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Demolition Lovers

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"Oh god, Hannibal please," Will moans, arching up into his touch. Hannibal's fingers just barely, teasingly, brush the length of his erection and it causes Will to shudder, pressing his face into the crook in his neck. He knows that Hannibal loves to hear him beg, that he won't properly touch him until he does, and while it's totally worth it and Will doesn't mind, he always feels embarrassed at first.

"Come on," Hannibal murmurs softly, words of encouragement to coax him out. He nudges Will's head back so he can press another searing kiss onto his lips, sucking the bottom one roughly into his mouth. Will lets out a low, trembling moan in return, and he can feel Hannibal's lips curl up into a smile against him. "Just like that," He coos, "Come on."

He rarely talks in the bedroom, and the words are just added fuel to the fire, causing Will to buck up into his touch even more. "Fuck, please," Will mutters. He's babbling now, anything to get Hannibal to touch him, to fuck him. "I need you."

"What do you need?" Hannibal presses, accentuating it with a nip to his neck.

"I need you to fuck me," Will groans, entire body trembling when Hannibal finally wraps a hand around him, "Please, oh God please. Your hand, your mouth, anything-"

"Good boy," Hannibal returns, and the praise is almost enough to make Will come. Almost.

Within seconds, Hannibal is sliding down his body, wet mouth following as he goes, until he's level with Will's cock. And before Will has a chance to beg any more, his words are cut off by Hannibal swallowing around him, head sinking down until his nose brushes against his hair. Will's hands fly down, holding Hannibal in place and his hips buck up into the slick, wet heat of his mouth.

Hannibal knows exactly how to make Will beg, exactly how to make him come undone, and the eye contact that he keeps, even while he's sucking on the head of Will's dick is one of those things. His fingers are sharp, digging into the soft flesh of Will's hips, and he knows that they'll leave marks, but he doesn't care. Not with the way that Hannibal looks up at him, taking him deep into his mouth.

"Please, Hannibal, please," Will chants, hips canting upward. He's close now, only a little bit more...

He throws his head back, breaking the eye contact at the vibration of Hannibal moaning around him, mouth open in a silent scream. His tongue swirls around the tip, perfectly, just the way he likes, and his fingers dig harder into his hips. It isn't until he realizes that the press of them are about to pierce his skin, the pain almost outweighing the pleasure of Hannibal's mouth, that Will looks down at him again.

To his surprise, Hannibal has long since broken the skin. There's blood flowing freely out of his thighs and hips and Hannibal stares up at Will with hungry eyes - mouth still on his cock - as he slices into him, a knife suddenly in hand. Will wants to scream, wants to pull away because there's blood everywhere, even splattered up on Hannibal's face, but he's still thrusting up, up, up into his mouth, so close...

Hannibal's eyes are heavy and full of lust as he reaches forward and cuts a long, broad stripe all the way down Will's abdomen, opening him up.

Will comes with a scream.


When Will awakes, it's with a gasping breath, sitting straight up in bed. The images of his dream are still very prominent in his head - Hannibal's lust filled eyes, Hannibal's mouth on him, Hannibal slicing into him - and he shudders, suddenly cold, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He blinks his eyes a couple of times, trying to wash the images from his head, and it isn't until then that he realizes where he is. 

He's sitting in Hannibal's bed, half clothed and disoriented. He vaguely remembers the other man carrying him into the room, undressing him, and pressing a kiss onto his head, but he remembers it. He also remembers the realization that Hannibal had drugged him, as well as his admission. He wants to be sick - wants to get up and run to the bathroom and puke - with the knowledge that last night wasn't a dream, that Hannibal is a killer. He wants to punch himself for being so stupid, for not seeing it sooner, and for allowing the man to take him to bed afterward, but he can't.

Memories of Hannibal kissing him, Hannibal listening to him and taking care of him over the course of the past few months flash to the forefront of his mind.

I'd be lying if I said my feelings for you weren't true.

It may have been a lie - hell, Hannibal's obviously been lying to him since the moment that they met - but he can't get the words out of his mind. They're one of the few things that stop Will from screaming for help or calling the police, not that his phone is anywhere to be found, anyway.

