“If it’s a passion thing, if it’s something you’re passionate about, you have to use your hands. There’s no way around it. A gun is out of the question. You’ve got to use your hands. If it’s personal life, yes, hands.”
“You don’t like it,” observes Will.
Hannibal is hanging up their jackets in the front closet. He always insists on slipping Will’s off his shoulders, too, like Will is a leading lady in a film, and Will felt Hannibal’s attention on his waist as he did so. Had been feeling it all day, really; if he’s honest, ever since the discreet hip holster had first made an appearance underneath his pants.
It’s non-negotiable, Will thinks firmly to himself, like he’s trying out the words to use on Hannibal. We’re two of the most wanted criminals in the world. Our self-defense strategy doesn’t need to be elegant or intimate. It needs to be effective.
Hannibal doesn’t say anything. They’re out of their outerwear and into the kitchen, stocking the fridge full of vegetables fresh from the market, by the time Will cracks.
“Hannibal?” he prompts.
Hannibal raises an eyebrow fractionally, standing up very straight, hands folded on the counter. “Did you ask me a question?”
Will rolls his eyes. Of course Hannibal knows he hadn’t asked one out loud, and of course Hannibal had heard the question loud and clear.
So Will strides over, crowding Hannibal against the counter, and slips the pistol out of its holster. He grabs Hannibal’s wrist and forces his palm to face upward before pushing the gun into it. Hannibal grasps it just enough to not let it fall, and although nobody else in the world would notice it, Will can feel the distaste practically radiating off of him.
“You don’t like it,” says Will, “the gun. That’s my question. I would like you to explain why.”
Hannibal’s face is still, placid, as he stares down at the lethal instrument in his hand. He looks like he’s evaluating a piece of fruit for ripeness. “I have made no objection,” he says finally, which is exactly the kind of honesty-on-a-technicality that makes Will’s teeth grind with frustration. “Perhaps you should tell me, Will. You seem to have a fairly clear idea.”
Will considers it. It would be letting Hannibal off easy, he knows that. He should stand his ground, force Hannibal to lay himself bare instead of allowing him to lie back and allow Will to do it for him.
But he also knows he won’t. Because Hannibal is right; Will does know why Hannibal doesn’t like the gun. He can pull on the threads of Hannibal’s discomfort, slide along them with his mind until he dives into their sources. And so he not only has empathy for Hannibal— which he’s used to by now— but also sympathy. Which is significantly thornier.
He sighs, and Hannibal sees him accept defeat and tries to press the gun back into his hand. Will doesn’t take it. Instead he throws himself down on a stool next to the counter. “Your mind runs along many parallel tracks,” he says. “It’s not just one reason, but all of the threads point in the same direction, in this instance. First—” raising a hand to tick off numbers on it— “you dislike guns in general. They’ve never been your preferred method of killing, and they’re not the way you would prefer to see me kill. You weren’t satisfied by Garett Jacob Hobbs; you wanted to see me strangle and strike and tear. So the idea that an opportunity for violence could present itself, only to be resolved by a gunshot, is unpleasant for you.” Hannibal’s face is impassive, but in a particular way that indicates acceptance of the point.
“Second, you’ve been shot recently. And although the experience itself was… not unpleasant for you, due to external factors—” Hannibal’s face twitches with vague amusement at the reference to their killing of Dolarhyde— “the recovery was awful for you. You have trauma associated with guns, Doctor Lecter.” He’s not expecting Hannibal to give anything away when it comes to that one, but he’s almost certain that it’s true, so Will plows ahead: “And finally—“ he allows an indulgent grin to spread across his face— “you haven’t used them much, have you?” Will stands up, walks slowly around the counter to gaze up at Hannibal. “You just need to get used to the idea.”
Hannibal is still holding out the gun like it’s a foreign and perhaps odious object. “And what do you suggest?” he asks.
Will purses his lips. He reaches his hand out, and Hannibal eagerly hands him the gun.
Will raises the weapon and points it squarely at Hannibal’s head.
“We’ve done this before,” he says softly. “Remember? Before. I think you liked it, then.” Hannibal turns his head slightly away, just as he had all those years ago in the kitchen— but there is real fear behind it, now. Strange, that that he should be afraid only now, when he finally knows that Will has no intention of killing him.
“Exposure therapy has a good track record of treatment for phobias,” he says quietly, and he feels more than sees Hannibal’s submission to the idea. Hannibal would let him do whatever he wanted. He would let Will try to help him, and he would let Will make it worse.
