Work Text:
Will sounds like he’s dying when he climaxes. It’s why he’s Hannibal’s favorite client.
It starts before then, though. It’s in the slow inhale Hannibal hears when he picks up the phone, like the dead crackle of leaves bursting into flames. At the store, in his apartment, in the car, Hannibal imagines the cherry end of a lit cigarette flare to life, a shadow of stubble and a cruel sneer behind it.
Inhale. Exhale. “Hannibal. Where are you?”
“Too far away to see you tonight.”
“Come anyway,” Will says and hangs up.
Sometimes Hannibal goes to him, but more often he doesn’t. When he refuses, the cruelty that lives in the wide lines of Will’s mouth moves to his eyes. Those nights, Will fucks him like he’s extracting revenge from Hannibal’s skin, even as his voice cracks.
Will is half a foot taller than he is. He weighs fifty pounds more and is almost twice his age. But it’s Hannibal who looms like God each time Will breaks.
Terror unfolds in Will as his pleasure builds. By then, Hannibal is face down in Will’s living room, on the rumpled bed that smells like coffee and canine. He’d refused to see Will the week before and must now pay his penance. One of Will’s hands is wrapped around the back of Hannibal’s neck, the other on his hip, smothering him in a way that makes Hannibal’s blood sing.
In a voice many octaves too high, Will prays. “Oh no, oh no. Oh god, please, please, please. Please, I just want-I need, I need-please-”
Hannibal doesn’t know to what or whom Will pleads. Sometimes, he imagines it’s him.
Will is whole again when his fingers scour the nightstand for a cigarette. A lighter snaps and a flame sizzles. It’s only when Will inhales that Hannibal looks at him.
“You’re something else,” Will says, squinting around the smoke.
“I think Sisyphus had an easier time with his boulder.”
Will leans back against the headboard. His mouth tips with something like amusement. “I can think of worse purgatories.” He pauses. “Unless that was literal.”
When Hannibal only looks at him, Will inhales with a siss sound and exhales on a phuss. The cigarette bounces. “Are you Zeus, then,” Will asks, “come to punish me for surviving you?”
“I can think of worse punishments.”
That earns Hannibal a low laugh. Pleasure coils in his chest.
Will is never in a hurry when they’re done. It’s a long drive back to Baltimore and Hannibal has learned if he waits long enough, Will usually asks if he’s hungry. The food is mediocre but hearty, and it’s nice to eat with company.
Hannibal’s feet stick to the linoleum floor as he moves to the sink to rinse his bowl. Will is naked at the long side of the kitchen table, his laptop open, his back hunched. There’s another cigarette at his mouth. As Hannibal passes, he snatches the cigarette to bring it to his own lips. He doesn’t inhale, but the way Will sometimes looks at him sidelong, like he’s little more than a rowdy pup, never fails to make his dick twitch.
Will doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Bit young for smoking, no?”
Hannibal hops up on the table, a thigh touching the edge of the computer. He’s wearing a pair of the dark boxer-briefs Will prefers. “Bit old to tell me I’m a bit-” He stops when Will shoots him the look he wants and is half-hard by the time Will’s eyes are back on the screen.
Hannibal hums, pressing the heel of his hand against his groin. “What should be done about it, Dr. Graham?”
There’s real ire in the way Will leans back in his chair. He gives Hannibal a long, steady look. Hannibal’s pulse trips.
Will says, “We talked about this.”
“I have to protect myself.” Hannibal flicks his hand at the room, towards the window and the acres of wild forest beyond. “Wolf Trap is the literal middle of nowhere. Plenty of space to bury a body.”
“Which is why you have my real name. Given, as you might recall, on the sole condition that you didn’t dig into me further. A condition you balked if you know I have a doctorate.” Will tilts his head, his gaze sharp enough to tear. “Do I need to protect myself?”
Hannibal can’t stop the shiver that snakes across his shoulders.
“It’s time for you to go,” Will says, his eyes back on his computer. “Keep the cigarette.”
On the way home, Hannibal presses his nose to the shoulder of his jacket, reveling the smoke scent that lifts from the fabric.
* * * * *
Will calls him back two weeks later. “On your knees,” he says from the kitchen table.
