Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1087077.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Abigail_Hobbs/Hannibal_Lecter
  Character:
      Abigail_Hobbs, Hannibal_Lecter
  Additional Tags:
      Wedding_Night, First_Time, Older_Man/Younger_Woman, Arranged_Marriage,
      Cunnilingus, Underage_Sex, Asshole_Fathers, Porn_with_a_hint_of_Plot,
      Dubious_use_of_commas_and_semicolons, Loss_of_Virginity
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-25 Words: 4318
****** Not Her Dream ******
by HixyStix_(GaiaMyles)
Summary
     Hannibal Secret Santa prompt:
     Hannigail arranged marriage oneshot, wedding night. I want her being
     super-nervous and him being an awesome gentlemen. Super-romantic.
     Undertones of manipulation (on his part!) are totally accepted and
     quite possibly encouraged. Gimme gentle, nervous, first-time smut.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Hands lift the veil from her face.  Large hands, long fingers.  Unfamiliar
hands.  Before her face is completely uncovered, she shifts her gaze down.
Black shoes, possibly leather. Ironed and creased tuxedo pants on long legs.
Probably very expensive clothing; this man seems the type.
“Abigail.” A soft voice, strange accent. She looks up. There are no tears to
blur her vision, though she feels it would be appropriate.
He looks older, worn, but she only has seventeen years to judge against.  An
odd face, severe in cut, closed in expression.  Not his eyes, though.  This
close, she can see the warmth in the brown.  He’s not all ice, then. Best not
show that she can tell.
She knows what she’s supposed to do. Her father has coached her – in detail –
on all that is expected of her this day.  She can’t stand on her toes in this
dress, these shoes, so she lifts her face up.  It’s not enough with their
height difference. This man – her husband, now – takes her chin in his hand and
leans down to meet her, kissing her softly, gently.  She half expects him to
prolong the kiss, to take what is now his, but he does not.
If there are tears in her lashes when he pulls away and they face the
congregation, nobody says a word.
 
===============================================================================
 
The reception is a long two hours.  Posing for photographs, receiving
congratulations from her (protectorcaptor)husband’s associates. Faking a smile,
knowing it doesn’t show in her pale cheeks or reddened eyes.  Makeup can only
do so much.
Her father is one of the last to come to them.  She cannot read him, is not
sure she wants to.  The father who swore to protect her against all others died
the moment he offered her up.  She is his (babygirlprincess)payment for
services rendered.  With luck, she will never know what the services were. 
Dire enough that the only way for her father to repay this man is through
virgin sacrifice.
Garret Jacob Hobbs does not look at his only daughter and she does not look at
him.  She no longer belongs to him.  She is no longer a Hobbs.  The men shake
hands and the transaction is complete.  Her father’s sins are wiped away and
she is bound to a new life.
It will be a luxurious one, her mother told her.  She is lucky.  Her husband is
known as a strong, cruel man, yes, but one who is fond of the finer things.  If
she (placatesamuses)pleases him, she will be pampered beyond her wildest
dreams.
Her dreams are nothing like this.
 
===============================================================================
 
The car takes them not to a hotel, but to his (mansioncastleonahill)house.  The
ride is silent, awkward. She is not up to conversation, anyhow. Every minute
brings her closer to the physical reality of being married.
She turned seventeen only a week before.  She should not be married, she is
still a child.  But her parents signed the wedding contract and she is now a
(consortbondservant)wife. She has never fantasized about boys with friends –
her father did not allow friends or boys – and her mind was filled with hastily
whispered tidbits from her mother.  How to make things easier.  How to make him
happy. How to find happiness in unhappiness.
She doesn’t want unhappiness.  She doesn’t want to be owned.  But now she is.
He holds a hand out to her.  She takes it cautiously, noting how small her hand
is in his, how lightly he holds it as she steps out of the car. The lights of
the city brighten the night sky, flickering as reflections in the large front
windows.
Only a few steps up the sidewalk to the door, now unlocked and open.  He clears
his throat softly and she looks up at him, wide eyed.
“Permit me,” he murmurs, and then she is swept up in his arms.  He smiles at
her sudden gasp – the first true smile she had seen from him, open mouthed and
toothy and reaching his eyes and if he smiled like that more, no one would fear
him.  She might not fear him. “This is traditional, and I am nothing if not a
keen observer of tradition.”
He carries her (intothebreach)across the threshold, and the door closes behind
them.
 
