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Will runs his hands up Abigail’s sides, his palms stroking the curve of her waist, his fingers slipping over the ridges of her ribs where they rise beneath the surface of her silken skin. She always seems thinner to him when she’s just come back from college, as if she doesn’t eat quite enough when Hannibal isn’t there to feed her. Or maybe that’s his imagination talking, his own need to be taking care of her, for her to need what he can give her, what they both can give. He’s never sure.
She wants what he’s giving her now, though, he knows that much - she always offers it, takes it, seeks it out, whenever she comes to visit. He’s stopped doubting the truth of her desire, tries not to question the wisdom of what they all want. He’s at a point now where for the most part he can simply let it happen, where he doesn’t believe he should hold anything back. Hannibal has taught him a lot about accepting what’s in his own heart, and whatever this would look like to others, it doesn’t feel ugly, doesn’t feel as though he’s causing her harm. Anything but, in a moment like this, when his hands reach her breasts and she arches into the touch, moaning, her fingers clenching in the fabric of Hannibal’s sleeve.
She’s naked between them on the sofa in Hannibal’s living room, lying back against Hannibal’s chest where he sits with the armrest behind him, one foot on the floor, the other drawn up on the cushions, hidden beneath their bodies. Her head is resting in the crook of his neck, her hair falling over his shoulder, down the back of his chocolate brown suit coat. Her legs are spread, parted around Will kneeling between them, Will bending over her, cupping her small breasts in his palms.
He’s barely dressed, himself, his button-down shirt hanging open off the crooks of his arms, his underwear pushed half-way down his ass by Abigail’s hands fumbling to pull his cock out, eager as though she couldn’t touch him fast enough, couldn’t wait any more than he could. She isn’t touching him now, though, her fingers scratching at Hannibal’s still impeccable clothes instead, giving Will the space to treasure and caress her, feel the life of her, breath and blood beneath his fingertips, alive as she’s been alive, every day since that first when he held her bleeding in his arms. It’s a gift, each time, to have her, hold her, the solidity of her survival under his hands.
Her nipples are tight and dark, the buds of them drawn up thick with arousal. When he squeezes her breasts, lightly, they press into the centers of his palms. He shifts his grip to draw circles around them, flick his thumbs across them. It makes him lick his lips, the way they bend from his touch, the way they spring back. Abigail sighs, the sweetest sound, her hips angling up toward him. She rubs her cheek against Hannibal’s collar, shivers when Will brushes her nipples again. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, her mouth its deepest red from both their kisses. She’s watching him. Not his hands on her body, but his face. He thinks, sometimes, she picked that up from Hannibal, that sense of focus in how she makes love.
He drags the pads of his thumbs over her nipples one more time, adds the slightest hint of scratching nails.
“You can hurt them, you know,” Abigail says. “I want you to.”
His hands still.
He is aware of the weight of his balls, the heavy need in them.
“Abigail…”
“She takes pain almost better than you do, Will,” Hannibal says. “You know that.” His hand strokes Abigail’s hair. There is a note of pride in his voice, an answering smile on Abigail’s lips. Pleased. “Why shouldn’t you give her what you would both enjoy?”
Will tilts his head, looking up at Hannibal.
“What you would enjoy.”
Hannibal smiles. Brushes Abigail’s hair again, the backs of his fingers trailing down her neck, over her collarbone, making her sigh.
“Of course. This is for all of us, isn’t it?”
Abigail reaches behind her, up and back to wrap her fingers around the nape of Hannibal’s neck, squeezing. But her eyes remain on Will.
“Yes,” she says. “Please, Will. Hurt me for all of us. It will feel so good.”
It will. It always does.
He catches her nipples between thumbs and forefingers, rubs them in his grip.
“Yes,” Abigail says again. Eager, breathless. “Don’t stop.”
There is no one in this room who doesn’t know how to cause pain. It’s occurred to him that maybe that’s what tied them together, from the start.
Of the three of them, only Hannibal doesn’t know how to hurt. He wouldn’t have predicted how that, too, has bound them to each other, or in what ways.
He presses his fingers together, a vice clamping down on the sensitive peaks of Abigail’s nipples, tighter, harder than the natural boundaries in his head tell him he should, squeezing down past the warning bells going off when she groans, when she sobs, her body taut, straining toward him, her short fingernails clawing at Hannibal’s neck, at his thigh through the wool of his pants. Then he twists, and keeps twisting, pulling outward, her breasts standing out from her body as if he could lift her by them, drag her to him, all her weight hanging on those two points of pain. Her breath comes in quick, desperate pants. Her legs press in around him, her knees digging into his sides. He can see sweat beading in the hollow of her throat, on her sternum in the valley between her breasts. When her lip starts to tremble, he lets go.
