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This isn’t according to plan. While one can argue that it isn’t really a plan but more of a series of educated guesses and what-ifs in constant flux, Jack and Will had mutually agreed to play the long game in catching Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Ideally, Will would resume his therapy, cozy up to the doctor until he gets a confession or evidence — preferably both — then let Jack and the FBI handle the rest.
Having his gun reissued after his release from the BSHCI changed some things. See, sometimes you have to spend hours finding the perfect bait, jigging, and praying for a bite. Other times, you have to pull the trigger and let the spear tear through flesh and spine.
It’s what leads Will to sneak into Hannibal’s home, leveling a gun at his face before knocking him out with a sharp blow to the back of his head.
And now, here they are. In an old hunting cabin several miles away from Baltimore.
While Will may deny it, sadistic joy blooms in his chest at the sight of the renowned Dr. Lecter brought down low. His ashen blond hair is mussed, bangs falling over his face. Dried blood streaks his temple and cheek, staining his collar. His coat and tie lay crumpled on the dusty floor, alongside his leather shoes.
Will hides his anticipation with a mask of indifference, leaning back against a wooden chair opposite the unconscious man. The only thing betraying his eagerness is his persistent finger-tapping against his knee, which stops when Hannibal slowly lifts his head and lets out a soft groan of pain. The man tilts his head to one side, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. Then he straightens up, his poise perfect as always despite the rows of thick rope coiled around his chest, binding him to the chair. He even smiles as he greets, “Hello, Will.”
“Doctor Lecter,” Will greets back with a small nod.
Hannibal looks around the cabin — most likely finding a weapon or an escape route he can use. Unfortunately for him, Will had come prepared — he disposed of the hunting rifles and knives, barred the windows, and reinforced the locks on the door. Hannibal would have to break the chair to free himself from the ropes then tear the cabin brick by brick to escape. More importantly, it’s the middle of winter. If Hannibal somehow manages to escape — which Will highly doubts — he will certainly freeze to death. His best option for survival is staying put.
Hannibal seems to draw the same conclusion when he says, “How quaint. I quite like it.” When Will remains silent, he continues, “I suppose you wouldn’t explain why you kidnapped me?”
Will resists the urge to lunge at him. “You know why.”
Hannibal sighs. “After everything that's happened, Will, you still believe—”
“Stop right there,” he interrupts, his tone sharp. “You may have to pretend. But I don’t.”
Hannibal stares at him for a moment, seeking out something hidden in his blue eyes. Whatever he finds there makes him grin wide. “No, you don’t. Not with me.”
“I don’t expect you to admit anything. You can’t. But I prefer sins of omission to outright lies, Dr. Lecter. Don’t lie to me.”
“Will you return the courtesy?” he asks. “Why did you bring me here? Why not take me to Jack?”
“Because I want answers, Dr. Lecter, and I will take it from you. With or without your permission.”
“And what do you have in mind? Starvation? Torture?”
“Nothing as extreme as that, I can assure you,” Will says, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs. “All I have to do is look.”
And this— This is what Will has wanted all along. He doubts he would’ve managed it back then before his arrest, given that his brain was on fire. But now, his mind is clearer than ever, and he has spent his stay in the BSHCI tearing down old forts and rebuilding memory palaces. He can do it. He knows he can.
So Will closes his eyes and lets the pendulum swing.
Piece by piece, the scene falls away until Will and Hannibal are left alone in the dark, sitting in their respective chairs. One, two, three more swings and Will finds himself staring at the creature that has haunted his dreams. Large twisting antlers grow atop its head, its skin pulled taut over its bones. It regards Will with a soulless gaze.
“What does the Chesapeake Ripper want with me?” Will directs the question towards the creature. He doesn’t expect a response, so he continues, “I suppose we can start with what the Ripper wanted before I came into the picture. The answer is then more obvious. Why do painters paint and writers write? They do it all to be seen. The Ripper is no different from a sculptor exhibiting his masterpieces, but it wasn’t enough. Your audience wasn’t enough. They see your art but they don’t see you. That is, until I came along.
“And that was all I was supposed to be at first. An audience member. But something changed along the way. And here is why the Ripper is human because just like any other person out there, change terrified him. It terrified you so badly that you wanted to hide from me, but why?”
The creature bows its head, almost sheepish. Will follows its gaze, and there, in between them stands a table with a chessboard. A white pawn stands in the middle of the board, waiting for the next move.
