Archive of Our Own

The briefing room hummed with the static brightness of the overhead fluorescents, maps and pinned photographs of Abel Gideon, turning the walls into a paper prison. Jack Crawford stood at the front of the room, broad-shouldered and immovable, a presence that filled the space as much as his voice did.

His suit was dark, the knot of his tie tight, his posture squared in a way that made his body another kind of command. The years showed in the creases at the corners of his eyes, in the set of his jaw, but fatigue never softened him—if anything, it made him harder, steel tempered by pressure. His expression carried the clipped authority of a man who had delivered too many briefings like this one and buried too many names afterward. Rows of agents sat rapt, pens ready, attention fixed on the man at the podium.

"Transplant Surgeon. Convicted first degree in the murders of his wife and her family. Institutionalised at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane where he murdered a nurse and claimed to be the Chesapeake Ripper." Jack informed the crowd.

Will Graham didn’t sit. He leaned against the back wall, apart from the rows of dark suits, an observer of the observers. His damp shirt clung to his collar, sleeves wrinkled as though he'd slept in them. His tie hung loose, the knot askew. His hair, always unruly, looked pushed back by restless hands rather than a comb. Shadows hollowed his eyes, making the pale blue beneath heavy lids seem fever-light. A line of sweat slid out of his hairline, traced the hollow of his cheek, and disappeared into the stubble along his chin. He looked like a dead man walking, trapped in a dream.

Jack carried on with his briefing, ever intense, "Dr. Gideon escaped this morning after killing two police transport officers and a hospital attendant. He is armed and dangerous."

The fluorescent lights above buzzed with a furious insistence, their drone boring into his skull like a trapped wasp battering against bone. The sound thickened, multiplied, until Jack’s voice threaded into it—resonant, mechanical, vibrating at the exact same pitch, as if man and machine had fused into one relentless hum.

“He’s believed to be at large in the greater Baltimore area.”

The words seemed to come from far away, blurred by the static. Will flinched, dragging the back of his hand across his brow. His skin came away slick, damp with fever-sweat. The touch only reminded him how hot he was burning.

The world narrowed, sound collapsing inward until all that remained was the thrum of his body struggling to stick to a pace. His heartbeat raced in his ears- fast, faint, like retreating footsteps he can't follow. His chest felt too tight, the air too thin, as if the room itself was leeching oxygen away. A tremor started in his fingers and spread upward, until even keeping his shoulders pressed against the wall felt like a losing battle.

When Will looked up, the room had changed.

Antlers jutted from the walls, bursting through plaster like black roots. They erupted from the chairs where agents had sat only moments ago, the suits gone, replaced by thorn and bone. Branches curled into the air twisting toward one another, until the space was a suffocating thicket. The fluorescent light bent strangely on their lacquered points, gleaming like wet stone.

The scent in the air thickened to resemble iron and earth. The shadows of the antlers reached long, catching Jack Crawford in their lattice. Even he seemed trapped, his movements slowed, as though bramble had already wound itself around his chest.

Jack’s mouth moved, his words muffled by the hallucination until only one phrase reached him, clear as a cut through antlers:

“He will kill again.”

The antlers surged closer, shadow and bone collapsing in around him. Will blinked—

—and the vision snapped.

The room was ordinary once more. Agents shifted in their seats, chairs scraped, murmurs rose as the briefing dispersed into ordered chaos. Jack stood across the room conferring with two others, his tone clipped, authoritative. But his eyes flicked briefly toward Will. There was unease in that look—had he seen it? The slip, the fracture spidering through Will’s composure?

Will pressed a shaking hand down the front of his shirt as though to steady himself. The colour had drained from his face, leaving him grey beneath the flush of heat, a man strung too thin, ready to tear along the seams. He looked less like an FBI profiler than a patient who had wandered out of some hospital ward.

He straightened with visible effort, muscles tight, spine pulled rigid. A quick nod to no one in particular, as though reassurance alone could reset the world, force his mind back into place. He would be fine. He had to be.

Will sat opposite Hannibal Lecter in the lamplight hush of the office. The world outside seemed a distant, muffled thing, pressed out by the cocoon of polished wood, leather, and the faint steam curling from a teacup left untouched. The scent of bergamot and varnish hung in the air, grounding him more effectively than the sterile buzz of the FBI’s fluorescents ever could. Here, there were no agents, no case files, no evidence boards. Only the firelight and Hannibal’s eyes.

The office itself carried Hannibal’s signature—orderly, cultivated, nothing accidental. Rows of books lined the shelves like soldiers at attention, spines burnished by the warm light. A sculpture of antlers, abstract but unmistakable, brooded in one corner. The fire in the hearth painted the walls in flickering gold, its warmth offsetting the sharp polish of the mahogany desk between them. The room gave the impression of permanence, as if it had existed long before Will entered it and would exist unchanged long after.

Then, of course, there was Hannibal. He sat as though the chair had been designed for him and him alone, posture impeccable, not a crease in his shirt disturbed. His waistcoat caught the light in subtle patterns, the muted tones of his clothes chosen with the same precision he applied to every gesture. Even in stillness he radiated control, elegance, danger—carved out of refinement and restraint. His eyes, however, were less easily contained: clear, and dark in their depths, they fixed on Will with the intensity of a spotlight. It was a look that dissected and caressed in equal measure, one that made Will’s skin prickle as though he were prey caught between fascination and fear.

The silence between them had a texture, thick and heavy. Hannibal cultivated silence like he cultivated everything—methodically, artfully, waiting to see how it shaped the man across from him.

“What did you see?” His voice was measured, a physician’s cadence. But beneath the clinical calm, something softer lingered, an interest that bordered on personal.

Will dragged his hands across his face, rough palms rasping over days-old stubble, fingertips pressing hard against eyes that burned with fatigue. “A thicket of antlers,” he said, the words heavy in his mouth. “All I heard was my heart, dim but fast—like footsteps fleeing into silence.”

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, considering him with the raptor’s stillness that always made Will feel both scrutinised and held. His gaze did not skim; it lingered, too precise, too intent. Will’s skin prickled under it, the way one’s skin prickles before a storm.

