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"You never seemed to mind my cooking."
As greetings went, it was lacking. As a statement, it was true. Still, it gave Will pause, and for a brief, absurd moment, he wondered if he should be worried about dinner, and was relieved to realize Hannibal was only talking about cannibalism.
He took off his coat and boots; Hannibal wouldn't stand for mud being tracked through his—their—new, pristine kitchen. There were thin strips of meat in a pan, sizzling away under Hannibal's close care. Will thought, at times, that he could make a decent guess at which muscles the meat Hannibal cooked came from, but not who they belonged to.
"Who—?" —are we having? he wanted to ask, but it sounded ridiculous, even in his head, though it was the most accurate way to ask.
"The dog trainer from Badalona."
Right. The trainer who had brought up his dogs to kill, and who had caused at least one family's beloved pet to maul their young son. Will had seen him slit a dog's throat to keep it from barking, and had seen pictures of his ex-lover's body. He had thought Hannibal wouldn't care, but they had shared the experience of him with hunting knives, and then with a carving knife. "That was three weeks ago."
"The meat needed to be aged to reach its ideal flavor." Hannibal removed the pan from the heat, turning to Will as he set it aside to cool to an acceptable temperature. "You didn't answer my question."
"You didn't ask one."
"It was implied."
Will was almost too preoccupied handling the odd tenderness he felt at the thought of Hannibal cooking a man who had offended the more off-beat parts of him to respond. He cleared his throat. "The cannibalism never bothered me. I was... angry, at times, that you used me and others to help you get rid of the evidence, but the meat itself wasn't an issue."
"It's unusual in most industrialized cultures for a man to shrug off the taboo of eating another." From Hannibal, that sounded fond. "You told me you dreamt of me as a wendigo."
"It was appropriate." Will moved closer, breathing deeply. He couldn't place half the spices Hannibal used, and certainly not from his olfactory senses alone, but it smelled wonderful. He closed his eyes a moment, let himself drift on the warm feeling of a dish carefully prepared with sentiment. "It just never seemed important in practice, when they were already dead."
"It was more important to protect the living," Hannibal said as he began to arrange the meat and its accoutrements on two plates. "An easy sacrifice to make."
"I couldn't cause any more harm just by eating someone who was already dead." Unable to help himself, and partly to see what Hannibal would do, Will reached around him and plucked a piece of meat off a plate. It was in his mouth before Hannibal had a chance to turn around.
Surprisingly, the look Hannibal gave him was tinged with amusement and only a little disapproval. "A wendigo turns from man to monster through the act of cannibalizing his neighbor. According to those legends, you were accountable in your own transformation."
Will would have pointed out that Hannibal had fed him human flesh before he had known what it was, but, aside from that being well besides the point, he was much too consumed by the taste of aged and seasoned dog trainer. He couldn't help the little noise of pleasure from escaping his throat. "That's delicious."
Normally, that was Hannibal's cue to explain the history of the dish he'd prepared and the process of making it. Instead, he smiled at Will and picked up another piece, holding it for him between two fingers.
Will hesitated. It felt like the sort of thing a couple would do. An annoying couple, even; the sort that couldn't help but engage in public displays of affection regardless of their surroundings. Or maybe it was more like a parent feeding a child, which was no more comforting a thought.
He could take it with his own hand, he realized, and maybe that was what Hannibal expected, but it seemed almost impossible to lift his arm when he caught Hannibal's eye. He leaned forward, parted his lips, and took the meat. He could feel Hannibal's fingers, themselves lightly seasoned, against the sensitive skin of his upper lip.
If the fondness in Hannibal's expression had been faint before, it now wiped out all traces of disapproval. He watched with a small smile as Will chewed and swallowed, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter. Casual. Hannibal had never been casual before he had killed with Will; suddenly it seemed to be almost a regular occurance.
He wanted to ask about the recipe. He wanted to set things back into their usual groove, for Hannibal to forget fondness and return to his rigid host posture. That was safe.
He hadn't fallen with Hannibal for the sake of safety, though.
