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Hannibal smiles to himself as he takes in the sight of Will, fixing his cufflinks, head tilted as he regards himself in the mirror. He's dressed in a suit Hannibal commissioned personally, one that took far longer to make than it will survive.
They burn Will's clothes after his hunts. It's only common sense.
Will's eyes meet his in the mirror, a blue so cold it feels like frostbite when Hannibal regards him. He absently brushes imaginary lint off the tense slope of Will's shoulders, straightens the cuffs of his shirt for him. He turns, seeing the jacket hanging up. It's a dark blue, matching the royal shades in Will's eyes. His shirt and suit pants are black, as are his shoes. The only other splash of color is the gold cufflinks and the wedding band around Will's finger.
Will slides his arms into the jacket when Hannibal holds it open, and lets him groom it into place. He untucks Will's hair, trapped beneath the collar of his shirt, and smiles at Will's reflection.
"Beautiful," he murmurs.
"Most trophies are," Will replies, and turns so that his periphery catches both Hannibal and his reflection. He has his hair pushed back, styled, and looks every bit the part Hannibal bids him play when they address Hannibal's associates in public, even though Will rarely makes himself visible.
He is a creature of shadows, hanging on the fringes of the spotlight as Hannibal dazzles the audience. He is a creature of rage – Hannibal can see it, sitting in the corners of Will's mouth, in the way his lips press flat and his nostrils flare just a little wider. A stallion in the starting gate, readying itself for the necessary burst of speed to take the lead.
The last two pieces sit in front of the mirror, on a small table. Hannibal takes the tiny camera and attaches it to the breast pocket of Will's jacket while Will slides the earpiece into his ear, deep enough that it's not immediately visible, and then completely hidden when he corrects his hair.
The scent of Will's open malice makes Hannibal's mouth water, and even more so to know that it is, in part, directed at him. Will detests the games Hannibal plays, and hates even more when he's dragged into them.
Their eyes meet, without mirror glass. Hannibal smiles and cups Will's face and feels his jaw clench and bulge at the corner.
"Happy hunting, my love," he purrs.
Will tilts his head and breathes in, lashes lowering over his dark eyes. He nudges Hannibal's touch away and heads for the door, shrugging on his thick winter coat, and a pair of black leather gloves. "Try not to ruin those, this time," Hannibal calls to him.
Will pauses by the door, and looks back over his shoulder. Hannibal is given the smallest kindness – a slight, genuine smile, showing the edge of his teeth and dimpling his cheek. It makes every inch of him warm, aching with the desire to give chase, to tame the wild beast of his husband, to collar and corral him and watch while Will paces his enclosure and snarls.
But he does not. He would never dream of inhibiting such a beast as Will.
"Forty-five minutes," Will tells him. Hannibal nods, and Will leaves through the door, closing it with a quiet click behind him that echoes in Hannibal's head like a gunshot.
Hannibal first met Will when Will was in the clutches of another man, so many debts piled up that he had no choice in what he did when working for Hannibal's rival. Will's intelligence and his capability had captured Hannibal from the beginning. Were it not for the blood on the floor and the looming threat of police sirens, Hannibal would have kissed and mounted him right there amidst the bodies, when Hannibal came to overrun his rival and claim his processes and assets as his own.
He soon learned that his rival's success, the thing that had put him in Hannibal's radar in the first place, was Will. Will has a way of reading people, of planning ten steps ahead. He's the only person Hannibal has ever known that is capable of beating him at Chess and other games of strategy.
His eyes fall to the board, sitting at a table by their bedroom window. They're in the middle of a game, and it's Will's move. He's teasing Hannibal, trying to draw out his Queen into the fray. Hannibal used to be a much more defensive player before he realized that Will was perfectly content picking off his pawns and pieces one by one until he had nothing left.
So, too, has Will captured him, so thoroughly that Hannibal cannot imagine life without Will, now. He had practically begged Will to join his side, and Will had agreed on the condition that his will, his freedom, was his own. He will not be caged a second time.
He will, on occasion, allow a leash.
Will is used to working behind the scenes. Half of Hannibal's staff don't even know his face, they know him merely as a name, as Hannibal's pretty plaything. There are rumors Hannibal has a toy he likes to play with and entertain himself with. They call Will his dog, his pet, his trophy. The thing Hannibal took from his last rival to laud over those who get it in their heads to rise up against him.
Their relationship was not always like this. Hannibal married Will two years after knowing him, again with his heart in his throat and hands trembling in a way they never do. If Will had refused him, Hannibal would have killed him. Will likes to tease that he only agreed to keep his head.
But Will is possessive. That is no secret to Hannibal, nor any of the poor unfortunate souls who have learned their lesson in a brutal, permanent way. Hannibal is masterful at social engineering, and it's laughable how many of those he deals with believe that Hannibal can be seduced by offers of carnal delights. How many, he finds himself wondering, as he shrugs off his jacket and undoes his tie, offered him prostitutes or their own men, in an effort to appease him?
