Hannibal is weird about Will’s bodily fluids. It’s something that starts as a nagging suspicion and becomes more readily apparent over time.
In the beginning it would’ve been impossible to notice. There were just so many fluids, blood weeping from their various wounds, pus when infection set into the stab wound in Will’s shoulder, salt tears that prickle at the corner of his eyes when Hannibal cuts away necrotic tissue without the benefit of anesthetics.
In the beginning there’s too much pain, too much uncertainty to do anything besides wait and hope—hope for the best, to try to cheat death.
They live. Miraculously, somehow, they even make it out of the country without being arrested.
The first time they fall into bed, it’s after a festival where there was dancing and music and wine flowing freely. Will is tipsy and flushed and feeling like someone besides himself. Someone who can put his hands on Hannibal, who can cup the back of his head and fit their lips together, who can slot his leg between Hannibal’s thighs to give him something to rut against.
It doesn’t feel like a first time. It feels inevitable. Hannibal puts his hand on Will’s cock, and he thinks my hand. Will drags his nose through the hair on Hannibal’s chest; he bites a nipple too hard, and he thinks mine. He sucks Hannibal’s cock into his mouth, and he thinks that’s mine too.
Possession, completion. Closing a circuit.
It’s only after—
It’s only later—
Once Will is reasonably sure Hannibal isn’t going to murder him. Once Hannibal doesn’t think Will is going to run away.
When they’ve started to get comfortable, that’s when things get weird.
They’re lying in bed on a lazy morning, sucking on each other’s tongues as they thrust together into Hannibal’s hand. The warm, slick friction lights a fire in the pit of his belly. He grunts and pushes his hips forward, chasing it.
And then Hannibal lets go.
Will makes a grumpy noise of dissatisfaction that’s immediately swallowed by a loud groan as Hannibal slides down his body and takes Will into his mouth. He swallows him down, cups his balls, and then Will is coming, pushing up into the tight circle of Hannibal’s lips.
He throws an arm over his eyes after, feeling boneless and sated and good. He laughs, feeling clean and light.
“Hannibal, fuck.” He pulls his arm away so he can peer down at Hannibal, who’s watching him intently. Will laughs again and extends a hand. “C’mere. Lemme take care of you too.”
Hannibal shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary.”
Will frowns. “Of course it is. Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m, ah, fine. Thank you.” It isn’t sheepish. Hannibal doesn’t do sheepish. It’s something remarkably close, though.
“What? Hannibal, you—” Oh. There’s a conspicuous wet spot blooming on the front of Hannibal’s boxer briefs. Oh. “You, uh, like that, huh?”
Hannibal grins wolfishly.
* * *
Will adds another piece to his mental profile of Hannibal, the one he started when it was his job, the one that he keeps out of habit: It turns out Hannibal Lecter likes sucking cock. Like, really, really likes it. Will isn’t actually sure why he’s surprised.
Of fucking course he does.
“Consumption,” he says, the second time it happens. After Hannibal corners him in a hallway and crowds him up against a wall, after he undoes Will’s belt buckle and drops to his knees with a suddenness that has Will’s own kneecaps wincing in sympathy.
After, when he’s panting trying to catch his breath, and Hannibal is looking up at him like every bad idea Will has ever had.
“It’s about consumption for you. You don’t get off on submission, or even giving pleasure to your partner. That would be too ordinary for you.” He pushes his thumb into Hannibal’s mouth, still swollen and hot and shiny with spit. His spent cock jerks against his thigh, trying its best to rise to the occasion while Will is transfixed by the sight before him: Hannibal, pliant and heavy-lidded, allowing Will to push dirty fingers into his mouth. “It’s selfish, for you. Greedy, even. It’s a way you can eat me—or part of me, anyway. Taking a part without diminishing the whole.”
He pulls his thumb out of Hannibal’s mouth and wipes the saliva against Hannibal’s cheek, carelessly degrading in a way that makes his own monster rumble in its sleep. “How’d I do, doctor?”
“Close,” Hannibal says, capturing Will’s retreating hand and pressing a kiss into its open palm. “Very close.”
* * *
It happens again. It keeps happening. Hannibal ambushes him when he’s washing their clothes, when he’s wiping the dogs’ feet after they’ve charged through the muddy lawn, when he’s sitting with his feet up on the couch, flicking through Tattlecrime with a sense of mounting irritation.
