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The scent of lavender and cedarwood mixed with the rising steam, drifting lazily as the bathwater filled the deep porcelain tub. Will stood over the sink, rummaging through the cabinet and selecting each bottle with care. His fingers hovered over the sandalwood oil before finally tipping a few drops into the water, watching the surface ripple. This ritual had developed between them—quiet, wordless. Will didn’t need to say much these days; this was how he reached out now—offering comfort without disturbing the fortress of Hannibal’s pride.
Weeks had passed since Hannibal last spoke. Not a word since the night they washed ashore. Since Will had heard him rasp his name, barely audible above the crash of waves and the pain gnawing at his own body. Will replayed that moment often—Hannibal’s hand reaching for him, bloody and broken, his voice a soft, fractured whisper before everything went dark. After that, there was only silence. The voice that once commanded rooms had been swallowed whole by their shared trauma.
At first, Will thought it was temporary. Hannibal would speak again once the shock wore off. But as the days blurred into weeks, the silence deepened, and still—nothing. Hannibal’s expressions had dulled, his eyes weighed down by whatever he wasn’t saying. The quiet between them had grown familiar, but it didn’t make it any easier. Will hadn’t realized just how much he missed Hannibal’s voice—the cadence, the way it could cut through any room.
Now, there was only the sound of pages turning, cups clinking, and their eyes meeting across rooms heavy with silence.
Will had adapted, finding new ways to communicate. He had started learning sign language—not because Hannibal couldn’t hear him, but because it felt like a bridge over the vast gulf their silence had created. Will’s hands had started to say the things he couldn’t speak, reminding Hannibal that he was still here, still trying, still meeting him in this wordless space.
This wasn’t the first bath Will had drawn for Hannibal. In those early weeks after the fall, when Will was too weak to move, it had been Hannibal who cared for him. Despite his own injuries, despite the pain Will knew he must’ve been in, Hannibal had tended to him in silence. Will had been too sick to argue. His body was wrecked from the cold Atlantic, his ribs aching, lungs fighting for breath against the bronchitis that had taken hold. He remembered those nights clearly—the way his chest rattled, the fever burning through him—and how Hannibal had stayed beside him, never leaving.
One night stood out: Hannibal guiding him to the bath, the sharp bite of eucalyptus cutting through the steam. Will had been too exhausted to do much more than breathe, but Hannibal had knelt beside him, careful despite the strain that had to be running through his own body. Will had barely managed to keep his head up, but the heat of the water had soaked into him, loosening the tightness in his chest.
Hannibal had done that for him, night after night, even when Will wasn’t fully aware of it. But as Will started to recover, he noticed just how much Hannibal was suffering, how his own recovery had slowed to a crawl, likely made worse by the constant strain of caring for Will. The stiff way Hannibal moved when he thought no one was looking, the way his hands shook ever so slightly when he lifted something heavy—it didn’t escape Will’s notice. Hannibal never said a word about it, never let out so much as a sigh of discomfort, but Will saw it. He always had.
Now, with Will’s strength returning, the roles had shifted. He had learned to read the signs of Hannibal’s bad days—the ones where even his control couldn’t completely mask the pain. Will knew them well enough by now: the slower movements, the sharpness in his expression. On those days, Will would prepare a bath without a word, never offering help outright—knowing Hannibal would resist it—but making it clear: I see you.
Today was one of those days.
Will poured the last drops of sandalwood into the water, watching the ripples spread across the surface before stepping back. He didn’t need to say anything—Will understood now that the baths were as much for Hannibal’s emotional pain as his physical suffering. The water, the heat, the familiar scents—they all served to lighten the burden Hannibal carried in silence. Will knew that burden well. And though Hannibal would never ask for help, never admit he needed it, Will saw through the mask. He always had.
With the bath ready, the soft scent of sandalwood and lavender filling the room, Will stepped back and went to find Hannibal.
