Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Lately, Will had started thinking about sex with Hannibal.

To be more clear, lately Will had started thinking about having sex with Hannibal. 

The idea of sex with Hannibal was nothing new.  That is, the concept of the sexual and Hannibal existing in the same general area had been an easy enough connection for his brain to make.  He’d observed Hannibal’s sensuality and suggestiveness many times over the years, and his own reactions to them, with a kind of matter-of-fact acceptance.  It was simply another part of what they were, that static charge that buzzed into being whenever they shared space.  But their attraction—and he supposed he should call it that, if only to accurately describe the phenomenon in terms of gravitational physics—had always remained in the realm of the abstract.  Like reading a stunning piece of sheet music without ever actually hearing it played.  He’d never contemplated how the physical act of sex with Hannibal might play out. 

Now he couldn’t seem to stop. 

Since their recovery, and falling into a strange near-domesticity in yet another secret safe house that Hannibal course had ready, Will had begun to feel like crossing that final line between them was inevitable.  Sex would be, in some ways, one of the least intimate acts between them.  And yet it remained as a kind of flimsy yet persistent barrier—a sheet of plastic wrap preventing full, complete contact.  Will knew it was only a matter of time before one of them tore through that spider web-thin shielding.  It was what would follow after that seemed to plague Will now. 

Part of him just couldn’t quite picture it.  Sure, Hannibal had a certain hedonistic sensuality about him, but actual sex?  Sex was messy, sometimes awkward, and generally, well…undignified.  Hannibal seemed imbued a kind of 'Renaissance art' type of sexuality: beautiful, pristine, and ultimately untouchable. 

He’d never asked Alana what Hannibal was like in bed--and God, he had no idea how he would have ever managed to bring that topic up in conversation--but now he was kind of regretting missing his chance.  He supposed he could have asked Bedelia, but picturing that smug smirk she’d no doubt have on her face when she answered caused his blood to boil in a way that made him worry that line of questioning might have resulted in an attempted murder charge. 

So, he had only his own observations and imaginings to go on, which in this particular area appeared to be inconveniently sparse.  What would sex with someone who maintained such perfect self-control even be like?  There were only two times Will could remember witnessing a crack in that control; one of those times had been on the edge of a cliff after Hannibal had been recently shot, and the other had been in a kitchen after he’d stabbed Will in the gut, so neither could really be viewed as ideal scenarios. 

Would Hannibal allow that control to crack when it came to sexual intimacy?  That was the real question, and it was hard to think the answer would be yes.  It was easier to believe that he’d somehow remain that perfect marble statue, even in the midst of passion, in a way Will was certain he’d never be able to.  When things finally broke free between them, Will would undoubtedly be the one frenzied with lust, while Hannibal’s mind would remain frustratingly clear.  And then he’d use all that clever skill and effortless sensuality to take Will apart, piece by piece.  He’d oh so delicately direct Will this way and that, until Will wouldn’t be able to tell which way was up anymore—till he could no longer distinguish between which desires were his, and which were Hannibal’s.

That thought made him prickle, like a porcupine, a sour taste forming in his mouth.  He wanted Hannibal, he could admit that at least, but he wanted him on his own terms.  What he really wanted was to be able to explore that aspect between them without Hannibal swaying his course like a strong tide on a weak rudder.  Even the thought of Hannibal’s eyes on him—piercing, hypnotizing—made Will’s jaw clench.  It put him on edge, and he found himself waiting for one of them to make the first move that would bring their suggested sexual relationship into the literal like it were a bomb.

He wasn’t quite sure when the idea for a solution to this problem came to him; divergent elements popped up like footnotes in his mind, until they suddenly coalesced all at once into a fully formed thought. 

It probably started when he noticed Hannibal’s well stocked medical cabinet.  Without conscious thought, he found himself fingering a certain bottle of drugs, reading and re-reading the label.  It could cause intense drowsiness and memory loss when taken in higher doses.  Do not take with alcohol, as it could increase the effects and cause the drug to enter the bloodstream more rapidly. 

One day, prompted by nothing, Will measured what he judged to be a large but not dangerous dosage, and carefully funneled it into a small, clear vial before sticking the vial in his pocket. 

He still had no clear intention of using it.  But he carried the vial with him, always carefully secreted away.  He never touched it, or placed a telling hand over his pocket absentmindedly, but he felt it there, a constant reassurance that eased his tension and soothed his abrasive worries. 

He was oddly unconcerned about the implications of what he was implicitly contemplating.  That in itself should probably concern him--hat he could even consider this, justify this, was yet another sign that his sense of morality was likely damaged beyond repair.  He was a killer, but so far he’d still only killed other killers.  Whether that would change under Hannibal’s more constant influence was yet to be determined, but for now it remained the case.  He’d come to accept those actions.  Was this really so different?  Though raping rapists wasn’t exactly something he was eager to add to his repertoire, and Hannibal, while many things, certainly wasn’t that—no, his chosen violations tended to be a tad less inelegant.  Still, it wasn’t like he was taking advantage of some innocent coed; it was Hannibal, who was about as far from innocent as a person could get.

Maybe that was what it came down to really, why he could contemplate this with so little self-recrimination: it was Hannibal.  Hannibal was, still, the only person he had ever persistently and actively fantasized about killing.  He was also the only person he’d fantasized about killing with.  Those first fantasies had stopped, but it was still indicative of how, as far as Will’s morality went, Hannibal existed as a thing apart—a category held completely and wholly to himself. 

At this point, Will was still mostly certain that he’d never actually use the little vial tucked discretely into his pocket. 