On one memorable occasion, it happens when Will comes in from a run, when he’s sweaty and winded, and all he wants is to stick his head in the sink and down a couple glasses of water in quick succession.
Hannibal is a fucking menace, so of course that’s when he gets Will’s running shorts down around his knees and gets to work.
Will balks. “Hannibal, god. I can smell myself from here. At least wait until I’ve had a chance to jump in the shower.”
“No,” Hannibal says, digging his fingers into the backs of Will’s thighs to hold him still and mouthing along the ridge of a hipbone. He nestles his nose in Will’s pubic hair and breathes deeply, and Will makes a sound that can’t decide if it wants to be disgusted or interested.
Both, Will decides. Probably both.
“Hannibal,” he says, and the token protest sounds weak even to his own ears.
He tries to push Hannibal’s face away, but Hannibal is undeterred. He threads his fingers through Will, more restraint than intimacy, and chases Will’s cock with his mouth. It should be undignified. Will swears it would be undignified on anyone else, but on Hannibal, it just manages to be hot as hell. Hannibal won’t let his hands go, so Will makes do by jerking his hips forward.
He doesn’t know what he was expecting—for Hannibal to pull back, prim and accusatory, probably. At least for him to cough and come up for air. Hannibal does no such thing. He breathes through his nose, quick and hard, in a way that suggests he’s just as ruined as Will is.
He locks eyes with Will, and it feels like electric current. Like the time Will stuck a fork in a wall outlet as a kid and got beaten to hell by his dad for it. He draws back as far as he can, until the tip of his cock is resting against Hannibal’s bottom lip, and slowly slides back in.
He does it again, then again. His own breath is ragged and loud. He’s mesmerized by the way his body disappears into Hannibal’s. He tortures them both as long as he can with that slow slide of skin, and Hannibal just lets him. Lets him until he breaks, until he’s fucking into Hannibal’s mouth with abandon.
He doesn’t hold back. He’d have to, with anyone else, but he doesn’t have to with Hannibal. That’s what makes it so terrible. That’s what makes it so fucking good. He slams his dick down Hannibal’s throat and doesn’t stop when Hannibal gags. Doesn’t stop when tears start pricking at the corners of his eyes or when they spill down those impossible cheekbones. He squeezes Hannibal’s hands so tight he can feel the bones creak in protest, then he pushes forward and holds, spilling down Hannibal’s throat with a loud groan. When Hannibal finally deigns to let him go, he looks rapturous. Like he’s just had a religious experience.
It’s obscene. Will wants to rub the expression clean off Hannibal’s face. He wants to bury it in the dirt so it never sees the light of day. He wants to tuck it in his pocket, somewhere close to his heart, and keep it safe.
He talks instead, because that’s what they do. He doesn’t know where the words come from. Hell, probably.
“You’d love for me to never come anywhere but in your mouth, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Hannibal breathes. His voice sounds wrecked, and it makes Will want to fuck him up.
Dangerous, he thinks, and he doesn’t know if he means Hannibal or himself.
Will laughs, and Hannibal doesn’t. He’s looking at Will with eyes dark and greedy. It’s an expression that reminds him of a blood-drenched night, of slaying dragons and the deep, dark sea.
“Come on, Hannibal.” Will drags a hand through his hair. He laughs in an attempt to break the tension that refuses to crack. “Christ. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“You can’t actually ask me to do that. That’s insane.”
“I haven’t asked you to do anything,” Hannibal says primly.
“Semantics,” Will says.
He gives Hannibal a hand and helps him off the floor. Hannibal’s knees click, and he groans as he gets up, and Will has a brief moment of smug satisfaction. Even Hannibal isn’t immune to the little indignities of being human.
He goes to take a shower, and Hannibal wanders into the kitchen to start dinner, and that’s the end of that.
It is, and it isn’t.
Now that the idea is in Will’s mind, it won’t let him alone. His imagination hasn’t grown dormant since he stopped using it for Jack Crawford’s purposes. It’s eager as ever to turn itself to new tasks, and it’s happy to latch onto this particular idea—Hannibal on his knees, in infinite variation.
Will groans and leans his head against the shower tile, letting the hot water pummel his back.
“This is a bad idea,” he says.
