A/N: Oh man guys...prepare yourselves. This is definitely, by far, the dirtiest thing I've ever written. PWP, smut...smutty smut smutsmut. But how could I help it with characters like Hannibal and Will? All the UST! Or is it actually RST? Lord if I know. I just love them. To bits. Ok gonna stop rambling now. Please enjoy yourselves some Hannigram angsty sexy times!

P.S. This story takes place in an AU universe that would take place right after season 2...if Will hadn't been an idiot and ruined all of my fangirl hopes and dreams.

Warnings: Some mild physical and emotional abuse. Nothing that you wouldn't already be used to if you watch the show.

Don't wanna be rude but I have to
Nothing's good about the hell you put me through
I just need to look around
See that life that has come unbound

And you're so cynical, Narcissistic Cannibal

Got to bring myself back from the dead

Sometimes, I hate, the life I made

Everything's wrong every time
Pushing on I can't escape
Everything that comes my way

Is haunting me taking its sweet time?

-EarlyRise (original song by Korn)

Sometimes I'm not quite sure who I am anymore...

"Will?"

The sound of my name in Hannibal's rich, tilted voice startles me out of my thoughts. I stare at him from across the table, my hands clenching around the soft linen napkin in my lap. He has that burning look in his crimson eyes that I recognize all too well—I feel it like the prod of a stoke to the burning embers in my stomach. A dark, fragrant wine swirls in his glass before he places it under his nose, and I can see the way his nostrils flare as they take in the scent. I can't help but wonder if that's the way he looks when he breathes me in—sharp and voracious in a way that only a cannibal can be.

"Your mind is restless this evening," Hannibal says, his voice echoing in the glass before he takes a long sip, his eyes never once leaving mine.

My pulse is quick as ever to react to the predator in front of me. The muscles in my thighs bunch beneath my hands, ready to spring me away from the table at the drop of a pin. "I wasn't aware that we were discussing anything that required my full attention," I say, camouflaging my anxiety with barbed words.

Hannibal's responding chuckle is low and deep in his throat, and his movement to return the wine glass to the table is as slow and graceful as a snake. "Is that hostility I detect in your tone?"

"Hostility is usually begotten by hostility."

"Are you accusing me of being hostile?"

Instinctively, my grip on my napkin tightens. "Hardly. I've learned that the path of accusing you always ends with me in a cell. Accusing you of anything now would be...defying Darwin's law of survival."

Hannibal's smile is feral. "You are in rare form tonight, Will. I'm curious as to whether you're trying to tempt me, or stave me off."

It's in my best interest not to respond, so of course I do. "I have no interest in tempting you anymore." I peel my hand away from my napkin to take a drink from the glass of wine that has been set out for me, but the liquid tastes sour and bitter on my too dry tongue.

"Is that so?" Hannibal asks, hiding his sharp teeth behind cordial lips. "What does hold your interest then, Will? What is it that has your thoughts so drawn?"

Involuntarily, my eyes flick up towards the ceiling.

"Abigail?" Hannibal asks.

Her name always brings a flood of guilt in its wake. It threatens to consume me even now, making my throat tight and constricting the reeds of my vocal cords. "You shouldn't keep her cooped up in this house all the time," I say slowly. "No girl her age should be kept from the splendors of Florence in spring."

Hannibal nods, but there's something about the motion that's fundamentally disagreeable. "True, although I think you can grant me the fact that she is not like other girls. You, me, and Garret Jacob Hobbs have seen to that."

Indignance ignites in my chest like the strike of a match. My grip tightens around the stem of my wine glass, and I force myself to set it back down on the table—I've broken far too much of Hannibal's fine crystal lately. "She could have been..." It's not a statement I necessarily believe, but I want to believe it badly enough to say it anyway.

"Perhaps."

I swallow, and the feeling of it is thick and viscous as it travels down my throat. "I was thinking that we could go out tomorrow. I saw in the paper that Rembrandt's collection is traveling through the art museum this week—I thought she might like to see it."

"That's a marvelous idea, Will."

Air catches in my lungs—

"I'll pick us up the tickets tomorrow while I'm out."

—and is released just as quickly. I should've known better than to hope, even for a moment. I should've known...

Hannibal makes a soft sound that draws my eyes like a moth to a flame. The weight of his gaze is heavy, pressing me down deeper into the seat of my chair. "I take it that is not the answer you wanted to hear."

Silence hangs between us, my tongue not daring to deny the truth.

"You're disappointed."

My mouth twists. "I'm frustrated."

"That you cannot be alone with Abigail in the city?" Hannibal's head tilts in that way it does when he wants me to know that he's studying my reaction—when he wants me to know that there's no lie I can tell that he won't see through. "You know why I cannot allow it, Will."

I bristle against his stare. "Because you don't trust me."