He felt like there was a barrier in his throat keeping him from speaking, a plastic shield that bubbled up with his words but wouldn't let them through. He gave up on trying, let his eyes fall away from Hannibal's. There was only one thing to do to keep from breaking the silence or letting whatever line was between them fall slack.
In his hand, the meat felt cooler than it had in his mouth, and slicker, like it could slip between his fingers if he wasn't careful. Beneath that layer of oil and juice, though, it was slightly dry, slightly rough, but still remarkably tender.
The dog trainer hardly deserved to be turned into something so delicious, and yet Will felt intensely that it was right for him to be enjoyed by himself and Hannibal, just like this. He would be savored, but not given the respect of a table and proper place settings. Not fully, anyway.
If Hannibal was capable of surprise, Will supposed that was what was casting its shadow over his fond expression, if only for a moment. He still opened his mouth without hesitation, let Will place the sliver of meat on his tongue without looking away from him at all. Will didn't move with any urgency, but he hadn't quite expected the quick snap of Hannibal's teeth, just around the tip of his fingers.
An electric shiver sizzled up Will's flesh from that point of contact, an echo following it as Hannibal's lips closed around his fingertips. In spite of—or perhaps because of—the way the shiver felt as it spread through his chest, Will laughed, light and airy but sincere.
"Don't tell me you're reconsidering tonight's menu," he said, pulling his hand away from Hannibal's mouth. His fingers felt cool. "I don't think any part of me has been aged enough to match this."
Hannibal made sure to chew thoroughly and swallow before responding. "You almost sound like Bedelia when you say that."
Will felt as though he could hear his own heart start to beat again, the tension of whatever they'd had for a moment cracking apart around him. He let his hand fall to his side. He licked his lips and tasted murder.
"Not like that," Hannibal said, frowning. Will hated to see the change in his face, and loved it at the same time. It seemed right for him to regret the comparison. "It's only that you seem to believe entirely that I will eat you, and to be at peace with it."
"Are you saying you won't?" In the weeks since the death of Francis Dolarhyde, Will hadn't even thought to hope he could escape Hannibal's lure alive. He had been effectively reeled in and caught; it seemed inevitable that he was only waiting for the plate.
"I discounted the possibility of you as a meal three years ago." Hannibal uncrossed his arms, opening them to Will. When Will didn't come to him on his own, he drew him in, tucking Will's head against his shoulder with one gentle killer's hand. "The idea of you not here with me, now that I have you, is unsettling, and that it is unsettling disturbs me, but it also comforts me."
Will closed his eyes. He didn't really believe Hannibal, although he could tell he was being honest. Whether it was self-delusion to cope with his own desire to stay with Hannibal or just his subconscious realization that any change in Hannibal's feelings for him could make his intentions change as well, he couldn't say. "You did want to eat me, though. Still do."
"It remains a fantasy of mine, yes." The hand not cradling Will's head traveled up and down his back. It might have been soothing if Will had been able to shake the idea that he was feeling his muscles for their tenderness. "I had planned a menu for all your parts. I would have enjoyed you over a week, at least."
The thought of it was almost comforting. "If only you could have your cake and eat it, too."
Hannibal hummed his agreement. "The taste of you would surely be far better than any dessert."
Will supposed he ought to have expected it, noticed the way Hannibal had turned to speak into his ear, but the feel of teeth on his throat still startled him, and he jerked in Hannibal's grasp. The arms around him tightened, just a little, holding him in place as teeth pressed impressions into his skin.
Will huffed out a harsh breath, his whole body shuddering. He felt warm all over, and suspected there was a pinkish color to his cheeks. He didn't want it to stop; it was the most pleasant fever he'd ever had.
As quickly and abruptly as he'd bit down, though, Hannibal let go. It had been all teeth; his lips had hardly brushed Will's skin, and there was only the slighted trace of saliva, no feeling of his tongue against Will's neck at all. He let his arms fall loose as well, freeing Will, who instinctively stepped back.
"Before it gets cold," Hannibal said, and left it at that as he finished preparing their plates and brought them out of the kitchen. Will followed him to the dining room, feeling strangely, horribly unbitten.
