of it, that is - in years, more than a decade. He knows they should be
going slower, that the pull and burn he’s feeling now will hurt tomorrow, but
right now this is exactly what he wants, and when the pain fades slightly,
becoming less heated, Will pushes back again Hannibal, forcing both fingers
deeper inside him.
“Enough,” he says a few seconds later, after barely a minute of Hannibal
stretching him, working a bit of spit against his hole. It’s not enough, not
really, and Will’s voice sounds choked when Hannibal doesn’t stop immediately
and he continues. “I - I want you,” he admits and it costs something to admit
it, to ask for that, but Will’s too far gone to care anymore.
Hannibal’s fingers shift, delving in still deeper and Will feels the pain for
just a second before Hannibal brushes against his prostate and Will can’t help
his gasp, stuck between the burning pain and this new pleasure.
Will’s eyes are open but his vision goes black at the edges, his hearing
dropping away for a minute, but he’s still all there, still present, and it’s
not like other time he’s tried this, let people fuck him and felt disconnected,
like he could have floated away, as if he wasn’t involved at all. And it’s not
like the other times, when he was flooded with memories of past experiences, of
him and others - it’s just this, and he’s there with Hannibal and it’s painful
at the same time as it feels so fucking good and Will isn’t used to this.
Hannibal has removed his fingers entirely when all of Will’s senses return to
him, but before he can miss them he feels the blunt head of Hannibal’s cock
brush against him. Will presses back, wanting more of Hannibal against him,
more inside him, but Hannibal gently pushes him back down into the bed.
Hannibal still hasn’t removed his clothing, his dress pants and underwear
pulled down just enough, and Will fists his hands into the sheets to keep
himself from reaching down to where his cock is back to aching, begging for
some touch or pressure or something.
Hannibal is mouthing at at the muscles on the backside of Will’s shoulder,
where Will knows the old scar from his stabbing is fading slowly. He tongues
around it for just a second, his body flush against Will’s back, before biting
down, hard, sinking his teeth into him again.
“I want my marks,” Hannibal says after a minute, a minute where the skin breaks
and Will can’t help moaning again, feeling precum drip from his neglected cock
onto the mattress below, “to be the only marks on you.”
It’s taking all of Will’s concentration to keep from touching himself, to keep
from mindlessly rutting into his bed, and so when Hannibal lines himself up to
enter Will, he pushes back, wanting his cock inside him despite anticipating
the pain.
But Hannibal stills, unmoving, and Will thinks he might scream. “Are you sure?”
Hannibal asks softly, and Will can’t read his voice, is unsure if Hannibal
would stop if he asked, right now, for this to be over. He’s never been scared
of Hannibal, has in fact only found him a comforting figure, but right now Will
isn’t sure that he could stop Hannibal from entering him, from fucking him,
even if he wanted to.
“Yes,” Will says, as if he had a choice, still pushing backwards, his body
doing all it can to feel as much of Hannibal against him as possible.
Hannibal doesn’t waste time working himself in gently, and instead Will thinks
he might split apart when he feels Hannibal shove inside him, forcing his
entire length into Will. It hurts and Will moans again, this time not entirely
out of pleasure.
Hannibal stops when he is flush against Will’s back, fully inside him, letting
Will adjust for a second before he moves. Will’s eyes are screwed shut and he’s
biting his lip again, trying to remember the pleasure and ignore the pain. He’s
still adjusting when Hannibal moves, pulling out before pushing in again,
harder, this time rubbing against Will’s prostate.
Will can’t help the sound he makes - somewhere between a moan and a sob - and
he knows that his face is wet with tears, matching the wetness of blood still
on his chest and now his back. He tries, again, to reach down and touch
himself, his cock still rock hard through all of this, but Hannibal blocks him
even as he pulls out again and slams back in, just as rough.
“No,” he growls, and fuck, Will isn’t sure if he’s starting to hate that word
or developing some sort of sick Pavlovian response to is. “Not until I’m done.”
