Chapter Text
Will Graham managed to find balance in his life the same way most people did: through calculated imbalance. If he pushed himself to the point of exhaustion and took a few days to recover, well, that was the nature of his work. If his means of stress relief happened to include getting shoved against a hotel room wall and fucked within an inch of his life by a stranger, then so be it.
More important than the stranger behind him, or the way Will’s arm was twisted painfully behind his back, or the way the stranger’s dick brushed against his prostate with every thrust, was one simple fact: he wasn’t thinking about anything. As full as his body felt, his mind was blessedly, blissfully empty of anything, let alone murder, and that was something no prescription or shrink could ever give him.
The fingers in his hair grasped him hard; his mouth dropped open before he could stop it, and in return he felt fingers pressing in past his teeth. He closed his lips around them and sucked. He’d dealt with his sexuality crisis in grad school, back when an entomology professor had patiently stayed after class with him to discuss a paper he’d been writing; he didn’t remember much of the conversation past the way the tendons in his professor’s hands had stretched and moved; how rough his jaw looked, facial hair short enough to feel rough against his palms. That was what he had imagined, at least.
He never found out. Instead, he met with some forward English Literature track TA due to a clerical error in classroom scheduling, and four days later found that a man’s mouth wasn’t much different from a woman’s when its lips were wrapped around his cock. To this day Will couldn’t remember his name, but he still remembered the silk of his hair between his fingers; the way his throat closed around him, more daring than anything he’d ever known.
Women were less interested in roughness, Will had come to learn: a woman he’d dated for a month or two didn’t particularly care for her hair being pulled when he suggested the idea. Another told him to slow down, be gentler, and another still softly explained to him that, as nice as he was, some of his more private needs went well beyond her comfort level. It was fine-- his tastes weren’t for everyone. He learned that he was a better friend than lover, even if his brand of friendship included wincing smiles and awkward silences that would linger after he opened his mouth. Really, it was fine. He was fine.
When Edmund Something-Or-Other-- was it Edward? Aaron, maybe? Well, anyway-- when the English Lit PhD candidate deepthroated him in his 1991 Toyota Corolla, nails sinking into his uncovered thighs, well , things took a turn for the interesting, as far as Will was concerned. Every so often they would run into one another, and lo and behold they were both available for something quick nearby. When Will finally gathered the courage to ask what Lit PhD candidate was studying, he learned bounds of what their relationship was expected to be.
It worked well enough for him; the teeth-shaped bruises on his thighs would be the most permanent aspect of their encounters, Will found. If he had come to like the way they’d ache when he sat down on hard library desk chairs, well, that was just the cherry on top.
Once English Lit PhD candidate morphed into a full-fledged English Lit PhD, Doctor of English Literature, however, Will Graham was presented with a problem: he was no economics buff, but the Doctor had created within him a demand, and sadly the supply had dried up. Semi-sadistic heteroflexible men weren’t offered to him on a platter every day-- no, he’d have to search out someone new himself. This presented a dilemma.
Will Graham hated bars. Hated them. They were loud, and smelly, and always tightly packed, as if the outdoors simply weren’t an adequate space for drunkenness. But needs must, and his needs were becoming an issue of ‘must’ or ‘snap at his advisor for the sixth time that week.’ Seeing that he preferred staying in his current program, he began considering his needs in a different light-- a means of self care before ‘self care’ even became a buzzword. A way of keeping his head screwed on, or as tightly screwed on as someone like him could manage. So he went to a bar. He found one well away from his school, because he wouldn’t shit where he ate, and found some stranger to scratch an itch he couldn’t quite reach.
It was very simple, very routine: once per month he’d drive up north to Baltimore, park his car in the shitty hotel he only used for sex, and find someone who had a preference for violent sex. His peers and professors never asked him why he had rope burns on his wrists, just as he assumed his partners’ kin didn’t ask about the marks Will left. He had a system, and it worked.
Until he started teaching at the FBI academy. As nice as it was to have a semi-cushy job that required minimal one-on-one discussion, the idea of being caught out as a habitual seeker of rough gay sex had him staying away from his once-favorite pickup place. He was fine with it, of course; no one needed to have sex on a regular basis for the sake of mental health. Regular exercise, time spent with his dogs, building fishing lures-- these were healthy means of keeping his mental health in check. He was a healthy man, if not necessarily a social one. His dogs liked that he stayed home-- sure, he only really left overnight once per month, but even then there was some amount of guilt in leaving them overnight, even if the pack could care for itself for that long. Hell, it wasn’t like he left them without food and water. But it was good that he was home. Fishing. Walking the dogs. Making dog food, homemade. It was healthier that way.
He went to work. He taught his classes. He came home. He lived his comfortable little routine, even as it grew a touch rote through repetition. This was what it was to lead a normal life. A healthy life. Plenty of people woke up without scratch marks running down their backs, or bruises blossoming wherever a mouth could fit. His back only hurt after a long day of grading papers and conducting research, though his head had a tendency to start aching whenever Jack Crawford was in earshot. Sometimes he would have to work as a profiler for him, an awkward little pet that skittered behind Jack wherever he went. An anomaly. But most of the time, and that was what was important-- most of the time. Most of the time, he taught, and he cooked himself healthy dinners, and went on healthy walks, and spent his time with the healthy habit of fly-fishing. He was healthy , even as he came to loathe the word itself.
One evening, after a healthy glass or three of whiskey, downed after a healthy walk, made just after his healthy fish dinner, Will finally let himself search for a half-decent bar in Baltimore, or, fuck, maybe even Charlottesville. If he was going to make an overnight trip, he’d might as well play safe.