Hannibal was in the sitting room, hunched slightly over a book that sat open in his lap. Sunlight slanted through the windows, catching dust motes in the air, making the room feel frozen in time. Hannibal’s eyes were fixed on the page, but Will knew he wasn’t reading. His gaze had drifted off somewhere, lost in the strain of enduring pain. Will had learned to recognize that look.
“I’ve drawn a bath for you,” Will said softly, stepping into the room, his hands echoing the words. His voice and body language were coaxing, gentle—an offer, not a command. He approached slowly, the way one would approach a wounded animal, careful not to startle.
Hannibal glanced up, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing the proposal. For a moment, Will thought he might speak, but then Hannibal waved him off with a sharp gesture, dismissive and curt. He shifted in his chair, attempting to rise on his own, and Will watched as a grimace of pain crossed Hannibal’s face. It was subtle, but unmistakable. His jaw tightened as he tried to push through the discomfort with that familiar stubborn resolve, as if sheer willpower alone could push past the pain.
Will hesitated, standing on the threshold of offering help and knowing full well that Hannibal would resist. Stubborn man, Will thought to himself, deciding to push past the moment’s hesitation. He moved closer, his hand reaching out gently, testing the boundaries between them. His fingers rested feather-light on Hannibal’s arm, hesitant but steady, as if asking permission without saying a word. Hannibal tensed beneath the touch, his jaw tightening in that familiar display of iron control, but he didn’t pull away.
“I want to help,” Will said gently, keeping his voice even, though his heart thudded in his chest. As he spoke, he signed the words, Let me help you —a silent echo to his offer.
Hannibal’s eyes searched his face, holding that familiar, guarded silence. Will saw the conflict there—Hannibal’s pride wrestling with something far more fragile. For a moment, it seemed like the tension between them might stretch too thin, but then Hannibal gave the smallest of nods, a reluctant surrender.
As they moved toward the bathroom, the silence pressed in around them. Will kept his hand at Hannibal’s side, guiding him, though he knew the touch must have stung Hannibal’s pride. He felt the stiffness in every step, the way Hannibal moved as if the pain were something he could manage if he just held it tightly enough. Beneath Will’s fingertips, Hannibal’s muscles trembled ever so slightly—tiny betrayals of how much he was holding in.
The walk felt slow, almost too intimate in its silence. Will felt the heat radiating from Hannibal’s body, the way the effort it took to mask his discomfort rippled through him. The silence wasn’t easy, either. It was charged, full of restraint, and Will couldn’t shake the pang of guilt at how much Hannibal kept locked inside.
When they reached the bathroom, Hannibal straightened, his chin lifting slightly as if preparing to dismiss Will. The sharpness in his gaze returned, the glint of pride that always lingered beneath the surface, even in moments like these. Will saw it—the way Hannibal still clung to his independence, even now—but there was no resistance when Will spoke again.
“Do you want help with your clothes?” Will asked, his voice hesitant. He knew he was toeing a delicate line here, but it wasn’t a question he could avoid. Hannibal’s expression tightened—annoyance flashing across his face—but after a beat, he gave a brief nod. His pride might’ve taken a hit, but it was still standing.
Will moved slowly. Unbuttoning Hannibal’s shirt felt like handling something fragile—like he needed to be careful not to break whatever balance they’d found. As the fabric slipped away, Will’s fingers brushed the warmth of Hannibal’s skin, his body tense beneath the touch, his gaze fixed somewhere past Will, distancing himself from the vulnerability of the moment.
Will could sense how exposed Hannibal felt—how much trust this required. This was a man who allowed no one to see him weak, let alone care for him. As the shirt fell away, Will’s fingers grazed the ridges of scars he knew well, and the fresher bruises that still marred his skin. Each touch felt heavy with meaning, as if he were mapping out all the places Hannibal had been hurt, all the ways they had survived.
He didn’t let his fingers linger too long in any one place, moving over the marks their ordeal had left behind. But the intimacy of it pressed on Will in a way that was hard to shake—reminding him of everything they had endured, and just how much had changed between them.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” Will murmured, the words slipping out before he could second-guess them. “Not anymore.”