"You say that like a man who hasn't tried to run away twice."

"I ran because I had to!" I seethe through gritted teeth. "You never told me that coming here with you would make me your prisoner. I thought I was going to be here with you as a partner, as a friend, as a—" I cut myself off, biting my tongue against the words I dare not speak aloud.

Something dangerous sparks in Hannibal's gaze. "As a what?"

I pick up my fork and begin pushing around my untouched brazed liver. I haven't eaten in two days, but somehow I'm still not hungry.

"Will?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

My lips press together in a firm line.

A purposeful sigh slithers over Hannibal's lips. He picks up his wine once more, and I can feel the heat of his stare boring into the top of my forehead, silently entreating me to be captured in his snare. "As a lover?" he asks, and somehow the word sounds like a caress. "Is that the word you were going to choose?"

"It doesn't matter," I repeat, more softly this time.

Ever the psychiatrist, Hannibal presses deeper. "Do you not consider us lovers now? We share a bed more often than not, and we have been intimate on several occasions."

It's nearly enough to make me smirk, but the muscles in my cheeks are so under-worked that the expression ends up falling into my usual, mangled grimace. "I don't think a word exists for what we are. Codependently dysfunctional is the only thing that comes to mind."

"You said that you feel like you are my prisoner."

"Aren't I?" I finally look up at him, and blow a hard puff of air out of my nose.

Hannibal stares at me for a long moment, the small muscles around his eyes creating an expression that borders on the edge of desolate. "It's a rather harsh judgment if you ask me. You do have a choice in the matter."

"A choice between drowning and being burned alive is not a choice for a man who wants to live."

"Will—"

"Either I sleep with you and see Abigail, or you tear her from me completely." The words burst from me like a broken dam, and I've held them in for so long that I'm quite sure I feel lighter now that they're out.

Hannibal grimaces, his shoulders giving. "I see," he says slowly, pain threaded through his voice in a way that only I can detect. Sometimes I forget that I can still hurt him—that there's anything left inside of him to hurt.

"Hannibal..." It's not an attempt at comfort, but it's not an outright refusal of it either. I can't help it. My condition has simultaneously connected and disconnected me from life for as long as I can remember, but never like this. Empathy feeds off of emotion like a leech, and though the psychopaths I've dealt with are scientifically acknowledged to harness a greater range of emotion than the average biped, Hannibal might as well be his own species. Hannibal is nothing but emotion—a stripped down corpse of id masked in a shell of consigned propriety and logic. The depth of his emotion sustains me, makes me feel things I never even dreamed I could feel.

But things have been different since I came with him to Italy. He's been different. It worries me for reasons I'm not sure I want to understand.

Hannibal takes in a deep breath, the collar of his shirt straining against the thick column of his neck. "You are to go upstairs, strip, and kneel by the bedroom door until I am ready for you."

My chest tightens in against my lungs. "Hannibal, I—"

"It's not a matter of discussion, Will. Go. Now."

I am unable to keep the shock off of my face as I rise from the table, tossing my napkin down next to my plate. I'm not quite sure what I was expecting, but Hannibal's assertiveness is surprisingly...relieving. I feel grounded.

The wooden stairs don't creak beneath my weight as I climb them up to the third floor where the master bedroom is. I'm like a ghost floating through the cool spring air.

I only allow myself a short glance at Abigail's door before I pass it and continue up the second flight. The soft pang in my heart doesn't slow me down, but it's enough to feed the resentment growing inside of me.

I enter the bedroom, strip off my shirt and throw it on the floor, knowing very well Hannibal will notice my blatant lack of cleanliness. My trousers and boxers soon follow suit, and I kneel down by the door, my hands clenched tight against my thighs. I'm already half hard, which is ridiculous because I shouldn't be looking forward to what he's going to do to me. I shouldn't be counting the seconds that tick by as I listen to the sounds of him cleaning the dishes in the kitchen below.

He makes me wait. Hannibal always makes me wait. He knows my mind will replace his absence with craving—senseless and bitter though it may be. I hate it. It's the reason I've never gotten far when I've tried to escape. He's burrowed himself too deeply under my skin. Somehow I think that I wouldn't be able to breathe if I tread too far from his hemisphere.

The sound of running water below me stops, and my whole body goes stiff. Anticipation threads itself through my nerves, speeding the beat of my heart and making my breath quicken. Belatedly, I realize that my skin has started to become slick with sweat. I press my eyes shut, every inch of me hyper-aware of stillness that fills the house. It feels like those final moments at the top of a roller coaster—that last cresting second before the plunging drop.

"Will."

The sound of Hannibal's voice steals all of the air in my lungs as my chin jerks up. My eyes meet his for barely a moment before darting down to the knife he holds in his hand. An uncontrollable shiver shoots down my spine, and I can't help but shift my weight uneasily.