Hannibal’s gaze lingered, sharp and unblinking, until Will felt it like pressure on his skin.
“Have you noticed if these hallucinations occur at a particular time of day?” he asked at last. His voice was calm, carefully measured, but the deliberation in each word made it feel less like a question and more like an incision.

“Usually later in the day. At night.” Will’s reply was clipped, weary. The words left him like facts written on a list he hated to keep.

Hannibal’s head tipped slightly, eyes narrowing as though adjusting a lens. “Are you more sensitive to light than you used to be?” The words were quiet, but the way he spoke them gave them weight, as if his tone alone pressed Will toward confession.

Will hesitated, caught beneath the focus of that gaze. His throat worked around the answer before it came. “Maybe. Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them, alive, thrumming, the kind of silence Hannibal cultivated like a gardener cultivates shade. It pressed against Will until he shifted in his chair. Then Hannibal spoke again, his voice softer now, coaxing:
“Have you heard the term ‘Sundowning’?”

Will frowned. “Sundowning?” The word landed strangely on his tongue, unfamiliar, threatening.

“A state of confusion experienced at the end of the day, when there are more shadows.” Hannibal’s tone slipped into the smooth cadence of a lecturer, explaining, soothing, though his eyes never left Will’s face. “It commonly occurs in the elderly.”

Will’s mouth went dry. He swallowed. “Is it a symptom of dementia?” The question rasped out, quieter than he intended, carrying the weight of dread.

“It can be.” Hannibal’s answer was short, almost gentle, but the absence of elaboration left the silence afterward heavy enough to crush.

The words fell into the quiet like stones. Will’s gaze locked with Hannibal’s, pulled into the dark intensity there. It was too much, too close, and he dropped his eyes, heat prickling the back of his neck as though he had been scorched. The space between them—only a desk, only air—felt unbearable.

He swallowed hard. “People with dementia have all sorts of sleep disorders. Hallucinations. Sleepwalking.”

“Memory loss,” Hannibal added smoothly.

“And personality changes.”

“Yes.”

The whisper broke out of him before he could stop it: “Has my personality changed?”

Silence. A deliberate silence, the kind Hannibal wielded like a tool. His gaze rested on Will with unsettling intimacy, cataloguing him piece by piece—the tremor in his voice, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the vulnerability flickering in his eyes. Hannibal let the moment stretch, savoring it, before answering: “Do you think it has?”

Will’s chest tightened. “I don’t know how to gauge who I am anymore.” His voice cracked faintly, the words coming on a shaky exhale. “I don’t feel like myself. I feel like I’ve been becoming someone else for a while. Now I just… feel like somebody else entirely.”

Hannibal leaned forward, the movement subtle but unmistakable. “What do you feel like?”

Will stared into the firelight playing on the walls, the flames bending and unfurling like the antlers of his visions. His voice was raw. “Crazy.”

“And that is what you fear most.” Hannibal’s voice was low, coaxing, wrapping itself around the confession as though to cradle it.

Will’s eyes flicked up at last, shadowed and searching. “I fear not knowing who I am. It’s what Abel Gideon’s afraid of, isn’t it? He’s like a blind man. Someone moved all the furniture around inside his head.”

“I imagine Abel Gideon would want to find the Chesapeake Ripper to gauge who he is. And who he isn’t.” Hannibal’s gaze sharpened, intent and unwavering, a predator’s focus disguised as reassurance. He leaned in just enough that Will could feel the shift in air between them. “Will—you have me as your gauge.”

The words sank into Will’s chest with a dissonant weight—comfort and possession braided into one. For a heartbeat, he could not tell if Hannibal was offering him an anchor or fastening a chain.

Outside, rain sheeted against the windows, hammering the glass in relentless waves. From the passenger seat of the SUV, Will watched the world distort behind rivulets of water. Jack Crawford and a cadre of agents moved through the storm, shapes fractured and doubled by the glass, their outlines bending like shadows in a funhouse mirror. For a long moment, Will stayed belted in place, his hand gripping the seatbelt buckle as though loosening it might unravel what little stability he still clung to.

Then he unfastened it, the click loud against the muffled roar. He stepped out—and the storm was gone.

The ground was dry beneath his shoes. The air was still. The pounding rain that had been deafening inside the SUV was now only silence, broken by the rustle of agents fanning out across the observatory grounds. The shift left his head spinning.

Two other black SUVs loomed down the road, their doors open, agents streaming toward the entrance of the observatory with weapons drawn. Jack led the charge, his silhouette braced against the dark, giving sharp signals to the men under his command.

But Will’s attention dragged sideways, pulled toward the treeline. Something moved there, an ominous presence. The shape was unmistakable even in shadow.

The stag. Black as pitch, vast as nightmare.

It stood at the edge of the forest, motionless, its antlers spiking upward like branches clawing at the sky. Its eyes fixed on him, steady, unblinking.

Drawn forward, Will staggered toward the trees. His body moved without permission, his fevered mind tethered to the beast as though it had summoned him. Behind him, the FBI swept into the observatory, but the sound of their advance dimmed to nothing.

From the cover of the trees, Gideon watched. His face was unreadable as he tracked the agents moving through the observatory, his eyes following Jack Crawford as he reappeared in the doorway to confer with his men. Gideon sighed softly, disappointed, before receding into the dark, unseen.

Deeper in the woods, Will stumbled over roots and bramble, breath shallow, until the trees broke open onto a road. He stopped short.

The stag was there, waiting.

It stood at the roadside, perfectly still, the two of them locked in silence. Will’s heart kicked hard in his chest. His hand moved almost of its own accord, unholstering his gun with agonising slowness. He raised the weapon, his finger tense on the trigger, the barrel aligned with the shadowed bulk of the creature.

The stag didn’t flinch. It only stared.

Will blinked—

And found himself elsewhere.

He was in the backseat of a car, the leather cold beneath him, his own sweat dripping onto the upholstery. His gun was still in his hand, still raised, pointed directly at the driver’s seat.

Gideon sat behind the wheel, glancing up into the rearview mirror with mild curiosity.

“I was expecting the Chesapeake Ripper,” he drawled. “Or are you him?”