Hannibal has spent a lifetime reading his clients. His first instinct is to be coy, though he knows better than to indulge it. Flirty and innocent earn him little favor with Will, who prefers everything in his life cast in steel-forged competence; clean lines and rounded edges he can skate his fingers over without risk of being cut. Hannibal is no exception.
Hannibal’s pride is stuck in his throat. “You prefer whores.”
There’s a wry tick at the edge of Will’s mouth. “To?"
“Madonnas.”
Will’s laugh is real, though it’s little more than a surprised huff of air. “I have little patience for gatekeeping, Madonna. Come here, look at this."
Hannibal’s shoes are lined up neatly beside Will’s by the front door. His shirt is folded on top of Will’s desk. His belt is unbuckled, his pants unzipped, and Will is arranging a stack of photographs into a rough square on the table.
Will looks up when Hannibal remains standing by the front door. He narrows his eyes, though Hannibal isn’t sure if it’s in anger or amusement.
Hannibal moves until he’s standing between Will and the photographs, his fingers curled around the edge of the table. “What am I looking at?”
“You tell me.”
“Crime scene photos?”
Will crowds in behind him until Hannibal’s hips are flush with the table, his breath is warm and acidic in his ear. “What do you see?”
Hannibal picks up the nearest photo. The man within is pinned to a two-by-four dug deep into the ground. Brackish glasswort and bulrush skim his calves. Hannibal’s gaze skirts slowly upward, stopping near the middle of the picture where a large magenta hibiscus covers the man’s groin. The photograph doesn’t show it, but Hannibal knows the man’s genitals have been removed. His arms are raised, his wrists near his face. His hands are severed as well, and two more hibiscuses are in their place.
Hannibal says the word he’d thought when he’d left the man – Mason – in the marshlands three nights past. “Pig.”
Will’s nose skims over the skin behind Hannibal’s ear. Hannibal tilts his head into the feeling, his eyes on the photo.
“Such little reverence for the dead,” Will says. “What makes you so sure?”
Hannibal returns the photograph to the table. He touches a second photo, then a third.
With a single, effortless tug, Hannibal’s pants are pooled at his ankles and one of Will’s large hands is open and spread across his stomach. Will stretches his pinky to dip under the elastic band of Hannibal’s underwear.
Hannibal wants to tip his head back against Will’s shoulder and give into the touch. But he can’t take his eyes off the photos. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I have no idea. It’s just a feeling.”
This isn’t a coincidence. Will either knows Hannibal is responsible for this man, or he has his suspicions. Unease crawls up Hannibal’s arms to rest hot and heavy in his brain. With it, his cock swells. Will wraps his hand around it and squeezes.
“I’m going out of town next week,” Will says. “I’d like you to come with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t.”
“Won’t. I have class. Exams are in a few weeks.”
“Class, huh?” Will’s voice is soft and sweet. “How old are you, anyway?”
Hannibal waits for Will to take the question back but relents when Will’s teeth find the upper curve of his ear. “Older than you think I am. Young enough that it doesn’t matter.”
“Madonna,” Will breathes, tugging down Hannibal’s underwear.
Hannibal leans over the table on his forearms and spreads his legs.
His fingers skim the photos.
His heart skips.
Behind him, Will unzips his pants. A second later, Hannibal hears the tear of a condom wrapper. Will’s free hand snakes up over Hannibal’s shoulder, across his cheek, and Hannibal opens his mouth to accept two thick, blunted fingers. Will moans, his voice already pitched two octaves too high. His fingers taste like salt. Hannibal gags when Will presses down on his tongue.
“Good,” Will says.
The soft praise finds purchase in Hannibal’s chest. Wet fingers brush against his ass, tracing the puckered skin of his opening. Hannibal steadies himself against the raw edge of the table. He wants to gather the photographs to hold against his naked chest. Instead, he spreads his hands wide to touch as many as he can.
“Good,” Will says again as one finger slips inside Hannibal.
Hannibal exhales. His legs are weak. His breathing is a touch too fast.
He feels Will’s weight across his back. Will asks, “Why do you tremble?”
“I don’t.”
Will smiles into Hannibal’s skin. Hannibal can’t see him, but he’s sure the cruelty is back at Will’s mouth.
Two fingers and then three. Will is slow, almost tender as he moves them.
“Good,” Will whispers into the space between Hannibal’s shoulder blades. “So good. Warm and soft and tight. You were made for this, you know. For me.”