Will exhales what could be a sob, almost, as Hannibal grabs his hips and
manipulates his body up and away from the mattress below him, taking away the
tiny bit of relief Will could get, the only pressure against his cock. Hannibal
keeps his hands on Will’s hips as he slams into him, again and again, and
Will’s gone past any pain as Hannibal hits that spot, again and again.
It’s too much and Will’s mind slips. His eyes are closed, suddenly, and he’s
confused, because this is all too new and this isn’t what usually happens - it
isn’t like last time, when Will was too drunk to remember it all and his father
was so eager to please Will, as if that would erase all his past sins, the
hundred of times he’d taken his pleasure and ignored Will’s entirely, ignored
his injuries. Will’s pulling away before he realizes it, his mind foggy and
unclear, when Hannibal grabs his hips harder, pulling Will’s entire frame back,
hard, onto his cock.
There’s a quick flash of pain and it’s enough to clear his mind, his eyes
shooting open as he’s suddenly back and knows what’s happening and is scared of
losing that all again. “Stop,” he tries to say, but he can’t even understand
himself and knows Hannibal didn’t hear him. Because it is Hannibal, it’s
Hannibal that’s pushing into him, that’s fucking him, using him, and Will knows
that and doesn’t want to let his mind wander away again. “Stop,” he says again,
clear and louder, and Will is only a little surprised when Hannibal does,
instantly ceasing his movements and slipping out of him, stilling on his knees
behind Will.
Hannibal’s hand are gentle, this time, as they move from Will’s waist up to his
shoulders, gently pulling him back until he’s kneeling too, the back of his
shoulder - still gentle bleeding - against Hannibal’s front. Hannibal nudges at
Will’s neck with his nose and then his lips, kissing it, before bringing his
mouth back to the wound on Will’s shoulder, licking away what little bit of
blood is smeared there. Will turns back to him and Hannibal abandons his
shoulder to meet his mouth. Will can taste the iron in their kiss, his blood on
Hannibal’s lips and tongue, and he thinks again how messed up this all is
before melting further against Hannibal. He keeps his eyes open as they kiss,
reminding himself of who he’s with, who is there and who is not.
“Too desperate to wait?” Hannibal mumbles again Will’s mouth, finally - finally
- bringing a hand down to Will’s cock, impossibly hard against his stomach.
Hannibal skates his hands over its length lightly and Will can’t break the
kiss, running his tongue against Hannibal’s, so relieved at even this feather-
light touch.
“No - Yes, I mean - just - can I turn over?” Will says in between desperate
sounding noises, pulling away only slightly and too far gone to be embarrassed
at just how fried his brain is. “I mean - I want to see you.” He’s struggling
to resist moving his hips, knowing that wouldn’t please Hannibal, but Will
wants him pushing into him, against him, again - he just wants to make sure he
knows who he’s with while it happens.
Hannibal doesn’t answer, but pulls back from Will, quickly helping him turn to
face him. Will presses against him immediately, feeling the scratch of
Hannibal’s shirt, his fucking jacket, against his naked skin. He’s kissing him
again as Hannibal adjusts so that their cocks are lined up, rubbing against
each other in between them, and Will is so close he’s worried he might come
from that alone.
“Lie back,” Hannibal says when he pulls away from Will’s lips a few seconds
later, holding both of their cocks in his hand. “I’m not done.”
Will groans at the loss of contact as he lies back down, this time on his back,
but it’s only a minute until Hannibal’s weight is on him again, his cock
pushing into him again. With every thrust, Will’s own cock is finally given
some relief, dragging against the hard planes of Hannibal’s stomach as Hannibal
holds onto Will’s shoulder and fucks into him.
Hannibal makes a low noise, and pulls back, and without thinking, Will reaches
down for himself again. “No!” Hannibal says, and his voice could be either
amused or annoyed as he pushes Will’s hand away again. He keeps one hand on
Will’s wrist, pinning it to the mattress near Will’s shoulder, and leans over
him. His other hand is on his cock, a blur of speed, and Will only understands
what happening when the first pulse of heat falls on him, followed by another
and another.