Will’s vision swam. In the mirror, Gideon’s reflection flickered—and Garret Jacob Hobbs stared back at him, eyes cloudy, lips pale, face as bloodless as the night Will had killed him.

Will’s voice was ragged, trembling. “Turn around. Don’t look at me.”

He must have looked half-dead himself—grey skin, shirt clinging damply, hair plastered to his temples, sweat rolling in thin lines down his face. His hand shook so violently the gun jerked with every breath.

“You’re a little peaky, Mr. Graham, if I’m allowed to say so,” Gideon observed, his tone light, conversational. “I may be crazy, but I believe you’re sick.”

In the mirror, Hobbs’ dead eyes held Will’s, unblinking.

“Who is your doctor?” Gideon asked.

Will blinked, head lolling forward for a moment before he forced himself upright again. His free hand wiped clumsily at his face, smearing sweat across his brow. His voice came out hoarse, desperate.

“Drive.”

The door swung inward to reveal Hannibal, composed as ever in shirtsleeves, only the smallest pause betraying surprise. His eyes flickered once, swift as a knife, from Will to the man at gunpoint behind him.

For a fraction of a second, Hannibal wasn’t ready. The sight of Will—sweat-slick, trembling, eyes wide and fever-bright, a gun levelled with unsteady hands—was not something he had anticipated. But then, with the ease of a man donning a mask, his expression smoothed into its customary calm.

“Will,” he said, voice quiet, measured. He stepped aside as though this were the most natural of visits. “What are you doing here?”

Will shut the door with his shoulder, keeping the gun trained on Gideon. His hand quivered, damp on the grip. His shirt clung to him in wet patches, hair darkened with sweat at the temples, pupils blown wide as if trying to take in too much of the room at once.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” His voice cracked, fever-rough, the words spilling in gasps. “I’m… I’m having a hard time thinking. I feel like I’m losing my mind. I don’t know what’s real.”

The edges of the room warped and rippled under his gaze. Gideon’s features blurred, sharpened, then shifted entirely into the narrow, ghostlike face of Garret Jacob Hobbs. Dead eyes watched him from across the dining table, patient and calm, as if Hobbs had been waiting here all along.

Hannibal’s voice cut through the fever like the edge of a scalpel, steady, precise.
“It’s 7:27 p.m. You’re in Baltimore, Maryland. Your name is Will Graham.”

The words struck like anchor points driven into unstable ground, but Will recoiled from them. “I don’t care who I am.” His grip faltered, slick with sweat; the gun wavered dangerously before he forced it forward again, trembling, aimed at Gideon’s chest. His breath caught and broke in uneven stutters. “Tell me—tell me if he’s real.”

Hannibal’s gaze did not waver. “Who do you see, Will?”

“Garret Jacob Hobbs.” The name clawed out of him raw, desperate. His eyes shone wet with the threat of tears. “Who do you see?”

Hannibal inhaled, a pause heavy enough to feel like judgment. “I don’t see anyone.” His tone was calm, too calm, as if by sheer control he could remake reality.

The denial split Will wide open. His head shook violently, as though he might rattle the truth loose from his own skull. “He’s right there. He’s right there.”

“There’s no one there, Will.” Hannibal’s voice shifted—softened—its sharpness smoothed away until it carried something almost tender. He stepped closer, hands open, the gesture disarmingly gentle, coaxing him like a man pulling a wild animal back from the brink. “You came here alone. Do you remember coming here?”

Will’s throat constricted; the plea cracked out of him, raw and childlike. “Please don’t lie to me.”

“Hobbs is dead.” Hannibal’s voice lowered into something unyielding, each word a hammer striking truth into place. “You killed him. You watched him die.”

Will’s knees buckled under the pressure of memory and fever. His hand pressed hard to his temple, as though he could hold himself together by force. His skin crawled. In his mind’s eye, his own face began to collapse under his palm, melting like wax, dripping through his fingers. He gasped, trembling. “What’s happening to me?”

Hannibal was there in an instant. His hand closed around Will’s wrist, steadying the gun long enough to slip it from his grip, the motion smooth, practiced, inevitable. He caught Will by the shoulder, anchoring him upright.

“He’s had a mild seizure,” Hannibal said evenly, voice clipped, aimed more at himself than at Gideon.

“That doesn’t seem to bother you,” Gideon drawled from his place at the table.

Hannibal’s head snapped toward him, sharp as a blade turned on its edge. Offence flickered through his eyes. “I said it was _mild_.”

The pistol came up, redirected in Hannibal’s grip. Its barrel settled on Gideon now, the balance of power restored with terrifying ease.

“Are you the man who claimed to be the Chesapeake Ripper?” Hannibal asked.

Gideon’s smile was faint, mocking. “Why do you say ‘claimed’?”

“Because you are not,” Hannibal replied, calm as stone. “You know you are not. And you know little else beyond that.”

For the first time, Gideon faltered, his expression slipping. Hannibal pressed on, his tone deceptively smooth. “A terrible thing, to have your identity taken from you.”

“I’m taking it back one piece at a time,” Gideon said. His smile thinned, sly and bitter. “You should see the pieces I got out of my psychiatrist.”

“Alana Bloom was one of your psychiatrists, too. Is that right?”

“Yes. Dr. Bloom.”

“I can tell you where to find her.” Hannibal’s words slid across the table with quiet precision, and for a moment Gideon only stared back, weighing them.

The silence between them stretched. Then, without another word, Gideon pushed his chair back and rose. He cast one lingering look between the two men—the collapsing patient and the inscrutable doctor—before turning toward the door. The latch clicked shut behind him, leaving only the two of them in the hush of Hannibal’s house.

At once the room seemed to contract. The fever-thick air clung to Will’s lungs. He swayed where he stood, grey and trembling, and Hannibal guided him down with a firm hand, settling him into one of the chairs. Hannibal took the other beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. When Will glanced across the table again—Hobbs was gone. No hollow eyes. No ghost waiting in the chair. Only empty wood, the hallucination burned out with the seizure.

“Will…” Hannibal’s tone softened, coaxing as he leaned closer, eyes locked on him. “Can you hear me?”

