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Devour Me (if you think you can stomach me)

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It is during the final moments of Mr. Ingram’s arrest, after they have both given their statements and promised to help with the continuing investigation, that Will emerges from his cocoon of acquiescence.

Hannibal watches as Will shudders once, then blinks unseeing at the red and blue lights swirling across his face. After a beat, he stares at Hannibal, his exhalation frosting the air.

Hannibal waits patiently but Will remains motionless on the front step of Peter Bernardone’s makeshift animal shelter, shoulders hunched into himself. Hannibal had decided earlier to not offer his coat, knowing Will would only refuse. Police officers talk quietly around them, their voices drowned by Jack’s forceful barks at his employees.

In Hannibal’s mind, they are all silent. Their throats are open red wounds, incapable of noise or sound. He sees them no more.

This is the moment to appreciate the cerulean sea of Will’s eyes, and relish the heavy weight of them.

“Will,” he ventures, voice velvet soft.

Will shudders again on the perch of the step, gaze falling to the ground.

“Just take me home, Dr. Lecter,” he mutters.

He allows a small nod. He ensures that he and Will are cleared for departure by Jack, and they walk together to the car. He follows close behind Will, scenting the sweet-sick air of his wake.


“You took away my choice to kill,” Will says, interrupting the mutually respected quiet that had held stubborn until their arrival in Wolf Trap.

Will has just finished filling an array of metal and plastic bowls with tap water and kibble, setting them up around the open floor of his living room. The dog pack mills between them, tails thumping against Hannibal’s legs.

“I find that strange,” Will continues. “It doesn’ with my perception of who you are.”

“You thought I was more like Clark Ingram than I am.”

“I wanted to see you in him, or him in you,” Will says. His forehead creases as he thinks through his next words. “Guess it doesn’t matter which. When it came down to it, both my desire and my perceptions were wrong. And you knew it.”

“When the windows of our perceptions are shattered, we see miles of light stretched beyond us. Infinite.”

Will shakes his head. He looks away and down to his shaking hands before dropping them limply to his sides. “I need a drink.”

Hannibal watches as Will reaches into a cupboard for a bottle of cheap whiskey and a clean glass.

“If you have a question for me Will, I will answer. As clearly and undimmed as I always have.”

Will looks at him for a moment, and laughs, an empty breath of air. He pours himself a more than generous drink. He gulps some of the liquid down before he even sets the bottle of Jack back on the counter. He does not offer Hannibal a glass. Hannibal’s lips curl fondly in response.

“Why would you do that? Why stop my becoming?” Will asks him. He takes another drink from his glass.

Hannibal pets one of the dogs behind a flopped ear. The one called Winston.

“I have only just recently secured your freedom from the Baltimore Hospital of the Criminally Insane. Despite what you may think, it was not an easy accomplishment. I do not wish for you to return so easily to Chilton’s substitute.”

“And you agreed with me earlier about ending all of these -- these little lies.”

Hannibal arches his brow. “Yes,” he agrees.

“So I won’t lie either. You already know I don’t want to kill you, Dr. Lecter. I don’t even want you dead,” Will says tonelessly.

“What then, do you want?”

Will stares into the glass of whiskey in his hand as if divining a truth at its end. Then, in one long pull, he gulps down the remnants of alcohol. The movement of his throat lures Hannibal like a moth to candlelight.

Will wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before focusing on Hannibal again. His voice is hard and flat.

“I want us to fuck.”

A perplexing, euphoric sensation spreads through Hannibal. It feels akin to falling.

“And how do you envision this -- fucking?”

Will blinks, looking away to his empty glass. “You’re all around me, like a shadow.”

Under the muted gold glow of the living room lamps, uncertainty blossoms on his face. Hannibal drinks it in like the finest of wines. Then Will steels himself and their gazes lock again.

Hannibal is reminded of their last appointment, Will licking at the pink seam of his lips as he talked about killing Hannibal with his hands.

Will takes a step closer, than another, until they’re as close as they were in Peter Bernadone’s rescue. Closer, maybe—bound by newfound knowledge.

“You’re like a second skin I can’t quite shed,” Will says, and his face twists, the shadow of his lashes fluttering. “Might as well be inside me, don’t you think?”

“If that is what you wish.”

Will snorts against Hannibal’s chin, then grabs the back of his head and brings their mouths together. It’s a rough thing, the touch of their lips, hot and fast. It lacks both finesse and skill but Hannibal does not find it unpleasant. Will’s taste is even sweeter than he could have imagined-- woodsy and richly masculine, much better than the manufactured scent he wears, although the sting of alcohol lingers. Hannibal has only just begun to soften their kiss, to explore the silken inside of Will’s mouth at his own leisure when Will retaliates with an angry, wounded sound. He bites at Hannibal’s lips, until Hannibal grabs him tightly, palming the mounds of his ass in warning.

Gasping, Will breaks away, cupping Hannibal’s crotch and squeezing.

“You want me? You’re going to have to catch me.”

Before Hannibal can respond, Will shoves him hard back into the counter and then turns around and runs.

Hannibal staggers but regains his footing in seconds just as Will bounds up the stairs. He licks Will’s whiskey from his mouth as he gives chase.

They meet again at the door to Will’s unused bedroom. Hannibal grabs at Will’s hair, fingers tangling in curls as Will elbows him in the abdomen. He falls forward, wrapping his arms around Will as the other tries to kick at him.

There’s not far to go this time and they both collapse on the bed. Hannibal is well aware of the many ways to use the width and strength of his body to entrap others’ bodies. With Will slightly inebriated, it’s not difficult. He forces Will’s head facedown with one hand, then, uses his weight to pin Will’s legs. Thighs tremble against him already, refusing to submit.