Or, no, he lets up, he doesn’t let go. He knows from experience that a sudden absence of touch after pain like that stings more than pressure, so he cups her breasts again, catches them in his palms when he releases her nipples, kneading gently, firmly, showing her he’s still here.
She pulls in a long, shuddering breath, slumping back against Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal makes a soothing noise, stroking her cheek.
“So good,” she says, smiling. “When I touch myself, I can never make it hurt enough.”
The image springs vivid to Will’s mind, Abigail stretched out on her dorm room bed, one hand rubbing between her legs, the other twisting her nipple, her face a mixture of pleasure and frustration. He knows better than to expect her to stay theirs while she is away, has made sure she understands she has no obligations, only the freedom to go where she pleases, with whom she pleases. Still, he doesn’t want her to seek this anywhere else. The idea that she hasn’t makes him shiver inside, makes his hands tighten on her breasts.
“You’re home now, Abigail,” Hannibal says. His lips are to her temple, but his eyes are watching Will. “Whatever you need, Will and I will take care of it.”
“Always,” Will agrees, and it hurts how much he means it, how much he has meant it from the first moment he knew she would live, has kept meaning it as her needs have changed, as she’s come to ask him for things he never imagined.
“God,” Abigail says, and her eyes are wide as a doe’s, brimming with things that remind him why looking a person in the eye is never going to help him. “I can’t… Do it again?”
He does.
She is so beautiful, long, fragile limbs and pale skin flushed with lust and the fullness of her lip caught between her teeth, holding her cries in. He’s heard her cry for real, held her face in his hands as she screamed and wept from things Hannibal did to her, things she begged Hannibal to do. He’s talked her through it, and wiped the tears from her eyes afterward. She’s done the same for him. She’s so beautiful, his perfect girl, and he never wants to fail her.
This time, when he stops the twisting pull on her nipples, he scratches his nails over them, a different kind of pain layered over the first. It drags a high-pitched moan from her, her hips thrusting upward into thin air, as if pleading for friction.
“Ssh,” Hannibal tells her, that calm, soft voice that would make Will take anything, do anything when he’s in the place where Abigail is now. He often wonders if he looks the way Abigail does, bending toward it, melting into Hannibal’s words. “It’s all right. We’re taking care of you, remember?”
His hand curves over her hipbone, slides lower, deeper, down to cup her sex. She bucks up into the touch, and for a moment he seems to actually hold her down, his large hand between her legs keeping her in place, keeping her still. Then she falls back, quivering, and Hannibal’s fingers move, begin to rub in steady circles between her folds.
She doesn’t have to ask Will to hurt her again. His hands move of their own accord, an almost vicious pull on her breasts. He feels sharp-edged, honed for her, desperate to take her further, to claw his way down to the heart of her, watch her break and open and fall apart into the perfect whole of what she is. His breathing is as fast and ragged as hers, his heart racing.
He doesn’t even think about it when he lets her left nipple go, holding on to the other one, squeezing it harder, and slaps her breast with his open palm. She yelps, grinding her pussy up into Hannibal’s hand. The soft flesh of her jumps, jiggles. Obscene and gorgeous.
He does it again. And again. Harder, faster, a stream of blows, and the sound of every impact, flesh on flesh, makes his mouth dry with hunger, his skin tingle with the knowledge of what it feels like, to be the instrument played to produce that music. Her breast is reddening, burning with the heat of pain. If he stopped spanking her, he could lay his cheek to her chest and be branded, seared with the raised warmth of her blood. He doesn’t want to stop.
“Please,” she’s saying. “Pleasepleaseplease, oh God, please.” And then: “Oh, god, daddy, please fuck me.”
His hand stalls in mid air, falls into his lap.
She never calls him that, except like this, in sex, pulling him toward sex. And it’s not right, of course it isn’t, it’s not what he ever set out to be for her, not this mixture of roles that should never blend. He’s tried to make her stop, wants her to stop - the sound of the word is a stab straight through him, every time. But he knows why she does it, why she keeps doing it, knows what it does to them both.
His cock is jerking, swollen to the point of pain. He’s dripping, thick strands of pre-come falling onto her belly.