It was Mason Verger, who stepped over the line the first time. Will does not make himself visible during meetings. Most of the time he perches behind Hannibal's chair, on the balcony level, shrouded in shadow and staring down like a suspicious housecat. He holds a sniper to his chest and keeps his eyes moving around the room, searching for a threat. He will fire without hesitation, should anyone make a move towards his hearth and home that he perceives as a threat.
Mason had been a more…perverted kind of player. He thought he could ply Hannibal with wine and whimsy, could offer his sister in an arranged marriage to unite their houses. Could promise Hannibal his harem of 'unfortunates' for Hannibal to entertain himself with. He'd put a hand on Hannibal's knee, and that's when the nuclear winter set in.
Will had not fired. Hannibal had pressed on him the importance of playing nice with Mason Verger, at least for a time. Until he learned of the existence of Mason's sister, who by reputation is much better at playing the game and a much more attractive ally than her brash brother. And so Hannibal had found his beloved after the meeting, soothing his hackles and kissing his fangs, and promised Will that he could have Mason, if he wanted.
That had been Will's first hunt alone. The first time he earned the reputation as the man you only meet once. Hannibal doesn't know the details – he cannot, after all, run the risk of being at all implicated in Mason's death. Mason is too high-profile, and while Margot is much more amenable, to the point Hannibal almost considers her a friend and not just an associate, she is smart as well, and knows how to recognize things like correlation and causation.
The only conversation they've shared about that is Margot asking Hannibal if he intends to kill her, as well, and his promise that he will not, as long as she remains honest and faithful to him and his people. "We have no need to fight," he had said, "and I admire your family's legacy. I believe you are far more suited to running it."
She is young, but very clever, and Hannibal knows her wife from when she was younger. She had studied with him, learning the craft of manipulation and social technique, a diamond in the rough of antiquated medical psychiatry.
Margot had wanted to shake his hand to seal their bargain. Hannibal refused. "I'm afraid my beloved is territorial, Miss Verger," he had murmured, hearing a creak of wood behind his head that was Will shifting his weight. Margot's eyes, flashing up, and widening when she must have seen the subtle, vicious gleam of Will's sniper. Or perhaps his eyes, or his teeth. "I honor every promise I make, verbal or in writing. I consider us, and our companies, friends."
"To friends, then."
Hannibal smiles, recalling the clink of glasses, the taste of the wine he brews for Alana. Margot and Alana are frequent guests at Hannibal's table, especially after Will hunts. They know Will's face, and his mannerisms, and Alana has even made Will laugh, which is as surprising to Hannibal as finding a wild shark that will let you take its teeth right out of its mouth.
Before Will, Hannibal had never considered anyone a friend. There are predators and there are prey. There is the alpha over all of them, which is Hannibal's rightful spot, and he decides who and what dies, and when, and who gets rewarded, and how. Will is the enforcer.
Will is the man you only meet once, unless you're a friend.
Chiyoh and Bedelia are the only other exceptions. Hannibal has known Bedelia since he came to America, and Chiyoh before that. She followed him from France, through Italy, and finally here. She is the one who helped him get established. She is the only one Will allows to touch Hannibal, though it is always with a somewhat disgruntled air, and Will pets him afterwards, like he wants to mark Hannibal instead and rid him of Chiyoh's touch. As though it's a physical thing on his clothes.
Hannibal rolls up his tie and undoes his cufflinks, setting them on the dresser. His head lifts when he hears a knock on the door.
"Come in," he calls. Speak of the Devil. Chiyoh enters and dips her head, her face youthful and serious. Though she is only a few years younger than Hannibal, her uncrackable façade and her lineage has blessed her with a youthful face, lacking wrinkles or any other marks of age.
She's carrying a black folio, and Hannibal's iPad. Hannibal takes the tablet from her and sets it on the bed, and she opens the folio.
"Bedelia confirmed the shipment made it to harbor at three in the afternoon today," she reports. Hannibal nods, and sits on his bed, unlacing his shoes with delicate care and sliding them off. Will likes it when Hannibal keeps himself clean, and finds it meditative to, occasionally, wax and polish Hannibal's shoes himself. Hannibal knows not to disturb Will while he does that, capable fingers deft and as attentive as he is with his guns. Hannibal tries not to be as cavalier with his clothing as he can be, knowing it will mean more work for Will.
Not out of any particular need to lighten his workload, but because Will doesn't let Hannibal near him when he's blacking shoes or polishing and cleaning his guns, and Hannibal is selfish and possessive of time with his husband.
He stands and tucks the shoes beneath the dresser. "Good," he prompts.
Chiyoh nods. "Antony says that there's been some stirrings back in Florence, and that he's looking into it. He says he might need some backup if Pazzi tries to squash us over there."
Hannibal hums, and lets a smile cross his face as he pictures sending Will. Will is enough for an army, and Pazzi would be no more by the time he's done. But Hannibal would be compelled to go with him, and he cannot leave the States for that long in good conscience. His generals are capable, but Hannibal likes knowing what all the moving parts are doing in real time.