Hannibal isn’t sure what Will means, so he doesn’t respond. Will isn’t speaking to him anyway, not really. The awe in Will’s voice is not for Hannibal nor is it for the act they’re about to commit. He doesn’t know if Will believes in God, but it matters little - he’s certain Will finds his religion each time they fuck.
Will removes his fingers and slinks his arm around Hannibal’s chest, his palm open over Hannibal’s heart.
Hannibal arches, tilting his head back. “Will-“
“Beg me for it.”
“Please,” Hannibal says. The word isn’t quite out of his mouth before Will is slowly pressing into him with a wrenching, guttural moan that sends a shudder down Hannibal’s spine.
There’s friction and it’s good.
Will enters him in stutters and stops. His fingers dig into Hannibal’s hips.
“God,” Will breathes, stretching the word until it’s five or six syllables long. “Hannibal. You feel good. Too good. Do you feel how your body stretches for me? You can feel it, can’t you? I know you can. How full you must be.”
It makes no difference if Hannibal speaks, so he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his eyes and runs his fingers over the photos. The glossy pages are alive under his hands.
Will is still talking. Hannibal wishes he could see him - the way Will’s head must be thrown back, his mouth open, his Adam’s apple bobbing like an obscenity. He might have seen the strength in Will’s forearms as they flex and relax in tune to their steady thrusting.
What Hannibal truly wants to see, though, is Will in the moments before his orgasm takes him. When pain tears like a gunshot across his face, furrowing his brow and twisting his mouth; that split second before he sounds like he’s dying.
It's how Hannibal likes him best.
“Oh, no,” Will says and finally Hannibal feels his own arousal gather weight behind his bellybutton. “Oh, no. Oh, god. Please, please . . .”
Only then does Hannibal look back at the photos. Desire floods him. It hadn’t been an act of sexual gratification, either when he’d killed the man or the hours he’d spent in the marshlands after. But there’s something thrilling, something damning about being fucked over images of it now.
Behind him, Will cries out. “I can’t-I can’t, I need to come, I have to come, please, please . . .” Will’s hands grip Hannibal’s hips, his nails scraping skin. “I need-I just . . . oh, no.”
Hannibal returns each of Will’s thrusts with a roll of his hips. The room smells like hibiscuses.
“Hannibal, Hannibal, please. Please, I need-"
Will’s right – he does feel full. Full and stretched and aching in a way that he knows he’ll carry with him tomorrow and, with luck, the day after that.
“Jesus,” Will exhales. His voice breaks. “Yes, yes, right there. Right there. Just like that. Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop. Don’t-don’t-“
Hannibal’s orgasm is building quickly. He’s afraid if he touches himself, he’ll come at once, so he leans farther over the table, until his cock is trapped between his stomach and the uneven tabletop. The pressure sends a riot of pleasure through his limbs.
Will is merciless. His fingertips will bruise Hannibal’s skin before he’s done.
Suddenly, one of Will’s hands flies to the photos, gripping the glossy page until it creases. Hannibal isn’t sure whether it’s only the sight of Will’s hand or if it's the violence thrumming in Will’s fingers as they gather and crush the image, but Hannibal is suddenly on the precipice.
He pushes back from the table, stroking himself with sure, practiced motions, and sighs as the tidal wave of his orgasm finally drags him under.
Will’s soft chuckle is low and dangerous. “Yes,” he says once, simply, and thrusts himself to the hilt. He rests his forehead against Hannibal’s hair with a deep groan.
Hannibal feels full. He feels sated. He wants more.
Will rocks lazily inside him. “What am I going to do with you?” he says to the top of Hannibal’s head.
Later that night, after a meal of venison and russet potatoes, Will fucks him on the floor near the front door. Hannibal keeps his gaze on the kitchen table and the photographs atop it.
* * * * *
Will calls him back the next day. When Will asks for him like this, twice in as many days, it’s never for sex though he pays for Hannibal’s time all the same.
Hannibal packs a book, his sketch pad, and a small tin of pencils. He dresses down and doesn’t bother to shower.
They speak little. Will is hunched at his laptop at the kitchen table, a lit cigarette at his mouth. Gray-blue smoke unfurls from the ashtray next to him. Hannibal toes off his loafers and takes stock of the room. He grabs the small trash can from under the counter and makes a quick circuit of the kitchen and living room, collecting trash as he moves. The dogs’ water bowls are refilled. The few dishes Will has in the sink are washed.