Their home for the time being was not nearly as ostentatious as Hannibal’s old house had been, and was even a step down from the secret getaway on the bluff, but it still had an ample kitchen and dining room, two bedrooms upstairs, and something that could be described as a library, or maybe a sitting room, complete with leather upholstered easy chairs and a fireplace.  After dinner, Hannibal would often put on some music—usually a soft, lilting soprano played on an impeccably well-kept record player—and relax in one of the armchairs, his eyes closed, head swaying slightly in time to the music.  Will usually left him there, retiring to his own room, still able to hear the faint strains of the music through the floor until Hannibal turned it off and came up, opening and closing the door across the hall with a gentle creak. 

Tonight, Will hovered in the doorway, watching Hannibal settle into his usual seat.  After a moment, he stepped inside and made his way over to the vintage, globe-shaped liquor cabinet.  He’d nearly burst out laughing when he’d seen it for the first time—it was the type of thing one saw in movies and assumed no one in real life had actually owned.  He slid open the top, and now Hannibal turned his head and looked over at him, taking note of this change in routine. 

“I’m having a drink,” Will said, stating the obvious as he poured himself two fingers worth of what he knew was very good whiskey.  “Should I pour you one?” Will asked, almost an afterthought, as he paused before replacing the cap onto the bottle. 

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, seemingly contemplating the question.  “I’m more partial to wine than hard liquor,” he said after a moment, sounding almost-but-not-quite apologetic.  “I believe there’s still half a bottle of Montevertine in the kitchen.”

Will’s lip quirked.  “…Would you like me to get you a glass?” He prompted, tone teasing. 

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Hannibal replied.

Will fought the urge to roll his eyes, and closed the bottle of whiskey with a small sigh.  He’d made it all the way to the kitchen, placed one of Hannibal’s crystal wine glasses on the counter and pulled the cork from the bottle of over-priced red before any thought of the vial in his pocket came to him. 

Then he stopped.  Pausing mid-motion, with the only sound in his ears quite suddenly his own heartbeat, Will seemed to peer over the edge of a cliff, his toes scraping the edge. 

Like in times before, the line between indecision and decision was drawn in the space between two heartbeats. 

Will took out the vial, and emptied the contents into the glass.  He poured a generous portion of wine, and swirled it until there was no visible sign of the drug, then dropped the empty vial into the trash, and made his way back to Hannibal, carrying the glass in one hand and the not quite empty bottle of wine in the other. 

He set the bottle of Montevertine with the other liquor, picked up his own glass of whiskey, and crossed to Hannibal.  He held out the glass of glinting dark red liquid with a casual impatience.  Hannibal took it with a nod, and Will took a seat in the armchair across from him.  He brought the whiskey to his lips while Hannibal set his nose over the rim of his wine glass and inhaled, the way he and all pretentious wine aficionados do before deigning to allow a vintage to pass their lips. 

And then, Hannibal paused. 

Will swallowed, the bitter taste of alcohol in his mouth as his heart skipped a beat, because he was abrubtly, terrifyingly certain that Hannibal knew. 

He knew. 

That freak nose, Will thought, jaw clenching, that fucking freak nose.  When Hannibal had first gotten around to telling him that he’d known Freddie Lounds was alive because he’d smelled her on him, Will had thought he was joking.  Because that just wasn’t normal, wasn’t human.  But in the end he had to concede that this bit of unreality was simply another piece of the insanity that came with Hannibal Lecter.  Somehow, the relevance hadn’t occurred to him until this moment.  He started to feel a faint itch along his stomach, along the scar that ran across there, as visions of blood began to cloud the corners of his eyes.      

It could only have been a moment, a handful of seconds at most, but Will felt like it lasted eons as his mind raced. 

And then, calmly, Hannibal brought the rim of the wine glass to his lips and tilted his head back, draining it all in one long gulp.  When he’d finished, he lowered the glass, his tongue darting over his lips to snatch the traces of red there, eyes closed like he was contemplating the taste. 

“Mm,” he hummed thoughtfully.  “This vintage is better than I remembered.  Would you be kind enough to fetch me another glass?” 

He held out the wine glass by the stem, his posture easy, eyes mild.  Will stared back.  Disbelieving.

Forcing his limbs to move, he set down his whiskey on the accent table to his right and stood up.  In the two and a half steps it took to cross the space between them, Will thought of a dozen or so ways Hannibal could kill him before the drug set in.  As he clasped his fingers around the glass, brushing dangerously against Hannibal’s own, he wondered if Hannibal had slipped something into his own whiskey while he’d been out of the room.  As he poured the last of the Montevertine into Hannibal’s glass, he wildly considered the possibility that Hannibal had built up some kind of immunity, and he was in some absurd Princess Bride scenario. 

He handed off the glass to Hannibal, who received it with another nod and a smile, and retook the seat across from him.  He watched as Hannibal repeated the process of sniffing his wine before bringing the rim to his lips, this time taking a slow, savoring sip and allowing the liquid to swirl around his mouth before swallowing. 

“What an unexpected pleasure, Will,” Hannibal said, eyes still on the wine, before lifting his gaze.  “To have you join me tonight.”  There was weighted pause.  “What shall we talk about?” 

Will wrapped his hand around his glass of whiskey, not lifting it.  He fiddled with it instead, twisting it back and forth on the surface of the table. 

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt the evening’s performance,” he said, with glance toward the record player, throat tight. 

Hannibal’s smile widened.  “As enchanting as Dame Leider’s Leibestod is, her company is one I am fortunate enough to be blessed with whenever I wish.  Yours is not always so easily called upon.”  He took another sip. 

Will stared at the maddening man sitting across from him.  He was starting to wonder if he’d imagined that moment of hesitation, that maybe Hannibal was completely unaware after all.  There was certainly nothing in his voice, in his posture, in the way he calmly sat there and sipped his two-hundred dollar wine, to suggest otherwise. 

“Nothing to say?” Hannibal commented in response to Will’s silence.  

“Just…thinking,” Will replied cautiously. 

“Mm,” Hannibal hummed, taking another sip.  “Normally I wouldn’t rush you, but I don’t think we have very much time before I cease to be a satisfactory conversational partner.” 