He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. I keep very still, my gaze never leaving the knife. I watch as it glides towards me, and the cool metal slips beneath my chin. With a soft tug, Hannibal brings my face up and our eyes meet. His are dark and unmistakably hungry, and I feel faintly sick at the sharp thrill it sends through me.

"I thought about what you said," Hannibal's voice is low and strangely hoarse. "You want me to trust you, and yet how can I when you run from me every chance you get? Everything I've done has been for you—for us—and still you run." The blade presses into my pulse. "Still you fight me."

When I swallow, I feel the edge of the knife cut into my skin. A warm line of blood slides down the column of my neck, and Hannibal watches it, his face unmoving but his pupils growing wide. "Hannibal," I say softly, wetting my lips. "We can't go on like this. We can't go on with you pretending that I don't belong to you."

In a blink, Hannibal's eyes are back on mine and I feel something cold drop in my stomach. I recognize the unveiled creature that stands before me now for what it is—something that only I have ever been able to fully see. Allowed to fully see. This primal concoction of bloodlust and possession. I can feel myself blooming beneath his presence, soaking it up like a dry sponge.

"Is that what you want, Will? To belong to me?" He sounds unbearably predatory.

"It's not about what I want," I press my throat, almost imperceptibly, into the blade, but I see the recognition flash across Hannibal's face. "It's about what's necessary. And you haven't been doing what's necessary because you're scared it will break me. You think I need tenderness and affection and soft moments where our eyes meet and the world goes still, but I don't need those things."

Hannibal doesn't move.

"I don't need them because they're not you."

In one swift motion, Hannibal chucks the knife to the side where it lands on the hardwood floor with a loud thud. The skin at my pulse point stings as a fresh stream of blood spills over broken flesh, down my neck and over the sharp points of my collarbone. He grabs me and pulls me roughly to my feet, and I feel myself shudder at the raw power of his strength. His hands are overly warm on my air-cooled skin, and they sear into me like heated iron.

The next thing I know, we're across the room and he's throwing me back onto the bed, not giving me even a second to recover before his body follows and settles on top of mine. His linen suit is rough against the barest parts of me, and he knows it—uses it to his advantage. He scrapes his limbs over mine, dragging them heavily against me as his head dips down and his mouth claims the blood on my neck. His tongue presses into the wound, and rivulets of a shivering pain shoot down my spine even as I tilt my head back to give him better access.

In one fluid motion, the full warmth of Hannibal's hand is wrapped around me, and the contact is so sudden that I can't help the animalistic sound that escapes me. He works me off quickly, his strokes brutally calculating and remorseless. I come too hard and too fast, gripping Hannibal's shoulders tightly as white bursts across my vision and warmth spills over my stomach. Hannibal's lips are hot and wet against my jaw, and his breathing is despairingly even.

Distantly, I recognize that Hannibal has risen to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves. I hear a click of plastic, and before I can even register what it means, Hannibal is sliding a slickened finger into me. My eyes, which had fallen shut, snap open. I flinch back, the oversensitive nerves in my body reacting as if I'd just been shocked. But Hannibal doesn't let me get far. His free hand wraps itself around my throat and he pushes me down into the mattress. For a moment, all I can see is his eyes—twin pools of black outlined by the thinnest strip of crimson.

"I'm going to tear you apart," Hannibal hisses, his words rumbling in my ear as he tilts his face to scrape his cheek against mine. "I'm going to devour you."

His words brand me, threading down through the cords of my tendons. "Yes." There was such a strength, such a power, in the way that Hannibal is holding me that I can't help but surrender to it. The true beast of his nature is finally unfurling and claiming me for his own. This is how we were always meant to exist—the beast and the prey, mirrored and intertwined.

Hannibal spreads me even wider, his fingers teasing me with shallow, slow thrusts that are somehow too much and not enough. My entire body is quivering, causing the cooling liquid from my orgasm to slide down the rivets of my stomach and onto the sheets. It's a far cry from the usual care that Hannibal gives me; there is no room for moist towels and tender words here. Hannibal spreads his fingers wide, and a fierce burn sizzles beneath my skin.

I throw my head back, baring my throat to him like the offering that it is. I hear Hannibal's next breath hitch before his teeth replace his hand to close around my Adam's apple. I just barely have time to clamp down on the moan that rushes up from the dark place Hannibal is dragging out of me. My teeth grind together as Hannibal curls his fingers deeper inside of me, the combination of teeth and nails stirring me into a fervency that I can't help but fall into.

"Don't," Hannibal breathes against me. "Don't hold back."

A sharp whine escapes me as Hannibal presses his tongue into my pulse. "But…Abigail will—"

"It's nothing she doesn't already know."

My hesitation is palpable.

"Will." Hannibal's fingers curl, brushing purposefully against my prostate and sending a shock straight up my spine.