Hannibal's eyes flicked up to meet his, an instant of connection that felt sharp, almost startling. But Hannibal was the first to break it, his gaze darting away, retreating behind the familiar walls of stoic composure. There was still tension radiating beneath Will’s hand, his palm warm where it rested just above the rigid line of Hannibal’s spine. His fingers moved gently, tracing the knots of muscle, coaxing them to soften. It was a small, grounding gesture—a reminder that Hannibal wasn’t alone anymore.
For a moment, Hannibal’s face betrayed more than he likely intended. A flicker of pain passed over his features, quickly followed by something darker—guilt, shame, emotions he buried almost as soon as they surfaced. His jaw tightened, his expression hardening in the wake of vulnerability, but not quickly enough for Will to miss it.
Hannibal didn’t respond, but Will knew the silence was its own form of communication. No sharp retort, no rejection—just the barest, almost imperceptible drop of his shoulders, a concession so slight most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Will did. It wasn’t surrender; Hannibal didn’t yield easily. It was, however, the closest he ever got to letting someone help him.
Will recognized it for what it was.
Will worked slowly as he continued to help Hannibal undress. There was no need to rush. He unbuckled Hannibal’s belt with careful fingers, the soft sound of leather sliding free quiet in the room. The slacks followed, falling to the floor in a whisper of fabric. Will crouched down to pick them up, folding them neatly before placing them aside. He took the opportunity to gather up the discarded shirt as well, smoothing it over as he folded it.
With every piece of clothing shed, more of Hannibal seemed to unravel, though not completely. It wasn’t gone. There was still something coiled tight beneath the surface, a part of him that clung stubbornly to his control, even now.
All that remained were Hannibal’s briefs, black silk clinging to his skin. When Will reached to slide them down, Hannibal batted his hands away, a swift, instinctive motion. Will chuckled softly, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. For a short moment, Hannibal's gaze flicked toward him, and if Will didn’t know better, he might have sworn he saw a hint of exasperation, as if Hannibal had almost rolled his eyes.
When the last of Hannibal’s clothing was finally gone, Will couldn’t help but take in the sight of him. Hannibal’s body was a contradiction of sharp and soft. The hard planes of his chest and shoulders gave way to a stomach that was softer than one might expect—a secret, vulnerable place that Will could imagine resting his head against, if Hannibal ever allowed that kind of tenderness. He didn’t linger on the healing gunshot wound, nor the older, crueler brand that Mason had left behind. Those scars weren’t where Will wanted his focus to be, not now.
Will stepped forward again, slipping his arm around Hannibal’s waist with gentle but steady support. Though Hannibal allowed himself to be guided toward the bath, Will didn’t miss the resistance in his posture. He knew how much it cost Hannibal to accept this kind of care. It was never easy for him to let go, but Will was there, ready to carry as much of the burden as Hannibal would allow.
The bathwater was still, steam rising in gentle swirls around them, the scent of sandalwood and lavender thick in the air. Will’s hand remained on Hannibal’s back as he helped him ease into the warmth. Hannibal’s body resisted at first, the tension still gripping him as the water enveloped him, but slowly, the heat began to work its magic. Will watched the small, telling signs of release—Hannibal’s shoulders easing, his chest rising and falling with a deep, measured breath. The steam curled around them, wrapping them in a shroud of gentle, intimate peace.
Hannibal’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his head dipping slightly as the bath soothed him, the warmth seeping into the places where the pain had settled. Will stayed close, his gaze never leaving Hannibal’s face, watching for any sign of discomfort. But instead, he saw the lines of Hannibal’s expression soften, the tightness leaving his body in small, almost imperceptible increments. The water seemed to cradle him, its heat coaxing him into a state of fragile relaxation.
Once Will was sure Hannibal was comfortable, he made to leave, his hand slipping from the cool edge of the tub. The soft sound of water filled the space between them, a calming hum. Will had already turned halfway, ready to give Hannibal the privacy he probably needed, when he felt a hand grip his wrist—tight, almost desperate.