So.  That cleared that up then. 

Oddly, Will felt a kind of relief with it out in the open.  He relaxed into his chair, and finally took another sip of his whiskey. 

“How much time would you say we have?” He asked, after a beat, tilting an eyebrow. 

“How much did you give me?” Hannibal replied evenly, matching Will’s tone.  Will hesitated only moment before answering.   

“About five grams.”

Hannibal took that in with barely a blink, then took a breath in through his nose.  “In that case, I think I should count myself lucky if I manage to finish this splendid glass of wine.”  He took another sip, shooting Will a sardonic glance over the rim.  Will found the corners of his lips quirking into a smile despite himself. 

“You don’t seem very concerned,” Will observed darkly. 

“Should I be?” Hannibal asked. 

“I don’t know,” Will said tightly, a bit of venom bleeding through.  “Maybe.” 

Hannibal regarded him a moment. 

“Do you intend to kill me?”

He said it in that same even, untroubled way he’d asked, 'Do you fantasize about killing me' all those years ago.  Will felt his throat tighten. 

“No,” he rasped.  He took another swig of alcohol, swallowing around the lump in his throat.  “No, I don’t intend to kill you.” 

Hannibal tilted his head, contemplative.  “Do you intend to leave then,” he said, not quite managing to disguise the bitter flatness of his tone.  “Perhaps take this opportunity to make certain I couldn’t follow.” 

Will blinked.  A soft chuckle burst from his chest.  He decided not to explain exactly how much that idea never would have occurred to him. 

“You’d follow,” he said instead, with amusement.  “No matter where I went, sooner or later, you’d find me.” 

Hannibal looked at him, a blankness coloring his eyes for a breath before blinking away. 

“I would.  But not, I think, how you imagine.”  He twirled the stem of the wine glass in his fingers, eyes lowering to watch the dark liquid swirl about inside.  “This may surprise you, but it was never my intention to hold you hostage.  If you truly wish to leave, I will not stop you, and I will not trouble you.”  He lifted his eyes, dark orbs meeting Will’s own.  “I will watch, but I will not trouble you.” 

For some reason, Will felt his face heat at Hannibal’s words, his heart thumping distractedly against his ribcage. 

“I’m not leaving,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, and gulped down another mouthful of whiskey.  His glass was nearly empty now, only the slightest shimmer of liquid left on the bottom.

Hannibal seemed to assess his answer, and then nodded once, almost to himself.  He opened his mouth, paused, and then spoke.  “What are your intentions, then?” 

Will found himself smirking.  “I thought you weren’t concerned,” he said teasingly.

“You made that assessment; I never made any such claim.”  With that, he finished the last of his wine, holding the glass aloft with a small smile of victory. 

Will felt his smirk fade into a scowl, stomach twisting.  “You drank the wine,” he stated, with a note of accusation.

Hannibal’s eyes flickered from his wine glass to Will.  “I did.” 

“You knew what was in it,” Will pressed.

Deftly, Hannibal turned slightly in his chair, placing the wine glass on the accent table near him.  “I did.”

Will fought to urge to grind his teeth.  “So, what did you think I would do.” 

“I didn’t know,” Hannibal replied simply, sitting back in his chair.  “I considered a number of possibilities, but I couldn’t say for certain.” 

“You didn’t know,” Will repeated, slowly.  “What I would do.  And you still drank the wine I drugged.”

Hannibal took a breath.  “Yes.” 

Will stared for a long moment.  “Why.” 

Hannibal tilted his head slightly.  “I believe you have yet to answer my own question.”

Will’s lip twitched.  “About my ‘intentions’.” 

“Yes,” was Hannibal’s prompt reply.

Will considered a moment.  He could lay everything out, right here and now.  Give Hannibal a chance to…what?  Protest?  Agree?  Talk him out of it?  Do…something to shape the way it would all play out?

He clicked his tongue.    

“I think you can probably figure that out,” he said, and chugged back the last of his whiskey.  “And if not…” He said dismissively, making a show of examining his empty glass.  “Well, then, you’re just going to have to wait and see when you wake up.” 

With that, he snapped his gaze back onto Hannibal.  Hannibal gazed back steadily, quiet and unmoving.  After a moment, something flickered—a glint, perhaps, of comprehension somewhere deep inside those dark eyes.

“Then,” said Hannibal slowly.  “That being the way of things…I think you shall have to wait for your answer as well.”

Will almost smiled at that—a real, genuine smile—because that was just so very perfect. 

“Well, alright, then,” he said easily, setting his glass aside.  “Let me know when you start feeling sleepy.”  

Hannibal let out a deep sigh.  “I’ve already begun to feel the drug’s effects.  I doubt I will be able to execute the semblance of normal functions for very much longer.” 

“You may be right about that,” Will murmured mildly.  Hannibal’s words were already becoming more noticeably slurred.  He wondered if Hannibal was allowing that, giving an exaggerated performance of the drug’s effects on him.  It seemed only a few moments before Hannibal’s posture began to slump, his head swaying unsteadily as he blinked and swallowed far more often than usual. 

“Hannibal?” Will prompted tentatively.  There was no answer.  Standing, Will crossed to Hannibal’s chair, bending over to look in the man’s face.  “Hannibal?” He asked again.  Hannibal’s head lolled to one side in response.  Will grabbed his jaw in one hand and turned the man’s face toward him, his grip firm and clinical.  He looked over him closely, assessing.  If this was an act, it was a damn good one: Hannibal’s jaw was slack, his eyes unfocussed and constantly fighting to stay open.  It seemed that Will had, indeed, successfully drugged Hannibal Lecter. 

That full realization suddenly brought on a brief spark of panic, as what had been an abstract idea untill now crashed abruptly into reality. 

He didn’t have to do anything, Will reminded himself.  He could stop here.  No one was forcing him.  There was nothing at all to compel him to follow through with his half-formed plans.  He could simply condemn Hannibal to an uncomfortable night sleeping in a chair, and leave it at that.