===============================================================================
 
She allows herself a single concession to her own ease – once inside, she takes
off her heels. He quietly picks up the discarded shoes and then disappears,
presumably off to a closet somewhere.  She pads, swishing dress and hosed feet,
through the downstairs of his – no, their – house.
The kitchen – the whole of the house – is much more lavish than she pictured. 
Sharp, clean lines, rich woods and metals and paints, broken only by an
abundance of green plants she tentatively identifies as herbs.  Kitchen
appliances she does not recognize, a built in freezer large enough to hide an
entire person.
Her eyes jerk up as he comes around the corner.  He has lost his coat and
gained two glasses of blood red wine, one held out to her.  She takes it
tentatively.  What if she spills the wine on her white (sacrificialgown)dress,
the clean slate of the floor?  She speaks for the first time, voice wavering.
“Is this… Is this alcohol?  I’m not old enough…”
A ghost of the smile she saw before.  “Yet you are old enough to be married off
by your parents to a man you don’t know.  I think a glass of wine is
permissible in these circumstances. If you would like it, of course.”
She shyly returns the smile now reaching his eyes.  Take the glass, taste the
wine, be polite.  She’d had wine before – bitter, nasty sips stolen from her
parent’s table.  This is not wine as she knows it. This is fruity and sweet
with just a touch of alcoholic burn that trickles down into her belly.
His smile widens – more teeth – at her surprise.  “Dry wine is an acquired
taste.  Why ruin any love for wine by forcing yourself past your comfort zone
before you can appreciate the basics?” Glasses raised in toast, a high-pitched
clink as they met halfway.  “Why, indeed, take that approach with anything?
There are too many things to be savored along to the way to connoisseurship.”
(DesireWarning)Subtext in everything he said.  Her eyelids flutter as she
processes it.  Not ready to go there, deflection – an obvious look around the
room. “I’ve never seen a kitchen quite this big.  I… I hope my father didn’t
tell you that I’m a cook.  I burn everything but potatoes.”
Hands, fingers, on her neck, in her hair.  (CaressingCoaxing)Gentle touches,
reassurances.  “Your father didn’t tell you about my culinary habits, then.  Do
not worry; I cook for myself and I shall cook for you. Although I would be
happy to try your potatoes, if you would make them for me.”
She relaxes into his touch.  Not so much expectation, one less opportunity to
disappoint, relief.  He smiles again; a reward.  Behavioral conditioning,
Pavlovian response. She knows this; she doesn’t care right now. Comfort is
good.
“Abigail,” he murmurs, pulling her closer, setting glasses on the counter.  An
attempt at a hug.  She keeps her arms in front of her and does not embrace
him.  It does not stop him.  He is large enough to envelop her even if she does
not cooperate.  He begins taking the pins from her hair, long and dark and
straight (she could never get it to hold a curl). “You are too beautiful to be
this scared.  I do not wish to frighten you.  I know this is all new, but I
hope that you will soon be comfortable in this house with me.”
Eyes closed, face pressed to his chest, breathing him in.  First man she’s
smelled besides her (traitorousbackstabbing)father. Deep breaths.  Woods,
(blooddangerchase)spice, heat.
She could cry. She could say no.  He would take her to a guest room and let her
sleep.
But that is not why she is here.
 