A sluggish nod.

“Repeat after me,” Hannibal coaxed. “My name is Will Graham.”

“My name is Will Graham,” Will echoed, voice hoarse. His words trembled on the air, and his gaze darted instinctively toward Hannibal, as if seeking approval.

“Raise both of your arms.”

Will obeyed, shaking. His body swayed slightly as though the act of lifting them might tip him out of the chair. Hannibal studied the movement, then leaned forward and gently pressed his arms back down, the brush of his fingers steadying him more than the act itself.

“Although you may not feel like it,” Hannibal murmured, “I need you to smile.”

Will tried. It was faint, cracked at the edges, and when it faltered his eyes flicked back to Hannibal again, clinging to the steadiness in that gaze.

“It wasn’t a stroke,” Hannibal said at last, his voice carrying finality. “You may have had a seizure. Tell me the last thing you remember.”

Will’s eyes were glassy. “I was with Garret Jacob Hobbs.”

“You have a fever,” Hannibal said, gaze sharp and intimate. “You were hallucinating. You thought he was alive. In the room with you.”

Will blinked, dazed. “I saw him.”

“He’s a delusion. A mask disguising reality.” Hannibal leaned closer, “You killed Garret Jacob Hobbs once. You can find a way to kill him again.”

Will’s head tipped forward into his hands, then sideways, brushing close to Hannibal as though gravity itself was pulling him against the only solid thing nearby. “I don’t… I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Hannibal’s hand brushed Will’s shoulder, grounding him, claiming him. His touch was cool against Will’s fever-hot skin, both steadying and possessive.

“You are mine to know,” Hannibal said softly, the words meant for no one else.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by Will’s shallow breaths and the faint, metronomic tick of the clock on Hannibal’s wall.

Will sagged further into the chair, fever making him slack, his head almost tilting toward Hannibal’s shoulder before he forced it upright again. His breath came shaky but steadier, though his hand twitched once, reaching instinctively to the back of Hannibal’s chair as if to make sure he was still there. Hannibal did not move away; his thumb traced lightly over the fabric of Will’s sleeve, measuring the tremor beneath.

“I… I feel like you’re the only person I can trust,” Will said finally, voice raw, almost a confession.

“You can trust me,” Hannibal replied, tone hushed, intimate, “even when it feels like you cannot trust yourself.”

Something inside Will seemed to break open then. His eyes flicked toward Hannibal, shadowed and glassy, a tremor running through him not entirely born of illness. His voice dropped lower, rough with something more dangerous than fear.

“Hurt me.”

Hannibal went very still. His eyes searched Will’s face, dissecting him with silence. The weight of the pause was almost unbearable.

Finally, his voice came soft, careful, cutting. “Is your desire for pain… self-deprecating?” A measured beat. His gaze sharpened, intent. “Or sexual?”

Will’s lips parted. His throat worked as though words cost him effort, but his eyes never left Hannibal’s. They were searching—pleading, even—for something unnamed. “It’s… not self-deprecating.”

Hannibal tilted his head, considering him the way a painter might consider a blank canvas—possibility balanced against risk. His voice slipped into that cultivated quiet, the illusion of reluctance making it sound almost tender. “How would you like to be hurt? In your current condition, it wouldn’t be wise to do anything damaging.”

Will let out a ragged breath. His pupils were wide, fever-bright, and he leaned infinitesimally closer, drawn toward Hannibal as if orbiting gravity itself. “I’ll take anything you give me.”

The admission hung in the air like a confession in a confessional—weighty, irrevocable. Hannibal’s hand, still resting lightly on Will’s shoulder, drifted upward with the faintest pressure, his thumb tracing the line of Will’s throat where his pulse thundered. He could feel the fever there, the fragility, the desperate life under thin skin.

“Anything,” Hannibal echoed, the single word wrapped with promise and threat alike. His touch lingered just enough to remind Will how easily the line between comfort and cruelty could be crossed.

“That is a very dangerous permission to grant me, Will. You’re not in the right state of mind for my usual tastes.”

Will shuddered beneath the hand at his throat, not recoiling but leaning into it, his breath catching on the edge of a plea. “What are your usual tastes?”

Hannibal’s mouth curved, almost imperceptibly. The faintest ghost of a smile, more chilling than reassuring. His gaze dropped, briefly, to the line of Will’s pulse hammering against his skin.

“I enjoy the more intense practices of sadomasochism when in the right company. Including a desire to see... blood spill, from my influence.”

The words slid into the space between them like a blade unsheathed.

Will’s breath hitched. He should have recoiled, should have gathered what sense remained and left—but instead he felt his body loosen, caught between fever and surrender. “I want it.” His voice was cracked, thin, but the plea beneath it was unmistakable.

Hannibal studied him, gaze sharp enough to peel him open, as though weighing the fragility of his body against the hunger thrumming beneath his own calm surface. He reached up, fingers grazing Will’s jaw. The touch was cool, too tender for the threat in his words.

“You’re burning,” Hannibal murmured. His thumb traced the hollow just beneath Will’s cheekbone, lingering as if to measure the heat radiating off him. “And yet you ask me to set you further alight.”

Before Will could reply, Hannibal’s mouth was on his. The kiss was not gentle—controlled, yes, but searing beneath the restraint. Will’s breath broke against it, desperate, his hands clutching at Hannibal’s shirt as though needing something solid to cling to.

Hannibal allowed it for a moment, then deepened the kiss with a slow inevitability, guiding rather than yielding, dictating the rhythm with precision. When he finally drew back, it was only enough to speak against Will’s lips.

“You will break, if you are not careful.”

“Then break me,” Will whispered.

Something in Hannibal’s expression shifted, the mask cracking just enough to show the hunger beneath. He stood, bringing Will with him, steadying his trembling frame with one hand at the small of his back.

The house seemed to narrow around them as Hannibal led him through the corridor, past books and paintings and into the bedroom. The chamber was immaculate, the bed neatly turned down, as though it had been prepared in anticipation of some ceremony. The firelight followed them in, gilding the edges of the dark.