"Send word that I can spare a dozen," he tells Chiyoh. "But he must be sure he can't handle it himself. Select and prepare them from yours and Bedelia's division and make sure they're ready, but don't deploy them until I give the order."
Chiyoh nods.
"Anything else?"
"The usual inquiries from Crawford," she replies. Hannibal resists the urge to roll his eyes, his lips pursing in displeasure. "Apparently your latest casualty caught some attention."
Hannibal pauses, and frowns at her.
Chiyoh smiles at him. "Will killed a museum worker and displayed him like an animal."
Ah, yes. Randall. Unfortunate, for Hannibal had quite liked him, but Randall had been a little too eager to please for Will's tolerance and sensibilities. "I'm sure you've given him our usual answer," he replies, and Chiyoh nods again. "Good."
Hannibal did not, after all, play any role in Randall's death. And Will Graham is a ghost. Even if Jack Crawford believed in ghosts, he would be none the wiser, because he has never met Will nor has any reason to know of his existence.
Hannibal looks to the iPad, and resists the urge to check the time. "Is there anything else?"
Chiyoh gives him a knowing smile. "Will cleared the gate just before I came here," she confirms, and closes the folio, tucking it under her arm.
"Excellent. Thank you, Chiyoh. Have a good night."
She nods, and leaves the room, closing the door behind her and casting Hannibal back into silence. Hannibal finishes undressing, aware that he doesn't have as much time now what with Chiyoh delaying him with her reports. He folds what clothes he can wear again, hangs others, and places the rest in the hamper, walking naked to his bathroom so that he can wash his face, comb the product out of his hair, brush his teeth, and complete the rest of his nightly routine.
It's been forty minutes since Will left when Hannibal emerges, fresh from a shower. He places the towel in the hamper and pulls back the covers, climbing into bed. He reaches for the iPad and sets it beside him, and then turns, and reaches into his bedside table.
The bottle of lubricant is half empty and sticks to his fingers as he takes it out, and opens the top. He settles against the pillows, piled high on his bed, and turns the iPad on, bringing up the screen that leads him to an encrypted video and audio feed. It's dormant, for now.
Hannibal presses his lips together, wets his fingers and spreads his legs, and waits with the iPad propped against his raised thigh, for the feed to go live.
It does, when his fingers brush over his entrance, shower-damp skin growing wet with lubricant. The screen buzzes to life, and immediately Will's breathing is audible through the speakers.
"You're early," Will notes, voice rough with amusement.
"I'm eager to watch," Hannibal replies, his breath already going slow and heavy, his heart racing. The feed is dark, Will is somewhere there isn't a lot of light. An alleyway, perhaps, or some dark room inside someone's house. If he's speaking, he doesn't fear getting caught. Sometimes all Hannibal gets is his breathing while he's on a hunt.
"I could have killed him already," Will snarls. Hannibal watches the shadows move around him, the harsh clip of his shoes as he strides purposefully towards his target. "You stopped me." His tone is accusatory and sharp. How dare Hannibal try to dull his fangs.
"A single gunshot would not have appeased you," Hannibal replies. "Not after what he did."
Objectively, the sin was small. This man had been one of Bedelia's potential hires. All new staff are interviewed by Hannibal personally, in his office with the two large chairs and balcony where Will can sit. He'd shown promise – a little dim-witted, but loyal, which certainly has its uses.
But alas, he had made one fatal mistake. Hannibal hadn't lied to Margot when he'd implied a handshake was enough to trigger Will's instinct to kill. And Hannibal had warned this man of the same. His mistake had been choosing, instead, to clap Hannibal on the shoulder and squeeze as he'd left.
Will's snarl had rung loud, the shadow of him moving so fast Hannibal almost could not close the door in time. He'd caught his beloved by the throat, holding Will against his chest as Will trembled and glared over his shoulder at the door, as though he could kill the man if he stared hard enough.
"You may hunt him, my love," Hannibal had told him. Will doesn't let other people touch him, either – only Hannibal. Always, only Hannibal. And yet, he is starved for it. He shivers and whines when Hannibal puts a hand in his hair, when Hannibal kisses him, the rabid wolf suddenly a plaintive little kitten. "Tomorrow night, I swear."
And that is why Will has been so cold to him, for the last thirty-six hours. Hannibal's restraint on Will is something that must be firmly established and viciously maintained. Even a little slack is enough for Will to charge.
Will is prowling now, as he emerges from whatever darkness clung to him and steps into the light of a semi-suburban street. The kind with townhouses instead of single-family homes, that curl around each other and rise up tall. There are trees, and a children's playground visible between two rows of houses.
Hannibal watches Will, and trembles when Will takes in an audible breath, seeking the scent he desires. Hannibal's fingers rub over his rim with more intent, not penetrating yet, content to let his own muscles slacken and let him in.