Hannibal isn't in the bedroom and he realizes, when he glances at the clock, that it's well past ten in the morning. He's been asleep for more than twelve hours, though he's sure that being drugged will do that to you. Even still, with the knowledge that Hannibal drugged him - that he's the Chesapeake Ripper - and that there's a high possibility that he's cooking people for breakfast in the other room, Will finds that he's still hard from his dream as he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

He wonders how much of this Hannibal has planned out. He obviously had some sort of a sedative ready last night, so he had to have some idea that the truth was going to come out, but how far ahead was he thinking? He's obviously confident enough to leave Will alone in the bedroom - a bedroom with a window - so Will is certain that he's got that much planned out, which is the only reason why he doesn't try to sneak out the window and make a run for it. 

Instead, Will finds himself pulling his own dirty jeans on over his boxers and opening the bedroom door, only to be met by the mouthwatering smell of Hannibal's cooking. He tries to talk his body out of it, tries to tell himself that it's probably human meat, but he can't help the way his stomach growls. He can't remember the last time he ate, and he's starving.

It's no surprise that Hannibal is completely dressed and showered and well put together, standing behind the stove when Will walks into the kitchen. He's probably been up for hours, planning this, and Will realizes, as he stares at Hannibal's familiar form, that he's trapped. He's been trapped since the day that the other man walked into his life, and he's trapped until the day that Hannibal decides to end it.

"Good morning, Will," Hannibal says smoothly, without even looking up from his cooking. Will freezes in return, standing just shy of his usual spot at the table. "I trust you slept well."

"I had a dream about you," Will mutters, voice sounding far away. He attributes it to the drugs, still probably swimming around in his system, and tries to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.

"That so?" Hannibal asks, tone conversational. He spares a small glance Will's way, but nothing more, as if to tell him that he's not worried. That if he tries anything funny, there will be consequences.

Will swallows hard and when he speaks, he tries his hardest to make his tone venomous, "Yeah. You killed me."

"A bit morbid," Hannibal notes, turning off the stove. He plates their breakfast - it looks like pancakes and bacon and sausage - and while it smells delicious, the knowledge of what it really is makes Will feel even more sick.

"Well it's not like it isn’t going to happen," Will mutters, crossing his arms, and finally Hannibal actually looks up at him, eyes lingering for a long moment.

He sighs, "As I said, I do not wish to kill you, Will. Just as you don't want to kill me."

Will's lips form a tight line at that, because it's not all a lie. He had plenty of chances to shoot Hannibal last night - to kill him and end it all - but he couldn't. Who could blame him, really? Even if he is a murderer - a cannibal - he's still the most consistent, good thing that Will has had in his life for years. It's not just black and white anymore.

When Will closes his eyes, he can imagine the way that Hannibal kisses him softly, taking great care to make sure that he feels safe and loved. He can feel Hannibal's soft, gentle touches, can hear his quiet murmurs of affection.

"Are you hungry?" Hannibal asks, snapping Will out of his daydream. He opens his eyes and everything is very real again. Hannibal is still a killer, regardless of how he kisses or loves, and Will is still his prey.

He shakes his head no, but his growling stomach gives him away.

"You need to eat, Will," Hannibal presses, crossing the room to set his own plate down before setting Will's in front of him. Will flinches at the closeness - he could reach out and touch Hannibal if he wanted to - but he doesn't sit down.

"I don't want to," He mutters.


"Is it…?" He begins to ask, staring down at the meat on his plate. He can’t finish the question, though, and if he were to look up, he'd see the smile that curls Hannibal's lips at his words.

"Do you really have to ask?"

And that seems to do it. Will is running, then, hand covering his mouth, toward the bathroom. He barely makes it to the toilet before he's vomiting. There isn't much in his stomach to throw up, just water and the remainder of the drugs that Hannibal gave him and stomach bile, and within a minute, he's sputtering and dry-heaving. He realizes, as he clutches onto the porcelain, that he's crying, wet tears staining his cheeks, and he squeezes his eyes shut, willing for it to all go away. For it to be a bad dream. He wants nothing more than to wake up tomorrow in his own bed, covered in sweat from a nightmare.