Hannibal guided Will to sit at the edge of the bed, then stood over him, the faint gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. He brought a hand to Will’s chin again, stroking his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, patient, though there was a warning beneath it all. “I’ll stop.”

With that, he drew his hand back and struck him across the face. The sound cracked in the hush of the room, sharp as the snap of a bone. Will’s head snapped to the side, his breath catching in his throat. The small noise that escaped him was not protest but something caught between shock and need.

When his gaze lifted again, there was no resistance. His eyes—worshipful—were heavier now, weighted by pain turned swiftly into desire. “Thank you.”

The words coiled in Hannibal’s gut, heat stirring low and insistent. His hand lingered on the place he had struck, caressing the sting as if to soothe what he himself had inflicted. His thumb traced along the reddening line of Will’s cheekbone, studying it with the detached reverence of an artist admiring his own brushstroke.

“You don’t understand how dangerous it is,” Hannibal said softly, though his tone held no warning now, only fascination. “How easy it would be to take everything you offer.”

Will leaned into the touch, desperate, trembling with more than fever. “I offer it because I want it.”

For a moment Hannibal only looked at him—long, dissecting, hungry. Then, with the precision of ritual, he moved. He stepped away only to cross to the cabinet near the wall, pulling open a drawer with a smooth, deliberate motion. From it, he withdrew a length of leather cord, followed by a knife whose polished blade caught the lamplight in a gleam like liquid fire.

He returned to Will slowly, letting the anticipation hang between them, letting Will see what he carried. The profiler’s breath hitched, chest rising and falling too fast, but he didn’t look away. His hands, still fisted in the sheets, flexed as though already preparing to yield.

“Lie back,” Hannibal instructed, his tone calm, inexorable.

Will obeyed, body pliant, head sinking into the pillow as though the bed itself were a stage prepared for his undoing. Hannibal set the knife on the bedside table within reach, then leaned forward, fastening Will’s wrists to the headboard with the practiced ease of someone who had tied countless knots in his life. The leather bit snug against skin, not cruelly tight, but firm enough to leave no question of who held control.

Hannibal stepped back to look at him—flushed, bound, breathing ragged beneath him—and the sight stirred that heat in his gut into something hungrier.

He reached for the knife again, weighing it in his hand, the firelight dancing along its edge. When he brought it down, it was not to cut, but to trace—cool steel skimming across Will’s collarbone, down the centre of his chest. A caress disguised as threat.

Will shuddered violently, a whimper breaking from him, half fear, half relief. His wrists strained briefly against the bonds before he yielded, melting back into the sheets, every line of his body caught between resistance and surrender.

Hannibal’s gaze darkened, intent and unwavering. “Pain and pleasure are closer than you think,” he murmured, heavy with promise. He leaned closer, his breath warm against Will’s ear. “I’ll make you learn how fine that line truly is.”

With meticulous care, Hannibal began unbuttoning Will’s shirt, each undone clasp exposing another stretch of flushed, sweat-damp skin. Heat rose off him in waves, his chest heaving beneath the slow unveiling. Hannibal parted the fabric, pushing it aside to bare the trembling expanse of muscle and pale skin, the faint trail of hair leading downward.

Will’s breath came ragged, every inch of him hyperaware of the eyes on him, the hands on him. The intimacy of the act—the almost reverent slowness of Hannibal’s fingers—made him tremble more than the restraints, more than the knife glinting in the low light.

Hannibal set the fabric aside neatly, as though tidiness mattered even in this moment. He retrieved the knife from the bedside table, holding it in his hand like an extension of himself. He let the flat of the blade rest briefly against his own palm, testing its temperature, before lowering it toward Will.

The steel met skin with a kiss of cold. Hannibal dragged it lightly across Will’s chest, not cutting, only tracing, following the line of his collarbone down toward the sternum. The contrast of ice against fevered flesh made Will gasp, his back arching instinctively against the restraint.

“Good boy,” Hannibal murmured, watching every twitch of Will’s muscles as though recording data. The blade drifted lower, drawing a path over his ribs, pausing just above his racing heart. Hannibal pressed—not enough to break skin yet, but enough to make the threat real, sharp, intimate.

Will’s eyes fluttered closed, his lips parting on another broken sound, caught between plea and praise.

“You trust me,” Hannibal said softly, the knife circling idly, dangerously close to Will’s nipple. “Even now. Especially now.”

Will’s voice came out raw, trembling: “I don’t know if it’s trust—or madness.”

Hannibal smiled faintly, almost indulgent. “It makes no difference. Both lead you to me.”

The knife slid lower, toward his abdomen, the cool edge whispering along his skin, pausing just at the dip of his navel.

Hannibal pressed. Just enough to breach the surface. A shallow wound bloomed red beneath the blade, a thin line of blood beading against Will’s overheated skin.

Will moaned, the sound torn from his chest, and arched helplessly into the sting. “Th-thank you.”

Hannibal’s lips curved, faint but there all the same. “So well mannered, even now.”

He rotated the blade slightly, letting the flat of it smear the fresh blood across Will’s stomach in a dark sheen. His eyes followed the motion, clinical and hungry all at once, as if observing the play of crimson against pale skin was its own form of art.

Will shivered, every nerve lit with fire. He tugged faintly at the restraints, not to escape but to feel their pull, the reminder that he was bound, given over. His voice was hoarse when it came. “Do it again. Please.”

Hannibal tilted his head, studying him with raptor stillness. Then he obliged, dragging the knife in another shallow line just beneath the first. Will hissed, his body jerking at the burn, but the pain folded into a sound that was almost a sob of relief.

Hannibal leaned closer, the blade poised against Will’s ribs now, his mouth near his ear. “You’re learning already. How pain intensifies what fever has dulled.”

Will gasped, chest heaving. “I can feel… everything.”

“Precisely,” Hannibal murmured, letting the tip of the knife trace lazy patterns across his chest now, threatening with each careful stroke. The steel left trails of goosebumps in its wake, and Will writhed beneath it, strung tight between pain and anticipation.

“More,” Will whispered, desperate, his eyes glassy but unwavering.

