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Will hoped they would have sex. And he hoped it would be good. How could it not be, after so much time filled with tension and expectation? Hannibal is everything he imagined and more—a monster and a gentleman; his lips curl into a snarl as he finally possesses Will, and his eyes gleam as if it’s a luxury to have him in his arms.
Of course, Will expected the sex. He even expected the domesticity of living with Hannibal, of accepting his beast, of embracing his own feelings; all of that, naturally, would translate into cohabitation, into a relatively peaceful coexistence.
But Will never expected the intimacy. He was so unaccustomed to sharing his most precious secret: himself.
In his life and in his few romantic relationships, Will has never been able to open up, to show his inner self, to point to his sad heart, to every shadowed corner. To reveal the ghosts that have haunted him and the ways he has tamed them.
Not even with Molly could he do it. He loved her as best he could with his withered heart, with that part of himself already claimed by the monster of his nightmares. The same monster with whom he now shares everything.
Hannibal loves intimacy. He loves knowing and exploring Will. He loves owning his thoughts and understanding even his smallest quirks.
The first time Will notices this, he feels unsettled, but he’s unable to say no. More than that, something inside him grows warm, filled with feelings that make him want to curl up and anchor himself to Hannibal.
It happens after they’ve had sex, both of them sweaty, still trembling. Hannibal’s long fingers trace through his curls and down his spine, pausing at each vertebra as if writing a poem on his skin.
Will feels like a house cat. Eyes closed, cheek pressed against Hannibal’s chest. Calm, happy.
“Shall I draw you a bath, darling?” Hannibal asks in a husky voice.
Will quickly takes stock of himself, of his tired and well-used muscles, of his surely sore ass and thighs. He nods slowly.
Hannibal moves, placing a kiss on his head before getting up. Will already misses him.
He must doze off briefly because it’s Hannibal’s voice, soft and affectionate, that wakes him. Will stretches and smiles at his beast before heading to the bathroom.
The scent of jasmine and something else unrecognizable hits him. The massive tub steams, and Will hurries toward it, escaping the chill of the floor, and sinks into the deliciously warm water.
“I made it just the way you like it.”
Hannibal’s voice nearly makes Will lose his balance, causing him to sit down less gracefully than he intended, splashing water. Hannibal has followed him silently, and now, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, shuts the door and pulls a small chair closer to the tub.
Will looks at him, both curious and confused. He thought this bath was for him alone. But Hannibal says nothing, only gestures for Will to lean his head back and settle in.
The water is so exquisite, and Will feels so thoroughly fucked and relaxed, that it’s impossible not to follow instructions. He closes his eyes, letting out a soft moan of pleasure.
But he opens them again when he feels familiar hands in his hair, gentle fingers massaging his curls. He looks at Hannibal, uncertain, but his beast only gazes back at him, content.
“May I wash your hair, darling?”
Since Will learned to groom himself, no one has ever needed to wash his hair. He’s an adult man, perfectly capable. Why would anyone help him?
Will is ready to make a joke and refuse, but something inside him feels warm, a sensation that makes his cheeks flush for reasons unrelated to the water’s heat.
So he just nods, awkwardly, closing his eyes again, feeling those cruel, beautiful hands begin to massage shampoo into his curls.
Now, Will feels even more vulnerable and shy than he had an hour ago, when Hannibal had him with his legs spread, crying without any dignity.
This is different.
The sex is everything he expected, the culmination of what had been building between them for so long.
But this? This feeling of being cared for, cherished—the fact that Hannibal wants to do this for him, that Will can feel his pleasure in offering his love this way—is more than Will could have ever hoped for or desired.
His throat tightens, and Will feels ridiculous. He bites his lip to keep everything welling up inside from spilling out.
“I’ve wanted to spoil you, my love,” says Hannibal, his tormentor. His voice is low and sweet, and Will could fall asleep to it if he didn’t feel like that damn teacup about to shatter, as he’s so often been compared to.
“But I didn’t always know how. Or rather, I did, but I wasn’t yet ready to embrace the changes you’ve caused in me, Will,” Hannibal continues. His beast pauses, murmuring for him to keep his eyes closed, and Will feels a gentle shower of water over his hair, as soft as a kiss.
“In my own way, I did care for you. I looked after you during your episodes, though, of course, I caused them. I wanted both your madness and your comfort,” Hannibal confesses. His skilled hands move to the conditioner, massaging Will’s curls again. “I often revisit the moment you let me tend to your hands, to wash and bandage them, and, well, our time in Florence.”
Will can’t help but let out a groan of annoyance. “You mean when you cared for me while I was fading from encephalitis or when you changed my shirt after Chiyoh shot me? Doesn’t exactly sound like the romance you’re imagining.”
He hears Hannibal’s soft laugh, one wet finger brushing his cheek. “That’s what I meant by doing it my way, Will,” Hannibal replies. The seconds that follow are peaceful, languid.
But Hannibal, of course, breaks the silence. “My favorite moment, however, was after our adventure with Mason. I held you in my arms, so delicate, so fragile. All your strength hidden, silenced. I had held you like that many times before, by my own hand. But then, with you unable to respond, to scream at me… I only wanted to see your eyes and hope that the next time I cared for you, it would be because you allowed me to, because you wanted it as much as I did-not out of violence, not out of despair.”
Will exhales the breath caught in his chest. The animal in his heart wants to escape, that part of him that still fears all of this, that can only associate Hannibal’s love with pain—so skeptical, yet countered by the other part of him that fell for Hannibal at the start, willing to forgive everything. Completely unconditional.
He opens his eyes and meets Hannibal’s reddish-honey gaze. “The great Hannibal Lecter. Who would’ve thought his secret desire was to give TLC to a mess of a man like me,” he says with humor and a small smile, wanting Hannibal to read his acceptance.
Hannibal stares at him for a few seconds, hands paused in his hair.
Will closes his eyes again, settling back. “Come on now, at this rate, you won’t even get to use that ridiculously expensive soap on me before I turn into a wrinkled prune.”
Hannibal breathes deeply then, his fingers both firm and tender in Will’s hair. “I have a special sponge for your skin, Will, to prevent dryness…”
And while Hannibal talks about this and that and everything else, Will drowns in the comfort of the moment and in the pure feeling of being cared for. Truly loved, letting go of the tension and trusting once more. Allowing himself to be wanted, maybe for the first time, at this level of intimacy.