Warnings: Uh…cannibalism? Seriously, if I have to warn for that it's possible you may be lost. Show level or less violence, show level or higher sexual activity.

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. The pretty men belong to someone else…


You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you. You let me penetrate you, you let me complicate you - Nine Inch Nails, Closer


Strictly speaking, it's been Will's prior experience that the prelude to sex – the removal of clothes, the positioning and the like – has always been a little awkward and well…unsexy.

Hannibal rips Will's slacks off, rending the seams in the urgency of his rut, and when he notices that Will isn't wearing anything underneath them, the sound he makes is positively bestial.

The gush of slick that escapes Will at the sound, wetting the cold countertop beneath Will's suddenly bare ass, ensures that Will isn't going to have to worry about any unsexiness in this process.

Hannibal is still wearing all his clothes.

Will thinks that's a crime that needs to be rectified as soon as humanly possible.

"Why do you wear so many fucking layers?" Will demands, fighting with the stupid fucking buttons on Hannibal's waistcoat, hampered slightly by the shaking of his hands, one of the signs of the beginning of heat that is encroaching fast, if the clenching hunger that is radiating from Will's very cervix wasn't enough. Hannibal responds by growling, person suit ripped away from him by the base nature of the rut, only the monster left as strong hands bat away Will's own to rip at his own flies, ruining the tailoring of his suit in his urgency to free his cock so as to sheath it deep inside Will.

If Will produces anymore slick, he's going to slide off these fucking granite countertops.

The seconds it takes Hannibal to free himself feel like hours in Will's desperation, as he claws at Hannibal's stupid fucking tie, managing to get it and a few of Hannibal's buttons undone, revealing the tempting hollow of Hannibal's throat to Will's hungry eyes. Hannibal's efforts reveal something far more tempting though, and although Will's desperation is now a thing with claws scratching in his throat, he takes in that gloriouscock, framed by a thatch of honeywheat pubic hair and the suit pants that Hannibal still wears, cock curved towards his stomach by hunger. Will can feel his mouth fucking water at the sight, proud and huge, bigger and thicker than even the best of his dreams, so red with need it's nearly angry, and the eyes that meet his own are so feral there is almost nothing human left in them.

But Will doesn't fear.

This monster loves him.

Will's conscious mind takes its leave at about the same time that Hannibal thrusts one, two, three of those long fingers into his slick, soakedentrance, scissoring and stretching for preparation that is appreciated but hardly needed, given just how ready Will really is. His ass a slick cunt, quivering and desperate to be filled by that big, fat thoroughbred cock, to be glutted with seed and bred until a new life takes root in his uterus, grows there safe and protected.

"You won me," Will hisses, a mindless creature, driven only by the need to be speared by that alpha cock, larger than those searching fingers, to be held down and knotted and bred, "So take me."

Hannibal makes a sound like Will is killing him, and then, in one smooth movement he removes those fingers, grabs Will by the thighs and fucks in, in, in, all fat and rigid, not stopping until he's fully seated in Will, all the way to the hilt.


Will rewards his alpha's obedience by coming immediately, pelvic floor muscles convulsing on that glorious, thoroughbred girth, shooting his own sterile seed all over his own and Hannibal's abdomens.

Hannibal makes a sound perhaps best described as a roar, bearing his teeth like the last tether of restraint he was clinging to has snapped, and then he shoves Will's legs over his shoulders and fucks him with everything he is. Will, heat mad and starving himself, does what he can to help, angling his hips into the brutal, growling fuck that Hannibal is giving him and the sound of slapping flesh as Hannibal drives into him, animal and feral, no thought in those monstrous eyes other than Will is more beautiful than any opera could ever hope to be.

"You are going to be so beautiful swollen with my children," Hannibal growls, voice barely recognizable as human into Will's neck, words accompanying a thrust so deep and perfect that the fat head of Hannibal's cock hits his cervix, and Will screams his pleasure, coming a second time around that huge cock that doesn't even pause in that fierce, driving rhythm.