Hannibal pulled back just enough to look at him fully, the knife resting over his heart, the faintest pressure reminding Will how fine the line between life and death truly was. His voice dropped, low and intimate. “And if I take too much, Will? If you bleed out for me here?”

Will swallowed hard, breath catching. “Then… at least it would be by your hand.”

The admission lit something dark in Hannibal’s gaze, something that flared hotter than hunger. The knife shifted, its edge biting lightly against his skin, teasing another shallow bloom of red. Will hissed, arching into the sting—and that was when Hannibal’s eyes flicked lower.

The prominent bulge straining against Will’s trousers left nothing to imagination. Without a word, Hannibal set the knife carefully aside on the bedside table. His hand descended instead, broad and firm, pressing over the hardness beneath the fabric.

Will let out an unrestrained whine at the contact, his hips jerking upward, wrists pulling against the restraints. “Oh fuck, please—keep touching me—”

Hannibal’s palm lingered, testing, measuring the shape of his arousal through the damp cloth, but he did not move faster. He pressed harder, forcing Will to writhe against the friction. “So responsive,” Hannibal murmured, almost clinical in his observation. His thumb swept lazily over the ridge of his confined cock, eliciting another broken sound from Will. “You beg so prettily when you’re desperate.”

Will’s wrists strained against the leather, his body arching up to chase more. “I can’t—” He gasped. “I need—”

Hannibal tilted his head, watching every twitch of Will’s expression, every tremor of his fevered body beneath him. “You’ll have exactly what I give you,” he said, his tone final, dangerous in its certainty. His hand withdrew suddenly, leaving Will panting, aching, desperate.

The loss drew a strangled groan from Will, his body trembling with frustration. “Please—”

Hannibal reached for the knife again, lifting it with slow grace, the firelight glinting along its edge. He traced the flat of the blade down Will’s sternum, over the lines of fresh blood already streaking his skin. The steel stopped just above his waistband, pressing at the fabric, a clear threat and a promise all at once.

“Your body cannot decide whether it wants pain or pleasure,” Hannibal mused, dragging the knife lightly back up his torso, smearing the red. “Perhaps it doesn’t need to.”

Will’s head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, breath breaking into helpless gasps. “Both. Please.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved, satisfied. He lowered the knife again, and this time his other hand returned to Will’s arousal, palming him with measured pressure while the blade traced slow, perilous paths across his chest. The dual sensation made Will buck against his bonds, a whimper tearing free, strung tight between ecstasy and the edge of fear.

Then Hannibal gave him what he begged for. The blade bit deeper this time, carving a deliberate line along Will’s stomach. It wasn’t enough to maim, but enough to open him cleanly, enough for crimson to well and spill in a thin, glistening line that trickled toward his waistband.

Will’s body jolted, head thrashing against the pillow as pain and pleasure collided. “Christ—thank you, fuck, thank you—” The words tumbled raw from his lips, frantic, worshipful.

Hannibal’s eyes drank him in—the trembling muscles, the sheen of sweat, the vivid red against pale flesh. “Beautiful,” he murmured, as though describing a painting. He set the knife briefly aside, his fingers tugging at the buckle of Will’s belt with smooth, economical motions. The metallic clink of the clasp echoed against the walls of the room.

Hannibal slid the leather free, letting it whisper out of the loops before casting it aside. His fingers worked next at the fastening of Will’s trousers, unhurried, savouring the anticipation building in the man writhing beneath him. He peeled the fabric down slowly, revealing the swollen outline of Will’s cock beneath damp blue boxers.

Will moaned at the exposure, hips lifting helplessly as if to urge Hannibal on. The restraints at his wrists kept him pinned, every movement futile, every ounce of control surrendered.

Hannibal’s gaze lingered on the shape beneath the thin cotton, then flicked back up to Will’s flushed, desperate face. He trailed his blood-slick fingers along the waistband, smearing red into the fabric, marking it. “You’re trembling for me,” he observed.

Will choked on a broken laugh, half-sob, half-moan. “Please—just—don’t stop—”

Hannibal retrieved the knife once more, resting the edge against the bulge in Will’s briefs. Not cutting, just running the knife along the length of it, pressing just firmly enough to make the threat tangible, to make Will groan in desperation.

“You beg for pain as if it were salvation,” Hannibal said, eyes intent, tone rich with dark amusement. “Perhaps it is.”

Hannibal studied him a moment longer, then tilted the blade, pressing it to the waistband. With a single, decisive movement, he sliced downward. The cotton gave way in silence, splitting open under the blade’s edge. He cut cleanly, precisely, until the ruined fabric fell away in two halves, baring Will completely.

Will gasped at the sudden exposure, hips arching despite himself, flushed skin glistening with sweat and the faint trail of blood streaking downward from his stomach. His dick was flushed and desperately hard, leaking heavily with his arousal at Hannibal's actions.

Hannibal set the knife aside, no longer needing it. His hand steadily closed around Will instead.

Will cried out at the contact, head thrown back against the pillow, wrists straining hard against the restraints. “Oh—God—” His hips surged upward into Hannibal’s grip, desperate, fevered, chasing sensation.

Hannibal stroked him firmly, the movement controlled, measured, as though he were testing Will’s responses the way he might test the strings of an instrument. Blood from the shallow cut above pooled downward, streaking Hannibal’s knuckles, smearing with the slick he coaxed from Will himself.

“You see,” Hannibal murmured, his tone low, thoughtful, “you are most alive at the edge of pain. Every shudder, every gasp—your body sings for it.”

Will’s answer was a strangled moan, his whole body taut with trembling need. “Don’t—stop—please don’t stop—fuck me, Jesus Christ, fuck me.”

Hannibal abruptly let go, his hand retreating only to strike downward in a sharp slap across Will’s cock, followed by Will’s cry—half agony, half desperate bliss. His eyes rolled back, his body arching hard against the restraints, but Hannibal didn't miss the way his hips thrust up afterward, chasing the pain as if it were pleasure.

“Where have those manners gone?” Hannibal asked, his tone sharp but quiet, almost indulgent.

Will dragged his gaze back to him, pupils dilated to swallow most of the blue. His stare alone seemed to set Hannibal alight. “I need you… please.”

