Chapter Text
After he let out those words—totally uncalled for—Will ashamedly studied the ceiling, shuddering. He realized how nebulous the word "fuck" was, how it could be interpreted by a man. He was quick to try to backtrack. "I mean, I want to—"
Before he could finish clarifying, Hannibal's lips were crushed over his own and a tongue was seeking shelter in his mouth. The kiss was passionate, ferocious. Then just as quickly as it came it was gone. Hannibal rushed away behind him and for a moment Will wondered if he'd said something wrong. But no, the doctor returned with the scissors and carefully cut the ropes, first from his ankles, then his arms. He helped Will stand when he saw how shaky he was, and led him to the table. Then he pushed at Will's back, and Will found himself laying on his stomach, the table's surface cold in contrast to his arousal-heated skin. His rear faced the room. "Stay," Hannibal commanded and rapidly walked to a cabinet.
Will, offended at the treatment, uprighted himself with great effort, pain flaring through his chest and legs. He protested, "If you treat me like a dog, I may bite like one."
Hannibal gave him a disapproving look as he walked back over with a bottle of oil. "Or bark," he responded condescendingly.
Will queried, "Cooking oil?" before he felt a hand on his back, pressing him down again. The touch was light but demanding. Will flinched as he obeyed unwillingly, prodded on more by the lingering pain in his body than submission. Hannibal kept a steady pressure on his shoulder-blades for a moment, cementing his wish for the investigator to stay there.
The freshly opened bottle suffused the air around them with a hint of soybeans, reminiscent of the smell of frying food. A moment later the bottle thudded down on the table and a slick finger was at Will's hole. He shivered and tried to move away, even used his tied hands to try to push back at Hannibal, but his fumbling attempts did nothing to stop it from pressing in. He cried out, "Dammit, I didn't mea— ngh!" and then the finger breached the tight ring of muscle, and his throat closed up.
"I disagree. I think you spoke true to your feelings," Hannibal said calmly, carefully twisting his finger inside. "Stay honest with me, Will."
His finger encountered tremendous resistance. Patient though he was, Hannibal was wrapped up in the heady power of the situation. He moved in quickly, swirling, knowing well the sensation he was giving Will and hoping Will would fall to lust, and relent.
Will whimpered and twisted his body as Hannibal quickly added another slick finger. The invasion was unpleasant and mind-blowing at the same time. He'd never been touched there. As the fingers explored near his entrance, tense and spasming, his engorged cock was pressed into the cool, hard surface of the table. Was he so turned on that he liked this? Or did he just like this?
Will didn't normally curse a lot, but he was cursing now; it was angry, yet Hannibal detected pleasure in tiny inflections of his voice. It spurred him on, and after a minute or so his ring finger joined the others, slowly. Will, gasping heavily at the table's surface, tightened and spasmed around him. The fingertips felt around inside until Will's legs spasmed, pushing him up and forward into the table, straining to get away from the intense pleasure crashing in on him. Hannibal kept him down with stronger pressure on his upper back and continued to assault that spot with all three fingers.
"Doctor!" Will exclaimed. "Dr. Lecter, please!"
At the begging, Hannibal felt lost. He was not in control any longer, and—as if irked—he withdrew his fingers with a savage yank. That caused quite the reaction, Will's body seeming to go in all directions at once as he cried out. Hannibal used his slick hand to guide his manhood to press against Will's entrance. "No, no, please, no," Will whimpered, only making the sensation of sinking inside him that much sweeter.
A hand smoothed soothingly over his back as the intrusion broke into him. Overwhelmed, Will sobbed, unsure if his vocalizations were from pain or pleasure. The sensation was one of being split in all directions, as if cracking open; and, of being full and complete, burning.
The very air vibrated with Hannibal's heaving breaths behind him. The hard length went still, catering to his virginity. A restrained moment was given to him to adjust to this, in more ways than one.
Will felt his world was fracturing around him. His thoughts were scattered in a whirlwind of battling emotions. But one clear train of thought possessed him: he wished he hadn't trusted Dr. Lecter in this. He should have called Jack, called 911, let himself be put away safe though unsound.
Hannibal was rigid. He contained his passion for now. Beneath him was his opposite and equal. Will seemed dazed, unhealthy but alright, while he lay still. It was a good-enough acceptance. Hannibal saw it often with his victims; they would fight until that moment, that moment when they saw his greatness and accepted his mastery of their fate. They gave in.
With a little sigh, Will unclenched. His muscles seemed to liquify, and he became pliant. Hannibal breathed his own sigh, relief and excitement thrilling through his body.
Hannibal began to rock back and forth, working himself in. Around his cock Will fluttered, having not surrendered completely.
