This was written for the Dreamwidth Hannibal kink meme in 2013.
Prompt: "Hannibal rapes Will during his blackouts, Will is none the wiser"
A stream of sunlight and a panting dog wake him up simultaneously on this Sunday. He's crashed on top of his blankets rather than beneath them. The filthy soles of his feet confirm he was sleepwalking again. It starts on this morning, with a searing pain. A pain so bad he can't sit down for five days. People at work notice. Hannibal comments on his new quirk of constantly pacing around the office during their sessions. Will is too busy - and embarrassed - to make himself care or investigate the source of the ache; he writes it off, a minor temporary inconvenience.
The next time. The next week. He goes to walk his dogs at 9:00, blinks and finds himself sprawled in the middle of the forest, his phone gone, his wristwatch smashed, stopped at 9:12, no clue of what time it actually is. That question is answered when he sees the sun start to rise on his walk home. There are scrapes and bruises on his knees, on his palms.
Hannibal gets too careless. Perhaps it's intentional.
There's the time Will leaves Hannibal's office after a session, is putting the key in the ignition of his car, and is suddenly sent to five hours in the future, lying on his own couch with the television on. There are bruises on his thighs that turn purple, green, black. There's broken skin, human bitemarks on his neck and shoulders that sting so bad when he pours alcohol over them that he drops the bottle and has to keep the dogs from licking it up. He sinks against the bathroom wall in his home and sobs.
Or the time he's out fishing, blinks, and is suddenly in the middle of a conference with Jack's team. When he darts out of the meeting to go to the bathroom he realizes his boxers are on backwards.
There's ripped skin and blood under his nails. He feels like a monster. A werewolf. He wonders what happens, wonders who else he's hurting besides himself. Now the erosion of his mental state has spread to his body as well, new marks of his illness marring him outwardly, making itself known, seeping out of his cracked mind and spilling over his skin like acid. He's shaking, shaking violently, he's breathing so hard and fast his cheeks are puffing out, his vision is blurring; he barely manages to refasten his belt but does not manage to make it into a stall before falling to his knees and vomiting all over the cold white tile.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There's no chance of him waking up in the middle of it; these episodes last for hours, without fail. And Hannibal is always just around the corner, swooping in not even ten minutes after Will loses himself. Always waiting. The first time is in his bed, faithful guard dogs sated with sausage in the hall. He has guided Will back here after finding him in the middle of the road. This is an ideal Saturday night for Hannibal. Will is moving, but he doesn't have enough of his wits about him to do anything more than writhe on his stomach and let his jaw drop during the most painful moments - which, let's face it, was all of it - and flail a limp hand in Hannibal's direction in an attempt to fend him off. He starts off with Will on his back. He is soft and supple, chest rising and falling with deep breaths, frown on his face as his head lolls from side to side. Hannibal takes his sweet time, sliding a finger in, then two, working and beckoning and feeling how unbelievably tight Will is. He wants to feel that tightness properly. He wants to stretch him, break him in with something more than a few fingers. And he does. He remembers to spread a towel so there are no stained sheets to be suspicious of. He bites his own wrist to stay silent even though he is aware noise is not a concern. The second time is in the woods, just off the road. By now the dogs think he's an old friend and wag their tails at the sight of him even when he's bending their master over a log. He walks them back and lets them in the house, fearing one would get lost if he didn't.
The third time he can't help but pin Will against his kitchen wall and ravage him, lift up his legs and thrust so hard his hipbones leave bruises. This time Hannibal muffles all of his moans with Will's skin, not his own. The taste of blood almost makes him consider a second round.
Hannibal gets too careless. It's intentional. Seeing the fear behind his averted eyes the next day at work or during their sessions, seeing how wholly and utterly preoccupied Will is with where his lost time goes, is almost better than the sex. Hallucinations are one thing. Loss of control over your own body is one thing. Touching - and being touched - by another body is another monster entirely. The ultimate violation. And the best part, the most delicious part, is that Will isn't sure if he is the violator or the violated. He torments himself every day, every minute, every second with both options as he cannot confirm the truth.
His body is starting to remember this, even if his mind never will. His body is starting to like it, to respond to it, to adapt and brace itself. His hips rock shamelessly back against Hannibal's; his legs spread welcomingly without being kicked or nudged apart; his back arches and his moans get louder. There are times when his eyes roll back or flutter open and their vacancy is beautiful, as if Hannibal has fucked the life out of him, fucked the spirit and coherency out of him. The fourth time, pinned on his back with his ankles crossed around Hannibal's waist, he finally comes. This time, he almost feels real, with his bitten nails managing to leave red streaks across Hannibal's back and chest, clinging so hard through his orgasm that he draws blood.