A smile ghosted over Hannibal’s lips, dark and amused. “How could I say no to a face like that?”

He rose briefly, moving with his characteristic precision, and reached to the drawer of his nightstand. When his hand returned, it carried a small vial of oil, plain but purposeful. He uncorked it smoothly, pouring a measure into his palm.

Will’s breath hitched, chest rising and falling rapidly as he watched. His thighs shifted restlessly, knees straining to spread further, to give.

Hannibal coated his fingers, the slick slide of oil over skin as much for Will’s anticipation as for practicality. He warmed it with his touch, then placed his free hand on Will’s thigh, pressing it down firmly to still the restless motion.

“Be still,” Hannibal ordered, low, coaxing but absolute.

Will tried, his body trembling with restraint as Hannibal’s slicked finger found him, circling the tight ring of muscle. The first press was gentle, testing. Will gasped, his wrists pulling against the bindings.

Hannibal eased the finger in, slow, inexorable. He watched every flicker of Will’s face, every twitch of his body, cataloguing the shiver that ran through him as he adjusted to the intrusion.

Will groaned, his back arching into it. “God—yes—”

“So pliant,” Hannibal observed, his voice soft but edged with satisfaction. He twisted his wrist slightly, then pressed deeper.

Will’s thighs shook with the effort to stay still, his body trembling with the stretch. His head rolled back against the pillow, mouth falling open in a broken moan. “More—please, I can take more—”

Hannibal’s lips curved faintly as he withdrew, only to press back in with two fingers this time. The slick slide burned and filled, dragging another sharp cry from Will’s throat. His abandoned cock leaked a steady flow of pre onto his stomach, twitching with every shift of Hannibal’s fingers inside him. Each movement sent tremors through his bound frame, pleasure and pain wound so tightly together that he could no longer separate them. Hannibal watched the effect with clinical precision, as though Will were an exquisite instrument to be studied, dissected, and played.

Will writhed, straining against the restraints, desperate for more friction, more pressure. “God—please—harder—”

“Always begging,” Hannibal murmured, his free hand sliding across Will’s chest, fingers brushing the fresh shallow cuts there, smearing the still-warm blood. The touch made Will jolt, a strangled moan tearing from his throat. Hannibal pressed down, fingers inside him pushing deeper, angling until Will convulsed under the sharp spear of sensation.

“There,” Hannibal whispered. He stroked that spot again, relentless now, watching Will unravel beneath him.

Will gasped, his hips bucking upward with each thrust of Hannibal’s hand, pre spilling freely down his abdomen, mixing with the streaks of red already smeared across his skin. “Fuck—I’m—please—”

“Not yet,” Hannibal cut in, his tone cool but his eyes blazing with heat. His thumb dragged across Will’s inner thigh. “You’ll come when I allow it. Not before.”

Will whined, high and broken, straining against the leather cuffs with his whole body, but Hannibal was unyielding. Without warning he withdrew, his fingers sliding free, leaving Will hollow and desperate. The sudden loss made him gasp, a strangled sound of frustration spilling from his lips.

Hannibal reached for a folded square of linen from the bedside table and wiped his hand with measured care, every motion precise, as though Will’s need could be set aside like the smears of oil and blood he cleaned from his fingers.

Will panted, his body arching up in vain toward the man who had abandoned him. “Don’t—please, don’t stop—” he pleaded, his voice cracking.

Hannibal didn’t answer at first. He set the soiled cloth neatly aside, then began unfastening his waistcoat, sliding the garment off with practiced elegance. His shirt followed, buttons undone one by one, each small sound loud in the quiet room. His body, lean and carved with restraint, was revealed inch by inch, his movements unhurried.

Will’s glassy eyes tracked every motion, the sight of Hannibal undressing for him only made the heat in his stomach flare higher. His cock twitched helplessly, smearing more fluid across his skin, his body begging even as his mouth could only form broken sounds.

When Hannibal’s trousers were undone, he paused, watching Will’s feverish stare, the way he tugged against his restraints as though he might rip through them if it meant closing the distance. Only then did Hannibal allow a smile to grace his lips, faint but knowing.

“Patience,” he murmured, slipping the fabric down his hips.

He shed the last of his clothes with the same deliberate grace he applied to everything, until he stood fully bare before Will, the light from the bedside lamp catching the definition of muscle, the controlled elegance of a body honed like a blade. There was nothing hurried in the reveal—Hannibal let Will look, let him drink in every detail, as though the act of watching were part of the torment.

Will’s breath hitched audibly, eyes raking over him with something close to awe and terror tangled together. He writhed against the cuffs, every inch of his body straining toward Hannibal, his need as stark as the bruises blooming on his wrists.

Hannibal reached once more for the vial of oil, pouring it into his palm, warming it between his hands before smoothing it over himself with slow, thorough strokes. The slick sheen caught the light, highlighting the thick, weighty cock in his palm, flushed red, veins visible under pale skin. His movements were meticulous, as though even his own body were an instrument to be prepared before use.

His gaze never left Will’s as he worked, and the younger man nearly sobbed at the sight, feverish eyes fixed helplessly on the motion of Hannibal’s hand.

When he was ready, Hannibal climbed onto the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress beside Will. He leaned down, capturing Will’s mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing the groan that broke loose from his throat.

Hannibal’s hand guided Will’s thigh higher, pressing it firmly down to open him. Positioning himself at Will's ass with calm precision, he pressed forward.

The first push drew a choked cry from Will, his body clenching and giving in equal measure. His back arched off the sheets, muscles taut with strain, mouth falling open in a hoarse moan as the stretch burned through him.

Hannibal held still for a moment, steadying him with one hand pressed flat against his chest, the other gripping his hip with bruising force. His voice dropped low, unyielding. “Breathe.”

Will gasped for air, the sound breaking into whimpers, yet even through the pain he rocked his hips forward, desperate to take more. “Please—don’t stop—”

So Hannibal didn’t. He pressed deeper, filling him inch by inch until Will’s body trembled around him, stretched to the edge of tolerance. When he was fully seated inside, Hannibal paused, his eyes locked on Will’s face—flushed, slack with awe.