Will groaned. His whole body shivered in little waves with each thrust. There was pain from being forced open so wide, and from his chest leaning on the table, but this paled in comparison to the pleasure that overtook him. Perhaps he was delirious—but soon it didn't matter. Hannibal did something to hit that miraculous spot inside him and he hissed, "Ouh!" with surprised delight.
Hannibal kept thrusting just like that, the sound of slick friction and a creaking table accompanying. Will remained tense but he started to lean back into it, subtly provoking him to go faster and harder. Soon he was panting and moaning in tempo. The fullness intensified. If he hadn't been lying on the table he'd have fallen to the floor.
With each thrust of his hips Hannibal's breath hissed out blissfully. He kept his hand on Will's tailbone and used his other hand to smack Will hard on the ass. It made Will buck beneath him, and he thrust in hard once—Will cried out—before returning to his former rhythm.
Will was now quivering with an oncoming orgasm that just wouldn't come. It was incredibly gratifying for Hannibal. His poor patient's voice trembled as he muttered, voice high with pleasure, "I can't— Please I can't— I need to—"
Smirking, Hannibal smacked his ass hard again then smoothed the quickly reddening flesh as he hoarsely asked, "What do you want, Will?"
Will's response was an audible pant of frustration and repressed passion as Hannibal continued to fuck him. His hands fisted and his arms and back tensed. He seemingly tried to back up, his feet dancing, but that only painfully impaled him more, so he stopped.
Looking back over his shoulder at Hannibal made shooting pain go through his torso, the strain of which showed plainly on his face. Hannibal was calm and haughty as he thrust inside over and over, admiring Will below him. Will could tell that the good doctor knew exactly what Will wanted, but was teasing him with an open-ended question, the kind psychologists liked to use. The kind that made Will sick.
"You know...!" Will accused, gritting his teeth.
Hannibal tilted his head as he looked down into Will's faraway gaze, which seemed focused past his head. "There is no reason to be shy," the psychologist said. "We are adults, aren't we?" He moved slower, though each thrust reached deeper.
Will let himself fall flat again and groaned. This whole time he had been so close, on edge. He was no match for Hannibal in these games, not now. His world was hazy, like in a fog. In that fog there was a beacon of light; a cold rage, building with each movement of the cock inside him. In contrast, his hatred of Freddie Lounds was white-hot, malicious; this rage taking hold, however, was a building tidal wave.
The rage was familiar. He could hear an echo of Hannibal's voice, clear as day, in his ear. He looked over to the source, in the living room, saw Hannibal standing near his front door in a coat. 'It's not a breach of etiquette if I am here as your friend, Will. You asked me to be here for that purpose.'
Will's eyelids fluttered. He suddenly felt distant from his body, numb.
There had been a phone call. Will had felt lonely and twisted. Hannibal had arrived a few hours later. It was still daylight out when the psychologist came in, greeting Will with a small smile. They'd talked about the case; Will had lamented that he couldn't quite understand, and Hannibal had said:
'Have you never had something in your life so important, you'd kill for it?'
How was it that Hannibal seemed to intuitively understand things that even Will couldn't imagine? Gently, as always, he would guide Will to the answer. This time, Will couldn't intuit the deeper meaning, so he'd asked,
'Can you show me?'
He'd meant a mental walkthrough or a drawing, something like that. Yet Hannibal had approached him, obviously taking the request literally; Will's heart beat faster. 'If it will help you, Will, then yes.' Will had stood up uncertainly, let Hannibal drag the armchair away from the wall.
With practiced ease Hannibal had pulled off his tie as he sat in the chair, holding out the tie to Will as if he'd know what to do with it. As if in a trance, Will took it and went to stand behind Hannibal.
This was new. He'd never tried actually role-playing. His work had always remained in his own mind. As uncomfortable as he felt, he still looped the tie over his friend's head. That was all he could let himself do; he let it hang loosely, not even close to touching his neck. Still, Hannibal had said, 'See?'
'No,' Will had said.
He could hear the jeer in Hannibal's voice as he asked, 'Will, how does it make you feel?'
Will let the tie go, let it tumble down before Hannibal could grab it and turn to face him. The special investigator made up some excuse, something like, 'I'm not sure what your point is, Doctor.' But he was lying. He'd seen.
Will's kitchen came into focus suddenly, as if he was waking from a dream. Had that been a real memory, or just his imagination filling in the blanks in his memory? He didn't know, couldn't know.
What was happening to his body came surging back into his consciousness. He bucked as the pleasure returned with force. There was very little pain now amidst the overwhelming pleasure, which he easily allowed to overtake his consciousness. He simply lay there and took everything Hannibal gave him.