===============================================================================
 
His bedroom, now – no, their bedroom, she must remember.  Just as opulent as
the kitchen.  A king bed, she knows, but it seems larger.  Room for her to roll
away in the night?
She stands before him.  He is at ease, this is his territory.  She is new,
(virginal) unsure. He moves with grace; it is his domain.
Watch, cufflinks off. Tie next, draped over a valet stand, then the vest. 
Shoes and shirt and belt gone and he is halfway undressed and she is still
standing there, trying not to panic.
Perhaps he senses the rise in her breathing or the rush of her pulse.  He turns
to her, head cocked quizzically.  She is unsure of where to look – at the room,
at his eyes (they look red in this light), at his body. Chest hair, she didn’t
think of that.  Had never thought of what he might look like under the
clothes.  Had he thought of her – of course he had.  That was the point of
this, wasn’t it?
Hands reaching for hers.  “My apologies, Abigail.  I thought I would take you
to pick out a dressing station for yourself once you had moved in.  It was
unforgivably rude of me to have nothing set up, however. Come here, let me
help.”
She holds herself as if frozen.  If she moves, she will bolt from this room
like a startled fawn.  It is what she feels like doing – no.  She feels like
she should want to dart.  She isn’t entirely spooked, though.  Not as he turns
her around, hands trailing over her shoulders.
Those same hands, long, artist’s fingers, unbuttoning her dress.  Small
flutters of pressure from the nape of her neck to her lower back.  She cannot
help but shiver – the sensation creating something between a tickle and a
rolling of her stomach. Her core muscles clench, an effort to not react, and
she’s not entirely sure why she doesn’t let herself.
Fully unbuttoned.  And now he will push the dress off her shoulders – but he
doesn’t.  Instead, he steps back, watching her carefully. She turns. His face
is schooled and implacable and his eyes never leave her own.
He will not force her to go further.  Deep, steeling breaths – and she shrugs
the fabric off her shoulders, helping push the dress down past her slender
waist and to the floor.
Now, he breaks from her eyes.  Now, there is a reaction.  His breathing
deepens, some unknown emotion (lustwanthunger) flickers across his face. A
warmth in her chest, a flush to her face, to have caused a reaction.  Something
tonight she has controlled.
“Abigail.” Her name, so often repeated, so exotic on his lips, as he is
beginning to make her feel with his stare. “Come.”
Trembling – chill, not nerves, she tells herself – she reaches out to his
hand.  It does not occur to her that this is the first she has reached for him.
It does not occur to her that this is exactly his plan.
A large step, ungainly legs, and he seats her on the bed.  She is left in her
jewelry – purchased by him, she knows, though her father tried to hide the fact
– in specially purchased satin and lace – “You can’t wear cotton on your
wedding night, dear” – in hose.  Hose clipped to the lace; that is new to her. 
Impractical, she thought, but her mother had insisted.  From the look on his
face, Mother indeed knew best.
He pulls back from her, picks up her fallen dress.  Lovingly caresses the silk
and tulle, lays it over his own valet stand, ensures that it will not wrinkle.
She watches his face as he moves.  What had once seemed so severe, so uncanny,
was beginning to soften to her eyes.  There was age to contrast against her
youth, yes, but there was a beauty beginning to emerge. Perhaps even a
kindness.
 
===============================================================================
 
Back in front of her, pale skin, muscular and lean.  He bends and kisses her
again.  She leans into his lips and he takes that as a cue to press harder
against her mouth.  She tenses, worried that she is doing it wrong, that she
should be less passive, that she is too eager, but then he –oh.
Fingers, dancing down her neck, arms, side. Brushes against her breasts,
stomach. Tickles, but doesn’t. That tensing of her stomach again. She whimpers.
Motion ceases.  Pulling back.  Brown eyes full of warmth watch her.  Large
hands envelop hers, pull them to his body. Kisses on her forehead.
She’s slender, but her body is soft. The only body she knows.  His torso is