Will froze.
Hannibal’s fingers clung to him, tight and urgent, his knuckles pale with the effort. Will’s breath caught in his throat as he looked down, his gaze following the path from Hannibal’s hand to his face. What he saw there made his heart twist. Hannibal’s brow was furrowed, his lips pressed tightly together, but it wasn’t the usual mask of pain or anger. His eyes, always so guarded, were wide open now, filled with something raw and vulnerable. Fear, almost.
For a second, they just stayed like that, neither of them moving. Slowly, Hannibal’s grip loosened, his fingers shaking a little as he lifted his hand, signing the one word that broke the silence between them.
Stay.
Hannibal’s eyes never wavered, their intensity nearly overwhelming. And then, before Will could respond, Hannibal’s hand moved again, the next request more halting, as if asking it took everything from him.
In the bath.
Will blinked, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure Hannibal could hear it. The request settled deep inside him, heavy and profound. Will had never expected this—not the desperation in Hannibal’s eyes, not the plea for intimacy they had both been too cautious to embrace. This was a step they had never taken, a boundary they had both avoided, and now Hannibal was asking him to cross it.
Will swallowed hard, his throat dry, but he nodded. He couldn’t refuse this—not when Hannibal was asking, not when he needed it so deeply.
“Okay, baby,” Will whispered, the endearment slipping from his lips without thought. His cheeks flushed, but he didn’t take it back. He searched Hannibal’s face, watching for a reaction, and for the briefest moment, he saw it—a hint of something in Hannibal’s eyes, a flash of surprise.
Will’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, trembling slightly, as if the task suddenly felt too big for the moment. Each movement felt more intentional than it should have, weighed down by the significance of what was happening. He looked up from time to time, gauging Hannibal’s expression, searching for any hesitation, any sign that they were crossing into something too much, too soon. But Hannibal remained silent, his face still, though Will didn’t miss the ticking in his jaw. His fingers rested lightly on the edge of the tub, as if bracing for something unseen, something that could slip through the seams of his control.
Will’s fingers slowed, his heart pounding louder in his chest. Thoughts flickered in and out of focus—what this meant, what they were stepping into—and still, Hannibal remained steadfast, his silence both a shield and an invitation.
Finally bare, Will stood before him, pausing for a moment longer, his gaze sweeping over Hannibal's face, waiting for the slightest sign of reluctance. But Hannibal’s eyes held steady, unwavering, though Will noticed a deepening flush. Beneath the surface, there was something vulnerable there, gleaming through the controlled expression—a trust that had never been asked for, but was being given all the same.
"Scoot forward a bit," Will mumbled, his voice gruffer than intended, as he gestured vaguely with one hand. He felt a bit foolish, the request feeling out of place in the moment, but the practicality of it needed addressing.
Hannibal complied without a word, shifting slightly, the water rippling as his body moved. Will took a steadying breath before stepping in behind him. The warmth of the bath engulfed him, heat rising around them as he settled into the space Hannibal had created. Carefully, Will lowered himself, his body brushing against Hannibal’s back. Even now, Hannibal held himself with an unwavering rigidity. Will could feel it beneath the water, the rigid lines of Hannibal’s back pressing against his chest, shoulders locked in place as if even now, even here, he couldn’t quite let himself relax. It was like touching stone—solid, immovable, as though the fortress Hannibal had built around himself couldn’t crumble, not even in this private moment.
For a long time, they simply sat like that, their bodies close, the heat from the bath mingling with the warmth of their breaths. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was heavy, charged, full of all the things they hadn’t said. Will let his hands rest lightly on Hannibal’s shoulders, his fingers brushing over the knots of tension that had settled deep beneath his skin. His touch wasn’t insistent, but patient—a silent reminder that Hannibal didn’t have to hold on so tightly, not here.
