By the Light of the Moon


Art credit to CamilleFlyingRotten, @CamilleCailloux on Twitter, for #ForBothofUs fest, Hannibal Cre-Ate-ive found here.

12:35 a.m. — Wolftrap, Virginia

Hannibal Lecter was a man of many secrets. He had to be, all things considered. He was a serial killer masquerading as a psychiatrist—secrets were a bygone conclusion.

But he was far too curious to allow such secrets to exist in others, hence why he was in the tree line outside Will Graham’s house on a freezing cold evening, breath puffing around his face and fingers growing stiff, all because Will had canceled his appointment under very suspicious circumstances.

Namely, he’d called and said, “I just remembered I can’t make it.”

Suspicious indeed.

Lights went off inside, leaving Will’s little house dark and adrift on a plain of moonlit snow. It was a full one, Hannibal knew. He always kept track, considering the effect it had on the behavior of those around him. He usually wound up with an addition or two to his freezer every month thanks to the moon’s influence.

The door creaked. He faintly heard Will admonish one of his dogs as it tried to come out with him. The door shut with a click and Will bounded into his yard in the moonlight.

Several things hit Hannibal hard all at once which, thankfully, his voracious mind was more than capable of processing simultaneously.

Will was in incredible shape.

Will was entirely naked.

Will was coming directly towards him.

Hannibal drew back into the deeper darkness, already furiously trying to imagine what on earth Will was up to and even more curious than he’d been before.

Will left a smattering of footprints in the snow behind him and stretched his stride, every muscle bunching and sliding beneath his smooth, pale skin, as if the cold and the night invigorated him. His face wore a wild, happy grin, baring long, lupine teeth Hannibal could see even from such a distance and knew damned well hadn’t been there before.

There wasn’t time to be surprised by what happened, it just… did. Continue reading

God and Glasses

God and Glasses

“Hey, Hannibal, I’m taking Linus for a walk—”

Will stopped abruptly in his tracks, Linus bumbling into the backs of his legs, both of them pausing in the doorway to Hannibal’s study. With stark shock etched on his face, Will stared at Hannibal Lecter, who placidly gazed back at him, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose.

“Will?” he prodded, his mild tone at odds with the soft smirk on his lips. “Is something wrong?”

“No, just—” Will cocked his head, unable to hide his surprise. “You got glasses.”

“I did,” Hannibal said, touching the wire frames with a gentle finger.

Will shoved his hands into his pockets and moved close enough to get a better look at the glasses in question. The delicate wire frames gleamed against Hannibal’s tanned skin and stray strands of his fine hair, longer now and almost entirely silver. His amber eyes flicked over Will’s face, seeing him clearly, bright and mischievous and wreathed in laugh lines Will loved, having been the cause of so many.

“You’re staring, Will.”

“Sorry,” Will said, huffing a soft laugh, struck by the sight of his husband wearing glasses. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Do you recall several nights ago informing me that I needed a pair of readers?”

A small sound escaped Will at the word, one he failed to stifle.

“Am I amusing you, Will?” The temperature dropped significantly with that question.

“No,” Will said, grinning. “That wasn’t a laugh, Hannibal, trust me. Second to never expecting to see you wearing glasses comes you using the word ‘readers’. It’s… cute.”


“Yeah,” Will said, knowing Hannibal couldn’t resist him for long.

“What was decidedly not cute was being told by my drunken, melancholic husband that I’m ‘blind as a bat’ and need to get my ‘prissy ass’ to the optometrist and do something about it before I ruin another meal.”

Will winced, ducking his head but not breaking eye contact. How could he, when Hannibal was so majestically irate? He seemed a scholarly longshoreman, sitting in his comfy chair drenched in sunlight, snuggled in a thick cable knit sweater with his tousled hair falling around his face.

“For some reason you also tried convincing me I’m not god.”

“Did I manage to persuade you?” Will teased, taking the seat opposite him in the warm sunlight.

“I’m not certain why you attempted to,” Hannibal said, laying his book aside to stroke Linus when the portly dog flopped against his bare foot. “And I fail to see why my needing glasses had anything to do with my contested status as a deity.” Continue reading

24 Overcoming

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Will woke in slow, comfortable degrees, blessedly free of his headache. The unfamiliar sounds of an unfamiliar household filtered into his awareness as surely as the strong mid-morning sunlight.

But not quite as quickly as the warmth of a large, decidedly male body curled protectively around him.

Will’s eyes widened to painful proportions and he wriggled with offended outrage, snared in layers of sheets and warm blankets, in the folds of his nightshirt and the tangle of limbs, somehow managing not to wake his sleeping husband.

“Hannibal!” he hissed, freeing one hand from the depths of the bed to shove at the heavy body half pinning him, the scent of Hannibal’s skin mingling with his own to create a perfume that made his body prickle with warmth. “Hannibal, wake up!”

