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Hannibal doesn’t touch Will’s scars. He’ll touch the scars other people gave him–the old stab wound from Louisiana, the closed up bullet hole in his shoulder, the freshly healed cheek wound from Dolarhyde—but he won’t touch anything important, won’t touch the wounds he gave Will with his own hands, teary-eyed and jaw clenched both times. Will isn’t sure if it’s because they make Hannibal feel the closest thing to regret he can feel, or if he just doesn’t want to remind Will what he did.
He suspects it’s the latter. Suspects it when Hannibal brushes a curl back from his forehead and his eyes linger a second too long, suspects it when he cradles Will’s head in his hand and smooths his thumb down the tissue bisecting his cheek, but he never suspects it more than when they’re having sex and Hannibal’s hand brushes past his stomach on the way to his waist and spasms, every time. He grips onto Will’s side like he’s barely holding on, sometimes, like he’s digging into Will and hurting him so he won’t have to remind him of past hurts, won’t have to remind Will he gets off on it.
He doesn’t care that Hannibal gets off on it. Not anymore. He knows it’s fucked up, but there’s a lot that’s fucked up about them, a lot that’s fucked up about Will. He’s past the point of trying to filter what he likes through a set of moral standards, of tempering what he feels. The rules for relationships don’t apply to whatever he and Hannibal have between them, a history of messy, destructive, mutual hurt, the kind that would be unbearable and unforgivable coming from anyone else.
He’s thought about bringing it up, debated if it’s even worth bringing up when all he’d be offering Hannibal is tolerance. But as Hannibal leans half over him, knees planted on the bed as he pushes inside him, he feels that creeping spasm of Hannibal’s hand on his side, that tightening grip, the edge of his nails starting to dig in and Will grabs his hand and stills it without even thinking about it. “Do it, Hannibal,” he says. “I know you want to.”
Hannibal looks caught out, his lashes lowering, his eyes roving over Will intently, as if deciding what to say.
“Come on,” Will murmurs, pulling his hand up towards his stomach. “I’ll let you.”
He’d let him before. He’d shown up when he didn’t have to, pushed his stomach into the blade. Held onto Hannibal, after, like Will was the one who needed forgiveness.
Hannibal’s lips part, his eyes drawn to where Will is leading him, dragging his thumb up until it just brushes the bottom edge of the scar. Will can hear his shuddery breath.
“Will,” he says, unsteady, eyes darting back up to his face.
“Come on,” Will says. “I want you to.” His dick pulses, his breath hitching for a second with it as he drags Hannibal’s hand farther up, as the tips of his pointer and middle finger scrape rough and hot over the scar. “I like it.”
And something must show in his face, or he’s worn Hannibal down enough, because Hannibal finally believes him, and his hand is finally moving of his own accord, heavy and burning through the thickened ridge of skin. Will’s eyes flutter shut and he moans.
Hannibal lets out another breath and draws half out of him and pushes back in, and Will’s entire brain feels like static. He feels half-drunk, his body loose and pliant and his head fuzzy with pleasure, every sensation heightened in the wake of Hannibal’s hand brushing over his scar.
He can’t help the string of moans he lets out. The slide of Hannibal’s cock feels so good, and his hand feels grounding and possessive, pushing Will back to Earth and keeping him in their bed, on Hannibal’s cock, in their bedroom where they finally live together, hurt other people together instead of each other. And Will’s not living the life he was supposed to–the one he thought, hoped he wanted–but he doesn’t care anymore about right or wrong or shoulds or shouldn’ts and it feels good, it feels like a martyr’s surrender, feels like the surrender Abraham offered to God when God told him to kill Isaac.
Will trusts him now, trusts him enough to know that Hannibal doesn’t want Will to kill what he loves, he just wants to know if he’ll do it, if he’ll get close enough to raise the knife. He would. Hannibal has to know he would. He’d crawl across shards of glass to get to Hannibal and thank him for the pain.
Hannibal’s thumb traces the length of the scar in slow, sweeping arcs, his thrusts slow and deep. Will puts his hand over Hannibal’s again, tracing over the veins, feeling for the pattern of his fingers. “Do you think about it?” he asks. “Being inside me for the first time?”
Hannibal lets out a helpless groan. His hips stutter. “I–I didn’t want to do it, Will.”
“I know,” Will says, reaching his other hand out to cup Hannibal’s face. “But you liked it when you did it, didn’t you?”
Hannibal’s hips are barely moving anymore, his thrusts an afterthought. “It’s okay,” Will says. “I needed it.” His thumb slides closer to Hannibal’s mouth, and he pushes it into the corner of his bottom lip. “You always give me what I need.”