Behaviour like that deserves reward.

"I scented that stupid pillow of yours with my slick," Will drawls, voice heat stupid and slow, words slurred from orgasm but the sound Hannibal makes assures Will he's heard them as those eyes glow almost red with intensity as those still pistoning hips begin to stutter with the first sign of an impending orgasm.

"I let Beverly scent mark my sweater so you would be able to smell her on me," Will rasps, voice hoarse from screaming, and at the mention of the other alpha, Hannibal fucks into him with a punishing thrust, hitting his plump, needy prostate in his attempt to drive everything but himself from Will's mind.

Will, nearly blind with pleasure, is certainly not complaining.

"I imprinted on you in Jack's office," Will moans, grabbing Hannibal by the neck so as to force those bestial, hungry eyes to meet his own, to hear him – to understand him - through the haziness of Will's heat and the feralness of Hannibal's rut, as he finishes, tilting his throat in offering for that final thing that will make Hannibal his forever, "and everything I did after was because I wasn't going to let some other omega bear your children. They're mine, just as you are mine."

"Will," Hannibal groans, like he is helpless, and then he nails Will to the counter with one, two, three stuttered thrusts before he pushes in, so deep Will thinks he can feel Hannibal in his throat, knot swelling, locking them together and Will keens, so full he can barely handle it.

But it's all worth it as Will feels Hannibal paint his vaginal walls with hot seed that will steal away into his body, find his egg in his fallopian tubes and battle it out until the strongest wins, combining to make a perfect little person, the best of himself and Hannibal for them to love and cherish and raise together.

And then, before he even has time to express his triumph over that, Hannibal, still coming, bares his teeth and takes what Will is offering him, biting down on Will throat, feeding the pheromones into Will's blood that will bond them together, that will sync their cycles and make Will Hannibal's.

If, of course, Will bites back.

The omega's last defence against an unwanted bond, the denial of an answering bite. A half bond cannot stand, just as half an arch cannot, and omega's for centuries have been using this one weapon against alphas who have tried to force them to bond. For omegas, answering a claiming bite with one of their own, feeding their pheromones into their alpha's blood, binding them together forever, is the biggest choice they will ever make.

Will's already made his.

Will puts his teeth to Hannibal's neck, bites down in his omegean answering claim until he tastes blood, and makes Hannibal his.

And then, he comes around that huge, bulbous knot, smile on his face, exultant in his conquest.


When Will comes back to his own mind, he finds himself still locked with Hannibal on the man's – admittedly no longer pristine – countertops, with the man himself still huge and hard and twitching within him.

It is, all around, an agreeable scenario.

Hannibal himself is a heavy weight on Will's chest, held there in part by the fact that the muscles in his arms don't appear to be able to quite support him yet – something that Will admits does his ego good – and also because of his alpha instinct to protect, to spread himself over Will's body with his own, to make a shield of his own flesh.

Both reasons are more than agreeable to Will.

Hannibal's upper arm strength returns to him soon enough, as he lifts his torso just enough off of Will's own so that he can comfortably meet Will's eyes, movements slow and calculated, so as not to disturb the place where they are still intimately joined. And yet, at the fondness he sees in those dark eyes, Will can't help but ruin all his good work, threading his hands through ash blond hair and bringing them chest to chest again as he kisses Hannibal as he couldn't before, in the frenzy of heat. And Hannibal offers up no resistance, lets his mouth go soft and pliant as Will coaxes sipping, lippy kisses from the man, slow and sweet until both their of mouths are red and wet and puffy, kisses him until they physically must stop kissing him for lack of oxygen.

"It occurs to me that I was meant to be seducing you," Hannibal says lightly, as they finally draw away for breath, stroking a wayward sweaty curl out of Will's eyes.