With a kind of disconnected curiosity, Will watched as his thumb slid from Hannibal’s jaw, across his cheek, and over his mouth.  He pressed down as he passed along Hannibal’s lips, not quite rough, but not gentle either, observing how the loose flesh contorted under the pad of his thumb.  He slipped in between Hannibal’s lips and pulled down on Hannibal’s teeth.  His jaw opened readily, without a hint of resistance.  With nothing obstructing him, Will slid his thumb through the gap now formed between two rows of teeth, smoothly pressing along the curve of Hannibal’s tongue.  There was nearly no response from Hannibal.  Aside from the slightest of twitches, everything remained pliable and utterly inactive as Will inserted his thumb deeper and deeper into Hannibal’s mouth till it was all the way inside. 

There was a pause, like when a rollercoaster perches at the highest point on the rail, and then Will shuddered.  A deep, gnawing arousal coiled tightly in his groin, and he knew.

He wasn’t going to stop. 

Dragging his thumb from Hannibal’s mouth, Will took a moment to tug at the insensate man’s lower lip, coating it with his own saliva, before grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him to his feet.  Hannibal had taken to dressing more casually since the fall, which Will didn’t mind, but he suddenly missed the presence of Hannibal’s quintessential silk ties.  Hannibal swayed, but with Will steadying him managed to keep his feet. 

“Come on,” Will said, tugging Hannibal towards him.  “Let’s get you upstairs.”

“Up…stairs…” Hannibal repeated, mumbling, the word sounding almost foreign as the sounds were broken up and elongated. 

With an arm at Hannibal’s back and another holding his shoulder, Will carefully walked Hannibal up the flight of stairs and into his bedroom—Hannibal’s bedroom, another decision Will made without much conscious consideration.  Once inside, Will helped plant Hannibal on his feet, and found the man stayed where he put him, though he still swayed slightly from foot to foot.  Will closed the door behind them, which was maybe a bit odd, since it wasn’t like there was anyone else in the house.  Still…this seemed like the sort of thing the door should be closed for. 

For a long moment, Will simply looked at Hannibal.  That typical sharp shine to his eyes was covered now by a shadowed haze, his normally firm yet graceful posture unbalanced and softened. 

Will stepped forward and started tugging Hannibal out of his shirt.  It occurred to him suddenly that he’d never even seen this much--never seen Hannibal anything less than fully clothed.  When he’d divested Hannibal of his shirt, he dropped it on the floor and took half a step back, his eyes trailing over the newly exposed flesh.  It was…somehow exactly right, exactly what he might expect Hannibal to look like under his armor: strong and lithe…just the slightest bit inhuman, except for how utterly and undeniably real he was. 

Reaching out a hand, Will’s first touch was to the scar from the Dragon’s bullet, light fingers caressing the pale indentation and surrounding skin.  He pressed his palm over the wound, then slid his hand over the curve of Hannibal’s hip to his back.  There should be a matching one there, and…yes, there it was.  He could feel it, that tiny dip in the flesh, and he laid in hand over it, wrapping his arm around Hannibal’s waist and pulling himself against his bare chest.  He closed his eyes, laying his scarred cheek over Hannibal’s heart, listening to the firm thumpthump of it through his skin.  A deep inhale, and he sighed, his breath tickling the light brush of hairs covering Hannibal’s chest. 

He slid around Hannibal’s body, keeping his hand pressed to the man’s skin as he stepped behind him, his palm smoothing its way across Hannibal’s spine to meet his other hip.  He looked over the planes of Hannibal’s bare back, and blinked.  His brow furrowed. 

A large circle of raised scar tissue marred Hannibal’s skin.  It was only slightly paler than the flesh surrounding it, and discerning its shape and form required closer concentration.  Intricate lines played almost delicately across skin, the figures of crown and boar appearing almost sophisticated until one took in the crude lettering underneath.  Will traced over the ‘V’ in ‘Verger’ with the pad of his index finger. 

“A souvenir from Muskrat Farm,” he murmured, the last word lilting up in pitch, making it into half a question.  His eyes flicked up to the back of Hannibal’s head, as though he might answer, but there was only silence.  A strange tightness in his stomach, Will brought his gaze back to the branded skin in front of him.  He spread his fingers and, light as spider legs, placed them softly along the very edges of the rounded scar, barely touching the raised flesh.  Delicate.  Tentative.  Then he drew his hand away, fingers curling in on themselves.  In a moment of bold impulsiveness, he bent forward and pressed his dry lips softly to the very top of the brand where scar tissue met unblemished skin. 

He held Hannibal gently by the hips, eyes closed as he breathed steadily through his nose and lingered with his lips against Hannibal’s bare flesh.  Were these scars, Will wondered, something that showed Hannibal to be less mythic, less untouchable, than he appeared?  More…human?  But, no, Will concluded, pulling away.  These were not human scars.  These were the scars of a monster, won doing battle with other monsters. 

He looked over them once more, and then came back round to Hannibal’s front.  Hannibal was looking a bit unsteady, like he might collapse at any moment, and Will supposed he should get on with it.

First…taking half a step in, till he and Hannibal were nearly chest to chest, Will sought out Hannibal’s eyes.  They were half-closed and hazy, and kept sliding off to the left or right.  Will put a hand to the back of Hannibal’s neck and held his head in place.  Cautiously, he leaned in and placed their lips together.  Hannibal didn’t move, his mouth staying soft and passive under Will’s own.  Will deepened the kiss, pushing his mouth into Hannibal’s.  Hannibal’s lips parted from simple application of force, and Will didn’t hesitate, sliding his tongue inside. 