“You wanted someone to challenge you,” Will deduces, reaching for one of his pieces — a black pawn. He moves it forward. “You wanted another player. An equal. You wanted—”
Will looks up, startled not to find the creature but Hannibal himself. He’s wearing the same clothes he’d worn when they first met. His smile is brimming with warmth and fondness as he takes one of his knights and makes a move. Will swallows down the hurt and longing at the sight of him. It had been so easy back then, back when he thought of Hannibal as a friend, back when the Chesapeake Ripper was just a subject of his lecture, a Tattlecrime headline, or one of the FBI’s many crime scenes.
But then Abigail happened.
Then Beverly.
Now, it’s personal.
Grinding his teeth, Will continues to play along, challenging Hannibal’s knight only to have his pawn eaten. The sooner he gets his answers, the better.
“We had a fun game, didn’t we?” he muses. “What changed, Hannibal? Why did you hide from me?”
Still no response. At this point, Will doubts that he can speak through his memory palace, so they continue playing in silence, moving and taking pieces off the board. The answer has to be here in their game of chess, but where exactly?
As Will reaches out to take the white queen to check him, Hannibal stops him, lifting his hand as if it was the most intriguing thing. Then he presses a kiss against his knuckles.
Will sucks in a sharp breath. Hannibal has never done this before during their friendship, yet Will can’t help but recall all the morning visits and packed breakfasts, the offers of wine and free dinners, the longing glances, the warm hand on his shoulder, the words of comfort whispered into his ear. Will opens his eyes.
“You want me,” he whispers into the air between them, a question and a statement all at once. “You weren’t supposed to, but you did and that terrified you. That’s what’s changed.”
Hannibal — his Hannibal, all bloodied and disheveled in front of him — remains quiet, neither denying nor confirming the statement. It’s enough of an answer, and Will huffs out an exasperated chuckle.
Was it really that simple? Could he have prevented Abigail’s and Beverly’s deaths if he just dated the Chesapeake Ripper? It sounds so ridiculous that his chuckles soon erupt into laughter, and Will lets it happen. It’s much better than breaking down into tears in front of the man who has ruined his life.
“Hannibal, what the fuck?” he chokes out once he has mostly recovered. “You could’ve— I don’t know, discussed it with me during dinner. We could’ve worked it out.”
“‘Could have,’” Hannibal sneers, clearly offended at being laughed at. “I am certain you would’ve rejected me outright after your attempts with Alana. You think so poorly of yourself you refuse to accept an ounce of kindness from those who are willing to give it to you. No, my dear boy, you wouldn’t have accepted my invitations if I was more straightforward with you.”
His certainty paired with the endearment grates at Will, forcing him to bare his teeth. His mirth lies forgotten. “So, what? You make me think I’m insane? Send me to prison as some kind of punishment for refusing you?”
Hannibal shoots him a withering look. “Do you think so little of me, darling, to presume that everything I did was out of fear of being rejected? While I treasured every moment I spent with you, I was putting myself at risk. You’ve always been astute and curious by nature, but even more so as your illness progressed. You were beginning to see through the cracks, and I couldn’t let you. Not yet at least. I needed to be certain that you and I were alike.”
“So you planned to turn me into a killer,” Will scoffs.
“It was necessary. I have survived all these years by putting my safety first, and I will not jeopardize it.” Not even for you, remains unsaid.
“And yet you let me point a gun at your face. You could’ve easily overpowered me and made a tableau out of my corpse but you didn’t.” Will tilts his head. Another realization dawns on him. “You changed your mind the moment you saw me. You wanted this to happen. Whether it was dying or being extracted from your home, you didn’t care as long as it was me. Did you miss me that badly?”
“Perhaps I did. Or perhaps I simply underestimated your rope-tying skills.”
“Either way, it’s not a good look for you, doctor.”
“It most certainly isn’t,” Hannibal agrees. He still looks displeased at Will’s bout of laughter, but hidden in the crooked tilt of his lips and the creases along the corners of his eyes, there is a smugness to his expression that Will hadn’t noticed before. He almost looks proud to be subjected to Will’s empathy and cruelty, as if begging to be hurt, and Will wants to comply.
The question is: how? How can he effectively wound Hannibal Lecter?
Will expected Hannibal’s anger in response to his violence, but the bastard just seems to be enjoying it. No, he was even anticipating it. If Will wants to hurt him, really hurt him, he has to change tactics. He has to do something Hannibal can only dream of, and the thing is, Will doesn’t even have to try too hard. He keeps their empathic link open in case something else passes through, but now that he knows that Hannibal wants him, well… The only thing left to do is to act on it.