"Oh yeah?" Will teases, stealing one hand away into Hannibal's pants to pinch one of the globes of that glorious ass, any edge that his words might have had entirely blunted by the sheer fondness in his tone, "How's that plan working for you so far?"

Hannibal responds by nipping him on the shoulder, teeth almost playful in their chastising retribution before Hannibal continues, a great deal more contemplative then the average man would likely be knot deep in their fertile mate, "I am relatively sure that I hadn't intended for you to win our little game."

Ah, Will thinks, so he had known.

Good. Honestly, Will would be a bit disappointed in him if he hadn't.

"Are you complaining?" Will asks, honestly curious, running a finger absently, softly over the indent of his own teeth in the flesh of Hannibal's neck, a sign of their joining in the red of blood. Hannibal is perhaps the ultimate control freak, Will knew this from the beginning, and there has always been a part of him that has wondered how Hannibal would take this, Will's storming of his gates so to speak.

The part of him that is all too aware of Hannibal's hard length, still twitching deep within him, doesn't imagine he'll mind too much.

But he's been wrong before.

Thankfully he doesn't seem to be this time, as Hannibal smiles at him, a tiny, warm thing, genuine and Will is guessing unfamiliar to his face, before Hannibal moves one of his own fingers to Will's claiming mark, stroking their gently, reverently as he says softly, "No. I find myself rather...pleased with this outcome."

"Good," Will says, aware that the smile on his own face must be disgustingly sappy, before he offers up a cheeky smirk, as he says, teasingly sincere, "If it makes you feel better, you're welcome to tell people this was your idea all along."

"You are trying to appease my ego," Hannibal says, eyebrow raised in something that is either gently bemused humor or pride, or perhaps, as Will thinks, a mixture of both.

"That is one way to put it," Will says cheekily, as he does a kegel, squeezing his pelvic floor muscles around Hannibal's cock in a way that makes the man groan, pressing his forehead to Will's before he laughs, the sound rare and carefree as whispers into Will's ear, like a promise, "I am going to keep you."

"You better," Will says, entirely serious, and the kiss that he receives, hot and possessive is just perfect. And so they kiss, alternatively hot and demanding and lazy and soft until Will starts to feel Hannibal deflate within him, and with some reluctance Will lets him slip out, feels hot seed escape his hole, that he knows must be puffy and used and empty, when he'd been so full.

He wants that feeling again.

So Will decides to get it.

"I imagine you have a bed somewhere in this great big mausoleum," Will teases Hannibal, wrapping his legs around the man's defined hips, sitting up on the counter so that he and Hannibal are pressed together again, and Will takes a second to rub his own sensitive nipples against the surprising amount of coarse hair that decorates Hannibal's muscled chest.

"I have several, in fact," Hannibal says, amusedly tolerant as he goes with Will's momentum, grabbing Will's ass with those big, elegant hands of his and lifting Will so that he is holding him up, aided in part by Will's legs wrapped around his waist.

"Excellent," Will says levelly, as if the resurgence of his heat is not crawling once again up his spine, demands to be held down, fucked out, knotted and bred creeping into his mind with it, before he pins Hannibal with his eyes and demands, quite reasonably, "You need to take me upstairs, put me in your bed, and fuck me until there's no chance that I'm not carrying your child by the end of this heat."

Hannibal has them up the stairs so fast, Will doesn't even truly have time to appreciate the man's strength at pulling off the maneuver.

The feel of Egyptian cotton sheets under his back and a hot alpha stare on his front means that Will hardy minds the loss. Instead Will, Will crawls to all fours, heat making him sinuous and lithe, and presents, ass canted up for his alpha's appreciation and ease, a perfect lordosis reflex.

Hannibal has himself naked and inside of Will before he can even voice the demand. Given that every growling, powerful thrust that he delivers hits so deep Will thinks he's going to be split open in the best possible way, Will is most certainly not complaining. Instead Will, heat mad and wanting lets himself sink to his elbows, angling his hips so that Hannibal's fat cock hits him impossibly deeper, the angle of his body optimal for impregnation, one of the many filthy things that Hannibal growls into Will's nape and hair, along with how tight and wet Will is, how perfect he fits him, like he was born for this, to writhe on Hannibal's cock and how beautiful their children will be.