Free to explore, he licked along the inner cavern of Hannibal’s mouth in a way it would have never occurred to him to do in any normal kiss.  He pulled down on Hannibal’s jaw with his other hand as he sucked on his face and plunged his tongue in grotesquely deep before slithering out again.  Hannibal wasn’t really responding, making only miniscule movements lacking any force or intent, but he opened readily and that was enough for Will now.  He pulled away, leaving Hannibal’s lips swollen and wet with a trail of spittle dripping from them.  He wiped his own mouth, bit his bottom lip, and lowered his eyes. 

He reached out and took ahold of Hannibal’s belt, giving the buckle a firm tug.  Raising his eyes to Hannibal’s face, he watched the impassive expression there keenly as he worked open the clasp with both hands.  Gaining confidence, his fingers didn’t pause before moving to work open the front of Hannibal slacks, barely trembling at the errant brushes to Hannibal’s groin.  With a firm shove, he sent Hannibal’s pants falling to the floor around his feet, the act Will observed himself finding disproportionately erotic. 

A moment’s hesitation, and Will slipped his fingers under the waistband of Hannibal’s underwear and dragged them down as well.  He pushed Hannibal backwards till his knees hit the bed and he fell back, sprawling, onto the mattress.  Half-kneeling, Will quickly yanked Hannibal’s pants and underwear off his feet along with his shoes and socks, and then stood, looking down over the now naked man before him. 

Hannibal’s eyes were half closed.  His movements were restricted to tiny, indistinct shifts: a small turn of his head against the bedding, a flexing of fingers, a subtle redistribution of weight.  His lips parting, or pressing together softly as he breathed.  The lump of his throat bobbing as he swallowed.  For a long minute Will stood perfectly still, almost a mirror to Hannibal’s drug-induced motionlessness, his gaze meandering over vast planes of exposed flesh.  Hannibal’s body lay limply on the bed—conspicuous, and starkly antithetical to all that oscillating potential and kinetic energy the man normally personified.  Will imagined that even in sleep, Hannibal would never have otherwise appeared so docilly passive.  It was disquieting.  And, at the same time, utterly intoxicating. 

Killing Randall Tier hadn’t given him this potent a power trip.

Suddenly hot, Will clawed at the buttons of his shirt, nearly tearing some of them as he ripped the fabric from his shoulders, tossing it carelessly off to the side and out of sight.  His undershirt soon followed and, now bare from the waist up, he set his sights on Hannibal.  He grabbed the man’s legs and pushed them up and out, bending them at the knee and then settling between Hannibal’s splayed thighs.  He took a moment to adjust himself in his trousers, his erection starting to become an uncomfortable distraction.  He pushed that need aside—there’d be time for that later, he promised the ache in his pants—for now, he had other, more pressing concerns. 

Like finding out how Hannibal’s cock would feel in his hand. 

Swallowing once, Will reached out and took a firm hold of Hannibal’s flaccid penis, inhaling sharply at the sudden warmth to the sensitive inner curve of his palm.  Experimentally, he swiped his thumb over the head, pulling gently that the foreskin to reveal the tip.  He rubbed the pad of his thumb in slow circles over the slit, and felt the flesh in his hand begin to swell.  Hannibal was unconscious, but his body could still respond to stimuli, and Will even heard a faint grunt as Will squeezed tighter and started rubbing up and down the shaft of Hannibal’s growing erection.

“This would probably benefit from some lubrication,” Will muttered to himself.  He shot a look up at Hannibal.  “I’m sure you’d agree, if you could.” 

Will paused his ministrations and cast his eyes about the room.  Settling on one of the nightstands, he stood and rounded the bed. 

“I don’t suppose you’d have anything on hand,” he continued, conversationally, sliding open the top drawer.  There was a bottle sitting inside, next to a pile of crisp, white cotton handkerchiefs, and Will plucked it up, examining the label curiously.  It had an elegant design, subtly and unobtrusively informing that the bottle contained a “personal lubricant,” and which on closer, careful inspection also contained the phrase “anal relaxant.”  Will quirked an eyebrow, and then his smile widened into a grin as he noticed the bottle was half empty.  “Why, Doctor Lecter,” Will chortled.  “What have you been getting up to.” 

Will pumped a small dollop onto one finger and sniffed, relieved to detect only a faint, fresh green-ish scent from the slippery substance.  He rubbed the slick between his finger and thumb, and then smoothly shut the drawer with his hip.  He returned to the space between Hannibal’s parted legs with the bottle in tow, regarding the body in front of him with hooded eyes.  With surprising calm, a pumped a more generous portion of lubricant onto his fingers and slipped them deftly between the cheeks of Hannibal’s ass.  He rubbed firmly, insistently, coating Hannibal’s hole and perineum with slickness.  There was a low, rumbling hum in response—a senseless, sleepy sound—and Will smiled to himself. 

“You like that, huh,” Will commented breathily.  He pulled back his fingers to apply more lube.  “What about this?” 

He pressed his index finger inside, and Hannibal readily opened to him, his hips canting ever-so-slightly up into the invasion.  Will began to slide in and out, and the tight inner walls surrounding his finger seemed to pulse, clenching and releasing in time to his movements.  Will’s cock gave an approving twitch, and Will swallowed hard, face heating.  Hannibal’s lips were moving—forming vague, inaudible murmurings with each exhaled breath—his head swaying back and forth against the bed as his eyelids fluttered.  A second finger was added beside the first, plunging in resolutely to the third knuckle.  The passageway felt unbearably tight at first, but soon began to loosen, adapting and adjusting almost eagerly to the new girth. 

Hannibal’s cock lay against his stomach, glistening pearls of precum dripping from the head.  Pumping a handful of slick into his free palm, Will took hold of it. He began working it slowly, getting used to the feel of it; how it was like his own, but also…not.  Humans were mostly built of the same basic components, but it was in the minutiae of detail that anything of interest was found.  In reality, there wasn’t any significant difference between the male sex organ in his hand and any other one might encounter.  And yet, somehow to Will it seemed uniquely exceptional—because like all pieces and parts of Hannibal, this one was exactly and precisely suited to him, and nothing of Hannibal’s even existed on the same plane as ordinary.

