Work Text
In the warm candlelight, his lips fall open, his back to the dry, grating stone. He sucks in a wet breath, his chest heaving. He's beautiful. Fractured… angry, scared, needy. “You killed our daughter,” his voice is thin, like a roux made with too much vodka. Hannibal moves toward him, the slender, tempting neck calling to Hannibal's teeth and tongue like a siren. “No, my darling,” Hannibal soothes, murmuring bloody promises into the dry air. “We will have our own child,” he pledges, solemn and earnest — both to Will and himself. The Verger pig had ruined Hannibal's plans in that regard, but Hannibal is not one to fold away when met with such pesky nuisances. “We will name her Mischa, and she will have your eyes.” Hannibal can see Will clearly, now. The black leather adding a musky tone to his scent, the dust of centuries-old death dimming down the sharp tang of anxiety. Will's head falls to the side, shaking in denial. His eyes close, the thought of tears glittering on his lashes like diamonds. He is so beautiful. It's infuriating. Hannibal stalks closer, close enough to touch, to greedily inhale and drink down every single change in Will's scent. The bitter brine of tears, the change in shampoo, no aftershave, the hard water that demands different detergents for his clothing. Hannibal glares. “I forgive you,” Will breathes it just as the tears begin to fall, glimmering rivers running down the gilded topography of his cheeks, the wild black scrublands of his beard. “It seems I always forgive you,” but it sounds like damnation. Like self-recrimination. Like heartbreak. And it's infuriating. “I do not want you broken, dear one,” Hannibal pushes his palm against the knot of scar tissue in Will's shoulder. The wound may be well-healed, but it's cold here, in the catacombs: the rough stone, the stress wreaking havoc on his body and mind. Will winces, his chin tilting toward Hannibal's wrist, as though he intends to bite the other man.His lips alight on Hannibal's wrist like butterfly wings. His voice is no less tremulous, crackling softly like the cotton wicks in the tallow candles around them. “Then you shouldn't have broken me,” he says it against the delicate skin, his lips pushing against the veins and tendons. He presses a kiss, then. His lips wet with tears, hot with his breath. Hannibal rests his other hand against Will's neck, blocking the tantalizing view from his ravenous sight. “The intent was to metamorphose,” he says, leaning his own lips forward, tracing them along Will's temple. He breathes deeply against Will's scalp. Presses Will's sad chuckle into his clavicle delighted to feel the younger man's hot breath burning through his shirt. “I suppose I came out of the cocoon too soon?” Will's tears continue, soaking Hannibal's shirt. “The cocoon is not yet finished, my darling,” he responds, silk soft into Will's ear. He runs his teeth over the trembling flesh of Will's throat. He wants to sink his teeth in. Feel the lava-hot rush of Will's lifeblood throbbing over his tongue, soaking his chin. Wants to run his hands through it, lick it off of his fingertips, rub it into his skin. He aches where his erection is pressed against the fly of his denims. “Your design is flawed, Doctor Lecter,” Will's hips roll, and Hannibal catches one in a gluttonous, biting grasp. This siren. This nymph. Tempting and infuriating, lovely and cruel. He clutches Will closer, forcing the dryad to feel the evidence of his provocations. Will's breath stutters, his lashes flutter against Hannibal's throat, and Hannibal revels in the spike of fear that lances through the younger man's body. Vicious joy wracks his soul to feel Will's hardness in answer against his own hip. “Is that so, Mister Graham?” Hannibal growls in response, incensed that his mastery would be questioned. In this house of cards, he is the only reigning god, and Will is his bristling supplicant. He nips sharply at Will's ear in a reprimand for such bald blasphemy. “Make me yours,” Will's voice is reedy now for another reason entirely, gone soft around the edges as he pushes against the cruel grasp on his hip. He traces his lips up Hannibal's throat, still wet with tears and sighs needily against Hannibal's bobbing Adam's apple, greedy for the damning knowledge. “As though you were ever anything but?” Hannibal replies, biting, but good-humoured. The fledge had time yet, to learn flight. Will's soft sigh sounds like benediction and Hannibal devours it, sliding his hand down to catch up one of Will's legs, brings the crook of his knee to wrap against Hannibal's hip. Will winces, his trousers pinching and Hannibal feels a gut-churning pleasure at the sight. “You are for me,” he purrs, pulling Will against his hip like an animal on rut, “as I am for you, dear one.” Will's leg tightens, and his head falls back, lips parted as he looks through hooded eyes. He curls a tight fist into Hannibal's soft shirt, threatening to rend the fabric apart as Hannibal's free hand dries his tears. “Mutually assured destruction?” He says it as a joke, but there's a scalpel's kiss of agony tucked into his words, and it ends in a soft moan, caught just behind his teeth. His hips roll, his thigh flexes, pulling Hannibal tighter against him, his mouth is fallen open again, brows pinched. He looks tormented by his pleasure, and the anguish shadowing his beautiful face makes Hannibal utterly ravenous. “If I can't have you, no one can,” Hannibal agrees. His own pleasure is a distant thought, brushed aside by the enormity of Will's tainted forgiveness. Oh, to see the fullness of Will's cheeks, plump and glowing with joy. His eyes glittering with laughter, his hips striped with fingertip bruises. Their life together, as Will sneaks morsels to his dogs, and their children eat the flesh of those worthy only of nourishing others. His mind is consumed with the fantasy as he makes hasty work of Will's fly and underthings, and wraps his hungry hand around Will's needy erection. The silken, turgid flesh is like a drug, all the more intoxicating because he had not had Will's flesh against his own, these long months past. The whining gasp of Will's pleasure in his ear, Will's wet lips whispering benediction and damnation against the column of his throat, Will's rich curls tickling his chin. His senses in their entirety are consumed: Will's grasping hands, the chlorine and base scent of his release as he spills it over Hannibal's wrist, his look of serenity at the moment after his shaking subsides, and Hannibal is surprised to find that he has climaxed as well, the damp evidence pressed against his stomach. “I always forgive you…” Will sighs again, his face slack and rosy in the afterglow, made angelic in the candlelight. His laxity sees his leg reluctantly release his covetous grasp on Hannibal's hip, dropping heavily. His hand falls away as well, palm resting against the rough stone to anchor himself to reality. Hannibal hums agreeably, and leans in to kiss Will's slick lips, reveling in the languid acquiescence that greets his questing tongue. He works to tuck Will away, righting his boxer briefs and doing his denims up. He leaves the belt undone. “You will be my undoing, Ganymede,” Hannibal whispers against plush lips, and he takes the tired chuckle as his due, allowing Will to tilt his head back, his lips parted on slowly evening breath, and his eyes fallen closed. Hannibal steps back to admire the beautiful vision that Will presents. A soft, sad smile begins to steal over his face, and Hannibal cannot bear to see this pain. Not now, at least. He leaves just as Will's lashes begin to glitter with tears.