"I see you're back," Hannibal said, his roughened voice dimly scraping over Will's ears. "Stay with me." There was passion in his words, with every motion he made. The pleasure was accumulating, for them both. Hannibal felt like was about to come, but he kept it at bay by slowing to gentleness. He leaned forward, placing one hand on the table and, the other still guiding Will's ass, continued to thrust inside that delicate heat. "It's alright that you feel angry. Express it. Release it. That is therapy."
"And let it drown us both?" Will ground out through clenched teeth. "I'd rather see you drown alone."
Hannibal scraped his nails over Will's lower back, just hard enough to leave pink lines. The flesh beneath tensed. "Anger is a feeling, just like pain. In fact," Hannibal responded, calm yet out of breath, "they are intimately entwined. Pain can arouse anger. Anger is—in its own way—a harbinger of pain. Taste it, revel in it. Are you alive?"
Will squeezed his eyes shut, closed off his throat, tried to shut everything out. He could feel Hannibal's words reverberating in his skull. Release tantalized him.
He felt something intangible drop out of him. Like a coin in a well. There was a fort, and the anger was beyond it, lost to a wilderness.
"I'm not angry," he grumbled.
"Good," Hannibal panted as he thrust a little faster, almost at his former speed. "You want this, then."
Without agreeing or disagreeing, he said, "I just want..." Will pressed his face to the table, caught himself before he could admit he felt anything close to good. "I just want the pain to stop!" It was true; his body ached and his tied hands tingled sharply in warning.
The change was immediate and drastic. Hannibal was suddenly gentle, touching him soothingly, rubbing his groin up to Will's ass only to tease Will's prostate. "I'm sorry, Will," he said, and it sounded like he meant it. "You are..." His warm hands smoothing over his back sent electric thrills of pleasure through Will.
Will waited with bated breath to hear what Hannibal was going to say. I'm what? he thought. But the sentence was never finished. Those warm hands left, and he felt them on his half-numb lower arms. Soon his wrists were free. With a groan Will brought his arms underneath himself, trying and failing to forget there was still a dick inside of him. At least now his wrists were no longer chafing, and there was no pressure on his chest.
"Better?" Hannibal asked, sounding hopeful even with that awful rasp.
"Yes," Will muttered, not sure how to take this turn of events. He wasn't sure what this was, what was happening between them, if this was warranted... The echoes of what had happened were filtering into his brain, piecemeal, abruptly. He wasn't sure... who he was.
They were in the living room, or had been. Will dimly recognized the change in daylight as a change in time. Will had clammed up due to the earlier demonstration, and Hannibal didn't push him. Somehow they had ended up talking about boat motors. Will showed him the one he was working on, how he'd fixed it somewhat, what he still had to do. Hannibal had seemed interested, in that omnidirectional way of his. Will thought he was faking it.
They talked about fishing, too, and other things. Time passed faster than he was used to when he was home, in the calm slowness of the countryside. Hannibal seemed to make everything faster. Will had found himself recalling how Hannibal referred to him as a friend. He barely noticed most of the time, since the word was meaningless. Yet he'd found himself understanding the significance when Hannibal looked at the time and said he'd need to start driving home.
As if he was reliving it, Will felt now what he'd felt then. Desperation.
Hannibal refused every offer to stay, making it very clear he couldn't. He was going for his coat. He never got to it.
Back in reality, Will made a sound like a wounded animal. He'd done it. With intention. Maybe he had channeled the killer he was studying, couldn't pick himself apart from the persona. Or perhaps he'd just wanted to.
"Will?" Hannibal asked, worried by Will's sudden behavior. He was vulnerable, and didn't know it.
Will twisted his body and backhanded him. The blow was solid, aggressive, and Hannibal grunted in pain and stepped back suddenly, inadvertantly pulling out. Will cried out at the feeling, the sudden emptiness.
Now there was only pain. Hannibal had said it himself: pain was anger, anger was pain.
Will rose quickly and slammed his body into Hannibal like a linebacker before he could react. They stumbled together, Will using this to his advantage to yank Hannibal's arm hard enough to spin him at the same time he pulled himself back. Hannibal tripped over his own feet and fell, Will falling on top of him to press him facedown into the floor.
It happened so quickly. And then time seemed to slow down. Everything that happened next came easily. The doctor felt so real beneath him, hot and solid. He knew he couldn't keep him down, knew he'd never had the upper hand, not even now. So he moved quickly. Still, it was strange how easy it was getting him into position; he let go just long enough for Hannibal to push himself up into a kneel. Just where he wanted him.