He sped up a bit, marveling at the minute signs of helpless pleasure he could draw out of Hannibal’s unconscious form.  He found Hannibal’s prostate with his fingers, grinning at the way Hannibal’s hips would buck just a little each time he touched it.  He shoved a third finger inside and nearly laughed out loud at the muffled mewl that tore out of Hannibal’s throat.  It was unreal: after everything—everything Hannibal had done, everything he’d put Will through, all the ways he’d turned him inside out and twisted him up—now, after all that, Will was the one who had him in the palm of his hand.  Wrapped round his fingers. 

He gave those fingers a rough twist just to hit home the point.  He hadn’t considered this act in terms of retribution—and he wouldn’t say that was something that even remotely interested him anymore—but there was a certain karmic irony he could appreciate. 

“I’m gonna make you come, Hannibal,” Will half-threatened.  “And then…” He found himself panting and he paused, gasping for breath as the unspoken words rattled around his brain and left him burning. 

“Then I’m gonna fuck you.” 

With that, the motions of his hands on Hannibal’s flesh shifted from exploratory to relentless, barreling Hannibal towards orgasm like he was kicking down a door.  But, Hannibal’s defenses were more made of paper than oak at the moment, and so he smashed through in mere moments.  Hannibal climaxed in a kind of broken explosion, jerking disjointedly and choking silently on air, before falling back to the bed to hang even more limply than before.  His stomach and chest were splattered sloppily with cum—an image that was, while filthy and pornographic, not, on Hannibal, entirely inelegant. 

Will eased back off the mattress to his feet, letting his arms drop to his sides.  He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands awkwardly drenched in lube in a way that reminded him of when they’d been covered in blood.  Hannibal lay unmoving but for the rise and fall of his chest, his legs still spread obscenely, the slick wetness between his cheeks wantonly displayed. 

Will was sure he’d never been so fucking hard in his life. 

Quickly, Will grabbed a washcloth from Hannibal’s bathroom, grateful that Hannibal’s tendency toward the extravagant meant each bedroom came with their own washroom.  He wiped his hands and was back in no time at all, the cloth left forgotten on the floor somewhere.  He regarded Hannibal’s inert form for a mere moment, and then he was snatching up one of Hannibal’s pillows.  It took a bit of maneuvering, but Will was stronger than he looked and very motivated, and soon enough Hannibal was turned onto his stomach, the pillow tucked firmly under his hips. 

Will carefully made sure Hannibal’s head was turned to one side, laying his cheek gently to rest against the bed so he could comfortably breathe, and with luck probably wouldn’t have too bad of a neck cramp.  Then it was back to the foot of the bed to inspect his work, and the sight he was met with left him practically salivating. 

Hannibal’s position with the pillow under his hips raised his ass at a slight angle in a way that could only politely be described as ‘inviting.’  His strong thighs naturally fell open just a bit, and Will could see the glinting pink wetness of Hannibal’s freshly finger-fucked hole peeking from between the shapely cheeks of his ass.  It was lewd and vulgar, and quite frankly disrespectful.  Abruptly, it was clear exactly how much of Hannibal’s ubiquitous and carefully cultivated dignity had been stripped away by this whole exercise in moral reprehensibility.  And Will knew he should feel guilty and ashamed about that, he really did, but fucking hell, seeing Hannibal like this—all exposed and vulnerable, defiled and degraded—it got him so fiercely hot and achingly hard, and he just didn’t fucking care about all the rest of it.  Not now. 

He yanked open his belt, hurriedly toeing off his shoes and socks and then shuffling out of his pants and underwear with flagrant urgency, half-hopping as one leg got stuck around his ankle, and the whole thing couldn’t have appeared any kind of graceful, but hell, it wasn’t like anyone was looking, now was it?  Finally freed of his clothes, he almost dove onto the bed, pushing Hannibal’s legs open wide and landing on his knees between them.  Not quite shaking, he dragged his hands up along the firm muscle of Hannibal’s thighs, at last coming to rest solidly on the mounds of his well-formed ass.  He gave them a hard squeeze, and as the flesh moved under his fingers it seemed suddenly ludicrous that he’d never done this before, that he could have ever waited this long to get his hands on Hannibal like this. 

He groaned, deep and guttural, and pulled apart Hannibal’s cheeks.  With Hannibal’s pucker now fully exposed, Will took some moments to appreciate the unobstructed view of this inner-most private part of him.  Not many moments, though, because Will’s patience had utterly run out by now.  Hannibal’s hole appeared to be dripping with lube, so Will didn’t bother retrieving the bottle that had fallen to the floor by now; instead, he simply sank both of his thumbs deep inside, and pulled, watching hungrily as Hannibal’s entrance stretched wide, the muscle easily bending under his insistent pressure. 

With that, he slid his thumbs from Hannibal’s flexing hole and lined up his cock.  Said cock, sensing that its long and unjust neglect was coming to an end, jerked excitedly, smearing a line of precum along Hannibal’s open crack.  Keeping a harsh grip on Hannibal’s ass, Will at long last sank inside Hannibal’s pliant, unresisting body.  He drove all the way in in one smooth motion, not pausing until his hips were pressed hard against Hannibal’s ass.  For a moment, all he could do was stay there, frozen, the gripping, slick tightness around him almost too much to bear.  Then, from somewhere deep inside, he let out a long, low, throaty groan.  His eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth clenched and lips pulled back in gruesome snarl as his body and brain attempted to process the profound enormity of this moment. 

Nothing before this could have prepared him for the reality of being buried cock deep in Hannibal Lecter’s ass. 

Will’s hands felt around blindly till they found the firm knobs of Hannibal’s hipbones, ruthlessly digging his fingernails into the flesh of them as he forced Hannibal to tilt his pelvis and arch even further up into the cock spearing him.  Will groaned again, and this time the sound was even rougher, more ragged.  He took a harsh breath in through his nose, and opened his eyes.