Will leans forward and strokes the muzzle gently down the side of Hannibal’s face, through the fine strands of his hair and down his cheek. Hannibal shudders. “But then, you’ve always been more interested in unconventional psychiatry,” Will says. He continues to trail the gun down, over Hannibal’s neck and shoulder and arm. Just before he reaches his hand, Will pulls it back and quickly pops the out the clip and the bullet in the chamber, discarding them on the counter. Loving Hannibal by necessity means having a bit of a death wish, but he doesn’t want to die accidentally.
“I think,” he says, “Perhaps the exposure therapy would work better with my more… active participation.” He presses the gun back into Hannibal’s hand. “Or perhaps passive. Whatever you like. It’s up to you now.”
He watches Hannibal’s face, and feels for just a single, glorious moment, Hannibal’s genuine confusion. Hannibal’s confusion is a fine wine that Will can taste only very rarely, so he savours it for a few seconds before dropping to his knees and nuzzling his cheek into the crotch of Hannibal’s pants.
Hannibal gasps; he was already in a state of low-grade arousal just from Will’s proximity and his willingness to take control of the situation, and now Will feels the twitching of his cock through the fabric. “Guns can be intimate,” Will says. “Use your imagination. Show me how.”
For a moment there is nothing, and all of the sounds of the things that are not Hannibal fill Will’s mind: the distant roar of airplanes passing overhead, the buzz of insects in the garden, the faint hum of the refrigerator. Then Hannibal’s hand, the one that isn’t holding the gun, tangles in his hair; and then there is only Hannibal.
For a moment Hannibal just pets at him, distracting Will with touch while he gives himself time to adjust, to make plans for this new challenge. Then Will feels the cold metal of the gun make contact with the underside of his jaw, so hard that it presses up into the bottom of his tongue and his breathing feels slightly constricted. The hand in his hair tightens, yanks his head back painfully so he’s staring up at Hannibal.
Hannibal looks amused. “My darling, brilliant boy,” he breathes. “You have a way of getting what you want, don’t you?”
Will swallows, and the gun bobs slightly with the movement. The knowledge that it isn’t loaded does nothing to stop the chill of fear running down his spine, or the accompanying wave of arousal.
“Very well,” Hannibal continues. “I have done violence and love to you with almost every other type of instrument. It is only logical that you would want this one, too.” He pulls up, and Will stumbles to his feet, his mind racing. He hadn’t thought of it that way before he had proposed this— or had he? Is this really for Hannibal at all, or is it just Will throwing himself into another, yet-undiscovered pool of mingled pleasure and pain? Is he being selfish with this desire?
If he is, Will knows, Hannibal will love him all the more for it. But it chafes at him that he can’t figure out whether this is a loving attempt to rid Hannibal of a phobia, or a greedy expression of Will’s own lust. The question distracts him enough that he’s surprised to find himself being manhandled into the bedroom, his body no longer his own amid his turbulent thoughts.
Hannibal undresses him and positions Will on his hands and knees on the bed, and comes to sit cross-legged in front of him. He’s looking at him appraisingly, the gun in his hand but no longer jammed into any part of Will’s body. “So, what would my clever boy like today?” he says quietly. “I could fuck you—” Will feels a jolt of surprise and arousal at hearing Hannibal swear, a rare event— “while holding you at gunpoint. But then, you would hardly be able to focus on the feeling of the weapon with your eyes closed in bliss, impaled on my cock.”
Will can feel his erection hanging low and heavy between his legs, and he moans at that image. He suddenly wants Hannibal to fuck him more than anything else in the world, but from what Hannibal is saying, it doesn’t sound lke that’s in the cards.
“No,” Hannibal continues, “I think I’d like you more… concentrated, on the matter at hand. You wanted the gun, and the gun will be all you get.” Will moans, and Hannibal reaches up to grab Will’s jaw with the hand that isn’t occupied with the gun. He forces Will’s mouth open, and Will doesn’t resist.
He can’t help his garbled little choking sound when Hannibal forces the barrel of the gun into his mouth. It’s not huge, but it feels heavy, and it’s cold and unyielding against his tongue. Hannibal pushes it in until it nearly grazes the back of his throat, Will feels genuine panic at the idea of gagging on the thing.
“Mmm,” Hannibal hums, and shifts slightly so that he’s beside Will and holding his head with one hand, pressing into Will’s shoulder reassuringly with his own upper body. “Gorgeous. You can choke on it all you like, I don’t mind.”