Will largely responds with gasping moans and whimpers, practically nonverbal in his desperation, but Hannibal seems to appreciate them all the same.

However, no matter how perfect their current position is, it is not optimal for kissing though, and though the part of him that is desperate and hungry, that needs to be bred appreciates it entirely, the tender, soft part of him misses the feel of Hannibal's lips against his own. To compensate, he fits his injured hand into Hannibal's own, twines their fingers together and Hannibal allows it, before the man brings their combined hands to his own mouth, painting Will's fingers and gauze with wet kisses.

"I wish he was alive, so that I could kill him again," Hannibal growls fiercely, accent broken, against the gauze, faintly reddish with Will's blood, and he needs not say Tobias's name for Will to hear it. Nor too the bestial, violent emotion behind it, all dark fury at Tobias's trespass against Will's flesh and fierce satisfaction at his triumph over him.

"Me too," Will groans, desperate and half blind with pleasure, and Hannibal roars his relief, nailing Will to the bed with the strength of his thrust, knot swelling so fast it almost seems that it's afraid of being late to the party, plugging him up full of Hannibal's seed, milked from his cock by Will's own orgasm that storms, storms, storms through him, sweeping Will's every cell and molecule, until the only thing Will knows is Hannibal.


Will loses track of the number of times they fuck in ensuing two days, though it is not for a lack of trying. Heat is a merciless thing – it gives much but it also takes much away – but this he does remember.

Splayed out on Hannibal's dinner table like some kind of obscene offering, the man himself between his splayed legs, mouth wet with Will's slick, eyes so dark and hungry. Moments or perhaps hours later Hannibal pounding into him so hard that the place settings rattled and fell to the floor, to shatter and be ignored entirely in their desperation.

Sitting on the kitchen floor in one of their lucid periods, naked as the day they were born, eating leftovers out of the stupid ceramic Tupperware containers in Hannibal's fridge with their hands, like naughty children at a sleepover.

Fucking afterwards in that very kitchen, Hannibal bare assed and gasping on the floor, as Will rode him fiercely, hands alternating between skittering on the floor desperately for purchase and gripping Will's hips so hard that he leaves bruises that Will will wear with pride for days to come.

Showering in Hannibal's huge glass shower, letting the water run over them in jets before Will sinks to his knees and takes that glorious, huge, fatcock into his mouth. Gagging himself on that girth and only wanting more, stopping only when Hannibal pulls him off so that he can pound into Will's desperate, wet cunt, using that incredible strength of his to keep them from slipping on the wet floors as the water runs cold over them, unnoticed.

And then, finally, with the madness of heat gone, sprawled on Hannibal's huge bed, face to face, Will's legs hooked over Hannibal's back. Slow and sweet, thrusts in between syrupy kisses, heat exhausted and lazy, lovemaking instead of the animal rutting of heat. "I hope they have your eyes," Will whispers into Hannibal's ear as he comes, gentle as a cresting wave, and Hannibal comes at his words, throat working with whimpers, too hoarse for moans. Afterwards, when they have arranged themselves so they can spoon, still joined, he whispers to Will's throat like a secret, "I hope they inherit as much of you as possible."

This, Will thinks, coming from a borderline narcissist and undeniable psychopath, is probably a declaration of love.

"Your cheekbones at least," Will quips gently, brushing a kiss over the afore mentioned feature, and then he curls into the warmth of Hannibal's body and falls asleep, safe and protected, with the comforting sound of two heart beats within him.


There is a part of Will that marvels just at how not awkward the morning after their two day fuckfest is. He'd thought it would be, a necessary evil of the combination of the fact that getting almost everything he wants hardly means that his social skills are going to suddenly magically improve and the intrusion of Will in Hannibal's well-ordered little life.

