Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal.

Willie Graham is uncomfortable with the way Hannibal Lecter looks at her. It's not the way he looks at other people, as if he can see straight through their skull and read every wrinkle in their brain. It's not even the way he looks at Jack Crawford, respectful with a hint of utter disdain. No, it's a hungry, predatory look that makes her fidget in her seat and sometimes makes her touch herself in her sleep.

He looks at her that way all the time, but never more often than when she has just finished deconstructing a crime scene, every gory detail playing in front of her mind's eye like the most gruesome horror movie ever made. Then, when she wants nothing more than to find a place to quietly vomit, that's when he is most apt to look at her, to touch her, as if with the pressure of his fingers and his eyes on her skin he is somehow laying claim to her being.

Once, after a crime scene in which a mother and her teenage child are found arranged in a sickening parody of a lover's embrace, Hannibal steers Willie to the car, drives her back to their motel, and prepares her a cup of Lipton tea that tastes better than Lipton has a right to.

Once, after a crime scene where another man turns up, butchered and displayed like a grotesque statue, Hannibal takes Willie to their hotel-thank God for big cities-and draws her a bath. He helps her disrobe, his eyes politely averted, and attends to her needs with the clinical efficiency of a doctor.

Once, after a crime scene where a boy and his dog have been skinned alive, Hannibal escorts a pale, trembling Willie to the odd little cabin in the woods Jack was generous enough to reserve for the two of them. He opens her car door and takes her by the hand. The skin of his palm is soft but there's a wiry strength to him. He leads her inside and shuts the door behind them.

Then he gently pushes her up against the door, his hands on her shoulders, half-restraining, half-massaging, and stares straight into her eyes. She doesn't resist. Minutes pass as they examine each other's souls.

"I've never done this before," she whispers.

"I know," he says.

Then his mouth is on hers, descending with startling savagery. His tongue forces its way past her teeth, chasing out whatever flavor she has to offer. Coffee, she thinks, from that gas station a couple of hours ago. Maybe the McMuffin she had for breakfast. Whatever it is, Hannibal can't seem to get enough of it. His tongue caresses the inside of her mouth, drawing out sensations she's never felt before. One of his hands is on her hip; the other is at her throat, his thumb to her pulse point as if to measure her excitement as he makes love to her with his mouth.

After what seems like hours he pulls away to kiss his way down her neck, hot, open-mouthed kisses that leave a trail of fire in their wake. He presses his nose inside the gaping collar of her shirt and breathes in deeply, apparently drinking in the scent of her skin and the cheap soap she uses.

His fingers nimbly undo the buttons on her shirt. Her bra is simple, blue. She picked it for comfort, not looks, although the gleam in Hannibal's eye suggests that he finds it appealing enough. His mouth latches onto her throat, his tongue and teeth working her skin, as he pushes her shirt off her shoulders and reaches behind her back to unlatch her bra. He tosses it carelessly to the side and, without pulling back to gaze at her breasts as she expects, immediately slides his mouth into place over her nipple, where he latches on with more force than any babe could match.

She moans. His mouth is the first to ever touch her there, insistently tugging and suckling at her hard teat. Her hands come up of their own volition, seizing his head and holding him in place as his talented mouth forces her passion to rise with his. One of his knees is between her legs and she finds herself writhing against him, trying to get pressure where she needs it. When he does pull away it is only to give the other breast the same treatment, bathing her nipple with his tongue, latching on as if to never let go.

For an instant the marvelous sensations cease as she loses herself to her gift. For the first time since they met, she finds herself in Hannibal Lecter's mind. He is a child, little more than a baby, contentedly feeding from his mother's generous bosom when suddenly the nipple is plucked from his mouth and he is pulled away from her. He wails at the abrupt and terrible loss.

The insight is barely there, a flash only, and perhaps she just imagines it, because then she is herself again, a wooden wall grinding into her skin, and Hannibal is doing his best to wring milk from her virgin breast.

