A/n: So. Hannibal. I love Hannibal, I love the character, I love the movie series, and now I love the show. Anthony Hopkins set the bar pretty damn high with his portrayal of the Hannibal Lecter character, and I expected Mads Mikkelsen to fall short. But he didn't fall short! So far, I think he's doing a phenomenal job as our favorite sociopathic doctor. And Hugh Dancy as Will Graham? Woah, buddy. He gives me the chills, the delightful chills.
I never really had a slashy pairing to work with as far as the movie series went, Clarice Starling and Doctor Lecter was something of a match made in heaven. And the portrayal of Will Graham in Red Dragon was subpar. But now, we have Hugh Dancy and Mads Mikkelsen lighting up the screen, and I'm in love. Something dramatic and heavy must be written in their honor.
So I predict some graphicness ahead, some nudity, that sort of thing. We all love some graphic nudity, but for those of you who don't - Well, there's the door.
Song of Choice - Aria Da Copa by Bach. It's on the Hannibal album, and just...just put it on repeat. Seriously. Or The Journey, from the Book of Eli soundtrack. Great sex song, that one is.
There's discomfort in the tense set of his red mouth, and Hannibal is curious [like a striped cat watching a field mouse between the stalks]. Will isn't casual by nature, but he isn't particularly skittish. He squirms in his cheap polyester, and Hannibal wonders what woolen thoughts are nesting in his brain [they must itch]. He stares dark and thin, but Will is too lost to notice.
"You're thinking too loudly, William."
Will looks up, round catalina blues. "Was I?" He smiles nervously, and his lips tremble together. Hannibal doesn't quite smile, but his face loosens. Curiouser, and curiouser still. Will's mind, as Hannibal knows it, is a delicate network of strings and cogs [ideas and dreams woven at the sputtering, tangled loom]. He wants to see and know and possess. He wants to pick apart and piece together, as is the inevitable fate of all great puzzles. "Perhaps you'd like to share?"
Will shudders into himself. "Not particularly."
Hannibal raises the one brow. "You'd have us sit in silence?"
"I like silence."
Hannibal stamps down a smile. "I suppose you've earned some silence."
They descend into a noisy sort of silence, with shuffling and too much thinking. Will shifts, and the leather squeaks under him. His fingertips skitter across his thigh, and he bites into pink lips. Hannibal is content to watch the nervous flutters of this truly gorgeous creature, trapped inside his own head. Distantly, Hannibal wants to bite down and taste all the sweets and salts, but he won't. Will would taste divine, more so than any fibrous tissue or red slab to touch his hot pan. But -
Will is much more than a meal. A quiet breath, and the silence stumbles. Will is staring at his feet. "Ah, question."
Hannibal smiles, the urge too overwhelming. "Of course."
"From a purely objective standpoint, would you say..." A pause. "...would you say I'm appealing? Physically?"
Hannibal feels a small burst of surprise, spreading quietly. His face keeps blank, but his insides are buzzing with question. His mouth tightens at the corners.
"You are very pleasing to the eye, Will." He says softly and seriously. Will looks up, and they regard each other carefully.
"I don't see it." He admits, sinking into the leather. "I've never seen it, not in myself. I recognize beauty in others, though I've never felt attracted to that beauty. Not even during the awkward, hormonal fluctuations of my adolescence. I suppose that's a good thing, because who would return my attraction?" His laugh is low and bitter. Hannibal frowns. Will's grossly misguided opinions of his own physicality, the wrongness of it, grates on Hannibal's nerves like nothing else.
"Why dwell on this now?" He asks. Will spares him an unreadable look. He folds like a pale turtle, reluctant to answer. Hannibal won't press. There's a beat of silence.
"I don't know how to knock." Will starts with a sigh. "Or so Jack tells me. His door was closed, I should have knocked."
"And Jack had his door closed for a reason, I presume."