This was when he stumbled on an app specifically built with his less-than-healthy purposes in mind.
Really, it wasn’t hard-- as long as he insisted on a face picture before he sent his own, well, he was guaranteed full anonymity, wherever he went. Whoever he went to. Besides, how long had it been since he’d even looked for anything like this? A year? Maybe a little more? This would be a one-off thing. Something he’d try maybe once per month, if he still had the energy for it.
This was of course how he ended up in a seedy hotel in Baltimore on a balmy Thursday evening, biting at the fingers of a man whose appearance and behavior belied a violent criminal record. The second time he felt his head slam into the wall, he moaned and tasted blood that wasn’t his own. He came. Once the stranger switched condoms, Will helpfully aided in finishing him off with his mouth; if his voice was distinctly rough throughout class the next day, well, he’d long ago perfected the right ratio of honey and lemon to add to his tea. Besides, familiar aches and pains aside, he felt great .
The second time he used the app was after Jack Crawford managed to take Will’s headache to new heights with a crime scene in nowhere, Nevada. The moment he stepped off the plane he had the application pulled open, scrolling through pictures of half-naked twinks in search of someone who might be able to do a little damage. Was it a healthy means of relaxing after spending days in scorching heat bent over desiccated corpses? Maybe someone would disagree, but then again there was a reason why he preferred his own coping tools over those a psychiatrist could provide. Still, he put his phone away, if only because he was sure he still smelled like death and stale Taco Bell.
By the next weekend, however, he was back to the app, scrolling through pictures of largely naked men, some of them familiar enough for him to recognize on first look. There was Shin Kicks, somewhere else was Choke Fetish, and elsewhere in the app still was Face Slapper. Oh, Dick Punch now had a wedding ring on his hand-- good for him. Bad for his spouse, maybe, but then again fetishes could run in all different directions.
Then, he landed on a picture he hadn’t seen before. A man, face cut off at the jaw, lounging on a fine chair in a half-unbuttoned collared shirt. The fit was too nice to be right off the rack, and the angle of his jaw wasn’t half bad, even if the fur on his chest looked a little wild.
Hell. Will liked wild well enough. He looked tall, built well enough to pack a punch. Half-drunk on whiskey and with enough leftover headache in his temples to spur on an impulse, Will tapped his profile.
DoctorHL
Neither of us are using this app to find our ‘happily ever after.’ If you would like an evening of excellent wine and consequence-free sex, please reach out via direct message. As a fair warning, I have unorthodox tastes.
Will snorted. Alright, then. He tapped the envelope-shaped ‘Message’ icon and began typing.
______
Hannibal Lecter was a man of pleasures: he preferred that every aspect of his life be beautiful. This expectation extended to his many partners, regardless of his means of meeting them: some he met during opera intermissions, others in day-to-day life; most of them, however, came from a very convenient application on his phone.
More than anything else the question was of convenience: women, while easy on the eyes and lovely to touch, generally preferred courting and romance in preparation for sex; there are of course exceptions, however, as there are exceptions to nearly every rule in life. Still, generally speaking, finding an anonymous one-night fling was much easier on the other side of the dating pool. As a private bonus, if they were rude or particularly unpleasant Hannibal could just shut them up until they fell asleep, and gain access to their phones for personal information to be stored in his rolodex. A win-win, really. This line of thinking brought him to his study one evening after a delicious dinner of Mister Jonathan Grey au poivre , a glass of wine in one hand, his phone in the other. Not surprisingly, he was the recipient of the first message, courtesy of a Mister “Bassman.” Before bothering with the message, he checked his new suitor’s profile.
The picture was somewhat lacking, as most on the app were, but there was a slender sort of beauty to the gentleman’s legs. He even had the decency to wear boxers, though admittedly they were a rather disappointing gray-blue. Hmm. His profile’s description, however, appeared more promising:
Bassman
Not into eye contact. Don’t really care what you look like, but I like it rough, both ways. If that’s a problem, move along
Perhaps this one had potential. He checked the message, then:
Bassman: I’m more of a whiskey fan myself. You’re gonna have to go into more detail about the ‘unorthodox tastes,’ though
Alright; fair enough. Hannibal set his wine glass aside and began typing.
DoctorHL: I’ll keep that in mind; I might have something to turn you into a wine fan yet. About my tastes, I have various preferences, none of which fall under the umbrella of “vanilla,” if that’s the term. There’s an Oscar Wilde quote that I like to apply to my set of tastes: “Everything in life is about sex except for sex. Sex is about power.”
Mister “Bassman” must have taken the time to read his message before replying.
Bassman: That’s a very long-winded way to say that you’re just into BDSM
DoctorHL: Among other things. I’d like to hear more about your desire for “roughness.”
Bassman: I think getting hurt is a good time in controlled circumstances. Not much to it
DoctorHL: And anonymous sex counts as controlled?
Bassman: Compared to the alternatives, yes. What other things get you going
DoctorHL: Hurting and getting hurt respectfully count among those other things, if that’s what you’re asking.
Bassman: It was, thanks. Where are you? I’m in VA-- thoughts on hosting?
DoctorHL: I’d prefer to host, if you’re amenable.
Bassman: Perfect
Bassman: When sounds good?
DoctorHL: Tonight, if you’re available.
Bassman: Only one reason to be on this app. Address?
Hannibal sent his home address; ‘Bassman’ informed him that he would be there in an hour and a half. And, with only eight short minutes and a few pithy messages and face pictures sent, Hannibal had ordered himself sex by delivery. Ah, the wonders of modern technology.