I nearly scream as Hannibal presses even harder into me, the solid weight of his body settling over mine. His hand moves up into my hair, his fingers carding through my dark curls and pulling my neck into an impossible arch as he begins lapping at the flesh his knife parted.

It's too much—the shattering sensations bursting through me so quickly and so violently that I feel like I'm spinning out of control. I'm hard again—painfully so—and the soft cotton of Hannibal's trousers brushing against me is the only thing that spares me from the cool air. I understand now why he made the point of making me come once already; he doesn't want this to be over quickly. He wants me to linger in this place just between pleasure and pain until he grants me the release I crave. My hips stutter as Hannibal hits my prostate again and again and again. Relentless. Maddening.

"Hannibal!" The word is frayed around the edges. "Hannibal…please!"

Hannibal extracts his fingers, and I feel my body clench at the loss. Without any pretense of gentility, Hannibal pushes me over onto my stomach, and I feel the thick press of him at my entrance. When he lowered his trousers and slicked himself up, I have no idea. His hands glide along my spine and fan out over my shoulder blades, pressing me deeper into the mattress.

And then he's inside of me, in one long stroke, and I can't breathe.

The only reaction I get out of him is a soft release of breath against the back of my neck. The seemingly limitless bounds of his control have never ceased to astound me. Not a word is spoken, nor a muscle moved that is not a pre-conceived in the dark labyrinth of his thoughts. One of his arms slides under me, the cloth of his shirt dragging deliberately across the most sensitive parts of my chest as he pulls himself out and thrusts back in. Stars burst across my vision as he fills me, and I feel like I'm so full of him that his blood may start seeping out of my pores.

Then, in one swift motion, Hannibal hoists me up so that we're on our knees and my back is pressed flush against his chest. Shivers course over my skin from the sudden drop in temperature, the entirety of my anterior now subject to the emptiness of open air. I feel exposed like this, bared open and unprotected, and Hannibal knows it.

His other hand reaches around me and his fingers grip my hipbone, agonizingly close to where he knows I want them to be. My hands have not found a new purchase yet, but I don't dare make to relieve myself—instead I grasp at the arm that's still wrapped around my chest and pray I have the strength to hold on.

Hannibal's teeth nip at my ear, and I almost choke on the air in my throat. "Let me hear you, Will."

He thrusts into me harder, as if to show me that I couldn't resist his demand even if I wanted to. But I don't want to. He's consuming me, and all I can think of is how to drive his teeth in deeper.

His pace has picked up now, and every collision of our hips draws out sound from somewhere I've never known before. Then his teeth sink into the nape of my neck, and my brain shorts. There is nothing beyond me that isn't him, and nothing beyond us that isn't meaningless wisps of dust and smoke. The backdrop of the world fades away as if it had never been—as if we are the first and last creatures in all of existence.

"Hannibal," I exhale his name like I was made to.

"Tell me, Will," Hannibal says, and even he is slightly breathless now. "Tell me who you belong to."

He's tearing apart something inside of me. His words are burrowing in like fangs and ripping me apart, laying claim to flesh and bone. "You. Always you. Never anyone but you."

Hannibal growls—a low, dark, and feral sound. "Me," he repeats. "Never anyone but me. This is who you are now. You belong to me. There is nothing in you that isn't mine."

It's too much. The reality of it is going to burst me at the seams. I can feel a heavy heat coiling in my stomach, churning and ready to explode.

"You belong to me. Say it."

I don't know how he expects me to speak when I can barely breathe. But somehow I still do. The command is enough to draw the words out of me, one by one. "I belong to you."

Hannibal presses his face into the back of my head, burying himself in my hair. His hand rises up to the gash on my neck, his fingertips digging into it, and I feel myself splitting in two.

"Come for me, Will," he whispers.

I'm not expecting it. I feel my orgasm tear through me, pulled from my body by the sheer force of Hannibal's voice. A scream scorches my throat as I collapse back into him—as he rides me through it—and I feel his own body shudder against mine, the hot burst of his release filling me.

He pulls himself out almost the moment he's done, and I barely catch myself when he pulls away from me. Every inch of me is trembling—every muscle burning and threatening to atomize into the air. Distantly, I hear him do up his trousers and leave the bed. When I finally manage to look over at him, he's sweeping his sweat-dampened hair from his brow, and somehow already slipping back into the cool, collected mask he always wears. But I can still see past it. I'm the only one who can see—the only one who ever will.

"Shower and dress," Hannibal says as he retrieves his jacket from the floor. "When you're done we'll take Abigail out for gelato."

-fin-

I hope you enjoyed! If you did (or even if you didn't), please review! I'm sort of itching to make a full-length fic about these boys, so any thoughts about how I captured or botched their interactions/characterization would be great. Love you guys! Smooch!