The shower drain gurgles in agreement.
* * *
He gives himself until the next morning to reconsider, with no such luck.
“Fine,” Will says, as soon as Hannibal’s awake. “For how long?”
“A month seems fair,” Hannibal says without missing a beat, as though this was a conversation they’d just been having and not one revived from the dead. Will’s eyes narrow as he considers the implications of that.
He laughs. “Nothing is ever fair with you.”
Hannibal doesn’t deny it. Of course he doesn’t—he can’t.
Will gives in, because that’s what he does. “Fine. A month it is.”
Hannibal gives him a sleepy kiss tinted with morning breath and the all-encompassing warmth of their bed sheets, and breakfast is late that day.
* * *
Will figured it would be easy. Their sex life isn’t lacking, and when he masturbates, it’s out of habit more than anything else. It’s something to do in the shower, a better way to start the day than the years of cold sweats and night terrors that marked his mornings before.
He forgot to account for all the ways Hannibal loves playing with him, the ways Hannibal enjoys watching him squirm. Of course he stops touching Will altogether almost immediately after striking their bargain.
At first Will thinks nothing of it, but after a few days, the shape of Hannibal’s design starts unfolding in his mind. He tests a hypothesis, slinking into Hannibal’s lap while he’s reading on the couch, plucking the book out of his hand and tossing it aside.
He sinks his hands into Hannibal’s hair and kisses him, letting his tongue slide along Hannibal’s bottom lip, teasing and sucking. Hannibal kisses back fervently, and Will feels victory in the hard press of Hannibal’s cock through the linen pants he’s begun to favor these days. He rocks himself against it, chasing the friction that’s almost-but-not-quite enough after a week without any touch, including his own.
Hannibal scrapes his teeth along Will’s jaw, sucks a line of kisses into his neck, then gently pushes Will aside and picks up his book. He finds his place with annoying ease and starts reading, seemingly content to ignore the bulge in his own pants.
“Seriously?” Will asks. He eyes the cover of the book. “I highly doubt Nabokov is all that interesting.”
“Anticipation can make fulfillment sweeter, when it arrives,” Hannibal says without raising his eyes from the page.
“Meaning you just like torturing me.”
Hannibal chuckles. “That too.”
He lifts the book slightly in invitation, and Will hesitates before leaning forward. He lays his head in Hannibal’s lap, and one of Hannibal’s hands comes to rest in his hair. He strokes it softly, like petting a cat, and Will lets his eyes drift closed.
The room is quiet except for the occasional rustle of a page turning. Will feels soothed and keyed up all at once, restful and fizzy in his skin.
* * *
By the third week, Will is nearly climbing the walls. He finds himself staring at the place where Hannibal’s shirt rides up when he reaches for something on the top shelf, fixating on the dip above his upper lip.
Hannibal preens under the attention. He seems to find Will’s discomfort endlessly amusing, the bastard. Will’s pretty sure he hasn’t had this many spontaneous erections since he was in grade school.
Showers are getting… difficult. Will likes to think he has will power—he managed to avoid giving into his worse impulses for more of his life than he didn’t, but trying not to jack off in the shower has begun to take herculean amounts of strength. He lets the spray buffet him, and his hand drifts to his dick, hard and aching, and just this once.
Hannibal wouldn’t know, is the first thought that crosses his mind. Except knowing Hannibal, he probably would. Hannibal has a nose like a bloodhound, and he’s begun to take more liberties with Will’s personal space since they’ve run off together, not less. He’ll probably be able to smell it on Will, even under the sandalwood scent of the soap they’re using these days.
Will sighs. A deal’s a deal. They said a month.
In the end, he doesn’t touch himself any more than necessary to soap himself up and get himself clean. Even that has him biting his lip and digging his nails into his palm. He’s going to actually lose his mind.
He turns the tap to cold and shivers his way through the rest of his shower.
Breakfast is waiting by the time he gets downstairs. Hannibal’s smile is unusually sunny, and Will wants to punch him. Hannibal always looks pleased with himself, but today he looks like the cat that got the cream.
“Good morning, Will. Did you have a nice shower?”
“Remarkably unsubtle,” Will says. He eats his eggs and sips his coffee, and tries not to notice the way the tendons in Hannibal’s forearms shift when he picks up his own mug. “You know, there are faster ways to kill me.”