Since the camera is on Will's chest, Hannibal cannot track the movements of his eyes as Will searches. The video remains static, only vaguely swaying as Will turns. He has taken off his coat so that Hannibal can see clearly, and Hannibal watches as he holds his hands in front of himself, showing Hannibal the sleek leather of the gloves.
"How do you want me to do it?" Will asks him, purrs it. Hannibal closes his eyes in a slow blink, heart already beating fast.
"With your hands," he whispers, begs.
Will laughs. "Bare?"
"No," Hannibal says. "Don't touch him. Don't touch him, Will."
He knows Will is smiling. He can hear it in his voice. "As you wish," Will replies, and lowers his hands again. He shivers in the cold, breath misting at the top edge of the camera's view. "I wish you were here with me. I don't know if he's good enough to eat."
"I recall his scent," Hannibal replies, and smiles when Will snarls at that. "Don't bother, darling. We have plenty of food at home."
Will laughs, dark mood disappeared. He laughs like that when Hannibal references something that is culturally irrelevant to his upbringing. An inside joke Hannibal is just as much the butt of as the teller. Will crosses the street, and jogs up a small set of stone steps, gloved hand trailing along the iron rail separating the concrete and the grass.
"Nice places, here," he muses. Hannibal is sure he's quieter when he's hunting alone. He talks because Hannibal likes the sound of his voice. Hannibal hums noncommittally. "Does he live alone?"
"Yes, darling," Hannibal murmurs, voice going low. He runs his fingers up his perineum, idly rubbing the skin there and feeling the faintest echo of pleasurable sensation. He cradles his balls and imagines Will doing it. Imagines those gloves, wrapped around him, one planted over his mouth so he can't speak. He swallows harshly. "You needn't worry about being interrupted."
"I've cut the phone lines already," Will tells him. "And the power."
Hannibal smiles. "You're honing your method," he notes. When Will first started doing this, and they set up a feed so Hannibal could watch, Will was much more of a blitz predator. He often didn't even wait until his prey was in their homes before he struck, on the side of the road or in a city street, wherever he needed to.
But Will likes it when they think they're safe. He's sadistic that way, in a complimentary and different manifestation of Hannibal's sadism. Will enjoys their fear, their pain, their cries for mercy. He doesn't get that with his guns.
This is Hannibal's way of indulging him. With his hands. It lasts so much longer when Will uses his hands.
Will finds the house he was looking for. The front door is up a small flight of steps, and below the steps is brick, and a window to the basement. The ground floor has a picture window, dark at the moment, and the rest of the house is covered in siding that looks pale blue in the moonlight. The porch light doesn't come on, since Will cut the power.
All new recruits are required to surrender a copy of their house keys. Hannibal watches Will pull it out, fit it in the door, unlock it, and step inside.
Will enters the house and the feed goes dark as he closes the door behind him. Will's breathing is shallow and quiet, now. He's a hunting cat, and must lay low so as not to startle the herd. There are three steps in front of him and a door on his right – a bathroom, Hannibal assumes, knowing the typical layout of townhouses like these.
Will ascends the steps and comes to a halt. The floor is open plan; on the other side of the steps is the living room, and the big window letting him see outside. There's another step with a small open area that's set up like an office, and then a kitchen beyond. Two doors on the right – one a closet, the second hiding stairs leading to the basement, and stairs to the top floor curl around behind them.
Will huffs a laugh, and at Hannibal's curious sound, he tilts the camera up so Hannibal can see the ceiling. Hanging from the center room is a rather obnoxious, ornamental light fixture, not technically in keeping with the bland white walls, pale golden wooden floor, and otherwise unadorned bookshelves and furniture.
"Anniversary present, baby?" Will purrs to him.
Hannibal laughs. "Where would we hang it?"
"How about above our bed?" Will asks, and corrects the camera. "You could look at it when I fuck you, knowing how it got there."
Hannibal shivers, again reminded of how sharp the barbs of Will's venomous, possessive tongue are. He looks away, briefly, to his hand, buried between his thighs, still massaging his balls and petting his perineum. His cock is hard, it gets hard as soon as he brings the feed up these days, and lays flat against his stomach, thick and red, precum beading at the slit. He runs his wet fingers up the shaft, feels how warm the flesh is, and his straightened leg twitches when he rubs his thumb over the wet head and wraps his hand around it.
Will hums, pausing for a moment. Hannibal hears his breath grow deep, just for a moment, a steady inhale in. "You're touching yourself, aren't you?" he whispers. Hannibal nods, even though Will can't see him. Will knows. "Fuck."
"I know better than to achieve orgasm without you here, darling," Hannibal assures him, hearing the outrage in Will's voice. "I'm simply enjoying myself."
"Good," Will purrs. "Good," he says again, and exhales roughly. "I wanted to take my time, but knowing you're waiting for me."
"Please, Will," Hannibal breathes, "I made you wait, as well. I don't want to rush you."
Will laughs. It's cruel and low. He turns and ascends the stairs. He's taken off his shoes, his socked feet whisper-quiet on the carpet, which is the color of coffee with far too much milk in it. The hallway is narrow, and when Will reaches the landing, there are three doors on offer.