Perhaps only Hannibal can hear the symphony roaring in his veins but it doesn’t matter.

He noses at the nape of Will’s neck, already heady with arousal. He licks at the delicate nerves below his mandible all the way to the shell of his ear, reveling in the veritable feast of scent and taste.

Will writhes, insistent until Hannibal dips his fingers below the front of his pants. Hands meet and tangle briefly, before Will unbuttons and yanks his own pants and undershorts down, shoving his ass onto the thick bulge of Hannibal’s crotch.

“I want this. Don’t you be tender with me, Hannibal.” The sneer in his voice holds steady. “I’m not Alana fucking Bloom.”

Hannibal’s lips quirk in a smile as he tugs Will’s shirt up and tosses it aside.

“I see that,” he replies. He doesn’t tell Will how lovely he is, how he sees in him a physical lure to transcendence.

It wouldn’t do to startle the deer with praise so close to the snare.

Will’s back is cream-colored with the warmth of a peach’s blush--he’s supple with lean muscle, each curve and dip worthy of slow exploration. But Hannibal doesn’t think Will would tolerate that, at least, not yet. He reigns in his urges in by mouthing the knife scar on Will’s shoulder instead, claiming the pink line of sliced tissue for himself. Will arches, spine bowing cat-like as he feels the points of Hannibal’s teeth.

“Get the lube. Have stuff in my nightstand,” Will mutters, face pressing into the sheets as he rocks back into Hannibal’s body.

Utterly obedient, Hannibal shifts. He undoes his pants, allowing the articles of clothing to fall down around his ankles so that he can move them aside. With one hand, he squeezes liquid from the tube he has found onto his fingers, slicking three thoroughly.

He circles Will’s hole before nudging one finger in, feeling his way through the tight grip of muscle as smoothly as he can. He repeats the process until he has three fingers stretching Will’s body. Hannibal is more urgent than he wishes, but he doesn’t want to slow the tide of Will’s desire either.

“Harder,” Will commands.

Hannibal presses on his prostate with force. Will makes a strangled sound, humping his hips back into Hannibal’s. “Don’t stop.”

With his hand flat on Will’s spine, Hannibal anchors him onto the mattress. It’s the only warning Will gets before Hannibal replaces his fingers with his lubricated cock, nudging it into the small space he has created. The blunt head catches for one breathless moment before Will’s hole gives and Hannibal eases into him as he would a custom-made glove, slowly and thoroughly.

Hannibal doesn’t stop until he bottoms out. And then, he can’t help but close his eyes at the impossibly heavenly feel of Will, so warm and consuming below.

Will claws at sheets blindly, trying to hasten their joining, until Hannibal captures his wrists in one hand and pulls his arms up behind him to hold at the damp small of his back. He fucks Will like this, rhythmic yet slow, jaw clenched against the praises he wishes to utter.

The cadence of it builds to a crescendo almost too quickly and Hannibal falters. He is forced to turn Will over, fit his legs over his shoulders despite Will’s curses at the sudden stop. Nails tear across his back, and Hannibal smells his own blood as he fucks into Will again, bending him in half with the force of his thrusts. The old bed frame creaks below them, its groans blending with theirs.

In the dark, their lips hover dangerously close. Hannibal thinks Will is going to kiss him, or perhaps bite him instead, but he is pleasantly surprised as Will’s hands wrap around his throat. Will squeezes him there and Hannibal shudders, funneling his reaction to the roughening movement of his hips. The pressure of Will’s individual fingers against his esophagus is exquisite.

“You fucking—” Will gasps through a snarl. The slits of his eyes shine like two northern stars.

“Is this what you wanted, Will? You, taking everything I have?” Hannibal wheezes as Will chokes him harder. His vision twirls and waltzes as he drives down onto Will’s prostate as hard as he can. “Is this... your reckoning?”

“God, fuck,” Will groans brokenly, fingers spasming against Hannibal’s neck tightly as his cock spurts, untouched. Hannibal feels the sharpness of his own thin smile as Will’s semen pulses hot and silky between them, even as his lungs heave for breath. He barely notes the mess on his shirt.

Will’s utter collapse to pleasure ripples through Hannibal’s body. His frayed control slips. He orgasms with a growl he can’t contain, his own palm clutched tight over Will’s hand on his throat.


Alana finds out the news of his and Will’s coupling more inelegantly than Hannibal anticipated.

She shows up in his bedroom early the next day, shortly after he has returned home from Wolf Trap. He had wanted to keep Will’s scent on him longer but it wouldn’t do, not with his appointments later in the day. His bathroom is still steamy from his shower, a towel still wrapped tight around his hips, when he hears Alana call for him on the stairs. He calculates if he can dress quickly for only one moment. In the end, he doesn’t want to hide the marks Will has laid on him. Each one is like a gift.

When Alana enters his bedroom the first thing she sees is the angry raised lines of Will’s nails carved down his back. When he turns to face her with false suprise, she sees violet-colored smudges of burst capillaries above his carotid and jugular, shaped like Will’s fingers.

“Hannibal,” she gasps. “You’re hurt! What happened to you?”

“I saw Will last night.”

Her lips tremble in concern for one long beat. But then--- ah, the dawning hesitation in her, the puzzle pieces coming together as he displays them so openly. Gradually, Alana’s eyes begin to scan his body differently than a lover would, far more clinically.

“Did... Will hurt you?” she asks quietly.

Hannibal bows his head. He flattens the line of his mouth, hoping his veil makes him appear remorseful and contrite. “I am the one to blame. I am so sorry, Alana. I have been…terribly rude.”