And yet, somehow, it's just not. Will wakes up in Hannibal's bed, gets himself ready for work and then ventures down into the kitchen where Hannibal lays out breakfast for him, delicate crepes with strawberries and freshly squeezed juice, and the silence that they eat in is so comfortable, so easy. And then, after eating they do the dishes and Hannibal invites him to dine with him that night, and then he kisses Will goodbye, soft and easy, as if they've been doing it for years already.

It's so domestic, and so comfortable Will can hardly believe it.

Intellectually, Will realizes that this is probably due to the influx of oxytocin, serotonin and other hormones triggered by their bonding, designed to help them adjust, to lull them into each other, to help them become closer. Emotionally, Will is entirely willing to just enjoy it, the lovely, calm easiness of it, and let himself feel it.

And then Will gets to work, and finds Beverly in his office, and at the sight of him, the noise she makes, as shrill as a siren, breaks that nice, calm bubble pretty completely.

"Will Graham, get that!" Beverly says, in a tone that is perhaps best described as a squeal, practically bouncing up and down in place with the sheer force of her excitement. Beverly is an alpha, and given that Will practically reeks of Hannibal, he doesn't waste any time on how she knows of his, let's say change in status. In fact, Will pretty much doesn't get to spend any time considering what he's going to say to Beverly, because in the next breath Zeller runs into the room at full tilt, almost skidding to stop as he takes in the situation in the room, before he finally relaxes and rolls his eyes.

"Jesus, I thought someone was murdering Beverly!" Zeller says, looking first to Will, whose look of utter befuddlement must clear him of all involvement as he next shoots Beverly a look that Will hasn't seen since he was a child and he misbehaved.

Bill Graham had an excellent disappointed parent face. Will hopes to model his own after it.

But back to the matter at hand.

"Nope," Beverly says, entirely unrepentant, voice and every single mannerism as smug as the cat that has got the canary, "But you and Price and Crawford all owe me money because our very own Will Graham hooked himself a certain plaid suited alpha!"

She didn't.

"Dammit Graham, you couldn't have waited another two months? Then I would have won the pot," Zeller gripes good naturedly, taking a casual seat on Will's desk and most certainly not providing the denials that Will was rather hoping he would.

She did.

Honestly, Will can't decide if he's horrified or proud.

"You all bet on when Hannibal and I would get together?" Will says, voice even enough as pride – and perhaps just the smallest bit of shock – are winning out for now, though even Will admits that it is possible his voice cracks just the tiniest bit on the last query, "Even Jack?"

"It was Jack's idea," Price says, strolling in while nonchalantly eating a bag of chips and, after a once over of Will, where he must decide Will looks a little rough, he magnanimously offers Will one, as he says calmly, "I had Valentine's Day – Lecter seems like he'd be into that old fashioned romantic shit. The suits and the chivalry, you know?"

Will, in the hopes that complex carbohydrates will make it all better, takes the offered chip.

It doesn't help, but at least its sour cream and onion, a favorite of Will's.

Small mercies.

"I am leaving, because you are all crazy," Will decides, because although this is undoubtedly his coworkers way of congratulating him and assuring him they approve of his mating, it's also way too much for Will to handle this early in the morning and he – manfully - flees his office for the safety of one of the evidence labs, as Beverly's gleeful, "Pay up suckers!" to Price and Zeller follows him down the hall.

And to think, Will once worried he was the crazy one here.

Will manages to hide in the lab for the majority of the day, overtly for purpose of looking over The Ripper case, though it really amounts to googling pregnancy symptoms and first response pregnancy tests.

Well, Will supposes, with a certain amount of dry humor, it does relate to the Chesapeake Ripper.

"I've heard congratulations are in order," Jack says as a greeting, when he finds Will in the lab about a half hour before Will is to leave, something that Will doubts is an accident on Jack's part.