-
The night sky had glutted itself on stars before Will had settled his mind. Dinner had been pleasant, not quite routine but certainly enjoyable, and every time he'd thought of where their main course had come from he'd torn it apart with renewed vigor.
The thought of Hannibal's teeth had tugged at the corners of his mind, though, spoiling his enjoyment of it just a little. After dinner, the memory of the bite to his throat had hooked his concentration entirely, dragging it away from the present. He vaguely remembered cleaning up, but he couldn't recall what Hannibal had done in that time clearly.
The thought of what it meant, of what he wanted, seemed a bit like touching the coils of an electric stovetop. He was reluctant, unable to shake the feeling that he'd burn himself, and yet unable to step away from it. Touching hadn't hurt as much as he'd thought it might.
When he anchored himself once again in the present, he found Hannibal in the bedroom, already prepared for sleep. They had shared a bed since moving in; it had seemed both sensible and natural to Will. If anyone asked, they could honestly confess to sleeping together, and that would bend and shape how people thought of them, pulling it away from the truth. If no one asked, he still had the comfort of having Hannibal close.
Since their first night in their new home, Hannibal had climbed into their bed and gathered Will close to him until they were at least touching, and often pressed close. He had forgone the full regalia of pajamas in favor of allowing as much skin-to-skin contact as possible, dressing in only pants, which was still more than Will's choice of only boxers. He made their closeness, that need for connection, seem natural and dignified.
It was only in that moment, seeing Hannibal lying in their bed on his own, though, that Will realized he'd been the first to it every night so far. He had never yet been the one to turn and pull Hannibal to him. That he would have to be then, after being bitten in the kitchen, was intimidating, intimate in a new way.
There was no way to back down, though. He didn't want to. Even realizing that it was a change, and that change was inherently dangerous when it came to preserving himself around Hannibal, he couldn't bring himself to let his night end not in bed with Hannibal.
Hannibal was reading—Will wasn't sure what because, whatever it was, it wasn't in English—but he set his book aside almost as soon as Will slipped under the covers with him. Will closed his eyes, his face pressed against Hannibal's bare shoulder, and expected to hear the click of the lamp by the bed. It was unsettlingly domestic, but he could bear it. He'd be asleep soon enough, anyway, once Hannibal was settled against him.
The light didn't go off, though. Instead, Will felt a hand, warm and dry, trail down his bare back. He opened his eyes to Hannibal hovering half-over him, his expression neutral, thoughtful.
"Is there something you want to tell me, Will?"
Will relaxed, just a fraction. He didn't want to have the conversation he knew was coming, but it was easier if Hannibal started it. "Am I that obvious?"
"You haven't been present since dinner." The hand at his back swept back up, fingers trailing over his shoulder and tangling in his hair. "Where have you been?"
"Not far. In the kitchen, in fact." The feel of Hannibal's fingers against his scalp was disarming; he relaxed further, eyelids drooping against his will. He knew Hannibal was doing it on purpose, and he didn't care. "I've been thinking about you biting me."
Hannibal's hand froze for a split second, though his face registered no change. "Have you?"
Will nearly choked on his words, and they came out small and strangled: "I liked it."
Hannibal didn't prompt him further, but continued combing his hand through Will's hair. He was waiting.
Will swallowed against the lump in his throat. "I want you to do it again."
"Is it really that much more difficult for you to confess to a harmless physical desire than to enjoying killing or cannibalism?" He sounded almost amused.
"Yes, and no. I think knowing that it's... less consequential makes it harder to say."
"And I haven't been prodding you towards it. At least not on purpose." Yes, that was definitely amusement. Will felt his face heat up at it.
"It is significantly easier to admit to things when I only need to give you a 'yes' or 'no' answer."
Hannibal took his hand from Will's hair, shifting until Will's face fell to the pillow, and he was on his side, looking down at him.
Will lay there passively. Either Hannibal would make it easier for him or he would make it difficult; both options seemed equally likely, but until Hannibal made his choice clear there was little he could do.