Hannibal sighs deeply, loudly, as his pulls slow, his come in ribbons across
Will’s stomach, his chest, Will’s own red and leaking cock. Will feels the heat
all across him, but can’t look away from the line of milky fluid running across
where Hannibal bit into him, where it mingles with the blood that’s still
seeping out of the wound.
He only realizes Hannibal is finished when he feels Hannibal’s hand on his
cock, and it only takes a few long strokes until Will arches back into the bed,
his hands scrambling at Hannibal’s arms, as he feels his own heat join the mess
already on his stomach and chest.
“Fuck,” Will says a long minute later, letting his hands drop to his side, his
head still back and his eyes closed. “Fuck.”
“You wanted marked, my dear.” Hannibal’s hands are warm against Will’s chest,
his skin, his broken skin, and Will knows if he looked down, if he could move
enough to manage it, he would see Hannibal using their come to message Will,
rubbing it into his skin and into the bites. And that shouldn’t be hot but fuck
if Will doesn’t think, just for a second, that he might get hard again from
that alone.
“Fuck,” Will says again. He’s not sure how long it is until Hannibal’s weight
is once again on him, meeting his mouth for a long kiss. Will opens his eyes
when Hannibal pulls away a few minutes later, and he manages to gather enough
energy to move his arms around Hannibal’s back, keeping him in place against
him. He raises his head up, pushing it into Hannibal’s shoulder and he ignores
the warning pang in his neck - it’s easier than meeting Hannibal’s eyes.
“That was fucked up,” Will says, his words muffled. “I’m fucked up.” He
tightens his hold on Hannibal’s shirt and jacket, fisting his hands into the
fabric even as he realizes he must be ruining the front of both with their
mess. “I’m sorry, I’m fucked up,” he repeats, pushing his face tighter against
him as he feels tears threaten to spill and a new rush of self-loathing pulses
through him.
Hannibal’s hand is on the back of his head, cradling it slightly for a long
second, before pulling back, gently removing himself from Will’s hold. Will
doesn’t follow, instead leaning back against the pillow behind him, his eyes
tracking Hannibal as he finds the shirt Will had been wearing, still on the bed
beside them. Hannibal uses it to wipe at the rapidly cooling semen, cleaning it
off Will, and Will struggles to keep the tears at bay as he turns his head
towards the window, unable to watch.
He feels rather than sees Hannibal stand up, leaving the bed, and Will turns
onto his side, curling into himself. He closes his eyes, still keeping his face
toward the window. It seems like a long time until Will feels the dip of the
bed beside him, the heat of Hannibal - now undressed, at least from what Will
can feel - pressing against his back, the urgency that had dominated both of
them just a few minutes ago now gone completely.
Will tries to take a deep breath, his inhalation shuddering, but still doesn’t
move, though he can feel his hands shaking, ever so slightly, and he wonders if
they’d ever actually stopped. “My dear Will,” he hears, and feels Hannibal’s
hand brush against his forehead, pushing some of his damp curls away. Will is
afraid if he opens his eyes, if he moves, he’ll be crying - sobbing - again,
and so he stays motionless, still turned towards the window, as Hannibal runs
his hands soothingly along his forehead and down over his cheek.
Will clenches his hands, his fingernails digging into his palms, and struggles
to remain still. The cuts - no, the bites - on his chest and shoulder sting and
he’s sore in other spots and he hates himself when the slight pain sends a rush
of warmth, of fucking comfort through him because he’s very aware that Hannibal
was not the first person to connect pain and sex in Will’s mind.
I’m so fucked up, Will thinks again, afraid to speak, afraid to open his eyes,
and it’s as if Hannibal hears him because it’s only a few seconds later that he
feels Hannibal press a gentle kiss to his chest, above where his skin is torn
away, as he says softly, “You are perfect.”
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!