Will has no choice but to obey, since Hannibal is now starting to rock it slowly back and forth, fucking Will’s mouth with the barrel. “Get it nice and wet,” he purrs. “You wanted the gun, and you’re going to have it. I think you’ll agree that the more saliva, the more pleasant the experience will be for you.”
Will moans, and he’s not even sure if it’s from arousal or apprehension. Hannibal has settled into a rhythm, a forceful but even in and out of his mouth, is allowing him to get control of his breathing slowly. He no longer feels in danger of gagging, so he can concentrate on what Hannibal is doing, and what he’s about to do. Will slobbers on the gun eagerly, working his tongue into the little grooves in the metal, trying to work up as much saliva as he can. He’s scared, doesn’t want Hannibal to put it in him, wants to run far away before he can be claimed like that.
Instead of running away, he draws his fear up to the surface and lets Hannibal see it. He leans into him, saliva dripping down his chin and running in rivulets down the grip, moistening Hannibal’s fingers. He’s making tiny noises on every thrust of the thing into his mouth and he lets them grow, pathetic squeaks that he’s sure Hannibal has never heard from him before.
And sure enough, when Hannibal finally pulls the gun out of his mouth, Will is nearly lost to blind panic— but he feels a sense of confidence and anticipation radiating off of Hannibal. He’s gripping the gun firmly now, hefting its weight in his hand like a solid kitchen knife. He strokes down Will’s back, calming him, and Will soaks up the knowledge that this is working. Hannibal wants to fuck him with the gun. From this day on, whenever he sees the outline of the weapon on Will’s waist, he will think about how it looked buried in Will’s ass.
He takes a deep breath and lowers down onto his elbows, presenting himself to be penetrated. Hannibal chuckles, but doesn’t immediately move behind him: instead, he reaches two fingers forward and shoves those into Will’s mouth, too.
The knot of fear in Will’s belly unclenches somewhat: at least he’s going to get a little preparation. He had wondered if perhaps Hannibal would prefer him to suffer and tear and bleed, if maybe the taste of Will’s suffering would be the only thing that could wipe away the sour taste of the gun. Will would allow it, if that was what Hannibal wanted, and he would probably even enjoy it. But he sucks enthusiastically over Hannibal’s fingers, glad that he won’t have to.
Hannibal wriggles them a little in Will’s mouth, and he swirls his tongue around them, enjoying the little sounds of pleasure he can draw from Hannibal. It helps remind him that— depending on whose interpretation of the situation is correct— he’s either helping Hannibal to get over a fear, or he’s manipulating Hannibal into slaking Will’s own constant thirst for new and novel violence. Either way, Will is in control, and if he tells himself that enough times, perhaps one day he’ll even believe it.
He closes his eyes as Hannibal’s dripping fingers trail down the crack of his ass to rub over his hole. “Just relax,” Hannibal instructs. “Relax now, and it will be easier for you later, sweet thing.” The fingers slip in, and Will sighs and clenches around them. No matter what’s coming next, this feels good.
Hannibal massages his insides, rubbing over his prostate and scissoring his fingers to pull his rim open. Will can feel his muscles spasming a little of their own accord, and he can’t imagine what that would feel like when the object inside him is not the flesh of Hannibal’s fingers or cock but the hard, unforgiving metal of the gun. He grabs onto his own elbows and buries his face in the flesh of his forearms, giving himself something to bite down on if he needs it.
“Good,” Hannbal says, and pulls his fingers out.
“‘M not ready,” Will protests, both because it feels true and because there’s nothing that Hannibal loves more than to find a boundary and knock it down.
Sure enough, Hannibal just murmurs “All the more reason,” and presses the cold muzzle of the gun to Will’s hole.
Will immediately flinches forward, feeling his muscles clench up and all of the work Hannibal has just put into loosening him up be undone in a moment. Hannibal just places a hand on Will’s lower back and uses the sticky sheen of Will’s sweat to pull him back with the palm of his hand, the gun still poking into him uncomfortably. He feels it start to slip inside, and his cock jerks even as he whimpers, “No.”
“Oh, but I already know your answer to be yes, dear Will,” Hannibal says, and starts working the gun in tiny circles. It both chafes the delicate skin surrounding his hole and helps him open, and Will can feel himself giving way inexorably, knows that eventually the entire barrel is going to end up inside him. “You’ve always accepted me inside you eventually. You accepted my mind, you accepted my knife, and now you will accept my gun.”
From somewhere far away, Will allows himself a hidden grin into his folded forearms. My gun.
With what feels to Will like a pop but is probably more of a gentle yielding of flesh, the tip of the barrel is inside him. The hand on his back pets at him, runs up to his neck and then all the way down to where the gun enters his body. “There,” says Hannibal. “That was the hardest part.”