At first, Hannibal remained stiff, resisting the tenderness in Will’s touch, as if the simple act of being cared for was something foreign. Will felt it—the way Hannibal’s body tensed further, the way he held himself like he was on the edge of something he couldn’t yet name. But Will didn’t rush. He let his fingers move slowly, patiently, small circles pressing into the hard planes of Hannibal’s shoulders. He could sense how much Hannibal needed this—needed the permission to let the walls fall, even if just for a moment.
Will shifted slightly, his chest pressing gently against Hannibal’s back, the water sloshing softly around them. He kept his movements slow, unhurried, allowing Hannibal to respond on his own terms. And then, slowly, Will felt the shift—Hannibal’s body softened, just a little. The tightness in his shoulders eased, the resistance loosening ever so slightly. It wasn’t surrender, not yet, but it was the first crack in the armor, the first sign that Hannibal was allowing himself to trust.
There was a washcloth draped over the edge, and Will reached for it. He wrung it out carefully, water dripping back into the bath before he brought the cloth to Hannibal’s skin. He moved slowly, gliding the soft fabric over Hannibal’s shoulders, following the curve of his spine with care. The cloth traced the bruises and scars that had become a part of them both, each mark a reminder of what they had survived. Will felt Hannibal’s body loosen further, gradually yielding to the warmth of the water and the tenderness of Will’s touch.
The knots in Hannibal’s muscles, once so rigid, began to soften under Will’s ministrations. Will let the cloth linger over the places where the pain had settled deepest—across his neck, the tight line of his back, the places where the burdens of control had manifested in tight, aching tension. There was a reverence in the way Will moved, a care that went beyond the simple act of bathing. It was an intimacy they had never fully shared before, a moment that carried more weight than either of them could have anticipated.
When Will’s hand stilled, resting against Hannibal’s chest, he shifted closer, bringing his head to rest gently on Hannibal’s shoulder. He felt the faint shudder that rippled through the man in his arms, the way Hannibal’s breath hitched, as though something delicate had finally surfaced—something buried deep beneath the armor of pride and control. Will sensed it, feeling it in the tremble that ran through Hannibal’s frame—a vulnerability that, until now, had been too dangerous to reveal.
The washcloth slipped from Will’s fingers, forgotten in the moment. His hands moved instinctively, wrapping Hannibal more securely in his arms. Will nuzzled his face further into Hannibal’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood and the faint trace of Hannibal himself. The closeness of it all made Will’s chest ache with something tender, almost overwhelming. Beneath his palm, he felt the steady thrum of Hannibal’s heartbeat, quickened but strong. The pulse was a steady reminder of how breakable this moment was, how much they had both fought to keep each other alive, only to end up here, cradling the vulnerability they’d so long denied.
His fingers moved slowly, tenderly, brushing over Hannibal’s chest, tracing the line of his collarbone, the ridges of his ribs. As they moved, it occurred to Will—he had never told Hannibal how attractive he found him. It had never crossed his mind to say it out loud, to offer that kind of reassurance. But here, now, it felt like the most natural thing to do. How had he missed it before?
“You’re beautiful,” Will whispered, his voice low and full of warmth, the words brushing against Hannibal’s ear like a confession. His fingers continued tracing patterns into Hannibal’s skin, lingering where his pulse beat strong at the base of his throat. “You’re so beautiful.”
Hannibal’s body softened in response, his tension ebbing away as he relaxed further into Will’s arms. Will felt, more than heard, the small, shaky exhale that escaped him—a breath that seemed to carry with it something tender, something that had been locked inside for too long.
“I need you, you know,” Will added, his voice softer, but sure in a way that made the words feel even heavier. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I lost you.”
A shiver ran through Hannibal, more pronounced this time, as though Will’s words had struck something deep within him. Without thinking, Will pressed his lips gently to the back of Hannibal’s neck, his lips tickled by the ends of damp strands of hair. He tightened his arms around him, holding Hannibal closer, as if he could somehow keep him together as the emotions stirred between them. His lips lingered there, whispering, “Thank you. For trusting me. For letting me help you.”