He looked over the slope of Hannibal’s back, following the line of his spine up to his neck and the feathery strands of hair covering his face.  His arms were bent at the elbows, hands resting beside his head, fingers softly curled.  He had all the appearance of peaceful sleep, of having drifted off into some sweet, placid dream.  In all the time Will had known him, Hannibal had never looked more innocent. 

Will’s mouth opened into another snarl, sucking in air between his teeth, and then released his breath in a low, thundering growl.  Sure and uncompromising, he held Hannibal in place, drew his cock nearly all the way out, and then slammed back in with enough force that Hannibal’s whole body shook from the impact.  With that, all of his held tension was unleased.  He fucked Hannibal, his body working on pure instinct, hips snapping hard and fast, his hold on Hannibal’s hips unrelenting, driven by that singular need to plunge deeper and deeper and deeper into the pulsing heat around him. 

He’d never fucked like this; Will, like most, at least tried to be a conscientious and caring lover, to seek fulfilling his partner's needs as much as own.  He’d never felt resentful of that, or found anything unpleasant about it at all.  He’d certainly never selfishly used someone’s body without any thought to their pleasure or comfort.  But he was now.  He was fucking into Hannibal’s ass without a single care spared for the man.  If it had been anyone else, he would have been appalled at himself.  Horrified.  But this was Hannibal. 

And all he felt was pure fucking exhilaration.

His ears were filled with the sound of the slap slap slap of flesh on flesh, the thrumming pound of his own heartbeat, and an occasional grunt or gasp.  All noises of his own making.  If Hannibal was letting out any sounds, they were too quiet to be heard over Will’s frenetic fucking.  With a last, vicious thrust and a growl, Will pulled Hannibal flush against his hips, threw his head back and let out a painful sounding howl as he came. 

He pumped cum deep into Hannibal’s ass, wave after wave of his orgasm coursing through him, beads of sweat dripping down his neck.  One last hissing gasp and he fell forward, half-bowed over Hannibal’s back.  A series of shuddering breaths rocked through him, and he laid down, lying his cheek against the dip between Hannibal’s shoulder blades.  He let his arms wrap around Hannibal’s sides, just breathing, drawing fortitude from the silent stability in Hannibal’s dormant body. 

After some unmarked length of time, Will drew himself up, lazily planting a kiss to the base of Hannibal’s neck.  Trailing kisses down the bumps of Hannibal’s spine, piercing straight through the mark of the brand as he went, as he slowly sat back on his heels.  When he reached the point when curving his back was a strain, he sat up straight.  His cock, now flaccid, was still buried inside Hannibal, and Will couldn’t stop a regretful sigh as he finally withdrew.  His limp penis slipped from Hannibal hole, and soon after droplets of cum started to follow, dribbling fluidly down his crack.  There was a painful twinge in his groin as a sharp stab of arousal fought to revive his spent and exhausted cock. 

“You look positively debauched, Doctor Lecter.”  Aside from his dripping hole, reddened and swollen from being pounded so mercilessly, Hannibal’s hips and buttocks were dotted with dark, savage bruises.  Will drank in the sight, an unnerving satisfaction churning in his belly.  “No,” he murmured darkly.  “Not debauched.  Ravaged.  You’ve been ravaged, Doctor Lecter.”  He ran a single finger over the curve of Hannibal’s ass, casually tracing over the marks he could find there.  “I have ravaged you,” he said with a quiet, appalled wonder, his tongue thick inside his mouth. 

Along with the deep purple blotches left by Will’s fingers, the was a light dusting of pale rosiness washed over the underside of Hannibal’s ass like a watercolor.  It seemed Will’s thrusts had slapped his hips against Hannibal’s bottom so hard he’d been spanked pink.  Will’s lips smirked at the thought.  It was a rather attractive look, Will mused, tilting his head to appreciate the flush staining Hannibal’s alluringly curved rump. 

A wicked thought popped into his head, and almost immediately Will knew it wouldn’t stay merely an idea.  There was no point in holding back now, after all.  He cupped the underside of Hannibal’s right butt-cheek, rubbing it in almost soothing circles before laying a solid smack just above the crease of his thigh. The muscle bounced lightly, and there was a rewarding bloom of color, and Will was already adjusting his position for a better angle.  The second slap was much harder and the sound of it broke rudely through the quiet of the room.  It left his hand stinging, but Hannibal’s skin deepened into an even ruddier hue. 

He braced a hand on the small of Hannibal’s back, and went to work.  Over and over, he struck at the same spot, his blows rapid and strong.  An oval of bright magenta started to form on that soft mound of flesh, making Hannibal’s right cheek resemble a half-ripened peach.  He went on a while longer, till he was satisfied with the rich watermelon red that decorated the soft skin.  He then set about spanking the left side till it matched. 

The whole thing was marked with a kind of absurdity; this was certainly a pale imitation of the true violence the two of them were capable of.  He’d once imagined Hannibal’s face as he beat a man to death—now he was smacking his bottom because he thought it looked pretty.  He wondered if Hannibal would find it as amusing as he did. 

There was also something shimmeringly arousing about it, a sort of flickering heat that danced in the pit of his belly to the rhythmic slapping sounds filling the room.  The idea of leaving marks on Hannibal—clear, deliberate marks—as a kind of remembrance.  Whatever happened when Hannibal recovered from the drugs Will had given him, for days afterward there would be a clear sign of the power and authority Will had held over him this night.  If he wanted, he supposed, he could leave more permanent marks as well.  He could carve his name into Hannibal’s skin right now and Hannibal would be helpless to stop him.  The idea was oddly unappealing to him though, he reflected, his eyes skimming contemplatively over the brand in the center of Hannibal’s back. 