But it's not going to happen. He's not stupid, and he knows it's not a dream. And he knows that the soft hand on the small of his back is very, very real. His body lurches at the realization that it's Hannibal comforting him, and though he wants to - tries to - shy away from the contact, he can't.

"Oh God," He mutters, pressing his head against the toilet seat and closing his eyes.

He's not sure how long he's there, on his knees on the bathroom floor, or how long it takes Hannibal to coax him out, but eventually, the other man pulls him to his feet and turns him around to wipe the corners of his mouth off with a handkerchief. "The drugs are still in your system," Hannibal explains softly, brushing hair out of Will's face. He should be embarrassed by the way he leans slightly into the touch, dizzy, but he can't think about it. Instead, his mind latches onto Hannibal's words, and how smooth and safe they sound. "Nausea is a common side effect, though it will go away sooner if you eat something," He adds, hand still softly petting Will's hair.

Will's eyes snap open at that, body tensing despite how badly he wants to just curl up and let Hannibal pet him all day. "No," He mutters, "I can't - I won't-"

"You don't have to eat the meat," Hannibal assures, smiling slightly at Will's reaction. He looks at him as if he is a child, refusing to eat their vegetables, and Will wonders how long their relationship has been like this. When he doesn't say anything, Hannibal's smile disappears and he adds, "I promise you, there's nothing in the pancakes."

And though Will wouldn't put it past him - the man's more than likely been secretly feeding him, and probably everyone else, human flesh for months - he nods shallowly. His body feels weak, and though he doesn't want to admit it, Hannibal is right. He needs to eat.

His mouth is dry as he forces himself to chew and swallow, sitting across from Hannibal at the table. He can't even really taste the food, but he forces it down both because he needs to, and because he doesn’t want to upset Hannibal. It isn't until he's almost done, only half of a pancake sitting in front of him that he finally gathers the nerve to speak up again.

"What are you going to do with me?" He asks numbly, very aware of the fact that Hannibal won't let him leave until he trusts that he'll keep their little secret. And even then, he's not certain that he'll be able to go home.

Hannibal narrows his eyes, as if Will's question hurts him, and Will can't help but note how much his demeanor has changed, ever since his admission. It's not like looking at a different person - no, he's still very much Hannibal - but it's as if he's taken his mask off. Will can see his face clearly now, where it was hidden before. It's like looking at him for the first time, and if he weren't slightly shaking with fear, he'd find it beautiful.

"If you think I'm going to hurt you," He says, careful not to say kill, "I told you before, I do not wish to."

"Then what are you going to do?" Will repeats, making sure not to meet his eyes, for fear that if he does, that he'll be in too deep. Hannibal's eyes always did him in. Whenever they would kiss, talk, make love, he'd yearn for that eye-contact, because it was real. Hannibal didn't look at him like something fragile or breakable, like everyone else, but instead looked at him like he was the finest creature he'd ever laid eyes on, and Will is certain that if he looks into those eyes now, he won't be able to look away.

Hannibal stands at that, walking around the table to Will's side, and Will looks away, hiding his face. It isn't until Hannibal is by his side that he feels the soft touch of his hand, gentle on his cheek that he finally gives in. And though everything in his body screams at him to run, to look away, he follows the touch and gazes up at Hannibal. His eyes are sad, as if he wishes that Will would just understand, and it makes Will's chest constrict. "We'll discuss that later," Hannibal says softly, thumb stroking his cheek.

And though Will wants that to be the end of it, he can't help but hold the eye contact, and rasp out, "Why me?" And when Hannibal cocks his head to the side, he explains. "You could have had anyone." Could have let anyone see this side of you. Could have ruined anyone else's life. "So why me?"

Hannibal smiles at that - it's a soft, sad smile - and leans down, so he's eye level with Will. "Will..." He murmurs, stroking Will's cheek gently. He pulls a loose strand of hair away from Will's face. "Because you have an extraordinary mind-"

"Hannibal," Will murmurs, and he's not even sure what he's asking for, but apparently the man cradling his face knows.