With a wild energy he didn't know he possessed, Will grabbed Hannibal's hip and pressed his rock-hard manhood to Dr. Lecter's hole and thrust; Hannibal grunted sharply in pain. Even wet with precum it didn't go in. There was too much resistance.
Hannibal began to retaliate, but Will shoved him down by the shoulders and used his thighs to corral Hannibal's. Hannibal was quiet considering he was being held down, bent almost in half; however, he made a drawn-out, low noise in his throat that pierced the cooly quiet room. The rage dancing around the periphery of his mind kept Will from feeling bad about that. He would even call it satisfying.
With his shoulders pressed to the floor, Hannibal's head was uncomfortably craned to the side. Will could see half his face, which was closed off and blank. His hair was falling in straight short waves onto the floor. Every line of muscle in his back was taut.
Will's hips insistently pressed forward, but he was only going to keep slipping past at this rate. He spit at the cleft of Hannibal's ass and swayed back and forth, working himself in. As his cock finally slid inside, encased in tight heat, he moaned. Hannibal bucked and his lips parted. His eyes were closed, his eyebrows flat, and he looked less like he was in pain and more like he was meditating despite his gaping mouth. His body belied this notion, however, as it undulated beneath Will's handling.
Now that there was pleasure again, the savagery was drifting away, partly placated. He continued thrusting minutely. "How does it feel, Doctor?" Will growled. The doctor didn't answer.
Will thrust harder. Hannibal gasped, "Will!" The way he'd said his name made a thrum of pleasure course through Will. His face was still tense and closed off, but he was panting in time with each thrust. "Will..." Hannibal said quieter, almost whispering.
It shouldn't have been so pleasurable to do this. Will knew what he was doing was wrong, especially as the anger dissipated, replaced by something else. He had control over the one man who seemed to always be in control... All of this should be disgusting. It wasn't.
Will felt powerful.
He came with an unrestrained moan, overpowered by the intensity of his orgasm. He thrust more, reveling in the feeling of spurting inside until he was empty, hollow. As he slowed, he gripped Hannibal's shoulders and leaned heavily, breathing hard, suddenly exhausted.
The investigator felt disoriented by the intensity he'd just experienced, like he wasn't sure what had happened over the past hour. But he clamped down against this feeling, keeping these moments firmly in his mind, willing himself not to drift away.
When he realized he was still holding the other man down doing nothing, he gently pulled back and out. Hannibal shivered with a shuddering breath. Will felt himself burning with shame as he saw the evidence of his orgasm dribbling down Hannibal's thighs. In fact, he felt a lot of things wash over him in dizzying waves.
His thoughts turned to what happened after he'd grabbed Hannibal by the tie. Before all this, before he'd "woken" in his bathroom, their fight had been brutal. Hannibal was slightly bigger, after all, and hadn't allowed him to choke him, not completely. He'd been surprisingly strong, too. By the time he finally fell unconscious Will had taken many hard impacts to his ribs and shins. Will remembered dragging him into the bathroom and preparing the bath. As he'd hauled him up to dip his face into the water, Hannibal woke up and thrashed against it. His height advantage gone, his strength fleeing him, he'd resorted to pushing back, worsening the bruising over Will's body. It hadn't been enough to deter Will in that disassociated state.
He couldn't believe he'd done all that. It was like he was someone else, but he didn't feel like someone else at the time. It was eerie.
Will found himself hyperventilating, and then Hannibal was there, wrapping his warmth around him. If he hadn't been unable to breathe, Will thought he may have chuckled darkly at the man he'd attacked—twice, now—holding him like this. He didn't have the strength to push him away, or perhaps it felt too good to be held.
Hannibal whispered nothings to him and Will found himself calming substantially. Once he had a good grasp on his breathing, the investigator said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me..."
"Will," Hannibal whispered, not even a hint of recrimination in his voice. "Listen to me. You don't need to apologize. In fact, all you had to do was ask."
Will, unable to think clearly, dumbly said, "Ask...?"
"I don't need to be dead before I enjoy your company, Will." Before Will could fully understand this statement, he continued, "Have you remembered what you lost?"
"Yes," Will admitted, voice low. "But this wasn't therapy."
Hannibal was quiet for a moment. Will felt and heard him breathing: the movement pressing into his back in a stable rhythm, with puffs of warm air brushing against his temple. He was warm and alive, and Will wondered why he'd wanted him dead. The necrophiliac killing people was no one to aspire to.
Will heard Hannibal's lips part before he spoke. "Not therapy, then. Something between friends, perhaps?" His voice was still raspy, and Will thought it might be ridiculous to call each other friends now. That didn't stop him from feeling a bit of a smile grace his face for a brief moment at the idea.
"Shall we get cleaned up?" Hannibal suggested. Will could only nod in agreement.