Will stands up from his chair, approaching the doctor carefully. Hannibal in turn regards him curiously. To the untrained eye, he looks lax, but there is a subtle tension on the set of his jaw, in the stiff line of his shoulders. Like an animal torn between cowering or striking back.
Will ignores it and slowly drops to his knees, pleased at how Hannibal narrows his eyes at him, clearly confused. Will rests his hands on the doctor’s thighs, feeling him stiffen beneath his palms. Through his empathy, he can feel static running through his veins, sparking each and every nerve until his thoughts grow hazy. Warmth pools in his belly, coinciding with the growing tent in Hannibal’s trousers.
No matter how hard the Chesapeake Ripper tries to be above it all, he is still a man driven by base need. The idea makes Will grin, and he reaches out to unbutton his fly when Hannibal rasps out, “Don’t.”
It sounds so unlike the Hannibal Lecter he knows that Will stops in his tracks. He looks up. Gasps.
The person suit Hannibal wears is in tatters. His skin is flushed and sheened with sweat, his brows drawn up, and his lips parted as he struggles to keep his breathing in check. He looks very different from the man Will has associated with the Ripper — standing tall in three-piece suits with a set of sharp grinning teeth. Like this, he seems so vulnerable, enough so that Will can read him like an open book without even trying. The pendulum doesn’t even swing. He just sees.
Will sees the little boy clutching a bowl full of snow, bones, and baby teeth. He sees the poor orphan, harassed and maltreated by boys and men who are much bigger than he is. He sees the young man chasing love and hope in people who refuse to accept the violence he harbors within, and as time passes, he crafts an armor that can protect him from the world that constantly seeks to destroy him.
Then Will sees himself, loosening the straps of his armor piece by piece with every passing glance, with every quiet conversation.
And that’s not all. Will feels.
While Will knows that Hannibal wants him, it’s different to feel it in its entirety. His desire is like the sun, burning him from the inside out. It hurts, oh, how it hurts, and he’s torn between basking in its glory and snuffing it out.
And Will isn’t a fool. He knows too that this is supposed to be a punishment. He’s supposed to just tease him — give him a little taste of what they could’ve had then lock him in the cabin to survive the winter on his own. But now that Will can feel it for himself, it all falls into place. Despite everything Hannibal had done, he understands.
So Will tells him, “It’s alright.”
Then he gingerly unbuttons Hannibal’s trousers and takes him into his hand.
He’s heavy against his palms — thick, veiny, and uncut. Still burning from Hannibal’s desires, Will’s mouth waters. Wrapping a hand around the base, he takes Hannibal into his mouth and moans. It has been decades since Will had blown someone but it couldn’t have felt this good before. Hannibal is a comforting weight against his tongue, and the sensation of having his mouth filled leaves him feeling pleasantly fuzzy. He can distantly hear Hannibal groaning somewhere above him, and Will longs to hear more of it.
He braces himself against the floor and swallows more of Hannibal’s cock, only stopping when he can feel the tip hit the back of his throat. He withdraws slightly then begins to bob his head, taking Hannibal deeper and deeper until he’s gagging and tearing up. He doesn’t care. He can feel Hannibal’s pleasure as if it was his own, and his cock strains against his jeans. Will impatiently unzips his fly and pumps himself while sucking Hannibal harder, eager to have him spill into his throat.
A hazy part of him wonders if Hannibal has fantasized about this before — with Will on his knees, using his mouth to bring himself to completion. Will looks into those maroon eyes for confirmation, but what comes to mind is a different image instead — Will bent over the desk with his slacks around his ankles, his mouth hanging open as Hannibal pistons in and out of him. The thought of it nearly makes him come, and Will lets out a muffled whimper.
As if it wasn’t overwhelming enough, more images come through his empathy, fantasies that Will isn’t sure are his or Hannibal’s — Will pressed against the bookcases while Hannibal fucks him standing. Will spread over the dining table like a feast, his legs hooked over Hannibal’s shoulders as he slams deep inside him. Will laid out on the bed, his body littered with love bites and streaked with drying come.
Well, fuck.
Now oral sex doesn’t seem enough.
Will pulls away suddenly, standing on shaking legs as he shoves off his shoes, jeans, and boxers. He doesn’t bother to remove his socks.
Hannibal stares at him, panting. “What are you doing?”
“Shut up,” Will says, though it comes out more as a whimper. He tosses his jeans away and clambers up Hannibal’s lap, rocking his hips against his spit-slick cock. “This is all your fault. I can’t— I can’t get you out of my head.”
“I can say the same,” Hannibal admits, grinding against him. “You have ruined me beyond repair, Will.”