Hannibal starts talking about the varietals of tomatoes he’s considering planting in the spring, and Will still wants to punch him.
* * *
By the fourth week, Will’s dreams have taken a decidedly sexual turn.
Tonight, he’s dreaming of Molly. Molly with her soft skin and warm eyes, and the hot, tight grip of her body as she rides him. He takes up handfuls of her long, sweet-smelling hair—not pulling, just letting it slip through his fingers like silky ribbon. He puts his hands on her hips and pulls her against him. He thrusts up into her. She sighs, and it sounds like music. It feels like falling upwards.
“Molly. Molly, fuck—”
A sharp pain ripples through him, and his eyes fly open. His hand is tangled in different hair, shorter and silvered, and Hannibal is crouched between his legs wearing a feral expression.
“Did you just fucking bite me?”
Hannibal’s hand is still fastened around the base of Will’s cock, shiny with spit and still hard despite the abuse. He licks a long, hot stripe up the bottom of the shaft, which has Will moaning despite everything. He’s reminded of that joke about cannibals and blowjobs.
“You said her name,” Hannibal says.
“I was sleeping.”
His brain is still struggling to come online. He thinks they’re about to have it out, considers just how many people have seen that particular look on Hannibal’s face and not lived to tell about it, but there are no knives here. No knives, and no more words. Hannibal puts his mouth back on Will and sets a punishing pace. Will had no idea you could give someone an angry blowjob before.
He has no idea how long Hannibal was blowing him while he slept, but it must have been a while because he’s already so close to the edge. He grabs at Hannibal’s hair with one hand, uses the other to trace the seam of Hannibal’s lips around his skin, and then he’s coming like a freight train.
Hannibal drinks it all greedily and keeps sucking Will through the aftershocks. It grows painful before long, oversensitive and shocky, and Hannibal keeps going even as Will tries to shove him away. He pins Will’s hands so he can’t move, settles his weight over Will’s legs to hold him down.
“Hannibal, fuck, enough.”
Of course Hannibal isn’t moved by his pleas. If anything, it makes him suck harder. Will is spit-wet and soft, and everything about this is too much. The gentle rasp of Hannibal’s tongue feels like torture, and Will squirms, trying to flip them both without enough leverage to do so.
Hannibal growls, and Will feels the edge of his teeth, a warning.
“Fuck you,” Will gasps, and he jerks a leg up, almost managing to knee Hannibal in the chest before his leg is swiftly pinned down again.
It turns into a fight, which is of course what they love best. They get hands around throats, a knee pressed warningly against the tender flesh of a groin.
“Let me,” Hannibal mouths into Will’s collarbone, when they’ve got each other all tangled up in knots, at an impasse. It’s quiet enough for plausible deniability, quiet enough that Will could have imagined it; he knows he didn’t.
It’s aching and vulnerable, the soft underbelly beneath the monster. Will’s own monster rises to the surface, scenting blood. At times he sees with terrifying clarity how easy it would be to shatter Hannibal. Neither of them are likely to survive it, but often he wants to do it anyway. Jump. Kill. React.
He never does. Unlike Hannibal, he is a merciful monster.
“Okay,” he breathes, carding his fingers through Hannibal’s sweat-dampened hair. “Okay, do it. Hurry up before I change my mind.”
The sound Hannibal makes isn’t words. It’s barely even human.
He slithers down his body and laps up Will’s cock. Will grits his teeth and bears it until the feeling melts from pain into something approaching pleasure. The orgasm Hannibal wrings from him feels like nothing so much as relief.
He blows out a breath when Hannibal lets him go and climbs back up.
“I’m too old for this,” Will mutters. “We both are.”
“Age is but a number,” Hannibal says, tame again.
They rest their foreheads together as Will comes back down, as his breathing evens out and his sticky skin cools. The drying perspiration feels cold as a breeze rustles the trees and seeps in through the windows.
“I love you,” Will says. Then, “I could leave.”
Hannibal jerks his head up to level a hard stare at Will, lined with an edge of madness.
Will tugs him back down with an exasperated sigh. “Hey, no. I could leave, but I haven’t.”
“I would track you down,” Hannibal promises. “I would bring you back.”
Will kisses him on the forehead. “You would try. But you’ll never have to.”