"He was speaking with someone, a man I'd never seen before. A local detective." Will flushes. His fingers lace tightly, and his eyes fall beneath white lids. Hannibal suddenly understands. He feels displeasure and polar cold. "And you recognized the beauty in this detective." He says calmly, the words tasting acrid. Will holds himself rigid, he doesn't look up. "He was handsome, and I - I felt something. Like a warm, heavy stone in my stomach."
Hannibal feels the beginnings of slow, simmering anger. "You were attracted to him."
"It was strange, I felt so warm. He introduced himself to me, and we shook hands. He already knew who I was, but..." Will frowns at his shoes. "...there was no disgust or apprehension. He was friendly."
"His name?" A potential appetizer with worcester and mustard seed, perhaps. Hannibal feels a bit feral, and listens intently. Will doesn't notice his intensity, he only smiles something small and breakable. "Pierce Noir."
"Pierce has made quite the impression on you." Hannibal tries for offhanded, but acerbic madness rears up.
[Heat oil in a skillet, fry mustard and cumin seeds until they begin to crackle. Add onion and chili pepper, fry gently, stir continuously. Add meat, ground spices, worcester sauce and tomatoes. Season with salt and pepper, fry over medium heat for three to five minutes. Serve with rice.]
"He asked me to dinner."
Hannibal almost forgets himself. He almost says something, does something that might give it all away, ruin everything he's built. "I think I'll go." He finishes softly. Hannibal remembers to breathe, to smile, to say his quiet congratulations. However, his insides are smoldering cold, icicles hanging low and white wind whipping. His smile is tight, difficult to hold. His eyes are glassy and black. Hannibal isn't angry, but hungry.
Pierce Noir, a recently promoted detective of the upstanding Quantico Department. He's coasting through his late thirties, though time has been kind. He's tall and wide [one door length tall and two men wide], with dark hair and bright eyes, like summer grass. He's intelligent too, toeing the line of genius. His hands are quicker than most, accuracy something of an office legend. He's an excellent cop, an excellent man [an inconvenience]. Hannibal files away the small details, each one carefully gathered.
He takes a bottle of Moscatel in hand, the amber liquid sloshing, and turns slowly. The mahogany hall shimmers under gold coronas, smelling faintly of sweet grapes. Morais Vineyard and Winery is an old favorite of his, as they're known for their premium product and classic flavors. They push the envelope with traditional technique, and embrace the new [admirable in a timeless, traditional craft]. He visits often.
The tasting hall hums with quiet chatter, and lilting piano keys waft from somewhere above. The last, pink sunbeams fall across dark floorboards and colorful bottles. Not many linger, all the fragile lovers having gone away. A reaching silhouette stands in the sun, casting long shadows across the wood, and Hannibal smiles. Pierce Noir was unsuspecting in his good guy ensemble, denim and plaid. His palm warms around a bottle of Cabernet Franc. He stares hard, scrutinizing the swish and swirl of the drink.
Hannibal approaches. His shoes smack too quietly to be heard, and Pierce is too absorbed in his scrutiny.
"You don't partake often, I assume." He says. Pierce straightens and turns slightly. His eyebrows climb.
"Am I that obvious?"
"You were concentrating so hard, I feared you might break something." He's the perfect imitation of humor and sincerity. Pierce, usually one for sensing out ill intentions, is easily fooled. They share a short laugh, and his defenses lower. "I'm more the cheap beer type." He admits with a wry smile. Hannibal basks in the easiness of it all.
Pierce softens. "You could say that."
Hannibal darkens, but hides it well. "Ah, special someone."
"Yeah, very special." Pierce gets this faraway look.
"Then might I suggest - " He pulls a fat, garnet bottle from the rack. " - this imported Rosa Regale. Made from brachetto grapes. It has a bright, fresh, berry flavor. No wine pairs better with chocolate, I promise." Pierce takes the wine, looking faintly impressed.
"I imagine you're a bit of a connoisseur?" He laughs again.
Hannibal tugs at his cuffs. "Something like that."