One, the one ahead of him, is a bathroom, recognizable by the presence of a shower curtain just visible. Hannibal assumes the other two are bedrooms.
Will hums, pausing, and looks between them. Hannibal's stomach tenses as he catches sight of the gloves again, as Will reaches out and tries the door on the left, twisting the knob and cracking it open. With the way the camera is positioned, Hannibal can only see the door and the barest edge of darkness beyond.
Will must not see anything, not his prize nor anything that interests him, for he closes the door, and turns, and opens the one on the right. The room beyond is dark and dominated by a giant bed. There's a closet and another door – the master bathroom, Hannibal assumes. He grips his cock tightly as he sees the shadow in the bed, of the man. Will's prey, breathing what are going to be his last breaths, peacefully slumbering and none the wiser.
He presses his lips together. Perhaps it is better to do away with him, if he isn't even aware enough of his surroundings to feel a predator's eyes on him. Hannibal cannot exist without knowing when Will looks at him. He feels Will's eyes on him the second they land, whether they are warm with affection or cold enough to blister. When Will is in the room, Hannibal's every sense is attuned to him. He breathes and lives and dies on Will's regard.
Will closes the door. There's light coming in from the drawn curtains beside the bed, letting Hannibal see the shape of the man, and then Will's shadow as it falls across him. He sees Will's silhouette tilt its head, sees Will reach out and trace his fingertips along the man's cheekbone.
The man stirs, and his eyes open, and widen. He straightens with a short, sharp yell that Will silences with a hand over his mouth, his other hand tight in the man's hair. He climbs onto the bed and straddles the man, letting Hannibal see his wide eyes, white with fear.
"Shh," Will breathes. "Shh, don't scream." Hannibal can practically hear the man's heart start to race. He knows what Will looks like when he has murder on the mind. He is a savage, beautiful monster, his smile so wide and genteel like a statue. "I'm here on behalf of Hannibal Lecter. Don't scream."
The man blinks at him, frowning, but stops struggling. Will lets his mouth go, and Hannibal watches, raptly, as Will reaches out and pulls a pillowcase from one of the unused pillows on the man's bed. He twists it around and around, until it's no thicker than three fingers.
"I was there, when he interviewed you," Will tells the man. Hannibal bites the inside of his lower lip, hand stroking himself slick and slow, in rhythm with Will's steady breathing. "Did you see me, up on the balcony?"
"No," the man rasps. He's still staring up at Will with obvious fear, but he's calmer now, because he knows Hannibal's name, and knows Hannibal does things a certain way. It's the same trust teenagers show for hazing ceremonies. Foolish boy.
"That's alright," Will replies. He tugs the pillowcase taut, and Hannibal can imagine how he looks, sitting up proud and strong, one brow arched up as he does when he's judging something's existence. "Not a lot of people do. I prefer it that way. I prefer a lot of things a certain way."
He presses the pillowcase against the man's lips, and the man opens his mouth with a shiver, sinking his teeth around the fabric. Will makes a soft, encouraging sound, and pats his cheek affectionately. "You impressed him," Will says, as though this is just another interview, as though he's not sitting on this man's chest and laying down the pieces of his little game. Hannibal groans softly as Will takes the pillow from behind the man's head and frees that one of its case, too, winding it into a rope-like twist again. "You impressed me, as well. I admire a man who's loyal. It's one of my favorite traits in people."
The man nods, and makes a vague sound.
Will shushes him again, and then the camera moves as he shifts his weight, and pulls the man's hands down. Hannibal watches the man wince as Will pins his hands beneath his knees, so he can't reach up and touch. He knows his beloved is vibrating with rage at being touched by someone else. He will have Hannibal touch him there, when he comes home, and replace the cells that felt pressure with new ones.
"But you made a mistake, friend," Will continues. He tugs the man up by his hair and laces the second pillowcase around the back of his neck, and lets him drop again. His gloved hands wrap around the ends, the leather creaking. "You touched him."
The man frowns, and his eyes widen as Will crosses his hands, and starts to tighten his grip, pressing the ends on opposite sides of the man's neck and leaning over him, covering him in darkness. With the weight on the man's hands and Will slowly constricting the fabric around his neck, the panic starts to set in.
"I'm the only one who touches him," Will snarls. "Just me. Just fucking me."
Hannibal knows Will isn't just saying this for the man's benefit. He moans weakly, sliding his hand down and rubbing his fingers over his rim, pressing in this time. As the man whimpers and tries to breathe, Hannibal feels his own body give, allowing him to slip a finger inside himself.
"Only you, darling," Hannibal murmurs.
Will shivers, and presses his hands over the pillowcase, adding the pressure of his hands to the tight knot. "I wanted to kill you the second you did it," Will tells the man. "Hannibal stopped me. You got one last pitiful day on Earth because of him." His silhouette tilts, showing Hannibal a glimpse of the man's face. His face is bulging, turning pale, his lips going blue. "You should thank him," Will says, and lets up the pressure just enough for the man to drag in a raw lungful of air. "Thank him for giving you another day."