Will is perhaps a bit pathetically grateful for this. His and Jack's relationship is not always a comfortable one, especially when it comes to The Ripper, but Will can tell that beneath that gruffness, Jack does care for him, in a way that is part friendship and part paternal, as Will's vulnerability makes him an appealing surrogate for the child that Jack never got to have with Bella.

It is a sentiment that Will appreciates, but it also makes discussions on his sex life a bit…uncomfortable.

"Is that all you've heard?" Will asks to Jack's chin, and he's honestly not sure that he wants to know the answer, because he likes Beverly, he really does, but in matters like this, she frankly terrifies the living crap out of him.

"I think it's possible Beverly has started a scrapbook or something," Jack says, and Will can't tell if he's joking or not, and frankly he's too scared of the possibility that he's not to examine it any further.

Jack, perhaps sensing that, or perhaps just displaying his typically blunt style of emotion, says only to Will, "He make you happy?"

"Yes," Will says simply, because Hannibal does. Against all odds, the monster and the man who hunts monsters make each other happy, and Will will do anything to make sure it stays that way.

"Good," Jack says, and lets the moment of honest, genuine warm emotion settle, a comforting weight for Will, before he smirks, and says, to lighten the mood, "But honestly, you couldn't have waited another six months? That's when I would have had the pool."

"I hate my job and everyone at it," Will declares flatly, as he makes his escape for the day, packing his bag quickly, and Jack's booming bark of laughter follows him down the hallway.

Will is surrounded by crazy people.

When Hannibal greets him at the door with a kiss that makes him forget his own name, before sinking to his knees and eating Will out in the goddamn foyer, that sinful mouth soaked with Will's juices, Will decides he's alright with it.

And then?

Then things just keep on keeping on. Will stays over with Hannibal most nights, dines on the delicacies of Hannibal's table, curls up with Hannibal in his sitting room and just lives with the man, sleeps in Hannibal's bed with the man curled round him, safe and cherished. On the nights Will spends at his own home, caring for his dogs, Hannibal calls him before bed so that Will can fall asleep to the sound of the man's voice, and Will leaves a message on his machine in the mornings, because he knows that Hannibal likes the symmetry of starting the day to Will's voice when Will ends his to Hannibal's.

Will keeps waiting for the other shoe to fall, for the honeymoon period to end, but it just doesn't.

Everything is, well, pretty perfect.

Well, except for the elephant in the room.


Will doesn't tell Hannibal he knows. About the secret ingredient in each meal. About the person suit that Hannibal wears to hide his monsters. About The Ripper.

About Hannibal.

He could, he knows.

Hannibal probably wouldn't kill him, would probably be thrilled to know that Will knows, that Will can see him and still wants him. Bonding is hardly the thing that Hollywood would have you believe it is – there's no psychic link, Will can't feel Hannibal's emotions or anything as trite as that – but there is a closeness there, a warmth, a togetherness lingering in the back of his mind that Will has never felt with another person and knows he never will again.

And yet, Will doesn't tell him.

He wants to be pregnant before he does.

There is a survival aspect to it – the certainty that Hannibal will not react unfavorably in harming Will, even as an impulse, as it would mean harming their child as well – but that is not entirely it. Instead, Will wants to only have to do this once – to share Hannibal's darkest secret for Will's brightest one, quid pro quo – to seal their lives together in this one moment and pave their future without secrets or uncertainty between them.

He'll tell him when he's pregnant, and not before.

When he wakes up in his own home three weeks after his heat and promptly runs for the toilet so that he can throw up the entire contents of his stomach, it occurs to Will that time might be fast approaching. The seven pregnancy tests he does later that day, positive all of them, confirms it.

Will stands in front of his bathroom mirror, hands on his still flat stomach, and imagines he can caress the life slumbering there within him, tears of incandescent joy in his eyes.

Will is going to have a child.

There is a conversation that Will needs to have.


