“How will I eat?” Hannibal asks. He doesn’t sound anywhere near as worried as someone in his position should. He sounds interested, as though this were just another curious, desirable feature of Will Graham’s mind, brought before him like a bauble.
I want to rip your teeth out—
Most people would respond in a sane way, upon learning their psychiatrist was a pathological vampire. Not Will Graham, apparently. When you’re Will Graham, apparently your first response is jealousy.
—so you can’t bite anyone but me.
Will doesn’t know most vampires, but he’s pretty sure the sane ones wouldn’t agree.
Will raises his eyebrows. “How do the rest of us eat? I’m sure you’ll manage.”
Hannibal inclines his head, conceding the point. “So I’m to rend flesh from bone like an animal,” he muses. “How barbaric. Even animals have fangs.”
“And the ones who don’t still manage, with a little help. You should see what they do for lions in zoos these days.”
Hannibal’s lip curls in a snarl. “Like a pet.”
Will surveys the tools laid out on a clean white cloth. They’d decided to do this in Hannibal’s kitchen, since it was likely to get messy. The bright overhead lights and the stainless steel prep table conspire to make the space look more like an operating room than a kitchen, even with the refrigerator peeking out of the corner of his eye.
Hannibal is sitting in a plush chair he’d insisted on dragging over from the living room—an impractical concession to comfort. Will had pointed out it would be hell to clean, and Hannibal had pointed out it was his chair to ruin, and that had been the end of that.
He takes a last look at their supplies—the dental pliers, the gauze and alcohol swabs—and rubs his sweaty hands over his pants. Hannibal looks up at him from his seat, as regal and unconcerned as though he were taking in a show at the opera, the feral monster quieted for him. The devotion reflected in Hannibal’s eyes makes something in the pit of his belly bay for blood.
Will grabs the pliers and takes a deep breath. He perches himself on Hannibal’s lap, letting out a shaky breath.
“This is crazy,” he says.
Hannibal’s lips tip up in a small smile. “This is your design, mylimasis.”
“You shouldn’t let crazy people perform oral surgery on you, you know,” Will counters. “It’s not exactly a safe pastime. You’re lucky I don’t take all your teeth.”
“I would let you.”
He shivers at the vivid mental image that arises, replete with the thick smell of copper blood—all of Hannibal’s teeth dropping one by one to the floor like a ruined string of pearls. He breathes in again and lets the picture go.
Will twists Hannibal’s head so it catches the light, tapping his bottom lip with the pliers. “Open.”
Hannibal does, and if that doesn’t send a dark thrill down Will’s spine. He pushes the pliers into Hannibal’s mouth and spends a minute dragging the tool in and out, enjoying the aesthetics of surgical steel sliding across Hannibal’s tongue. He grips the back of Hannibal’s head and pushes the pliers all the way back, until he meets resistance at the end of Hannibal’s throat. Hannibal gags violently, and Will holds him in place, watching his throat convulse around the foreign object.
For a moment, he’s tempted to let go. To see what happens to a vampire with molded steel lodged in his esophagus. He wonders if vampires can choke. Maybe Will would have to cut it free. The moment passes, and Will pulls the pliers out, shiny and thick with saliva. Hannibal retches at the sudden lack, and Will feels a blooming rush of tenderness watching tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
“Does it give you pleasure to see me brought low?” Hannibal asks. His voice is congested and rough, and the sound goes straight to Will’s dick.
“Yes,” Will says, kissing him hard.
He’s careless, pricking himself on the points of Hannibal’s fangs in his fervor—one final time to remember them by. His blood is salty and thin shared between them, and Hannibal licks the pinprick wounds in Will’s lip, sucking the tender flesh into his mouth. Hannibal grows hard beneath him, and Will shimmies his hips to see the resultant darkness in Hannibal’s eyes.
He pulls back when they’re both breathing hard.
“Open,” Will says again. He doesn’t tease this time, doesn’t play. He just sets the jaw of the pliers against one of Hannibal’s long, sharp fangs and asks, “Are you ready?”
Hannibal nods once. It’s all the encouragement Will needs. He tightens his grip on the pliers and pulls down sharply. It takes more pressure than he expected, and he has to wiggle the tooth before he can feel any give. Hannibal makes a soft sound as the tooth starts to slip free, and then Will is holding his prize aloft, perfectly pointed and gleaming, trailing its roots like a plant.
A trickle of clear, thin saliva pours out of Hannibal’s mouth, followed by a rivulet of blood. The sight makes Will’s mouth go dry. He doesn’t think, just chases it, lapping up the spill. He laves it from Hannibal’s chin, following it up to the source so he can drink it from Hannibal’s mouth. Their tongues tangle, and Hannibal whines low when Will pokes his tongue into the gap where his fang used to be. He probes the hole with his tongue, tasting copper.
They’re both hard now, and Hannibal grabs Will’s hips so he can rock up into him. Will allows it, carding through Hannibal’s hair as the vampire ruts against him.
“Could you come like this?” Will asks. “Just like this, in your pants while I de-fang you?”
Hannibal shudders. “Yes.”
Will groans at the admission. He scrapes his blunt teeth down the side of Hannibal’s neck.
“Soon you and I will be just alike,” he whispers. “Will you miss it?”
“Good,” Will smiles. “Think of me when you feel the sharp sting of loss. When you despair at everything you’ve become.”
“I think of nothing else.”
Blood is still pooling in Hannibal’s mouth, so that he has to swallow it or let it drool undignified down his chin. He lets it drip free. For him. Because he knows Will loves to see it, Hannibal debased, wallowing in the blood and piss and shit of what it is to be human.
Because he loves the monster that Will is.
Will grows impatient. He sets the pliers against Hannibal’s remaining fang and wrenches it free in one swift motion.
Hannibal does cry out this time, pain and loss blending together into something crystalline and pure. Will can feel it rippling through him like a mounting tide, full of such a red, raw ache. Will sucks on the sore place he’s made in Hannibal, licking cruelly at the tender flesh. He drinks Hannibal’s blood, as much as Hannibal’s body will give up, though it turns his stomach.
“Mine,” he says into Hannibal’s jaw, tightening his fingers on Hannibal’s arms to the point of pain. “All mine.”
“Yours,” Hannibal promises, accent thickened with blood and pain.
Their erections lie pressed between them, forgotten and unimportant against the enormity of what they’ve become.
“Will you feed me?” Hannibal asks.
Vivid images flash through his mind, strong as memory. Hannibal tied pale against satin sheets, milk on blood, red cords cutting into his flesh. Will imagines feeding him like a baby bird, drop by drop for hours. He’d see Hannibal starved and crazed with hunger, see him glutted and begging Will no more in a soft and broken voice, just to experience all of him.
“Always,” Will says.
He presses bloody lips to Hannibal’s forehead and smiles.