Hannibal smiled at him, using the same small, fond smile he'd worn in the kitchen. "Do you want me to bite you, Will?"
Easy, then. Will closed his eyes, gripping the bedsheets in his hands and feeling a little like he was praying. "Yes."
"Would you like me to bite you right now, in this bed?"
"Yes."
"Are you seeking it for sexual purposes?"
That one was harder. Will's brow furrowed as he sought out his answer. "I don't know."
"Would you like to try and find out?"
"Yes."
He had barely got the word out when Hannibal shifted over, pressing him down with his own weight, and bit down on his shoulder, hard. Will let out a choked, stuttering gasp as the sensation of it burst like fireworks through his skin, euphoric pain rushing along from nerve to nerve up into the base of his brain. Some part of him wanted to struggle, to try and get away, but it was smothered by every other sensation and response as Hannibal dug his teeth in.
Will knew what those teeth could do to human flesh. He dreamed about the hole in Francis Dolarhyde's throat, and those dreams weren't nightmares. He pressed his shoulder up, inviting it.
Instead of biting harder, of sucking at his skin or drawing blood, Hannibal moved from his shoulder to his arm so quickly Will could barely anticipate the next bite. There it felt a little more like a pinch, but he could more easily see when he opened his eyes, see the way white, deadly teeth pressed into his flesh.
He had his answer already; he could feel his cock stirring against the bed. He wondered if Hannibal could smell his arousal, but wasn't especially concerned, as long as he kept biting him.
Hannibal did: across to the other side of his neck, where he paused a moment to suck at his skin, and then down his back, scattering bites at random so Will couldn't quite anticipate them. One to his lower back, one on his ribs, another at his side, and still another right over the top of his spine. He moved languidly, increased the pressure of each bite slowly so that Will could feel every fraction of it. Will's fingers flexed involuntarily, and he had to fight the urge to squirm, to press his growing erection down and his back up. He kept his eyes open, staring unseeing at Hannibal's side of the bed.
A dozen or more bites later, and Hannibal stopped, kneeling up over his thighs. He stroked down Will's sides, pressing into spots he'd bitten. They felt like they would bruise. Will hoped they would.
"May I remove your clothing?" Hannibal asked, his fingers mere millimeters from Will's boxers.
Will suffered a moment of uncertainty. His reaction was obvious, as was Hannibal's lack of objection, but it still seemed like he was opening up more of himself than he should. He almost wanted Hannibal to just stop asking. "Yes."
He bent knees to raise his hips just slightly, enough to let Hannibal drag down his underwear and begin to pull it down his thighs. He let his hips fall back to the bed, pressing his cock into the sheets, as Hannibal removed them entirely and ran a possessive hand from his knee to his upper thigh.
With a little shuffling, Hannibal was between his legs, kneeling almost at the foot of the bed. Will could imagine how he looked, how they looked together: like a painting of a tragic Greek figure, bared to the beast behind him that would certainly devour him whole. He welcomed it.
Hannibal planted his hands on the bed just beside his hips and bent low. He went slow, let his breath warm a spot on the back of Will's right thigh before he bit, pulling at the skin like he truly intended to tear it. The sting and ache of it went straight to Will's cock and left him panting. It went on longer than the other bites, more vicious and all the sweeter for it.
By the time Hannibal let go, Will was absolutely certain he would be feeling that particular mark for days.
Hannibal's next target was higher, further in, far enough that Will felt the tip of his nose brush against the curve of his left cheek. The hot, wet stroke of Hannibal's tongue before he bit down elevated the bite from simply erotic to somewhere between sensual and utterly filthy. He was close enough now that the shock of pain hardly needed to travel at all, blooming under Will's skin and through his groin like ripples in a pond.
Teeth pulled away, scraping lightly against his skin as Hannibal moved to hold his hip. He didn't even close his mouth, cuspids and incisors cutting a line of heat across Will's thigh and up until he stopped to close them around the very same flesh his nose had brushed against moments before.