The man screams, and Hannibal isn't sure Will's request was honored for how muffled his voice is. There are tears forming in his eyes, and he struggles as Will snarls and tightens his grip again. His thumbs press on either side of the man's larynx, fingertips putting hard pressure on either side of his neck where his pulse rushes strongest.
Will shudders, and lets out a sound Hannibal recognizes. It's the noise he makes when Hannibal goes to his knees for Will, when Hannibal first lets Will sink inside him. It's dirty and low and so thick with arousal, and Hannibal works a second finger inside himself as he watches Will kill this man, this pig that dared to touch his belongings without permission.
Hannibal wishes he could see Will's wedding ring, but the gloves are a lovely black contrast on the man's pale skin. Will grunts, and one hand moves, and the man yells and his eyes go wide. And then Hannibal hears it. The thick, heavy sound of a knife splitting skin. His nostrils flare like he can smell it himself, and he watches ravenously as the sheets around the man's head darken with blood.
"Fuck," Will whispers. He holds the man down, still struggling, and drags his knife along the man's forehead, and down his cheeks, and under his chin. He sets the knife to one side and shoves his gloves into the man's mouth around the pillowcase, twisting his lower lip until it bruises. He cuts the corners of the man's mouth down to the quick and shoves his fist into the hole, the man's jaw cracking as Will pushes his closed fist inside his mouth, rutting hard along the teeth and the pillowcase, until blood wells up along his gumline and Hannibal can hear him choking on his own tongue.
"Oh, God, Hannibal," Will gasps, and pulls his fist free, grabbing his knife and stabbing the man again, out of sight of the camera. Through his belly, Hannibal thinks, where the meat is softest. Will moves back as the man's struggling turns into death throes, showing Hannibal the two deep cuts Will made on his bare stomach. He watches as Will stabs him again, and again, grunting with effort. Hannibal times his fingers to the rhythm of it, for Will is strong and doesn't lose himself to random, depraved, nonsensical violence. "Hannibal, fuck."
"Five," Hannibal whispers. "Five fingers. Five touches, Will."
Will moans, and adds one last deep stab to the man's belly, marking a fifth. It'll ruin the meat, but Will is allowed to ruin the meat because Hannibal told him not to bother bringing anything home. Will surges back up and works his knife under the edge of the man's cheek, peeling it free, along with the rest of his face, piece by piece.
"You're nothing," Will snarls to the corpse. "Faceless. Nameless. How dare you think you could touch him. You're nothing."
"Will," Hannibal gasps, and works another finger in as Will tears the man's face off, exposing his bulging eyes and white teeth and the sinew and musculature of his face, the pillowcase stuffed deep into his mouth. Will cuts his face to shreds and stuffs the pieces into the wounds on the man's belly.
He settles, then, on his haunches over the man's thighs, staring down at his work. He angles the camera so that Hannibal can see all of it, breathing heavy. Almost as loud as Hannibal's heart is, his blood rushing in his ears. Will is always so delightfully, cruelly violent when he kills. When he's allowed to use his hands.
Will clears his throat and tucks the knife away, ready to take it home and clean it. He laughs, and shows the camera the blood dripping from his gloves. "Unfortunate," he says.
"I'll buy you another set," Hannibal growls, and watches with pleasure as Will's fingers clench and tremble. Will moans, the camera angle tilting as he rolls his hips, the brush of fabric loud as Will ruts against the corpse's thigh.
"He's still warm," Will breathes.
"No," Hannibal snaps, even as he pushes three fingers deep into his own body, a soft moan punched from his chest. "No. Don't touch him. I'm here. Come home to me, Will."
Will whimpers, sucking in a breath through his teeth. Then, he stops, and rises off the body. Hannibal knows he will not linger, and will clean any possible trace of his DNA from the room. But he will keep the body as he left it, as a monument and warning for those who dare to ask.
"You are glorious, my love," Hannibal tells him, allowing his eyes to finally close, knowing that Will has nothing more to show him. He closes the visual feed, keeping the audio running, and puts the iPad on the floor, settling back, and wets his other hand with lubricant now that he doesn't have to worry about the visual feed.
His free hand wraps around his cock and he spreads his legs, gasping as he hears Will leave the room and go down the stairs, slipping back into his shoes. The key is discarded with a tiny rattle along the floor, undoubtedly leaving another small bloodstain, and Hannibal hears Will leave the house, shoes hard on the concrete.
"Wait for me," Will begs. "I'll be home soon."
Whenever Will asks Hannibal to wait, it becomes so much more difficult to. Before Will, Hannibal's pleasure and his methods of seeking it were subject to his own whim and curiosity. Now, it's so much sweeter to have Will control it, to tell him when and where and how. Will's pleasure, his pride, are things Hannibal hungers for, in a constant state of starvation.