It wasn’t, though, because next Hannibal starts pushing it in. He doesn’t go overly quickly, but he’s relentless, and when the harsh metal scrapes over his prostate, Will nearly jumps in surprise and a combination of pain and excruciating pleasure. It’s too much, he can’t possibly feel that on every thrust. Hannibal just keeps pushing, ignoring that Will’s breaths are closer to sobs— or more likely, drinking in every one. Finally, after what seems like an eternity of cold metal entering him, he feels the grip of the gun come to rest against his perineum, and Hannibal relinquishes his grip on it for a moment to admire his work.
He takes Will’s ass cheeks in his hands, first pulling him apart and then pushing them together so that Will can feel even more vividly the shape of the weapon engulfed inside him. “Oh god,” he moans. Now that it’s in, it doesn’t feel too painful any more: it just feels merciless, no give at all when his muscles clench down on the huge shape inside him.
“I’m going to start fucking you,” Hannibal informs him, and Will means to squeeze out another token protest but he doesn’t have the time or the wherewithal to come up with one before Hannibal’s hand is back on the grip and he feels it sliding inside of him. It’s smooth but huge, and Will feels like he can track each tiny bit of the gun gliding across each part of his insides. The constant pressure on his prostate makes his cock leak.
Then Hannibal rams the gun back into him, and Will screams.
By the time he’s caught his breath from the shock and pain and pleasure Hannibal is already setting a punishing pace. The gun slides in and out easily, compared to Hannibal’s strength, but the metal still seems to catch and tug on his entrance, and Will finds himself being pushed forward with each thrust. He wonders if he might bleed after all, but as Hannibal works it in and out of him, it stops mattering. The pain is building to a crescendo and his orgasm is curling in his gut, so intense even before it arrives that he’s a little bit frightened of it.
“That’s it,” Hannibal is saying. “So good for me. You always turn good for me when I hurt you, my sweet Will.” Will reaches back, scrabbling at Hannibal until finally Hannibal reaches down with the hand not occupied by the gun and weaves his fingers with Will’s. It’s true, Will knows; there is no more direct way to his heart than through violence.
He comes with his hand squeezing Hannibal’s fingers so hard he thinks he could probably break them. A part of him wants to, because everything inside him aches; he feels hollowed-out and used in a way he never has after taking a cock.
Hannibal is breathing hard, and his hands linger on Will’s cheeks in the aftermath of his orgasm. Will focuses his mind in on the gentle fingers playing around his rim, and not on the fact that the gun still needs to come out.
Finally he feels Hannibal’s hand grasp the grip of the gun again. He knows he shouldn’t tense up, but he can’t help himself, and he feels every inch of it coming out with a weird slick glide that makes him shiver.
Hannibal sets the gun aside on the covers, and Will feels a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Will?”
He takes a deep breath, then flops down onto the covers and rolls over, exposing his belly to get a good look at Hannibal. He looks flushed and horny and somehow nervous. Like he’s waiting to see if he’d gotten away with something.
Will smirks. “God, my ass hurts,” he says.
Immediately the tension smooths away from Hannibal’s face, and Will feels pure satisfaction radiating off of him. “Don’t be vulgar,” he says, leaning down to kiss Will tenderly.
“I can be as vulgar as I like when I’ve just had a pistol shoved up my ass,” Will says, and Hannibal lowers himself entirely on top of him, fully clothed, rubbing the bulge of his cock gently in between Will’s thighs. Will grasps his shoulders, encouraging him to frot against him; the least Hannibal can give him after that is to allow him to watch Hannibal ruin an expensive pair of pants.
“What will you do when you’ve found every possible way to make me hurt you?” Hannibal pants. Will’s oversensitive skin protests against the rough treatment of Hannibal’s rubbing, and Will snorts. “You’ll help me come up with new ones, of course.”
Hannibal just makes a desperate mewling sound, and it’s only when Will feels the wetness staining the fabric pressed against his legs, and looks down, that he realizes Hannibal has reached out to clasp the gun as he comes. The gun that is probably still warm from Will’s body.
He can barely breathe from the satisfied weight of Hannibal on top of him, but Will stares at the ceiling as Hannibal catches his breath on top of him, and grins.
Tomorrow, Will muses as he pushes Hannibal off just enough to catch his breath and start to doze, I’ll wear the holster over my clothes around the house.
Hannibal’s arms wrap around him, and Will places the gun in between their slick bodies as they drift to sleep.