Pierce turns, as though remembering something suddenly. "I don't believe I got your name." Hannibal feels that dark, creeping thrill. He steps close, and his teeth glint like white stars. He offers his hand. Their palms clap together, a firm shake. Saliva pools under his tongue.
He flays the pink heart and drops it in the popping skillet. Taking a wood spoon in hand, he stirs in the coriander and tumeric. Then, he adds a splash of worcester and three diced tomatoes [a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper]. He sets the table with good, porcelain dishes and heavy flatware. He lights scentless candles, and their yellow flames burn dim. He hums something nameless, his eyes smile. His doorbell will chime soon.
He prepares two bowls, and like clockwork, a chime is heard. Hannibal straightens his vest and smiles again. He steps into the foyer and opens the door. Will stands on his doorstep, looking like misery incarnate. His umber curls hang like a veil, and his pale face is drawn tight. Thick, square glasses slump down his nose. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't have to. Hannibal steps aside. "Please, come in."
He does so wordlessly. They stand in silence, as Will furls into himself like grey smoke. His eyes shine wetly. "He didn't come." He murmurs, barely audible. Hannibal feels triumphant [of course he didn't, dear William]. He offers a small, sympathetic frown. "Then he was a fool."
Will looks up sharply, startled, but Hannibal doesn't allow him time to think on it.
"Come. I've made dinner." He ushers Will forward with a low hand warming in the shallow dip of his back. Will can only stammer and shake and stumble. The dining room is lavish but modern. Two places are set, furnished with wine glasses and ivory bowls. A bottle of Rosa Regale sits among smoky ice chips, and a small feast spans the length of the table. The cold, white lights are low. It feels intimate.
"Were you expecting someone?" Will takes a hesitant step back. "Your table is set for two."
"My table is always set for two, as I have many unexpected guests." Hannibal reassures, but Will looks stricken.
"I - I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I should - "
"Sit, William. Our meal is going cold."
Hannibal pulls a chair and gestures for him to sit. He does so reluctantly, and Hannibal leans over him. Will stiffens at the hot wash of breath. "Dinner is served." Teeth graze the shell of his ear, and he jerks. His toes curl, and his skin prickles. He makes a breathy, quiet noise without meaning to. He doesn't get time to wonder, as Hannibal stands and takes his own seat. They sit across from one another, a sputtering candle between them.
Will looks down at his meal [a ceramic bowl filled with meat slices and stark greens and reds, smelling faintly spicy]. "What is this, Doctor? It smells divine." Hannibal nearly purrs.
"It's a Jalfraizi recipe for beef curry. And please, we're sharing a meal, not psychoanalyzing a serial murderer. Hannibal will do fine." He admonishes lightly. Will burns a little red. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't know what to say. His fingers find the cold, polished fork. He takes a careful bite, and Hannibal watches. Red meat and green pepper smear across pink lips, tasted and chewed and swallowed.
As Will eats the heart of another man, his potential lover, Hannibal watches.
He is consumed by something instinctual and dark. He smiles a terrible smile. He hungers, but this hunger is different and new. He doesn't want to rip and tear and ruin, he wants to nibble and lick and keep. Like a golden - winged warbler, Will should be coveted and treasured [hidden away in a cedar chest, kept under lock and key]. His broken, beautiful mind and his white, thin flesh. Hannibal will take everything.
"This is delicious. I've never tasted anything like it." Will hums around his fork. Hannibal is openly staring.
"Thank you, William. As you know, my kitchen is always open to friends."
Again, Will flounders for words. "I - Thank you. I'm grateful."
A beat of silence.
"You seem very upset. This man, he was little more than a stranger." Hannibal says, quiet and unobtrusive.
Will straightens in his seat. "It isn't the man, not really. I just..." He deflates. "I let myself dream. I thought he wanted to know me, spend time with me outside of a crime scene. I got my hopes up, and he never came. I should know better."
"You shouldn't judge yourself so harshly. I enjoy your company."
"You're my therapist. You tolerate my company."