He sat back on his knees and surveyed his…well.  His design, he supposed, chuckling to himself.  Reddened curves of flesh framed a bruised hole stained with globs of white—a perfect display of having been used for another’s pleasure and amusement.  Feeling giddy, Will took his pointer and fingered Hannibal’s cum-filled hole, enjoying the casual debasement it implied.  He pulled it out and inspected the now cum and lube covered digit, smiling to himself.  After a moments thought, he crawled over Hannibal’s leg and up towards where Hannibal’s head was lying.  Still sleeping soundly, Will noted, brushing the hair from Hannibal’s face and seeing the lax jaw and closed eyes.  His lips were parted ever-so-slightly, partially squashed against the mattress. 

Tilting Hannibal’s head slightly with one hand to reveal more of his face, Will stroked the finger he’d just taken out of Hannibal’s ass down the center of his lips, coating the top and bottom with milky traces.  Then he pushed the finger into Hannibals mouth.  He swirled and rubbed it all around while Hannibal remained utterly impassive, leaving bits of fluid along the roof and walls of his mouth.  Just when he was finished, Hannibal’s lips closed slightly around the digit in his mouth, and he reflexively swallowed, sucking lightly on Will’s finger in the process.  Will found himself swallowing as well, and he quickly withdrew his now spit-soaked index finger. 

Wiping it on the bed, Will looked at Hannibal and then grabbed him by the hair with one hand.  With his other hand he coaxed Hannibal to open his jaw, forcibly holding his mouth wide with a firm grip under his chin.  Then he brought Hannibal’s open mouth toward his cock.

He was only half-hard, but the first touch of Hannibal’s hot breath was enough go about fixing that problem.  He placed himself inside the cavern of Hannibal’s mouth, letting himself swell to fullness in the heat and moisture there.  With a soft moan, he then rocked gently forward, pushing his cock further to the back of Hannibal’s throat.  He didn’t want to choke him, so he kept most of his thrusts shallow, sliding his cock along Hannibal’s inner cheek, the outline clearly visible from the outside.  Hannibal began to drool, saliva dripping from around the cock in his mouth and Will shuddered, finding the sight unbearably arousing.  Then, Hannibal swallowed again, lips closing for a briefest, tantalizing, moment around Will’s shaft before going slack again. 

It was hardly the best or most efficient of blow jobs—honestly, Will wasn’t sure it even qualified—but again, Hannibal’s passivity and the heady sense of power that came with it soon had Will on the edge of a second orgasm.  It occurred to him that he probably shouldn’t come in Hannibal’s mouth like this, since in his unconscious state there was too high a chance of choking, so he reluctantly pulled out, released his hold on Hannibal’s jaw and took himself in hand, moaning in disbelief at how close he was. 

He hadn’t consciously decided to keep his grip on Hannibal’s hair, but there was no indecision at all when he came all over Hannibal’s face after just a few strokes.  Now streaked with ribbons of cum, Hannibal’s sleeping visage no longer had quite the air of innocence about it, Will thought, smirking, and he cheerfully dragged the tip of his cock over Hannibal’s lips, smearing the last drops across the corner of his mouth. 

Will gently rested Hannibal’s cheek back down on the bed, and sat back.  After a long moment, he got up and stood by the bed, looking over Hannibal’s despoiled, unconscious body.  He bit down on the inside of his cheek, a sudden queasiness washing over him.  He didn’t know how long he stayed like that; it seemed a long time, but that didn’t mean anything.  There was a gnawing feeling in his stomach, a wriggling unease he couldn’t quite put a name to. 

When he finally moved again it was to turn Hannibal onto his back.  He placed the pillow he’d used next to Hannibal’s head and stuck a different one underneath it, turning Hannibal face gently to one side.  Will left him like that, lying on his back, arms hung loosely at his sides and one knee softly bent.  He didn’t clean him up.  He supposed cleaning him could be seen as courteous, but it felt too much like trying to hide what he’d done, a vain attempt to cover it up somehow.  Like Garret Jacob Hobbbs patching up Elise Nichols’ wounds after he’d already killed her. 

No, Hannibal deserved to see for himself what had been done to him, with no question or ambiguity.  What he decided to do after that…well, at least the decision wouldn’t be based on any deception. 

Will picked up the bottle of lubricant off the floor, but placed it on top of nightstand instead of in it.  It was the nightstand on the left, which was the direction Hannibal face was turned, so there was no chance he’d miss it.  Next Will gathered up Hannibal’s scattered clothes, folding them up and setting them on top of the dresser, shoes placed neatly underneath.  He felt something heavy in the pocket of Hannibal’s trousers, and upon investigation found it was a switchblade.  Hannibal never liked to be too far from something that could cut a throat, after all.  He held the folded blade in his palm a moment, then walked over to the nightstand and placed it carefully in plain view. 

Next he gathered up his own clothes, and the washcloth he’d used, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.  He dumped everything but his shoes and belt in the laundry basket there, and then made a beeline for the shower.  Scrubbed clean, he came out and put on a fresh set of clothes before heading downstairs.  The record player was still running, the needle going unfruitfully round and round the edge of the disk, so he turned it off, and then poured himself another glass of whiskey.  The deep gold liquid shimmered and flickered as it fell into the glass.  He poured three fingers this time, since he figured it might be the last drink he’d ever have, and then he plucked up Hannibal’s empty wine glass before going back upstairs. 

He turned the doorknob to Hannibal’s room slowly, like maybe he’d find Hannibal already wide awake behind the door.  But, no, Hannibal was just where he’d left him, his only movement the steady rise and fall of his chest.  Closing the door behind him once more, Will crossed to the opposite side of the room.  There was a sitting chair in the far corner, with a small wooden table beside it.  He set both glasses down on the table and sat.  He drank his whiskey in silence, watching Hannibal from under hooded eyes.  When his glass was empty, he set it down, leaned back in his chair and continued to wait.