Hannibal leaned further into Will’s embrace, sliding down so his head rested on Will’s shoulder, his eyes slipping shut. His breathing had slowed, deep and even. Will could sense, in every gentle rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest, that he was letting go—letting Will in.
Will’s hand drifted lower, his fingers tracing the hard lines of Hannibal’s abdomen before slipping beneath the water. His touch was unhurried, exploring the shape of Hannibal’s body with a reverence that felt both new and inevitable. He was learning him, in a way he hadn’t been allowed to before. But when his fingers brushed something more, the air between them changed.
Hannibal tensed, his body going rigid for a split second as Will’s fingers grazed the hard length of his arousal. Shame flickered across his expression, his instinctive reaction to pull away surfacing almost immediately, but Will tightened his hold, unwilling to let him retreat into that familiar darkness.
“Hey, hey,” Will murmured, voice steady and reassuring as he let his hand slide back up to rest on Hannibal’s chest, grounding them both. “It’s okay. I want this. I want you.”
The words were gentle, but heavy with meaning—an intimate truth laid bare between them. Will’s own arousal stirred, thickening at the sight of Hannibal’s vulnerability, at the way this man—so used to control—was now laid bare in his arms.
For a moment, Hannibal remained tense, as if his body couldn’t quite let go of the need to withdraw. But then, slowly, his breath came in a long, shaky exhale, and Will felt him relax. The resistance drained from his body, his trust offered in that single breath. Will’s heart swelled with reverence as he accepted what Hannibal was giving him.
Will’s hand drifted lower, tentative at first, as his fingers curled around the hard length beneath the water. The heat of Hannibal’s arousal throbbed in his grip, even through the warmth of the bath. Hannibal gasped, a sharp intake of breath that caught in his throat, but this time he didn’t pull away. His chest rose sharply instead, his breath hitching, a faint tremor rippling through him as Will began to stroke, testing the boundaries of this new intimacy.
With his other hand, Will pressed firmly against Hannibal’s chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat under his palm, the rhythm quickening as Hannibal’s control began to slip. His thumb traced idle, soothing circles into the damp skin over Hannibal’s sternum.
“God, you feel so good,” Will murmured, his voice roughened by arousal, warm breath spilling across the back of Hannibal’s neck. His touch was firm, steady, his hand wrapped around Hannibal’s cock, feeling every throb beneath his palm. There was nothing rushed about it—just the steady rhythm of his strokes, and the way Hannibal’s body responded to him. His pulse fluttered under Will’s fingertips, the closeness between them humming with a kind of electricity Will felt in his bones. “I’m so happy you’re letting me take care of you like this.”
The words came unbidden, but they felt right. Will’s strokes grew more confident, his grip firming around Hannibal’s cock. Hannibal’s soft gasp broke through the silence, his head falling completely lax against Will’s shoulder as his body arched into the touch. That single sound, that quiet, desperate noise, sent heat coiling low in Will’s stomach, spreading like wildfire.
The water lapped gently at their skin, the heat of it almost matching the fire simmering between their bodies. Will shifted, his hips pressing forward, the hard length of his arousal dragging against the curve of Hannibal’s lower back. The sensation was a jolt of pure electricity. Will groaned, his hips moving of their own accord, rolling against Hannibal in time with the strokes of his hand. The friction was perfect—slick, warm, unbearably good—and every movement made Hannibal shudder in his arms.
Hannibal’s breath hitched again, this time deeper, a low moan escaping from between his parted lips. The sound was raw, filled with a need that went beyond physical pleasure. Will’s strokes remained steady, coaxing Hannibal closer to the edge, every movement intentional, every caress a promise. The bathwater sloshed quietly, their bodies creating ripples that mirrored the growing intensity between them. The scent of sandalwood mixed with the musk of sweat, thickening the air, and every breath Will took felt charged, heated.