Hannibal frowns. "Right now, we are not doctor and patient. If I did not enjoy your company, you would not be eating my food, in my home."
Will laughs bitterly. "That was almost believable."
Hannibal has had quite enough of Will's self - deprecation. He stands, and his chair clatters back. Will jolts. His eyes are round and bright. "What are you doing?" His voice shakes around the question. Hannibal doesn't answer. He calmly pushes his chair in, straightens his vest, and stalks around the table. "I'm going to show you, William. Words are not enough."
Will breathes in sharply. He shrinks into himself, but Hannibal yanks him to his feet. Dishware is swept aside, shattering against the floor, and his back is pinned to the table edge. Their fronts meet intimately. His wrists are held to the tablecloth. "You will understand, I will personally see to it."
"Hannibal - !" Their mouths crash brutally, like the beginnings of a hurricane tide breaking in the sand. Will makes a pitchy, desperate noise. There are hard bites and apologetic licks between them, and their tongues tangle into a wet knot. It has all kinds of scary meaning, and Will wants to fight [he has to!]. He squirms, and Hannibal rolls into him. Their hips jerk, and friction builds. Will struggles for breath, he can't breathe. Is he having a panic attack? His button - up is pulled from its neat tuck, his belt is loosened. He might be having a panic attack, because it's too fast.
He turns away, gasping raggedly. Hannibal smiles and licks the taut chords of his throat. "Hannibal, stop! I can't - !"
"You can and you will."
Will is suddenly spinning, and Hannibal presses from behind. They're back to chest [quivering back to stonelike chest]. Cold hands smooth up his sides, and he chokes on something unintelligible. His shirt is all but ripped from his shoulders, plastic buttons skidding across the tabletop. "Wait - !" A hot mouth suckles the small, individual knobs of his spine. He spasms wildly, arching back into lips and teeth. He's never felt this, not ever. "Nnngh - gah! Why are you - !"
"You need to understand, Will." His jeans hang low and precarious on his bony hips. Hannibal dips past the loose waistband, and icy palms wrap about his inner thighs. "Understand - Understand what?" He gasps. His lips are slick and red and shaking, and fuck, his vision is white and black and blurry. He can't think past the cotton clouds and volcanic eruptions in his too-loud-brain. He's hard, he suddenly realizes. So hard, and it hurts in that what-the-fuck, don't stop way. "I don't understand, I don't know what you're talking about!"
"You are mine to do with as I please, as you will always be. There isn't room for others." Those words clang like church bells, clear and absolute. Any argument, Will knew, would fall on deaf ears. Hannibal has said his piece, and Will is meant to accept and obey. This is a different Hannibal, a scary Hannibal. The finality of it all is terrifying, and he feels a little too claustrophobic.
"What?" He says stupidly. He gets no reply.
His jeans pool around his knocking knees, and big hands take him by the hips. Hannibal is kneeling behind him, and Will has never felt so fucking vulnerable [which is a considerable achievement, since he essentially lives the life of a limping, damaged deer forever doomed to wander an infinite, open field]. He makes a litany of erratic sounds. "Please, don't, don't." He is carefully pried apart. Lips find his pink pucker, they nibble and suck like he were some candied dessert. He whines quietly, pleads half - heartedly. Stop, it feelssogood, please stop.
His glasses fall down his nose. He's kind of blind and definitely terrified. Hannibal licks him in long, hot stripes. He shakes and blushes like the fucking fragile virgin he is. Something [Hannibal's tongue, he reminds himself] is pushing inside, working him over, showing him the whole of the Universe, and Will completely loses it. He slumps over the table, his face pressed to the runner, and moans like a debauched whore. No one has touched him like this, no one has-has-fuck!. This is new and terrifying and ohmyGod, what is happening. "Gah - nngh!"
It just stops, cruel in its suddenness. Will is left a writhing, panting mess. Hannibal stands and leans over him. A jungle predator, a looming shadow, something melodramatic but nevertheless intimidating. "I'm going to take you, Will, all of you. You will beg me and you will scream for me. You will forget everything, except for what I allow you to remember." He promises in a low timbre. "Do you understand?"