Will spends three days vacillating between floating somewhere on cloud nine and wondering just how he's going to tell Hannibal. For all the importance that Will has placed on this, he never really gave any thought to just how he would do it, and given that Hannibal likely won't be able to scent it on him for another month, waiting for that is out of the question. He considers going out and finding some rude pig, slaughtering them and presenting them to Hannibal on his dinner table like an offering, and perhaps placing one of the pregnancy tests somewhere on their person for Hannibal to see.

Ultimately he ends up nixing that idea when examining a blood slide in a morgue lab makes him want to puke. If he can't stand a tiny circle of blood, then the murder of a grown individual is certainly out of the picture. Vomit on the corpse would undoubtedly ruin the aesthetic he was going for.

Additionally, there is a part of him that rebels at the idea of mixing his child in with Hannibal's…extracurricular activities. Will might not have any real moral qualms with it, but he will not let anything steal his child's innocence away prematurely, not even himself or Hannibal.

And that, as it turns out, would be the crux of how Will ends up stating the news blandly to Hannibal at the man's dinner table as a response to Hannibal's simple, "Is there something wrong with the meal?" as he watches Will play with his food but not consume it.

It goes like this.

Hannibal invites Will over for dinner, the first one since Will took those tests three days ago. A weekend trip out of state with Jack for a case – just a man who decided to kill his wife and try to pass it off as the victim of a killer that, unluckily enough for him, though Will imagines more so for the wife, was pulled over on a speeding ticket that very same night and decided to confess everything for the fame – kept them apart for that time, and Will, so newly bonded is itchy to see Hannibal after even such a small absence.

So Will, of course, agrees.

And everything is just perfectly fine – Hannibal greets him with a kiss that fogs his brain at the door and flatters his ego massively, this tangible proof that Hannibal missed him - and then Hannibal sets down dinner in front of Will, some 'pork' dish in a red wine reduction, and Will realizes he has a problem. See, Will himself doesn't have any moral qualms consuming Hannibal's food; he knows what the man is and accepts him as such, but Will's child hasn't made that choice. This child, who Will has sworn to protect with his last breath will get its only nutrients from Will for the nine months it will slumber and grow in his womb, and Will doesn't want to have his child be a cannibal before he or she is even born, when they can't consent to anything.

And then, Hannibal asks, clearly noticing Will's uncharacteristic hesitation, all concerned alpha instead of suspicious serial killer, "Is there something wrong with the meal?"

And Will?

Will tells him.

"I'm concerned about the health risk to the baby presented by consuming human meat. I know you're selective, but anything can be missed." Will says, keeping his eyes on Hannibal's own and his voice deliberately light as he finishes, laying out his full quandary out blandly on the table, "Also, I suppose the ethics weigh on me as well. I chose this, but they did not. See my problem?"

If there wasn't so much riding on this, Will might be tempted to whip out his phone and take a picture of Hannibal's face, slack with shock, projecting what Will can only describe as does not compute.

Will thinks he might have just broken Hannibal Lecter.

Naturally, the man makes it just as stupidly attractive as everything else he does, but Will admits he rather likes this look in particular.

"There's nobody in these potatoes right? No," Will says, just to break the silence, and although he gets no response he was certainly not expecting one anyways, as he brings the new potato to his mouth and makes a show of savoring, offering Hannibal a smile after he has swallowed, "Yum. Divine."

It's possible Will is having just a little too much fun with this.

"You knew," Hannibal says slowly, and it is not a question as Will can see the cogs of that great brain have begun to turn again, working in double-time in response to the shock that Will has delivered to his system.

"Since Cassie Boyle," Will says in response, and then, perhaps more flippant than necessary, though it is true enough, "I'd be pretty terrible at this whole empathy thing if I didn't."

Hannibal manages to side eye him reproachfully even in his contemplation, an impressive use of multi-tasking, before he says, slowly, as if he is trying out the taste of the words in his mouth, "You knew, but you pursued me anyways. Tied yourself to me anyways."