Hannibal murmured something in his sleep and rolled just enough to ease the tension on the covers. Flushed and panting, Will wiggled to sit up and glower at his sleeping husband while he caught his breath. He pushed his hair out of his face and wiped at his sweat-glazed brow, amazed by the heat Hannibal was putting off.

“You really do sleep like the dead!” Will complained, giving him a sour shove.

A soft knock at the door sent Will diving back under the covers, cursing floridly under his breath when Hannibal’s arm snaked around him and he tucked Will close into the curve of his body.

“My Lords?”

“Come in, Mr. Berger!” Will called, his voice thin with embarrassment.

His embarrassment doubled when his imagination provided him with a detailed vision of what precisely was pressed to his round bottom, separated only by the layers of their nightclothes and underthings.

It was certainly enough to send him slithering from the side of the bed in a heap of outraged dignity to find his feet on the cold rug, hoping for the sake of his pride that Berger hadn’t seen him. Continue reading



He thought Will might be rough with him, quietly furious as he was, still and silent and staring at the corpse of Randall Tier on Hannibal’s dining room table, as if some other Will had placed it there and left this one to deal with the fallout.

He thought Will might turn the rest of that aggressive anger on him, was well prepared to accept it as his due, all things considered.

But he wasn’t, he didn’t. He followed Hannibal upstairs with that dazed expression slowly bleeding off of his face to reveal something pulsing and raw, like a heart beneath a parted ribcage, vulnerable without its shell of bone.

He stared at Hannibal unblinking as his bandaged knuckles were kissed, reverent, worshipful, the murmured words mere nonsense, the shining hymn of a believer finally seeing the vision he’d ached for.

Hannibal had been prepared for many things, but not for Will’s hand to flex, his fingers opening, turning to cup his jaw, gentle, surprising.

“Beautiful boy,” Hannibal breathed, the impassive stare finally fracturing. There was pride in those blue eyes, and desire, confusion, frustration, and something primal that had the flavor and scent of yearning.

He needed no words of encouragement past that. He held still and watched Hannibal shed his clothes, preparing for any eventuality. Will was as likely to kill him now in his state as he was to devour him.

But he didn’t. He watched, desire and surprise flaring in his features as Hannibal came to him, nude as a grape. He neither encouraged nor discouraged Hannibal’s hands on him, stripping him down to his skin so that he stood like a pale marble statue of Eros there before his bed.

“Whatever you want, Will,” Hannibal said, earnest and eager to pay him tribute. He backed towards his bed and Will moved with him, supple limbs and surprising muscle, his intensity sharpening with a new goal in mind.

Hannibal expected he would take his chance now to be cruel.

But he wasn’t. Will came to his bed with passion of a desperate, almost frantic kind, as if he had been too long without being touched, as if there was something lurking in that beautiful mind of his that drove him to excess. He devoured Hannibal, feasted on him, sharp teeth and sucking lips and teasing tongue, clever fingers and intuitive understanding of where to touch, what made him breathless.

They ruined his bed, and Hannibal didn’t care. Will covered him in bites and kisses, and Hannibal didn’t mind. He offered himself up and Will accepted. Hannibal waited for that violence to resurface, punishment for his manipulations.

But it didn’t.

Will spread over him in a blanket of firm flesh and pulsing breath, callused hands tucked beneath him, lifting him up, opening him for the intrusion he’d longed for. Will’s mouth and tongue and lube-slick fingers ensured he was buried to the hilt in one slow push. Hannibal folded up around him, heels dug in hard, hands gripping tightly, greedy for everything Will could give him, even his temper. But Will was gentle with him, tender with him, all of that resentment and anger forsaken for this moment of closeness Hannibal had only dreamed of.

“Anything you want,” Hannibal moaned, the deep, determined roll of Will’s hips far more satisfying than any vicious pummelling he might ask for. He was compelled to offer, all the same. Anything for this beautiful boy.

Will dragged his teeth down Hannibal’s jaw and breathed into his ear, “I don’t want to hurt you, Hannibal.”

“You won’t,” he said, but was pleased all the same and hoped that Will had forgiven him after all.

His climax, when Will finally allowed him to tip over the edge of pleasure, was fierce enough to leave him aching, subsiding in a satisfied slump of sweat and kiss-slick skin and heat. He tightened his thighs and cradled Will’s shuddering body, feeling the pulse and push of his sex within as he came. They hadn’t kissed this whole time, realized, laying there with his fingers deep in Will’s curls and Will’s breath pouring over his collarbone. Hannibal wanted Will to kiss him.

But he didn’t.

He kissed Hannibal’s throat, his shoulders, his chest, his belly, kissed as he coiled off and away, his blank stare returning as the heat between them faded.

“I have to go,” he said, dressing with haste, leaving Hannibal a satiated but bewildered mess behind him.

“Must you?” It felt petulant even to himself, even though he knew something must be done with Mr. Tier, that Will’s work was not yet done.