Hannibal stands before the open refrigerator and sighs. “There’s not much here. How does soup sound?”
Will hums.
Hannibal dices the limp, browning vegetables over the sink and combines them with bouillon cubes into the only cooking pot Will owns. He curls on the couch with his sketch pad as the soup simmers.
A few minutes pass. Hannibal says Will's name and waits for him to look toward the couch before saying, “May I draw you?”
Will's return look isn't one of disgust, not quite, but it's a close thing. "No.”
Hannibal does anyway.
Sometime later, Will doesn’t look at Hannibal when he says, “You sure you won’t come to Baton Rouge with me?”
* * * * *
Will flies to Louisiana and Hannibal stalks the marshlands. Hannibal returns to the bulrush a few days later but stays far back from the police tape.
He scans the crowd. FBI agents, police officers, journalists, rubberneckers. He’s wearing a knit beanie pulled low to cover his hair, the collar of his jacket turned high to cover his face. The wintery wind is biting enough that his rudimentary disguise shouldn’t draw suspicion.
It takes him less than a minute to find Freddie Lounds. The orange-red shock of her hair is a beacon in this misty, overgrown land. He latches onto it like a lighthouse heralding his return. The FBI is wary enough of her – and she is the right amount of shameless – that they often stop to answer one or two of her less obnoxious questions. He’d like to hear what’s said.
He manages to get halfway to her when a flash of cold dread cuts through his sternum to pierce him in place. Before he can reconsider, he looks around.
On the other side of the police tape, about 20 meters away, Will is staring at him. His feet are shoulder-width apart, his bare hands clenched at his sides. His expression is one of naked, unfettered fury.
For a moment, Hannibal doesn't know what to do. There’s a cacophony of sounds in his head, the loudest of which demand he flee, now, run. Will’s eyes are fixed and unblinking, even as he leans in to speak to another agent. Then, Will is walking toward him.
Hannibal forgets how to breathe.
The moment Will is close enough for Hannibal to hear him, he says, “Where’s your car?” The words are spit out through clenched teeth.
Hannibal tilts his head and then turns his whole body towards where he’d parked.
They walk in silence.
There are dozens of cars parked in the grass surrounding the crime scene. A thrill of fear threads through Hannibal’s stomach once he sees his car, his escape. But Will stops at the back of a black FBI cargo van. He tests the handle and when the door opens, he grabs the back of Hannibal’s jacket and pushes him inside.
Hannibal’s shins catch on the raised metal floor, but Will is without pity. He steps inside, all fluid and grace, and drags Hannibal bodily in after him. Hannibal clambers to a sitting position with his back against the far wall.
“Will-“
Will slams the door. His fury is elemental. One black boot thuds heavily into Hannibal’s chest, pinning him to the wall.
“Stupid boy,” Will spits. “Stupid, stupid fucking boy.”
Hannibal’s pride is stuck in his throat again. “I-“
“Reckless. Idiotic. Profoundly, unforgivably idiotic.”
The toe of Will’s boot presses uncomfortably into Hannibal’s throat. Hannibal wraps his fingers around it. “I was curious-”
“Curious? You’d risk everything – everything – for the sake of your curiosity? I can't have misjudged you this badly.”
Shame flares in Hannibal’s chest. His temper flares with it. “It’s not a big deal. I obviously wasn’t going to talk to you, I just wanted to see what the fuss was about. No one would have any idea we knew each other.” He exhales. “I’m not stupid.”
With a roar that causes goosebumps to riot up Hannibal’s arms, Will replaces the boot against Hannibal's chest with his hands. He lifts Hannibal from the van floor with such speed and strength that Hannibal is achingly hard by the time he’s upright. Will shoves him hard against the wall, once and then again. Hannibal’s head rings.
Will leans in close. “There’s at least one cop here whose sole job is to keep an eye out for anyone acting suspiciously.”
“I wasn’t-“
“Yes, you were,” Will snarls. He bares his teeth. “I saw it, even before I saw it was you. And if I saw it, you can be damn sure I wasn’t the only one. How fucking dare you?”
Will pins Hannibal to the wall with his body, his fists still tight on the lapels of Hannibal’s coat. Hannibal can feel the hot, hard length of Will’s erection through their clothes.