“You’re so beautiful,” Will murmured, his lips brushing against the damp curve of Hannibal’s neck, close but not quite touching. His breath ghosted over Hannibal’s skin, and Hannibal shivered beneath the weight of it. He trembled under Will’s touch, his body taut with anticipation. “Let me take care of you. I’ve got you.”
Hannibal’s breathing became labored, his chest heaving in sharp, uneven bursts as the pleasure inside him swelled, unstoppable now, like a tide building before the crash. His head tipped slightly, cheek pressed to the crook of Will’s neck, breath hot against Will’s skin. Will felt him clinging to the edge, teetering there, his grip on Will’s arm tightening.
Need hummed through Will, a heavy thrum in his own cock, but he kept his focus on Hannibal. Every tremor in Hannibal’s body, every shift and arch closer to him, stoked the fire between them. Will’s hand moved with growing urgency, the slick slide of his palm a promise. His hips rocked forward in sync, his breath coming in short bursts, desire coiling tighter inside him, but he was determined—Hannibal first. He wanted to push him over, watch him fall, then catch him as he unraveled.
The rhythm of Will’s hand was relentless, his grip tightening around Hannibal’s cock with each stroke, pushing him toward that edge but holding him just shy of release. Hannibal’s breath had turned ragged, uneven gasps spilling from his lips. His face pressed into the crook of Will’s neck, his breath scorching as it ghosted over the sensitive skin there.
A shudder ran through Will, his body reacting to the heat of Hannibal’s mouth against his throat. The first tentative brush of Hannibal’s lips sent a jolt through him, the hunger in the touch clear. Hannibal mouthed at his skin, sucking gently. Will tilted his head without thinking, offering his neck like it was the most natural thing. A silent invitation. He felt Hannibal's hesitation, but that didn’t last long. When Hannibal’s lips finally claimed him, dragging along the column of his throat, Will’s pulse jumped. The warmth of Hannibal’s tongue traced a slow path, followed by the sharp scrape of teeth over his skin.
Will groaned, the sound raw and needy as Hannibal’s teeth grazed him, just enough to make him ache for more. His hand faltered for a split second, overwhelmed by the combination of Hannibal’s mouth on his neck and the desperate heat burning beneath his fingers. But Will recovered quickly, his strokes picking up speed, tightening around Hannibal with renewed purpose.
The sound of Hannibal’s gasps grew louder, transforming into broken moans that vibrated against Will’s skin. Hannibal’s lips pressed harder against his neck, teeth biting down with barely restrained hunger as his control crumbled. Will’s free hand threaded through Hannibal’s hair, holding him there, anchoring them both as Hannibal’s body shuddered in his arms. The pleasure between them intensified, each gasp and groan heightening the need that had been building for so long.
Another scrape of Hannibal’s teeth—harder this time, almost bruising—sent a ripple of arousal crashing through Will. The sharpness of it sent another surge of arousal through Will, his own breath catching in his chest. His hips rocked forward, instinctively seeking friction as he rutted against Hannibal’s back, matching the insistent rhythm of his hand, just as Hannibal’s fingers dug into Will’s arm with a force that was almost painful, clinging to him as if he might fall apart without him.
And, finally, Hannibal tensed.
His entire body went rigid in Will’s arms, muscles locking as the wave hit. Hannibal’s fingers dug into Will’s arm, his grip almost bruising, and with a low, breathless moan, he came. His body shook violently, trembling as the pleasure crashed through him in relentless waves, his release spilling over Will’s hand, hot and thick, mixing with the bathwater. Hannibal buried his face deeper against Will’s neck, his moans muffled but raw, uncontained. Will held him through it, his arm tightening around Hannibal’s chest, his hand never stopping, guiding him through every shudder, until Hannibal’s body began to slacken in his hold.
The sensation of Hannibal unraveling in his arms, the way his body convulsed with every wave of pleasure, was enough to drag Will over the edge right after him. His own orgasm hit hard, a sudden rush of heat and need that tore through him. His hips jerked against Hannibal’s back, the friction too much and exactly what he needed. Will’s groan came out rough and low, his forehead dropping to rest against Hannibal’s skull as the pleasure crashed through him, his body shaking with the force of it.