It wasn't something Will had imagined, even in the hours between their dinner table and bed. He was glad he hadn't. He couldn't have prepared himself for the way it made his cock jerk, the way it wound every nerve across his backside into a tight coil of pleasure. The harder Hannibal bit down, the more difficult it was to contain himself. His hips rolled against the bed, his shoulders and knees jerking involuntarily as he tried to be still. As skin broke, so did a gasp break its way out of his throat, and he reached back blindly to grasp at Hannibal's shoulder.
With one more drag of his tongue over tender, torn flesh, Hannibal rose up on his hands. Will imagined he was admiring his work, like he admired all his own art. He sounded delighted and smug as he said, "You sound as though you've been running for your life, Will. Would you like me to stop?"
It wasn't entirely inaccurate; Will could hear the throb of his pulse in his ears, and he nearly had to catch his breath to speak. "No."
Hands cupped his cheeks, kneading mercilessly at both abused and unbitten skin. "Would you like me to escalate this into something more overtly sexual?"
Will grit his teeth against a sudden flash of anger. He didn't want to have to decide, to say it out loud, but apparently even doing things the easy way had to involve a few obstacles. "Yes!"
He was prepared for more questions, for Hannibal to drag it out and make him beg. He was not prepared for Hannibal to pull at his cheeks, to expose him, to bend down and lick a molten trail over his hole.
It wasn't just filthy, it was base. Primal. Will's blood roared in his ears and there was no stopping him from thrusting into the bed, cock rubbing against the sheets mercilessly as Hannibal pressed in, licking over his hole again and again. As with the bites, he increased the pressure of his tongue on each pass, never letting up, until one particularly hard lick pressed in, just a little, and Will cried out.
He covered his mouth with one hand, lifting his hips again, just enough to fit his other arm between his body and the bed. He took himself in hand, and though he barely had space to move his fist, he didn't need it; the short, staccato thrusts of his hips were enough to keep the tension building inside him from being completely unbearable, and just restrained enough that Hannibal hardly had to follow his hips at all to press his tongue into Will's hole.
It felt delightfully intrusive, like everything Will enjoyed best about Hannibal—simultaneously wrong and right, crude and refined, designed to seek out every defense he had and break it down. It was such a small point of contact, smaller than the hands still spreading him open, but internal enough to feel like Hannibal was working his way into his entire nervous system. He felt every lick in the balls of his feet and in his chest.
It was like being devoured from the inside out.
Will thrust harder into his own fist, barely able to muffle the sounds he was making and hardly wanting to. He thought he could come like that, if Hannibal only pressed his tongue in a little harder.
Instead, Hannibal withdrew entirely, but before Will had a chance to truly register it, his teeth were in the flesh of Will's right cheek, just opposite the last bite. He didn't bother starting gentle. Will had just a moment to wonder if Hannibal intended to take a chunk out of him before his hips stuttered into the bed, his cock pushing roughly through his fist as he came. His throat felt raw, and he knew he was making noise, some strangled sound escaping between his fingers, but all he heard was a pounding in his ears like a drum.
He collapsed against the bed, empty and simple. He felt like a shell of himself—a content, aching shell. He only registered that Hannibal had stopped biting him when he felt his thumb pass over the mark he had left; there was almost certainly blood mixed with the saliva he smeared there.
"Do you understand the nature of your desires better now, Will?"
Will huffed out a thin, breathless laugh. "I think I do."
"Excellent. Understanding oneself is essential to achieving emotional fulfillment."
It was impossible to keep the grin off his face. Trust Hannibal to play the wrong kind of doctor in the bedroom. "I certainly do feel fulfilled."
Hannibal's hands brushed over more of the spots he'd bitten, sometimes pressing, sometimes merely stroking. As his hands moved back up Will's body, he spread himself over Will's back, pressing him down with his weight. He arranged himself so that he covered nearly every part of Will, until he was speaking right into his ear. "Perhaps you can help me feel the same, then. It's only fair."
Will wasn't completely certain how he felt about that, but in that moment how he felt didn't seem especially important. He made to roll over, feeling somewhat sluggish as he got his arms under him again.
Hannibal held him down at the shoulders, preventing him from moving. "No. Just like this."