“I want to be everything you need, Will.” He turns his head into Will’s thumb, the tip slipping past his lips and catching on his teeth before he lets it into his mouth, his tongue a wet, raspy glide before he swirls it. His eyes are fixed on Will, dark and heavy.
“You are,” Will breathes. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” He drags his thumb back out, past the points of Hannibal’s teeth. “For me to not have anyone that’s not you?” He shifts his hand to the side of Hannibal’s neck and sweeps his spit-slick thumb across the artery. He thinks of her–of course he thinks of her. How could he not?
But Abigail is gone now, every part of her: her appearance of innocence, the blue fire in her eyes, the trusting way she had let Hannibal lead her into hell. Hannibal had killed her and every part of Will that resonated with her.
It feels like he’s in a different life, a different body, far away from who he used to be, when he was someone that could be hurt so simply, so easily. He had gotten his ending and so did she—inevitable, irreversible, irreparable. He’s different now, but what he needs is still the same, just stripped down and plain. Too raw to ignore.
Hannibal doesn’t answer Will’s question in words. He answers with his eyes, his stare making him feel pinned to the mattress. The possessiveness in them makes Will feel heady with it, makes him shiver.
Hannibal leans into the space between their bodies and kisses him, his lips moving firm and warm over Will’s, the rasp of stubble and that first dry friction of their lips feeling like electricity. Their mouths go slick as Will kisses him back, hard, tangling his fingers into Hannibal’s hair with one hand and holding his neck with the other, pressing his palm against the jut of it just to feel the way Hannibal lets out a hard breath into his mouth and goes liquid.
Every time. He lets Will hurt him and every time he’s thankful for it, he wants it. It’s strange to not have to worry about hurting anymore. Strange to roll around belly-up and not be scared. He lets go of Hannibal’s neck and touches the softness of his belly, the unscarred blankness of it, breathes into Hannibal’s hand on his own scar-interrupted expanse.
“Harder,” Will pleads, and Hannibal complies, his thrusts slow but deep, the force of them shoving Will up the mattress. It feels like Hannibal is in his guts. It feels like he’s being stabbed. His face feels wet, he realizes suddenly, but he doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing, doesn’t know if he’s crying or not, just knows the stab of Hannibal’s cock into his prostate, the pleasure so intense it feels like pain, the throb in his dick distant, unimportant.
He’s pleading and whimpering, whines and pleases streaming from his mouth, pressing the side of his face into the pillow and holding on. He’s not scared, and if he is it makes it better–if what he’s feeling now is fear at an apex predator inside him, he likes it, he wants it, he needs it.
“Hannibal,” he murmurs, feeling delirious. He’s sweating, his hair plastered to his forehead, his lashes sticking when he tries to open his eyes. Hannibal looks feral, his lip lifting in a snarl, his hair falling lank and sweaty as he leans over Will.
He likes the hurt. He wants it. “I’d let you,” Will gasps, arching. “I’d let you open it back up again if you thought I deserved it.” Hannibal’s thrusts move into him, through him, and Will closes his eyes and surrenders. “I’d be still,” he promises. “I’d be so good.”
Hannibal’s body falls onto his, his thumb digging into the scar where he still holds Will’s hips. “You already were,” Hannibal rasps into his ear. “So good and so still. A perfect martyr.”
Will whimpers and Hannibal’s mouth skims his ear again, says in a low, wrecked voice, “You took it so well,” and Will shudders and comes, his hands shaking and digging into Hannibal’s back and shoulder, yanking him closer as he spills between them, the friction of Hannibal’s stomach against his cock making him jolt harder every time they brush.
Hannibal doesn’t let go of him this time—doesn’t push him back, doesn’t unlatch Will’s grip. He stays this close, every square inch of their skin sliding against each other’s, slick with sweat and tears and lube and spit and whatever else. It’s not blood and rainwater, but it’s just as binding.
Hannibal lets Will grab onto him, grips him in turn, and keeps thrusting into him, and Will takes it, lies good and still like he’s supposed to until Hannibal pushes deep inside him and comes, stilling and groaning into the space between their mouths.
“Stay,” Will whispers, feeling cut open all over again, feeling like a freshly healed wound. Hannibal stays inside him and tucks his face into the crook of his neck, keeps his hand on the scar. His lips brush against Will’s skin, warm and soft, as he builds the words in his mouth, carries Will back to a knife in the gut and a hand in his hair.
He doesn’t have to say it. They both know the answer. Nowhere. The answer is nowhere. He doesn’t want it if it’s not here. He holds onto Hannibal, because he’s his and he doesn’t know how not to be, lets Hannibal press his body so close the scar pushes into him, marks him too, presses into him and stays, as he murmurs into Will, “Where else would I go?”