Will sneers. “How, exactly, is it that you think I first found you? How do you think I got your number? Knew who you were? Knew what you were? Huh? You think it was black magic or serendipity that you picked up the phone and there was someone on the other end who wanted to fuck you? Stupid, stupid boy,” Will says again. “Someone gave me your number. Mason Verger gave me your number. And I gave it to the man out there.”
Oh.
The shame is blistering Hannibal from the inside out. He cants his hips to rub his erection against Will’s. He matches Will’s sneer. “So, what, are you all part of some group? Pedophiles of the Eastern Seaboard-”
Will’s eyes widen.
Before Hannibal knows what’s happening, Will has spun him around and thrown him face-first into the van wall. Cold metal bites at his cheek.
Will’s voice is quiet when he says, “Don’t give me that shit. I know exactly how old you are. In fact, I know everything about you.”
“I-“
“Shut up.”
For the second time that week, Hannibal hears Will unzip his pants. Relief and desire flood Hannibal’s veins in equal measure. He suppresses a moan.
“I know you have money, Count Lecter,” Will hisses. “I know you purchased that jalopy you drive and these ridiculous, threadbare clothes to misdirect your clients. I know you spend a few months in a given city, doing what you did to Mason and the man out there before moving on. I know. I know.”
Will grabs one of Hannibal’s hands and pulls it back to wrap around his cock. The skin is warm and velvety smooth. Wildly, absurdly, Hannibal wonders if it’s steaming in the frigid air.
Will bucks into Hannibal’s hand. His fingers tug viciously at Hannibal’s beanie until one of his ears is exposed.
In a low voice, with his lips pressed to Hannibal’s ear, Will says, “What I don’t know, what I can't even imagine is why in the fucking world you’d be stupid enough to come back here.”
“I was going to leave tomorrow.”
Will’s hips stutter and then pick up with bracing speed. He slams an open palm against the wall near Hannibal’s head. Hannibal flinches.
“Stupid boy,” Will groans. “Stupid fucking boy.”
Will palms Hannibal’s erection through the front of his slacks before, with a growl, Will’s fingers move to undo them. Will’s hands are rough and cold and an absolute, stunning relief when he removes Hannibal from his pants and begins stroking him in earnest.
Hannibal risks turning around. He sees a flash of red-rimmed eyes and the curve of Will’s upper lip risen in a sneer before Will’s lips are on him.
Will kisses him like a man approaching the gallows. It's also how Hannibal kisses him back. Into Will’s hot mouth, he breathes, “Why didn’t you turn me in?”
The amusement is back in Will’s voice, softening his anger into something palatable. “Likely the same reason you haven’t killed me. I interest you.”
Wills large, warm hands wrap around both of their cocks. Fear and adrenaline have numbed Hannibal’s brain but heightened his senses and he’s immediately lost to sensation.
This time, Hannibal fears it’ll be he who breaks. “Will, please.”
Will’s teeth close on Hannibal’s lower lip.
The feeling of Will’s cock sliding, sliding, sliding alongside his is tipping him over the edge. He breaks the kiss to look down, watching Will’s hands move expertly around them.
Hannibal burns. “Come with me.”
Will bares his teeth in a smile. “I’m close.”
Hannibal places his palm against Will’s chest. With a frown, Will stops.
“No,” Hannibal says. “Leave with me. Tomorrow, when I go. Come with me.”
Will’s eyes dart quickly around Hannibal’s face before closing. “What you did, out there? What you did to Mason? All those other men? It’s beautiful.”
Hannibal makes a choked noise. He pulls Will in quickly, desperately for a kiss, trying to capture the words before the winter air devours them. The second their lips touch, he comes with a shocking, shuddering violence.
Will begins to move his hands again. Hannibal is boneless. Most of his weight is against Will’s chest. He’s overstimulated, too, but he’ll bear it if it means Will might collapse back against him.
It doesn’t take long. Will strokes them both three, four, five times before he grunts and then sighs a sweet, warm breath across Hannibal’s brow.
Hannibal doesn’t look at Will as he stuffs himself back in his pants and rights his clothing. When he finally does, Will’s mouth is once again tipped toward a smile. His eyes are soft.
They leave the van together, toward Hannibal’s car and, with any luck, the cities beyond. The red-orange light of a cigarette flares. The winter snow swallows them whole.