He clung to Hannibal, fingers curling tighter as he rode out the last of it, each pulse of his release vibrating through him like distant aftershocks. Together, they floated in the aftermath, breaths ragged, their bodies intertwined, the cooling bathwater barely registering. Will’s hand gradually slowed, easing to a stop as they both came down from the intensity, the frantic energy finally fading.
Hannibal sagged into him fully, his body limp, the ironclad tension that had gripped him for so long melting away completely. Will felt it—how something deep inside Hannibal finally let go. But as the pleasure ebbed and the stillness took hold, Will noticed something else. At first, it felt like another tremor, but this wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the aftershocks of release.
This was different. It was...fragile.
Hannibal’s body shook again, but this time the tremble was uneven, broken in a way that had nothing to do with pleasure. The moment hung in the air, stretched thin, almost brittle.
And then, Will heard it.
A sound so small, so quiet, he might have mistaken it for a breath if he didn’t feel the tremor rippling through Hannibal’s chest.
But it wasn’t a breath.
Hannibal was sobbing.
The realization hit Will like a punch to the gut. The sound wasn’t loud, barely more than a broken breath against his neck, but it carried the weight of everything Hannibal had been holding back. Will’s heart clenched painfully as he held Hannibal closer. He had never imagined this—never thought Hannibal could crumble like this in his arms. It wasn’t dramatic, but that made it all the more devastating. Hannibal, the man who was always in control, was now breaking apart, the cracks in his armor exposed for Will alone to see.
And Will, shaken by the force of it, moved without hesitation. He turned Hannibal gently in his arms, his touch tender and reverent, as though handling something delicate, something precious. He pulled him closer, cradling him against his chest as if he could shield him from the weight of his own sorrow. Will’s hand came up to cup Hannibal’s face, his thumb brushing away the tears that streaked down Hannibal’s cheeks. The salt of those tears clung to Will’s lips as he pressed soft kisses to his temple, his cheek, anywhere he could reach, each touch a wordless promise.
“I’ve got you,” Will whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He could barely speak through the lump in his throat, but the words came, soft and steady, filled with a tenderness that echoed in the space between them. He held Hannibal tightly, his arms wrapping around him with a fierce protectiveness, as though by holding him together, he could keep Hannibal from shattering. “You’re safe with me. I’ve got you.”
Hannibal didn’t respond with words—he didn’t need to. His body told Will everything. He sagged further into Will’s embrace, his fingers clutching at Will’s skin, holding on as though Will were the only thing anchoring him. And maybe, in this moment, Will was.
The tears that Hannibal had kept buried for so long finally flowed freely, his breath coming in uneven, shaky bursts. And Will, overwhelmed by the rawness of the moment, felt his own chest tighten with emotion. It broke something open inside him, seeing Hannibal like this—so vulnerable, so exposed. Will had never expected it, but now that it was happening, he felt his own tears begin to slip down his cheeks, unchecked.
He didn’t try to stop them.
The intimacy of it, the honesty between them—it was overwhelming in the best possible way. Will’s hand tightened slightly on the back of Hannibal’s neck, pulling him closer, his grip saying what words couldn’t: I’m here. I won’t let go.
They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, the world outside the bath fading into nothing. It was just the two of them now, their bodies entwined, their breaths mingling, the intimacy between them speaking louder than words ever could.
Another tear slid down Will’s cheek, and he pressed one final kiss to Hannibal’s brow, his lips lingering as he whispered, “Thank you. For trusting me. For letting me be here.”
Hannibal didn’t answer, but the way his body softened even further in Will’s arms, the way his breath steadied, told Will everything he needed to know.
They had crossed into something sacred—something that couldn’t be undone. And in the warmth of the bath, with the world far behind them, they stayed like that, together, where neither of them had to carry the weight alone ever again.