hard under her exploring fingers, a new experience. Hair on the chest, taut
skin, swell of muscles, nothing like hers, the first strange body she’s allowed
to touch. Her face must show her wonder; he smiles again.
Kisses on her neck, a snap as her bra is released, hands pushing her back on
the bed, trailing down to her waist. “It’s a sad fact that for young ladies
such as yourself, this is often not pleasant at first.” Fingers looped in the
waistband of her lingerie, kisses on her stomach.  More clenching, sensations
she didn’t know.  “I want you to know that it can be quite pleasurable.  I’m
going to show you a little bit of that.” Panties off, hose off, her arms over
her head (what to do with them?), large, long body leaning over her, laying her
back onto the plush bed.  “I want you to keep this in mind the rest of the
night. If I could, I would give you nothing but pleasure."
Should she speak?  Can she speak?  Kisses fluttering over her breasts, down her
stomach, spreading her legs, fingers dancing close to parts of her that no one
else has seen.  A sudden chill through her body – am I normal? Should I have…
shaved?  Will he-
“Abigail.  You are beautiful.” A mind-reader, then.  Warm breath on her inner
thigh, oh.  Kisses following, moving closer, fingers inside her.  Her back
arches involuntarily; she quickly tries to lay back down lest she disturb him.
She can feel his smile as he kisses her most intimate parts. His breath is warm
and moist and then it is not his breath but his tongue, and that is new and is
he supposed to do that and oh. Oh. Oh! How can she keep silent if he’s going to
keep on doing that?
She whimpers as his tongue finds a most wonderful spot - in the past she has
tried touching herself there, but it never felt (warmwetelectric) quite like
this.
Her hands are running down her body and up his arms and into his hair, the
stiffness of whatever hair product he used crumbling into softness at her
touch. A moan escapes, hips buck: he is licking, sucking and then there is a
finger inside her as he laps and she cannot imagine surviving this experience
and her stomach clenches and-
He stops. Kisses, caresses continue, but it is not the same, no, not the same,
why did he stop? Had she pulled his hair, did he not want her to make those
noises -she couldn't help those, she couldn't help wiggling, trying to maneuver
herself closer to his face, he couldn't stop now she needed more she needed him
- she tries to still her body, her voices, able to quell all but the ragged
(beggingpleadingneeding)breathing and tremors of her lower body.
"Am I," she manages before he cuts her off with a second finger inside her.
Desperate whimpers.
"You are doing nothing wrong, my perfect, my lovely Abigail." Each word dances
over her skin so lightly, teasing. Lips almost touching, even his damn
eyelashes close enough to feel fluttering against her.
Something must give. His fingers find a place inside her she didn't know
existed, never knew and she is whimpering, squirming, begging, speaking a name
that had never yet crossed her lips, "Ha-, Hann-" Fingers on that spot again
and she wants to cry from the aching, throbbing emptiness where his
tonguemouthteeth were.
"Hannibal!"
He must have been waiting for that, waiting to her to beg, to cry his name. He
starts in again with a force that is almost painful and oh there is ohliquid
she feels is that oh saliva, is that her? She would worry again, but not now
not right now she cannot focus.
Pressure, warmth, building in the pit of her belly and she can't stand much
more of this but she'll die if it ends and her fingers are curling in his hair
again cannot let him stop not now not ever building don't stop growing oh god
spilling! Tremors wracking her body and her thighs pulling together
involuntarily, trapping his head, the sensations too much: he does not stop
with tongue or fingers but he is slowing and it's just in time before she
thinks she would scream.
Hands, one with slick fingers, loosening the death grip of her legs, and one
last kiss on her inner thigh - is that a grin? Can't be it's gone, how can he
be so poised? - and he pulls back, massaging down her legs as he goes. She is
trembling, weak, heavy, or she would reach to pull him closer, to hold onto him
as she tries to imagine walking again.
 