"Because you're the only one who could truly understand me," He murmurs, and then he's leaning in, pressing a soft kiss to Will's forehead. Will's eyes flutter closed at the contact, and he distantly wonders if this is what his life is going to be like now, knowing what he knows. Part of him is strangely okay with Hannibal feeding him and comforting him and taking care of him. Part of him wonders if Hannibal would kill for him.

"Even if you don't understand now," Hannibal continues, voice quiet, lips just barely brushing his hair, "You will."


He's not even sure how he makes it through the majority of the day, trapped inside of Hannibal's house with him, but somehow he does, and before he knows it, Will is sitting at the dinner table again, across from Hannibal. He made sure to prepare something vegetarian for dinner, and though Will couldn't identify it if he was asked, he's actually somewhat grateful for it. In fact, dinner goes by surprisingly well, even if it's a little quiet, until Hannibal finally breaks the silence as he gathers their dishes to clean. 

"I've made arrangements for us," He announces as he rinses off one of the plates.

Will, still sitting at the table, staring down at his hands, looks up at that with wide eyes, "Arrangements?"

"Yes," Hannibal replies simply, "If things are becoming as serious as you say they are, Jack is probably working on a warrant right now, and will more than likely be here within the next couple of days to arrest me."

"And you don't plan on being here for it," Will infers, his mind working a little better than it had been in the morning. He feels clearer, without the drugs in his system.

"No," Hannibal answers. He doesn't even look up from the sink. "I don't."

"What kind of arrangements?" Will asks, suddenly feeling numb. He's certain that he knows what Hannibal means, but he needs to hear it out loud.

"I'm planning on leaving the country," Hannibal confirms, "And I'd like you to come with me."

Will clears his throat, "That's pretty non-negotiable, huh?"

"While I wish you'd come willingly," Hannibal answers, glancing up at him finally, "No, I’m afraid it's not."

"When?" Will asks. His voice sounds far away in his own ears.

"Tomorrow morning."

Will wants to ask why he's even bothering with dishes, then. He wants to ask why he's bothering with anything, because suddenly, the reality of the situation hits him. Hannibal is leaving in the morning, fleeing the country because he’s a fucking serial killer, and Will is going with him. Either he goes with him, or he's going to have to die. Distantly, Will wishes he didn't have such a strong will to survive. If he didn't, he would have accepted his fate last night and pushed Hannibal into killing him. At least it would have been better than this.

Instead, Will sits, stock still at Hannibal's dinner table, body numb.

He realizes very quickly, that this will be the last time he's in familiar territory. It'll be the last time that he has any kind of control over his life. He also realizes that he'll never see Jack Crawford, or any of his fellow colleagues again. Even worse, he'll never see Alana - pretty, sympathetic, caring Alana Bloom - again. That part is almost the worst. Almost.

"My dogs," Will rasps suddenly, his heart dropping, "What about my dogs?"

Hannibal seems to sense his panic at that, because he's quickly dropping whatever he's cleaning and crossing the room. He's at Will's side in a moment, and Will looks up at him with empty, lifeless eyes. "Hannibal please," He begs, even though he still doesn't know what he's asking for.

Apparently, Hannibal does - or at least he knows what Will needs - because he pulls him up into a standing position in the dining room, wordlessly wrapping his arms around Will, who tenses at first, expecting the worst. It isn't until he feels the warmth of Hannibal's body instead of the sharp pain of a knife that he realizes that he's being hugged. Comforted.

He closes his eyes, and remembers a time, not too long ago, when Hannibal had hugged him tight, comforting him in the exact same way. He had come home from work to find one of his dogs ill - his oldest, a border collie named Bailey - and had rushed her to the vet. In the midst of his panic, Will had needed something or someone to calm him down, and didn't even think before he was dialing Hannibal's number. And while Hannibal wasn't overly fond of the dogs, he was waiting at the vet's office before Will even got there. He sat by Will's side the entire night, while he waited for test results. And when Will had to say goodbye to the sweet, old dog, Hannibal had held him as he cried. He had stayed at Will's that night, cradling him as he slept.

For a moment, with his eyes closed, Will lets himself imagine that things are the way they used to be. And in a way, with Hannibal's arms wrapped around him, they are the same. He still holds Will the same, arms soft and gentle, and Will is certain that if he leaned up and kissed him, he'd taste the same, too.