Will says nothing to that, too busy shoving three fingers into his mouth. He pulls them out when they’re slick enough, reaching down to slip one inside himself. Will grimaces at the intrusion, but it doesn’t stop him from pushing past the second knuckle. It has been so long since he’d been properly fucked, and while he usually takes his time preparing himself, he cannot wait this time. He rests his forehead against Hannibal’s shoulder as he pushes his two other fingers inside, biting his lip to keep his pained groans to a minimum.
“Gently,” Hannibal reminds him, but Will senses the doctor’s eagerness bubbling through their empathic link. It doesn’t help with his own impatience, haphazardly pumping his fingers in and out of himself, all the while rutting his cock against Hannibal’s bound chest.
“We should’ve done this sooner,” Will blurts out. Before I knew who you were and what you were capable of.
Before you killed them.
Before I tried to kill you.
“Agreed,” Hannibal pants into his dark curls, grinding against Will’s ass as best as he can. It must be difficult to move with all the ropes restricting him, and Will has half a mind to untie him so he can fuck him properly.
He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. Instead, he withdraws his fingers and begins to guide Hannibal inside.
It’s far too soon, he knows — they both know — but Will can’t stop himself from sinking onto his cock despite the slight burn on his lower back. It’s so much larger here than in his mouth, and Will whines softly, struggling to get him all inside. Hannibal is a mess too, his skin flushed and damp with sweat, his teeth bared as Will twitched around him. But his eyes— He regards Will as if he was something special, something divine.
No one has ever looked at him like that and Will doesn’t think he can take it. He squeezes his eyes shut and throws his head back, forcing the last few inches inside until their bodies are finally flush against each other. They both groan in unison.
Will takes a moment to get used to the sensation. The idea of having the doctor, the Ripper, carve a space inside him fills him with such thrill that his cock weeps between them, drenching their shirts. Neither seems to care as they begin to slowly rock against each other.
Their movements are almost gentle. A bit stilted and awkward given that they’re fucking on a chair, but Hannibal is clearly holding back, content to let Will control the pace. It’s as if Will couldn’t handle it, or worse — as if he was just like his previous lovers.
The thought leaves a sour taste in Will’s mouth, forcing him to spit out, “I'm not Alana or Jack's fragile little teacup. Fuck me properly or I'm leaving you here to rot.”
Something shifts behind Hannibal’s eyes, something dark and feral. Then he lunges forward and bites Will’s shoulder.
Will keens in both pain and surprise, grabbing at a fistful of ashen blond hair to pull him off but Hannibal doesn’t let him, thrusting hard and deep enough that Will can feel him in his gut. Hannibal forces him still with just his teeth and fucks him like a beast despite his bindings, punching gasps and screams out of his lungs. It hurts to be taken like this, pinned in place and spread wide open, but Will can’t deny the pleasure building in his core, threatening to burst out.
Here is the Chesapeake Ripper, the killer Will has studied for years. Here is his enemy, the beast he has been tasked to punish and to cage, and he shouldn’t want it yet he can’t stop grinding into his thrusts, needing more, so much more. Hannibal seems to understand, pulling away just to bite at his neck, near his jugular, and the threat of dying makes Will tense and moan. With a shudder, he comes much harder and faster than he’d ever done in his life, spilling thick and wet onto the ropes.
Hannibal gasps in turn, bucking into him erratically before his movements finally still, spurting into his tight heat. Will can feel him pulsing deep inside, marking his walls, and when he has recovered enough, he rolls his hips, milking every last drop until the ache in his thighs prevents him from doing so.
They rest against each other soon after, panting heavily. Will shifts, grunting when Hannibal slips out of him, followed by a trail of come dribbling out of his hole. Before he can completely extricate himself, Hannibal presses his forehead against his bleeding shoulder, murmuring, “Stay.”
Will blinks, surprised by his neediness. “But I’m heavy.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Your legs are going to die if I don’t get up.”
“I don’t care,” he declares. “Just stay.” Please.
Will sighs in exasperation but he does sink back onto Hannibal’s lap.
He expects the silence between them to be awkward, but it’s not. It feels warm and, strange enough, safe. And now… Now, he has no idea what to do next. He ought to call Jack, tell him where they’d both gone, and let them take Hannibal into custody. Or he can just stick to his plan and leave Hannibal bound in this cabin until spring. But neither idea appeals to him now.
So Will just sinks deeper into his monster, pressing his face into the crook of his neck. With one last sigh, he sleeps. He dreams.
He stays.