“She’s so wet, Will,” Hannibal says. “Ready and open. I could slip my fingers inside her with no resistance at all. But I’m not the one she wants right now. Am I, Abigail?”
Abigail shakes her head, almost sobbing. Whatever Hannibal is doing between her legs, it’s making her writhe, making the muscles in her thighs shake with tension.
“I want my daddy,” she says. There is a moment, every time, a millisecond of doubt when he wonders if she really means him, if what she’s asking for isn’t someone else, someone forever lost to her, and the combined guilt and hatred in his heart is crippling. And then, every time, she wipes it all away. “Please, Will, I want you inside me.”
His name, and she’s looking straight at him, he doesn’t think she could look at him like that and see anyone else, see anyone who would ever seek to harm her.
“Yes,” he says. “Abigail, honey, I’ve got you.”
His hands are already on her hips, lifting her into his lap as he scoots forward, and then he’s holding himself at her entrance, Hannibal’s fingers withdrawn to give him access. She’s so soft, shaved clean, delicate lips grown thick with arousal, wet and flushed and pulsing at the touch of him. It’s easy, so easy to push inside her, one long slide all the way there, his hand under her buttocks pulling her to him, pulling her home.
“Daddy,” she says again, the word shaky, her voice cracking with emotions, with pleasure and love and need. “Do it hard, daddy. I need it. So badly.”
He groans, thrusting into her, pulling out and slamming in with all the force he has. Her legs are tight around his waist, his hand beneath her digging far enough into her flesh to leave bruises, the two of them clinging to each other as he fucks her, tries to fuck her as deep as he can get.
It feels unsteady, though, there’s not enough leverage for what he knows she wants, he keeps losing his balance as he rises up to drive into her. Until Hannibal takes his free hand, the one not holding her up.
“Here, Will,” he says, guiding Will’s hand, placing it on his shoulder.
Support and anchor point and Will leans into it, lets his weight rest on the solid presence of Hannibal’s body beneath the fine wool of his suit. It’s easy, then, the angle so much better, the noises Abigail makes more frantic with every thrust, every thrust driving her up against Hannibal, Hannibal keeping her there, in place, for Will to pound into, letting him get deep, deeper, giving her what she needs.
She’s still holding on to Hannibal’s neck, hanging off him, almost. There will be marks on his skin from her nails. Her head is thrown back, resting on Hannibal’s shoulder, her lips parted, gasping for air. Like this, her neck is exposed. The long, pale line of her throat offered up, and across it, the scar from her father’s knife.
It’s faded now, the thinnest line of cut and stitches, but looking at it always brings Will back. Takes him to that moment when she was born to them, when Hannibal’s hands pulled her through the river of her blood and brought her safe to him, torn free of her old life, theirs to cherish and protect.
He leans over her, closer, bends down to press his lips to her throat.
“Dad,” she says. So quiet, only for the three of them to hear. He can feel her tighten around him, as if her body can’t keep him close enough. “Yes, Will, yes.”
Her hand settles on his head, fingers clutching at his hair.
They’re holding each other, just like that, when she begins to come.
Afterwards - after Will has climaxed, too, and Hannibal has brought Abigail off again with his fingers, Will’s softening cock still inside her - afterwards, the day has dimmed outside the windows, the room dusk and shadow and the heat of their bodies as they lie curled into each other, more or less sprawled where they’ve fallen in Hannibal’s lap. Hannibal runs his hands over Abigail’s breasts; firm, gentle touches, checking for damage. She winces a little when he reaches her nipples, but the wince is immediately followed by a smile, a lazy, loose-limbed stretch.
“I’m okay, Hannibal, really,” she says. She lays her hand on top of Hannibal’s on her left breast, the one still flushed red from Will’s spanking, and squeezes his fingers down. The pain makes her suck a sharp breath in through her teeth, makes Hannibal shift beneath her on the couch. He hasn’t fucked her, yet; Will knows them both well enough to see when she’s angling for that to happen. “Much better than okay.” She turns her face toward Will, reaches her hand out to brush her fingers down his cheek. “My daddy takes the best care of me.”
Will would say something, there are things he ought to be saying, but his throat is suddenly closed up, too tight for him to speak.
“You should keep telling him that,” Hannibal says. He sounds amused, and more fond than Will knows what to do with. “Who knows? Maybe one day he will actually believe it.”
Will has to admit to himself that right now that day doesn’t seem very far off.
If only he could be sure that’s a good thing.