Will hums, panting as he rushes to the car. "Chiyoh told me this one said he'd heard about me," he tells Hannibal, his voice low and rough. Hannibal bites his lower lip, pushing his fingers in deep and curling. The stimulation on his rim combined with the hand on his cock is going to end this too soon if he doesn't stop thrusting. And he can't mimic Will's power or neediness nearly as well with his own hand. "They call me your pretty show dog. They think you just keep me around as a nice wet hole to use whenever you feel like it."
Hannibal moans, at the sound of Will's cruel laugh.
"If only they knew," he says. "If only they knew how desperate I can make you. If only they knew how hard you have to fight to keep me on my fucking leash."
Hannibal forces his eyes open, and looks to Will's side of the bed. He lets out a rough, ragged snarl when he realizes what's missing from it. Will must have worn it out. His cock jumps in his hand, spurting another thick dribble of precum onto his fist.
Hannibal can hear an engine roar to life over the audio feed. Will is on his way. Will is coming home, he'll be here soon. Hannibal lets go of his cock and grabs Will's pillow, thinking of how it must have felt to bite down on casing wound so tight, to be immersed in it. He imagines Will doing the same, feeding Hannibal his lingering scent upon the pillows. Choking him with it even as his lungs grow full.
He returns his hand to his cock, gasping as he breathes in Will's scent. The engine revs, on the other end of the line.
"Fuck, Hannibal, I know I'm going to come as soon as I'm inside you," Will snarls. "Are you nice and open for me?"
"Yes," Hannibal replies, so affected he stutters on the word.
Will makes a low, pleased sound, that sends heat down every vertebrae of Hannibal's spine like a wandering hand. He curls his fingers and gasps when he finds his own prostate, spreading his legs and rutting in an effort to seek more pressure. His fingers tighten around the base of his cock to stop himself coming.
"Good," Will murmurs. "God, that's so good. I wish I was there. We'll play back the recording once I can get it up again. I'll let you ride me while I watch it. Maybe I'll -." A horn blares, and Hannibal imagines Will running a red light. He swallows back the urge to warn Will to be careful. Will is always careful. He's a ghost, and ghosts don't get caught.
"Maybe I'll let you fuck my mouth, I know that's what you really like, isn't it, baby?" Hannibal gasps, nodding again, and Will snarls. "Answer me."
"Yes, Will," Hannibal replies. "You're -. Very talented."
Will laughs.
"I'll let you paint my face and wear it to bed," he says, so quietly, and Hannibal feels the promise like a knife between his ribs. He's so close, he always is when Will starts whispering filth and poison into his ear. Will is the only person alive who can decimate Hannibal with a single smile. "Are you close, Hannibal?"
"Yes."
"I can tell. You don't talk as much when you wanna come," Will laughs. Hannibal hears the telltale ping of the gate padlock, the squealing creak of the wheels as it opens. Will is home. He's almost home, he's at the gate, he's close.
"Will," he gasps, allowing himself to test his own self-control, knowing Will is here, is coming for him. It makes his heart race and his breath catch, thinking of Will prowling through the house, his sights on his prey. Of opening the door and lunging for Hannibal, of giving Hannibal that kindness, of Will's love, his mercy, his violence. He gives Hannibal so many gifts and presents, like a loyal animal bringing home its kills for its master.
He curls his fingers and lets his rim stretch around his knuckles, legs straightening out and pushing the sheets back. His other hand works his cock slowly, bringing him closer and closer to the edge. "Will," he moans again, arching his back, desperately seeking. Will should be here, his weight between Hannibal's legs, his mouth on Hannibal's. The scent of him is a paltry offering to gentle his teeth. He wants Will's neck and eyes and mouth, his hair, his shoulders ever-clawed by Hannibal's nails, his hips bruising, his strong thighs.
"I'm almost there," Will whispers. He sounds like he's in pain. Hannibal hears a car door slam, hears Will running for him. He's being chased, hunted down. Hannibal nudges the pillow away so that there's nothing in Will's way when he finally gets here.
The door flies open and slams hard enough to rattle the lamp on Hannibal's bedside table, and there he is. Panting, soaked with blood, eyes wild. He tears his clothes from him and Hannibal growls, pulling his fingers free and sitting up so that he can meet Will halfway.
They collide together and go rolling, Hannibal hooking his slick fingers through the large ring at the back of Will's collar. Will wore it out, oh God. "Cruel, cunning, beautiful boy," Hannibal says, as Will fights his way up and claims Hannibal's mouth in a kiss, his hands flattening warm and wide on Hannibal's flanks. Blood leaked through the seams of his gloves, soaked through his clothes, and Will is pink and flushed and hard.
"Hannibal," he groans. He's no longer cold, his eyes no longer hold ice. They are thawed, and Hannibal is drowning in the ocean, stung by salt. He kisses Will deeply, as though he can taste Will's kill, though Will didn't eat. He spreads his knees and settles on Will like Will did that man, and Will groans, grips him, and tightens his nails in Hannibal's ass as he catches on Hannibal's stretched, wet rim, and pushes into him.