Will closes his eyes, shame coloring his face rogue. "I understand."
Everything happens too fast, again with the too fast. Clothing is shucked aside, and skin meets with a subdued pop. Too fucking fast, just - ! Something like welded steel is sliding between his naked cheeks, too hot and too big. It won't fit, it won't fit! "Wait! You won't fit - you won't - !" Will babbles hysterically. Hannibal shushes him with butterfly kisses. "I'll fit, and you'll hurt." They press so tightly, fusing on a chemical level, inseparable [or so it seems to Will].
Will stares at the strewn silverware, and thinks about anything but the hard body at his back. Pressure builds, and his breath catches. Hannibal's cock is downright intimidating, it's thick like a fucking forearm [Will refuses to admit to any form of exaggeration] and bobbing tall. Purple veins wrap like ribbons around white marble [the spongy head, cherry bright and glistening, flares like a snake hood]. Will definitely thinks he's having a panic attack.
"Please, slow." He begs.
Hannibal doesn't reassure him. Instead, he grants himself entrance with a quick shove. Will chokes on a scream. Hannibal holds him like he matters, even as he buries himself deep [sinking into otherworldly heat, pulling and pushing and squeezing]. It must be a wanton dream, Hannibal thinks. He stifles a sound. "You're something of fantasy, Will, something of dreams." He says through his teeth. Will can't speak, can barely breathe.
They hold themselves tensely. Hannibal waits, because Will is worth it, but his patience is hasty to leave him. He starts slow [out, in, out again], gently rocking. Will is stiff as creeping death. He gasps, wet and broken, with every thrust. A little deeper, a little deeper, little deeper. Hannibal gets bolder, his strokes harder. Will, despite himself, is beginning to loosen. His shoulder is bathed with sticky kisses, like cookie dough. Hannibal rubs small, warm circles into his stomach. He feels full, and he kind of likes it [no, wait, that's not - ].
A little faster, little harder. The table rattles, and the dishware clinks. The slapping of skin is obnoxious. Hannibal straightens and looks down at his perfect, broken dream. Will is bruised and bitten, huffing and puffing. He smiles. He takes purple hips in hand and fucks with devastating force. Will slides across the tabletop, his eyes rolling like marbles. He sees stars and suns and fucking solar systems. It's too much.
They stand together. The room tilts. Hannibal wraps around him like a seatbelt [one arm tucked around his waist, one arm slung across his chest]. His own cock is flushed with fever, bouncing against his belly. The friction between them grows and morphs like something sentient. Everything is too hard, too slow, not hard enough, not slow enough [just not enough]. Their mouths crash like bullet trains.
The precipice is close, within stumbling distance, and they've gathered too much speed to stop themselves. They fall quietly. Hannibal bites down, hard. His teeth sink into soft, shoulder meat [shattering vessels and drawing sweet blood]. The coppery tang floods his mouth. Will feels the warmth splattering his insides and the teeth ripping away chunks of his shoulder. God, too much. He explodes in a spritz of white, and the glossy driblets splatter his stomach. He makes a weak, cracked sound.
His head feels like a balloon. His limbs hang limp. His eyes fall heavy.
He might be blacking out.
"Missing?" Will whitens and shifts uncomfortably. Jack looks grim.
"Pierce Noir went missing just outside of Quantico. He was last seen at Morais Vineyard and Winery, three days ago."
It all comes together, like the universe stuffing itself into his brain. Hannibal, it was Hannibal, it has always been Hannibal. Pierce is dead, because Hannibal killed him. It makes no sense, doesn't make sense, whywhywhywhy? There isn't a motive! For him? No, no, not for him, it couldn't be for him. He isn't special, he isn't! Pierce is dead, because Hannibal killed him, because he is special? Nonononono -
His shoulder aches, and he doesn't say anything.