===============================================================================
 
He is kneeling between legs still trembling with aftershocks and something has
changed now that she looks at him. His pants are much tighter than before,
bulging in the front - that must be an erection; she can only guess, though.
She has never seen an aroused man, but she has read and she has been told what
she should do now. Quid pro quo, her father said.
She tries to sit up, abdominal muscles failing her halfway. He leans forward,
strong arms wrapping under her shoulders to pull her the rest of the way,
meeting her forehead with his own. He is peering into her eyes and she can
smell herself - her arousal - on his face and she'd always been ashamed of that
smell, under the sheets in darkened bedrooms but now... Now she was fairly
certain she did not mind the smell at all.
Fingers - her fingers - tangling in his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. First
taste of herself on his lips, wet and almostbutnotquite sweet. She untangles
herself from his soft hair, running the tips of her fingers down his back to
his pants waistband.  He breaks the kiss but pulls her closer, her heels
hooking around his legs. Like this, she is taller, able to rest her nose
against his forehead. She holds his gaze, but her attention is lower, trying
now to unbuckle his pants.
He is watching her reactions, regular and paced breaths to her hitched uneven
gulps of air, all high chiseled cheekbones, mouth pursed in thought. If she
could not see his eyes, she would think his observation clinical. His eyes,
though - the slight crinkle of skin around them - say that he is thoroughly
enjoying her fumbling attempts at disrobing him. He makes no move to help her,
instead kissing her face, her neck, her shoulders, cradling her back with the
palms of his oh so deft hands.
A rough tug at his waistband succeeds in releasing the trapped button and she
is able to make quick work of his zipper and her hands look so small against
the muscles in his abdomen but she yanks his pants down. She does not, can not,
match his grace, his economy of motion; he does not seem to be disappointed.
She lets herself touch the bulge in his - are those boxers? They fit so tightly
against his skin - underpants, wondering at what she felt. Firm, yet spongy,
round and she instinctively wants to wrap her fingers around him. She runs a
finger up to the dark hair on his stomach. A sharp intake of breath and his
upper lip curls, baring teeth that hint at a predatory nature, vestigial fangs.
An imperfection in a man so otherwise poised and carefully presented, a glimpse
behind a mask.
Taking heart from his reaction, she tugs at his waist, his buttocks,
encouraging him to stand. He complies, rising easily from his knees (aren't men
his age supposed to have trouble with that?), fluidly finishing his own
disrobing, boxers and pants puddling on the floor.
And there is proof of his arousal, thick and darker than the rest of him and
just a bit wet at the end, right in front of her and she has never seen
anything like it - how is that supposed to fit inside me? How can I manage -
and she is not sure what she expected this to look like. Tentatively, she
reaches out for his waist. This was the part of her father's instruction she
was the least sure of - but her father had not really mentioned the amazing
thing he had done before, so perhaps this would be a surprise too - and she
starts to learn forward, bringing her head down and-
"Abigail, no."
She stills at his voice and he takes her chin in his hand, tilting her face.
Unsure of what to think, isn't this what all men want? He leans down, embracing
her, speaking into the crook of her neck.
"As much as I would enjoy that, it is obvious you don't want to. I assured you
that I would make this as easy as possible for you."
He is pushing her down and back on the bed and then he holds himself up over
her waist, long looks sweeping her body and making her shiver -chill? Nerves?
No... Desire.
"Tonight, I want you to find your own pleasure, not mine."
And he lowers himself, a quick kiss to her nethers eliciting a sharp cry, and
he is working his way back up her body, kisses and unintelligible murmurs
electric against the sensitive skin of stomach and breasts and face. Whatever
the language, she doesn't know, she doesn't care, and then she feels him
pressing up against her entrance. A large hand reaching down, a quick finger
inside her, opening her folds and guiding himself until he is barely inside
her.
He stills again (supranatural control, this man) and kisses her forehead. She
whimpers, trying to squirm until he is fully inside her, even though she still
cannot fathom how she will manage to take him in. "Abigail. If this hurts, I am
sorry."
Then he kisses her mouth, hard and passionate and she feels as if her soul is
being sucked out and - Oh! He thrusts quickly inside her - he fits, after all -
and there is pain, yes, but she is distracted by his mouth on hers and the new
(completeness)fullness. She'd thought his fingers inside her had been filling
but this is so much more and he has not moved again that's not how it goes, he
needs to move, she needs him to move.
He moves. Slowly, deliberately, pulling out, easing in. She understands now why
she gets wet when she is aroused; she is tight around him and there is a bit of
friction that might be unpleasant later, she would be grateful for his earlier
attentions, but she is too busy trying to quantify the new sensations. Every
thrust, gentle and slow - too slow - accompanied by another kiss, another
murmur of her name, another whispered blandishment.
His breath is hot against her skin, in her ear, hitching with each push inside
her, and she turns to see his face against the sheets, finds watching him
almost more fascinating than the feelings building inside her. There is an
ethereal beauty to him, or does she only imagine that? His eyes are nearly
closed, a slight sheen of sweat forming on his skin, musk and lust filling her
nostrils and she wishes she could bottle that for later enjoyment and she is
still sensitive from before, tightening around him, stomach clenching,
forgetting to breathe, warmth spreading through her middle.
Whimpers. Her hands clutching at his chest, his shoulders, his back, frantic
and needy, and he is accelerating, steadily, gently, emotions flashing across
his face that she cannot identify, and she reaches to grasp at his hair, bring
him back to her for a kiss and this is not as intense as before but still
unimaginably satisfying, warmth filling her as surely as he does physically. 
Words melt from her brain, insides spasm uncontrollably, and he moans into her
mouth and she can feel him twitching inside her, spilling into her and will
there ever be an end to the new feelings?
If they are all like this, she hopes not.
 
===============================================================================
 
He collapses on top of her, welcome weight pressing her into the mattress,
breathing heavily into the nape of her neck, blond hair falling in her face,
their limbs heavy and languid, sated and entwined.
She had been told that her wedding night would be painful, unpleasant, and that
with (careskill)luck, she would find a modicum of physical satisfaction in
time. Oh, but Mother was wrong. So very wrong.
He reaches up, brushes her hair back from her face. "Abigail..." His voice is
deeper, husky, thick with that unidentifiable accent. "Thank you. I should
apologize, I-"
"Hannibal," she interrupts. Rude, but perhaps he would forgive her trespass.
She should be thanking him but she cannot form the words, all she can manage is
a smile. He laughs - at her, with her, the deep motion of his belly shaking the
bed. Slowly, he moves, simultaneously pulling out and rolling off of her. She
whimpers, hating to lose the warmth and contact, but he wraps an arm around her
waist, pulls her close and she thinks she may never willingly leave this spot.
This was not her dream, not at all, but it might become something better.
 
End Notes
     HAPPY HANNIDAYS, MOLLY! I hope you had as much fun reading this as I
     did writing it. A+ prompt.
     Thanks to GreyMichaela for coming along and giving me a proper beta
     for all my stuff!
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their work!