"No," Will says, serious now, and he makes sure that Hannibal is looking into his eyes, that Hannibal understands, because this, this is what is truly important, "I knew, so I pursued you, so I tied myself to you. You're the only one I wanted to be the father of my children, because of who you are, not in spite of it."

And, for the second time in less than five minutes, Will Graham breaks Hannibal Lecter. But that's alright, Will knows, as he stares at Hannibal's proud face, slack with shock and stunned disbelief, looking at Will as if he fears he is not real, an apparition that might disappear in front of his very eyes.

Will's going to put him back together again.

"Will," Hannibal breathes, eyes shining with something like awe, as he pushes away from his seat, leaving his impeccable culinary creation forgotten as he makes his way over to Will, crouches down on his knees in the space Will has made for him, hands on Will's knees like a supplicant, as he asks, as if the full measure of what Will said has just finally hit him, "A child?"

"Uh huh," Will says, smiling at the fact that Hannibal is too dazed to protest at the inelegance, guiding Hannibal's hands to his still flat stomach where their child slumbers, and Hannibal's hands curl there, protective and oh so careful, "In eight months you and I and baby are going to be a family."

When Hannibal surges up, oh so gently and kisses him, long and soft and worshipful, Will can taste the tears of joy that seep from his eyes.

That night Hannibal fucks him with something that feels like reverence.

He kisses him like he fears he might break, the tenderness clearly something he is unpracticed at, and all the more appreciated by Will for it. Hannibal slips into him gently and sets a pace that is satisfying in it's sweetness, every thrust punctuated with wet, sipping kisses that Will hoards, threading his hands through Hannibal's soft hair that has flopped adorably onto his face. Hannibal's own hands are everywhere, but they mostly gravitate to Will's stomach, fluttering there worshipfully. Will's orgasm, when it sweeps over him is like the gentle popping of a cork, and when Hannibal comes a moment later with a stuttering thrust and a whine, Will feels nearly as full in body as he does in his heart.

It's a good feeling.

"I have little reference for tender emotion," Hannibal whispers into the afterglow when they are still joined, faces close enough to share breath, voice hesitant in a way Will has never heard it before, "You make me want to lay the world in your hands, just to see what you would do with it." And then, not a statement but not quite a plea, as if Hannibal's self-awareness in his shortcomings in this area have suddenly burbled to the surface, made him fear that his offerings are not enough, tinged with the faint helplessness of wanting them to be so, "I don't know if that is love. It could be."

It is not, Will knows, love in the stereotypical Hollywood sense. Perhaps it is not even love in the healthy sense. Hannibal's love is a dark, consuming thing with claws that wants to drag Will down into the depths of his depravity with him, to cradle him there safe and protected. Hannibal will never, ever let Will go, would keep him even if – for some impossible reason - it was against Will's own wishes.

It's exactly the kind of love Will craves, in the part of him that remembers the heartbreak on his father's face every time someone mentioned Will's mother's name.

The only way Hannibal will leave Will and their child would be if he was dead.

It's not the storybook love he'd heard of as a child, perfect and idolized and shiny, but it's the only love he wants, thorns and all.

"It's enough," Will assures him softly, bringing that olive skinned hand to rest over his stomach, twining those fingers with his own so that they rest there, combined and protective, "You've already given me everything I ever wanted."

"Oh Will," Hannibal whispers, all dark, beautiful promises, the monsters in those eyes dancing in grotesque, extant joy at things even Will cannot fathom to imagine, "I am going to give you the world."

That sounds good to Will.


A/N: I has porn! So, although there be fluff ahead, there will also be snarky manipulative pregnant Will, tolerant vulnerable cannibal Hannibal, baby science, domestic disputes (mostly ending in sex), and also kidnapping and violent murder. Ah Gideon, I love you, I really do but this probably isn't going to end well for you. Like, at all. It rhymes with cannibal people, that's all I'm saying. That said, as always enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.