“You take me beautifully,” Hannibal whispered.

The first measured thrust back and in made Will cry out, a broken sound torn from his throat. His cock twitched helplessly, smearing fluid across his abdomen, every nerve raw with overstimulation.

Hannibal bent down and sank his teeth into the slope of Will’s shoulder, biting hard enough to bruise, to mark. Will cried at the sting, his wrists jerking against the restraints, but his body clenched tighter around Hannibal in answer.

A pleased growl vibrated against Will’s skin as Hannibal pulled back, then bit again—this time at the curve of his throat, just above the racing pulse. The sharp pressure of teeth paired with the deep, relentless slide inside him sent Will spiralling, his vision white at the edges.

“Fuck—Hannibal—please—” he gasped, body twisting, trapped between agony and bliss.

Hannibal only bit down harder, this time on his collarbone, before soothing the mark with his tongue. Each puncture of pain sharpened the pleasure until Will was writhing beneath him, undone, begging with every desperate sound. He began to rut roughly into him, each thrust forceful, claiming, the bed groaning under the violence of it. The shallow cuts across Will’s stomach reopened with the motion, blood trickling freely now, streaking down his sides and dripping onto the sheets below.

Hannibal pulled back enough to look at the mess—Will’s skin flushed and fevered, slick with sweat, smeared with crimson. His hand caught Will’s jaw, forcing his gaze up.

“Look at you,” Hannibal murmured, almost affectionate. “Bleeding for me. Tied down, begging for me to hurt you.” His thrusts punctuated the words, driving them deeper into Will’s body. “Do you even know how depraved that makes you?”

Will whimpered, tried to shake his head, but the motion was feeble. “I—don’t care—”

“No,” Hannibal corrected, biting at his ear hard enough to make him yelp. “You crave it. You want me to ruin you. You want to be cut, broken open, used until there’s nothing left.” His lips ghosted hot over Will’s temple, his voice rasping. “Tell me I’m right.”

“Yes!” The word tore out of Will, raw and unrestrained. “Please—fuck, I need it—I need you to—”

“To what?” Hannibal pressed, the hand on his jaw tightening until it bordered on pain. “Say it.”

“—hurt me,” Will gasped, delirious with fever and want. “Use me however you want. Please.”

Hannibal grinned, satisfied, even as his hips slammed harder, driving another broken cry from Will’s throat. He leaned down, his teeth sinking into the curve of Will’s shoulder once more, tearing a moan from him that trembled on the edge of sobbing.

“You belong to me like this,” Hannibal whispered against the wound, his voice intimate. “Mine to carve. Mine to ruin. Mine to keep.”

Will surged up as far as the restraints allowed, crushing his mouth to Hannibal’s. The kiss was desperate, hungry, wet with the taste of iron from the wounds still bleeding. Hannibal accepted it, lips parting with deliberate control, but he couldn’t resist twisting his fingers into Will’s damp curls.

He tugged sharply, dragging Will’s head back until the moan broke out of him, ragged and pained. Hannibal bit down on his lower lip in that moment, not gently—hard enough to make the taste of blood bloom between their mouths.

Will gasped into the kiss, eyes rolling half-shut, a mixture of ecstasy and torment. The noise he made was something between a sob and a growl, so raw it seemed to echo in Hannibal’s chest.

“You love it,” Hannibal breathed against his mouth, tightening his grip until Will whimpered again, his body arching up into him helplessly. “Every tear of pain, every bruise, every cut. You’d let me split you open and still you’d thank me for it.”

“Y-yes,” Will gasped, voice shaking, muffled under Hannibal’s mouth. “God, yes—don’t stop—”

Hannibal kissed him again, slower this time, savouring the quiver of Will’s lips under his. When he pulled back, his teeth caught on the swollen flesh, another sharp tug before he released it, letting it throb red and wet. His free hand dragged down Will’s chest, smearing the blood across his stomach, fingers dipping briefly into the fresh cut along his abdomen before circling lower.

Will arched when Hannibal’s hand wrapped around his cock, slick with sweat and precome. The rough squeeze drew a ragged cry, his hips jerking up into the grip instinctively, wrists straining in their cuffs as though he could pull Hannibal deeper into him.

Hannibal watched his face the entire time, drinking in the wild-eyed desperation. “I want you to come for me,” he murmured, voice steady despite the bruising pace of his thrusts. His thumb dragged slowly across the slit, spreading wetness over the flushed head.

The words undid Will. His chest heaved, mouth falling open in a guttural moan. Hannibal’s thrusts grew harder, calculated, driving into the exact spot that tore broken sobs from him with every movement. The knife-edge of pain across his chest, the bruising hold on his hip, the merciless hand around his cock—it all spiralled into one unbearable, consuming need.

“Hannibal—please—I can’t—” Will choked, voice splintering under the force of it.

“Yes, you can,” Hannibal cut in sharply, tone like command. His grip tightened, stroking him in rough, deliberate pulls. “You’ll give it to me. Right now. Fall apart for me, Will.”

That final order shattered him. Will’s back arched off the bed, his whole body trembling as release tore through him. His orgasm struck hard and violent, his cry breaking open against Hannibal’s mouth as hot streams spilled over his chest and stomach, mixing with the blood already there. The ropes strained with the ferocity of his convulsions, wrists rubbed raw against the restraints.

Hannibal followed close behind, driving into him with brutal precision until his own climax surged, filling Will with deep, punishing thrusts. A growl rumbled out of him as he spent himself, biting hard into the side of Will’s neck to mark the moment as his.

For a long beat the room held only the sound of their ragged breathing, the creak of the bed beneath them, and the steady tick of the clock on the wall.

At last, Hannibal pulled back slightly, his lips brushing the shell of Will’s ear, voice low and composed again despite the wreckage between them. “I told you—pain and pleasure are closer than you think.”

Will lay slack against the sheets, bound, marked, undone, his eyes fluttering half-shut. Yet even through exhaustion and haze, his gaze sought Hannibal’s, clinging to him as though he were the only anchor left.

And Hannibal, still buried inside him, let the silence stretch, savouring the sight of him—ruined and grateful, broken open and utterly his.