When he thinks about it, Hannibal is the same exact person that Will fell for. It's just that one small truth - the fact that he kills and eats people - that's driving space between them. And he knows it's fucked up, but he can't help the way he sighs out, squeezing his eyes tight as Hannibal hugs him.

"Can I see them again?" Will whispers against Hannibal's shirt after a few long moments. His voice is shaky and he sounds like a child, but he doesn't care. They're his dogs, god damn it. "Please? Just one last time?"

Hannibal sighs against him before pulling away, holding him at arm’s length. And when Will looks up at him, he realizes how much easier it is to hold eye contact, once he's stopped fighting it. It's wrong and fucked up, but so is the rest of his life, so what else is new?

"I don't think it would be good for you," Hannibal mutters, looking down at Will like he's sorry. Like he doesn't want to say it.

"Neither is sleeping with a murderer!" He exclaims in response. So much for accepting his fate. “But you didn’t seem to have a problem letting me do that.”

"Will..." Hannibal coos, reaching forward for him again, but he recoils.

"No!" Will yells, taking a step back, "No, this isn't fair!"

When Hannibal just watches at him, waiting for him to finish, Will actually steps forward and shoves at his chest. There's a fire in his heart and rage bubbling in his throat and Hannibal is in front of him, staring down at him like he actually feels bad and it's not fair. He punches at Hannibal's chest, and when it doesn't even seem to faze the other man, it only makes him even more angry. "You're a monster!" He shouts, all of his pent up rage and frustration from the last twenty-four hours coming forth. "I hate you!"

Hannibal just takes it, and it only makes things worse.

"I trusted you!" Will's voice breaks at that. His head hangs, hands pressed hard against Hannibal's chest. And Hannibal takes that as his chance to move, grabbing Will's wrists, stopping any further movements.

"I know," Hannibal murmurs, one hand coming up to stroke the back of Will's head softly, “I know.”

"You can't just take me away," Will sobs, begging, trying to find some way out of it.

Hannibal sighs. "Without me here, you know that Jack Crawford will come after you, just as he did with Abigail Hobbs."

"You don't know that," Will argues, though he knows it's a lie. It's true; completely obvious. Jack has already been suspecting him and distancing him. Hannibal doesn't even bother arguing that, either, because they both know that Will is wrong.

"Why don't you just kill me now and rid yourself of the hassle?" Will grits out at the silence.

Hannibal doesn't even respond to Will's request. It's out of the question. Instead, he sighs, "I'm truly sorry, Will, but it has to be this way."

"No it doesn't," Will sobs against his chest. His hands are gripping tight onto his shirt now, and he's certain that he's leaving tear stains on it, but he doesn't care. "Why couldn't you just let it be?" He asks, voice cracking again. He chokes out another sob, "You could have kept me in the dark."

"We both know I couldn't have," Hannibal argues gently, "You would have discovered me, one way or another."

"How do you know that?" Will asks, voice trembling with the question. "You don't know."

"You have a beautiful mind, Will," Hannibal compliments, "You may not be confident in it, but I am."

Will clutches onto him at that, face flushing at the praise. He should be embarrassed at how just one compliment from Hannibal can make his knees weak, but he can't help it, even now. But Hannibal's praise raises another question, and when he's confident that he can speak properly, Will manages to choke it out. "Do you wish I were more like you?"

"You already are," Hannibal whispers, leaning in. His breath is hot on Will's ear. The feeling of it and the sound of his voice makes Will shudder, but he doesn't pull away at his words, only clutches tighter onto him. "You just don't know it yet."

When Will doesn't say anything in response - what's he supposed to say to something like that? - Hannibal changes the subject, arms still wrapped protectively around his shoulders. "Your dogs will be fine," He assures, "I promise."

"You don't know that," Will argues again, fighting him all the way through.

Hannibal pulls away at that, so he can study him. Will shies away from the eye contact, looking down at his feet in return, but he can feel Hannibal's eyes burning holes into him.

"Do you trust me?" Hannibal asks suddenly, and the question almost makes Will laugh. If he weren't so terrified, he probably would.