Will is larger than three of Hannibal's fingers, and the sting is so wonderful. Hannibal moans against his mouth, panting as Will plants his feet and fucks up, arms and shoulders straining as he holds Hannibal still. Hannibal bites down Will's lovely throat, able to use his grip on the collar to wrench Will's head to one side and nuzzle the exposed skin. The collar was hidden by his shirt, by his suit, and Hannibal can't believe Will wore it out.
The meaning of it, the symbol of Will's loyalty, strikes him so hard he sees nothing but darkness. Will rolls him over as Hannibal goes boneless, arms wrapped under Hannibal's back and holding him tightly as he fucks Hannibal, knees spread wide, back arching to Hannibal's seeking nails.
"Fuck yeah, mark me up," Will demands, as Hannibal claws and bites and sucks a bruise to Will's throat. Hannibal touches Will's hands, his shoulders, his knees. Everywhere that man did. Will trembles, gasping, the sound of their bodies colliding so loud and mingling with the rush of blood in Hannibal's ears and Will's ragged breaths.
Hannibal's orgasm seems to last forever. He's been pulled out to the deep currents and left to drown. Will kisses him and cups his face, so dichotomously tender, his thumb resting at the corner of Hannibal's mouth as he ruts his stomach over the slick on Hannibal's belly, letting them mark each other as Hannibal's cock twitches.
Will whimpers, digging his nails into the back of Hannibal's shoulder, and goes still. A shudder runs down him, all the way to his toes, and Hannibal sighs as he feels Will's cock twitch as he starts to come. There's so much that it leaks back out as Will lazily rolls his hips, riding the waves of pleasure until they, too, start to recede.
He's panting against Hannibal's neck and Hannibal holds him, his thighs eager to cradle Will's hips, his arms around Will. He pets through Will's hair and kisses the mark he left on Will's neck, and then the side of his face, and his temple, as Will recovers.
Will clears his throat, after a while, and holds Hannibal close to him, rolling them onto their sides. He slips out when he goes soft and Hannibal gasps at the sudden emptiness, and the heavy amount of wetness that leaks out. Will smiles at him, dimples and sharp corners of his mouth cutting into the flush on his face, and gathers Hannibal at the nape of his neck, kissing his forehead.
Hannibal shivers, closing his eyes, and holds Will's chin, kissing him gently when Will catches his breath. "Beautiful," he whispers. "I adore you, Will."
Will hums, tired and sated, the monsters in his eyes settled down to rest. Will takes his hand, their wedding rings clicking together, and squeezes gently. He kisses Hannibal's knuckles, the brush of his lips enough to make Hannibal shiver.
"Don't ever make me wait that long again," he murmurs.
Hannibal smiles, and gently tilts Will's head, removing the earpiece and setting it behind Will on his bedside table. "I'm afraid, darling, if you mean to dissuade me, you will have to be far more cruel to me when you come home."
Will's eyes flash, and his smile goes lopsided and sharp with promise. "Do you delight in my cruelty?"
"I delight in every facet of you," Hannibal replies, kissing the words to Will's mouth. "Everything you do overwhelms me, I admit it happily."
Will's gaze softens, and he sighs, wrapping himself up in Hannibal. His nose nudges Hannibal's throat and he kisses the hollow as Hannibal idly rubs his thumb over Will's collar, content and settled by having his husband in his arms again.
They will have to rise, in a moment. It's better to deal with the aftermath of Will's kills as soon as possible. The car is already being cleaned and reupholstered as necessary, but there is still the matter of Will's clothes.
As though sensing his thoughts, Will sighs, and rises. He goes to the pile of clothes he left and removes the camera and the knife, setting them down by his earpiece. He wraps everything else up in a plastic bag from the pile they keep in the bottom of the closet, and sets it in a bin by the hamper, where they put things that need to be burned.
Hannibal watches him, and Will takes his iPad off the floor, closes the audio feed, and saves the file, a promising darkness in his eyes.
Then, the last piece of their ritual. Hannibal pushes himself upright, wincing at the soreness of his limbs, and stands before Will. He leads him to the mirror, and Will watches him as he takes the collar off, kissing the sweaty, red skin beneath. Will shivers, and turns, claiming Hannibal's mouth, before Hannibal takes his hand, and leads him to the Chessboard.
Will smiles, regarding the pieces remaining. His head tilts, and he reaches forward, and moves his Knight.
"Checkmate," he murmurs. And so it is.
Hannibal smiles. They place the collar with loving care over the remains of the board, and Hannibal brings Will back to bed. They settle and wrap themselves up in each other, and Hannibal only moves enough to turn out the light.
He falls asleep with Will's scent in his lungs, and Will's gentle exhales warming his chest, his hand petting Will's hair. In this quiet, sacred space, Will's presence by the very virtue of its existence, settles Hannibal like nothing else can. He is the only one who gets to see all of Will, who gets to love Will, who gets to meet new versions of him every single day.
He can't wait until he can offer up the next person to his beloved. The next person who will meet Will for the first and last time.