Will considered protesting, or at least trying to look over his shoulder to see what Hannibal was up to. He decided against it. He closed his eyes, hooking his arms under the nearest pillow and picturing himself again as he must look to Hannibal, imagining the way the two of them looked together from feel and sound alone.
Hannibal kept one hand on his shoulder as he pushed his pants halfway down his thighs, trying, Will suspected, to prevent any attempts to throw him off. His other hand ran back down Will's side to his hip, then in to where he was still slick with saliva. He felt Hannibal positioning himself, felt the press of his hard cock against his cleft, and for a moment he was tense, braced for discomfort, yet the idea of protesting seemed far away.
Hannibal's cock slid more or less easily between his cheeks, though, without aiming for penetration at all. The experience was new. Different. As Hannibal thrust against him, bright spots of sensation burst behind Will's eyes: the slight catch of friction against his hole, the press of hips against aching bite marks, the sound of harsh breathing behind his head, the bite of fingernails in his shoulder, the smell of sweat and come. He felt almost as though he could see the roll of Hannibal's hips, the strain of his back muscles. He couldn't quite imagine Hannibal's expression. He wanted to see it for himself.
Will shivered with the realization that this would happen again. He couldn't imagine a future in which he didn't get the chance to find out exactly what Hannibal looked like while working himself to orgasm. It seemed as inevitable as every slide of Hannibal's cock up his cleft, like they were spelling out a promise.
As Hannibal wound himself tighter on that promise, he managed to keep his rhythm consistent, timed not unlike a metronome. He pushed harder, though, until he shook Will with each thrust and the lubrication of his own spit seemed only barely sufficient. Every lungful of air Will could hear him take in seemed to be driven out of him each time he thrust forward. Will himself had to consciously keep breathing himself, to not hold himself utterly still as he waited for Hannibal to finally, fully unwind.
Hannibal reared back suddenly, losing almost all contact with Will's body. "Don't move," he ordered, quickly and sharply enough that Will's obedience was nearly automatic.
Will let himself open his eyes, turning his head just enough to see Hannibal in his peripheral vision and confirm that Hannibal was pulling at his cock, hovering just over him. Will thought he might be shaking. One of them was, at least.
The feel of come hitting the most recent bite mark made Will jerk in surprise. Hannibal planted his left hand in the middle of Will's back, keeping still as he came across his backside. It stung where it hit torn skin, and Will's blood seemed to rush in his arteries towards those spots. Though he'd barely moved while Hannibal took his pleasure, he felt out of breath, desperate for something he wasn't sure he hadn't already found.
The roar of blood in his ears died down gradually, and his breathing—and Hannibal's—slowly returned to something resembling normal.
The loss of Hannibal's hand against his skin ached nearly as much as Hannibal's teeth had. Will felt utterly sapped of energy, like that connection had been conductive. He only mustered the strength to turn his head when Hannibal climbed off the bed, leaving every point of contact between them entirely.
"I'll find something to clean you up with," Hannibal said, pulling his pants back up.
Will looked at him, watched him fail to make any effort to leave their bedroom. "Don't bother."
"You'll be uncomfortable in the morning." A pause. "That last bite may need attention as well."
"Don't pretend you aren't hoping it'll scar." Will looked around as best he could without lifting his face from his own elbow. "Just use my shorts."
A look of distaste crossed Hannibal's face, but he picked them up from the end of the bed and began wiping Will's skin clean—well, cleaner—so it was clearly the better option than actually leaving. He wasn't gentle, rubbing over each sore spot he could roughly. It helped Will memorize their positions, like he hadn't been able to while getting them, and shape their outlines in his mind.
That done, Hannibal dropped the boxers to the floor like they were suddenly offensive and went around the bed, climbing back into his half of it as though it was a normal night.
Without another word, he pulled Will toward him until he was out of the wet spot he'd been lying in and nearly spread across Hannibal's chest. It wasn't that much more intimate a position than the way they'd slept the night before, but to Will it felt like the difference between an ocean wave and an earthquake.
As the world shook, he fell asleep, feeling unaccountably safe.