"Seriously?" He manages, turning to look up at him.

If the question hurts him, Hannibal doesn't let it show. Instead, he just corrects his question. "Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me until now? Have I ever let you down?"

Will swallows hard. He doesn't want to give in, doesn't want to give him what he wants, but at the same time, he's aware that if he lies, Hannibal will know. He shakes his head shallowly. "No. No, you haven't."

"Do you trust me, Will?" Hannibal asks again, pressing harder, breaking Will just a little bit more.

He wants to lie, he really does, but he can't. Not looking up at Hannibal and his knowing eyes. "Yes," He mutters out, voice small, "I do."

"Then trust that I'm doing what's best for you," He says, quiet and quick, and before Will knows what's happening, Hannibal is moving fast, grabbing his right wrist tight in one hand. He wants to shout in pain - wants to tell Hannibal to let go - but then he's rendered speechless as Hannibal reaches for the counter, for the kitchen knife he left laying there.

Will tries to jerk away - oh god, this is it, he's going to kill you - but Hannibal's grip is strong. He absently wonders how many people Hannibal has killed, if his death will be anything special to him or if he'll just be another innocent life, taken way too soon, and he closes his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable.

When he feels the sharp, stinging pain of the knife, his eyes snap open.

Though it hurts - the sharp blade cutting easily into his flesh - it's not where he expects the pain to be, and Will stares with wide eyes as Hannibal slices the palm of his hand open. His other fist clenches at the front of Hannibal’s shirt with the pain, but he doesn't pull away, doesn't try to escape. Instead he watches curiously as Hannibal turns his hand and squeezes, letting the blood drip quickly and pool on the clean floor of his kitchen.

His mind fills with images of his dream last night. Of Hannibal, slicing him open, bathing in his blood.

"What-" Will finally breaths out when no more pain comes and Hannibal sets the knife down carefully on the counter after a few long, agonizing moments.

"They'll find your blood here-" Hannibal explains, reaching forward to the dinner table to grab a cloth, wrapping it around Will's injured palm. The feeling of the cotton on his cut stings and he winces, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Hannibal. "-and your phone in a ditch just outside of town, and assume the worst."

Will realizes that Hannibal is talking about Jack and the FBI, about throwing them off of their trail, making them think that he's dead, and he can't deny that it sounds like a decent plan. If he were on the case, he'd see right through it, but Jack won't. He'll be too blinded by his anger and frustration and the pain of losing another agent to the Chesapeake Ripper.

"They won't find my body," Will breaths, staring up at Hannibal with wide eyes, "Just like Miriam. Jack will lose it."  Hannibal's eyes light up at his words, corners of his mouth turning up into a small smirk, and Will knows that it's exactly what he wants.

Hannibal reaches down at that, lifting Will's injured hand to inspect it. He dabs at it with the cloth before dipping a finger down, wiping stray blood clean off of his wrist. And Will can't help the small gasp that he makes when Hannibal brings the finger up to his own mouth, licking it clean. It shouldn't surprise him, Hannibal lapping up his blood like it's a delicacy, and maybe it isn't surprise that leaves his mouth hanging open when he watches Hannibal repeat the action. Maybe it's the low, lustful look in Hannibal's eyes as he does it. He looks at Will like he does in the bedroom, crawling over his naked body before kissing him passionately and murmuring, "Tell me what you want."

And maybe that's why he lets Hannibal lean in at that, fingers raking gently though his hair, before he presses a hungry kiss to his lips. Or at least it'll be his excuse, when he finds himself lying in bed later, thinking about the way that his body melts against Hannibal's at the kiss.

He doesn't move at first, left hand hanging uselessly at his side, injured one pressed between their chests. He doesn't move, but he opens his mouth without having to be asked twice, allowing Hannibal's taste - and the salty, iron flavor of his own blood - flood his senses. His arm eventually wraps around Hannibal's shoulders as the kiss deepens, and as it does, any thoughts of running away or trying to escape fly out the window.

He's trapped - maybe not even against his will - and he can't even bring himself to care. The pain in his hand feels sharp and bright, but the rest of him is terrifyingly numb.