As if he senses her thoughts, he pulls back. His eyes are maroon in the dim light, his hair slightly mussed from her enthusiastic grip. Her nipples are wet and aching in the cool air, longing for the return of his touch.

His lips quirk. He lifts her in his arms, easily, and carries her to the double bed. He lays her on it like a knight preparing the corpse of his monarch. His hands make quick work of her jeans, panties, shoes, and socks, laying her bare. Now he does step back and look at her.

She doesn't move or squirm under his almost too intense regard. Hannibal has psychoanalyzed her as no one else has ever dared to do. He knows her, understands her. That's scary. This, the baring of her physical body to his eyes, is so much less frightening.

"Beautiful," he murmurs.

Then he is on his knees, between her legs, and his mouth is on her calf, her knee, her thigh, and finally at the junction of her legs. His tongue slips inside her more gently than it had slipped into her mouth. In and out it goes, bathing her walls with his saliva, playing with nerves that have never felt this good before, no matter what Willie has tried with her own fingers.

He slips a finger inside her and, oh, the penetration is almost too real, too much, and she is suddenly very tense. He soothes her with strokes to her clit, with the steady, blissful thrusts of his tongue inside her. He adds another finger, scissoring them, accustoming her to the feel of them invading her body.

It's too much. She wants more.

"Hannibal," she whispers.

He pulls back. It takes him less than thirty seconds to disrobe completely. His body is lean and wiry, shaped like a dancer's, and that is all she has time to observe before he is covering her with his body, his chest rubbing against her throbbing nipples, his cock a scalding, solid pressure against her belly.

He kisses her mouth again, less savage than before but just as thorough. She tastes herself on his tongue, likes it, finds her own tongue pushing its way into his mouth, looking for more. His hands are on her thighs, opening her to him, and his cock is at her entrance, poised, brushing ever so lightly across her slit.

Then he is entering her, a slow, steady pressure. Her body parts before him. The stretch is a little painful, which is good. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers digging into his back.

He hits resistance inside her. Without pause he gives a jerk of his hips, pushing through it, and in that moment there is quite a lot of pain. She cries out even as he slides the rest of the way into her, even as she wraps her legs around his narrow hips to hold him in place, to keep him there and never let him leave.

He kisses her roughly. His hand massages her breast. He pulls back, resisting her grip, and then shoves back into her, hitting a spot that makes her scream her pleasure. He does it again and again, working up to a rhythm. She learns it quickly-she's always been a fast study-and soon she is meeting his thrusts, pulling him into her body again and again as pressure builds within her. The bed creaks beneath them as they move together, panting into each other's mouths, eyes locked together as if otherwise they might both fly apart and never come together again.

His thrusts begin to speed up as she feels herself nearing a peak she's never felt. She knows he can tell that she's close. His hand snakes down between them and rubs insistently at her clit. She can't help her choked moan. He pinches her clit sharply. She screams and tumbles over the edge, her world exploding in a flash of brilliant light.

Then he is pulling out of her, still hard, and turning her over, onto her knees. He guides her hands up to the headboard. His own hands overlap hers, pinning them there, as he quickly forces himself back inside her. She can feel him even more deeply this way, can feel his testicles slap against her ass with each thrust as he pushes himself into the heart of her over and over again.

Hannibal fucks her, fucks her roughly, an alpha animal claiming its mate. His hips snap forward with such force that her whole body rocks, and it's only the strength of his hands, holding her in place, that keeps her from falling. His breathing comes faster and faster, harsh pants in her ear.

"The dog fought to protect the boy," she chokes out, when she feels herself, impossibly, teetering at that edge once more.

Hannibal groans at that, shoves himself as deeply inside her as he can possibly go, and comes. As his seed spurts into her body, he buries his teeth in her shoulder, drawing blood.

She flies apart, and thinks it would not be so bad, to never be reassembled again.