Will glanced back at him, pausing in the act of tying his boots. Hannibal had the most peculiar and unusual urge to cover himself.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Hannibal,” he murmured.

“You didn’t hurt me, Will,” Hannibal said, hoping to reassure him, even as Will left him there.

He didn’t understand then, in that moment, what Will had meant about hurting him.

Feasting on that encounter through his Memory Palace, bereft on his cot in the BSHCI, he finally did.

23 Overcoming

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Jimmy and Berger were directly on top of things and immediate, controlled chaos ensued.

Will soaked in a hot bath drawn by his husband, doors shut against the noise, the requisite pot of tea on a little table next to him at Hannibal’s insistence, and after the emotional drain of the morning, he didn’t put up a fuss over it.

Part of him wanted to. Part of him wanted to reject any comfort his husband offered, to drape himself in the cold steel of judgment that urged him to withhold his forgiveness, to rebuff Hannibal’s advances, to resist the temptation of acceptance because it would only lead him to future pain.

It was, he knew, his father’s instruction at play, that resentful kernel of mistrust and doubt.

The other part of him was still as deeply immersed in Hannibal’s words as his sore shoulders were in hot water.

I wish I could take it back…’

It pulled against his father’s teachings with relentless, shocking force, turning ‘what if‘ into potential rather than regret.

The future had always looked so bleak to Will, brief, unkind, and uncertain. He had lived for years on the cusp of leaving, never daring to put down roots in Hartford, never having more belongings than could be packed into his measly trunks and carted off for the inevitable day that Hannibal returned to oust him, no matter the ownership of Hartford House.

It didn’t seem so dismal a future to him now after the last few hours, not entirely. If Hannibal Lecter could admit to regret, could shed tears for Will’s sake, then perhaps even the dark clouds that hung overhead could be parted by a shaft of sunlight. It was enough to let Will draw a breath of hope untainted even by the threat of a would-be murderer still at large.

The future was still bleak and uncertain, but there was a possibility for something brighter, and that was more hope than he’d felt in a very long time. Continue reading

20 Overcoming

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Will’s form was a small smudge in the distance by the time Hannibal collected himself enough to head home, terrified he would find his spouse lifeless in the lane along the way, sick and frightened as he was.

The staff assured him that Will had, indeed, made it home in one piece, though he was so ill that Mr. Price and Francis had taken him upstairs at once, according to Mr. Hawkes’ agitated recounting of the moment. It left Hannibal vastly relieved on that count, at least, knowing Will had made it home and was in good hands.

Grandfather caught sight of him as he came in and wheeled towards him from the east wing, shouting, “What on earth have you done to him now?! You should be horsewhipped!”

“Will saw to that already,” Hannibal wearily said, concerned by the state Will was in.

“Ha! Serves you right, you ingrate!” Grandfather scolded, angry. “Someone needs to take that arrogance down a few pegs!”

Hannibal scowled at him and took the stairs two at a time, Grandfather calling admonishments up after him. He could smell the faint, foul stink of Francis Dolarhyde on the landing and it ratcheted his agitation up higher, the presence of the other Alpha a threat that Hannibal could barely stomach. It was all he could do not to barge his way into Will’s suite and get some answers, but that would do more harm than good, he knew. Will was in Jimmy’s faithful hands and that was, perhaps, the best thing for both of them right now.

He slammed into his room instead and started stripping his jacket and waistcoat off, still feeling shocked at how Will had flogged him away as if he’d been in mortal danger.

You could have been killed!’

Isn’t that what you’re after?!’

Terror. The scent-memory of it prickled Hannibal’s sinuses, his heart rate picking up and his stomach tightening. Will’s violence had always intrigued Hannibal, but even he knew that Will striking someone with a riding crop was the last resort of a very desperate kind of fear. He’d stank of blind fright and that sweet, elusive something that had acted like icy water on Hannibal’s own reactions.

Something about him made his mate fear for his life and the fault, he knew, lay in himself. He had never taken the time to know Will, had never attempted to befriend an Omega or understand one—he was essentially as unschooled in Omegas as a toddling babe, his father’s concubine and Bedelia’s instruction notwithstanding. All he really knew was that he had somehow goaded his mate into lashing out on the lane.

And he needed to know why. Continue reading

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The rhythmic, relentless ticking of the clock over the mantle filled the growing silence and Hannibal shifted in the stiff, uncomfortable parlor chair, pinned beneath his cousin’s cool, assessing blue gaze.

She blinked, a soft frown pursing her mouth.

“Bedelia,” Hannibal said, striving for patience. “Have you anything to say? If you prefer to stare silently at me, I will return to Hartford House—”

“I am… attempting to find something beneficial to say to you,” she informed him, an expression of polite horror tightening her smooth features as she settled her teacup delicately on the saucer in her opposite hand. “Considering what you have just told me.” Continue reading